#if I had a penny for every dark haired beauty who's PISSED at you for leaving your marriage and then waltzing back in

[emptyjunior]

Begging them to start a jilted wives club

[letarasstuff]

Be yourself and that will be enough

(A/N): This is inspired by a) Atypical and b) by my sister who is so done with me and my facts.

Summary: Your Uncle Morgan tells you what true friends mean.

Wordcount: 1.3k

Warnings: One swear word, angst, but it’s gonna end fluffy

✨Masterlist✨

____________________________

“Hey Wonder Baby, don’t you have school today?” Morgan wonders as he sees his best friend’s daughter sitting at his desk.

“I did, but my last period was cancelled. The teacher got the flu apparently. Also I need your help on one of the topics in my health class. Dad knows pretty much nothing about physical education except for the effects of it. But I need to create a whole work-out. Can you help me with this, Uncle Derek?” (Y/N) puts on her best puppy dog face.

“Of course, Wonder Baby. All those doors don’t kick themselves down, you need a lot of strength for it”, Morgan agrees and ruffles her hair.

“Hey!” After fixing her hair, the teenager works on getting her pen and paper out. For that she nearly has to dump her whole back pack out on her godfather’s desk.

“Why do you have so much stuff with you?” Derek snatches one of the knick knacks. Looking at what he has in his hands, (Y/N) seems like she remembers something.

“There it is! I thought I lost it! That’s a fidget cube, my friends got it for me, because I click my pens all the time and it makes them go crazy. I can play with that without making too much noise. Try it, it’s really calming.”

“And what are those?” He sees a little plastic bag with three cards inside. Before the girl can demonstrate he takes them out, reading the description on them out loud.

“Fun Fact/Stats card. You have to give one up, whenever you tell a fun fact/statistic. (Y/N) what is it?”

Ashamed she looks anywhere but his face. “Uh, you know how dad always goes around, pepping facts and useless knowledge in a conversation? I do the same and my friends are annoyed by this. To keep it at a minimum they made me these cards, which are pretty much self explanatory. I’m not allowed to tell more than three per day. Every time I tell them one, I have to give them a card. Maybe you can do the same for dad, it’s pretty effective.”

“Baby girl, this isn’t right. I know we make fun of your dad for his facts, but we do it in a loving way. We just mean to tease him, not hurt him. His facts helped us more often than not. You should be able to tell people your knowledge. You should be proud of it, not everybody does know as much as you do, especially at your age. When your friends are annoyed by something that is part of you and your personality, then they are not your real friends, as hard as this may sound.” This seems to break the dam. (Y/N) breaks down in tears.

Acting quickly, the agent pulls her in for a hug, trying to shush her. His heart hurts seeing his god daughter, a kid he watched growing up becoming a beautiful teenager, in tears hiccuping and struggling to get a proper breath in.

“You-you don’t know how d-difficult it is to find someone who is willing to put up with me. I have to t-take every chance I get of having a friend, even when it means to hold myself back with them. It is worse to be alone, Derek.” He didn’t know until now that words can hurt so much. But here he sits, with a crying girl in his arms, who just desperately tries to fit in.

“Sugar plum, nobody has to put up with anyone. A friend genuinely enjoys your presence, like you enjoy theirs. I don’t know how hard it is for you, but changing your good traits for somebody, who isn’t worth your time, hurts me. I love to hear your fun facts as much as I love you. It is what makes you you. It makes you different, a good different. Just because some people don’t know how to handle real smarts, you shouldn’t feel like a burden. It’s their loss, understood Baby?” While wiping the tears with her sleeve away, she nods.

“Good, now give me these cards, you won’t need them anymore. Either these people learn to love you for being you or they can piss off. You are wonderful just the way you are.”

After Morgan’s well needed pep talk, both of them start working on (Y/N)’s homework. They tease each other, sometimes poking the other ones side with a pen or jokes about something stupid. But also the laughs about little unimportant things are so much needed by the girl.

When Spencer enters the bullpen, the first thing he hears is his daughter’s loud laughing. For him it’s like Bethoven plays the most beautiful melody ever composed in history. A smile graces his features, because to the doctor it feels like an eternity when he last heard these sounds.

Then he spots (Y/N) with Derek, having a lightsaber fight with several into each other stacked pens. They look pretty fragile and it is clear to him that they will fall apart at any second.

“Hey you two, what are you doing here?” Reid asks as he puts his satchel down at his desk.

“Dad! I have to fight Uncle Derek! Else the dark side will win and rule over the universe”, the teenager explains in such a serious manner.

“Well, then I hope you are going to win, my little Skywalker” Spencer encourages her, breaking out the nickname he had for her when she was little.

After the fight has ended (with the good side restoring the universe’s balance), (Y/N) skips happily in her Aunt Penny’s office to get one of her baked goods. Or moreover eating a tin’s contents that is just reserved for her.

Wordlessly Morgan leans against Spencer’s desk, who finishes some paperwork. When he looks up questiongly, Derek throws the little plastic back on top of the papers.

“What is this?” The doctor wonders, but doesn’t get an answer. His friend just motiones to the object. Spencer opens it, takes a card and reads over it several times. Finally all the puzzle pieces in his head click together. (Y/N)’s absent enthusiasm for her and his facts, her bubbly personality missing and her getting shorter with her words every day.

Looking back up at his colleague, Reid thanks him with deep sincerity. Both of them know that the father will do anything to help his daughter.

Later the little family sits at the kitchen table in their small but cozy apartment, talking about their day over the together cooked dinner.

“Did you know that the command ‘Women and children first!’ were interpreted differently on the Titanic? On the one side the man in charge let at first women and children enter the lifeboats and men were allowed to fill in the remaining seats. On the other side were only women and children in them allowed, so over 200 seats were left open when they hit the water”, (Y/N) tells her father with a long missed sparkle in her eyes. Spencer can’t help but smile at it, just being happy to see his favorite girl happy again.

“Oh and Dad? I was thinking about switching schools. You once talked about this school for gifted children? Maybe we can look into this further? I feel like I need a change.”

Relief washes over Spencer. He wanted her for the longest of times to switch schools to have her use her full potential and meet kids who are more like her.

“Of course, Sweetheart. Anything you want.”

[sunlightandsuffering]

omgg please elaborate more about the aunt-kasa prompt 😩😩 i'm dying to know how eren reacted when he first saw mikasa hasjkdhasjk

I think he'd probably have been a little star-struck! Eren heads over to Marco's like he has been every day after school. They'd met pretty recently when Marco transferred into his study hall and he'd quickly hit it off with the guy, becoming fast-friends. It's something he'd needed since Armin had switched to te nearby private school for being too smart.

He didn't begrudge his best friend that but it kind of sucked, Armin was his best friend and Eren could be a little introverted at times. So meeting Marco had been a blessing, and ever since he's been coming back to his place to play video games during their spare block before heading home. Marco had managed to secure a PS5 and Eren was not passing up the opportunity to use that console.

But today as Eren takes his shoes off in the familiar entryway of Marco's little family home something seems different. There are another pair of shoes at the door, to youthful looking to be his mom's, a pair of white sneakers that he knows cost a pretty penny, all the girls at school have them. It's highly unlikely old Mrs. Bodt who complains tirelessly about how weird fashion has become lately is the owner of these shoes.

But nonetheless Eren brushes it off, tucking his own much larger pair of sneakers in neatly next to the white ones. He notices they're neat and tidy, no scuff marks, still white and it surprises him because the ones the girls at school wear look like someone ran them through a mud slide usually.

Eren frowns, before writing it off and following Marco further into the house.

They get all the way to the stairs, almost heading up to Marco's room before Eren hears it, a high pitched tinkling laugh, a beautiful sound and his head snaps towards the kitchen, something pulling him towards the voice. Marco groans on the stair above him, "My aunt is here, she was supposed to stop coming around so often, but I guess she must have broken up with her boyfriend again."

Eren is frozen in place staring up at his friend, wishing, hoping he gets an introduction.

"Come on Eren, we should go say hi or my mom will be pissed." Eren follows dutifully, almost excitedly, as Marco leads him down a few halls and into the kitchen where he finally glimpses her, the most stunning thing he's ever seen.

She's not older by too much, it's clear, probably only a few years and it surprises Eren that she's related to Marco's mom at all, so starkly different from her.

He stands in the kitchen, stock still as he observes the work of art that is Marco's aunt. Absolutely stunning, with hair as dark as the night sky and dark eyes to match, gleaming with stars. Her features are delicate, pretty, too pretty and her body, her body gives him a semi almost immediately and Eren has to hide himself behind the counter so as not to be discovered. Perky breasts almost falling out of a thin tank top, trim little waist with a delicious sliver of abs showing. He waist dips into full hips swallowed up by her oversized sweatpants. He can barely see her ass through the oversized fabric, but he knows it's amazing too, probably full cheeks he'd love nothing more than to smack.

She turns a little to observe him and Marco, a big smile lighting up her face as she observes her nephew, "Marco, I see you actually came to say hi this time." "Yea Mikasa, I thought I might, it's been a while," his friend says going in for a hug while Marco's mom chastises him for calling her by her first name and not 'Aunty Mikasa'.

The goddess that is Mikasa turns fully to face him in her barstool, her smile changing to something a little more predatory, "And who might you be?"

She leans over the kitchen island, resting her chin on her hands, perky tits pushed together by the motion and giving him a perfect view right down her shirt and he glimpses bubble gum pink nipples he wants to suck. Eren swallows nervously, "Eren, Eren Yeager."

"Hi Eren, nice to meet you," she holds out a hand and he shakes it, touching soft skin and long slender fingers. "Are you good friends with Marco?" "Yeah, we um just became friends this year."

"Oh yeah, grade 12, you're both eighteen now right?" She directs the question at both of them and Marco answers yes, but it's Eren she's got her eyes locked on, sussing out all the information she needs.

She slowly pulls her hand away from his, thumbs running over his knuckles softly before releasing him, she rests her head on her hands again, tilting her head to look at him innocently. "I guess I'll probably be seeing a lot more of you huh then Eren?"

"Umm yeah, Marco has a PS5," Eren says by way of explanation and his friend snorts, clapping him on the back but Eren is now focused solely on the strap of Mikasa's tank top thats slip, slip, slipping down her shoulder, exposing more creamy breast than is appropriate. She notices, he can tell she notices, her eyes darting to the strap briefly before they find Eren's gaze and she smirks a little, shrugging her shoulder a little more so the flimsy strap can fall farther. He can see the tinge of pink of her nipple and yet she does nothing, he's the only one who can see it, the angle of her body hiding her slip from Marco and his mom. "Well I'll look forward to seeing more of you Eren," she finally readjusts it, but for just a second the shirt falls lower and she's exposed, pretty pink and standing at attention, begging for his mouth.

"Me too," he mumbles in a daze as Marco begins dragging him away to play PS5.

[undermattsun-archive]

japan national team x reader | w.c 1.3k

a/n: omg guys here’s the super cute epic collab fic i made w all my frieednsies <33 we all worked superrrr hard on this so pls don’t be mean!!!!!!!!! pls enjoy its xoxox and don’t forget to follow everyone here on this kidnapped by hq collab <33333333333

warnings: not proofread bc who does that xD (guys pls free me from this hell i’m in so much pain i didn’t even look at this i skimmed over it i left it as is, gg)

Read this while lsitening to the best song evar!!!!!!!!!!!1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_cXhBy78T4&ab_channel=JonasBrothers if you dont listen whil reading ill eat ur family MONCH MONCH MONCH

i go dwnstars, yelling ‘by mum!’ bfor laceing up my wite convrrse hightops (NOT blck becauz u cant sharpi on it) wth 1d lyrics scribbled on it. i rmb to draw a directioner infinite sign on mywrist. perfect, i think to mysdlf.

I never thot i would get to go to the olympics all the way on the other side of the planet in toky o japan! It was a dream come true for a simple, average, run of the mill girrl like me, who is 5’7 with naturally wavy hair, that’s not curly or strait and eyes as blue as the dark blue part of the ocean. 

I been dreaming of the olypoics since fetus. I just knew I had to be here, but I never thought it would actually happen. The only thing that would make it better is if I had a smezxy smexy boyfrwend! (A/n: Tee-hee! Maybe even two! (Or five! <333) haha! Aren’t I so quirky? <3)

I’m Wearing A Mint Green Crop Top That Ties In The Front And Some Denim Shorts With Black Converse. I Don’t Need Makeup Because My Skin Is Naturally Smooth And Clear And My Lips Are Already Red #wokeuplikethis And I Listened Only To MCR And P!ATD On The Plane Ride. I Bet You Dont Know Who They Are, THey’re My Favorite Banxds And Are Super GOod And Like Underground Bands. (A/n: Okay But If You Don’t LIke Welcome TO THe BLack Parade GTFO Of My FIc I Don’t Need YOu Here xoxo) 

ok so like,, im on my way to the olympics but then like, i get kidnapped !!! the car i was in was like super expensive and i cant see anything with the blindfold on. i hear voices of men all around me though, for like, a whole 30 minutes before they bring me somewhere and tie me up? "Take Her BLindfold off," one of them say, i hear. and im so nervous. but it's like a dream when they tug my blindfold off and im met with the prettiest emerald orbs ever looking back at me.

my stomach knotted in fear (more like an angry swarm of butterflies fluttering around ) i feel like screaming or squealing or both bc those eyes belong to someone so gorgeous . even more gorgeous than harry styles. hes like a god. i woukd so worship his foot. or something. (squee omg i can’t believe this is happening. i bet you wish that it was you huh?) 

bro who tf has emerald orbs green eyes im blanking rn

^ yo i was gonna ask i cannot for the life of me remember who

his #afff14 sppheres peered into my soul i really just felt seen. i took a deep breath before fainting he was just so pretty. *one hours later* i woke upa nd saw the pretty viridescent peepers staring into mine. like he was literally two inches away from my face omg i could feel his minty breath on my lips it smelled so good.

“My name is atsumu miya,” he said gruffly, the gruffness in his voice so gravely. “And me and me mates here think yer the most gorgeous girl weve ever seen. I blink up at him, orbs gleaming amd full of tears. 

“What do u mean, i’m just a normal quirky girl?” I say shakely, biting my lip. I bit my lip as the piss blond man spoke.

“You don’t know ur beautiful.” YOUR INSECURE DONT KNOW WHAT FOR YOUR TURNING HEADS WHEN YOU WAlk THROUGH THE DO OO OOOOOR

“U may be a normal quirky girl but ur OUR nroaml quirky girl now” his friend said with a deep voice. It was so deep that i almost thot it was like the ocean, he had curly balck hair and his eye were sooo mysterious (a/n i loooove sakusa i can’t believe him and his friends kindapped me omgggg XD)

“Stop it go away” osamu said (hee hee i can never remmber  tell which twin is which LOL i think its osamuuu) “no u have to share” sakusa responded angrily. I starred at them and didn’t know what theyd do next!

I looked over to he side ans see sakura pulling out hand sanitizer passing it around to his teamates. The green orbed boys huff as they put it on. i wished i could see his whole face hes so sedy, look over here pretty girl, i gasp pulled from my thoughts by their captain kita walking into the room with his hands on his hips and was theat aran? “You look even better in peroiusn” aran said to me, walking over to me “how do you know who i am?” i ask.

“listen bbygurl...” he yealls, pulling out a chair to sit acros from me. “you dont get to ask the questions, we are your new masters, and you shall do as we say.” i gulp nervously, my stomach feeling like a sharkndao is happening inside. “we hope u will be worth every penny we payed foru.” 

“M-m-m-masters?” my head felt like it was spinning in a teacup from disney land as i thought about what he just said to me. what did this mean? was i gooing to miss the olympics?? I wanted ot hate him with his super smug look on his face but i cant deny that he looks kind of hot and i’m into guys who look just like him,, the other guys r also relly attractive it makes my heart race. I look around trying to find answers when i make eye contact w a really really reall y tall guy who i thinks name is gao only to see another really really relly tall guy next to him,, hyakuzawa?

“what are yo going to do to me then?” ((*lenny face))

you ask, stomach bubbling. maybe i shoudnt have ateen that stale pizza earlier and washed it down with watermelon-lemon minute maid because now i felt like it was gonna come up. ((ew gross um tw vomit mention hehe)

“Dont worry were going to grab seme din din soon lil one,” one of them says. His name espapes me. Hes a ginger. They wont answer me for some reason and i suddenly miss my freedom when i would go to school (i go to an expesive private school for rich kids ahahah).

“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH ME??” i yell again batting my fists against the ginger but he doesnt even blink. Ive decided hes hot but in a short king kinda way. His hair reminded me of of like cheeto coloured fine thread woven into waves.,,, like the ocean xD (ans...this has an ocean theme)

sudenly there was another voice it was yalling “BOKE HINATA BOKER” i looked with my stricking dark blue orbs and there wasd inother pair of stricking dark blueor bs like the ocean and blck hair. his voicde was veryy deelp an sexxcy (a/n lololol i luv u gakeyama kun *w*)

theres suddenly a loud voice in ur ear screaming directly into ur eardrum " BAKA KAGYEAMA BAKA"  (wtf our they communicating ????  ? )    i cringe at the yellign and another pair of strong arms bulls me away . i land against a hard, solid chest, i can feel the six pack thru his track Suit. 

and then my alarm clock playin what makes u beatyful goes off n i woke up. 

amen.

i rub my eyes wakng up, starrn into the mirror at my super borng brwn ugly eyes and brsh my equaly borng brwn hair. i lok up at m wall and see harey stylz and niallr starinf back at me on t walls. i sigh dreamily. they wud twll me my brwn uairs beatufil. 

[oddlyhale]

IronQrow Villains AU

Ironwood and Qrow as villains in the RWBY show AU.

Ironwood is based off of the Three Snake Leaves fairytale, a story about a man who revived his dead wife with Three Snake Leaves. However, reviving her only brought him betrayal, as she lost love for him and tried to kill him with her lover. Able to survive, the man went to the King and told everything the Princess had done. She was then punished with her lover to be drown in sea on a sinking ship.

Qrow is now based on The Juniper Tree fairytale, a story about a young boy who was killed by his greedy step-mother that wanted the inheritance he would get from his father. She killed him, cut him up and served him as dinner to his unknowingly father, and forced her daughter to bury his bones under a juniper tree next to his real mother. The boy became a bird, singing about his story and received three gifts from strangers that listened. He gave the gifts to his family: his father got a gold necklace. His sister got lovely red shoes. And his evil step-mother got crushed under a millstone.

In this AU, for Ironwood:

He fakes being a good headmaster, only to reveal his true identity once the fall begins.

He is a man masked under oxygen, for his first death caused him breathing problems.

His semblance is to revive the dead, however he tries not to use it often, as it causes him immense pain and can run his aura dry.

HIs goal is to find his wretched ex-wife and murder her for what she did to him (she’s not dead in this one.)

In this AU, for Qrow:

Qrow is a bit psychotic. Not theatrically insane, like Tyrian, but he’s on a level of kalopsia (delusions of seeing things more beautiful than what they are.) He is quietly energized by mayhem and distress.

His semblance is shapeshifter, accommodating by being handsy with building his own crazy weapons. HIs favourite weapon is a giant hammer made of millstone.

He plays the ‘nice uncle, playful drunk’ for a while, under the Fall hits. Turns out his ‘drunkard antics’ were just him covering up his manic laughters and bursts of rage.

He doesn’t try to kill Ruby or her friends, but he warns her to not come for him, or he will kill them without hesitation.

His goal is to live ‘beautifully’ and die in the deepest pit of bliss. By that, he wants to live to cause harm and art, and die a masterpiece himself.

About the relationship:

Ironwood and Qrow are married (James proposed.)

Qrow is utterly in love with Ironwood, as is James for Qrow.

James finds Qrow to be the most endearing psycho he’s ever met, figuring out how Qrow has a hidden humanity about himself, as he cares deeply for music and art.

Qrow was smitten the first time he met James, immediately wanting to be his.

The two men met each other years ago, back when James was to be happily wed to his queen. He was thrown off the ship by the crazy woman and her secret lover, nearly drowning, had it not been for the single loyal servant that saved him. James’ semblance unlocked that day out of panic, thoughts of dying only fueling his semblance to be released. His body revived itself, waking James on the raft that the servant was on, but the act left James badly injured.

The servant was weeping, both in joy to see their master was alive, but in horror as to what had happened to James’ body. His right arm, his right leg, gnawed off by the active sea beasts in the water. His hip was chewed at, nearly severing him in two. Despite being alive, the only thing his semblance couldn’t do was regenerate some new body parts. And yet James was conscious, despite the bleeding and pain. Alive and pissed.

