#my goodness this is more difficult than figuring out which ao3 handle goes with which tumblr url

[inyoursheets]

i got tagged by the kind @bourbon-ontherocks​ to do the language tag game thingy so let’s goooo

below the cut bc my english language journey has many twists and turns (jk im just a wordy person) (in writing) (as you may know by now)

How many languages do you speak?

two bc im an embarrassment to all my high school modern language teachers. so just dutch and english im afraid

What’s your native language?

my first language is dutch

Which language you’re most comfortable with?

it’s unnerving as hell but............it’s increasingly becoming english? youd think dutch would be the answer and it is in some ways, but considering most of my degree was in english, i genuinely struggle to express myself in dutch more when speaking on topics related to my field. so basically whenever someone tries to debate me im like !! i know but i dont know how to say this in dutch !! aah !! help !!! many thoughts, zero coherent sentences

the only reason im less comfortable w english is when speaking, mostly bc of my pronunciation. speaking english is something i do considerably less compared to reading, writing, and listening in/to english, especially now that im done w my studies.

also! i notice that while i understand the meaning of english words, sometimes when i deliberately literally translate them in my head (a much slower process than the intuitive way i normally speak/listen to english) the meaning hits me more? like, it sinks in a little more, it lands closer to home? english not being my first language means it creates some emotional distance from what im talking about.

so, i now sometimes try to deliberately seek out books and articles in dutch on important topics, bc that way i take in more of the depth of meaning and i feel addressed more directly on an intuitive level. does that make sense? for example, reading about racism and white privilege in english gives me a little more distance from the subject tho it shouldn’t, by virtue of it being in a language that is not the one i was raised with. so especially topics relating to (my) societal privileges, i try to also engage with in dutch, and not just in english. im not gonna stop learning about them in english, there’s a fuckton more information out there on any topic, really, in english, and so many people i learn so much from speak english. but i gotta keep reminding myself to also consume dutch articles/books/etc., especially when it’s very important that i really hear what’s being said

Where or how did you learn English?

formally? i started in primary school and then all of high school (we dont have middle school here, fyi). but really, what helped the most was reading books and watching tv shows and films in english.

first, id read the dutch translation of a book. then id read the english version, already knowing the story. then slowly i got to a point where i didnt need to already know the book before being able to read it in english.

same with tv and film -- first id watch dubbed versions of tv shows, which is common practice in the netherlands with shows aimed at a young audience (that’s the extent of it as far as i can tell - other than kids’ movies, films in the cinema are not dubbed). then i got to a point where i could watch those same shows in english with dutch subtitles (shows airing earlier in the day would be the dubbed version, and in the evening theyd be subbed). then i got to a point where i could watch shows that aren’t dubbed in the first place, with dutch subtitles. then i got to the stage where i watched shows with english subtitles. and now i forget subtitles exist and only watch things in english. the only time i’ll turn on (english) subtitles is if there are people whose accents i find more difficult to understand.

i think consuming media in english in these stages (which took years! slow process! happened alongside of high school english classes!) is what helped me learn english the most, next to formal training. that’s really how my vocab improved and how it keeps improving, i guess. tho the amount of times i encounter a word i dont know the meaning of has significantly lessened

(also what helped is living in sweden and in the uk for a few months. no choice but communicating in english. and like i said, most of degree was in english so i had to read and write in english like every day. in conclusion: being surrounded with english on a daily basis is why im at this level, not just from watching hannah montana)

When outlining a fic, which language are you thinking in?

ok so i dont really outline fics ??? it’s more like. a few bullet points of vague ideas (in english) and then i start. but if i were to finally get my shit together and actually properly outline, id do so in english

When planning a fic, which language are you thinking in?

yeah also in english

Is the first draft in your native language, or is it in English?

also english. it wouldnt even occur to me to draft or outline in dutch. i might if the show itself was in dutch but since it’s in english....ok wait no i wouldnt, im far too lazy to translate a whole draft and i commend people that do!

What do you [think] of your English?

ummmmm well. i think i could improve on the speaking front and that my pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired. and i think i could stand to be a little less arrogant sometimes bc i tend to think i know meanings of words but sometimes i dont know the exact nuance of a word or all of its meanings. so if i were a little less cocky about the whole ordeal id probably improve more. annnnd bc these days i learn most new words on online, i should be more proactive about figuring out where terms originate from and pay attention to whether a word or a phrase is okay for me to use or not (like not appropriating AAVE).

other than that i think my english is fine. and i think that me thinking in english more often than in dutch means im what dutch people talk about when they say dutch is dying out lmaoooo you’re WELCOME

im tagging................. ok im actually not even sure who in this fandom doesnt have english as a first language? so im just gonna tag fic writers and hope they speak multiple languages. like my wife @mrslackles (i should know this about my wife! sorry!) or @bethsuglywigs ?? @septiembur ??? @riosnecktattoo ???? somebody pls send help. ok you know what im just gonna double tag @bathroombreaks and @missmaxime

also whether i accurately tagged you or not, no pressure. also if you’re reading this and english isnt your first language, TAG YOU’RE IT

[echoghost1]

What's In A Name

okay, this took me longer than I expected... but here is the fic based on this post

Title: What's In A Name

Summary: Danny thought that having a sub in class would make things easier. Unfortunately, this leads to everyone finding out that his first name isn't Daniel.

His class isn't taking the news very well.

word count: 1670

you can read it on AO3 or down below the cut!

Oh, and I guess I'll tag the people from that post: @spookberry @shinygoldstar

Danny had just gotten to school and was getting his supplies for first period when Tucker ran up with way more excitement for this early in the morning.

“Dude, you’re never going to believe it!”

“Believe what?” Danny asked with an amused grin.

“Lancer took a sick day since the first time in forever!”

Danny felt like he was missing something.

Tucker rolled his eyes when Danny didn’t react correctly, “Subs, man. We have subs.”

“In all of his classes?” Danny asked as the news finally sunk in.

“Yup.” Tucker said with confidence as he popped the ‘p’.

“I have so many classes with him.”

“I know dude, me too!” He wrapped his arm around Danny’s shoulder, “Which means that today is going to be a breeze.”

Danny smiled and couldn’t help getting excited about a nice easy day at school.

================================================

His first class was easy.

The sub seemed just as tired as they were and simply checked that they were in their assigned seats and handed out a worksheet for them to do.

Once the teacher made it clear that they didn’t care if they worked together or not, it turned into more of a hang-out session than actually getting much work done.

================================================

His second period was science which he didn’t have with Mr. Lancer so he actually had to pay attention.

It was a lab day and he was still banned for life from handling all fragile school property, so the lab they had was a bit difficult until the teacher remembered (was reminded) and let him team up with Mikey.

All he had to do was take notes on what was happening. Which was fine. He could do that no problem.

All Mikey asked was for his handwriting to be legible.

================================================

It was his third class that ruined everything. It had all been going so well until then.

The teacher had decided to ignore the seating chart list and did roll by reading off the class roster list on the computer. Which in theory would be fine, except that the computer list didn’t have the notes that Mr. Lancer had added over the year, things like nicknames for instance.

It would have been fine if she had called him Daniel. It would have reminded him of Vlad, which would have been annoying, but manageable.

Unfortunately his first name isn’t Daniel.

“Johnathan?”

Everyone perked up at the name. They looked around, confusion evident on all of their faces. There was no Johnathan in this class. No John or Johnny’s. Was this a secret classmate? It couldn’t be, all the seats were full and no one here was Johnathan.

The teacher sighed and tried again, “Johnathan Fenton?”

Danny perked up and raised his hand, “Here. Sorry. I just um, everyone calls me Danny. Or Daniel, or just Fenton.” he realized he had been rambling and apologized again.

He looked down at his desk still embarrassed that he sort of forgot his own first name for a second. Then he felt like he was being watched.

He looked up and realized everyone, but Tucker, who was too busy chuckling to himself, was staring at him with varying degrees of confusion and anger. Sam included.

The class said nothing. Only stared for the remainder of the roll call.

Once the teacher was finished, and before they could truly start class, Dash was the first to break the silent tension. “Your name is Johnathan?!”

“Yes?” Danny answered hesitantly as he leaned away from the angry jock. Normally Dash wasn’t much of a threat anymore after all the ghost hunting, but he couldn’t exactly use his powers in the middle of class.

“Since when?!”

“Birth?”

“No!” Dash countered.

“Look, I’m named after my dad and it’s too confusing if we both go by the same name, so we just use my middle name instead.”

“But your dad’s name is Jack.”

“Which is short for Johnathan,” Danny explained with a sigh.

Dash sputtered in confused annoyance. Apparently, he didn’t know that either.

Before he could get too angry about his lack of knowledge, the teacher made it clear that they were going to start class now.

Dash glared at Danny and pointed an accusatory finger at him, “I don’t believe you, Fenton.”

“Okay?” Danny shrugged it off and the rest of the class went back to ignoring him.

Except for Sam.

She was still glaring at him.

“What?” Danny mouthed not a hundred percent sure as to what his gothic friend was upset about.

She flipped open her notebook hard enough for the paper cover to slap against the desk and furiously scribbled something down before tearing out the page and quickly folding it like a ninja star and chucking it at his head.

He carefully unfolded the note and read it.

“Are you serious?! Is this some elaborate prank?”

Danny looked up to Sam in surprise and then back to the note.

“No really. That is my name.” he wrote before trying his best to fold the note back up as she had it. He really wasn’t as good at it as she was.

She wrote her response quickly and made a point to get the creases of the folds just right. “Then why is Tucker laughing?”

“I don’t know? I’m not a mind reader Sam.”

“Did he know?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t really understand why she was so upset by this. It didn’t really matter. Did it? “I wasn’t keeping it a secret. I just forgot.”

“Forgot what? That it was your name or that I didn’t know?”

He hesitated too long and Tucker finally snatched the note from him and read it over before snickering to himself and added his own two cents before tossing it back to Sam.

Finally, Sam smiled. With a roll of her eyes, she slipped the note into the pocket of her notebook and went to doodling like nothing was wrong.

Danny wasn’t really sure what that was all about, but he was glad it was over.

================================================

The rest of the day was mostly fine. His friends teased him about his full name occasionally throughout the day, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Dash kept giving him the stink eye, which was weird, but better than being shoved into his own locker.

Lunch was a bit of a disaster once Tucker let out his inner bookie and started holding bets on what Danny’s real name was.

There were three options.

One was that his name was really Daniel and he was just pranking everyone somehow.

The second was that his name really was Johnathan and he was telling the truth because Fenton can’t tell a lie to save his life.

While the third was that he had a completely different name and may or may not be related to the Fenton’s at all.

Danny wasn’t sure if he should be finding all of this hilarious or just plain annoying. Maybe it was one of those, ‘we’ll laugh about it when we’re older’ things?

Of course, word spread fast and everyone was trying to figure out what the real answer was. No one was asking Danny, because they weren’t sure if he actually was a reliable source. Tucker refused to give the answer until the end of the day when he would reveal the winners. And Sam admitted that all of the name nonsense was news to her, but since she loved chaos, she would wink and add, “But it could be true.”

Danny realized too late that the only other person to ask before the end of the day was his sister.

Before he could get to her, someone else beat him to it.

Dash had cornered her just outside of the library and asked, “What’s your brother’s name,” without any preamble.

Of course, Jazz, being two years older than them and in none of their classes, had no idea what had been going on. So she answered the question as best she could despite the confusion, “Danny?”

“Ha! I knew he was a liar!” Dash boasted as he turned around and punched his fist into his open palm as he eyed Danny.

“Wait!” He called out to Dash before turning his attention to his sister, “He means my first name!”

“Oh,” she turned to Dash, “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Dash’s shoulders slumped in defeat, “his name isn’t Danny?”

“His middle name is, but not his first name.” she turned back to Danny, “Didn’t you explain it?”

“Of course I did! He just didn’t believe me! And now the whole school is losing their minds because they think this is some crazy prank or that I’m a liar or something.”

Danny sighed and composed himself before giving the warning as he had meant to, “Tucker is taking bets on what my name is so other people might ask you about it too.”

Jazz hummed thoughtfully to herself while nodding, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You are going to tell them the truth right?”

“Of course,” she said but she still had that far-off look in her eye.

Danny figured he would probably regret asking, but he was just too curious, “what are you thinking about?”

“This is very interesting from a psychological perspective, don’t you think?”

“How?”

“Well by learning that what they assumed to be true, wasn’t, it has shifted their perspective on things.”

“Do you really think it’s that deep?”

“What do you think it is then?” she asked, not annoyed that her theory was being questioned, just curious.

“I think people just like drama.”

“Perhaps.” she said as she watched a dejected Dash walk away, “and maybe it’s a bit of both.”

“Whatever it is I hope it goes away tomorrow.” he walked away and wondered if this was a preview as to what would happen if his secret got out.

He stopped in his tracks with a sigh. No, if they found out he was really Danny Phantom it would be worse. So much worse.

[extasiswings]

44 please ma'am the serotonin I need it

#44 "You've always felt like home." On ao3 here.

Eddie finds words difficult.

Most people assume that’s because he doesn’t know what to say or how he feels, that he’s deliberately holding back—but that’s not usually the problem. Sometimes, yes—words are difficult because they mean too much, because he feels too much, because cutting himself open for someone else to root around inside of him and risking them finding him wanting is terrifying. But usually—usually it’s that words aren’t enough. They so often feel inadequate on his tongue, insignificant. Besides which, words alone can be so easily tainted.

I love you, I need you, I want you—phrases composed of straightforward sets of three little words. Phrases that he’s said before, but gradually stopped. Because they’re not so straightforward in practice. With Shannon, as years went on, as they broke down, words became qualified.

I want you...but not all of you.

I need you...but I can’t trust you.

I love you...but it’s not enough.

Eddie doesn’t know how to say those things again without those connotations bleeding through. So he doesn’t.

Actions. Actions are clearer. Actions are solid. He prefers actions, prefers symbols, because he’s not limited by the boundaries of vocabulary. And yes, sometimes he still has to find words to use in addition, but it’s easier when there’s something concrete to ground them.

“There’s no one in the world I trust with my son more than you.”

“I forgive you.”

“That’s not going to happen to us.”

“You act like you’re expendable, but you’re wrong.”

The problem is, he can’t seem to find the right combination of actions and words to get Buck to understand his real meaning. The problem is, even if he could fall back on one of those little three-word phrases, he’s not sure Buck would believe him. After all, he gave Buck the most important piece of him, Christopher, legal and notarized and wrapped up in an official bow, and Buck still only seems to accept the bare minimum notion that Eddie wants him around.

So, Eddie sits with his feelings—with love and want and need, desire and trust and faith—he sits with them for months after the shooting while he tries to piece himself back together and Buck dates Taylor. He sits with them when he backslides a bit after they respond to a call with a gunshot victim, when Buck breaks up with Taylor and doesn’t explain why, when Buck goes back to being there with him, with Christopher, all the time, his own apartment more of a formality.

Sometimes, usually late at night when they’ve been drinking, Eddie will look over and wonder if he shouldn’t just close the distance and kiss him. Pull Buck down the hall to his bed and strip him bare, put his mouth on every inch of skin and press love into him until he’s wrung out and gasping. It would be easy.

But. Buck—Buck has spent a long time as an object of desire, believing himself to be good for little else than whatever his body can give to others. And he’s gotten better about that, Eddie knows, but that doesn’t mean Eddie wants to risk sending him back to that kind of thinking. He doesn’t want to give Buck any reason to ever question what he wants from him.

So, no. It can’t be a seduction. Not unless Buck initiates it, and even then he has to handle it right.

It has to be right. Buck deserves that.

In the end, though, it all comes back to the shooting. Which seems…fitting.

***

Buck doesn’t know why Eddie’s suddenly decided to be cryptic as anything. Of course he can have his own plans and they’re not joined at the hip, but Eddie usually does at least tell him things, especially when he’s asking him to watch Christopher. But instead, Eddie’s been vague, on two different occasions just saying that he has an appointment and vanishing for several hours. It’s weird, but when Buck hesitantly asks if Eddie’s back in therapy, Eddie shakes his head, gives him a small smile, and assures him that he’s fine.

So, then, Buck wonders if Eddie’s dating again. And the thought of that—well.

He’s been doing better, is the thing. He knows he belongs, that he has a life in LA and a place with Eddie and Christopher and that Eddie’s not going to show him the door if he gets another girlfriend. Buck knows that. He’s come a long way.

But the idea still makes him feel…sick. Like he missed his chance. Because he’s been waiting and waiting and waiting to be better, to be able to think about being with Eddie in the way he really wants without panic closing his throat as his mind takes him back to standing on a street covered in blood. He’s been waiting for Eddie to be in a better place too.

He thought they had time. He thought he had more time.

He doesn’t know how to ask though. So he doesn’t, just lets it grate at him, itching under his skin. At least, until he happens to look over in the locker room at the right moment a month later to see—

“What’s that?”

Eddie turns his head as he shrugs his uniform shirt on.

“What’s what?”

“That—” Buck can’t help himself from closing the space, tugging the unbuttoned fabric aside to get a closer look at the large swath of black and grey over Eddie’s upper chest.

It’s a sunflower on a diamond backdrop, the stem growing up from the bottom point. The style of the petals makes them look almost three-dimensional and the center is ever so slightly raised, a byproduct of working Eddie’s scar tissue into the design. Buck swallows hard as he stares, his hand lifting unconsciously to touch because he knows what’s there, he knows it’s a scar, he knows because he watched it happen, held pressure on the wound. But Eddie’s not bleeding now. It’s just ink. Ink painting over scars and skin alike and shading the reminder of one of the worst moments of Buck’s life into something beautiful.

“When did you do this?” He asks, only to realize immediately. “Oh. Your secret appointments—”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies quietly. His eyes are soft. “It wasn’t really secret, I just…I was going to tell you when I figured out how.”

Buck blinks. When he figured out how? He glances down again and clears his throat when he realizes his palm is pressed firmly to Eddie’s skin, his fingers splayed over the tattoo. But he doesn’t pull away.

“Why—um. I mean, it’s your tattoo, it’s not my business, you didn’t need to tell me—”

“Yeah, I did,” Eddie says. He looks nervous, glancing away, his fingers leaping to his hair. And for some reason, that makes Buck’s mouth go dry.

“Why?” He manages again. Eddie’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips and Buck can’t quite stop himself from watching.

“Because it’s for you,” Eddie admits finally. “It’s you.”

Buck goes still and meets Eddie’s eyes.

…and of course, that’s when the alarm goes off.

***

It’s a long, hectic shift, with very little time to talk. Which, for once Eddie is grateful for. It’s a conversation he’s prepared to have, but not in public. Not at the station. So when Buck lingers in the locker room as they’re changing to leave, shooting him glances, Eddie bites his lip and looks back.

“Meet me at home?” He asks. And Buck sucks in a startled breath, his gaze searching for a moment before he nods.

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll meet you…at home.”

Christopher is still at school so they have a little time once Eddie walks through his front door to Buck sitting on the couch, staring at his hands and lost in thought. Eddie doesn’t say anything at first, just goes through the motions, slipping his shoes off by the door and dropping his keys in the bowl next to it. And then he sits next to Buck on the couch and waits.

“You said…it was for me?” Buck says finally.

Eddie’s tongue traces the edges of his teeth as nerves shake up his stomach.

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t covered any of your other scars,” Buck points out.

“I know,” Eddie replies.

“So…why?”

Eddie bites his lip and shrugs. “Because I hate that one. And so do you. And because the best part I remember from that day is you telling me that you had me and that everything would be okay. Because I believed that then and I believe it now. Because I wanted—”

He cuts off and clears his throat. He doesn’t know where that sentence goes. He wanted something permanent? Wanted the symbol?

Buck finally looks up from his hands.

“You asked me to meet you at home,” he says. “But you didn’t say…your home. You just said home”

Words are difficult. But these ones are easy.

“You’ve always felt like home,” Eddie replies. “Wherever you are—this place—”

“I’m in love with you,” Buck blurts out, and Eddie’s heart skips.

Finally. Finally.

“Well that’s convenient. Since…I am, too.” Those words are easy and Buck surges forward and kisses him. Eddie presses into it, relief coursing through him.

“Your lease is up soon, isn’t it?” He asks breathlessly when Buck pulls back.

“Yeah,” Buck replies. “Why?”

Eddie kisses him again. “Don’t renew it,” he mumbles against Buck’s lips.

“No?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No. Stay.”

Some words are easy.

[thedragonnerd]

Fic: Love Languages

Headcanon suggested by a lovely anon, which spawned into a fic. Read on Ao3 or under the cut.

Words of affirmation

Receiving compliments or words of encouragement are not uncommon for Namaari. She has gone through life aiming to be the best at everything she does – the best leader, the best warrior, the best Princess – and along with her success come compliments on her fighting techniques, her decision-making skills, and even her ability to look formidable in her formal attire.

As royalty, people lavish her with praises when they see an opportunity to get into her good graces, despite the obvious lack of sincerity behind their words, and it tires her to deal with fawning citizens. She loves her people, but she’d rather they’d love her back truly; false words mean nothing.

Chief Virana does not give out compliments easily, and is often faster to critique than to encourage. Namaari pretends her mother’s approval is nothing more than something important to receive from her Chief, but in reality, she craves hearing soft words such as ‘well done, Morning Mist’, whenever she is lucky enough to have them bestowed upon her.

As she grows up, she decides that sweet words are nice to have, but ultimately unnecessary – nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement is needed, before one can place it aside and move on to more important things. And then Raya comes back into her life.

Raya, who can flirt endlessly with elaborate innuendos until Namaari rolls her eyes at her ridiculousness. Raya, who is quite happy to press herself closer than absolutely necessary in their sparring sessions, just to set out some unspoken physical challenge.

And yet, when it comes to providing a genuine compliment, Raya practically freezes.

‘I like…like your hair,’ she mumbles one day to Namaari, glancing off to the side in order to avoid making eye contact. Her cheeks are flushed bright red, even though earlier in the day she had made a lewd comment about a sword which didn’t even have her blinking.

For some reason, Raya’s lack of suaveness when it comes to providing true compliments delights Namaari, and she hoards each instance close to her heart, happy in the knowledge that every word spoken was genuine in its meaning.

