#only upside is the new one seems like it’ll be a more fun read than the first one was

[nialls-harmonica]

Lowkey want to cry bc I finished a book for the Goodreads era explorer challenge and it didn’t register that I’ve done it😭

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

Okay but I would LOVE to here your heretical opinions on Padame if you ever want to share them or any of your other views on star wars prequel characters. Your character analysises are INCREDIBLE and really fun to read <3

Oh boy, are you sure about that? Well, the ask has been made so here, we, gooooooooooooooo!

Padme’s one of those strange characters who appears as one thing but in actuality is quite different. Because she appears as the first thing, and it’s something people really like, most people accept that at face value and if she’s not always consistent--well, she came from a series of screenplays written by George Lucas.

Padme comes across as a very noble, kind, and courageous character who is also quite politically savvy. At fourteen, against all odds, she saves her planet from invasion when the Senate did nothing, secured herself an ally in the chancellor (nevermind him being secretly Palpatine), and even after relinquishing her title as queen remains a major player in the senate for years and is seen as enough of a threat to warrant several assassination attempts (one so bad she has to be guarded by Jedi and sent home to Naboo for several weeks). 

And I’m not saying she’s not any of these things. Padme is very courageous, is one of those odd politicians who... believes she stands for what she believes in (more on this later), and has a remarkable political career.

However, she’s also romantic to the point of being completely and utterly delusional, self-centered, and frankly a little nuts.

(Yeah, you knew you were waiting for me to say something terrible, WEREN’T YOU?!) Right, so what’s wrong with Padme?

Well, if you look closely at a few of her choices, the ones that never seemed to make much sense, then you can look at her other choices and... Well, it all sort of comes together. 

That’s right, I’m talking about “Attack of the Clones” and “Revenge of the Sith”.

Attack of the Clones we have the very lackluster and strange romance of Anakin and Padme.

On Anakin’s end, his infatuation with Padme makes a lot of sense. She was part of the party that rescued him from slavery, she was very kind to him, and was the prettiest girl he’s ever seen in his life. Ten years later, always having harbored a crush on her memory and keeping it alive through whatever news he hears of her, she’s grown into a very beautiful woman and Anakin is by chance introduced back into her life. I get why Anakin falls head over heels for Padme, I’ll get more into this later and how their relationship has some major issues (aside from the obvious), but I understand why he marries this girl out of nowhere even when it could get him thrown out of the Jedi. (As an aside, since this is more of a Padme post, I think Anakin was spurred on in part also by the death of his mother and his massacre of the Tusken Raiders. Anakin’s life was flipped upside down in a very short amount of time, one of his great emotional ties is suddenly gone, and I think he has this internal crisis that culminates in him deciding to marry Padme. Without this, he and Padme may have become lovers, but I don’t think he’d marry her).

On Padme’s end... it’s a little less clear. Anakin has grown into an attractive young man, yes. Take out all of George Lucas’ dialogue, and maybe Padme finds Anakin very charming. However, Padme secretly marries a Jedi she’s known for three weeks. Now, I’d be a bit more forgiving of this, love is love and we can’t always think rationally, but there’s some other things.

Unlike Anakin, Padme hasn’t been spending the past ten years romanticizing her memory of Anakin Skywalker. When they met in Phantom Menace, Anakin was not only five years younger than her, he was nine-years-old. To fourteen-year-old Padme, Anakin was not then dating material and was instead this poor boy in slavery. Which means while Anakin has build up justifying this rapid romance, Padme really doesn’t. What this means is that her romance with Anakin reads a lot more like a romantic fantasy. Cute dashing bodyguard shows up, saves her life, through contrived circumstances they’re sent back to beautiful Naboo where they spend time together, only cute bodyguard is a Jedi and can’t marry, which makes their love excitingly taboo! 

Everything Padme does, before and after this point, lends itself to this overdeveloped sense of romance. Padme wants to be whisked away, wants to have this secret unsustainable marriage with a man who cannot be married, she’s in love with the idea of being in love. Given how little time she spends with Anakin, how little they really know of each other, I’d say she’s more in love with the idea of Anakin than Anakin Skywalker himself. And this isn’t a bad thing necessarily, or at least not a grievous flaw, however, that’s not all. 

Padme chooses to marry Anakin knowing he murdered an entire village of men, women, and children. She marries him almost immediately after the massacre of the Tusken Raiders. Note, she does not learn about this later and have to come to terms with it, she is right there. She is on Tatooine with him and sees him go to do it and then return. 

Padme doesn’t take it... particularly well, that said, she also seems to shove it under the carpet immediately. She, first, marries Anakin within days after this event. She second, never really has a “holy fuck, Anakin” conversation with him. And worst yet, she never confesses to anyone else. Padme is a hypocrite and willing to sacrifice everything she believes in, albeit I believe unwittingly, for her romantic fantasy.

She tells no one about what happened. An entire village was brutally massacred, those who are already poor and oppressed and have no voice, by a man who is supposed to be a protector of all people in the galaxy. I’m sorry, Anakin, but if Padme was who you think she is then she would have to tell the Jedi Order at the very least if not the Republic. Instead, there are no consequences, only Anakin’s descent into guilt and madness as three years pass with it festering in the back of his mind.  Padme does not stand for the poor, for the people, or for justice. She only does so when it does not conflict with her own interests, i.e. her actions regarding the invasion of Naboo. More, I do not believe Padme has the introspection to realize this about herself, she never realizes that not narking on Anakin was very very very bad. Three years pass and she lives the whirlwind romantic fantasy that she and Anakin both want. They’re secret lovers/spouses, meeting up at the oddest hours of the day and... This is three years of this ridiculous affair. Three years to come to terms with the fact that something must change. And then the kicker, Padme gets pregnant, and this is where the extra delusional comes in.

The child should have been a signal of the end. There can be no more secret now. Padme is having a child, presumably out of wedlock, and even if space is very very very different from our society I imagine this would be quite the scandal that could even get her thrown out of the senate. I believe Padme mentions as much to Anakin. More, Anakin is no longer a lover, he is now a father. What’s supposed to happen now? They raise this secret child, instructing them that Anakin is only a father in private, never in public?

Anakin and Padme briefly flirt with the idea of Anakin leaving the order. Anakin even wants to do so, but it... never happens. Now is the time it absolutely should happen. Yes, Anakin’s a big part of the war effort, but he could at least start talking to the Order and they could decide if it’d be a slow or fast exit. 

My theory, Padme’s too in love with the fantasy. Anakin leaving means he’s no longer a Jedi, it means he’ll come to Naboo, be unemployed and be around. Anakin visiting will no longer be this romantic, fraught with the danger of being found out, passionate, short lived event for Padme. It’ll become real life. He’ll be a real, ordinary man, she’ll be a real, ordinary, woman, and that spark of romance will be gone.

I don’t think Padme wants that. 

Which is why, even with the child on the way, we see Anakin and Padme continue to play out this ridiculous secret lovers fantasy. And then, of course, Anakin goes insane off screen.

Padme is told that, once again, Anakin has murdered dozens of children. Of course, this is a terrible thing to be told and she can’t process it. She needs to find Anakin and confront him, but people always criticize Lucas here and feel it’s out of character for Padme to have run to Anakin in sobbing hysterics with no plan of enacting vengence.

Frankly, I think it’s very in character. She did nothing about the Tuskens, remember? I think at the end of the day, the murder of the Jedi children means very little to her. What hurts Padme the most is that the fantasy of Anakin she married is not real. The Anakin she married would never murder the Jedi children, betray the Republic, or do any of what he’s done. And I think Padme only has that strong, iron, will when she knows the world she’s in. With the Trade Federation, her stance was obvious. Her people were being oppressed, butchered, and invaded. In this case, the world she knew no longer exists.

The Republic is gone, perhaps hasn’t existed in thirteen years, as it turns out the senator who had always been her biggest supporter was a Sith Lord. The Jedi are gone, children murdered by Anakin while those in the field are picked off by their own clone soldiers. Padme’s world has fallen apart, and I think that makes it much harder for her to be the girl we saw in Phantom Menace. In time, perhaps, she would have joined the rebellion but... I do think Padme might have also given into despair.

So, yeah, that’s Padme for you.

[heyheyloki]

U&I

Summary: The reader begins to realize his feelings for Saiki.

Saiki x M!Reader

Word Count: 8711

1. The Best Friends

Being friends with a psychic definitely had its ups and downs. At first, you didn’t notice a thing out of the ordinary with Saiki, well, granted you were kids when the both of you met so naturally you just wanted to be friends and thought nothing more. However, he noticed something odd with you the moment you two met.

He couldn’t read your mind.

Actually forget being about to read your mind, none of his psychic abilities worked on you. He couldn’t see through you and when he touched you without his super thin transparent gloves on nothing happened. You were basically immune to him.

At first, he thought something was wrong with you, or that maybe you had some psychic powers as well. That wasn’t the case at all. In reality, you were a normal human without any powers or tricks. That stumped Saiki even more, but it also became the soul reason he wanted to be your friend as well.

For one, he didn’t have to deal with your thoughts. Two, his image of you wasn’t ruined because he can’t see under your skin. Three, your calmer personality made him relax. And of course all those other things like your kindness and stuff, but those were irrelevant the moment he knew he couldn’t read your mind.

It’s been years since he met you in the park during recess, and now here you guys were, 16 years later and still friends. Oh, there was one thing that bothered him about you.

“What to hang out today?” You asked as you slung your bag over your shoulder.

“Sure.” Saiki said. Yep. That’s right, since he can’t get in your mind, he actually has to move his mouth when he talks to you.

It was a bit weird to others that he never did it with anyone else other than you, but he didn’t care.

On the way home he couldn’t help but notice you eyeing his antennas, the things that keep his powers stable. He turned his head towards you and gave you a curiosity look.

“Do those things poke at your head at all?” You asked, moving you hand up to poke at the top of the pink ball. “Like, does it make your head ichy?”

Saiki shook his head. He knew he had to talk to you at some points, but times like these he didn’t. He enjoyed that about you too, that you don’t force him to talk all the time. You knew it was a bit weird for him to talk, he explained it to you when he told you all about his powers.

“Hm,” you hummed out. Your hands going back at your side and into your pant pockets. “It would for me, if I was you. They just look painful, but I guess you gotta do what you gotta do if you don’t wanna blow up the world.”

Saiki nodded his head, his eyes continuing to linger on you. It was one days like these when he saw you thinking so hard about something that he wished he could just take a peak. At some points, he loved the silence, especially when the both of you were watching movies, but right now, especially in this moment, he’d give anything to know. It was mostly prominent when he’d stare at you during class and you’d have this far out look in your orbs, you drew him in, and perhaps that’s why he fell for you.

Though, there were other factors that won his favor. Mostly the fact that, unlike everyone else, he can’t stare right through you and just see your raw muscles and pumping organs. Instead, he was able to focus on your handsome face and not get side tracked about your racing thoughts. You were the only person in the world that make him feel somewhat normal. That was a love-hate relationship at times.

“Think I could sleep over tonight?” You suddenly asked, “we don’t have school tomorrow.”

Saiki stared at you for a moment just to relish in that fact that nothing worked on you. No telekinesis, mind control, no nothing. He was going to have to win your favor just like everyone else. To him, it wasn’t normal, but looking at you, he didn’t seem to mind the extra work.

“Sure,” Saiki said. He still had trouble talking aloud, hell, sometimes he will actually use telekinesis and wait for your response only to have pure silence. “My parents are leaving for a wedding, so the house should be free for a while.”

When the two of you got to Saiki’s house, it was a bit peaceful until his parents had to head out. You liked his mom and dad a lot, they were like your second family, so you wanted to wish them a good time. It was for one Saiki’s dad’s coworkers.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come with us?” Saiki’s dad asked his son. “You’ve met Kirishima before, and you can bring [Name] as your plus one date.”

You knew Saiki wasn’t going to be interested in a wedding. He always told you normal happy events for others is misery for him since he can hear the jealousy and pity that the crowd is thinking. You felt sorry that he couldn’t turn it off, but you were glad that you were the only person he could catch a break with. However, when you looking over at Saiki, he seemed to entertain the thought.

It was a new side to Saiki, one that made you confused. It was always either you or no one. You could tell the way he wanted to get away from many of the people in his class that seemed to have declared themselves his friends from a small interaction. Sure, you felt their interest, but it was just a bit sad to you that Saiki could never actually enjoy friends unless they were pure. Otherwise, he could hear all the backstabbing thoughts or otherwise stupid comments that go around in their brain that was thought to be private to them.

“I’m going to have to pass,” you commented. “I don’t have a suit, besides, you two should enjoy the night. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you both go out alone.”

Saiki’s mom smiled widely at you. Her eyes clouding over with a wet film before wrapping her arms around you for a tight hug. “Ah, thank you, [Name]! What would we do without you?”

You chuckled softy at the comment before saying, “Who knows, I rather not think about that.”

When she finally let you go, you and Saiki waved the both of them off as they left. Honestly, you weren’t sure if they’d even make it back at a reasonable time. It was a wedding, after all. Oh well, as long as they make it back drunk and safe rather than drunk and not safe, you didn’t mind. You were sleeping over anyway, so right now, you just wanted to hang out with your childhood best friend.

“What do you wanna do?” You asked with a calming tone.

Saiki turned his head to you. “TV?”

“Sure,” you smiled. However, as soon as you turned to the living room, you noticed the absolute mess his parents left behind. So, out of the goodness of your heart, you said, “How about you find something and all clean up this in the meantime. Sound good?”

Saiki nodded once more. He truly thought your actions were kind, but he rather have you watching TV with him than picking up his dad’s dirty clothes. He knew his father tended to be sloppy, but this was just a mess.

As you were about to pick up a pair of jeans, all the clothes that were strewn about the floor suddenly started to float in the air and shoot into the open washing machine. The trash floated itself into the garage while everything else was moved around to make it look clean until otherwise.

You pressed your lips together as your brows furrowed in annoyance. Once you turned to Saiki and saw his innocence face, you knew you couldn’t be angry but you had to ask, “Do you really want me to watch TV with you that bad?”

“Yes,” Saiki stated.

You sighed, your lips parting as you left the oxygen leave your lungs. “Fine, but let’s both clean up a bit before than. It’ll be a nice surprise and a way to thank your parents for letting me stay the night.”

Saiki nodded. “Okay.”

It took a bit of convincing on your end to let him let you help out. You may not have powers, but you didn’t want to take advantage of his. You knew it was effortless and he made it seem like it didn’t affect him whatsoever, but you knew every time he does something it takes a toll. His powers aren’t perfect.

You both ended up cleaning the living room, Saiki’s room, and now you were in the kitchen sorting the trash. Saiki was using his powers to sort while you whipped down the countertops.

“Good grief,” Saiki said aloud, his voice drawing your eyes to him. He was crouched down with two bags in front of him and the garage floating upside down, it’s contents was either going in the first or second bag.

“What?” You asked curiosity. It wasn’t all the time that he speaks from his mouth without you talking first.

“How could anyone have let it get this dirty in here?” He asked aloud. “I mean, really it’s a wonder we don’t have bugs.”

You were going to respond. That was until he suddenly shut his mouth, a chest deep grunt leaving him as you notice him stare at something on the furniture next to him.

It was a cockroach.

Mind you, the moment you realized what it was you weren’t the least bit surprised when he suddenly teleported. Saiki hates bugs. He could read the minds of humans, as well as animals, but he couldn’t with bugs. He thought they were small minded icky things. Hell, he couldn’t even let his powers touch the thing.

You counted down the seconds before he came back. It was around ten, maybe fifteen. He also teleported right behind you.

“Welcome back,” you greeted and watched as his eyes dart towards the floor.

“Sorry, I may have overreacted.” He muttered. “I just hate them.”

“I know,” you hummed out before looking around and grabbing a cup and piece of paper. Saiki watched you as you let the roach crawl on the piece of paper before placing the cup over it so it didn’t run away. You were quick to put it outside and close the window after so Saiki didn’t worry about it coming back in.

“All gone,” you cheered with a smile. “Now, let’s watch TV, ya?”

2. Saiki’s Pushy Friends

PK Academy was a school were many different personalities and people collided. It was always fun to meet new people in this school, yet on the other side of the coin, sometimes they were more than a little odd. Not like you can speak, your best friend was a psychic. Though, he wasn’t delusional like this one guy in your class that declared himself Saiki’s friend. His name was Kaido. He thinks he has powers and has an evil organization following him around.

Then, you have Nendou. Basically, he’s stupid. Not that you minded, but sometimes being stupid isn’t the best thing in the world, especially now.

It was the sports festival at PK and Saiki and you had to participate in it. You both were on the same team since all the teams were decided by class. This also gave you a good idea of the friends Saiki has made. It was safe to say that Kaido was growing on you. You felt a little bad for the guy, what can you say.

Let’s not forget about Hairo as well. You knew him a bit more from hearsay than the others, plus he was class rep. Though, you had to say, he was a little too overly enthusiastic.

It was kind of a surprise to see Teruhashi, the most popular girl in school, try and interact with Saiki. Though, it was a bit amusing since to him, she’s nothing more than walking muscle. However, you did think he would swoon over her like all the other guys in your school if she was like you. However, you knew Saiki had no interest in romance so you don’t care either way.

Finally, Nendou. You were originally going to say that you didn’t mind the guy that much and thought maybe he would be a good thing for Saiki. However, after just watching him take out one of the antennas from Saiki’s head, you started to wonder how much of a danger his stupidity is to Saiki.

You watched that pink haired friend of yours collapse to the ground with a hard thud as soon as Nendou pull the thing out of his head. You were quick to rush over to him and sit by his side. When you flipped him over, since he fell face forward, worry grew about your body and infected your bloodstream.

You heard protests about turning him over, but at this point all the worried voices drowned before they were even audible to you. His lips were parted as drool leaked from his mouth and went down his chin, his eyes dead and without life as darkness surrounded them. It didn’t take you long to recover and swipe the antenna Nendou was holding and pop it back in its rightful place in his pink locks.

You didn’t know how long it would take for him to wake up, or if he’d wake up at all. All you knew was to sit and wait for him to wake up. To your surprise, he woke up rather quickly. Maybe a mere minute or so after you fixed him up. When his eyes opened, you felt yourself suddenly get surrounded as Saiki’s friends crowed over him to ask how he was.

You noticed him using telepathy to talk to everyone when Hairo said, “You passed out after Nendou took that think out of your head, lucky for you, [Name] put it back right away!”

“Yeah, he saved your life!” Kaido spit out next, their hands placing on my shoulder out of respect and gratitude. 

Saiki’s eye then direct to you, his voice never leaving his lips for a moment before you noticed him flinch.

‘Ah,’ you thought. ‘He tried to use telepathy with me again.’

When he noticed, Saiki just nodded in your direction. You knew he was thanking you, he didn’t need to word it out to you. The look in his eyes was enough.

Lunch came immediately after Saiki ended up waking up, and it was understatement to say he didn’t want to be bother with anyone else besides you. He was quick to drag you to the roof of the school to eat.

The both of you sat against the railing, lunch in your laps. You wanted I just forget about the scare that Saiki gave you, but the after effects he was having wasn’t making that easy. He was having trouble, and it was easy to see when his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t even pick up his food without it falling back in the box.

You side eyed him, his expression one of concentration as he tried to pick up his food again. Though, he dropped it again.

He sighed quickly after that, only looking down at his food as you saw his mind wonder off.

Once you finished chewing whatever food you had in your mouth, you placed your food to the side and moved so that you weren’t side to side, but rather across from Saiki’s body now. He didn’t register your movements until he saw a hand come into his view and pick up an item of food with his chopsticks.

When he turned to you, you had the chopsticks in your dominant hand and your other under the food so it didn’t drop to the filthy ground.

“C’mon, lemme help,” you said. It was easy for Saiki to pick up the worry in your tone, however he knew not to address it or else you’ll just either deny it or baby him. “Open up.”

He obeyed your command after a moment, opening his mouth wide enough for you to place his food in his mouth. The hand that was meant to catch the food if it fell made sure Saiki closed his mouth, his fingers placed a bit of pressure under his chin to shut his jaws before slowly trailing away. The food wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the chill that ran down his spine at your lingering touch that crawled on his skin.

“I could hurt you.” He suddenly spit out. It was pained. “Having my antenna taken out messed up my powers.”

You leaned your head to the side, your eyes never falling from his. “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“You should go.” He stated.

“Why?”

“I just told you.”

You smiled. “Saiki, you could never hurt me.”

He looked at you like you had something stuck in your teeth. “You don’t know that, I may not be able to read your mind, but I don’t know how my other powers react to you.”

You remained quiet for a moment before shuffling your body side by side again, your head falling to rest of Saiki’s shoulder. You felt him flinch at the contact, his muscles even began to tighten just out of fear.

“Yanno,” you started out saying, your hand coming up to play the antenna that you could reach. “It’s odd to me how these things are the only thing keeping you stable.”

“Is it?”

You chuckled and nodded. “Small things like these verses your powers. The thing that gets me is that these things actually win in that fight. Though, I suppose it does complete the look you have.”

“And what look is that?” Saiki asked as he gazed down at you to see your eyes already on him. He could feel his fingers twitch as he watched you say shamelessly, “The cute, mysterious loner type.”

Saiki’s lips parted as he gazed at you. He quickly recomposed himself when he noticed you waiting patiently for him to respond. He sighed before asking, “Mysterious loner? Where’d you get that?”

You laughed before sarcastically questioning, “yep, I wonder where.”

3. Your friends are my friends

You don’t know how you got wrapped into this, but perhaps it’ll allow you to know Saiki’s friends better.

Currently, you were walking with Kaido, Nendou, and Saiki to a good ramen shop Nendou suggested. You were dragged along when Nendou remembered you from the Sports Festival and as Saiki’s friend. They never really got the chance to speak to you since you’re usually out the door as soon as the bell rings, but today they finally caught you.

At some point Teruhashi joined the group, though you feel like she kinda took over since now the boys, except for Saiki and you, were fawning over her. Saiki and you took it upon yourselves to give them all room to talk to her, so you both sorts trailed behind.

It was silent for a while, the only noise was Nendou or Kaido talking to Teruhashi. However, you caught the, “what does that even mean,” that Saiki mumbled under his breath.

“Hm?” You hummed. “What does what mean?”

It was obvious to you he didn’t realize he said that aloud. But he just seemed to be glad that only you heard that.

“Teruhashi wants me to go ‘oh wow’ or something to her.” Saiki revealed. “I don’t even know what that means.”

You kept your gaze on Saiki for a moment. “So, she likes you?”

“I guess,” he muttered. “I think it’s more that I’m the only guy that isn’t kissing her feet.”

You watched Teruhashi interact with Nendou and Kaido. You know that, normally, she wouldn’t take time to hang out with these guys. However, because of her crush on Saiki, she bares with them. In all honesty, she seems a bit perfect. Being able to deal with them just for the person she adores. It’s easy for anyone to do, and not a lot of people would even bother.

“She seems like a good fit for you.” You suddenly uttered out.

When Saiki heard that, he felt his hands twitch. He didn’t like that, not one bit. What irked him the most was that it seemed natural, like you actually meant it. And, of course, he had no way of knowing if those words were genuine or actually forced.

“No way,” Saiki stated coldly. “Never in a million years.”

“Damn, that’s cold, Saiki.” He heard you say, a teasing tone wedged in your voice.

“Why do you keep calling me Saiki, anyway? We aren’t acquaintances.”

“Hm?” You questioned. “I thought you don’t like me calling you by your first name in public?”

Saiki sighed. “Well now I’m telling you I don’t care.”

Saiki knew this way of showing that you were closer to him than anyone would ever be may have been childish on his part, but when he heard his first name come from your lips in front of his other ‘friends’, he felt more than satisfied. 

4. Friendship Can Bring Romance

Being able to rest during class was one of your guilty pleasures. Even if you got called out by your teacher, you didn’t mind. It was better when it was raining outside, the patter of rain when it hit the window made you want to nap.

“Hey,” a voice called out to you. You didn’t listen though, it wasn’t important.

“Hey, [Name],” it called out again. Okay, maybe you should wake up. Then again, sleep. You could always sleep later though.

You fluttered your eyes open as you felt your body being pushed around. When your sight became focused, the blurry figure in front of you showed a blue hair kid. You knew him, but from where?

“Saiki asked me to wake you up, sorry,” he confessed.

Oh, right. That’s Kaido, Saiki’s friend.

“Hm? Where is Kusuo?” You asked in a groggy voice, your hand coming up to wipe your eyes.

“Oh, he went home.” Kaido informed you. “Something just came up, I guess.”

“Alright,” you hummed before the end of your lips pulled upward. “Thank you, Kaido.”

It wasn’t easy for Kaido to wake up the quiet kid. Kaido only met the guy once or twice, and when he was hanging with him, you only stayed close to Saiki. It was kinda odd, but Kaido understood your attachment to the pink haired man. Saiki was Kaido’s first friend, after all, so he knew how awesome the guy was.

Though, he’s never got the chance to speak to you. He knows Saiki never really goes anywhere with you, and somehow you always end up by his side. He just always seemed to miss you when it came to getting the chance to introduce himself so Kaido was pretty glad when you came along the trip to that ramen place, even if it was a dumb and he got distracted by Teruhashi.

Kaido knew you were the closest person to Saiki. He’s pretty sure that not even Nendou is as close to Saiki as you are. And those two are best friends. Kaido didn’t know the extend of how long you two have been friends, but he does know from watching that Saiki has respect for you. So, it was critical that he makes a great impression with you so that he can become closer to Saiki and maybe you as well.

“S-Sure, no problem!” He stuttered, his bandaged hand retracting from your shoulder and holding them up in the air in a surrendered notion.

“Do you live around here at all? I’ll walk you home as a thank you.” You said as you stood from your seat and began to search for your bag.

“What? You don’t have to do that, really, it isn’t necessary!” Kaido spit out quickly, his words jumping all over the place.

“It’s really no trouble at all,” you stated as you put your bag over your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get going before the rain gets worse.”

The rain eventually stopped when both teens got closer to your house. Kaido’s was further ahead, so he thought it would be better if he just walked you home instead so you didn’t have to walk more than you have to already.

“So, you’ve been friends with Saiki since he was little, huh?” Kaido asked as you explained why Saiki trusts you so much. “That’s pretty awesome! What was he like back then?”

“Pretty much the same.” You answered. “Though he did get more handsome throughout the years, and he used to be kinda sweet. Now, not so much.”

“I see, so you guys have been through it all together.” Kaido replied.

“Basically, though, he did start to worry me a bit since I was his only friend for a really long time,” you confessed. You paused as you looked up at Kaido and gave him a smile, “But I’m glad he finally made a friend like you.”

Kaido could feel his heart beat a million miles an hour just at the words you strung together. He never heard kinder words than those, and he was even more thrilled that he succeeded in making a good impression on Saiki’s childhood friend!

“It’s, uh, n-no problem, really!” Kaido muttered out as his whole face began to fluster, his hands going everywhere.

“Oh,” you hummed out.

“Hm?” Kaido questioned. His nerves going down. “What is it?”

“Did you know you were dragging your scarf the whole time?” You asked curiosity as your hands started to real in the extra fabric.

“What?” He asked out of pure shock. Though, realizing that he doesn’t make a fool out of himself he said, “O-Of course I did! It’s a fashion choice.”

“Not the best one,” you stated as you stepped closer to the blue haired male.

Kaido’s eyes widened as he stated directly into your colored orbs, watching them dance solely for him. It was like getting attention from a loved one, but this attention make him nervous to the point where he thought his face was going to explode with red. Kaido’s lips slowly started to disappear as the scarf started to build up around his shoulders and neck.

“There you go,” you said, “much better. Now your scarf doesn’t get more dirty and you look even better.”

‘Even better? What’s that supposed to mean? Does it.. does it mean he thought I looked good before?!’ Kaido thought.

Kaido let out an awkward laugh as he played with the end of the scarf. “O-Oh, haha, thank you.”

“Sure,” you hummed. “Now let’s get going.”

5. Blessing Turned On Jealousy

What’s that saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend? Yeah, that’s it. See, that could apply to this yet at the same time it would go a little different.

More like, the enemy of my best friend is my friend. At least for your situation. You see, walking home with Saiki has now turned into walking home with Saiki, Nendou, and Kaido. Not that you mind, but sometimes you really do wish it was back to when Saiki and you got to spend time alone together. However, being friends with Saiki and then having his friends automatically become your friends may have some perks.

Like now. Bumping into Kaido’s mom was totally accidental. But, in the end it payed off. Why?

Because coffee jelly.

“I know it’s not easy being friends with my son because he’s so shy, but please be patient.” Kaido’s mom announced as she placed the coffee jelly down in front of Saiki and you.

“Please don’t say that mama—I mean—mother.” Kaido pleased, his voice cracking as it got higher with embarrassment.

Overall, the beginning was a very nice. Hell, it was damn near perfect. Although, you just had to snoop around. Well, it was more like exploring Kaido’s room.

Your fingertips brushed along the spines of the many books Kaido had stacked up in his bookcase. It was seriously amazing how many books he had, he even had some original copies of some famous old books.

“This is pretty awesome,” you muttered to yourself before your eyes spotted something that didn’t quite match with the others. In all honesty, you were simply curious. However, curiosity did kill the cat. In your case, more like awakened the Saiki K.

“Hey, Kaido, what is the Jet Black Wings?” You asked aloud as the group sat down eating whatever snacks were about. You would always hear either chewing or at least some conversation, but after that question left your mouth it was dead silent. You felt like you killed something, but when you looked over you noticed Kaido’s face beat red. Seriously, his entire face was as red as a blood moon.

“P-Put that back!” He stuttered out, the blue haired boy suddenly running up to you to snatch the book from your hand.

As he reached for it, you held it higher. Even if he was about the same height or maybe a inch or so taller, you just needed to make him miss his hand from grabbing it.

“Don’t be embarrassed, I’m just curious.” You calmly said. “Is it bad or something?”

“N-No! It’s nothing, uh, bad! Just give me it back!” Kaido begged this time around, his hands trying desperately to grab it from you. Okay, maybe you were being a little mean at this point, but it was kinda fun to tease him.

You began to back up as Kaido trying to nab the book in your hand. “Just explain it!”

“No! Never!” He shouted.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, though, that was your fatal mistake. Having yourself distracted by your own humor, your mind didn’t take into account the pile of prep books scattered about until it was too late. You quickly lost your voice, as well as your balance before slamming your head hard against the wood floors.

“Woah! You guys okay?” Nendou asked out of genuine concern.

As much as you would have liked to answer him, you were too concerned with the pain pounding into your skull like a jackhammer. Seriously, this is gonna give you one massive headache.

You scrunched your nose as your finally gave effort to open your eyes, though, they permanently remained open when you noticed a face staring down at you, a body on top of yours. You guessed that during the fall Kaido tried to save you, but only got dragged along instead.

“H-Hey, um, are you okay?” He asked under his shaky breath.

You only nodded before trying to avoid his gaze in any possible way. The position you were in didn’t help whatsoever in that department. Instead, you hoped that Kaido would take the hint and get off. That plan wasn’t looking too good cause all that was running through his mind was how you looked under him. Let’s say, the thoughts he had left a distaste in Saiki’s mouth.

Originally, he was just gonna let you handle it, but after hearing Kaido’s perverted thoughts about you, that plan blew up.

Saiki stood up, leaving his coffee jelly half eaten before grabbing Kaido by the back of his shirt and yanking him off of you. Saiki gave some strength into that but not enough to launch him into the bookshelf like he wanted too. He knelt down to come to your level and help you up, your massive headache being noticeable when you held onto the back of your head.

“Damnit, that really hurt,” you muttered to yourself but Saiki heard it clear as day.

It wasn’t long after that he took you home as well as the left over coffee jelly. Saiki advised you to stay home a day just to let the pain die down a bit before going back to school, so, the pink haired boy was all alone today. And all alone to everyone else meant to bother him more than usual.

Teruhashi, Nendou, Hairo. All of them. Though, it was a bit weird that Kaido wasn’t bothering with him today. Not that he was complaining, but he couldn’t pinpoint the answer until he heard Kaido’s thoughts, ‘I need to ask Saiki for permission. They’re best friends, it would be rude if I didn’t ask permission to ask out [Name].’

Never mind. He didn’t need to know that.

It was around lunch time that Kaido walked up to Saiki for the first one, the blush that littered his cheeks made Saiki want to gag for a moment.

“So, uh, Saiki, I have to ask you something.” Kaido uttered out lowly. Clearly, this was nerve wracking for him.

“What is it?” Saiki asked telepathically.

“Well, it’s about [Name], yanno, our [Name]?”

‘What other person has that name?’ Saiki thought. ‘And don’t say our, it’s creepy.’

“You see, I, well, I think I like him and I’d like your blessing to ask him out!” Kaido shouted, his body bowing at an almost 90 degree angle.

Normally, Saiki would just say to do whatever since he could read [Name]’s thoughts and see that he doesn’t like Kaido in that way. However, the one person in the world that Saiki actually wants is immune to his powers. He knew he needed to shut this down fast.

‘No way.’ Saiki responded.

“Thank you so much, Saiki, you won’t—wait—why not?” Kaido asked aloud, his voice getting higher the more he freaked out. He thought this would be easy, he means, it was Saiki. The most chill guy ever actually gave him a hard ‘no’ to asking out his best friend. Kaido shouldn’t be surprised, even though he is.

‘Because I said so,’ Saiki strictly put. He knew it was wrong to say this, who was he to say no to something that isn’t his business. Though, the feeling of relief that he still had a chance was more satisfying in the end.

