#so time to find old arts that got lost somewhere in the deep dark corners of my art folders ;-;

[jaysdoodlehell]

Old colored doodle I made last hollidays and forgot to post T-T

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Not by the Moon | 07

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: A philosophical slant, (heavy) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom being absolute hubby material, Werewolf!Jaebeom being awkward and (a bit of a) pervert, domestic fluff, talk of medication, apparently werewolves don’t like to wear clothes (what is my canon...), talk of life and death, mention of blood, mild swearing

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Author’s Note: This chapter is from Jaebeom’s POV.

Well, here it is, earlier and much longer than originally planned. It’s also a lot more tragic and philosophical than I intended it to be, but then again, what else can you expect from a tragedian fascinated by the human condition even as it is translated into the realm of the magical?

I think I just thought of the modern literary movement I might belong to: magic realism.

It’s a crying shame the Decadent Movement isn’t active anymore, though, because that one truly feels like a good fit for me both as an author and an individual. Ah well, c’est la vie.

Previous Chapter / Next chapter

Masterlist

There is nothing better for a wolf than being with its mate. 

Well, there is one thing.

Having them completely at your mercy as you’re inside them.

I still don’t understand what the plastic wrapping is good for, but Jinyoung was very insistent on using it while we drove to the airport. And Y/N seemed glad I had whatever it is, her scent even betraying a hint of relief. However, one day, I hope she’ll tell me not to use it.

No, that’s not right. There’s a word for the… whatever it is.

A condom.

That’s the word.

I hope she’ll tell me not to use a condom. It doesn’t matter whether I’m in season or not, although the chances she’ll pup are higher if I am. I want pups with her, a little pack of our own. I want it to be our toddler running around the park, chasing its sibling. Then again, will I remain human long enough to see them grow up?

Will I even remember their birth on the day they’re born?

Will I still be here?

Or remain without a family, a proud bloodline?

I slowly open my eyes, blinking a few times to get used to the sunlight bathing the room in a warm golden hue, swallow hard and force myself to calm down. There is no use in contemplating this now, not this early in the day nor in our time together. What counts is that I’m here now with Y/N in my arms and we’re in her apartment somewhere.

A faint whiff of brine seeps in through the air cleaner filter above the window overlooking the city. A gull flies by and lands on the roof of the building opposite ours.

Sea. Rusted metal. Right, the old harbour.

A high-pitched noise, a disquiet hum followed by a sigh, makes my ears perk up. I look down at the lady sleeping on my chest, curled up and fingers balled into small fists similar to a bunny’s paws. More importantly, however, she’s perfectly alright and was only unconsciously trying to get more comfortable.

A breathless chuckle rises in my throat at the display. Y/N’s adorable even when she’s fast asleep, her lips parted yet not enough to allow drooling.

I, on the other hand, am another story. I don’t do it often, but I must have been so tired last night I triggered the habit. The finger I swipe over the corners of my mouth comes away wet both times.

Oh no, I didn’t drool on her, did I? Would she mind, though, if I explained it’s a sign I’m comfortable with her?

It isn’t hard to guess the answer to the question. She would beat me over the head, likely with a shoe, and say I’m not allowed to bite her at all anymore. Not even in the future.

In a hurry to discover whether I made the fatal mistake, I check her messy hair but keeping my movements controlled to not wake her up. Fortunately, there are no locks sticking together nor a trail running down over the side of her face.

With a deep sigh, I slump further down into the bed again and kiss her crown. However, I don’t go back to sleep despite the comfort of the sheets. Instead, I lift the lady’s head and gently put her down on the pillow as I get up, carefully calculating every movement like I do when hunting to make sure she won’t wake up or notice my absence in her unconscious state.

The faint smell of burned iron comes from somewhere when I rearrange the sheets to bundle Y/N up. My mouth dries up, throat blocked by something I can’t swallow as a familiar stench disturbs the morning happiness. Former intentions abandoned, I claw through the sheets to try and discover where the rank odour comes from.

Did I hurt her? Is she bleeding? Why is she bleeding? Where is it? Where’s the blood?

As suspected, the frantic search wakes the pretty lady. Propped up on an elbow, eyes half-closed and brows furrowed, she turns to me. “Jae, what-’’ she yawns, “What’re you doing?”

Barely has she asked the question or I find what I’ve been looking for.

On her side of the bed, between her thighs, is a puddle of dried blood.

Where did it come from? Did I… Did I do this?

I grab her by the shoulders and pull her close to check her condition, turning her this way and that as each thought grows more troubled. “Are you okay?” There’s nothing to see on the bare skin of her upper body. “Are you hurt?”

Maybe the wound is somewhere lower, on her hip or leg. I didn’t bite her last night. Right? I didn’t hurt her. At least, I don’t think I did. No. Surely the wolf- I wouldn’t harm her. I had enough control to prevent that from happening. Yes, that’s the case.

But then, with a fading mind, how much can I trust myself?

“Jaebeom, I’m fine. What are you- ah.” Y/N notices the spot of dark crimson when I pull the sheets completely off the bed and toss them aside. She lets out an incomprehensibly careless chuckle, evidently oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

“What are you giggling about? Y/N, you’re bleeding!” I bark, lost.

A small paw cups my cheek, her thumb caressing the skin in an attempt to calm me down. “You took my virginity. It’s natural to bleed a little when that happens.”

“Are you still in pain?” Even though it’s natural, surely it’s not without repercussions. Otherwise, the stain wouldn’t be there.

“No, I’m not, silly. I’m okay.” She kisses the tip of my nose when I let out a whine, unhappy with the response. Withal, a curious tone in her voice overtakes my own displeasure. “Are you?”

Why do you say it like that?

She sounds weird, hinting at something I’m supposed to find as obvious as she. Yet, I have no clue about what it can be. So, I tilt my head and stare blankly at her, waiting for an explanation. “I’m fine.” 

My choice of words makes her visibly flinch despite the effort to hide it. The sleepiness which glazed her eyes evaporated, leaving them devoid of the amusement at my failure as a human. The recognizable sour note of anxiety creeps back into her scent, setting off alarm bells in my mind. “I’m alright. No pain. Happy to be here. Happy to wake up next to you.”

I rub her arms in a poor attempt to make her calm down, have her scent return to its spring-like fruitiness. She is supposed to smell like fresh fruit still hanging from the trees, yet to ripen. Not like fallen fruit beginning to decay in the summer sun.

“Okay,” is all she says in response before she pulls away, the absence of the warmth of her palm sending a cold shiver throughout my body.

The world always seems a little colder without her.

“Want breakfast?” A low grumble pierces the silence following the question, giving me enough of a response. And a reason to get my head, no, that’s not the idiom. To get my thoughts ordered. Organized. To get my thoughts in order? To think about… stuff. Last night. This. Everything. “Never mind. I’m making you breakfast. You have to eat.”

I stand up and head for the bathroom to first get rid of the weird plastic wrapping she put on me last night. Having thrown it in the bin there after a bit of an awkward struggle removing it, I move to the kitchen. Nevertheless, I don’t start preparing food right away. Instead, I pick up the grey hoodie I gave her from the bag between the sofa and chair facing the kitchen. I remember how she held it up to her nose, breathed in and basked in the scent.

My scent.

A fragment of last night’s memory.

I remember we had sex and that she told me I’m her first, but afterwards things are blurry.

Smell. I said something about how nicely she smells. Not really an original compliment since I’ve said it a lot already, but I can’t help but focus on it.

And then…

Then…

Then instinct took over because I let it, thinking I’d remain in control even though I let go a little. After all, I’ve learned enough to know how to deal with the wolf inside thanks to the rehabilitation procedure Jinyoung put me through and supervised. Since then, there’s been a healthy balance between human and beast in my mind.

Or, rather, there was one.

I think.

Another boundary to watch out for. I have to keep myself in check. No more experimenting.

Because to do so is to forget.

And I want to remember.

 I stop absent-mindedly thumbing the piece of clothing, drape it over the armrest of the sofa and head into the kitchen to make breakfast. Unfortunately, the fridge quickly brings my plan to a halt, empty except for a pack of soy milk and a tray of eggs. The groceries Jinyoung and I got were only enough for dinner last night and there are no leftovers.

To be fair, she did just come back from a trip abroad. But still, is there really nothing to work with?

I sigh in defeat and grab the plant-based milk to pour it over the apple and cinnamon granola I find in the cupboard above the sink. At least it’s food and drink in one meal.

From the drawer next to the oven, I grab two spoons which I put into the bowls, grab the hoodie from the couch and return to the bedroom.

Y/N sits with her back turned to me, but flips around a little too fast for my liking once she hears my paws approaching. “Jaebeom?”

The terrible mixture of barely suppressed horror and genuine concern in her gaze has translated into her voice, which is cold and calculating. The sour note of anxiety hasn’t faded from her scent, creating a stone to sink to the bottom of my stomach because there’s only one thing that can be a distressing factor this early in the day.

Me.

Withal, the reason why she’s scared puzzles me since I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary. I’ve simply been me since I woke up.

Human.

Although, that’s me now.

Last night, I don’t know who or what I was though it isn’t hard to guess.

The pretty lady traces the deep indentation in the headboard of the bed with her fingers bent to resemble a claw. “Did you do this?”

Did- Did I? No. I- I don’t know. I was less strict with myself last night and don’t remember much, but surely I wasn’t gone enough to do this.

I hope.

I think.

I’m not sure.

But the reality provides the necessary evidence to repute any kind of denial I can offer.

I set the bowls down on the nightstand and crawl back on the bed to sit next to her. Gently, I nudge her hand aside to mimic her action, my own fingers perfectly fitting into the large gash. “I don’t know.”

A surge of violence shoots throughout my body, triggering the nagging feeling of a forgotten memory strong enough to knock the air out the lungs and split my skull with flashes of a memory. Nevertheless, the fragments pass by too fast to make sense of them and the mere attempt to do so worsens the headache. I flinch and scramble backwards with a paw- a hand pressed to my head as if I can thus suppress the pain. Yet, I remain unable to look at anything but the damage.

“I don’t know,” I repeat, my voice hardly louder than a scared whisper.

“I felt your skin move beneath my fingers last night,” Y/N starts, catching my attention with the timid response suggestive of requiring more explanation.

Exactly what I don’t have since I can’t even explain it myself.

This shouldn’t be happening.

“I think I did, at least,” she adds doubtfully on a shivery breath. The sourness sweetens to doubt instead of anxiety. Nonetheless, it’s still worrying she’s ill… uncomfortable.

“Did I-“ I swallow hard, forcing out the words describing my worst nightmare. “Did I transform?”

“Transform?’’ She briefly turns her gaze from me to the indentation, lips parted in an attempt to articulate a thought that’s dismissed with a headshake the second thereafter. Her attention returns to me, her expression slackened. ‘’What are you- What… No, you didn’t, but you looked far away. Retreated further into your own world, more so than you normally are.”

“That’s good,” I mumble, nodding as I, too, briefly return my attention to the claw mark. “Was human. Good.”

Still, need to talk to the weird-smelling intruder. Doctor. Friend. Name, his name. Jinyoung. Jesus, man, get yourself together. Your name is Im Jaebeom. You’re a twenty-eight old werewolf that- no, who runs a bookshop called Paper Souls. Jinyoung is your friend, doctor and supervisor appointed to you by... by... some organization.

“Jaebeom,” the pretty lady puts her hand on my shoulder, features softened instead of frozen and marred by fear, “have you taken your medication yet?”

The natural fruity undertone seems forced to be stronger.

You should be scared. I might have- I made that claw mark. Why treat me like a human? I’m a wolf.

“Me- Med-“ The strange word barely registers until a spark of humanity recalls its definition. “Medication. Pills. No, I- I haven’t.”

“Let me grab a glass of water and get them.”

She ruffles my hair, jumps off the bed and rushes out of the room. I listen to her bare feet lightly treading the floor as she moves on the other side of the wall, hurried steps going from the hallway, where she rummages in my coat for the rattling bottle of pills, to the kitchen. There, she opens a cupboard to grab a glass. The loud clinking of glass alongside the sour undertone in her scent indicates she almost accidentally caused several to fall out and break on the tiles. Fortunately, judging by the deep sigh of relief, Y/N could prevent it from happening.

She turns on the tab, fills the glass with water, turns the tab off and walks back into the room.

“There you go,” she says, handing me the small brown bottle and water. 

The mattress dips a bit when she sits down next to me with one of the bowls filled with cereal in her hands. After stirring the spoon around like she is trying to evade something, Y/N finally takes a first careful bite. Nevertheless, she starts eating properly after I kiss her temple, which is an apparently effective form of encouragement. I have to remember that. 

Quietly seated in the golden sunlight, we have our first breakfast together. I don’t mind her watching me as I’m taking my medication, measuring out the amount Jinyoung told me to take. Or, rather, as much as the label notes I should. Immediately my gag reflex is triggered when I put them in my mouth, the taste of bitter metal extremer than before so it’s like licking one of the rusted over buoys drifting in the harbour.

He’s increased the nightshade and silver. Damn, I think even the worst coffee tastes better than this.

“That bad?”

“Yep.” I open and close my mouth, nauseous due to the sickening taste lingering on my tongue. To prevent the bile rising in my throat from escaping, I gulp down the water. Unfortunately, it only washes down part of the bitterness.

She holds up a spoon with milk-soaked granola to feed to me, but I turn it down and shake my head. I might actually throw up if I eat anything right now. 

Disappointment flashes across her face, though it’s gone in an instant as she puts her bowl down and stands up. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

“But... food,” I meekly offer and point at the half-empty bowl on the nightstand. She should put herself before me. 

Because I’ll be fine.

“We’re missing something important. Coffee,” the bunny-like lady playfully responds before she bounces off again to the kitchen.

The pleasant and slightly sweet scent of instant cappuccino warms the apartment, replacing the sharp scent of frozen water alluding to hail later on in the day. It’s a little early in the year, but soon the first snows will fall.

Hopefully, she’ll move before then so we can spend Christmas in her cottage. Although, it doesn’t even have to be the holidays. I’d light a fire, drape a blanket over our shoulders and keep Y/N close to warm her with mine as we read and look at the snowfall.

Like a snowflake falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling before our eyes, so we pass through life. At this rate, I think the next snowfall might be the last I’ll see.

Consciously.

Meaningfully.

Like a human.

The snowflake will faintly fall on the man I am, descend on the husk I’m becoming, while she will continue living.

Without me.

The living and the dead.

I smile wistfully until the same shot of pain treks through me as when I tried to fill in the gaps of the fragmented memory. Folded in on myself, cold sweat on my skin and short of breath, I press my palms against my snout to push the agony away.

The pained groaning must have alarmed the pretty lady because she rushes to my side and pushes one of the mugs in her little paws… hands in mine. “Here, take a sip. The caffeine will help.”

As told, I nip at the hot beverage. Indeed, the cappuccino lessens the headache and cold shivers that ran down my spine and threatened to spread. Though I dislike instant coffee, it actually tastes good when she prepares it. I sigh in relief, blow on the coffee to cool it down, and slowly drink it while Y/N caresses my jaw and ear just the way I like it. At the same time, she comforts me with her soothing voice, murmuring words of solace and assurance as she sits down next to me again. 

I could listen to you all day. Maybe I should ask you to read to me sometime. Although, not maybe. I’ll ask it later. Note to self, write a note on your phone to ask her to read to you. Also, make note of kissing her temple.

My reverie is broken up by a comment which rubs me the wrong way. “I have to go to the office later today-’’

“Already? You just got home.”

“They’re counting on me, Jae. Besides, I’m not that jet-lagged.”

“It’s not healthy. You should stay home. Rest,” I bark. Her eyes widen, taken aback by my bluntness.

She opens and closes her mouth, planning to say something yet deciding against it. Instead, she tugs my ear. “I’ll be fine. And you have your shop to look after, so let’s both work hard today.”

“Still,” I take another sip, “I don’t think you should go.”

“As long as I have caffeine, I should be able to manage. How about this? I’ll come to your shop as soon as I’m done with work and cook for us. We’ll have a cosy night in like we had last night.”

“Last night was ‘cosy’ indeed,” I murmur, hoping she catches on to what I’m alluding to.

“It was. I really liked it.” Her lashes flutter with the memories of last night, cheeks tinged pink. Unfortunately, the heartstopping girlish giggle is short-lived and becomes serious too soon. “But while I did, I think we shouldn’t do it again so soon.”

“Agreed,” I respond, mind occupied by the ripples of transformation and the splashes of pain wanting to remember something significant only communicated in incomprehensible flashes.

Distorted.

Like the memories of the forest.

I need to call Jinyoung. He needs to know.

 “What shall we eat tonight?”

The change in subject is welcome, but also a confusing bridge to cross. How can humans go from severe to casual without a care? The aspect of communication has me furrow my brows as I try to work out the mech… work… nuts and bolts behind it. Nevertheless, I answer the question. “I thought you had a plan already.”

The corners of her mouth curl up into a cat-like grin. “I have no idea, so that’s why I’m asking you. You’re a better chef than I am.”

“I’m not that good,” I murmur, my ears lowered like a shy pup. “But I’d like something we can make together.”

“Pancakes?”

“Yes!’’ I bark, leaning in and grabbing the sheets to contain the excitement at cooking together. ‘’Yes, I’d like that!”

A flicker of doubt passes over her face, hesitant in the way she tends to be when it concerns food. However, a second later, she taps me on the nose with a content hum. “Pancakes it is.”

While Y/N showers, I clean the dishes and pull the sheets off of the bed so she can bring them to the laundry. Although, maybe I could do it myself. I’d have to text Jinyoung for instructions since he always does mine, but even then it shouldn’t be too difficult. Humans do laundry all the time. It’s part of their routine and if they can do it, so can I.

I hope.

As I’m making the bed and contemplating the process to get at least the blood stain out of the fabric, my mate walks back into the room. Her wet hair is bundled up in a towel that’s smaller than the one wrapped around her body. The addition of the scents of cherry blossoms and matcha to the blend of summer fruits drives me dizzy as she moves to the wardrobe.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help looking as the towel falls to the floor to reveal her naked body. An appreciative growl unconsciously rises from my throat, a surge of heat culminating between my legs.

Just one more time. I’ll keep myself in check. Behave. I’ll behave.

“Jaebeom,” cheeks flushed, Y/N glances over her shoulder, “don’t even think about it.”

“Sorry,” I mumble as I shuffle to her side to help her put on her bra by closing the clasps. When they click in place, I place a kiss between her shoulder blades, feeling her shiver against my lips. “I know what we agreed on.”

I wrap my arms around her waist and let my head rest on her shoulder. Eyes closed, I try to keep a clear mind as she scratches me behind the ear.

“It’s not necessarily... that.” Her voice is light, wanting to move past the concerns of last night with humour. “It’s rather the thought I wouldn’t get to leave for the office at all if we go back to bed.”

“You’re right.” I decide to play along, if only to give us both some peace of mind. So, I bury my nose in the side of her neck, nuzzling her and earning myself a bird-like giggle that spreads a nice fuzzy feeling inside. “I wouldn’t let you go. We’d read the day away with coffee.”

“Tea, in your case. Doctor’s orders. I don’t want you bouncing around the place. You’re my calm, well, sort of calm bookish wolf. Not a supercharged husky.”

It’s a lame joke, but nevertheless makes me laugh.

“What will you wear today?” I ask, glancing at the clothes on the hangers.

Here and there, there’s a colourful item in the collection. Withal, the majority of the items are mono… one-toned... black and white items to be switched up with a dark-shaded checkered blouse.

My attention drifts to the long white dress with lemons. The fabric is on the thin side, which makes it suitable for summer or a warm spring.

I’d love to see you in that dress, if only just once.

She pouts her lips. “I was thinking about grey high-waisted jeans with a black button-up shirt and ankle boots.”

“Wear my hoodie,” I whine, upset my… my girlfriend. That sounds nice. My girlfriend. It makes me upset that my girlfriend doesn’t plan on wearing one of the things I gave her. “You like the grey one, right?”

“I do, but-’’

“Then wear it.”

She sighs, shakes her head and turns around to look up at me. “There’s something like a dress code at the office.”

“Don’t care.” I nudge her nose with mine, bark lowered to a woof to persuade her to go with my choice. “You’ll look better. More pretty.”

“If you put a pair of boxers on, I’ll wear the hoodie. Deal?”

“But they’re uncomfortable. I only wore them because Jinyoung told me to.”

“Then I won’t wear the hoodie.” Little devilish will-o’-the-wisps light up her eyes as the corners of her mouth curl up into a taunting grin. “Shame. Now my colleagues won’t get to see I have a boyfriend.”

The tables have flipped since I’m apparently not the only one who’s good at using their charms.

Nevertheless, reluctant to start a fight over this, I let out a compromising chuff. “Okay, fine.”

Humans and their clothes. I like yours, but you’d look even better in mine. Still, I’m only doing this because I want every male at your office and in the city to know you’re mine.

No matter what size they are, clothing is a thing I absolutely haven’t missed. Notwithstanding, to please my mate, I wriggle myself back into the tight short trousers and the loose pants to wear over them. Y/N gives me a warning look when she sees me fumbling with my shirt, hopefully missing out on the obvious clue I secretly hope she’ll let me off easy.

Of course she doesn’t.

“Yes, Jae, also the shirt,” she chastises me like a mother disciplines a rebellious pup. “And the shoes. You don’t want other people to call the cops after seeing a naked man in the streets.” Unaware of the fact I can hear her perfectly even as she mutters under her breath, she adds. ‘’Or me to pick you up at the police station because of it.’’ 

Amused by the funny image the fantastical scenario creates in my mind, I relent. “Yes, ma’am.”

Once we’re both dressed, Y/N makes way for the bathroom to do her makeup. Ignoring my protests it’s unnecessary since there’s nothing to hide or improve to make me love her more, she closes the door behind her and locks it.

There goes the plan of dragging her out of there by the collar to have her scratch my jaw and ear again instead. A much better way to pass the time, if you ask me.

In the meanwhile, I return to the bedroom to take a picture of the damage with my phone and send it to Jinyoung.

Jaebeom: We need to talk.

Immediately, I get a response.

Jinyoung: Yes, we absolutely do. Everything OK?

Jaebeom: Yes, Y/N is fine. Alive. A little shaken, but so am I. Well, we’re more than a little shaken. Fuck, Jinyoung, I don’t know what happened.

Jinyoung: I’ll drop by later today. I have to give a lecture in a bit and have to see a new patient afterwards. He’s going through the reintegration program right now and needs a little extra help.

Jaebeom: Help with what? What is he?

Jinyoung: A wolf. Not a standard case.

Jaebeom: Anything I can help with?

Jinyoung: I think you need to focus on yourself right now. I’ll be at the shop around two.

Footsteps disturb the silence, going from the bathroom to the hallway.

That was quick. Are females always this fast with applying their face?

It’s a funny phrase, ‘applying my face’. Also, it’s the argument the pretty lady used as the final word on the matter. But she already has a face so there’s no need to apply a second like some Greek god.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Ears perked, I glance around the corner into the living room and in Y/N’s direction.

“Work?” she answers sheepishly, looking back at me with her head slightly tilted to the side. In her hands is the black trench coat she was about to put on.

Fortunately, she’s kept her makeup natural with a golden brown eyeshadow, a bit of a black line to accentuate her eyes and something to enhance her lashes. It’s a natural look which some of the female customers could learn from with their fake lips or chest that makes them reek of silicone and plastic. Their makeup, often overemphasizing their fake features, doesn’t add to their supposed charm. In fact, it makes me turn my snout away even faster if their attitude already hasn’t.

I’d never offer them coffee or want them around more than once.

But not her.

Not Y/N.

I can’t remember if she wore the same makeup when we met, but I vaguely recall a sense of calm and need for protection alongside a strange recognition. A connection that would make all the puzzle pieces of my life fit together.

The missing last piece.

“Not so fast.” I swiftly move to her side to kiss her forehead. No way I’m letting her go without giving her at least one more.

“There,” I pet her head, griggling and sweeping my tail triumphantly, “now you’re free to go.”

“I wouldn’t have gone without telling you, you know?” She stands on the tip of her toes to peck me on the lips, slightly swaying side to side to keep her balance.

So I lean forward to make it easier for her and chuckle against her lips. “Have a good day at work, Y/N.”

“You too, Jae.”

And with that, she puts on her coat, grabs her bag and opens the front door. She lingers in the doorway, waving half-heartedly as a final word of goodbye.

I wave back, faking a smile to see her off without worry.

Being human again isn’t so bad.

However, the deadline is another story.

The shop is as tranquil as it is on any other day. The quietness of unread words hangs between the shelves, the only noise to disrupt the silence being the rustle of a page being turned. Seated by the window as per usual, listening to the hail in the dim light, I read the time away, but whereas it’s normally a form of amusement and pleasure, it now functions in part to forget this morning’s discovery.

I didn’t mean to pry, but I inspected Y/N’s bookshelves before I left her apartment. There was the usual assortment of classics, but also a lot of Asian fiction, a genre I haven’t delved into too much yet. So, of course with the intention of returning it, I took Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami with me.

She must have read it recently because her fruity scent still lingers on the paper. The summer blend distracts me to the point that the movement of the hands of the clock pass unnoticed in the background.

Regardless of the appointed time, it’s half past two instead of two o’clock that Jinyoung comes in. In his one hand he holds a carrier with two paper cups, the sleeves on them decorated with the silhouette of a black wolf and the name of the café printed in vintage letters beneath the design, the letters spelling out Wolf’s. Judging by the scent, it’s tea the doctor has brought with him. Apple cinnamon for me, since that’s the only one I like, and rooibos for himself.

In his other hand, he holds his bag. One of the claps has either not been fastened before he left or came undone along the way. Whatever the reason, it’s clear he came here in a hurry.

“Sorry I’m late. Christian and I had a lot more to discuss than we thought.” Jinyoung stumbles inside, puts the tea and his bag on the counter, and turns around to lock the door and flip the sign so we can talk in private.

A hint of leather mixed with coffee and wood is mixed in with his own.

Male.

Threat.

Teeth gritted and jaw clenched, I make a mental note to myself to keep this scent away from Y/N. To keep this Christian away from her.

“Jaebeom,” the other male sighs. His tone holds a silent warning of being close to breaking some kind of boundary.

“What?” The answer rolls off the tongue as a growl rather than an actual question. Not that it matters since he must have had a lot worse to endure from me. Besides, it’s not him I’m pissed at so he’s safe.

Although, the wild undertone in his already peculiar personal blend alludes to the opposite.

Has he always smelled like this or is this new? He is human, but then why does my instinct tell me to watch out for him, that there’s more than to him? Strange. 

“He’s no competition. I think he might have imprinted with my colleague, although neither he nor she might be aware of it.” He rolls his eyes. “The gods know whether Gráinne will do anything with it. I wonder if... no, I don’t think either of them told her anything.”

A grim wistfulness stains his voice, which ignites a curiosity about his colleague’s circumstances. Notwithstanding, that story will have to wait until another day and his willingness to tell me.

Still, I quickly fish my phone out of my pocket, open the notes app, and jot down a short reminder to ask about it at a later date.

“Anyway,” Jinyoung steps away from the door, hands me the cup with apple cinnamon tea, and gestures at the worn couch by the window overlooking the west side of the neighbourhood, “we’re here to talk about you. About the picture you sent.”

We move away from the counter to the sofa. A burst of hail spatters against the glass as we sit down.

I’m glad to have something to hold to conceal the shivers running through my body at the image of the claw mark mixed with the memory of what Y/N told me she felt. Or, rather, thought she felt although I’m certain she actually did feel the first ripples of transformation.

For a moment, we sit in silence as I mentally prepare myself for the conversation. Nipping on the tea with my shoulders curled over my chest, I try to reconstruct last night as best I can.

As much as my memory lets me.

To break the... something. There’s an idiom, no, a phrase? A saying.

I don’t know.

Not anymore.

To make it easier, likely noticing the struggle to say anything, Jinyoung speaks up. “There’s more than the photo. You’re leaving things out, things I need to know to help. What aren’t you telling me, Jaebeom?”

“Y/N-” I begin, my breath unsteady as I restart the sentence, “Y/N said she felt my skin move and if I try to remember last night, I can only recall fragments that give me a headache when I try to string them together. Which I can’t.”