His lungs were filled with water, only a dead person could carry so much. Once they arrived at shore, finding no persons in sight to help, the servant ran out to the land to see if there was any civilization nearby. James laid in the raft in pain, waiting for the servant to return.

Somebody finally came, but it was not the servant. It was a lithe and tall man with dark hair and pale skin, eyes bright red like rubies. He stumbled onto the beach after seeing the frantic servant run into the village nearby, curiously wanting to see what the fuss was about.

“My,” Qrow smirked down at James. “You look like you need a hand.”

James stared blankly at the man, as if he were incredibly unamused. Until he replied, “are you pulling my leg?”

Qrow couldn’t help but burst into a short fit of laughter. James did too, but not for long as he was cut short. His back was killing him.

“I can get you a new body. And some.” Qrow assured. “Come with me. I know somebody.”

“At this point? Fine.” James huffed. After being betrayed by his queen and almost eaten alive by sea beasts, he could hardly imagine this stranger could make anything worse.

Qrow took James to the Whale, to Salem. After some convincing, Salem allowed Qrow to let James stay, so long as he was the one watching their new guest. Qrow agreed happily.

Qrow’s story was only filled with pain. He learnt from a young age that he was never loved by his step-mother, and being left behind by his sister. His step-mother murdered him in his sleep, cutting him up and serving his flesh like he was grade-A beef. His soul took the form of a crow, fueled by the rage he had for his step-mother. He wanted her dead, and by luck, he met Salem. She granted him the wish to have his vengeance, helping him turn back into a human. He was only a little boy still when he met Salem, growing up to look to her as his new mother.

After killing his step-mother, Salem took him in and had been at her side since.

James was soon recovering, but his rage was building deep within. All he could think of was his wretched wife, who was almost successful in killing him. She knew he couldn’t swim. How the sharp teeth of the massive sea monsters would eat at his body. He was ready to kill her, avenge himself.

James’ internal injuries couldn’t be fixed. He had to constantly wear a breathing-mask to help inhale more oxygen that his fragile lungs couldn’t take in normally. It was pain, feeling like he aged 50 years, even though he was only 20 at the time. From what he learned, Qrow was also the same age, at least feeling comfort in knowing somebody his age was around.

During James’ recovery - while Salem was mildly interested in this loner - it was Qrow who was the most intrigued. He loved coming to see James, see his progress so far. A new robotic arm, a new robotic leg, and some new parts had to be added in. Unfortunately, it meant much of James’ lower-half had to be remade, Half of his waist was not salvageable, meaning he’d have to lose a hip and his genital area. James didn’t care, wanting to be fixed already, and out of the stupid medical bed. Wanting to be strong again.

Though, he made a joke about giving him a massive metal cock, barking out laughter when he saw Qrow’s reaction of giggling like an embarrassed old woman. But, his wish was curiously granted.

As James was back up on his feet and trying to adjust to this new body, it was still Qrow who helped him. To the others that were residents of the Whale, they were surprised at how much time Qrow spent with James. Knowing the guy, Qrow could hardly process empathy. He would laugh at burning houses full of orphans, and dance on a dying man while he’s down.

But now, he was the most gentle, tender and kind to this perfect stranger.

Would you believe it when this story ends with the two marrying? After knowing each other for 5 years? Well, that’s how the story went. The two men fell in love, not caring for how crazy their lives would become. James loved this psychopath. And Qrow loved this vengeful man.

James was quick to become compliant in Salem’s plans, to start a new world and have their wishes granted. What he wanted was that bitch of a wife dead, and anybody else that associated with her existence. He didn’t care anymore if they were innocents, they had to be taken out. Feeling the same pain he felt.

Qrow had no goals, other than to live and serve Salem. To be the perfect little dog and grant her every wish. But now, his devotion turned to James. He loved him to bits, and would kill anybody for him. Already, James had killed quite a few people for Qrow, and that was probably one of the most romantic things he’s ever received. The only painful thing he could think is to live a life without James. Even his devotion for Salem couldn’t keep him alive.

Despite their chaotic life, the two surprisingly had a well-adjusted marriage and relationship. It was contentment, understanding and fun. They adored each other the same way they first met, and it seems that their honeymoon phase never ended, after 15 years together. They’d have a wedding dance next to a pile of dead bodies if they could, and they’d still be completely enamored by one another.

During the years together, the two had begun building their false identities among the people. Qrow had contact with his family, still there as Ruby and Yang were young and had grown to attend Beacon Academy. Ironwood had stolen the identity of a previous soldier of Atlas, taking their place and soon becoming the headmaster and general of Atlas. Their appearance was nothing to be judged, coming off as noble and normal.

When the time came for Beacon’s Fall, Qrow was the first to act. After the death of Penny 1.0, he had gone to murder the others in the Beacon Vault. He was successful in killing Glynda, Ozpin and the Maiden (transferring her powers to Cinder who is still in the gang), but he pretends to have no success in killing Ironwood, giving false hope to the heroes that at least one of their own is OK.

After that, he went out to go kill some more civilians of the Academy. Ruby and Yang realized their uncle was part of the evil team, and are broken by the betrayal. Qrow was quick to dismiss them as his family, skipping off merrily back to Salem.

When time passed and it was time to arrive at Atlas, it would be Ironwood’s turn to betray the teams. While cooperative and kind, Ironwood legitimately had no remorse for any of the kids. Quite frankly he wanted them dead, as well as the Ace Ops.

[miss-choco-chips]

Twisted soulmates

BIG Thank you to @iphoenixrising who let me babble on chat about this idea, and to @the-sky-is-a-lie who is an awesome sweetheart and read and edited this for me (THANK YOU!)

---------------------------

Tim has three names on one wrist. His soulmates. Tim has one name on the other wrist. His nemesis.

...or are they?

Tim gets his first mark the night the Graysons fell, ‘Richard John Grayson’ forever tattooed on him, the otherwise unblemished white skin of his left wrist almost shining in contrast to the new addition.

Young, he might be, but not stupid; never stupid. Neither of his parents would approve of a circus artist, perfect as he may be in Tim’s wide opened eyes, so he had to be smart about this. His mind hasn’t stopped whirling since the little touch that burned Dick’s name on him and vice versa, all kind of plans on how to broach the subject with the adults, how to make Dick like him beyond the promised love of a soulmate, every possibility dancing through his eyes, while his parents look for their seats at the stands none the wiser.

He's planning on asking his mom to stay after the show, so he might properly introduce himself to this marvelous trapezist, maybe proclaim an interest in the training - anything that could improve his overall abilities was a good thing in Janet’s eyes, and having her on board would be enough to force his father to accept. He’s excited at the prospect, and a part of him thinks Dick, up the trapeze getting ready for his act, feels the same. That he could feel, through the bond that snapped in place when the other kid first touched him, an echo of his own happiness, a joy at finding, so soon in life, something as beautiful as this. 

He’s going to stay after the show. He’ll talk to Dick, introduce himself properly, be as mature as possible- Dick wouldn’t want a dumb kid as his soulmate. Maybe even make friends with this wonderful boy that can fly and is destined to love him.

(Love him, him, him. He can’t wrap his head around this strange concept of being on the receiving end of something strong and wonderful. He might cry.)

Then the tragedy occurs, and  Tim's too traumatized to think about doing anything about it. He can't pester a grieving boy with this. They are kids after all, and it’s not like their bond is going anywhere. 

(I don’t want to wait, please don’t forget about me, please love me.)

---.---

Dick has just been adopted, his entire worldview had changed, adding a soulmate to care about would be just too mean of him. Tim can take care of himself, even when sometimes, after his parents left for yet another trip, he yearns for someone to hold his hand after a nightmare. To brush his hair back and hug him.

But that’s just the child in him. He doesn’t need it to live, it’s just a silly comfort thing to wish for, like the baby blanket his mother had made the servants take away once Tim turned four. So he keeps quiet. He waits. 

Dick’s name is on his left wrist, after all. He is his soulmate.

----.----

He gets his second mark years later, when the Batcave’s security is breached and some strange men attack Bruce. The giant penny is too tall, but he still get a good look at the man below it, and something in his gut twists. It all makes sense a few minutes later, when Bruce is fighting someone else and the man in green robes pushes Tim aside, holding him hostage to get the Batman’s cooperation. 

The skin on his wrist, the one that doesn't have Dick's promised love tattooed on it, burns. He doesn’t dare look down, aware of how taking your eyes from the predator in the room could mean instant death. He doesn’t need to, anyway; he already knows.

Tim’s pretty sure this is his nemesis, because no way he'd be destined to hate Dick and love this criminal, and they are on opposite wrists. So… getting away is the first step on his ‘do not interact with this terrorist until I’m significantly better at defending myself’ plan. Easy peasy.

He catches the side glance the man shoots him, because of course he also felt the burn, and there’s curiosity there. Something akin to amusement, which, Tim can get behind, he’s also seeing the irony of this, the utterly ridiculousness of him being important enough in the grand scheme of things to warrant being tattooed on this man’s skin.

There’s also possessiveness there, which isn’t fun at all. Stranger danger, his mind screams at him.

His nemesis shouldn’t be possessive of him, unless he has a really fucked up view of his enemies, in a ‘their death is mine, and mine only’ way. Because this is his nemesis, there's no doubt in his mind of that. 

Dick is on his other wrist, after all, and he is his soulmate.

----.----

Bruce goes mental when he finds out later, and almost blows a gasket. Ra’s, as Tim later finds out his nemesis is called, is suddenly one upping the Joker on Batman’s high priority enemies list, which means only a glimpse of him anywhere near the city borders would warrant a call to Superman, Bruce’s ultimate last resort. That’s how big this is.

Young Justice has split feelings on the matter. Cissie and Cassie, ever the bloodthirsty ones in Tim’s humble opinion, suggest tracking the man down before he can get to their leader, and taking him out of the game. Probably permanently. Kon seems torn, half with the girls, half with Bart, who finds the whole thing amusing and exciting. Ra’s Al Ghul, one of the most dangerous enemies the Justice League ever faced, and little old Robin is his fated enemy. Not Superman, not Wonder Woman, not Batman himself; just their Rob. That, according to the speedster, is so, so, so crash. The rest of the team, if they have opinions, keep them to themselves. It takes a while to calm the room down and focus on their mission of the day, but he eventually succeeds.

Dick, on his part, comes back from where he was brooding with the Titans after a fight with his mentor to fret over Tim, and everything is right in the world. 

He isn't afraid of Ra's. He has his new family, new friends, and soulmate.

----.----

There’s something on his pillow when he gets back from the weekend with his friends. 

A perfect rose, white as snow, thorns so sharp Tim knows they would pierce skin if touched. Not that he would be so stupid as to do it, not when foes like Ivy existed.

But… there’s a ribbon, and it sends ice through his veins. A red ribbon, tied at the stem’s exact center. A flower with a ribbon, the universal symbol of soulmates.

He’s pretty sure Dick’s back in San Francisco. Which leaves...

No.

He squares his shoulders and searches in his bag for his Robin gauntlets, protecting his hands with them as he disposes of the rose.

His right hand stings a little through the entire process.

----.----

When he gets his third mark, he's honestly surprised. As well as on the edge of unconsciousness from blood loss.

The blood flooding his airways is his, and the building that he believed was his safe place would never feel like that again. His knocked out friends litter the hallways, the bo staff he tried to use to defend himself long lost to the fight, as this man, his hero, his Robin, his apparent Soulmate, tries to kill him.

(Their eyes meet and they feel it at the same time, the twist in their stomachs, which is what stops Jason's blade. Tim’s hand raises up, weakly, and carefully brushes against the one holding the knife. It burns, and everything goes black for a minute.) 

(Jason stops breathing. He has the Joker on one hand, and was markless on the other until now, so this runt has to be his soulmate. No way it's the deranged clown. Which means he almost....)

Jason runs away (this is Jason, his wrist claims, not the mysterious Red Hood any longer) and Tim patches himself up, does damage control with his friends, calls Batman. His heart is beating twice as fast as usual, but he tries to be logical; Jason is on the same wrist as Dick, who is his soulmate, and opposite to Ra's, who's most likely his nemesis. Ergo, Jason's gotta be his soulmate. 

His confused, probably traumatized, totally not in his right mind soulmate.

He's gotta be patient and wait. Jason surely will get better, will come back to Tim, will fix this mistake he almost made, will... will love him.

Dick is his soulmate, and calls him ‘little brother’, which hurts, but he says it with such warmth that it soothes the ache. Dick loves him. 

Jason will, too, someday.

----.----

A few weeks later, he wakes up in the middle of the night, conscious of the feeling of being watched from the shadows of his room. 

There’s the teddy bear Steph won for him at the fair some months ago, sitting on the chair near his bed where he last put it, but… odd. There’s something about it that’s not quite normal, something that wasn’t there when he went to sleep half an hour ago.

It took him less than a minute to spot it, which would still be shameful if Bruce ever found out, but he sees the unusual shine in the bear’s eye and groans, more tired than rightfully angry, feeling like the moody teenager he never actually was.

A hidden camera. This was the fifth of the year, what the hell?

Pissed off, he gets up and takes the scissors he leaves by his bedside (can’t exactly go to sleep with a birdarang there, his dad might check on him at night and freak out, but sleeping without a weapon in easy reach just makes him uncomfortable) and makes quick work of the bear, getting the device out with as minimal damage to the plushie as possible. He’ll fix it later.

Beyond done, one hand opens the window with more strength than absolutely necessary, the other flying back to gather momentum and throw the thing right at the supposedly empty shadow on the roof of the building across the street. He’s not surprised when a dark gloved hand catches it, the rest of the body still perfectly concealed by the night. Fucking ninja.

No words needed, he slams the window shut again and grumbles his way to his desk, turning on his lamp. He’s not falling asleep again tonight, so might as well work on some cases.

----.----

His fourth mark is both exciting and like a bucket of cold water. 

It's a fucking kid.

Is this how Dick felt when he first got Tim's mark? No wonder he avoided talking about the subject, this was uncomfortable as fuck. Granted, it didn't necessarily have to be a romantic soulmate, platonic soulmates were a thing too, but... still. Awkward.

Even worse because the kid didn't have another mark and, as Tim was his first, was convinced he had to be his fated nemesis. No matter how hard Tim tried to explain the opposite; after the heart stilling moment where he extended his hand for a shake and was slapped away, thus providing the skin to skin contact needed for the bond to form, the brat was sure it was nothing but a ruse to get him to lower his defenses or something. God this kid was fucked up. 

So. In short. There were two of his soulmates trying to kill him. Great. 

But... Dick was on the same wrist as them. Dick loved him. Dick was his soulmate. So Damian... Damian had to be, as well. Maybe he'd grow out if his hate, maybe it was just a phase. 

Maybe.

----.----

His mother and father were dead. Steph was dead. His two best friends were dead.

Tim was numb, going through the motions but not really feeling anything. His only source of emotion, nowadays, was his constant rage at Damian, and the adrenaline while fighting a bad guy. 

He barely slept. He couldn’t remember the last time he properly ate. The manor wasn’t comforting enough with the little assassin roaming around for him to get any shut eye, and how could Tim be sure he wasn’t going to poison his food?

Sleeping in safe houses seemed the smarter move, even when they weren’t really safe at all, judging by the ‘gifts’ that kept appearing every time he turned his back. Food - sealed and untempered with - files on whatever case he was working on, a brand of turkish coffee that he would gladly down even if it contained poison…

Flowers, hundreds of them, all white in color, tiny red ribbons tying their stems.

Tim shivered at the meaning, but no longer minded the feeling of eyes on him while he slept. Looking for hidden cameras was too much effort to be worth it, as long as there were none in the bathroom and his walk in closet. He couldn’t care less, these days. 

----.----

Jason tried to kill him. Again. In the middle of a Pit Episode, even after all Tim had done to help him, to mend their relationship.

Damian was even worse, abusing Tim any way he could, any time he got the chance to get away with it. And it was a startlingly large amount of times, considering their family should be more attentive to attempted murder. None of Tim's effort to bond ever bore fruit.

But he's still convinced they are his soulmates, so he's gotta be patient. They have to be. 

Because Dick is his soulmate, and they share a wrist.

Because Dick...

----.----

Dick betrayed him. In the worst possible way, in the most vulnerable moment of his life. When Tim needed him the most.

Jason tried to kill him. 

Damian tried to kill him.

Dick betrayed him (which was, arguably, worse).

Dick was his soulmate. Jason was his soulmate. Damian was his soulmate.

They had to be.

----.----

His quest for Batman would’ve been a lonely affair, if not for the honeyed voice whispering in his ear. The silent eyes he felt on his skin wherever he went, more heavy than his three assassin escorts’ stares.

What a crazy world it was, where Tim’s nemesis believed in him, while his first soulmate, the one he loved almost his entire life, claimed delusion. Where his nemesis sent his people to keep him alive, to keep others out of his way, while his other two sought his death.

What a crazy world indeed.

----.----

-I think we need to talk, Timothy. About this bond we share.

-I’m listening.

Timothy, he said, but it didn’t sound like his name at all. 

In his mind, it echoed something scary, something that made him shiver and tense. 

It sounded like Mine.

----.----

Ra's al Ghul was probably his soulmate. 

He's gotta be. Because there's no way Tim's fated to love three people that are just going to break his heart again and again and again.

When he goes to the League for help looking for Bruce, he steels himself in place when Ra's’ voice in his ear makes him want to flinch. He grits his teeth at the viper like words murmured in soft tones. Makes himself accept when Ra's offers to train him in the ninja arts after he successfully brought his mentor back. Clenches his fists when he's asked to dinner in a dimly lit French restaurant.

Ra's didn't retaliate when Tim blew up half his bases. He kept giving Tim pointers and praises. Seeking his company.

So he breathes in. 

He forgave Damian for being a killer, Jason for being one, too. He surely can find it in himself to forgive his actual soulmate for being a criminal. 

In time.

Right?

...Right?

----.----

Something dark and victorious twists in Ra’s chest when the Detective doesn’t flinch away from his touch, and silently accepts the white rose and red ribbon he presents before guiding him deep into the restaurant. There’s acceptance in Timothy’s eyes, reluctant but hopeful, even if he stirs away from any ‘dangerous’ topics of conversation and very firmly drops a drug test pill in his glass of water the second the waitress turns her back on them. 

Ra’s doesn’t comment on it, merely mirrors the act on his own wine (one could never be too sure, not when an enemy as interesting as this is seated across from him) before raising it for a toast. Not that the Detective was aware of the reason.

He’s got a lot to celebrate. 

Deceiving this one wasn’t easy, after all.

----.----

Later that night, alone in his room, Tim turns in the bed, his back to the cameras on the far end of the room. The movement is slow, lazy, following his usual sleeping patterns. A clumsy hand pats the mattress, blindly looking for a pillow and dragging it to his chest, face hidden by its softness. He goes lax again, peaceful and oblivious to the world around him to any lingering eye.

Once he’s sure there’s no way anyone could see him, Tim lets a slow, dangerous smile creep on his face, his heartbeat thundering in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins, feeling so alive it’s almost painful after all the numbness.

Ra’s was looking so smug, like the cat that got the canary. Oh, he tried to hide it, but Tim had made it his life's mission since he was twelve to understand the man to his truest essence, to be able to read him as one would a book, and practice had taught him how to play him like a cheap kazoo.

He probably shouldn’t smile, safe as he is in hiding his face in the pillow, but he can’t help it.

Deceiving Ra’s, soulmate or not, wasn’t easy.

[hysteriium]

The Irony of Fate [1]

Gif not mine folks!

(A/N): HEY okay so I know this is kind of taboo considering the whole controversy surrounding this film and while I don’t agree with the labelling, I don’t wanna get political on my blog. I think Joaquin is an amazing actor, he’s a lovely person and I’ve completely fallen head over heels for his portrayal. I’ve loved the Joker ever since I was a kid (guess I’ve had coulrophillia for as long as I can remember lol), I’ve watched him evolve on screen, and in the comics, for as long as I can remember and I guess, as dumb as it sounds, it’s a character that’s been part of a large chunk of my life. So, in sum of my very long, convoluted message, I hope the people who may have a problem with me writing a fic/series on Arthur Fleck/Joker, are able to respect my position as I am with theirs; everyone’s entitled to hold their individual positions, and I won’t fight that, what you believe is totally okay and I’m not here to shoot it down. Thank you :) - Kat  

M A J O R   S P O I L E R  W A R N I N G S!!!  (IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT ALREADY PLEASE DO NOT READ).