By the time Saiki got to your house it was basically as soon as school ended. He used teleportation to get here as fast as he could, as well as just appear in your room. He wasn’t expecting you to still be asleep, though, he supposed this wasn’t too bad.

The pink haired male carefully walking up to the bedside of his best friend. It was odd to see your hair going in one direction instead of all over the place like normal, and don’t even get him started on the soft snores that came from your nose. Snoring isn’t usually the most attractive thing in the world, but this light snores from you made him think of the habit as cute.

Now, he would normally wake you up. But, just allowing himself to look at you for a moment longer without any consequences never hurt anybody. Saiki sat himself down on your floor, his eyes keeping to your closed ones as they slowly began to travel down to your lips. He doesn’t know what came over him, but it seriously began to freak him out when he started think about Kaido touching his lips with yours. After the freak out, jealousy was spiraling around in the psychic. He never knew that Kaido, of all people, would actually develop romantic feelings for you. If he did, he would have never allowed the both of you to interact the way you did at his house the other day.

Saiki let out a sigh before standing up once more, his hand came up to your shoulder slowly and began to shake it. It wasn’t long after that your eyes fluttered open and gave him that soft smile that caused his heart to skip a beat.

6. School Trip

The school trip was always the most looked forward to activity in high school. This year it was a three day trip to Okinawa. While you were excited to spend some time at a gorgeous place like Okinawa, Saiki was definitely less excited.

As kids talked with their friends in a group or just at their desks, you were currently sitting on top of Saiki’s desk with the pink haired boy sitting in the chair. This wasn’t something you always do, especially since at times Saiki has pushed you off out of retaliation, but after a moment or two of still being there, you knew he didn’t mind today.

“You excited?” You asked him.

“No. I don’t get the appeal.” He spit out, his eyes closing as he moved his head down. “I could get to Okinawa in three minutes.”

“Kusuo, not everyone is like you.” You explained. “So don’t go getting moody on this trip, I’m not letting you ruin it for me.”

“I won’t, I’m just saying a fact.” He replied.

You were about to continue with things you’re excited to do during the trip before Hairo came around to the both of you with a clip board in hand. He was responsible for dividing rooms.

“Saiki, [Name], did you guys decide on your group for the class trip?” He asked politely. “You should have three boys and three girls in your group.”

Saiki didn’t say anything, instead he just rested his head against your forearm. Perhaps he wanted Hairo to think he fell asleep and leave it to you, or maybe he was actually saying that he didn’t care as long as he was with you. Either way, you smiled at the contact and said to Hairo, “Kusuo and I will be rooming, it doesn’t matter who else is in our group.”

“Okay, great!” Hairo exclaimed as he wrote it down. “Kaido and Nendou are still available so I’ll just place Kaido with your group, and then randomly place you guys with a girls group.”

“Thanks, Hairo,” you hummed out as he walked away to probably inform Kaido about the rooming.

You never minded contact with Saiki, in fact, you sort of enjoyed it. However, seeing him still like this, even with Hario now gone, you worried.

“Hey, Kusuo,” you called out.

No answer.

“Kusuo?” You asked this time. And when he didn’t answer again you unconsciously moved your hand up to his head and moved it back to where you could look him in the eyes. Saiki’s face was still without expression, though, those eyes worried you. He seemed, almost, upset.

“Kusuo?” You asked. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, signaling that nothing was wrong. You knew he was lying.

You tilted your head, some of your hair moving with gravity to expose part of your forehead. “Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not.” He said, his voice was steady and yet, that look in his eyes still bothered you.

You knew he wasn’t going to budge but still, just because you’re going to let it go now doesn’t mean that you weren’t about to keep an eye on him.

Throughout the beginning and the first day of the trip, you kept an eye on Saiki. He seemed way more tired than usual, but that didn’t startle you. Instead, it was how he was by your side more often now when Kaido was around. You weren’t an idiot, it was pretty obvious. You didn’t mind Saiki’s attention, but you didn’t want him to think just because you were friends with Kaido that he’d be put second.

“Kusuo, can we talk?” You asked him as the two of you had the room to yourselves. The others were out and about, but the two of you decided on an early night.

“About what?” He asked as he set up his sleeping area.

“Today.” You started out. “You’ve been acting weird around Kaido. Did something happen?”

You watched Saiki carefully, so carefully that you noticed his fingers lightly curl around the blanket. You didn’t want to push him, so instead of pushing him to speak, you allowed yourself to be silent and let him take his time. You don’t remember how many minutes pasted, but you swear it felt like decades.

“Nothing happened.” He informed you. “His thoughts just aren’t for my taste at the moment.”

“His thoughts?” You questioned as you slowly approached Saiki on his blanket until you were right in front of him. “Okay, then, what’s got you all bothered? Let me guess, he’s thinking dirty things, right?”

“Sort of.” He replied.

“I bet it’s about Teruhashi,” you theorized. “Is that why you don’t like it?”

“No, it’s not about Teruhashi.”

“Really? Then who?”

Saiki went quiet once more.

You sighed. Your head moving down to get a glimpse at his face. It wasn’t until you moved your hand over by his, your finger tips brushing with his accidentally to get more stability as you leaned in did you hear him finally confess.

“It was about you.”

To say that you needed a minute to take that in was an understatement. Kaido was a good guy and all, but it was kinda startling to realize he liked guys, as well as girls, since you didn’t suspect that even for a minute with him.

“Seriously?” You asked once more.

Saiki nodded. “He asked me if he could ask you out.”

“And what did you say?”

“No.”

You couldn’t help a smile crawl upon your face with that one. You knew it was a bit hard to read Saiki, especially when it came to you, but you were just beyond happy to hear that.

“Good,” you suddenly shot out. Saiki’s head moving back up in an instant to see your happy features. “I don’t like Kaido like that anyway, saves me from breaking his heart.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.” You hummed out. You knew this may backfire on you in more ways than one, but right now, you didn’t care. The happiness you felt told you to take a chance and throw out the bait. “I know you can’t read my mind, but I actually do have someone I like.”

Saiki aimlessly stared at you for a moment and took in the words you confessed to him. It was an odd feeling, the rapid beating of his heart, but perhaps this was finally the start of things going his way for once.

On the second day of the trip, everyone went to Emerald Beach. It was one of the many places were people could stare at others and no one would think anything of it. A perverts dream. Though, for Saiki, he just wanted to hang out with you.

“Where’s [Name]?” Kaido asked Nendou as Saiki stood behind the two.

“He said he had to go buy a swimsuit. The one he brought apparently went missing.” Nendou told the blue haired boy.

Now, that want a mistake. Sure, it may have been a dirty trick but Saiki rather die than see you in the swimsuit you brought. After all, you bought a shirt with it. He knew you didn’t take off your shirt often, even at the beach, but he was determined to see you with just a pair of shorts.

Much like how all the guys that crowded around the girls changing house waited patiently to see Teruhashi in a two piece swim suit.

It was a while after Teruhashi came out, and when everyone was in the water that you made your appearance. You had your hands wedged into your swim shirt pockets as you allowed your feet to take in the hot sand that felt magical between your toes. You gazed around for a moment before noticing pink hair sitting under an umbrella.

A devilish smirk crawled on your features as you began to slowly approach the male. This may give Saiki a heart attack, but it was worth it. As you stood over him from behind, you attacked. Your body shot down as your arms wrapped aruund his neck and pushed your chest into his bare back.

“Hey, what’s a cute guy like you doing all alone at a place like this?” You teased, allowing your voice to go on for some time so that he realized it was just you.

Saiki immediately flinched at the contact before noticing it was just you. However, when he noticed the touch of your skin against his, he could feel his entire body heat up. The sensation was new, he’s felt his face go hot before, but his entire body was a new one.

“What took you so long?” Saiki tried to play off.

You just sighed and got a tighter grip on the male, your chest pushing more into his back. “Someone stole my swimsuit. Sadly, I didn’t have enough money to replace the whole thing, so I had to go by some swim shorts.”

“Hm, as least you’re here.” Saiki stated, making sure not to comment on the ‘stolen swimsuit’.

“Yeah,” you uttered as you released Saiki from your grasp and sat down next to him. You gazed out at the beautiful ocean that was filled with laughing people with this loving look in your eyes, all the while not realizing Saiki’s held that same gaze as he stared at you.

When you did turn to him, he completely lost himself in his mind as his eyes wondered about your figure. You weren’t the most fit guy in the world, but you did have these subtle yet enchanting muscle lines along your upper body that made Saiki lose himself.

“I saw that.” You suddenly said. Saiki’s eyes now darting back to yours. “You just checked me out.”

Saiki saw no way out of this one. So, he just confessed it. “So what if I was?”

In all honesty, he just expected you to laugh and tell him that it’s only fair if he does the same. However, the twist was unexpected and, well, definitely appreciated. He watched as you gazed down, this bashful look in your eyes as you did everything to avoid his gaze. Your body language wasn’t helping either. Your fingers were tapping against the towel and the heel of your foot was moving back and forth.

Maybe this trip wasn’t totally for nothing.

7. All That Was A Secret

Spring break. It was one of those weeks that Saiki went to go visit his grandparents all the way in the middle fo nowhere. So, for the most of this break, you were home alone. 

It was kind of boring. This break was definitely not one that you looked forward to, more now then before, especially after the beach during the class trip. Those words always ended up repeating in your mind, way too much then you thought they would. Then again, you shouldn’t be surprised. All those days that you’d try to subtly touch him, tease him, it was just a way to relieve yourself of the pent up emotions you’ve had for him for a few years now. 

Currently, you were in your room upon your bed, hugging one of your pillows close to your chest. You never tried to dwell on if Saiki felt the same or not, but recently, it’s been clawing at you more and more. It wasn’t like you didn’t think you had a chance, but more if Saiki was more comfortable just staying friends. You would understand, even if it would hurt, you’d do it for him. You’d do anything for that guy. 

You sighed before slowly lifting your body off the bed. Today wasn’t a good day for being sad, it was summer break, after all. You knew you had to get your mind off Saiki, and him being away made it a bit easier. So, you grabbed some clothes from your closet and laid them on the bed. You weren’t sure what you were going to do, but you were determined to fine something to take your mind off him. 

You let your pants drop to the ground before taking the ones on your bed and letting your legs slip through each of the pant legs. Next, you stripped your shirt off and took in a deep breath. You paused for a moment before dropping the dirty shirt on the ground and grabbing the new one. In all honestly, you never really pay attention to your surroundings when changing. But, does anyone? It wasn’t until your head went through the hole on the top of the shirt did you realize that the bed in front of you was now missing and the wall you were staring at was not the wall of your bed room. When you turned your head, you locked eyes with Saiki in an unfamiliar room. 

“Huh?” You uttered under your breath before your eyes widened, your face felling hotter than usual before frantically pulling your shirt all the way down. Once down, you opened your mouth and said, “You can’t do that without me knowing! What if I was in the middle of a shower or something and not just changing?”

“I would have given you some of my clothes.” He replied nonchalantly.

You bit the inside of your cheek before crossing your arms over your chest. “Why did you teleport me anyway?”

“I can’t stand it here.” Saiki confessed. Of course, you knew he didn’t exactly enjoying visiting his grandparents but he has never done this before. “Just hang out with me. I’ll send you back after.”

You sighed. You can’t exactly say no after that, so, with that Saiki and you began to watch a movie. It wasn’t one you two watched before so it was easy to get lost in it. Though, it was also easy to focus on Saiki when he suddenly placed his hand on top of yours as you guys watched. You weren’t too sure if he thought you wouldn’t notice, but there was no way you were going to pull away. After all, it’s not like he placed his fingers between yours, if he did that, you don’t know if you could handle it. 

After a half an hour into the movie you finally got the plot of it, and you weren’t amused at all. It was a best friends to lovers troupe. More specifically, childhood friends that drifted apart only to be brought back together by work and now slowly are developing feelings for one another. Let’s just say now, you were a little more than nervous. 

Thank god Saiki couldn’t read your mind, because now, you feel like you’d give him a headache. You couldn’t help but ask yourself if he knows and is only doing this to taunt you, or maybe this was all just a big coincident. Yeah, one massive coincident. In reality though, Saiki was just teasing you. He had no idea of your feelings but he wanted to watch the movie with you to implant the idea in his mind of the possibility.

Well, his plan was working. Maybe a little too much. Though, as you were about to spit something out, your eyes suddenly shot down to the floor in embarrassment. Yep, a make out scene. Of course, Saiki had no idea about that, but it was better than just the sappy stuff cause now it was really ingrained in your head. 

Once it was over and you had somewhat of your cool back you couldn’t help it. You needed to ask. If it blew up in flames, then so be it. 

“Hey, Saiki,” you uttered out lowly. Saiki caught it immediately and turned his gaze on you. “I have a.. question.”

“What?” He asked.

“Well,” your voice trailed off as you moved your eyes down to where both of your hands connected. “We’ve been best friends for a long time now but, have you ever, um, thought about doing...that?

Saiki remained quiet for a moment, his thoughts going everywhere before thinking to himself, ‘All the time, actually.’

As much as he wish he could have said that telepathically, he could never try to say that vocally. So, he just opted for a nod and watched your body flinch. The hand he touched growing warm.

“You’re hot.” Saiki suddenly spit out. This time, you brought your hand back to your body so he couldn’t tell anymore. 

“S-So what?” You stuttered out.

To say that Saiki didn’t like this side of you was an understatement. He’s never never seen you so flustered before, and it was really adorable to look at.

“It’s cute.” Saiki commented, his body leaning in just to see your face closer.

You turned your head to the side, eyes darting to the tv just to look away for a moment to compose yourself. You knew that there wasn’t gonna be another perfect moment like this so, you slowly reached over to place your hand on the back of Saiki’s neck. It was warm. When he noticed what you wanted as you started to lean back and gently pull him with you, he complied quickly until he gazed at you from above. Suddenly, he was jealous at the fact that Kaido got to see this view before him. 

He stared at you for a moment before watching you bite down on your bottom lip, his mind doing backflips at the want to read your mind, but also at how good you looked under him. 

“Kiss me.” You whispered under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“If I do,” Saiki uttered lowly. “I might not be able to stop.”

“That’s okay.”

[yeah-all-of-it]

I’ve had this headcanon for awhile now about Ian and Mickey starting a family and since I’m becoming more comfortable with writing, I thought I’d turn it into a fic. Enjoy!

A Life Changing Gift

“Debs, are you sure you understand what you’re offering right now?,” Ian questions, feeling a bit skeptical.

It is Debbie after all. Sometimes she’s perfectly pleasant and reasonable, other times she can be a raging bitch. But, she is his sister and he can’t imagine her offering something this monumental only to renege after they’ve gotten their hopes up. And she’s definitely mellowed out since they didn’t end up selling the house and she didn’t have to find a new place to live.

Ian and Debbie are sitting at the kitchen table in the Gallagher house. She had called him over to look at a cut Franny had gotten playing in the backyard. Wasn’t sure if it needed stitches and thought Ian could use his past medical training to check it out. In reality, it was barely a scratch. Ian should have known at that point Debbie was up to something, especially when she invited him to stay for coffee.

“Ian, I’ve been thinking a long time about this. Came up with the idea months ago but wanted to be completely sure before I said anything,” Debbie explains.

“Yeah, but, Debbie. This is fuckin’ huge. Think about how hard it’ll be on you-“

“I’ve already thought about all that shit, Ian. I’ve been through it before, you know. It’s really not that bad,” Debbie assures him.

Debbie seems sincere. Like she’s really considered every angle, every downside, upside, and in-between. He’s trying to keep his excitement reined in because he still has to convince Mickey that this is a good idea, which could be easier said than done.

“Listen,” Debbie says. “You don’t have to say anything now. Go home, talk it over with Mickey. You can even bring him over here and we can all talk about it if you want. No pressure.”

They both stand from the table and Ian goes to give her a hug.

“Wait, what the fuck are you doing?” Debbie jokes. “Thought you hated me and that we don’t do hugs anymore.” She laughs, and Ian knows she’s remembering how tense things were a year ago when she thought she’d be homeless and alone and she lashed out at all her siblings.

“Would you just fuckin’ come here?” Ian smiles warmly and holds his arms out.

She steps into his embrace and he just holds his little sister. Sometimes he still likes to imagine her as that sweet little girl that was always helping people. Always loving people, sometimes so much she would get hurt. It would kill him to see the tears in her eyes.

Sometimes, he sees glimpses of that caring little girl in the jaded woman she’s become. Like when she pretended to be the bride at his wedding; staying in the kitchen, missing the whole ceremony, just so he and Mickey could get married without any problems from the homophobes at the venue. And now, when she’s offering this selfless and life changing gift to them.

Ian whispers into her hair, hair that’s the same vibrant shade of red as his own, “I don’t even know what to say, Debs. Just… thank you.”

Debbie gives him one more big squeeze before pulling away. “You’re welcome. Now, go home and convince your husband to let me have his baby.”

———

“No fuckin’ way, NO fuckin’ way!” Mickey exclaims. “No way am I bangin’ your little sister.”

Mickey hops up on the counter, takes a long chug of the Old Style in his hand.

“Mick,” Ian sighs, leaning up against the opposite counter. “That’s not how it works. You would basically jerk off in a cup and she’d use a turkey baster, in the privacy of her own room,” he emphasizes,” to… place the sperm where they need to go.”

“Don’t you need like, a doctor or some shit to do that?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“Well, you can use a doctor but it’s expensive. This way is free,” Ian clarifies.

Mickey is clearly churning the idea around in his brain. Finally speaks.

“I thought we were just gonna like, find a fuckin’ kid that didn’t have parents or somethin’.”

“We can do that too, one day. Ya know, if we like the first one enough to do it again,” Ian says lightheartedly, slight grin, trying to calm Mickey.

Ian steps toward Mickey, placing his hips between Mickey’s knees, resting his hands on his thighs, rubbing softly.

Ian continues. “Think about it though, Mick. This baby would be us, you and me. It’s the closest we can get since we don’t exactly have the right stuff to do it on our own. He or she would have your DNA and, through Debbie, a little of mine too.”

Mickey beams at this, wraps his arms around his husband’s shoulders. “It would be kinda fun to have a little version of us runnin’ around,” Mickey admits. “You know a kid that’s part Milkovich and part Gallagher is bound to be a little shit though, right?” Mickey jokes, smiling at the thought.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Ian quips, leaning in and planting a sweet kiss on his smiling husband’s lips.

Ian pulls back from the kiss and asks seriously, “So. Do you wanna do this?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do. What about you?” Mickey questions.

“Fuck yeah, I do. Let’s call Debs right now.”

———

“I’ve done a lot of research about this. You guys know it might not work on the first try right? Don’t want you to be frustrated or disappointed if it doesn’t work this month. Doesn’t mean it won’t ever work, but it can take a little time,” Debbie explains.

They are sitting in the Gallagher living room the day they are making their first attempt at insemination.

“Yeah, we know, Debs. Don’t worry,” Ian replies. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“Okay, good. Keeping your expectations reasonable is good,” she says. “I’ve also been tracking my basal body temperature and took an ovulation test, so today is my most fertile da-“

Mickey interrupts, “Thanks, Dr. Gallagher, but we don’t need all the gory details. Now where do I jerk off? Hey Ian, you gonna gimme a hand, man?” Mickey clicks his tongue and bounces his eyebrows playfully.

“Ugh, no gory details, right? Let’s just keep all the personal shit to ourselves okay?” Debbie requests.

“Yeah, this is already awkward enough. Don’t need to make it weirder,” Ian agrees and eyes Mickey scoldingly.

Ian and Mickey are forced to go into the bathroom because Lip and Tami live there now and their old bedroom is now Fred and the baby’s room. They’re not home but it would be uncomfortable seeing Fred’s little toddler bed, his stuffed animal collection staring at them while Mickey gets off. So, bathroom it is.

“Listen, Mickey,” Ian explains. “I’ll help, but we are keeping this clinical. Short and sweet. We can fuck at home later for fun; this needs to be done with a purpose, a goal. Debbie’s waiting.”

“Ugh, Jesus, man, why you gotta bring up Debbie? Doesn’t exactly make this process easier to think of her waiting in her room to squir-“

“Okaaayy, focus Mick,” Ian interrupts before that sentence goes any further.

Ian yanks down Mickey’s pants and gets to work. He knows exactly how Mickey likes it to make him come quickly. It works and Mickey finishes into the bulb of the turkey baster in record time.

Ian wipes off the edges and walks it to Debbie’s room, knocking on the door. She opens it just enough to stick her arm out and Ian places the bulb in her hand. Ian hears her say, “Uh, you guys can go home. I’ll text you later,” and shuts the door.

On their way back to the Westside, Ian’s phone dings. He picks it up and reads the text from Debbie out loud. “Transfer is complete.”

“What now?” Mickey asks.

“We wait,” Ian answers.

———

“It should have worked by now, right?” Mickey asks, an edge of concern in his voice. “I mean, it’s been almost 4 months. What if like, my fuckin’ swimmers don’t work or somethin’?”

Ian tries to calm Mickey down, rubbing his arm that’s slung across Ian’s belly. It’s midnight and they really should be asleep but Mickey’s spiraling over the whole surrogacy thing.

“Mick, this is normal. We knew it could take awhile. There’s no need to freak out yet,” Ian assures. “What’s all this about, anyway? All the worry.”

“Just… I know it took a long time for me to even wanna have kids. Then you had to convince me to do this shit, to be okay with Debbie carrying my baby. Fuck, that still sounds creepy as hell. But anyway, I know I wasn’t on board with everything at first, but now? Ian, I’m so fuckin’ excited to have a baby with you. To be a dad with you. It’s just hard to wait, that’s all. And then I think… what if it doesn’t happen? What if this whole plan just fuckin’ fails? Then what?”

“Then, we come up with another plan,” Ian assures. “I wanna raise kids with you too, Mickey, so fuckin’ much. I wanna give them the childhood we never got to have. I wanna take them to the beach with you, I want us to play blocks on the living room floor, and read bedtime stories together. All that shit. It’ll happen, Mickey. One way or another, we’ll make it happen.”

Ian snuggles Mickey closer, kisses him on the top of the head, and they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

They are woken up by Ian’s obnoxious ringtone at 6:00 am, well before they have to be up for work.

“Who the fuck is calling this goddamn early? Better be fuckin’ important,” Mickey grumbles while rubbing his eyes.

It’s Debbie.

“Hey, Debs!” Ian says with fake cheerfulness, still half asleep. “What’s up?”

“There’s two lines!” she screams on the other end of the phone.

“Okay?” Ian replies.

“There’s TWO lines!” she repeats, emphasizing the word two.

“I don’t know what the fuck that means, Debs. Two lines where?” Ian questions.

“On the pregnancy test, dipshit! It’s positive! I’m pregnant!” she yells.

Ian bolts upright in bed. Mickey grumbles “what the fuck” under his breath, eyes still half closed.

“Holy fuck! It’s positive?” Ian exclaims. “It worked?

Mickey’s up now too. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Debs! Thank you! I love you! I’ll call you back later!” Ian says, unable to hold in his excitement.

He hangs up the phone. Turns and looks at Mickey. “It worked. She’s pregnant,” Ian practically whispers, unable to believe it. Ian sees tears well up in Mickey’s eyes and, for only the second time Ian has ever witnessed, they spill out onto his cheeks.

———

“Damn, you look like a beached whale, Debbie,” Mickey observes.

Debbie gives him a dirty look but chooses to keep her mouth shut.

She’s a week past her due date so they are at the clinic today to make sure everything is good. Debbie is up on the table and Ian and Mickey are sitting in the two available chairs when the doctor comes in.

“Hi, Debbie! Hi, Dads!” she says cheerfully. “So we are going to measure your belly and do a quick ultrasound just to make sure your amniotic fluid looks good.” Mickey grimaces at the term “amniotic fluid”. “I’ll have her back in a jiffy, guys!” the doctor says as she whisks Debbie out of the room.

They spent the last 6 months getting everything they needed for their new baby. Tami even threw them a shower where they got clothes, bottles, a swing, a carseat, and about a billion diapers. They decorated the nursery in light gray bedding with tiny white stars. Gender neutral because they want to be surprised. They have everything ready, all they need is the baby who is taking its sweet time.

Around 20 minutes has passed when the doctor pokes her head in the door.

“Sooo, I have some news. Debbie’s water broke while we were doing her ultrasound and her contractions started coming really fast. From what I’ve been told, her first delivery was pretty quick so we’re transporting her to the hospital just down the road, just to be safe. You are welcome to head over there now. I will be delivering so I’ll see you guys there!” and her head pops out as quickly as it appeared.

Ian and Mickey just look at each other, stunned. Finally Mickey regains his senses and breaks the silence. “Well, let’s fuckin’ go!”

They finally make it to the OB floor after a couple wrong turns inside the hospital. A nurse points them to Debbie’s room and they walk in when she’s in the middle of a pretty intense contraction. Once it subsides, she greets them and informs the epidural is on its way.

Once it’s been administered and Debbie is blissfully pain free, she asks, “Do you guys want to be in the delivery room?”

They both look at each other. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” Ian replies.

“Fuck, no,” Mickey says. “I don’t wanna see that shit.”

“Mick, you don’t have to watch. We can stand up by her head. Hold her hand. Be supportive since she’s bringing our baby into this world.” Ian turns to Debbie. “Are you sure you don’t mind? We understand if you want to keep things private.”

“Ian. I gave birth to Franny on our kitchen table in front of… like, everyone. Kev saw my vagina. V saw my vagina. Fuckin’ Sean saw my vagina. Trust me, I don’t care if you two are in the room.”

Ian looks at Mickey. “Fuck… fine. We can be in there,” Mickey relents.

A nurse comes in to check Debbie and informs her she’s 100% effaced and 10cm dilated. It’s go time. Things move at a quick pace after that. More nurses come in, turning on extra lights, bringing in supplies, wheeling in the heated bassinet.

Ian and Mickey stand side by side to Debbie’s left, Ian holding her hand, while she pushes. It’s fast. She only pushes for ten minutes before they hear cries and the doctor’s holding the baby in her hands, declaring, “it’s a girl!”

The next thing they know, a nurse is throwing a clean blanket over Mickey’s chest, and another nurse walks over and places the baby, his daughter, in his arms, blood, vernix, and all. Ian expects him to be grossed out but Mickey just stares in awe at this beautiful baby. This baby that looks like him in the face, but has a head of red hair.

Ian steps up to Mickey and wraps an arm around his shoulders, placing his other under Mickey’s arms that are holding their daughter. There is not a dry eye in the room. Ian and Mickey are crying, Debbie is crying, even the doctor and nurses are crying.

The next hour or so is spent getting the baby, and Debbie, cleaned up and dressed. They take the baby and run the normal tests and give her a vitamin k shot.

Once Debbie is in a room, the nurse brings the baby in to her dads. Ian sits in the rocking chair snuggling her while she sleeps and Mickey is right next to them.

Debbie just gazes at this new little family from her spot in bed. “So,” she finally says. “What are you naming her?”

Ian and Mickey just smile at each other before Ian responds, “Debbie, meet Margaret Laura Gallagher-Milkovich. Maggie for short.”

Debbie’s eyes tear up. “You guys gave her my middle name?”

Mickey surprisingly fields this question. “We wanted her to be named after the person that’s responsible for her bein’ here. For helping’ create her for us. I know I give you a lotta shit, but I love ya, and I appreciate the fuck outta you, Debbie.”

“Aww, Mickey, I love yo-“ she begins before being interrupted.

“Don’t get fuckin’ used to it. I’m emotional today,” he snaps with feigned grumpiness. Then smiles at her.

They let Debbie snuggle her for a bit before being released by the pediatrician to take her home. Thankfully they had already installed the infant seat in their car so they were prepared.

They walk through the door of their apartment 30 minutes later. Ian sets the carrier down and picks the baby up out of it, snuggling her tiny body to his chest before passing her off to Mickey.

“I’m not sure what you were so worried about, you’re a natural, Mickey,” Ian says as he gazes at his handsome husband tenderly cradling their beautiful baby girl.

They walk over to the sofa and sit down, thinking about the whirlwind of a day. Not knowing when they got up this morning to take Debbie to the clinic that by evening, they’d be holding their daughter in their arms.

Ian wraps Mickey’s shoulders with his arm, places his hand on their swaddled baby and says, “Welcome home, Maggie Gallagher-Milkovich. Your dads love you so much.”

[embrassemoi]

No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content �� Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb! 

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”  

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

━━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

[woogyu]

A World Tinted Gold | Mingyu; Chapter Two

Kalon; beauty that is more than skin-deep

streamer!y/n x werewolf!mingyu

notes; werewolf au

word count; 1749

previous | next | masterlist

summary; The only werewolves you encountered were the ones living inside your video games. They were nothing more to you than mythical creatures you often had to kill in order to complete objectives. You had a good thing going with your online gaming setup. Your supporters were kind and usually tipped well during streams. Sure it meant you had to deal with the occasional creep sliding into your DMs, but it was worth it. Playing games online was putting you through college. Little did you know your quiet life was about to be turned upside down at the hands of someone you didn’t think existed outside of the virtual world.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Are you seriously watching that steamer again? Why don’t you just play the games yourself?” Seungcheol questioned as he stepped into Mingyu’s room, chuckling as the younger wolf quickly turned around and blushed.

“It’s not the same… I’m not really interested in the games, I’m interested in her” Mingyu admitted sheepishly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. He didn’t know what it was about you that made him so transfixed, but he had a hard time tearing his eyes from the screen. Hell, just the other day when you read his comment aloud, he was over the moon.

“It’s rare for you to show interest in a girl at all” Seungcheol remarked, eyebrow pulled up in question. Until a wolf found its mate there was little reason to get involved with or show interest in others romantically. There were of course some wolves that preferred being unmated; it allowed them to be explorative with their romantic partners. Not all wolves longed to find their mate, and not all wolves would end up finding their mates. He knew destiny had a hand to play in it all, but the thought of never finding who he was supposed to be with made the wolf in him whine. Mingyu wasn’t an unmated wolf that enjoyed exploring his options, he was desperately waiting for the day he met his mate. Right now, Mingyu wasn’t sure if he was simply lonely or if there was something more going on.

“There is just something about her��” Mingyu started, pausing for a second to find the right words, “I just have a hard time tearing my eyes away from the screen. There is something about her that just draws me in” Mingyu explained. He wasn’t doing a very good job at explaining the feelings that bubbled up inside him when he saw you on screen. When he tried to explain it he could never quite describe the feeling that settled over his chest and body, it was a warmth almost like a subtle glow within him.

Seungcheol didn’t comment on it any further as he moved into the room and crossed his arms over his chest. Mingyu knew better than to ignore the alpha, closing his laptop he turned to face Seungcheol fully. Their pack had a different dynamic than most. Normally a thirteen-member pack would be impossible because of the strain it put on the head alpha. It worked for them because while Seungcheol was their main alpha, they had two secondary alphas, Jihoon and Soonyoung. The three of them shared the work of looking after the group and it worked perfectly for them. He liked that the alphas didn’t abuse their power, there was a lot of lenience in the pack and it made for less confrontations.

“Joshua has to head into town tonight and won’t be able to run the perimeter. Would you be alright with doing it?” Seungcheol asked, pursing his lips as he looked down at the younger wolf. Mingyu normally enjoyed running the perimeter, it meant he got to shift and stretch his body, but this time he was a little bit more hesitant with his answer. Mingyu knew that later on tonight you would have a new video posted and he would have to wait even longer to watch it. It seemed like a silly reason, but his heart ached at the thought of not being able to ‘see’ you on screen until early tomorrow morning.

“Sure! I don’t mind” Mingyu answered with a half-smile, Seungcheol never asked him for much so he figured he could help him out with this. Seungcheol breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back against the wall.

“Thank you, I didn’t really want to be the one stuck doing it again” Seungcheol admitted, the alpha had been on perimeter duty for the past 3 nights and must have been eager for a good night’s sleep. Mingyu smiled and nodded his head a few times, his own wants would just have to be paused for a little while.

Before leaving the room Seungcheol patted him on the shoulder, yawning a little bit as he headed toward what Mingyu assumed was his own room. Mingyu was thankful that Seungcheol’s parents had left him their families pack house. Coming from a family of alpha’s certainly had its perks, and it meant they all got their own rooms.

Once Seungcheol was gone he checked the time, he had roughly 4 hours before he would have to head out.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“I just don’t understand what this trend is supposed to be” you complained to Ciri for probably the 20th time over your video call. Apparently, there was a trend going around among streamers to recreate video games in real life. You hadn’t thought much of it when it first gained popularity, but now Ciri thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to join in on it. Her big plan was a two-part video where the two of you recreated iconic aspects of the Witcher 3 video game. You should have known she would want to do it, she already owned a Cirilla cosplay.

“It’s going to be fun” Ciri reminded you, drawing out the last syllable as she drew a fake scar along her face, effectively transforming herself into the iconic video game character.

“Come on, I even sent you the Yennefer cosplay and everything!” she exclaimed, using her make up brush to point at the camera accusingly. You rolled your eyes as you reached up to adjust the dark black wig that you now wore. To her credit, Ciri had sent you everything you would need to transform yourself into Yennefer of Vengerberg. How she somehow guessed your sizing right you would have no idea. Probably the Witcher powers.

“I wish we lived in the same city” you sighed, leaning your head back and looking up at the ceiling. Things would be so much easier if you and Ciri, and the other girls, didn’t live so far away from one another. But that was the price you paid for finding your friends online.

“Me too” Ciri said with a gentle sigh, setting her make up tools down and picking up her phone, her face coming into full view.