He pales, frozen in place as the weird briny scent sours. “That shouldn’t-’’

“Shouldn’t happen,” I finish the remark. 

A horrifying idea arises that sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end and has me nervously tapping my thumbs together as I try not to squeeze the cup in my paws. Nonetheless, voice a low woof bordering on a melancholic whine, I tell the doctor what’s on my mind. “I think the pills stopped working. Completely. I- I don’t think-’’

The world stops, shrinks, and strings my chest as tight as a string as I shrink within myself. Each thought evaporates as fast as the flashes in the wolf’s memory, incoherent if meant to be sensible at all.

The snow hasn’t even come.

I can’t leave her alone.

I don’t want to leave this life.

I don’t want to go just when being human again starts to get good.

I don’t want to be the old me again.

  “I think so too,” Jinyoung agrees grimly. “If I increase the silver and nightshade or the doses it will kill you.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes sharp with focus as he poses the question I’ve been wondering about myself. “Does she know what you are?”

I shake my head. I might be her weirdo wolf guy, but she’d never believe me if I told her what I really am. Besides, werewolves are the stuff of fiction these days.

We’re no longer seen as a real threat nor have the power and status we used to have in the days of yore. We are devoid of an identity acknowledged by humans.

But, if I don’t possess an identity, am I really here?

Alive?

Or dead like the wolf inside?

Paradise is calling, the song of the forest playing like a red thread through my broken memory.

Beckoning me home.

The woods are calling.

And I must not go.

Jinyoung’s new question pulls me out of my reverie, just in time before the train of thought would crash and burn. “Are you going to tell her?”

“No.” I take a sip of the sweet tea, to have a second of bliss and enjoy a new human pleasure.

Another happiness I discovered a little too late.

“Will you at least tell her about your meds?” Even though she’s seen me take them, Y/N doesn’t know what they’re for. But, then again, did she look at the label?

Regardless of whether she did or not, she’s perhaps not truly ignorant to the reason I have to take them. After all, she thinks they combat my amnesia, which is partially true. It’s a half-truth.

But the real reason is a secret I intend to keep.

“No,” I repeat, determined in my answer regardless of the world spinning out of control. “I won’t tell her.”

“She deserves that much, doesn’t she? She’s your girlfriend, Jay.’’ Although his features have softened, the doctor’s voice rises to a fierce bark as he reinforces his point. ‘’Your mate.”

“I can’t tell her,’’ I retort, my bark closer to a growl than a civilized answer. Tears brim on the edge of my lashes, obscuring my vision in spite of my attempts to blink them away. The vision of Y/N by herself in the snow, on her knees in the middle of the orchard, blocks my throat and makes breathing harder than it already was. 

The vision changes to the image of a spring day close to summer, warm enough for her to wear the dress with the lemons. She’s seated in the same position between the trees which are now white and pink with blossom. However, whereas her belly was flat before, it’s now swollen, pregnant with pups.

My pups?

No, I have to stay here.

I have to survive the winter.

I have to be here if I ever change my mind and want to start a pack with her.

I must be here.

But the question is whether I actually can.

At this rate, I’m not sure.

I don’t know.

But I know enough to explain why I’m reluctant to tell my pretty lady anything. ‘’I can’t tell her, because the news will hurt her and I don’t want that. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Plus, what am I supposed to say? I’m a wolf that turned into a man and is slowly dying, going back to his old form in which it... he. Am human. In which he’ll be stuck until it- He! Am human! Until he dies?

“Y/N has to know about this, Jaebeom.’’ A hand on my shoulder makes me look up from the floor to the man next to me. ‘’How about I talk to her, tell her what you told me and discuss what our options are as well as a plan for the future?”

“You’re right.” I let out a mirthless griggle. “Fuck, I hate it when you are. But… But how will you… explain, uhm, explain… this- me! How will you explain me? What I am? For all she cares, werewolves are my- myth- fic-’’ I throw my head back, frustrated I can’t find the right word or properly speak.

Jinyoung gives me an encouraging squeeze, kindheartedly chuckling at my failure. “I know what you mean. Nobody comes into our world willingly or at least without a good reason. I think your... situation is enough of the latter for her to get involved too. She doesn’t have to join the branch, I’ll leave that up to her. But, if Y/N decides to believe me, or us for that matter, she’ll at least have a community to rely on when you, you know, you’re...”

“When I’m gone.’’ The hesitance to state the facts makes me grimace and my tone sharper than intended. ‘’We both know where this is heading so just say it.”

“Fine,’’ the doctor puts his hands up as if he’s at the risk of being shot ‘’when you’re gone.”

“What’ll happen to the shop?” I gesture around the paper paradise, changing the topic slightly. Books have been another treasure of humanity I will forever be grateful for, especially since I hopefully have created a legacy with them that’s worth keeping.

The doctor glances around, a somber expression on his face. “Either the university will keep it and maintain it as a potential workplace in the reintegration program or sell it off. I don’t know, real estate doesn’t fall within my jurisdiction.”

“Ah, I see.” I lower my head, gaze averted to the half-empty cup in my paws.

Funny how I once thought of making this a family business or to have at least my pup’s name on the spine of one of these books. If I ever had them, would they like to be a writer? Would Y/N tell them their absent father, I... I love... loved to read?

I force myself to forget the thought, swallow despite having a dry mouth, and shake my head. “Thank you. For wanting to tell her. She’ll come over tonight, so-’’

He holds up his hand to stop me. “I’ll text her so we can meet at a later date. She just returned from a business trip and had quite the evening with you. You two deserve a bit of rest.”

“But what if...”

It’s unlikely, but what if it happens again? What if I spin out of control tonight?

“Keep your temper in check and try to suppress your instinct,” Jinyoung answers matter-of-factly.

So, no sex.

Although the unspoken implication doesn’t come as a surprise, I can’t help but feel disappointed even though Y/N and I agreed on not doing it again so soon. Notwithstanding, it would be a lie to say I didn’t want to do it again this morning. But then there was the pool of blood and the amnesia that ruined our morning bliss.

All the same, flashes of what I do remember from last night replay in my mind.

They say once you’ve had a wolf, you never go back. Maybe because I won’t let you.

She looked beautiful, tears glistening in her eyes, equally as beautiful as her meek whimpers. She’s so small and fragile, easy to overpower.

To conquer.

“Your mind’s…. gutter again, isn’t it?” A groan sounds from somewhere on the side, distant like a faint echo

I was inside her.

In spite of the weird plastic, she felt nice.

Warm.

Wet.

I replay the image of her whimpering on the sheets as I looked down at her over and over. My hand on her cheek and Y/N keeping it in place. I should have used that second to dive down and worship her soft breasts more.

I could have bitten her there. Just a small bite on the side.

The snapping of a pair of fingers before my eyes interrupts the pleasant reverie. A bit offended, I snap around to growl at whoever took the pleasure of a cherished memory away.

 Only to face Jinyoung, who sighs and looks down at the bulge in my pants before pursing his lips with an exasperated knowing expression as he looks up. 

Scrambling to regain my composure and hardly remembering what he said, I answer as best I can. “No!”

“Then why are you drooling?”

[tallyovie-writes]

Arsonists's Lullaby R.A.B.

SONGFIC

Summary: Regulus finds a soul like his in a person he would have never guessed

Author's note: unedited, after 3 exams, 1 am, please be kind I know it starts slow but there will be more parts

1.6k words

When I was a child, I heard voices

Some would sing and some would scream

You soon find you have few choices

I learned the voices died with me

At 5 years old, Regulus Arcturus Black learned that family did not always mean blood. He had yet to figure out the true meaning of the word, but he knew what he had was a dark echo of an utopist dream.

His childhood was dominated by a gray filter, muffling the sounds, numbing the emotions, stretching the minutes forever. On certain days, the lights grew darker, shadowing the world into almost black. Black like his name, black like the soul he will grow up to have. The ticking of the clocks were too loud, the walls too high, his mothers steps on the creaking stairs too firm in a world of doubt and uncertainty.

When I was a child, I'd sit for hours

Staring into open flame

Something in it had a power

Could barely tear my eyes away

Sometimes, for split seconds, burgundy took over the darkness. The lifelessness in the manor disappeared, and compensating for life's previous absence it channelled all of its heat into hate. Hate for an empty mother from Sirius, hate for a son who did not fit traditions from his mother.

Hate from Regulus, who possessed the survival instinct of laying low and keeping to himself but his brother did not. And Regulus resented him in these moments. For all the plates in million pieces, previously broken on the wall, for all the harsh words leaving their father's mouth, for all the clever little punishments their mother put them through. Them, because getting caught in the crossfire of a traditional Black "family" argument meant everyone's suffering.

It was a flame barely extinguishable. It meant the only display of emotions aside from the rare brotherly moments he shared with Sirius.

Emotions lead to addiction. And if anger is the only feeling fuelled, darkness starts to grow.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

That fire burned a self preservation so deep in him, that Regulus recognized he needed power in order to make it in this world. Power to stay strong, make it through between his ambitious peers and most importantly to guard himself. The blatant, headstrong bravery Sirius took upon arriving at Hogwarts made school holidays a hellish wartime at home.

Regulus learned not to engage. The moment the edges of his self-made cell threatened to break, he carefully tucked in his emotions once again. He didn't want to cut out feeling at all, he deemed that too dangerous for his liking. No. He just didn't let his emotions get the best of him. A man ruled by his feelings is a terrifying sight. He mentally injected himself with an anaesthetic in public, and behind four walls he let himself carefully examine them. It wasn't easy. The tangled web of emotional strings, numbed most of the time, screamed for air. Screamed for understanding, for letting go, for caring. But he cut those last remaining ties with love the moment Sirius got sorted into Gryffindor.

When I was 16, my senses fooled me

Thought gasoline was on my clothes

I knew that something would always rule me

I knew the scent was mine alone

At 16 years old Regulus Arcturus Black saw a way in the darkness. He didn't dare call it a glimmer of hope. Hope was a privilege only offered to the good and divine, to the pure and just. He was neither, he thought.

Perhaps he was right. For now. But fate has a way of changing the tides and replacing the figures on the chessboard.

He has long lost the map to his emotions. They were carefully tucked away in a forgotten pocket somewhere around his heart, but as one man, he couldn't untangle them alone. Not like he wanted to.

His salvation arrived in the face of a charismatic leader. He had answers to Regulus's questions that he long sought to find. Ever since he was a child he associated power with stability and control over one's life, and this stranger offered power on a silver plate. He couldn't have been worse. Of course in hindsight, everything seems more clear.

But as he was shrouded in darkness, he chose to become a part of the dark as well.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

One of the main problems in Regulus's logic was that he thought that being a Death Eater would solve all of his insecurities and instability. At first it seemed to work, building a new world by idealistic wishes and getting rid of the dangers life proposed helped setting his nerves right. But as the curls of the smoke threatened to suffocate him, his decision pressed hard on his shoulder.

He knew there was no out of this. The Dark Lord's silver tongue has lost its magic, he could detect the empty lies, the manipulation, the sinister force. He could detect it, because it takes one to know another, and he was a master in the arts of manipulation and lying. Why wouldn't he be? He spent all of his childhood perfecting the image of the pureblood son his family wanted him to be. And he did not fail. Keeping it up during Hogwarts has become a natural instinct, but also demolished his true self.

What was the true soul of Regulus Arcturus Black?

When I was a man I thought it ended

When I knew love's perfect ache

But my peace has always depended

On all the ashes in my wake

He thought he would never find it out. But then you came along and wrecked his carefully planted walls. At first he hated you for that.

You were obnoxious and the true image of what a pureblood offspring should be. What he should be.

He would have never thought that someone could be a better liar and manipulator than him. Regulus needed years of careful examination to see the cracks in your armour and the rare slips in character. At first, he was sure that his mind was imagining things that were not there. After years of reading his slytherin peers, your occasional un-slytherin-like behaviour peaked his curiosity.

One day he was sitting at the Slytherin table when an idea struck. You didn't sit far away, so you had to be pulled into the conversation too.

"Snape!" Regulus called to the oily haired seventh year. "Heard He recruited you. You finally pulled your head out of your ass?"

Of course he has seen the err of his decision by now, so Regulus asked him this for two reasons.

One: he had to keep up appearances.

Two: he wanted to see how you reacted.

He had been spending the last few weeks noticing your subtle icks regarding certain subjects. So far his theory seemed to prove true.

On the outside an appraising look sat on your face.

But Regulus learned to discover the signs. And he was once again right as he noticed the tip of your ring finger hardly pushed against your thumb nail, leaving a mark. Subtle, but still a tell tale sign of someone who is not fully on board with the subject.

One day he decided to corner you.

"I know the game you are playing" he didn't mean to sound so threatening, but it came out like that.

A snake doesn't crack under pressure, so you looked him in the eye and let a sly smile spread across your face.

"Please, do enlighten me. What game am I playing? Or is it better if I ask which game of mine you are referring to? I am a busy woman."

He let your comment fly.

"I noticed the tip of your ring finger is bruised. I would bandage it. The past few weeks you must have been careless and cut it. Wouldn't want any infection, would you?" he looked deep into your eyes, transferring the other meaning of his words.

You knew what he meant. Lately, you spotted the Black boy's eyes on you. In the Great Hall, during classes, those grey orbs never left you. You thought he harbored a silly little crush on you. Now you realized your mistake. The question however remained. What will he do with this information?

You are getting careless, if I noticed, someone might too. Someone you wouldn't want to notice. His eyes said.

Your House was not meant for easy friendships. The rising of The Dark Lord supported a lot of back stabbings for meaningless praises, so you had to be careful.

With a last nod he turned his back on you and walked away, leaving you with only frustration and more questions. Could the Slytherin Silver Boy share your views? Maybe when Hell freezes over.

Regulus knew, he should have said; I know the game you are playing, because I am playing it too.

All you have is your fire

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash

Fate sat on her chair and watched the two young snakes step on their shared path. Neither of them knew yet what this little encounter will set into motion.

But Fate knew and mourned the loss of another great story that has not even started, but was already told.

She sipped her wine and caressed the head of one of her demons.

[neutron-stars-collision]

The Art of Inversion

Neil x Reader

Chapter 21 - Losing My Religion

Masterlist; Chapter 20

Summary: After Tallinn, you use the opportunity and visit Neil’s apartment. What you find there, only increases the confusion, just as the pieces are set for the endgame.

Warnings: Swearing; angst.

Author’s Notes: This was a challenge, and it’s a little different too, a breather before the real fun begins... or something. After this we move onto the icebreaker... (and things). I’ll shut up now, hope you’ll enjoy and all kind of feedback are greatly welcomed! 

The clean up after TP’s little accident on the highway was difficult. And tiring. By the time you have dealt with the mess and could call it a day, you wanted nothing but to sleep. And also disappear from the face of the Earth. That second thing was rather tricky to achieve. Unfortunately. You had to settle for the slightly awkward space given by the rest of the team and the fact that you were bound to return to London the next day. That was something. Even if it meant having to debate whether those damned keys were to be used.

The journey back was uneventful. Only Wheeler seemed capable of talking to you without looking as though she has been trapped in some metaphorical web of ineptitude that the others got caught in. That was alright. At least she knew how that conversation in the container went. Her company was good enough to keep you from going insane for the time being.

The moment the car arrived at the London quarters, you practically bolted out through the door. Eager to finally have your own space to reflect, cry, and try to move on after the unimaginable. But it was not exactly meant to be given…

“Y/N, wait!” Ives’ voice rung out through the reception hall as you skidded down the corridor.

Crap.

“Yeah?” cautiously, you stopped in your tracks, facing the squad leader.

Making the mistake of glancing at the reception desk, you met Anna’s watchful gaze. Of course. Even though you knew she had no clue about anything that transpired between you and Neil, it still felt like a painful reminder.

“I…uh...” the hesitation in Ives’ voice made you frown, “I just got this, and I’m not sure…” he passed you his phone with a strange expression on his face.

A text from TP. Just like the ones you received before. Right… This one had a familiarly succinct form: “Invert for eight days with the army from tomorrow. Then get to Trondheim, awaiting further instructions”

“Is this from him?” you looked up to see the blue eyes boring into yours with confusion.

“Yeah, it must be” you nodded and handed him back the phone.

At that exact moment, you got a text as well. Hurriedly you took out the device and read the message:

“Invert along with Ives and the rest”.

Short and simple. Yet not at all. Without a word, you showed your companion the text message and stifled a heavy sigh. Inversion. Eight days. Trondheim. That most likely confirmed your worst fears. The end of it all was near, and you were needed there. You, Neil, and everyone else still had their parts to play in the most important of showdowns.

“So, I guess we’re going back” you could feel Ives’ inquisitive stare on you “Just like they are” he added, awaiting a response.

Meeting Neil after those eight upcoming days sounded like a nightmare. Because a week was never enough to fall out of love. Or to even attempt it. You were a lost cause.

“…yep” nodding halfheartedly, you could feel another weight settle on your shoulders.

“Excited?” the intensity of Ives’ look convinced you towards his intentions.

Evidently, he tried to get a clue towards your state, probably assessing whether you could endanger the mission in any way. Despite everything, you were a professional. A Tenet agent. That had to come before any personal issues you might have had. Forcing a smile, you met his gaze with sincerity.

“Not really” a shrug completed the response.

But it was enough as he grinned back and squeezed your shoulder reassuringly.

“It’s alright. Have today off and be ready tomorrow morning,” he ordered with a feigned sternness.

“Aye aye, sir” you saluted, enjoying the laugh it prompted.

Maybe not everything was utterly shit.

“Your edge is still intact, I see,” he commented once the laughter died down.

“At least something is then” you grimaced slightly and walked off with a wave.

A day off. What could one possibly do with something like that after everything? The set of keys in your pocket felt heavy for something that small. And insignificant (in theory).

*** It took you one hour of staring at the wall, a thirty-minute-long shower, and two coffees to decide to make use of the keys. After all, what was the harm? It was a way of spending the idle hours. And maybe to understand him a little better. Even if it was too late to save anything. You wanted to know him. To know his mind and heart. You dug out the note with the address Ives gave you and typed it into the maps app. Your hands were shaking the whole journey. Even though it was not far, it turned out to be challenging. Often you were catching yourself glancing at the phone, expecting him to call or text as he always did.  But then you remembered, making the nerves come to the surface again. You wondered whether it was because of the absolute wreckage your relationship became or because you were unable to contact him in any way. Walking the streets leading to Neil’s apartment, you realised that it was probably both. You missed him. Simple as that. And equally complicated at the same time.

Google maps led you to an old docking space transformed into posh loft spaces in two store buildings of dark red brick. The residential area was completed with a large parking lot (full of rather good cars), making the first question of the day pop into your head: Did Neil have a private car? Something that unimportant yet entirely mundane only made you realise how little you knew of his life. But this was exactly why you came here. The second thought was something you always knew yet never took time to ponder on: the fact that he undeniably had money. It did not matter, of course. Just another fact that could as a trigger for the intrusive ideas to appear.

Ignoring the spiraling thoughts, you made your way to the indicated building, keying in the code at the door and following the stairs to the second floor. The apartment door no 4 looked like any other you have passed on the way. Turning the key in the lock, you took a deep breath, gathering courage for god knows what. Perhaps just being alone with everything that had to do with Neil… The door opened soundlessly. Faint daylight from the corridor fell onto the furniture and objects gathered in the hall, helping your eyes adjust to the darkness. You closed the door and locked it. The least you could have wanted was for someone to break in on your watch. Now that would have made him hate you. If he didn’t already, that is. Taking off the shoes, you scanned the hall. Hooks with various jackets and coats on the wall. Including a slightly weathered leather one that perked your interest. With fingers ghosting the material, you were unable to block the images of Neil wearing it. That was enough to make you blush and curse out loud. That won’t help with getting over him. As though that was even possible.

Next, your eyes landed on the shoes rack in the corner showing off Neil’s questionable taste in footwear. You grimaced when spotting another pair of brogues (that would have to go… if there was any future for you) and then smiled involuntarily at something as casual as old converse on the top shelf of the rack. So, he could dress more… normally. Interesting.

The rest of the space was filled with a large mirror and a cupboard full of random objects such as spare lightbulbs, shoe care products, and cleaning supplies. On top of that cupboard, there was a succulent (practical, you had to admit), a desk calendar, and a small notepad filled with Neil’s writing. The contents ranged from shopping lists to quantum physics, making you grin fondly when looking through the pages. The latest entry was written down in haste and barely eligible. What you deciphered made your heart stumble for the first time that day. It seemed like Neil was planning to invite you over after Tallinn, prepare dinner, and apparently do all that ‘he wanted to for a while’. Brilliant. The notepad fell from your hands as the implications dawned on you. He wanted to set everything straight, to talk and potentially tell you important things… But now, it did not matter. There was no post-Estonia. Just you alone in his cold, darkened apartment, full of doubts, regrets, and worries.

Shivering from both the chill and the anxiety, you ventured into the living room. It was an open space with a large leather sofa, TV, record player with shelves full of albums and vinyls. There were also bookcases filled to the brim and a dining table for four. Once your gaze fell onto the black piano in the corner, you did a double-take. Obviously, Neil was musically talented. All those times when he has been desperate to annoy you by singing various corny love songs in public were an indisputable example. A moment like that from Tallinn flashed before your eyes…

You and Neil sat in a restaurant on one of the ‘dates’ you had managed to fit into the schedule before TP arrived in Estonia. Cozied up in the corner on a comfortable sofa, you felt perfectly at peace. Instead of taking the seat opposite, Neil got as close as it was possible without raising eyebrows of the fine clientele. You were chatting about everything and nothing, occasionally taking sips of the coffees and letting your hands rest on each other’s knees. Other times they would be interlocked on the table between the plates, showing to the world that this was no platonic meetup. Using the natural break in the conversation, you finished the remains of your latte and watched as Neil focused on the radio somewhere in the background. By this point, you should have known better, but still, the second he started singing took you by surprise.

‘Pretty woman I don't believe you, you're not the truth No one could look as good as you, mercy’

His gaze settled on you without that mercy, awaiting a response. His lips curled into a deadly smirk, making the matters worse. For a moment, you wanted to ignore him, to deny him the satisfaction. But the way he stared, enunciating the song lyrics with precision and aiming them at you, triggered the familiar desire to stake your claim. To make him (and everyone else) understand that he was yours. Especially with a voice that beautiful and eyes that looked at you with boundless affection.

‘Pretty woman that you look lovely as can be Are you lonely just like me’

It was the cheesy growl at the end of that stanza that did it. Combined with the huskiness of Neil’s voice and his hand appearing on your thigh underneath the table, it was enough to convince you to shut him up the best way you knew. You leaned in, placing your palm on the inside of his thigh, just close enough to remind him. Capturing his lips in a kiss, you did not have to wait long for Neil to invite you closer. You began the intimate dance, getting lost in the moment entirely. With him being in public did not matter. Especially not when he was giving you everything he could on a silver plate. Those days every kiss threatened to evolve into a full make-out session as you tried to get ever closer to him. That is why when you heard an awkward cough followed by “Miss, Sir, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to leave” you could only start laughing. That was two days before your walk, which ended in the alley. The rest was history.

Shaking your head slightly, you let go of the memory. Has it gotten even colder? Shivering, you spotted a sweater draped on the side of the sofa. Crossing the space, you glanced at the instrument that caught your attention. A simple black Kawai piano with a Chopin music score opened on the fallboard and the stool underneath. If there even was a future, you wanted to hear him play something. You could almost picture it. Those long, elegant fingers on the black and white keys, hitting every note with perfection and the flourish he applied to every single task. His gaze focused. Golden hair falling into his eyes carelessly. Lips parted, tongue poking out in concentration. He was bound to be a sight as usual.

Ignoring the waking up flutters that always accompanied every thought about Neil, you picked up the sweater. It was the colour of dark red wine, simple and yet sophisticated in its simplicity. Cashmere. He really is posh. Giving in to the sudden whimsy, you breathed in the smell. That was a mistake. The moment Neil’s essence overwhelmed your senses, you felt a surge of feelings. The musky scent, the hints of bergamot and lavender that always brought comfort. Before you could second guess everything, you put the sweater on, letting the smell envelope you like his hugs always did. It was another thing that you missed. The ability to rest within his strong embrace, safe and wanted. The feeling of his arms cradling you with care. Without the solidity beneath your hands, it was hard to remember how it felt. The sweater had to do. You rolled up the sleeves and approached the large window, drawing back the curtains to see the view and let in light. The sight certainly was not disappointing with the lookout on the Thames and the docking ships. The area looked peaceful, like the place you could want to go out on walks and spend the rest of your life… No, stop. That was a dangerous line of thinking. After all, you only came here to satisfy the curiosity. And because you could, with nothing left to lose. Well, maybe apart from your sanity.

With the day shedding some light onto the furniture and objects in the room, you could more closely assess the type of person Neil was. The décor was rather posh (nothing surprising there) with leather, dark wood, and refined fabrics gracing the space. But upon a closer look, you could see the hints of Neil’s personality shining through the bounds of the stereotypes. It was visible in the chaos of the little details. Billy Idol album discarded on the CD player making you smile. The dying plants on the windowsill. The opened book on the coffee table right next to a bar of chocolate and some bullets. What even… 

Looking around the space, you could easily picture him there. It was like entering a museum of Neil’s life and heart, and you were just a mere visitor. A trespasser even though you had the keys. Lost in the thoughts, you approached the bookshelves, looking over the titles. Young and Freedman’s University Physics with Modern Physics with a worn-out spine and a library stamp on the title page (a theft?). Griffith’s Introduction to Quantum Mechanics with scribbles on the margins, making your head hurt. More Quantum Mechanics but only getting increasingly complex. Spacetime and Geometry. In between the textbooks, there were classics of English and American literature, proving your theory that Neil knew the canon well. All those quotations had to come from somewhere… You looked over the further titles relating to the nuclear area of Physics and relativity of time, only to be thrown out of the moment when your eyes landed on a photograph in a wooden frame. A grinning young man with warm brown eyes and curly dark hair sat on the bench in the park. Alex. Picking up the photo, you took a closer look, feeling inexplicable heaviness in your chest. He looked just like Neil described him – an essence of goodness and understanding. The lump in our throat was strange. He still loved Alex that was a fact and something you took for granted. For a second, you wondered whether you could ever be half that important to him. But that was selfish. And wrong.

Swallowing hard, you put down the frame, focusing on another one nearby. In that photo, you recognized everyone. Ives with slightly longer hair grinning widely, next to him Wheeler with her practical bun and amused eyes, TP relaxed like always when in the company of friends. And then… You would recognize those eyes and sharp jaw anywhere, but… He’s not naturally blonde? You stared at the man who was undoubtedly Neil but with light brown hair, just as messy as usual. Interesting. You did suspect he dyed the hair but still having confirmation was unexpected. Staring a little longer at the photo, you already knew that it did not matter. He was a work of art, full stop. The rest of the photos depicted the Tenet crew, apart from the one you assumed was a family snapshot from years ago. Two happy boys with mundane looking parents and a Labrador retriever (Charlie!). Upon a closer look, you could tell that Neil got his blue eyes after his mother and the smile after his father. It was an interesting discovery. Other objects littering the shelves included postcards, trinkets from travels, and a strange collection of obscure coins. Also, more notebooks with Neil’s equations and theories and music scores. There was no order, just fate, and fancy. Just like him.

Wandering into the kitchen, running your fingertips over various instruments and surfaces, you wanted to soak in the atmosphere of the apartment. So far, the new information was almost overwhelming. But also fascinating in the fact that you already felt like you knew him better. Glancing at the fridge in passing, you froze. Among the cheap promotional magnets and old shopping notes attached to it, there was a rather familiar writing visible. A note you made Anna pass to him many weeks ago. “I’ll be at the shooting range. Meet you for dinner after 5” signed with your initials for practicality. Why has he kept it? It did not make sense. You forgot about the existence of something that inconsequential, yet here it was. Kept in place with a blaring orange magnet from Sainsbury’s. Suddenly feeling a little faint with the implications of the moment, you poured tap water into the glass and sat down on the stool by the kitchen island. You could still remember Anna’s offended stare when you gave her the note with the instruction to pass it to Neil later. That memory triggered another one, much more recent…

In the days leading up to Tallinn, you went out with Neil for a lunch and walk under the guise of planning the logistics of your journey. Sure, there was some planning being done over the tea and sandwiches. But there was also a lot of hand-holding, kissing, and gazing shamelessly. It was during those days, and then the idle hours in the safe house, that you have allowed yourself to love him. The feelings were there for months (most likely), but only after Oslo and the candid conversations in your room, you felt more at ease with them. So far, that PDA was not all that terrifying. And so, when you came back to the London quarters that afternoon, your fingers intertwined, you only realised how it looked like from the outside when Neil tugged you in the direction of Anna’s desk.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, hoping the woman was too busy to see you.