Summary: Arthur hated his life. That was no secret. He could pull out a list of the reasons why if someone had to ask. Perhaps he had pissed off fate really badly, a time he couldn't seem to recall. Or perhaps, not that he believed in it, in a past life he had behaved so reprehensively that he was cursed for the entirety of his reincarnated existence. At this point, anything would make more sense than his continual bad luck - make more sense than his life. Was he doomed to be miserable for the rest of his time on earth? Or would the woman he spotted from his window instigate a rapid spiral of change?

Word count: 2134

Warnings: none; let me know if you think there should be any. 

It was cold. 

The meandering, tickle of wind brushed against Arthur’s half-bare form, caressing the soft skin of his chest, while weary arms wrapped around his fragile body, riddled with goosebumps. The front of his neck, which was exposed as it rested against the top of his sofa had his head dangling off the rear of it. He ignored the chill that spread across his body, a shiver that travelled as swift as a racing river; icy and immersive. Encapsulating. 

It was the only thing he had felt in days.

Perhaps weeks. 

His hair was long and untamed, the fluffy strands which occasionally brushed up against the structure of his cheek, due to the wind, acted like a concerned friend.

Or at least that was what he thought. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t certain what friends felt like. 

The flashing of the tv screen before him was disregarded, as well as the noise it discharged; with its aim nothing more than to provide background noise to Arthur, he lost himself in the static it transmitted. Though the thought spirals, which occurred day after day, were far harsher, and unlike the little device in front of him, couldn’t be switched off. 

As he eyed the ceiling, he became conscious of the paint chipping away at the corners of the roof as well as the water damage caused by small leaks from the apartments above him. It had led to the discovery of discoloured small sections in the ceiling; sunken, and dark were the bubbles that formed. Most worrying of all, was the mould which peeked out from the fragmented paint, festering and collated. It strangely didn’t bother him, however, he couldn’t bring himself to care as his blue eyes raked across the surface of the cream, shabby ceiling. Vacant and void of emotion. Cold and uncaring. 

Another breeze crammed itself through the window, dancing its way to him. 

The cycle repeated. 

Shivers.

Goosebumps.

Thought spiral.

Wind. 

Everything was the same.

That was, until he heard something.

Something new. 

It was melodic, yet stifled as his thoughts suffocated him. It trickled inside from the alleys of Gotham, crossing his open, dilapidated window.

Singing. 

And it wasn’t the type of singing you heard every day - no it was touching; unique. And it came from deep within. From the heart. It was something rare, something Arthur had only heard a few times in his life. While he was often surrounded by music - his mother's influence - he rarely connected with any. 

This though...this was different. 

The tune wrapped around his form like a firm lead of rope, binding around his chest with a great, complex knot, one impossible to escape, and further, one impossible to unravel. The spell had been cast, and he had been enchanted. 

He lifted his head from its lazy hanging position, abruptly sitting upright, supporting his back against the couch while his fingers fiddled in his lap. Instantly, he found himself drawn to the window, hypnotised like a man in love as he stumbled towards it, scurrying. 

Another gust of wind. 

His hands were shaking. Whether it was from the sudden feeling of liveliness or nervousness he couldn’t distinguish, though they gripped the window frame tightly and he thrust his head out, first hitting the top of his head against the extendable part of the frame, before shaking the pain away and righting his position. Wild eyes darted across the filthy, littered Gotham streets, the busy, gloomy city sinking into his now sparkling, curious eyes, searching for a source. 

It took a few moments before he finally found it - a woman - just across the road from his apartment, meters away. She stood in front of a store, an acoustic guitar in her grasp, one hand sliding up and down the neck to find the perfect notes, while the other strummed. Her guitar case was fixed below her, open as bills, pennies and dimes were scattered inside it, tossed in by those absently walking by. In a way, the thought of those strolling past, who had yet to stop and appreciate her sheer talent, made the bushy brows at the top of his head crease into a frown. His blood boiled. No one appreciated art these days.

She wore a red dress, elegant and fitting, extremely well dressed for the streets of Gotham. Almost strangely formal. She was beautiful though, graceful even, as her form swayed with the music, completely invested in the lyrical masterpiece that passed her lips.

Arthur had to pinch herself to make sure she was real.

To him, she was otherworldly. Angelic.

He was frozen and rendered speechless as his breathing caught in his throat. Even though he was observing her from his dingy window like a common creep, he felt compelled to talk to her, to get to know her, to know every little detail about her. Was she kind? Was she as sweet as she looked? What was her favourite colour? Did she like comedy?

As he continued to mentally question her from above, he felt reality slipping from him. It was escaping from his grasp, melting like candle wax, or perhaps like putty in his hands, the goop raining down from the gaps of his fingers. He could feel the daydream occurring, the blurring of his vision as he zoned out on her form - and only her form. 

The only important thing illuminating the dull, insignificant seconds that plagued his life like a cancer. 

He’d walk up to her, a hand nervously fixing his hair, tugging at the strands if he encountered a knot. First, he’d wait for her to finish the rest of her song, standing nearby with an encouraging smile, one she’d promptly return. She’d continue the sway of her hips, a move he’d find hard to restrain his eyes from drinking in. Somehow he’d manage. 

He’d practically be bursting with excitement when she finally reached the climax of her song, clapping frantically. She’d bow, a large grin plastered on her face as she does so. 

“What’s your name?” She’d say. 

“A-Arthur. M-my-my name is Arthur.” He’d stutter out, the fidgeting of his fingers while noticeable, he’s thankful she ignores. 

“Nice to meet you, Arthur!” 

He’d perform a little dip of his head, an idiosyncrasy he couldn’t help as he laughed nervously, replying with a soft, “you too.” 

Next, he’d compliment her - on her singing. He’d be honest too, trying his best to articulate the feelings they evoked within him. It was a difficult task. Arthur learnt that the hard way as they carried on talking for a while. 

It remained this way, soft, sweet and casual - until he made her laugh.

It was the most beautiful, infectious sound he’d ever heard. It was something to add to his ever-growing list of likes. He was well and truly hooked, an addiction he wasn’t willing to shake off. 

Like a curse, something he could never stray too far from, he’d think about the dreaded, intrusive laughter that tended to emerge at the worst times. He’d obsess over its emergence, wondering just when exactly it would spontaneously occur. Would she accept the card he’d force into her hand? A simplistic explanation of his condition? Would she understand? Would she think him a freak?

Even in his mind, he couldn’t escape ridicule. 

The negative thought threw him off track. No longer was he able to picture her smiling eyes boring into his own, the large stretch of her grin, and the teeth that briefly bit into the bottom of her lip as she laughed, a small involuntary action. No longer was he able to picture himself smiling back, his lips pursed into his lips, the soft crinkle of his eyes and the subtle rise of his brows. It faded away like a fog, the happiness that bubbled in his stomach popping along with it as he snapped back to reality. Harsh and brutal. The upturn of his mouth deflated like a tire, slow and agonising once he was confronted with the truth. 

He hadn’t actually gone up to her. He was still centred at the window in his mother’s grossly, illegally defective apartment; trapped in a home he firmly believed had never met the standards, even in its inception. Along with the new outbreak of ‘super rats’, a phenomenon he was well acquainted with, things were only set to go further downhill.

Because of this, he’d have to settle for the next best thing.

He disappeared from the window, retreating into one of the other rooms. Hands gripped the wood of the chair - one precisely chosen for its comfort; a chair pleasant enough to sit down on without his backside turning numb. After he dragged it to the window, the continual, ear-piercing groan of wood against wood was a sound that had piqued his mother’s interest from the other room, an attraction Arthur quickly and almost desperately shot down. Once he found himself semi-relaxed in the chair, he rested his head against the window frame. The air which blew against his face, filtered through the lifeless room, lifting the curtains beside him.   

He didn’t know how long he sat by his window, absorbing the stunning tune which serenaded his ears. The setting sun had coloured Gotham by then, and the beautiful girl before him. Its orange glow sunk into her skin, somehow making her more dazzling in his eyes. All he knew was that he couldn’t peel himself away, nor his eyes, or attention. He was well and truly charmed.

All good things must come to an end though, a concept Arthur hated. When she finished her last song, his heart leapt out of his chest, and his gut churned with dread. Was he ever going to see her again?

This thought was promptly put aside when she finally looked up at him, their eyes locking. Although she was some distance away, he could still see the slow smile forming on her face and the small wave she gave him. 

He quickly, and rather nervously returned the acknowledgement, the mini-debate in his head promptly cut short as his mind blanked and he darted for the door. Turning the doorknob with extreme force, he threw the door open and slammed it behind him, running for the stairs. The elevator in his building had a bad track record, and had done nothing in the past but inconvenience him. He was sure to miss her if he took it - hell, he wasn’t even sure he’d catch her taking the stairs. 

Nevertheless, he persisted, shoving the thought away. 

His feet moved on their own accord, his hurried descent echoing throughout the empty stairwell. It was multiple, exhausting flights before he got to the bottom. His heart was racing and his breathing was ragged as sweat formed on his forehead; not only due to the strenuous workout he had endured but also because of the fear of her departure. In a burst of confidence only then had he decided to talk to her, a confidence that seemed to completely leave his disappointed form once he reached outside, slamming into the fire escape exit and into the littered streets. She had left, and he had been too slow. 

He sighed.

Off Arthur went, performing the walk of shame back to his apartment after searching for her red dress for the 100th time. He ascended the stairs, hair hanging low, along with his head fixed towards the ground. 

Oh, the irony of fate.

-----

It was a few days later when he saw her again. She popped up into his mind a lot, more than he’d like to admit. Her beauty, which was not something to sneeze at was often the first thing he thought of, followed by the songs she sang. It was this he remembered most and he often found himself replaying them, a calming mantra as he relished in her delivery. He found he did this when he was having an especially bad time. 

The effect she had on him was yet to dissipate. 

Considering the imprint she had left in his life, despite Arthur observing the woman for what had probably only been a few hours, he could recognise her voice anywhere. 

So, it was quite a shock to Arthur when he heard her voice on the television. At first, he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it, believing she was outside again. The thought had the blood rushing to his cheeks and the sweat glands in his palms working into overdrive. It took a few more seconds for Arthur to realise that the beautiful, unique voice that had once, for a short period, softly soothed his woes was in fact, right in front of him on the cubic form of entertainment.   

On the Murray Franklin show.

[cagestark]

-Defender//4-

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six

Warnings: tony recounts trauma that is very reminiscent of civil war, but just a reminder that this is an Alternate Universe where there are differences between this story and canon.

Read here on AO3.

-

Training goes well.

Peter meets Black Widow (and she is even more beautiful in person, so beautiful that it’s eerie). She offers him her hand and he shakes it, firm and polite. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve staring at their hands as they clasp together, but if he’s expecting Peter to use his strength on an unenhanced human—not to mention one who has done nothing wrong—he’s got another thing coming.

Just to rub it in, Peter puts on his best respectful veneer when he says: “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am! Do you hear that, Steve?” The man mutters an I hear it under his breath. “Call me Natasha. They’re calling you Spider-Man, you know that? I guess that makes us of a similar Kingdom and Class.”

Peter feels warmth in his gut, the pleased, tingly feeling of belonging. He has a name like Black Widow or Hawkeye or Iron Man. Fuck. May would tease him without end for that, in between her proud smiles and glistening eyes. “That’s so cool,” Peter says, sounding as star-struck as he feels. “We’re like, the spider subdivision of the Avengers or something. Ancestral Arachnids.”

“Natasha is going to be overseeing your training,” Steve says. He shows no signs of Peter’s unpleasantness earlier in the week, but something about the way those blue eyes track his every movement keeps Peter from letting the man stand at his unprotected back. “She’s one of the best in the field when it comes to hand to hand combat. You more than likely already have the instincts you need if you’re enhanced, so she’s just going to help you learn how to listen to those instincts and hone them, plus run you through our procedures in the field. Sound good?”

It does sound good.

“Do you want to spar, Captain?” Peter asks while Natasha changes into work-out clothes. This time, the other man doesn’t fall for his wide, guileless eyes and the gentle, pubescent sounding voice. He assesses Peter with flat, knowing eyes.

Steve shakes his head. “Busy today, kid. Some other time.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Peter promises, flexing the fingers he’d used to crush the other man’s hand. He cracks the joints swiftly.

Natasha isn’t enhanced, so he is careful not to hurt her while they spar, but her depth of knowledge seems endless. She knows techniques from martial arts subdivisions that Peter can’t even pronounce, and Peter watches her every move, soaking up the knowledge like a sponge. He loves learning. He loves being useful. He loves the ache in his body after a workout. He loves having a purpose.

“How often does Mr. Stark train?” Peter asks during a water break.

Hawkeye (Clint, as he introduces himself) and Falcon (Sam) are wrapping their knuckles by the water cooler and overhear him ask. Clint snorts. “Tony? He doesn’t. At least, not with us.”

“He comes to the mandatory team exercises every other week. We’d kick him out of those, too, except that it’d be dangerous for us in the field,” Sam admits. “You’ll find that Tony is kind of like the third wheel on our dates with the bad guys, Pete. He tags along or shows up even when we ask him not to. Sometimes he comes in handy, sometimes he gets in the way.”

“But he pays for the tech and the Tower, so try not to piss him off or we’ll all end up out on the streets,” Clint adds. He and Sam touch knuckles.

Peter says nothing—stunned. He might have guessed that with a team leader like Steve, the rest of the team would have the same viewpoints but it’s still…disappointing. The Avengers were his heroes in his teen years, but they’re turning out to just be normal people. Shitty ones, at that. Peter feels another part of his illusioned childhood slip through his fingers.

He trashes it, along with his empty water cup.

“Peter?” Natasha asks. He can tell by the look on her face that she senses his tense mood, her eyes flickering between him and the two older men preparing to spar behind him. “You want to run through things one more time before we call it quits for today?”

“Actually, I’m feeling a little tense in my shoulders,” Peter lies, ignoring the guilt that gnaws at his stomach. He rubs at one trap for effect. “I think I’m going to go stretch and shower and rest—don’t want to pull a muscle, you know.”

“Right,” she says. “Well let me know if you aren’t feeling up to doing more in the morning. You have weeks before you’ll be cleared for fieldwork, so there’s no rush. Here, give me your Starkphone and I’ll program my number into it.”

“I don’t have a Starkphone,” Peter says. He’s never even had a smartphone, much less a STARKphone, the specs of which can’t be compared to anything Apple and Samsung are cooking up in their wildest dreams. They aren’t even mass produced considering their at-cost price is three grand. Peter has two dollars in change in the pocket of his backpack, but that’s it (and it’s mostly pennies). “But if you just tell it to me, I can memorize your number and put it in my track phone when I get upstairs.”

Natasha’s brows draw together. “Tony must be slacking if you don’t have one. He gives every new Avenger the latest model to make sure we’re up to date on the newest tech and able to communicate efficiently—something about how iPhones are the equivalent of chiseling on stone or sending smoke signals. I’ll talk to Tony for you.”

“Mr. Stark doesn’t need to make me a phone,” Peter insists. “I have one upstairs that works just fine. Maybe when I start getting paid, I can save up and get one of my own—”

“You don’t have to save up to get Stark tech,” she says, smiling. “It’s free. That’s the perk of having Tony on the team.”

The perk, she says, like Tony’s money is the only thing he has going for him.

“I don’t want it,” Peter says. He puts space between them, jabbing the button for the elevator with more force than necessary. When the doors open to finally take him away from this gym with these people, it feels like he’s watching the pearly gates open for the way relief fills him. “But thanks anyway. I guess I should be thanking Mr. Stark, though, right?”

The doors close on her confused face.

Thirty hours later, Peter is climbing the walls. Figuratively, this time. He feels even less inclined to leave his room now than he had before. He’s already become something of a nocturnal recluse, exiting the kitchen only in the dead of night when he can hear the sounds of the other Avengers sleeping around him. He’s met some of the others who come and go and some who live on the floor: Thor, Wanda, Dr. Stephen Strange, Bruce Banner. There are hushed mentions of another member, Bucky, but Peter never sees him. What hurts most is Tony’s glaring absence. Ever since Peter got the man off, he hasn’t seen a trace of him. Anxiety blooms in his chest like water expanding upon freezing, icy barbs that make it hard to take a full breath. What if Tony is mad at him? What if Peter misinterpreted things between them? What if the dynamic has changed, and now he’s nothing to Mr. Stark but yesterday’s news?

It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened to him.

“Peter?” the disembodied voice with the exaggerated Irish lilt makes him jump.

He clears his throat, out of sorts as it is from disuse. “Yes, Ms. FRIDAY?”

“It’s Mr. Stark, Peter. He wants to know if you’re available to meet him in the lab.”

Peter jams his feet into his shoes without bothering to put on socks.  

Tony blinks in surprise at how quickly Peter arrives through the glass door of his lab, eyes scanning up and down Peter’s figure before settling on his face and giving a warm smile. Peter takes the time to assess the older man as well (fair is fair!). Tony looks exhausted, eyes shadowed, hair a mess. He’s wearing the same clothes he was the last time Peter saw him, but it’s been so many days, surely he’s just rewashed and decided to wear the clothes again—right?

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since Peter moved rooms, since the night he ground on the man’s lap until Mr. Stark came in his pants. Just the memory of it (which Peter has revisited several times in his bed, in his shower) makes him flush with phantom arousal. At least he can blame that on the speed he used to get here.

Maybe it should be awkward, but it isn’t. Not on Peter’s end, at least.

Tony points to the lab table closest to the door where a large box rests. “I am bearing a gift for you, spider-boy.”

“Spider-Man,” Peter amends, already smiling. The difference is amazing and something he didn’t necessarily notice until he saw the man again, until the apathetic listlessness was washed from his skin leaving him feeling refreshed and exuberant. Peter missed him. He tip-toes towards the table, fingers hesitating above the ominous box. “You didn’t need to get me anything, Mr. Stark.”

“I didn’t—I made you something. Big difference. Go ahead, open it.”

With trepidation, Peter opens the box. There is a large mass of dark fabric inside and a smaller, sleek box sitting on top.

“Ta-Da!” Tony says. “Two gifts! I lied. I’m such a liar—”

Tony sways where he stands, like he’s suddenly lost his balance. Peter nearly upends a lab table between them trying to get to the man, watching as he white knuckles the nearest surface to ease himself down into the chair he’d abandoned. The heart in his chest pounds, skipping beats, a horror movie soundtrack that Peter is privy to, but Tony just waves the younger man’s concern away. “Gifts. Don’t worry about me, the look on your face will heal me of all my ailments, clear my skin, water my crops, all the things the kids say these days.”

“Your skin is already clear,” Peter mutters, frowning as he returns to the box and glances in the open lid. His stomach twists as he removes the smaller box. When he opens it, there is the sleekest, thinnest phone starring back at him, nestled in plastic that hugs its smooth curves, midnight blue. When he gingerly takes it from the box and turns it over, he sees the Stark Industries logo on the back and all the breath gets trapped in his lungs. “Mr. Stark—I—”

“I’m going to be honest, your expression isn’t healing me right now. What’s the matter kid? You wanted a different color?”

“I didn’t want one at all—” The look on Tony’s face is some mix between shock and disappointment. “No! I just meant, I mean, of course I want one Mr. Stark, these are the best phones in the world, I’m not just saying that, but I didn’t want you to go through the trouble. I know that these aren’t mass produced.”

“They aren’t,” Tony admits. “I made that one personally last night. Just for you, Pete. One of a kind. Like its owner.”

Peter’s face flushes. “I’ll save up my money and pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about it. Get out the next present. Come on, I want you to put it on and make sure it fits.”

Somehow Peter is even more nervous—did Tony buy him clothes? He gets an image in his head of him walking around the penthouse wearing one of Tony’s band-shirts. Surely it would swim on Peter’s thin, petite frame. If he wore nothing underneath it, it’d be perfect access for Tony to come up behind him while Peter is at the counter in the kitchen (making coffee, cooking pop-tarts, who cares), ruck up the hem, and grind his erection against Peter’s bare ass.

Trying to slow his breathing, Peter hopes that his thoughts aren’t written clear as day on his face. When he pulls it from the box, he finds himself holding a jumpsuit made of a material that feels unlike anything he’s touched before: hard like metal, but flexible like fabric. It’s of a blue so dark that it’s nearly black. To match his phone maybe, he thinks. “What is this?” Peter asks. “Pajamas?”