In return, she starts to gift Raya with compliments of her own.

For Raya is not used to receiving compliments, at least not in a long time. Her Ba used to provide encouragement and compliments often, but that was many years ago, and now he hesitates to put them into words sometimes, unsure of how this new dynamic works when he’s looking at a grown-up daughter rather than a small child.

Namaari has no difficulty in sharing them though.

‘You look very beautiful today,’ she tells Raya softly one evening, when they are having dinner. Raya stammers out some incomprehensible response, and spends the rest of the meal staring down at her bowl, occasionally darting her eyes over to Namaari.

‘I love that hairstyle on you,’ Namaari says to her a few days later, watching as Raya braids her hair back with expert precision.

‘Umm…thanks?’ Raya squeaks.

‘Your techniques were excellent today,’ Namaari informs her after a sparring session. This time, Raya just nods, and clears her throat before trying to awkwardly change the subject. Namaari can still see the smile on her lips though.

Eventually, Raya becomes better at both giving and receiving words of affirmation. Namaari learns how true compliments can be more meaningful than expected.

It isn’t the most important aspect of their relationship, but they like to encourage each other all the same.

Acts of service

Raya sees how much of a burden Namaari perpetually takes onto her shoulders, in her duties for Fang. She is so focused on helping her people rebuild and expand, or going away on diplomatic missions to help form better relations with the other lands, that she forgets to take a moment to breath sometimes.

Raya wants to take some of her stress away, by helping her carry out some of her duties or at least be involved in organizing certain aspects of the expansion projects, but she discovers quickly that Namaari is somewhat of a perfectionist. It is almost more stressful for her to find herself out of the loop or uninformed about decisions, than it would be to allow her undertake the duties in the first place, and so Raya finds it more helpful to just back off from the work unless asked to provide support.

It’s also a way for Namaari to feel as if she is atoning for her past actions. Raya wishes she wouldn’t feel the need to do so, but it is something they’ve argued about before, and they always end up stuck in a perpetual loop.

One of the ways Raya can help however, is with her cooking.

Namaari is an awful cook (something Raya unfortunately discovers herself with one ill-fated meal), but she is fascinated by watching Raya conjure something up in the kitchen.

Gone are the days of living off jackfruit jerky; with so many fresh and interesting ingredients at her disposal, and with the occasional reminders from Ba when she is unsure about something, Raya makes a whole array of different foods over the months.

It’s one of the best ways of getting Namaari to relax, Raya finds. Every mealtime when Raya is behind the pot, Namaari will abandon whatever work she is doing, and will sit and watch Raya finish making the dishes. They’ll always eat it together, and for a short while, Raya can feel the stress lift free from Namaari as she laughs over Raya’s words and enjoys good food.

Gifts

The first gift Namaari ever gave Raya has almost become a symbol for their entire complicated history. It represents new friendship, betrayal, and after so many years…forgiveness and a fresh start.

Namaari gives it back to her not long after the return of Kumandra, before she can second-guess herself.

‘It was a gift,’ she says, half-expecting it to be thrown back in her face. But Raya runs her finger gently over the surface of the dragon pendant, and then sends her a small smile. The next day, Namaari sees it hanging around her neck once more.

Once they start dating properly, Namaari can’t get it out of her mind how much the gift seemed to mean to Raya, both times.

‘She still doesn’t have that many personal belongings,’ Namaari informs Sisu, as an explanation as to why she was forcing the dragon to accompany her around endless market stalls in Talon, looking for the perfect gift for Raya. ‘I figure it’s because she was on the move so much in life, she couldn’t carry a lot.’

Sisu makes an ‘mmm’ sound, clearly not buying her reasoning completely, but allows the topic to drop when she’s distracted by shiny objects at the next stall.

Namaari finds a small knife that can be strapped to a wrist and slipped up the sleeve. She knows how much Raya prefers to be carrying at least one weapon with her at all times, and this would be perfect for diplomatic meetings – subtle, and easy to hide. And indeed, Raya wears it continuously after receiving it as a gift.

On another visit to another market, this time in Spine, Namaari spies a comb with a beautifully carved handle.

‘For your hair,’ she says in an attempt to be casual, thrusting it awkwardly in Raya’s direction that evening. Raya loves it, and it is indeed used every night before bed to comb out her braids.

Every time Namaari has to travel on diplomatic missions, she now ensures that she brings back something small for Raya.

‘I love the gifts,’ Raya tells her one day. ‘But I love even more how it shows you’re thinking of me when you’re away.’

One evening, as they are getting ready for bed, a small golden ring drops out of Namaari’s pocket by mistake.

‘Is…is that my old hair band?’ Raya asks, peering over the side of the bed as Namaari scoops it up in a hurry. ‘I thought I’d lost that years ago.’

‘I found it,’ Namaari says defensively, clutching it tight in her fist. ‘I guess…I never asked you if you wanted it back?’

Raya shakes her head with a smile, but the following evening, she steps up behind Namaari, sliding her hand into her pocket. Namaari watches as she pulls out the hair band and threads it onto a small gold chain.

From then on, they both wear a gift from the other around their necks.

Physical touch

Sometimes, everything can become overwhelming, the past traumas so great that it seems suffocating. And in that darkness, sometimes the gentle touch of another is the only thing keeping the world grounded.

Raya goes six long years without receiving a hug. At the time, she doesn’t see it as a big deal – she’s grown up fast, and learnt that the world isn’t the welcoming place her father once hoped it could be. Even moreso, her Ba was the last one to hug her, and she doesn’t mind keeping it that way.

Now though, she finds comfort in the small touches. It’s in the featherlight way Namaari’s nose brushes against her neck as they curl up together in bed, waiting for the morning sun to rise. It’s in the gentle trail of Namaari’s fingers across her back, as they stand talking to others, and Namaari absentmindedly reaches out for her. It’s in the soft kiss against her temple, when Namaari has to go back to work after lunch.

Occasionally, she will need to be encompassed by that comfort, and in this moment, she will go and find Namaari, stepping closer until her forehead rests on her shoulder. No matter what she was previously doing, Namaari will pause everything, wrapping her arms tightly around Raya, and they stand there until Raya can feel as if she can breathe again.

Namaari has a habit of falling too far into her own mind sometimes. She is an outwardly composed and pragmatic individual, but internally, all sorts of doubts and guilt still plague her, and there are days where she can’t shake off the feeling that she isn’t doing enough in her life to atone for her past, or that she is a fraud who has no right in stepping up and trying to lead her people when her previous actions cost them so much.

It’s difficult for her to ask for help in these moments. Raya learns instead to notice the signs of a bad day, or whenever Namaari gets trapped into a downwards spiral, and she will take Namaari by the hands and sit them somewhere quiet.

There they can actually talk, and sometimes Namaari feels comfortable enough to share her fears. But the most important thing, Raya finds, is to slide an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in tight and peppering her cheek and bare shoulder with small kisses.

Raya refuses to let her go until she sees at least one small smile.

Quality time

In the early days of the relationship, there is still so much separation between the two of them. Raya is in Heart, helping her Ba welcome back everyone to their lands, fixing up the buildings, ensuring the harvest gets started…There are so many jobs to do, and Raya knows Namaari is undergoing the same issues back in Fang, coupled with an expansion of their kingdom.

On top of all of this, there are endless council meetings and diplomatic missions, so if it isn’t Namaari being busy with politics, it is Raya, much to her annoyance.

Whenever they do get to spend time together, they ensure no minute is wasted. They have meals together, and spar together, and find all sorts of random ways to entertain themselves. Namaari loves to go out in the evenings and watch the night sky, attempting to teach the constellations to Raya; but Raya decides that these constellations are ridiculous, and so they create their own. Raya meanwhile loves to go for hikes in the woods, dragging Namaari along to discover new plants and wildlife, and occasionally climbing the trees.

They both love to sit in bed next to each other, quietly reading their books, or discussing their day. Sometimes, Raya will lie sideways on the bed, her stomach across Namaari’s legs and her arms hanging over the edge, so she can carve pieces of wood into intricate shapes, with Namaari reads out loud for the both of them.

Even after several years, and living together permanently, Raya finds herself reflecting on the fact that she never gets bored as long as she’s with Namaari.

They are currently lying in a field somewhere in the depths of Heart land, enjoying the sun shining onto their faces and the grass tickling their skin. She lazily wiggles her hand until it makes contact with Namaari.

‘Dep la?’ Raya whispers, and Namaari grunts in response. ‘You don’t get bored with me, right?’

Namaari merely shuffles closer without even opening an eye, resting her cheek against Raya’s shoulder.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she mumbles, and she’s curled up so close that Raya can feel the vibrations of her voice on her skin.

‘Didn’t think so,’ Raya says in satisfaction. They continue to enjoy the peace.

[sergeantsporks]

Whatever It Takes

Rating: Teen and Up, Gen

TW: Self-harm, attempted suicide, emotional manipulation

“While I’ve got you here, want to hear the complete history of wild magic? I’m sure you’ll find it very interesting, considering that you’re old enough to have lived through it.”

“I am not, you little brat. Shut your mouth, I don’t want to listen to your voice.” “Yeah? What if I don’t want to shut up? What if I feel like singing?"

Hunter is a difficult prisoner to keep, and Lilith and Eda are about to find that out the hard way.

Ao3

Ch 1/4: Assassins

“Eda! King, Willow, Gus, Amity and I are going to the Knee for some training! Be back in a few days, love you!”

“Bye! Watch out for coven scouts!” Eda called back, watching Luz and King walk out the door and down the path. The instant they were gone, she whipped out the scrying potion Lilith had given her, and her crystal ball. “Liliiiiiiii!”

Lilith’s face appeared in the crystal ball. “Edalyn! I finished drawing those maps of the keep. Have you managed to…?”

Eda sighed. “Not one single BAT left. I was hoping maybe there was one or two I never met, but nope. Raine really did decide that they would take down the throne with three teenagers.”

“And you.”

Eda felt her face heat up. “Lot of good that did them. Ugh. You’re sure Belos didn’t tell you anything else?”

“Not a single thing. I think he was always planning on replacing me with the Golden Brat as coven head, he just wanted me to get that portal first.”

“Alright, what do we know? Day of Unity bad, but Belos needs all of the coven heads to do it. So we take one out. Same plan as before, just this time we get one alone. You and I can handle one measly coven head, especially since I’ve learned a few feathery tricks since last time.”

“Which one? The Golden Guard? He goes out on missions alone a lot, it wouldn’t be hard to ambush him.”

Eda’s eyes narrowed. “Hold that thought, Lilith. I can think of another one who I’d really like to get my hands on. We might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

“What’s that?”

“Darius. He likes to talk, and he’s a prissy coward. Not to mention, he was the last person who I know saw Raine. If we go after him, we might be able to find out where Raine is, and if we can rescue him, then we’ll have a coven leader dead AND more information on the day of unity.”

“I’ve always wanted to kick mud on him and his stupid fancy cape. Watch that scrying potion, and call me the next time Belos sends him out. We’ll have to move fast. Will you be bringing Luz along?”

Eda shook her head. “No. The fight Raine started—it’s my fight. She needs to focus on her schoolwork, and on making her portal home. Plus Luz, she… ah, she has a big heart. And most of the time, that’s a good thing, but when it comes to an assassination… I don’t think this is a part of my life I want to share with her.”

“Alright. The two of us should be able to handle it on our own. Just say the word, sister.”

Xxx

Hunter knelt before Belos’ throne. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Ah, yes. It has come to my attention that there will be an attempt on Darius’ life.”

Hunter nodded. “I’ll assign him a protection detail immediately.”

“No.” Belos leaned forward. “I want you to protect him. Personally. And… discreetly. Darius will know that you are protecting him, of course, but I want you to stay hidden, so that the assassins will not know you will be there. Catch them if you can, kill them if you can’t. Above all else, I need Darius alive. Don’t let him die.”

Hunter inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

Xxx

“Ready?”

Eda nodded, pulling up a scarf over her face. “Watch out. His abomination form can be a real pain.”

Lilith threw a potion to the ground in front of Darius, and it erupted in a haze of smoke. Eda shifted into her harpy form, and Lilith grabbed onto her talons. Eda flew them down, dropping Lilith and dive-bombing Darius, her talons ripping at his skin.

He shifted into his abomination form at the last second, coughing from the smoke. Lilith came up behind him, slapping a glyph paper onto him. It glowed, and the goop he was made of started to freeze, stopping him in his tracks.

“Tell me where Raine is!” Eda demanded.

Darius rolled his eyes. “This is ludicrous. You aren’t going to win.”

“You seem awfully confident for someone who’s about to freeze into a popsicle,” Lilith snarled.

Eda felt, rather than saw, the attack coming, and she yanked Lilith out of the path of a little blur of gold. “Oh, great.”

Darius broke free of the ice by shifting back to his witch form. “Nice of you to turn up.”

The golden guard didn’t respond, instead launching another attack at Eda, singeing one of her wings. She growled, tackling him, but he zipped out of the way, sending another blast of magic that she just barely managed to dodge.

Lilith slapped a glyph combo on the ground, and vines burst out of the ground, surrounding Darius and Hunter in a wide circle, and then lighting on fire. “Nowhere to run.”

Eda dove once again for Darius, snatching his shoulders in her talons and ripping through his cloak and skin, but another blast from Hunter made her flap backwards to avoid getting hit. Lilith froze the ground, turning her ring of fire into an ice rink as well, melted on the edges. Her sister had strapped fire glyphs to her feet, allowing her to melt the ice and create a stable place to stand wherever she stepped. Eda flapped up, then dove again, this time aiming for Hunter. He zipped to the side, but almost immediately slid on the ice, nearly slipping into the fire ring. Eda dove again, smacking him to the side with one of her wings. He skidded across the ice into Darius, who was fending off attacks from Lilith, back in his abomination form.

Lilith tossed a piece of paper up to Eda, and Eda dove back down, slapping it on Darius’ shoulder. It was the ice glyph again, and the coven leader started to freeze.

Lilith whipped out another glyph. “Nowhere to go, Darius,” she taunted.

She activated her glyph, and Eda soared up out of the way as a blast of light and fire shot out of the glyph.

Darius was half frozen, but he shifted back to his witch form. It happened almost too fast for Eda to catch, but as Lilith’s spell raced toward him, Darius grabbed a dazed Hunter as he struggled to get up and whipped the guard around in front of him, using him as a shield.

The spell struck them, hitting Hunter square in the chest and sending both of them flying backwards. They crashed into Lilith’s flaming wall, breaking the vines and skidding into a tree.

“No!” Eda yelped as Darius rolled to his feet, pushing Hunter off of him and racing away. “GET BACK HERE, YOU COWARD!”

Lilith caught her leg as she started to fly after him. “Edalyn! We got what we came for!”

Eda twisted back to look at her sister. “What are you talking about?! He’s getting away!”

Lilith nodded to the limp golden guard on the ground. “He’s the head of the emperor’s coven, Eda. Coven leader. We got what we needed.”

“You didn’t…”

“Kill him? Doubtful, I designed that glyph with the intention to blast Darius’ abomination form apart so he’d be forced to return to his witch form.”

Eda landed next to Hunter’s limp form. His helmet had been cracked hard enough to fall off. Beans. Despite the fact that her wing still stung from his attack, it was hard to remember how dangerous he was when he looked like this. He was just… some kid. If it weren’t for Belos, he might even be one of Luz’s friends.

“Well? Finish it. This is how we stop Belos!”

“He’s just a kid, Lili. I can’t kill him.”

“I can.” Lilith stormed forward, holding an ice spike. She held it pointed right over Hunter’s heart. “Goodbye, Golden Brat.”

Eda waited. Lilith didn’t make another move. Her sister’s hand was shaking on the ice spike. “Soooooo, are you going to do it, or…”

Lilith tossed the spike to the side. “Alright. Fine. I can’t kill a kid either, even a brat like him. But we blew our shot with Darius, what else are we supposed to do?”

Go figure that her sister had no problem trying to kill Luz, but now, when child-killing was a skill she needed, Lilith had decided to be a better person. “Lili, how do they appoint new coven leaders?”

“There’s an initiation—”

“No, like, what about the old coven leaders? What do they do to them? If they specifically need coven leaders, what do they need about them?”

Lilith frowned. “I… I’m not sure. Darius, he can turn into an abomination. Eberwolf has an extra beast form. The leaders before them had the same abilities, if memory served. But they didn’t have them before becoming leaders.”

“Okay, what about the old leaders?”

“After the old leaders retired, they lost those abilities.”

Eda snapped her fingers. “It’s passed on. From leader to leader. Belos never intended to keep you as the coven leader, so there was no need to keep you around to switch coven leaders. Whatever it is that makes the head of the emperor’s coven special… he’d already given it to Hunter, I’m betting.”

Lilith crossed her arms. “Of course.”

“Lilith, can we leave the self-depreciation for later? I think I’m onto something. Belos needs the old coven heads to pass on the powers—I don’t know what happens if one of them dies, but if the old coven leader is alive, they’ll need that coven leader to pass on their power. So if we just keep Hunter…”

“He’s minus a coven head!”

Hunter groaned and stirred on the ground. Lilith yelped and bashed him over the head with her staff. “Stay asleep!”

Hunter went limp again, and Eda grinned. “Yowch, there, Lili.”

Lilith pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m… not certain that keeping him prisoner is the best idea, Edalyn. It’s a lot harder to hold someone against their will than it is to kill them. Especially the golden guard.”

“From what I’ve seen out of Kikimora this far, it might be just as hard to make him stay dead.” Eda glanced down at Hunter. “And besides, I… I want to ask about Raine.”

Lilith sighed. “Oh, Eda. The emperor… he’s not a merciful man. You might not like the answer.”

“Please, Lili. We can tie him up in the basement, Hooty can hide the door so that Luz won’t find him on accident when she comes back, and if you help me keep an eye on him, he won’t get away.”

“And how long are you planning on keeping him in your basement? Until Belos dies? Until you die? You can’t just keep someone tied up for their whole life, it would be kinder to kill him.”

Eda rolled her eyes. “Fine, if I promise to take him for walks, and buy all of his toys with my own money, and housetrain him really well, can I keep him, Mom?”

“This isn’t a joke, Eda! You are planning on keeping a dangerous individual in your home! He will try to escape! I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to kill you on his way out!”

“Day of Unity, Lilith. I think… I think it may be a one-time event, a chance that doesn’t come around often. We just have to keep him until then. If Belos ramping up his wild-witch catching is any indication, then it must be coming soon. Help me? Please?”

Lilith sighed. “Fine. But when something goes wrong—”

“When? Geeze, put a little more faith in me, Lili!”

“Yes, when something goes wrong, I am absolutely going to say ‘I told you so.’”

Xxx

Darius knelt before Belos’ throne. “My lord!”

“Darius. Where is the Golden Guard?”

“You were right. There was an attempt on my life. The Golden Guard stayed behind to ensure my escape.” No need to mention that it hadn’t exactly been of his own free will.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I would have stayed, but I know how important it is for the day of unity that all coven heads are present, so I’m afraid that I had to retreat.”

Belos leaned forward. “I’m sorry, what was that last part?”

“I… know that all of the heads of the covens must be present?”

“Interesting. And what, pray tell, is the Golden Guard, other than my right hand?”

A bead of sweat dripped down the back of Darius’ neck. “The… head of the… emperor’s coven?”

Belos stood up, his eyes flashing that terrifying glowing blue. “Exactly. So, what, pray tell, does that say about the Golden Guard?”

“That you… need him to be present on the Day of Unity?”

Darius didn’t see him move, but in an instant, Belos was right in front of him, staring into his eyes with those creepy flaming blue ones. “So you can figure it out.”

“My Lord, I’m sorry—”

Belos put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just tight enough for it to hurt, and steered him out the throne room door. “You will go out there and correct your mistake. You will go back to where you left him, and you will find out what became of him. Oh, and Darius?”

Darius gulped. “Y-yes, my lord?”

Belos released his shoulder. “Don’t bother coming back without him.”

Ch 2

[mylieutenant]

Can You Hear Me?

After the Promised Day, Team Mustang goes on a questionable mission in the rebuilt Ishval. Following Roy into Hell often feels too literal for Riza.

1.3k words | Warnings: Graphic depiction of violence, sexual innuendo (unrelated to each other) | Read on AO3

Originally written between 2016-2018.

---

“Slow night, Elizabeth?”

I’m going to ask something very difficult of you, Captain.

That’s how she was after an officer from Aerugo who was secretly working with the Ishvalan separatists. They had gotten orders from Central to handle this with maximum discretion. Which Roy had interpreted as, take him out as quickly as possible. Since Aerugo denied all current involvement with Ishval, they wouldn’t be able to explain such a case to the public.

That’s how Riza was in Ishval with her rifle once more.

Roy’s plan involved her, Breda, Fuery… and Scar of all people. Scar, everyone suspected, dreamed of an independent Ishval free from Amestrian rule just as much as any of the separatists. But Scar, Riza was almost certain, despised the separatists more than anyone. Creating tension, perpetuating prejudices, pushing for war. Hatred leading to hatred. Roy had thought the same, and their suspicions were confirmed when Scar begrudgingly agreed to be part of the mission. Scar became the spy they didn’t ask for, and it said a great deal about his reputation that the separatist leaders weren’t suspicious.

That’s how Scar was asked to cite the target in a designated spot during the night, to supposedly discuss his knowledge of Major Miles’s activities. The area was clear; Riza and Breda had scanned it hours earlier. She’d been keeping watch ever since, so unless they’d missed anything, the foreigner didn’t suspect anything.

Not a defenseless civilian, Riza reminded herself. My target is a spy from a different country, seeking to destroy our own from the inside.

“I cannot complain,” she said. “I was expecting it to be crowded, but it looks like we're going to be alone.”

“I could come over and keep you company.”

“Feeling lonely, Roy?” It was easy to be playful, when he was such an excellent lead. “I can assure that having me on the phone will do well enough to keep you company.”

That’s how they’d ended up connected to the civilian grid, which had taken three years and a massive effort to build. The line, still new in Ishval, rarely worked properly and it was being used mostly within the military. Fuery could even work it to their advantage, making the call nearly impossible to trace. It was more than enough. It was, in fact, still too dangerous. But Roy, feeling so inadequate, so dejected back in East City, had insisted on installing a line. At first Riza protested, but she had to admit that their banter was helping her focus.