“I told you, need to get that ID sorted,” he explained, matching your conspiratorial tone, completely oblivious to your struggles.

“Yeah, but…” you raised your joined hands as if to show him the issue.

Neil grinned, waving his free hand dismissively.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s not like that’s against the rules” ending the sentence, he took the final step separating you from the desk.

Great. Plastering on the most pleasant of smiles, you met Anna’s accusatory glare. You could not blame her.

“Anna, hi” Neil’s bright grin got met with a cold face of stone.

You vividly remembered that first day at Tenet, when you were filling in the paperwork, observing him flirt with the woman behind the desk. Back then, you were baffled by her reaction, the fluttering of eyelashes and lovesick smiles. Now you wondered how you got to that point and why you were seemingly luckier than she could ever be.

“Yes?”

“My ID is expiring soon. Was wondering if you could give me the form for the new one?” Neil’s chirpy tone made you hide a smile by looking at the floor “I want to get this sorted for after we’re back” he added, with that hopeful gaze barely anyone could ever say no to.

Anna was not any different.

“Naturally,” she spared you a final spiteful look before turning around to use the computer.

Glancing around the empty lobby, you hoped to survive the rest of the encounter without any additional awkwardness. But Neil had other plans. He stepped in closer, nose brushing over your ear, tearing down any illusions about the nature of your relationship. You stifled a sigh when his lips placed a small kiss over your temple.

“Shall we go to yours after this?” the whisper complemented with a ghost of his fingers on the side of your neck made you shiver.

“Maybe…” you cast a wary glance at Anna, but her back was turned.

Thankfully.

“I thought we could resume the planning…” upon the suggestive tone, you turned to meet his gaze.

Surely enough, the playful sparks were there. And the smirk too. Of course. Planning, in this case, most likely meant more cuddling… and potentially kissing. His hands getting accustomed to your body, leaving countless promises for the future. The thoughts alone made you blush. Before Neil could get any closer, Anna’s voice interrupted the moment:

“Here’s your form,” nothing but ice and fury.

So, she must have noticed…

“Thanks” the polite nod made you snicker.

During the next few terribly long minutes, you did your best to avoid looking at the other woman. Or at Neil. Your gaze roamed over the ceiling, the walls, and the floor. Reading the same fire evacuation instructions for the fifth time, you felt a gentle touch on your arm:

“Can I put down your details as my emergency contact?” you looked up straight into those inquisitive blue eyes “I’ve had Ives the last two years, but I think you’re a more accurate option these days,” he explained as though it was obvious.

Emergency contact? You always assumed those were for best friends and spouses. You were not sure which fitted the criteria.  

“How so?” blurting out the only viable question, you met his perplexed gaze.

“… because I’m with you and not with him” the bluntness of the reply made your heart stumble.

“Right”

Of course, you agreed. As a ‘thank you’ that afternoon, Neil kissed you until there was barely any breath left for either of you. Now you missed the feeling of being that desired.

And yet, that stupid note was right there, in your eyes a bright red spot that you could not ignore. Because surely, he must have cared at some point? You finished the remains of water and washed the glass. Then, just for the sake of a distraction, you went through the kitchen cupboards. Nothing surprising. Appliances that looked barely used. Canned food every Brit would be expected to have. The amounts of frozen meals in the lower fridge compartments confirmed another thesis - Neil did not like cooking. That was fair not everyone could be Jamie Oliver. Not that you would prefer him. Certainly not. Shaking your head at the ridiculousness of the thoughts, you opened another cabinet. Wine and glasses, triggering the memory from your date night in Oslo. The way Neil tried to emulate his swank further by pretending to be a sommelier, making you laugh with his fake French accent and sparse knowledge. Upon the efforts to name something else than tannins (that Sauvignon Blanc had little of), you stepped in, shutting him up with a fingertip tracing the outline of his lips, collecting a stray droplet of wine. And then licking your finger clean, much to his shock. The strange snapshot from one of the most eventful nights in your life was a good cue to leave the kitchen and trod down the corridor.

You stepped into the bathroom, curiously glancing at the contents of the cupboards and around the sink. Nothing remarkable. Giving in to the temptation, you sprayed the cologne he used on your wrist and inhaled deeply. Closing the bathroom door, your eyes landed on the room at the end of the corridor. Neil’s bedroom. Involuntarily, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Bedrooms were always a sacred space. The most private of places in the house. The stage set for life’s crucial events. Love, life, and tragedy all began to play out (and end) in there. If there was a room closest to the heart of the owner, it would be the bedroom and its contents. With a shaky hand, you pressed down the handle and opened the door. The interior was almost too mundane. The bed with dark grey covers and decorative pillows. Some artworks on the walls and drawn curtains, forcing you to turn on the ceiling lamp. A small bedside table with a night light and books. A walk-in closet with the sliding doors partly opened. That was what drew you in first, crossing the space you peered inside. Only to be overwhelmed with that Neil smell that made sure to make your heart rate pick up. Gently, you ran your fingers over the suit jackets and sweaters hanged on the rails. He had a multitude of those, in different colours. Eyeing a suit in dark blue, you could imagine how it would bring out his eyes. There were a few sweaters in different shades of green, confirming the suspicions that he liked the colour. Further along, you found a drawer with ties of various patterns, making you grin at one olive green with Labradors on it. Now that was a classic Neil accessory.

Just when you were about to end the ‘snooping’ your gaze landed on a more casual part of the wardrobe. Jeans folded on the shelves, t-shirts, and polos. Even a jean jacket somewhere in the back. In the drawer, you found socks with questionable patterns, only increasing the fondness you felt for the owner of such an eclectic wardrobe. And then you made the mistake of letting your curiosity get ahead of you. Another drawer. Underwear. Your face got warm as you slammed it shut. Enough. Thinking about that could lead to the dangerous territory you would rather not venture out to. At least not when alone in his apartment, overwhelmed with memories and feelings. There would be time for this too later… Hopefully.

Sliding the doors shut, you took in the room again. The pile of books on the bedside table caught your attention. Gingerly, you sat down on the bed, doing your best not to think about the specifics of that moment. You, alone in his bedroom. This was certainly not how you expected to end up in there for the first time. But that too was beyond the point. Sighing, you picked up the stack of books only to drop them onto the covers with hands shaking. You would recognize the cover everywhere. Your favourite book. The exact copy you had last seen in Oslo when you gave it to Neil. That memory was rather unforgettable…

Hanging out in the hotel room, waiting for Mahir and TP to come back from a small errand, you did your best to ignore Neil’s piercing gaze from across space. That was the day after your careless dancing and that evening’s developments when he asked you out. Just before the mission. And Neil was staring, shamelessly so. It was getting on your nerves.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” putting down the itinerary, you broke the silence and faced him.

The satisfied smile was enough to make you groan. He knew exactly what he was doing, as though waiting for the moment to strike when you were alone.

“Actually not, no” the grin widened as he shrugged nonchalantly “Plus you’re quite the sight. As usual” propping his chin on his hand, he kept on gazing.

The bastard was impossible.

“Jesus…” sighing, you rummaged in the bag at your feet “Do you want a book or something?” you took out a worn-out paperback “Because all that staring makes me want to…” trailing off, you met his inquisitive glare.

Want to kiss him. For starters. But he need not know that.

“What? Tell me” Neil spread his legs casually, leaning back in the armchair. An object of pure poise. And the challenge, aimed at you only. That was Neil at the top of his game, sure of what he wanted and how to get it. But you were not going to give it to him easily.

“Better not” the slight shock in his eyes gave you confidence “If yesterday taught me anything, it’s that your ego is big enough” offering him a sly smirk, you took a sip of the water.

When you looked up again, Neil was staring at you with an exaggerated pained expression on his face.

“I’m wounded” he put the hand over his heart like the drama queen that he was.

Scoffing, you laughed at the spectacle. Two could play the game.

“Good,” the offended whine only increased the satisfaction “So do you want that book?” you picked up the paperback, showing it to him “I’ve got my favourite one with me. Could kill some time”

“Yes, please” he got up and crossed the room, taking the book from you “I’ll have a chance to see what’s in that head of yours” Neil leaned down to your level and kissed you on the forehead “Apart from the desire for me, of course” he added, once he moved out of your reach once again.

Fucking hell.

“Neil”

At least there were some fun memories to come back to, you thought, looking through the copy you borrowed Neil. Then you noticed another thing. Under your book, there was another one of the same title. Brand new. Pages filled with Neil’s scribbles on the margins and underlined passages, highlighting the exact same quotations that made this book become your favourite. My god. The realization hit you with a gasp and a shiver. He read it. And not only that, but he also tried to understand you through something you held so dear. Reading the notes he made, you knew he was listening to every word you said. No matter the moment, the stage of your ‘relationship’, evidently, he cared enough to be interested in your thoughts and feelings. You were holding the proof in your hands. In some margin notes, Neil even referred to you using your initials, pointing out why it could resonate with you so much. The more you read, the more it felt like you have encountered his diary, in some form. That would be it when it comes to getting over. Putting down the books, your head was spinning. Too much.

You needed food. And sleep. It was at that moment that you decided to stay. It got late enough to make the journey back inconvenient. And everything was right here. Feeling like Goldilocks personified, you made use of Neil’s frozen food assortment and put on the music. Once you got over the initial shock of the afternoon, it was almost too easy to pretend that Tallinn never happened. That you were still alright. That he still potentially loved you. With the somewhat soothing sounds of Billy Idol and The Darkness, you went over Neil’s notebooks with equations. You understood nothing but the possibility to read his notes and theories was as comforting as it could get. Then, feeling your eyelids get heavy, you cleaned up and moved to the bedroom. Lying down in Neil’s bed felt like sacrilege. But the moment your head rested on the pillow and you inhaled the scent, it was all excused. At least in your eyes. Giving in to the foolish daydreams, you could almost imagine him next to you. The warmth and comfort the cuddles always provided. But you were alone, still wearing that sweater that smelled too good to be given up. It had to be enough. You fell asleep thinking about those damned blue eyes and the man that took the ownership of your heart for good.

*** Upon waking up in the cold apartment the next morning, you wanted nothing but to leave as soon as possible. In the daylight, with dreams of happiness haunting every corner of your mind, the feeling of loneliness was more persistent. You made sure to get rid of any signs of your intrusion, cleaned the kitchen, and made the bed. The only keepsake you could not deny yourself was the cashmere sweater that you stuffed into the bag. Even if he would not want anything to do with you, you could give it back along with the keys. Surely he would understand… right? After everything that you found in his flat, nothing seemed certain anymore.

You made it back to the HQs with just enough time to shower and pack for the next week of sitting in the inversion chambers in the sealed off part of the complex. That did not sound good as it meant more time with too many people in the cramped quarters. You had enough of that at this point. But then that was the prize of getting the most incredible of jobs. That and getting your heart broken. Again.

You joined the rest of the army by the larger turnstile, used purely for long-term inversion, instead of training. Accepting friendly nods from both Ives and Wheeler, you took your place in the queue. No one knew exactly what the purpose of this was. Just that you were supposed to go back eight days and then travel to the Norwegian coastline, awaiting instructions. The intuition that was rarely wrong told you that you were in the endgame from this point onwards.

And so, the next week was restricted to trying not to lose your sanity locked within the four walls. The only escape from the small room was the kitchen (always full of people that wanted to know too much), bathroom (that always had lines of people waiting by the door), and the small courtyard, where you could not step out without the oxygen tank and a mask. Overall, it was not the most pleasant of experiences. Especially when most days you wanted to curl up in bed and contemplate the mess that your life became. And to marinate in pain that became a constant companion. The sweater could only help so much. Accompanied with nerves and worry, you felt objectively shit and did everything to preserve the solitude. That is how you found yourself in the small kitchen at 2 am, eating toasties and drinking tea. Earlier the compound was too busy, and you preferred starving than facing the others. Only with everyone asleep, you could catch up on the meals missed. Well, almost everyone…

“How are you doing?” a voice interrupted your brooding.

You turned in the seat only to see Wheeler enter the room with a small smile on her face. Her you could tolerate, as an exemption.

“Bad” the candid answer seemed only appropriate “But I don’t mind the company, so please… stay” you added upon her hesitation.

She just nodded and proceeded to make a cup of tea. The silence stretched, but for once, it was rather pleasant. Finally, she finished the task and took the seat opposite you, giving you a quick once-over. You knew what she saw. Tangled hair, reddened eyes from lack of sleep, and hours of tears. The sweater that became the only comfort in those early morning moments when nothing seemed real and yet everything was too much.

“Is the sweater his?” she asked plainly, and you could only nod.

At this stage, surely, nothing was bound to surprise her.

“Yeah… Maybe it’s silly, but I took it from his place just to have something… tangible” you explained, consciously running your fingers over the material. Instead of judgement, you got a smile in return.

“No, I understand” Wheeler took a sip from the mug before asking, “Did the apartment give you any answers?”

You have not shared the story with anyone, unable to process it all even in the quiet of your mind. But maybe this was a chance to let it out…

“Mostly whiplash,” you let out a bitter laugh “It’s like… he cares… or cared,” you stumbled over the tense “But then in Tallinn after the shoot-out, he just closed off completely, and I don’t know why” raising your hands in defeat, you planted on your face on the table.

Anything goes. After a moment of utter frustration, you met Wheeler’s inquisitive eyes again. She did not seem bothered by your antics. Just a little concerned by the picture you were painting.

“Maybe it’s trauma” the seriousness of her expression made you think.

You did consider that option. But even knowing what happened with Alex, his reaction seemed too violent. You were alive, and yet he was trying to push you away. Plus, that way of thinking implied something else. Something you did not dare consider.

“That would mean he… loved me” getting the words out was a challenge “And I don’t think he does” you stared at the table, giving in to the thoughts once again “Whatever is going to happen now, I think I need space. Some distance. Trying to get over this won’t work otherwise”

Formulating the feelings that were overwhelming your heart and mind felt somehow relieving. Even if the prospects were anything but good.

“Is that what you want? To let him go?” the straightforward attitude of your companion was helpful.

“I don’t know,” sighing, you met her gaze, “I want… him, but if he doesn’t feel the same then…” with reddened cheeks, you let the sentence trail off.

She would understand, you were sure of that. And, if the slightly suspicious look in Wheeler’s eyes was anything to go by, she had her ideas about the topic.

“You should probably try talking to him again” she spoke after a few minutes of silence.

“Last time that ended terribly,” you replied, arching your eyebrows, begging her to remember how bad that container conversation went.

“I know,” Wheeler patted your shoulder reassuringly, “But I also know that sometimes Neil needs a proper kick in the ass before he sees what’s right in front of him” she got up and went to the sink, picking up both of your dishes.

With the soothing soundtrack of the washing, you could feel almost sleepy. If it was not for that never-ending chatter of your thoughts.

“If you say so…” you murmured when she turned the tap off.

“Go to sleep. It’s just two days more of this torture” giving you a final smile, Wheeler left the kitchen.

You could survive two days. After that? Who knows. But it had to be alright.

[fruitydiaz-archived]

with the comfort of a billion stars (and you)

chimney and eddie get high in eddie's backyard and talk about what it means to be a good father

because of @hetheybuck's tags on this post about chimney and eddie being blaze buddies

drug use | sweet conversations | stargazing

1,691 words

AO3 link

Chimney wrapped his arms around himself instinctively as he slipped out into Eddie’s backyard, rubbing his hands rapidly along the tops of his arms as he breathed out, watching his air puff out into the cold like white smoke before quickly dissipating. The bite of the cold air against his skin was a welcome reprieve to the flush brought on by too many bodies in too small of a space.

He thought he was alone for a moment, leveling out his breaths and staring up at the sky, squinting as if he could stare just long enough to actually be able to make out some stars in the black of the LA sky—before he heard another sharp intake of breath from his side. He turned, staring down the line of Eddie’s backyard, surprised to find Eddie there, alone, curled up on a lawn chair, head tipped back as he blew out a soft puff of smoke, a joint dangling from his fingers. Chimney blinked, hesitating just for a second, before he stepped off Eddie’s porch and made his way over to the chairs.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Chimney called out as he neared him. Eddie’s head tipped back forward, eyes wide, then squinting in the dark as he tried to make out who was approaching him. The corners of his lips curled up into a soft smile.

“Every once in a while. It was a bit much in there,” He explained with a shrug. Chimney smiled back at him before settling down into the chair next to Eddie.

“I hear ya.”

Eddie smiled again, glancing down at the ground and nodding a bit before stretching his arm out towards Chimney. He shuffled the joint between his fingers, holding it out in offering. Chimney considered it and then looked back at Eddie, eyebrows raised.

“You sure?”

“Course, Chim. It’s my house. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t share?”

Chimney nodded appreciatively, taking the joint and holding it up to his mouth, inhaling gently. It’d been a while since the last time he smoked and he struggled to maintain a cough, tipping his head back against the chair like Eddie had and releasing the smoke back into the air.

“God,” He said on the exhale. “It’s been a while.”

Eddie hummed in acknowledgment, taking the joint back from Chimney’s stretched out hand.

They didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, both of them staring up at the night sky, trading off the joint every once in a while, in comfortable silence.

It was nice, Chimney thought, getting to have this quiet moment with Eddie. They didn’t get to do this often; always racing off to different emergencies or juggling conversations with everyone else on the team. This was nice. He felt loose and relaxed—and maybe that had something to do with the weed—but he was also pretty sure it had something to do with Eddie, and maybe something to do with how dark the sky was, and how instinctively he knew that staring up there were actually billions of stars in the sky, and how actually he wasn’t staring at some flat surface but rather the entire universe that expanded all around them, and how even though he couldn’t see any stars, light from those stars was currently traveling at speeds he’d never ever be able to comprehend, and how some of those stars that he couldn’t see but could see under different circumstances were actually dead, like long dead, and how some stars were dying at right this very second, and how some stars were being born this very second, and how all of that made him feel very small and comforted and insignificant and important all at the same time.

He was a little high.

When Eddie’s hand knocked against his, joint stretched out between his fingers, Chimney laughed a little and waved him off. Eddie smiled, taking one last drag before tapping it out on the ashtray next to him and setting it down.

Another moment of silence stretched between them. Chimney furrowed his eyebrows.

“I’m scared of being a terrible dad,” He said suddenly, no idea where the thought came from. He saw Eddie nod slowly from the corner of his eye, like he was fully expecting Chimney to say that.

“How do you do it?” He asked, turning to face Eddie, who turned back towards him, eyebrows raising. “With Christopher. How do you...how do you...not mess it up?”

Eddie snorted and took a deep breath before answering, the corners of his lips curling softly.

“I mess up all the time, Chim.”

Chimney frowned. That’s not at all what he wanted Eddie to say.

“You’ll mess up,” Eddie continued, turning forward again, his face serious. He looked back up at the sky and sighed, rolling his neck from side to side. Chimney waited for him to say more but he didn’t.

“That doesn’t actually make me feel better, Eddie,” Chimney pointed out. Eddie giggled a little. It made Chimney giggle a little, though he kept trying to force his face back down into a scowl. This was serious. He was serious.

“No, I know,” Eddie straightened up in his chair. “I think...I think the sooner you realize that you will mess up—the less you’ll...mess up.” Chimney blinked and Eddie frowned, face scrunching up like he was trying to work exactly what he was trying to say. “I mean. We’re in charge of this...little life, now, you know? Sometimes I still feel like a kid myself but—I’ve got to be responsible for my actual kid now. And...I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. My parents weren’t...the best examples. So I’m just...doing my best. That’s all we can do.”

He nodded again, more confidently this time, solid. Eddie turned back to Chimney.

“I think Christopher’s okay, right?”

“Eddie,” Chimney said, voice stern. “Christopher is amazing. And you do this all on your own. I can’t imagine. I’m...so lucky to have Maddie.”

“I don’t really do it alone,” Eddie smiled. “Buck helps a lot. And we have Carla.”

“You're his dad,” Chimney felt the need to remind him. Eddie ducked his head, smiling wider, prouder.

“I am.”

There was a pause. Chimney watched, transfixed as Eddie dug the heel of his shoe into the dirt in front of him, dragging abstract patterns into the ground. It was fascinating.

“I think we’re too hard on ourselves,” Chimney said. Eddie snorted again.

“That’s what Buck says.”

“He would know.”

“He would know.”

Another pause.

“I don’t want to be like my dad.”

“You won’t be.”

“Are you sure?”

Eddie sighed, flattening his foot and dragging it through all of the lines he had just made. Chimney was pretty sure he heard his heart break. Over the dirt art.

“Well, you will be, sometimes, in tiny ways. But you’re not him. You’re...parts of him, parts of your mom, and parts of you, you know?”

“I hope I’m mostly parts of my mom.” His voice sounded wistful.

“You’re mostly parts of you.” Eddie didn’t see the way Chimney’s face pinched in disappointment, still staring at the patch of dirt on the ground.

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“It is,” Eddie’s tone was determined and final—and with that he pulled his legs back up into the chair and leaned back, blinking back up at the stars. He looked strikingly childlike, loose and relaxed.

Chimney sniffed. He felt—he felt warm. It was cold out but he felt this warmth radiating from somewhere in his chest or maybe his stomach—somewhere in his core, he wasn’t really sure—and it spread everywhere throughout his body. He almost felt like it spread even further, encompassing Eddie and his backyard and his house along with everyone inside it and all of LA.

The last few months had been hard. The last couple of years had been hard. Hell—life had been hard. And sometimes it was easy for Chimney to get lost in that; to look at Maddie fighting to pick herself back up, to look at Albert pushing to become a firefighter, to watch the Lees take on his kid brother and watch him go through the same process their dead son had, to watch Eddie and Bobby recover from their shootings, to watch Bobby and Athena mend their relationship, to watch Buck fall apart and stitch himself back together, to watch Hen and Karen grow attached to Nia only to lose her when they had expected it all along and somehow that hurt worse, to pretend through it all that he could shoulder the responsibility of having it all together, to be the friend and partner and father that he knew he needed to be.

It wasn’t about him—but it was. And he felt heavy and tired.

But sitting next to Eddie, a little high, comforted by Eddie’s sincere words—Eddie who would never sugarcoat it, would never lie, who always chose his words with careful intention—he felt lighter. Looking up at the sky, feeling the presence of stars young and old, alive and dead, feeling but not seeing, knowing that just inside were all his friends and family, laughing and reconnecting and healing after months and years of trauma, knowing that all around them billions of lives were being lived. And while bad things happened and people got hurt—good things happened too.

Good things like his baby girl being born. Good things like his baby brother making it out of a terrible car accident.

Good things like survival and healing and happiness and love. Things that persisted.

It was all around him constantly. He didn’t feel it all the time—but he did then.

“Hey, Eddie? I love you.”

Eddie stilled for just a second before his face cracked into a wide grin and his shoulders started to shake as he giggled, again.

“I love you too, man.” Chimney swiveled around in his seat.

“No, seriously, I mean it. Family we chose, right?”

Eddie’s giggles died down and he studied Chimney’s face carefully, smile softening, before nodding.

“Yeah, Chim. Family we chose.”

[dalish-spectre]

Trust the abyss - a Baldur's Gate 3 backstory. Ch. 4 Haunting riffs of a vazhan-do pierced the air accompanied by the sharp vocals of a deathsinger – drow bards whose vocals could command the undead if they so chose.

Tonight, however, this vocalist was entertaining rowdy crowds of guards from the various noble houses of Menzoberranzan at a tavern located on the fringes of the bazaar.

It was called the Jewel Box and Dinin had never been anywhere like it before.

He had never been this drunk before either.

Kelzt and Masryn had insisted on dragging him out of House Darketh’s perimeters and into the noisy crowded streets of the heart of the spider city.

Before House Do’Urden fell, the former elder-boy had only visited the bazaar on rare occasions when his Matron Mother had required him to. He had never been permitted to drink. Even after joining Bregan D’aerthe, he had only ever indulged in a few drinks with the band’s leader Jarlaxle. He preferred to keep his mind sharp and sober but going undercover as a guard within Darketh, his first mission as a houseless rogue, he was expected to play the part.

It would be suspicious if he refused to drink with the two guards that had decided to befriend him.

He didn’t know how much algae ale they’d be able to polish back.

So here he was, five ales deep, being dragged into a brothel by two drow he hardly knew.

“Don’t scowl so much, Dinyrr, you’ll scare the whores away,” laughed Kelzt as they’d stepped through the door. “I’d say a brush with death is a perfect reason to wet one’s blade somewhere other than the belly of a hook horror.”

Masryn chortled from beside him. “Maybe that’s what he wants – have you ever been to a whorehouse before? I’ve heard Gracklestugh has several.”

“I’ve no need of whorehouses,” Dinin replied coolly as they took a seat at a stalagmite table, the alcohol softened the usual edge of his voice.

Kelzt’s own laugh reverberated through the cavern as he motioned a serving slave over.

“We’ll take a bottle of sul-paga here,” he said to an older dwarven woman who had been around long enough to not bother flashing her eyes in an alluring manner. She simply nodded and wandered back towards the bar.

The Jewel Box was filled with tables made of stalagmites, twisting upwards with slate tops. Stone benches on either side accommodated guests who wanted to sit.

It was lit by faerie fire, candles and glowing blue fungi wound its way around various stalactites that protruded down from the ceiling giving the place a very ethereal feel.

Kelzt rubbed his hands together as he looked around the room.

“We got here just in time,” he said. “Narbondel has only just died and that means the artists will be coming down soon.”

Dinin cocked an eyebrow.

“Artists?” He tried not to roll his eyes. “Why are they called artists?”

Masryn snorted.

“Why do you think? They are trained in the arts of sexual pleasure,” the young drow emphasized the first part of the word for effect, waggling his white brows up and down.

Dinin ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair anxiously. He needed another drink.

His hopes were soon answered as the dwarven woman returned with three glasses and a large bottle of sul-paga.

The crisp, distilled scent of the alcohol pricked the hairs up on the back of his neck as he watched Kelzt pour the clear liquid into his cup.

Masryn drank his own glass deeply, scrunching his face up. Dinin had only drank wine when he lived in House Do’Urden and he tried desperately not to make a face as the sul-paga burned his throat on the way down.

Sputtering, he wiped a gloved hand across his lips.

Kelzt watched the two younger drow, mirth shining in his dark red eyes as he casually sipped his own drink.

“Ah, youth rushes into everything – sul paga is to sip lads, it is made of the finest sul roots this side of the Underdark.”

The music took a frantic toll as the singer began the first verses of the beginning of Tornan’s Guts – a common song in Menzoberrazan though Dinin was not familiar with the words.

Chants and hymns to Lloth were all he knew of music. He found his foot tapping to the rhythm of the vahzan-do while a table next to them burst out singing loudly and offkey.

O’ Tornan was a great warrior indeed

The greatest warrior did Menzoberranzan ever see

A bell rang out above the singing, Dinin followed Masryn and Kelzt’s gaze at it shifted towards a staircase at the back of the room.

He took another swig of sul-paga as he watched silk-clad figures make their way down the stairs and mingle with the tables.

Much to Dinin’s dismay, his scowl did not in fact keep the whores away.

A surface elf slave with long red hair twined her way over to their table and sat down beside Masryn.

The last time he had been this close to a surface elf, he had inadvertently witnessed his family’s doom as his brother failed to please Lloth by killing one.

She spoke Undercommon quite well, he supposed, but he could not bring himself to find her attractive.

Masryn however had fallen under the enchantment of her tinkling laughter. She clutched a glass of dark liquor in one hand and used the other to brush away a strand of hair from the younger drow’s face.

“I personally don’t understand the appeal,” said Kelzt, watching the surface elf lead Masryn from the table. “Our young friend however appears to have a liking for pale flesh albeit a sadistic pleasure – here, anything goes as long as you don’t mark their faces.