“I’m sorry—pajamas? Jesus, kid, you’re, fuck. You’re really busting my balls today. It’s your suit! Well, the prototype. My struggles right now are just finding a material that’s strong enough to deflect bullets but flexible enough for you to do your creepy-crawly gimmick. Go and try it on, I want you to tell me if it fits.”

Peter sheds his shirt right away only to catch the stricken look on Tony’s face. “I meant go in the bathroom and change, Chippendale, but if—yeah, okay, that works, I’ll just—” he turns around to face the opposite direction. Peter rolls his eyes. His abs might be the one thing he has going for him, and Mr. Stark refuses to look at them now. Great.

He strips to his boxers and begins to tug on the suit, but a problem announces itself immediately. “Mr. Stark, this doesn’t have holes for my hands and feet. I need skin to surface contact for the scopulae to work.”

Tony remains looking resolutely away. “Not anymore. Thanks to all the in-depth scans FRIDAY completed last time you were here, I’ve found a way to recreate your scopulae mechanically. The sensors in the fingers and feet of your suit (and it should fit like a glove, Peter) will activate only when you activate your spider-touch. The suit is just expensive interfacing that will keep you from getting your fingers sawn off or developing frost bite. Are you in it yet? Come on, kid, the anticipation is killing me.”

Peter flexes around to zip himself up and yeah, the suit fits like a glove. The tightest glove he’s ever worn. One that was made for the contours of his body, the flatness of his abs, the bulge of his biceps. “It’s on. You can look.”

Tony spins around on the stool. He eyes Peter from the collar down, and the younger man grows flush, feeling that gaze on him as easily as he’d feel fingers reaching out to caress him. But when Tony fires off a series of technical questions about the fit, it becomes clear that he isn’t checking Peter out. He’s checking out the suit. Which kind of makes Peter even more crazy about him, if such a thing is possible.

“I’ve already tested the things it can and can’t do: it can’t be cut, it can’t be pierced or penetrated. Can’t be burned, though some hazardous materials are corrosive enough to it with long term exposure, so try not to take any lengthy dips in inconveniently placed vats of acids. But I have not yet seen what you can do in it. Let’s take it for a test run, huh kid?”

Tony takes him to the training room, which is empty on a Sunday. The ceilings are high—very high, and Peter scales them with ease. It feels strange at first, not feeling his bare skin on the plaster of the walls and the textured ceiling, but the suit fits so close to him that it’s easy to forget it isn’t his skin. There isn’t any difference in grip that Peter can detect, but he tests it anyway, hanging precariously by one hand.

“Oh no, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, placing the back of his free hand against his forehead like a true damsel in distress. He lets his legs kick a little in the air. “Please, save me!”

“I’m watching you use four fingers and a thumb to stick to a glass window twenty feet off the ground,” Tony calls. “I don’t think you need any saving. Still—this is not an invitation to be scaling my building, understand?”

“I don’t know, it feels pretty inviting to me!”

“Peter Parker—no death-defying circus acts, do you hear me?”

“No promises!”

Tony shakes his head. Peter thinks that he maybe looks a little fond. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“Dinner plans?” Tony asks as they reenter the lab. He turns away so Peter can strip off the suit, though the younger man rolls his eyes. “I was thinking about ordering in like I always do. I’m feeling like soup though, need something light on my stomach. FRI, baby, what do you recommend?”

“After forty hours of no other sustenance, I’d not recommend anything spicy, high in fiber, or fried.”

“So you’d not recommend anything good, I get it—"

“Forty hours?” Peter asks, nearly tangling himself up in his haste to pull his shirt on over his head. He can’t see Tony’s expression, but his shoulders are hunched, one elbow resting on the table. Even from behind, he looks exhausted. “You can’t do that, Mr. Stark. You need to take breaks.”

“This is my break, kid. FRI, order me some vegetable soup from that vegan place down the street, and get Peter—Pete, what do you want? Does soup sound okay? What am I kidding, you’re enhanced, you need more than that. FRIDAY, find Peter something to eat that’s good for him, I don’t know, I’m hardly role-model material.”

“Soup is fine, Ms. FRIDAY,” Peter insists before the AI can purchase him an entire barbecued pig or something equally ridiculous. If she is anything like her creator, she must have a tendency to go overboard. Out to sea. Past the line of the horizon. “I don’t need anything special. Just a lot of it, if that’s okay.”

They take the soup up in Tony’s penthouse, and it’s the happiest Peter’s felt since being moved down to the Avengers’ communal floor. It feels like nothing has changed when Tony kicks up his socked feet onto the coffee table, takes the soup bowl into his hands and drinks the broth from it. He leaves all the carrots in the bottom, and it should be dorky that Peter finds something like that so fucking endearing.

“How’s it been, living with other superheroes?” Tony asks him, sipping spring water. “Everything you dreamed it would be?”

Peter shrugs, swirling his spoon around his own bowl.

“Not everything you dreamed?” Tony amends.

“I don’t want to badmouth my teammates,” Peter mutters. “We just obviously have different opinions about some important things. But that’s normal right? You put a half dozen people in the same apartment and of course they aren’t always going to agree.”

Tony hums. “You hate how Barton puts the coffee grinds right into the garbage disposal, don’t you? I’ve told him time and time again—”

Peter snorts. “No, that’s not it. It’s…well. It’s you.”

Tony frowns now. His whole demeaner changes, shrinks. With forced humor, he asks: “Me? What’d I do this time?”

“Nothing,” Peter hurries to assure. His face flushes, he wants to press his palms against his burning cheeks, but he doesn’t want to call attention to it. “I guess that’s just where the other Avengers and I disagree. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to cause trouble or to make you feel bad, I just—I wish they treated you better. I wish they saw what an amazing person you are. You know?”

“Maybe you’re just seeing me with rose-tinted glasses, kid,” Tony says, smiling sadly.

“I just see the way you treat me,” Peter admits. “People were always pretending I wasn’t there. When I was sleeping rough, they’d just walk by, turn their heads so we didn’t have to look at each other. So they didn’t have to look at me, I guess. Even working here, not a lot of people pay attention to the Maintenance Department. We’re supposed to be…invisible. You treat me like I’m a human being, though. Like you see me.”

“You are a human being,” says Tony. “And I do see you. I don’t know how anyone could miss you, kid.”

God. Maybe that’s just basic human decency, but Peter hasn’t been shown such a thing in so long that it makes his heart clench, makes his stomach churn and palms go sweaty. He’s filled with such longing that his insides twist. More and more lately, he feels like if he doesn’t have this older man for himself, it might kill him, a desire so keen that it hurts.

“Woah there,” says Tony, reaching out quickly to sit his bowl down on the table. “Don’t give me that look. That look is liable to get us into trouble.”

“What look?” Peter asks, breathily, letting his eyes drag down the man’s body. He licks his lips reflexively—what, they’re dry, okay?

“That look!” Tony says, pointing. “That one right there, the one that says you’re about to eat me whole.”

“Spiders are mostly carnivorous,” Peter says.

Tony laughs, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “Peter, I’m really not known for my self-control—actually I’m sort of famously known for my lack of self-control. Have some mercy on an old man.”

“Who needs self-control,” Peter grumbles. All the things that embarrass him—the kind words, the affectionate touches—sex isn’t really one of them. Peter hasn’t been a virgin in years, and it’s been too long since he had a partner as good as he knows Mr. Stark will be. A partner as incredible as Mr. Stark is. “Besides, I’m twenty years old, I’m not supposed to have good self-control either.”

“How old is that is spider years? Because I think you’ll probably still come out more mature than I am.”

“Spiders aren’t dogs, Mr. Stark—” Peter finds himself inching closer to the man. His skin is so sensitive that he can feel the heat thrown off by Tony’s body. It’s impossible not to know how the older man is affected, not when his heart stutters, his pupils bloom. “You know, I don’t think that soup was enough. Maybe I need something else to fill me up.”

“I’ve heard a lot of dirty talk in my time, kid,” Tony says. Though his voice is unchanged, his breathing is haggard. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“That sounds like permission if I’ve ever heard it,” Peter breathes. In one swift move, he straddles the man’s thigh until it rests between his own, arching his back so that his cock rubs against that muscled leg.

Tony stops breathing. His eyes are half-lidded, the whiskey color turned deeper and darker. He takes several long, slow breaths to calm himself, but Peter doesn’t want that. He wants to see this composed man become the opposite of calm. He slips down off of his perch on the man’s lap and between the parted knees.

“Kid,” Tony says, catching his wrist when it moves towards the man’s belt buckle. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Peter asks.

“I’m exhausted,” the man says, and as he says it, Peter can see it. Between his legs, the man isn’t even hard. He reaches out with one trembling hand and pets at Peter’s hair, traces the shell of his ear with his thumb until Peter shivers, smiling. “I’ve been awake for, FRIDAY—”

“Fifty-one hours, boss.”

Tony points up to the ceiling. “What she said. I don’t think I could get hard even if I tried right now.”

Peter lets his head rest on the man’s thigh, watching carefully to make sure that Tony is okay with the intimacy. Judging by the soft smile, the way his hand comes down to pet at Peter’s curls, Tony’s okay with it. Shuddering at the stimulation on his scalp, Peter wills away the erection between his legs. Now isn’t the time. “Is it normal for you to spend so much time in the lab?”

“Nothing about me is normal, kid.”

“You know what I mean.”

Tony hums. “Sometimes when I have a project deadline, or when something’s caught my interest. After Natasha reminded me that I hadn’t made your phone yet—”

“Natasha?” Peter’s head lifts from the muscular thigh. He grits his teeth, officially adding her to the list of people he can’t trust with Tony’s wellbeing. “I told her not to bother you. It’s not your job to manufacture a phone for me; you’ve already done so much.”

“Just a match on the fire of things I’d do for you, kid,” Tony says. He sounds half asleep, and the sight of the shadows under his eyes reminds Peter that their positions are very backwards. Tony’s eyes blink open when Peter moves away, wide and bloodshot, looking ready to apologize though he’d done nothing wrong.

Peter sits at the opposite end of the couch and pats his lap. “Put your head here.”

“There?” Tony asks, pointing. “What for?”

“Think: why would I put my head in your lap?”

“To suck me off—?”

Peter sucks in breath to laugh and chokes instead, coughing until he’s red in the face. “Save that thought for another time. Just lay down.”

Tony does, gingerly. He lays flat on his back, one of Peter’s thighs cushioning the arch of his neck. It gifts Peter with the most delicious vantage point of the man’s face, even if he looks a little trepidatious. With all the tenderness he has in him, Peter reaches out to stroke the dark hairs off of the man’s forehead. Immediately, Tony’s eyes flutter and he inhales. The billionaire has noble features, even as delicately lined with age as they are. With his nails, Peter softly scratches at the man’s temples where gray hair is sprouting.

“God,” Tony mutters. “That feels good. Never stop.”

“Quit,” Peter says, smiling. “You’re going to make me hard.”

Eyes shut, Tony smiles, baring the prettiest, white teeth. God, there’s nothing about him that Peter would change. Nothing about him that is less than perfect—except for maybe the way he sees himself. How could someone so intelligent be so off base in their self-perception? “Should I talk about something that will turn you off instead?”

“Thanks, but no. You can go to sleep if you want to. You sound really tired.”

“I am really tired,” Tony concedes. His voice is soft and just a little slower than normal. Slurred, drunk with exhaustion. “Shouldn’t sleep though.”

“Why not?”

“I have nightmares,” Tony breathes. Underneath his eyelids, Peter can see his eyes flickering, like he’s watching his nightmares playing out in his mind. The man shivers—honest to God shivers, and Peter’s own senses take notice. Something is upsetting Tony, the goosebumps on his arms say, the anxious twisting of his stomach. Something is scaring him. Help. Protect. “Night terrors, according to FRIDAY. I get violent.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Peter says. Tony’s eyes slit open to stare at him, as if assessing the truth of his statement. “I could snap you in half, remember? I, I could snap Captain America in half, for what it’s worth—”

And the way Tony’s eyes open, shoulders stiffening where they’re pressed against Peter’s thighs, suddenly he knows. He knows that whatever is hurting Mr. Stark goes back to Steve Rogers. Peter strokes through the dark hair, rubbing at one temple with a tender thumb, but Tony’s eyes don’t close again. They stare at the ceiling above them, seeing through it like it isn’t there. Peter feels both hot and cold all over, inside his body and yet far away, watching through the windows of his eyes.

“Did he hurt you?” Peter asks. His mouth feels numb.

“It was my fault,” Tony says, shivering. “There was an altercation, and I made him choose between me or his closest friend. I can’t fault him for not choosing—for choosing Barnes. Some skeletons came out of the closet; I guess Barnes was responsible for my parents’ death—”

“Excuse me?”

“—it’s a long story,” Tony says. His eyes slip shut. “He killed them, but he was brainwashed so, so it doesn’t really count, I guess, does it? That’s what everyone says, what they keep telling me—that he was just as blameless as a gun might have been, he was just a weapon—”

“Tony. Hey. Just take some deep breaths—”

“There was a fight. Me versus them,” Tony continues. Peter’s heart sinks to think of this fragile, unenhanced man having to hold his own against two enhanced super soldiers. The suit had them on more equal footing, but two against one was never fair. Ever. “I was hurt. Very badly.”

Tony takes one of Peter’s hands, spreads open the fingers that melt under his touch. He presses it to the center of his chest and the young man can hardly believe what he’s feeling, isn’t even sure what he’s feeling. There’s a depression in Tony’s chest, centered on his sternum, a hollowness in the shape of a perfect circle. It’s right above his heart.

“What is that?” Peter asks, placing his palm there.

“After my stint in a cave in Afghanistan, I came home with an electromagnetic pacemaker that was keeping me alive and powering the Iron Man suits. During the fight, Steve destroyed it. The suit, it—it felt like a coffin. Hours went by before I was found. I don’t know what was worse: the sound the shield made when it came down on my heart or laying there with the thought of someone peeling open my suit someday and finding my skeleton.”

“Jesus,” Peter mutters.

And they live here. Steve is one floor down from them, probably doing something domestic like making dinner or watching television or doing crunches in his room. How can he show his face here, when he nearly took Tony’s life from him? How can the other Avengers let him? And Barnes—Peter isn’t even prepared to deal with how fucked up Tony having to house his own parents’ murderer is. Because it’s beyond fucked.

Tony rolls onto his side, face toward Peter. It might be arousing under different circumstances, but now it makes Peter curl up over him, removing his palm from the hollow chest and reaching for Tony’s hand. The palm is clammy, but Peter could care less. He squeezes, firm but gentle, and continues to card his fingers through Tony’s hair.

“’m so sorry,” Peter says lowly.

Tony’s eyes are closed, but he still murmurs back, “It’s no big deal. We’ve all made up, now, even Barnes and me. But sometimes—”

“—sometimes you’re still scared.”

Tony brow furrows just the slightest, lines that Peter wants to reach out and smooth away. “No,” he mumbles, more than half asleep now. “No, Stark men don’t get scared…made of iron...”

Peter says nothing. He sits there, stroking the man’s hair until his breathing evens out and his mouth goes slack, and even then Peter can’t bring himself to move. When he speaks, it is quiet, more to himself than to Tony. “You have nothing to be afraid of anymore. I will never let anything happen to you Mr. Stark. You have my word. I will protect you.”

Softly as he can, he maneuvers himself out from underneath the man’s head. There’s an afghan on the back of one armchair (though not the kind Peter’s used to, not the kind his grandmother might have made considering this one feels so soft and rich and new), and he lays it across the man. Oh, if only Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone and Time magazine could see him now, the soft and relaxed expression, the gently parted mouth.

Quiet as a spider mouse, Peter cleans up their mess from dinner so that Tony won’t have to wake up to it. After everything is back where it should be, Peter sits heavily in the armchair by the couch, a silent vigilant.

Tonight, Peter is a dreamcatcher.

When he finally leaves the penthouse and heads back to his own room, the sun is just starting to hint at rising. His own eyes are heavy, and his shoulders bowed with troubles—his own and Tony’s. All of it evaporates when he sees a figure sitting at the window watching the sunrise, a cup of coffee in his hand and the goddamn newspaper beside him, truly a man out of time.

Steve looks at him with all the prim disapproval of an old biddy, as if Peter was walking in with high heels in his hand and no panties on underneath a party dress. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment while the fury builds under Peter’s skin.

“Looking for a fight?” Peter asks, his hands shaking. A normal human might miss it, but Steve doesn’t.

“No,” Steve says. “I’m not going to fight you, Peter.”

“You will. Soon.”

“Not every disagreement has to come to violence.” The magnanimous attitude makes Peter see red, but then he wonders the sound Captain America’s shield makes when it strikes metal and feels cold all over.

“That’s real rich,” Peter mutters. He lifts a hand and flips him off. Steve’s lips get thin—but there’s no satisfaction in it. Giving Captain America the bird is small beans compared to the trauma Tony experienced at the man’s hands.

Peter doesn’t bother looking back.

In the privacy of his room, Peter takes the time to look through his new Starkphone. He discovers that he already has one contact: Tony. Peter rolls over to press his face flat into the mattress and keep from making any embarrassing noises (or at least to keep from making them loud enough for Steve to hear in the main room). His life has taken the strangest detour, and he hopes that whatever the destination may be that it takes ages to get there. He’s enjoying himself far too much. Take the scenic route, fate. Thanks.

Even though Tony is asleep, Peter can’t help but send a quick message and hope that FRIDAY screens his texts and will keep it from waking the exhausted man.

Thanks again for the phone, Mr. Stark. It’s awesome.

He sits his phone aside on the table, telling himself that he won’t check it until the morning.

Peter wakes with the phone pressed flat between his cheek and the pillow, the vibration of an incoming text making his skull buzz. Squinting at the phone, he sees that it’s a nine in the morning, and Tony has just replied to his message.

We’re very even, kid. x

Falling back to sleep takes forever, but the smile that threatens to split his face is worth it.

[lemonlushff-iy]

I just discovered all of your stuff how did I not know you were out here in the world writing masterpiece InuKag fanfics this is like Christmas I could not ask for more dear god thank you 🤍🤍🤍🤍

WELL THANK YOU ANON!!!! You sure know how to make a girl’s whole day!!!!

I’m so glad you’re enjoying, and I promise there’s more to come!!! 

Like tonight, for example. 

40 pages of rocker smut because it’s Keiz’s birthday!

Summary: He had loved her for five years. Climbed to the top of the music charts to prove that he was worthy of her. He wasn’t going to let her walk out that door without a fucking fight. For @keichanz‘s birthday!!

Teaser below the cut!

Inuyasha sighed, leaning forward onto his elbow as the record execs before him prattled on about release dates and what not. Really, he didn’t know why he was in this boring as fuck meeting. He didn’t see what this had to do with him. 

Well. 

Yes. 

It had a lot to do with him. 

It was his damn album, ‘Cinnamon’, being released...his damn tour being planned...his damn everything being talked about. 

He just didn’t want to be fucking here right now. He wanted to be out of LA on his bike driving towards the beach at sunset. What could he say? He was a fucking walking cliche and he didn’t give two rats asses about it. It made him money, gave him an easy life, and he wasn’t gonna bitch about it. 

Well. 

That, and his smooth as honey voice, and the good looks his father had so graciously passed down to him. 

Thanks pops. 

Still, he didn’t know why the hell he had to be here for this meeting. Kagome could handle it. She was good at this shit. She had an eye for detail and always fought for what was best for him. Him being here? 

Yeah. 

Totally fucking unneeded. 

“If we can launch the album next month, then he can set out on a summer tour at the end of June - we will have lots of time to promote and advertise, and we can capitalize on the school girls looking to have some summer fun with their friends.”

“Next month is far too soon! He’s still in the middle of mixing some of the songs and--”

“I’m going to take a piss,” he mumbled, getting up and leaving the room. He didn’t care if it was rude or not. He wasn’t gonna sit there and listen to them going back and forth about the details. Besides. He was bored out of his fucking mind. 

Once he was free from that godforsaken meeting, he lazily meandered down the halls until he found the balcony he knew by heart. It was his favorite place in the whole damn building because he could light up a cigarette...tobacco or otherwise...and no one would bother him about it. He quickly crossed the glass doors and reached into his leather jacket, pulling out the box of half used smokes and giving the bottom a couple of firm taps against his palm. 

Damn. 

It was a hell of a view out here. All of LA sparkled like a diamond, and he found himself smiling down at the city lights and the hundreds of cars slowly making their way to wherever the fuck they were headed. He pulled out a lighter after he plucked a cigarette from the packet. Inuyasha lit it with the expertise that came from being a regular smoker, and placed the butt between his lips. He took a long, slow drag, reveling in the taste. The feel of the tobacco entering his lungs. Fuck it was good...Calming. As familiar to him as a woman’s body wrapping around his cock. 

