#i miss my baby boy like a phantom limb

[wulfhalls]

getting a new kitten. it's not even been a month since my baby boy passed. feel sick about it all. still in the crying every single day phase. my mother said its a good idea tho because she's genuinely worried I'd top myself which. I miss my boy so bad I haven't even gotten myself to put his favourite boxies away and doing so fills me with so much dread I feel like throwing the fuck up. I don't want him to think I'm trying to replace him which is stupid because well. for obvious reasons and. just. I love him more than I've ever loved anything and I miss him so bad and ill always miss him and idk how. I just don't know. anyway. taking name suggestions

[sunonwaxyleaves]

I’ve been trying sooo hard to be calm cool and collected about it but dear god do I miss Kniesy…

[angellic4l]

boys, bets, and sobriquets - d.m

in which; fem!bau!reader and derek make a deal that causes an argument 3 months later

content: tw! reader has something similar to an anxiety attack but it isn’t specified as that! flirty!derek, bau!reader, hurt comfort (?), angst, fluff, there’s a ‘bet’ made, reader has a shitty date, swearing/cussing, they argue ofc, one bed trope.

wc: 5.2k

a/n: my first ever request!! i’m so honoured and just happy that someone trusted me with their vision, i hope this is what you wanted angel! kisses!

Faint sounds of the regular office shenanigans danced around the bullpen; soft clicks of computer keyboards, Reid flipping the pages of some obscure novel at a super human speed, Andersen brewing a pot of coffee, and the scrawl of your pen on a case file all coming together to sing the corporate symphony.

One noise was missing though, the sound of Derek’s chair moving side to side as he talks to everyone and anyone possible rather than actually doing his work. His voice rings out from by the glass doors and your head rises from the manilla folder to see what’s going on. His eyes meet yours, an arrogant, self-satisfied smirk on his face, one that tells you he actually got the new receptionist’s number.

Morgan takes his seat across from yours, looking at you expectantly, awaiting your questioning of his absence or why he’s so happy. Instead, you shake your head at him but the smile on your face betrays your mock disapproval. With a soft sigh, your hand loosens its grip around the pen, letting it drop to the oak desk beneath you.

“Alright, I’ll bite. You got the receptionist’s number, I’m guessing?”

“Number? No, no, baby girl, I got a date and her number. You underestimate my charm.”

“Right, I forgot that you were such a CasaNova.”

“I prefer the term irresistible, sugar.”

“This actually works for you? The whole cocky womaniser thing?”

“I’m not cocky. It’s called confidence. And a little sweet talking.”

“Oh, I’m sure they all love your ‘confidence’. I refuse to believe any respectable woman would fall for that,” you tease, tone making it clear you’re joking.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t fall for all of this,” he retorts, hand gesturing from his face down to his torso.

“In all seriousness, I really wouldn’t. You’re not my type, D.”

“Not your type? Sugar, don’t play with me right now.”

“I’m not! I just wouldn’t fall for it, it’s not my thing.”

“Let’s make a bet, then. I flirt with you-“

“Absolutely not,” you scoff.

“Let me finish! I flirt with you, you flirt with me, and we’ll see who falls first.”

You ponder his words for a while, going through it in your head. Morgan’s physically attractive, sure, but almost everybody thinks that. With your time at the BAU, you figure if you were going to fall for him, it would’ve happened already. Fuck it, why not?

“You’re on, Morgan. Be warned, you’re gonna fall in love with me.”

That little bet was made 3 months ago. You remember it like it was yesterday because it was the day you subjected yourself to the worst fate possible. Falling fast and hard for Derek Morgan.

Now, every time he flirts with you and you flirt back, it just stings. It’s like a cruel snippet of what could be if he liked you back, if you swallowed your pride and let him win, if you would just tell him. Instead, you reciprocate the flirting, keep your pride intact by never admitting anything, and keep your feelings for him a secret.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A ringing noise rouses you from sleep, the soft vibration of your phone reverberating throughout the oak nightstand to the left of you. It’s not the sound of your alarm, and based on how the only light your eyes had to adjust to came from your phone, you suspect it’s a phone call instead. Another case, presumably.

Tired limbs scramble to find the phone, your hands fumbling until they feel it beneath them, and you pick up without even looking at the contact name. Sleep has yet to leave your body, still lingering like a phantom, so your voice is groggy when you speak.

“Hello?”

“Hi, angel. You know I hate to do this, but Hotch needs everybody in the office in 30. Urgent case,” a soft, saccharine voice rings out, one you recognise as Penelope’s.

“M’kay. Be there soon, Penny. Love you.”

“I love you too, dear,” she says before the line goes dead, leaving you in silence once more.

As you pull the phone away from your ear, your eyes catch the time displayed on the phone: 2:36 AM. A groan escapes your lips when you realise it had only been 5 hours since you left the BAU, 3 of which you’d been asleep for. Being called in after just coming back from a case was annoying, but this soon was just infuriating.

By the time you were at the BAU, it was safe for anybody to say, profiler or not, that your mood was absolutely sour. Since Penelope had called you back in, your day had only gotten worse. While in a rush to get ready, hands flying everywhere to rag clothes on, you’d managed to lose an earring. On the way into work, someone had cut you off at an intersection, causing you to slam on your brakes, ultimately sending your coffee all over the passenger seat.

Operating on 3 hours of sleep was easy enough, standard for most FBI agents, especially for you. That wasn’t the issue here, no, it was the fact that you’d been called in after just returning from a week’s long case, the act somehow triggering an infuriating chain of events for you, leaving you earringless, coffeeless, and bitter.

Once everyone else had arrived, it was clear they could sense the sourness radiating from you, only sharing small greetings instead of sparking up a conversation. Hotch announced the briefing would be done on the plane to save time, prompting everyone to grab their go-bags and start to move.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After shoving your go-bag into the overhead space, more aggressively than needs be, you take a seat around one of the tables and watch as the others follow suit. Everyone seems almost hesitant to sit next to you, hovering before sitting somewhere else, disrupting the order of everyone’s usual seats. It’s sort of understandable, it’s obvious that you’re in a mood of some sorts and they’re probably just trying to give you breathing room, but it’s only annoyed you a little more.

Morgan ends up taking the seat next to you of his own free will, considering there were still 3 empty seats he could’ve sat in. Usually, you’d be happy to have Morgan sit next to you, but most of your conversations involve playful flirting, something you’re not in the mood for right now.

What doesn’t help is your growing feelings for him; on a normal day, playful flirting is hard because you know it doesn’t mean anything, but today isn’t a normal day. Today, you’re pissed off and tired, and the thought of entertaining something that’s only going to make you feel worse is utterly dreadful.

Maybe he’ll spare you, you think, he knows that you’re not in the mood for it, so he might just leave it alone and not say anything. Hotch’s voice steals your attention from the thought, pulling your focus to the case at hand instead.

The briefing moves fast, ideas being bounced around like a ping pong ball being bounced off the pegs in an arcade game, everybody collaborating with different theories, or building on someone else’s. Garcia searches what she can based on the few things you can all profile for certain, but it’s clear that this case won’t be an easy one.

The killer is experienced, that much is obvious, but that means he’s killed before. Where, none of you are sure because VI-CAP doesn’t have a match for the M.O you’ve all decided on. It’s not looking good for the BAU, the case is probably going to span over a week and the thought makes you even more annoyed.

Garcia’s face vanishes from the plasma screen across from you as the team starts to spread out throughout he jet, following the end of the briefing. Majority of the time, you’d sit yourself at the back of the jet and listen to music until you fell asleep, or talk to somebody, but you’re too tired to move from this chair.

Apparently, Morgan shares the same sentiment, unmoving from the spot next to you. Any and all hope of him leaving you alone starts to dissipate, knowing that Derek’s chatty, especially with you, has you dreadfully anticipating his conversation. With your luck, or lack thereof today, it comes.

“Hey, pretty girl. How’s my favourite bombshell?”

“Okay. ‘M just tired.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right, sunshine?”

“Morga-“

“-‘Cause, you haven’t given me any of those sweet names, you’re not even looking at me, and your body language is telling me you’re pissed. What’s wrong, sugar?”

Morgan’s analysis fills you with fear - sure, he’s a profiler and even if he wasn’t, it’s obvious you’re in a shitty mood, but it’s not that - you make sure to hide any tells of the anxiety you’re experiencing. If Morgan can rattle all of that off with so much as one look at you, he’s been profiling you for a while. That means he knows. He knows that you like him. And he still flirts with you anyway?

Even if you didn’t think it possible, you’re even more pissed off with that fact, hell, you’re angry. Who on Earth flirts with someone they know has feelings for them? It’s cruel, hurtful, and disrespectful, none of which you thought Derek was, but clearly you’ve wildly misjudged him.

“What happened to ‘we don’t profile each other’? God, you’re such a dick, Morgan.”

“Hey, what? Mama, what is going on with you?” He asks, clear exasperation and confusion written on his face. You bite down a scoff because of course, he’s playing dumb to it.

“The fact that you’re asking is evidence enough. So obsessed with your own pride that you can’t even see what you’re doing to the people around you? Really? God, Morgan, it’s like you don’t even have eyes,” you snap, tone sharp and cutting.

“Mama, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Back up for a second, obsessed with my own pride? Is this you talking or are you in one of those ‘man-hater’ moods again?”

Morgan’s use of the words ‘man hater mood’ take you back to an incident last month. You bristle at the fact he’s bringing that up, even more so that he doesn’t believe you’re actually mad at him.

It was a Saturday night and you had a date planned, one that, due to the demands of the job, had been rescheduled three times. This time was lucky, though, because you had no case, no paperwork, and no reports due. The guy was lovely, so understanding every time you’d had to reschedule, and he was handsome, too.

Once you’d left work, giddy and smiling to yourself on the drive home, the only thing going through your head was how excited you were for the date. A week before that, you and the girls had gone shopping together, scouring D.C’s small boutiques and high end stores. While with Emily in one of the boutiques, the cutest outfit had caught your eye, it was perfect; your favourite colour, exactly your style, and looked incredibly flattering when you’d tried it on. The girls convinced you to wear it on your date, commenting on how gobsmacked the guy’d be, so you bought it.

After restyling your hair and slipping into the beautiful outfit, you were putting your shoes on at the front door. Midway through slipping your shoes on, your phone buzzed on the side table in the hallway, with bated breath, you crossed your fingers and wished it wasn’t a case. What was on the screen was infinitely worse, though.

date

hey, i don’t think this’ll work. you’re too unreliable for me. kinda crazy you cancelled 3 times for ‘work’ and can now suddenly meet up because we changed it to a restaurant.

To say you were in a foul mood the next day would be the understatement of the century. To cancel because of his reason was insane for many reasons, but the two that pissed you off the most stuck. One - that the date had changed on his accord. The weather wasn’t the greatest, so instead of the picnic in the park that was planned, he’d asked if you wanted to go to a restaurant instead. Two - that he cancelled right before the date, as if he’d just suddenly had a change of heart when he’d clearly summed you up as a gold digger long before.

As you’d walked into the BAU and sat at your desk across from Derek’s, he didn’t notice your mood straight away because he hadn’t looked up yet. So, he operated as usual:

“Good morning, angel. How’s the prettiest lady in the whole FBI?”

“Ugh, don’t even. I’m really not in the mood today, D.”

With that he looked up and his brows immediately furrowed in concern at the annoyed expression on your face, dark circles under your eyes, and the way the light in your eyes had dimmed.

“What’s up? Someone I have to beat up?”

“I hate men. Fucking hate them. They’re all so grimey and disgusting and fucking horrible.”

“Don’t generalise us, sweetheart. What have I ever done to you?”

Instead of giving him a verbal response, you just shot him a glare before turning on your computer and carrying on with your day.

Contrary to your own belief, you could get even angrier than you were, even more annoyed than you thought possible for the already shitty day you’ve been having, and Morgan’s the main reason for this revelation at the moment.

He’s still looking at you, awaiting your answer to his question with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, you turn your head to look at him, tongue poking the inside of your mouth in some futile attempt to control it. It doesn’t work.

“Wow. You genuinely don’t believe that I could be mad at you, that it’s some other guy’s fault, huh? I’m not in a ‘man hater’ mood, I’m just mad at you! You don’t see what you’re doing Morgan, you’re oblivious to it, and it’s pissing me off.”

“Baby gi-“

“-Just leave me alone, Morga-“

“- Fine.”

A scoff leaves your lips, bitter on your tongue as it escapes because you know you shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have opened your mouth, told him how you feel in such a snappy way. You’re in a bad mood, having let the small things get to you, and you like Derek so much that his pet names and his flirting spark fire where they should leave warmth.

As if on cue, he rises from the seat next to you and walks down the aisle in a huff, sits down in an empty seat, and shoves his headphones in. Great. On top of your so-far shitty day, you’ve managed to push away the one person who makes everything instantly better. Probably squashed the tiny chance of him ever liking you back, too.

A sharp pang in your chest leaves you feeling sick, the hurt manifesting itself as something physical deep inside, and you wish you weren’t so difficult. Instead of talking, just simply saying today was going horribly and it had affected your mood, you’d let your astringent tongue take over.

The child inside of you wants to curl up in the fetal position, cry a million rivers over a boy, feel sorry for itself while simultaneously picking at every insecurity she harbours. Instead, you opt for sleeping, a temporary escapism from the shitty position you’ve put yourself in, leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After landing in Montana, you’re woken up by Emily’s gentle hand on your shoulder, shaking you ever so slightly. The rest of the team was already making their way off of the jet, go-bags in hand, walking off in a line due to the small aisle. Once your limbs were a bit more awake, you stood up and followed suit.

The team went from the jet to the SUV’s, making their way to the Livingston police department. Your car was semi-silent, the only noises to be heard are the small murmurs of Reid and JJ in the back of the SUV and silent melodies from the radio.

You’re in the passenger seat next to Hotch, while Morgan sits to the left of JJ and Spencer. Usually, he’d be involved in their conversation, cracking jokes and laughing his ass off with them. Instead, he’s silent. The absence of his voice rings loudly in your ears, guilt taking root in the ashes of the previous anger that once burned. It’s your fault he’s not being himself, you just had to open your mouth when you were in a mood, didn’t you?

Eyes watch him discreetly through the rearview mirror, his arms crossed over his chest, half sunken into the leather seat, brooding. Derek’s demeanour and body language is far from how he usually is, distant and angry instead of present and bubbly. He looks so different when he’s like this; distant and angry, far from his bubbly self.

For the rest of the day, it stays the same, Derek seemingly not himself, the same surly expression on him all day. Every time you look at him, it hurts - knowing that it’s because you couldn’t control yourself, you let your emotions take over rational thought - and the pangs of guilt become excruciating by the hour.

By the time Hotch decides to call it a night and have everyone head back to the hotel, your heart physically hurts with all of the guilt that’s pressing on it and the longing tugging at it. All you’ve wanted for the past 3 months is for the flirting between you and Morgan to be real, to have him feel the same way about you as you do him. At some point, the flirting started to weigh you down, leave you with an empty feeling in the deep pits of your stomach, and a yearning so strong that it seemed pathetic.

Realistically, the silly ‘bet’ was only ever going to go one of two ways. The pair of you would have distanced, one of you would’ve pushed the other away so that you didn’t have to experience a taste of what could be before it was ripped away from you. Alternatively, all restraint one of you had would’ve snapped, the fight to not let the other win, the pride you both held so dearly would’ve lost i’s fuel, resulting in a confession from either side. In some weird, twisted way, it’d managed to be both of them on your end.

Without realising, a sigh escapes your lips as you walk in a huddle with the team into the hotel’s lobby, pulling you out of your own thoughts. Head snapping up from the red carpet beneath your feet, your eyes lock with JJ’s, who’s giving you a questioning look. You find yourself responding with a shake of the head to tell her it’s nothing, then averting her gaze before she can tell that something’s up.

The group of weary, exhausted agents make their way to the front desk, all of you moving in a similar fashion to that of a pack of zombies.

The view would be funny if all of you weren’t aching for some much needed rest. Majority of you collapse into some couches while Hotch and Rossi go to get the keys from the front desk.