“You can say you miss me, Elizabeth. It’s fine.” That was no lie.

“Wishful thinking, Roy Mustang. It suits you.”

“Well, a man can dream.”

Before she could think of an answer, a figure approached the meeting point from her right. Riza looked through the scope, but the insufficient light didn’t give her any useful information.

“Wait a minute, we have a customer. I think I know him. Kate, what do you think?”

Fuery, behind her with the equipment, spoke on a different line.

“Do we know this guy?”

Riza kept her eyes on the figure that approached Scar in the darkness, then looked through the scope as he slowed down. She had a clear shot, but she needed to wait for Breda’s confirmation as he carefully watched from a closer spot.

“It’s him,” Fuery told her.

“It’s him,” she repeated, then hesitated. Roy had planned carefully, down to the last detail, yet he hadn’t thought of giving Scar a codename. “Our new girl is greeting him.”

“Your new girl?”

“You’ve met her. Fairly pleasant. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Fuery snickered quietly, and then Roy’s ringing laughter soothing her enough to dispel all the tension she had accumulated in the last few minutes. That’s how she got the trust she was missing, that trust that always faltered, but never proved wrong.

“I must go and greet him properly. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Ah, Elizabeth. Always giving such good service to those who deserve it. I’m proud of you.”

Warmth settled in her chest. Roy was not only reminding her of the righteousness of their mission, but acknowledging the fact that this wasn’t easy for her.

Thank you, sir.

“You’re speaking nonsense, Roy Mustang,” she said. “Have you been drinking again?”

“Again?  Why, Elizabeth, I’m offen—”

The call fell. Fuery let out an exasperated sigh. She imitated him, more calmly. Breathe in, then out, holding that position as she made sure that the forehead of the target was right in the middle of her scope. That Scar couldn’t possibly get hurt.

And then, she pulled the trigger. The sound spread and echoed along the deserted streets. Her chest hurt. Blood splashed out and splattered on the ground as the target stumbled. And then, he fell. Riza closed her eyes. Yet another life taken by her hand. Another corpse without a tombstone. Another soul waiting for her in hell.

This is the enemy. This is what I’m here to do.

“I can’t get us back on. I fear we could’ve been intercepted,” Fuery informed her. “You got him, didn’t you?”

“I did.” And this meant they needed to leave. She remembered now, she had strict orders not to worry about the target. Leave it to Breda, now she should help Fuery dismantle the equipment. She ignored her rapid heartbeat, the breaking sweat, the inclement weather finally taking a toll on her senses. “We should go. We can communicate later as we—”

“Elizabeth!” The voice in her ear startled her. “Elizabeth, can you hear me? Please—”

The memories that crept up weren’t those from the Civil War, but memories of Roy blowing his cover so he could make sure he was safe. Roy’s anguished expression when she’d been bleeding out in front of him. Riza had sculpted it in every corner of her mind when she’d believed it to be the last thing she’d ever see. And it haunted her in dreams, it haunted her when sadness caught her off guard.

It was everywhere now. And Riza felt his fear, deep, devastating, as she knew he was feeling it. This was difficult for her, being back in the battlefield that had seen her become a murderer. But it was just as difficult for Roy, having her on the field when he was miles away. He knew this mission was of relative low risk. No one was after them; they were too many steps ahead from the enemy. And he still feared. He still grieved.

“I can hear you. I’m sorry. We’re having some issues with the line as of late.”

“Right.” Roy sounded defeated. “I knew that. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, I was too distracted by our customer to notice either way. I did an excellent job, if I say so myself. But it’s closing time now, so I'll have to leave you hanging.”

“Such a tease." And just like that, he was back. "Next time, then. The anticipation is killing me.”

Oh, if only she could reassure him, time and time again, that everyone was safe, that the mission had gone without a hitch and they should be back in East City by morning. If only he could acknowledge her state of mind, that he could remind her it was over, and she was doing this for the greater good.

“Always. Thanks for keeping me company,” was all she could muster.

She signaled Fuery to end the conversation he’d pretended not to hear. Fuery, with those big eyes behind round glasses, eyes that asked questions he was too polite to speak aloud. But Riza had no time to lose, no time to worry about discretion. It was over. East City, home, Roy waited for them.

“Let’s go.”

[aalissy]

Locked In

I had a lottt of fun writing this chapter haha <3. I hope you guys like reading it :). Lemme know what you think! I also hope the rest of your week goes well too!!

AO3

Marinette glared at the locked door. She had gone to transform in one of the empty rooms at the school after the latest akuma attack and hadn’t realized that the door would lock behind her. Sighing, she opened up her purse to ask Tikki if she would mind opening it for her when the door suddenly banged open. 

It hit her square in the face and Marinette fell to the ground, clenching her eyes shut in pain. Before she could so much as reprimand the person who had hit her or shout that the door would close behind them, she heard him shout, “Plagg, claws out!”

There was a bright flash of green light behind her closed eyelids and she couldn’t help but to open them in shock after hearing those words. Luckily, after she did open her eyes, she only saw the shaded figure of a black cat. Inwardly seething, Marinette groaned out, “Chat Noir?”

Her partner jumped, turning around with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak. A small, amused grin twitched on her lips as he choked out her name, “Marinette! Wh-what are you doing down there?”

She crossed her arms across her chest, giving him a glare as she forced down any ounce of amusement. She had almost figured out his identity. He needed to be more careful. Plus, he had hit her with the door. Nodding her head at the locked entrance, she tsked, “You just swung the door at me.”

Chat sucked in a harsh breath before leaning down, offering his hand. Marinette could practically see his grimace as he murmured, “S-sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah, obviously not,” she spoke dryly, pulling herself up with his help. She then raised an eyebrow at him. “I hope you don’t have a habit of transforming in front of people?”

He ducked his head and she was certain that there had to be a blush on his cheeks. Chat scratched the back of his neck and then muttered a quiet, “No.”

Marinette snorted softly before shaking her head at him. “Good, because I don’t think Ladybug would like that very much.”

Attempting to ignore her thoughts which were screaming at her about just why Chat was transforming at her school, she opened her mouth to mention the locked door when he cut her off first. “Right, right... listen, Marinette... you didn’t happen to, uh, see anything. Did you?”

Glancing off to the side, she huffed out a quiet sigh. Now was not the time for this. They were currently locked in a room together when an akuma was right outside, wreaking havoc on the rest of Paris. Her purse nudged against her hip impatiently, and Marinette patted it calmly, trying to convey to Tikki that she was still trapped. Meeting what she hoped was his gaze, she spoke seriously, “No, I didn’t, Chat. It was too dark and I had my eyes closed, anyways.”

“Good,” he breathed out in relief before he spoke panickedly, “Wait, Marinette, there’s an akuma outside! We need to go! Ladybug’s probably wondering where I am!”

She couldn’t help the small, knowing smile from forming on her face after he spoke. Ladybug knew exactly where he was. Opening her mouth to remind him about the locked door, she heard a small bang and then a whimper of pain. Wincing, she realized that Chat had figured it out on his own.

“What the,” he muttered, and she heard him wiggle the door handle a few times to no avail.

“It’s locked,” Marinette spoke pointedly, “What did you think I was doing in here anyway? Just standing around?”

“Honestly,” Chat scratched the back of his neck as he turned around to face her. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

She rolled her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes. Her purse once again tapped her side in a silent question and she held it down firmly. The answer was no. It was too risky. Chat had night vision. If he caught a glimpse of Tikki while she was opening the door, it wouldn’t be that difficult for him to put two and two together. 

Marinette then opened her eyes, squinting around the room in the hopes of spotting something useful. It was impossible, though, it was too dark for her to see anything of value. Blowing out a breath, she gazed back up at him. “Well, Mr. superhero, do you have any ideas on how to get us out of here?”

“I was thinking of one thing.” Chat held up his hand, forming a shadowed claw in front of her face.

“You can’t just cataclysm the door down,” she waved her arms in exasperation. “What happens if the akuma comes and you’ve lost your one power? We’d both be doomed.”

“Oh,” he put his hand back down, nodding his head. “Yeah, you’re purrobably right.”

Marinette frowned, tapping her foot at him impatiently. He was making puns at a time like this? Didn’t he realize the danger they were in? Pursing her lips, she again glanced around the room. It was once again up to her to solve the mess they were in. Snapping her gaze back to his, she asked, “Chat, can you see anything useful? Like a vent we can escape in or something we can use to break the lock?”

There was a brief moment of silence as he moved his head from side to side, looking for their escape plan. He then spoke cheerfully, pointing at something she couldn’t see. “Yes! There’s a vent right above us!”

“Perfect!” Marinette clapped her hands together and then beckoned him forward. “Now, come here, I’m going to use you as a boost and then get us both out of here.”

“Uh, purrhaps it would be best if I was the one to go through. I can see better than you. And, besides, you could get hurt out there while I’m stuck in here,” Chat said and she was certain that there was a frown between his brows. 

Her gaze softened as she realized that he was worried about her. He could be so sweet at times. Unfortunately, though, she had to shake her head slowly at him. “I’m so sorry, kitty, but it has to be me. I couldn’t possibly lift you up to the vent.” 

Marinette then felt determination fill her. She would get them both out of here and into that fight. She knew it. Hesitantly, she placed a hand on his arm. “You can trust me, I promise.”

“I do,” Chat spoke quickly and she blinked at the seriousness in his tone. Did he really have that much faith in her? Both as Marinette and Ladybug. “I just... don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Nibbling her lip, she considered his words. She couldn’t exactly promise him that she’d be fine. Squeezing his arm, she then said clearly, “I’ll be safe. I won’t go out unless I know there’s nothing in the hallway.”

Instead of speaking, he simply nodded his head, moving forward so that he was underneath the vent. Taking a deep breath, Marinette then climbed up onto his shoulders, pushing the cover away and pulling herself inside. Almost instantly, she coughed as dust swirled around her.

“If you need anything just shout, purrincess. I swear I’ll cataclysm that door down and get you out of there before the akuma has time to blink,” Chat shouted after her.

Giggling quietly, Marinette then began to crawl. Tikki phased out of her purse when she was far enough away, calling out instructions as she looked for a way out. Together, they worked rather quickly and she soon found herself in the hallway with the locked closet. Opening the door, she beamed over at the superhero, “Ta-da!”

Immediately, Chat wrapped her up in a tight, warm hug, breathing out quietly, “You’re okay.”

“Course I am,” Marinette nibbled her lip before patting his shoulder. “But you need to go. There’s an akuma out there and Ladybug probably needs your help.”

“Right,” he pulled back, giving her a quick nod. “You were absolutely pawsome, by the way, purrincess.”

Rolling her eyes fondly, she didn’t respond, instead giving him a small smile. Chat grinned back before giving her a quick salute, taking off towards the direction of the akuma. Sighing in relief, Marinette scanned her surroundings before opening up her purse. “It’s time for us to go after him. Tikki, spots on!”

[kageygirl]

also on ao3

part 1 here

"Tell me he'll be all right, Roach," Jaskier says softly, but Roach is a clever lady with her own will who doesn't hold with such foolish thoughts, and therefore ignores him, continuing to nibble at a bush.

"I know," he sighs, and shifts to get a bit more comfortable. It's late, and he should just get to his bedroll, instead of curling against the log he'd been using as a backrest, but his crossed arms atop the log make a fair enough pillow. And it would be downright unchivalrous to abandon a lady like that. "I know it's just a ghoul, I know he can handle that, they're probably in a book somewhere with horribly colorful illustrations. A Witcher's First Monster."

Roach snorts, and he mutters, "Yes, well, you're hardly keeping up your end of the conversation, you've no right to criticize my jokes. Put in some effort, why don't you."

It's not that he truly doubts Geralt's abilities, any more than he doubts that the sun will rise in the morning. But sometimes when Geralt goes off alone and it's too quiet, no music or laughter or people to distract him, he thinks about how witchers never retire and his mind runs off into the dark thickets beyond the firelight where all but witchers fear to tread.

He'd been told as a child that his vivid imagination was a curse; it took him years to understand how that could possibly be true.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I shouldn't have said that. You are truly the loveliest of company," he says, resting his cheek against his arm. She's glossy in the fire's reflection, all combed out by Geralt before he left. He would dare anyone to think witchers have no feelings after seeing the care Geralt lavishes upon her. "How about a song, Roach? To lift our spirits?"

She whuffs at her name, and he takes that as assent. Quietly, barely vocalizing at all, he begins an old Redanian pastoral that he hasn't sung in years.

~

He wakes to the smell of leather and oil and sweat, and a tingling at the crown of his head, as if someone had run their fingers through his hair.

"'M awake," he mumbles blearily.

"You shouldn't be," says a low voice. Gravelly voice. Good voice, goes with the smell, and it's... not really a good smell? But it's a particular person's smell, and that person is very good, so: good smell, after all. "Were you bothering my horse?"

"I provided her with" -- he's ambushed by a yawn, cracking his jaw cruelly -- "only the finest entertainment." He rubs an eye with the back of his wrist, trying to wake himself up, but his eyelids have been heartlessly weighted down by some unknown blackguard. "She's a paragon of taste and sophistication. I can tell she appreciated it."

"Mmm."

There's something faintly mocking about that hum, and he's considering mustering the energy for outrage. Any minute how, it'll be right along. "Wanted to wait for you," he says, and sleep's lingering grasp makes it come out more grumpy than he intended -- and more plaintive, too. Bollocks.

His cheeks are just starting to burn, and he's clinging to the possibility that Geralt will just somehow fail to notice, because sometimes one just really needs the gods to give them a break, just forgive all the blasphemy, and --

-- and there are careful fingers trailing through his hair, now, definitely, and oh, he must have been a very good bard indeed. Somehow.

The fingers comb delicately across his scalp, fingertips teasing the fringe away from his face, dipping to curve around the curl of his ear, trailing the warm humming feeling of being cared for behind them. It's the kind of gentleness Geralt never gets to show, because no one ever wants him for that.

Damp-headed fools, the lot of them.

All the tension sighs out of him, and he raises his head a bit, nudging against Geralt's hand. "Feels nice," he murmurs. His cheeks are still prickling with the embers of his embarrassment, but perhaps Geralt will let him blame the lateness of the hour for his dozy neediness.

He's honestly not expecting a reply at all, so when it does come, it burrows that much deeper into his heart. "For me, too," Geralt says, the faintest hesitant rasp, just louder than the crackle of the fire.

The thrill that gives him is the strength he needs to open his eyes.

Geralt is crouched beside him, whole and hale and well. The cheeky firelight makes his pale stubble shine in the dark as it licks at his jaw, and Jaskier is far too well acquainted with the urge to do the same.

He notices the moment Jaskier opens his eyes, because of course he does, and Jaskier only gets the teeniest sliver of an instant to appreciate the soft look in his eyes before his jaw works and he angles his face away. His fingers make one last pass through Jaskier's hair, and then cup the back of his neck. "Get to your bedroll, bard. I'd rather not hear about your back all day tomorrow."

"Fine," he grumbles, just to watch the smirk play at the corners of Geralt's mouth. Then he sets about the monumental task of figuring out where all of his limbs have wandered off to and how to convince them to work together once more.

Like most group endeavors he'd had at Oxenfurt, getting himself to his feet is a qualified success. He stumbles at the finish line, and doesn't mind the mixed metaphor so much when he's saved from falling into the fire by a solid wall of witcher.

It turns out that having his hands unexpectedly pressed against Geralt's chest is a shockingly effective wake-up call. He'd somehow managed to sleep through Geralt getting out of his armor and cleaning himself up and taking care of his swords, and he feels like he's in danger of being chided for that inattention. He can't really worry about that, though, not when he can feel the steady rise and fall of Geralt's muscley chest through a thin layer of cotton, the wolf medallion half-hidden under a fold and winking at him.

He probably spends a bit too long appreciating it, but what is he supposed to do? It's a very nice chest.

He glances up, and Geralt's watching him. Not humorlessly, not sardonically, not any of the other uncharitable adverbs that Jaskier would never put into a song but sometimes considers ever so briefly, just to make a point... but with a patience that feels almost indulgent.

To someone not nearly so fluent in Witcherese, it might not seem like much. But it's such a change from having to scrabble around for (and possibly invent) meagre scraps of affection, so much so that the guards at Jaskier's heart are momentarily laid low.

"I'm glad that you're all right, Geralt." It comes out softly, plainly, in a way he rarely lets himself be. No artifice or dramatic hyperbole, no ironic detachment or invoking an imaginary other. There's an icy coil of panic in his throat after it's out, but he swallows it down; Geralt came back to him unscathed, and he deserves to know that it means something to Jaskier.

"It was only a ghoul." He says it with the supreme unconcern of someone who's dispatched far worse creatures, which is… true. But there's a searching look in his eyes, as if he can't understand why anyone would bother to be concerned about him.

"Yes, well, you're not 'only an' anything," he says, a little hotly, and it's partly about the parade of idiots who've failed to appreciate the witcher, and partly about the idiot in front of him who thinks Jaskier would be one of the former. "You're one of a kind, White Wolf."

Geralt blinks, and then says blandly, "There are other witchers."

Jaskier takes a breath to begin to address that nonsense, and then registers that even for Geralt, that was too bland -- that even with the firelight, his golden eyes are glinting a bit too much. "You know, Geralt -- fine, you're right, you win." He drops his hands and steps back, muttering, "Yes, you're all inter-bloody-changeable, it's ridiculous that I care so much about this witcher in particular..."

He tromps over to his bedroll -- which is nicely laid out already, with a waterskin beside it that he's betting is full, and there probably aren't even any rocks or twigs under it to poke him in the night, and he turns to glare at the witcher who ever so occasionally makes it difficult to remain mad at him, and yes, he appreciates the irony, thank you --

-- only to find that Geralt is in the same spot he was, watching Jaskier, and he looks a bit… lost.

Jaskier caves like a -- whatever it is that caves, he's tired and has other things to worry about. "Geralt?" he asks, stepping back over to him. "What is it?"

"I--" Geralt says, and then drops his chin to stare down and away. When he returns to meeting Jaskier's gaze, only his eyes move. His voice is raspy again when he says, "Thank you."

He has to wind the conversation back a bit -- and skip past the parts that only happened in his head -- but then it hits him, reminding him not a little of once taking a very jarring tiny cannonball to the forehead. "Geralt… that's not a surprise, is it?" he asks, as gently as he knows how. "That I care about you?"

Geralt doesn't answer, just gives him that not-quite-direct look, which is more than answer enough.

"I'm sorry, I -- I always thought you knew," he says, around the lump in his throat. It hurts, to think that Geralt can spot a lie at a thousand paces and hear all the signs that a man's preparing to attack him, but even when it's staring him in the face, he can't sense…

Well. It's just sort of a different language, isn't it? And if a talented and charismatic bard can teach a room full of drunks the history of their realm with a catchy little rhyme, then surely that same bard can handle a single, much more important learner.

He's caught unawares by another yawn, and he blinks back from it to find Geralt facing him again, a somber look in his eyes. "You should rest."

"I should," Jaskier agrees, and he dares to circle his fingers around Geralt's wrist, tugging lightly. "And so should the witcher who made sure there's one less ghoul in the world."

"Three less," Geralt says, and oh, that's new information, but for a wonder, Geralt lets Jaskier pull him towards the bedrolls, so he chooses not to let it upset him. (He'd noted Geralt's bedroll was next to his earlier, of course, but ignored it on the grounds of it not fitting into the narrative of pique he'd been building.)

"Braggart," Jaskier says only, and Geralt breathes out a laugh.

It's right about then that his body decides his borrowed time is up, and he all but collapses into his bedding. He drifts a bit as Geralt goes through his own routine, but stirs himself to roll and face the witcher once he's settled.

"If you wake up before me," he says to Geralt's profile -- as if it happens any other way all that often -- "feel free to play with my hair. If you want."

Geralt snorts, but his mouth curves up, just a bit. "Noted."

Then Geralt reaches over, drawing his thumb and forefinger gently down Jaskier's eyelids, and he's out like the proverbial light.

[just-fandomthings]

For the kiss writing prompt 💕 frostiron + 29. "...as a promise"

Read on AO3 (Post Avengers, 2012)

...as a promise. 

“During my invasion, why did you offer me a drink? You were trying to stall, I’m aware, but why was that the method you chose?”

Stark startles, dropping the gauntlet he’s working on. “What the hell, warn a guy before you appear like that, would you? I’ve got a heart condition.”

“Apologies,” Loki says honestly. “I would have thought you were expecting me; JARVIS told me you agreed I could come down.”

“Yeah, I said you could, but I wasn’t expecting you to be here thirty seconds later. Doesn't matter, I heard you say ‘drink’, are you here to finally collect on my offer?”

“Sir, Loki asked permission to join you ten minutes ago,” JARVIS inputs.

Stark blinks. “Oh. Guess I lost track of time. So, what was your question?”

Loki clears his throat. “I was wondering why you offered me a drink in your tower when you first came to threaten me.”

Stark gives him a strange look. “Well, I needed the bracelets behind the bar so I’d have a suit in case we fought- or, in your case, if you decided to throw me out a window.”

The words are said lightly but Loki still grimaces. “That doesn’t explain why you offered me the drink,” he points out after a moment.

“Why not? I needed to get my bracelets and was planning to pour myself a drink to keep you distracted, so I offered you one too. I’m not sure what answer you’re looking for here.”

“I was not your guest, you owed me nothing. I was your enemy who had just killed your friend- you should have left your armor on when you came inside, instead of selecting a new armor to don.”

“The other one was damaged,” Stark says. “Needed the upgrade- besides, do I have to remind you that was my tower you were using as home base? JARVIS had my back the entire time.”

“Indeed I did,” JARVIS agrees.

“Is this you trying to tell me I’m reckless?” Stark squints at him. “Trying to tell me not to take on an enemy in battle when I’m out of armor or something? Because I gotta tell you, out of everyone on this team except maybe Bruce, I was expecting you to understand that I am more than just-“

“No, that’s not it,” Loki interrupts quickly. “Well, I would rather you not die since you are the least annoying person on this team I’ve been forced on, but I know that you are more than well-equipped to handle any difficult situation with no more than the clothes you are wearing.”