It’s a pleasure house yes but it’s also a place where men are freely allowed to take out any emotion on a female.”

Dinin scoffed, “Surface females don’t matter.”

“Aye but it’s not just surface females here – there are drow ones as well, low-cast but drow,” Kelzt replied. “Master Dro pays a pretty penny to the council to keep the place in operation.”

The older drow explained how he thought the Matron Mother’s figured if there was a place the common guards could blow off steam it would make them more pliable.

“I’ve heard from our weapons master himself that Matron of Darketh pays the tab here for us idiots to keep us in line,” he continued. “If keeping me in line means all the paga and ale I can drink and a warm place to lay my cock then I’m all for it.”

“I could think of worse things I suppose,” Dinin swirled the clear liquid in his glass pensively. He watched a human female take off her top across the room with mild interest. Peals of laughter rang out from behind their table as a slender male drow clothed in a silk robe poured wine down a guard’s throat.

“It appears they cater to all tastes here,” He shifted in his seat to face Kelzt again. The alcohol was making his face warm or was it the atmosphere which was becoming slowly more debaucherous.

Kelzt nodded his head and took another drink.

He stole a priestess’s virginity

The scandalous line of Tornan’s Guts rang out above the din. Some of the crowd cheered and Dinin glanced over his shoulder, fearing the sting of a snake-headed whip.

Feeling none, the tension in his shoulders released. Old habits died hard.

For this Lloth could not forget

Tornan would have to pay his debt

She put a toll upon his soul

Kelzt had begun to sing along, periodically punching the air with the hand holding his glass, grinning.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Dinin’s lip as he watched the merrymaking a scene quite unfamiliar to him.

“Don’t you find it kind of funny that we’re singing a song about a man who was killed for defiling a woman at a place where men come to defile women?” Dinin asked, raising his voice over the chaos.

Kelzt laughed.

“The irony is not lost on me, young one.”

Suddenly a young male slid in between the two of them.

“Why Kelzt, I thought you had forgotten me,” the newcomer’s voice was smooth. His head was shaved on either side leaving a disheveled white strip of hair – black orbs for eyes that glittered in the candlelight of the table.

Dinin begrudgingly shifted to make room for Kelzt’s friend. The boy had a pleasing enough face and a cocky air about him.

“Ah, Naxir, how could I forget about you, you bring an old warrior so much joy,” Kelzt slid his arm around the younger drow.

“Such sweet words,” Naxir laughed and turned to fix Dinin in his stare. “Hello, who is this treat? Will he be joining us this evening?”

Kelzt laughed and shook his head while Dinin felt his cheeks burn. It had been sometime since he had indulged in the carnal pleasures of flesh and while Naxir was attractive, the thought of seeing the older soldier rutting didn’t interest him at all.

“I think I’ll pass this time,” he poured himself another drink and let his gaze wander as he halfheartedly listened to the old warrior flirt with the handsome young drow.

Tornan’s Guts had ended, and the bard seemed to be taking the crowd in the direction of a sensual macabre tune.

A familiar laugh rang out and Dinin noticed Taztar, the patrol leader of his squad, sitting two tables to the side of them with some other guards from House Darketh.

A slender figure in a short, flowing red dress was gyrating before them, unbound hair illuminated by faerie fire.

“Come closer, girl,” he heard Taztar growl and watched as the girl obeyed. Her skin was not as dark as Dinin’s and as she moved closer to the candlelit table, he could tell her hair was a dark silvery colour.

Suddenly one of the guards’ arms shot out and poured a mug of ale over her head. “Get out of here half-breed, you can tell Dro that I want the real drow tonight.”

Laughter exploded from the table as Taztar said, “We all want a real drow tonight lads.”

Dinin watched intently as the girl’s hand clenched at her side, the shocked look on her face quickly replaced by anger and she swung her fist, a soft thud as it connected with the guard’s face. Just as quickly as it happened, Taztar reached out and grabbed the girls arm and pulled her in roughly.

He couldn’t make out what the patrol leader said before shoving the girl backwards.

Impressed, he watched as she strode toward his table, delicate brows furrowed as she fought to keep a smile on her face.

As she passed, he found himself drawn to her – her delicate features belaying the scowl she was trying not to show.

He watched her enter a door near the back and come back out again with a white-haired female drow. They parted and for a moment he watched the new girl saunter over to Taztar’s table.

It was then he realized that Kelzt and his friend had left him alone. At least they had left him the bottle, but he cursed as he went to pour himself a drink.

What in the hells was he going to do now, wait for them to finish rutting?

Sipping his drink, he glanced about for the girl with the dark hair again when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He was mortified to see it was her.

“You’re staring at me.” Her voice was terse. “Do you see something that you like?”

Her arms were crossed causing the curves of her breast to peek up from the low cut of her dress.

“Yes – I mean, no, I’m not here to …” His words caught on his tongue as she glared at him.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what they all say at first.”

“Well, I can guarantee you that I’m not like they,” he said. “And I’m not here looking for sex.”

“Let me guess, you probably have no problem picking up women – or men, whichever you prefer,” the girl sat down beside him and propped her cheek up with her hand.

Her eyes swept him up and down, assessing him. He leaned back in his seat fixing her with his own cool stare.

“Whichever I prefer depends on many things – why did you punch that guard, surely you’re lucky to not be injured,” he asked, truly curious.

To his surprise, she laughed, a strange melodic chuckle that made him want to laugh with her though he knew not why – probably the blasted sul-paga Kelzt had fed him.

Still he poured himself and the girl a glass.

“Hrazzra is an idiot, he comes here every tenday, my master hates him, but he likes Taztar’s money,” the girl paused, accepting the glass of liquor. “Besides, Taztar will make me pay for it later but it’s nothing I haven’t felt before.

“The trick is to make yourself numb and you don’t feel anything anymore.”

She emptied the glass with one smooth gulp without making a face. Dinin followed suit but was unable to keep the look of disgust off his face over the taste of the alcohol.

The girl laughed again.

“I prefer the taste of mushroom wine if I’m being perfectly honest,” he chuckled. “This stuff tastes like how the cleaners smell.”

“Mushroom wine – you have rich tastes for a common soldier.”

The alcohol had loosened his guard and he cursed himself inwardly.

“I have only been so fortunate that my former master would allow me wine after a victory in the slave pits of Graklestugh,” he attempted damage control, and briefly explained his backstory to the girl who watched his eyes intently as he told of how he was fortunate to be sold to House Darketh of Menzoberranzan.

“Well, former melee master of Gracklestugh, I bet I can find us some mushroom wine, stay where you are.”

The music remained at a mournful pace as she picked her way through the crowd towards the bar where the older dwarven lady polished the too-smooth slate.

It had been hours since Narbondel died and the number of patrons in the bar seemed to be getting less and less.

Dinin looked over to see that another surface elf had joined the white-haired drow girl at the patrol leader’s table. Only Taztar and two other soldiers remained and were tossing coins at the girls as they writhed on one another atop the stalagmite table.

“Noril and Alunira are very beautiful aren’t they,” Dinin almost jumped as the girl whispered in his ear, sitting back down beside him.

He turned to look at her and noticed she was grinning holding two large bottles of mushroom wine.

“I don’t have any fancy glasses, ussta zhennu sargitlan, but this is not a fancy place, we could drink it right from the bottle if we wished.” To emphasize her point, she uncorked a bottle and drank deeply, a little drip of liquid glowed green as it spilled from the corner of her lips.

He tried to hide the grin as she playfully called him my great warrior in high drow. For a slave, she was brazen and he found he liked talking to her.

“High drow, that’s an awfully rich language for a common slave,” he said, taking a swig of the wine, feeling almost sacrilegious drinking it straight from the bottle.

Her laugh was infectious as she snagged the bottle back from him, raising her eyebrows and cocking her head to the side.

She brought the tip of the bottle playfully to her lips before drinking then leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“Maybe we both have … secrets,” her lips grazed his earlobe as she pulled away and offered him the wine coyly.

Flustered but intrigued, he changed the topic to mushroom wine and how it wasn’t as noble a drink as one might think as it was fermented from the most common fungi but as he was trying to cover up that the wine was made from mushrooms that had never seen any form of light, it was a highly arduous process, and she was nodding as if she believed him even though her eyes told him she didn’t, Taztar stumbled over to their table.

His breath reeked of ale.

“Ah, Dinyrr, I never expected to see you here – I didn’t know the house paid for slave soldiers to drink and fuck,” he slurred as he stood over them. “I see you’ve met my girl – Tavari – she may be a half-bred but she’s quite beautiful to look at.”

He gruffly grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her gaze steeled over.

“Yes patrol leader, she’s quite nice,” Dinin forced himself to play his part, as this common man’s lesser when he could easily slice out Taztar’s tongue and present it to Jarlaxle.

“Indeed she is and I think she’s quite done talking with you – it’s time for her to repay her folly in punching Hrazzra, don’t you think?

"We’ll take that extra bottle of mushroom wine as well, Tavari will need the extra help tonight.”

He made a show of knocking over the almost empty bottle they had been sharing. Dinin ground his teeth.

“Come girl,” he wrenched her up from her seat. Her face paled in the candlelight, she looked disheartened.

Suddenly, Dinin rose from his seat and grabbed Taztar by the shoulder.

“The girl stays with me,” he said, the alcohol he consumed wouldn’t allow the slight of this mere man – this third patrol leader of the 35th house of Menzoberranzan taking away his enjoyment.

The bard, whose interest had been piqued by the exchange began to play a new tune he had been commissioned to write. A song that would surely get the males blood up as it told the tale of the destruction of a noble house.

The fall of House Do’Urden.

Taztar laughed and shrugged off Dinin’s hand.

“I’ll have you killed,” he sneered, not letting go of the girl’s wrist.

As the singer began to sing of Lloth forsaking a once ancient and noble house, Dinin noticed the words of the song, speaking of Zin-Carla, Malice’s folly and a wayward son.

“The girl is with me tonight,” he growled., stepping in front of of the solider.

“Are you stupid? Did you hear what I said – I’ll have you killed and if not, the weapons master will have you sacrificed to Lloth for breaking the chain of command,” Taztar replied, dropping the girl’s hand and clenching his own into a fist.

Their faces were inches from each other, Dinin breathed heavily, egged on by the song.

“You’re nothing – you worthless,” Taztar’s slew of insults were cut short by the crack of Dinin’s fist against his jaw.

The thicker drow swung back catching Dinin in the lip, splitting it open. He tried to grab Dinin but the former master of melee magthere’s reflexes were quick as he swept to the side. He wasn’t a fist fighter as some were but his swift blows fueled by alcohol and rage were enough to fell the shorter drow to the ground.

The bard remained impassive and kept singing. Those left sitting around the tables cheered and promptly resumed drinking.  Dinin’s heart was pounding. How dare there be a song about the fall of Do’Urden. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. He had potentially blown his cover for his mission. What would Jarlaxle do to him? He opened his eyes to see the girl, whose name was Tavari, stand up from kneeling over the prone form of Taztar. Her fingertips looked for a second as if they had glowed.

“Come with me,” she said, picking up the bottle of wine from the ground.

She grabbed his hand, he jolted back to reality at the physical touch.

“Taztar won’t remember anything,” she assured him as she led him up the stairs. “But, let’s get out of here before Master Dro sees him on the floor.”

“You really knocked him out,” the girl giggled as she led him past rooms filled with moans. He followed her down a dark windowless hallway, lit sporadically by candles.

She opened the door to the last room on the left, lit a candle – did she use a match? Dinin wasn’t sure. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and the alcohol was beginning to make him feel a little nauseous.

“Thank you for what you did back there, by the way, Taztar is awful, I hate him,” she crossed her legs as she sat down on the bed.

“I can assure you from working with him that I hate him as well. He allowed half of our latest patrol to be slaughtered by hook horrors,” Dinin replied, sitting beside the girl on the thin mattress. “We haven’t properly introduced ourselves, my name is Din-in-yrrr.” He almost stumbled out his real name. “Dinyrr, it’s Dinyrr. My apologies, I don’t usually drink this much.” He was embarrassed to note that he was almost slurring his own words.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Din-nin-yrr, my name is Tavari and I am always drunk,” the girl chuckled but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes.

“Just Dinyrr is fine, and you shouldn’t drink so much, it’s not good for the mind. A mind like yours is only diminished by liquor,” he sloppily scolded her.

“That’s very sweet,” she replied. “Now, you have me up here – you said I’m yours tonight, what would you wish of me?”

She began to slide off the thin red fabric that barely covered her lithe form, but Dinin stopped her muttering shhh.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “Let’s just finish this troublesome bottle of wine.”

He helped pull the dress back over her head. The girl, Tavari looked shocked then laughed, deep from her soul, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He couldn’t help but join her – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much.

“What do you want to just talk?” She asked playfully. “I’ve never had a man nor woman ever buy me just to talk. It’s not normal.”

“I’m not normal,” he replied slurrishly, with a grin passing her back the bottle of wine.

She nodded her agreement.

“What do you want to talk about?”  She shifted closer to him, propping her cheek on her hand as she had earlier that night.

“Memories,” he replied, looking out the window, the streets of the bazaar were quiet this deep into Narbondel’s death.

“Good or bad,” she asked.

“Are there such things as good memories?” He countered, turning to look back at her again with a wry smile.

“Not really,” she shrugged.

They continued to pass the bottle back and forth, each sharing their own cryptic stories, edging towards truths they could never share with one another.

The last thing Dinin’s half-blurred vision noted as the two laid facing each other on the threadbare mattress was the colour of her eyes as Narbondel’s first light filtered through the small window.

Orange, like the flame of a candle. https://archiveofourown.org/works/33301066/chapters/84017953

[whump-town]

Aversions

Hotch is less than dealing with the events of Foyet’s attack.

Warnings: alcohol abuse, child abuse, drug abuse, graphic depictions of violence & stabbing, self-destructive behavior, crying, self harm, mentions of suicide, suicidal ideations, violence with guns, and maybe some out of character Hotch and Emily.

Not sure how I feel about this fic... but I guess, we’re going in with both feet so 

“You cannot save people, you can only love them.” --Anais Nin

Aaron Hotchner has never been good with words. Not the right ones, anyway.

But actions can speak louder than words.

He’ll spin Garcia around the dance floor when they go out for drinks. Hands placed just where they should be and he’ll laugh softly when she makes a thinly-veiled dirty joke. And she’ll remember those nights for her whole life. The way he smiled at her as the lights shimmered overhead. The way he blushed when she refused to dance with anyone else, stating she needed a real gentleman.

There are nights at Dave’s. Weekends that he gets to keep Jack, uninterrupted by cases, and they go to visit Pop’s; Jack’s third favorite person (mommy and daddy of course being one and two). It’s the sound of Jack’s happy feet running up and down the hall, Hotch’s thundering voice as he he-ho-hums and chases him along. Dave watching the youth bleed into that scrawny, spunky recruit from some twenty years ago. And Jack always runs into Dave’s arms and in one fell-sweep proclaims him the only safety he can get from his daddy. His giggling face turned into Dave’s shoulder as he shouts, “get him Pops, get him!”

Those memories were just weeks ago.

It’s been two weeks since Dave’s house was filled with Jack and Hotch, smiling and happy and… fuck just healthy.

Aaron Hotchner wakes up dizzy and sore. The pain ebbing into the numb, dull ache of whatever’s being steadily fed into the line disappearing into the pale flesh of his hand. For a moment, he just watches the ceiling spin. An all too familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. Anxiety spreading its claws out to take root but he… he can’t seem to remember why.

Realization floods his chilled limbs with a shudder, the memories hitting his sternum. He leans his head back into the pillows, limp and stiff and cold and so fucking hot-- The stiff tug of the stitches in his abdomen force him to come to an altogether too swift descent. There’s a hissing sound that comes before his right-hand aches, something cold and heavy spreading up his arm and into his chest.

“Good to see you awake,” a nurse greets.

He’s too far gone to say anything.

By the time Emily finds him, he’s had one minor run-in with the staff. A doctor stops Emily in the hall, her tone laced with annoyance and apprehension that bleeds into her threat to restrain Hotch if that becomes necessary. Emily leaves with a nod and promises to keep an eye on him but she leaves with this tight bundle of uncertainty forming in her chest.

He wakes as she settles down in the visitor’s chair.

The stitches along his hip are tight, leaving him immobile despite his foggy brain wanting nothing more than to curl onto his side and sleep just a little longer. But the scent of the antiseptics burn his nose and he can still feel Foyet--

The tip of the knife slowly dragging down his chest. There’s no threat of a scratch or blemish out of place. Aaron’s breathing having long ago turned ragged and shallow. “Have you ever read the reports,” Foyet asks, keeping his slow purposeful movement going. “Tell me, Aaron, have you read what David Rossi and Jason Gideon had to say about you? Young Aaron…”

Foyet smirks as he stops, shifting as he presses weight into the stab. It’s slow and agonizing but, Hotch realizes with a shudder, he’s too cold and weak to even really feel it. His body slowly falling away.

“Not so young anymore,” Foyet comments. He takes a moment to watch the knife’s slow pull from Hotch’s body, smiling when Hotch’s chest catches and he falls silent and breathless. Not even the sound of his ragged wheezes filling the air. “I can see how they’re right, you know?” Foyet lays the knife down on the side, pulling himself up and away from Hotch. “I wonder what’s going to get you killed faster, your loyalty, or your stubbornness?”

His eyes peel open slowly. Uncoordinated and sluggish he raises his left hand to scratch at the dried blood on the side of his face. His fingers manage to clumsy hook the canal running his nose and he pulls it crooked on his face.

Her voice quiet, afraid any sudden movement from her or too sudden a loud sound, might startle him, she calls his name. “Hotch,” she rises from the chair. She hates how her voice wavers. The shift that takes place between them. Any semblance of friendship they might have must be cast aside because… he’s a material witness and a victim. One that she can set off. One she might break.

Stepping into his field of vision, she can see his shoulders relax. Just having someone else close. Someone he knows. “You…” she’s stuck between Emily and Prentiss. Between her role as his friend and his coworker and even her role as an agent. But he’s always commended her undercover work. She’s got a spark for thinking on her feet. “I’m going to fix the oxygen canal, okay? It’s going to agitate your skin otherwise.”

Through slow, coordinated, and purposeful movements she keeps her hands where his darting bloodshot eyes can see. She hesitates when he sucks in a panicked breath but something in the back of her mind says pausing is only going to make it worse so she pulls the canal into place. Her fingers just hardly graze his cheek but she can still his body flinch at the contact.

And all she can think is fuck.

“That’s better, huh?” Her eyes dart to the heart monitor, uncertain if she’s convinced herself that it’s beating erratically fast or if it’s just a fragment of her mind. More than anything else, she makes herself aware of her body. The way that she moves so as not to startle him or, as she’s quickly putting together, touch him.

She steps back to the side, fully aware of the way that his eyes don’t break away from her. “Get some sleep, boss.” There’s something familiar and light about the way she calls him that and she can only pray that gets them through.

He suspects that he’s finally gone and done it. A part of him is relieved to find that fourteen-year-old Aaron Hotchner, a boy clutching to life with bloodied hands, was so wrong. The flash of heat and the open sting of his father’s belt against his back isn’t what finally makes him snap. Forces and pries his tight hold from reality. It’s nine, precise stab wounds and an awful cocktail of drugs that he can’t see his way out of. That’s what breaks him. Then again, it’s so much more than that.

Derek Morgan. His dark blue shirt fitted tightly over his back, the edge of the back tucked into his black pants. Tight muscles shifting under his skin as he stands with his back facing Hotch. His tattoos, body art Hotch had never really cared to mind, staring back at him now. Those tattoos are the only sensible thing about the world as his body is pulled back down.

He blinks owlishly at JJ. Her cold, tiny hand squeezing his and trying so valiantly to get him to talk to her. A question, something pressing, something important but he can’t…

Garcia with her tear-stained cheeks and the mascara running down her cheeks in pools. She says his name, he doesn’t hear but he sees her mouth form the word. He thinks that she might sit by his side and read. He’s got the faintest in and outs of The Hunger Games plot stuck in his brain.

There’s a fuzzy, half memory of Reid. Even in the present, he’s not sure it’s actually happening. A hallucination, maybe, but as he’s looking the young genius over he’s not sure why he’d hallucinate Reid. Then again, who else is left? There’s this look in his eyes, it makes Hotch feel guilty. Wrong. He doesn’t dwell on that feeling for very long. One sluggish blink later and he’s gone… maybe he was a hallucination.

Somewhere between hugging Jack and Dave standing in the doorway to his room, Hotch feels a very deep, uncomfortable weight settle across his chest. A realization on the tip of his tongue-- he wishes that Foyet had just killed him.

Waking with only the weak light of the hall outside, he realizes that he has no idea how much time has passed. Days or hours or even time. Just that the room is dark and there’s a light glow from the machines behind him. The morphine’s going to kill him. He needs to be more alert but the edges of the world are blurry and he’s already succumbing to the warm sting spreading over his body.

His hips ache and he makes the mistake of shifting. It’s just a small movement, sleepy and hazed he’s not capable of too much more. Still, his body is on fire.

“Careful,” Emily whispers from the dark.

He can see her, out of the very corner of his eye, rustling as she moves out from under the mountain of a blanket and uncurls her legs. He watches, silent, as those legs seem to go on forever. Reality melting into the heat of his body, the flames licking up him. And her touch is the water he so desperately craves but he’s lost his sense. There is no up or down or reprieve from the heat.

“Easy,” she breathes across him, the flames succumbing to her. To her will. “Just breath.”

He’s sinking back under the haze, mouth full of cotton and jaw slacked open but he can’t find the words. He can’t seem to remember how to speak. “Prentiss,” he rasps, eyes sliding shut but his hand closes around hers. Begging, pleading that she understands.

“I’m right here,” she promises. “Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

A week later, she finds him tripping over himself he’s so drunk. Making a mess of himself and everything around him but… that’s all he’s ever been good for anyway. She doesn’t say anything. There isn’t any disappointment in her eyes, despite what he’s expecting.

Haley always hated seeing him drunk. He gets sloppy.

Where Haley had seen only Mr. Hotchner, a broken old bastard, in her husband, Emily just sees a man begging for normalcy. For the pain to numb and for things to return to normal.

Emily just takes the bottle out of his hand. Taking a chug out of the bitter, dark liquid she grunts as she swallows. It burns and she supposed that’s half of the appeal to him. “Come watch the History channel with me,” she says, taking his hand and guiding him to the couch. He goes easily. She knows he likes the History channel and she also knows that he just needs some stability. Something solid. So she leans into his side and holds his hand. Reminds him that he’s not as alone as he thinks that he is.

But even that’s not enough.

“Hotch! Hotch, that’s enough! He’s dead, man,” Morgan falls to his knees, pulling Hotch from Foyet’s body. “He’s dead.”

Emily watches Hotch’s trembling body. The split skin of his knuckles and the way that two of his fingers crookedly bend into his palm. Rough ragged sobs tear through the room, breathless words passing Hotch’s lips. He’s shaking uncontrollably. She watches, his bowed back, snap. His attention, that hawk-like, eerie attention, is moved. It’s changed.

He pulls himself from Morgan’s arms.

Morgan having drawn Hotch to his chest. Bent their bodies to mold them into a folded backward hug. Their heads pressed together. Morgan can’t help his own tears. The abject horror washing over his body at the sight of the mess before him. Great arching sprays of blood and the thick scent of blood looming over them. And George Foyet… a blooded lifeless body before them.

And Hotch…

He stumbles to his feet, pulling his body from where he’d fallen into Morgan. Where he’d allowed himself just a moment's embrace. He takes three, four large steps on shaking legs.

Emily steps forward but Dave catches her elbow. He stops her from moving to Hotch.

He’s not in his right mind. Dave’s only protecting her. Protecting them. Aaron is hardly going to survive today, he doesn’t need to accidentally hurt Emily. He is a live wire and he’ll take them all out in the explosion.

George Foyet arches against his wires and they’re standing right there when his anger boils over and he screams into the nothing. Holding Haley’s body in his arms so delicate and broken. They’re both just broken dolls, their cords cut and the curtain comes tumbling down. One last final blow-- his job really did take everything from.

Jack isn’t enough to save him.

He blows up. It’s not nuclear but it’s unhinged and raw and there’s something about his eyes that makes Emily finally draw the line. He’s hurting but there has to be a line. A place where one of them steps in and says that it’s enough. That he’s got to pull himself together before he sucks them all into the black hole of his chest. And she’s quickly realizing, she’s the only one strong enough to do the job.

She finds him on a bender. He can hardly stand and the light mirth she’d once admired about his quizzical eyebrow raises is gone. The man standing before is a mess and she’s not sure if she hates herself or him more for letting it get this bad. For not finding that line sooner.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

He knows disgust when he sees it. A childhood spent curled into his father’s shoe, cracked ribs, and broken arms, he knows disgust all right. And now, a fully grown man, he just laughs. There’s nothing light about the sound. It’s morbid and twisted in his throat. A hollow sound. She’s disgusted by him.

“You need a shower,” she informs him with a curl of her nose. She steps past him, ignoring the frown she shoots her. She knows that he doesn't want her here but what he wants isn’t really a priority right now. He hasn’t got to tell her. She can see it in his eyes and smell it on his breath. He wants to crawl into a dark hole and die. She’s here to drag his sorry ass out.

Looking around his apartment, the first priority is getting rid of all the bottles. “Where are the trash bags,” she asks, heading to his kitchen. He’s already shaking his head, running his hands through his thick greasy hair. She finds the bags on her own, right where she’d assumed they’d be. Under the sink. “Where’s Jack?”

He falls onto the couch with a huff. “Jessica,” he grunts.

Good, she thinks, for him. Jack doesn’t need to see his father like this. Hell, no one does but… someone has to. At the same time, if Jack were here, Aaron wouldn’t have let himself get this bad.

“He probably misses you,” she says, starting in on tossing his garbage. There’s an astounding lack of food but it’s also not entirely surprising that without one of them hovering over him and forcing him to eat that he hasn’t tried. The word suicidal may not have come out of their mouths but they watch him. They see him. Sometimes you don’t have to speak a truth for it to be true.

And Aaron Hotchner is a coward. They are all. It’s why they haven’t taken his guns and it’s why he hasn’t put one to his mouth.

There are three guns in his home.

Two service weapons that he wouldn’t stain with his own blood. He took a vow and those weapons are not meant for this. It’s a disgrace to the only thing that’s ever made him mean anything.

The third is a gun his father had given him.

He was sixteen.

The words had poured out of his mouth. An aching truth he hadn’t even realized was true until the words were spoken. He did want to kill himself. The abuse was never going to end. He could see no end in sight and his father consumed his every action and thought and even his self-image.

He was tired of his reflection.

His father had grabbed the bottom of his jaw, large fingers digging into his flesh as he’d pulled Hotch’s mouth open. Hotch had shaken, frozen in place, as his father pressed the barrel of his gun to the roof of his mouth. Gunpowder and cold metal.

Sometimes, Hotch can still taste it.

He’d been afraid to die then but now, he longs for it. There is a darkness in his veins, murky and thick, that he needs to spill out. To watch the crimson drip down his flesh so that he can see, so that he can know that beneath this shell he is alive. That there is only a part of his sum that is broken and dead. He is alive.

His ribcage expands with life.

His heart beats with purpose.

But his mind… it has rotted. Desolate and afraid.

His father had beaten him senseless that night but that made it no different than any other night.

And the very gun that had once been pressed between his lips now rests in the safe in his office. Untainted and calling out so wistfully to him. He can hear it now, as Emily calmly collects his empty bottles of alcohol. His throne of glass shattering beneath him. He can always hear it. How simple it would be to get it now. To just end all of this.

“Aaron?”

He looks up suddenly, eyes unfocused and glazed.

“Aaron!”

The bile hits the back of his throat and is thrown out on his hands and knees, expelling the contents of his stomach into the porcelain of the toilet. His head throbs as Emily follows him, turning on the lights. He’s been sitting in the dark for so long, he’d forgotten the sting of the light.