He crinkled up the thick carton holding the last of his cigarettes, shoving them into his back pocket as he plucked the one between his lips and slowly exhaled.

“Damn…” he breathed. That was fucking fantastic...and it was worth ditching that fucking meeting for. Kagome could handle it. She was a big girl. Didn’t need him. 

Hell. 

She never fucking needed him. 

You know...the good thing about being famous? The copious amounts of women and the money and being able to use your fame to get what you want...except for the things ya really want. That was the downside of all of this shit. 

He was constantly surrounded by people, and yet...he had never felt more alone in his whole damn life. There was only one person he could really trust. One person he could really confide in...And yeah there was always a string of women more than happy to sit on his cock, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it...but...he didn’t want a string of women. 

He wanted the one woman he could never have. 

His fucking manager. 

Speaking of cliche...How fucking cliche was that?

It was nothing but business with that woman...that beautiful...smart...strong...powerful woman…

She was kind and sweet and put him and his needs above everything else. When he was drunk off his ass, she took him home and cleaned him up and rubbed his back as he vomited into the toilet. When he was lonely after kicking a woman out from his hotel room, she was there for him, in her mussed up, wrinkly pajamas, brushing the hair out of his eyes as she listened to him. She fought for him against the sharks trying to take every penny of his hard earned money. She helped him pick out his first...and then second house...She...She…

Fuck he loved her and he could never have her...and maybe that just added to the swell of loneliness he felt in his chest. 

No amount of women could ever really replace her, and so...he fucked who he could when he could to make the hole in his chest feel a little smaller. Make her feel a little fucking closer. 

He could still remember the first day he met her. He was just having some fun at an open mic...Doing a cover of ‘Can’t Go On Without You’ by Kaleo...and there she was. 

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen, sitting on the other side of the dark bar, watching him with rapt attention. There was something about those cinnamon eyes that just...drew him in. Something about the way she sat on the edge of her seat...it made him feel like the only damn man in the whole fucking world, and he decided as soon as their eyes locked that he was gonna make a move on her the second he got off stage. 

Only...when he walked over to her...she gave him her card. 

He had been excited, sure. She was scouting him...saying she saw something in him...But...all he had really wanted that night was a first date. He hadn’t wanted all of...this. 

Now, five years later, he had been on plenty of first dates. 

Just...never with her...because his cinnamon eyed girl?

She was all business, and he fucking hated it. 

Fuck, this was depressing as shit. 

Inuyasha chuckled bitterly and took another long drag of his cigarette, slowly exhaling and watching the smoke spiral upwards. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Well. 

It was a cold day in hell when she managed to sneak up on him, and yet…

“Smokin’ - you?”

“Dragging your ass back to this fucking meeting. Inuyasha, you can’t just blow this off…”

“Inuyasha? You must really be pissed, huh?” he mused, his amber eyes sparkling with amusement in the dim light shining out from the other side of the glass doors. She normally called him Yash when they were alone now. Inuyasha...That was a name for when she meant business, was annoyed or--

“Yes, I am,” she hissed. “This meeting is important, you know,” she snapped, crossing her arms under her breasts, and he allowed himself a second to look at her as he took another deep drag on his cigarette. 

God she was beautiful. Black wrap shirt with red and white vertical stripes...loose high waisted black pants...black Louboutin heels...and the diamonds he had given her last Christmas. Tennis bracelet, station necklace, stud earrings...they all sparkled brightly, drawing his attention to them. 

“You never take those off, do you,” he commented as he exhaled, the smoke swirling around them. 

“W-what?”

“The set I gave ya for Christmas. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them, since I gave them to you.”

“I…” she trailed off, as if the wind had been knocked from her lungs. “That’s not important right now, Inuyasha. I need you to come back inside and pay attention to this meeting.”

He took another drag from his cigarette, just to annoy her. She was so damn beautiful when he pissed her off. Probably not the best thing in the world - to be attracted to an angry woman - but the way her cheeks flushed. Damn. 

It was the closest he could get to seeing what she would look like after sex. Eyes closed in bliss...mouth shaped in that perfect little “o” when she came...it was something he’d never see for himself. His heart ached a little at the thought.

Fuck. Why did he like torturing himself so damn much?

“Yeah. I’m almost done here,” he sighed, taking another drag as she drummed her fingers on her forearms. 

“Oh good. How kind of you to finish up your smoke break early just for us...You’re a Saint.”

“I know you mean that sarcastically, but I kinda like the sound of that, Kags,” he teased, and he watched some of the fight leave her body as her eyes and scent saddened. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she waved off dismissively. “Just...anxious to get all these details hammered out.”

“You’re doing great so far,” he mused, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground and toeing it out. “Ya always do, Kags.”

She looked like she wanted to respond to that...but words seemed to fail her in that moment. 

“Come on,” she sighed instead, opening the door and crossing back into the building. 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he appeased, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket. His thumb absently came up to play with the different rings on his fingers as he followed Kagome back to the meeting.

Let me know if you want to get tagged when this goes live!!

[skruffyfairy]

the suicide journalist , Chris Morris https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwiA8C6oiJo

Susie and a thin man found me in the park. I was walking slowly round the pond, making the bones in my nose tickle by hooting. Susie said my mother had tipped her off, after hearing my voice while throwing stones at the ducks. I had been there a day and a half. "It's because of my job," I explained, "batch testing New Age CD's." "But Hal said he didn't hire you in the end," she said. "That would explain why he hasn't paid me." The thin man with Susie coughed up a small laugh, and spat it onto the ground. "You'd better come to dinner on Saturday," Susie said. "Clive will be there too." She squeezed the man's arm. "Clive is the suicide journalist." He was ghostly pale, with black hair and a sad wit in his eyes. I'd say he looked like John Cusack, if I could remember who the hell John Cusack was. As he gazed moodily at the pond, Susie explained that Clive had announced in his weekly column that he had six months to live. On April the fifteenth, he would be committing suicide, and until then he would write about how it felt to be staring death in the face. Clive took aout a notebook and muttered something about the blackness of a moorhen. "Do you know what month it is now?" she asked. I thought it might be Martober. Susie dabbed a damp eye, and said that the suicide column was the saddest, funniest, most tragic and uplifting thing she'd ever read. "He has just twelve weeks to go." I looked across the pond and started honking again. Susie turned to collect Clive, who was puffing on three cigarettes and smirking at his notes. "Eight or late with a good excuse," she crooned, and popped a sweet in my mouth. I arrived well after dark. A smart woman opened the door. "I couldn't afford a bottle of wine," I said, "so I've drawn one on a piece of cardboard." I had prepared for the party by eating half a jar of instant coffee I'd found in the bins at Sainsbury's. She took my cardboard and said "That's brilliant. Could I use you in a programme?" When I asked her what sort of programme, she said "I could make a whole series about the things people bring to parties." "What do you do?" I said, thinking of the window at Dixon's. "My name' s Hosanna Bell. I work in the warm arts." We stepped past Susie's yachting gear and into the dining room. Seven people sat noisily round a large bowl of oysters, but Susie wasn't a single one of them. I thought I was at the wrong party, until they explained that the whole point was to be late, but with a good excuse. "Why are YOU late?" they asked. I said I'd had no money for a bottle of wine, and the homeless bloke at the tube station who normally subs me a couple of quid because he says I look worse off than his dog was being mugged when I asked him this time and hadn't given me a penny, and then I'd got lost whether Susie's house was directly opposite some trees, or directly opposite no trees at all. Several conversations had started by the time I got to that bit. Susie arrived to great squeals and kisses. She announced that she had spent the last three hours in bestial congress with a junior cabinet minister. Gobs hung open, because everyone had thought he was gay, and several of them also knew that he was her half-brother. She wore a grin as big as a harbour. "Do you think Clive is still coming?" said a sincere man in glasses, and the talk turned at once to his column. Hosanna Bell said she had seen more truth in Clive's writing than the entire works of any writer she could think of. A woman called Emma agreed. "I'm still reeling. I don't know whether to weep, laugh, throw up or hug everybody." "That's just your protein rush," observed a man called Paddy, pointing to the seventeen shells on her plate. Emma touched his leg. Paddy was Clive's editor, and was busy milking the table by mildly deprecating the praise for Clive's column, so people doubled it in protest. He was just declaring that the columns would have to be polished up for the book, when swearing in the hall announced the arrival of Clive. He looked a bit drunk, and seemed small with his coat off. He said he was sorry he was late, but actually he didn't give a fuck. Everyone laughed, except Paddy. Susie said "This brilliant man has asked me if you would all take it easy on the suicide questions tonight," and helped him liberally to bivalves. We nodded, of course, and I asked him if he thought oysters could commit suicide. Susie glared at me. I said I was just wondering if an oyster could make a decision like that, and if so, how it would die, because it couldn't really hang itself. "Are you being weird, or sarcastic?" said Emma. I didn't know, because I get the two feelings mixed up. She called me a plankton, and started telling Clive about the time she had cut her wrists. "Look at my scars," she said. "They are beautiful, but not as beautiful as your columns." For some reason, Clive looked at me as he said "Only the very ugly is truly beautiful. And if the printed word has any meaning, then it must come from the very edge of fuckybumbooboo." There were titters. Paddy muttered something about Clive alienating his fans, but was cut off by Emma. "No, Clive has every right to be drunk. You are in masses of pain, Clive. You are doing it for us." "Yes," agreed Hosanna. Clive asked her what the hell she knew. "In the warm arts, we're strong on people power," she said, "and what you have done in volunteering to take your own life is illuminate with poignant resonance the self destructor in all of us." There was a ripple of applause. Clive, who had been sousing his oysters in vodka and setting them alight before hurling them down his throat, now added a cigarette to the turmoil, and belched the word "bollocks." Paddy banged the table, and started telling Clive that if all he could do was get pissed and shove drugs up his bum for the last twelve columns, he would lose all his priceless empathy. "This is the finest copy I've ever commisioned," he said, "and I'm not having it ruined by some jumped-up little floozy going all diddums." A man called Stitt said that Paddy was threatening the purity of Clive's columns. "If he uses the bottle, then that should come through in his work." "But he'll end up writing about you lot!" said Paddy. Suddenly all the guests were telling Clive about the time they'd nearly topped themselves. Hosanna Bell described how she'd been suicidal for six months after giving birth, until she'd decided to sue her baby for what it had done to her figure. Clive was insulting everyone and writing notes on his cuffs. "Losers! Crap attempt!" he shouted. "I want something that actually works." Someone said hosepipes work. Clive knew a bloke in a garden centre in Maidstone who actually cuts them to length for your particular car. He said the people carrier length hose was the most popular. "Wow," said Hosanna Bell, now also scribbling feverishly. "So then, Mr Superstar," Paddy was saying, "what is the best way to kill yourself?" Clive said that in fact the best way he knew was to buy 200 foot nylon rope, tie one end round your neck, the other round a lamp post, and get into your car and floor the accelerator. He said that's how his great-uncle had done it. He'd made Clive help him. He was just nine years old. And he'd had to ride in the car and stop it crashing when his uncle's head came off. The blood had made the pedals very slippery. Clive blinked, smarting eyes. The table fell silent. "Really?" said Paddy, genuinely shocked. "Of course not, you moron!" brayed Clive, and went on to explain that we were all idiots, he could say anything and we'd lap it up, just because we thought his pain meant something, how we wouldn't give him a second thought if he wasn't going to kill himself, except that actually he wasn't anyway, because the whole thing was a hoax, and he was going to say so in his column next week. Paddy erupted, and decked Clive with the oyster bowl. Then he stood over him, roaring that this was his f***ing idea, Clive had agreed to do it, and he wasn't going to wriggle out of killing himself now, not now there was a book. Clive crawled from the room. The general opinion was that Clive had just treated us to his most savage and moving cry for help yet. We had all understimated his pain. "I feel choked up now," said Emma, "but if I read about next week, I'll be crying for the rest of the year." "Someone bring me a f***ing fag." Clive's voice sounded glutinous. Susie gestured to me, as everyone else was still debating the meaning of his actions. He lay on the floor, two regurgitated oysters a tongue's length from his leaking mouth - one of them still slightly alive. His nose seemed a better place for the cigarette. The caustic fumes revived him, and he stumbled to his feet. "I'm going out," he said "I'm going to break into a car, and drive around drunk until I crash." As he lunged past me into the hall, his foot snagged on a rope among Susie's boat bags, and he fell on the sea grass. We both looked at the large coil of blue nylon. "Are you good at knots?" he said. Susie's car keys were hanging by the front door. "You might as well use the Discovery," I said. "She'll be so thrilled to have a new story." About an hour later, I revealed that Clive hadn't just gone for a walk. He'd gone to divorce his head. And how I'd helped him with the keys and the knots. I needed to go to sleep, and had correctly anticipated that Paddy would punch my lights out.

[thatlittlered]

Vows | Chapter Four

Summary: A faithful dog or a broken man… Whatever the case, Sandor has taken vows he does not intend on breaking.

   Like the beautiful bodies of those who died before growing old,

   sadly shut away in sumptuous mausoleum,

   roses by the head, jasmine at the feet -

   so appear the longings that have passed

   without being satisfied, not one of the granted

   a single night of pleasure, or one of its radiant mornings.

 Longings ~ Constantine P. Cavafy

◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇ 

Series Masterlist.

When he wakes, the room is dimly lit, a couple of flickering candles almost burnt down to the wick. Everything seems to be covered in smoke and the foul, acrid odor of tallow.

There are stains of dried ale all over his tunic, the watery kind he’s been downing for days, and the straw bed barely beats the comfort of hardwood floors, but he got what he paid for and he’s not planning on wasting every last coin so that the Stark girl will enjoy her privacy.

There’s heavy pounding at the door, the voices outside rising to a crescendo of rage before a man barges inside the room, short and drunk as any, followed by the stocky woman who robs Sandor blind every night for a pint of ale and broth you wouldn’t feed a pig.

“You got the money yet? We gave ya two days, s’time to pay up.”

His head is pounding as he rises from the bed, body aching in every way imaginable and hand twitching at the thought of silencing the scum before him.

The man’s hands get a hold of Sandor’s shirt, and the woman gasps. when he reaches for his sword, heavy metal pulling at his muscles.

“Listen here, pest, you ever let yer filthy hands near me again, you’ll be searching for them outside the city walls. Have I made myself clear?”

“Aye, ser.”

Sandor grunts, half satisfaction, half pain when the rage inside him fades.

“Don’t let me see you again.”

They both scurry away like frightened mice, filthy insects running from his boot.

The entire place stinks of wine and piss, dirt everywhere around him, and suddenly he longs for the comfort of his own chambers. Dark curtains that spare him from painful sunlight, fine selections of wine and peaceful silence, all things that made it his personal heaven until a certain northern girl invaded his life.

Now everything in it smells of rosewater.

They are no longer his quarters. The she-wolf took over with her many braids, silken dresses, and glassy Stark eyes that he would kill for, without knowing why. In her new lair, she takes the time to heal and lick her wounds. As wolves do, away from the eyes of others in fear of proving weak and falling prey to bigger predators.

Sandor allows it.

Within the hour, he’s ready to leave.

A little girl helps him dress, meekly passing him pieces of his armor despite him telling her there’s no need. She’s small and bruised all over, an abstract sculpture of bones that has seen and felt too much. He only lets her help when he sees the fear in her eyes and suspects that should he send her back, she might receive a beating.

When he’s strapping up, she takes the chance to shove her tiny hands into his pockets, quick and smooth as if she’s been trained for this. She walks away with two copper pennies.

He allows it.

◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇  

When he reaches the room, the door is ajar and he’s almost angry at how you never fail to make yourself vulnerable. There are threats left and right and you might as well be welcoming them. He moves to knock, he really does, but the wind beats him to it, pushing the door enough so that he might get a glimpse at you.

Suddenly, making his presence known doesn’t seem as appealing.

Your hair lies long and loose, obscuring the lightness of your dress, yet allowing glimpses of skin on your arms in a southern fashion. For once no plaits adorn it and it hangs in all its northern glory – a sharp contrast.

The handmaiden floats around you, hands curling in your locks as she runs a brush through them, tugging a little too painfully at every knot. He supposes a Stark girl’s hair is not made for this.

‘Any word from your brother, my lady?”

You hum and for a moment he deems it the most peaceful sound he’s ever heard from your lips, but it’s sorrowful. You accepted your fate long ago.

“Is there ever? I’m afraid the king is much too occupied with the newest impending threat. I suppose my brother is too small an enemy to consider when Stannis Baratheon is approaching the city.”

Nira gasps, almost dropping the brush and Sandor laughs to himself from where he stands behind the door. The maiden is older than you, yet you outsmart her in so many ways, you might not be quite the little bird he thought you were.

“Do you truly believe it, my lady, that Stannis will reach the capital?”

“Has the world ever known a Baratheon who failed to succeed in their quest? He will reach the city, Nira, for that rest assured. What happens after that, remains to be seen.”

She moves to face you, resting on her knees to grab your hands with a familiarity that surprises Sandor.

His lady wife is good at making friends.

“Even so, the King’s army will hold. The Lannister troops are already flooding the city, Lord Tywin made sure of it. No harm will come to you, my lady.”

Your own hand raises to her face, a gentle cradle of her cheek – a mother’s touch, the kind he’s long forgotten.

“I have no fear of Stannis. My greatest enemies surround me every day.”

“And yet, it seems that your lord husband’s presence has discouraged them.”

“All lions quiet before attacking their prey.”

The door slams then, the force of wind meets the force of man. Nira rushes to check, always mindful of her lady’s safety, but there’s no one there.

Still, the following days pass in relative silence, mindful of curious ears that creep behind closed doors. Nira has seen enough to know the crown has eyes and ears in every corner. Instead, there’s quiet singing when handling your hair and hushed whispers about childhood stories. Everything blurs with your drinking, honey mead, and berries melting on your tongue.

Sandor Clegane is nowadays quite literally, your shadow.

For a man who’s meant to guard the King, he seems to prefer keeping an eye on you. In the gardens, buried amongst roses and greenery, you can sense his presence. In the quarters you’re supposed to share, no one dares enter but Nira and yet, every now and then, you can hear heavy steps in the hallway.

He never addresses you and you feign ignorance in fear of him stopping.

Nira’s words keep coming back to you; he’s your best chance at safety in this city.

  ◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇  

Footsteps follow on your trail, the same sound of armor clinking with every step, albeit more graceful, less weighty. You’re awfully used to your loyal guard stomping around court, he makes no effort to conceal his presence.

A smile tugs at your lips, you’re starting to understand Sandor Clegane.

“You can always talk to me, you know.”

A hand appears from nowhere and tightens on your wrist, white-knuckled, strong. You turn to fight it but find your feet dragging along the marble as you lose your balance. He pins you to the wall so effortlessly.

“I’m well aware, Lady Stark.”

His breath stinks and he makes a point of shoving his face as close to yours as possible, all in a way that makes your legs go weak and your stomach churn. No fear, you remind yourself. He’s no big predator, he’s but a snake, lucky enough to find a mouse on the ground. Others would crush him.

“Ser Meryn, I would ask that you remove your hands.”

Gloved fingers grasp your chin, bound to leave bruises.

“I must admit, my Lady, that for a woman broken in by the Hound himself, you seem entirely too merry. Tell me, how is your dog treating you?”

Your body recoils, almost melting to the wall in an effort to avoid the proximity.

“I would also ask that you refer to my husband by his title.”

He laughs, such a disgusting sound.

“You’re in no position to ask for things, little lady.”

“And if you don’t let her go, you’ll be in no position to walk when I’m done with you. Your head will be hanging in the throne room if I have it my way.”

Your gaze turns to Sandor, familiar heavy footsteps approaching the scene. His sword is drawn, his eyes are murderous and for the first time, you realize the day might not end with your blood on the floor.

Trant laughs again and it’s a death wish.

“Now, now, Hound, it’s always good to share.”

“I don’t share, especially not with cunts like you. What’s wrong, Trant? I thought you liked them younger.”

His nose moves to graze against your skin, so close to your lips, tears gather in your eyes.

A friend of Robb’s had stolen your first kiss, pinned you against a stack of hey and touched places you would never have allowed him to. Your brothers beat him to the ground the next day.

Sandor Clegane won’t avenge your honor. He’ll chop off anyone’s hands the moment they touch you.