“Thank you, I don’t know why people always assume I’m helpless outside of my armor. And right answer, by the way, I was gonna stick Dum-E on you with the fire extinguisher if you were trying to pull a Cap on me. So, what’s with the third degree, what’re you trying to figure out?”

“I suppose, I am trying to ask why you were polite to me,” Loki mutters. “You did cleverly insult my manhood not a mere minute later, but you saw me in your building, in your home, and your response was to offer me a drink. You certainly weren’t expecting me to accept and talk with you, so why offer it?”

“Uh, common courtesy? Because I wanted to?” Stark frowns at him. “Either of those, both of them really, have your pick. I really don’t see what the big deal is, you know. It‘s not like I had time to stop and think everything through beforehand, so I just did it. And either way, I was going to get a drink as a stalling tactic so I could get to my armor, so why not offer you one too? You haven’t even taken me up on it in the three months you’ve been here, by the way, what's up with that? I thought you would have, to be honest.”

Loki is quiet for a moment. “May I do so later this evening?”

“Seriously?” At Stark’s incredulous inflection, Loki bristles, about to take it back, insult him, and storm out, but Stark surprises him by agreeing, “About time you took me up on my offer! I’m game, but I need to finish this upgrade first. Is my penthouse at eight-thirty alright, maybe later?”

“It’s not as if I will be busy with nefarious plans at that hour,” Loki huffs. “Yes, that is fine.”

Stark grins. “It’s a date then.”

The first two minutes of their conversation is stilted and awkward, with neither of them apparently knowing what to say. It lasts until Stark glances at him, drains the rest of his glass of scotch and goes, “Oh what the hell, I’m going for it. Please don’t smite me for this, okay, because I know you’ve gotten defensive every time someone has asked, but I really want to know about your Seiðr. How you learned it- I’m assuming you were taught- what the scope of your abilities is, and mainly, how it works. From one genius to another, can you please give me some answers?”

Loki blinks, retort dying on his lips. “You truly wish to know?”

“Uh, why would I not? It's probably the most powerful and complex thing I’ve ever come across- which hurts to admit- and I know nothing about it, which sucks, by the way. I hate not knowing things, especially things that interest me.”

“And my Seiðr interests you?”

“Yeah, thought I’d made that pretty obvious by now. I mean, Cap told me off for practically drooling during that battle last week when you eviscerated those doombots. I would have paid good money to see Doom’s face when he saw you literally rip his bots apart with just a wave of your hand.”

“That is but a simple trick,” Loki murmurs. “You are truly fascinated by my Seiðr, aren’t you?”

Stark’s gaze is expressive and searching for a moment before he nods. “It’s probably the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, and I don’t say that lightly.”

Loki exhales slowly. He thinks Stark might just be genuine. “What do you want to know first?”

It takes only an hour of discussion for them to rearrange the furniture of the penthouse against the wall to give them an open floor space so Loki can show off his Seiðr. Stark keeps up with his conversations remarkably well for a mortal, far surpassing Loki’s expectations, and he finds himself relaxing, indulging in discussion of the more technical aspects of his Seiðr.

When they finally call it a night, hours into the morning, Loki is surprised when he finds himself wishing to stay longer and discuss his Seiðr further with Stark. So few have ever been kind in consideration of his Seiðr, even less have expressed an interest in it, and for Stark to have done both...

Loki doesn’t have words to describe it.

(Later, Loki will consider that evening as the dawn of their friendship.)

It is invigorating to engage in a battle of wits and intellect with Stark, Loki soon comes to find. Such was what had initially impressed him about Stark when he had been under the control of The Other, but with his presence in his mind gone, Loki finds himself naturally drawn to the inventor now. Their conversations are thrilling, and Loki finds himself leaping at the chance to flex his intellect with Stark.

They spend the following months spending an increasing amount of time together, even more so following the cease of Stark’s relationship with Pepper Potts. (Stark isolates for two weeks after that, before he emerges with an impressive performance of being fine.) They discuss in length his Seiðr, Stark’s technology, and other pieces of their lives that they both find interesting.

Stark’s technology, in particular, holds Loki’s attention, for while the designs that Stark has managed to come up with are far superior to anything else on Midgard, a select few are also unlike anything he has come across in his travels of the Realms. It’s an impressive feat, and Loki tells him so.

Loki is also especially fond of Stark’s creations, finding himself impressed by how his bots seem to have such curiosity and personality. (Dum-E and U both, he quickly realizes, are fiercely loyal of Stark.)

As their conversations of his Seiðr continue, it grows impossible to go without mentioning Frigga. Loki isn’t sure what he expects Stark’s reaction to be when he first mentions her, but Stark’s gentle smile and, “She sounds incredible, she must be proud of how talented you are,” far surpasses anything he had expected. The sentiment touches him, and something in their dynamic changes that night.

(Perhaps, it is because that is the night Stark changes to Tony.)

Despite this, they still do not engage in conversation easily about personal topics, both of them with too many difficult stories to wish to recall such information. Still, however, there are many nights where their respective nightmares leave them stripped of their shields, with only vulnerability left behind. It is on those nights that their bond is solidified; empathy and understanding found through sharing stories of past tortures and betrayals.

During one of those nights, Tony tells him of a man called Stane, sharing with him how Dum-E first, and then Pepper, had saved his life. His voice is broken, no more than a whisper, and his hand remains firmly on the device in his chest the entire time he speaks; a further testament to the pain of that betrayal.

Loki vows to him in that moment that he will never betray Tony, he swears it, for he would rather stab his own heart than cause his (only) friend pain in any way.

Tony just looks over at him, his expression sad and resigned all of a sudden. “I don’t think that’s a promise you want to make,” he says quietly. “Not when I’ll likely give you a reason to break it.”

“You know me; I say no less than what I mean,” Loki tells him. “And I can think of no reason that would ever make me want to hurt you or betray you.” He has betrayed others throughout his life, for reasons so little as for fun (stabbing Thor), but he knows he could never harm Tony.

Tony just shrugs. He doesn’t seem to believe him, but he provides no further argument. The blanket covering their laps as they sit together on the sofa suddenly feels stifling, but Loki resolutely ignores it. He understands that Tony’s skepticism is not personal, it is just a mere consequence of being betrayed time and time again by the people he cared about most. Loki knows he would hesitate to accept such a promise as well, even from Tony. Life has taught them both that it’s not safe to trust.

(Perhaps together, they can learn to trust again.)

The other members of the team remain wary of him, distrustful to the point that Loki is certain he will never be able to earn an ounce of trust with them. Outside of Tony, Thor seems to be the most accepting of the fact he is serving a ten year sentence for his attack on New York as a member of their team. Knowing he has Tony‘s friendship makes it easy, however, to disregard the fact that the others do not trust him, even on the field of battle. Never mind that his Seiðr has been limited to keep him in check, they clearly do not trust him to fight on their side. Loki pays this no mind; their belief in him or lack thereof is of no importance to him.

When he finally meets Pepper Potts, Col. James Rhodes, and a man named Happy Hogan, they all threaten him past the point of any return should he hurt Tony in any way. He believes them. The CEO of Tony’s company, his ex, however is the one whose threat genuinely gives him pause. He knows better than to anger her.

But for all their initial threats, the three of them all seem to accept him as Tony’s friend, therefore, as a part of their lives as well. It is awkward at times to be around Potts or Hogan, or even Rhodes when he is able to return home, but those moments of awkwardness, he finds, are worthwhile if it means he can remain at Tony’s side.

It’s a thought that should scare him, that he wants to be wherever Tony is, but he finds himself oddly at peace with that fact. They have grown close over the last five, almost six months since they first shared a drink in Tony’s penthouse, and Tony is incredible, a force of light wherever he goes; it is impossible not to be drawn to Tony, he thinks.

It’s a brisk day in mid-March when he and Tony crowd together on the sofa in his penthouse with a video feed in front of them to watch the fallout of their latest prank on Barton. Tony bursts out laughing at Barton’s indignation and leans against Loki as he praises their prank, saying they absolutely have to prank Cap next. Loki is overcome with joy realizing just how lucky and happy he is to have a friend who partakes and enjoys mischief just as much as he does.

That is also the moment Loki realizes he’s falling in love.

Tony has gone quiet as his side, eyes still sparkling with joy even as he asks, “You okay, Lokes?"

“I’m fine,” Loki reassures. “Just thinking of what to include in our next prank against Captain America himself.”

“I love the way you think,” Tony laughs, snuggling into his side the way he seems to do so frequently, now that Loki thinks about it. “Well, hit me with it. What’re you thinking?”

It’s easy enough to conjure a list of possible pranks at a moment’s notice, and from that moment onward, Loki’s feelings fall to the back of his mind, always quietly lingering in his every thought. Given enough time, he knows they will become a force he cannot hope to control, but that is a problem he can deal with in the future; the present includes planning a prank, and that comes first.

(Later, Loki will consider the moment he realized he was developing feelings for Tony as the day everything changed.)

“Can I join you?”

Loki startles minutely, so caught up in his reading, so relaxed, that he had not been paying attention to his surroundings in any capacity. But this is Tony who has come to his bedroom, and Loki knows he need not keep his guard up when the inventor is around. "Are you alright?" Loki asks, lowering his book to his lap.

"Fine," Tony says automatically. He looks uncertain. "I know you're reading and it's late, so if you want me to leave, don’t hesitate to say so.”

“Nonsense, I always enjoy your company,” Loki reassures absently, frowning at Tony’s haggard experience. He gestures to the space next to him on the bed, adding unnecessarily, “Please, sit.”

Tony hesitates for a moment and then sits down on the bed next to him, leaning back. His hands twist unnaturally together; a sign of his anxiety.

Loki marks his page and sets his book on the nightstand. “Do you wish to talk about what has you so tense?”

“Not really,” Tony mutters. “Not like there’s much to say anyway though. I fell asleep working on an upgraded set of arrows for Clint and woke up screaming. J said you were awake still, so I came up.” He pauses and then adds, "You've been reading all this time? Usually you call it a night at midnight."

"I got enthralled in an old journal on Seiðr and lost track of time. When I realized it was past two, I figured I would wait until I came to a natural stopping point before I retired for the night,” Loki admits ruefully. "I'll be tired in the morning, but it will be well worth it."

"I think I'm rubbing off on you," Tony says lightly. "Staying up until all hours of the night to finish something is my shtick, not yours."

"You have a point. You did, after all, initially encourage my pranks, then you took to assisting me with them, and now you have me staying up to all hours of the night," Loki points out, teasing, participating in the lighthearted atmosphere Tony seems to be trying to create. A distraction for his nightmare, perhaps, and Loki is happy to help. "You are a rather bad influence on me."

"Guilty as charged," Tony agrees, snorting. "Though I'm pretty sure everything prank-related is a result of you being a bad influence on me."

"A mere pleasant consequence of our friendship. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you first let me share a drink with you in your penthouse."

"I did knowingly sign up for all the mischief and chaos, you're right." Tony shrugs, looking pleased. "But as Rhodey will be more than happy to tell you, I caused plenty of trouble throughout my life, so you sadly don't get the privilege of claiming responsibility for all of my evil ways."

"I plan to ask about those stories, just so you know."

Tony laughs, looking lighter now than he had when he had first appeared in Loki's doorway. "Pretty sure you'll have to clear your schedule for the weekend when you do- but keep in mind, Rhodey did also participate in a lot of my plans. He was my partner in crime. So don't let his exasperated tone fool you, he's just as much a prankster as we are."

"In that case, we will have to include him in our plans to prank Thor whenever both your colonel and Thor are present in the Tower," Loki muses.

"Deal," Tony responds instantly. He goes quiet just a moment later, his expression darkening a little.

Loki frowns at the sudden shift in mood. "What's wrong?"

"I should probably go, let you finish the chapter you were reading so you can go to bed."

“I am more than happy to have you here," Loki says carefully, sensing that there is something else weighing on his mind. "But if you wish to go, that is your choice to make.”

“I don’t want to keep you up.”

“Then prepare for bed and lay with me,” Loki says without thinking. He pauses, realizing what he just said. Norns, he had not meant to offer that, but the offer has been extended and he is not one to take back his words. Still though, he clarifies quickly, “It’s an innocent offer, no more than the simple opportunity for you to not be alone tonight, if you don't want to be.”

Tony looks startled. “You want me to stay?”

“You are welcome to, if you want.”

“Why?”

“You are my friend,” Loki says simply. “We have fallen asleep watching movies together on the sofa before and that is fine, is it not?” At Tony’s nod he continues, “So too would your decision to stay here for the night. Nightmares are painful, and if I can offer some small comfort or reassurance of safety, I would happily do so.”

“You’re sure?”

“I mean every word I’ve shared,” Loki says gently.

Tony sighs and leans against him, his head on Loki’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he says softly. “For letting me stay and for not judging me.”

“You know how common my own night terrors are,” Loki points out. "I have nothing to judge."

Tony shrugs but doesn’t offer a response.

“Go, get ready for bed,” Loki says, nudging him with his elbow. “I have placed an additional toothbrush and nightwear for you in the bathroom.”

Tony nods silently and gets up, disappearing into the bathroom. Loki uses the privacy to lay down, trying to quell his racing thoughts and pounding heart. There is something charged and vulnerable between them; it feels like he is balancing precariously on a fraying line. What may happen if it snaps, he’s unsure.

When Tony exits the bathroom a few minutes later, he pauses at the side of the bed for a moment before he pulls back the covers. He doesn’t lay down, however, just says quietly, “You don’t seem as bothered anymore to be serving part of your sentence on the Avengers.”

“Is that a question?” Loki asks, never one to make things easy when he can help it.

“An observation, I think. Am I wrong?”

“No, you are not wrong,” Loki says. He takes a shuddering breath and admits, “I hated this team in the beginning. I was no more than a collection of broken pieces being held together by pure spite, and being placed on this team felt like a death sentence. I expected to hate every moment of my time here, for an abundance of reasons.” He swallows hard, suddenly certain he should not keep going, not when he has already stripped himself bare.

“But?”

As always with Tony, he is the exception to the expectations and restrictions Loki sets for himself. He finds himself staring up at the ceiling and admitting, “But I made a friend, someone who cares about me genuinely for all that I am. It took the work of months before I realized that all the reasons I expected to hate being on this team were insignificant in comparison to the friendship I had found. These last several months, I have found myself slowly recovering from the damage The Other inflicted on me- I am trying to at least- I am trying not to be the monster I was destined to be, and I somehow even find myself happy on occasion, something I thought I was only capable of when creating chaos.”

His bedroom is quiet for a moment. “Sounds like your friend is pretty special,” Tony quips.

“Special is not the most accurate term; short, on the other hand, or perhaps, talkative, or even-”

“You're an ass,” Tony interrupts him, laughing. His expression is pensive, however, as he lays down on his side and looks over at him. “Is that all we are though, just friends?”

Loki freezes. It takes a moment for him to remember to breathe, and then he exhales slowly, rolling over on his side to face Tony as well. “I’m not sure,” he admits, “Are we just friends, in your mind?”

“I asked you first,” Tony points out, smirking a little.

“I gave you a response, however vague, and then asked your thoughts. It’s your turn.”

“Uh huh, you want my thoughts on what exactly? You haven’t really specified what we’re discussing.”

Loki refrains from rolling his eyes despite the way his heart is threatening to pound out of his chest. “What are your thoughts on us,” he emphasizes. “That is what I wish to know.”

Tony’s eyes search him for a moment, perhaps trying to assess if this is part of a joke or if he is being genuine. “I think that you’re a royal pain in the ass a lot of the time, as well as dramatic and passionate, but I like that about you. You’re also mischievous and clever; you're a genius that speaks the same language as me. I also think you have feelings for me, just like I do for you. And I want to see if there can be an us...but maybe after I kiss you?”

“Is that a promise?”

“The romantic speech or the kissing part?”

“The part where you mentioned wanting to see if there can be an us, do you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it." Tony pouts at him.

It suddenly is so easy now to see what has been in front of him for months: their close proximity to each other, the way they are drawn to each other's side, their flirting; it has all been leading to this.

Loki leans over and kisses him. Tony gives a quiet sound of surprise and then relaxes, easing into the kiss with an approach that somehow already feels familiar.

“We need to do this more often,” Tony murmurs when they pull back. He's grinning.

Loki laughs, happy. “That is a promise I can easily keep,” he vows, and kisses him again to prove his point.

End.

[missorgana]

everything i do (gonna think of you)

pairing: finn/poe dameron

fandom: star wars (sequel trilogy

rating: teen and up

word count: 4690

warning: swearing, alcohol

summary: Finn and Poe are on a break. Neither of them are okay. But Finn hears Poe singing about him on the radio, and they'll be okay. Always. (musician poe, artist finn, long distance break-up + getting back together)

(it’s been ages but my space bfs, it’s good to be back!! a long overdue installment in my finnpoe alphabet series. did not expect e to be the most difficult letter to work with !!! thank you to Cat / @wendigostag​ as ALWAYS for beta reading and supporting my messy ideas 🥰 love uuuu. enjoy??)

read on ao3

“And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for, I’m sure!”

The audience erupts in a half-laughter, half-cheer, and the host smiles, looking a bit too tired for his age.

“Tonight’s special performance is by someone who has, quite frankly, taken the whole of America - and dare I say the world? - by storm!”

Previous cheers resurface, louder and more certain than before. Even a few wolf whistles, making the presenter laugh as well.

“Here to perform his new single ‘cardigan’ from the debut album ‘folklore’, Poe Dameron!”

Quite literally everyone in the studio goes crazy, and as the camera directs towards the stage, a light turns on and reveals the curly haired man in all his glory.

He smiles slyly to the audience. A few noises, bordering on the line of screaming, makes him chuckle, but he puts all his focus on the guitar. Snaps, strums, and as the piano starts accompanying him, a soft voice forming strange and unfamiliar words.

Finn wipes the tear away in frustration before it even gets a chance to move, just tiny droplets stinging his vision. He’s sniffling, and biting his cheek, staring at the already half-empty bottle of red wine on the table.

Never in his life has he ever felt more pathetic, that’s true.

He doesn’t know why he’s watching this. And judging by the two texts pinging in on his phone, his best friend Rey somehow knows he’s doing it, too.

His vision’s too blurry to type, he thinks. Fuck it, pour another glass of wine. Who cares?

On the screen, Poe smiles while singing each word. But Finn knows the man better than anyone in that studio to know that it’s not really a smile. It’s the kind that his boyfriend- ex-boyfriend put on at their last FaceTime call. The one where he suggested they took a break.

He figures he should turn off the television when the performance comes to an end. No need to rub anymore salt in the wound, as Rey said.

Yet Finn sticks around for the interview because… because what? He hates himself? He hates Poe?

Neither. Maybe he misses him. Of course he misses him, enough to fight back the sobs, far from sober. But he’ll fight that obvious realisation, as well.

“Thank you for coming in tonight!” the host tells the singer, who thanks him in turn for the opportunity. Always the golden boy. The image of polite, kind, heart full of love, yet so goddamn stubborn.

“Mothers love me.” Poe had told him, back in college, the smug idiot. Finn’s mother loves him.

It’s mostly questions about the album, the upcoming tour, pictures of his parents and his pearly whites gleam when he speaks of them, how proud they are of him. It envelops Finn like a warm embrace. Huh. They haven’t hugged in five months.

They haven’t seen each other in five months.

Then the host starts grinning like a maniac, and he’s got a hunch what’s coming now is what he’s been wanting to ask all along, “Evidently, you got a lot of ladies who love you here.”

Audience cheers. Poe runs a hand through his hair. He’s so nervous, it’s adorable.

“You got a special lady in your life?” a question that quiets the audience significantly, still, waiting.

The singer glances at his shoes like they’re the most fascinating thing in the universe. Finn can’t hold his glass still, because, yeah. He looks like he’s thinking about it too hard. He wants to save him from that situation.

And although it feels like a million years pass, it’s probably only ten seconds before the reply settles, “Not at the moment, no.”

The crowd is nothing less than thrilled. And not only women, as the host implied, nah, everyone in that studio recognizes what a heartthrob Poe Dameron is. Finn couldn’t agree more.

What he knows about his ex-boyfriend that the strangers in the TV don’t know is, obviously, that Poe’s not interested in the ladies.

So does his family and close friends, anyone out of show business, really.

He also knows why his ex-boyfriend isn’t out to the public about his sexuality, yet. Or he’s got an idea. Maybe. Finn convinces himself of that, because then, he can also convince himself that he’s not the only one still feeling he’s being torn to pieces by this breakup. Feels better.

*

Although the screen connecting to his boyfriend’s call tugs on his heartstrings with its familiar warmth, Finn is, above all, pissed.

And for some reason, he feels ashamed for that. He knows he shouldn’t.

Poe hasn’t been home in a month. He was supposed to be here two weeks ago, but due to press bookings, credit to his boyfriend’s brand new agent, he called Finn late at night apologising like a broken record and promising to make it up to him.

And it makes him feel like shit.

Every apology made him feel more guilty for… harboring his time. Which is crazy, because they’ve been going steady for three years. They talked about this, the possibility of long distance, and knew, definitely, that it was gonna be hard, especially since they’ve been attached by the hip for so long.

Thing is, this has happened three times now, and it’s made Finn question himself.

Is he good enough for Poe? then later, another thought creeps in, Is Poe tired of him? or… is he not in love with him anymore?

Finn feels like he’s going crazy.

And even when he sees his boyfriend’s soft curls and eyes full of sunshine pop on his phone, it’s those thoughts that still inhabit his head. Fuck.

“Baby!” Poe says, excitement gleaming right through him and into Finn’s bedroom. They’ve been talking about moving in together, but, well, with long distance, mostly only talk for now. He’s off chasing the fame, which he deserves more than anyone, thank you very much, and Finn’s already booked up with art galleries and auctions eagerly grasping for his paintings. It feels like they’ve made it.

Except, “Phasma’s got me on Jimmy Kimmel! Like, can you believe that?!” his boyfriend spills out everything from this week, and it warms Finn’s chest, his gut, all the way down to his toes. But at the same time, this being Poe’s first words to him stirs weirdly alongside that warmth.