“Just leave me alone,” he grunts, spits falling over his bottom lip as his stomach aches on. Rolling and churning. He’s put nothing in it for the last forty-eight hours other than Scotch, Oxy, and two shitty beers from when he first moved into this shit-stained apartment. He groans as his stomach clenches, leaning his forehead against the cold porcelain.

Emily’s seen enough. She’s tired of this little performance he’s putting on. “No,” she steps to the sink and drenches a rag in the shockingly cold water. Wringing it out only slightly before slapping over the back of his neck. “This bullshit, it ends tonight, do you understand me?”

He grunts as the rag meets his skin, trembling muscles protesting at the temperature difference of his overheated body. Even if he could think of something to say in protest, he’s not sure it would make it past his lips without being accented by more drug-laced regurgitated booze. Besides, he knows she's right. Deep, deep down. Beneath the self-loathing heat and even farther down beneath the frayed parts of him that never survived childhood. He knows. He knows that even if it’s not for him, he has to stop. For the team and his son.

“First,” she whispers kneeling down beside him. “We need to get you sober.” She draws a clean rag over his face, wiping the vomit from his lips. “What have you taken?”

He shakes his head. Can’t meet her eyes. He’s ashamed and he should be.

She reaches out to touch him but he flinches, looking between her hand and her face. As if he’s expecting her to hit him. “Aaron,” she softens her voice. Moving slowly until she’s cupping his cheek. His eyes water, chest hitching as his breathing grows unsteady with the emotions boiling to the surface. “I just want you to get better.”

A tear falls down his cheek and he turns his cheek, trying and failing to hide it from her. He wants to get better.

Tears are falling down his face when he turns his face back to her and pulls in a stuttering breath. He pulls his sleeve up. He shows her the hesitantly made cuts on his forearm. “I-- I don’t…” he pulls away from the hand she reaches out to him with. But when she tries again, he lets her hold his wrist in her hand. Her finger ghosts over the scabs. He hadn’t known what he was doing and he hadn’t liked the blood. He’d just wanted the hurt.

It was too much like Foyet. The knife and the razor and the blood on his white t-shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. No, this is-- this is his fault. These cuts were made by his hand but they never should have let him get so low. They should have done more.

Pulling her eyes from his arm she steadies herself. He isn’t hopeless. He's a fighter and he’s stronger than she is. He’s got more to lose than he realizes.

“I took the oxy,” he admits. “It’s-- It wasn’t enough.” He’s shaking now, coming down from his anger and submitting to the pain. “You need to…” a part of his broken mind screams. It screams to fall silent. That he needs the gun and that he’s just supposed to be distracting her now so that he can follow through with the plan he’s been making for weeks--

The office and the gun. Spinning in the leather-bound chair that Haley had gotten him as a wedding gift and biting the bullet. The letters are written and waiting on his desk. The chamber is full. The gun calls for him.

“There’s a gun,” he whispers. “In my office, you need to-- you have to get it or I’ll…”

She nods her understanding.

He can’t see around the tears pooling in his eyes, “uhm... “ He’s trying to think, what else? What else is left? He couldn’t stomach the thought of slitting his wrist. Never had the nerve to draw a bath and just to sink into warmth… that’s too gentle. He’d needed a bang. A mess and more disgust. More hurt.

And now he can feel the panic of his options being taken away.

“Aaron,” she squeezes his hand. He meets her eyes and feels a fraction of warmth. “Just-- Just--” she wants to tell him to let her in. She wants to tell him that all this is going to pass in time and this awful moment will just be a cruel memory one day. But she’s looking at him and seeing her own reflection. Two people broken by time and unable to trust another human being. She can’t be certain why she does it.

Her mind screams that he’s neither trustworthy nor in the right mind but she wraps her around him and pulls him into a hug. “I love you,” she tells him, hugging him tightly. Feeling his tension and apprehension. Slowly, he lifts his arms and hugs her back. He clings to her. Squeezing her tight but she’s not going anywhere.

He’s vaguely aware of the fabric of her soft cotton shirt getting wet against his face. Her hand comes up and brushes his hair down and he finds that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s sobbing in the arms of the very woman who was once hired to end his career. He doesn’t care because he feels the pain and for once, he can breathe.

Emily holds him tighter. Neither is speaking. They just cling together in the storm and Emily hopes that she can drag him out of this mess. That he can come back here, to her arms instead of into the bottle. And she’ll get his gun. She’ll throw out all of the alcohol and call Jessica in three or four days when he’s mopped up and dry and tell her that Hotch needs to see Jack.

And maybe one day they’ll think back to this moment and it won’t hurt as much. But for today, for this moment, they just hold one another.

[omniswords]

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 14

Happy Chronicles Update! I promise I'm still trucking along on this baby. I think?? We've also officially reached the halfway mark on this installment, which is kind of. Wow. That's WILD.

anyway, I hope you enjoy!

welcome to today’s episode of Luka’s Word to the Wise: whatever it is, it doesn’t have to be perfect. it just has to be good.

thanks, I.

Ivan is right. And technically, so is his Ma, who’s been telling him and Juleka this for as long as he can remember. But Luka will give them the gratification of saying I told you so when this is all over. Even though he could take a stab in the dark and guess that only one of them would take him up on that offer. And it wouldn’t be Ivan. And it wouldn’t be his Ma.

In between messaging back and forth with Bubbles over the next couple of days, Luka puts together a flyer. It’s not exactly the best—just something he threw together on one of those free graphic design websites, definitely nothing like a Gabriel billboard. But it’s punchy, and it fits the vibe, and it gets the overall message across. And more importantly, Juleka doesn’t give him The Look for it. In fact, she smiles over his shoulder when it’s done, and she rubs her fist in his hair, and she affectionately says, “Now can you chill?”

Luka only grins and throws her into a fireman’s carry for another round of ping-pong. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t know how to be totally chill any more.

They pool pocket money, leftovers from past paychecks, to put in an order for copies at the local print shop. Only Rose has ever been; she tells them she’s tagged along with a couple of old friends from an art club to print issues of the comic they’ve been working on together. It’s nice to see her take the lead, point out the best paper stocks and finishes and spot colors, whatever those are, based on what she’s overheard. It certainly beats the alternative: four barely-adults standing awkwardly at the counter, pretending they know what they’re doing.

Even if, according to Luka’s Ma, that’s most of what adulthood is, anyway.

They decide on something glossy because it makes the colors pop, and admittedly Luka has to thank his lucky, anxious stars for saving the file in every format imaginable because he wasn’t sure which one they’d need. Before he leaves them and heads to work on his bike, Juleka gives him another smile, and Ivan manages a single, subtle nod, and Rose’s eyes sparkle. And it’s starting to feel a little less like a thing he needs to do. It’s a thing he wants to do. With them.

And, well. Any bonuses are just that. Bonuses.

These days, Luka’s made it a point to bike past the bakery on his way to work, because if he’s as much of a regular as the Dupain-Cheng family claims, then he might as well act like it. To be fair, he doesn’t always stop in to talk or buy something; in fact, most times he doesn’t. maybe it’s some silly sense of hope that he’ll be seen. That Marinette really did talk to her parents about picking up an extra shift or two behind the counter. That there’s still room on the bulletin board for him—them. And most times, it is just Mrs. Cheng at the storefront, organizing displays or chatting with a friendly customer.

But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it is Marinette, idly staring at the window with what he can only assume is her sketchbook at her side and her apron tied around her waist. And sometimes, she looks up at him. And sometimes, she waves and smiles with all the warmth and none of the sweat of July.

That’s why he does it. For the sometimes.

The flyers, once they’re printed, are nothing short of gorgeous, but Luka can’t bring himself to take any of the credit for it. More than anything, he’s just happy to see his bandmates all in on this, even if he did jump in with both feet. Even if they do still rib him during practice about how he’s way too invested in this. (At least Mylène has only nice things to say. He’ll have to remember to order a few extra pastries just for her.)

They split the flyers into four stacks, because of course Mylène insists on helping and of course Rose and Juleka insist on going together. They run or pedal off in different directions once they’ve put a game plan together, and at least Luka can credit them for not teasing when he offers to take the third and fourth arrondissement. They all know it’s where the bakery is, in spite of how he talks up the Place des Vosges. They know, and they don’t have to say anything.

He’s still trying to figure out whether it’s a blessing or a curse to have your real-life friends on your social media accounts.

Even as he’s hanging the flyers in downtown coffee shops, in libraries, on signposts and public bulletin boards, Luka can’t stop staring. With every flyer he pins or tapes up, he finds something new to love about it. A splash of neon color in the top left corner. The jagged, cutting edges of the lettering. The blurred glow of a spotlight. Every time he looks, he gets the feeling that he’s already there. Music pounding in his ears, stage lights burning so bright and hot they make him sweat, fresh calluses on his fingertips that he’ll regret and adore later. He doesn’t think of stardom often, but he imagines this is something close to it.

At the very least, it’s what he would want to make of it.

It’s close to closing by the time Luka arrives at the bakery-patisserie; the usual lingering smells of fresh bread and sugary frosting and the easygoing music are both conspicuously absent when he walks in. But Mr. Dupain and Ms. Cheng are both missing from the storefront, and he has to double check the time on his phone to make sure he didn’t accidentally arrive too late, or that he’s not interrupting some closing routine. It shouldn’t take long; he spent almost the whole bike ride over rehearsing what he needed to say. He looks around cautiously, even clears his throat in case it gets someone’s attention.

It does. Marinette pops up from behind the counter with a squeak, and it startles him so much he nearly drops the stack of remaining flyers in his arms. And that would’ve been a pain in the ass as much as it would’ve been straight out of one of Rose’s cute romcoms for Marinette to round the counter and help him pick them up until their hands brushed over the same one.

Jesus. He really needs to get out of the house on his sister’s date nights.

He really needs to have a date night.

He also really needs to stop thinking about date nights when the person he’d actually consider a date night with is right in front of—

“Luka?”

He blinks to attention, standing awkwardly in the quiet. God, he really hopes he wasn’t staring at her when he zoned out like that. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Marinette shrugs it off with an apologetic smile. “We’re fresh out of napoleons, you know,” she says casually, slipping past him to flip the sign on the door. “Guess you’ll just have to come first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, I guess I will—wait—” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”

Marinette pauses at that. Even seems to stand a little taller, intrigued. Hopeful? “Oh…? Then why…  are you here?”

Meekly, Luka holds up one of the Kitty Section flyers and nods toward the bulletin board. Here’s hoping he—it— isn’t too much of a disappointment.

Marinette squints at the flyer for a second, and then her eyes widen and spark in delight. She looks… impressed, at least. which isn’t to say she’s never seemed impressed by him before. It just makes all the things he’s been working for a little more worth it. “Wow,” she says. “You really weren’t kidding about being in a band, huh.”

“You know it,” he says with what he prays is a casual shrug; this… wasn’t part of the script. “I don’t wear this thing on my back just to look pretty.”

She stifles a laugh, then claps a hand to her mouth immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t implying that you’re not handsome—pretty— “

Oh God. She’s stammering. And it’s adorable.

Marinette composes herself with a deep breath and her arms folded over her chest. “There are pushpins in the corner,” she says. “Hang it up wherever you want.”

Except Luka can’t help feeling like she’s got her eyes on him the whole time. Either she’s coming to terms with the fact that he was telling the truth all along, or she’s… judging him. Or the flyer. And honestly, he can’t tell which is worse. “What’s wrong?” he asks once he notices she’s still staring. “Did I put it up at a funny angle or something?”

“No, just… thinking…” Her voice sounds distant, perhaps somewhere he might never find her. But then she snaps her fingers, and she says, “That’s it!”

“Uh.” Luka’s brow furrows. “What’s it?”

“Oh, just… sorry, my thoughts just ran away with me, I guess.” Marinette steps toward the flyer, brushing her fingers over it and wincing. maybe it’s just from the finish; his nails have scraped over then more than once, and it felt just as bad as a chalkboard. “I was just thinking, well…  you’ve been good to my parents and all. Why don’t we help you with promotion? You know, put postcards in the boxes or bags. It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

Luka nearly spotters, but the only thing he can manage to say is, “Where am I gonna get postcards?”

“I can make ‘em.” She says it like the simplest, most obvious thing in the world, and looks him up and down when he falters. “If… you and your band are okay with that, I mean. Cause I, y’know… dabble, in graphic design. But I don’t want to impose, if you’re okay with this. It’s your band and all.”

“I can,” he starts to say; then he stops himself, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “I can ask them?” Idiot, he thinks. That wasn’t supposed to be a question. “I’ll let you know what they say. Have to come in bright and early tomorrow anyway, right?”

Marinette only smiles. It’s faint, almost absentminded, but that sweet little tug at the corner of her mouth is hardly lost on him. “You don’t have to.”

“Ask them?”’

“Come by.” Her bag is hanging on a peg by the register, and she’s off rummaging through it before Luka can ask what she means. He gravitates toward her more than he actually walks to her, and by the time he reaches the counter she’s fishing a card out of her wallet. It’s pink and black, decorated with the same spray of flowers and monogram as her apron. when he turns it over, there’s her name at the top, and below that, two email addresses. And two phone numbers.

He looks up, wide-eyed.

“So,” Marinette says. “Unless you’re coming all this way for a napoleon, a pear tart, and my pretty face, I think you’re good.”

“I—” Luka turns the business card over and over as though it will teach him now to speak again. “I guess so.” Does she know he thinks her face is pretty? Wait—of course she does, he gave her that note. Oh, Jesus, does she still have that thing? It’s been weeks. “Well,” he says, scuffing his heel against the tile. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll come anyway.”

Okay, that was definitely not part of the script.

But then, neither is the way her eyes are sparkling. “Well,” she murmurs. “Maybe you will.”

“I should, uh—” He jerks a thumb toward the door. “Go, um. Happy closing?”

She laughs behind a hand, glancing between him and the tacked-up flyer before she grabs a broom and sends him off with a delicate wave. And to be honest, Luka’s never been angry with nature before, but he curses the wind for being so loud that he can’t hear that giggle in his head, over and over. Almost as much as he thanks it for drowning out all the stupid things he said, and the lingering questions of why she offered at all.

Luka’s Word to the Wise, Part 2:

Progress isn’t linear but it sure as hell doesn’t mean you can’t stutter your way through getting a girl’s number and succeed.

[guardianspirits13]

Hi, I saw your art for the AU where Touya weakness is a medical conditon and I wanted to know if there is a story based on it or a one shot ?

PS: I love your art, is amazing

Hi!! Sorry that I’m so late to respond, I never check my inbox so I was surprised to find so many kind messages there!!!!

The concept for Touya with a quirk-based medical condition is my own idea, so while there is no fanfiction it was based off of, I do have a work in progress for the story! It’s nowhere near finished but here’s an excerpt just for you 😘

(read under cut)

(Important side note- in this au, Endeavor and Rei are good parents who do everything possible to help Touya’s condition. They do inadvertently give less attention to the other kids, but it’s in no way malicious since he has different and more urgent needs)

Touya had always been a small kid.

It was his small stature perhaps, that gave him that spark in his eye. That determined gaze, setting his jaw and taking the world on every step of the way. If he had to fight to be heard, to be seen, then so be it. He refused to be forgotten, lost to a cloud of strangers who were taller, stronger, better.

Natsuo knew this more than anyone.

He had always admired his big brother, always looked at him through the eager eyes of a child. Touya radiated warmth- he was gentle and kind and smiled in the face of pain, if only to comfort his younger siblings- and Natsuo loved him more than anything else in the world.

Touya had always been different. He was always a little unbalanced, always heasitant to rush into things. Always looking out for himself, everywhere he went, lest he take one wrong step and land right back in the emergency room.

For as long as Natsuo could remember, Touya had been sick, but he never let that stop him.

-

He recieved the diagnosis two weeks before his sixth birthday.

It was a cloudy winter day, wind whistling around the walls of the Todoroki estate and cold air seeping through the cracks of thin wooden doors.

This couldn’t have mattered less to six-year-old Touya, however, as he played with his father in the training room. Well, not exactly playing. His dad referred to it as training, but Touya loved it anyways. Hurling brilliant bursts of fire at his father and dodging blasts in return was thrilling. He loved the crackling whoosh of the flames, and their dancing warmth on his skin. He loved running around, laughing, spending time with his dad.

Nothing, it seemed, could ruin this moment of joy as he barely managed to dodge a fireball and it tickled his ear. He emitted a small giggle as he rolled onto the floor. He looked back up at his opponent, towering above his tiny form, and grinned mischeviously. He feigned taking a moment to catch his breath, using it to focus all his power into his hands and create one small, brilliant ball of  sparkling blue flame. As Touya stepped up off the floor, the flame flickered violently, roaring like a caged lion- yearning to be set free. He posed properly, as he had been taught, and reeled his arms to his side.

With a shout of victory he thrust his arms forward, and a wall of flame engulfed the room. It was blinding. The bright light engulfed everything, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Everything was white, and suddenly Touya felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. His body went limp, and the last thing he saw as the white faded to black were his father’s eyes, contorted with worry.

-

He woke up in the hospital. He only recognized the scene from movies, white-washed walls, a large window obscured by sheer curtains and a steady beep…beep…beeping sound coming from somewhere behind him. He lay in a small bed, just as white as the rest of the room. A tube stuck out of his hand that hurt a bit whenever he wiggled his fingers, and it seemed to have some sort of liquid running through it. On his other hand was some sort of weird clip, and right below his nose was another tube that itched his nostrils. He looked around the room again, hoping someone was there that he could talk to. Nope. He did his best to sit up without moving any of the wires, and just as he crossed his legs the door peeked open.

“Touya!” His mom stepped in the room, and nearly ran to pull him into a gentle hug, her cold hands making his skin prickle.

“Hi, sweetie…how do you feel?”

“…I’m hungry.”

“That’s okay, the nurse should be in soon with a meal.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s past your bedtime.” His mom laughed softly. “It’s almost eleven o’ clock.”

Touya looked up at her with wide eyes. He had never stayed up this late before. It felt like he was a grown-up or something. He glanced at the tube in his hand. Maybe he didn’t want to be a grown up. It seemed scary.

“Am I going to die?”

His mom looked at him, eyes bright and wide.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you aren’t going to die.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Then why am I here? Isn’t this where people die? What is this for?” He fired off all his questions at once, embellishing the final one with a tug on the tube that sat awkwardly on his face. His mom gently guided his hand away from it.

“You passed out when you were training with your father. We brought you here just to be safe. The doctors have to run a couple tests, but you’ll probably be allowed to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Where’s dad and Fuyumi and everyone?”

“Your father had to go home to tuck them in. We switched places to look after Natsuo, because babies can get cranky in hospitals.” She brushed the hair out of his face, fingers heasitating for a second as they raked through the fresh streak of white in his dark red hair.

Touya closed his eyes as his mother leaned in and softly pressed her lips to his forehead. The motion was calming, and he relaxed as another bout of exhaustion called to him, lulling him to sleep once again.

-

A week later, the only evidence Touya had of having been in the hospital was an All-Might band-aid on his right hand, where the weird tube had poked his skin. He stared out the window of the moving car, counting mailboxes and trees as they flew past. His mom and dad said they needed to talk to the doctor again, because Touya had a test. He didn’t remember taking a test, but he hoped he didn’t fail it, anyways. His little siblings got to stay at home with a babysitter to watch a movie. He was jealous of them.

Once they got to the doctors office, a nurse led them through identical hallways until they got to a small room. Inside was a countertop, and a big chair, and some normal chairs. Touya got to sit in the big chair. His feet were so high off the ground! His mom sat in a small chair next to him, and his father stood. The nurse left them there alone for a few minutes.

Touya swung his feet lazily as he waited for something to happen. He watched the clock. He hummed a song.

Eventually the door opened, and a short, round man with similarly round glasses stepped in. He shook hands with Touya’s dad, then his mom, then Touya. He said he was the doctor and they were going to figure out what was wrong with him. Touya didn’t know there was anything wrong with him. He looked to his mom for reassurance, and she smiled and took his hand.

The doctor settled down in the second chair. He reached into a pocket on his white coat and pulled out an envelope. He said a few words before slitting it open, and retrieving a single piece of paper. He said some big words that Touya didn’t umderstand. He talked for a few minutes, but Touya was bored so he ignored him. He looked around the room- the bright lights on the ceiling; his father taking up the whole corner; his worn sneakers with stomp-lights that didn’t work anymore. His mom squeezed his hand, and he turned to look at her.

Was mommy…crying?

She reached up with her free hand to wipe her face and smiled at him again, but this time her smile was different. It was a sad smile, like the ones she used whenever Touya scraped his knee or ran to her crying after he fell off his bike. Touya stared back at her. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t understand what was going on. His mom turned again and asked the doctor a question. He answered patiently. Then another one. He answered that one too. And on it went, until the doctor finally stood up, shook his parents’ hands once more, and left without a word.

The room was silent for a moment, then Touya’s dad reached down and picked him up off his chair, holding him to his chest with one arm. With the other, he grasped his mom’s shoulder. She had her face covered with her hands, but in a few seconds she sniffled softly and took the hand on her shoulder, allowing herself to trail behind them as they headed back out to the car.

-

“I’m afraid your son has a rare quirk disease.” The doctor looked up from the creased paper containing the damning lab results.

Rei’s heart dropped. She turned to look at her husband. He was stoic, standing frozen in the corner, face shadowed by the ceiling light. She let her eyes rest on her child, seated closer to her, fidgeting with the zipper on his sweatshirt. Touya, her eldest child. Her baby. She took a deep breath and turned back to the doctor, who continued.

“It is known as Degenerative Quirk Disease.” He paused. “The cause of the disease is unknown, but the essence of it is that the quirk preys on the life force of the user. The more he uses his quirk the faster his body will deteriorate, and unfortunately once the damage is done there is no known way to reverse it. As per the name of the disease, it is degenerative and will get worse over time. Unfortunately this does mean that your son will have a shorter lifespan. All known cases have eventually proven to be fatal.”

The room was silent for a moment. Rei’s vision blurred with tears. She squeezed Touya’s hand and he looked down at her, wide-eyed and innocent.

“Mommy?”

Rei smiled softly at him as tears broke her waterline. She haistily swiped them away. She couldn’t bring herself to reassure him. What a terrible mother she was.

She turned away, looking back at the doctor.

“Is there anything we can do?”

He nodded slowly.

“While there is no known cure, there is treatment available. In fact, just recently a villain-strength quirk suppresant was approved for medical use. The only way to slow the disease is to prevent the usage of his quirk as much as possible. This is the best option available, as even among those who thoroughly abstain from using their quirks, there are still accidents and passive attributes to most quirks that would expedite the disease, such as fire-resistance.” He nodded at the man in the corner. His face, normally highlighted with dancing flames, was dark and unreadable.

Rei prompted him further, eager to learn how to save her child.

“What does treatment entail?”

“The most promising option available is a weekly IV treatment supplemented with oral medication.  Both help to suppress quirk usage as much as possible to delay progression of the disease. With regular use his lifespan could be expanded by up to five years, compared to manually abstaining. Now I know this doesn’t sound like the most effective treatment, but given the life expectancy without treatment, five more years of life is the best gift you could give him right now.”

-

That’s all I have for now! If I ever decide to finish it I’ll upload it to my Ao3, and if you like my writing you can find more of it there as well :)

Again, thank you so much for the support! I’m so glad you like my art so I’ll be sure to keep on creating!

[talesmaniac89]

Tag, You’re It

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: The reader challenges Dean to a round of laser tag, to see who’s really the best shot.

Triggers: None really, just fluff

Y/N = Your name | Y/E/C = Your eye colour

“Pull in here Dean!” You bounced excitedly in your seat as you pointed to the arcade in front of you. Smile wide and (Y/E/C) eyes bright with the premature rush of a challenge as you twisted in your seat to raise a teasing eyebrow at the grumbling hunter.

Dean Winchester, however, didn’t seem as excited for the prospect ahead of him. Even though he’d been all for it when you’d raced him to the car. All big words, sharp eyes and squared shoulders, ready to prove you wrong on your assumption that you’d beat him in a one to one shoot out. 

Of course, he’d probably also not thought you’d be dragging him to the closest arcade to put his bragging to the test straight away. Considering the challenge, he’d most likely considered it to at best involve a gun range and at worst a bunch of tin cans in a pretty little line.

“Are we really doing this?” Dean groaned, though he still turned into the car park with a grimace and hesitant green eyes locked on the big, faded ‘Fun Land’ sign in front of the door. Seeming less impressed by the second as he took in the crumbling facade.

Honestly, the place had seen better days. 

The sign looked like it was just one bad gust away from crashing to the ground. The ‘F’ was faded and dented enough to barely be visible at all, renaming the old arcade to ‘Un-Land’ instead. And the obvious signs of rust creeping in from the sides of the vintage styled metal hinted at years of neglect. But hell, it was the only arcade in a 10-mile radius, and it would have to do. 

Hopefully the equipment inside wasn’t in as bad of a state as the outside. The reviews had been good online after all. Though you were still adamant that you could beat Dean in a shoot off even if your only available weapon was a peashooter. 

“Hell yes we’re doing this. If you’re gonna brag and say you’re better than me, you have to be ready to put your money where your mouth is,” You grinned, reaching for the door as soon as he pulled the Impala into one of the many available parking spots. 

Based on the ghost town of a parking lot; the old and rundown arcade was pretty much empty. Which was what you’d been aiming for when you pulled Dean along early on a Monday morning. You didn’t need other soldiers on the battlefield if you were going to show him you were the better shot. Though, in your own totally humble opinion, the place could’ve been full, and you’d still come out on top of any damned leader board. You knew your way around guns. 

Any type of gun.

“But… Laser tag? Isn’t that just for kids’ birthday parties and boring stripper-less bachelor parties?” Dean’s deep voice was right behind you once he spoke up again. Sending surprised little pleasurable shivers up your spine as you turned to face him, nearly bumping into his chest from how close he was. 

It took you a second to find your voice; your head loud with some not-so-innocent thoughts about the gorgeous hunter in front of you. 

Damn it.

It was unfair how mentally tongue-tied he could leave you by just standing that little bit too close to you. Those broad shoulders and muscular arms easily brought with them fantasies best reserved for the four walls of your own room back at the bunker at any given point of the day. Even more so when they were close enough for you to run your fingers over. 

Especially when the rest of the man was just as sinfully gorgeous. From those slightly bowed legs and his perfectly toned chest, making you wonder how all of him would feel pushed up against you, one strong thigh between your legs and calloused fingers circling your wrists. To those tempting full lips and that defined jaw peppered with just the right amount of stubble to make you want to trace it with your tongue. And of course, your favourite pair of bright green eyes; easier to get lost in than any national forest. 

Ok, so maybe you had a tiny bit of a crush on the wilderness that was Dean Winchester. 

Which meant the added bonus of getting some time alone with him did add to your giddy energy. But it was 99% about proving him wrong… Or maybe 75%, at least. Swallowing down your own dirty mind, you pushed your thoughts aside along with the buzz in your veins from reacting to the near magnetic pull of him by walking backwards towards the door to the arcade. 

“Well, bachelors and birthday parties will have to wait in line. Right now, it’s a way for me to kick your ass,” You shot back, a little too late and too weak, when you found your voice again. Adding a secret ‘and to help you de-stress’ to yourself as he rewarded your teasing words with a roll of his eyes and a huff before he followed you to the door. 

Dean had been a bit on edge lately. Not that you blamed him. But it hurt to watch him pace the floor dragging a fidgeting hand through his hair and not finding any outlet for his nervous energy. Which was really why you’d challenged him in the first place.

You both turned to your little challenges whenever one, or both, of you were on edge from the tense lack of action between hunts. It made the quiet days easier to deal with when you had nothing to hit. He was your best friend, even if you felt more than just friendship for the hunter, and you just wanted to help him. To make him smile again.

There had always been a great chemistry between you two. Some intuitive part of you that just knew when the other was hurting, or needed an outlet for the building adrenaline, energy and frustration. Maybe it was just friendship, maybe it was something more. Personally, for you it was definitely the latter and sometimes you believed it was the same for Dean. You’d just not been able to own up to it properly yet. At least not enough to find the needed courage to test your theory that those hidden glances you sometimes caught out of the corner of your eye meant he felt the same way you did.