“I like them broken first and foremost. I’m sure you’ve taken care of that.”

White knuckles from clenching his fist too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to keep his composure, Sandor’s large form exudes a burning animosity. His face is red with suppressed rage, and when Trant’s fingers make their way towards your chest, everything snaps inside him.

His sword never meets the hideous flesh of your attacker, but his fist does. A blow to the jaw, powerful enough to make the cracking sound echo in the hallway. Then Sandor’s hands are pressing his face into the wall, a great force overpowered by one greater. It gives you the chance to escape.

Your attacker seems light-headed, gripping his shattered nose where blood runs plenty. There’s stillness on both sides. If hatred was visible, the air would be all shades of red, scarlet and ruby, like the stains on Sandor’s glove. Then suddenly movement, so much force in every hit.

Sandor rains blows onto the man as if he means to smash him into the very earth and there’s barely any resistance. He doesn’t want him dead, he wants him smashed, obliterated, nothing left to bury.

The bloodied rat on the ground manages a hit on Sandor’s face and it only works to enrage him further.

You’ve seen him fight before in the tournament, moves sudden but precise when in duel, you’ve heard stories of men who’ve faced his sword, but this is different. It’s raw violence and force, uncharacteristic rage fueling him.

And then he stops.

He looks at you, always with his good side.

“Go back to yer room.”

You don’t move an inch. You know what this means, you know he’s not stopping and suddenly you’re but a youngling again, running around the training ground with Robb and Jon on your heels. Your father calls for them, forbids you from following.

At night you learn about the man whose head your father took before their eyes, a sight he sheltered you from.

You won’t let Sandor do the same.

Trant’s blood will be in your hands, whether you witness it or not. And so will your lord husband’s when word gets out that he pummeled a fellow Kingsguard member to death. You won’t allow it.

“I said, go back to yer room and lock the door. Don’t let anyone in until I tell ye.”

“I will if you come with me.”

The man scoffs, blood dripping from his fingers.

“Don’t question me, girl. I’ve got to finish some business.”

“If you stay, we both know it will be the end of you, one way or another. The things that Joffrey will do-“

“I’m not the one who needs protecting.”

“You will be if you don’t walk away. Just walk away, Sandor.”

It’s the first time he’s heard his name in a while, first time ever from your lips. Of course, he notices.

“I walk away now, he’ll do it again. I stay here and finish what I started, there’s one less cunt in this fuckin’ city.”

“And is that worth your head?”

He stares at you, so openly, his eyes still screaming murder, yet you refuse to relent.

All it takes a swing of his sword, a single move to push it in Trant’s heart while he’s gasping for air.

He turns to him, spitting on that mess of a face he’s created, branding his work, and then walks right past you, grabbing your arm right where the other man had. It hurts but you don’t dare tell him.

You let him drag you all the way to your chambers, smaller feet catching up with his strides.

 ◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇ 

 ◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇  

He latches the door and sheds his gloves, then as many pieces of his armor as he can. He looks like he’s struggling to breathe and you worry. His face is flushed, angry scars growing paler every moment.

He reaches for the pitcher of mead on your table, a mistake. It’s awfully sweet, disgustingly so, and he spits it out the moment it meets his tongue, knocking the whole thing over in an effort to push it away.

“That’s not fucking wine.”

You move across the room, his hunched form still in the corner of your eye. His face is buried in his hands and he rubs desperately, most likely because the rush of blood in his head feels impossibly warm. That’s when you notice his bare knuckles, cut and bruised and bloodied all over.

You reach for the bottle of wine under the table, one he put there himself, and place it across him where you sit.

“You’re hurt.”

“Just shut up for a while, alright?”

You do as he asks, but your hands still reach for his. Of course, he pulls away.

“Are you fucking deaf?”

You smile, “I’m not talking.”

Sandor’s lips quirk at that. He watches you wipe away the blood, as gently as if tending to a child.

“It’s nothing.”

You only hum in response, following his previous order. The rug is wet and cold against the skin, relieving pain he has not felt yet. For once he doesn’t fight it.

“You should have let me kill ‘im.”

“I told you, the King would have your head.”

He snorts and it’s a sound you’re getting used to, “What it’s to you?”

“I have no wish for blood to be spilled in my name. Especially not yours.”

“You think of it so nobly, little bird. The blood is only in the hands of those who spill it. Guilt will get you killed, sooner or later.”

“So I’m not to hold myself accountable if you’re accused of attacking a fellow member of Kingsguard?”

The quirk falls from his lips.

“I’m not fucking Kingsguard.”

“You guard the King, do you not?”

You make him laugh and a sense of pride fills you. You gather it’s not something many can do.

Silence washes over you as you tend to his cuts, taking the bottle from his hands to pour wine on them plentiful.

“What the fuck are ye doing?

“I’ll get you more wine, but first I need to dress these.”

“They’re fine as they are.”

The look on your face gives away that you’re not backing down. Damn northern stubbornness.

You wrap his knuckles gently, a torn piece of fabric drenched in wine to prevent infections, the way your father taught you. You suppose it stings but Sandor makes no move to suggest so. When it’s done, you consider it, making sure there’s still blood flow. Your lips fall gently on the makeshift bandage in an almost kiss.

He pulls away like it burns.

“I want to thank you.”

“There’s no need, stupid girl.”

“Must you always interrupt me, my lord?”

“’m not your lord.”

“You’re my lord husband and I must address you some way. If not by title, then by name, but if you please, let me finish.”

He grows quiet.

“I want to thank you, Sandor, for everything, but I beg you, don’t fight for me. With what you did to Ser Meryn, all that Joffrey could do to you… I’m good as dead without you.”

There it is, your cards all on the table.

“I won’t turn into some cunt-proper lord just so your noble heart won’t be plagued with guilt, girl.”

“I never asked you to, I only ask that you don’t endanger yourself, certainly not for me.”

The man grunts and turns his gaze from you, which you take as a sign of agreement.

The table shakes when he moves to stand.

You grab his hand again, this time holding it in place.

“One more thing.”

“Spit it out.”

“I would be forever grateful if you could move back in. It’s my understanding that you’ve established a stay elsewhere, perhaps somewhere far more convenient…” He wants to laugh, the rat-filled room where he stays coming to mind, “…but I would feel much safer if you stayed here from now on.”

You can’t help but observe him, the deepest in thought you’ve ever seen him - good hand rubbing his beard.

“I can arrange for a second bed, or I can take the floor, it’s no issue. I only ask that you don’t leave.”

“Is fear worth your reputation, little bird? People will talk.”

“We are wed before the gods, let them talk. There are few things left for them to say about me anyway.”

At morning Nira arrives to find her lady awake, drinking at sunlight. A snoring lord continues his sleep undisturbed, boots half perched on the table while he rests, long and wide, on the uncomfortable armchair.

The stench of wine and sweat mixes with rosewater.

Her lady smiles.

“We are going to need another mattress.”

 ◇─◇──◇───◇────◇────◇───◇──◇─◇   

Tags: @love-and-marij @blackwires @captainbuckyboobear@shxrrybomb @well-aint-that-strange @sunflowersandstringlights @bckybrnesrp @thatcutewerewolf @fallatyourfeet @immortalmurphy @iicelland @dorned @modblink @awolfhasnoname @maxinikins @raindancemaggi3 @rainyforrest @evelynfreakinaddams @cleganegirl @wildmaelstrom @ciccithedreamer @simplybrandielaine @captainmarvelfuckedmeup @the-anchored-sailor-girl @tessimagines @valhalla-ally @cha0tic-neutral @slytherh0e @sister-beehive @doitliketennant @anita-e-taylor @emithefangirl @fandomsfanman @iceinhermind @67impalagirl13 @imalittlebean @podthesquiz @scarstrashywritings @missespiruette @homesoutofhuman @simplybrandielaine @ixybirdflower @0midnightheart @jordancollier133  @footballiskillingme @podthesquiz @queendemonfangirl @my-bitch-loki @moviemaniac888 @mythical-clegane @sugasheart @thehoundsraven @imaginecrushes @all-cool-usernames-taken @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @paradoxical--intentions @pokengirl2 @always-hid @lavieenrosetta @treblebeth @just-dreaming-for-now @lokimysunandstars

Once again, I’m sorry for the names Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag.

Let me know if you want in or out the taglist!

[xoexoxhoe]

Cherry Pie

A/N: Literally NO ONE asked for this, but I mean, @sailor-baek and I were so inspired by this mood board, that we for sure had to take the idea and run with it. All props go to @sanbotaged for the beautiful, angsty, masterpiece. It deserves to have a story behind it, and we hope we did it justice. (check out the moodboard here at this link to the page!)

Jeong Yunho (Ateez) & Y/N 

💥Warning: Angst, blood, violence, guns, knives, swearing, & cherry pie 💥

Theme: BadBoy!Yunho | GangMember!Yunho

He clenched his bloodied fists around the baseball bat, each swing more vicious than the last. “I know you’ve been working for their family for a while, Mr. Kim. Now, where can I find that magical key card all the subordinates have?”  

The man cowered beneath Yunho’s legs, attempting to dodge hits, begging him for mercy, pleading for his life after handing the key card over. Yunho just smirked, slipping the black piece of plastic into his coat pocket.

“A rat is but a pest to be exterminated, don't you think, Mr. Kim?” One more hit and he dropped the bat, its heavy wood reverbing against the wet pavement. The rain made for perfect cover in the dark alley as Yunho bent to his knees, bringing the man’s chin up to meet his eyes,  “You’re not gonna die yet, Mr. Kim. But, before I let your miserable ass walk away from me, I need to know one thing.” He squeezed the man’s jaw, causing him to whimper in pain, “How much do you value your life?”

3 hours later…

“Good morning, Princess.”

Your eyes fluttered open, revealing your dimly lit bedroom, cluttered and destroyed. You began to panic, whipping your head around quickly to see eight hooded assailants ravaging through your drawers and closets. You tried to speak, realizing soon after that your mouth had been duct taped, and your hands and feet bound to the chair. Your head ached, and the pungent smell of blood began to fill your nose. The man before you took his hand and brushed back the sweat plastered hair from your face, his eyes crinkling beneath his mask.

“I’m sorry that things have to end up this way, but,” he looked back to his group, “you see, we’re just here to take all of your father’s money and the logbook we know you have somewhere in this room.” He turned back to you, once again brushing your hair, “Isn’t that right, princess? He hid it in here?”

Tears began to fall from your face and your cheeks burned from the sheer helplessness you had succumbed to in front of these men. To your surprise, he took off his mask, revealing black hair and mysterious brown eyes that looked to have seen many dark things; things you could never fathom. “What? Never seen a criminal before?” You gulped as you studied his intense features and the way his adam’s apple quivered as he laughed.

“Yunho, you ready?” One of the other guys to the left of him called out while he too began to strip away his mask. The platinum blonde hair he sported falling perfectly against his face.

Yunho peered into your eyes, and you didn’t dare to break the contact between them. He had his hand at his waist, unhinging a buckle on his gearbelt and pulling out a steel, serrated knife. “This,” he moved swiftly, almost as if he were making the blade dance between his fingers, “You’ve lived under the roof of one your whole life. This is what we do, isn’t it?” He ran the dull end under your chin, making you squirm under its cold touch. Once the tip of the blade hit your cheek, you felt it sting and burn, searing liquid trickling down your cheek. You saw him bring up his other hand and you winced, but you felt a sharp tug at the duct tape on your mouth, and before you knew it, all that was left was a tingling sensation across your lips. He was leaning into you now, cutting the zip ties behind your back as well as those on your ankles. He began to walk away, stopping before getting too far, “Get me that book, princess. We’re going out for a bit.”

As if instinct began to kick in, you grabbed a coat hanging on your door and kneeled before a large bookshelf. You pulled out a few books, your hands shaking off adrenaline and the still apparent sting on your cheek. A keypad exposed itself against the dark wood, leading you to punch a code you had promised never to use. A red leather book sat untouched on the fluffed black velvet of the safe. You grabbed it, immediately standing and turning to Yunho, who was already waiting with an extended palm.

“Here, take it.” you were astonished at the strength in your voice and the dried tears long dried on your face. For some reason you weren’t feeling scared anymore; it must have been exhaustion.  

Yunho’s hand brushed against yours, causing your breath to hitch at his steely touch and the way he laced his fingers within your own, holding you there; weight ready to fall forward at the slightest tug should he pull. “Thank you.” was all he whispered, and you felt your knees buckle. Another figure scuffed the ground impatiently, motioning for Yunho to hurry. Taking your hand in his, he strolled out of your bedroom lazily. He walked side by side with you, every now and then glancing over to look at your stunned expression. What was going on?

The distant wailing of police cars were a promising music to your ears. You should have never assumed that Yunho and the rest of the group would be caught so easily. Criminals. You knew criminals. The masked bad guys with vendettas on the television; the ones who always met their demise in the end. That didn’t fit, though; these guys were much more real. He gripped your hand even tighter, “If you run, we’ll only catch you. Should you try,” he took the blade out again, flashing it before you, “I may not be so nice.” You nodded in understanding as Yunho flipped the blade around, pointing its handle towards you and poking it against your chest, “Since you’re here, might as well make yourself useful. Take this in case anyone tries anything.”

The blade felt peculiar in your hand, its weight almost too light for your liking. You clutched it anyways and continued to keep up with Yunho, his grip still in you, guiding you and the rest of the troupe down to their cars. Yunho placed you in the back between him and another tall member who had dark brown hair and a stern look on his face. You turned to Yunho who began to pick and prod at the lock on the logbook in his hands.

“Where are we going?”

His tongue licked his lips in concentration, “Where do you think we’re going?”

“I- I don’t-”

The platinum blonde boy behind the steering wheel cut you off, “Daddy never told you about the piss job he’s been doing as a businessman, huh?”

Yunho scoffed, “He would never tell his princess about money he’d been embezzling, now, would he?”

Your eyes shook, “What do you mean?”

“He’s a fraud, Y/N.” The deep voice from the boy to your right made you jump. “And now, we’re going to take back the money for someone who knows a bit too much about your father’s operations.”

“How do you know my name?”

The boy shrugged, “We know everything we need to.”

Yunho flipped through the pages of the logbook eagerly, searching for bank codes, insurance statements, and anything he could get his hands on. “Yeah, this is it. It’s in here, the routing numbers for all of the accounts; we just have to drain them. Can someone radio San?”

The boy in the front seat sported silver hair and was much shorter than his colleagues, but his muscular, veiny hands told you that what he lacked in height, he most likely made up for in strength. He reached on the dashboard for the walkie-talkie and pressed down, “San, you got the computer with you?”

The machine hummed to life with static on the other end of the line and another accomplice starting to speak, “Got it, just give me the routing numbers and we’ll be done, Wooyoung.”

Yunho handed the book over to Wooyoung who began to list off the information, “Account number one, JPM, routing number 328908589.”

“Alright, next.”

One after another, the boys exchanged routing numbers, bank names, and account information, slowly depleting whatever money your father may have had left into some other offshore account of an unknown person. Yunho saw the look on your face and rubbed your thigh, “Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll be alright.”

“Do you even know who hired you?” You asked, trying to evade the fact that his hand was still on your thigh.

“How do you know that we were hired?” Wooyoung whirled his torso around to eye you out, intense stare burning holes into your skin.

“I assumed you were,” you pointed to the person on the left of you, “He said it’s going to someone else, right? Well… what’s in it for you all?”

The men shared glances with each other before the driver answered, “Some would say justice, others would say we’re doing this because we just can; but,” his smirk was stained with years of deceit. He was a pro, they all were. “Doesn’t mean we aren’t getting paid a pretty penny to do this either.”

Just then, gunshots rang out like bells in a church, each shot landing on the SUV you were in with a loud pang. The boy at the wheel ducked, breathing out a string of curses while pressing the gas pedal without regard to anyone’s safety.

The walkie-talkie static came on again, “Yo- We’ve got company. Hongjoong said to go to the river across town, have Seonghwa ditch there and trudge it upstream to next point of contact. They’ve only noticed your SUV because you have the girl in there, they didn’t take lead of ours. We’re gonna breakaway and get to the pick up, understood?”

Wooyoung gripped the walkie-talkie while bending below the dash as best as he could, “Got it.”

Seonghwa broke right with a sharp turn, throwing off the police cars behind you, buying you all enough time to get at least a few minutes in front of them. You found yourself being shielded by Yunho’s body, his heavy breathing insync with your own, his hand rubbing your back. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

You looked up at his face as he gave a quick wink before bringing out a gun from his belt, cocking it quickly and leaving it in his free hand.

Seonghwa, who you assumed was the driver’s name, began to completely punch it through the town, weaving in and out of traffic to eventually end up across a large bridge. He drove the car into a shaded area, underbrush flying up onto the windshield. Everyone got out quickly and you followed without hesitation. Yunho gave your hand a squeeze before holding the gun up and creeping out of the bushes, seeing if there were any cops on their tail. In the distance, the buzzing of a helicopter caught your attention. Everyone except for you and Yunho moved to the trunk of the car, tossing each other large waterproof backpacks, shoving in the gear they needed before heading over to the edge of the bridge and jumping off. They popped up in the river, making their way over to the rocks and sprinting out of the water, their black vests soaking wet. Yunho ran with you to the edge of the bridge shortly after, your eyes looming over the large drop that laid before you.

“Do I need to jump? I mean, it looks like a far drop, but I don’t know if-if I can make it. Why am I doing this...Then we’ll have to run; I hear the helicopter, right? It’ll be here any second and they’ll be able to see us running-” your voice was shaky and you were speaking at an insane speed, the words fumbling out of your mouth like complete nonsense.

Yunho caressed your face, bringing your attention away from the water and onto him, “Oh, Princess. This is where we part ways.”

“What? Wait, why?”

He laughed, “Does this daughter of a criminal want to become one as well?”

You felt your face sink into his hand, soaking up his touch as long as you could, “That’s not what I mean. It’s just- I’ve come so far, I might as well-”

“Finish the job with me? Yeah, that can’t happen. As beautiful as you are, Y/N, your father will need you. But, judging by the look on your face, you won’t say anything about what happened, right?” Before you could respond he pulled your chin towards him, his soft lips demanding to taste you. He kissed you with unabashed passion, weaving his hand into your hair before sending you backwards, but you caught his arm and jabbed the knife right into his side, his gasp audible as you recoiled the blade out from him and let it clatter to the ground.

“What the hell, princess?”

You quickly picked up the knife from the ground, shakily ready to strike again. “You told me to use it if anyone were to try anything; you just did.”

He tilted his head back, “You should have aimed higher.” he fell backwards into the river, scarlet spilling from his side.

You were breathless as you peered over the bridge, seeing him swim to the edge and hop out. He turned to you and winked, disappearing into the thick banks in a sprint.

◎

“You didn’t see a goddamn thing?! Not even their hair, their eyes- nothing?” Your father slammed the dining room table as you shook your head.

“They blindfolded me for the most part. There was literally nothing I could do. I got the knife with his blood, shouldn’t that suffice?”

His face was red with fury, “No! You gave them the code to the safe! What were you thinking?”

Crocodile tears began to slide down your face, “They tried to kill me, Father. I-”

“That’s enough. Can’t you see your daughter is already in enough pain? Let the police do their job, Harold. They’ll find them.” Your mother came to your side, holding you through your choked sobs. All you were focused on was Yunho and the mark he’d left on your lips, the one you’d left on his side.

“We’re ruined, Maria, you don’t understand.” Your father stormed out of the dining room, the older woman followed close behind. Screams echoed through the foyer.

Alone you made your way up to your room, pulling a key out from your dresser and opening a little jewelry box at your bedside. A tiny cell greeted you with a restricted number flashing across the screen. You picked it up, casually answering it without saying a word.

A husky voice came on the other end of the line. One that you knew all to well after the events that transpired today. “It’s done.”

You grinned, “I knew you wouldn’t fail me, Yunho.”

Silence had never been more satisfying, “What the fuck-”

“Keep the money, you’ll need it. They have your blood so it won’t be long now. I suggest you and your little boy group seek safety somewhere.” you giggled, “Thank you for helping me; Oh! And for the kiss as well.” You snapped the device in half and laid back in bed, having no trouble at all falling asleep.

◎

The cherry pie at Lenny’s Diner always made you feel at ease. The thick red pie filling oozed onto the plate as you sunk your fork into the delectable dessert. You took a few bites, relishing in the sweetness before feeling a tap on your shoulder. You wiped your mouth, not expecting anyone. Your fork hit the floor quickly after you immediately dropped it.

“I told you to run.”