His career’s important. Of course. Finn’s happy for him, like, over the moon, all the way across the solar system happy.

He wants him to be successful. So then… then why does it feel like Poe prioritises it over them? It’s probably him overthinking it, he reasons. Again.

Finn can definitely feel he’s supposed to be sleeping right now; that’s another thing, cursed with being in vastly different time zones. He listens, smiling half-tiredly, thoughts wandering to everything and nothing.

Which is why he finds himself, all of a sudden, replying to his boyfriend’s, “I, uh, I’m actually writing you another song. Don’t laugh, please,” with, “A secret kind of song? ”

It takes Poe by surprise, visibly, and it takes himself, as well.

Finn bites down on his tongue in the cringe of it all. His boyfriend’s blinking, slowly, probably waiting for some sort of elaboration, but when he has no idea what to say, Poe inquires, “What do you mean?”

He sighs. Wholeheartedly, wistfully, nostalgic.

Finn thinks about when Poe asked him out, driving up to his window in true cheesy romantic comedy style and having offered to write essays in exchange for a school marching band performance.

Their first date, eating cotton candy and the curly haired boy insisting on trying and failing to win Finn a prize, until finally facing defeat. He won Poe a prize instead, first try, so the previous grumpiness faded in a matter of seconds. The butterflies threatened to burst his stomach the entire day.

Their first time, clumsy and awkward, teeth clanging in kisses and stupid buttons in Finn’s shirt being stuck and they laughed until they were out of breath. It was more perfect than anything either of them could’ve imagined.

He thinks about this, because neither of them were out before they got together.

This coming out thing? It scared the shit out of Finn. He was so lucky to have a supportive family, supportive friends. The school was a mixed experience, but he and Poe were in it together. His boyfriend tried to play it cool, but he knew how scared he was, too. He knows like the back of his hand, almost.

And this concern, it makes him feel so guilty he might vomit.

“I just… I was just wondering if you wanted to be official.”

“We are official, Finn.”

“No, I-I mean, public.”

He gulps around the growing lump in his throat. Poe goes scarily quiet.

This is also something they’ve talked about before. Fame is so new, it’s a whole new leap, learning how to handle all this, so it didn’t bother either of them to be secretive about their relationship, so to speak.

Their close network still knew, obviously, but the music industry, Hollywood, that’s way, way different than Finn’s newly established and growing network of artist connections and colleagues.

It wasn’t a problem. Until it was.

Coming out is personal. But ever since his boyfriend said he wanted to go public, then didn’t, as they were both on edge, then decided they should move in together and go public to slam down journalists linking Poe to a member of a girl group he met last summer, then didn’t.

It’s happened a couple of times. And finally, it seems, Finn is coming to terms with being tired of being ready and then backing out.

He’s terrified. Terrified of Poe being embarrassed of him, which he knows sounds crazy, also. But fuck.

“Baby, we’re gonna do it,” his boyfriend reassures him, but he’s distraught now, “You know we are. My agent just talks about my image, you know, I need to make sure-”

“Your image?”

That… that pisses Finn off. Conclusively. Because what the fuck?

“Phasma thinks we should do it at Christmas, season of love, you know?” Poe smiles shyly, he always loved the holidays. And he just doesn’t know how to react. “She’s fine with it, like, she didn’t ask me to fake being straight, like the guy I talked with before. Just-

“Are you embarrassed of me, Poe?” he finds the words slipping out before he can stop his mouth.

His boyfriend’s eyes widen significantly on the small screen, opens and closes his mouth several times, and there’s definitely a yell from somewhere in the studio, but Poe ignores it completely, “Of course not. Finn, I’m the luckiest guy in the world because of you. I just really… really think we need to time this right.”

“I,” Finn starts, but he’s barely sure where he’s going with the sentence. All he knows is that he’s scared Poe might tell him that all this time meant nothing to him. He doesn’t know why he leaps to that, but he does. His boyfriend might find something better than him in the limelight, “I know. You’ve told me, and I get it, I do. It’s just difficult being so far away from you, and then…”

He feels himself drifting off into a cloud of numbness and nothing, but Poe interrupts the sentence, “I thought you’d be more supportive of my career.” Finn nearly jumps. The words don’t sound cold, per say. But it’s weird. The good old butterflies flutter hesitantly, sort of in question.

“I am, darling, I-” he sighs again, “I’ve always been. You’ve just seemed like you’re ready, and I got the feeling that your agent didn’t want you to, and-” “Phasma wants it.”

“But on Christmas, Poe. This Christmas. I’m just scared you’re…” Finn shakes his head at himself, decides to be completely honest, because that’s how relationships work. Right? “Waiting for the moment to end this.”

“End this?” his boyfriend’s voice raises just an octave, looking perpetually confused. He also, admittedly, looks pissed. Hurt. “Do you want to break up with me?”

“No! Why would I-

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

Finn rubs his eyes, feels like they’re on goddamn fire. Poe’s biting his lips, rummaging around after moving what he assumes is a more private room than before, and avoiding eye contact. They shouldn’t be doing this on the phone. They shouldn’t be doing this at all.

He wishes his boyfriend was next to him, so he could curl up on his chest and sleep the entire weekend. It’s all he wants.

Ultimately, Finn makes the suggestion, “Baby, I’m sorry, I just… why don’t I call you next time you’re free? Or can you… are you getting back anytime soon?”

He doesn’t know how to describe this feeling, what’s happening, in any other way than it seems like Poe’s on a different planet than him, drifting in a meteor rain.

What Finn doesn’t expect least of all is his boyfriend’s answer, “Nah, you know, if you feel like that, we should take a break. A breather.”

And Poe smiles, but he sees through that bullshit. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

He’s trying to play it cool. Fuck. Why are Finn’s eyes stinging, now?

“A break?”

“Yeah.”

That’s so much to process. Fucking process it. The protests are bubbling under his skin, boiling and ice cold at the same time, but he doesn’t get the time when the yells on the end of the world resume.

“I really should go.” Poe tells him, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to.

“Poe…” he tries to breathe around the butterflies currently panicking inside of him. He’d scream at them to stop for just five seconds, if he could. His boyfriend’s already getting up from the seat, which is why Finn pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to look at him, “Okay. Okay.”

The silence that settles between them, then, until they end the call in confusion and boiled up emotion, is far from the comfort they’ve been accustomed to. It ends without a goodbye. Without an I love you.

So, naturally, he gets absolutely zero sleep that night.

*

Whenever Rey told them they were being overdramatic, she was probably right. This is no exception.

Ever since the damnation of their FaceTime call, Finn tried to get into his head what went down. Namely, him and his boyfriend speaking over each other’s heads. It settles in the morning, the realisation that Poe assumed the worst of what he said, while he himself didn’t understand why he couldn’t come home . Just one day. Just to talk this out.

But in a recognizable stubborn fashion, his boyfriend ignored his calls and texts for the weekend. Finn tried so, so hard not to get pissed again. But also, Poe actively avoiding him made him want to cry. Not being able to just hear his voice made him want to cry.

Naturally, the following week, when his boyfriend decided to reach out, Finn became the one to ignore all forms of contact. It felt like they were walking in circles.

This is new and raw territory.

Finn and Poe don’t fight. It’s a basic law of the universe. 

Which is why he doesn’t blame Rey for widening her eyes in shock at this new development. He also knows that she wants to intervene, badly so, given how protective she is of them, but because she’s lovely she always somehow knows when Finn needs his own space to think. Or scream into the void a little bit, whatever does the trick.

He’s pretty sure she didn’t expect this to go on for four months, now. He sure as hell didn’t expect it.

But… they’re both to blame. Finn’s pretty much dug himself a hole in the ground filling up with all his feelings, and as every week passes by, waits for his boyfriend to make the first move. He expects Poe to do the same. Nothing’s moving forward.

So, if Rey didn’t know him as she did, she’d ask him why.

Why don’t you just call him? He could. When his boyfriend stopped ignoring him, that is. Thing is, Finn’s world is sort of crumbling right now, and a confrontation with that isn’t something he can handle, he thinks.

It’s the thought of losing Poe for good. It’s the thought of Poe thinking Finn doesn’t want him anymore, when in fact he fears the exact opposite.

After watching that interview, though, he could breathe a little easier, he’ll admit.

And it’s weird. He felt inherently about a hundred times worse during it. The day after, he just kept thinking about Poe and his stupid curls and his nervous smile and what he might be doing while Finn was helping his sister with the dishes.

Maybe it’s knowing his boyfriend- ex-boyfriend (?) is okay. Does look more okay than himself.

It calms him. The next day, it makes Finn want to burn up all their polaroids and mail the ashes to the singers’ hotel in a massive envelope. As said before, this hole is deep, too deep, making it difficult to be rational.

A week after the interview, he’s just about on the edge to complete numbness.

Maybe he’s been reading those hilarious dumb gossip magazines whenever his boyfriend was on the cover. Shut up. If he acknowledges the ridiculousness of that, it’ll only make it worse.

Finn feels weak for being this torn up after a breakup… or break. He’s had breakups before Poe, but none of them hurt like this. Does it ever just fucking stop?

Apparently not, because when he picks up the phone with Rey’s name flashing, Finn expects it to be another question of what’s going on. How he’s doing, or not even a question, but an order to let her in as she’s probably already standing in front of his building carrying ice cream and bad horror movies.

He doesn’t get why she doesn’t just use the key he got her already, but it’s still endearing. Except, “Turn on the radio.”

“What?

“Finn, turn on your radio. Trust me.”

And so he scrambles around, the determination in her voice definitely not something to mess around with. Finn eventually uncovers it underneath the mountain of Poe’s vinyl records, and while his best friend doesn’t even tell him what station she’s referring to, he’s got a feeling about it. Also, it’s the first station that pops through the speakers when he turns it on, so.

Then, he has absolutely no idea what to listen for. The hosts are making some jokes about the song they’re gonna play next, thereozing about a “lost love” , and Finn’s about to ask until he realises Rey’s hung up on him, and a text.

just wait. u won’t regret it.

It’s too ominous for his best friend’s usual shenanigans. He’s a little worried.

But unlike the last hellish, unbelievable four months, Finn doesn’t have much time to worry, before the voices announce, “We present an exclusive live performance from our new favorite heartthrob, Poe Dameron!”

Oh God. Oh God, oh shit, oh my god.

Naturally, Finn’s anxiety kicks in like a punch in his gut.

In fact, he’s about to pull up his best friend’s contact again, sick of hearing the single that Poe wrote for him and not even being able to revel in the feeling anymore. Only it’s not ‘cardigan’.

Four months ago, a few days before they decided to take a break, his boyfriend sent him a couple of voice notes, containing lyrics and guitar pieces and other bits for the album he wanted Finn’s approval on. He always wanted his opinion first. It makes him all warm again.

This song, however, is brand new, unheard to everyone’s ears. Including Finn.

  “I'm doing good, I'm on some new shit

Been saying "yes" instead of "no"

I thought I saw you at the bus stop, I didn't though

I hit the ground running each night

I hit the Sunday matinée

You know the greatest films of all time were never made”

  The melody has the same calm like the other songs he’s heard, an image of fairytales and bare feet dancing in the woods and stars twinkling in the night.

The melancholy is unfamiliar, though.

  “I guess you never know, never know

And if you wanted me, you really should've showed

And if you never bleed, you're never gonna grow

And it's alright now”

  Finn’s thumb hovers over Rey’s contact name, but he can’t bring himself to move.

It’s the alright part. Except, despite how much he tries to lie to himself, he swears to everything god that his boyfriend’s voice breaks over the word. It’s subtle enough that the interviewers could pass it on as him being hoarse, he reasons, but Poe can’t fool him.

He wants him to be okay. Actually, no, because being okay means not missing Finn like Finn misses him, and that would hurt more than anything he can imagine. But also, he’s too far away for a reassuring hand. That’s why he wants him to be okay.

  “But we were something, don't you think so?

Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool

And if my wishes came true

It would've been you”

  For some reason, it’s only then it settles into Finn’s mind.

Oh.

Oh.

The song keeps going, and his emotions keep going, from the chaotic jumbled mess he’s become accustomed to a quiet buzz. He feels like his breathing’s slowed down, and a pocket in his heart is being emptied onto the floor.

Poe feels exactly the same way, he imagines. He has to.

Finn’s abandoned his phone somewhere unknown between the couch cushions, and he’s stuck staring at the empty wine bottle he hasn’t had the energy to get rid of, his microwave dinner half eaten, until his ex-boyfriend’s song comes to an end.

‘the 1’ is the title. He doesn’t know if he’s crying or not, which sounds a bit dumb in his own head.

“Poe Dameron!” one of the interviewers yells obnoxiously, clearly trying to hold in their excited giggling, “Those were quite emotional lyrics. I’m guessing there’s a story there somewhere?”

Finn could roll his eyes into the next century at that comment. Jesus Christ.

The singer’s complained about these kinds of people before, of course, he chuckles, politely, hesitantly, probably spinning the best way to avoid opening that door of vulnerability on open air, “I think everyone writes from their own experience, really.”

His voice has the same elegance and softness and gruff that makes Finn think of home, despite the tinny speakers and distraction that vibes off of him, all the way over in the states. It’s unbelievable.

The interview keeps going in the most standard way possible, a couple more questions Poe subtly circles around (including about dating, obviously), some jokes, and they eventually get to that segment where the listeners can call in and ask their own question to the dreamy man.

Some are boring, some are weird, some are intrusive, some are just teen voices in awe of his relatability and what not, mountains of flattery which his boyfriend is all too shy and starstruck to handle.

Finn bites his lip.

They repeat the number of the radio twice. The programme ends at nine. That means about forty five minutes of fan questions.

He shouldn’t. This is ridiculous. But what if… what?

Poe’s voice somehow carries his hand to fish the phone up again, though, like a strike of magic. And then the tone sounds, one, two, three, and it’s too late to take it back now. Shit.

“You’re live! Can our next lucky listener introduce yourself and your question?”

He tries so hard, desperately so, to swallow around the lump in his throat, seeming impossibly massive. The eerie silence is simply too painful to bear, though, so Finn squeezes his eyes shut hard for two seconds, before forcing the reply out.

“Yes, uh, hi. This is Finn Solo. From Pennsylvania.”

A beat. “Pennsylvania?! Well, honey, that’s actually Poe Dameron’s home state, isn’t it?”

Two beats. The singer clears his throat. “Yeah.” Clearly, he recognizes his voice in an instant. Well, obviously, he’d be shocked if he didn’t. Still, Finn feels like curling up in a ball and hiding from the world. He wonders if Rey’s listening, right now.

The interviewer seems unfazed from Poe’s hesitated answer, or they just choose to ignore it, he supposes. “The floor is yours, Finn. Ask ahead!”

So… how is he supposed to do this, again? 

This is the worst idea Finn’s had in his entire life. Seriously. And he accepted Rey’s dare to swing all the way up and around the swingset in fifth grade, he’s well aware of what reckless looks like. This is it.

Still, he’s stuck now. Poe’s listening to him. Kind of forced to.

And against his own better judgement, Finn silences the million overthinking thoughts in his inner ear by simply saying whatever hits him first, “Did you mean what you said? In the song?”

Seconds feel like fucking hours right now.

“Sorry, can you-” one of the hosts start, but he feels moved to continue. “When did you write it?”

It’s low, the feedback of his boyfriend’s microphone can just be made out. He prays that was only comprehensible enough for Poe’s own ears, because Finn could never possibly live with himself if he outed the person he loves most in the world. Seems so, given the interviewer once again asks the singer in confusion.

“What do you say, Poe? Do you need, uh… for him to elaborate?”

“No.” the man says simply, shyness seemingly having faded away in a glimpse. “Finn, I wrote this back in May.”

Four months ago. Same month as their FaceTime call.

“Only a week after our call. Took me five hours. I needed to get every word just right.” Poe says those words so steadily it shocks Finn. His hand feels numb and itchy around the tiny device, and one of the hosts gasps.

“I-” he starts, but has no idea where to go, where to turn. Finn didn’t expect any of this tonight. A deep breath is needed, “Do you mean… you wrote it about me?”

He feels like an absolute idiot for asking, even doubting it, but given the emotional rollercoaster he’s been through up until now, he’s grasping for straws of confirmation. Poe chuckles, barely audible.

“All my songs are about you, darling.”

What the fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Another gasp is heard in the studio, a little louder this time, but he sends a silent thanks, still, to them being too taken aback to intervene.

Okay, these are definitely tears in Finn’s eyes, now.

One rolls down, cool against his hot cheek, and he almost wants to laugh widely, processing what’s happening over and over in his brain.

What’s mostly replaying is the nickname that he’s missed… too much.

If they were in the same room, in front of each other, alone , he could say and ask a million things. This conversation is impossibly too vulnerable for open air, but Finn really thinks, really, that this step was needed. At least, it’s something he’s been longing to hear.

Instead of breaking down in the happiness and sadness he’s feeling, instead of talking about the miscommunication they’ve been the victim of, he smiles. Can’t stop. It’s hurting his whole face, actually, but his chest feels endlessly lighter.

“If… uh,” Finn chuckles at himself again, him and his stupid emotions, probably laced obviously in his voice, “Is there a chance that you still want to write songs about me?”

Poe laughs back, warmer and wobblier than before. “Of course. Of-fucking-course. There’s no one else I’d rather write about.”

Those hosts over there are probably freaking out big time, but Finn can’t bring himself to care much.

They sigh rather in unison. Him and his boyfriend. Breathing shaky and yet steadying themselves, almost. Together.

“Okay. Okay. Thank fuck,” he finds himself sniffling, “Okay.”

“They’ll always be about you.”

[tossawary]

Chapter 19: “Weddings and Funerals” of “pride is not the word I’m looking for” random favorite lines with commentary because I’m doing a re-read. Not a full list or full commentary. 

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 When Shang Qinghua told Mobei-Jun that he didn’t need Shen Qingqiu assassinated, it wasn’t because he thought everything would somehow work out if he just sat back and didn’t do anything. It definitely wasn’t because he was planning a so-called “perfect murder” and didn’t want the demon lord messing up his plans. The Problem of Shen Qingqiu has always been a lot more  complicated than “just get rid of the guy potentially making my nephew’s life a living hell”. That’s why it’s a real problem! 

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AN: Shang Qinghua’s thought process: “Can this problem be solved by: 

A) Waiting for the problem to go away? 

B) Murder? 

C) None of the above? 

If the answer is C... 

Fuck, it’s a real problem.” 

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 Shang Qinghua thinks that might actually be possible, though he’d have to do some research and smack his head until his Author God memories hopped into line. He thinks that the youth-restoration procedure would probably do the job, but he also thinks that Shen Qingqiu would probably rather be dead than be physically sixteen again or something (super fucking understandable) and have to start the cultivation process over from scratch (ah, that would be so annoying and embarrassing). 

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AN: Given that I actually invented a de-aging potion for this fic (if one that’s difficult to put together), the AU of “Original Shen Qingqiu is physically 16 again” has been rattling around inside my head ever since I wrote these lines. Shen Qingqiu was like, “Wait, let me picture how unbearably overprotective Yue Qingyuan would be... hmm... no, I’ll just stay like this.” 

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 Luo Jiahui seems a little anxious about the empty spaces at the table, but she fills the space as best she can by chattering about assorted restaurant business. At least until she abruptly takes a deep breath and says, “Hua-Ge, I have something to tell you.” 

 Shang Qinghua freezes in the middle of taking a drink. His unhelpful brain immediately races to guess the worst possible conversational subjects. His sister-in-law has somehow figured out that he’s a transmigrator?! His sister-in-law has decided that her son is not going to the Demon Realm under any circumstances?! His sister-in-law knows Binghe better than he does and has realized that the young protagonist is being abused after all?! Oh,  fuck, what is it? 

 “I’m getting married!” Luo Jiahui announces, breathlessly. 

 “Oh,” Shang Qinghua says, heart rate going at the speed of sound. “Wait,  what?” 

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AN: This chapter is why I didn’t go into the details of LJH/LQG in the last chapter, immediately post-timeskip. I wanted to blindside everyone with an “Oh, it’s THAT serious?!” moment. The last chapter established that “SQH is handling things”, then this chapter establishes that, as the plot goes on, “SQH is only barely handling things”. Which helps prep the following breakdown with the System World Update in chapters 20-22. 

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 “You didn’t have any time for yourself,” Shang Qinghua agrees, following this conversation of very obvious things that he already knew so far. He didn’t have any time for himself back then either, between organizing a conference and finding a cure on top of the usual day-in-day-out of the sect. “You did a really good job looking after them all by yourself!” 

 “They don’t always agree with that,” Luo Jiahui says, smiling but self-deprecating. 

 “Aha, well, they’re young.” 

 The disagreements of what was best for the children is why Shang Qinghua really had to get Fanli (who didn’t see herself as a child) out of the house by any means necessary. He was at a bit of a loss at how else to help. She was never part of  Proud Immortal Demon Way! Not even as a fragment of backstory mentioned in passing! Shang Qinghua struggles to compensate for these extra people who were never characters sometimes. 

 “Qingge was very understanding,” Luo Jiahui says. “But… well… then Fanli was gone and I had the restaurant keeping me busy, but that was all my own choice… and what good was waiting really doing us? It didn’t have to be everything or nothing. So… we talked… about what we wanted and what- what we were afraid of… and we decided to go forward slowly.” 

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AN: I said in the Author’s Notes on AO3 that I was going to use Jiage to shame Moshang and Qijiu, and I meant it. TALK TO EACH OTHER!!! Shang Qinghua, you need to talk to Mobei-Jun about what you want! Shang Qinghua, you can’t keep putting things on hold because of the plot! 

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 No offense to either his sister-in-law or his junior martial brother, but aren’t love stories supposed to be a little more… fiery? 

 “When I was younger, I thought that falling in love was supposed to be all excitement and passion and not being able to live without someone even for a second,” Luo Jiahui admits, a little wistfully. “I thought that it was supposed to be thinking about them all the time, not being able to stay away from each other, and needing to know what they’d been doing every second they were away. It was like becoming a completely different person. I thought that being in love was about one of us getting horribly jealous every time we even talked to someone else, doing things I didn’t really understand and changing myself just to keep him happy, and keeping secrets and sneaking around just to keep things from exploding. Because love is not being able to help yourself like that, right?” 