Both men return to the waiting area in the lobby after about 5 minutes, 4 sets of keys in hand. When you finally look up at them, your face contorts in confusion as to why there’s only 4 sets of keys when there’s 7 of you. As your lips part in anticipation to start asking questions, your brain answers them for you, recalling the information that was relayed to you all on the way to the airstrip, seemingly forgotten in the haze of your guilty, self-deprecating thoughts.

Shit.

Considering the case was so last minute, there were only 4 rooms available at the nearest hotel, so Hotch let everyone know they’d be sharing. To avoid any arguments and prolonged delay to sleep, everyone had agreed to pair with the same person as the last time you’d all had to share rooms. Hotch and Rossi, Emily and JJ, Spencer got his own room because of his aversion to germs, and you and Morgan.

You and Morgan. In a room together.

Clearly, the universe wasn’t done with sending you a chain of awful events today, because this had to take the fucking cake. Being in a room with Morgan has never been a bad thing, but you’ve also never argued with him and basically confessed that you like him. The words never explicitly left your mouth, but surely he’d figured it out a while ago based on your body language, right?

Hotch distributes the keys to someone from every pair, snapping you out of your thoughts once more as he holds a pair out to you. Tiredly, you take it before standing up and grabbing your bag with your other hand. Today has been long, excruciatingly so, you can just go to the room and fall asleep in your own bed. You think, an attempt to ease the unease that’s residing within you.

A gloomy Derek trails behind you, almost reluctantly if your profiling skills were still intact while being this tired, the sight sends another agonising sting of guilt through your heart. As shitty of him as it was to have profiled how you felt and still carry on flirting, he isn’t the only one who has blame in the situation - you agreed to the bet, you could’ve called the whole thing off, confessed your feelings and let him win, but you didn’t - you had your share in the whole thing, too.

The door lock clicks when you turn the key, opening the door to your new home for god knows how long, but you drop said keys on the floor when you get into the room. Similarly, Morgan comes to a stop behind you when he takes in the sight before you both, silence enveloping the room as you both remain still.

In the middle of the room, in between two windows, stood a double bed with an oak headboard. Not two single beds, or two twin beds, hell not even a bunk-bed like the one you’d both had to share in some dingy motel, no, it was a double.

Sharing a room with Morgan was okay before, you’d done it plenty of times in smaller towns or when the coordinator messed up the booking, but the pair of you had never shared a bed. It was even worse now because you weren’t on speaking terms, now that you’d basically confessed your feelings for him, now that you’d figured he profiled it a while ago.

When you realise you’ve been standing eerily still for a while, you can’t move to break it. Fear consumes your limbs, blocking any and all signals from your brain to the central nervous system, keeping you in place. The only thing you can think about is Morgan’s reaction to this; what does he think about it? Is he mad? Is he gonna walk out? How does he feel about what happened on the jet?

Suddenly, you realise you haven’t even thought about his reaction to anything you’d said, only going as far as to read his body language and determine he wasn’t acting like himself. You hadn’t thought about whether it’d be the end of your friendship, that he’d stop talking to you every day, and everything the two of you were would just fade into the background.

Unbeknownst to you, your hands had started shaking, induced by the onslaught of thoughts swirling in your head, trembling by your sides as if in a deadly chill. Morgan, however, notices the tremors of your hands almost immediately and steps in front of you before dropping his bag and taking your hands into his.

“Hey, hey, angel girl, I need you to breathe with me, okay?” His voice is soft and soothing before he mirrors a deep breath, exaggerating the sound and movement of his chest to draw your attention.

In response, you nod your head before taking a shaky breath in unison with Derek’s strong ones. Something wet rolls down your face, a tear escaping your lash line that you hadn’t even felt forming. Your hands stay in Morgan’s as you take deep breaths together, the raggedness of yours drifting away with each new intake of oxygen.

Once Morgan has deemed your breathing to be stable enough, he drops one of your hands before lifting his, now free, hand to your face, thumbs scooping away your tears.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart. You’re okay,” he almost whispers, voice so soft and sweet it might make you start crying all over again as the previous guilt kicks in once more.

A sniffle comes from you while he walks you to the bed, hands still intertwined, which he uses to gently pull you into a sitting position next to him. His thumb caresses your knuckles, running over them in a soothing motion, soft skin on top of yours grounding you.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you now, sweetheart?”

“Are you gonna stop pretending that you don’t already know?” You quip, turning your head to the side to look at him.

“Y/N, I am telling you, I really don’t know. It’s been racking my brain all damn day. If I’ve done something wrong, you can tell me and I’ll fix it.”

Another quip is on the tip of your tongue, but as you look into his brown eyes, really look at them, you realise he’s being genuine. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. Oh god, you owe him the biggest apology.

“You really don’t know?”

“Not a damn clue.”

“God, I feel stupid. This is so dumb.”

“Hey,” he lifts your chin with his fingers, “nothing you say could ever be dumb to me, pretty girl.”

“I’ve had such a shitty day. Like a really, really shitty one where everything goes wrong and I just let it all get to me. And then you profiled me on the jet and I thought you knew, but you don’t know, and I’ve been so, so horri-“

“-Wait, hold on, stop. Know what, angel?”

“..that you won. I lost,” you bite your lip in anticipation, waiting to see the recognition in his face, but it doesn’t come.

“I like you, Derek,” it comes out so quiet and meek, it’d be a miracle if he even heard it, but of course he does.

His reaction isn’t what you were expecting at all, not in the slightest. Instead of some cocky smirk, or an ‘I told you so’, he’s smiling. Genuinely smiling, pearly whites out and all, looking at you like you’re the only thing ever. He laughs and shakes his head before caressing your cheek.

“Both of us won, sweetheart. I like you, too,” he confesses, still gazing into your eyes as if they’re full of everything he’s ever wanted. Morgan tilts his head to the side before asking, “Garcia really didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you shake your head as if to confirm it, and then his words fully register, “Wait, she knew?!”

Before Morgan’s had the chance to say anything back, your hands darted into your pockets, searching for your phone until you’re pulling it out of your pocket. Just as you’re about to call her, Derek’s grabbing at your phone, causing you to wave your arm around to stop him from getting it.

“Hey, no, stop. Don’t you dare. Not yet,” he laughs as he continues his mission to steal your phone from you.

“No, ‘m gonna call her. Would you stop that? Derek!” You manage between giggles.

With both of you moving around so much, he leans too far, body going towards the bed, and wraps an arm around your waist to bring you down with him. Both of you are laughing while fighting over the phone, a fight that you’re still very much winning. That is, until he starts tickling your sides causing your laughter to grow louder and your grip on the phone to grow looser.

The phone falls onto the bed above your head, and he doesn’t even try to grab it, he just resumes his ministrations in your poor sides, tickling away. At some point, he’d end up hovering over you, so when he stops tickling you, you just stare up at him while catching your breath.

Morgan brings one of his hands up to your face, pushing a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear, before caressing your cheek once more. Both of your arms come up, hands locking behind his neck, and the both of you are leaning towards each other. Slowly, he leans down, lips ghosting over yours.

“My pretty girl. It’s about time, huh?”

Without giving you the chance to answer, he captures your lips with his, moving them softly over yours in a sweet, slow kiss. You kiss him back with the same saccharinity, savouring the feeling of his kiss, hands moving from his neck to his cheeks instead.

Due to your previous shortage of breath following his tickling ministrations, the kiss ends sooner than you wanted it to with Morgan pulling away so that he didn’t suffocate you. A petulant pout forms on your lips, to which he just shakes his head.

“Impatient are we, sugar?” He teases, grinning down at you, eyes full of adoration for you.

You hit his chest softly, pathetically really, considering you’re trained in hand to hand combat but the intention was never to hurt him. It serves as a warning, followed by a verbal one, of course.

“You’re supposed to be nice to me, not be mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m not being nice because I want you to breathe? That’s some pretty good logic there, sugar.”

“You know, you haven’t actually asked me to be your girlfriend yet. I could find someone who’s nice to me, instead.”

“Don’t you even think about it, silly girl.”

When he sees the determination on your face he drops his head down a little bit and sighs, shaking his head in disbelief before he lifts it again to look at you.

“Do I really have to ask? That’s so high school.”

A scoff leaves your lips before you deliver another soft hit to his chest, seemingly shocked at his words.

“Yes! If you don’t ask, it’s not real. Did you even watch rom-coms?”

“Alright, alright. Baby girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Morgan’s hands move to start tickling you again, prompting you to backtrack quickly.

“Morgan, no! Stop! I was kidding! Of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, now stop!”

A shrill shriek can be heard from somewhere in the room and you both jump up, bodies going into fight or flight. Morgan’s just about to reach for his gun in the holster when-

“FINALLY! OH MY GOD!”

Penelope’s voice comes from somewhere on the bed, loud and excited, but not loud enough to say she’s in the room with you both. Evidently, you remember faster than Morgan does because you pick up your phone from the bed to see that you had, in fact, called Penelope and she’d been on the line for 5 minutes. With a resigned sigh despite your smile, you and Derek just share a look that says; ‘Tomorrow’s going to be fun.’

taglist: @i-padfootblack-things (requester, ily), @floraisunwell (proofreader, ily!!), @darkmatilda

[somairle]

{personal hc about aether's behavior at the end of act one. this really turned into a five page essay adsfasd also, i haven't played act 2 yet so if this is all confirmed anyway then please just ignore me lmaoooooo}

aether seeing lyney and lynette and severely missing lumine like a phantom limb. a pain that's so deep inset into his chest that no matter how many times he physically rubs at the spot, the pain just won't go away. it makes little to no sense to me aether turning his back to the twins when he's literally holding childe's vision in his inventory and renamed the freaking balladeer, okay.

like, baby boy, you have sussier friends other than two actual sweet beans that were adopted by a harbinger. zoom eyeing childe (a fucking harbinger who has tried to kill aether in the past) and wanderer (oh look another harbinger who has tried to kill aether in the past).

it is the only thing i can reasonably think of outside of hyv just saying 'ha ha fuck traveler's actual personality we've given them.' it just makes sense to me. and with lyney telling us that he fought tooth and nail to save lynette and to keep them off the streets. it sincerely is reminiscent of his relationship with lumine before they were parted.

my aether likes the twins. he loves the twins, even. if he didn't like them, then he wouldn't have continued to represent them after furina announced their ties to the fatui. perhaps he was blindsided by that information, but again. he is friends with sussier people.

i think for my muse, just looking at them too long reminds him of what he's missing. and what's he's searching for... and what he's lost. (and his worst fear being that he will never get it back, but this post is already long enough without me being unhinged again)

it isn't that he isn't sympathetic to their story or even that he cares all that much about their fatui ties. and after some thought, he realizes they didn't ask to be taken in by the fatui, and it shouldn't matter anyway.

because the twins have been nothing but kind to him and paimon. and besides omitting some of the truth of their past. he literally just met them! why would they tell him they're part of the sussy snez organization. they're new friends and technically still strangers.

it just makes more sense to me that he walks away because he's missing lumine and dealing with inner turmoil, rather than actually walking away because of their ties with the fatui.

again, please see, we are literally holding childe's vision (and hand probably) in our hands.

[peachy-panic]

“Look at me.”

Hi there. I’m new here, but also very much not, which is to say you’ve probably seen me pop up a few dozen (hundred) times in your notifications with likes and comments and the occasional ask when I’m feeling brave, sliding under the radar from the safety of my obscure fandom-turned-main account.

POINT IS, I’m no stranger to the wonderful works of this community, and CERTAINLY no stranger to whump appreciation, even if I haven’t always had a word for it. And because I’ve been so inspired by all the talented writers here, I’ve decided to finally cut loose and throw my own work into the ring, and the whole @whumpmasinjuly thing seemed like an opportune time to pop up.

I’ve aggressively lurked on so many of your pages in the last year so I’m sure I’m leaving someone out, but I did want to tag a few of the writers who have really motivated me to start this page just by reading their writing:

@ashintheairlikesnow @orchidscript @deluxewhump @whump-tr0pes @evermetnotforgotten @card-games-and-pain

And if you’ve made it this far into the post, we’ve arrived at the actual content. This snippet is from a project I started writing before I knew about the existence of the BBU, but I’ve slowly started molding it into something that fits more-or-less within the bounds of that collective universe. Some things may take slightly different turns to the rules established there, but it’s the same general concept.

Without further ado.

PROMPT: “Look at me.”

WARNINGS: General BBU-esque warnings, human trafficking, slavery, non-con (fade-to-black ish but the lead up is… Not Great). Let me know if I missed anything!

He knows something is off right away when Mr. Torley calls to him from the end of the long hallway on the other side of the house. 

When the children are home, Jaime is confined to the main common areas: the living room that spills into the large open-concept kitchen, the guest bathroom, the laundry room (where he has already spent most of his time working), the boys’ toy room (where he has only gone to clean up after them), and of course, the small room he has been given to sleep in, which he is sure once served as some sort of storage area. 

At the mouth of the living room is a corridor that leads to Mr. Torley’s study, and across from that, his bedroom. So he is told. Jaime was given instructions never to go into that wing of the house unless explicitly invited. He has been in his new home assignment for three days now and has never once been asked to cross those bounds. 

Until now. 

Carefully, Jaime places the mug he had been diligently scrubbing in the basin of the sink and shuts off the tap. He looks around for the hand towel and, remembering he had thrown it in with the last load of laundry, dries his hands on his t-shirt instead.

There’s a shift in the air, something thick and weighty and terrible as he steps into the opening of the hallway, but he doesn’t allow himself a moment to hesitate. He pads near-silently forward, toward the only open door, all the way at the end. 

In the threshold between the hall and the master bedroom, Jaime’s toes brush against where pristine hardwood meets soft carpet. It feels good against his bare feet after days of standing on an unforgiving surface without the allowance of shoes or socks, but not nearly good enough to settle the uneasiness building in the pit of his stomach. Mr. Torley sits on the edge of the bed, a long, deep-colored robe covering most of his body, save for the deep strip of exposed skin down his chest where a few patches of thick, dark hair peek through. Jaime forces his eyes up to his.

“You called for me, Sir?” His voice low and steady, even as his eyes draw unwittingly to the lamp on the bedside table, which has been dimmed to an orange glow that makes the room feel small and suffocatingly warm. 

“Come here,” his Keeper beckons, and Jaime’s muscles operate by the hand of some unseen force, pushing him forward. He only makes it half a step in before Mr. Torley raises a hand, gesturing to where the light of the hallway spills in around his silhouette. “Close the door behind you.”

Jaime’s limbs feel very heavy all of a sudden, but he moves anyway, a phantom sting buzzing beneath his skin at even the briefest thought of hesitation. Never make your Keeper wait. Never let your Keeper ask twice. 

The hallway is plain and sterile, much like the rest of the Torley house, but Jaime stares longingly out at it as he pulls the door shut, wishing he were out there instead.

When the door clicks shut, he can feel a pair of eyes rake down his back like cold fingertips. It raises the hair on the back of his neck, his skin breaking out in an unpleasant chill, but he forces perfect neutrality into his expression before he turns around. He zeroes in on the sensation of soft carpet under his soles instead of the prickling dread under his skin as he makes his way toward the bed, coming to a stop a couple feet away.

Mr. Torley chuckles under his breath, a low, amused sound that Jaime is already getting used to hearing. He seems to reserve it for Jaime alone and it always serves to make him feel like there is some sort of private joke he’s not been let in on. Or, more accurately, that he is the joke, and he can’t quite stifle the lingering sense of shame that comes with that. 

“I said, come here.” It’s a direct order, but paired with a hint of amusement and something darker swimming behind his eyes. He rubs a hand invitingly, pointedly, over the comforter next to him and Jaime swallows back a lump in his throat that feels a lot like bile.

He isn’t stupid. Despite everything that’s been told to him, he’s not. But in that moment he wishes maybe he was, and then ignorance could be bliss for just a few more seconds. He knows where this is headed, and he knows that it’s wrong. It is against the policies, against the rules, he knows it is, but he isn’t surprised, either. It hadn’t taken long at the training facility to discover that the system on paper looks a whole lot different than the system in practice. 