“I sent you the script, I won’t be able to stay on the call with you while we are filming because data rates are crazy, but I know you’ll do amazing” Ciri said with a reassuring smile. You would have to film all of this on your own, which was just a little bit intimidating. Ciri’s script mostly just directed you to do a lot of handwaving and she would add in the ‘magic’ elements later.

“Just find a good spot in the woods and it’ll be perfect” Ciri finished with a nod of her head. You sighed, straightening yourself up and looking down at your phone.

“I’ll call you later on when I’m finished to send you the video” you mumbled, pouting a little bit as you stood and picked up your phone.

“Good luck!” Ciri told you, waving a little bit before ending the call. Great, now you actually had to go do it…

»»————-　♡　————-««

You were lucky there was quite a bit of woods around where you lived, the problem was going to be trying to get to the woods without anyone seeing the ridiculous clothes you were wearing. You threw on a huge coat, effectively covering up most of the costume. After grabbing the bag with your equipment, you ventured outside, keeping your head down as you walked to avoid drawing attention.

Twenty minutes later you were standing in the middle of a beautiful calm forest. Now that you were here you questioned why you didn’t come out here more often. You couldn’t hear the loud noises that came with living in a bustling city and the air felt fresh on your face. Once you reached a small clearing by a river you laid your things down and took a deep breath, basking in the coolness of the air. Maybe this trend wouldn’t be so bad.

After setting up your camera in a place you were at least half sure wouldn’t result in it falling over, you walked into frame and took a deep breath. You briefly checked your phone to see what Ciri’s notes asked of you, before you began doing your best to follow directions. Your portion of the video wouldn’t be long, but you did re-film it 4 times to try and get your motions to be less stiff.

After forty-five minutes of waving your arms around, you walked back to your camera, picking it up before taking a seat on a nearby log. Reviewing the footage, you winced at how awkward it looked, you seriously hoped that Ciri could work some magic on this because you didn’t have it in you to film it again.

The forest around you was darkening as the day began to draw to a close, but you couldn’t bring yourself to head back right away. The forest was too peaceful and serene. Reaching up you pulled your wig off, stuffing it in your bag as you sighed with relief. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, focusing in on the sounds of nature around you. Maybe coming to the woods would become a weekly thing for you, like therapy.

A low deep growl broke you out of your trance, your eyes flying open and flickering around to find the source. Your heart hammered against your chest, and your whole body stiffened in fear. A few moments later a dark black wolf emerged from the trees, larger than any wolf you had seen on tv. You could vaguely see blood dripping from its muzzle, and its dark red eyes were focused right on you.

It paused at the edge of the clearing, its lips pulling back to reveal sharp blood-stained teeth. Your breath came quick as you leaned back, unsure if you should run or try and hide behind the log. Both seemed unhelpful in this current situation, but you were really low on options.

The wolf’s body tensed before springing toward you. Your hands instinctively grabbed whatever was nearest to you, which happened to be your very expensive camera, and threw it toward the wolf. This did nothing to deter the predator from its prey, and within seconds the beast was on you.

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent​ for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts. 

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say. 

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall. 

your nails tap against the counter. 

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts. 

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you. 

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested. 

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.   

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice. 

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish​ @bluewillowmom​ @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof​ @six-bloodyminutes​

[votederpycausemufins]

Guys, idk how to tell you this, but we’re nearing the end. I mean, i’m gonna write more smaller pieces and maybe another long one in the future, but this one specifically is ending soon

@petrichormeraki

Mumbo walked down a hallway behind Drista. It looked like something Scar would have made as it looked more like a decorated underground tunnel than anything else. Stones of different types lined the walls and some vines and grass were present here and there. He kept trying to ask questions to pass the time, but Drista always shushed him. 

Since he couldn’t really have a discussion with her, he just looked at the walls around then that looked worn by time. Some ores were present in the walls, though they weren’t any Mumbo recognized. When he looked away from them, the redstoner could see what looked like the tunnel widening up ahead, likely to a room or sorts, though based on their surroundings, it could be more along the lines of a cavern.

He was right as when they stepped out of the tunnel, the ceiling was still made of rocks, but the room itself was filled with life. Trees of varieties he had never seen before littered the area. Leaves of blue purple and gold were scattered around and hanging on the trees. Flowers of every color. A small pond to the side, small lily pads covering a good portion of the surface. It was beautiful.

“Alright, a couple of the fam are headed over here to talk with you. Don’t go wandering around because this place is like a labyrinth and you don’t have the ability to get out yet.”

“You sound like you’re going to leave me here.”

“Cuz I am.” And with that Drista ran off down another tunnel that connected into the room. With nothing to do but wait, Mumbo wandered around the cavern, trying to not stray too far from where they had entered. He really decided to stay close when he saw what he thought was an armor stand wearing armor, slumped against a wall. When he got closer and noticed the skeleton within that was obviously not a reanimated monster, he made sure to run back and stay in place.

After he started to become a bit restless again, Mumbo was slightly glad to see people approaching him. All of them wore some sort of mask, which unsettled the redstoner a little bit, but he remembered how Drista and Dream had worn some of their own, so it must have been a Vault God thing. Come to think of it, Grian also showed off a Watcher mask once. Did these higher beings just wear masks?

“We do indeed. It hides the self and keeps us separated from those we… work with.” A chill went up Mumbo as he realized that they had just read his mind. “Yes, another reason for the mask, though that enchantment could be placed on anything.”

“Should I just ask questions in my mind then?” Mumbo asked, now trying to keep his mind empty.

“Nah, just Song being cryptic and stuff.” A new voice spoke from the Vault Gods and one wearing a mask that resembled a turtle slapped the back on the head of one wearing a mask decorated in music notes. “We can control it easy enough, some people just get used to various powers and tend to overuse them.”

Mumbo sighed in relief at the casual tone from turtle mask. He had no clue what to expect from whoever he would meet and assumed they would be very strict and cold people. “I see. Well, speaking of powers…” He trailed off, not sure how exactly to ask.

“Drista’s kept me updated.” Another new voice spoke. They gave a small wave when Mumbo tried to figure out who was speaking. He had to shift a little to see them properly, but taking a step to the side, the redstoner would see their mask which seemed to be a generic green alien. “You don’t want to be a Vault God, but you used your powers out of necessity.”

“I shouldn’t have any to begin with!” Mumbo argued. “I said no the last time Drista showed up and they went away. It wasn’t until I found Dream that anything happened again.”

It was quiet after he shouted, long enough that Mumbo was beginning to worry he shouldn’t have said anything.

“That does change things.” Someone in an earth mask stepped forward. “Due to Dreamon’s work with the abandoned Watcher he obtained.”

“His name is Grian.”

“Yes, that one. He was able to shield his world from the sight and hearing of both us and the Watchers. His abundance of power is likely what pulled yours out again, not true willingness.”

“Are you saying you can do something about it? I don’t want to be one of you. Grian’s a Watcher and he’s told me many times that your magics don’t mix. I lo- We’re… really close to each other. I don’t know what I would do if us being around each other caused problems.”

Again, there was silence from the Vault Gods. This time Mumbo wondered if, being able to read minds, they were communicating telepathically. “I suppose there is something that could be done.” One of them finally spoke up and Mumbo sighed in relief. “Masks are usually used as a limiter, that is due to enchantments, but others could be placed on it so it has the opposite effect.”

“That being?” Mumbo asked.

“It can be so that only when used will you be able to access your self as a Vault God. That being said, to do that, more than just powers would need to be sealed within the mask.”

“I would be able to stay around Grian though?” Mumbo asked, not caring about any side effects if it would get him what he was after.

One in a mask that seemed to house an entire galaxy spoke up next. “Yep, pretty much any Watcher if you really wanted to. I mean, doubt you’ll be around many, but hey, if you help out when we have to deal with… or I guess work with other Watchers, it would help.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“Ey Big Geeeeee!” Tommy burst into the room, followed by Grumbot who had led him there. “Tubbo went with Sparklez to go see some of his family. Meaning time for you and I to get back into things. What are you thinking? New normal war to teach people things? Invitations to the upside down? Take people on base tours and blow their minds? Or maybe we go with the tried and true chicken bombings?”

Grian just rolled over in bed. “Noooo. I wanna go but everything’s catching up to meeee. I’m a messssss.”

“Dad is feeling sick from bad magic that was left over in your world.”

Tommy sat down and slumped. “Great, another thing Dream messed up. Can’t you just do some shit to get rid of it and be better already? The longer we wait, the less fun it might be.”

Grian gave a small hum as a signal that he heard Tommy. “Yeah. Left it on a table. Mask I was wearing when you stabbed me.” He pointed in a general direction and Tommy left to grab it. While he waited, Grian curled up more, wrapping his wings around himself. He was glad that the feathers helped muffle the sound around him which was starting to give him a headache. Stupid living base that you could hear everywhere.

When Tommy returned, he tugged gently on one of Grian’s wings. Because of the avian’s current state, he panicked and hit Tommy away with the wing. The blond was pushed back, glad his armor negated whatever damage that would have caused. “Sorry for startling you. I found it.”

Grian took the white mask from Tommy and put it on, glad that it started to block out whatever was making him feel sick. “Oh, that’s much better. So, what were your ideas again?”

Grian, Tommy and the bots were enjoying themselves as they returned to Mumbo’s base. Jrumbot was admiring the diamonds he had scammed someone out of while Grumbot put away the last of the discs he had been playing around, making sure he couldn’t be seen while they played, confusing whoever heard them. Tommy had emptied a shulker box of eggs onto the smp island and Grian had placed signs all over the place with cryptic messages.

“Oh man. We need to get Mumbo and get him to drag some people into Hermit Challenges.” Grian said through his laughter.

“I dunno. Me and him aren’t really on the best terms right now.”

“I know, but that’s exactly why you should do it. It’ll give you the chance to clear the air and ask why he was so upset.”

“Daddy yelled at us too.” Jrumbot looked up briefly from his diamonds. “Auntie Stress took us to see him but he got upset and wanted us to leave.”

“I wasn’t able to get a good look, but he had seemed scared. People tend to have different reactions when they are scared. Some get angry, others panic, even more just hide it.”

Grian picked Grumbot up in one arm and nuzzled him. “And we’ve all been through a lot so we know that. Mumbo hasn’t been through nearly as much. It would be better if it never happened, but the fact that it took so long is a good sign.”

“I guess.” Tommy responded, but he still seemed upset.

Just before they reached Mumbo’s base again, there was a burst of energy that came from it and Grian narrowed his eyes behind his mask. “They were told to stay in your world.” Then before Tommy could ask what Grian meant, the Watcher set the bots down and shot up into the sky so fast he left some feathers behind.

He scanned the base until he spotted a figure and dove towards it, landing nearby. “You shouldn’t be here. This is Watcher claimed. Get out before I make you!” He almost growled at them. He was prepared to shove them through a rift to send them to smp island and then throw them through the portal when the figure turned.

They wore a familiar suit, except for the fact that it was stained a bright red color. They wore a metal mask with piercing red eyes, and most importantly, a mustache. “Grian.”

Grian’s eyes widened. “M-Mumbo…” The Watcher felt himself start to cry. This couldn’t be happening. Mumbo had said no. Why would he change his mind? And he had protected Mumbo so this could never happen? So why had it? “Mumbo… please… why? Why would you-”

He didn’t get to continue as Mumbo pulled the mask off his face and discarded it by letting it drop to the ground. He followed it, collapsing to the floor and Grian rushed to him. Before he could do anything though, he noticed the lack of any foreign energy in the air. “Oh Mumbo… I’m sorry I thought you said yes.”

[bookwyrminspiration]

Shattered Upside Down

A kotlc wings au: masterpost here

Chapter 5: The Hollow Echo

word count: 7.6k

chapter summary: Something is very wrong, but it’s becoming more and more apparent that Sophie doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

warnings: medical emergency (vaguely described), blood (also vague), panicking, the urge to pull out hair (no actual pulling), swearing, heights. Let me know if there are more /g

taglist: listed in the replies. let me know if you want to be added or removed!

I had fun with this one, which is an obvious sign you should be worried. Anyways, enjoy!

ao3 link here or read beneath the cut

That was all she said.

Then she turned

and

ran.

Sophie jolted out of the bed, stumbling towards the door as her heart clenched and her throat constricted and her lungs squeezed. Dex.

Something was wrong and it was Dex.

Fitz was only a moment behind her as they shot out the front door, hot on Biana’s heels. She moved quick, quicker than Sophie’d ever seen before, flitting sporadically over the planks on the woven bridges like she’d been born for it.

She danced through the canopies, those shimmering wings flapping in distress behind her, urging her along.

Sophie wasn’t nearly as graceful, but goddammit she was fast.

Scenery turned to nothing but blurred colors around her, eyes focused solely on Biana, on the direction she moved.

She was aware of nothing but Biana ahead of her and Fitz behind her, the pounding in her chest, and her breathing as she ran ran ran.

Biana seemed to be heading to one of the houses on the outskirts of the conglomeration, slightly lopsided and dripping with foliage, roof cracked and gaping. Ominous. Maruca and Wylie stood outside, speaking in hushed whispers. She could’ve heard them if she focused.

The wings at her back buzzed and she nearly lost her balance as she moved faster still, the noise deafening in this taut silence as they did nothing but move move move.

Each new sound was nothing in her ears as she slowed, cresting the porch and nearly crashing into the wall, stumbling back into Fitz as he rammed into her, grunting slightly as they both tried to regain their balance. The door, where was the door where was Dex--

“Did you find--” Linh asked leaning out a low open window and looking towards Biana, cutting off when she saw Sophie and Fitz behind her.

“What’s wrong,” Sophie asked, deadpan, voice quivering as she rushed to the window Linh peered out of, not even bothering to look for the door. There wasn’t the time for that.

She climbed through the fucking window.

The room inside must’ve been a living room once, small tables adorned with now-dry flora, petals crusting the tenderly woven rugs. The only light cascading from the window behind her, the others shut to keep it dark--like her human mother had done for her when she had one of her headaches.

Now was not the time.

No one answered her question.

Their eyes were on the couch.

On him.

Dex lay on the couch, head tilted forward and rested on Keefe’s shoulder, breathing heavily with his eyes scrunched closed. His hair tousled and ragged, Keefe’s hand resting gently on the back of his skull, fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. Keefe’s eyebrows were furrowed with concentration, and she’d been on the receiving end enough times to know what that look meant--emotion regulation. He’d only done that in extreme situations. Shit.

Her voice dropped to barely audible. “What’s wrong?”

“We didn’t get an explanation, we just started running,” Fitz added, climbing through the window himself. They’d find the door someday.

“Don’t know. Hurts,” Dex groaned through gritted teeth, turning his head to face them. His skin had taken on a pale sheen, all color drained as he breathed too quickly to be effective, and with the absolute silence in the room, she could hear his heartbeat too.

Thump thump. Thump. Thu-mp. Thump.

...that wasn't normal.

Next step. Next step. What should she--

He exhaled stiffly, fisting his fingers in the fabric of Keefe’s pants, turning away, shivering and jerking slightly as he moved.

It aggravated the wings on his back, the ones she’d gotten so used to ignoring that she’d forgotten they were there, they could be part of the problem. They were the problem.

They jolted up, spreading slightly behind him,

and

her

stomach

plummeted.

Sophie saw nothing but red. Angry red veins pulsing bulging bursting beneath his skin reaching up out down around branching across those feathers growing maiming falling from his back.

The floor was littered with them.

Browns and whites and red.

“What the--” someone cut off, and Sophie startled. She hadn’t known Tam was in the room. Tam, who was never far from Linh, Linh who had stepped forward and curled her fingers, water dancing racing cascading from her fingertips.

Move. Do something.

Rivers tumbled over Dex’s back, the wings, staining red as it met flesh, Dex arching hissing panting at the feeling, the pain.

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” Keefe whispered, distracting him, voice hypnotically honey. Demanding. Unrelenting. There was no choice but to listen.

Do something.

“--towels or anything? I don’t know what’s here--” Marella. Marella had found the door. She was walking towards Dex. She was talking. She was saying things.

Sophie should be listening.

She did nothing.

Her hands shook as Marella took control, nothing but fiery determination in her voice, a practiced calm as she listed off instructions, as she looked down at Dex and did not panic.

An emptiness fogged her mind as she stood there, everything moving around her as Dex’s breathing slowed and someone was talking and Sophie realized she did not know what to do she wasn’t made for this she couldn’t do this she could fight and kick and scream and raze the world to shreds with her bare hands if she wanted but she Could Not Do This.

“Sophie. Sophie.” Marella said, grabbing her hands, her attention as she did so. Sophie’s entire body trembled down to her shaking breaths as she looked into Marella’s face. The stern composure staring back. “I want you to stay here. With Dex and Keefe. Keep an eye on him mentally--but don’t be invasive. He was having trouble talking. You can help with that too. Do you understand? Can you do that?”

How long had she been standing there? The room was empty. Her friends had gone where were there where had the time gone how long had she stood here and done nothing and--

It took her a moment, but she nodded slowly, and Marella released her with a nod, turning to go do something, be somewhere. Like Sophie hadn’t been able to.

Thick silence permeated the room as she stood there for a moment, collecting herself enough to move. There was no one else. Just them in this room with all this pain.

She hadn’t noticed the others leaving, what they’d gone to do.

“Hey, hey, hey,” someone said oh so gently, and she jerked back into her body. Keefe. He still sat on the couch, one hand resting on Dex’s bicep, holding him steady. Dex. His eyes were closed, a vacancy to his expression that hadn’t been there when she’d last been able to look. “He’ll be okay. I can feel your...numbness, the shock. But it’ll turn out fine.” He smiled tentatively at her, giving her more attention than she deserved right now; she was not the problem.

Wait.

Do something.

She should’ve been.

Marella had given her a task and yet she stood here not doing it. The numbness Keefe felt from her--it had locked her muscles in place.

She shook herself off, shaking her head and flapping her hands, letting the wings buzz, feeling her muscles shift as she reanimated herself.

“I know.” She said, voice hollow. She climbed onto the couch beside the two of them, curling her legs up beneath her as she tentatively placed a hand on Dex’s shoulder. She would say it as many times as it took to convince herself, to manifest that reality into existence. The one where Dex was fine and wasn’t hurting and his back wasn’t stained red and his skin didn’t chill her to the touch.

He seemed to be...asleep. Maybe unconscious was a better word.

Hesitation shadowed her mind as she reached for his, walking through the flowered gates of his consciousness, vulnerable. She stopped at the threshold, not wanting to invade--she didn’t need to anyway. His mind was on display for any who wanted to look, no barriers between the roiling turmoils and clouds within from her view at the edge of those curling gates.

She pulled back. She didn’t need to be there.

“I know,” she repeated, leaning her head back on the couch, staring into the darkness of the ceiling, watching the static play across her vision.

“I don’t think you do, Sophie.”

She looked back down, confused, searching for an explanation on his face. He looked away, glancing down at Dex as he opened his mouth, then closed it again. Stray pieces of hair tumbled down with the movement, and he distractedly brushed them back, frowning. He flinched for a moment, breath catching in a soundless gasp.

Lips trembling, he breathed. “It’ll be fine.” His voice broke at the end of the sentence; he cleared his throat. “It has to be.” His statement, the broken plea, echoed in the silence.

He didn’t believe a word he said.

Neither did she.

“What have we gotten ourselves into,” she laughed humorlessly, pulling at her cheeks, dragging her hands down her face. “This is...beyond fucked up.”

Keefe’s hollow laugh sounded alongside hers, his smile empty as he hissed slightly, wincing as he gently combed back Dex’s hair, repositioning him between them. He carefully slid his body out from underneath, cradling Dex’s head as he lay him prone on the cushions, then collapsed backward on the rug, careful to avoid the red stains that still hadn’t been wiped away.

He pressed his hands into his face, then froze as he realized what he’d done.

The wings were on full display beneath him, spread across the plush petals of the woven petals.

Sophie leaned forward involuntarily, bracing her hands against the edge of the couch as she marveled at the feathers--there hadn’t been an opportune moment to observe, to take the time to see the wings that’d clawed their way through his skin.

The structure reminded her of Fitz’s--a sturdy, muscled base overflowing with organized feathers--but that was where the similarities ended. Where Fitz had been earthen and warm, Keefe was otherworldly and harsh.

The exact color was difficult to determine--they seemed to shift between monochrome shades, but as his eyes met hers and flicked towards the figure beside her, they darkened.

Pitch black.

Her head cocked as she watched the shift, trying to tell if it was a trick of the light.

“What?” he asked, shifting beneath her scrutiny, glancing away, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck.

She shook her head slightly, smiling down reassuringly. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I just--the color. How did--” she exhaled slightly, snorting at her own incompetence. “Let me try that again. Do you know what makes the colors...shift like that?”

He smiled slightly at her tongue tied-ness before his expression became inexplicably bewildered as his brain processed her question. “Shift?” He rose up on his elbows, head snapping to the side as he looked upon the wings splayed beneath him. “I--” he cut off, mouth falling open as he looked down at the feathers, tentatively reaching out to brush his fingers along them.

As he glanced up at her, something eased in his face, and the feathers shifted again.

Lighter.

“They shifted again,” she noted, pointing.

“They were nearly pure white this morning.”

She didn’t know how to respond, tried to visualize it in her mind. Keefe with pure white wings seemed almost...angelic. Sophie leaned back, running her hands through her hair and nearly pulling a few strands out, fingers fisting against the temptation.

Her attention snagged on Dex and her pulse skipped.

They weren’t doing anything. The two of them were laying here, unconscious friend between them, and neither of them knew what the fuck they were doing. Her fingers clenched tighter and she exhaled heavily, trying to ignore the overwhelming urge to tear her own body apart.

Briefly, she brushed her consciousness against the open valley of Dex’s, seeing there was still nothing she could contribute. Wherever he was right now seemed a hell of a lot better than being in the mess his body had become--she’d hold off on finding him. Let him sleep through the worst of the pain, while the others finished doing whatever it was they’d gone to do.

“Any reason you’re laying on the floor?” She needed a distraction. She couldn’t be alone with her thoughts even if she wasn’t really alone. She needed to speak them away and this was the only thing she could think of.

Keefe lowered himself back down, looking off into the ceiling, and with her crystal sight, she could see each individual eyelash framing the ice of his gaze. Must be nice to have eyelashes.

“It was too much,” he admitted. “I needed a break. It wasn’t--he’s not in as much pain anymore. But there was just so much of everything and anything. Maybe it’s because he’s a technopath and his mind is so unique, maybe it’s because we’re all...like this. But it was a lot. I think--I can be more helpful if I just check in every now and then--you know?”

Sophie nodded, and he seemed relieved, as though worried she’d judge pity scorn him for not forcing himself to endure someone else’s pain.

They fell into a comfortable silence, and Sophie finally had the willpower to let go of her hair, brushing it back before wedging her hands between her legs, sitting on them.

She couldn’t stop watching Dex.

Where are you, she wondered uneasily, and the thought raced through the mindbubble like electricity through water, misery disrupting the eye of the storm. Keefe’s head snapped up as the thought reached him. Then spread beyond.

Sophie’s eyes closed as each of her friends' consciousnesses lit up like a light in response to her, a terminal web of electricity and personality coagulating into people.

I’m on my way back, Linh answered, and although Tam didn’t say anything his presence loomed close behind. Footsteps sounded a ways away, and with it, all the other sounds she hadn’t realized she’d been consciously ignoring came crashing grating screaming through her senses. All three of their heartbeats in this quiet, Keefe’s feathers brushing against the petals of the rug, the sigh of skin on skin as she jerked her hands from between her legs and pressed them against her ears, trying to block suppress squeeze the noises away.

“What’s wr--” Keefe began, cutting off as the footsteps shifted, becoming less squeaky and erratic and instead sounding solid against firm ground--stepping from the bridges to the porch.

Linh pushed open the door, Tam only a moment behind her, cold morning dew and shivering stone brushing against her nose. Oh. Perfect. More sensory information.

Something was...off. About Linh. But she couldn’t tell what it was in the dark as she made her way toward them, toeing off her shoes as she knelt on the rug, Keefe moving out of her way, wings folding closed as though he could hide them.

“You’re stealing my aesthetic,” Tam deadpanned from near the door, having closed it behind them, nearly sinking into the shadows. She couldn’t see the wings on him from here, not with that darkness framing him--and she couldn’t see Linh’s either. They must’ve been similar to the one’s on her own back, delicate and small enough to lay flush with her skin, hidden.

Keefe scrunched his nose back at him, cheeks staining a pretty pink. But there was something else there, too. Something...warm. As though all too happy to indulge in whatever distraction Tam brought, embrace the harmless bickering for the both of them.

She wondered if Tam knew the effect he had.

“Are you alright?” Linh asked, eyes flicking to meet Sophie’s from where she knelt before the couch, wrists moving in slow circles as molecules drenched dripped condensed down her fingertips, falling in an unnatural cascade towards Dex’s back. That must’ve been why she’d come back. Whatever she’d been doing out there hadn’t been as beneficial as being here--she often helped with healing, cooling burns and blisters and easing the mind.

She was much more suited for this than Sophie would ever be.

She’d frozen, colder than the frost of Marella’s piercing gaze as she stared her down and took control. Linh right behind.

Linh had stepped forward, curled her fingers, and taken control.

Linh and Marella.

Marella and Linh.

They’d be nowhere--Dex would be nowhere--without them. Sophie would be frozen stuck cemented in the dark. It had always been her. The center of the world the moonlark the revolution. She took the hits, she got hurt and beat and bruised.

She never dealt with the wreckage left behind.

Hurt grated through her bones as she realized just how much she’d put her friends, her family through. How many times had they endured this? Sat by her bedside as she lay unconscious, bleeding broken damaged. How many times had they watched her with bated breath, searching hoping screaming for any flicker of life, for anything.

“I’m fine,” she answered, although she might have grimaced just a little.

Linh’s gaze lingered for a moment before she returned her attention to Dex, letting the cool waters wash over his skin, flushing away the angry, frozen reds.

“I’ve got this from here, Sophie. You can take a break.” Linh’s voice was gratingly soft against the quiet air, and Sophie barely had the wherewithal to nod before rising, stumbling slightly as she made her way to the door.

Tam opened the door for her, and she nodded in thanks, hands still pressed over her ears.

Too much.

Everything was too much.

Heartbeats echoed in her mind as she started walking, needing to get away from everything everyone everywhere. Faint tendrils of warm light pushed its way through the overgrown canopies, flower petals swirling by in a passing breeze, the pollen sticking to her skin.

She inhaled.

She exhaled.

Looking down, Sophie watched her steps as she tip-toed her way across the bridges, savoring the sway beneath her, looking down through the slight gaps to the ground she knew lay down there.

She paused for a moment, staring down down down over the edge.

Breathing.

The mossy forest floor became visible, down to the ladybugs crawling along the exposed roots so far below. She really didn’t know how high up she was.

How far she could fall.

Sophie stepped back from the edge, pushing the thought away, pushing it all away. She didn’t even know if she still could fall.

She always had her levitation, her teleportation, and now...the wings.

Theoretically, Sophie Foster was immune to heights.

She was not immune to panic.

And just like that,

she

plummeted.

Her nails dug into the sides of her head as she clenched her teeth, utterly alone with herself. She’d panicked and it could’ve killed Dex. She’d panicked panicked panicked. Frozen in time in place in her body in the moment he needed her.

Everyone needed her. She needed to be there for everyone and now they were nowhere with no one because they’d followed her when she was out of her mind and she couldn’t bear to take it back.

What the fuck were they doing out here. There was no fucking plan for ending up in the middle of nowhere. She had absolutely no clue where they were on the planet--they could be in Canada, Japan, Finland, Russia, maybe even back in the fucking United States. The only information she could base her guesses on were the trees around her.

That ruled out the Sahara, she supposed.

Once-woven vines splayed their way across the abandoned bridges, leaves fanning out everywhere, tickling the soles of her feet. She had no shoes on. They were back near that broken window.

Biana had so effortlessly flitted across the bridges in their dash, darting side to side with apparently no effort, but it seemed much more difficult than she’d made it look. Still, Sophie tried to avoid the leaves, to float and take control the way her friends all appeared so much more equipped to do.

A plan.

That was what she was good for. Desperately, Sophie wracked her mind, squeezing her ears harder as if blocking out every noise would somehow create better ideas.

The facility still stood, which meant it could come back, which meant they needed to destroy it. Again.

Buildings typically don’t have a tendency to move, so it was probably still underground. But where? Flori had transported them the first time, traveling underground using old roots until they’d reached that tunnel.

They’d have to figure out where they were before they could figure out where their underground was so they could figure out which direction the facility was and then get back to it.

Or maybe they could follow the monsters again.

No.

Too risky; Grady would--

Grady.

Grady wouldn’t want her to take such an uncertain gamble, even with the support of her friends. He wouldn’t want her to be alone. He wouldn’t want her to feel so alone.

Sophie Foster existed separately from everyone else. Her entire life, there’d been something...imperceptible, like a glass wall between her and everything. Even amongst elves, others with abilities, others with motives and power and rebellion simmering beneath their skin, that something was always there.

And that’s why she was standing in the middle of an abandoned village in the treetops, hands pressed to her ears, wings protruding from her back, regrets for decisions she hadn’t yet made screaming in her mind, by herself.

There was no one to joke away the thoughts now; she’d left Keefe back in the cottage.

Hollow nothingness popped sizzled crackled beneath her skin, spreading like lightning as it shot through her, dancing along the lining of her bones, roiling in her blood.

Down and

Down

and

down.

“--nking it would be--” Sophie keeled over, gasping, hands dropping as she caught herself on the edge of the bridge, someone’s hand clasped on her shoulder. Breathing choppy, she trembled on the ground for a moment, everything and anything everywhere assaulting her senses, snapping her out of that hollow echo all at once.

She couldn’t see anything as her gaze darted around, rolling, too fast to pick up information.

“Sophie?” Fuck. That was someone’s hand on her shoulder. Someone was here. Someone was seeing this.

She forced herself to take a breath, focusing entirely on the sensation, on shoving everything into threads beneath her ribs as she turned to see the person attached to that hand.

Teal eyes framed with worry, brows scrunched together with concern, frazzled hair framing her darling face.

Biana repeated the question. “Did you hear me?” Sophie couldn’t think of a response so she just shook her head, leaning back and crossing her legs beneath her. She didn’t think she had the willpower to stand back up.

Lowering herself, Biana came down to her level, adjusting her tunic as she did so. She’d also had the mental capacity to change into the clothes she’d brought--or maybe it was just a front. Holding desperately to control of the one thing she had left. Something...was different about her.

Everything about her was so...alive. Her eyes bright, skin seeming to ripple in the light, movements just a little quicker than they were supposed to be. Biana had been born to live loud...but her body was screaming with vivacity.

What would she do with it?

The first time Biana’s world had been so thoroughly flipped upside down, she’d become a hollow shell, the echo to her brother’s rage. The second time, she’d desperately tried to hide from herself, bouncing back with such confidence so quickly it was difficult to believe it entirely genuine. The third time, the Lost Cities crumbling and moving underground, it was as though it hadn’t fully registered for any of them.

And now, for a fourth time...

“I was going to ask about Dex, but--” she stopped herself, biting on her lip as her hands shook in her lap. “The others are taking care of that, and I’m of no use there.” Something bitter echoed the words, haunting them and swallowing them whole.

“You’re very useful,” Sophie responded, automatic.

Biana snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I could keep us hidden in the facility. I can follow your lead.” Sophie flinched; Biana didn’t notice. “But I have...no goddamned clue what to do now.”

Sophie didn’t answer immediately, instead looking her friend--family, really--up and down. Purely impulse, she scooted forward, beside Biana, dangling her feet over the edge of that bridge.

“That part is my job,” she smiled slightly, nudging her with her shoulder. “Don’t worry about that.” It cleared her mind, somehow. Seeing Biana and thinking of her instead of all the possibilities, the failures, the regrets swarming and buzzing in her own mind.

Biana frowned slightly, nudging her back. “It shouldn’t be just you. You really think you can Moonlark your way out of this one?”

“Moon--what? Moonlark my--what?”

“You know, somehow figure out what to do with all your abilities and get yourself out of tricky situations.” Biana shrugged like it was supposed to be obvious.

Sophie stared for a moment, momentarily forgetting about the world on her shoulders.

“Yeah...I guess I’ll...moonlark it?” Baffled, she shook her head, laughing. A genuine laugh, absolutely incredulous, so tired and worn she couldn’t contain it. Biana joined in after a moment, trying to suppress it by clapping a hand over her mouth.

She couldn’t.

It wasn’t even that funny, but she doubled over, and the wings that had been folded at her back flared slightly, spreading just enough to lightly--but solidly--wack Sophie in the face. Biana’s eyes widened, but she couldn’t contain her laughter.

“Shit--wait--sorry,” she gasped out, clutching her side. Sophie’s mouth dropped in mock offense, also trying to suppress her giggles. When was the last time she’d laughed with a friend? When had she last looked at someone in the sunlight and seen anything but weary resignation or decaying rage?

Months.

It had been months.

So she enjoyed the moment and missed it like it was already over.

It took her two tries before she was able to get through the sentence. “And here I was, thinking we were friends. Some friend you are.” Her grin was genuine this time, and watching Biana grin back was enough to dissolve a few of those threads roiling in her ribs, to lighten her chest.

Sophie relaxed, turning her attention to Biana’s back, the delicate softness that had slapped her soundly.

She’d seen it briefly before, watching the wings flutter as they raced towards Dex, but she hadn’t looked at Biana and seen her. Monarch butterfly wings spread from the hasty tears in the back of her tunic. The black was decorated with pairs of delicate white dots, curving around the edge. Vibrant oranges melded into each other and mixed loud--Biana had never been a quiet beauty. Squinting slightly with that razor-sharp vision, she could see--scales. Thousands upon thousands of tiny overlapping scales forming the rich hues; she’d forgotten butterfly wings were made of scales. The wings shivered slightly under the attention as Sophie’s gaze wandered and--

The oranges disappeared.