 Shang Qinghua can’t really manage to speak right now. 

 It’s like someone has cut his fucking throat. 

 Which is fine! 

 “But that ended really badly for me,” Luo Jiahui says, with a nervous huff at her own understatement. “It was very exciting, but looking back, being in that kind of love was also very frightening sometimes… and it was a little lonely too… being in love with someone I couldn’t really talk to or trust.” 

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AN: This is more specifically vagueing SVSSS Bingqiu than Moshang, but it’s also shaming Moshang too. Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky wrote some extremely messed-up romances and he would have said, “Yes! It’s all super messed-up! That’s kind of the point!” But it also means that the man can’t really conceptualize (at least at first) or articulate the kind of relationship he would actually be happy to have with Mobei-Jun, especially when his relationship with Mobei-Jun had such violent beginnings 

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 The first person he tells himself is, weirdly enough, Qi Qingqi. Liu Qingge apparently already told both Liu Mingyan and Luo Fanli before he left, so Shang Qinghua heads over to see how the girls are handling it. (Also, he wants to pump Liu Mingyan for information on her mother’s opinions on weddings and marriage, in a really pathetic attempt to ready himself for the rumble.) He makes her agree to keep the information to herself before telling and she does, like a bro! 

 And then he tells and she laughs in his fucking face! Eventually, she realizes that he’s looking for sympathy, he’s not just here to let her enjoy his suffering, as a form of payment after everything he and Liu Qingge have inflicted on her. Then she laughs at him again, even louder. 

 Sure, he’d laugh too if he was in her shoes! But not to her face! Rude! 

 - 

AN: Qi Qingqi also pointed while laughing, I think. It’s funny because it’s not her dealing with Liu Family shit this time. 

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 Shang Qinghua expected, this time last year, to be laser-focused on the plot! His attention was not going to stray even a little bit, he promised himself; he was going to be 110% dedicated to making sure that everyone he tripped into caring about made it through the least shitty version of  Proud Immortal Demon Way  possible. He was going to be a  machine  of a transmigrator! No distractions! All he wanted was for his family to make it through the quickest, least shitty bare bones of a plot! And he was going to  achieve, damn it! 

 Instead, he finds himself planning his sister-in-law’s wedding and it eats up time he didn’t fucking know he had to give. Immortal Alliance Conference, eat your fucking heart out! Cang Qiong Mountain Sect? Did he work there? Nope, he’s never heard of the place! He’s the Peak Lord of wedding planning now! 

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AN: This is me telling myself I’m going to get my life 100% together and then getting into a new video game and baking cookies instead. Or ditching my housecleaning plans to hang out with friends at a moment’s notice. 

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 At the wedding itself, Fanli tells her sister’s father-in-law that Binghe is also  very into birds and Shang Qinghua’s nephew spends a good chunk of the rest of the celebrations (and his precious time away from Qing Jing Peak) held hostage by his own politeness, listening to his new grandfather earnestly tell him about the various migration habits of demonic birds. 

 Well! Better him than Shang Qinghua, honestly! 

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AN: Inspired by that time we went on vacation and one of my brothers got mistaken by one of our travelling companions for a budding serious birdwatcher instead of someone who just thinks they’re neat - and also likes to point at them and intentionally call them by the wrong name. 

Also, LQG’s Dad in this fic and SY would probably get along super well. 

LQG and his dad in this universe have gone out on month-long camping trips to in which they pretty much don’t talk the entire time. They stalk monsters through the wilderness and have a great time.

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 Shang Qinghua is too busy keeping an eye on Luo Fanli and being  not talked to by Liu Mingyan, who is eighteen-ish years old now he thinks and still deeply embarrassed by the fact that he told her off for her real person fiction. (He doesn’t want to discourage her passion for writing! She’s pretty good for a kid! It’s pretty cute! Everyone needs their escapist hobbies! He just doesn’t want identifying information about his family being spread around freely, even if the characterizations of the couple are… uh… wildly reimagined, and he doesn't want to have to spend his very valuable time keeping a lookout for more illicit fiction.) It’s difficult to read her expression through the ever-present veil, but… yeah, she’s still pissed off at him.

 Ugh, teenagers. 

 Binghe is not allowed to bring several hundred nieces-in-law into Shang Qinghua's life. Just... no. Fuck, no. 

 He doesn’t even get a date to commiserate about this with. 

 It’s a very small wedding, family only (Luo Jiahui’s shitty parents  don’t count  and her older brother was forced to decline the invitation), so that Luo Jiahui and Liu Qingge can keep their privacy. Madam Liu huffed about it - the battles in talking her down were both great and terrible - but her son stood his ground! Sure, people might whine someday about not being invited, but the great thing about Liu Qingge is that they can more or less just say,  “Well, we couldn’t stop him from doing whatever he wanted!”  And people just have to take that unless they want to claim they could take on the Bai Zhan Peak War God! 

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AN: Trying to imagine the AU in which SQH brought MBJ as his date to this wedding. SQH would’ve liked to be able to bring MBJ as a date, but alas, they are not dating and the groom would probably try to kill the man. 

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 Shang Qinghua is not expecting, soon after returning from his sister-in-law’s happy and long-awaited wedding, to be solemnly informed that Shen Qingqiu’s health has only really deteriorated these past months. Wow, that’s a huge downer. 

 Also, he already knew that? He’s been getting Mu Qingfang all the right supplies to treat their shixiong. He didn’t actually abandon his duties to the sect for a family wedding. He knew that Shen Qingqiu had fallen sufficiently ill to need tending on Qian Cao Peak in the past month and he considered it, well, convenient timing in regards to Binghe’s permission to attend his mother’s wedding not being randomly revoked. Cold-hearted, maybe! But he had lots of other things to worry about at the time, like informing Mobei-Jun that his sister-in-law was getting married and so he’d be regrettably absent to attend the wedding. 

 Then he’s told that Shen Qingqiu is not expected to improve this time. 

  “Oh, shit, they really think he’s dying,” Shang Qinghua realizes. 

 This really wasn’t in  Proud Immortal Demon Way. 

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AN: I seriously contemplated cutting this chapter in half because of this mood switch. Like, I went in intending on writing a serious mood switch, but in practice, wow. It felt like a lot more in practice. 

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 “Our sect leader asks about the boy and his progress,” Shen Qingqiu rasps, his voice turning more and more accusing. “He’s  so very  concerned about the boy. We can’t have such a beloved child  crying  to his devoted family that he’s been mistreated or neglected, can we? How flattering these assumptions are. It makes a man wonder what exactly people think he’s going to  do to the boy.” 

 Shang Qinghua might have an itemized list somewhere, honestly. 

 “Ah, I can’t speak for anyone else,” Shang Qinghua says finally. “But please don’t take it personally, Shen-Shixiong. I don’t really trust anyone. Anything can happen behind a locked door, you know?” 

 Some honest cynicism can go over well with the man. 

 Shen Qingqiu laughs bitterly now. 

- 

AN: It can be fun in media where Character A is like, “Ahhh, I hope no one discovers my secret!” And Character B is like, “So, about this extremely obvious thing that you’re doing...!” 

Shen Qingqiu is as honest and open as he is throughout this scene because he honestly thinks that he’s dying. He’s determined to be blithe about it. 

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Shang Qinghua at least gets to see Mu Qingfang’s face journey as Shen Qingqiu accuses their sect leader of letting him think that he’d left him to die. As Shen Qingqiu yells about being treated like an unwanted ghost, as a potential blackmailer, as an embarrassing disappointment, as a petty troublemaker, as a spoiled child, as a problem to be solved, and as the last blemish on Yue Qingyuan’s reputation - anything but as someone worthy of being trusted with Yue Qingyuan’s problems and of being treated like an equal friend. 

 Yue Qingyuan tries to explain that he didn’t think Shen Qingqiu wanted to hear his excuses, and Shen Qingqiu shoots back that he would rather fucking die than beg the man he’d thought had forgotten about him to explain when exactly he became not worth rescuing as soon as possible. 

 Yue Qingyuan tries to explain that he didn’t want Shen Qingqiu’s pity or to force the man to be grateful that he’d  tried. 

 Shen Qingqiu tells the man to go fuck himself. How could it not hurt for someone he loved to hurt him and then just…  move past the hurt  like the pain wasn’t  who they were? 

 “All the world could revile me… reject me… leave me to die… and I would pay their hatred no heed! What do they truly know of what I am? Of who I am?” Shen Qingqiu demands. “But if  Qi-Ge  could throw me away… decide that I just wasn’t worth the  trouble anymore now that he’d had a taste of a better life… then I really must be wretched beyond all things at the root! If he believed it, then… then it had to be true.” 

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AN: Because I just wrote a Qijiu confrontation over this exact thing, like, a few days before, I thought that I could get away with writing out this entire confrontation in full. I think it works better if the audience has to imagine some of it. And because SQH is the POV character, it felt right that he not be in the room and not be a full witness to this scene. He doesn’t get to see everything. 

[sohotthateveryonedied]

You Knock Me Out, I Fall Apart

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

“I do not have a concussion. You’re simply so irritating that it makes my head spin.”

“Alfred, tell him he has a concussion.”

“Master Damian—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Pennyworth. I’m fine.”

Dick tugs off his cowl, his sweat-soaked hair flopping back into place. He’ll never get used to the hundred-pound leather batsuit; he has no clue how Bruce managed to feel more comfortable in this thing than in his own skin. It’s like wearing a sweaty head-to-toe smock. “Stop being difficult about this, Damian.” “Stop treating me like a child,” the literal child challenges. “Sorry to break it to you, but you are a child.” Damian rips off his own mask as he stomps through the Batcave, shoving past Alfred like his anger has eaten all of the polite genes in his body. Or maybe he’s thrown more off balance than he cares to admit. “Fuck you.” Dick sighs. “Alfred, will you please check his head? He got hit with a baseball bat on patrol. I think he has a concussion.” “I do not have a concussion. You’re simply so irritating that it makes my head spin.” “Alfred, tell him he has a concussion.” “Master Damian—” “Don’t finish that sentence, Pennyworth. I’m fine.”

Damian doesn’t even bother properly putting away his costume. He throws his gloves and cape on the ground as he goes upstairs, leaving the pieces of his costume to be picked up by someone else. Dick is still working on teaching him the whole “respect” thing. Dick rubs the back of his neck, massages out the cricks. He’s so exhausted wrangling this kid day in, day out. They’ve only been patrolling together for three days and it’s a constant battle to reign Damian in, keep him from doing something he’ll regret. Dick understands how Damian is feeling. Of course he’s hurt over his father’s death, no matter how little time they had together before it happened. Dick gets loss, knows exactly what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age. And he wants to help the kid, but he’s woefully out of his depth here. He’s never done this before. Even with Jason and Tim, Bruce was the primary mentor/father figure. Dick was just the cool older brother who gave good hugs and was always around to talk shit about said mentor/father figure. Now Dick is the mentor/father figure. He’s not cut out for this. “I’d advise you to be patient with the boy,” Alfred tells him. “He is going through a loss, just as you are. Not to mention the violent tendencies he is still overcoming.” “I’ve been patient. He’s just not getting it.” “Need I remind you that you posed your own challenge when you first came to live with us? Master Bruce must have spent weeks breaking down your walls and getting you to open up to us.” Dick rolls his eyes. “I was never this difficult when I was Damian’s age.” “Trust me, you were. But Bruce adapted. He realized that if he wanted to get through to you, he needed to work with you, rather than against you.” “And that worked?” “With time.” Alfred puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Be gentle with him. Damian may be an assassin, but beneath all that he is still a boy who lost his father. Keep that in mind when you talk to him, hm?” He hands Dick an ice pack. “Good luck.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damian is perfectly fine. No one in the League of Assassins ever took a day off because of a little concussion, if it even is that. He sits on his bed, having changed out of his Robin uniform and into some pajamas. He was about to brush his teeth, but his head is spinning too much to stand at the moment. It feels like he’s on a carnival ride, but it’s fine. He’s fine. He can get stabbed five times and not break a sweat. He can handle a small head injury. Then, like it’s teasing him on purpose, his stomach cartwheels and Damian goes pale. He bounds up and runs to the bathroom. He makes it there just in time to vomit, retching up his pre-patrol dinner. Someone knocks on the door. “Damian? Are you okay?” Damian chokes on bile, willing the dizziness to subside. “Go away, Grayson.” There’s a sigh on the other side of the door. “I’m just trying to help.” “I don’t”—Damian pitches forward and vomits again—“I don’t need any help.” How many times does he need to say it? He was just fine before Grayson decided to meddle in his life, acting like he cares. The nausea eventually passes. Damian stands on shaky legs, squinting against the brightness of the bathroom. When he leaves he finds Grayson sitting on his bed with an ice pack and a bottle of ibuprofen. “How are you feeling?” “Don’t patronize me.” “I’m not.” Dick holds out the pills. “Here. For the headache.” “I don’t have a headache.” Even though he does. “Humor me.” Reluctantly, Damian takes the pills. Not because his head hurts badly enough to warrant painkillers, of course not. But if he gives in, maybe Grayson will stop whining and leave him alone. He just wants to go to sleep. The lights in here are even brighter than in the bathroom, but to turn them off while Grayson is still here would be broadcasting his weakness. Damian climbs onto the bed, keeping a safe distance. Grayson tries to give him the ice pack, but Damian swats him away. “I don’t need that.” “Your head hurts.” “I can handle it.” Grayson sighs again. “Just let me check your head and make sure it’s a minor concussion. Two seconds.” “I’m fine.” How many times does Damian need to say it? “You’re not.” Damian’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try and tell me what I’m feeling. My well-being is none of your business.” “Actually, it is my business. We’re partners now, which makes your health my responsibility. That’s how being Batman and Robin works.” Damian scoffs. “Don’t pretend that being Batman gives you any real authority. You aren’t anywhere near my father’s level.” “I know I’m not, but I’m trying my best. If we’re going to be a team, then I need you to meet me halfway.” Damian can’t help but snort. “Suddenly we’re a team? If you really trusted me, you would believe me when I say I’m fine. You wouldn’t coddle me against my will, treating me like a helpless child.” “You are a child, Damian. You’re a ten-year-old boy. Like it or not, you’re a child. And right now, my job is to keep you safe. That means making sure you’re okay whenever a thug with a baseball bat whacks you in the skull. That’s my job.” “I can take care of myself!” “No, actually, you can’t! If tonight is any indication, I can’t trust you to look after your own health. And I know I’m annoying and the worst person on the face of the earth for daring to help you, but kiddo—” Damian’s head snaps to face him, his body going rigid. “Don’t call me that. I am not your son, and you are not my father!” Dick flinches like he’s been struck. “That’s—Damian, I’m not—” He stops. Closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m not trying to replace your dad. Our dad. That’s not what I want.” “Whatever.” Damian pulls his pillow over his face, trying to drown out the sights and sounds around him. “Just go away.” For once, Grayson allows himself to be stern when he says, “No. We’re talking about this now. Take off the pillow and look at me.” For some absurd reason, Damian finds himself obeying. It’s the first time Grayson has shown to have anything resembling a spine in the last three days. “I’m not Bruce,” he says. “I couldn’t be him if I tried. But just because Bruce is...because he’s gone, that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget about him. I will never forget him for as long as I live, and I know you won’t either. You deserve to have your father, and I know exactly how you feel now that he’s gone. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere if I can help it. I’ll be whatever you need, if that’s a brother or a mentor or a Batman.” He looks into Damian’s eyes, open and sincere. “I promise you, Damian, I will never take your father’s place if you don’t want me to.” Damian keeps his expression carefully unchanged. “Good.” “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to guide you and keep you safe however I can. So, how about this: I won’t try and take Bruce’s place as your dad, and you let me help you when you need it. Like when you have a head injury, for example.” He sticks out his hand. “Deal?” After a moment of deliberation, Damian shakes his hand. “Deal.”

[lonestarbabe]

Abandoned Chances

TK talks to his parents about Gwyn’s pregnancy. (AO3)

The words are ringing through T.K.’s head, ripping through him like a bullet, a feeling he knows all too well. “You’re going to be a brother,” his mother had said, and then when T.K. hadn’t been able to process the words, “I’m pregnant, T.K.” He’s not sure what to make of the words. He’s convinced that this is some strange joke. It has to be a joke. He’ll laugh in relief if it is a joke because his parents can’t seriously believe that they’re fit to be parents again.

“You can’t be.” He shakes his head in disbelief because  “How is that even possible?” T.K. once wanted a sibling. He’d dreamed of having someone to talk with during the darkest moments of his parent’s marriage, but he realized that wanting a sibling was selfish. It wouldn’t be fair to his brother or sister to bring them into such an unstable situation. He worried that they would be just as unhappy as he was. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. He’d made peace with the fact that his parents were something he’d have to handle alone. It has always felt like his burden alone to carry— the price he has to pay for existing.

“It’s something of a miracle,” Owen says with a grin. It’s a miracle in the way that a heart finally becoming available after months of waiting on the transplant list is a miracle; one family has their prayers answered while another has their nightmares come true.

T.K. watches his dad take his mom’s hand, and it might’ve been a cute gesture if tender moments like that weren’t a countdown to the inevitable disaster that would follow as soon as the excitement turned into the hard reality. Gwyn squeezes Owen’s hand, and T.K. realizes that he is an intruder in their joyous moment. He can’t find it in himself to smile and congratulate them. He wants to. He doesn’t want to make a fuss, but he’s got no control over the surge of emotions that consumes him.

“Did you even think this through?” His parents’ hands disconnect, and they go rigid at T.K.’s tone. “What the hell were you thinking?” He’s never sounded more like a parent.

“T.K., we thought you’d be happy,” his mom tries. “We’re going to try to make things work.” She points between her and Owen. “We’re happy.”

“I don’t know why you thought I’d be happy about this.” T.K. stands up from the chair, unable to stay still. He feels himself start to pace. He’s trying to control his temper, but he’s frenzied and the crazed emotions won’t abate. “Trying isn’t good enough when you have a kid. You have to do more than try.” T.K.’s parents had tried a lot of things. They’d tried to care for T.K. They’d tried to work out their issues. They’d tried to stay afloat. But for all their trying, there wasn’t a lot of action. They wanted to change, but they didn’t put in the work. Owen especially. He wanted a fairytale ending while avoiding the difficult fairytale beginning. He’s always had a way of swooping Gwyn up and pulling her into his fantasy— T.K. too.

Owen has a way of making people believe in him, even when he repeatedly doesn’t follow through. When T.K. was eight, he starred in his school play, and for the whole weekend of the show, T.K. kept thinking that Owen would show up. Even halfway through the Sunday matinee, T.K. was certain his dad would come just as he had promised. Owen had never shown, but T.K. never let go of that small kernel of hope. Even when he should have known better.

“You always wanted a sibling.” He doesn’t even know which one of them said it, but words are throwing themselves off his tongue before he can even try to control them.

“I wanted a sibling because I hated being alone.” He’s never told them how lonely he felt as a kid. He’s not sure if that’s because he didn’t want to hurt their feelings— because he knows they love him— or because he didn’t want them to list a bunch of reasons why he shouldn’t have felt that way.

“Alone? You act as if we left you to fend for yourself without food or care for hours at a time. We always took care of you as well as we could. Just because you didn’t confide—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Dad. The only time you paid attention to me was when you wanted me to declare a winner in your arguments or when I was so fucked up that you had to pay attention.” T.K. doesn’t stop there. “You’re going to fuck up another kid, and I don’t want to watch that happen.” It’s too painful. Owen and Gwyn are already fighting like they used to, and a baby isn’t going to change that. A baby is just another tool they’ll use in their war to best one another. Fighting is like a sport to T.K.’s parents, and they are well suited for those kinds of battles, but that’s not enough for a healthy relationship. The thrill they get from challenging one another doesn’t create intimacy. It doesn’t stop them from destroying the people closest to them as they wrestle to come out on top.

“That’s not fair, son,” Owen says. Son sounds like a slap in the face. Owen’s voice makes T.K. feel like a silly little kid who doesn’t understand how the world works. “Things are different now.” T.K. wonders for a moment if he’s actually the selfish one here. What if he’s deluding himself into thinking his parents are the problem? Maybe they’re right. Maybe he is being unfair. Maybe the real reason he doesn’t want them to have this baby is that he hates the idea that they might not be so bad with this baby. He’s jealous that they’ll love their second chance more than their messed up first. Because how can he ever compete with a baby, pure and unbroken? He wonders if he’s that messed up that he would begrudge his sibling for getting the effort that T.K. never got.

But, then, T.K. remembers all the fighting his parents have been doing since they’ve been in Austin. They haven’t changed. They haven’t even defined what they are. There’s no way that they should have a newborn. “I’m not being unreasonable.”

“Honey, we know this is a lot to process,” his mom says, and T.K. has always liked when she calls him honey. It makes him feel like he matters, but sweet words can’t take away years of hurt he’s tried not to have. He feels guilty for the way he feels because his parents had a lot of issues, but they weren’t monsters. It would be a lot easier to know where he stood if they were villains rather than normal people who do incredible things.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” T.K. insists.

“I know this is a shock, but it’s our second chance to be a real family, T.K.. Your dad and I want to give this a shot.”

“A second chance? Not everyone deserves a second chance.” He takes a breath. “You only get a second chance when you’ve already given up on your first chance.”

“We never gave up on you.”

“You can’t even admit that you screwed up your first chance. ‘We made mistakes,’ that’s what you always say, and yeah, that’s true. You made a lot of mistakes, but the thing that drives me crazy. You blame those mistakes on circumstances. It always goes back to 9/11, but that doesn’t excuse away all the wrong choices you made. 9/11 was one day. What’s your excuse for all the other days?”

“Do you know how many—" and T.K. can’t let Owen finish that sentence. He’ll explode if he tries to push all the feelings that he has back into himself yet again. The stakes have never been higher, so if he’s going to lose his cool, it might as well be now.

“Would you listen to me for once?” T.K. asks, the weight of years of unsaid words pushing down on his chest.