“‘We uphold a zero-tolerance policy for the sexual exploitation and abuse of Domestic workers,’” a cruel, mocking voice recites in his head, alongside the memory of a leather-gloved thumb sliding between his lips, his wide, tearful eyes glued to the tiny, black remote in his handler’s fist. 

The skin beneath his collar burns at the memory, and he raises his fingers absently to touch there, half expecting to feel the heavy weight of the electric clip attached. He doesn’t, of course, and the only electricity he feels now is of a different nature, coming off his Keeper in waves as he waits, a bit more impatiently with every second, for Jaime to sit. 

So he does. 

Mr. Torley crowds his space immediately, and his instinctive response to pull away is smothered by a heavy arm draping over his shoulders and a droning voice inside his head. You must make yourself available at all times. You may not refuse any order or request that does not directly interfere with the wellbeing of another person. Jaime allows himself to wonder, for the briefest moment, if his wellbeing counts for anything. He knows it doesn’t. They had just spent the past three months teaching him, in every way imaginable, that he was not, in fact, a person at all.

All the offhand remarks from the trainers, the lewd sneers, the heavy-lidded glances and roaming hands… they had all painted him a picture of what to expect. He had just tricked himself into thinking that maybe, hopefully, if there ever really was a god in this universe that loved him like he was sure he once believed, that he was wrong. In the three days since he had stepped foot into his newest post, Jaime had managed to convince himself that maybe, possibly, he had gotten one of the good ones. 

Mr. Torley is all too happy to shatter the illusion as his finger and thumb find Jaime’s earlobe, rubbing it between them and then ghosting down the side of his neck. 

“Take off your shirt,” he whispers.

Jaime’s blood runs cold. 

You may not refuse any order or request. He can’t conceal the trembling in his fingers as they curl around the hem of his standard-issue grey t-shirt. You may not refuse any order or request. The warm ambience of the room feels startlingly cold against his naked torso as he pulls the fabric over his head, letting it fall in a soft whisper onto the carpet. You may not refuse any order or request. His arm is back around his shoulders instantly, hot and cold assaulting his skin all at once and he feels so exposed and he doesn’t want to be here he doesn’t want to do this. 

Mr. Torley places a heavy palm against his chest, running it slowly downward, and Jaime can picture what it looks like without even looking; calloused pads scraping over soft skin, all thick fingers and subtly unkempt nails, the beginnings of age spots and wrinkles and small dustings of black hair across the knuckles. He thinks his keeper must be able to feel the way his heart is pounding through his ribs, and he feels a surge of embarrassment that he was sure the training should have beaten out of him.

It’s because you weren’t trained for this, the panicked voice in the back of his head screams as the hand trails lower, grazing the thin patch of hair below his navel. This isn’t supposed to happen. This is against policy. You weren’t made for this. His skin feels static in every place Mr. Torley’s fingers brush, and he wishes he could dissolve under them.

“You’re shaking, baby.” Jaime winces at the unexpected term of endearment. So far, it has only been boy, curt and abrasive when thrown in his direction, usually followed by a direct order. “Have you never had a man touch you like this?”

His mind supplies a horror show of memories, flashes of images behind closed eyelids -  leather-gloved hands and concrete rooms of the training facility - and he realizes he doesn’t know how to answer that. He wants to cry. Can’t cry. Isn’t allowed to cry. Then there are fingers on his chin, on his jaw, softer than any of his touches have ever been; soft like the word baby on his lips, soft like the half-lidded eyes that he is forced to meet. 

“I asked you a question.”

“I haven’t. Sir.” His voice shakes, barely a whisper. 

It is mostly true, probably in the way Mr. Torley really meant it, and unfortunately seems to be exactly the answer he was looking for. Dread splits Jaime in two. One part, the part of him that’s hazy and pliant and good tells him he has done a good job, that he has pleased his Keeper, he has said the right thing. His keeper’s needs are his needs, if his Keeper is happy, he is happy. 

The other part just keeps screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

He doesn’t want this.

It doesn’t matter what he wants, he’s not supposed to have wants.

But this isn’t allowed.

His Keeper is happy.

Please, please stop touching me.

He can’t say no, no is forbidden to him.

Please don’t make me do this.

His keeper is smiling.

“You’re very lucky,” Mr. Torley says, dragging the thumb that was holding his jaw over he’s lower lip. “They could have given you to any one of your bidders, and trust me… there are some messed up people out there who invest in the services of Domestic Companions. But I can be good to you.”

Somehow, he doesn’t feel very lucky at all.

“Yes, sir,” he says, a bit breathless as fingers trace up and down his spine. His own fingers curl into the bedsheets on the opposite side of his thigh where Mr. Torley can’t see the outward signals of his distress, though from the naked delight in his eyes as he watches him, he doesn’t think he minds. 

There are lips on his before he can even process what is happening, and he feels his whole body go rigid in his Keeper’s hold. He’s never been kissed before and the cold wetness against his mouth is nothing like the movies make it out to be. It’s hard to wrap his head around the overwhelming sensation, but the one thing he knows for sure, immediately, is that he hates it. 

He hates his first kiss unlike anything he’s hated before. Terror and humiliation seize him in equal stride as he realizes he doesn’t really know what to do. He is frozen, for a moment, his own pulse beating wildly in his ears as slimy lips move against his own. When Mr. Torley cups a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to lean into the kiss, his mouth opens instinctively, submitting to the insistence of the movement, and this seems to be exactly what he was looking for. A low, throaty hum vibrates against his mouth and Jaime clamps his eyes shut tight. He feels like he might die. For a moment, he kind of wishes he would.

He doesn’t register the pressure of the hand against his chest until his back is already pressed into the duvet. Mr. Torley sits up then, breaking the kiss, then stands. Jaime doesn’t look at him - he can’t bring himself to - but he can feel his eyes on him anyway. Thick fingers hook into the elastic of the thin, gray pants he had been given three days prior, and his breathing goes flat. Please don’t please don’t please don’t, his brain lights up with panic, every nerve ending in his body on high alert. But he doesn’t move, other than to close his trembling fingers around the material on either side of him, curling the soft fibers of the duvet into his fists. He wants to close his eyes, but he can feel them burning, then swimming with moisture, and he knows if he clamps his eyelids shut, the tears will spill over and he doesn’t want to cry in front of Mr. Torley.

Instead, he stares up at the ceiling fan, focusing on the long, thin blades of wood instead of the feeling of cool air against his lower half as the material is pulled away from him. He hears the rustle of cloth as his pants join the discarded shirt on the carpet at his feet, and then another sound of the same, this time heavier, but he doesn’t dare look away from the grey clump of dust dangling from one of the fan blades above him.

Worse than the chill of the exposure is the heat that follows in the form of skin on skin, an immovable weight settling over his body. His throat jerks in another attempt at a sob, a plea that can’t let free. He swallows it down and tells himself that if he just keeps staring at that one spot of dust, he isn’t really here, that his keeper is not on top of him, that this isn’t about to happen to him. 

But he is. It is. There’s no stopping it now. There never was.

“Look at me.” 

For the first time, he allows his eyes to slip shut in a quiet moment of defeat - just a singular moment of hesitation before he follows the command. He feels the moisture slipping out at the corners but he can’t do anything to stop them even if his hands weren’t being slowly pressed above his head and into the mattress. When he opens his eyes, he looks up into the cold expression hovering over him, fully eclipsing the spot of his previous focus. It’s just him now. It’s all him, every one of his senses besieged by the one person whose life he is supposed to center himself around now. In that context, perhaps this should feel exactly right. 

Somehow, it doesn’t. Not at all.

[bluekappa]

blink and you'll miss it

Inspired by @salparadiselost Demon AU!

Read it on AO3!

TW: Child Abuse

Hands.

Large, rough hands that slapped against Jason’s backside repeatedly until his skin was red and sensitive. Hands that grabbed his hips so tight they bruised him.

Jason heard the smirk in Willis’ voice, the taunting tone as he rasped about how much Jason desired being beat like this. How it was the only food Jason would receive for the week, so he better enjoy it.

Willis loved Jason’s helplessness, bathing in the power and fire it gave him.

Jason screamed again as he felt a belt come down on his back instead of a hand, breaking the already sensitive skin. Blood trickled from the wounds. Jason barely fought the urge to throw up at the feeling.

“Daddy—Sir, please!” He sobbed. His vision was swarming and his limbs trembled violently as they struggled to hold his body up. Jason had surely blackout at some point, only jolting back to consciousness at the intense pain of Willis’ fingernails digging into his neck.

His mind was foggy and his muscles went uncomfortably lax because of the dominating hold. No matter how frantically he fought it and struggled, he couldn't get free.

The burning on his back was inescapable. He sobbed again as he tried and failed to suck air into his lungs. But the beating continued on and on, and Jason couldn’t escape and he could breathe. He was trapped.

He was never going to escape Willis or the hurt the Luciferean inflicted. White-hot agony spread through his body and another loud wail pushed itself out of his mouth and—

Jason gasped and sat up quickly. Utter darkness surrounded him so he couldn't make out a thing. A horrible panic built up in his stomach at his lack of information. He couldn't remember where he was. He swore he was just with Willis, he could still feel the phantom pains on his back, but Willis was nowhere to be found. His eyes flicked up and immediately his eyes latched onto the darkness in front of him that stood out from the rest.  A shadowy figure was sitting in front of him, and Jason shrieked at the proximity the figure had to him. The incubus scurried backward on his bed until his back hit the hard backboard. A pained shout escaped his mouth as the tears flowed heavily down his cheeks.

“Don’t, please,” Jason whimpered. He pulled the blanket up tightly to his chest, using it as a barrier from the unknown person. A high keen was stuck in his throat, the inner demon inside him viciously craving the protection of a pack. He swallowed the sound with a violent shudder.

“Jaylad,” a low, familiar voice whispered. “You’re safe.”

Jason desperately wanted to believe it, but he knew he would never be safe from his father. Willis always caught him and dragged him back to their hellhole of an apartment. Every time he tried to escape, the pain got worse. Jason stopped running away once Willis started beating his mother in his place as punishment.

He shook his head rapidly, trying to calm his bubbling sobs. It was another lie to get him pliant and easy. He couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t—

A tug.

His breath caught. A tug at his bonds, a familiar one, but more importantly, a safe one. It radiated nothing but concern and unwavering love.

“Bruce?” Jason whimpered, risking opening his eyes and truly looking at the figure in front of him. It was Bruce, unease painted Bruce’s face and his hand was frozen in the air, like he wanted to reach out to Jason but didn’t know if he could.

“You’re in the manor, baby. No one’s going to hurt you here,” Bruce promised. Jason nodded rapidly, his tears starting up again but for a different reason. He launched himself at Bruce, clinging to his father as he shook. Bruce wrapped his arms around Jason just as tightly, gently resting his head on Jason’s.

“Daddy,” Jason wept. He buried his head further into his father’s chest, knowing he was safe as long as he was close to Bruce.

“I’m here, my impling.”

Bruce rocked them slowly, rubbing a warm hand against Jason’s back. It felt nice, and Jason couldn’t help but grow drowsy at the feeling despite the fear plaguing him of closing his eyes.

“I think we should try to go back to sleep, Jaylad. Do you want to sleep with me for the rest of the night?”

Jason nodded without hesitation. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone. Bruce shifted Jason slightly in his arms and stood. Jason purred sleepily against his father’s shoulder. The short walk to Bruce’s room was soothing and just the right level of calm Jason needed. He had to blink hard to keep his droopy eyes open.

Bruce gently deposited Jason on the bed and crawled in next to him. Now that they were back in bed though, Jason was afraid. He didn’t want to have any more nightmares. He didn’t want to be trapped with Willis again.

He stubbornly kept his eyes open, staring at the wall as Bruce pulled him close.

“Sleep, Jason,” Bruce murmured into the boy’s hair.

“Don’t want to,” Jason mumbled back.

Bruce shifted, rolling Jason over so he was now facing Bruce. Bruce sighed quietly and ran his large fingers through Jason’s hair at the exact pressure Jason liked.

The impling’s eyes fluttered as a loud purr broke from his throat.

“Chum, look at me,” Bruce requested, voice full of authority. Jason titled his head up so his half-lidded eyes met Bruce’s. Bruce blinked slowly, not breaking eye contact with Jason.

Jason whined half-heartedly as he snuggled closer to Bruce’s chest. “Not fair.”

Bruce’s lips quirked up, but he continued methodically slowly blinking at Jason, and Jason couldn’t help but mimic the motion, waves of exhaustion and comfort rolling over him in slow waves.

“I’ll keep you safe, Jaylad, I promise,” Bruce whispered. Jason nodded weakly.

Between the hand running through his hair, the warmth radiating from Bruce, and the loving, firm blinking Bruce was directed at him, Jason couldn’t help but give in to the pull of sleep.

His eyes slid shut, breath immediately evening out.

The last thing he felt was a light kiss to his forehead and love illuminating from the pack bonds.

My baby boy, my impling, I’ll keep you safe, my Jaylad.

[shoutogepi]

Alarm

Todoroki Shouto

word count : 2K (blurb!)

[ ✘ (nsfw!) ]  

themes : sub!shouto, dom!reader, praise, bondage

bio : Your boyfriend loves to be tied up and tortured, and you’re more than happy to deliver.

author’s note : uhhh idk in the past there’ve been some requests for sub sho so thought i would post these meager scraps to feed you guys while i work on the next fic (tamaki smut)

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🄰 loud moan floats from Shouto’s parted lips, his eyes slamming shut underneath his furrowed brow. His hips attempt to shift backwards, away from your touch, but the ropes holding down his thighs leave no room for escape. His muscles push against the restraints, but the only part of his body that he can move is his head, which he throws back in agony as your finger traces down his shaft.

The remnants of his ruined orgasm drip down the crevices of his abs, his cock red and twitching angrily at how you’d jerked your hand away as soon as his load began to spurt out. Without your touch his release had been painfully unsatisfactory; he had cried out in distress as the ecstasy instantly vanished and only its phantom remained, leaving his cock erect before you.

“Do you wanna be a good boy for me now, baby?” Your words splice the tension in the air, and he moves his face forward again to see your fist close around his length.

“Aha— ah!” He groans as your lips hug the head of his cock, your tongue experimentally roving over his salty, flustered skin. Swirling it around his swollen tip, your watchful eyes take in the intoxicating expression painted over his handsome features. When your cheeks hollow and you welcome more of him into his mouth, his eyes nearly bug out of his head and he lewdly whimpers,” S-Sensitiveee.”

His caution falling on deaf ears, your gaze only twinkles with threat as you take even more of him between your lips, your tongue washing the bulging vein that splits into two on the underside of his cock. Shouto gasps and attempts to lift his hips at your persistence, half-lidded eyes glued to your every move. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, and he takes his bottom lip between his teeth as you begin to bob your head. The length of him easily glides in and out of your mouth, and his tip pressing against the walls of your throat makes his eyes drift upward underneath his lids in pleasure. His breath is ragged, muscular chest shaking with each sharp inhale.

Incoherent words tumble from his mouth, his eyes straining to stay open. Your torture on his cock sends electricity shooting through his limbs, the stimulation almost too much— but fuck, your pace is just right— you know how to dance upon the fine line between too much and not enough, and it has him sweating and seeing stars. His cock is harder than ever, and he cannot fathom how you’d managed to keep his length this erect after his climax.

“Ngggh!” Shouto grumbles when your fist glides over the head, flushed cock twitching violently against your palm. “Please,” he croaks, drooping eyes cast down to lock with your own, peering up at him with a wicked glint. He isn’t really sure what exactly he’s asking for, but the word slides out of him without a thought.

His heart begins to hammer in his chest as you stand, and his eyes instantly fly to the glistening folds between your legs. He can only whine as your leg swings over his lap, your arms landing on his shoulders and pulling yourself closer to him. His cock jumps as your hard nipples drag against his skin, and you giggle as the slick hardness pokes your abdomen.