Sophie gasped, leaning forward, watching as the scales rippled and the oranges blinked in and out of view like Biana herself, entirely transfixed by their transparency. Every thought about how distorted and wrong and selfish this was dissipated, replaced with pure confusion, pure intrigue.

She was too baffled to remember how horrid this was.

“It suits you,” she whispered, and Biana flushed. “I know it’s...strange, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way...but at least they’re pretty.”

Something relaxed in Biana’s face. “Yeah.” She exhaled shakily, then something sparked behind her too-bright eyes, and she grabbed Sophie’s arm, hauling them both to their feet. “Look at this.”

She dragged them both across the rest of the bridge towards a patio off to the side overflowing with flora, all leaning into the sunlight streaming through a gap in the canopy. Biana skidded to a stop and Sophie could barely match the pace, wings steadying her as Biana let go, pulling her hair over her shoulder as she turned her back to the light, the wings spreading fully behind her.

The orange pieces flickered in and out of view for a moment as Biana closed her eyes in concentration, then they disappeared entirely.

“What are you--oh.” Sophie hadn’t thought they could get any more hauntingly beautiful. It was...unsettling, to say the very least. To find something so damning, so deadly...so utterly enchanting.

Patterns of webs of veins danced across the ground before Biana, those wings spread, light reflecting and shifting as though through a stained glass window. Threads of sun streamed through the air, reaching from the wings and casting their designs into the wind, burrowing into the wood beneath their feet. Each one of those tiny scales became a pattern as the light flowed through them. When Sophie had been little, her human mother had brought home those little window crafts, the ones where you painted the plastic a myriad of colors and when you hung them, the light shining through would change color

Not the time, she reminded herself.

Biana exhaled, and the effect faded, wings tucking back behind her as she blinked slowly, then looked to Sophie.

Devastation wracked through her, but she plastered on a smile. “You’re too pretty for your own good.” She couldn’t stop herself. She had to get it out. “And all that on top of being so tough, it’s impossible to bring you down.” She was so so so much more than her looks and she hated that that’s what she’d defaulted to, what she’d said first. There were so so so many thoughts compliments marvels whirling through her head but she couldn’t get them out. Had complimented her beauty over everything else.

“Seriously,” she continued, trying to correct something no one else could see. “The strength it takes to look at...all this. And still find something about it to appreciate? You’re...inspirational.”

Biana stuck her tongue out, but then she smiled, exhaling heavily; then, she surged forward, crashing into Sophie’s arms. Sophie short-circuited for a moment, arms hovering awkwardly in the air before she gently rested them on Biana’s shoulders, careful to avoid those wings. She’d always been told to never touch a butterfly as a child, and she wouldn’t risk it now, not with someone so important.

“Thank you,” she responded, holding her closer. “I’ve just...I haven’t processed everything yet. But you’re...you’re not so bad yourself, Sophie. You’re stronger than you think, and I know you’ll get us through this, and we’ll get you through it too.”

The crushing expectations curdled through her veins, but before Sophie could piece together a frazzled response, something pinged in the back of the mindbubble, like a little hail, and Biana’s attention snapped to it.

“That’s for me,” she said, as though Sophie couldn’t guess. She gave one final squeeze, then let her go, turning and darting away with a tentative smile. Even the way she moved had changed, erratic and spastic, moving from side to side in a way that made her dizzy to comprehend. Those devastating wings moving almost too quick to see, propelling her forward without thought.

It was probably best she’d left before Sophie had the chance to say she had no fucking clue what she was doing.

All of the sudden, every laugh, each smile fizzled out and she was left with that hollow echo reverberating through her bones; but she was...aware of it this time. Frighteningly aware of everything around her, as though she’d taken two steps back and was watching herself from both inside and outside her body.

The buzz of the universe pressed against her head, aching and overwhelming, and Sophie shook her hands out, trying to regulate the feeling. Her mind went numb, the way your stomach was both numb and overstimulated at the same time when you were anxious.

Walk it off.

She exhaled. She’d walk this off.

Brrrr.

Sophie’s muscles jerked, physically launching herself into the air a few inches, hovering before dropping, wings flared as though ready to scatter. Strange. She didn’t remember being so jumpy.

Brrrr.

The sound echoed again, this time behind her. Whipping around, Sophie dropped into a slight crouch, knees bending as she scanned her surroundings, every sense on alert.

That mind-numbing anxiety didn’t fade, instead pulsing stronger as her stare flicked from side to side. What made that sound? Was there something here? Was she in imminent danger? Did she need to relocate her friends?

Why am I most lucid when things go wrong?

She couldn’t see anything, so she just waited, holding her breath, slowly spinning in a circle, eyes darting through the canopies, looking looking looking--

Brrrr.

There. Her sight narrowed in on something black and blurred among the branches. It seemed to glitch closer, darting between impossible distances as it grew closer and closer, and then it sat before her, moss and shadow scratching her nose.

Her stance relaxed subconsciously, a world of human memories flooding her mind.

It was a cat.

No, that wasn’t right. It was cat-shaped. A strange hollowness echoed around it, the shadows around it creeping towards it like it was magnetized, coalescing around it into the creature. Threads of light patches swirled along its body, giving it a Vincent Van Gogh monochrome Starry-Night-like pattern.

It blinked at her, hollow pits of white, and she blinked back. Her old cat, Marty, had done the same to her once. She didn’t know why, but she was reading it like a cat, analyzing its movements like she’d done for Marty, although this thing was the farthest thing from a cat it could be.

“Hello,” she whispered.

If she touched it, would her hand go through? Would it even let her try?

Wait.

Why did she want to try?

Brrrr.

It turned and leapt off into the trees, glitching through the air, landing on a branch just a few feet below the bridge. It looked back at her over its shoulder and blinked again. With intention.

“Do you want me to...follow you?” she guessed, not as repulsed by the idea as she should’ve been. It didn’t respond--obviously.

Instead, it leapt to a further branch, then looked back at her expectantly once more.

“What the fuck am I doing,” she groaned, running her hands through her hair once before eyeing that branch. It seemed sturdy enough to support her weight, but could she make the jump?

She knew this was a terrible idea. It just seemed that part of her wasn’t loud enough to overshadow the overwhelming curiosity, the hollow numbness that kept her from thinking the consequence through.

Sophie shook out her hands, took a breath, aimed,

and

jumped

too

far.

The branch was so much closer so much quicker than she’d expected. Suddenly she was twelve years old in the estate grounds of her friends, tracking them with her mind playing a game and jumping for victory and darting blinking flying through the air into a tree before he’d had to get her down. She shouldn’t be thinking about that.

That tiny little creature blinked at her with nothing behind its eyes as she was flung upside-down over it, and some back part of her mind realized this would be the part of a movie where a comical slow-mo would begin to watch her fall.

But this was not a movie.

Pure, raw adrenaline jolted through her veins, her entire body jerking as the wings at her back flared and spread, catching her with a buzz.

They did not drop her. But they didn’t take her anywhere, either.

The little echo creature continued its descent, carefully choosing which branches it glitched to and fro upon, making its way forward. She had the strangest feeling it was deliberately so she could keep track of it. It looked up at her, opening its mouth as if it would make a noise, but nothing came out.

“Ah. Yes.” She responded. “I'm afraid you’ll just have to give me a moment; I appear to have gotten myself into quite the pickle. Oh deary me.” She laughed slightly at that, the little elder accent she spun on words.

The thing didn’t say anything.

Sophie didn’t move. Didn’t know how. The wings were buzzing at her back, but she wasn’t controlling them, not consciously. Fixed in dynamic equilibrium mid-air, she realized this was an issue she’d have to solve.

They’d caught her, yes. But they clearly weren’t doing anything else, and as much as it sounded like a cheery way to spend the morning, she couldn’t just...hover here.

Brrrr.

“Yes, brrrr. I’m a little preoccupied though,” she grimaced. “More of a bzzz bzzz if you get what I mean.” Bubbling in her stomach was the sick realization that she’d have to work with them to move. The sensation spread, that thick silence creeping through her mind as she breathed slowly, concentrating.

She could squirm about this later. Now was not the time.

Already she was shifting, kept mostly in one place, but insects were not meant to be stationary. Sophie didn’t let herself think, only let her body drop as she gave in, relented, leaned into the movements.

Posture shifting, she fixed her gaze on that echo creature, leaning leaning leaning towards it, letting that lingering adrenaline push her forward until she was moving moving flying towards it.

The creature turned, seeing that she was following and not caring that she was actually careening on a collision path with anything and everything in sight, that these wings at her back were not hers and that she didn’t know what to do with them and that they’d kill her in the end.

It leapt to another branch and Sophie threw her entire weight with it, narrowly avoiding crashing into a branch. She’d been there, done that--no need to repeat the experience.

Branch after branch she narrowly avoided, following that hollow echo of a creature through the trees, unable to land, to put her feet on the ground and support her weight on her own. No. Everything relied on those wings.

Minute after minute ticked away, no clue how long she’d been following, when the creature finally touched the ground, glitching into the unkempt grass. The swirls of blinding white against its dark form were stark in the shadows of the trees.

Brrrr.

Fuck. She’d known she’d have to land eventually, but some part of her hadn’t realized she’d have to land eventually. How had she done it before? When she’d leapt from that creature, she’d glided her way through the treetops and--right. It was all about where she put her weight.

“If I fall on top of you, no I didn’t.” The creature didn’t respond, only flicked its tail in what might have been impatience.

Okay. Here goes everything, she thought, careful to keep it to herself. There had never been a more crucial time to be alone--she didn’t even want to imagine what her friends would say if they could see what she was doing in the mindbubble.

All or nothing. Sophie leaned her entire body weight forward, tilting at a frightening angle as her body aimed head first for the ground, which rushed up to meet her. Her hands came up instinctively near her face, although they couldn’t protect her from feeling as though she were walking down the stairs on all fours.

Moments before she splattered her brain on the ground, she shifted. Her trajectory curved, sending her upright, a few feet above the ground, like a very sharp u-turn.

The wings stopped, and she dropped to the ground. Hard.

Her joints absorbed the impact better than she’d expected, but her muscles groaned and bones ached, her teeth set on edge.

That damned creature didn’t even seem to care, just saw that she was there and turned, gracefully glitching its way ahead.

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “We can just walk away from this, no problem.” She straightened back out, rolling her neck and shaking out some of the more bruised joints, jogging slightly to catch up.

This was a terrible idea, she realized. Absolutely nothing she’d done today could’ve been worse. Today had only begun a few hours ago and yet it had lasted her entire lifetime. Had looked her in the eyes and stared until she couldn’t bear it, until she’d seen it and turned away.

What was there to fight for?

The cottage, the people she was slowly walking away from, drifting farther and farther, dancing her way blindfolded till the very end.

The edge of the world she was always falling off.

Maybe she wasn’t immune to it, then.

She was alone often as of late.

Something--someone--flickered in the back of her mind, like a tiny little wordless question, though she didn’t know who it was. Mentally, she turned away from it, and they got the impression, fading from the peripherals of her consciousness.

How fucking pathetic they needed to check in on her when Dex was...like that.

She’d frozen.

What was the goddamned point of being a leader if she couldn’t take control in times of distress, when her friends were suffering and hurting. She still didn’t even know what the plan was.

The plan.

They didn’t have a goddamned plan.

And now she was trailing behind some mysterious creature that had glitched its way to her and dragged her along with its snare of intrigue.

Curtains of thick vines swept down, snaking their way through the grass, making the ground unbearably uneven--she nearly lost her footing several times. Pollen stuck to her arms, but the flowers became less and less frequent, more gnarly and cracked and haggard with each step away. She didn’t know what it was--maybe the flora in that village still thrived in honor of the gnomes who’d once cared for them. Lived for the people they’d lost.

Sophie watched the canopy leaves shift in the breeze, gaze trailing along the vines reaching all the way down to the forest floor, snaking amongst the grass. It was so far down.

The gnomes who’d been there before her, the gnomes who’d built those homes and platforms--they wouldn’t have been able to see the life below them. The bugs, the flowers, the pattern of the roots.

Yet they’d built it all anyway.

Calla would’ve loved the open space, clouded with the thrum of life.

Calla would’ve braided her worries away.

Calla would’ve helped Dex.

Brrrr.

The echo of its noise tore her from her thoughts, and Sophie became acutely aware of the leaves against her bare feet. Each crunching step took her further and further away. How much more was she willing to go?

Brrrr.

Apparently it didn’t matter. They were here.

That haze in her mind had grown so thick she nearly couldn’t stand to be in her own skin. Pounding pounding nothingness eternal against her conscience. Something clicked haphazardly in the back of her mind, and she moved to block out her friends before realizing--

That wasn’t her friends.

It never had been.

Brrrr.

Something else was crying out.

The creature circled around her feet, brushing up against her legs and humming to itself as if trying to remind her why they were here--although she’d never known in the first place. They were here, wherever...here...was.

Standing amongst the trees, a thick swath of vines intertwined and marked off the space between the two in front of her, blocking the path.

The echo creature looked back at her, then jumped through one of the small gaps, barely visible on the other side. It popped its head back through after a moment, waiting for her.

I cannot fucking believe myself, she swore, but she’d come this far. How could she get through? Sophie wasn’t cat-sized, so she couldn't fit through the hole the creature had jumped through, but she didn’t want to tear the vines either. Something inside her shuddered at the thought of harming them.

She took a step back, looking up.

There. About a dozen feet up was a larger gap--she could get through with enough force. But how could she get up there? She huffed with chagrin, stomach boiling as she realized the quickest option.

Brrrr.

She could’ve sworn there was a hint of impatience, of urgency in that one noise. And she held out her hands placatingly. “A minute, please.”

The wings at her back buzzed in anticipation, as she just hoped hoped hoped they’d go along with it.

Sophie crouched down,

and

jumped.

The wings followed along and she shot straight upwards, leaning backward and away to gain a little wiggle room before leaning leaning diving curving straight towards that gap in the vines. That Sophie-shaped gap she burst through.

Where was she?

What was this?

Sophie hovered in the air for a moment, surveying the area, the conglomeration of vines and tangles and webs and terror woven amongst the trees, the glisten of the bugs on the bark, the gleam of the sap trickling down the foliage.

BRRRR.

The creature made the noise again, and her gaze snapped down, that crystal sight helping her pick it out amongst the shadows. How was this part of the forest so dark?

It leapt nimbly through the vines, drawing her attention to the--

holy

fucking

hell.

It drew her attention to the distorted, frantic center of the mass, the thing desperately hanging from the vines--a monster. Ensnared.

[alovesongshewrote]

Almost A Thousand Years - 1700/1800 | Hisirdoux Casperan

Plot:  You’ve known Hisirdoux Casperan for almost a thousand years.  You’ve hated him for almost a thousand years.  And for almost a thousand years, you’ve been cursed to feel each others pain.  But somewhere in that time, things changed.  [Hisirdoux Casperan x Mostly Gender Neutral but Probably Female Presenting Based on How Historical Men Treat Them!Reader]

Word Count: 3,898

Warnings:  jack the ripper, reader is called a whore and a wench

A/N:  tis my longest chapter yet!

Back | Next

You hid away for most of the eighteenth century.

You healed when you could, but what happened to Douxie scared you a little more than you’d like to admit.

So you hid.

You found ways to entertain yourself.  You read more, painted a little, continued your medical practice, and learned more about medicine whenever the knowledge became available.  You continued to keep tabs on other immortals.  It was pretty boring except for that time the Americans revolted.  You had to admit it was fun to keep tabs on the scrappy rebellion.  You couldn’t say it out loud as you still lived in England, but you gave a little cheer every time they fought off the British.  You didn’t like authority.  Neither did they.

On the other side of the continent, Douxie did the same things he always did.  Music, magic, work for Merlin.  He also read the book you’d given him.  He liked it.

It was a century of hiding, waiting, and having nothing much to do.  The next century would be the exact opposite. 

--

Jack the Ripper was a dick.

You really didn’t like him.

Douxie didn’t like him either.

And Archie didn’t like him.

So, like in every good piece of media that has a chapter in the nineteenth century, you protagonists teamed up to take down Jack the Ripper.  It was super effective!

You met up with your partners in the fog-filled streets of the White Chapel district soon after the second murder.  In your hands, you held a newspaper covering the recent events.  You approached the wizard and his familiar, but they didn’t see you.  They were caught in a conversation with someone you’d never seen before, a stocky man dressed in a dark overcoat and hat.  The stranger hadn’t noticed you either.  

Silently, you hid in an alley between two nearby buildings.  You couldn’t hear them, but from the stranger’s body language, he seemed a bit defensive, maybe even a little angry.  You sincerely hoped Douxie wasn’t doing anything stupid.

About a minute later, the man stormed off, leaving Douxie and Archie behind.  They still hadn’t noticed you, so you took the opportunity to sneak up on them.

“Hey!”

“Aaaaahhhh, jeez (Y/N)!  Don’t do that!  There’s a killer on the loose!”

“And he’s only killed prostitutes so far, so you should be fine.  Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me?” you joked, raising an eyebrow.

He gave you a small shove, too small to be malicious, “Very funny.  Have you learned anything new?”

“Mhmm, but first,” you turned to Archie, giving him a pat on the head, “Hey Arch, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,”

“That’s good!  That’s good, anyway, you know they think it’s a doctor, but they received a letter signed ‘Jack the Ripper,’”

“Very fun nickname,”

“Indeed, but it still isn’t much to go off of, the police already doubt it”

“(Y/N), remind me again what your sources are?”  the familiar was right to be suspicious, but you knew your sources were solid.

“I’ve told you Arch, a forensic doctor, he’s a friend of mine and he works with the police,”

“And how do you know you can trust him?”

“I don’t, but they’re publishing the letter soon, so you’ll see it then.  You guys got anything?”

“Not much,”

“Huh.  That isn’t great,” you took a moment before speaking again, “By the way, who was that man you were talking to?  He seemed angry,”

“Oh, him?  He’s just a resident of this area.  I’ve been talking to him for a while, I thought he might know something, but every time I even mention it he gets, well…”

“Like that?”

“Yes, like that,”

You looked out the way the man had gone, “You think he’s a suspect?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely,”

Archie nodded in agreement.

“Well then,” you said, returning the eyes to the face of your accomplices, “Keep an eye on him.  See you next Thursday?”

“Sounds good,”

By next Thursday, another girl was dead.

You met with your team in a (very) shady pub to discuss this development.  Thanks to some connections, you’d snagged a private room where no one else could hear your detective work.

“God DAMMIT, guys, how did we miss this?”  you said, pacing.  Your hands were on your hips, eyes fixed on the floor.  You seriously could not figure out how you missed this.  

On the wall behind you, you’d attached some photos and newspaper clippings to the wall, red yarn connecting them.  You were very ahead of your time.

“I really don’t know,” Douxie was sitting, upside-down, in a chair across from you.  He threw the ball of yarn up in the air, letting it fall, and catching it over and over again. Archie didn’t answer, he was focused too hard on the yarn.

You stopped pacing and glared at your conspiracy wall.  You followed the red string with your finger.  It lead nowhere.  You groaned and ran your fingers through your hair, something that Douxie found alarmingly attractive.  

Ever since you saved his life in the sixteen hundreds, he’d developed a bit of a soft spot for you.  It wasn’t something he was proud of.  But it was fine, you’d developed a soft spot for him too.

“Hey, it’ll be alright, love,”  he said, sitting up properly, “We’ll find this monster, so don’t worry yourself too much,”

You took a deep breath, leaning against your crime wall, “Thanks Doux.  I appreciate it,”

Your voice was slightly sarcastic, but you both smiled still.  Archie frowned, the yarn wasn’t moving anymore.

“So,” you said, turning again to examine the mess of photos and yarn, ”He isn’t an official suspect, but I think this guy, this James Maybrick, seems a little suspicious,” you pointed at his photo, “He’s going to be at this ball thing on Friday.  If we go, we can ask him if he plans on traveling, he lives in Liverpool, and-”

“I’m sorry, he lives where?”

“Liverpool, Arch, pay attention-”

“(Y/N), why do you think he’s coming all the way out to White Chapel to murder these women?”

“Well it isn’t his area, that makes him less of a suspect, and all of the murders have been on Saturdays and Sundays, which gives him time to travel,”

“You might be onto something,” Douxie said, standing and letting the yarn fall to the ground where Archie chased it around, thoroughly distracted, “We can go check it out, but how do we get in?”

You bit your lip, deep in thought, “My doctor friend, he knows the hostess.  He might be able to get us in,”

“Fantastic!”

“There’s just one thing,”

��Yes?”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll have to pretend to be my fiance,”

There was a moment of silence while Douxie considered this.  

You tried to explain yourself, “I-It’s not my first choice either, but high society doesn’t approve of-”

“I’ll do it,”

“And I know it’s inconvenient, but-”

“(Y/N)?”

“Yes?”

“I said I’ll do it,”

It was your time to consider, and you considered yourself super lucky to have an accomplice like Douxie.

“Oh my god, thank you!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms around his neck, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,”

You couldn’t see Douxie’s face, so he had no idea that he blushed before wrapping his arms around you softly.

“No problem (Y/N), no problem,”

--

Two days later, you were wearing fancy clothes, and freaking out a little.

This was nothing compared to Douxie who was freaking out a lot.  Mostly because you looked absolutely stunning, but also because there was a possible murderer inside the building.  You know, typical stuff.

The two of you stood outside the manor, looking up at the vast estate.  It was beautiful but intimidating.  You turned to your partner in crime-solving, “You ready for this?”

He nodded.

You closed your eyes, swallowed back your anxiety, and linked your arm with his.

“Let’s do it,”

The manor was, simply put, dazzling.  The size of it reminded you of the smaller cathedrals during the sixteenth century.  The floors were marble, the ceiling decorated with a mural, just like the cathedrals you now reminisced.  The room was lit with a large chandelier, the warm light covered the whole room in a glow the colour of honey.  Columns, the same marble as the floor, stood strong around the perimeter.  On one side of the space, an orchestra played.  The center was full of people dancing.  Some people stood at the side of the room speaking, others just observing everything else. It was a crazy party, but only by Victorian standards.  

The sheer amount of activity made you panic a little.  As if Douxie could sense your anxiety, he found one of your hands and squeezed it reassuringly.  You smiled a little, once again thankful for such an amazing partner in crime.

The two of you made your way around the dance floor, checking faces, looking for your suspect.  You didn’t see him.  You and Douxie made a full circle around the room, not seeing your guy.  You were about to suggest finding a higher viewpoint when the hostess of the party stopped you.

She was a plump, elegant woman, draped in the finest of silks.  Her hair shone, and her eyes sparkled.  She was perfectly gorgeous, and perfectly in your way.

“Ah, fuzzbuckets,”

“Oh, my dear (Y/N)!  It is so good to see you, darling!”

“It’s good to see you as well, my Lady,” you returned, bowing slightly.  Douxie followed your lead.

“‘Tis a pity the good doctor couldn’t be with us!  He works so hard, you would think he would come out and dance for an evening!  Just to relax!”  The woman laughed as if wishing the doctor was here was the funniest thing on the planet.  Maybe it was to her Victorian sensibilities.

You laughed an appropriate amount, plastering on a fake smile, and biting your tongue at the irony.  This was the least relaxed you’d been all century.

When the Lady stopped laughing, she noticed Doxie, “Oh, (Y/N), dear, you must tell me who this dashing young gentleman is!  How in heaven did you find such a match?”

“My Lady, this is my fiance, Mr. Casperan,”

“It’s lovely to meet you fair Lady, and might I say that the moon and stars dull in comparison to your eyes; even a goddess of beauty could not hold a candle to your visage,”

You tried to keep cool, but you felt your eyes widen a bit.  You had never heard Douxie speak like that before.  You weren’t sure how it made you feel yet, but clearly, the Lady enjoyed it.  A blush covered her face as she gushed over the wizard for another two minutes.  You spent that time subtly searching the crowd for Maybrick.

Clearly, you were not as subtle as you thought.

“Oh, dear, I see your partner is eyeing the dance floor,” the lady said, her face still painted with a blush.  Her words called you to attention.

“Ah, yes, my apologies my Lady,”

“No worries at all dear child, now go!  Dance the night away!”

“Thank you,” you said, once again bowing.

“It was wonderful speaking with you, my Lady,” Douxie said, following your actions before leading you to the mass of dancing guests.

“She’s watching us,” Douxie whispered to you through clenched teeth, “Can you dance?”

“Not super well, but enough to survive,”

“Just follow my lead,”

Douxie could dance pretty damn well, something you weren’t too surprised by.  He’d spent a lot of time learning music throughout the centuries, you’ would've been a bit surprised if he hadn’t known how.  He was so good, in fact, that you were almost certain he was making you a better dancer just by being near you.  You’d be lying if you said this wasn’t the most fun you’d had in a while.

“So, where’d you learn to flirt like that?”  you asked, your voice low so that no one else could hear you.

“I’ve picked some things up over the years,” he said, spinning you out and then back in again.

“I have to say, I was quite impressed.  I didn’t see that coming,”

He faked a gasp, “Why I’m offended!  You don’t think I can flirt?”

“Well, I didn’t until tonight.  But I stand corrected,” he dipped you, “You can flirt extremely well Hisirdoux Casperan,”

“Thank you, (Y/N) (L/N),”

You both smiled continuing the dance, scanning the crowd for the face of the killer.  And in between that, just staring at each other.

You almost regretted finding the suspect.

You hated to admit that a small part of you had hoped to just dance with Douxie for the next few hours, pretending that you were a couple and that you weren’t magic, and you weren’t immortal, and you hadn’t seen pain and suffering the world over, and he hadn’t been tortured two centuries before.  You just wanted to dance.

But you saw him.

And the good of the humans came before the things you wanted.

“Doux, I see him,”

“Where?”

“To your left and back behind you.  Don’t look at him.  We’ll get off the dance floor, and I’ll question him,”

“Are you sure?”  Douxie thought about elaborating.  About telling you that he didn’t want you to get hurt and that he too, wanted to keep dancing. 

But he didn’t.  And you were sure.

So, you left the dance floor and made your way to the suspect.  You made sure Douxie stayed far enough behind you for his presence to be non-threatening, and made your approach. 

“Wonderful party isn’t it Sir…?”  you waited for him to give you his name.

“Maybrick, Mr. Maybrick,”

“Mr. Maybrick.  A lovely name,” internally, you cursed God for giving Douxie all of the charm and leaving you none.

“May I ask where you’re from Mr. Maybrick?”  

“I’m from around here, Liverpool.  May I ask who's asking?”

“I-”

“(Y/N), dear!  Where have you put that lovely boy of yours!  I have some friends he simply must meet!” 

You could not believe that the hostess was interrupting you yet again.  This time, Maybrick actually ran from you.  You cursed under your breath.  The Lady was far enough away that you could pretend not to hear her.  You could still catch the suspect, you just had to run a little.  In the outfit you were wearing, it would be next to impossible, but you really didn’t want to talk to the hostess again, so you gestured for Douxie to follow, and you chased after Maybrick.

You ran through the ballroom, dodging patrons and maneuvering around dancers.  It felt almost like a fairytale; Cinderella if the princess had to chase down a dangerous serial killer instead of just flee the ball.  

The suspect ran out the front doors, and you followed him, Douxie close behind.  The night air was cool on your skin, a nice contrast to the warmth of the ballroom.  You lost a shoe, and your hair was slowly turning into more and more of a mess, but you didn’t care, you wanted to catch this guy.

You did not catch that guy. 

A horse-drawn carriage was waiting for him at the end of the lane.  There was no way you could compete with that.  Not unless Archie would shapeshift into a horse for the sake of catching a possible criminal.

A black stallion pulled up beside you.

It was Archie, shapeshifted into a horse for the sake of catching a possible criminal.  You manifested your hot girl mystery-solving arc.

“Get on!”  both Douxie and Archie exclaimed, Douxie offering you a hand up.  You took it, jumping onto Archie’s back, wrapping your arms around the wizard's waist, and riding after the carriage.

The night was dark, and the carriage moved fast.  Archie kept up pretty well for a familiar with two people on his back.  He went so fast that all you could do was cling to Douxie for dear life as the dark world blurred around you.  It was not for a lack of trying, but eventually, you lost them.

“You did good Arch, you did good,”

“Thank you, Archie,” you said, forehead buried in Douxie’s back.

“I appreciate the thanks, but it isn’t over yet.  We left all of our stuff back at the manor, so we should return,”

“That’s probably a good idea,”

The journey back showed you how far you’d gone.  Needless to say, you were super proud of Archie.  You’d have to remind yourself to get him some fish later.

When you arrived back at the manor, the party was still going.  You could hear the music from the outside.  You dismounted Archie and leaned against his side.

“All of this,” you groaned out, “for nothing,”

“Well it wasn’t exactly for nothing,” Douxie said, stretching his arms above his head, “Maybrick ran from us, that’s suspicious.  I think we can officially call him a suspect.  Here,” he threw your missing shoe your way, “You dropped this,”

You smiled, leaning on Archie for support as you slipped it back on, “Thanks,”

“My pleasure,”

You laughed.  The stars above you caught your eye.  They were so beautiful tonight.  The music was nice too.  Everything was so peaceful.

It reminded you of another night, centuries ago, when you’d been allowed to rant and rave, and the wizard just listened to you.

“Hey, Douxie?”  

“Yes, love?”

You hesitated, trying to think of something to say.  Eventually, you came up with, “We’re still enemies after this, right?”

He laughed a little.  It sounded kind of sad, “If you want us to be,”

At that moment, you didn’t know what you wanted.

That’s a lie, you wanted to kiss Douxie.

But you hadn’t figured it out just yet, so, for now, you just stared at his lips, wondering what that feeling was, and listening to the song end.

“We should head back,”

“I guess we should,”

Neither of you were satisfied with this outcome.

--

You wouldn’t be satisfied until you caught the killer, or as it turned out, killers.

You’d been back at the pub, obsessing over the crime wall, tracing the red yarn over and over again.  Doux and Archie were starting to worry about your health.  Then you cracked the code.

“What if,” you said, turning from the wall, “There’s more than one,”

“More than one?”

“Yeah, more than one killer.  There’s more than one person involved here,”

The wizard and his familiar exchanged a look.  Maybe you were sleep-deprived and in need of a nap, but maybe you were onto something, “Go on,”

“Think about it, we’ve got multiple leads, some doctors, some live in the area, some have the motive, some are just suspicious, but none of them have everything they need to commit murder.  What if they’re working together?”

“Keep talking,”

“Look, here,” you said, pointing at a photo of a suspect, “Johnson Druitt, he lives in the white chapel area and has the anatomical knowledge,” you moved to another photo, this one a sketch, “Barnett, his roommate works the streets, he’s in love with her and we know he hates her job.  If he killed those other women to scare her, he has a motive,” you moved on again, “And Maybrick,”  you stopped, trying to piece together his role in this grand conspiracy.

“He’d have the funds to cover it up, plus the interest in the case,”

You spun around to face the wizard, “Douxie, you’re brilliant!”

You took a step back from the wall, taking in your work, “So, what do we do now?”

“Simple,” Douxie said, resting an elbow on your shoulder, “We go after him,”

--

You didn’t mind being bait.  Really, you didn’t.  But you did find it boring.

You’d been walking around this general area for two hours now, this disguise was uncomfortable, and you just wanted something else to do.  Then your wish came true!

Two men approached you from the front, both short in stature with well-kept moustaches.  You hid a smile, the three killer theory proving itself correct.  You walked forward, your peripheral vision focused on the men.  

The three of you kept walking.

You passed between them.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?”

They stopped, you continued on.

“Excuse me, dearie?”

“Yes?”  you purred, turning to them.  

Then you were grabbed from behind.  Fortunately, you expected that little trick, grabbing the stranger and flipping him over your body.  The man landed on the pavement with a thud.  You grinned as the three men looked at you, faces full of shock.  Unfortunately, it wore off, and the three advanced.

The first one threw a decent punch, but you dodged, forcing him to punch one of his partners.  You swept the legs out from under the third.

The first two had recovered and were coming at you again, this time with blades.  It was this moment when you noticed the blood on their coats.  It wasn’t theirs, or yours for that matter.  Yep, these were definitely your guys.  

The first blade missed you, the second one just grazed your side.  You bit down a cry of pain, sincerely hoping that blade was clean.  You could see Douxie emerge from his hiding place; clearly, he’d felt the sting of the metal too.

But you didn’t have time to focus on Douxie, you had to fight.  

You threw a few punches of your own, knocking the duo back into the street and closer to the wizard.

“Gah, you wENCH!!” one of them exclaimed.

“Kill the whore!!”  

You could see the rage in their faces, but that wasn’t as important as the fact that you could see their faces.  Maybrick and Druitt.  Your theory was right!  Your excitement fell away as they advanced.

Then they both fell into limbo.  

The portal down glowed blue around them.  Douxie stood behind the gateway, looking very proud of himself.

You would have laughed at their misfortune and Doux’s pride if you hadn’t been grabbed from behind again.

You cried out in surprise, catching the attention of the wizard.

“(Y/N)!”

“Don’t come any closer!” you felt the cold of a blade on your throat.  This wouldn’t end well.

“Come on now, don’t make any rash decisions,” Douxie’s hands were raised in surrender, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’ll kill the wench!  I’ll do it!”

“Hey, don’t-”

“My Mary is dead!  There’s nothing left!  I’ll kill her!”