“Fine,” Owen says. His voice is terse, but at least he’s allowing a conversation.

“I’m angry at you,” T.K.’s directing his words mostly toward Owen. He’d always gone easier on his dad than he did his mom. When he was a teenager, he’d blamed his mom for everything. He got angry at her when his dad wasn’t there than to question why T.K.’s hero kept letting him down.

“I always wanted to be just like you, Dad. You know that. From the time I was old enough to say what I wanted to be, I wanted to be a firefighter.” T.K. sat back down on the chair. “Then, 9/11 happened, and I was scared of losing you. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t focus. Whenever you were gone, all I could think about was you not coming back, so when I most needed you to be there. You weren’t.”

“I couldn’t help that. They needed me.”

“I needed you, but you always put the firehouse first, and you’d do it again in a heartbeat because that’s how you are. You can’t let go of what you lost, so what you already have always takes the back burner.” His mom had always been busy, but he always knew that she would take care of him. Half the time, he didn’t know if his dad would even show up. It’s not like Owen was absent from his life, but even when he was with T.K., he wasn’t emotionally present.

“When I was a kid, of course, I wanted to be a firefighter because I wanted to be like you. You were what I thought every man should be, but as I got older, being a firefighter wasn’t about being like you. All I wanted was to be a part of your life. I knew I’d never be what you put first, but I figured that if I could be part of that thing that it would be close enough.”

“T.K.,” Owen’s voice cracks, “You’ve always been the most important part of my life.”

“I know you love me,” T.K. says, even though that love doesn’t always feel unconditional, “but words don’t cost anything, Dad. You can say them all you want, but until you stand behind those words while fire blazes and the world goes to hell, they don’t mean anything. You can’t bring someone into this world, telling them that they mean the world to you, and then put the whole world above them.”

“What are you trying to say?” Gwyn asks for clarification.

“I’m saying that it’s selfish to have a baby because you miss the good times. When you’re making this decision, don’t think about the joyful moments. Think of when things become a challenge. You’ve got to be ready to not just put their needs before you when things are going well, but you’ve got to make that commitment when times are hard because it’s that shit that separates loving parents from good parents.”

“Were we really that bad?” Owen asks.

“The problem is that you haven’t changed.”

“Your dad and I can be in the same room without murdering each other,” Gwyn tries at humor.

“That isn’t funny,” T.K. says, feeling exhausted. If he’s being honest, he might as well get it all off his chest at once before they go back to pretending that they’re all fine— just a happy but unconventional family. “You still put me in the middle of your fights, wanting me to take a side. I don’t want to choose a side. I love you both, and it’s not fair to make me choose when you two are arguing just for the sport of it. What makes you think that your relationship will survive more than a few months? You’ve ignored all the reasons you got a divorce in the first place.”

“We can work on that.”

“If you couldn’t work out your issues for me, what makes you think this new child will be any different?” T.K. knew that sometimes it was better for couples to call it quits than to prolong the uncertain inevitable. He felt relief when his parents had finally made it official. He’d always secretly wanted them to get back together, but the logical part of him knew that they were better apart. “You don’t even live in the same half of the country. If things go wrong, we’re not just talking about living a few blocks apart. We’re talking hundreds of miles.”

Gwyn sighs. She reaches her hand out, “You seem so sure that things aren’t going to work.”

“I had a front-row seat the first time your relationship broke down. How is it different now?” Owen and Gwyn look between each other, searching for an answer. “See? I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”

“It sounds like you are.”

“No,” T.K. corrects, “All I’m doing is telling you what you need to hear before you commit to this because children deserve to feel safe and loved.” He looks up at his parents. “And it’s not right to bring a child into this world to recreate moments you feel like you’ve lost.” T.K. knows that he can’t force their hand. He can’t tell them what they should do, but it wouldn’t feel right to let them have a baby on a whim.

The smiles have fallen off his parents’ faces, and T.K. can’t help the guilt that worms its way into his body. He feels like a jerk. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad,” he says, still trying to temper their feelings. He worries that he was too honest. He almost regrets having opened his mouth. This is why it’s easier to keep his mouth shut, make jokes, and stew in his anger.

His mom gets up, stoops to his level, and puts her arm around him. “You’ll always be my baby.” Her embrace is warm, but the anxiety doesn’t lift from T.K.’s stomach. “We both love you so much. That’s one thing we’ve never disagreed on.”

Owen agrees, “You’re the best thing we’ve ever done together.” T.K. can’t help but think that’s a lie because he’ll always be the chance they abandoned.

[lochrannn]

AU_gust: Guards! Guards!

Read on AO3

CW: Canon-typical violence

prompt no 23: Historical Fantasy

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Characters: Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves

-

Lila is unceremoniously shoved into a cell and as she whirls around to throw insults and maybe her fists at her captors - she’s been unfortunately relieved of her weapons - the cast iron bars are slammed in her face and the dungeon master sneers at her with blackened teeth, now that he’s no longer in danger of getting kneed in the balls. Again.

She slaps her hands against the bars anyway, making sure to hit them with the heels of her palms so the door rattles on its hinges as she shouts a string of threats about how she’ll carve every single one of them up and that they’d better let her out right the fuck now if they want to live.

In all honesty, she hasn’t the slightest idea why she is in this jail, for once.

She’d been making her way along a road through the forest, not on a mission, not even with any particular destination in mind, when she was jumped - completely taken by surprise - by five burly men, who knocked her half unconscious, took her weapons, bundled her up, and then dragged her to a fort and straight down into the dungeons.

And right now she’s far too furious at her captors, and a bit her own lack of wariness, to let the uncertainty of her fate get in the way of her anger.

“D’you mind keeping it down a little?” a voice behind her grumbles and Lila nearly jumps out of her skin as she whips around to see a figure sitting on a low bench in the far corner, half shrouded in the shadows.

She’d completely missed him when she was brought in.

Her fellow inmate seems to be a ranger like herself, she realises as her eyes adjust to the low lighting inside the cell proper. Long legs kicked out in front of him clad in practical leather trousers. A short leather tunic covers broad shoulders and an equally broad chest that he has his arms crossed over, only a bit of a linen shirt peeking out between leather gauntlets and empty knife straps, and Lila doesn’t think it’s a trick of the light that his skin seems darker than most people’s around here, but matching her own.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, at least doing a decent job of keeping the startled wobble that she feels out of her voice.

“Gods, you’re a charming one, aren’t you?” he asks sarcastically, pushing off from the bench and getting stiffly to his feet and Lila realises that he’s even bigger than she’d assumed he was sitting down.

She doesn’t let it show, but she is immediately on high alert as he moves. If she were armed she could probably take him, but if the scar she spots in his brow as he steps into the light is any indication, he knows how to fight just as much as her and Lila tries to push away the sudden fear of all number of terrible things he could do to her while none of the guards would bother to come to her aid.

Then she’s momentarily distracted when she sees his pointy ears stick out just a bit through the shaggy brown hair that frames his face, and she can’t hold in a surprised snort.

That is by far the bulkiest fucking elf she’s ever come across.

Indignation makes its way onto his face as he seems to realise that she’s laughing at him and he protests with a whine that really contrasts his earlier growly tones, “Hey, what the fuck are you laughing at me for?”

There’s an insecure vulnerability she might be able to exploit for her own safety if she plays her cards right, so Lila says, putting a brittle edge into her voice that comes a bit more easily than she cares to admit, “Not laughing at you, sorry! I’m just a tad stressed out about being locked up with someone who could be a brutal murderer for all I know!”

She’s surprised at how well her ploy works when there’s an instant shift in the elf’s energy and he actually takes a step back, giving her a lot more space, and his expression softens from irate to pensive.

“Uh, yeah… sorry,” he mumbles, fingers twitching at his sides as if he feels more uncomfortable than she does right now, “not gonna murder you. Promise…”

Oddly reassured by that, Lila stifles another laugh at his discomfort and instead asks conversationally, “What are you in her for, then?”

“Fuck if I know,” he replies exasperatedly, his frustration clearly not directed at her, though, “I was following a band of thieves through the forest hoping they’d lead me to their den and next thing I know, I wake up in this place with a headache and, I’m pretty certain, a crack in my skull. You?”

“More or less the same,” she answers with a shrug, then she goes on, hoping he’ll get what she’s offering, “Show me?”

It seems he does because he - tentatively, she notes - makes his way over to her and leans down a bit so that she can examine the right side of his head.

She hadn’t noticed it earlier, probably focussed a lot more on her own concerns, but now she sees the long gash that starts on his cheek and when she gently pushes strands of his hair out of the way, she sees that it’s matted with blood, originating from split skin that reaches all the way to above and behind his pointy ear, which is also a bit bloodied and swollen, clearly having been injured by the same blow.

The wound looks painful and like it will scar, but she doesn’t think it’s life-threatening as long as it doesn’t get infected.

“You’ll live,” she informs him tersely, but for some reason she can’t resist carding her fingers through his hair reassuringly before letting her hand drop. He grunts at her touch and blinks slowly and there’s suddenly an odd warm feeling in Lila’s chest.

She tries to dispel the tension developing in the cell, takes a step back, crosses her arms, and asks, “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Diego,” he says neutrally. She hopes he hasn’t picked up on her sudden embarrassment.

“Well, Diego, I’m Lila,” she offers with a bit of a sigh and then brightens, “You wanna get out of here?”

Diego looks at her sceptially, “You got a plan?”

Lila grins at him, giving him a quizzical once over, “As a matter of fact, I do!”

-

“Uh, guard?” Diego calls out not loud enough, and entirely unconvincingly, seeing as he’s supposed to be distressed and Lila can’t help but press her face between his shoulder blades in fond exasperation.

She’s known him for all of ten minutes, how is she already fond of this hopeless fucking idiot? Gods, he can thank his lucky stars that he ended up being locked up with her or he’d never get out.

Lila is standing right behind Diego, hands fisted into the material of his leather tunic at his back, pressing as closely against his ridiculously solid body as she can, making herself practically invisible to anyone who might happen to be looking into the cell even if they came up close.

“Fuck, you’re a terrible actor,” she wispers and feels the muscles in his back tense.

“Shit, woman, stop nagging! You do your job, I do mine, if you don’t mind!” he grumbles out of the corner of his mouth and then takes a deep breath.

The next time he shouts, Lila has to stop herself from startling, because his voice echoes off the walls and there’s a decidedly dangerous edge to it. It’s a voice that will not be ignored.

“Guards! Guards! The fucking ranger’s escaped! She just disappeared from the cell!” He slams presumably his fists into the bars and makes them rattle loudly and the commotion has its desired effect, because Lila can hear hurried footsteps thundering down the hall towards them.

Good, it sounds like two of them, that’s what she was hoping. She was expecting at least two, but three would have already made her plan a bit more difficult to pull off.

She focuses intently on the task at hand, dragging her subconscious away from the warmth she feels radiating off Diego’s body and the not overpowering but decidedly distracting smell of his skin,

“What the fuck?!” she hears one of the guards shout as he arrives at the cell and can apparently indeed only find one occupant.

There’s a rattling of keys and the hinges of the cell door squeal as it is opened.

Diego’s muscles shift against her, it feels like he’s lifting his arms. “Careful where you point that thing,” he says evenly.

Right, so she assumes he’s being kept in check by one of the guards, but that’s ok, that’s part of the plan.

One set of footsteps tentatively enters and Lila readjusts ever so slightly, face still firmly pressed against Diego’s back but she can now see the guard as he passes them, gaze fixed on the far side of the cell, sword raised defensively, and he completely misses her as he edges past.

Lila spots the hilt of a knife sticking out of his belt and in a flash she slips away from Diego and up behind the guard, pulls the knife out of his belt, and slits his throat with it.

Confident enough in her skills that she doesn’t have to bother checking she’s done the job thoroughly enough, though she does register the thud as the guard’s body hits the stone floor, she twists around to assist Diego.

But there’s no need as she just catches him grabing the short spear, the tip of which is still resting against his chest, pulls it out of the other guard’s hands and slams the handle hard enough into the man’s face that Lila can hear the sickening crunch of multiple bones breaking.

She doubts he’s dead, but this guard will also not cause them any issues in the foreseeable future.

“Holy shit,” Diego breaths out in surprise, “I didn’t think that would work!”

“Oh thanks for the confidence!” she says, more exhilarated than miffed, really, and grabs his hand.

On some absolutely batshit impulse she interlaces her fingers with his, but then decides against just dropping his hand like it's a hot piece of coal, lest she make things even more awkward.

She ignores the wide eyed stare he gives her, though a part of her brain registers how he clasps her hand right back, and starts pulling him out of the cell, urgently saying, “Come on Diego, we need to go!”

[babbushka]

Biting Dust - Ch.2

Life ain’t too easy for a woman, ‘specially not a woman on the run like you. With a bounty on your head and gunpowder in your nose, you’ve grown adjusted to a life of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of civilization. That is, until you meet one particular man who’s got a face you’d only ever seen in your dreams – or on wanted posters. And when he offers you a proposition that sounds too good to be true, well. You don’t think your life will ever be the same again…

Outlaw!Kylo Ren x Reader

Tumblr Masterlist | Available on AO3

4.7k ; Content warnings: Mild angst (old west existentialism, mentions of hanging lol)

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

The shock of the sight in front of you has you starin’ at this man with your mouth agape, with just one question running through your head – how? How is he still alive?

He’s clearly swingin’, or no, maybe he isn’t, you realize as you ask Agnes to trot over with urgency. This man, the thief, is precariously balanced on the hide of his horse just so, just so that he must be alleviating some of the pressure around his throat where the noose is wrapped tight. You can’t quit starin’, Agnes coming up beside the great black horse who chuffs and whinnies softly at the strange new presence in front of her.

“Good evening ma’am,” The man uses what little purchase he has to spin himself around on the noose to face you, small grunts of his struggle wrenching out of his chest as he tries not to choke himself any more than he already is, “Could you do a fellow a favor and reach into the knapsack on my horse, use the knife that’s in the left pocket, and cut me down?”

It’s absurd, you think as your eyebrows shoot up, the way that he manages to seem so nonchalant, given his predicament. But the moment he manages to turn and face you fully, any amused notions of his calm vanish, replaced only by the weight of the features which you’re now confronted with.

He’s a collection of pieces that don’t make no sense, shouldn’t go together the way they do. His hair is long and dark as it waves and curls, but his ears stick out beyond the locks. His nose juts out strongly, but it looks like it’s been broken once or twice. A pink tongue darts out to lick plush plump lips, framed by a soft looking goatee, sharp cheeks, but a weak chin. Most of all though, are his eyes. They’re somehow both beady and cunning, calculating and warm, or well…his left eye is.

He’s got a scarred over gash that practically splits his face, something between a burn wound and a cut, halfway in the middle. Whatever it was that gave that to him, took his eye with it, or at least tried to. It’s still there, but it’s milky white, whereas the other one glows a liquid chocolate as the light of the setting sun hits it.  

He’s handsome, utterly and completely handsome.

He’s also still hanging by that noose, and you still don’t know how he ain’t dead, so despite all of that, you can’t help but blurt out,

“What the fuck is this?”

The man clearly was not expecting such a question, because he almost loses his footing on the black horse’s hide, and goes sputterin’ for a moment as he tries to right himself.

“Excuse me?” He’s got some sense of humor, you think, because he’s frowning at you, scowlin’, when he steadies himself once more.

“How are you doin’ that?” You clarify, gesturing with one hand to the fact that he’s alive, how he must’ve been hanging here for two whole days, and is still alive.

“Well,” The man sighs, and you can imagine that were his hands not bound behind his back, he might’ve scratched at his chin or his scalp. “I think my old girl Sam here is trying to teach me a lesson. She won’t come close enough to make this easy for me, but I figured if she were really sick and tired of my bullshit, she’d’ve rode off and let me hang. You know how horses get sometimes.”

Who is this person, who is so seemingly confident and sure of himself, and simultaneously must be the most lucky motherfucker to ever live? You can’t tell if you wanted to smack him or kiss him. Maybe both, but that decision can stay safely locked inside your brain. Even after the two minutes that you’ve known this man, something tells you that his ego would go through the roof if you gave him the satisfaction of a kiss.

“Oh do I.” You bite back a raised brow. While his presumptions may be correct, you were taken slightly aback with how freely he was willing to give them.

“Yes ma’am, I can tell by the way your horse is lookin’ up at you. Sam gives me those same looks, well, when she ain’t bein’ so difficult, of course.” He grumbles, and the black horse, Sam, seems to chuff in exasperation.

The sun is setting faster now, and you start to feel anxious. Surely folks would be still eatin’ dinner by now, surely no one would start walkin’ out and about at night, aside from those who take some comfort in the music and beer in the saloon. Surely no one would see you, see you talking to the hanged man, but…but suppose they did.

What would they do then?

What would you do?

You frown, wanting to get this whole interaction over with. You’ve resolved to cut him loose, but first, you’d like the honor at least bein’ introduced to this strange wonder of a man. You’d like to know just whose life you’re saving.

It ain’t often, that you go around saving lives instead of taking them.

“Quit calling me ma’am.” It’s too formal, too proper for the kind of woman that you are, somethin’ about it reminds you of your mother and – you nip that in the bud real fuckin’ quick.

“Yes sir.” The man offers with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and you wonder if he ever smiles. He’s certainly got the humor for it, but as far as his face has moved, those lips are held firmly in a scowl, even as his eyes sparkle.

Without getting off of Agnes, you reach into a knapsack of your own and pull out a knife. It’s nothing too fancy, but the blade is sharp and it should do the trick.

“I have a couple questions.” You begin sawing at the thick rope which binds his hands together, carefully twisting him so that you can have a better angle. You don’t want to accidentally cut his flesh, don’t want to do anything other than get some information and be on your way.

“Please, ask away.” The man is sarcastic, and the thought of stabbing him clean through the chest flits across your mind like a smooth stone over a pond. Although, as you brace yourself against his back with one hand to keep yourself steady when you cut through the rope, you’re not surprised at all to find he’s made of nothin’ but hard muscle.

“What’s your name?” The rope gives way and immediately he wastes no time rubbing at the chafed skin around his wrists, cracking the joints that had gone so stiff.  

“I ain’t so sure you’d’ve ever heard of me, but I go by the name of Kylo Ren.” He says quietly, gauging your reaction.

It isn’t one that he expects.

Something inside you lights up like the flickering flare of a candle, and before you know it, you’re reaching for your gun and holding it steady in his direction. Immediately, his newly freed hands go up in a display of surrender, but you don’t dare waver, not one inch. After all you were willin’ to do for him, you’d take it back in a heartbeat – you ain’t got no desire to go helpin’ a lying man.

“Bullshit.” You spit, drawing the word out into two different syllables, scowling at him.

He wasn’t Kylo Ren, he couldn’t be. Kylo Ren was a legend, a myth of epic proportions. They’d be singin’ songs about him and his gang until kingdom come, they’d be tellin’ stories about his escapades and adventures ‘til the cows came home. Kylo Ren was uncatchable, he was elusive, no one had ever met his wrath and walked away -- there was no way that here he was caught in front of you. Just because this man was blind in the same eye didn’t mean nothin’, lots of folks had injuries like that, and it makes you mad to know he’s hidin’ behind someone else’s identity.

“Beg pardon?” He almost sounds offended that you don’t believe him, and that only makes you more angry.

What, did he think you were stupid? Did he think you were so easily swayed by pretty falsehoods? Naw, you might’ve been easy on the eyes but you had a mind sharp as a tack, and he wasn’t going to make a fool out of it.

“There ain’t no way Kylo Ren would get himself strung up and left in a tree to die. So I’m going to ask again, and you’re going to tell me, otherwise I’ll shoot you clean through the gut and then you’ll have wished they hanged you right.” The gun doesn’t move, and instead of growing angry or brash or violent in the way you might expect a man to act while he’s starin’ down a barrel, he flushes a deep red.

“You’re mighty quick with that, I have to admit I’m impressed.” He chews on his lip, eyes crinkling up at the corners while he blushes and mumbles softly, “I like a woman who can handle her steel.”

“I like an honest man.” You counter, cocking the trigger. His reaction to bein’ held at gunpoint was nothin’ like you’d ever seen before, you’d never in your wildest dreams imagined you’d meet someone who thought being threatened like this was a turn-on.

“Kylo Ren’s the most honest answer I can give you.” He shrugs simply. He speaks with a sincerity that you still have a hard time believing, but there ain’t much you can do about it, you’ve done too much already, wasted too much time.  

You’ve wasted so much time, here with this man already.

“If you’re Kylo Ren, then I’m Angel Eyes.” You huff, wondering how he might feel about that, if he’d ever heard of you in return.

You’re countin’ on him thinkin’ that you’re bluffing, countin’ on him to throw his head back and laugh, to underestimate you. He doesn’t, instead of all of that, he only blushes a little harder, looking away from your gun and straight into your soul. Whether he’s heard of you or not, his eyes are wide and hopeful, starin’ at you like you put the stars in the sky.

“Won’t you cut me down, Angel?” Kylo asks, voice velvety and deep. The sun gleams off his teeth in a glint that has you realizing most of the ones on the bottom are made of gold, as the last slips of light make one last hurrah over the canyons.

He’s charming, too charming. Even with the noose around his neck, even still balancing like a moron on the back of his horse, he’s charming. A man like that is bound to be nothing but trouble, you think. You don’t know why, but something deep in your bones tells you that he won’t be leaving you alone so easily, once you cut him free.

If you cut him free.

But the sun is setting faster faster faster, and the last of the orangeredyellow is gone from the sky, leaving only the dusky blues and purples of twilight. There’s no more time for games, and you both know it.

“God dammit.” You sigh in aggravation, eventually giving in and holstering your gun once more.

You nudge Agnes to move a little closer, and she obliges warily. The rope around his neck requires a bit of elbow grease to saw through with your knife, but it only takes a couple of minutes before it too gives way, like the rope around his wrists had.

As soon as the tension around his neck disappears, Kylo loses his balance and falls off his horse with a great big thud, and you roll your eyes. Putting the knife back in your own knapsack, you don’t really pay much attention to whatever the hell he’s doing on the floor, trying to get his footing after two whole days of being stretched out. His muscles are probably on fire, burning from the effort to not succumb to strangulation, but that’s ain’t really your problem.