Your chest flush against his, you lean in and press the softest kiss to his lips. Shouto’s head spins, his hands itching with the need to reach out and pull you closer to him. His jaw falls slack as you begin to grind against him, your slick slipping onto his cock and trailing down his thigh. Your core is so hot against his aching length, he lets out a long moan as his head falls back once again. Your hips roll against his restrained lap, pulling your clit along his pink skin with ease. Pussy leaking onto him, even though you’re in control you can’t help but let out an erotic groan. Having your seemingly-aloof, collected man struggling to keep it together underneath you has your eyes rolling back in excitement, your teeth conquering his lower lip. Raising your hips, you guide his tip along your slit and around your soaked entrance in deviously slow circles.

“Y/N,” Shouto gasps, brow cinched and perspiration glistening along the side of his handsome face. His eyes dart toward your pussy hovering over his cock, gulping audibly as you lower yourself just halfway onto the tip. “I— fuck, I don’t think I can—“

Your fingernails delve through his two-toned locks, scraping against his scalp as you grab a handful and pull, eliciting a deep, lustful sound. His chin juts into the air, sharp jawline hiked upwards, but his eyes do not leave yours. There are no words to describe the passion that crackles between the two of you; all you can do is give him your most sultry gaze and cheshire-like grin.

“You can,” you purr, your other hand brushing him against your clit one last time, “and you will.”

His cock pushes into you, parting your slippery walls like a hot knife through soft butter. You sink down onto him slowly, savoring the stretch as you accommodate the delicious intrusion. A broken moan rings from Shouto’s lips, but he doesn’t dare break eye contact with you. Your gaze is fiery and demanding, and he can only watch your face as the warmth of your cunt envelops his tender length in a silky, intense euphoria.

Just as your mouth had taken him before, your pussy welcomes him at a snail's pace; just fast enough to keep him panting but slow enough to sate his weary cock. Your hand still rooted in his hair, the other reaches behind you to scratch your nails from his knee toward you. Goosebumps rise to meet the stuffy air of the room, and his head falls to lay on your arm as you sink back down onto him, balls deep.

Sheathed inside you, Shouto can barely keep his wits, his eyelids heavy with lust and exhaustion, but he would never miss out on an opportunity to see your blissful, dominant expression above him. Deciding to give him a reward, your free hand lands on the wide expanse of his chest, your fanned fingers sliding shut to capture his nipple, and rubbing the sensitive bud gently as you massage the hard muscle underneath. He lets a loud cry loose, cock perking upright inside of you at the stimulation.

You begin to increase your pace, restless to feel his thick member draw along your walls. Shouto cannot keep the noises of pleasure from surfacing, unabashed and gravely moans releasing out into the silent room. Your clit rubs against the bicolored thatch of hair at the base of his cock, and his hips try to buck against the ropes without prevail. The angle of you on his lap provides fulfilling access to deep inside your womb,  your essence dripping down his balls and onto the chair underneath him to form a small, slick puddle.

Your hand leaves his chest momentarily to grip your own breast, placing it into Shouto’s open mouth before finding purchase on his pec once again. He latches onto your tit instantly, tongue rolling around your nipple before sucking on the pebbled bud and flicking against it with reckless abandon. His eagerness to please only turns you on even more, your hips slamming down to stuff yourself with his heavy length.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so damn good,” you groan, tightening your loosened hold on his hair. He grunts in immediate response, lips wrapped around your breast and tongue working feverishly. “You’re such a good boy, yeah— you’re my good boy,” you praise, and your tit falls from his mouth as he lets out a whine.

Your words have him twitching inside and quivering underneath you, harsh puffs of steam surging from his now gaping mouth. Orange embers begin to lick the edges of his scar, a coating of frost emanating from his hand tied behind his back. He can only say your name, chanting it like you’d cast a bewitching spell upon his beautiful, delirious form.

The familiar coil tightening in your stomach, you groan as you slam onto him with newfound ferocity. No longer holding anything back, your fingers leave his nipple to gently grip his throat, fingers winding around the thick, corded muscles there. His eyes are on you, both hands forcing him to match your searing gaze as you fuck yourself onto his cock.

“You’re mine, you’re all mine,” you gasp, and he groans in agreement, the embers on his face growing into little flames along his skin. “Fuck, does my good boy wanna cum? You gonna cum in me, fill me to the brim with your seed, baby?” The words are sharp and frayed, your lungs nearly breathless as you bounce on his throbbing length.

“Fuck, yes,” Shouto moans, voice trembling as your fingers press into the racing pulse on his throat. “All yours— so close!” The chair beneath you squeaks as you pound yourself onto him, his body shaking as the pressure in his stomach nears its peak. “P-Please, I need to... Please let me cum,” he begs breathlessly, desperation emerging in his gray and blue gaze. 

His request has your cunt fluttering around him, an offering to charm the ravenous beast of your dominance. You hungrily accept his words, nodding as your jaw falls, the feeling of his long, thick cock splitting you taking over your senses entirely. “Fuck, be a good boy and cum inside me then.”

The fingers in his hair yank hard, pulling his head backwards as your other hand keeps its tight hold on his neck. His body tenses, and you cry out as you drop your hips onto him for the final time. Both of your strangled moans fill the room, ecstasy wracking through your bodies as you hurtle over the edge together. Your legs shake as your cunt squeezes around him, and his body strains against the ropes as he coats your walls in hot and sticky spurts.

Your trembling fingers soothe over his damp skin, pushing the hair dangling over his eyes back to press a kiss to his forehead. He hums at the gesture, cooling his breath so it calms the rosy skin of your chest. The flames flickering on his face dull before dying out, the intensity of the moment lulling as your hand slips from his throat, arm wrapping around his neck to place your lips on his.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips pushing against yours passionately.

You purr in reciprocation, but before you can voice your feelings the sprinkler on the ceiling bursts to life, cold water instantly drenching both of you.

You shriek at the rude interruption, sharing an incredulous look with the man underneath you, whose cock is still softening within you. After the initial shock, you let out a sigh, the gaze between the two of you knowing but still amused.

“You set off the fire alarm again, baby,” you can’t help but chuckle at the ridiculous situation, the shy grin on Shouto’s lips spurring you on.

“Technically you set it off,” he corrects, raising a brow at you. “I was just being a good boy.”

You smack his arm with a huff of faux irritation before you give him another quick kiss and begin to undo the ties on his wrists, wondering how angry your landlord will be with the two of you for yet another sprinkler-related incident. Concluding that Shouto can pay for any damages he’d caused, you decide that the session you’d just finished was well worth it, drenched furniture and all.

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

.

.

➥ masterlist ✍(◔◡◔) thanks for reading!!

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[phantom-curve]

did I shatter you? (epilogue)

part one: you’re not my homeland anymore | part two: when a good man hurts you | part three: there’s an ache in you, put there by the ache in me | part four: my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand | epilogue: what died didn’t stay dead

A cold wind whipped Julie Molina’s curls across her face as she sat on a bench in Coney Island. Light grey clouds hung overhead, darker on the horizon like a storm was headed her way. She shivered, tucking her coat more securely around her body as she stared out across the boardwalk, eyes unseeing. Sand crunched in the distance. A body emerged from the low hanging fog.

“Julie!”

Her head turned at the sound of her name. A figure was making its way towards her, signature orange beanie shining like a beacon in the misty air. A smile stole across her lips. She launched herself off of the bench, meeting him halfway in a tangle of limbs as she jumped into his arms. He staggered back a step, laughing softly.

“I missed you.”

She whispered the words directly in his ear, pressed him close as a shiver worked down his spine. His arms flexed against her back.

“You only beat me here by two days. If you hadn’t wanted to see them put the Rockefeller tree up so badly we could have been on the same plane.”

She leaned back in his hold, sticking her tongue out right in his face.

“You say that like you wouldn’t have been right there with me if Andi didn’t need you to wrap up contract negotiations. I don’t know why you three took so long with that anyway. I told you it didn’t matter to me.”

“It mattered to us. There’s no breaking up Julie and The Phantoms again. It’s all or nothing baby. Forever.”

His cold nose nuzzled against her cheek. She rolled her eyes, but the sentiment behind the boys demanding a clause in the new contract that wouldn’t allow the band to be split up by the label again came from a place that made her want to melt. A full year past their initial reconciliation and Luke was still proving to her every day that he was in this for the long haul.

When they had first approached the label about adding The Phantoms back to Julie, Andi hadn’t been sold on it at all. Despite the fact that they had a good 6 years of success under their belt, the desperation and immediateness of how Julie had broken them up didn’t make her keen to try again. But they had been adamant that they were better together. Julie did well as a solo artist, but she didn’t have near the same reach or recognition as when they had been a full band. The Phantoms performed well on rock charts without Julie, but they had dropped a lot of their pop demographic when they lost her sound. Business wise, it made sense to merge them again. It was Flynn who had cinched the deal for them.

One single picture, teasing nothing more than the back of Julie and Luke sitting next to each other on a piano bench was posted as a story on the official Julie and The Phantoms Instagram. The internet went into a tailspin of speculation. It was the first post the account had made since the break-up, and every single social media site had gone insane trying to figure out what it meant. Fans had all but demanded a reunion. Andi, through a knowing smirk, had offered them a new contract.

It had been a decent contract. Basically the same as the one they had before, just slightly less pay, which they could accept. Then, with Julie’s knowledge and consent, the boys spoke up and asked about adding a clause that would not only give the band sole ownership of the Julie and The Phantoms brand, but also would not allow the dissolution of the band’s contract in favor of solo contracts for any of the band members. In layman’s terms, no one could quit the band and stay at the label.

It gave the label less incentive to allow any of the band members to do the type of negotiation Julie had. She understood why they wanted it. Alex and Reggie had nearly wept with relief when they learned that Julie and Luke were working things out, healing and growing and fixing their shit. Actually, she was pretty sure Alex had wept now that she thought about it. Andi, again, hadn’t been sold. They’d been working her for the last few weeks, drawing out other parts of the contract to buy time. Finally, Andi had sat them down and said she understood what it meant to them, but she couldn’t give them everything. She was willing to add the break-up clause, but the label wanted to retain the brand rights. Julie had been okay with compromise, but the boys wanted to fight it out. Resigned, Andi had promised to fax Julie the completed copy after the boys signed. She was surprised Andi had been able to hold out two full days. The boys without Julie to temper them were a powerful force to be reckoned with. Andi had known she would lose the fight the moment that photo uploaded to Instagram.

Luke leaned forward to kiss the tip of her tongue. She pulled it back into her mouth with a giggled ewww! before unwrapping her legs from around his waist. Gently, he set her back on the ground, his fingers trailing down her arm to intertwine with hers. Swinging their arms back and forth softly, Luke led her away from the bench. They walked in silence for a moment, comfortable and cozy in each other’s presence. Julie’s soul hummed, the overwhelming feeling of rightness nearly making her head swim. She thought she would be used to it by now, used to being happy and whole again, but every day with Luke felt better than the last.

Occasionally, her head felt the need to remind her it hadn’t actually been that long. They’d only been reunited for just over a year, only back in a relationship for the last six months of that year. But, Luke had changed. The anger that had once sustained him didn’t lurk in the background anymore. He had made peace with the events of the past, and it had allowed him to fully move on in a way she hadn’t ever thought he would. Luke was a new man, and Julie had fallen for him all over again. Realistically, she should have known it would happen. She hadn’t ever been able to stop loving him in the first place.

Without warning, Luke spun her into his arms, dipping her with a dramatic flourish and planting a smacking kiss on her lips. Julie let out a peal of delighted laughter, holding onto his neck for dear life. He pulled her upright, grinning as he tucked her close for an impromptu bastardization of a waltz. She let him lead, content to rest her head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat drumming into her head: homehomehome.

“I love you, Julie Molina.”

His words promised a lifetime of forever.

“I love you, Lucas Patterson.”

Under the same lights where they first came together, on the same pier where they had fallen apart so suddenly, in the same spot where they had started to rebuild their life together, Julie leaned into the man of her dreams. They weren’t perfect, but they were perfect for each other. And, in the end, that’s really all that mattered. Everything else was just background noise.

[wulfhalls]

getting him next week <3

[suckmyballshoney]

Could you maybe recommend some good fics?

Okay mom, this is the list of the best things I’ve read ! And because I am incapable of choosing only a few, there is like 100 fics in there, it’s crazy. I’m a fucking mess, it’s a fucking mess, there are all amazing fics and I have no self-control so take it all 😂 (please appreciate it, I spent so loooong on it ! 😂)

For anyone reading this, here’s an important note I need to make before we start : this only comes from my opinion, with ships I like and my own preferences in themes. If one of your fics or a fic you liked is in there, well good for you because I loved it ! And if it’s not, it doesn’t mean that it’s bad or anything like that, just that I haven’t read it or that I missed it yesterday when me and my tired eyes went through the historic of the THOUSANDS of fics I’ve ever read in the fandom, it’s a fucking lot and I surely missed some.

Also, some fics are locked so if you don’t have an account, you won’t be able to see them.

I tried to organize it, I really tried, and for the sake of safety I’ll note the NSFW ones, if you go read, take care of yourself and read at your own caution, because I can read pretty much about anything doesn’t mean anyone can and have too so check the tags every time ! Take care of yourself and enjoy the ones you read ! 💙

Emotional fics

Like ribbons by heroics (Dan/Max, NSFW)

I will always be there for you, brother by someone_worth_racing_for (Nico/Carlos, NSFW)

And in the end I will seek you out amongst the stars by mandzilkos (Charles/Max)

Bitter/Sweet by Tianvette (Seb/Mark)

Night Bus by EverythingIsAJokeIncludingMe (Lando/Carlos)

Black Over Red (the death of a King) by onehonor

not magnificent by secondlifetime

toffee by simplyverstappen (Dan/Max, NSFW)

terrible sting, terrible storm by singlemalter (Lando/Carlos)

I got everything at my fingertips (How can I resist when it feels like this?) by komkommertijd (Dan/Max)

Holding together what can not be held by Quagswagging (NSFW)

The spleen of monte carlo (and how to deal with it) by altissimozucca (Charles/Max)

Interlude/infatuation by toro (sapoeysap) (Alex/George)

I’ve not hate (that’s how I know I lied to you) by GufettoGrigio (Lewis/Nico)

Phantom limb by Charona (Dan/Max, NSFW)

(Dis)closure by Charona (Nico/Kevin, NSFW)

Under Greece’s stars by Lily_Anna (Lewis/Nico)

Hate is a terrible feeling by scarletred

Fluff and/or funny fics

be still my foolish heart by jorgelorenzo (Carlos/Lando, NSFW)

That's What Friends Are For by KyoukayKanata (Carlos/Lando)

Some Boys Just Wanna Watch The World Burn by onehonor (Lando/Charles)

you ('cause you feel like home) by maxverstappens

amor (la leche style) by toro (sapoeysap) (Carlos/Lando)

Nico’s Greatest Achievement by F1_rabbit (Lando/Max)

Mystery Man by simplyverstappen (Lando/Carlos, Dan/Max)

There’s love in this life, there’s no obstacle by Pericardiaca (George/Alex)

Drowned in oxygen by scarletred (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

We’ll Always Be Okay by Thatsrightmyhype (Max/Lando, NSFW)

Tying Cherry Stems in Knots by WhiteWolfCraft (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

And they were quarantined by scarletred (Charles/Max)

50 Sentences of Carlos and Lando by palalabru (Lando/Carlos)

The Day Kevin Magnussen Attempted Murder (and Fernando learned not everyone likes to be babied) by Quagswagging

You Say We're Just Friends (But Friends Don't Know the Way You Taste) by WhiteWolfCraft (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

it's not that hard to open eyes that close when they couldn't have by circuitricardoporno (Lando/Carlos)

An analysis of inappropriate behaviour between teammates, featuring Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz Junior by WhiteWolfCraft (Lando/Carlos)

Darling, we’re a paradox (but I think we’ll manage) by altissimozucca (Pierre/Daniil)

Far away truths by raikkonen (armario) (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

Thank you, Anytime by sensibleshoes28 (Charles/Max)

Game Stops and Spanish Restaurants by Anna_banana (Lando/Carlos)

Catch you when you fall by maxverstappens (Dan/Max)

soulmates (or: max has a love-hate relationship with coldplay) by altissimozucca (Charles/Max)

your love I’m lost in by maxverstappens (Lando/Max, NSFW)

Last night you were in my room (and now my bedsheets smell like you) by LostInSpace and MerlinSpecter (Dan/Max)