Yunho closed the little distance to your stool and leaned over to grab a piece of the pie. All your eyes could do was follow his movement; he kept your focus trained on his fingers now nestled in his mouth, full of sugary sweetness.

He looked at you with fiery eyes. The still sticky finger dropped to your lip, grazing over it softly. Would this be the proper time to scream? You knew no sound would come out.

“Without saying a thank you? I’m a proper gentleman, princess. I would never leave you like that.”

[unpack-my-heart]

IT Fandom Prompt Week 2019 - Day 2

I wrote a silly little meet-ridiculous for day 2 of the It Fandom Prompt Week! (College AU / Coffee Shop AU / Roommates AU)

Read it on AO3 or posted below the cut.

Preview:

“This isn’t my room”

“It is not”

“You aren’t … in my room”

“Nope”

“I’m in your room”

“Yup”

[OR: Eddie Kaspbrak has a really bad day]

@constantreaderfool

By all accounts, Eddie Kaspbrak had had the worst day possible. No day could possibly have gone as badly as today had gone.

To start with, his alarm hadn’t gone off.

6:45 ….

6:53 …

7:08 …

7:31 …

8:04 …

“SHIT!”

After launching himself out of bed with all the strength of a river salmon propelling itself upstream, he’d promptly slipped on the hoodie he’d discarded last night, and landed on his knee awkwardly. A dark red mark almost immediately bloomed on his right knee, and Eddie cursed knowing that it’d become an ugly, mottled yellow in a few days.

Hopping on his left foot and cursing past-Eddie for being such a slob and not putting his clothes away properly, Eddie scrambled around trying to find his safety goggles and steel-toe capped boots for today’s lab. They were doing … something … with six-cylinder piston engines, and despite racking his brains, Eddie couldn’t remember what. Maybe Bev would know.

To: Miss Marsh:

What r we doing today?

From: Miss Marsh:

Dunno, didn’t look at the schedule

To: Miss Marsh:

You bring dishonour on yourself and dishonour on your cow

To: Miss Marsh:

Love you too. See you in a bit x

Bev did not know.

One shoe on, one shoe lodged under the wardrobe, and Eddie still couldn’t find his goggles.

Two shoes on, the fundamental principles of aeronautical engineering lodged firmly in his backpack.

Safety goggles, still missing.

8:45 …

8:58 …

9:02 …

“SHIT!”

Eddie had never been late before. Ever. Never ever ever.

Saftey goggles be damned, Eddie sprinted out of his dorm room, slamming the door behind him, and charged off down the hallway.

Three minutes later, and puffing like a train, Eddie careened straight into his door, scrabbling in his pocket for his keys.

Locking the door this time, Eddie sprinted off to his lab.

– x –

If the morning had gone chaotically, the lab had been even worse.

The professor had berated Eddie for not bringing his safety goggles, and threatened to refuse to let him participate in the practical until Eddie had begged and promised to never let it happen again. Relenting, the professor let Eddie borrow his own safety goggles, and made Eddie promise on pain of death he wouldn’t break them.

Eddie broke them.

He’d been leaning over the engine, screwdriver held between his teeth as he wrestled with a particularly resistant bolt, when the glasses had slipped off his face and smashed on the concrete floor, splintering into four uneven pieces.

Shit.

Shit!

Panicking, Eddie picked up the pieces of safety goggle.

“Beverly”

“Hang on”

“Beverly Marsh!”

“Edward Kaspbrak! Hold yer damn horses, I just gotta –“

A loud pop echoed throughout the classroom.

“Fuck yeah!”

“Language, Miss Marsh!” came an angry voice from the front of the lab.

“Sorry, Professor.”

Beverly placed the severed bit of engine on the bench, and turned to Eddie, who was pitifully cradling the bits of goggle in his hands.

“Beverly,” Eddie moaned, “He’s going to eat me for lunch”

“Eh, I think you’re more snack sized”

“Not helping, asshole”

“Do you want me to tell him I broke them?”

“No”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know”

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Eddie didn’t have to do anything.

Without warning, water started to rain down from the ceiling, and piercing shrieks echoed around the room.

“FUCK!”

– X –

The class shuffled outside, drenched through. Waiting for them outside were members of the college maintenance team with guilty looks plastered on their faces.

“Sorry about this, guys. The sprinkler system had been malfunctioning in here for the past few days and we really thought we’d fixed it”

Luckily, the professor stormed off to the head of maintenance’s office, presumably to complain about the sprinkler malfunction potentially ruining the engines, but unluckily, Eddie was now soaked.

The students shuffled back into their lab to collect their abandoned possessions, and Eddie’s textbook was almost entirely ruined. The pages had turned to a mulchy soup, the ink running wildly on the page, rendering the text unreadable. Bev patted Eddie sympathetically on the shoulder as he yowled in pain.

“You can share mine”

– X –

Seeing as the lab was Eddie’s only class of the day, and he was now soaked through to his bones, he decided to go home and shower. Working on autopilot, Eddie beeped into the building, and started trudging up the stairs to the third floor. When he’d reached his door, he shoved it open and –

“DANCE THIS MESS AROUND, ‘ROUND, ‘ROUN– WHAT THE FUCK”

There was a naked man in Eddie’s bedroom.

Only, this wasn’t Eddie’s bedroom.

The walls were covered in posters of bands Eddie’s dad had listened to, the bed wasn’t made, the duvet was black instead of white, there were dirty plates scattered on the floor, and most importantly, there was a naked stranger standing in the middle of the room with comically large headphones on his head, a scandalised expression painted on his face.

“Can I help you?” naked-stranger asked, hands now covering his crotch.

“This isn’t 302”

“It is not”

“This isn’t my room”

“It is not”

“You aren’t … in my room”

“Nope”

“I’m in your room”

“Yup”

“Why am I still talking”

“Now that, I can’t tell ya, short-stack”

“I can’t – I can’t move”

“Too awe-struck?”

“What?”

“Y’know. Surveying the goods. Checking out the merchandise. Other synonyms that mean the same thing, checking me out?”

“Uh”

“That isn’t a no”

At that, Eddie’s brain seemed to kickstart, and he turned on his heel and sprinted down the corridor, naked-stranger’s laugh following him as he ran.

– X –

Three days later and Eddie had almost, almost, stopped thinking about the naked-stranger incident every five seconds. It was now more like every hour or two.

The thing that annoyed Eddie the most about the whole thing was that the naked-stranger was the most attractive person he’d seen for years. Years.

Eddie had been telling Stan about the naked-stranger at work, apron’s tied around their waists and faux-smiles plastered on their faces as they made complicated iced drinks for grumpy students.

“He was … kinda beautiful”

“Really?” Stan asked, pumping caramel syrup into a plastic cup.

“Yeah, he was singing this stupid B-52s song and leaping around like an excitable frog, but he had this hair and … well he also had really nice arms and he was tall and –“

“Was he?”

“Yeah, and he really couldn’t sing for shit but … I could tell that he was probably really funny”

“Funny, you say?”

“Yeah! He called me short-stack though which was fucki– really annoying, but … I could get over that for his arms”

Eddie, who was facing away from the counter cleaning spilt syrup off of a mug by hand because they had hit their mid-afternoon lull, looked up at Stan for the first time since he’d started talking.  

Stan was staring straight past Eddie, trying and failing to not laugh.

Eddie turned around.

“Hello, short-stack”

Naked-stranger was standing directly behind him, leaning on the counter, and beaming. “

“What the fuck” Eddie hissed under his breath, and promptly dropped the mug on the floor.

“So you like my arms do you, sunshine?”

“I can’t breathe”

Stan and naked-stranger were cackling, and Eddie couldn’t breathe.

“Did you know – how did you know it was him?” Eddie directed at Stan, pissily.

“I’ve known Richie for years, and he told me that some short and adorable guy ran into his room a few days ago. I didn’t think much of it until you started talking about running into some tall naked guys room so I texted Richie to let him know that I’d found you”

“So you’re both taking the piss out of me, then”

“No!” naked-stranger – Richie – insisted, trying to reach Eddie’s arm.

Eddie swatted him away, and ripped his apron off, letting it flutter sadly to the floor.

“I’m taking my break”

– X –

Eddie was leaning against the back wall of the coffee shop when Richie appeared.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“You’re an asshole”

“Hmm… kinda regret spending a penny on that, gotta be honest”

“What do you want?”

“Your number” Richie replied breezily, leaning on his side against the wall, looking at Eddie hopefully.

“Why would I give you that?”

“You like my arms”

“I don’t – I – fuck”

“Maybe after a few dates, Eds. I don’t put out that easily”

“I guess you do have nice arms”

“See! I knew these puppies would help me out one day,” Richie affirmed, flexing his biceps.

“So you promise this isn’t all a big joke? That you aren’t gonna stand me up or tell all your friends that you’re planning on tricking the –“

“Hey, ssh. It’s not a joke. When you burst into my room like that, I gotta be honest, I was a little bit surprised but when I heard that the most attractive guy I’ve seen around these here parts still has the hots for me after seeing me in all my naked glory, I couldn’t not do anything about it”

“Who’s the other guy that saw you naked?”

Richie rolled his eyes and shifted on the wall, bumping his shoulder against Eddie’s.

“You gonna gimme your digits then, or what?”

“Maybe”

Eddie pushed himself off the wall, and brushed his hands on his jeans.

“Ask Stan to text you my number”

“Oh, Eddie Spaghetti, you won’t regret this. I’ll wine and dine you real good”

“I’m already regretting it”

[71tenseventeen]

Into That Bad Night-Chapter 11

Warnings for dark Geno, usually implied violence, threat of violence. (Geno is not violent, not an abusive relationship.) If you’re looking for a law-abiding Geno and a non-problematic, fluffy relationship, this is not the fic for you.

Sid is braced against the shower wall, breathing hard as Zhenya fucks into him from behind—hard, fast, relentless.

Sid loves it.

Zhenya had woken up agitated, reaching for Sid as he grumbled soft Russian in his ear that verged on growling.

Now as he moves he alternates between biting at the tender skin on Sid’s neck and murmuring in his ear. “You mine, Sidney. I kill him for touching you.”

Sid shivers. He believes Zhenya but he thinks Ovechkin’s days were numbered since he sat down at the table with Sidney.

He’s not giving it a lot of thought at the moment, though, because Zhenya has shifted his angle the tiniest bit, is getting him just right and he’s losing his mind.

By the time the shower runs cold Sid’s neck is covered in marks and Zhenya has an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, keeping him steady on his feet.

Sid is happy.

An hour later Zhenya’s got him pinned to the bed, hard cock head teasing at Sid’s hole when there’s a knock at the main door. Zhenya growls in frustration but pulls back and Sid lets out a whimper. Zhenya palms an ass cheek and leans over to plant a quick kiss on Sid’s spine. “I know baby. But could be important. You wait for me.”

It’s Marc-Andre knocking and if he’s phased by a very cranky, very naked Zhenya answering the door, it doesn’t show. It doesn’t take long for them to have a hushed conversation in Russian, Zhenya finishing with “Give me an hour,” as Marc-Andre leaves the room.

Sid can’t help his smile as he watches Zhenya stride back to the bed. “I get you for another whole hour?”

Zhenya returns the grin as he climbs onto the bed and Sid. “Would keep you here all day if I could.”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“We have an hour. I take care of you, then I work little bit. Come back to you by dinner.”

“Promise?” Sid’s voice is softer than he meant it to be but Zhenya nods.

“Promise,” Zhenya whispers and kisses him hard.

True to his word, Sid is well taken care of and they are both freshly showered by the time Marc-Andre returns. Zhenya is still buttoning his shirt when he opens the door with a smug grin before turning back to the bedroom.

“Get dressed, baby. If you feel safe, Fleury take you upstairs.”

Sid, sleepy-eyed and comfortable perks up at that. “Home?”

Zhenya smiles, leaning over to kiss him. “Home. Just needed to be sure is safe first.”

Marc-Andre snickers as he leads Sid up towards the main building. “I take it you two made up?” he asks with a smirk. Sid thinks he should be a little embarrassed—he knows how he looks—but he can’t stop smiling.

He shrugs, feeling his ears turn pink and just not caring.

“Thank god. He was a fucking bear to deal with.”

That wipes the smile off of Sid’s face for a moment and he swallows hard. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Sid trails off, not sure how much they know of what he said to make Zhenya so angry last night.

Marc-Andre swivels his head to stare at Sid, amused. “Why are you sorry? He’s pissed at Ovechkin, not you.”

Sid shakes his head. “I know but I, um, I said some things last night and I just..” he trails off, not wanting to admit how childish he’d been acting.

Marc-Andre just laughs though. “Doesn’t matter what you said. He’s ready to rip Ovechkin’s fingers off one by one for touching you. I don’t blame him. If that fucker touched Vero I’d do the same.”

Sid’s eyes widen. “You mean for real…?”

Marc-Andre raises an eyebrow. “Sid. You know who you’re with and what he does.”

Sid swallows hard. “I, um. Yeah. Yeah.”

“Just don’t worry about it, okay? Ovechkin had it coming anyhow, trying to butt in on our territory and then trying to make amends by sending women and gifts.” He shakes his head, snorting as he says it. “It’s not like he wasn’t warned. But instead of retreating he threw down the gauntlet and sealed his own fate.”

“He tried to send, um, women?”

Marc-Andre grins. “Women, men—anyone he thought Evgeni would be interested in. He never counted on you, though. It’s an insult that he thought Evgeni could be so easily convinced to stray from you. You don’t insult Evgeni Malkin and get away with it. So for him to show up there last night, to touch you and lay down a threat? He’s a dead man.”

“Is he, um...?”

“Not yet but he will be and Evgeni will be the one to do it.”

Sid swallows hard again. “Is that, um, is that what Zhenya’s doing now?”

“We don’t have Ovechkin yet but we did find one source of the leak. Evgeni’s dealing with him.”

Sid can guess what that means.

“You okay, Sid?”

Sid thinks about it for a moment, realizes he is. “Yeah.”

Jake’s standing guard outside the apartment, nodding when he sees them. Sid thinks Marc-Andre will probably take over the post but, instead, he follows along inside the apartment.

“Boss’ orders,” he says, before Sid gets a word out. “You are not to be left alone in the apartment for now.”

“Can I at least change alone?” Sid asks, blushing, earning him a grin in return.

“I think that will be acceptable,” comes the smirky reply. “And if you want me to sit somewhere like the balcony or something so you can have some privacy, just tell me. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

Sid frowns. “I’m not making you sit on the balcony, Marc-Andre.”

“Flower.”

“Huh?”

“I told you to call me Flower.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Fine. Flower. Just… sit down somewhere. I’ll cook and you can keep me company until Zhenya comes home.”

“Deal.”

--

Life slowly returns to normal—or something like it.

Zhenya won’t let Sid go to the actual offices of the Foundation any more and though he doesn’t have to stay in the apartment at all times, there are a list of places he simply can’t go to. He sees a lot more of Flower, Kris and Jake, though he thinks that they’re around as much as they ever were, they’re just more visible now.

Zhenya starts taking Sid out again every few nights, wanting to send a message to everyone that he will not be intimidated. But Sid’s nervous every time and after their third dinner date in a week, Zhenya reaches for Sid’s shaky hand in the car, pulling him close.

“Need to go to Miami in few weeks for business,” he says quietly, nuzzling Sid’s cheek. “You come with me. Need to get away, relax a little bit.”

It’s not really a question but Sid nods anyway.

--

Sid gazes out at the familiar Pittsburgh skyline. Even on cold, drizzly nights like this it’s beautiful. Still, as he turns back to the fancy ballroom full of Pittsburgh’s richest, gathered for a charity dinner, he really just wishes they were already in Miami.

He feels a gentle hand on the small of his back and sighs, leaning into the touch. “Penny for thoughts?” He hears, rumbling gently in his ear and he looks up at Zhenya with a soft smile.

“Just wishing we were already in Miami.”

“Only couple more days then we get a break from the bad weather.”

Sid eyes the throngs of people milling about the room. “It’s not the weather that I’m struggling with.”

Zhenya pulls him around so that they’re facing each other, taking Sid’s hands. “I know.”

Sid huffs out a breath, pulling a little closer to Zhenya. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. This is—” He looks around the room, “This is good. All these people—they’re raising a lot of money.”

Zhenya kisses his forehead. “Yes, is good and important I’m be here but know is not your favorite. Thank you for come with me, Sid. Another hour, maybe, then we go.”

Sid nods, smiling up at him. He just has to get through another hour.

Ten minutes later he’s gratefully escaping to the bar after Zhenya rescued him from an awkward conversation with a man he doesn’t know.

“Sid?”

He whips his head around at the female voice, not able to place it until his eyes land on a vaguely familiar bright-eyed forty-something with stunning red hair. “Gwen,” he says with a smile, extending his hand.

It’s a relief to see a somewhat familiar face; he’d worked with Gwen a handful of times through the Foundation. She’d always been generous despite the rumors that she and her businessman husband had hit some financially rocky waters.

They spend the next fifteen minutes catching up over drinks, tucked away from the the thickest of the crowds. Eventually she glances over his shoulder before flashing a sly smile. “Either someone really likes your backside or your beau is anxious to see you again.”

Sid looks over his shoulder, breaking into a wide smile as he meets Zhenya’s eyes. Zhenya winks before Sid turns back to Gwen, blushing happily.

“I think both,” she says with a waggle of her eyebrows and Sid giggles into his drink.

He marvels for a moment, at how just locking eyes with Zhenya for that moment made him warm all over. He thinks about Miami and all the time they’ll have together there, away from the cold and stress of Pittsburgh. Zhenya has vowed to keep Sid naked as much as possible and the thought makes Sid feel impossibly warmer.

He absently reaches up, clumsily pushing his hair back, smiling down into his now nearly empty drink. Oh. He doesn’t remember drinking that much but he must have. He finishes it off, thinking vaguely of ordering another. The drinks are cold and it’s getting warmer in here. He turns toward the bar but finds Gwen blocking his vision with a soft frown. “Sid?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay? You look kind of…” She trails off, watching as he wipes his forehead again. When did it get so hot in here?

“I’m—” he starts, suddenly struggling to find the right words. “Is it hot in here?” He tugs at his collar as Gwen takes the empty glass from his hand.

Sid glances around, feeling more off kilter than he expected. He tries to look for Zhenya but everything is blurring the more he moves and he thinks the drinks must have been stronger than he expected. Maybe he should have eaten more, he thinks, before squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear his vision. If anything that makes things worse and he finds himself listing slowly to the side when he opens them again.

Gwen’s eyes are wide now. “Oh honey,” she says, voice full of concern as she slips an arm around his waist. “You need some air.”

“Yeah,” he slurs. “Too hot.”

She guides him toward one of the outer doors, keeping close to the walls and moving quicker than he would have expected. But maybe that’s just the drinks talking. “Wait,” he mumbles, struggling to make his tongue work.

“We have to get you out of here.”

Sid shakes his head and everything spins. “Need...Zhenya…”

Gwen doesn’t respond, or if she does he doesn’t hear her. She’s leading him through a set of french doors and, for a moment after they step outside, Sid feels relieved as the cold breeze slaps at his clammy skin.

But everything is still spinning and Gwen just keeps leading him further and further along the garden pathways and he just wants to stop.

“Need to sit,” he garbles, barely getting the protest out.

“In a minute,” is her only reply and he doesn’t understand why they can’t just sit down.

He stumbles, leaning harder against her and struggling to keep his balance now as her voice seems farther and farther away. “...fading fast...hurry...help...need to go…” They’re the last words Sid hears before he closes his eyes.

--

Sid wakes with a soft groan.

It’s dark and his head is killing him. His mouth feels like he hasn’t had a drop of water in years. But the bed underneath him is soft and warm and he lets himself drift. He vaguely registers that the pillows don’t smell right and wonders if the laundry service used something different this time.

Somewhere behind him a soft light clicks on and Sid groans, burrowing his face under the covers for a moment as he wills himself slowly back to full consciousness. It takes a few moments but eventually he pulls the blankets back down, blinking rapidly as he tries to focus.

The moment he realizes this is not his bedroom is the same moment he hears a sickeningly familiar voice behind him.

“Hello Pretty.”  

[sourcherrymagiks]

Carry on Countdown 2019

Day 23 - Musician

Ao3

Every Breath We Drew

Simon

Baz looks worried. It’s a pleasant change from the pissed off look he’s had for the last few days. I wonder what I’ve done now. I mean what else I’ve done.