“I don’t know…” Dean sighed as you turned on your heel to push the door open, happy to see the inside looking a hell of a lot more modern and cleaner than the fading outside shell of the building. Hopefully their ‘state of the art’ laser tag arena lived up to the hype you’d read about online. Each session apparently came with a scoped rifle, a handgun and a ‘smoke grenade’ that was more a burst of steam than anything. All set in a dark maze made to look like an abandoned warehouse. 

A setting you were both intimately familiar with from your many hunts. 

“You’re just scared ‘cause you know you can’t beat me,” You sing-songed teasingly as you nearly skipped towards the reception desk. Happy to see that the inside looked as empty as the parking lot. Which meant there shouldn’t be too long of a wait. And hopefully you’d have the whole arena to yourselves. So you could properly school the hunter.

“Oh… It’s on…” Dean winked at you. That boyish half-grin chasing away the rest of his annoyed reluctance as he fell into step next to you. Bumping a toned bicep against your shoulder when you rewarded his agreement with a loud victorious laugh which only sounded louder in the empty arcade. 

Ok, so it was more than just a tiny crush. 

You loved Dean Winchester. You just needed to get your shit together for long enough to tell him. Hopefully without destroying your friendship. 

---

“Not fair (Y/N)!” Dean tried to sound annoyed as his vest blinked red to signal your clear shot to his chest, but the laughter soaking the words took the edge off it. 

You’d been kicking ass and taking names for the first fifteen minutes of the thirty-minute round. Though Dean kept telling you it was only because you kept hiding from him. Either that or because the gun was lighter, he was new to laser tag, or one of a million other whiny excuses. 

For the first ten minutes, the big guy hadn’t taken your game seriously. Allowing you to easily duck around corners and sneak up on the hunter. Your movements hidden by the music and the blinking lights as you used your handgun to get in a clean shot before running away laughing. Blatantly ignoring the ‘no running’-signs that littered the walls. 

Once your point lead had been announced at the ten-minute mark however. Then the game became deadly serious. Forcing you to switch tactics to keep your lead. Finding the high ground and dropping to the floor to use your scoped rifle to snipe at him from behind the chain link fence on the higher platform. 

Which was exactly where you were as he called out to you above the music and teased a laugh from you that gave away your position. Leaving you just a few short seconds to roll to the side and scramble back up on your feet before he closed in on you. Easily getting in a shot at the back of your vest just before you rounded another corner. 

---

His points were closing in on yours. 

“Stop moving so much! You’re cheating!” Dean’s laughter sounded from somewhere behind you as you raced towards another corner with a loud, breathless laugh of your own.

The twenty-minute mark had seen a point score that was both in triple digits and the distance between your points was shrinking fast. The hunter’s longer strides left you to run away, ducking and rolling half the time as he kept trying to get in shots at you while you zig-zagged away from him.

“All’s fair in love and war Dean!” You shot back with a breathless laugh over your shoulder before rounding the corner and jumping a small barrier to lie in wait, knowing he’d follow you around it sooner rather than later. Switching from your rifle, you aimed the handgun towards the corner and held your breath. But there was no sign of those bright eyes and boyish grin coming into view around the corner. 

Where was he?

“Got you,” Dean’s voice in your ear teased a childish squeal out of you as he snuck up on you and got another shot in. Damn it. You were tied. 

Laughing you turned towards him and winked before easily using your smaller size to your advantage, ducking under his arm and rushing around another makeshift barrier. Nearly sliding on the floor from the sharp left turn before turning to walk backwards and waiting for him to hit the slippery patch that almost made you stumble. Gun aimed and finger on the trigger. 

You barely got the shot fired through your loud laughter as Dean came into view around the corner. Stumbling over bowed legs as he fumbled with his gun. The Winchester curse striking again. 

The brothers somehow both always seemed to nearly drop whatever weapon was in their hands at least once. Luckily, this time, you could use it to your advantage as you ducked, dropped and rolled. Getting around the corner with another breathless chuckle at Dean’s curses from around the corner. 

---

Your back and forth point-lead kept changing as Dean copied your earlier tactic; sniping at you from the top of one of the structures you didn’t even know how he climbed. While you tried to hide around corners and fire blindly in his direction. Both of you breathless and hot as the robotic voice signalled the last few minutes had started. 

The final countdown propelled Dean into further action as he jumped nimbly down from his vantage point to chase after you again. Sniping was good for steady points, but not much of a winning tactic with only minutes left to spare.

You had the lead, but only barely and Dean was hot on your heels as you ran around another corner, only to run straight into a dead end. If he caught you in there, he was sure to win the whole game by simply locking you in place and firing blindly around the corner. 

You only had a few seconds to formulate your plan. Which was probably what made you throw caution to the wind as you kept your gun by your side instead of aiming it at where he was sure to show up. Deciding, hell, two birds, one stone, just as Dean came around the corner. 

Eyes shining bright with early victory as he lifted his gun. 

Before he could fire however, you ducked under his aim and pushed him against the wall. Your hand flat against his vest as you pushed yourself up against him. Hating the fact that the rigid plastic of the laser tag vests was keeping you from feeling his body against yours. You knew you should probably take a second to think things through. But, you were acting on adrenaline; the only way you ever managed to muster up the courage to do something absolutely insane. 

Both when it came to hunts and your own non-existent love life. 

So, before Dean could speak up or fix his aim, you let your hand slide against the back of his neck and pulled his head down towards yours. Your lips pushing against his in a quick, breathless and giddy kiss. Barely allowing yourself to linger at the taste of him or let the world fall away around you before you stepped back, just as Dean’s lips became pliable against yours. 

The quick-witted hunter, did however have lightning fast reflexes after years in the business. So, before you could fully slip away from his arms, he’d reached out to pull you against him again, wrapping strong arms around your waist. Pupils blown and lips slightly parted as he let his tongue wet them, tasting you on them. 

The growl that left him was low and deep in his chest, yet from this close you could easily hear it above the music. The animalistic need in it sending shots of heat through your system. He wanted this, he wanted you, and damn it, you wanted to properly savour him as well. To fully let yourself drown in the taste of peppermint and spice that you’d only gotten a small teased hint of.

But that would have to wait until after you won the game and proved you were the better shot. You were nothing if not stubborn after all. 

And so, you only allowed him to pull you back against him for a few short seconds. His lips parting as he groaned against your mouth, all willing and wanting. Teasing a moan from you that he easily swallowed as his hands roamed against your sides, seeming annoyed at the hard plastic that stopped him from tracing your curves. 

An annoyance that only grew when you pulled away again and he pushed his torso forward trying to follow. A greedy mouth looking for yours with a greedy desperation as you raised the handgun and stepped back away with a smirk and a wink. 

Dean’s eyes were so focused on your lips that he barely even seemed to notice the gun until you took proper aim. Green eyes widening, though he made no move to raise his own. Still too stunned and rattled from your surprise kiss.

Letting your teeth grazing against your lower lip; you shot him at point blank range before turning with a laugh and walking away. Your pace unhurried and an extra little swing to your hips from where you felt his eyes roaming your body in jeans you knew for a fact were very flattering. Leaving the big guy dazed against the wall; his own gun forgotten in his hand and the win as good as yours. 

By the way his eyes burned into your body before you slipped around the corner, counting down the last seconds, you already knew how you’d be celebrating your win. Pushed up against a wall somewhere as Dean’s lips explored your neck and mouth properly. Teeth marking your throat and a dangerously low groan trapped in his chest. One big hand circling your wrists and keeping them pushed over your head to stop you from running away again and one big, toned thigh pushed between your legs.

Not that you minded. Hell, that would be way better than any trophy or money you could ever win from your challenge. 

Tags:

Dean Winchester Tags: @ria132love​​ @woodworthti666​​ @defenderrosetyler​​  @akshi8278​​ @justanotherwinchester​​ @lyarr24​​ @torn-and-frayed​​ @all-will-be-well-love​​ @wearesuchstuff1​​ @thefridgeismybestie​​ @adoptdontshoppets​​ @punof-agun​​ 

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @hobby27  @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @sea040561 @donnaintx @alwaysdreamingforthebest  @thatmotleygirl​ @chocolateheart @superfanficnatural @flamencodiva @starryeyeseunbyul​

---

[stilesssolo]

baby I’ll come back to you: coming soon

Well folks, since my current wip, where the wild things are, is winding down (there’s only one chapter left WHAT) and I’m taking off March/ early April from posting anything to focus on finishing up my remix fic(s) on time, I wanted to share a sneak peek of my next wip (mostly just so I could show off @dragonanddirewolf​‘s BEAUTIFUL beautiful art.) So here it is: the long-awaited Jonas Brothers au (sorta), which I hope to start posting in late April. I am really excited to start working on this fic, and even more excited to share it with everyone! Hopefully this little preview intrigues you and gets you as excited to read it as I am to write it! And tides you over while y’all wait for my next update, since I am incapable of really working on more than one project at a time. WHOOPS. Anyways, here it is, so enjoy!!

It feels like it’s been a bloody age since he’s actually seen both Robb and Theon in the same room. 

He spots them the moment he steps into the coffee shop, even though they’re tucked away in a back corner, away from prying eyes. Jon keeps his head down as he maneuvers through the crowded café, sunglasses still on even inside, just in case people are looking his way. It’s an old habit he has yet to break— out of the three of them, he certainly gets recognized the least nowadays, which is probably why all the tabloids claim he’s fallen off the face of the planet. Theon’s been doing movies, Robb was in a new band and is married to probably the most famous woman in the world, and Jon— well. He’s been living, best he can. Getting better, all of that bullshit. But truly, he hasn’t done anything like his brothers have in the past five years, so people don’t recognize him as much. Enough to squint at him in an I-know-you’re-famous way, but not enough to rush him like they do Robb whenever he steps foot outside his house. He outgrew his nineteen-year-old baby face and started tying his hair back, and all of a sudden it’s like he’s wearing a mask. 

Jon’s not sure how much longer that will last, though, because he has a feeling he knows why Robb’s asked them to meet him here today. 

“Jon,” he hears that familiar voice call, and he nods towards the two men at the back table, head still down. The last thing they need is the paps recognizing them, starting to spread rumors about the three of them all together again. 

“Hi,” Jon says, slipping into the booth, finally taking off his sunglasses. Light from outside streams in through the large windows, the busy sprawl of King’s Landing right before them. Theon slaps him on the arm in greeting; Robb smiles at him in that way he does now. That way that looks like everything’s fine, but where the light doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

Gods, he can’t remember the last time his brother actually looked truly happy to see him. Probably before their last tour. 

He knows why, of course. Robb would never say it, but Jon knows that he blames him for the breakup. For everything. 

“Bloody hells, Jon, it’s been an age,” Theon says, grinning at him. “Where’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been here,” he responds, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who was off filming that movie for three months.” 

“Aye, how did that go?” Robb asks, gaze turning to Theon, that guarded look disappearing. “I haven’t seen you since you got back. You missed Rose’s birthday party, you know.” 

“I know,” Theon grumbles. “I’ll make it up to her, I promise. I have to maintain my favorite uncle status.” 

They chat for a while— mundane things, catching up. Theon tells them about the movie he’d just wrapped on. Robb shows them both a million new photos of his children. Jon keeps quiet, just listening. It’s… nice, to be back with both of them, the warm sunlight spilling in through the window, making Robb’s eyes shine like they used to when he was younger. It makes him forget, for a moment. Wish for those days back, when the three of them would spend every moment of their time writing music, pouring their hearts and souls into their careers. It was something so fleeting and magical, he’s not really sure he’ll ever find anything like that again. 

Jon realizes he’s lost track of the conversation when Theon clears his throat, looking at the two of them almost nervously, in a decidedly un-Theon-like way. “I’m glad we did this,” he says to them, “because I wanted to tell you both.” He pauses, looking at Robb, as if trying to gauge his best friend’s reaction before he even says anything. “I’m going to ask Sansa to marry me.” 

Robb’s eyes get comically wide, so much that Jon chuckles, ducking his head. But it only takes his brother a moment to recover, before he’s grinning widely, eyes sparkling in a way Jon hasn’t seen them in a long time. 

Or maybe that’s just because Jon seldom sees Robb anymore. 

“Wow,” Robb says, almost speechless. “That’s— that’s brilliant, Theon. Congratulations!” 

“Well, I haven’t asked her yet,” Theon says, giving Robb a look. “Don’t go cursing me or something now. She’ll go on and say no.” 

“You think she would?” Jon asks. Theon shrugs. 

“I don’t really, but— hells, I don’t know.” He gives Robb a look. “How did you know it was right when you asked Margaery?” 

Robb huffs in laughter. “Oh gods, don’t take advice from me on that,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. 

“What do you mean?” Theon demands. “You’re the only one of us who’s bloody married!” 

Jon looks down as the sudden feeling of coldness creeps in, like an icy dagger to the heart. Memories flash before his eyes, and he’s trapped back in the past, glimpses of hair like moonlight and teasing smiles dragging him down, drowning him. 

He still has that diamond ring somewhere— buried in the back of a drawer, probably, where he won’t stumble upon it. Seeing it is too painful, but getting rid of it— well. That’s painful in an entirely different way. 

“Aye, but Margaery made it easy for me,” Robb says. “She wrote a whole bloody album that basically told me she was waiting for me to ask her.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Y’know I still get asked if I married her with paper rings.” 

At that, Jon snorts, a little of the darkness lifting. He’s seen his goodsister’s engagement ring, and it is certainly not made of paper. 

Jon tunes out as Robb continues on, reassuring Theon. He doesn’t realize he’s being addressed until both men are staring at him expectantly. 

“Sorry, what?” he says, and Robb rolls his eyes amiably. 

“I asked, what have you been doing, Jon?” Theon repeats, and Jon shifts uncomfortably. Nothing, is really the most honest answer. Working out. Walking Ghost. Trying to keep his mind occupied and himself sober. 

It’s probably sad, to look at his life now, compared to what it used to be. When he was nineteen years old he was touring the world, singing for millions of fans, writing songs every single minute of every single day. Music was most of his life. And now he’s just— trying to get by, he supposes. It’s sad, but it’s what he’s become accustomed to. Just… making it through the day, one day at a time. 

“Er, not much,” he admits. “Not like you two, anyways.” 

Robb glances up at him, that guarded look back in his eyes. “Arya told me you’ve been writing again,” he says, quietly. Jon curses mentally— he never should have told her that. 

“Fuckin’ tattletale,” Jon grumbles. But he can tell from Robb’s expression he’s not going to drop it. “Aye, I have been,” he admits, heaving a sigh. “Not anythin’ good. Just… I dunno. I missed it, I guess.” 

“I miss it too,” Theon says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Acting is fine, but music… it’s something different, isn’t it?” 

“Aye, it is,” Robb agrees. “Margaery’s been workin’ on her next album, and it makes me think back to then. When we’d just crowd around the table in Mum and Dad’s living room, and Jon would come up with a lyric, and Theon would just hear how it should sound, and we’d write a song in an afternoon.” He sighs, a little wistfully, looking down. “Watching Margaery at the piano, it just…” 

“Feels like a part of you is missing,” Theon supplies. 

Jon doesn’t answer, but he knows what they mean. Maybe that’s why he began songwriting again. Not because he wants to have a music career anymore— just because it’s so ingrained in him, he doesn't really know what to do with himself if he’s not making music. And if he’s being honest, writing down lyrics, coming up with a melody on the guitar or the piano that mainly just collects dust in his living room… there’s a comforting familiarity to it. Like maybe his sense of self hasn’t been completely destroyed. Maybe some of the old person he used to be is buried down deep. 

“Do you ever think about it?” Theon asks, and Robb’s brow furrows. “Y’know. The possibility of… us. Getting back together.” 

Robb exhales slowly. “More than I should,” he says. “I… it’s really hit me, in the past few years. How much I miss it. And doing things by myself, or with other people, it’s just not the same.” 

“Aye,” Jon agrees, both Theon and Robb looking a little surprised at the fact that he’s participating in this conversation voluntarily. But he knows what Robb means. He did solo things after the breakup, just because he didn’t know how to do anything else. And it had been a lackluster replacement, nothing like he’d felt for the almost seven years he and Robb and Theon were together. 

“What about you, Jon?” Robb asks, and as casual as his brother may be trying to appear, Jon knows him better than that. He can hear the apprehension in his voice. And the hope. 

Jon exhales, trying to sort out his words in his head before he says something he regrets. “I… do miss it,” he says. “And sometimes I think about it. Gettin’ back together. But I always…” He hesitates. “Would it even be the same? Can we have that again, truly? Or was it just some miracle we stumbled upon we can’t get back?” 

“I wonder that too,” Theon admits. “If we got back together— would anyone even care? Would anyone want to listen to our music in the first place?” 

“I know what you mean,” Robb says, and his blue eyes flash with determination, desperation. Like he’s clinging onto this with all his might. “But I miss making music with you two. And I think if we truly did this, we couldn’t worry about the fans, or the people. We’d have to do it just for us.” 

Just for us, Jon thinks, trying not to roll his eyes. That’s a novel thought in Hollywood. All he seemed to do when they were a band was give and give and give himself away. Nothing here was ever just for him. 

Well… there was her. But now that’s gone as well. 

“I would do it,” Theon says, with a conviction that surprises Jon. “It would be hard, and who bloody knows what would even come of it, but I would. If this is you asking, Robb, then I say yes.” 

Robb blinks, a little taken aback, but then Theon’s words really seem to hit him, and he smiles. A laugh falls from his lips, eyes shining in a way that Jon rarely sees anymore. 

“What about you, Jon?” Theon asks, and that’s when Robb’s eyes dim. 

Jon sighs. “I dunno,” he says. “That’s… a big decision. I’d like to just say yes, but…” 

“I know,” Robb says. “And I don’t want you to say yes unless you really mean it, Jon. If you just… do this for us, nothing will end well.” 

His eyes drop down to the coffee table, heart heavy. Yes, he knows that’s true. Because isn’t that how it all blew up the first time? Jon couldn’t do it anymore, and instead of telling anyone, he soldiered on for Robb and Theon. For his brothers. And it all ended in fucking disaster. 

“I’ll think about it,” he promises, and the sincerity in his voice takes him by surprise as much as it does Robb and Theon. “Truly, I will.” 

Maybe it’s not a bad idea. He loved making music with Robb and Theon. It was his entire life for so long— some crazy dream they somehow made come true. The most surreal, incredible thing in the world, right there before them. And he does miss it. He misses having a purpose, an outlet, an… anything. He misses the time when his life wasn’t an endless void, a monotonous parade of going through the motions day-to-day, trying to learn to move on from something he never really thinks he’ll be over. 

Robb’s smile is warm when it meets his, and Theon claps him on the shoulder, looking uncharacteristically hopeful. And for a moment, Jon’s heart feels light, not like it’s made of iron, still heavy in his chest after nearly seven years. 

But then Robb’s expression shifts, and his stomach sinks once again. 

“There’s somethin’ else,” his brother admits. “Sansa just told me. And I figured you’d rather hear it from us, than see it plastered across all the tabloids in King’s Landing.” 

“What is it?” Jon asks, dread filling his stomach. He just knows, somehow, that this is it. This fragile peace he’s tried to build these past years is about to shatter, the rug pulled out from under him. 

Robb exhales, like he has to physically force the words out, and Jon prepares himself for the fallout.

“Dany’s back in town.” 

And with that, the world stops spinning.

[fireblaze5555]

Paint Me a Memory

Another Oneshot that has been rattling around in my head.

Also on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978600

Paint Me a Memory

Summary: The anniversary of his family's death was last week and Frank feels it weighing down on him so he goes to Karen.

Karen is painting to help her process her feelings, she's pleasantly surprised when Frank shows up.

Rating: GA

Frank made his way through Hell’s Kitchen, enjoying the rare pleasant August day. The oppressive humidity had finally lifted and there was a cool breeze that followed him as he turned the corner to his destination.

He took the stairs up to the third floor and hesitated outside of the door. Frank had been in near isolation the past week, the anniversary of his family’s death weighing him down, making it impossible to fully function. There were a few men that were punished but outside of that, he had barely managed to eat or sleep. Then today, he felt like he couldn’t bear to be alone, which was odd considering he usually thrived in isolation. Or so he told himself.

So here he was, outside of her door. He hadn’t really had a direction when he left his apartment but it seems like his body always brings him here when he is most lost.

Not giving himself the chance to second guess, Frank knocked on the door before burying his hands in his pockets and waiting. There were a few shuffling sounds from inside, a loud clunk followed by a curse and then suddenly she was before him.

“Hey Karen.” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

A beautiful surprised smile greeted him. Karen was always happy to see him, which he will never really understand. He always brought so much bullshit into her life, danger, pain, his endless baggage, but it never phased her.

She looked beautiful, hair braided over one shoulder and what appeared to be paint smeared on her forehead. An old flannel shirt hung loosely on her slight frame and light jeans encased her legs, the thighs covered in smears of different colored paints.

Frank had never seen her look so casual and disheveled and it found it incredibly endearing. Dragging his eyes back to hers, he smirked. “You, uh, doing arts and crafts ma'am?”

Karen looked down at herself and then back to Frank sheepishly but the smile never left her lips, “Something like that. Come on in.”

Her heart was still fluttering. She hadn’t seen Frank in a few weeks and honestly hadn’t expected to see him anytime soon. The anniversary was last week and she figured he would be holed up, processing his grief the only way Frank seems to know anymore. Alone and angry.

Karen had spent most of her week thinking about the Castle family. It felt strange, mourning a family she had never known and yet she found herself in periods of melancholy, anger and sadness. She found herself looking over their file, the same one her and Frank had poured over to find all the facts and was surprised to feel tears on her face when she finally closed it. Karen wasn’t sure if her tears were for the ones gone too soon or for the man left behind.

It all started to become too much and she felt herself spiraling to a point she knew would lead to far too much drinking so she pulled out a canvas and her brushes and set to work on distracting her mind. It was a habit she picked up when her mom got sick, when she felt like she was losing control, Karen would paint. The subject matter varied but it usually revolved around the object of her feelings, it was a way to process and feel while not becoming overwhelmed by it. There had been so many paintings of Kevin she lost count. She always painted over those, unable to bear looking at them for long. She hardly had time for it anymore but things had been a little slow at Nelson, Murdock and Page so she took the time to just feel. Hoping that once she finished the piece she might have some peace of mind.

“Beer?” she asked as she watched him wander into her space. He gave a small nod, leaning on her island. His shoulders sagged and she could tell he was trying to keep things light but his grief hung around him like a shroud. She handed him a bottle, watching him carefully as she did.

He took a long drink and held her eyes.

“How are you?” The question was quiet, she didn’t want to pry but she didn’t want him suffering alone either.

Frank’s eyes fell away, staring intently at the bottle in front of him. He didn’t say anything for several moments.

Karen suspected she wasn’t going to get an answer out of him and had accepted the companionable silence, sipping at her own drink while he was lost in his thoughts.

“It’s not getting any easier.” His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper but it still startled her a bit. Her heart gave a sharp twinge when he finally looked at her again. The pain in those dark eyes nearly stole her breath.

“Each year I think it will be a little easier, like maybe if I put enough of those shitbags in the ground it will hurt less when that day comes. Usually it gets me through, it’s my penance for not protecting them. Each new rapist or murderer that I bury is one more innocent person that won’t suffer. But each year, that day comes around and they are still gone.”

Frank sees the tears gathering in her eyes and it makes his heart lurch. He feels like he should be crying but over the past week he has run out of tears. She would just have to do it for the both of them he supposed.

“I’m sorry Frank. I wish things were different.” She said softly. There were no assurances in what she said but it still helped. She never tried to give him false hope, only offered her support, there for him to lean on when his grief tried to crush him.

Clearing his throat, Frank straightened. “Yeah, me too. Enough of all that, though. I didn’t come here to bring your night down. What is it that Picasso is working on over here that has her such a mess?” He turned to her easel making his way around it. She had it facing the window to catch more natural light.

Karen broke a quick smile but it disappeared when she remembered what she had been painting. Setting her beer down a little too quickly, she hurried around the island, “Actually, Frank I uh…”

Too late. Frank went utterly still as he took in the painting. He wasn’t sure how to describe what he was feeling, all he knew was that his family was smiling up at him from the canvas, his own face pressed against Maria’s dark hair while she laughed. It looked vaguely like a picture he remembered of Maria and the kids but he hadn’t been in it, gone on one of his deployments.

He stared at it for a few moments before he finally turned to Karen.

Karen looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole, "It uh...helps me process my...feelings, I guess. When I feel overwhelmed I paint what's on my mind and it helps me think about it without ...you know...getting hammered."

Frank continued to split his unreadable gaze between her and the painting where the faces of his family smiled back at him.

When he still didn't say anything Karen began to wring her hands nervously, shifting a bit on her feet. She felt like she had overstepped some boundary between her and Frank and trampled somewhere sacred.

"It's just that...I’ve been thinking about them lately, you know?" She was babbling, she knew that but couldn't seem to stop, not with those deep soulful eyes on her.

"Thinking about where they might be, what you all would be doing." Karen felt her eyes burning and tried her best to will the tears away but the injustice of the Castle family always made her heart bleed. So, unbidden, she felt them running hotly down her cheeks. "Thinking about how unfair and how unbelievably cruel it all is."

Frank looked down at his feet and she saw the scrunch of his nose that indicated he was trying to hold back emotion.

Probably disgust, she thought, he was trying to think of a way to tell her she had gone too far and was figuring out how to leave her behind. Forget this tentative thing they had.

Karen quickly wiped the tears from her face and sniffled quietly before straightening her shoulders. "I'm sorry Frank, I overstepped. I'll get rid of this, it wasn't my place."

She had to step past him and could feel the tension rolling off of him in waves. It burned her skin like a livewire and Karen tried not to flinch as she went past. She moved to reach for the painting, intent on doing anything to rectify the situation. Her fingers barely brushed the canvas before she was jerked around and crushed to Frank's chest, his forehead pressed to hers as his breath shuddered lightly across her face.

He didn’t say anything, just held her in place as he gently swayed. He wanted to tell her how beautiful the picture was, how much it meant to him that she took the time to create something that showed his family as he saw them. At least, how he prefers to see them, when the nightmares aren’t poisoning his memories. Every time he tries to say any of those things though, he chokes, emotion thick in his throat and trapping the words.

Karen still wasn’t sure where they stood but he hadn’t pushed her away which told her maybe she hadn’t burned the bridge between them. The bridge built on trust, companionship, and deep longing. Tentatively she laid her hand on his bicep, giving a light squeeze. She may not know where they stood at the moment but she knew when Frank was overwhelmed and she knew that touch grounded him, pulled him out of the swirling of his thoughts long enough to gain his bearings.

Finally, so quiet she felt it more than heard it, Frank breathed a soft ‘thank you’ against her cheek, a large warm hand coming to rest on the side of her neck. The relief that flooded her made her knees weak but Karen managed to stay on her feet, giving his arm another squeeze.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything Frank.”

He scoffed, breaking the spell a bit and leaned back to look at her dryly. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” His tone softened, his eyes scanning over her face with a tenderness that stole her breath and made her heart ache. “I got more to thank you for than I’ll ever be able to name.”

It was her turn to lose her voice, trying not to let more tears fall Karen looked down at the ground and took a few steadying breaths. When she was sure she wouldn’t turn into a sobbing mess she looked at him again.

“I think considering how many times you’ve saved my life, I’m probably still behind on thanks that are owed.” Her voice was quiet but earnest.

Frank shook his head and looked like he was about to argue so she set her hand on his cheek gently.

“How about this, since we can and would argue about it all night, we just call it even?” She smiled sweetly at him.

Frank watched her for another few seconds, deciding how difficult he wanted to be before the corner of his mouth tipped into a small smile.

“Yeah, alright. We’ll call it even for now.” he said, absently letting his thumb glide over her jaw. He felt a small tremor go through her and when he looked at her eyes, he felt a tremor of his own. Frank dropped his hand quickly like it had been burned. It felt too good to have his hands on her, something he couldn’t indulge in because then he may not ever let go. By the look in her eyes, she may not want him to and that terrified him even more.

He felt guilty for pawing at her and then drawing back just as quickly but Karen seemed to expect it, running light fingers down his cheek, a bittersweet smile still in place before she took a half step back from him and dropped her hands.