Abu Dhabi 2035 by Charona (Dan/Max)

A Drink Too Many, Or Maybe Less by ColdWhiteLight (Kimi/Seb, NSFW)

Oh, Sandman, bring us a dream by bonotje (Lando/Max)

So happy Christmas (back on the bad list) by toro (sapoeysap) (Alex/George)

You’ll pull at my neck and we’ll break what can’t be broken by grwyish (Charles/Max)

Set alight my skin (and I’ll melt like ice) by Directionless_Foray (Lando/Carlos)

irish spring 5-in-1 by Anonymous (Pierre/Daniil)

Others

Like Magic by Rizz07 (de-ageing fic)

Even though you know we fly (Don't call me angel) by Alexa_Plays (George/Alex)

Have You Come Up A Name For Your Chassis? By Asahi_9L1314

Rule 63 by WhiteWolfCrack (George/Alex, NSFW, genderswap)

I took the stars from our eyes and then I made a map by Directionless_Foray (Lewis/Seb)

kiss me under the light of a thousand stars by altissimozucca

if you wanna come back, it’s alright by raikkonen (armario) (Pierre/Daniil, NSFW)

F1 Rarepair Drabbles by raikkonen (armario) (NSFW)

Fringe contender by redpaint (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

www.tumblr.com by legolasass

Lady, I need my dog back now…and my Nico too by Anonymous (Lewis/Nico)

A moment you need me to stay by circuitricardoporno (Lando/Carlos/Isa, NSFW)

McLaren Unboxed | The Papaya Boys | #2020 by legolasass (Carlos/Lando)

The Performer by theinanitor (Jenson/Seb)

spotlight on me and i'm ready to break  by Pericardiaca (NSFW)

The banterzone by groooovybaby

Lance stroll’s exclusive hallowe’en party by raikkonen (armario)

So, let’s dance (when we’re not supposed to be) by Directionless_Foray (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

Long fics/series

Three Wishes For Verstappen by PoemAboutCitylights (Dan/Max)

Solar Flare by Tianvette (Jenson/Seb, NSFW)

Baby I'll Rule (Let Me Live That Fantasy) by komkommertijd (Dan/Max)

knife's edge by restless5oul (Charles/Max, NSFW)

In High School by Zig_Zag_F1 (Charles/Max, George/Alex, Carlos/Lando, NSFW)

Everyone’s shagging because I said so by Wellthisdidntgotoplan (serie, NSFW)

The Experiences of Blossoms by magic_one (serie)

New love old love by circuitricardoporno (serie, Alex/George/Lando, Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

Every colour illuminates by circuitricardoporno (serie, Lando/George, NSFW)

Bad baby by Directionless_Foray (serie, Charles/Seb, NSFW)

Max and Pierre by kakkakerssi (Pierre/Max, NSFW)

The five last fics of sirius (Alex/George/Lando, NSFW)

All Behind A Mask by JustAnotherF1Fangirl (Lando/Carlos)

Youtube AU by simplyverstappen (serie, NSFW)

Sons of the gods by EverythingIsAJokeIncludingMe

Falling and finding by Directionless_Foray (serie, Charles/Seb, NSFW)

Can’t go on without you by FadingDragon (Dan/Max)

Magic verse by simplyverstappen (serie, Dan/Max)

The higher we soar the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly by RosaNautica (Romain/Kevin, NSFW)

Ten Important Events In My Life by komkommertijd (serie)

Crowns by simplyverstappen (serie, NSFW)

Sebastian and Kimi raising the chaotic trio (aka a Highschool AU) by greeny1710 (serie, NSFW)

The Grid’s Apocrypha by singlemalter (serie, NSFW)

Quiet healing by Directionless_Foray (serie, Charles/Seb, NSFW)

Max and Lando by kakkakerssi (serie, NSFW)

Our families by greeny1710 (serie, NSFW)

French fics (of course I had to include that category)

Passer le temps by Jae_Universe

Dead Hearts by Laeana (serie)

10 façons de mourir by Laeana (serie)

Love is a seduction game by Laeana (serie)

Pffffiouuuuuu that is DONE ! So long 😂 MP/mom I hope you have enough to read for the next WEEKS !

All the writers mentioned above that have a tumblr are here and they deserve a fucking lot of recognition : @someone-worth-racing-for @onehonoramongstthieves @verstappened @nicorosberg @komkommertijd @bwoahtastic @havertzs @alphatoro @gufettogrigio @kyoukai-kanata @landonenorris @f1rabbit @shellhaeds @scharletred @palalabu @landolait @bottasvaltteri @sleepyverstappens @yxllowish @storm-in-my-teacup @rizz07 @redpaint @nxrrislandx @laeana @lilyanna13 and all the others that I didn’t find their tumblr account 😂

[secret-engima]

*screeching* What do you reckon would generally happen if Verstael meet Cloud!Prompto?

*squints* Not to be obtuse but which one? Do you mean the Verstael of that verse or my good guy Besithia of Future’s Blurry?

Gonna assume you mean Cloud’s Besithia and like- ohhhh boy.

So first the only way they meet is if Besithia tried to have his goons capture Cloud after FINALLY poking his head out of his lab long enough to hear about Cor Leonis’s scrawny kid who can bench press a car and outrun a coeurl and goes “AH-HA” because he still remembers that missing lab baby that got stolen that had been showing the most fascinating reactions to the Scourge. So Besithia sends forth his goons and I ... don’t entirely see Cloud getting CAPTURED so much as surrounded while Besithia himself shows up to inspect the capture and to brag.

Prompto looks and hears Besithia going on a mad rant about finding his “wayward creation”. Hears Besithia talk about tests and diagnostics and further experiments in order to replicate his “wayward subject”. He hears and knows that this man is talking about him, is going to drag him back to the labs again and break-him-mold-him-carve-him-open-stitch-him-up-wrong-.

And

Prompto

F A L L S.

Aranea and Tifa might be the ones to find him if he was in Niflheim when this happened, or if Besithia deigned to fly all the way to Lucis, then its the Glaives who find him.

Lets go with the glaives.

The glaives find the aftermath and at first aren’t sure WHAT they’re seeing. The area is ... shredded. Toxic almost in the levels of destruction. There isn’t a single living plant or animal in the area, just husks of MT units torn apart and downed gunships and mecha suits. It’s a war zone, but not one of their making. They are alarmed.

Captain is FRANTIC. He is the only one to look around the field and figure it out first, to spot what is ... left of Besithia’s personal division and put the pieces together and he RUNS through the ruined field, frantically searching.

They find Cloud lying on the ground not far from ... what is left of Besithia. Cloud’s fusion sword is buried point first in the ground not far away, still slick with engine oil and blood and MT sludge. He’s not moving, and Captain gives a strangled cry as he skids to a stop on his knees next to Cloud.

Cloud’s okay. Physically. Nothing that a few elixirs (freely given by the glaive and Captain) won’t fix. But his eyes are open and vacant and his limbs are trembling faintly like he's too cold. Captain bundles up Cor’s son and they rush back to base with him, where they call Cor. It takes an entire day for Cloud to snap out of it, to crawl out of the haze of labs and running and sour mako and Zack-here-Zack-fighting-Zack-gone-gone-gone and register his real surroundings, sitting curled up tight against Seph’s side while Zack paces worriedly back and forth and Cor sits on Cloud’s other side holding his hand with a grim expression.

They notice he’s finally aware again and fuzz like crazy. Cor demands to know what happened, which Cloud manages to choke out ... most of the story.

Seph and Zack flinch in sympathy and understanding the moment he admits he lost track of what happened when he realized Besithia intended to take him back to the labs.

He goes home to Insomnia with them and spends a while there recovering, but there is a moment, quite and private, when it’s just Cor and his son, that Cloud admits- more to the window he’s staring out of then the father in the nearby chair, that he thought he’d feel ... better. For having killed him. He can’t touch him anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about the labs. Doesn’t have to flinch from the phantom lurking in the shadows of the room or the corner of the mirror anymore. 

And yet ... he still dreams of them.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop dreaming of them. The labs are inside him, and he doesn’t know ... how to pull them out.

Cor abandons his book and gently hugs his son without a word.

[quecksilvereyes]

Putting the Gentle Queen Back Into Her Own Narrative: A Suggestion in Ten Parts

                                                                                 I. I survived.

I survived Narnia, I survived the war, I survived being twelve and twenty-seven all at once. I survived. I didn’t mount a train I knew was never going to take me back home.

I said good-bye to my siblings, who, by then, hated me.

Or maybe didn’t hate me, maybe they were just annoyed with me, maybe – maybe I’d just lied to them too much.

Maybe I just told them that our memories weren’t real one too many times. Maybe I looked at Lucy and couldn’t see anything but a lion in the way she looked at me, maybe I looked at Edmund and couldn’t distinguish his eyes from the eyes I remember.

Maybe I looked at Peter.

At his trembling hands. Maybe I couldn’t bring myself to hug any of them.

Maybe I couldn’t bring myself to say good-bye.

                                                                                  II. Maybe – maybe, sometimes, I didn’t recognise my parents the way I should have. Maybe sometimes, I woke up in this damp, cold, sunless world, and couldn’t remember who I was. Maybe sometimes: I looked at my baby sister, and I looked at my baby brother and I saw; nothing. Maybe sometimes they fled into a world I couldn’t follow them into, maybe sometimes I couldn’t remember it at all.

Maybe sometimes I did, truly, forget.

                                                                                  III. Maybe: I remembered. Maybe I remembered a lion and I remembered the sun and I remembered the winter and I remembered the Talking Beasts and I remembered Tumnus and I remembered everything. Maybe sometimes I thought they were only dreams. Maybe sometimes I thought they work the way memories do; where, if you just tell yourself something long enough, your brain will create a memory for you. Did you notice? Tell a story often enough and it will change, and your memory will change to accommodate it. Or maybe that’s just me.

Maybe I just talked myself into it long enough. Maybe, when I was twelve, or twenty-seven, or maybe really just twelve years old, I looked into the mirror, at my curled hair, at the gap between my teeth; I looked at myself, and I saw: nothing. I couldn’t see the woman I thought – I knew – I’d grown into. I couldn’t see the way my hair curls naturally, couldn’t watch the way my eyes would glow. Maybe I didn’t see myself or even a girl, maybe I just saw a child; starving.

                                                                                  III. a) Maybe sometimes I had phantom pains in limbs that I suddenly could feel again. Maybe sometimes I imagined I’d lost them – and, conversely, imagined I never did.

                                                                                   IV. I survived.

I am the only one of us still standing, I am the only one of us who sits on this bench, who watches as they are all lowered into the ground in their best Sunday dress. Maybe I’m the only one who can see that none of them would have wanted to be buried like this. Maybe I look at my baby sister, the way she’s crammed into a dress with that collar she’d pull from her throat, groaning. And I see a lion cub curled up in the coffin, pressed against the satin, against the blood-red of it all. Maybe I wish there was a cherry tree to bury her under.

Maybe I look at my baby brother and miss the way his eyes would look, his suit is crinkled, his legs – his arms – all gangly things he’d not yet grown into. Maybe I wish there was a forest to carry him into, dryads in whose care to let him be buried.

Maybe I look at my eldest brother. Maybe I look at this boy I’d known all my life, with his blond hair and his hands; still. Still and unmoving, not a wrinkle in his suit, not a smile on his face. Maybe I look at this boy and I see; a beard, and I see; a tremor and I see; a smile and I see; a crown.

Maybe I just wanted to see them. Maybe I just wish that I had had a say in any of this, maybe I just wish that I could have picked the coffins, that I could have picked the clothes, that I could have picked the burial.

But I am twenty-one, see (or, perhaps, thirty-six, heaving). I am grieving.

                                                                                  V. There wasn’t a day I didn’t cry. There wasn’t a moment I didn’t hear the phantom memories of my siblings tumbling across the floor.

So Aunt Alberta did everything.

She wouldn’t let my cousin be buried with all the rest of them, see, and I wondered if she looked at her sister and felt the way I did when I looked at mine.

But the burial was the first time I didn’t cry since the telegram told me of bodies dispersed along train tracks. I put on lipstick, and nylons, and dresses, and petticoats, and a girdle and I smiled.

                                                                                  VI. My life is built on the back of survival. I went overseas because I couldn’t stand the dampness anymore. Perhaps that makes me a coward. Perhaps it makes me not a friend, perhaps it makes me unworthy in the lion’s eyes, perhaps it makes me a traitor the way my nine year old baby brother was when a woman fed him sweets and enchantments.

Maybe I betrayed them all by living; by surviving. Maybe, when I die, I won’t see them again. Maybe when I die I will – and the lion will stand there, and it will tell me to turn around, will tell me that there is no place in this country for Queens who grew up, for Queens who adapted, for Queens who survived.

                                                                                  VII. Perhaps then, finally, I can look at the lion and tell it what I think of its inaction in the face of genocide, its inaction in the face of its people starving and dying away. Maybe then I can tell it that a nine year old boy who misses his parents like the food he’s starving for, who hasn’t had sweets in a year didn’t deserve to be called a traitor because he was upset and hurt and a Witch spelled him.

                                                                                  VIII. Perhaps I will not say anything at all. Perhaps I will look at this lion and I will not recognise it, the way I go to the zoo and every time I see a lion I feel the urge to bow.

Perhaps my siblings will still hate me, will still be annoyed, will still be upset. Perhaps I’ve lied to them one too many times.

                                                                                  IX. I exist in this world. I have a life and I refuse to end it after fifteen years in another world, after nine years in this one. I’ve not lived yet.

                                                                                  X. I will live.

I just wish I’d hugged my siblings good-bye.

for @lucypcvensie bc it’s your birthday!

[kabura-maru]

The intro is here! Every part after this will cater specifically to a character. Please Enjoy, I have high hopes for this fic!

Heart Strings || Prologue || KnY x Reader

Wind whipping the tree branches wildly, muffled cries, distant footsteps that never seemed to get any closer. The dark haze clouding [Y/n]’s vision left her virtually blind, but her ears worked all the same.

After another few moments of paralyzing fear, the haze finally lifted.

The poor woman was so dainty in the wide expanse that unfurled in front of her. With shaky limbs, she attempted to pick herself up from the dew-laden grass, twigs poking into her all the while.

Her efforts drew soft groans of pain from her lips. [Y/n]’s whole body ached, and movement only exaggerated that. What had happened? Why had she been passed out in the unfamiliar meadow? Where had the screams gone?

With due haste, the girl sprang up as best she could. Knees threatening to give out under her all the while.

“Hello?” Her raspy call echoed through the vast meadow, weaving between the trees and ending as nothing but an echo

Soft sobs greeted her words. Distant, yet unmistakable in their volume. It sounded much like the wails of a baby, yet different at the same time.

The woman desperately chased the cries on shaky legs. Every step she took had her wince, and every breath felt heavy. The howling of the wind mixed with the howling cries, muffling it all while still splintering [Y/n]’s ears.

Sudden, stabbing pain shot through the woman’s body. She was paralyzed by it, stopping in her tracks and nearly doubling over in pain.

She attempted to cry out, to yell and scream, but it was all for naught. Her throat closed in on itself, not allowing a single noise to squeak out. The haze had fogged over her mind once more. She couldn’t breath.

Suddenly, calloused hands shook her awake, followed by worried whispers.

“Miss? Miss!” A young voice roused her mind from the remaining sleepiness that gnawed at her “are you okay? You were screaming.”

[Y/n]’s eyes opened with a snap, only to be greeted with a concerned pair of maroon eyes gazing into her own.

“Where... am I?” She asked, dazed and looking to her surroundings for answers

“The butterfly estate.” The boy answered “don’t you remember what happened?”

She blinked. Confusion overwhelming her. Something had happened...

The screams from her nightmare flashed past her mind once more. [Y/n] squeezed her eyes shut and willed the phantom cries to cease.

The boy could only look on in concern, gently placing a hand on her shoulder in attempt to soothe her.

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t think of it all now. You should rest.”

“Please, tell me what happened...”

The burgundy haired boy’s gaze snapped up to meet [Y/n]’s, sorrow reflecting in her bright [e/c] pools.