“Baz, please talk to me”

“Fuck off Snow, you’ve made your feelings very clear, no need to pretend you care”

“That’s not, Baz, I didn’t mean, I want to just”

“Spit it out Snow, then fuck off”

I want to storm off or go off but I also want him to smile at me again. I want to kiss him again. I don’t want him to think I don’t want him.

“I was wrong”

“What?”

“I want this, us, you”

“What?”

“I got scared and”

But he’s gone, door slamming behind him.

I should go join Penny in the library. I should train. I should do anything except what I’m going to do. I’m going to follow Baz.

Baz

I can’t be around him right now. I can’t. I thought that my heart had taken all the punches Simon had to give. It turns out there’s a whole new level of pain and suffering. I thought he wanted me. How stupid. How mortifyingly, heartbreakingly stupid.

If I start crying I’m never going to stop so I do the next best thing. The music rooms are always quiet, always empty and they feel like home. Since the arts funding at Watford dried up not many people even come here anymore. Hardly anyone plays an instrument. Fucking mage. Fucking stupid beautiful mages heir.

I take out my violin and start playing something melancholy but I’m not in the mood for it. Today I’m angry and hurt and raw. I feel like a proper moody teen as I pick out the first few chords but then I let the discordant sounds flow through me and it starts to feel good, powerful, dark.

Simon

I’m used to standing outside this room listening to him. There’s a clean mark on the wall where I’ve slumped so many times. Today he’s not playing his usual gloomy stuff. Today he’s furious and the poor violin is taking the brunt of it. I think I recognise the song a bit, it sounds like that one by Hendrix. I didn’t even know you could play Hendrix on the violin. Mind you, why would I?

I can smell Baz’s magic, it’s really strong. He’s not casting though, I shouldn’t be able to smell him like this, like me, when I’m about to go off.

I slam through the door just as the rug in front of him bursts into purple flames.

I push him behind me a draw my sword. The break in the music comes too late. Whatever spell he worked is complete.

I’m ready to fight whatever it is.

I’d fight anything for him.

Oh.

Baz

Simon is here, sword out, ready to defend the world against evil.

Except the evil is a two foot tall demon with fuzzy hair. Simon looks at me and shrugs.

“Who do you want me to devour?”

The demon says in what I can only describe as a truly darling little voice.

“I don’t think I want anyone devoured thank you. I seem to have summoned you by accident” I try my most conciliatory voice. Demons don’t enjoy being summoned for no reason. Even tiny, delightful ones.

“Well I’m going to have to devour someone now. That’s how it works. This one maybe? “

“Best not, can I think about it for a while?”

“I suppose. It’s not standard practice though”

“Snow, would you go and get out guest some food and perhaps Bunce too?”

He’s about to bluster at me but then he realises the level of deep shit we must be in for me to ask for Bunce’s help and runs off.

When they get back, with armfuls of scones , I’m deep in discussion with the demon about football. Bunce looks amused and annoyed. It’s a look she’s honed from years of putting up with Simon.

“Basil, much as the whole school is enjoying your ridiculous outbursts of magic recently I think this might be a step too far”

I would be blushing if I could. I know what she means. I’ve been making an absolute buffoon myself over Simon. It’s got to stop.

“We have a slight issue here Bunce, can we deal with it first please”

She rolls her eyes at me

“Why were you casting your grandfathers spell if you didn’t want a demon?”

“What?”

“The spell, your grandfather was nearly expelled for it?”

“Why have I never heard of this spell?”

Simon’s is grinning and stuffing his face. He spits so many crumbs when he speaks that even the demon shudders “Your family is so fucking uptight they probably erased it from the records”

I’m about to protest when I realise he’s right. I snarl at him instead.

“How do we get rid of him?” I ask Bunce instead

“That part I don’t know. The record is sketchy. I was going to write a history of magic essay on it but there isn’t enough credible detail. It just mentions that he worked with his friend Salisbury to send the demon back”

Simon

I have my suspicions about how Baz’s grandad might have broken the spell with his ‘friend’ but I’m going to let Baz and Penny do their thing for bit before I suggest it.

“So run me through the spell Bunce”

Fuck he’s sexy when he’s talking magic.

“Ok so I don’t know what you were playing but it would have needed to have the devils interval in it. Your Grandfather used ‘Dance Macabre’. The combination of the interval and the emotion brings the demon”

“I was playing ‘Purple Haze’ and I was, I’d rather not, do we have to? “

“He was really pissed off at me because I’m a knob” I add which probably makes me more of a knob.

Penny rolls her eyes

“Baz you don’t need my help to solve this. Even Simon could figure it out. You just want a different solution and I don’t have one. What I have is homework and a strong desire not to get involved in your shit” She turns on her heel and walks out blowing the demon a kiss on the way.

Right. I was right.

Baz turns to the adorable demon “ I may have made a mistake bringing you here, is it ok if I try to send you back?”

“If you like. Are you sure I can’t kill anyone though?”

“That’s still a hard ‘No’” I say

Baz picks up his violin and I don’t know what to expect. I know he has to reverse what he did. So I can guess the last step and I’m into that. This bit involves more musical and magical knowledge than I have.

He starts playing and I know this song, it’s twining around my heart, filling the room with sound, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift.

Fuck Me.

Baz

I finish the last bar and put my violin down. Simon is standing the most still I’ve ever seen him stand. He’s breathing through his mouth as usual. Well almost panting. Crowley, I want to kiss him. I just don’t want him to kiss me to break a spell. But he’s a hero so he will. Fuck it all.

He steps up to me and puts his hands on my hips

“Is this ok?”

“No, I don’t know “

“I’m a twat, I was panicking but I want you, I really want you.”

He runs one hand up my chest and winds it around the back of my neck. He’s looking at me with those mundane blue eyes, moving closer and closer. He’s so warm, he smells like everything I’ve ever wanted to eat, I want him so badly.

I kiss him because I’m weak and because I have to and because of the spell and because maybe, just maybe, he wants me too.

The room fills with purple smoke and then a popping sound. I should be watching the magic but I’m not. I’m kissing Simon Snow and he’s kissing me back like he means it.

[celtics534]

Hanging by a Moment

And I present to you: Hanging by a Moment! An adorable (if I do say so myself) Half-Blood Prince moment. @gryffindormischief was awesome and help me make this chapter the best it could be!

Read on: FF.net, AO3, SIYE (soon), or right here!

Harry lay in his bed, his mind replaying the day’s memories like one of the Dursleys’ television programs. It had been like this for the last two weeks.Harry preferred his memories, to his dreams. What would make this teenager willing to give up a good night's sleep, one might ask? The answer was simple: a redheaded goddess named Ginny Weasley.

From the moment Harry had kissed her during the Quidditch victory party, Ginny had never left his mind. Sure, she had invaded his thoughts often before. The idea of her. Something funny she’d said, the way she flicked her hair out of her face when a question stumped her, or the way her flowery scent had engulfed him when she walked by. But now… Now he could include feel and taste to his Ginny senses.

He could swear his lips still tingled from her goodnight kiss. And there was no way he could ignore the way the back of his neck burned after her touch. No, Harry lost more sleep over Ginny than he would ever admit (especially to Ron).

Every moment seemed precious to Harry. Never in his life could he remember feeling this way. It was as if he was in an alternate universe. A universe where he was just Harry, a boy dating a gorgeous redhead. No looming prophecy or murders. Just a normal teenager getting to do normal things, such as snog his girlfriend.

Harry rolled onto his side, punching his pillow into shape as he went. If he didn’t at least try to fall asleep he would really hate himself in the morning. Sure it was Saturday, but his time with Ginny was already so limited (due to his detentions and her OWLs). He wanted to make sure he was awake for the little time they had.

A small creaking noise made Harry’s eyes shoot open. Quiet footsteps... soft breathing… coming from the direction of the stairway. He waited, feigning sleep. If someone was going to be attacked…

“Harry?” The voice was faint, almost inaudible, but it was one he immediately recognized from his dreams.

“Gin?”

“Yeah.” The curtains around his bed moved slowly, revealing a smiling Ginny. She leaned over and kissed him lightly. “How’s it going?”

“Uh…” Harry’s mind couldn’t process what was happening. Ginny was here… in his dorm… well past curfew… her brother sleeping in the bed right next to him.

Ginny pressed another kiss to his lips before, whispering, “Pull on a jumper and meet me down in the common room. Bring the cloak.”

Then she was gone as if she somehow had the power to apparate on Hogwarts grounds.

“What?” Harry murmured, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.   

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“And I thought it took girls a long time to get ready,” Ginny teased as Harry stepped down the last stair from the dorms.

Harry snorted. “Well, it does take a couple of seconds to comprehend your girlfriend (the word still sent butterflies to his stomach) waking you well past midnight.”

She sent him a smirk that increased the fluttering wings in his gut tenfold. “Most people would appreciate such a romantic wake up call.”

“Oh, trust me.” He moved in close, his hand tentatively brushing a piece of hair out of her face. “I thoroughly enjoyed my new alarm, but I tend to prefer knowing why I’ve been woken up.”

“Ah.” Ginny tapped the tip of his nose. “Trust me, you’ll be glad I woke you.” She gestured to two brooms (one of which was his own Firebolt) leaning against the back of the sofa. “We’re going for a midnight fly.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry stared up at the sky without truly seeing. Between the feel of the soft grass on his back and the sight of millions of stars, he could never remember feeling so content. Having Ginny’s hand intertwined with his didn’t hurt, either.

They had snuck down to the Quidditch pitch, using the cloak as an extra precaution (not that Harry minded having his hands on Ginny’s hips as they walked close together). It only took them a few moments to arrive at the dew cover field. They had flown for well over an hour, by Harry’s estimate. They’d raced from one side to the other (the winner presenting the loser with a commiseration kiss), then they’d taken turns with his Firebolt, and finally, they’d shared a slow glide on the aforementioned broom (Ginny had steered them as Harry held onto her waist).  He hadn’t needed convincing to give up controls if it meant keeping Ginny close.

It had been Ginny who suggested drying a patch of grass and resting for a bit before heading back to their beds. Harry had been more than happy to follow her suggestion.

“Harry?” Ginny was the first to break their quiet serenity. “Tell me something.”

Harry tore his gaze from the night sky to look at Ginny. The three-quarter moon illuminated her in a perfect glow, a look Harry would’ve assumed that only angels should be allowed to have. She was looking at him, her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Tell you what?”

Ginny shifted. “Anything. I want to know you, Harry.” He was about to protest, but she spoke again before he could say anything. “I know you, but I want to really know you.”

Her gaze held his, a look that he couldn’t quite place evident in her brown eyes.

“Okay,” Harry spoke slowly, trying to think of what to say. “What -- er --”

Ginny twisted entirely, now laying on her side. “What do you want to do after Hogwarts?”

In spite of the warmth of his jumper, Harry shivered; his mind automatically repeated “neither can live while the other survives.”

“Uh… don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

Ginny gave him a skeptical look.

“Alright.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I thought about becoming an auror.”

“Yeah, I could see that.” Ginny leaned forward, a sly smirk on her lips. “I can also imagine you in those auror robes.” She fanned herself. “Muy caliente!”

Harry’s cheeks warmed in the cool night air. Flirting. Something he was piss poor at, but Ginny didn’t seem to care. Really, she had enough wit for the both of them in that department.

Ginny laughed, clearly able to see his darkened complexion even with the milky sky being the only source of light. She closed the small space between them and pressed her lips to his. “Alright, Potter, your turn.”

“My turn?” Even though the kiss was brief (and by all considerations chaste), it still made his head spin.

“You ask me a question. Nothing off the table.” She smirked. “Do your worst, Potter.”

Harry locked eyes with her again. Neither could back down from such a blatant challenge. He needed to make it good.

“Uh…” The way she was looking at him, so confident… so beautiful. “What’s something you’re self-conscious about?”

Ginny’s brow raised in surprise. “Huh, I didn’t expect that.” She ran her hand through the trimmed grass, her eyebrows now scrunched together in thought. Harry couldn’t stop himself from watching her fingers slowly thread through the dark blades. The way those hands had been wrapped around his neck earlier… threaded through his hair.

“I’d say my freckles.” Ginny’s voice broke Harry out his trance.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean.” That confident look from earlier had vanished, replaced with a look of uncharacteristic shyness. “They aren’t the most appealing thing, now are they? Most people like skin like Phlegm...”

“I like your freckles.” Harry blurted.

Ginny gave him a curious look. “Really?”

“Yeah-- I -- I mean.” And now he was tongue tied… super. He took a deep breath. “I think your freckles look cute.”

The smile that broke onto Ginny’s face made Harry know he said the right thing. “My turn, then.” She rubbed her chin as if giving deep thought to her question. “When did you start to fancy me?”

This was a topic Harry hadn’t wanted to breach. He had no desire to tell her about that monster she seemed to create.

“Uh-- you know.”

“No, I don’t think I do.” That smile from earlier became wicked.

Harry sighed. He stood, offering Ginny a hand. She accepted it with a quirked brow. “I need to walk a bit.” He kept his hand in hers as they headed towards the entrance tunnel.

“If I had to put a day on it…” He thought about it for a moment. “I’d guess during the summer holidays.”

Harry kept his gaze in front of him. He figured an egg would fry on his face. “Seriously?” Ginny sounded stunned.

“Yeah.” He shrugged with one shoulder, their footsteps now echoing in the dark corridor. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I didn’t realize it though until I saw you and Dean.” Even the mere mention of the incident in that passage made the beast in Harry’s chest growl.

“That’s what I thought you were going to say.” She stopped their progress, tugging on his hand until he faced her. Harry could barely see anything aside from the outline of Ginny’s profile. “The way you looked at me the next day... “

“I was trying to figure it out. I was confused. On one hand, I was supposed to see you as my best mate’s sister, but then on the other, I really wanted to be the one behind that tapestry.”

“I’d be happy to take you to any snogging spot you’d like.” Ginny moved her body so it was tucked against his, Harry’s back to the wall, their breaths mixing.

Harry couldn’t resist leaning his head down to press his lips to hers. He moved his hands to cup her jaw. Ginny, for her part, let her fingers get tangled up in his perpetually messy locks. He was about to glide his tongue over her bottom lip when she pulled away.

Ginny’s breath came out in a deep sigh. The creature within him moaned rather pitifully at the loss of contact. “These are pointless right now,” she murmured as she took off his glasses and folded them into her robe’s pocket.  

It was a simple thing, something that benefited both of them, but Harry found it somehow just as intimate as her hands in his hair. Then Ginny’s lips were on his skin again. Across his cheeks, up his jawline, down to the pulse point on his neck.

“Merlin.” Harry could barely breathe. His hands moved on their own accord, trying to find any bare skin they could locate. Her robes present a challenge for his wandering extremities, but eventually, Harry’s fingertips touched an area around her hips where her shirt rode up.

Ginny hummed in approval as she trailed her mouth back to his. Harry’s mind couldn’t keep up, but he knew he never wanted it to stop.

Of course, that wasn’t possible. Stupid oxygen!

Ginny pulled away, her breath coming in gasps. “Well, this beats that corridor anyday.”

Harry couldn’t speak. It was as Ginny had taken his tongue with her when she stopped kissing him.

Though he knew Ginny couldn’t see his dazed expression, she seemed to know what he was thinking (or was aware of his utter lack of thought). She took his hand and guided them towards the staircase that led up to the Gryffindor fan stands.

They took seats halfway to the top (a height where no one would notice them unless they looked at the stands from the middle of the field).

Ginny guided Harry onto one of the benches so he straddled the seat. She mimicked his posture before speaking. “It’s your turn.”

“What? Oh! Yeah.” In all honesty, Harry had forgotten all about their little game while her lips had moved across his. “Uh… What’s a skill you wish you had?”

“Oh, good one!” Ginny beamed. Her thumb rubbed across his as she thought. “I wish I had my mother’s cooking abilities. I can’t seem to do anything in the kitchen, except burn things.”

“Really? I’ve always been pretty good at cooking.”

“Harry Potter the future chef?” Ginny laughed.

“If becoming an auror doesn’t pan out.”

“You would look adorable in a little chef’s hat.” Every time she kissed him, no matter how chaste, Harry could swear his IQ dropped five points. This time was no exception. “So, I have to ask the question everyone female at Hogwarts wants to know. How romantic is Harry Potter? What would be your ideal date?”

Harry didn’t know where the question had come from, but he figured what they were doing right now was damn good. “Doing anything with you seems perfect.”

“Well.” Ginny gave him an appraising look. “I would say Harry Potter is a hopeless romantic.”

He shrugged, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Only because it’s you.”

“Merlin.” She scooted forward so she was close to him. His hopes for another kiss were crushed when she flopped her head onto his chest. This worked too.

“So.” Harry didn’t really know what to ask. “Who is your favorite brother?”   

“All of them.” Ginny pulled her face away from his jumper. “They all are my favorite for different reasons.”

Harry considered that. “Even Percy?”

“Even Percy the prat,” Ginny agreed. “Now, Potter, tell me something that you're embarrassed about. The first thing you think of.”

“Oh, Merlin!” Harry wanted to fall through the earth. The first thing that popped into his head… “You know all those bludger injuries I kept getting during practices?”

“Yeah.”

“I kept getting hit because I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

Harry heard the sharp intake of Ginny’s next breath. They were both silent until Ginny said, “Such a hopeless romantic.”

He snorted. “Alright then, Weasley.” He thought about his question. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

“Huh.” Ginny scratched her chin. “Well, Egypt was cool, but I would want to go somewhere I’ve never been. Maybe Spain?”

“I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”

“Bill visited a while back. He went to a place called Tenerife.” Harry didn’t know if Ginny realized her fingers were playing with the hem of his jumper as she spoke, but he sure knew. “The sea is such a gorgeous blue. I think I would like to go there and just relax for a time… pretend there is no war…” Her voice trailed off.

Harry kissed her lightly. “That sounds perfect.”

Ginny smiled, but then her face contorted as she let out a huge yawn. “Okay final question, because I’m getting tired.” She looked up towards the stars for a moment. Harry kept his eyes on her, her freckles made up their own galaxy and constellations… “What’s one word to describe your first kiss?”

“What?”

Ginny looked back at him, an innocent look on her face. “What’s one word to describe your first kiss?”

Oh... this was worse than telling Ron and Hermione… “Wet.” He muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Wet,” Harry spoke louder. “It wasn’t… she was crying.”

Ginny didn’t say anything… she didn’t laugh. “That’s awkward.”

“To say the least.”

“What about your second?”

Harry looked at her. Her expression was curious. “Well…” His hand went to the back of his neck. “You should know. You were there.”

Ginny locked her eyes onto his and Harry could have sworn the sounds of the night disappeared. Nothing else seemed to register except Ginny and that look she was giving him, her parted lips looking so appealing…

Harry didn’t know much about love. It wasn’t as if his Aunt and Uncle kissed him on the top of his head before bed saying they loved him. No, what he’d learned about love happened after the age of eleven. First, there had been Hedwig, and odd as it might sound, she was his first friend. Then Ron and Hermione had become a part of his life. And he loved them, there was no doubt in his mind about that. But that was a friendship love.  

But the type of love he still couldn’t wrap his mind around was being in love. The kind of love his parents had. Harry had watched people like Roger Davies claim to be in love with a new witch every week, and it made no sense to him. But could he be falling in love with Ginny? When she looked at him like that, he swore there was more than moonlight shining around her.

His head was spinning again. Yet, when he looked at her… He had no idea where to go from here.

Ginny seemed to have an idea of what to do. She rubbed a hand over his cheek, that look that seemed to set his insides on fire still present. Her lips pressed lightly to his, after what they had shared earlier, this kiss barely registered as a kiss. And, yet, it sent Harry’s heart racing.

“I’d say your second kiss was bloody good. Not wet at all.” Ginny pulled back, a smile on her lips.

Harry nodded, breathing deeply.

They remained there, Ginny with her hand on his cheek and their eyes locked, for a while. Harry couldn’t care less about being caught, or the time. He just wanted to be there… with her.

“We best go.” Ginny was the one to break their intense gridlock. She took her hand away from his face and intertwined their fingers.

Harry stood, helping Ginny to her feet. He pulled his cloak from his front pocket and tugged it over them. When they were surrounded by the silken cloth, Harry drew Ginny into his chest. “Ready to go, Gin?”

She pulled away from his chest, giving him a final smirk.

Well, shit… There was that light again.

She pecked at his lips quickly before leading them back towards the castle. Harry moved behind her, his hand still connected with hers. He sped up his pace, so his shoulder was brushing hers. Yeah, this moment would be better than any dream his mind could come up with.