“Wait, who's dead?”

“My girl,” the man sobbed, his grasp on you weakening, “My Mary Kelly, I’ve lost her!  She’s gone!”

You may have felt bad for this guy if he hadn’t been absolutely insane.  You took his distracted state as a chance and broke from his hold, pushing yourself away from him.

“Douxie!  Now!”

The portal to limbo opened under the man.  He had no time to react as he fell into the other dimension.

You looked down into the gateway, a blue pool in the middle of a dull cobblestone street.  You sighed with relief as the blue magic sealed itself shut, leaving the night dark again.

“Nice work,”

“Thanks,”

Lights came on in the windows around you.  In the distance, you heard shouting.

“We should get out of here,”

“Good idea.  See you next century?”

“Oh, absolutely.  Say goodbye to Arch for me,”

“Will do,”

And you slipped away into the night, excited by this latest adventure, but still wanting more.

[pellucidity-is-me]

Remus Lupin and Latin

Summary: A young Remus Lupin studies Latin for no reason in particular. Second installment, but works as a one-shot, too. You can find the link to my longer fic on my blog description, and this one is on my AO3/FFN account, too, if you want to read it in its entirety.

Wordcount: 2073

Remus Lupin starts learning Latin at age eight, too.

He's been a werewolf now for more than three years, and it has already taken its toll. His eyes always seem to be shrouded in shadow from intense periods of exhaustion—when Remus isn't plagued by constant nightmares, he is the nightmare himself, scratching himself to bits in the small family cellar while his mum quivers in fear in the sitting room and his father tosses and turns, trying in vain to be well-rested in order to heal his son the next day before going to work. When Remus looks at himself in the mirror, he only sees the amount of weight he's lost, the pallor of his skin, the scars on his hands, and the constant dead look in his eyes that he can't seem to get rid of, no matter how much he smiles.

It doesn't really matter how he looks, though. He sees no one, save his parents, and they don't really care how Remus looks so long as he's alive.

Remus can read all by himself now, but his parents still insist on reading to him after every full moon so that he can "rest his eyes". Remus knows that this is just a ploy to get him to fall asleep, which is a bit annoying. It doesn't matter if he looks and feels tired. He doesn't need to save his energy for anything. It's not as if he has school, dinner parties, football matches... or whatever kids his age typically do. He doesn't even have friends.

What Remus does have is time—too much time, in fact; Remus has all the time in the world. When he wants to go to sleep, he will. And right now, Remus does not want to sleep. He's been doing that for hours and he's ready for something new.

His father reads him Maxwell Melephant and the Magic Elephant for what seems like the hundredth time. Remus mushes his face into the pillow and groans so vehemently that he nearly falls off the couch.

"Are you hurt?" asks Remus' father, alarmed. It's evening, two days after the full moon, and it's also a weekend. Remus' father doesn't have to work today, so he can stay home all day and fuss over Remus. Remus isn't sure whether he's pleased or annoyed by the fact. "Did the wound on your side open again? Stay there, Remus; don't move—I'll fix it..."

"Nothing's happened," says Remus. He's a bit angry, actually, so he takes a few calming breaths—in through his nose, out through his mouth. Anger is reserved for full moons and full moons only. "I'm just kind of bored, that's all."

Remus' father takes a deep breath and then places the book upside-down on the coffee table. "I'm sorry," he says. "Ever so sorry, Remus. I know it's hard. I wish I could do more. I'd switch places with you in an instant, you know..."

"It's fine," says Remus automatically. "Could you keep reading? You were at the part when the elephant was climbing the redwood tree, I think."

"So I was," says Remus' father, but he doesn't pick up the book. He doesn't speak for a long time, and Remus tries to get comfortable while he's waiting. It's not quite possible with a large wound on his side—it seems to stab Remus sharply whenever he moves his stomach the slightest amount—but he can try anyway. Once he's more or less satisfied, he pulls the scratchy woolen blanket that his mum knitted up to his neck, obscuring the scar on his left shoulder that has remained a constant reminder of what Remus is for more than three years. Remus doesn't mind that scar, not really—but he knows that his parents do.

When Remus' father opens his mouth to speak again, it's not because he's resuming the story. "You need a hobby," he says thoughtfully.

"I have a hobby," says Remus. "Misery. That's a hobby, isn't it?"

Remus' father would normally laugh at such a joke (Remus didn't mean anything by it, after all), but he doesn't today. "Are you really miserable?" he asks seriously—and a little guiltily, if Remus isn't mistaken.

"No. I'm fine. You and Mum are loads of fun, Dad. I mean it."

"But what have we done?" muses Remus' father. "What have you done?"

Remus suspects that his father is talking to himself, since he isn't making any sense. Remus has just learned the word rhetorical, and he thinks that it applies in this situation. Remus replies anyway, of course. "You teach me some magic with your wand. That's fun. And Mum teaches me maths and writing. And I read a lot. And you let me play with that Boggart that we keep in the cupboard. I help Mum cook, and I play chess sometimes. And Mum taught me to crochet. And we draw pictures together sometimes... and you tell me stories. Remember when we tried to write one? Mum said that it was the worst story she'd ever read, and you know how much she hates Maxwell Melephant."

Remus' father smiles, but it seems to be nothing more than a formality. "Yes, but that was because we depicted her as a giant, fire-breathing dragon. Your mum doesn't particularly like being depicted as a heavyweight, ancient magical animal capable of destroying entire cities in a single breath."

Remus turns into a rather heavyweight animal with claws and teeth, capable of destroying entire cities in a few hours. He does that every month. But he doesn't mention it—why ruin a good thing? It'll only upset his father. Remus laughs weakly. "I have fun. I promise."

"No, you don't. You just don't know what fun is."

"I know what fun is. Fun is a three-letter English word, derived from—" Remus pauses here, because he is an eight-year-old child who knows nothing of etymology. He hears his parents make that joke sometimes (his father is a typical Ravenclaw; he knows these things. His mother just makes things up), but he never quite understands what comes next. It's something to do with other languages, he's pretty sure. One of them, he knows, is Latin.

Remus doesn't know any other languages. He wonders what it would be like to know another language. Is it anything like the foreign words that Remus' father teaches him to speak when he's casting spells? Does real magic happen when people speak other languages? Do people look different when they speak different languages? Remus doesn't know. He's only spent time around his mother and father, after all, and neither of them are bilingual.

"I want to learn Latin," says Remus. "Is that a hobby?"

Remus' father blinks. "Do you even know what Latin is, Remus?"

"Of course I know what Latin is."

Remus' father crosses his arms, and Remus knows that he's teasing him. "Oh, really? What is it?"

"It's like... you know, another language... that people speak."

"Half right," says Remus' father, laughing. "That's an odd hobby for an eight-year-old, but I'll ask your mother what she thinks when she's done with her nap. It's time to go to sleep now, all right, Remus?"

"Keep reading Maxwell Melephant?"

"Only if you finish that glass of water. You need to..."

"Hydrate," Remus finishes with a groan. He tries to reach for the glass, but there's a sharp stabbing pain in his side that causes him to cry out—his father wordlessly hands him the glass and helps him sit up. It is extraordinarily painful, but Remus manages to finish the water. He nearly asks for more, but he doesn't particularly want to navigate standing up and going to the loo if he happens to drink too much, so he merely leans back and falls asleep to the familiar words of Maxwell Melephant and the Magic Elephant.

When Remus wakes up, his mother is pressing a damp cloth to his forehead and mumbling something. Remus blinks the sleep out of his eyes and leans into his mother's touch; her words come into focus like the lens of a Muggle camera. "...mus? You're awake?" she says, and Remus nods. "Your father tells me that you want to learn Latin?"

"Sure," says Remus. "Dad says I need a hobby. Latin's a hobby, isn't it?"

Remus' mother laughs a little and removes the cloth from Remus' forehead. Remus almost protests, but it's not long before the cloth is dipped in water again and then replaced. "Sure, honey. I suppose it is, in the most basic sense of the word. I learned Latin in school, did you know?"

"Could you teach me?"

"Erm... no. No, I don't remember a thing. It's a bit of a dead language."

"How did it die?"

"No, not dead... not dead like that. There aren't native speakers of it anymore is what I mean. Everyone who speaks Latin also speaks another language—and it's more written than spoken to begin with."

"I can write," says Remus. He doesn't know why his heart is so set on learning Latin, but it is. "I bet I'll like it."

"I... I suppose you might. I never did. Dead languages are dead boring, in my opinion." She pats Remus' hand and ruffles his hair. Remus makes a face. "I'll pick up some books at the library, all right? And then I'll teach you what I remember. It'll take a lot of studying, I'm afraid, and I don't know exactly what you're going to do with it... but why would I stop my kid from learning Latin?" She laughs. "You're an odd one, Remus Lupin."

Remus might be odd, yes, but he is also patient. He waits a full week until his mother has time to fetch Latin books. When she returns, she sits down at the dining room table with Remus and teaches him the basics of conjugating and declining.

And Remus does not like Latin. He's not very good at memorizing things, even though he does it all the time (what else is there to do?). He doesn't have a good enough grasp on the English language quite yet to understand the subtleties of a second language. But he studies the language anyway.

And he keeps doing it for years.

He becomes relatively good at Latin, actually. He grows to love it. He likes studying by his window on a rainy day. He adores the time that he spends with his mother, studying Latin while she reads a book or knits or fusses over Remus. He relishes it, because every time that he spends on Latin is time spent—and all Remus aims to do is to spend time, really. He has no goal. Latin is a relatively useless language.

But when has Remus ever done anything that was beneficial for his future? Remus has no future. He knows this at eight years old. He knows this because the Ministry have told him so. He knows this because his whole life has implied the fact. There are constants in Remus Lupin's life: the full moon, pain, and loneliness. He will live in a small house with his three closest and only friends (his mother, his father, and the Boggart that they kept in the cupboard) forever. Remus cannot fathom forever, but he knows that it's a very long time, and he spends his seconds waiting for it to end.

He picks up Welsh a year and a half later. Remus is Welsh himself, though he hasn't lived in Wales since he was five. Remus' mother protests. "Remus, not everyone in Wales speaks Welsh," she says. "No one in my family speaks it. You'll have no one to speak Welsh with. We've been living in France for a week now; why don't you learn French instead?" But Remus hardly has anyone with which to speak English, even, so he doesn't really care. Besides, they only end up staying in France until the next full moon.

Remus' time whittles away, bit by bit, second by second. His life exists in intermissions between full moons. He can't do anything useful, because he would need a future to do so—so he learns languages that no one speaks, memorizes poetry for no real reason, and writes stories that no one will see. He doesn't have a reason behind anything, but—much like his appearance—he doesn't care so long as he's alive.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Taming of the Shrew

Peter Parker x Reader

Words: 3035

Summary: Peter has been in love with you from the day he set eyes on you. The only problem is, is that you’re not exactly the most approachable girl in school. Your fear of your own feelings starts to break down as Peter charms his way into your life. 

Notes: Since 10 Things I Hate About You is my favorite movie, I wanted to draw some inspiration from that. Hope you enjoy! (I’m actually really proud of the ending guys. If you’ve seen the movie, hopefully, it’ll sound familiar)

Marvel Masterlist

-

He didn’t know what to make of you. In class, you voiced your opinions without a second thought, no matter how unpopular they were. You were unapologetically you, but you kept to yourself. You barely spoke to anyone unless you were arguing with them. It seemed that your only friend was Michelle. And he was completely head over heels for you. 

But, alas, you barely acknowledged his existence. Every time he’d pop up out of nowhere next to your locker, you put in your headphones and walked away. You sat alone at lunch, often reading or just listening to music. Peter found you absolutely fascinating, but Flash never missed an opportunity to make fun of you. 

“If it isn't the resident freak of Midtown Tech.” He mocked as you walked into biology. You ignored him, per usual and took your seat… next to Peter. 

“Just ignore him,” Peter whispered. “I do.”

“I can fight my own battles, Parker.” You snapped. 

“Hey, Y/N, did you take any creepy pictures lately? I heard the police are cracking down on that kind of thing.” Flash taunted. 

“I work on the yearbook, dickwad.” You retorted. 

“Miss Y/L/N, language.” Your teacher shook her head with disappointment as she walked in the room, conveniently missing all of Flash’s comments as usual. She began the lesson, which you hardly paid any attention to. You’d done all the homework the night before since this teacher tended to rant about her personal life instead of actually teaching. When class was over, you rushed out into the hall, but Peter was fast. 

“Hey, Y/N, this is going to sound stupid, but I was wondering-”

“If you don’t want a sarcastic answer, don’t ask a stupid question.” You said bluntly, but he just shrugged it off like usual and maintained his sunny expression.

“A group of us were planning to get together to study for the Biology final this weekend, and I was wondering if you would want to come along? It’ll be at the park, everyone is bringing snacks.” The nervous stutter in his voice was actually pretty adorable and your lips betrayed you by giving him a slight smile. 

“By everyone, do you mean you and Ned?” 

“No, actually.” He had a little skip in his step as he walked with you to your next class. “MJ said she’ll be there.” And if MJ was going, you’d be going. You did almost everything together since she was really your only friend, besides your cat Baymax of course. You blew out a breath. 

“Then count me in, Parker.” You were sure that if he smiled any bigger that his face would split in half. You jutted a finger at his chest and narrowed your eyes. “You better bring those cookies that your aunt makes.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve already got her making, like, four dozen.” He laughed. Great. Now he needed to ask Aunt May to make four dozen cookies by tomorrow. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the park then.” 

“Wait,” You groaned. “My dad will probably make me bring Becca. Is that okay?” He shrugged. 

“Yeah, sure.” Peter had never actually spoken to your younger sister. Becca was a super popular freshman who he had heard was really good at physics. He had also heard that she’d been hanging out with a kid named Joey. He made Flash look like Mr. Rogers. “She, uh, she won’t bring Joey with her will she?” 

“Uh, no.” You snorted. “You definitely don’t have to worry about that douche being anywhere near me.” 

“Great because he used to steal Ned’s lunch money, so there would be that drama and-”

“Parker.” 

“Yeah?”

“Run along.” 

“Okay.” 

-

Becca had gotten a ride home with one of her friends so you took the subway alone. You didn’t mind. It gave you a chance to listen to your music rather than listen to her blab about all of her popular friends. Especially Joey. You still shuddered at the thought of that creep trying to date your little sister. You wanted to tell her to stay away from him, but you knew that it would just make her do it even more. The two of you had been at odds for as long as you could remember. She was Miss Perky and you were the self-proclaimed shrew of the school. 

The station exit was a few blocks down from your apartment, allowing you to take in the sites of the city while the afternoon sun hung high overhead. It reminded you of when your mother would take you and Becca on little adventures, walking around New York like it was some new foreign world. That was before she left. You were too distracted by your music that you didn’t notice the hand reaching out of the ally to yank you in. 

There had been reports of a masked mugger in your neighborhood for a while now, but you never took it seriously. Maybe you should have. 

“Hel-” You started to scream, but he covered your mouth with his hand. 

“Let’s see what you’ve got, shall we?” He spoke in a tone that was clearly lower than his natural voice. Something about it sounded familiar, but you didn’t have time to process before a flash of red replaced the mugger. 

You took off running without a second thought. You sprinted towards your apartment building, but seven blocks seemed like miles. 

Spiderman webbed up the mugger before swinging down the street to catch up with you. He had seen a knife in the bad guy's hand so he was worried that you had been hurt. When the masked hero popped up in front of you, hanging upside down from a street light, he had to dodge the punch you almost landed to his face. 

“Woah, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” He released the web and did a flip to land on his feet. “Your arm’s bleeding.” He reached out a hand to examine the cut, but you jerked away, the sudden sting shooting up your arm. You hadn’t even noticed. 

“I’m fine, Spider-boy.” You snapped. 

“It’s Spiderman,” He corrected under his breath. 

“Whatever. Can I go home now?” You pushed passed him, but he was persistent. 

“Here, let me help. Hey Karen, make a bandage web.” 

“Seriously, that isn’t-” He gently grabbed your arm before you could object. You should have shoved him away, but you didn’t. Why was your heart doing this weird fluttering thing? He pressed the webbing to the wound, making you wince slightly, but it actually felt really nice. 

Peter watched you watch him and he couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. He felt more confident in the mask. 

“Go ahead, Peter,” Karen said. 

“Can I walk you the rest of the way?” Spiderman asked. You raised your eyebrows and scoffed. 

“You’re kidding, right? Are you hitting on me?” 

“You know, most people would be a little more grateful after being saved by a superhero.” He argued, the playful tone in his voice sounding so familiar to you. He was right. He might have just saved your life. But you would never admit defeat, especially to some kid in glorified spandex. 

“Oh, you mean like this?” You smiled seductively and leaned in, reaching your fingers up to his mask. 

Peter’s breathing hitched. Was this really happening? Your hands suddenly moved from his mask and grasped his shoulders, giving you better momentum as you kneed him the crotch. He let out a groan and toppled back into a collection of trash cans. You walked into the apartment building before you could change your mind. 

“That went well.” Karen teased as Peter stood up, kind of waddling as he brushed off the dirt and trash. 

“I told you.” Even with his now sore groin, he was smiling. “She’s something.”

-

Central Park was crowded, but if you could find the right spot, it wasn’t so bad. You met up with MJ early to do just that, finding some benches away from all of the running children and obnoxious dog-walkers. 

“So he asked to walk you home?” MJ wondered. You had been telling her about the previous day's events and she was just very interested in the fact that you kneed Spiderman in the balls. 

“What a creep right?” You scoffed, trying to hide how you really felt. You’d be damned if you allowed yourself to have a crush on some egotistical masked vigilante. Michelle shrugged. 

“Doesn’t sound that bad.” 

“He could be some thirty-year-old pervert who lives in his mother’s basement!” You knew that much wasn’t true. His voice sounded too young and oh so familiar. 

“Sorry I’m late, but I didn’t want to be here.” Becca chimed with her sickly fake sweet tone. 

“You could just, I don’t know, get stuck in a tree or something.” You snapped back. She stuck out her tongue and changed her focus to her phone, taking a well-planned selfie while you and Michelle rolled your eyes in unison. 

“Here comes the dork squad,” MJ announced, watching Peter and Ned trek towards you with a large picnic basket between them. 

“Hey everyone.” Peter greeted, setting the basket down on the bench. His eyes darted towards you and quickly looked away. “I brought some drinks and some snacks, so take whatever you want.”

“I brought an extra book in case anyone forgot theirs,” Ned added, pulling the Biology books from his bag. Becca made a face. 

“You guys are actually studying?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Peter gave her a confused look. What else would they be doing? She scoffed. 

“I’m going to go find a magazine stand.” She sashayed away in her mini skirt, calling one of her clones probably to whine about you. You were about to say something, but Peter interrupted you, wanting to keep everyone’s moods up. 

“I was thinking we could do flashcards?” 

Studying actually went really well. You had been struggling with Biology and Peter’s charisma made learning a lot easier than your boring teacher’s lessons. Okay, it helped that you may have had the tiniest little crush on him. Not that you’d ever tell him that. Your ‘tough-bitch’ persona would be ruined. It had just been an hour or so when you saw him. Joey, leaning against a tree, leaning over your sister. 

“I’ll be back.” You told the group and stomped over to the pair. You shoved Joey away from Becca, steam practically coming out of your ears. 

“What the hell, Y/N!” Becca shrieked, but you ignored her. 

“Stay away from my sister, Joey.” You commanded. He just laughed. 

“You jealous, freak?” He took a step towards you, his disgusting gaze traveling up and down your body. “Because if you’ve changed your mind about us hooking up, I would be more than happy to oblige.” Your stomach twisted into a knot. 

“Y/N, what is he talking about?” 

“Nothing, Becca, he’s full of shit.” You hissed. The commotion had drawn the rest of the group over to you and you felt Peter’s hand gently touch your shoulder. 

“Everything okay?” His eyes and his voice were so sincere that you wanted to cry. You knew what Joey was doing and you didn’t want Peter anywhere near here. 

“Back off, Parker.” Joey snapped. His lips spread into a cruel smirk, looking back at you. “You weren’t saying that last month at Flash’s party. I believe it was something like,” he moved his hips back and forth, mockingly moaning in a higher voice, “Yes Joey. Like that Joey. You’re so good at this…” 

“Y/N?” Now it was MJ sounding confused. 

“Shut. Up.” You growled, pushing Joey again. He grabbed your wrists. 

“Just like old times, right?” He sneered. “Freshman year, you couldn’t get enough of me.” 

“Leave her alone.” Peter appeared beside you. You’d never seen him angry before, but he looked ready to tear Joey apart. 

“I can handle this, Peter.” You ripped your hands away, still feeling his revolting touch. He was relentless. 

“Wouldn’t you like to, you little bitch!” His smug smile was broken by Peter’s fist colliding with his face. Becca screamed and you jumped back, Michelle catching you before you could fall. 

“Peter!” You screamed, watching the two in a whirlwind of punches. “Peter, stop!” Joey was nearly six inches taller than him and he had muscle built up from his years of doing football. Yet somehow, it seemed like Peter was winning. When the two seemed to have an equal share of cuts and bruises, Peter shoved Joey away. 

“Now get out of here.” He commanded. Joey gave Becca one last wink before running off. 

“What the hell, Peter?” You snapped. Without another word, you and MJ walked away, Becca shuffling along after you. Peter just stood there, dumbfounded. 

“Your lip’s bleeding,” Ned said in awe. Peter shook his head, watching your retreating back, shoulders hunched forward with humiliation. 

“Not now Ned.” 

-

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Becca asked. Her usual brattiness was gone and her voice held the sincerity of a concerned sister. 

“Because I never wanted to remember it.” You sniffed. You’d been crying for the past hour. You felt so stupid. The worst part was that all of it was true. You and Joey had been an item freshman year and he was, unfortunately, your first time. “We were only together for about a month… when mom left.” Becca put a hand on top of yours. 

“And Flash’s party?” She grimaced. You nodded, an ashamed tear falling down your cheek. 

“That was the result of a surge of teenage rebellion and way too much tequila.” You held up your pinky. “Promise me you will never let alcohol make any decisions for you ever.” She laughed and hooked her pinky with yours. 

“I promise.”

A sudden knock on your window made you both jump. Outside, was none other than Spiderman. Becca could hardly contain her excitement as she leaped off of your bed and moved to unlatch the lock.

“Don’t let him in here!” You exclaimed. 

“It’s Spiderman, of course, I’m letting him in.” She undid the lock and pushed up the window, allowing him to slip inside. 

“Thanks.” He nodded, trying to lean casually against the wall. “Can I, uh, talk to Y/N?” She looked at you with wide eyes and a huge grin. 

“Don’t you-” You started, but she was already out the door. 

“I came to check up on that cut.” He lied. There was that voice again. 

“Don’t move.” You commanded, walking up to him. It was time to see if your suspicions were right. You lifted your fingers up to his mask, feeling for his lips. You hit a certain spot and he winced. Bingo. “Peter?” His heart pounded. 

“What? No. I’m not Peter. I-” You raised a brow and he knew that it was no use. Hesitantly, he took off the mask. His lip was split in the corner and a bruise had started to form on his right cheek. 

“Jesus, Peter.” You were more phased by his injuries than his secret identity. “Why the hell would you do something so stupid?” He just shrugged. 

“I couldn’t listen to him to talk to you like that.” 

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying not to look him in the eye. Those big brown puppy dog eyes that held nothing but total admiration for you even after everything he heard. 

“You probably don’t think much of me anymore.” You wiped your face with your sleeve. “Everything that Joe said was true.” 

“Y/N.” Peter sighed. He took a step towards you and when you didn’t retreat, he put his hands on your arms. “I don’t care about what Joey said. I care about that spit-fire girl who wasn’t afraid to kick a superhero in the crotch.” You laughed. Despite everything, he could still make you laugh. His adorable smile turned sheepish. “I’ve liked you for a really long time, Y/N. Really really liked you. Got-my-aunt-t- make-four-dozen-cookies, liked you.” He held up a box in his hand. “Which I brought, by the way.” 

Just like that, your tough girl exterior faded. 

“I like you too.” Cautiously, you put a hand on his cheek and brought his lips to yours. Peter’s heart soared and he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. 

“You are not going to bel-” Becca burst into the room and gasped. Peter tried to hide his face behind you, but she’d already seen him. “Oh hey, Peter.” She only seemed slightly surprised. It was always the geeky ones. She closed the door behind her, a mix of excitement and mischief in her expression. “Good, I can show this to you too.” She pulled up an article on her phone. “The neighborhood masked-mugger… is Joey.” You snatched the phone from her hand. 

“No. Way.” Sure enough, the article listed the details of his arrest. Apparently, after his fight with Peter, Joey went on a spree and messed with the wrong woman. He got pepper-sprayed and was apprehended soon after. 

“That’s crazy.” Peter blew out a breath. Becca smirked and took back her phone. 

“I’ll let you two get back to it.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you and backed out of your room. 

“So I guess me kicking his ass helped get him caught,” Peter said with a hint of cockiness. 

“I’m still pissed at you.” You put your hands on your hips. He pouted, holding up the box of baked goods.

“But I brought you cookies.” You laughed, taking one out of the box, it’s gooey center melting in your mouth.  

“Okay, but you can’t just bring me cookies every time you piss me off.” You pointed out, moving to the other side of your room, taking the box for yourself. He shot a web out of his wrist and it latched onto your hand. 

“I know, but there’s always,” He tugged on the web, pulling you closer, “cakes,” closer, “pies,” closer, “and maybe, one day…” You were pressed against him now, grinning from his silly antics. “Muffins.” You shook your head, but your lips collided without hesitation for another perfect kiss.

I want you to want me….

[sherrybaby14]

Eternity

This is my entry for Darkficsyouneveraskedfor’s challenge.  Congrats lady!

Prompt:  “Shh, it’s okay. It’ll only hurt a little.”  And I combined it with this request:  I absolutely loved your Sannr Ast series😍😍 I can picture a dark! Steve/ Bucky/ Tony in a medieval AU where you are forced to be the new queen and they want to consummate their marriage but she doesn't want to 😏💕💕

Warnings:  Dub-con, smut, angst, virgin reader

Summary: Princess AU. Your life gets turned upside down after a royal decree.  

Pairings:  Steve x reader, Bucky x reader (not a cheating fic).

A/N:  I might have some wrong medieval terminology, please don’t shoot me. Also..because of passage of time your age changes through out the story, which might make it a bit off putting at first.  

The bump of the road made you fold your arms and stick your tongue out.

“That’s not how a lady behaves.” Your nursemaid glared at you.  “We’re almost there.  Aren’t you excited to meet your future husband?”  

“No.” You looked out the window, longing to escape to the forest and climb the trees, maybe find a lake.  “I am never getting married.”

“Do not be ridiculous.  Your father has secured a wonderful match for you.”  She sighed. “This arrangement will allow the two of you to learn about one another long before the wedding bells.”  

“I don’t care.  I won’t like him. He will not like me.”  You slouched in the seat.  “I have no desire for a husband.”  

“He is best friends with the Prince.  You will attend court, lavish parties, eat fine foods. Your life is set.”  

You ignored your maid as the castle came into view.  It looked more like a prison than a palace.  Maybe the boy would hate you as much as you hated him. Hate was a strong word. Maybe the two of you could have been friends, but knowing he was your fiancé made the situation too peculiar.  

“Straighten your dress.” The nurse leaned forward and started poking at your hair, fluffing and changing the style.  “You want to make a good first impression.”  

“Do I?”  Even as you asked the question you did as you were told and smoothed out your skirt.  “We’ve been on the road for over a week.  We look traveled and weary.”  

“It will be a short introduction, then we will retire to your rooms, possibly sleep.”  The nurse smiled.  

“I’m to stay the entire summer?  What if it is awful? Can’t we leave? I want to go home.” You felt tears form at the corner of your eyes. “I’m too young. I don’t want a husband.”  

“This is the first of many summers.”  Your nurse tucked a hair behind your ear.  “Eventually, when you wed, this will be your home year round. Now smile.”

The carriage came to a stop.   The dread in your stomach went into overdrive.  You knew the greeting, the formal line of receiving, the proper behavior.  As the footman opened the door and offered his hand your reluctance came forward.  

“I am certain the young man is as nervous as you are dear.”  Your maid took your hand and moved it to the foot man’s. “Let’s not delay any further.”  

You rose from the carriage, feeling out of sorts, as if your brain was not in control of your body.  There was the line of people to greet you.  You scanned them and stopped upon a boy with dark hair and bright eyes.  That was him.  

Your heart fluttered at his good looks, but before you could stare you moved to the next and your jaw dropped at the blonde next to him. It was Prince Steven, you recognized the portraits.  Your betrothed really was the Prince’s best friend.  

When your feet hit the ground, the Prince snickered and nudged James Barnes forward.  He scowled as he walked up to meet you.  

“You are a little girl.”  His eyes looked you up and down.  “Is this a joke?”

He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than you and you scoffed at the suggestion.  

“I am thirteen years old.” You clenched your fists. “Hardly a child.”  

“Do I really have to spend all summer with her?”  James turned to look at his parents.

You saw the anger on their faces, but noticed the grin the Prince wore.  As far as introductions went this was the opposite of what you were expecting, but were relieved.  Manners didn’t seem to matter here.

“James!” His mother chastised him.  “Remember what we discussed.”  

“Lady Y/L/N, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.  Welcome to our kingdom.”  He didn’t hide the sneer in his voice.  

“Master Barnes, I am not pleased to make your acquaintance.  I do not want to marry you and I hope to spend my summer avoiding you at all costs.”  You held your chin high.

“Y/N.”  Your nurse gasped.  “Please excuse us.  It has been a long journey. I believe the lady is tired.”  

“Of course.”  Lady Barnes gave a sad smile. “Let us show you to your rooms.”  

As your trunks were unloaded you followed with a new goal for the summer: make yourself scarce or scary.  If he objected enough maybe you could get out of this arrangement after all.

~~ You were giddy when your estate came into view.  Home after a terrible long summer.   You stuck your head out the window and waved to your parents.  Too eager for the carriage to stop you flung open the door and jumped out.

“Stop!” Your nurse cried out, but it was too late.  

You ran to your parents and through yourself into their arms.  

“How was it?  We missed you dear.”  Your mother held you tight.

“It was terrible.”  Your nurse was right behind you, breathing heavily. “They spent the entire summer bickering at each other, if they even spent any time together at all.  I swear she forgot all of her lessons on decorum.”  

“What was the Prince like?”  Your little sister chimed in.  

“Quiet.”  You pulled away from the hug.  “What the Nurse said was right.  It is not a good match.”

“If you spent the summer fighting, sounds like a perfect match.” Your father laughed and shook his head. “Time will tell.”  

You scowled, but your sister grabbed your hand and tugged you inside.  And you were eager to hear how her months had been.   ~~

The next summer was worse.  They forced you to spend time together.  

“I bet you don’t know how to shoot one of these.”  James pulled out an arrow and aimed for the bullseye.  “Too busy reading or learning cross-stitch.”  

He fired the arrow, barely making it on to the target.  Prince Steve seemed to be the only exception to your private time, as he was always glued to James’ side, rarely speaking.  

You rolled your eyes and took the bow, lining up an arrow.  

“My father has no sons.”  You let the quiver go, unsurprised when it hit the center.  “He insists on a well rounded education.”  

Steve started to laugh as James’ face fell.  

“I would offer to teach you, but I do not think your brain is capable of handling the lesson.”  You dropped the bow. “I suppose that is enough for today.”  

You walked off the yard, head held high, dreading the next time they forced the two of you together.  

~~

Summer number three was more entertaining.  You had made a friend with one of the guards and each night awaited your little chats. It made your forced time with James easier, since you had something to look forward to.  

“How is your boyfriend?” James asked as he walked into the library.  

“Excuse me?” You lowered your book.  

“You shouldn’t be flirting like that.”  He sat down next to you.  

“Are you jealous?” Your eyes went wide.  

“No.” He sneered, but a smile crept on your face.  “What are you reading?”

“You care?”  You knew he was sent here, not by choice.  

“No.” He relaxed his features. “But if we have to spend time together, may as well make it interesting.  Tell me the story?”  

Prince Steve stepped forward and began scanning the walls, looking for a book and ignoring you.   You wondered why he wasn’t courting his own future princess.  

“Alright.”  You started filling James in, there were worse ways to pass the time.  

~~

Summer number four came and your flirting friend disappeared from the castle.  You weren’t as upset as you thought.  

It was more of the same, only now you were old enough to attend some of the nighttime events.  

“May I have this dance?” James offered you his hand.  

The looks from his parents told you it was an order, but he did look handsome in his dress and you placed your hand in his as he led you to the dance floor.  

“You look lovely.”  He glanced at the floor as he spoke.  

“That sounded genuine.”  You were shocked.  “Where is the snarl afterward?”  

“No snarl.”  James looked up at you.  “I mean it.  You look lovely Lady.”  

A smile crept on your face as he spun you around. He was handsome.  Something in your stomach fluttered, and for the first time, it wasn’t a feeling of dread.  

~~

The fifth summer you were almost excited when you arrived.  James stepped forward from the receiving line and took your hand.  

“Welcome Lady Y/L/N.” He placed a small kiss. “I am happy for your safe travels.”  

“The long journey is worth the destination.” You smiled.  

The forced spending time together stopped.  You found yourself seeking out James’ company.  He was always with the Prince, who continued his indifference toward you.  But the three of you took walks, went for rides on the horses, even took turns choosing books to read together.  It was more fun than you’d imagined.  

The final night of your stay was another ball.  You’d spent the summer dancing away in James’ arms and tonight you were sad it was the last time.  When the song stopped he did not drop your hand, instead he led you out to the balcony to look at the castle grounds.  