A new voice claimed both of their attention, “Tanjirou, what are you doing in here?!”

The voice belonged to a pretty dark haired girl. Besides her scowl, the two butterfly ornaments adorning her hair where the most noticeable of her features.

The boy, who [Y/n] now knew as Tanjirou, quickly stood and mumbled some words of his defense before he was ushered out by the girl’s harsh words.

She turned back to [Y/n] with a sigh before realization sparkled in her eyes.

“Oh, you’re awake!” She said in a much kinder tone than the one she had used for the boy “I’m Aoi, can you tell me your name? Do you remember anything.”

[Y/n]’s head shook without much thought. The bits and pieces she could put together only scared her, so she didn’t know if she even wanted to know.

“I’m... my name...” She started, her voice catching and cracking with every pause “[L/n] [F/n]...”

The girl in front of [Y/n] smiled, acknowledging that it was hard on the girl to say such.

“Well, [L/n]-san, welcome to the Butterfly Estate.” She said softly “What exactly happened doesn’t matter at present, just know that you’re safe.”

“Safe?”

“Yes, a few of the Hashira saved you. You’re in good care.”

“The Hashira? Wait, you’re a demon slayer...”

“Not quite,” Aoi explained with a chuckle “but yes, more specifically the Water, Flame, and Love Hashira were called to your village.”

“Oh... so... where are the rest of the villagers? Why am I here?”

Aoi tensed up for a moment, searching for the right words. Her hesitation caused [Y/n] heart beat to flicker. Why was she hesitating?

“[L/n]-san...” she trailed off, still struggling to explain “you’re the only one who made it out alive.”

—

Navigation: ★

[everybuddiewantssome]

Holy crap I'm almost done

"How was your day?" "that depends. What day is it?"

"If you mean old as hell yes it is"

Oh boy both versions of Clark on the same earth

Or.... not

How dare they do earth 2 Ollie like that

"You're kinda cute when you squirm"

"What have you been watching a little bit too much BBC lately?"

What the hell happened to the E2 farm?

Just putting this out there. Emil is underrated (even when I don't really know his general reception)

E2 Clark really went and bought Tess a whole outfit

Wait so E2 Ollie took over Smallville? Huh. Rude

It's a nice outfit anyway

"Your country crush"

"This is nothing but a cold music box without the music don't kid yourself"

"I don't know what your definition of romance is but mine is not staring face to face with the threat of having my neck snapped in half"

"We need to make sure there is nothing handsome pr heroic about Clark Kent"

*looks to guy fumbling a map around* "you need to be like that

So this is how future Clark ended up so dorky lol

"The real you can burn holes through buildings with one look and lift a freight train with one finger. Get over it" Lois Lane the queen of the pep talk

Booster has such a strange vibe. Not good or bad, just odd

I miss Oliver

Imagine if oliver were to meet booster I would lose it

"Either one I don't really have a bad side guys"

"I'm not interested in you goldilocks"

"Cat Grant. Like nails on a chalkboard"

"They all know all different Clark wouldn't be sending me roses, he's allergic to them remember?"

Clark: "booster" Lois: "ew" (tosses flowers)

Can I just say Clark looks very dapper in this suit

"I had a milkshake on the way in" oof dorky Clark this is awkward lol

"Will you be thanking anyone sir?" "Me. And maybe my mom. People love that sentimental stuff. And it's always a hit with the ladies"

Oh good lord Cat please stop

Holy crap he has a legion ring

"They're really good friends of mine. Actually they're more like acquaintances" look this guy has a hefty ego but he's kinda funny

"You're talking to the single greatest hero of the 25th century"

"I will zap you to honeybee heaven"

"The blur sounds like a roller coaster"

"You gotta brand it baby"

*busts all the buttons on his shirt*

"Let me move this thing a lot faster, I can unpack this thing in like 2 seconds"

"I come back willing to risk life and limb with you in the phantom zone and I get not so much as a welcome back?"

I love the Ollie getting involved with Kryptonian affairs eps so I'm ready for this

"Clark you'll be powerless there. Oliver has more experience with that"

Oliver jumping in last second

"If I had known about the long drop in I would have brought some repelling equipment"

"Where I'm from people just hang a wreath"

"When you said jor el built a prison, I kinda pictured something a little more confined than a national park"

"Seems like a real sweetheart"

"I thought this was just a clever name for jail"

Directed by Justin Hartley!

"My entire world just traveled headfirst into a world that makes hell look like the Taj Mahal"

Oh my boys are beautiful

Even Zod still looks decent

Healing Zod with his blood really has come back to triple bite Clark in the ass

Lol Zod is really comparing himself and Clark to Cain and Abel

Oliver guiding Clark though the fight!

Ok I'm not saying I want Clark to be a murderer... but, I kinda am

"I think we have a better chance of surviving your dad's desert than Zod's thunderdome"

OH (Lois just grabbed the gun)

"If you release your pet monkeys here I'd be more than willing to give the wicked witch a personal demonstration"

"You'll be cast aside, out of his good graces" Zod honey you were in Clark's good graces for all of 15 seconds. And he was on red k

Yes because Oliver Queen is your brother Zod. Absolutely

Ollie's not wearing a wedding ring and I'm offended

Ok it was obvious from the start Ollie and Clark would have to face off

Getting kind of tired of these slow mo blood pouring out of the mouth shot smallville seems to be obsessed with

"In terms of crippling wounds I've had worse"

"At least we took care of Zod. Can't say I'll be missing that guy"

3? Weeks? Damn phantom zone

Me: *sees Oliver in a dark dungeon esque vibe of a place* Oliver what the hell are you doing? Oliver? Oliver?!

"I knew you were coming, sneaking up on me is just showing off"

I refuse to believe Oliver will be overcome by this bitch

Darkseid infected a statue? Seems very not legit

[notaparty-trick]

All Those Senseless Scars - Chapter 3

By @notaparty-trick​ for @asyouleft​

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange​

Rating: T

Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker, May Parker & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker, Pepper Potts, Michelle Jones, Ned Leeds

Summary: There is a rule to the way Peter lives now. He didn’t know it at first, but he learnt it.

It’s simple.

To earn what he needs to survive, he has to make sacrifices. 

--- 

Peter Parker's life is derailed when he's kidnapped and kept in a white-tiled room with nothing: no windows, no cameras, no food, no water, no phone, nobody else. Only his own thoughts keep him from losing his mind. If he asks for anything, he must take punishment. Tony Stark will stop at nothing to bring him home.

Archive Of Our Own link here

  “What would you like?”

Peter tried not to cry. “Blanket.” 

He’d warred back and forth all night, worrying himself to pieces over the possibility of a little extra warmth. Asking for it felt like admitting nobody would come to rescue him. But his fingers and toes were blue.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he found himself begging as he was thrust onto the floor on his stomach, jarring his misshapen hand. Though he knew it was utterly useless, the words spilled forth from a well of fear in his mind without filter. “I didn’t do anything, I just wanna go home. Please.”

At the first smack of the whip against his back, the breath was driven from his lungs.

Peter gasped in a shuddering breath, writhing at the unbearable burning sensation that immediately enveloped him. 

The second had him moaning in agony.

The third, fourth, fifth, had him pleading.

“Stop, please, don’t touch me,” he sobbed. “I - I don’t want the blanket.”

The sixth followed all the same.

Peter remembered the History class where he’d seen on the page of his textbook the image of ‘Whipped Peter’, the awful scarring across his back, like something had eaten into him.

He cried at the irony of that name.

His skin broke at the tenth lash. He screamed.

---

“God, oh, God, oh - shit!”

“May, don’t take his hand. He’ll crush it.”

“C’mon, baby boy. You’re strong. You got this.”

“Hurts,” Peter hiccups, bracing himself for the agony of the wound cleaning substance against his ruined back.

“I know, kid. Just a little while longer.”

A team of nurses has him on his side, hospital gown untied to reach the web of welts at his back, restraining him so his reflexive flinches don’t worsen his injuries. His heart pounds. 

“O- oh, crap,” he falters, pulling at the burns on his face as he screws it up instinctually. The shower he’d been assisted in taking just hours ago has been made superfluous by the sweat that’s breaking out all over him, brought on partly by the sheer torture of the procedure and partly by recollections of being held down and made to cry out in pain in his box.

“Deep breaths,” Tony reminds him softly from where he and May are crouched right beside him, inches away but forbidden from touching him until his wounds are cleaned and re-dressed. 

Peter obliges, pushing out a rasping breath. His vision is too blurry to make out Mister Stark’s expression. 

The burn arrives again, too quickly, too overwhelmingly, and he jerks against the hands keeping him in place. “No, sto’, too much!”

“We’re very nearly finished, Peter--”

Mister Stark rises from his seat in an instant. “He told you to stop.”

The pain recedes, leaving a residual sting, and a few shuffling footsteps sound behind Peter. He drags his face across the mattress of his bed, hoping to scrub away the tear tracks there but mostly just increasing the throbbing in his nose.

Then a calloused hand is in his hair, a softer one gracing a thumb over his forearm, and he sags in relief.

“You’re okay, Pete, you’re okay,” comes Tony’s low murmur, but he’s not.

“Th’nk you,” he breathes all the same.

“Nobody does anything without your consent, okay?” There again is the fierce yet uneven tone that Peter can’t decipher while the phantom lash of the whip still rings with harsh clarity in the back of his mind.

“’m good now. Jus’… get it over with.”

“You can keep taking a break.”

“No, I gotta do i’.”

Almost the moment the comforting hands leave him, the pain ramps up again, albeit only for a few seconds before a clean dressing is applied.

Peter knows what comes next.

A plastic tub held in a stand is wheeled to a stop beside the burned side of his face, lukewarm water tossing a washcloth back and forth inside. The nurse who had positioned it wrings out the cloth a little, steadies a gloved hand on an unharmed section of his head, and gingerly presses the wet cloth to the dressing just as Peter lets out a forcefully measured exhale.

He feels his flesh melting.

No. He shuts out the memory with gritted teeth.

This isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is after the dressing has been soaked enough that it peels off, when the cream is washed off and replaced. 

Peter had stupidly presumed that the moment he staggered through the door of the Compound would be the moment his pain would end.

This time, he can’t even move his face, although every nerve in his body begs him to turn away from the razor blades of the washcloth against his raw skin.

“Mff!” he cries instead, his empty hand fisting in the sheets.

“Good job,” he hears May coaxing over his outbursts. “You’re doing amazing, baby.”

The truth is far from her reassurances. He’s whimpering like an idiot. Pain is a thousand times harder to cope with now, and with a superhero side gig like his, it scares him to contemplate how much harder it might become now.

If he ever heals enough to get out of bed, that is.

As the new dressing is being prepared, a morbid part of him speaks. “I w’nna see my face.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony’s head fall forward into his hands. “Kiddo.”

“Show me,” he insists with all the shaky determination he can muster.

Both May and Mister Stark’s heads remained bowed as Tony taps a few times on his phone to enable the camera app and angles it towards Peter’s face.

Peter’s horrifying, ravaged, broken face.

He hadn’t even noticed that a patch of his hair had been singed off by the blowtorch and a further area shaved to a blunt stubble to bare the flayed brown edges of half-healed scalds. Like a disease that’s taken over his features, scraps of angry red, fragile pink and near-white mark the skin of his chin all the way up past his forehead. The dark pools of his eyes only point out more severely the bright, unnatural colours that ring them. Flecks of blood stand out at the palest areas.

Unable to articulate the gaping well of dismay that tears into him at the sight of himself, Peter lets out a sound between an exhale and a sob.

“You look just fine,” May rushes to tell him.

“Plus, you have super healing, remember? It’ll clear up real fast.”

At Mister Stark’s remark, Peter meets the eye of the man he gained the scars to see, simply staring at him. Tony’s face drops its false veneer of encouragement.

He doesn’t blame Mister Stark, not at all. He had no idea. But the more primal part of him, the part that boils over with rage, with shame, with despair, wants desperately to blame someone.

His disfigurement is the price of his freedom. It’s not fair. Not one other person in the room with him now has had to pay for the return of their own autonomy.

Except…?

The hot, stinging trail of a liquid down his cheek startles him out of his rumination. “S’mthin’ on my face.”

“Hey, he’s - yeah.” Mister Stark frowns even more deeply as a nurse dabs at Peter’s face with gauze. “It just comes out? That’s alright?”

“Wha'?”

“You’re bleeding a little, kid.”

“It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” the nurse assures them.

Peter feels nauseous.

When the medical team finally leaves him alone, he trades trembling exhaustion for the murky arms of sleep, passing out in a mess of IV lines and broken limbs and sweat.

May is the first to sit back in her chair with a vehement, “Shit.”

Tony realises he’s forgotten to breathe again in the way he seems to regularly forget basic human functions at the moment. Dragging in a pained breath, he shakes out his twitching hands and echoes, “Shit.”

Above their weary heads whine artificial squares of light. Tony blinks against their harshness, the white behind his eyelids recalling a light with the harshness of the sun against the kid’s cheekbone.

“When I became Peter’s guardian,” begins May quietly, “I knew he had a number of health conditions. I knew there would be hospital visits, examinations - I knew I’d have to see him suffer. But I never - I had no idea. Never this . This was never a thought, this… why do you think they did it?”

“It was because of me, I think,” grits Tony, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Tony - what?”

“When I - God.” The words are razor-edged, nauseating, painful to force out. “They brought him out to me, and then they - he looked like he knew what was coming. That’s when they burnt him.”

Curling into herself, May presses the back of her hand to her mouth. “Fuck.”

“He said - he told us he took punishment, right? And then they’d let him have things? Food, water, a blanket--”

“You,” May finishes for him, sombre.

Tony screws his hand into a fist and brings it down jarringly on his knee. “I was such an idiot. Just waltzed on in there - no plan - no backup - no thought of what they might do to the kid.”

May’s expression begins to change then, morphing into a look she’s seen directed at Peter countless times, the look reserved for flareups of self-sacrificial complexes. “Tony, you--”

“I couldn’t have known, sure. But I could’ve. That’s the thing.” 

These thoughts have plagued him from the moment he declared the kid missing. 

A pail of filthy water, his face jerked forward to meet it. Yinsen’s face inches from a glowing lump of coal. Sweat rising from his temples as he was screwed into a hulking metal suit that could have been his salvation or his downfall. And most of all, hand-trembling, muscle-knotting, mind-melting terror. Terror that the kid has lived with for twenty-one days. 

“I’ve been through it, May. I know what they do, the twisted way they think, and I could have thought about his safety for a second instead of barging in there at the cost of--” he jerks a shoulder in Peter’s direction, his beaten, gauze-swathed body collapsed heavily atop his mattress. 

“You barged in because you were desperate,” May counters with fiery sincerity, tearing her gaze from the kid to search for Tony’s eyes. “Because you love him. You had a chance to get him out and you couldn’t pass it up.”

Tony gestures to Peter again, failing to paper over the breaks in his voice as he says, “That isn’t love.”

“But you didn’t do that to him.”

“It sure feels like I did.”

Both of them are aware of the sudden shift in the tone of their conversation; with a hardening of her face that Tony has seen a less intimidating version of on Peter’s face, she flattens her tone and pins him with her gaze. Tony doesn’t dare to interrupt the point she begins to make. “Okay, I can’t - it’s time to cut the bullshit, Tony. I will not have you wallowing right now. I cannot handle it while my kid is still like this.”

Almost unbidden, her gaze strays again to Peter - Tony wonders if she’s worrying about the same things he is. Will he ever heal completely?

“We are going to be strong for him, okay?” she continues as if she’d never faltered. “Forget about the things we could have done or changed. You’ll forget about the way you came to get him, forget about passing out on him. I’ll forget that I let my sixteen-year-old child beat up criminals and didn’t consider that one day somebody with a grudge might choose to act on it.”

“There’s no way that was your--”

“That’s easy to think when it’s not you. And it’s not the point.” 

May is filled with a grief-stricken, worn-down kind of wisdom just then. It flows from fidgeting fingers and lashes clumped together by old tears; it grips Tony and doesn’t let him forget the words being spoken to him. 