“Alright Ren, you’re free to go. I suggest you find some salve for that nasty burn you’ve got – hold it right the fuck there.” When you do eventually look up, it’s to see Kylo standing too close.

Far too close.

Your gun is back, and you jab it straight in the hollow of his scarred cheekbone. For having such good reflexes that you do, he caught you completely off-guard by popping up the way he just had. How was he so tall? He didn’t look that tall up in the tree, the man must be over six heads high. Once again, his hands are up over his head in surrender, and you’re confused, jumpy. You don’t like strange men gettin’ too close to you, don’t like it one bit.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you! I swear.” He rushes to say with a shake of his head, “You saved my life, I’m in grateful service to you. Wherever you go I’ll follow, and keep you safe from harm, until the day my debt can be repaid.”

Kylo realizes then, that he must’ve messed up, said the wrong thing. You can see it in his eyes, or at least, the one good eye he’s got, the one that ain’t scarred over and milky white. You can tell he didn’t mean to go causin’ no offence by offering you his protection, not at all.

“I don’t need any help, not from you, or from anyone.” Your tone softens just a little when you regard him, lowering the gun that you’d had held firmly against his cheek. You decide that there’s no use in blowin’ his head off, no point in wastin’ a bullet when you could’a just let him hang.

Kylo seems to know this, and when your gun isn’t digging into his cheekbone any longer, he takes a hesitant step towards you, so close, too close.

“Well then,” Kylo’s voice is equally soft, soft and deep in a way that’s almost unnerving, how it can be so soothing. He kicks up some of the reddened earth below his boots, sticks his hands in his pockets and gives you the most honest not-smile you’ve seen in your life as he blushes, “Looks like we’ll be together for a mighty long time.”

The sun is completely down now, darkness creeping in all around. You need to get away from this place, need to put some distance between yourself and the town, between you and Kylo, so you simply urge Agnes forward, and without another thought, you’re galloping into the great unknown.

 Agnes is fast, even in the dark.

Maybe especially in the dark, you think. She’s always had a penchant for roaming around at night, in fact, it was at night that you had found her. That was seemingly eons ago, and you don’t have the energy to mull about in your head dwelling on the past more than you already do.

In the moment, there, right there in the desert, it is a clear night. Light from the moon is bright and pale, a silvery wash of deep toned blues and a million stars in constellations you have memorized like the back of your hand illuminate the vast expanse of nothingness ahead of you.

Agnes is fast, but Kylo’s horse has no trouble keeping up, and though you’re not entirely surprised just because of the sheer size of the creature, you’re still impressed. Sam can’t quite match Agnes, her small stature making her all the more quicker, more streamlined that the midnight creature. It’s a slight observation you can’t help but make, their colors. Where Sam is pitch black, Aggie’s coat is glossy white and reflects the moon easily so Kylo can keep up.

When was the last time you rode like this with another person? Not away from someone, but with them? Kylo can’t see you grinning, the dark cloaking your smile as your hair whips around your head, but you are. You are, out there in the dark, flying through the canyons under the moonlight, putting that distance that you need between yourself and the town. No one would find you, no one would even know where to look, should they come try.

You don’t trust him, you don’t trust Kylo one bit, but you have to admit that the fact he hasn’t killed you point blank and stolen all your possessions means a lot. You’re not really in the business to go around trustin’ strangers, you’ve spent nearly your whole adult life alone, on the run. Now wasn’t the time to start…but it felt good, to be with another soul.

Eventually, when you’ve had your fun, when Agnes and Sam have stretched their legs enough, you and Kylo slow them down to a trot. You’ve come to the edge of the canyon here, so neither of you move any closer. Leaning over ever so slightly, you can hear the gentle trickle of water, can see the light sparkle of moonlight glittering off the rippling water of what has to be the Colorado River a thousand feet below in a gorge that you’ll have to descend in the morning. The map had named this place Horseshoe Bend, and you’re looking forward to seeing it in the daylight.

Neither of you are anywhere near Colorado yet, you’re actually closer to Utah than anything else, but you know that if you can just stick close to the river, you’ll be going in the right direction. Kylo notices you noticing the river, and eventually he pulls gently on the reins to get Sam to come to a soft stop.

This is a good place for the night, you think, and you swing your legs off Agnes’ back. Kylo mimics your movements, coming over slowly and carefully so that you hear him.

You don’t know it, but he doesn’t want to scare you again like he had by the tree, he doesn’t want to scare you ever again.

You’re too tired to protest when he begins helping you lift the bags off Aggie’s saddle, his arms are far bigger and stronger than yours, and though you want to tell him to fuck off with his chivalry, you’re undeniably grateful for the help.

Kylo seems to notice, and you’re just glad that he doesn’t make a whole to-do about it. He must be exhausted too, you’re sure.

Not exhausted enough to let you simply throw down a bundle of something for a pillow and sleep though, as he lights a match on the sole of his boots and tosses it onto a small pile of dry brush and sticks that he scrounges up quickly. The fire makes you wary, wary that someone might see, but you’re too close to the gorge for it to be a problem. No one would dare come rushing towards you here, lest they’d be risking falling straight over the edge and cracking their skulls on the rocks below.  

Watching as Kylo makes the fire and keeps it steady, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders. Nighttime got chilly out in the desert, and you’re lucky to have such a beautifully made blanket to keep you warm. You had purchased it just earlier this year at a trading post, it to this day it remained your most prized possession.

A woman had had a selection for sale or trade, hand woven wool in the most striking of patterns, and when you saw the black and beige striped one, you had given her all the money in your pocket for it. You wear it with respect, always make sure to keep it clean and mended, folded neatly in your bag, always remembering that human hands had created this, remembering that it is the skill of that woman and her hands which keeps you warm, keeps you alive on the harsher desert nights.

Kylo has no blanket of his own, or if he does, he doesn’t bother to wear it. Instead, he lies down close to the fire and adjusts his arms behind his head so that it can act as a pillow. You wonder how he can be comfortable like that, but you bite your tongue. If he’s doing this in an attempt at manliness, you won’t be so quick to give in to the bait.

You are looking at him though, with enough interest that Kylo feels the need to clear his throat.  

“Where are we headed, then?” He asks quietly as he settles down, shuffles a little closer to the fire.

You meet his gaze, but there’s nothing upsetting about the intensity of his eye contact. In fact, lying on opposite sides of the small fire like this, your faces cast warm by the glow of the soft flames, you feel almost as though you’re in a spell, caught in his eyes.

Where were you headed, where were you headed really? What a loaded question, you think.

He’s lookin’ at you, and you’re lookin’ back at him, and unshed tears prick the back of your eyelids just for a moment because if you think about it too hard, you’ll realize that in the end, you’re headed where all the wanderers, drifters, loners and outlaws head; “Nowhere.”

Kylo gives you the ghost of a smile, and shrugs, reaching forward enough to light a hand-rolled cigarette by the embers of the small campfire.

“I’ve always wanted to go there.” He says softly, and you can’t help but let a small chuckle slip through your lips. Kylo offers the cigarette to you, but you shake your head and decline, never havin’ gotten much into smokin’. He nods in understanding and puffs on it once or twice, blowing blue smoke up into the night sky.

“Are you always like this?” Tightening the blanket around your shoulders a little more, you try and get some sort of idea of who this person was. You’d always been a decent judge of character, well, you had to be, all alone like you were. Get betrayed one too many times, you start seein’ the signs of shifty drifters from a mile away.

But with him, with Kylo, you can’t sniff out anything rotten in him, not yet. Maybe it’ll come out in a day or two, hell, maybe it’ll come out in an hour once you’re fast asleep. If you wake up and he’s still there, if you even wake up at all tomorrow, you’ll be more surprised of that than anything in the world.

“That depends.” Kylo finally replies around the huff and puff of his cigarette, giving you more of those vague half truths that you can already tell are going to drive you over the cliff.

“On what?” You ask, already knowing the answer.

“On whether you like it or not.” He gives you another one of those not-smiles, where he somehow looks at you, straight through you, with all the warmth of an old friend, though he be but a total stranger. You scrub a hand down your face in exasperation; it ain’t hard to see why Sam wanted him to suffer a little bit, back by the tree, you think.

“Let’s say for argument’s sake that I don’t.” You offer, and Kylo lets out a sharp breath of a laugh through his nose.

“Then yes, I’m always like this.” Kylo smokes pleasantly, and you curl in on yourself, and roll onto your back.

There’s a million stars up there, you’re sure. Maybe a hundred million, a million million. You used to tell the stories of the constellations to your students – no, you think. Don’t go down that memory lane, the one fraught with fire and anguish.

Shaking your head slightly, you open up your eyes as wide as they’ll go, your pupils swallowin’ up all the light they can. There’s purple white blue clouds in a thick cluster above the gorge, and you know that to be a wisp of the Milky Way. The view is impressive, and humbling. After all, you are nothin’ but a small spec in the universe, aren’t you?

“Ain’t it wild?” Kylo starts to ask, smokin’ and turning his head up to the galaxy above you both. “To think that a thousand years ago, someone was lying where we lay, was starin’ up at these stars we see? To think that a thousand years from now, someone else will be in our position, wonderin’ about their place in the cosmos.”

“What is that you’re smokin’?” You tease softly, no real bite to your words. His baritone nestles into your chest and you feel the thrum of it in your bones, your eyes wetting, not daring to look at him as the fire snaps and crackles between you.

“Nothin’ but tobacco, honest.” Smoke pours out of his nose, his mouth. You can feel his eyes on you, can feel him lookin’. “Don’t you ever think about it, about your place in the world?”

“No.” That answer comes easily enough.

“How come?” Kylo’s voice is a deep deep deep whisper in the night, and it weighs heavy on your stomach as your hands twist in the blanket.

“I don’t got one.” You can’t believe you’re admitting something like this to him, to this stranger.

Something about being here with him, lying so close to another human being for the first time in years, makes you spill all your secrets. You’d told him your name, you’ve never told someone your name. Granted, he probably thought you were just jokin’, but still, whether he knew it or not, he knew the truth. Kylo hasn’t laughed at you yet, though.

He hasn’t mocked you or pushed you in any way. He’s answered your questions and the ones he asked in return weren’t nothin’ of too much trouble. In fact, out of all the men you coulda picked to be stuck with, he seemed like one that wasn’t too shabby. Had a good sense of humor, at the very least, and was calm under pressure, if his behavior by the tree was anythin’ to go off of. He seemed sane enough, or maybe just insane enough. You weren’t sure.

Whichever one it was, it had to be why he had declared undying loyalty to you so quickly. Maybe that was the kind of person he was, Kylo was. Maybe that was all you needed to know about him.

Maybe he was just as lonely as you.

Maybe he hadn’t slept beside another human being in just as long.

The sky above you moves, creeps and crawls at a snails pace, but moves. The Milky Way turns, and with it so do the stars. Your eyes are tired, every part of you is tired, and you shudder from the sheer exhaustion in your muscles. Those seven hours at the hotel were more sleep than you’d gotten in the whole week prior, and it was as if your body remembered how badly you needed that sleep, once you’d gotten it.

You sigh a little to yourself, not so sure when another opportunity like that would come again.  

“You’re cold.” Kylo speaks up enough so you can hear him even as your eyes slip closed, darkness around your vision lulling you into that in-between state of consciousness and slumber.

“I’m fine, the fire’s enough.” You mumble, your words slurring together as you turn closer towards the fire, let the heat of the flame seep into your body, trapping it under your blanket.

“If you’re comfortable with it, you’re more than welcome to come sleep next to me.” He offers, and if you were awake enough, you’d probably chuckle at how bold he is, how forward. You still had your wits about you, still had your decent judgement, you know nothin’ about this man and you don’t trust him as far as you can throw him.

You don’t know anything about him, nothin’ at all. Not even his name.

Maybe you do know his name. The odds of that are so astronomical though, so outta this world, that…well…you’re inclined to believe them.

“Are you really Kylo Ren? The Kylo Ren?” You have to ask, forcing your eyes open to look at him one last time, before you fall asleep completely and deal with whatever trouble tomorrow might bring you.

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see, Angel.” Kylo whispers, giving you one of those sincere not-smiles, and looking right back.

[ghostinthebau]

Super Fanfic Rec List -- Iron Dad Edition (because I just wanna share the love)

I’ve had such a blast reading fanfic of the IronDad and SpiderSon variety over the last 6 months or so, and I thought I’d just make a rec list of some of my favorite stories.  Most of them are angsty, with whump and hurt/comfort because that’s what I live for.  

This is in no particular order or in any way complete because there’s just way too many amazing fics/authors in the Iron Dad fandom, but it will still be hella long, so....here goes! 

First off, @yellowdistress:

What We Are series - Bio-dad Tony series that goes all the way through Infinity War.  Endgame AU.

Someday I’ll Make it Out of Here series - Adoption AU!  It’s so good.

The Missing 92 Days - A take on HYDRA Peter that destroyed me emotionally.

Reviving Peter Parker - This about killed me.  Peter actually died during his fight with Toomes and SHIELD brings him back a la the TAHITI project like they did with Phil Coulson.  

A Sailor Went to Sea - Gut-wrenching Endgame fix it.  

Double, Double

@losingmymindtonight:

Webcams and Webshooters series

I Never Lived ‘Til I Lived In Your Light series - !!! TISSUE WARNING !!! Peter dies, but there’s another one shot with a happier ending if you need it.

And You’ll Blow Us All Away - Adoption fic!  A lovely one at that.

5 Times Peter’s Mental Illness Made Him Stumble And The 1 Time He Refused To Falter - I really love a well-depicted take on mental illness, and losingmymindtonight delivered 100%.

If You Can’t Catch A Breath (You Can Take The Oxygen Straight Out Of My Own Chest)

Cyanide? In My Shawarma?

@justme--emily:

The Guardian - Adoption AU with a lovely Loki and Peter friendship!

Radioactive - Peter endures the after effects of the spider bite, and scares bio-dad Tony to death.  Lovely, lovely, lovely.

The Good Fight - Peter gets hurt at the airport in Germany instead of Rhodey.  

@iron--spider:

ever in your favor - Hunger Games AU and an epic work of art!  

Lazarus, come forth - The Endgame fix it before Endgame.  Peter will break your heart.

dear mr. fantasy

this isn’t a game - Highly underrated fic based off the PS4 Spider-Man game.  I’ve never even played the game, and I loved this story.

what if there is no tomorrow? - This story actually made me kinda like Justin Hammer, if you can believe it.  

blindness

@tempestaurora:

hydra’s not a home series - HYDRA Peter, and also bio-dad Tony and bio-mom Pepper!

i’ll find you in the drift - Pacific Rim AU, and I have never seen PR, but I adored this so much.

it’s okay, we’re okay [whumpvember 2018] series

@jolinarjackson:

Lights To Guide You Home series - Another adoption AU.  They are my weakness, and this is one of the best out there.  

... and when you can’t crawl ...

Damaged At Best (Like You’ve Already Figured Out)

@blondsak:

No Life But This

come morning light (you and I’ll be safe and sound)

Burying Grounds - Eeeek!  Tony has to choose between saving Peter or Pepper and it hurts.

hold on, hold on

Something the Soul Needs

@madasthesea:

turn back the clock (and I’ll try again in the morning)

when my body won’t hold me anymore (where will I go)

They have so many other lovely looking fics--including an adoption au series (which I, of course, love), but I just haven’t gotten around to reading them yet.  I’m pretty sure anything they write is golden.  :)

@signofuncertainty:

It’s Always the Little Things

I’m sure their other fic, The Third Option, is fantastic and I really, really wanna read it but I’m trying so hard to wait until it’s complete!�� It’s really difficult to wait, though, tbh....I may give in soon.  

@upcamethesun:

Twelve Days Of Peter Parker - So cute and fluffy, and then it kills you at the end.

5 Times Peter Made Tony Laugh Out Loud

5 Times Tony Didn’t Need To Worry About Peter

5 Times Peter Pretended To Be Tougher Than He Was

@frostysunflowers:

Between how it is and how it should be - This story made me love a Peter and Bucky friendship.

@kitcat992:

Identity Theft - This was one of the very first Iron Dad fics I read, and it was a doozy.  Full of whump, medical accuracy, and hurt/comfort!  The author is posting a sequel now, too: Identity Crisis.  :D

For Pete’s Sake!

@camelot-queen:

Goner - A perfectly heartbreaking kidnapping fic, but heed the warnings!

Who Saves The Hero

Never Meet Your Heroes

i’m the satellite (and you’re the sky) - Tony is Peter’s bio-dad but Peter doesn’t know it.  I haven’t actually finished this yet, but it’s good.  So, so good.

@peter-stank:

built from scraps - YOU GUYS, this is one of the best fics I’ve read on AO3.  It’s a ‘Tony gets dusted instead of Peter’ AU, and it’s got such an amazing dynamic between Peter, Pepper, and Morgan.  It’ll also make you tear up a few times, at least.

@geekymoviemom:

Sins of the Fathers - So, I’ve only read the first 5 chapters of this epic length (303k words@) adoption AU so far, but I’m LOVING it so I wanted to add it here.  They also have an even longer bio-dad Tony with added Stony bonus series, Pieces of Echoes, that they’re posting the 3rd installment to right now.  I’ll definitely be checking it out!

@too-many-bees:

let’s kick it

like a bridge over troubled water

@jbsforever:

it’ll be over (and I’ll still be asking when)

@tnyystark:

where the memories reside

@whumphoarder:

Quieting the Void series - Peter kinda has an eating disorder due to the spider bite, so take care if you read!

Poison Apple - Loved how medically accurate this was, and Ned’s reaction to Peter’s condition was heartbreaking.

@seek-rest:

It Hurts to Become

Someday We’ll Know - This is a Walk to Remember AU, so there’s MCD.  I’ve gotten about halfway through, but I can only read it when I’m in the right mindset.  But it’s lovely and so well done.  

This author has so many fics that I’m sure are amazing, and they’re on my ‘to read’ list when I’m in the mood for beautiful Spideychelle stories.

@caraminha:

The Primary Reason Tony Stark Would Throw Down With an Anti-Vaxxer in the Street - Hella scary depiction of Peter with tetanus, and it’s SO GOOD.

@tonystarkstan:

it all comes back to this

skeletons series

to build a home series - I love recovery fics, and this was a beautiful story of Peter dealing with the aftermath of being snapped and coming back.

lay your weary head to rest

@foolscapper:

Exploding Head Syndrome - Everyone comes back when the snap is reversed, but Peter is sort of catatonic--stuck between the living world and the soul stone where he’s with Gamora.  It’s such a lovely fic.

@alice-in-ink:

It’s a Little Bit We Do

Danger Pizza

@legalassie:

oh, darling - Peter’s kidnapped and Tony frantically searches for him--one of my favorite things.  Peter uses his smarts to help him get out of the situation, too, which is also one of my favorite things.

don’t think about tomorrow. 

@blackwatchandromeda:

Broken Thoughts (I Remember Everything)

Leave Me to Dream

A Nightmare to Remember

@emma--anacortes: 

Accepting the Tides - Here I am with another adoption AU.  Can you see a pattern yet?  I love them, and this one has danger and whump and comfort as well.  

@ardenskyedarcy221b:

they are standing in the garden - This hurt.  Several times the author had me tearing up and there’s a few lines that will stay with me forever.  It was just immensely lovely to read.

@iamallyetnotatall:

At the Start of the Universe - This was so much better than I was expecting! Peter is an Angel, and he knows Tony from the very beginning of the universe. It’s different, but absolutely gorgeous.

@starktowr:

somewhere outside my life - I don’t wanna say too much, but just read this.  It’ll break you and you’ll love it.

@jessicagoddamnjones: 

too bad (but it’s the life you lead)

@silver-bubbles:

The Fire’s Out (But Still It Burns)  

@day-dreamer176:

Like A Strike of Lightning - I kinda took this as a demonic possession a la Supernatural, but I don’t think it actually was.  Either way, it was fantastic.

fifty-four

five, tops

The World Stopped

@ambivalentmarvel:

Into His Fold series - Where Thanos brings Peter back from the ashes to make him into his new son (a la Nebula and Gamora).

@notaparty-trick:

Doom and Gloom - A ‘Peter doesn’t get dusted’ AU, filled with whump and Iron Dad and an awesome Carol Danvers.  Angst!!!

Dust and Blood - Peter is hurt much worse when Toomes drops the building on him.  More angst!!!!  This author does angst very well.

@ema--vee:

You don’t have to hold your head up high - Peter can’t thermoregulate!  I love that trope.

@forensicleaf:

All the Things We’ve Lost (And All the Things We’ve Gained) - This one gutted me, and then made it better.  But there’s pain to be had before the comfort!

They just posted the first chapter of a new WIP that looks AMAZING, too: Can’t Part the Sea, Can’t Reach the Shore.

@plnkblue:

foolish, fragile spine - Peter’s severely injured in his fight with Adrian Toomes and Tony finds him.  

@helloitisiafellowgay:

god did not craft us as altars, but as dying gods - Okay, guys.  This one is heavy.  It deals with Skip coming back into Peter’s life, and it’s not pretty but it’s handled superbly.  It’s a tough read, but one I definitely recommend if you can handle it.  Take care of yourselves first and foremost, though.  <3

~ ~ ~ I’m not sure if the following authors have a tumblr, so I just linked their AO3 pages ~ ~ ~

eccentric_artist_221b:

Only for a Little While - This is a Titanic AU, and it’s AMAZING.  There’s several scenes that just took my breath away and brought me to tears (not an easy feat). They’re also working on a WWI sequel!!!!

tiaylasglass:

the one who made it out - Short, simple in a gorgeous way, and poignant.  

And finally, I thought I’d humbly add my own little contribution to the fandom.  So far, I’ve only written the one fic, but I hope to write more in the future!

@ghostinthebau:

For Want of a Dad (in need of a son) - There’s a bit of blood, and a very distraught Tony at one point, so warning for angst and injury!

Again, this list is probably severely lacking, and if someone has a rec that’s not on here please please please reblog this and let me know!  I’m always in the mood for more fics.  

And I hope anyone reading this finds something they enjoy!  

I’m sure you will.  

ilu 3,000

:)