“I will miss you.”  He leaned over the railing. “May I write to you?”

“I would like that.”  You gave a coy smile, trying hard to fight the instinct to babble away to him.  “And I will miss you too.”  

“Next summer, its our wedding.”  There was a nervousness to his voice. “Does that please you?”  

“I suppose.” You bit back the urge to tell him you were thrilled with the prospect.  

“It pleases me.” He stood straight up and turnt toward you.  “Very much.”  

You thought you were going to melt.  Then his hand reached out and tucked a lock of your hair back, his fingertips dragging across your skin.  His heavenly blue eyes focused on yours as his face dipped down.  

Your first kiss.  You’d wanted this all summer.  Your lips began to pucker, eager to feel his touch them.  He was moments away when a loud crunching sound made both of your necks turn.  

Prince Steve stood at the doorway.  His face was red with embarrassment.  

“Apologies.”  He spun on his heel and walked inside.  

You looked back at James, but he kept his eyes on his friend.  

“I should go see what that was about.” He moved to follow, leaving you alone on the balcony.

You were bitter over the lack of lips, but also tingly at the thought of what was to come.  One year from now you would be a married woman, with the love of your life. ~~

The letters were poetic and beautiful.  You spent the entire trip reading them over and over, focusing on the last line of the latest one:  

I love you.

It was so simple, but so intoxicating.  James loved you and you were about to become Lady Barnes.  You could not wait to start your life.  

“Are we there yet?” Your sister yawned.  

This trip was different.  This was your wedding.  There would be no end to your stay and your entire family came along.  

“Yes.”  You smiled as the castle came into view, sticking your head out the window.  

“Stop that.”  Your mother touched your thigh.  “We all now how eager you are, but you must behave like a lady.”  

“Three days.”  You leaned back in your seat.  “Three days.  It feels like an eternity.”  

“After you will have eternity together.”  Your mother smiled. “You can wait three days.”  

When your carriage came to a stop you waited for the footman, wishing you could throw the rules out the window and dive out, running into James’ arms.  

The door opened and a hand was offered.  Your mother went first and it seemed like she was taking her time. Such a contrast to that first summer six years ago.  

It was your turn and you were grinning so large your face hurt.  When you stepped out you scanned the receiving line and your smile began to fade.  Where was James?  

“Oh my.” Your mother bowed. “Your majesties.”  

It dawned on you who was there.  The king, the queen, and Prince Steve.  Why would the royal family be here to greet you?  You expected Steve at the wedding, but didn’t think his parents would attend.  

“Please stand.”  The king stepped forward.  “May I have a word with you Lord?”  

“Of course.”  Your father went to meet the king and your mother followed with the queen.  

You looked at Steve with shock as he came forward.  

“What is happening?  Where is James?”  You feared the worst. “Is he sick or injured?  His letters mentioned nothing.”  

“I don’t know.”  Steve shrugged.  “I was told to come meet you and that my parents were attending.  I expected him to arrive as well. I saw him last night and all was well.”  

“Do you suppose he changed his mind about me? Is the engagement off?”  You walked next to Steve.  

“You’re wonderful Lady.”  Steve offered you his arm.  “He would be a fool to do so.”  

Your brain wracked with worry and fear you didn’t speak as Steve led you to your room.  Where was James?

~~

You paced, knowing exactly where James’ quarters were.  Should you go there and pound on his door?  It would scandalous, but you were to be married in three days.  Those would become your quarters as well then.  

The waiting was killing you.  You went to the door ready to storm the halls, but it opened before you got to the handle.   Your parents walked in, beaming.  

“What has happened?  Where is James? Is he alright?”  Your fear contrasted their glee.  

“The most wonderful situation.”  Your mother took your hands as your father placed his on your shoulder.  

“Has the wedding been moved up?”  Maybe that’s why he wasn’t there. He was busy preparing.

“Yes.  Tomorrow.”  Your mother wiped a tear.  “But that is not the most glorious part.”  

“Tell me.”  Your patience was running out.  

“You’re to become the queen.”  Your father squeezed your shoulder.  “A match I never would have dreamed of.”  

“Queen?” You dropped your mother’s hand and stepped out of your father’s touch.  “Was there a royal decree?  Is James now a prince?”  

“James is no longer the groom.” Your father’s smile did not falter.  “You have made quite an impression the past few summers and the king and queen believe you will make the perfect daughter-in-law.”  

“What?”  All feeling from your body dropped.  “Steve?  I’m to marry Steve?”  

Images of your time together flashed before your eyes, the way he was so quiet, lurking in the background.  His eyes on you as your danced with James, the crunch that broke your kiss.  

“No.” You shook your head. “I don’t love him.  I want James.”  

The joy on your father’s face turned to anger.  Your mother put a hand on his chest.  

“I am sure what she means is that the news is stunning, but she is thrilled with the development.”  Your mother calmed your father.  “What a way to honor your family and your kingdom.  A crown.  You will be a fine queen.”  

“Does Steve know?”  You thought back to your earlier conversation with him.

“Already so informal.”  Your father’s smile returned.  “What a match.”  

Your mother began discussing changes to the wedding and the dress that was being delivered, but you zoned out wondering two things:  how could this be happening and where was James?

~~

You were under strict orders not to leave your room until it was time for the wedding.  There would be no speaking to Steve or finding James.  In order to appease your parents, you agreed, but when bedtime approached and sleep never came you rolled out of bed and made your way into the halls.  

Familiar enough to not need a light to guide you while you crept to James’ rooms.  When you arrived you debated on knocking, but didn’t want to risk drawing attention.  

When you pushed open the door you noticed a lit fire.  James rose from his seat, his hair longer and blue eyes illuminated by the flames.  Your heart felt like it was drawn towards him, tugging at your chest.  

“James!”  All your fears fell away when you rushed to him, throwing you arms around his neck.  “They say I’m to marry Steve.  I don’t understand.  It’s all happening so fast and I’ve missed you. And I love you.”  

He smiled at you, but there was pity on his face.  He reached behind and grabbed your wrists pulling them off and in front of his chest.  

“You shouldn’t be here.”  He shook his head.  “You have a big day tomorrow.”  

“You don’t care?”  This was not the response you were expecting.  “But you’re my betrothed, I love you.”

“A part of me will always love you too.” He let go of your hands. “You’re to be queen.  I am happy for you, and for Steve.”  

“I don’t want the crown. I want you.” You pressed your hands to his chest. “Let’s run away.  Steal horses and flee. We can live a simple life.”  

“I am getting my own castle in the south.” James smiled at you. “I will be the leader of the region. I’ve been made a duke.”

You studied his face, unsure how he could be serious.  Your hands on his chest felt foolish as you took a step back.  

“This is for the best.”  James gave a half smile. “Return to your room and get some sleep.  There is no finer person fit for the crown.  I will see you at the wedding. I am sure you will look lovely.”  

Your world was spinning out of control.  Tears on the verge of breaking through.  You would not let him see you cry.  You turned away and went for the door, heaving yourself into the hallway before a sob broke loose.  How could this be happening?

When you turned to your room you hit something hard and bounced back, almost hitting the floor when strong arms grabbed you.  You were found out of your room, but you didn’t care.  Whatever punishment coming could not be worse than the broken heart you were feeling.  

“Y/N?”  Steve’s voice brought you no comfort.  “What are you doing here?”  

“Did you know?”  You tried to hide the shake in your voice.  

“No.”  Steve’s hands steadied you. “I was a surprised as you were.  I came here to talk to James, try and find a solution.”  

“He doesn’t love me.”  You let the sob come out and fell forward.  “It was all a lie.”  

“That’s not true.”  Steve touched your back as you sobbed against his chest. “That would make him a fool.”

“I was supposed to marry him.  My entire life, I don’t understand.”  You cried into Steve.  “We have to stop this.  I can’t be with you.  I don’t love you.”  

“We will figure out a way.”  Steve continued to comfort you.  “I promise.”  

The tension in your shoulders rolled out.   Steve was on the same page as you, at least that was a relief.  

“How?”  You wiped your eyes and looked up.  “The wedding is tomorrow.”  

“And we will wed.”  Steve wiped a tear away.  “Worry about the rest later.”  

“Promise?”  At least part of your broken heart had some stability.  

“Let’s get you back to bed.”  Steve put his arm around your shoulder.  “Everything will work out.  I promise.”  

You believed him.  All James needed was time.  Steve seemed to respect your decision.  You would go through the wedding for appearances and find a way to sneak off with James.  The life you dreamt of was still possible.  

~~

In the morning your nerves were in over drive to the point you couldn’t focus on anything.  The maids came and dressed you, doing you hair and make up as well.   The black and silver gown your father paid for was disregarded as the Royals provided you with a red and blue one, the color of their own house over that of the Barnes.  

“You look so beautiful.”  Your mother brought her hand to her mouth as her eyes welled.  

You hadn’t thought much about appearances, but when you were spun to see the mirror the image staring back at you was that of a stranger.  Perfect complexion, perfect hair, and the gown accentuated your body like it was made for you, of course it was made for you.  

Go through with the wedding for appearances.  Then Steve would find a way to help you out of this.  He promised.  You shut your eyes and repeated the thought in your head, over and over.  

A knock came on the door, snapping you back to reality.

“It’s time.”  Your mother grabbed your hand and gave one final squeeze.  

Your father was on the other side, offering you his arm.  He beamed at you and guilt set in.  He shouldn’t be so proud.  Once the night was over you were going to bring shame on your entire family.  James was worth it.  

The walk through the palace was silent.  Every soul was in the main chapel for your wedding.  You neared the doors and felt a shiver run through you.  This was all for show.  You reminded yourself of that as the doors pulled open.  

Everyone rose, their eyes on you.  Some gasped at the sight.  It was undeserved attention.   Your eyes scanned the crowd, but stopped at the top of the alter.  There was Steven, you had seem him in finery, but never like this.  

You had never paid much attention to his looks, always distracted by James, but there was no doubt he was equal in attractiveness if not more so.  You shook away the thought.  What did it matter?  James was your love.  

As you walked down the aisle you tried to focus on Steve, knowing that scanning the crowd would draw suspicion and also terrified that one look at James would break your spirit.  He said he was here.  Was he smiling?  Happy for you?  Was there no love left in his heart?  Tears started to form.  

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”  Steve kissed your cheek and shook hands with your father.  “I am a lucky man.”

His word choice was odd, but you assumed it was for the benefit of your father.  Before you had time to ponder it, the ceremony began.  It was one ritual after the next, repeating words in a language you did not understand.  

At one point your hands were bound together, another a beautiful diamond crown placed on your head.  The officiant continued with his strange words and you repeated them.   Finally he went to prepare something and you whispered to Steve:

“What did I just say?”  You gave him a stolen glance.

“That you bound your soul to mine for all eternity.”  His eyes narrowed on you with a flash of possession.  

It made a small whimper escape your throat, but before you could follow up the officiant returned.  

“From this day forward you are one.  The Prince and Princess Rogers, until the day you are King and Queen Rogers.”  He put a hand on both your shoulders and spun you to face one another. “Seal this union.”  

Steve put his hands on your waist and pulled you tight to him.  His head dropped and he kissed you with a fever.  His lips hard on your own as he urged you to part.  This was your first and you didn’t know how to respond, so you followed his lead as his tongue slid into your mouth.

The congregation roared with applause and Steve’s kiss departed.  He pulled away and looked at you with a devilish grin.  You didn’t think you’d ever seen this level of emotion on his face before.   He grabbed your hand and gave it a kiss before turning and waving.  

The stun of his actions wore off as you saw the joy in the crowd.  Your heart broke a little more that this was all a show.  They seemed to like you, but you would never be their Queen.

~~

Right away the festivities started.  People arriving to give you gifts, dancing, eating, and drinking.  Your eyes always searching for James, but never seeing him.  Steve was too busy receiving congratulations to have a real conversation with you.  He did ask if you were alright and remind you to smile several times, but this was not the place to discuss your plans.  

You were lost in the whirl of it all.  The colors, the joy.  A stark contrast to your own nerves and worries.  A deep thought had taken hold over the disappoint you were about to bring.

“Congratulations to the happy couple.” The voice shook you.

“James.”  You started to stand, but Steve held your hand.  

“Thank you, Duke Barnes.”  Steve smiled.  “When will you be leaving us for your new home?”

“In the morning.” James smiled. “I will be back to visit in a year.  Maybe there will be a niece or nephew to play with by then?”

James playfully punched at Steve, who stood from the chair and gave his friend a giant hug.

“I will miss you.”  Steve pulled away.  

Both of them looked at each other with sheer joy.  Did James already know of the plan?  Were you to sneak away with him?  It was confusing, this attitude.  

“Now that you have a wife, I don’t think you will have time to miss me.”  James dropped the embrace. “And you, what a lovely Queen the kingdom will have.”  

“Thank you…” You looked between the two of them, unsure if this was a ruse.  

“The evening is about to come to an end.” James looked back to Steve. “I suppose for the two of you it’s only getting started.”  

“You always were a boar.” Steve nudged James.

“Better a boar than a bore.” He winked.  “I wish nothing but the best for both of you.  Congratulations.”  

James shook Steve’s hand and gave you a bow.  The tears started to form again.  You bit back every urge to throw yourself at him, tell him how much you loved him, how you needed him, how you would be following soon.   He must have known that.  It was the only explanation.  

“Breathe my love.” Steve leaned over and grabbed your chin, turning your attention to him.  “Breathe.”

“What was that?”  Why was he calling you his love?  “You promised. That you would help me get back to James?”  

“No.”Steve slid his hand down your cheek.  “I promised that we would find a way.  For you to love me.”  

Your eyes went wide with horror as you replayed the situation in your head.  It went further back, all the days you spent with them, the way Steve’s eyes were on you, always lurking, never talking.  Never leaving you alone with James.

“You set this up.  You tricked me.”  What were the words.  Bound your soul to his for all eternity.  “Why?”  

“Because I love you.”  Steve’s brow furrowed.  “Because I loved you since the moment you stepped out of that wagon.”

“But I love James.”  You thought about the letters. “And he loves me too.”

“Oh, you are so innocent my Love.”  Steve caressed your cheek.  “James loves anyone that can stand on two legs. You would struggle to find a woman, and some men, in attendance he hasn’t spent time between their thighs.”  

A lump in your throat formed.

“You’re lying.”  You blinked away the tears. “We belong together.”

“Me on the other hand, I’ve had a tryst or two, but only when I am imaging your face.”  A hunger came over him as he took you in.  “I worship you.  I would die for you.  Give you a kingdom.  If my parent’s wouldn’t have agreed to the union I would have denounced my thrown and ran away with you.”

“But I don’t want to run away with you.”  You started to shake. “I never had.”

The pressure of his hand on your face increased as his blue eyes grew darker.

“I wouldn’t have asked permission.”  His pupils grew larger. “Don’t for a second think you ever had a life with another.  I would have taken you, shown you how to love me.  All the months you returned to your home, to you know the agony is caused me?  Now we will never be apart.”

“I…I…,” you didn’t get the words out before a bell started to ring.  

“Thank you all for the wonderful gifts, attention, and pleasure of your company.” The King rose. “Please stay until the wine goes dry, but I fear my son and his beautiful wife do not have that privilege.”

A sound of ooooos came from the crowd.  Before you knew what was happening your chair was hoisted into the air.  A roaring applause came as Steve’s was as well.

“Wait…STOP…” Nobody could hear you over the applause as the group of men carrying your seats moved to exit.  

You thought about how you’d jumped out of the carriage after your first summer, eager to be back with your family.  You wanted to jump out now, run to them for safety.  But then you looked down and noticed one of the people holding Steve’s chair.  James.

There was nothing but pure joy on his face.  He was happy for you.  Truly.  Were you fooled?  Was his love false?  How could he have loved you and take you to bed for another?  Steve was telling the truth.  It was all a lie.  Your heart broke all over again.

~~

Everything was happening too fast for your brain to comprehend.  To make matters worse, when you were dropped off in Steve’s suite the room was breath-taking.  Gigantic, decorated in bright blues and deep reds.  The bed was larger than you thought possible.  

“I know you’re scared Princess.”  Steve was in front of you, he started to take off his jacket.  “But we are man and wife.  You will learn to love me.  That I did promise.”  

You were still focusing on James’ betrayal.  It wasn’t until you looked up to see Steve peel off his shirt you realized you had other things to worry about.  You spun to look away, but the image of his torso was glued to your mind.  

“Please.  I can’t.  Too much has happened.” You wrapped your hand around your mid section and braced yourself against a love seat.  “Not tonight.”  

Steve approached you, his hands went to the bindings on your gown.  They started to loosen and you held yourself tighter.  

“I’ve never been kissed before today…I couldn’t…please…if you love me you will wait.”  The tears started to fall.  

“That fact brings me more joy than you could comprehend.”  Steve pushed your dress down, leaving your shoulders bare.  “All mine.  For all eternity.”  

You sniffled as his lips met your bare back.  If you dropped your arm you would be nude for him.

“Please no.” The beg came out like a squeak.  “This is not right.  I am not ready.”  

His mouth vanished, but before you felt any relief he scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest as he went to the bed.  You knew the tradition and saw the white sheets exposed.  

“I’ve felt enough pain the last two days.  My heart cannot handle any more.”  You tried to wiggle out of his arms, but he was too strong.  

“Shhhh…it’s okay. It’ll only hurt a little.”  Steve sat down on the bed, still cradling you.  “I promise, once the pain subsides I will bring you much pleasure.”  

“If you really love me, you won’t do this.”  You looked up at him with glossy eyes and tear stained cheeks.  

“It is because I love you that I must.”  He kissed your forehead.  “If I don’t consummate, they will take you away from me.  And nobody will take you from me.  Ever.”

His eyes flashed with evil lust again as his words worked their way through your body.  You had to stop this.  

“I don’t love you.”  You shook your head.

“Then let me teach you.”  His head dipped.

You quaked as his lips met yours and he laid you down, spinning his body so it was on top of you.  In a moment of confusion you moved your arms to his chest and he lifted himself, pulling down your gown.  

A yelp left your mouth, stifled by his as he pulled the garment down, leaving the two of you naked against each other.  

You tried to squirm back, but he moved with you, peeling the dress even further.  The room felt like water and you were drowning in him as his tongue moved against yours, his cock pressed against your sex.

His mouth moved away and you twisted your head to the side, trapped below him.  

“I don’t want this.”  It was the truth.  

Then you felt a sensation like no other as his hand moved between your legs, fingers gliding up your sex.  Steve held them in front of your face.  You noticed the glistening slick.

“Your body does.”  His lips kissed your neck, biting and pulling at your skin.  “No one is every going to love you as much as I do.”  

He moved his hand back between your body and you felt another piece of his body coat itself in your juices.  

“Let me love you.”  He stopped, his cock at your entrance.  

You braced yourself for the pain, but it didn’t come as his body stilled.  You opened your eyes and looked up at him.  Worry was plastered all over his face.  

“Please?  Can I love you?”  All of his features were alive.  

You felt yourself crumple underneath him. You wanted to scream no, shove him off, but the look on his face, the patience.   You had no response.  His hand came up and he brought his thumb to his mouth, licking the digit before moving it between you.  

“What are you…”. You didn’t get the question out before your body was met with pleasure.

He found some spot and pressed his thumb to it.  Your back had arched and a moan left you as he rubbed, sending a strange sensation through you.

“Stop…” It came out like a whimper.

“Shhhh Princess.  Let me love you.  Please?”  His mouth was on your neck again.  

Whatever Steve was doing your chest started to heave.  He was igniting something inside of you, something you’d only dreamt of.  You stopped biting back the moans and let them come forward, almost forgetting that his shaft was close to spearing your innocence.  

Your hands went from fisting the sheets to squeezing his arms as he worked you, stroking and rubbing.  Putting pressure in circles.  

“Please…” it came out as a whisper.  

“What was that?” Steve raised his head. “Say it again?”

“Please.”  Your body had taken complete control.  

A shriek and shake left you as he pushed inside, his thumb distracting you from the stretch and burn his cock caused.  You tried to twist your body away, feeling like you couldn’t handle his love.  You didn’t know if you meant mentally or physically. Probably both.  

“I can’t.”  You went for his shoulders and dug your nails in.  “It hurts.”

Steve pushed down harder with his thumb and your legs relaxed as you squeaked, coming undone for him.  

“Shhhh.”  He pushed forward more, sliding through your resistance.  

He came to a settle and his thumb disappeared.   He flexed his body down and you realized his pelvis had taken it’s place.  

“You’ve done so well.”  He peppered your shoulder with kisses. “I’m all the way inside.”  

That was it.  Your virginity was over.   Bound to him for eternity.

“You’ve ruined me.”  You didn’t pull away, but rocked your body against his, wanting the friction back.

“You ruined me the moment we met.”  He kissed your lips.  “It’s only fair I return the favor.”  

He ground his body against yours, making you ache for more of him.  Then he started pulling out, you whined when his body left yours and purred when it returned.  Who were you?  What was this?  Did you care?  

“For all eternity.”  Steve grunted with his thrusts. “An endless lifetime together.”  

Your mind was gone, your brain fogged over.  You reached up and grabbed his chin.  

“I promise.”  You lifted your head as you rocked your hips.  “Eternity.”  

Steve let out an animalistic noise and stopped holding back.  The burn subsided with need and you kissed him with instinct, not training.  The pressure in your core went to overload, unable to handle the way he filled and touched you.  

Was it him?  Was it always him?  Tears stung your eyes for different reasons as you worked together.  A loud moan left your mouth as your toes curled, euphoria spreading through your entire being.  A feeling you never knew possible.  

Your vision blackened and your body convulsed.  What was this magic?  Was he more than a prince?  Soon he stilled inside of you, causing a strange vibration.  He was laying his seed, truly owning you.  

Instead of fighting back or resisting you welcomed it.

Once he left your body consciousness had vanished.  It felt like you were floating as he rolled you away, your eyes fluttering to see the blood and fluid on the sheets he was required to hang outside the room.  

This was your life.    Your strange Prince, who would love you until the end of time.  

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 5,190 Demon!Dean x Reader Warnings: None really! A/N: This is part of a series! Read the other parts first! Part 1 :: Part 2 :: Part 3 :: Part 4 :: Part 5 :: Part 6 :: Part 7.

Your name: submit What is this?

Some years ago

“Fuck!” you slammed a hand against the steel door, but it was useless. You had heard the heavy bolt click into place clearly and with a resonate echo heavy with foreboding. You were trapped. “Goddammit!” You suppressed the urge to kick the door, knowing that at best you’d end up with a broken toe and no closer to freedom. “Now what? We honestly should have expected something like this from Bobby...”

Dean was moving around behind you, searching every square inch of the room for some hint of how to deactivate whatever panic button you and he had unknowingly switched on. “Yeaaaah. Should have predicted that we wouldn’t be able to swing by and a have a quick, flawless search.”

You leaned your back against the door and rested your head against it. “I figured it wouldn’t be flawless considering the sheer amount of papers and books in the house—it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack—but I did not expect to be locked in a windowless panic room.” You shut your eyes. “Fuck.”

Dean straightened up, disheartened. He scratched the back of his head and peered down at the panel he had just discovered. “Well… here’s something…” he said, but you noted that he didn’t sound particularly hopeful.

Dean blew out a long exhale and straightened up. Your hand dropped from his shoulder. “Yep. We are pretty fucked,” he agreed.

You stared up at the ceiling. “This has got to be solid iron. An underground panic room—no cell service. Complicated electrical panel. Probably requires a numeric password or something, which was known by one person who is now deceased. Guessing he probably also programmed it so we only are allowed a limited amount of wrong guesses before something horrible happens to us in here. Locked in,” you summarized, finally catching Dean’s eyes. “Great.”

Dean sighed again, at a loss for what to do next. “The downside is that this place was set up by Bobby. But… on the other hand, the upside is that this place was set up by Bobby,” Dean said, gesturing to the shelves stacked to the ceiling with supplies—jugs of drinking water, MREs, emergency blankets, flashlights and headlamps, sleeping pads, medical supplies, everything one could want while trying to surf out a zombie invasion or the apocalypse. There was even an actual bathroom, which you had both first mistook for being a closet.

“Wait—wait! What is that? What IS that?!” You said, pointing vehemently at a shape behind Dean so shrouded in dust it was almost camouflaged into the wall. “Is that a fucking landline?”

Dean followed your gaze. “It looks like it,” he said guardedly.

Then reality crashed down on you. The likelihood that that old line was still functional was probably in the 0.000 – 0.001% range. “Please tell me there is a dial tone,” you said, looking desperately at Dean.

He laughed gruffly. “I will bet you $500 that there isn’t.”

“Do you even have $500?” you countered.

“Thanks to Mr. Chip Killway and his checking account I have more than that,” he said with a smirk.

You laughed. “Chip Killway? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“I know, right?” Dean said. “I thought he sounded douchey. Makes me feel less guilty about stealing his money.” Dean stepped around some boxes and hovered a hand over the phone. “So, are you in? $500?” he joked.

“It’s somehow less enticing now that I know it isn’t your money,” you replied with a smirk.

“Alright—fine. If there IS a dial tone when I pick up this phone, I will take off all my clothes. If there isn’t, you take off all YOUR clothes.” He finished with a boyish smirk and wiggled his eyebrows at you. You crossed your arms and gave him an appraising look, trying to ignore the rush of heat you felt in your cheeks.

“How is that fair? I lose either way.”

“Oh! Ow! Ouch!” Dean dramatically clutched a hand to his chest, eliciting a light laugh from you.

“Would you just pick up the phone, you idiot?”

Dean lifted the mustard-colored, plastic receiver and held it up to his ear. “Nothing,” he said. “Sorry, Y/N. Time to get naked.”

“Dean!”

“I don’t make the rules—”

“You literally made up those rules—”

“Don’t hate the player—hate the game,” he said.

You rolled your eyes at him and sat down on a nearby crate. “Okay, Casanova. In all seriousness, what are we going to do here?”

“I think we only have one option.”

“Dean, if you say ‘get naked’ one more time I will shoot you with this flare gun—”

“God, get your mind out of the gutter, you perv. Jesus…” You chucked a package of dehydrated food at him and he laughed. “I was going to say ‘wait.’”

You groaned. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Sam won’t be here for another day or two and then who knows how long it’s going to take him to figure out a way to get us out of here.”

“Well… if he tries to call us and gets no answer he will probably get worried, and he’ll probably hurry…” Dean ran a hand through his hair and set aside his jesting at the worried expression on your face, your characteristic knit brow, with the little worry line appearing by your left eyebrow. “Hey. We’re fine. We’ve got everything we need in here—it’ll be okay.”

You chewed your bottom lip. That wasn’t exactly what had you so agitated. “I know. I know. We’re—we’ll be fine…”

Suddenly, the air was as thick as molasses as Dean and you both realized that you were trapped together in a confined space. Alone. Unlikely to be interrupted. For an extended period of time. The hair on the back of your neck stood up like a chill breeze had just rushed over your skin.

You’d spent time alone together before. Of course, you had… but there was always some life or death crisis to draw your attention or the chance that Cas or Sam would walk in at any moment. Or as soon as you started to feel—something—one or the other made some excuse to leave or break the tension or back away from it...

Even now just at the thought of it your heart was racing and you suddenly couldn’t think of a damn thing to talk about—to say to him.

You watched him looking over the contents of the shelves, the muscles in his back easily visible through his thin t-shirt as he moved boxes and bins around. You felt your cheeks grow warm. “Guess we have some time to kill,” he said, grabbing something from the top shelf and turning around, immediately catching your gaze. You both looked at each other for a moment and then down at the sleeping pad in his hands and back up at each other. You felt yourself blushing more fervently and quickly averted your eyes while Dean laughed nervously.

“Heh—for—for the floor. For sitting on! Um,” he scruffed a hand through his hair awkwardly, feeling heat rising in his chest. Smooth, Dean. Smooth. God, what was wrong with him? Suddenly he felt like a giddy school boy. Why did that always happen around you? He’d be fine one minute and then the next—BAM! His heart would start racing and he would suddenly be very aware of the color of your eyes and the sparks of light they threw and the shade of pink of your lips and their perfect Cupid’s bow and the way you would chew on the bottom one when you were thinking and— “Do you want one? To sit on?” he offered. You waved him off.

“Maybe later,” you said. There was a long silence and the air was still heavy as you avoided each other’s eyes, trying to think of something to say. You swallowed at the lump in your throat, willing it to disappear to no avail. What the fuck?! This was Dean! You’d lived in the bunker together for years! You’d seen each other on your worst and best days. You’d tolerated early morning and late-night bad moods. You’d patched each other up after hunts—though you admitted that the intimacy of that sometimes got to you. Christ, why did this always happen?? What was wrong with you?!

“Hey,” Dean said suddenly.

“Yeah?” You seized on it, hoping he had some topic of conversation in mind which would distract you from how goddamn green his eyes were.

“Wanna play a game?”

“…like?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “20 questions?”

You laughed. “What, are we eight?”

Dean laughed gruffly. “Alright. Fair… Umm… Never Have I Ever?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be a drinking game?”

He gave you a knowing smirk, and pulled a bottle of whiskey off a nearby shelf. “You’re goddamn right it is.”

You looked at him hesitantly, one eyebrow raised, studying him. “I don’t know…”

The green in Dean’s eyes seemed to spark. “Come on! It’ll be fun! I promise I will keep my hands to myself when you are inevitably waaay more intoxicated than me,” he grinned.

You raised an eyebrow and looked at him for a long moment. “Well… there’s nothing else to do. I guess this could be interesting,” you said.

Dean settled more comfortably on the sleeping pad he was sitting on. “Oh, yeah. I plan on finding out all kinds of new things about you,” he joked.

You laughed, but you did suddenly feel a little warm and you were quite sure your face was tinged pink. “Be careful. You might.” You wondered just what you were getting yourself into.

Dean gave you an unsure look, but smiled. “Okay. I’ll go first.” He thought for a moment and then cleared his throat. A wide smile grew on his face. “Never have I ever crashed my car into a fire hydrant.”

Your mouth dropped open. His expression was smug. “Hey, that was—I had a head injury!”

“So? You still did it. Drink!”

You bit your bottom lip and looked at him with a tight smile. “So, that is how you’re gonna play it, hmm?”

Dean laughed. The gruffness of his laugh with the way his eyes crinkled at the corners killed you every time. “That’s how I’m gonna play it.” He shrugged.

“Fine. Give me that,” you said, snatching the whiskey bottle from him with a sassy look and taking a sip. “My turn.” You seized him up with your eyes.

“Never have I ever… had a one night stand.” You punctuated the end of the sentence by shoving the whiskey bottle back at Dean and giving him a satisfied smile.

He took it begrudgingly but there was a curious expression on his face. “Wait… seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” you said. You felt your cheeks growing a little pink again. “What?”

Dean shrugged and took a swig from the bottle. “I don’t know. I’m just surprised I guess. I mean, you’re—” he cut himself off, and suddenly looked down at his feet. “Uhh…”

“I’m what?” you pressed him.

He shrugged. “I guess it’s just not your style,” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “Can’t imagine you never had the opportunity,” he said a little sheepishly, avoiding your eyes. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck nervously.

You nodded, catching his eyes again. The warmth in your face was growing and you were quite positive it was bright red. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “Yeah… Not my style. I’ve never been good at—at just sex.”

“You’re not good at sex?” he joked. “Damn, what a disappointment. Well, I could give you some pointers… Maybe help you practice—”

“Dean! You know what I said!” Dean laughed heartily and caught your eyes again. “Your turn, Winchester. What have you got?”

Dean decided to go a little more serious after that last one. “Right. Umm… Never have I ever—been to Prom?” He looked at you questioningly for a few seconds but you showed no sign of reaching for the bottle to take a drink.

You only gave him a small smile.

“Wow, I thought for sure I would get you on that one. You didn’t go to Prom?”

You shook your head. “Nope. No Prom.”

“Why not?” Dean asked, studying your expression.

Your eyes turned downward and for a moment Dean thought you were blinking back some emotion. In another second, you were back to your old self, giving him a sarcastic smile. “It’s called ‘Never Have I Ever,’ not ‘20 Questions’.”

Dean let you get away with the deflection, but he could sense that there was something there you were holding back… “Alright, alright. Um. Never Have I ever…” Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at you, “flirted with a bald valet for information!”

“What?! That is WAY too specific!”

“Hey, we didn’t lay out any ground rules! That is totally valid!” he argued back.

“That was for a case! You’re such an ass!” You grabbed another dried food packet and whipped it at him, catching him in the chest. Dean tossed his head back and laughed before shoving the whiskey bottle at you.

You snatched it and took a sip. “Oof,” you said, swallowing the burn in your throat. “Should have known Bobby would have booze in his end-of-days bunker.” You were definitely starting to feel that familiar giddiness, a warm buzz from the liquor.

“The man kept a well-stocked pantry, that’s for damn sure,” Dean said, admiration clear on his face.

“Never have I ever been arrested,” you said with a wide, satisfied smile. “I feel like you should drink like ten times for this one,” you said, handing the bottle back to Dean. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, rolling his eyes at you, and you startled a little at the contact. It was like a hot spark had jumped up your arm.

“In our line of work, if you haven’t been arrested, you’re doing something wrong,” he argued, pointing vehemently in your direction. He took a big swig and smacked his lips afterwards.

“Nah, I’m just a waaaay smoother talker than you. I should have been arrested,” you counted on your fingers, “six times.”

“Six?”

“Six. Also, it helps that I’m much, much cuter than you,” you said, wrinkling your nose at him.