“The point is that our kid is in a bad way, and we’re gonna be his pillars of strength. He is not going to worry one bit about how we’re feeling for once in his life. We’re gonna co-parent the shit out of this awful situation, and all three of us are gonna come out the other end, so help me God. I would prefer not to have to drag you behind me too.”

For a moment, Tony simply sits in stunned silence, marvelling at the fortitude of May Parker.

“How are you like this?” he says eventually, speaking his mind. “Why can’t I emulate your - what would Peter call it? Boss-ass parenting?”  

“Because - and I’m just making an observation here - you flail around with your emotions and don’t know what the hell to do with them.” 

The dry remark is punctuated by a laugh. 

Abruptly, the intense sincerity of moments before gives way to Tony’ favourite coping mechanism: joking uselessly about anything and everything that comes his way. The levity eases the hearts of them both.

Raising his eyebrows, he sits back in the hard hospital chair and replies, “That’s bold of you to say.”

“So you acknowledge that I’m right.”

“Well, my own dad was more of an advocate for not having any emotions, so I feel like I’m doing alright.”

May just offers him an affirmative smile.

---

“Sure you aren’t better off in the chair?”

“I’m fine, mom,” retorts Peter good-naturedly. “Besides, if I get tired, you can carry me back.”

There’s the sassy kid Tony loves.

Still, it’s not easy to watch said kid wobbling at a snail’s pace out of his room in the MedBay, his walking stick the only thing keeping from splattering across the floor.

“C’mon, bud, you’re killing me. At least lean on me.”

“No. I’d rather look like a grandpa than an invalid.”

Tony ends up dawdling uselessly behind the kid as he makes his determined, sluggish way towards the elevator.

It’s difficult to look at the kid and simply see Peter Parker anymore, searching past the arm casts and stitches and dressings and hospital gown and - although Tony hates to admit that it fazes him - the patchwork of burns across his face. He loves his kid to bits, no matter how messed up his face is. It’s the knowledge that, even unintentionally, Peter has them because of him, that makes him falter every time he lifts his eyes to meet the kid’s.

But scars be damned, the look on his face when they make it outside and the sun falls across him is unbeatable.

Ever the motormouth, the kid is silent for once, a sigh purging itself from his chest instead as he squints into the dappled light. It eases just a few of the million knots pulling at Tony’s own sternum.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” he eventually works up the courage to ask.

“Pretty boss, actually, for not keeling over yet. Didn’t think I’d make it all the way here.”

“I actually meant…”

“Oh. Right.” Instantly, a little of the childlike joy withdraws from Peter’ demeanour, and Tony kicks himself.

There’s another long stretch of comfortable silence while the kid, still gazing out at the open grassland, collects his thoughts, mouth opening and closing minutely. Tony has learned to allow space for this grace period rather than interrupt the kid as he so often used to do, finding that when he let Peter talk in his own time, work past his stammering, he’d come out with some really surprising stuff. Profound. Intelligent. Sweet.

“I guess I’ve felt worse. But, uh, I’ve felt better. It’s just… the world is still here, but it feels like it should have… changed.”

It’s a vague statement, but Tony understands. Staggering out of the shattered remains of his suit, finding the Afghanistan desert around him as undulating and brutally hot as ever, he found himself baffled that the landscape hadn’t undergone the same trauma as him. The rest of the world was no worse for wear while he’d been torn to shreds. He’d felt that the desert itself was mocking him.

“And that’s what I’m scared of most, I think. Everyone’s - you know, they’re just going about their lives like normal and I have another thing weighing me down. Most people don’t freak out when they’re asked, like, a normal question. But it’s questions that get me. That’s all they said to me. They’d ask me what I wanted, and if I agreed to have anything… that was it.

“They wanted - they were trying to make me break, I think. So either I’d… I don’t know, drive myself crazy in there, or refuse everything else they offered me until I… maybe. I don’t know. And I’d forget there were people outside who wanted me with them.”

Tony smiles solemnly.

“I never forgot. I didn’t wanna let go. But it’s like - it was almost easier in there.”

There’s a lifetime of suffering etched into the look that Peter fixes Tony with then, tinged with something that might just be guilt.

“I know that sounds… weird--”

“Not weird at all. I felt that too.”

“You - what?” It takes a few moments, but the knowledge he hadn’t thought to turn over in his mind presents itself to him eventually and he gapes. “Mister Stark. Oh my God. You didn’t - I didn’t think about - you too?”

“Come to me with all your kidnapping queries,” Tony jokes flatly. Peter just widens his eyes.

The ensuing pause is tense. It’s broken by the appearance of a car near the entryway where they stand and a flinch at Tony’s side.

“What are they doing here?” the kid breathes, stricken.

Tony peers over at the opening car doors. “Who?”

He recognizes the kid’s friends, although he likes to pretend he doesn’t.

“It’s just Ted and Emma,” he says deliberately, but it doesn’t draw a laugh or even an acknowledgement from Peter, who appears frozen in place. “What, did you guys fall out over Snapchat? I thought they were nice.”

Swallowing fiercely, Peter turns on his heel and makes a swaying break for the doors.

“Kid!” Although at first he expects to have to run after him, Tony finds the kid is still so slow on his feet that he hardly has to move to address him. There’s no way he’ll even be through the foyer by the time his friends have reached - and after all he’d said about the people he loves getting him through his time in captivity, Tony had assumed he’d be a lot more excited to reunite with them.

It’s when Peter clumsily brings his cast-clad forearm up to cover his face that Tony makes sense of his reaction.

“They’re gonna see me, Mister Stark,” pleads the kid, hints of swollen red protruding from behind his wavering arm.

Although it twists at Tony’s heart to see the kid in such a vulnerable state and encourage him to remain in it, a more earnest chemical that sparks in his veins compels him to stand firm. “Yeah, they are, and it’s gonna be fine.”

“Peter!” comes an enthused shout from the approaching figures.

Stilling in indecision, Peter fixes his eyes on his walking stick, his white-knuckled grip on the handle. Tony simply waits for him to make a choice.

Ned makes it for him, sprinting over like lightning but halting abruptly a few feet in front of the kid, who eyes him with a face tautened by fear.

Tony sees Ned take in Peter’s appearance from top to toe. 

MJ joins him then, her deadpan veneer crumbling into horror-struck vulnerability as she beholds the brokenness of the once-mighty boy before her.

Peter ducks his head, hiding his expression behind a curtain of half-shaved hair. “I know,” he croaks.

There’s no reply for a long time. Then, as if he physically can’t contain his outburst any longer, Ned blurts, “ OhmyGodImissedyousomuchI’msogladyou’renotdead.”

Jerking his head back towards his friend a little, Peter lets out a bark of laughter that he surprises himself with.

Tears rapidly filling his eyes, Ned says, “Can I hug you?”

Peter opens his broken arm gingerly. “Don’t cry, dude,” he replies as Ned approaches with overly-hesitant steps, “Gonna make me cry, and when I cry it’s all over.”

The moment of embrace is heralded by a shared damp inhale from them both. Ned settles his arms softly around Peter, who sinks into the embrace, unable to raise his arms to reciprocate but making up for it by burying his face in the shoulder of his friend.

“Spider-Man trouble?” Ned questions him.

Faintly, Tony hears the kid mumble, “Sort of. It was just… they took me. Some bad guys.”

“You could have just told us, you dumbnut,” chips in Michelle, a telltale falter in the undertone of her own words, and goes to join the hug, looping her slender arms around both Peter and Ned. 

Tony can’t help but smile at the sight. The kid does have good friends.

“Didn’t want you to freak out,” mutters Peter. 

Ned pulls away a little with a frown. “We were freaked out enough,” he insists fervently, “We could take it.”

“He was freaked out to the max,” MJ adds, her trademark smirk ghosting her face for a moment. “I was cool about it.”

The kid isn’t comforted, however; Tony catches the gossamer-like glint of a tear racing down the unharmed side of his face. “It’s not just - I’m, I’m all screwed up now.”

“You’re fine. You’re still Peter.” 

Michelle draws him back into the hug, three sets of teenage arms interlinking, comforting one another, all plagued by suffering yet lifting one another up. A string of shaky sniffing noise emanates from where Tony can only guess Peter’s head is nuzzled, but it doesn’t worry him. In fact, he’s comforted by them. He knows the kid, can pick apart the different ways he releases emotion, and these tears signify relief.

It’s almost a minute before the group embrace is broken. Peter raises his head, face paler than when it had disappeared, and says, “Sorry - uh, guys, I gotta sit down.” Tony is baffled to find he’ll let Ned and MJ wrap their arms around him and help him back towards the doors although he’d been so adamant that Tony wasn’t permitted to do the same.

It leaves him idling by the entrance as they retreat, forgotten by the trio of single-track teenage minds heading towards Peter’s hospital room, but he finds himself remarkably unbothered. In fact, his heart is set at rest to such an extent at the sight of the three of them that he waits to follow them back to the MedBay, instead wandering a few steps further from the entrance of the Compound and inhaling the dewy scent of the day.

He’s just glad to see Peter healing.

---

The walking stick is only in active use for roughly a week before the kid’s back and ribs are well on their way to healing and he’s progressed to solid foods, beginning to gain the weight he’d dropped while captive. Usually, his healing might work at a faster rate, but malnutrition got him good. The freaky super-healing of old days resetting bones and staunching minor wounds after the kid’s patrols is only just now making a re-appearance, now the hollowness of Peter’s face is filling with colour again, now wiry muscle is re-threading itself along limbs that had looked fragile enough to snap with bare hands, now there is a hint of a spark punctuating his irises.

Tony, on the other hand, feels like he’s coming out of all this the worse for wear. The damn kid is going to give him a medical condition one day, he’s convinced. If he hasn’t already.

Recovery isn’t linear, it’s a hot mess. Tony knows this well. 

Peter cries in his assisted shower, then laughs uncontrollably for a straight minute at a meme MJ sent him while Tony is still drying his hair. He makes requests with distrust, then disquiet, then false confidence. He lets in visitors at last, lighting up from the inside out as he reunites with Pepper and Happy and Rhodey and hobbles out to the SI team that had helped find him to ramble out profuse thanks, then physically wilting when he returns to his room. His casts are sawed off. His hair begins to grow back. He eats his first meal. He cries at dinner. He has a nightmare. He begs to return to school, then begs not to the next morning. He stops writing halfway through a sheet of catchup Physics questions and stands at the Compound’s balcony blankly until Tony fetches him down. He remains blank and unresponsive for three days and nights before bursting back to life in a fit of tremors and tears and panic, then sags back in the arms of Tony and May and sleeps for a solid sixteen hours.

Now, he lies atop a jumble of cushions on the roof of the Compound, Tony at his side, and watches darkness bleed into the sky’s canopy.

Silence pervaded their walk towards the spot, and it pervades now. The gradual brightening of the crescent moon tells more for the moment than Tony’s words could, setting the tips of Peter’s eyelashes alight, spilling a pale wash of light across the fields that fold out from the two of them as if made by their hands.

It’s Peter who breaks the silence. “What’s gonna happen next?”

“What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure, I guess.” Folding his arms tightly around himself so the ragged old fleece he’s wearing bunches upwards to warm his neck, Peter turns on his side a little, his eyes flickering upwards to meet Tony’s. “Everything was so simple when it was just me and my box. It sucked, but I knew what would happen. And before then, there was no reason to - to think about my life. It just happened. Now, I’m… scared. That if I don’t get it right I’m gonna stay like this, all screwed up, forever.”

The way in which Tony's face screws up at his declaration is overwhelmingly fond. “Peter, everyone's screwed up. Especially superheroes. We volunteer to deal with the blood and guts of the world, there's gotta be something wrong with us."

The kid lets out an abrupt giggle.

"But - you know what? No matter what, no matter how screwed up you feel, nothing's gonna stop you from being my kid. Nothing in the world - no, the universe.”

The truth having been dispensed, Tony sets back his shoulders against the cushions and notes the outlines of clouds dissipating into the captivating gloom of the night. While the kid makes no audible response, his stillness speaks.

“And if you don’t know what you wanna do, May and I can help you out. We’re in your corner.” A deprecating smile breaks out across his face. “I remember leaving Afghanistan, flying back to a world full of people waiting to see Tony Stark’s next move. They needed me to make a plan, crack a joke, do something.”

“What did you do first?”

“I asked for a cheeseburger,” he huffs.

Peter lets out a peal of laughter. It’s carefree in the way Tony only hoped it might return to when he saw the kid beaten and exhausted on the floor of the Compound’s entryway. “Must’ve tasted pretty awesome,” he says with a shrug.

“No, kid, it sucked.”

Peter swivels to study him.

“It sucked so bad that it brought me back to reality.”

“And… what was reality like?”

“In 2008? Reality kind of sucked too.” He pushes away thoughts of Obadiah’s leering face. They’re of no use to him now. “But - it’s crazy, because I think it took the kidnapping for me to figure that out. Not that I’m glad it happened. But… silver lining, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” is all Peter says, the furrow in his brow revealing that he’s deep in thought. Tony waits for him, pressing absentmindedly at his left temple where a low-grade headache buzzes. The night air, the peace of the moment, are helping to ease it.  

Eventually, Peter blinks harshly and says, “I think I wanna start patrolling again soon.”

“You do?”

Tony will admit that his blood chills at the admission. It’s the simple fear of a repeat of everything they’re still working to overcome.

“As much as it kind of terrifies me… yeah, I do. I, it’s - helping people, it’s my thing.” Peter smiles at Tony, the burnt side of his face still struggling to sustain the lifting of his mouth but conveying the earnest hope of the expression nonetheless. “It’s what makes my reality good. I mean, it’s - it’s hard, and it hurts, and I see people who are at their worst and people who know no better than lashing out, but I also--” 

The kid sobers in an instant.

“Did I ever tell you about the guy I met?” he asks quietly. “At the, uh, at the Queensboro Bridge?”

Tony shakes his head.

“He was standing right on the edge and he - yeah. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. I just - swung by and sat a little way away. He swore something awful at me at first, and I… I was so close to just getting up and leaving. I was sure he wanted me to - to leave, I mean - but I didn’t. Maybe two hours later, he just, he just turned around, walked away from the edge, and got back down onto the sidewalk. He let me walk him home. He didn’t jump. Because I was there. And that was just - you know, wow. I always think about that, that one time someone kept living because I was there to help them. I’m not giving up the chance to do that again, a million times if I can. It’s… it’s my responsibility, I guess, and it also just so happens that I love doing it. It’s my real superpower.” He nods at that, a small, tight, affirming motion. Spreading his arms so they hover above him, oversized against the distant backdrop of the stars, he raises his voice: “So, like, why should bad guys be able to get in the way of it? Screw that.”

“Screw that,” echoes Tony, at a loss for further comment. 

He won’t be keeping Peter away from patrolling any time soon. Not when the kid has a sermon like that to back him up.

A chill runs through him at the rippling of a current of breeze along the length of the roof; it jolts a bittersweet memory into his mind. 

“I wasn’t alone in Afghanistan, did you know that?”

“No.”

“I woke up to a man in the cave with me. His name was Yinsen. He…”

“Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark?”

As easily as Tony forgets on some days, on others he remembers so deeply that he can still smell the dust and smoke and sweat and fear in that cave.

“With his last words, he told me not to waste my life. He was my Spider-Man.” He throws out a grin, returned instantly by the kid, who has his cheek pillowed on an arm to watch him. “And look at me now, right? If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today. Definitely wouldn’t be worrying my ass off about you all the live-long day.”

Tony sticks a hand out of his own bulky sweater and ruffles the kid’s hair, anticipating the kid’s swerve and messing with the curls until they’re irredeemably rumpled. Peter lets his lower lip protrude; Tony just laughs at him.

“So… you’re not wasting your life?” hesitates the kid, shuffling a little closer. There’s a more profound meaning behind the question, one that tugs at Tony’s heartstrings in a million different ways.

He fixes Peter with a level gaze. “Not one second of it.”

As if his words have put his mind at rest, the kid flops onto his back, exhaling in a sigh. He doesn’t bother to fix his hair, leaving it tufting away from his head in countless haphazard cowlicks.

The ensuing inhale Tony hears issue from the kid’s throat holds a new, darker note.

“Mister Stark, what happened to the Oscorp guys?”