Frank cleared his throat and couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye so he turned back to the painting, the tension in his chest seeming to release at the sight of his family. There were unfinished bits, details that she had not gotten to yet and Frank desperately wanted to see the picture finished.

“You uh, were still working on this when I got here?” he asked, needlessly.

Karen watched Frank carefully for a second, she could still feel his calloused thumb along her jaw where he lost himself for a moment. He would never know how much restraint it took to keep herself from turning into that hand or launching herself at him.

“Yeah.” She kept her voice quiet, afraid he might spook if she spoke too loudly or made any sudden moves. As tough and scary as he could be, Karen knew when Frank was feeling flighty. “Yeah, I was going to try and finish it tonight.”

He nodded, taking his eyes from the canvas to glance at her a couple of times before settling on the picture and she could tell he was building up to something in his head.

“Would you mind if I stayed? Watched you finish it?” he sounded unsure, like maybe he was the one treading into territory he shouldn’t now.

Without hesitation, Karen picked up the beer he had abandoned on her coffee table and pressed it firmly into his palm.

She made sure he was looking at her so there would be no confusion on his part, “Of course you can stay Frank. I never mind when you are here, I want you here, evidenced by the fact that I have invited you over frequently.”

A sheepish smile quirked his lips but he didn’t say anything, just rounded the coffee table so he could sit on the arm of the couch to watch her work.

Karen tried not to feel self conscious, she hadn’t had anyone watch her paint in a really long time and nothing as high stakes or important as she felt this picture now was. But she took a deep breath and picked up her brush and started where she had left off, filling in Jr.’s dimples.

She fell back into rhythm pretty quickly and for a moment forgot that Frank was behind her so it startled her a bit when he spoke up.

“When he was 3, he noticed that he had dimples for the first time and cried for hours because he thought something was wrong. That he was going to start getting little dimples all over the place.” Frank’s voice was low, deep and reverent as it often was when he shared little snippets about his family.

Karen let out a little involuntary laugh, it sounded a bit like a soft sob but if Frank noticed he didn’t say anything, just continued.

“It took his mother and I all day to convince him that he was fine and one day would be able to use those dimples as a weapon. He didn’t really understand at the time but as he got older and pretty waitresses and other women would gush over them, he started to appreciate it more and more.” The chuckle that escaped him was so fond and full of love that Karen had to feign putting more paint on the brush so he didn’t see her hands shake with emotion.

“Flashing smiles at every pretty lady, every chance he got, huh?” She was proud of how strong her voice was, laughter lacing the words instead of tears.

“Oh yeah, he never missed an opportunity.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, just the sound of brushes on canvas and the occasional drink from a beer bottle.

When Karen moved to make the finishing touches on Lisa’s hair, Frank recounted the story of when she cut almost all of her hair off when Maria wasn’t looking. Her reasoning was that she was going to ride Pterodactyls and her long hair would get in the way. Karen broke out into a giggling fit, imagining that scene unfolding. He was on a deployment at the time but he said he could still hear the exasperation in Maria’s voice when they talked a few days later.

“She didn’t appreciate me laughing, that’s for sure. She was laughing about it too but I could tell she was still upset, she loved Lisa’s hair.” He couldn’t help but laugh as well as Karen kept chortling while she worked.

That is how the evening went, Frank recounting numerous memories of his family, some happy and playful, others bittersweet and painful. Occasionally he would go to the kitchen and get them each a new beer or stand close and watch her add colors and details with practiced ease. Karen, for her part, mostly just listened as she worked, throwing a comment in here and there. Laughing when he did, crying when he couldn’t.

It was nearly 2 a.m. when she set the brush down with a decisive click and took a few steps back to survey her work. She had stepped close enough to the couch that Frank had sunk into about an hour ago that he was able to grab her hand and pull her down next to him.

Karen was picking the piece apart in her mind, as she always did when she finished a painting, but her mind went blank when he settled a warm arm over her shoulders pulling her impossibly closer and pressing a tender kiss to the side of her head.

“It’s really beautiful Karen.” His voice was full of gravel but still managed to be so soft.

She turned to him with a watery smile, “Thank you. I’m glad you like it. Once it’s dry you can take it home if you like.”

He was shocked at first, that she would so easily give him the culmination of her hard work but it wore off quickly. Of course she wanted to give him the painting of his family. Karen had been giving him his family back since the day she stormed into his hospital room and shoved a picture into his face. It shouldn’t be surprising that she would do it again.

Frank found himself just staring at her, wondering how he could be here and how he could possibly deserve this kind of reprieve. But it was here. She was here.

He leaned in and softly kissed her before he realized he was moving. Karen tensed for only a second before she melted into the easy press of his lips.

It wasn’t sexual per se, there was no doubt a lot of sexual tension between them, but this kiss was more a summation of the inevitability of their feelings. It was slow and drugging and outlined every ounce of affection, trust and love they felt for one another, even if they couldn’t simply say it out loud.

When he finally pulled back, it was only just enough to rest his forehead to hers and let her tangle her fingers with his where they were still slung over her shoulder. Eventually they turned back to the painting, both lost in their own thoughts as they took in the details. Karen was happy that her coping mechanism had been an outlet for Frank, giving him a chance to talk about his family in a way that wasn’t forced. Frank just let the memories wash over him and for the first time that week they didn’t feel like a burden. It still hurt, he didn’t think he would ever be able to think of them and not feel the aching void where they should be but it wasn’t a crippling pain in his chest.

They would need to talk about the kiss at some point, that had been a step that, while inevitable, had not been taken yet but for now they were content to just be together. They ended up dozing there on the couch until morning. That led to breakfast, a walk, lunch, a movie in her apartment and dinner and before either of them knew it, it was the end of the weekend, Frank having stayed three days.

When he did leave Sunday evening it was after another slow kiss, one that turned a bit more heated, fraying at the edges into something with a bit more intent and promise, and the painting was carefully wrapped and tucked under his arm. Karen waved from the door as he disappeared down the stairs feeling more complete than he had in quite some time. It felt wrong to be walking away from her and he tried not to let the loneliness seep into his bones already. He tried to ignore the look on her face that all but screamed she didn’t want him to go.

Whatever this was that was developing between then, and had been for a while, had come to a head and they both needed to take some time to process. It would do him good to go back to his apartment and have some distance to think about things. Thinking logically about his relationship with Karen Page was hard enough, doing it when she was near, laughing, yelling, being , made it so much more difficult. He was still a dangerous person to be around, still put people in the ground and made enemies.

But Karen was strong. She had no shortage of her own enemies and knew how to take care of herself. It could be the last mistake you ever make to underestimate Karen Page. So maybe, just maybe, they could stop dancing around what was happening between them and just let it happen. See where it leads. Then again...if something were to happen to her because of him punishing…

Frank shook his head as he rounded a corner, now only a few blocks from his own apartment, he was already talking himself in circles again. The humidity had returned to the city with a vengeance and he could feel his shirt sticking to him, even with the relatively short walk. Maybe it was an omen, the weather was beautiful when he arrived at Karen’s door. Now, as he returns to his own apartment, the air feels more and more oppressive.

Even so, he felt lighter, like sharing those precious memories of his family lifted the weight of grief from his chest, if even for a little while. He knew it would be back, his penance would continue and he would take his rage to the streets. But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t have to be his whole life now. The functional apartment in which he was now standing seemed drab but he gingerly unwrapped  the painting and hung it in a place where he could see it from nearly all parts of the studio and it gave the place a bit more life.

After a quick shower, Frank found himself in bed, staring at the painting where it hung on his wall. His eyes followed every line of their faces, memorizing it like he had the picture he kept on his bedside table. He felt himself drifting off, the smiles of his family easing him into sleep and the knowledge that Karen cared enough about his family to immortalize them in such a way warming him.

His bed was only marginally more comfortable than Karen’s couch but Frank realized in his semi-conscious state that he would gladly cram himself onto that couch every night to witness her bedhead in the morning. He hadn’t fallen asleep so fast in quite some time and it was a dreamless sleep.

After that weekend, the visits were more frequent and seemed to last longer and longer until one day, a year later, Frank realized most of his things were in Karen’s apartment, including his beloved painting. He definitely wasn’t one to be poetic but, as he sat on the couch, outlining the faces of his family with his gaze once again, it occurred to him that Karen had painted him a memory of his family and somehow it had broken down those last barriers he had and allowed him to make more memories...with her.

Now Frank sat and watched her paint a new picture. This time, she was the one reminiscing and sharing memories. He watched her laugh and cry, held her when it got to be too much. She said his name was Kevin and when the painting was finished, it hung right next to his family. It became a gallery of loss but also a place for the ones left behind to remember. And they did but they also made new memories, together.

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

Better Homes & Gardens

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Explicit (E) Summary: 

Peter Parker is running on mixed up feelings when Quentin kicks him out of their apartment. To make matters worse, he's beat up and mugged. Getting back on his feet, MJ suggests taking boxing classes at Iron Man's Boxing Gym. The gym owner? No one other than Tony Stark. Filling in for Happy on a Wednesday night, Tony's life is changed when a very cute and insanely interesting stranger walks through the doors of his gym. All good things the Starker way!

Find it on AO3 here

It was all for nothing, it was all a waste.

When he thought closely about it, Quentin forcing him out the door was the only real ending that made sense. For the two years they’d been together, Peter let the man control everything about them – and the couple they ended up becoming. Letting someone take advantage of his vulnerability could only end one way – that vulnerability being exposed. Quentin was the perfect representation of hope at the end of the tunnel after May died. He offered protection and to some extent, a love that only someone manipulative could give to another person.

The more on his feet Peter started to become, the less Quentin wanted to do with him. Peter felt him pulling away long before he walked into their shared apartment to his boyfriend in bed with the neighbor across the hall. And to think, all twenty-five years of his life fit into a duffle bag and a couple milk creates. Walking out of that apartment was both the worst and best moment of his life. Freedom felt nice, if just a little heavy with an angst he couldn’t help but feel. The thought of being reduced down to so little made him full body cringe – but there had to be worse things.

Things that were worse weren’t very far off, though. It’d been a long time since he’d been out late at night by himself – especially hauling a couple cases worth of goods, even if nothing in anything he was carrying was worth a goddamn penny. Just blocks outside of MJ’s apartment, Peter felt his skin start to prickle, like he was being watched, or something. The subway ride from upper Manhattan back to Queen’s was pretty miserable, so he already felt a little irritable. Picking up his pace a little, Peter felt that irritability very quickly change to fear. His fingers were achy from carrying the crates all over the place, but he gripped the slim handles tighter, anyway.

The alley they ended up cornering him in used to house his favorite pizza parlor. Maggiano’s went out of business ages ago – the alley, though, it was just as dark and creepy as it’d always been. The first punch made the right side of his face go numb, and the second one brought him to his knees. With the milk crates filled with personal memories and picture frames that were almost as old as he was on the ground, it was much easier to curl in on himself and keep the beating as far from his stomach as he could.

Coming to in a hospital wasn’t the greatest thing – the last time it happened, his parents were both dead and he’d suddenly become a burden to his Aunt May. This time, he was alone, and all of his belongings were forgotten in an alley way or well on their way to being sold in a pawn shop. The fracture to his cheek would eventually heal and probably not affect the way he looked, but when MJ came to pick him up, even that news couldn’t keep him from feeling so very helpless, so very weak. The flannel he’d been wearing that night was the only thing he had left from the before times – the blood stain on the cuff of it the ultimate reminder of what happened and how very hopeless it’d been.

With the help of MJ, Peter physically got on his feet pretty quickly. In all of the chaos, Peter managed to keep his computer software job – which easily paid enough for him to get a modest apartment. An apartment that, for the first time in his life, would be his and only his. The concept was everything Peter wanted – freedom, his voice being the only voice heard, a chance to spread his wings and fly on his own for a while. Yet, in a lot of ways, it felt a little scary to Peter, too. Up until now, he had someone with his interest scheduled into their priority list somewhere. May tried to make him into the son she could never have and Quentin – well, at least he gave Peter somewhere to call home for a while. Truly being on his own, for the very first time in his entire life, it was a little daunting – and made the psychological step of getting back on his feet a little harder.

Getting into the apartment was easy. Peter was pretty smart about the way he spent his money and set his credit up early – so he was set in that aspect. The art of finding comfort in his own place did not come easily, however. Many nights, he called MJ to come walk home from work with him, even if he had to drop money on the fancy Thai food. A long time ago, they’d come to the realization that they were friends and friends only – but having her there, it made him feel better. At least he wasn’t alone and if something were to try and get him, there’d be another person to have his back – to make him feel like he wasn’t the last helpless person on the planet. It was taxing for her, he knew it. MJ’s career was just getting off the ground too and having to come to Peter’s rescue more often than not was nowhere near practical. It seemed like she got it, though – so Peter clung to her as tightly as he could for as long as he could.

MJ presented the idea for Iron Man’s Boxing Gym three months to the date after the attack. Peter was slowly starting to get his comfortability back and it was becoming very clear that he needed just a little bit of a push to take that final step. She thrust the flyer into his hands unexpectedly. They’d been playing Call of Duty and exchanging the control every other death – a flyer for a boxing gym was the last thing he expected to have in his hands when he next looked up. “What’s this, MJ? It looks like we’re only a kill or two away from getting a top spot,” Peter said, his eyes and focus still on the game despite their character’s immobility on the screen. A quick hit of a button and the game was effectively paused, the controller hit the floor and MJ’s hand was pressing against his knee affectionately. “It’s a push in the right direction. I think you should check this place out. You might find that last bit of safety you’re looking for.”

Peter desperately wanted to ignore MJ’s suggestion. In fact, he went three whole days before he pulled the flyer off the floor and straightened it out – the address now readable and just as easy to Google. The place looked clean and the rate wasn’t too out of his price range – why shouldn’t he figure out more about himself behind a pair of boxing gloves? Peter might have been helpless for a point in his life, but he was athletic and with a bit of knowledge – he could probably have that final piece of security in his back pocket to feel better again. Whatever feeling better again actually meant.

The gym ended up being something that looked way better once you got into the door. Since the gym needed so much space, the location was a little out of the way – and for a singular second, Peter let himself feel a little scared. There weren’t any fancy advertisements in the windows or flashing neon signs – Iron Man’s Boxing Gym spoke for itself. Which made a lot of sense when he walked in to see four rows of two boxing rings deep and a whole corner filled with heavy bags with space to dance between them. The makeshift weight room was set up along the back corner – all and all, it screamed Rocky and Peter was immediately hooked. The sign-up process consisted of getting his name and number and putting down a credit card for the lessons done every Wednesday night.

He felt a little silly, standing in the cluster of himself and five others, waiting for his first ever class to start, and yet, at the same time, the good kind of anticipation sat waiting in the depths of his muscles, too. After doing research on all the best ways to wrap a wrist and cover his fingers, Peter was certain he had the proper supplies – he was ready for whatever Boxing 101 had to offer. Peter didn’t really know what to expect walking into the ordeal – but he for sure knew he wasn’t expecting the instructor who bounced into the room to be so goddamn hot. The man was a little older, maybe mid-thirties – and ruggedly handsome. The slightest hint of grey was starting to overtake his temples, and a huge scar stood stagnant above the man’s right eye – the look one that shouted experience and endless practical knowledge. He was hot – so insanely hot.

Settling into the warm-up, Peter noticed that most people were watching the man with a keen eye, both the men and women alike. He couldn’t remember a time when people paid that close of attention to another person – except when they were in the same coffee shop as Eminem, but he was a celebrity. Eyes widening, Peter wondered if the man leading him through a relatively efficient dynamic warm-up was in fact someone he should know – someone that was worth watching so avidly. Soon, the ability to think was no longer within his grasps, and Peter lost track of the thoughts scratching at the front of his mind. By the hundredth time he’d transferred his weight from heel to toe and tripped over the jump rope, Peter’s only thought was surviving and walking out of the place with all of his toes exactly where they should be.

The intense way his t-shirt and hoodie were soaked with sweat made him smile when Peter sat down at the edge of the ring – his first lesson over and done with. He felt completely spent and his elbow was raw from the insane amount of times he’d eaten shit throughout the footwork portion of the 90 minutes – but he couldn’t help but feel totally successful, too. He already felt a little safer in his own skin and he’d barely broken into the basics of what boxing and hand-to-hand combat could entail. He let the last couple drops of the water bottle flow down his neck, eyes closing in a new kind of delight. Peter rested there for another couple of minutes, then went about getting his hands free from the wraps and his feet out of the high laced shoes. Coming down from the ring, Peter was surprised to see the instructor from earlier looking over at him – the older man’s smile wide and inviting.

“You’re a new face. I hope you enjoyed yourself,” the man said – his hand out between them before Peter could even process the words. “I’m Tony Stark, you’ve got quite the left hook.” Tony’s eyes were on him, the look one of curiosity and genuine interest. Peter returned the handshake after a second, his brain short-circuiting slightly – the man really was insanely handsome. “Nice to know you, Tony. I’m Peter – Peter Parker. Glad to hear I didn’t look like a total idiot out there,” Peter kept the hand in his for a second longer, than let it drop – the smile on his face cool, despite the developing feeling of freak out that was swimming in his chest. “You’re a natural, Peter Parker – we’ll have you dancing around the ring in no time,” Tony replied coolly, his smile growing. A hand with a large palm and long fingers reached up to brush through the hair on Tony’s temple and he was hooked.

Peter felt his face heat as they shared a look – one that lingered for who knows how long. He forced himself to tear his eyes away and get the hell out of there. He’d be damned if he made a fool out of himself so soon into meeting this guy. “Here’s hoping. I’ll see you next week, Tony,” Peter felt himself hold his breath as he walked away, a weaker part of him screaming to turn around and flirt, flirt, flirt – the vibe he was getting was absolutely attraction. Instead, he kept his eyes down and only let himself breath when he was out the door. Holy fuck, Peter thought to himself, maybe this whole boxing experience would be a lot better than he initially expected.

----

Tony watched with avid attention as the attractive, yet incredibly strange young man kept coming back to the gym. Picking up that certain Wednesday class happened purely by accident. Happy slept through an alarm and grumpily guilted Tony into covering for him. It’d been a long time since he’d done anything in a bigger than one-to-one setting and it took a couple weeks to get into the flow of it. Most of the people were probably there to catch of a glimpse of what a retired MMA fighter looked like or see what a washed-up athlete did for a living once they were no longer young and spry – primped and ready for action. Most people would be surprised to know that retired athletes lived the exact way they’d done their whole career – just without the notoriety and fame.

After the third week of letting his eyes catch the vision that was Peter Parker moving easily throughout the ring, Tony figured there was another thing contributing to his enjoyment of these classes, too. For whatever reason, the older man could not stop himself from watching Peter. Despite not having much footwork knowledge, the guy was pretty good with his hands and very fast. Whenever they did bag drills, Peter’s hands moved a mile a minute – the sight of it hypnotizing, reminding Tony of the original reason he let himself get lost in the boxing world so long ago. Sometimes, it just felt good to hit things. The more comfortable Peter seemed to become, the better he got – a thing that did not go unnoticed by Tony. For the most part, his idea to offer training to Peter on an individual basis came from a purely innocent level. It seemed like he wanted to learn about boxing, and he had the skill and the modicum of potential it took to at least try to be good – why shouldn’t Tony extend the help?

The answer to that question came a couple minutes later when Tony felt his eyes roaming over that delicious back side – the man bent over to tie his shoes, the wraps on his hands making it a comedic performance instead of the simple task that it was. The uncontrolled part of Tony yearned to walk over there and bend down – take a knee in front of Peter to tie his shoe and see what it was like to see the other man from that position. The dryness in his mouth was a little silly – it hadn’t been that long since he’d gotten laid. Although, it had been a long time since the craving for another person like this reared its ugly head. He could still feel the ghost of Steve’s hands covering his skin – on the days he lets himself think too much about it, it’s almost like the man is still there. Shaking his head, Tony ran the last couple of drills before gathering the remaining four people around – his face heavy with a genuine smile.

“Good work today, guys. It has been pretty cool to watch you all develop. I think it’s time to put what we’ve been learning into some practical situations – so next week, we’ll be partner sparing in the ring. You guys are ready, and it’ll be the first real experience with what boxing is really like.” Tony could see all the smiles that came from his words and felt good about the suggestion. There wasn’t a written curriculum for this sort of thing and the move felt right – so he went with it. He’d let Happy off the hook with the class after that first week, the least he could do is come in and act as a ring coach, or something. For the first time since retirement, Tony felt good about something. Funny that it took stepping back and watching a bunch of beginners succeed.

Everyone started to pack up not long after that, each person leaving with a quick nod Tony’s direction, or a high five for the friendlier guy of the group. The gym emptied out quickly until it was just Tony and Peter – this week’s occurrence not amongst the first time. “Hey, Pete. Want to work a little extra? I’ve got some time to hold the pads for you,” the words were out of Tony’s mouth before he could stop himself. He couldn’t pinpoint what made him decide to extend the offer, but the smile on Peter’s face when he saw the guy nodding made the impulse worth it. Even if his arms were tired from fatigue and a hamburger from Bucky’s down the street was calling his name. “Sure, Tony – I could use a little extra practice.” Peter’s voice was bright, like he was filled with a never-ending amount of energy and goodness. Smiling to himself, Tony nodded and grabbed the striking pads – decision made.

Bouncing on his toes, he instructed a one-two punch with the left hand leading, the man in front of him obviously better on his left side. Peter went through the drill easily, the slap of the pads loud in the otherwise empty gym. “So, what brought you here, Peter Parker?” Tony asked in the break between switching feet – Peter was talented and could probably keep up a conversation while moving around. Unsurprisingly, Peter hit the pad a little harder and started to speak. “I got some of my safety stripped from me, so I wanted to get it back,” the other man answered simply. Tony shifted onto the back of his foot and dropped the pads, his arms heavy by his sides. “Sounds about right. Glad you decided to come do it here. Are you feeling any better? Safer, I mean?” Tony fired back, his shoulders rolling before he had the pads back up and they were moving around the ring again.

The other’s focus was on the pads for a couple silent moments, Tony counting the breaths between each hit – the man glad that Peter listened when he instructed them on breathing rhythm a couple weeks ago. His eyes were alight watching the rhythmic beat of Peter’s fists against the meat of the pad. “Yeah, a lot, actually. To be honest, this is the best I’ve ever felt. It feels nice to just – let go and hit something every now and again, you know?” Peter’s words were enhanced with more punches to the pad, the guy throwing strikes freestyle. Tony nodded at the rhetorical question and kept his hands firmly in front of his face, if he wasn’t careful, he’d take one right to the cheek. The heaviness of his feet and hands had him holding up the gloves in surrender a few minutes later, the sweat on his chest making him feel cold – the lack of carbohydrates and water becoming very evident. “I think that’s it for me, Petey. Good work.”

It was easy to climb out of the ring after Peter and collapse back against the side of it, his entire body in the clutches of fatigue. The feeling was the best and Tony let it wash over him and hold him under – the worst part of being retired was the lack of rush that could only come from getting somewhere when there was nothing left to get there with. On the verge of shutting down fatigue was the only way he even got close – so he reveled in it, the quake of his muscles the most intoxicating thing he’d felt in ages. “Any chance you like greasy cheeseburgers?” Tony asked after a while, the man gathering enough energy to get the padded gloves off his hands and his ring shoes off his feet – the sweaty remains of his clothes the only reminder of the past three hours spent. Tony waddled over to the open door of his office and started to take of his sleeveless hoodie before he heard Peter speak. “Do you know people that don’t like greasy cheeseburgers?” Looking up, Tony stopped short, the vision of Peter leaning into the open doorway of his office tantalizing – on the verge of ‘should be illegal’.

Tony fumbled with the spare shirt he brought in his gym bag and shrugged into it, the Ugg slippers he always wore after the fact on his feet, the comforting warmth of the lining really the only way to feel relaxed after exerting his body so. “I’m sure they’re out there. I try not to spend too much time with them, though – “ Tony muttered his reply, his hands busy shrugging a flannel on and shouldering his bag. “There’s a great place just down the street. Want to come? I’ll buy you a milkshake.” Tony reached a hand out and grabbed the younger guy’s arm, his fingers lingering for a second. He let his hand drop and walked out the door, his body now turned towards Peter completely. “That sounds like a hard thing to pass on. I’m in,” Peter replied and brushed passed him, the touch from earlier fully returned. Tony grinned and leaned forward to pull the door closed, locking it when he heard the latch click.

“I knew you were smart,” Tony fiddled with the keys in his hands while he spoke, the tactile distraction enough to keep the threatening blush at bay. “Buck makes a patty melt that will knock you on your ass. It’s the best in the city.” It didn’t hurt that Bucky was one of his closest friends, or that when Bucky came back from the desert – Tony welcomed him back with open arms and the helping hand he needed to open the greasy spoon. There were many things people did not know about Tony Stark – things like how generous he was, things like how close he kept his friends – how well he took care of them. While he and Peter walked closely together on the Brooklyn streets, Tony got a feeling that Peter was going to be one of those people – a somebody he kept close, took care of. Bumping his shoulder into the other man’s, Tony figured there were worse things in life.

Like, for instance – a lack of fried potatoes to go with the admittedly delicious collection of toasted sourdough, all beef patties, and the perfect combination of thousand island dressing, mayo, and fried onions. The lack of fries brought the experience way down – though, didn’t seem to effect Peter Parker a single bit. His mother always told him the way to someone’s heart was through their stomach – and she didn’t seem to be wrong now. Peter enjoyed life to the fullest and let every piece of food rest in his mouth before he chewed it – the savoring of each flavor obvious, and totally distracting. When he swallowed it, the impatient puppy masked twenty-something took another eager bite – the man never going a time when he didn’t look like a chipmunk storing nuts. The whole thing made Tony’s heart beat a little faster – and admittedly made him a little sick, but the affection of the moment easily won out.

“What do you do when you’re not hitting people for fun?” Peter asked through a mouthful of chocolate shake. “I like to dabble with car parts and watch shit TV, to be honest with you,” Tony replied, his mouth equally full – the words the most honest ones Tony could remember saying to another person. He saw Peter light up at the mention of car parts and the rest of their time together was spent between discussing what it was like to take apart an entire vehicle and put it back together. Peter said he always wanted to try it but never had the space to do so and hung on every one of Tony’s words. By the time he was waving to Peter heading in the opposite direction, Tony knew he was done for – the thought both terrifying and exciting all at once.

Shaking his head, Tony ran a hand through his hair and headed back towards the gym – a delighted hitch in his step evident the entire way back.

----

Peter waited anxiously for the following Wednesday. Following his impromptu meal with Tony, Peter found himself slung over the end of MJ’s bed, gushing about the entire interaction. Harboring a seemingly one-sided crush was one thing. Since his first lesson, they’d been debating Tony’s actions towards Peter and were still on the fence – but he felt pretty sure about it now. Dancing around another person wasn’t usually his thing – the uncertainty gave him anxiety, and that was never any fun. Peter found himself craving the steady rock from his toes to the balls of his feet, though – the man enjoying what boxing had to offer in all ways possible. He felt safer, that was for sure – he was probably in the best shape of his life and could now successfully throw a punch without breaking anything. More confidence came each week, his fists hitting the bag with more force and speed – each punch more efficient than the last. It didn’t hurt that he could feel chocolate brown eyes roaming him appreciatively, either – the touch of them merely adding fuel to his fire.

The more confident Peter felt in the ring, the more confident he felt elsewhere, too. His job was going spectacularly well, his boss even considering him for a promotion he wasn’t even sure he qualified for. It felt good to get up and go to work, his office a place where he excelled – and the freedom of actually believing in his strength brought along so many things Peter never knew he was missing. He felt so good going into Wednesday’s class, the determination to ask Tony out settled into his mind and became more permanent of a decision the closer the day got. Peter couldn’t recall a time he felt this good – and he wanted to include all the aspects of life in that, including the personal bit he’d been purposefully avoiding since the bitterly disappointing ending of his previous relationship. A grin came to his face any time he thought about what being out with Tony would be like – the man’s mystery keeping all the possibilities misted with the slightest tinge of uncertainty. The old Peter wouldn’t have appreciated not knowing – he understood the curious rush of not knowing now, though. He understood it and was quickly becoming addicted.