A small smile accompanied by a peculiar expression came over Dean’s face. “I can’t argue with that…” he said.

You felt yourself blush and stood up. “Umm, bathroom break,” you said. Ugh. Chicken! you mentally scolded yourself. There you went again… as soon as you started to feel something you tucked your tail and ran the other way. What were you so afraid of?

“I’ll be here,” Dean replied, leaning back so he was laying flat on his back on the sleeping pad he had spread out.

_ _ _ _ _ _

“You’re drunk,” Dean accused you, laughing at how you had just slurred your words.

“You’re drunk!” you argued back, indignant.

“Not as drunk as you,” Dean said, shaking his head, a wide smile still on his lips. “Here. C’mere. Give me that,” he said, taking the whiskey bottle from you. Dean stood up and capped it, replacing it on a nearby shelf. “We need to get some food and some water in you,” he said. “Or you’re gonna have a wicked hangover tomorrow and I don’t want to be trapped in here with you in that state.”

“Whatever. I’m a delight,” you said.

Dean was digging through some of the dehydrated food packs on the shelves. “Do you want beef stew orrrr… hmm--beef stew?”

“I guess I’ll take beef stew.”

“Beef stew it is!”

You crossed the room to another set of shelves and stood on your tiptoes, trying to reach the sleeping pads and the sleeping bags, tired of sitting on a crate. Your balance, however, was somewhat compromised due the imbibed whiskey and you knocked a plastic water jug off a high shelf when you mis-stepped while reaching for what you wanted. “Shit!”

You ducked the water jug, but if Dean hadn’t quickly turned and steadied you, you would have been splayed out on the floor, possibly with a new bump on the back of your head. The cookware that had been in Dean’s hands was clattering and ringing on the floor harshly but the two of you were frozen. Dean’s hands were on your hips. He watched your lips part slightly and his heart was hammering in his chest. The way you were looking up at him, your eyes a little wide with surprise but fixated on his—he gulped at the sudden tightness in his throat. But he suddenly realized that the moment he should have let go of you was long past and he quickly withdrew. “You okay?” he asked.

You couldn’t get any words out as you stepped back from him and you only nodded.

He anxiously ran his fingers through his hair, still taking in your expression. “Heh—I told you you’re drunk.” He turned and grabbed a sleeping pad and sleeping bag for you from the shelf.

“Yeah. Thanks,” you said, still a little stunned. “Umm, you always did have good reflexes.” Dean clenched and unclenched his hands a couple times, trying to shake the tingly feeling in his fingers.

He nodded. “No problem.”

Dean picked up the cookware and you set up the sleeping pad and sleeping bag on the floor, trying to get as comfortable as you could. You felt suddenly sober and you couldn’t figure out if it was almost cracking your head open or Dean’s hands on your hips that had done it… but you suspected the latter. You could still almost feel the weight of them on you and god, your heart was absolutely pounding.

A half hour later you and Dean had both eaten and he had insisted on continuously refilling your cup with water. You did the clean up after your camp-style dinner and when you finished you noticed Dean flopped down on his sleeping pad, paging through a book.

You sank down next to him. “What’s that?”

He flipped another page, a vague crooked smile growing on his face. “I haven’t seen this in… probably ten, maybe fifteen years,” he said. He partially closed it so you could see the cover.

“Monsters and Myths,” you read aloud.

“When Sammy and I were little, my Dad would drop us off here at Bobby’s if he had a hunt he didn’t want us anywhere near, or if there was a job in the area. I would sneak this book off the shelves and we’d stay up late looking through it, reading about all the monsters and talking about how Dad would take them down—whether he had ever fought any of them for real. It used to scare the crap out of us,” he laughed gruffly.

“It’s kind of still scary now,” you said. “Knowing a lot of these probably do actually exist.” You leaned toward him to read the entry he was on about Kludde, a Flemish beast from Belgian folklore that wandered the countryside in the form of a massive, winged, black wolf.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “It’s weird though. I wonder why Bobby chose this out of all his books as one to bring into the panic room,” he said.

“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he had memories about it just like you do. Nothing got past Bobby. I’m sure he knew you used to sneak it off the shelves.” Dean looked over at you and met your eyes. You were side by side, both laying spread out on the floor. You were close. Your faces were only a few inches apart, both propped up on your elbows. “Probably some of his fondest memories of Little Dean and Little Sammy,” you said with a small smile. “They would be good company if the world outside was burning.”

Dean felt like he melted. He loved that little smile—it filled your whole face with light and warmth. It felt like all the air in the room had stopped moving and the stillness was electric. You held his eyes as long as you dared before you shyly blinked away and looked down at your hands. But Dean was still studying your face, and he turned more toward you.

“Will you tell me?”

You gave him a questioning look.

“About Prom. Why you didn’t go.”

Your brow automatically drew down over your eyes and your lips pouted in a soft frown. You considered his question for a long moment, and then spoke with some effort. “My dad was sick,” you said with a sad smile, your eyes a little misty. You shrugged. “Prom wasn’t important.”

Dean easily recognized the grief in your eyes. “I’m sorry. What was it?”

You cleared your throat to ease the tightness from emotion there. “Pancreatic cancer. He passed away the summer before my senior year in high school.”

“God, I’m sorry.” Dean watched you fighting emotion.

You nodded and forced yourself to heave in a shaky breath. “Yeah. It was hard.”

“You never said anything to me or Sammy before.”

You shrugged. “It’s still hard to talk about. And—everyone has lost someone one way or another.” Your eyes found Dean’s again and you felt a chill, or electricity run up your back.

Suddenly, Dean reached up and gently moved a stray strand of hair away from your face, his fingers gentle on your skin. His eyes seemed to be flitting between yours and your lips and you felt like there was something pulling you toward him—something magnetic, and you wanted to give into it so badly. You were teetering on the edge. You subconsciously bit your bottom lip and that’s when Dean couldn’t stand it anymore. He closed the distance between the two of you, his lips meeting yours, and you leaned into him desperately, feeling his hand gently cupping your face, his fingers trailing softly down your neck. That kiss stoked a wave of warmth in your chest and you relished his lips on yours, soft at first, but growing more pleading, more passionate, almost desperate, like a dam had broken.

But all of a sudden, Dean pulled back and his eyes were searching your face, his lips still just inches from yours. “Wait—” he said, his voice a little raspy, “—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—you’re drunk.” It took every ounce of his willpower to break contact with you.

You couldn’t have looked away from his green eyes if you had wanted to, the fire in them was all consuming. “No,” you said vaguely, breathlessly, one corner of your mouth curving up in a smile. “I’m not anymore.”

That was all Dean needed to hear. “Oh, thank God.” He crashed into you again, even more hungrily now and you gave in, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling his hands in your hair and tracing your curves. Soon you were both pressed together completely, your legs tangled with his. Dean’s tongue flitted over your bottom lip. You parted yours and he kissed you more deeply, with more fire. And then he was over you and you were flat on your back. You slipped one hand barely underneath the hem of his shirt and your fingers floated over his skin, across his back, tickling at his hip, sending tingles up his spine, making him smile into the kiss. Dean slid a hand over the silky skin on your arm, pressing it up over your head, lacing his fingers with yours, kissing you more insistently, his hips pressing into you.

You slid your fingers into his hair and were lost. Both of you were lost in that kiss—it was fireworks, it was heat, it was—it was so much better than either of you could have guessed. It was effortless, kissing him. Your lips and bodies moved in sync without thought.

Finally, Dean’s kiss grew softer again and he pulled away just enough to look into your eyes. Both of you were out of breath, and smiles grew on your faces. You felt your cheeks coloring bright red, and you bit your bottom lip. Dean rested his forehead against yours and he shut his eyes, still riding the wave of that high.

“That was…” but he didn’t even have a word for it.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“I—I better just try to be a gentleman and stop here or I will not be responsible for my actions,” he said with a gruff laugh, repositioning from where he was over you to lay down next to you again.

You were still trying to catch your breath, staring straight up at the ceiling.

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off you and he studied your profile, the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes whisked upwards away from your cheeks. “I wish I had done that a long time ago,” he said quietly.

You turned to look at him with a small, shy smile. “Me too,” you laughed, feeling a wave of heat in your chest. Dean could see you flush and he leaned in again to give you one last soft kiss—this one sweet and slow.

Neither of you wanted to say anything more. You just wanted to drink each other in. It was perfect—it was vulnerable and intimate and honest. After a little while, Dean grabbed the book again and with a tilt of his head and an outstretched arm as an invitation, you cuddled close and watched as he paged through the old volume.

Some time later, you were both asleep--Dean’s arm under and wrapped around you and your head on his shoulder and a hand gentle on his chest.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You startled awake the next morning to a banging sound followed by a familiar voice.

“DEAN!”

It was, unmistakably, Sam.

You and Dean both sat up stock straight. “Sam?”

“DEAN! Can you hear me?!”

You looked up toward the source the sound. “It’s coming through that vent,” you said, climbing to your feet. “SAM! WE’RE DOWN HERE!”

“Y/N? IS DEAN WITH YOU? WHAT’S GOING ON?”

“I’M HERE, SAM! WE’RE STUCK IN BOBBY’S FUCKING PANIC ROOM!”

“WHAT?”

“BOBBY’S. FUCKING. PANIC ROOM!”

This was followed by more loud banging sounds and some sort of metallic clanking and squealing.

“Can you hear me better?” Sam’s voice was clearer.

“Yes! Sam, thank God,” you yelled back. “We were worried you wouldn’t be here for another day or more!”

“I tried calling both of you like ten times with no answer! I got worried.”

“Awesome. Now, figure out how to get us out of here,” Dean chimed in.

“Uhh…How?”

“We tripped the system somehow. There’s some kind of computer panel in here. Maybe there’s another one outside or in the house somewhere. Maybe you can hack it somehow and override the lockdown?” you offered.

“Alright… I’ll see what I can do. Just sit tight.”

Dean caught your eyes and laughed wryly. “Not like we have any other choice, right?” he said. That was the first time since you had woken up to the chaos from Sam that the two of you had really looked at each other. You immediately felt your cheeks flush. Dean’s lips curved in a gentle smile as he took in your bashfulness. “How’s your head?”

You nodded. “Fine. How’s yours?”

“Just fine,” he said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. He nervously rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “So… that really happened, right?”

“What?”

He cleared his throat at averted his eyes back up toward the vent Sam had been talking to you through. “I mean—last night—we totally made out. I didn’t… dream that?”

You bit your bottom lip and smiled nervously. “We… definitely made out…”

Dean gave you one of his classic boyish grins. “Awesome.”

Sam was surprisingly fast at cracking the system, with a little help from Charlie over the phone. He had you and Dean out within an hour. You grinned at him as he finally pulled the door open from the outside.

“Hey,” he said. “You two interested in rejoining the world?”

You laughed and gave him a quick hug. “Our hero,” you said.

Dean patted Sam’s shoulder as he stepped past him. “Way to go, Sammy.”

Sam stepped forward to peer inside the panic room. “Geez. Well, it looks like you had everything you needed. Bobby was always prepared for anything. How long were you stuck in there?”

You checked the time on your phone. “About 18 hours.”

Sam laughed. “Yikes. What the hell did you do to pass the time?” He turned toward you and Dean again, shutting the door behind him. You were willing your cheeks not to turn red. Based on Sam’s curious expression and Dean’s unwillingness to meet his eyes, you were pretty sure Sam knew something was up. He raised his eyebrows. “What’s with you two?”

“What? Nothing,” Dean said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dean turned away to head back up the root cellar stairs into the streaming sunlight and Sam gave you an inquisitive look. You awkwardly cleared your throat and avoided his questioning eyes. “Ready?”

“…Sure,” he agreed. He followed behind you, but he could sense that something had changed between you and Dean.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Current day

You sat sideways in what once was Crowley’s throne, legs draped over one arm of the seat. The heavy door to the room was shut to drown out the sounds of Hell. There was a laptop in your lap and you opened a web browser. “Huh. Hell has surprisingly good Wifi,” you wondered aloud to yourself. “Now, to find who is next… You searched through recent court case acquittals until the squeaking of metal hinges interrupted your attention. You sighed heavily but didn’t look at the demon who had just entered. “What?” Your tone was bored, cold.

“We--we think we’ve found it,” the demon stuttered out.

You sat up straight, swinging your feet to the floor. “Well?” you prodded.

“We can take you there.”

You rose from the throne completely and locked your eyes on the demon. “And he’s there?”

Something which looked an awful lot like terror was on the demon’s face, but he nodded.

”Take me there,” you demanded. “It’s time I meet Lucifer for myself.”

[flyingblackhawk]

Fun Taser Time

Avengers fic (Nat & Tony)

1,859 words

-

Los Angeles, 2011

“You should add gloves.”

Natasha looks up. Tony hasn’t said a word to her since they arrived at the makeshift debriefing facility Fury’s set up in downtown Los Angeles.

“What?” she asks.

“Gloves,” Tony repeats, not looking up from his phone. “For the- what do you call them? The electro-bracelets. Happy told me what went down at Hammer’s factory.”

Natasha looks down at her wrists. “SHIELD calls them Widow’s Bites.”

Tony scoffs. “Of course they do.”

“So,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Gloves?”

“Mmm,” he says. He looks up. “Are they heavy?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. Depends which ones I’m wearing.”

He leans forward, and she can see that he’s genuinely interested. She unclips one gauntlet and tosses it to him. Tony examines it.

“Did you come up with the idea?” he asks.

“Sort of,” she says. “Originally one held a line and compact grappling hook, and the other shot darts. SHIELD kept the look but traded the poison for electricity.”

“Projectiles?” he asks, still turning the bracelet in his fingers.

“Taser discs,” she says. “That one holds six, the other holds four.”

“What’s the charge like?”

She shrugs. “SHIELD got the wear time up to nineteen hours. Had to commandeer a couple of car batteries, but mostly that’s enough time to do what I need to.”

Tony tosses the weapon back to Natasha. She catches it, and clips it back onto her wrist.

A door opens, and an agent steps out, motioning for Tony to enter.

“Gloves,” Tony calls as he walks through the door. “Think about it.”

-

New York, 2012

The dust is still settling as the team eats. The owners of the little restaurant seem happy enough for the superheroes to stay as long as they like.

“How’s the battery working out for you?” Tony asks, through a mouthful of shawarma.

“Great,” Natasha replies. She holds up a gloved hand for him to see. “Still not empty.” Tony doesn’t smile - none of them have the energy for that - but he looks satisfied. Natasha has a lot to process after battling aliens all day, so she adds Tony’s fascination with her gear to the list.

“You know,” he says, after a while, “you could probably make the grappling hook even more compact.”

She leans forward, elbow on the table. “You think so?”

He nods. “Just depends what material you use. I’ve been playing around with different cables, and with a smaller hook I think you could reduce the size by half.”

Natasha finds herself oddly touched that Tony has spent time thinking about potential upgrades for her sake. “What kind of cable are we talking about?”

“I had a friend at MIT send some carbon fibre prototypes she’s been working on,” Tony tells her. “I’m thinking maybe a nylon composite.”

She nods. “We could move the garrotte wire into the right gauntlet to make room.”

“How do you guys have the energy for R&D right now?” Clint chuckles. The rest of the team give tired groans in agreement, and Natasha flips her partner off to tired laughter from the others.

“I’ll text you,” Natasha promises Tony.

-

Avengers Tower, 2014

“Hit it again.”

Natasha skips another disc down the gallery. It connects, electricity arcing over every inch of the dummy.

“Nice,” Natasha says.

“The new model holds twelve discs per gauntlet,” Tony says. Natasha knows him well enough now to hear the hint of pride he’s trying to mask with nonchalance.

“Which of the discs do you think we should go with?” she asks. Tony casts his eye over the table, laden with twenty different prototype taser discs.

“I like number seventeen,” he says. “And not just because it looks like an arc reactor. That was a coincidence. Maybe.”

Natasha laughs, and picks up the disc. “Alright. Seventeen it is. How about the power cell problem?”

“Still working on it,” he says. “I keep hitting the wall at the corner of charge time and weight. I’ll get there.”

Natasha goes to answer, but her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and reads the message. When she looks up, Tony seems to know that fun taser time is over.

“Where to?” he asks.

“D.C.,” she sighs. “STRIKE team needs me. Something to do with a ship.”

“Need a ride?”

She shakes her head. “Rumlow’s already sent one. It’ll be here in half an hour. Thanks, though.”

By the time she’s geared up and ready, Tony has loaded the gauntlets with discs. He hands them to her as they take the elevator to the roof.

“You’ll have to make do with the prototypes until I can get production running on disc seventeen,” he says, and it almost sounds like a genuine apology.

“I’m sure I’ll make it work,” she tells him. On the roof, he waves her off as a SHIELD quinjet lands on the pad. She gets in, and is surprised to find that she feels a little sad to be leaving.

-

Washington D.C., 2014

As Natasha leaves the Senate Office Building, cameras flashing all around her, she sees a sleek black car roll up at the curb. She forces back a smile of relief, and pushes through the reporters. She opens the door and gets in, and the car pulls away from the flashes and shouts.

“You look pretty calm for someone who just dared the government to arrest her.”

She scoffs lightly. “I should have known you’d be listening in.”

Tony shrugs, not apologetic in the slightest. Natasha lapses into silence, watching the road through the window. The gravity of what she’s done in the last twenty four hours is not lost on her, nor is it lost on Tony. She can sense his discomfort, and she knows he won’t be able to summon a comforting word, but that’s never been his style anyway.

“How did the discs go?” he asks, eventually. Natasha has to smile. This has become their routine, and a substitute for any uncomfortable conversation.

“Seventeen’s still my favourite,” she tells him. “And I owe you several drinks for increasing the capacity. I needed every single disc.”

“Saving your life, one tiny taser at a time,” he smiles. “I’ve been thinking about some sort of blasting capability.”

She frowns. “What, like a stun gun?”

Tony nods. “For mid-range combat. I figure it gives you a halfway point between hitting someone directly with the gauntlet or launching a disc.”

“How much more power would that take?” she asks.

“A lot,” he admits. “But I’ve got a new prototype I’m working on. It’s going to take a couple of months at least, but I think I’ve hit on a solution to the power problem.”

“Seriously?”

“I never joke about tasers.”

She laughs, and for a moment she feels all the weight lift off her shoulders. Even with the world turned upside down, Tony is a constant, and she’s grateful.

-

Avengers Tower, 2015

“I’ve got a present for you,” Tony declares in a sing-song voice.

“What did I tell you about calling me before seven in the morning?” she yawns. She’s already up anyway, and it’s always fun to start the day with taser practice in the lab. She dresses, and heads down to the R&D levels, stopping only on the lounge floor to make two cups of coffee. Tony is in the lab he’s dedicated to developing gear for the team. He’s currently at a long bench that has become his permanent work area for Natasha’s weapons.

“Morning,” she says, and hands him his coffee.

“You’re going to love this,” Tony tells her. He grabs a case from under the table and unlatches it, swivelling it around to reveal a full suit. Natasha raises her eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pointing an accusing finger. “I got the measurements from one of your spare suits.”

Natasha pulls the suit from the case, and lays it out on the table. Quietly delighted, she traces a finger over what seems to be black piping. As she touches it, the piping glows a bright blue, and she watches the light spread all over the suit, converging at the wrists.

“What is this?” she asks. Tony is grinning, obviously pleased with himself.

“Power cells,” he says. “Thousands of them, all over the suit. More than enough to equip you with two compact blasters plus a new grappling hook and a backup clip of six discs on each thigh, underneath your holsters.”

“This is amazing,” she says, running her hands over the smooth material.

“That’s not even the best part,” he says. He opens a drawer and produces two gauntlets. He hands them to her, and motions for her to put them on. She does, and he’s practically bouncing with glee.

“Okay,” he says. “Do as I do.” He brings his right hand up to his left shoulder, and then throws his hand back down in a quick movement. Natasha imitates, and in an instant a baton shoots out from her gauntlet. She grabs it out of reflex, but it’s connected to her wrist. She grins, and raises it up to inspect it. It glows the same blue as the piping in the suit.

“Hit the dummy,” Tony says. Natasha acquiesces, and strikes the dummy. Electricity crackles, and the much-abused dummy is blown off balance and crashes to the floor. Tony claps, though she’s not sure if he’s applauding her or himself.

“This is going to be fun,” she grins.

-

Avengers Facility, 2015

Natasha knows it’s not forever, but it still feels strange to be saying goodbye to Tony after everything they’ve been through. The wounds of Sokovia are still fresh for both of them, and she thought he’d at least stay until they can find Bruce. But Tony will do as Tony wants, she knows that. Besides, she and Steve have their work cut out for them here.

“I’ll miss you,” she says, looking around the lab.

“You’ll have plenty to do,” he reassures her. “And our monthly lunch date still stands.”

“Burgers in the R&D labs doesn’t count as lunch.”

“You’re wrong, but I’ll miss you too.”

She can see the guilt in him as clearly as she recognises it in herself. For a moment, she is tempted to ask him to stay. But this facility is not the place for him now. He’s talked about settling down somewhere with Pepper, and she can understand the draw of a life like that.

“Keep me updated,” she says, as she walks him out of the lab. “I’m going to need an upgrade on the baton power.”

“And I’m thinking more cells on the suit,” he says. “We’ve still got work to do, don’t you worry about that.”

Natasha smiles. “If you ever want to blast stuff with tasers, you’ve got my number.” She kisses him on the cheek, which leaves him looking surprised. They hover for a moment, as if they’re about to hug, but that’s never been their style.

“I’ll call you when I’ve got something new for you,” he says.

“Promise?” she asks.

He smiles, and it’s tired, but genuine.

“Promise.”

[starker-stories]

Our Turn

Also on AO3

There was a post. It yielded this story. There’s not exactly spitroasting, but we hope it’ll fit the bill.

itfeelssogoodmrstark Can I get Peter being spitroasted by Tony and SIM!Tony. Or Tony and Tony’s Ironman suit, bye.

Tagging the inspiration-er: @itfeelssogoodmrstark​

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

By @thestarkerisobvious​ and @starker-stories​

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

This is a Messages Interlude to the Messages series. The same versions of Peter & Tony as in those stories. But not a part of the run of the series. The Interludes are little bits of (usually) PWP written just for fun, because we can't get enough of this version of them. 

 Our Turn is a direct sequel to Your Turn. It can, however, be read as a stand-alone Interlude.

Tags: Bondage, Armor Kink, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Finger Sucking, Aftercare, Established Relationship, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Iron Man Armor

‘What does that feel like’ Peter had asked. When the question was posed, Tony simply answered with a smirk rather than an immediate demonstration. Leave the kid hanging. Leave him wondering if it would happen. Leave him wondering when it would happen. Leave him wondering ‘what does that feel like’.

He’d answer the occasional question about the situation. Though never too detailed. The requests for details were met with that same knowing smirk.

“Bend me over a table first, Tony, I’ve never done it that way,” he whispered, more than once, when Tony headed them toward the bed, but Tony always managed to say no.

“Already shut the lab down for the night. Gonna have to wait a while longer,” Tony said, putting the question off again.

Another time when Peter had been asking questions again, in the middle of his unanswered questions, Peter suddenly stopped to ask, “Wait! Tony… what if I break the table?”

“That possibility has already been considered, Parker.”

Peter never gave up. But then maybe that was because it had been almost two weeks and it still hadn’t happened.

“So how much information does the suit actually give you, other than what damage it’s taking? I mean I assume you don’t let it feed you information about pain, that wouldn’t be helpful.”

“Actually, it’s very helpful. Lets you know how much damage and resistance is left. So yeah. Pain sensors are included. FRIDAY reports many different kinds of external sensations.

“Reports the sensations. So it’s not like you’re feeling them yourself.”

Tony gave a sideways shrug of his head. With a little shake or nod… it was hard to figure out which.

“So if you were blind, assuming you could be, could you feel your way through a tunnel? That’s a stupid question I guess you have other sensors.

“You could, like, pet a cat, and tell it was soft, or something?”

“What about hot and cold? I assume you don’t want to know how cold it is when you’re flying…”

Having answered one sensation question, none of the others were. Let the kid wonder exactly what ‘reports sensation’ might mean.

They were in the lab the next time it was mentioned. “You won’t have to be gentle, when you do it, you know. I’m not really not a virgin this time…” Peter said with a wink.

“You’ll be in my lab, my lab table. I’ll be as gentle or as rough as I like.” But then, after having made it sound like it was about to happen, Tony opened a new project file and buried himself in the details of it, working until almost dawn.

After a week Peter asked the question one more time. They were in the shower before bed and he boldly turned his back to Tony, balanced himself against the wall and began to walk his hands down, utilizing his acrobatic skills and shamelessly presenting his ass. When he was at a perfect ninety degree angle he turned back and looked playfully over his shoulder. “You never bent me over the lab table, you know. And you promised.”

The sex was good that night, but no more mention of the table was had. Peter turned it over in his mind after Tony had fallen asleep. Was it possible he was being annoying? Tony never seemed unhappy with his questions, but he also never offered to do the specific thing Peter was asking for. He didn’t like asking Tony for things more than once (and in bed he never had to ask twice.) Either Tony was on board with something, or he wasn’t, and if he wasn’t, Peter let it drop. Maybe sex-over-a-table was something Tony had in the past and didn’t enjoy? He was well aware that Tony had very specific opinions about angles and sex. And being a good lover, well, that had always been Tony’s top priority. In any case, Peter wasn’t going to nag.

He was a little disappointed about the table, however. Tony was his first and only lover, and if Tony never fucked him over a lab table, no one would.

No more questions had been asked for almost three days. No assumptions put forth. No teasing. Peter did tend to have a little sad puppy face, though, when he would look over at the table Tony was using to poke around at a bit of holographic projection.

He was working on a holographic wireframe of the suit, down near where the boot’s foot joined the leg. It was enlarged to see the details. But apparently not enlarged enough. Tony looked over at the workstation they’d set up for Peter to do his school experiments on.

“Pete, can you get your hand into this wireframe, right about here?” Tony asked, pointing to a narrow opening in the design that was low, close to the table.

Peter squeezed in between him and the hologram. Did he push his ass against his lover, just a little bit? No of course he didn’t. Okay maybe a little. The hour was getting late, after all.

“Tease. We’re working. I need your hand in this bit here,” Tony said, pointing over to the left side, making Peter need to turn his head in that direction, almost tilted upside down looking up at a joint just out of reach.

“If you move in from the front with your right hand… no… like this.” He put his hand on Peter’s right wrist, moving it into position.

Cold metal fingers closed around his left wrist.

Peter reacted instantly, yanking his wrist away and attempting to jump into a more defensive position (usually when he was attacked it was from the north-eastern corner of the room. He never knew why. But over the years, no matter how much he had changed, he still preferred to observe before attacking.)

The suit moved with him, but did not release his wrist. Metal fingers closed over Peter’s right shoulder, pinning him down to the table.

“Tony?” He asked, mildly alarmed. He had heard of, but never witnessed, the suit attacking when it mistook a Tony-nightmare for an attack, and the story of Rhodey’s hacked-suit was legendary.

“Yeah?” Tony asked as he reached to the front of Peter’s pants, giving a hard pull on either side of the button and zipper, popping one and tearing the other. Another quick tug and the jeans were tangled around Peter’s ankles.

“Tone— oh… oh…”

Boxers found their way to the floor next, leaving Peter’s ass exposed to the cool air of the room. The suit’s hand moved from Peter’s wrist to his other shoulder.

Peter’s brain put two and two together rather quickly. His body, on the other hand, seemed satisfied with gaping, his eyes as wide as saucers, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it. One hand was still on the table, held there with an iron grip. His other arm flailed about for purchase, but he was unable to rise enough to find it. The suit’s second hand was holding him down to the table, and suddenly he found himself panicking and he cried out…

“Tony? Tony?! I’ll break the table!”

Tony chuckled. “Don’t you think that someone with a vibranium-reinforced bed would’ve already thought about that possibility?

“You’re going exactly nowhere that I don’t want you to go.”

“But… wait, the table? When did you… oh god…” Even as his brain calculated calmly (Tony’s putting him off constantly, Tony getting the table installed, Tony’s ruse with the wireframe, damn that man was good), his body continued to behave as if he were in a fight. His free arm found its way around and now he had the suit’s wrist in his grip… oh god, was he really wrestling with the suit? While naked? This was some strange fantasy-turned-wet-dream come true. If only he could stop fighting, but his body didn’t seem to be taking orders. He didn’t want to get free, after all… he had been waiting for this for so damn long. His legs, at least, were obeying — as long as he didn’t engage those muscles he could cooperate. Could stay obediently in this position and let Tony fuck him hard just like they had planned. If only Tony would give him a little bit of time to adjust…

Peter felt a pair of flat-bottomed scissors at the hem of his shirt and as Tony moved his hand up Peter’s back, his shirt began to be cut away. Straight up over his spine, then down each sleeve, until it lay on the table loose under him. A tug from Tony’s hand pulled the cut fabric away.

Tony gave a kick to one of Peter’s ankles, spreading his legs wide to one side, untangling his pants at the same time, leaving Peter completely naked.

“No Tony please!”

“No?” Tony asked skeptically. A metal cuff emerged from the table leg and closed around Peter’s ankle.

His yelp would have been a scream but he didn’t have enough air. Oh this was bad. This was very bad.

The knock against his leg had sent it into fight-mode and the cuff just made it worse. Now his brain AND body were creating joint plans. Vibranium or no vibranium, the weakest joint of the table was easily within reach and the suit wasn’t even TRYING to secure that hand and that table leg would make an excellent weapon no wait he didn’t want to wield a weapon, he’d kill Tony!

While Peter was struggling with his right ankle, it meant his left was holding himself upright. Which meant that it took Tony barely a push to knock the kid off balance and finish spreading his legs wide, the other ankle cuffed to the other leg of the table. Which took away any leverage Peter could achieve — wait, did he actually start to bend the middle of the vibranium table leg!?

Peter closed his eyes tight and squeezed down on the suit’s wrist and he tried to focus. He wanted this, had wanted this since the first time it had occurred to his little horny adolescent brain that being fingered by the suit would be so much hotter than playing with a sex-toy.

It didn’t work. Nothing was working, and his heart was hammering so hard he was afraid it would dent the table…

That gave him an idea.

“I’m caught between an Iron Man suit and a vibranium table, and I’m going to break one of them, Tony. Which one’s cheaper?”

That was good. That was like the banter he usually had with the bad guys, the kind that kept it light and reminded everyone there were non-violent ways out of the encounter. Reminding his body he wasn’t really in any danger.

“Out of date Mark. The 47. I built it able to withstand the shield, but go right ahead kid. Give it your best shot.”

Sending up a prayer that the table wouldn’t break (he had been looking forward to being taken while bent over a table for so long!) he strained to lift his right hand, lifting both it and the suit. An inch and a half off the table. There was no advantage of course, he was just making a point.

“I don’t want to break your suit, old man. It will hurt your feelings… wait…”

He managed to turn his head and feign a look back in Tony’s direction (all a ruse, he just needed to buy time. Still, it was working.)

“Where is your headset?”

“In my body. Haven’t needed that since the Mark 50. Of course I coded it to react with any of the old suits. Never know when you might need one to pin a little Spiderling to a table,” Tony said with a smug grin. One-handed, he pulled his t-shirt over his head by the back of its collar and tossed it away.

Tony’s snark was exactly what he needed. He could banter with Tony all day, it was second nature. Now, moving to turn his head felt less panicky. If only his heart would stop pounding…

“It’s heavy…” he said lifting his right hand off the table again, only by an inch, just to prove he could. Knowing that helped a little too. “How much does it weigh again?”

“Not much at all. Only twenty-five pounds,” Tony said, pushing Peter’s wrist back down to the table.

“Oh… bad. Breakable. Damn Tony you should have broken out those real old-fashioned ones… those big clunker ones, those before-I-was-born ones… I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.” This was working. Pushing the suit and being pushed back was less like an attack and more like bedplay. He turned his head again and tried to concentrate on the suit’s wrist in his grip. He tried to stop squeezing, stopped trying to dig his fingers in to dent it, and tried to concentrate on the feel of it under his hand. This was the suit, and Peter had fantasized about it for so long. If only he could keep Tony talking…

“You were born before all of them. Even the Mark 1. Besides, the Mark 2 only weighed about thirty-five. Miniaturized tech. Composite alloys. Fancy stuff that they don’t teach kids about.” Tony popped open the button on his jeans and slid the zipper down. He let his pants fall down over his hips and stepped out of them.

“Is that all the fight you have in you, Parker?” Tony said with a smirk when Peter looked back at him again. Something cold and wet trickled down the crack of Peter’s ass and dripped off of the tip of his cock onto the floor.

“Fight it? I was hoping it would fuck me first.”

Peter heard the sound of two quick, sharp taps from behind him. Immediately he recognized the sound — Tony was engaging the arc reactor, but why? Now there was an almost silent whisper of metal on metal, something Peter’s spidersenses heard clearly, but Peter didn’t understand.

Until he felt the metal finger. There.

“Gotta open you up first before I fuck you.” More lube running down. Followed by something hard and dry and large teasing around his opening.

It was the last thing Peter had expected, and did nothing to convince his body he wasn’t in mortal danger.

He lifted his right hand from the table, not to get free but to interact, again, with this second lover, to think about those second pair of hands as Tony’s hands. Moving the hand gave him an idea. He began struggling with his right hand, just enough to keep the suit occupied, but not enough to remind his body he was in panic mode. Then, using the suit’s grip to pull against, jerked his body sharply to the right, sliding the suit’s hand with him.