“You don’t need to worry about them,” Tony asserts firmly.

“Mister Stark.”

“I made sure they’d never think about taking you again.”

Peter rolls away to the side at that: just a little, but enough to let Tony know that his words have unsettled him. He’d done it for the kid, as much as he knew that it wouldn’t be received positively. Perhaps he’d really done it for himself, then. His own peace of mind, certainly, and relief from the pressure of fury behind his ribs.

All he can think now, however, is that he can’t lose the atmosphere he and the kid have cultivated here, the peace, the honesty.

Turning himself to angle his body towards the kid, he begins, “You know, Pete, I - I really want you to know that you can call me. Any time. None of the crap I pulled before you took down Toomes. I’ll be your Spider-Man. If that sounds… good.”

As hesitant as he’d been, Peter’s furtive smile shows he appreciates the sentiment. He sniffs away the dampness of the evening and says, “That sounds really good.”

“When you get back out there, it’s gonna be tough, I can guarantee. Tough as anything. Nobody can really know what you went through. But I’ll be there, and--”

“I get it, Mister Stark.” The kid’s nose scrunches then in that unique, wonky way of his when he’s amused.

“What did I say about interrupting when I’m being nice?” Tony retorts, affecting offense.

Peter pays the words little heed, instead shifting until he’s tucked against Tony’s side and shyly nudging his head into the nook between his shoulder and neck.

At first, Tony’s stunned into stillness. He and Peter have never been very physically intimate in the past although Tony knows the kid derives a lot of comfort from it: he’s placed hands on his shoulders, squeezed once in a while, steered him one way or another with a hand at his back, even tucked strands of hair away from his eyes once or twice, but the hug barrier has rarely been broken. When he puts his hands on Peter, thoughts of flying fists and broken glass overtake his motor functions, drawing him away.

Perhaps it’s these years of wrestling back and forth that make the simplicity of Peter’s current closeness so breathtaking.

“Thank you,” breathes Peter.

The words encompass a thousand instances of gratefulness. He always forgets the way the kid can do that with a single sentence of thanks.

Tony slowly lets his arm curl around the kid’s shoulders. Far above them, a star pierces the blanket of the night with increased potency.

Caring his throat, he hums, wondering how to bring up the strange thought that’s crossed his mind. “Actually, I also wanted to… a couple of days ago, I found this - you know what, forget it. I said nothing.”

“That’s mean!” Tilting his head so he’s gazing up at Tony from just beneath his chin, he pleads, “Tell me what it is.”

“It’s stupid and sappy--”

“I love stupid and sappy. Please, Mister Stark.”

And there arrive the wide baby browns Tony can’t resist.

“Damn puppy eyes,” he mutters, fishing in the pocket of his pants for his phone.

“They still work?”

Frowning, Tony looks away from the glow of the phone display to find a startling amount of uncertainty in Peter’s demeanour.

“What are you talking about, Pete?” he exclaims, letting his genuine disbelief temper his tone. Before the memories can flood in, he lifts his free hand and brushes it gently across the kid’s patchwork cheek. “‘Course they still work. As long as your head is on your neck, you’ll be able to sway me.”

There’s a faint smile from Peter, but it’s not convincing enough for Tony. He continues: “You look great, by the way.”

The kid ducks his head, huffing out a nervous laugh. 

“Still Peter Parker. Still adorable.”

“I’m not adorable,” argues the kid weakly, casting about, “I’m…”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You're adorable.”

“Okay,” Peter concedes with little reluctance.

Scrolling through his music app until he finds what he was looking for, Tony blows out a breath, feeling nerves unexpectedly rearing their head.

“It’s a song?”

“Yeah. I heard it first while you were out there. Made me think of you. Well, get ready for the sap.”

He presses play.

A soft guitar melody begins the song, slow strumming patterns flooding the rooftop and settling peace across both the figures lying there.

Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you

Turning in circles, confusion is nothing new

Flashback to warm nights

Almost left behind

Suitcase of memories

Time after...

Peter’s knee settles against Tony’s as he winds himself further around him. The warmth at Tony’s side is elating and calming all at once; he wonders why he was so scared to do this before.

Sometimes you picture me, I’m walking too far ahead

You’re calling to me, I can’t hear what you’ve said

And you say go slow

I fall behind

The second hand unwinds…

An alien but wholly welcome silence descends upon his mind, halting the constant whirring and worrying. Watching Peter’s eyes slide shut on his shoulder, he imagines the kid is experiencing the same thing. There’s a small, confidential smile curling across his face; it’s a thank you of its own.

If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting

Time after time

Peter’s head bobs in a way that somehow communicates that he understands why Tony connected to these lyrics. They say what he can’t.

Tony is filled with overwhelming affection, so all-encompassing it spills from his chest and fills the Compound, the surrounding forest, the sky itself, for the small boy at his side who has grown an unfathomable amount since the day he first set eyes on a kid in a onesie running around Queens.

---

One month later

Standing before the long mirror in the corner of his bedroom, Peter studies himself and the bundle of bright red-and-blue fabric he holds.

The suit appears innocuous bunched up in his newly-healed hands that way, but it holds more power than he'd before been aware of: in the eyes of some, the power to condemn him. The power to regard him as a test subject.

It had happened out of nowhere , his danger sense knocking him off guard with a sudden blare that pricked viciously at the back of his neck. Then--

BANG

The gunshot sent him scrambling the length of the block to reach the source, slipping and almost crashing to the ground with the misplaced momentum of a haphazardly slung string of webbing. Sprinting the last few steps, he rounded the street corner and came across a woman with a gun to her head, flanked by a gang of four masked people.

"Spider-Man! Help, get me out of here--"

"Shut up!" thundered the gang member who had her pulled against his chest. "And you--" he tilted his pistol momentarily in Peter's direction "--put your fucking hands up! Don't try anything!"

As much time as Peter spent rescuing small animals from the perils of New York City traffic and halting the occasional robbery, he wasn't unfamiliar with the city's more ugly crimes. This was a textbook mugging. In fact, it felt almost... too familiar.

Peter raised his hands for the moment, although he had no intention of keeping them there. The gun was his primary concern, however, and until he had a guarantee he'd be able to keep it a good distance away from the scared lady's brains he was eager to play it safe.

His hurried strategization proved in vain, as did the quip half-formed on his tongue, when a sharp sting in the side of his neck compelled him to turn sharply to the side.

Nothing.

Groping at his neck, he closed his hand around a needle.

The drug hit him instantly, knocking his sense of balance and clouding his vision so severely he hadn't a hope of getting to the hostage.

Or was she even a hostage? Had any of it been real?

"Woah, what the hell," he remarked with alarmingly numb lips. The ground rose up to meet him in the way it always does in movies: the screen fades to black, the music halts - but his senses remained dulled to a blurry grey.

Shedding his t-shirt, Peter clears his throat in a preparatory gesture before twisting around to see the half-healed welts across his back. The angry red swelling that had once ringed each mark has softened to a slightly heightened pink which rings long white lines, forty of them still there but receding.

They're kind of cool, he thinks abruptly. They show that he's still around. That he is strong.

He shucks off his pants then steps into the suit with a deep breath.

Then came the hands, what felt like dozens of them to Peter's wandering mind, gripping, running up and down his suit, searching for something.

He was in deep shit; although he was nowhere near coherent enough to fight off the invaders with his lead-heavy limbs, he knew that for sure. These guys had him in their lap - literally. The possibilities of what might happen to Peter ran through his mind in quick, delirious procession, so vividly reasonable that they brought bile to the back of his throat.

He let out a quiet groan, the only act of protestation he could muster. It only drew a laugh from the hands. 

"They hit him hard, didn't they?"

"Not hard enough." It was the voice of the woman he'd rushed to save just moments ago. "Supposed to knock him out."

"Just hit him with another. It can't kill him, right?"

"Got a smaller chance than what's gonna happen once we get him to Norman."

Another furtive, ugly laugh.

A whizzing noise alerted him to the decompression of his suit. 

"Fucking finally."

He was pulled back and forth, limp as a ragdoll, as the million hands worked his suit off him, his last shred of protection slipping off his immobile legs and leaving him in his boxers.

"Oh, Christ. He's... young."

"Still Spider-Man. We do our job."

Tapping the spider emblem on his chest, Peter watches as the fabric rushes inwards to meet his skin, as he transforms from boy to superhero.

Though he'd managed to hide the lash marks by changing in corners after gym class, there was nothing he could do to conceal the fading burns on his face.

Peter greets the shining, reddened skin there with a mixture of solemnity and strange fondness. He no longer needs dressings, just time, and acceptance of his new appearance. His hair will grow out again. The marks will fade further and further until they're a part of him.

The hands seized him again and dragged him back down the street he'd entered so quickly, so blindly. His sluggish heart begun a weak chorus of hammering. Torn between utter panic and complete lethargy, his body rebelling against his screaming danger sense, he found to his dismay that the drugs began to win. A screech of tires; he was lifted onto a metal floor.

Oh, God, he remembers thinking vaguely. Mister Stark had better come for me.

The ensuing cacophony of voices was too multitudinous for him to pick out. The second needle in his neck, however, was keenly picked up by his pleading, aching danger sense. The awareness of the fact that a second dose of drugs was about to enter his bloodstream did nothing to prevent his vision fading to black, noise halting. End scene.

He passes out among the million hands and wakes up to white tiles.

Brushing gloved hands habitually through the errant locks of hair lying across his forehead, he watches himself one last time, tries to connect the dots between the suit Mister Stark had re-made for him, the invisible stitching, the black arrow-lines dividing bold red and blue, the graceful shape of the suit around him culminating at his neck in a neat seam, and the scarred skin that grows from that seam and forms the face of Peter Parker, Spider-Man.

"Peter Parker," he repeats under his breath, "Spider-Man."

He'll admit that the murky flashes of the past that mar his mind now scare him a little. Although he hadn't known it the first time he'd stepped into this suit, he makes himself both strong and vulnerable when he's in it. His heart hadn't stopped beating in his box, but it had come close, whether from thirst or hunger or pain or blood loss or sheer loneliness; and yet now it beats a tattoo against his tender ribs as if making up for any doubts of its fervour, beating and beating and beating.

But there's more than one reason why he's donned the suit today.

Peter slips the mask over his head and vaults over the windowsill, emerging into the brilliantly warm light of the golden hour that lays in delicate streaks across the patchwork of rooftops that make up the puzzle of Queens. He's warmed from the inside out by the light. Shooting a web, taking a leap, he swings, revelling in the cool wind, the airy momentum of his movement.

The glass doors of the Compound cast blinding, enchanting reflections of the sinking sun, but if Peter squints he can make out a familiar form waiting for him in the entry.

Letting go of his web line, he twists backwards in the air, arcing into a backflip just for the hell of it, before dropping to his feet outside the doors.

The first thing he notices is Tony's smile. It's an indulgent thing, packed so full of fondness that Peter feels the excess settling in his own expression, and lit up by the golden light.

Spreading his arms, Peter nods at himself, making a beckoning motion as if encouraging praise from a cheering crowd, then turns on the spot so Mister Stark can see every inch of the suit and know that Peter's decision to wear it again is very deliberate. Through the glass, there's a silent laugh from his mentor. Peter hasn't seen him so unapologetically happy since the day he was taken.

Dropping the goofy act, he pulls off his mask and watches the face across the glass brighten further still. Peter unconsciously brings up a hand to his old burns, a flicker of a reflection showing him the ragged skin for a moment before being swallowed up by the vast glory of the sun. Tony just quirks the corners of his mouth, the affection in his eyes unwavering.

Peter steps through the glass door, throwing out a blade of refracted light that pierces nothing but the safe haven of nature around him, and meets him inside.

[tfw-no-tennis]

return of hunty

soooo we’re back!! with some really old recaps that ive been too lazy to polish and publish. so, eps 29-32

so i have no idea wtf all that talk abt pores was but i guess gon and killua can do nen now. cool!

they rlly like, figured all that shit out in a few hours huh. these fuckgin nen prodigies hvbajkshdfbjskf

time to wade thru hisokas nasty vibes again

this felt like a video game and gon and killua tried to face a boss but were sent on a sidequest first lmao 

smh just let gon punch you hisoka. then you can leave hopefully

wow some busted bitches are tryin to start shit w/the boys. i can tell these fools are gonna get rekkt 

oh goody gon is gonna fight spinny guy. he looks like that claw guy from s1 of mp100

i hate that they wont stop talking abt this guys ‘tops’ hvbahdfbjskjf

theres a lot of like. strategy and shit going on

oooh gon hiding his presence just like he did when tracking hisoka! you little prodigy you

gon breaking his arm again :( buddy please

well rip the dream i guess, youll get em next time gon 

killua scolding gon for being reckless and stuff...just say you were worried abt him gayboy 

that promise thread is weirdly cute 

killua being like ok wing if you dont teach us nen we’re gonna go out and do it anyways so yeah. hes so rude and blunt i love him 

meanwhile, KURAPIKA!!!!!!!!!!! i missed u omg

kp wya. this place looks sketchy

ah, kurapika has to learn nen too now 

whos this guy. is he gonna teach kurapika nen 

YEP TOTALLY 

why do i feel like we’re not gonna see leorio at all during this....my man i miss u too

ah, lovely timeskip lol

gon is so bouncy. baby boy ily and your scary improbable healing time

killua calling gon weird....you guys are BOTH weird ok 

damn so hisoka has lost fights before, wild 

or guess not, if he just didnt show up lmaooo what a bastard man 

how funny would it be if this random guy defeated hisoka before gon could even fight him lmaoo

welp guess gon isnt gonna watch the match. im sure killua can fill him in

killua rlly just snuck into this dudes room huh

kastro: [teleports behind killua] NOTHING PERSONAL, KID

killua asking for an autograph lmao u aint slick boi 

hmmm i wonder if these two will fight later on 

then again i dont think this arc is that long so??? whats even gonna happen here??? is it just gonna be the gon vs hisoka fight that the OP has been promising this whole time???

kastro v hisoka go

YESSSS get punched hisoka. so good

FUCK HIM UP KASTRO.

i doubt thisll last but its good rn

LIMBS R FLYING....this is WILD bro. hisoka is so smug ughhhh i wanna punch him too 

damn this bitch knows clone jitsu 

ultimate attack time! i feel like the other shoe is abt to drop and hisoka is abt to fuck kastro up 

THIS BITCH RLLY OUT HERE DOING A MAGIC SHOW HUH. jesus hisoka ur just...the worst

now hisoka has ZERO arms lord jesus

he really his kastro w/his own severed arm. god

kastro: what the fuck is happening right now

me: YEAH DUDE TELL ME ABOUT IT

aw man there goes kastro. rip you dramatic bishie legend, you never stood a chance 

OOOOH cool lady who are you. her powers are kinda creepy but also cool. is she like, a doctor??? 

how does hisoka know her i wonder. shes cool tho i like her already

wow hisokas powers are weird. thats pretty on par tho 

OH? PHANTOM TROUPE??? so machi is in the phantom troupe...oh boy now im conflicted abt liking her 

AND HISOKAS IN THE PHANTOM TROUPE???? lmao ok then! i guessed that he knew them somehow but i didnt think he was a member...that doesnt seem like his MO 

killua: that was wild. anyways lets train

please punch hisoka right out of the story gon

OH GOD OH LORD H*SOKA SHOWER SCENE I DONT WANT THIS AT ALLLLLL

ruth and i were literally just screaming throughout this whole thing. absolutely horrifying

OH JK I GUESS HISOKA IS JUST PRETENDING TO BE IN THE TROUPE. fuckgin typical lmaoooo

i do wonder why tho, like what are his motivations to pretend to be in the troupe...connections? money? convenience? just sowing chaos? guess we’ll see, cause im assuming hisokas going to yorknew to meet w/them

i wanna set hisoka on fire w/my mind. get him OUTTA HERE 

also its so fucked up seeing hisoka w/out makeup and w/his hair down UGH I HATE IT he should NOT look ‘normal’ ever he should always look like the clown that he is 

anyways thats it for now! and im temporarily suspending the predictions corner segment since i was too lazy to add it when i actually watched these eps, so now i have no idea what my predictions were. alas