He was still pinned to the table, but now he could turn his head and look directly into the suit’s face. The face of his dreams. The face of his most secret, never-confessed fantasies. (He might as well look at the suit-face. It felt, for the moment, that he was being fucked by it.)

Peter felt Tony’s right hand tighten just a little on his hip and the suit’s right hand pressed harder down on his wrist with a mechanical whir. A sound he’d heard before. The suit’s grip was applying power to hold him in place. and Peter’s traitorous brain made some quick calculations against his will. He had always assumed the suits were packing more punch than the Winter Soldier’s arm (after all the suit had two arms, and the assassin only had one) and for a moment it flashed across his mind that he might not have to worry about breaking the suit at all.

Not that it mattered. He had his face exactly where he wanted it now, and he was grinning. Feeling Tony’s hand tighten on his body was all he needed to remind himself where he was and why he was there.

He was more in control now — he hadn’t caught his breath and his heart was still pounding but suddenly he realized that was okay too. Tony could fuck him if he was breathless. Tony could fuck him with his heart pounding. It had been a very, very long time since he’d felt this sensation with Tony, this butterflies-on-crack sensation, but dammit, he had felt this way before before. And he remembered enjoying it.

“Please tell me I’m getting fucked by the suit tonight,” he managed, with what air he had. He couldn’t sound bold so he just grinned and hoped that would suffice. “Please tell me that’s why you chose this one… that this is the sex one.”

Tony pushed his smooth, nanotech finger inside Peter. “I told you, no one but me gets to fuck you.” He didn’t move his finger in and out, but instead moved it in a circle, pushing against Peter’s rim, stretching him wider.

“Jealous. You can’t even share me with your suit?” Peter began, but his words died in his mouth when he realized what Tony was doing.

“Jealous,” Tony confirmed. “Baby, I don’t even share you with myself.”

With the tech around it, his one finger was as thick as two would’ve been. “You’re so tight. Feel warm. Never did tell you what I meant by ‘reporting’, did I. Don’t need FRIDAY to do that for me.”

“…oh Tony,” Peter moaned. He tried to clamp down his mouth on the words but it was too late. He didn’t want to stop the banter just yet. Dammit the banter was the only thing he could control!

“Just how many nights did little Peter Parker stare up at that poster jerking off and imagine…” a second finger slid in next to the first “…the suit inside of him.”

He wanted to answer, to open his eyes again, wanted to smile up at the suit and flirt with it, wanted to make some comment about a gang-bang and something about ‘inappropriate use of Stark Tech’. But Tony was fingering him (and Tony could finger him better than most men could fuck) and more importantly, Tony was fingering him with the tech. Just the idea left Peter breathless. Tony had said something, had fed him a line, was waiting for a reply. But right now Peter was just trying not to whimper.

Two fingers were thick. But then, without a third added, they somehow became thicker. Almost as thick as Tony’s cock. He felt the smooth texture of the nanotech and his eyes went wide when he realized it was growing inside him. Somewhere a quiet part of his brain congratulated Tony on utilizing his expert knowledge of Peter’s body to create the perfect sex toy.

The rest of his brain, unfortunately, was headed right back into fight mode. He could just feel the quiet part of his mind sadly waving goodbye.

He couldn’t stop. He began to struggle helplessly with the hand holding him down. Trying to use the suit’s grip to pull himself further to the right no longer worked — the suit was wise to that move — and fighting the leg restraints only brought his predicament more sharply into focus. He could probably take the table apart, or at least rearrange the shape, but then what? He would still have the suit on top of him, and he was finally beginning to realize there wasn’t much he could do about that.

The two thickened fingers curled down and found the sensitive place inside Peter. And didn’t stop. Not when Peter started whimpering. Not when Peter started panting. Not even when Peter fell into his ‘ohgodTony’ moans.

But then the sounds Peter made went from moans into a hiss. His hips were twisting away from Tony’s fingers and he was fighting against the suit in earnest now, his face in a grimace. Now his teeth were clenched and he wasn’t pushing his hand up in the suit’s grip, he was trying to wrench free, his left foot sometimes struggling against the restraints and pulling up the leg of the table, sometimes flexing in the other direction, as if trying to push the table leg back into shape.

Tony didn’t remove his fingers but held them still. His other hand settled low on Peter’s back, spread wide, warm, solid. “Baby, shhh, shhh. Don’t hurt yourself. You can’t break free on your own. It’s impossible. But all you have to do is tell me plainly to stop. And I will stop. Then tell me which thing to stop. Tell me what you need, Peter.” Tony waited for Peter to be able to answer. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

Peter forced himself to freeze. Freeze and breathe. That meant breathing through clenched teeth, breathing while he moaned, but it was a start. He concentrated on Tony’s hand touching his back. If he had a hand free he would have reached for it. But without that, he had to speak.

“Just keep touching me,” he whispered. Whimpered. He hated the sound of his broken voice, hated the fact that he was begging, hated the humiliation he felt when he heard how small and broken he sounded. Still, Tony responded immediately.

Tony ran his hand down from the edge of his suit’s hand on Peter’s shoulder all the way back down to the center of his lower back and held it there. “You have me. It’s all me, baby, except on your ankles. Do you need that released? Because that’s the only part touching you that isn’t me. I can feel you twice on my hands. Where my forearm is resting across your shoulders, I can feel the warmth of your body even if it feels to you that my arm that isn’t touching you anywhere.

Breathing was becoming easier. Tony’s voice made it easier, and the suit hadn’t moved at all when Tony started talking. As he spoke, the presence of his words made Peter’s body relax in ways his own brain simply couldn’t. It was still in fight mode, but now it seemed to be in fight-WITH-Tony mode and that was far better considering the man’s fingers were in his ass.

“Keep your legs still, baby.”

“I can’t Tony…”

The Mark 42, his rebuilt Prodigal Son, stepped away from the wall. At the sound of its footsteps Peter shivered, until it dropped down to its knees and crawled underneath the table. Each hand wrapped around Peter’s lower calf.

“I’m touching you there. I can feel the strain of your muscles. You’re so strong.” The table’s restraints released and the suit’s hands moved to replace them.

“Better, baby?

“I c… I can’t… I… it’s just… I need…” He panted and tried again.

“Your face,” Peter said finally, and when he spoke, he was calm. He swallowed hard, but as he said it, he relaxed a little, knowing how true it was. It was something he needed, and Tony would give him what he needed. “It’s your face, I can’t see your face. I need to see you.”

The Mark 47 moved its grip from Peter’s shoulder to pressing firmly but gently between his shoulder blades. Peter was still pinned, but if he turned his head, he could see Tony standing behind him.

“I’m right here, Pete. I’m pretty much everywhere,” he said with a little smile. “And I can feel you everywhere I’m touching you.”

 “That doesn’t feel like your fingers.”

“It feels like your ass,” he said with a smirk. “Tight and hot and pulsing around me. I can feel you everywhere at least a little, but the nanotech transmits every sensation if I want it to.”

“Can you feel this?” Peter asked, reaching back to grip, again, the wrist that was pinning him down. He also flexed against the other hand holding his wrist, not to break free, but to feel it move with him. The way Tony and he moved together in bed.

“Um hmm. I feel two touches on each of my wrists. You’re holding the one with your hand and the other you’re pushing up on. I could tell that with my eyes closed.”

“And you can feel this?” Peter asked, moving his legs in the grip of the second suit, even though Tony had already told him. This was so much better, feeling the six hands on him, and while his heart was still pounding in anticipation of what was to come, he felt safer, more grounded Tony was holding him with three pairs of hands. He felt less like a trapped animal, more like the center of attention. Like something precious.

As Peter tested the way he was being held, each hand gripped in response to his movement. When he pushed his ass back against Tony’s fingers, tightening and loosening around the nanotech, Tony slid them deeper inside. “Greedy,” he teased.

“Always,” Peter answered automatically, but he was still taking stock. As long as he kept moving, kept telling himself ‘Three pairs of hands, he’s making love to me with three pairs of hands’, he might be all right.

The fingers inside him didn’t even feel invasive now, although he still longed to feel Tony’s actual fingers on him. He flexed against the other four hands holding him down, reminding himself of their weight, of their force. He couldn’t stop himself. As sweet as Tony’s voice sounded his head just wouldn’t stop calculating. But they weren’t just binding, they were Tony touching him, and that wasn’t something he wanted to control. That was something he wanted to keep.

“Still only counts as lust though.” Tony moved his nanite covered fingers in and out, spreading them wider.

“Shhhhh… don’t list your sins around the suits.”

He slowly closed his other hand, the warm one, around Peter’s cock, and crooked his fingers again, but only as he pushed in, not when he pulled them back, massaging.

“Was listing yours. FRIDAY doesn’t know what a naughty, messy boy you can be.”

“Ohnodon’tTonyI… oh… do you want me to…?“

“Do I want you to make a mess on my lab table?”

Peter could only whimper in response, gooseflesh breaking out all over his body. His eyes were closed again and he felt close to tears. He would have turned his face away to hide it in the table the way he used to hide it in the bed. But Tony had trained him better than that. He lay his face flat on the cool surface of the table and pushed his body towards Tony’s fingers as best he could.

Tony’s hand stopped stroking Peter’s shaft and instead, palmed the dripping precome over the head until he felt the kid right on the edge. He let go of his cock. And retracted the nanotech from around his fingers. Leaving only warmth inside of him. Warm fingers who knew exactly where all of Peter’s most sensitive areas were aside from the obvious.

“Go on, baby. Make my workstation messy. I wanna remember what it looks like with your come dripping down it every time I look at it.”

That warmth, the warmth of Tony’s real fingers, were all he really needed. Then Tony’s words sent him completely over the edge. That quiet, logical part of his brain marked the occasion. Usually it took a bit of serious pounding before Tony could make him come on command, but this? This was a completely different level. He shouted as he came, his fingers digging into the suit arm’s wrist that was holding him down.

He wondered vaguely if he left marks on it.

Before Peter finished coming. Before the after-quakes even set in, Tony slowly pushed in, feeling him part around him despite how his coming made him want to close up. Peter hadn’t gone down when Tony started fucking him in long, slow, steady strokes.

Peter relaxed completely, floating on sensation. Tony had three pairs of hands holding him and right now it felt like heaven. His mouth hung open helplessly.

The suit’s fingers could move gently as well as hold tightly. The hand moved from between Peter’s shoulder blades, the kid was so relaxed, he wouldn’t be able to struggle. Tony ran that hand through Peter’s sweat soaked hair. He caressed down the side of Peter’s face, cupping his cheek. Then traced the edges of Peter’s flushed red lips with a metal fingertip.

Both of his hands held Peter’s hips as he kept fucking him. The Mark 42's hands left Peter’s ankles and slid up the inside of his legs until they were holding his thighs gently parted so Tony could get inside deeper. He heard Peter whimper and saw him flinch, but he didn’t stop them. Instead of holding apart, putting force there, the suit’s hands gently massaged Peter’s quivering muscles, strained from being held down to the table legs.

Tony started fucking faster, but just as steady. Leaving Peter’s unconscious senses able to anticipate him. “Baby, you’re being so good for us.”

Peter’s eyes went wide at the idea. Being ‘good’ for Tony was all he wanted in these moments. The words lit up every body in his body. But being ‘good for us?’ He wasn’t sure if he was terrified or turned on to the power of three.

The suit’s fingers gently massaged up and then down Peter’s thighs. The fingers near his mouth pressed down on the swell of his bottom lip, parting them and teasing just a little, seeking entry. The hand holding his wrist stopped pinning to the table and closed around it, fingertips against his pulse. All the while Tony kept fucking Peter.

“That’s it, Pete. Just like that. Let go. Give it to me. All of me. Everywhere.”

Peter moaned. Tony’s cock inside him was amazing, of course, but just at this moment he was moaning in exquisite relief.

In simpler times, when Tony had him like this, obedience to Tony’s commands was almost impossible. Tony had told him to relax, and so he did. And just like that, his body agreed to stop fighting. It was still calculating… Tony hadn’t ordered him to stop thinking after all… but for the moment his heart stopped pounding and his lungs were filling with blissful, heavenly oxygen.

He was also vaguely aware that there were now fingers in his mouth, but that was hardly a problem.

Tony, fully in control of the Mark 47’s finger in Peter’s mouth, pressed down gently on the kid’s tongue, making him open wider. When he did, a second finger slipped in, then both moved out until only the first joint was in Peter’s mouth, avoiding choking or too much pressure. Just enough that Tony could feel the warmth of Peter’s mouth. He wished he could feel more. The wetness. The texture. The movement of the boy’s tongue. Clearly the Mark 47, while older and rarely used, needed upgrading. But Peter didn’t need to know how much sensation he did or didn’t have in those fingers.

“Go on, Pete. I wanna feel that sweet mouth on my fingers.” Tony flexed his fingers that held onto Peter’s hips, without letting the movement be transmitted to the suit. Implying that he could feel on them what the kid was doing. Dammit… he wanted to feel it. The fingers in his mouth retreated, only to be replaced by the nanotech covered fingers on Tony’s own hand as he reached up. “That’s it, baby. Now I can feel you.”

“Mmmm?” Peter questioned, unable to speak (his mouth was full) but eager to please. Soon he realized that Tony’s fingers were in his mouth for a reason, and Tony had told him to suck. He obeyed.

The older Mark 42’s hands reached up to the juncture of Peter’s thighs and Peter tensed immediately, whimpering, his eyes going wide. He bit down on Tony’s fingers and began struggling again against the hands beneath the table, even when the hands began gently nudging his legs further apart. He knew what his lover wanted, it was Tony dammit, what he wanted was obvious. But like the leg clamps, every movement toward his legs sent his body right back into fight mode.

“Shhh, baby. I have you. You’re being so good for me. Need you to relax though.That’s it, Pete. I know you can do it. For me.” Tony altered his stance. He fucked down and then in, scraping across Peter’s sweet spot.

Peter’s teeth let go of the fingers. He didn’t pull his mouth away. It hung slack as Tony fucked him thoroughly. He couldn’t move at all. He wasn’t sure he would ever move again. He wished he could speak — could tell Tony how incredible it felt now, with Tony’s cock hitting him right there. But he knew he’d never be able to speak (all he’d get out was “ohgodTony” anyway) so he did the only other thing he could think of. He took the fingers deep into his mouth, down to the knuckle, and began sucking again.

That was incredible. Tony groaned low in his throat as Peter’s tongue lapped at the underside of his two fingers in his mouth. It was like fucking the kid and having him go down on him at the same time.

“I can feel you… both places… the same in both.” Tony’s words broke into a moan as the dual sensations merged in the pleasure centers of his brain. “No difference, baby. Fuck,” Tony moaned with pleasure. “It gives me everything about you.”

Peter was responding beautifully. His breathing was settled into regular panting, with small, little moans around Tony’s nanite covered fingers. The kid was enjoying himself, clearly. The build up nice and slow and regular. Tony could make him come that way. Hold out for a half an hour, letting Peter rise to a languid orgasm. Or he could do that.

Tony broke his rhythm and fucked faster, irregularly, then he pushed in sharply, angled straight across the boy’s prostate.

Peter whimpered and forgot about the fingers in his mouth for a moment. Then remembered what Tony wanted, and began sucking once again.

Tony took his fingers out of Peter’s mouth. They were slick with spit and moved softly over the kid’s lips. Feeling the tender skin, tracing the line, touching the corners. He knew that the nanotech had the capability of transmitting far more sensation that he let through during the normal course of battle. He didn’t exactly want to feel every hit he took. But he wanted to feel Peter. Every touch was like with his fingers, only… different in just enough of a way. Transmitted through a metal filter. He could feel the warmth of Peter’s skin and the cool metal of his suit.

Fucking irregularly wasn’t right enough to get either of them off. But the sounds that Peter made because he couldn’t anticipate what would happen next… those were more than satisfying. Little gasps. Sharp little yelps. Breathless ‘oh’. Never enough to fall into the more desperate ‘ohgodTony’ that Peter was so known for and always made Tony smile.

And then he stopped completely. Held halfway in. Leaving him wanting for either the sensation of being filled or entered.

Peter lay helpless on the table, eyes half closed, brain half-off, relaxing in the six hands that held him. He missed the fingers when they left his mouth, he loved the taste of them, so much like the metal around Tony’s arc reactor but different, but he didn’t move to get them back. Tony wanted to stroke his lips with his fingers now, so that’s what Peter wanted too.

But then something changed. It took him several seconds to register what it was. Tony was there, but he wasn’t moving. Peter tried moving backward, towards his lover’s body only to feel four metal hands and two hands of warm flesh holding him still.

Tony felt Peter try to push back. “Oh baby. Haven’t you figured it out by now?” The suit’s hands holding his upper thighs held Peter gently but firmly against the side of the table. “You’re not the one in control of your body this time. I am.”

He kept himself unmoving at that halfway point. “What do you want, Peter?” Tony asked.

Peter moaned. His eyes were wide now, no longer relaxed. The reminder of the suits, of what the suits could do to him (of what the suits had done to him) was lighting up his brain like a Christmas tree. But he couldn’t speak. Just now he no longer remembered the English language.

“So what you’re saying, by not saying, is that you want me to pull out and finish across your back? Feel my come all hot on your skin?”

“NonononoTony…” That was good. Those were two words he remembered.

“Then tell me what you want, baby.”

“No Tony please…” he begged. Three words. Three words were probably the best he could do.

“You want me to just stop, let go of you, pull up my pants and wait until we’re in bed tonight to finish?”

“Nonono… no… Tony…” He was close to tears. He fought to breathe. He knew what he needed to keep breathing, and he managed to say it out loud.

“I need you to keep touching me.”

Tony took one hand off Peter’s hips and ran it up his back. “There, baby. I’m touching you,” he said, changing nothing else.

Peter could breathe again. Just like that. He closed his eyes and focused on Tony’s skin against his skin, focused on the sensation of Tony touching his body. As long as he had that, he could function.

“Is that all you want, Peter?”

Peter found himself nodding. This was good. If Tony was touching him, he could think again. He was an intelligent human being, and Tony’s lover for more than two years. He could express himself with this man. He could actually express himself rather well. They were good together. He took a deep, calming breath, and turned his head enough to look back into Tony’s face.

“I need you to keep touching me. I want you to keep fucking me.”

Tony ran his hands, both of them now, over Peter’s back, down his sides, over the rise of his ass. “You want me to keep fucking you?” he asked.

“Please, yes. It feels so good, Tony.”

Peter took another breath. “And I know it feels good to you too.”

“How, Peter?”

“Oh… just…” Peter tried to move his body to demonstrate, but encountered two pairs of unmovable hands. He didn’t let his body react this time, he forced himself to stay calm. He swallowed hard.

It was a difficult mental problem, and difficult mental problems didn’t come along often for Peter Parker. He took it as a challenge. One he was ready to meet.

“Slow and steady?”

That wasn’t good enough. He wriggled a bit underneath the suit’s hand, then tossed his head a little to move sweaty curls out of his eyes. It was all to better see Tony (but it was also to buy time, making it easy to speak.)

“I know what I really want. What I really want is to know what you want. But what I want is slow and steady. Until I tell you to go faster. With your hands on my waist like you did. It feels amazing.”

“Yes it does feel amazing. Having you tight and hot around me,” Tony said. The suit’s hands on Peter’s legs slid down lower on his thighs, holding more comfortably. It was Tony’s hands on Peter’s waist that held him still.

“Just don’t let go…”

“Never,” he said as he returned to the long, slow strokes he’d been using before. Long, slow pressure inside of him.

“Promise.”

“Always, baby. Never letting go of you.”

“Your hands. I just need to feel your hands.”

All six hands moved slightly on Peter’s skin. But the two that belonged to Tony soothed over Peter’s sides again, settling on his waist, his thumbs sliding across Peter’s back.

“Am I yours, Tony?”

“Peter, if you think I’d ever let you go… or even share you… not ever going to happen baby. Not ever. You’re mine. No getting out of that. Not gonna let you go.” Tony bent over Peter’s back and put a kiss just above where his thumbs met around Peter’s narrow waist.

“Say it again.”

Tony smiled as he slowly rocked into Peter. “You’re mine. But the question is, baby… Am I yours?”

“Oh yes, yes. Let me move my hand… please?” He wiggled the fingers of his right hand, still firmly held down by the wrist.

“You can move your left hand.” He eased the hand that was pinning Peter down in between his shoulders over a little to the right, giving the boy more movement. “Both hands?” Tony said with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Greedy.” The Mark 47’s hand moved from Peter’s wrist to his forearm. “Now you can move your right hand.”

“But I want to touch you.”

“You can’t touch me with your left?”

Peter moved his left hand to grasp the suit by the wrist again, holding it solidly.

“That’s it, Pete. I can feel your hand on my wrist.” He kept his rhythm steady but only marginally increased his speed… before he’d been asked to.

“You’re going to come inside me, Tony,” Peter said dreamily, his eyes fluttering closed. “I want to hold you when you come inside me.”

“I will, you will. But not until you make my desk messy again.”

“NononoTony don’t…” Peter shuddered gooseflesh breaking out weakly on his arms and legs. He found himself almost sobbing at the idea. “I can’t again…”

The suit let go of Peter’s right forearm and cupped underneath his head, tenderly lifting and turning the boy slightly to face him over his shoulder. Peter’s hand followed it, gripping it firmly at the wrist.

“You can. And I wanna see you when you do.” He bent over Peter’s back again and kissed him there. “I wanna watch those beautiful eyes flutter shut. Wanna watch them open again when it feels too good. Wanna watch those lips part and gasp. Wanna see that face blushed pink. Your hair fall into sweaty curls.”

As Tony spoke, he fucked a little harder, a little faster, a little more directly on each word. “And then…” His hand replaced the suit’s hand in the middle of Peter’s back. “I wanna feel you clench around me… when you come.”

Peter let go of the suit’s wrist and wrapped his arm around his face, moaning and keening. The things Tony was saying would have made him come already but coming twice? This was difficult. He wasn’t sure he could, and he wasn’t sure what it would mean if he couldn’t.

The suit gently moved Peter’s arm from hiding his face. “Nuh uh, baby. Gotta see you. You didn’t hide last time, no hiding this time.”

“I can’t Tony.” Peter lay his face against the table, not hiding, not moving.

“I’m so close… fuck Pete,” Tony gasped. The Mark 47’s hand slid from under Peter’s head and both hands gripped his shoulders, pinning Peter. “God, baby… you’re…” His words failed him. “You’re everywhere.”

Tony dropped his own hand underneath Peter and began stroking his cock. “You have me so close… so close… Be good for me, baby,” Tony moaned, his tone desperate. He struggled to speak. He was always able to talk. The patter he kept up, dirty or tender, during sex was his thing.

Peter wanted to obey. Wanted it so badly. Tony’s hand felt so good, but he needed more. He turned his head weakly and looked back into his lover’s face.

“Does it feel good for you Tony?” he whispered, hating the breathless sound of his voice, speaking anyway. “Am I tight for you?”

His control faltered at the kid’s finding his voice as Tony lost his. But when Peter looked back at him, when he saw those eyes… his faltering control broke entirely. The hand he had on Peter’s hip tightened. As did the four hands controlled by his mind. Looking at Peter’s shoulders, he saw deep, dark purple-black bruises flower almost instantly. He let his grip on the boy’s hip lighten, and the suits’ followed, loosening just enough not to leave any more bruises.

In control of the suits again, he pulled back on Peter’s shoulders, moving him down further on his cock, buried all the way into his heat.

Peter screamed as he came, sobbing and shouting wordlessly, his throat straining. But he didn’t fight the hands. He was beyond fighting. He was helpless here. Completely helpless.

And, for the first time, that was all right.

They came as close together as two people could. Tony followed almost immediately when Peter cried out. He fell, stretched out across the kid’s back. Peter was still held by his four metal hands, but a warm metal circle pressed against his back. Peter could feel the hum of the arc reactor against his skin, its vibration faster and stronger than he’d ever felt it before.

“Oh, Peter,” Tony moaned, his breath warm across Peter’s back. “So good. My perfect… my perfect treasure… the most precious thing in my trophy case. Mine.” A soft kiss followed his breath. “Only mine. Always mine.”

Tony slowly stood, leaving a trail of kisses, on still broken breaths, down Peter’s back. His hands followed his lips, caressing, spread wide, with an easy pressure. Grounding. The Mark 42, now a little messy from Peter’s come dripping off the side of the table, stopped holding Peter’s legs. The hands slid slowly down them, gentling their way, until on reaching Peter’s ankles, they gave a tighter little hold, reminding him of where they’d started and why. Then they released him entirely.

The more skilled hands of the Mark 47 loosened but did not release Peter’s forearms. Tony stepped back just a little, sliding free from Peter, leaving a trail of his come running down the boy’s thigh.

“You were so good for me,” Tony said, with an awestruck tone. Peter had overwhelmed his senses. “Speechless, Pete. You took away all my words. All my thoughts. All except for one. He bent over one more time, kissing the small of Peter’s back. “I love you. That thought never leaves me.” The suit’s hands followed where Tony’s had been, stroking down Peter’s back, then up it to rest lightly across the back of his chest.

“I’m going to carry you to me.” Bending down, the suit lifted Peter into a bridal carry. Tony combed his fingers through Peter’s hair. His damp curls tangled around Tony’s fingers, as he eased his head to rest on the suit’s chest. He wasn’t ready to let go yet. He still needed to touch his boy. He let his hand drop from Peter’s head, trailing over his shoulder, down his arm, to his hand, to his fingertips, then finally leaving him. “It’s all right, Pete. I’m here. I’m bringing you with me.”

Peter’s eyes went wide when the suit gathered him up in iron arms. His breath was shaky and he trembled slightly. He moaned a little when Tony’s real touch stopped, but Tony’s words were still there. And he knew what came next. The thing he needed. It always came next.

Tony sat cross-legged on the sofa, missing Peter even though he could still feel the weight of the boy, through the suit, on his arms. Gently, the suit lowered Peter into Tony’s waiting lap. “There, baby. I have you. I have you.”

Tony held Peter a little tighter than usual. Closer than usual. More skin touching more skin. He felt Peter’s trembling, catching breaths, right on the edge of sobs.

He reached up and soothed the boy’s head into the crook of his neck. “It’s okay, Peter. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He curled Peter’s body against him. Tony pressed a lingering, tender kiss on the curve of his shoulder. He kissed each place where there were still dark purple-black marks. Not healed. Not healing.

He full-body shuddered against Peter and Tony closed his eyes. His breath caught and held. He could’ve hurt the boy. Seriously hurt him. Broken bones, torn skin. Peter would eventually heal those bruises, but Tony could’ve hurt him. Speechless, overwhelmed, farther gone than he’d ever been in his life, in his hands, even in his suit’s hands, he held the most precious in the world. And he could’ve hurt him.

“It’s okay, Peter. You’re safe,” he said, more trying to convince himself. Trying desperately to reassure himself that he had only bruised, not broken. “I’ll always keep you safe.” He could keep Peter safe from anything. Anything except himself. “Right here. With me. Mine. You’re so good. So precious. Everything, baby. All of you.”

Peter took deep, gulping breaths and waited for his tears to pass. They usually did quickly, when he didn’t fight to hide them, and he never tried to hide them from Tony anymore. Tony had explained from the beginning that the tears were okay, and there had always been a few after sex like this. Peter pressed his face into Tony’s neck and took another deep breath.

Then he wrapped his arms around Tony’s neck and sobbed.

Tony kissed the side of Peter’s head. “‘S okay, baby,” he said softly. “I want you right here. With me. Like this. Don’t want to let you go. Not yet. Not for a long time.” He took a deep breath and let it out with a whisper. “I need you, Peter. I need… I need to hold you.”

He pulled one knee up to support Peter’s back, to hold him close, Peter almost laying on his side in Tony’s arms, their chests almost touching. He held Peter as long as the boy needed. As long as he needed. Which was a very long time this time. He muttered soothing words, almost nonsense words, but he knew how much the sound of his voice helped Peter to calm. And this time, having lost his words, he needed to hear the sound of his own voice. To know that he was taking care of the boy. He had to take care of him.

It seemed the more Peter calmed, the less Tony did. His lips couldn’t hardly leave the boy’s shoulder. His cheek rested there. He looked at darkened spots against pale skin.

Peter’s arms were relaxed around Tony’s chest. His breaths even, his body was no longer wracked with sobs. He started to press kisses into Tony’s neck, moving a little away from his hiding place and resting against Tony’s shoulder. When he spoke, it was only a hoarse whisper.

“I’ve never… no one’s ever…” There was no way to finish the sentence. It wasn’t that no one had ever fucked him before (Tony knew that very well) but there had never been anyone who could have fucked him that way. Could have taken him apart that way. Could have made him give up control that way. There had never been anyone who had made him even dream of the things he had felt this night.

“Tony, I’ve never come that hard in my life.”

Tony held tighter as Peter tried to move away. He should’ve answered that, he knew. Instead he put five more kisses to Peter’s shoulder, in a very specific pattern. Then Tony rested his cheek against Peter’s cool skin. Peter felt Tony’s breaths become fast and caught, broken, shuddering. He felt wetness where Tony’s lips weren’t. He felt tears.

Peter was planning on asking Tony to carry him into the shower, something he hadn’t needed in a long time, but now the sound caught his attention and he found his spine straightening. He unwrapped his arms from around Tony’s neck and slipped his left around the man’s chest, the other around his head. He squeezed tightly for a moment, then relaxed. With his left arm he kept Tony firmly pressed against him and used his right hand to comb his fingers through Tony’s hair. He didn’t know what to say, so he waited.

“I hurt you,” Tony said when he could finally speak.

“No! No, it wasn’t that. It never hurts. It feels weird sometimes but it never hurts. I’m sorry I cried, it was just… it was a lot.”

“Baby, no.” When Tony leaned back to look into Peter’s face, his eyes were glistening. “I… marked you. I bruised you. I hurt… I nearly…” He shuddered again.

Peter’s brow knotted in confusion, both at the tears in Tony’s eyes (had he ever seen that before?) and the idea of being marked… he had been marked? He let go of Tony suddenly and reached to his shoulder, then to his back, trying to find the bruises Tony seemed to think were there.

“Marked… did you?”

“Bruises,” he said, very gently curving his fingers around Peter’s shoulder where he’d left the marks. “I could have…” Tony closed his eyes. “I might’ve…”

“Marked me? Oh Tony…” He cupped Tony’s face in his hand and brought their faces close together.

“I’ve wanted you to mark me for so long.”

“No baby, you don’t understand. With the suit… You heal from anything… maybe. I could’ve… pulled you apart.”

Peter smiled a little and touched his forehead to Tony’s. He put his hand on Tony’s shoulder, fingering the place where his own fingertip-bruises usually landed. They weren’t there now, of course. It had been a while since Tony had made him come that way, and he was more likely to leave dents in the headboard now than leave dents in Tony. He had hated them in the beginning, detested them. They were a mark of pride for Tony, but to Peter they were nothing but stomach-knotting. He wanted to see bruises on himself, of course, but never on his lover.

He remembered what it was like, hearing ‘I trust you’ over and over again when he didn’t yet trust himself. He decided not to take the same route.

Wrapping his arms around his lover again he held him close. “Okay. You could have pulled me apart. Maybe. Except you stopped every other time I needed you to, so it’s hard to believe you wouldn’t have stopped then, too. But if you left bruises, I didn’t notice. I didn’t ask you to stop. I was too busy coming my brains out.”

Tony shook his head. “I wasn’t in conscious control. Not of me. Not of them. It wouldn’t have mattered if you asked.” He looked at Peter’s shoulder again.

“Okay. But how many times I told you I was scared of hurting you, and you just told me over and over that you trusted me? Now I’m not allowed to trust you?”

Peter still had tears on his face, but now he looked into Tony’s face and smiled.

“Maybe you could have hurt me. Well, tech-genius, you’ll have to tech-genius yourself out of that one. Program failsafes into the sex suits. Call it the ‘suit sex’ protocol, or the ‘gang-bang program’ or ‘date-night’ or something.

“Because you are doing that to me again.”

Tony nodded. Peter’s words took the fear and worry and replaced it with something he could actually do. A tech solution. He was good at that. There wasn’t a problem he couldn’t tech his way out of.

“I had to do that with my nightmares. Create something that could tell when I was asleep. The implants could monitor my brain waves to tell the difference between my sleep/wake cycles. I just need a way to tell when I’ve lost conscious control while awake. I’m sure there’s some definable physiological response.”

He lifted Peter in his arms, kissed him on the lips, and carried him to the shower that was just off the lab.

“That can happen again. I want it to happen again. Just not before I’ve made a few upgrades to the sensors,” he said with a smile. “The older suits don’t have near enough of them.”

He let Peter down to stand on his feet. He turned him to face the mirror. On each of his shoulders were four dark purple oval marks with faint purple lines curving over the top. Tony turned Peter again and on his back were two thumb prints.

It wasn’t the marks themselves that Tony found so troubling. It was where they were. How they were placed. Peter liked to think that he was stronger than anything. But with the suit, he could have hurt Peter gravely. They both might want sex-with-suits to happen again, but it couldn’t happen until Tony had objectively tested protective protocols in place.

Peter was moaning and twisted his body around and around to get a better look. He fingered them over and over again, sometimes gazing at them in wonder, sometimes grinning from ear to ear. Finally he broke off to wrap his arms around Tony and pull him into a crushing hug. He was almost in tears again. “You marked me. You did. You finally did. I have bruises… oh god but they won’t last! Can I take pictures?”

Tony could see how happy it made Peter being able to be bruised by him in the same way as he bruised Tony. It made sense. And he had to admit, it appealed to his possessive side.

“Of course. I’d expect nothing less than a selfie from a millennial. Just keep it off of Instagram, huh?” Tony said with a smile.