An invigorating feeling rushed over Peter when he walked into Iron Man’s Wednesday night. He managed to get his wrists taped exactly the way he liked him – the simple act leaving him feeling pretty damn good. Getting into his shoes and hand wraps was easy by then, the process just as relaxing as the pull of breath in and out while he punched – Peter settling into that easily when he got in front of one of the heavy bags to warm up. His feet felt a little heavy from the lack of movement throughout the day, but the sluggish feeling quickly wore off and he was moving seamlessly around the bag – totally lost in thought. The best part of boxing for Peter over the past couple months of attending the classes was the fact that he could just let go – there weren’t many places for Peter to do that. Something told him more than one thing in the boxing gym would give him that – but he’d be patient and see how it played out.

There turned out to be only three people that day – so Peter ended up sparring with Happy, the other owner of Iron Man’s Boxing Gym. The man was a few years older than his co-owner, though his arms were still heavily muscled, and his reaction time came as easily as the next trained boxer. It felt surprising, to do so well in the ring with someone of Happy’s size and abilities. Peter expected to be ass over face on the mat – tripping over his feet in the worst of ways, or something. Yet, he moved pretty easily, navigating the tarp of the ring like he’d been learning it intricately for weeks (which, well – he kind of had.) The few punches Happy was able to land were going to ache and there’d be bruising – but the satisfying way the older man held up a hand in defeat would forever be one of his favorite memories. The first taste of success was luscious – so delightful in fact, Peter found himself wanting more.

“Up for a tumble in here, Stark?” Peter asked, his upper half leaning against the ropes of the ring, a bottle of water in his hand. “I want to see what good foot work looks like,” Peter’s quip was met by the middle finger from Happy and a solid snort from Tony. The man didn’t waste another second and got suited up – his boxing gloves a dark red, the color a nice contrast to the dark blue of Peter’s own. They hit fists in the middle of the ring and then Tony was moving forward swinging. Pete didn’t stand a chance and laughed heartily when he hit the mat for the fifth time in a row – his ass tender and body sore from the few hits he managed to take before getting swept off his feet. When he threw up his hand, Tony tossed off the gloves and helped Peter up, a shit eating grin on his face. “You’re not half bad, Parker. Get your kit off and come to the office, I’ll give you some ice for that eye of yours.” Tony pointed towards the rapidly swelling shiner he was sporting – the evidence of a fight well fought.

Peter couldn’t keep the grin from his face as he got out of his shoes and unwrapped the stupid amount of protective stuff around his wrists. He needed his hands to do his work and knew the precautions were silly – but they made him feel better, so he did them, anyway. Finally done and in a clean shirt, Peter’s eye was starting to throb – Tony’s proffered ice would be a welcome addition to ease the pulsing ache in his face. This time, though – he didn’t feel helpless, he felt strong and the bruise was another reminder of how far he’d come. Entering into the office, he was met with the same sight from last week – Tony Stark without a shirt, sweat clinging to him. He couldn’t decide if the man did it on purpose, but the sight was worth the confusion – he’d watched many pornos that started just like this. Biting his tongue, Peter felt himself color at the thought, oh how he wished that was true.

Instead, a break and use ice pack was tossed his direction – the coolness of it hitting him immediately. “Thanks, Tony,” Peter mumbled gratefully, his eyes closing to soak in the relief. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast before. What did you do before you owned this gym? You must have boxed, right?” Peter asked, the sound a little muffled by the ice pack against his face. He sat on the one chair in the office, a huff leaving his lips. “My friend MJ told me I should Google you, but I thought you might tell me about it, instead.” He bit his lip to stifle the laugh that tried to escape – Tony’s eyebrow shot up, the man stopping himself halfway through the process of putting his shirt on. “You’re telling me you don’t know who I am, Peter Parker?” Tony shook his head and smiled wide – “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

The older man shifted and got the shirt on – a rush of disappointment running down Peter’s spine at the loss of the sight. He shifted a little, his eyes taking in Tony’s movement, the man leaned against the edge of his desk – his crossed arms pressing the muscles of his arms up, giving them more shape. Sucking in a breath, Pete forced himself to focus – though it was getting harder by the second. “I boxed professionally until the MMA craze hit – then I changed shit up and got my ass beat for the big bucks for a few years. It’s all fun and games until you fuck up your back enough to warrant either fighting more or walking the rest of your life.” One of Tony’s hands moved through the scruff on his chin, his fingernails brushing back and forth against it. A nervous gesture, a tick he can’t control – so odd a sight coming from such a well put together man. “Now, I teach cute characters like you how to box. Which, you’re pretty good at, by the way. Sorry about your eye.”

Digesting all the information, Peter let the ice pack drop from his eye – a couple blinks bringing his vision back into dual eye focus again. “I kind of like it. I earned this one. Besides, don’t act like I didn’t get a couple of good shots in on you. I saw that bruise on your side,” Peter gestured towards the left side of Tony’s body with the ice pack in his hand. “I’ll sign it, if you want.” They both laughed at that and Tony took a couple steps towards Peter, a hand reaching out to grab the ice pack. Peter gave it up easily and then let out a surprised huff when that same hand grabbed his and pulled a second later. Coming to his feet, Peter’s entire body started to flush, the feeling of Tony pressed up against him better than any fantasy he’d been dreaming up the past couple of weeks. “Maybe you can just kiss it better, instead?” Tony’s words were barely audible, the space between them diminished down to nothing but the distance of a shared breath.

There wasn’t any reason to waste the opportunity he’d been given, so Peter pressed in and closed the distance between them. He assumed he read the room right and got a very nice confirmation when the echo of a moan could be felt against his lips. Peter wrapped his arms around Tony’s neck and pulled him closer, his fingers tangling in the strands that were still wet with sweat. Tilting his head, Peter deepened the kiss, a soft groan of his own leaving his lips.

The sound leaving his lips left just enough room for Tony to slip the tip of his tongue into the warmth of Peter’s mouth. Their tongues tangled together, the sweet heat of taste and warmth overwhelming – disorienting in all the right ways. It was obvious that Tony’s plan was to map out every inch of his mouth – so Peter let him, his lips and skin tingling in all the places that the older man touched or pressed against. Peter hadn’t experienced such sensory overload since his teens – it felt a little silly to be so hard pressed already.

Tony pulled away first, their lips breaking apart suddenly – then little chaste pecks were placed against Peter’s lips. It was hard to catch his breath between all of the stimulus, but Pete tried his best – his entire body on fire, the overload of it all fresh and new, exciting in its intoxication. “That could probably be arranged. Want to go grab some food first?” Peter tightened the fingers in Tony’s hair for a second, bringing their faces together for another kiss with the grip. “I know the perfect place.” Tony nodded and slotted their lips together for a handful of soft barely there caresses. “I would love to grab food at this perfect place. Is what I’m wearing okay? I didn’t think I’d be doing anything other than walking to Buck’s.” He felt Tony brush their noses together before the older man pulled away – creating a little space between them to cool things down, take them back to a place where control was still the name of the game.

“You look great,” Peter replied easily, and followed the older man out of the office.

As Native New Yorkers, neither drove a car around, so they set off towards one of Peter’s main haunts on foot.

----

Enjoying the night air with Peter by his side helped to ease some of the boiling heat still threatening to overrun all the control systems in his brain. It was a little cool, and the sneaky brushes of their arms together every few steps were just on the right side of too cute. The saccharine sweet nature of it making his head spin. It didn’t take long for them to stop in front of a small looking building that was darkly lit on the outside, but the flash of neon lights could be seen through the windows. “I haven’t been to Two-Bits in forever!” Tony exclaimed, noticing the name on the door. Opening it and walking in, Tony was instantly brought back to a summer night a couple years ago. He beat Happy’s ass at Tekken and they drank the rest of the night away taking turns playing Silent Hill. It’d been years, but there were fond memories of the little bar. The fact that the seemingly marvelous Peter Parker decided it was first date material – well, that just might mean he’s the one.

The look on Peter’s face might have sealed the deal, too. He could see the joy of doing at least this part of the date right radiating from his eyes – Tony understanding the pressure of picking the most suitable location. Boldly, he reached out and grabbed the younger man’s hand, knotting their fingers together. “Good idea, Pete.” He stayed upfront and pressed a kiss to their joined fingers – a smile on his face at the blush that creeped up into the swell of Peter’s cheeks. “You must’ve known I was looking to beat your ass twice in one day,” Tony broke the cute moment with a little joke – typical Stark style. It didn’t matter, though – Peter let a gasping laugh fall from his lips. He watched the other man shake his head before he was getting tugged inside, both of them now eager, eager and ready to spend time together and see if their spark went a little further than dancing around the ring and casual small talk.

Peter was a good host and got them a couple drinks right off the bat. The bar didn’t do too much in the way of organized food, so they grabbed a couple of appetizers and spent most of their time waiting for sustenance playing the Back to the Future pinball machine nestled in the corner. There weren’t many people that were able to keep up with Tony video game wise, but the second time Peter got a score higher than his, he conceded that Peter was in fact an equal – if not better than him. The food was a good break from the intensity of their competitiveness and begrudgingly delicious. “How did you get so good at pinball? I’ve never had someone not only beat me, but actually kick my ass,” Tony mumbled halfway through a cheese stick – his entire body on fire from the feeling of excitement. Excitement from being out with Peter, excitement from spending a whole night playing video games – hell, excitement from simply enjoying time with another human being.

“The bodega I worked at during high school had an old pinball machine – and the place was never busy. Del Mar would give us each a quarter and let us play until there weren’t any balls left from that quarter. I got so good that I would spend entire shifts behind the pinball machine instead of doing my actual job. He stopped giving us quarters after a while, but I never stopped playing. My dormmate at MIT and I spent a bit of money and had a machine in our room for the couple years we lived together,” Peter didn’t take a breath the entire time he talked, his eyes glowing with the memories of the good times in his life – Tony liked the look, it was stupidly suiting for the precious guy sitting in front of him. “You hustler, you,” Tony replied after a while. He shot a wink in Peter’s direction and was delighted with the blush that came creeping up that pale skin. “To be fair, you let me pick the game. Who picks a game they’re shitty at when they’re trying to impress someone?” The question sat between them for a second, the meaning of it creeping under Tony’s skin. “Consider me impressed already, Peter Parker. You can let me win the next few games.”

And he did – at least, Tony figured that was the case. They moved on to Galaga – which Tony played often in what the kids today would call vintage arcades. He grew up on the game and it wasn’t surprising that he racked up the points. Peter didn’t attempt to step in and take the controls, either – the man seemed more than willing to stand by Tony’s side and watch with glee. Then, they went head to head in Ms. Pac-Man, the kid’s hand-eye coordination was a little better than his at that point, so he conceded defeat after a well fought third game in which they both finished with sweat on their brows and huge smiles on their faces. When they moved on to the next game, Tony let himself be pulled close by an arm around his waist – he threw his own arm around Peter and narrowed the distance between them even more. “This is a lot of fun,” he murmured, the words more than likely lost in the jumble of Peter’s hair. His lips lingered to press a soft kiss against the side of Pete’s head. The words were true, too. Tony couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself so much.

They finished the night at the punching bag game – which made a lot of sense, all things considering. Tony watched Peter pull a hand back and hit the bag pretty hard – though his technique was all wrong. “Do that again. This time don’t swing back like you’re trying to throw a baseball. Go square through it – like you’re trying to get a punch in right down the shoot.” As he spoke, Tony moved enough to be able to get behind Peter, his hands wrapping around the man’s limbs until he was shadowing the other completely. “If you imagine that’s my face – I bet it’ll make things easier.” Tony’s words were mixed with a laugh and he felt Peter shiver in his embrace. A soft smile played across his lips and he let himself soak up the feel of Peter against him while he took him through the flow of the movement – the last couple passes a bit gratuitous, if he were being honest.

The look of pure joy on Pete’s face when he doubled his score with the next quarter was totally worth it. He watched the younger man pump his fist in the air and dance from foot to foot – his victory chant ending abruptly when he swung his arms around Tony’s neck and pulled him into a tight embrace. “You’re the best teacher I’ve had, Tony. You make it seem so easy. Thank you.” Peter looked at him the entire time he spoke, the intensity of his gaze almost overwhelming – though Tony hoped this wasn’t the only time he’d get to understand this feeling. Tony wrapped his strong arms around Pete’s hips and kept them both in the embrace. “You’re welcome. I’ve been in the nitty gritty – it’s easier to impart wisdom when you’ve been in the shit. I’m just glad there’s smart guys like you that actually like what I’m putting out there.” They shared a smile and Peter nodded; his eyes still bright – the shine in them so easy to get hooked on.

“I think I just like you,” Peter said in a whisper, the space between them minimal, each word bouncing off Tony’s skin instead of sounding in his ears first. “I like you and I think coming to class to see you – to watch you do your thing – that’s been the best part of this. Learning how to protect myself was the original purpose, but now I think I want to learn more about you, too. Does that sound okay? I’ve had a lot of fun tonight and think we could probably spend nights like this having even more fun.” Peter finished his thought by pressing their lips together. The touch was chaste, and Tony didn’t have enough time to even respond – but it was perfect all the same. To think he started today thinking he might ask Pete to Bucky’s again – that he might try and get a read on Peter’s interest. He never thought he’d be here – wrapped up in Pete’s embrace – on the verge of getting to do this more than just one time. What a concept. “It sounds perfect, Pete.”

Tony leaned forward and pressed their lips together again, the same chaste nature of the kiss there – they didn’t spend much time actually letting themselves get comfortable in the affection, they were in public after all. Though he needed to pull away to keep himself under control, Tony kept a hand on Peter for the rest of the night. He didn’t beat up on the guy like he figured he would – Peter was unsurprisingly very good at all the games he led Tony to, but the time he spent losing was the best use of 120 minutes he’d ever experienced. Leaving the spot, Tony was almost reluctant. The night was too good to end – so, he clung to it just a little while longer. “Could I walk you home? I’ve had such a good time tonight, I don’t think I’m ready for it to end,” Tony hated to admit something like that – hated to let someone else see any sort of weakness, but sometimes it felt kind of good to step outside his comfort zone and actually try for something he wanted for a change. “Yeah, you can definitely walk me home, Tony.”

The slim fingers between his own felt right – like their fingers were perfectly meant to fit together. The thought made him squeeze those fingers, the contact drawing a lifted brow from Peter. “This side of you surprises me,” the other said, breaking the easy silence between them. “A big part of me thought you’d be all reserved like you are in class. Like maybe you’d crack a smile or something, but you’re – y’know, a sweetheart.” Tony chuckled at that, Peter’s observation wasn’t wrong, though – the last time he’d been called a sweetheart, he was five and was pretending he didn’t just break a thousand-dollar vase.

Most people quickly found out he was not that sweetheart and left him to his gruff nature. Peter didn’t seem like the type to be easily ran off, however. He’d seen a couple different sides to Tony and so far, he didn’t seem too disturbed by them. “You’ll have to keep that last part a secret. I’ll lose all my street cred if you go around saying stuff like that too much,” Tony’s response was a default one, a thought he figured Peter was aware of. He felt a similar squeeze to his fingers and heard a soft chuckle as a reply. “Your secret is safe with me, Tony Stark.”

Peter didn’t invite him up. Instead, he pulled the hand he’d been holding to him and produced a pen out of nowhere – the digits that ran across the palm of his hand were thankfully enough to be a phone number. He capped the pen and pressed a kiss to the palm of Tony’s hand, right over the numbers. “If you’re up for it, I’d love to see you again. Now, you know how to reach me,” Peter kept Tony’s hand in his the entire time he spoke, the tone in his voice saucy – just on the right side of flirty. Tony couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from his chest and the smile that remained was one he’d quickly come to find belonged solely to Peter. “You got it. Thanks for tonight, Pete. I had a great time.” The words were easy and the way they moved together to seal their lips in a kiss was even easier.

----

That Friday found the two of them together again, this time, at Coney Island. They rode the teacups until Tony was puking up the two corndogs he’d shoveled into his mouth when they first walked in – it was absolutely perfect. When Tony walked Peter up to his door, the man did not invite him in again. The other’s lips were fleeting and this time – the kind of teasing that said there were things to come, things that were totally worth the wait. The rest of the weekend was spent texting back and forth – and Sunday night ended with Peter falling asleep on the phone, the sound of his soft snores the thing that lulled Tony to sleep himself. Meeting up again on Monday, Tony could feel the shift between them. Peter’s touches were much more determined, and the air felt charged – for whatever reason, it felt like they’d reached a new level.

Which made a lot of sense when this time, Peter did invite Tony in. In fact, Peter’s lips and hands were demanding the second they cleared the threshold of the apartment’s entrance. For the first time in many, many years, Tony thought he might not be patient enough to get his clothes off before he came all over himself. Luckily, Peter lived on the fourth floor and the flights of stairs were not a ridiculous task to take on. They only ended up pressed against the wall twice – quite the feat considering how far Peter’s tongue was down his throat and how much Tony wanted to plaster him to the wall and take what he’d been thinking about for longer than he cared to admit. A sigh of relief fell from Tony’s lips when Peter was able to get the key in the door. Of course, he probably could have stopped peppering the man’s neck with kisses and halt all the distractions – but where was the fun in that?

With the space between them still existent, Peter took advantage and stripped his shirt off – the garment and his house keys flying across the room with a careless flip of his wrist. Tony only got far enough to close the door, slip his shoes off and get his socks from his feet before Peter was back in his space, demanding his focus and attention. Things that Tony were totally into giving to the other – his hands wrapped around Peter’s hips and grabbed greedily at the globes of his ass. The move pulled them flush together and he felt the heat of Peter’s excitement against his thigh. “I haven’t felt this much anticipation since I was a teenager. I both can’t wait to fuck you and want to drag it out as much as I can. You drive me crazy, Peter Parker. Absolutely crazy,” Tony broke away from the other just long enough to get the words out and as he spoke, he pulled his own shirt off. The press of their chests together pulled a joint moan from both men – the sound getting lost between them. Tony didn’t have a clue where they were going, so he let his attention move to the planes of Peter’s skin, each inch of it a feast of unmarred flesh and subtleties that made up the man in his arms.

A little more fumbling found them down the hall, finally ensconced in the comfort of Pete’s bedroom. The bed was a decently sized queen and the right kind of firm. Tony was surprised to feel himself be pressed back against the bed, but he didn’t fight it – he liked the weight of Peter across his lap, the strong legs the other was building through his time boxing were hard and clenching where they were wrapped around him. Peter gasped when Tony thrust up against him, the open button of his jeans the only thing bringing any semblance of relief. At least his cock wasn’t hard as nails and pressed against the teeth of his jeans. “We’re wearing way too many clothes. Take them off, will you?” Tony mumbled against Peter’s lips, the two on an oxygen break between kisses. He felt the other nod and watched with wide eyes as Peter got up off of Tony and onto his feet on the floor. The process wasn’t slow and seductive – but no less sexy, regardless. Peter pulled his jeans off first and kicked them away – the socks and boxers combination way more adorable than it should have been. His boxers came off next and the confident way he stood there butt ass naked was the cherry on top.

Tony didn’t wait to disrobe himself once he caught sight of the entire package in front of him. Pete’s limbs were long and well-muscled – the definition not nearly as severe as Tony’s, but there all the same and perfect for the smaller body. His stomach rippled with each breath – Tony promised himself that he’d learn what it felt like to have those muscles bump against his face while he licked every inch of each one of them. The best part, though, was the subtle blush that tracked across Pete’s cheeks and forehead, down his chest and pecs, until it stopped just above Peter’s groin. The crimson flush was the perfect map of Peter’s arousal and manifested into a thick erection that was pressed straight out in all its dignified glory. A swell of spit flooded into Tony’s mouth; his entire body eager to finally get a taste.

Now naked and entirely too impatient, Tony shifted until he could reach out and grab Peter, his hands greedy in the way he pulled the other back on the bed. This time, he instructed that muscled back to press against the mattress and settled between the v of Pete’s thighs. A surprised gasp slipped through his teeth at the feel of their erections slipping together – the first nude touch of heated flesh absolutely divine. Tony distracted himself with Peter’s skin and attacked it with his lips – his tongue made the tracks and his lips followed along the path. At the end of this, he wouldn’t be surprised if Peter was littered with red marks and bites from the eagerness of Tony’s affections.

“Fuck, Tony. More – touch me, put your mouth on me. Anything,” Peter’s words were panted out, broken in their delivery. A flash of goosebumps spread across Tony’s skin and he felt himself moan again. “What do you want? What can I give you Pete?” The response was immediate, and Tony wasn’t sure how much he needed to hear the answer until the words were out in the open. He didn’t know too much about dealing with feelings or mastering this type of relationship – he couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t beat his way out of any type of situation that dealt with more complex feelings than hunger. The simple fact that Tony didn’t want to hurt a single hair on Peter’s head spoke volumes, though. Even an emotionally stunted person like Tony knew importance came with caring – and damn did he care about Pete. The feeling crept up on him and now that it was out in the open, it felt right.

Peter’s mumbled out request to be fucked made Tony chuckle against his skin and tap on his hip. “Turn over, Petey. Your ass is too delicious to not get a taste,” Tony said, his entire body flushing from the dirtiness of his words. The truth of the matter was, however, that Tony wanted a taste of every inch of him and intended to do just that – eventually. His focus now was the beautiful length of Peter’s back and the crease between pert cheeks – each globe of Pete’s ass a marvel in and of itself. Tony started by running his hands along what seemed like miles of skin, the muscles under his fingers twitching each time he caught a sensitive part of Peter’s flesh. His fingers continued moving until they were between those beautiful cheeks, both thumbs pulling them apart to reveal Pete’s clenched pucker. Teasingly, Tony huffed out a warm breath just to watch the muscles flinch and clench – the flutter of that hole like a straight shot to his already aching cock. The pad of his right thumb traced around the muscle and pressed in ever so slightly. The gasp from Peter made his entire body shift and suck in more of Tony’s thumb. This time, it was Tony’s turn to moan.

Done with the teasing, Tony tucked in – his tongue circling the hole first, then pressing in like he’d done with his thumb. He couldn’t help the way his hips thrust forward, his untouched cock yearning for a little bit of friction. The cold air kept him in check, though – each squeeze of Peter’s ass around his tongue was almost too much and the contrasting sensations kept him just on the right side of the edge. Peter was incredibly responsive, the sounds leaving his lips like music to Tony’s ears – and incredibly distracting to boot. Each one sent a solid ball of arousal bouncing down the maze of his insides, pulling him closer and closer to that precipice. By the time Tony could fit most of his tongue and a finger into Peter’s tight heat, both of them were delusional with want – Peter was thrusting back against Tony’s face, and the older man was using his free hand to press a barely there touch to his cock, just enough to take the edge off.

“Lube and condoms?” Tony said after removing himself from his now favorite spot, his goatee totally soaked with his own spit – the man known to be enthusiastic in everything he did, eating out included. A hand shot out and pointed towards the one bedside table in the room, Peter’s hips were still thrusting back against him – the man obviously totally done for. Tony didn’t spend much time prepping any further, either. He lubed up two of his fingers and slowly let them slip inside Peter’s tight heat. The stretch felt like fire burning, slow to start then suddenly overwhelming. He pulled his fingers back out and scissored them, the motion pulling a long shout from the man below him. “Fuck – fuck! I need you, Tony – please,” Peter was practically begging, the wantonness of it too much. Tony pulled his fingers free after another couple of passes in and out. Peter felt stretched enough and he was quickly losing himself. This man would be the death of him – the passion and want seeping out from all of his pores was everything Tony hadn’t known he wanted.

Entering Peter felt like coming home. He felt a little cheesy thinking that, his higher brain functions a little out the door now that carnality was finally winning. Yet, it was the only way to describe how easily their bodies joined together and how good they looked when Tony glanced down and stared at the place where they were joined completely. His cock pulsed, the way they looked stupidly attractive and so hard to look away from. Flipping Peter over so he could see his face was one thing – this sight was something else completely. A clench around him brought him back, though – those beautiful hands pulled his face down and they were kissing. Tony got lost in the caress of their mouths and his hips moved on their own accord. Pete’s legs were wrapped tightly around him and he moved seamlessly with Tony – each coordinated drag of their bodies making the big finale inevitable and coming sooner than either was ready for.

Tony didn’t think he could experience something that would change him but watching Peter cum was a new experience. The pinch at the corner of his eyes and the way his mouth dropped wide open was – it was enough to pull him right over the edge with him. Tony forced his eyes to stay open as long as possible, he wanted to remember this experience. The force of his orgasm eventually forced his eyes to shut and the intensity of it had him burying his face into the crook of Peter’s neck. “Holy fuck,” Tony gasped out, his entire body drained, each limb heavy with satisfaction.

He felt Peter’s arms wrap around him and a kiss pressed to the side of his head in answer.

----

We held on tight, for dear life.

In a lot of ways, dating Tony Stark didn’t change much of anything for Peter. His job demanded the same amount of attention, he got to see MJ a couple times a week, and Wednesday’s were always spent in Iron Man’s Boxing Gym. Of course, in the time between Wednesday’s and his hangouts with MJ, Peter spent most of his time in Tony’s company. When they weren’t in the gym, they were hanging around the small garage Tony kept all of his projects in and when they weren’t doing that, they were tangled up together in some way. Whether that was at Two-Bits getting their arcade fix or on Tony’s big sectional couch not paying attention to Breaking Bad on the flat screen tv – things were good. Peter couldn’t remember ever being treated in the way Tony did – like he was something worth having in his life. Tony went out of his way to make him feel good, if not great on those better days. There were a lot of things different between them, but that kept things interesting. For the first time in a long time, Peter felt cared about. Cared about in a way that made him feel safe and sound – like Tony would be there if he ever needed him.

Which, Peter did – lots of times. The closer it got to the anniversary of the attack, the more nightmares and flashbacks Peter found himself having. He tried to pull back from everyone, to divest them of the burden of his emotional instability. For a while, he figured being by himself was much more important than having people that cared about him. Tony didn’t let that thought remain for very long, though. The second time Peter missed Wednesday night class, Tony was there knocking on his door. He tried to disguise his worry with a styrofoam bowl of chicken noodle soup and inquiries about him being sick – but Peter could see a little bit of sadness and terror in the other man’s eyes.

In all of his worrying and dragging himself away, Peter didn’t think for a second how any of his actions might have affected Tony. At that point, they’d been together close to six months – and a sudden disappearance would have worried anyone that attached. For the first time in 14 days, Peter stepped aside and let someone in. Holding him in his arms later that night, Tony pressed a kiss to the side of his head and whispered another something that would change Peter forever. “Don’t push me away, okay? I’ll be here. I care about you, Petey. I’ll be here.”

The following few weeks were much better for Peter and the times he thought about pulling away – Tony kept him grounded. Instead of turning away, Tony taught him to take his anger out on something that couldn’t hit back – so, he took to swinging at the heavy bag whenever he got the chance. Tony’s classes were teaching him the art of boxing – Tony’s private lessons taught him the art of decompression and how to unleash anger in the most productive of ways. Every time he let himself get lost in the sound of his fists hitting the bag, Peter would resurface and feel so much better.

Sometimes Tony joined him – he would hold the bag and throw taunts his way or camp out at the bag next to him and add to the sound of fists and hitting and the bag swinging. And sometimes – well, sometimes Tony left him to himself. There were many instances that a quick look between them said more than any words could. Tony would pull a couple bags out of the closet, hang them up, and then retreat into the office. Those times were his favorite. Not because he didn’t like learning from Tony or being in his presence – but mostly because it felt good to be so well known by another human being. Quentin’s example of what a significant other should be didn’t even come close to the reality of Tony.

Which was proven to him again a couple weeks later. Tony convinced him to take an early lunch so they could hit a small brunch place just opening up. His boyfriend tried for days to get the morning off and Peter easily agreed to join him. In their time together, Peter was slowly learning the subtle delicacies of life and for Tony Stark, the main one was food. Watching Tony enjoy one of his favorite things in life quickly became something Peter didn’t want to miss out on – so he joined him almost every time the man asked. This new place was rumored to have the best waffles, anyway – Peter couldn’t possibly pass up on something like that. It didn’t hurt, either, the fact that Tony strolled into his building and asked for him by name. Of the people that knew of Tony, he got looks of interest and slight jealousy. The rest of his office stared open-mouthed as they walked out together, the beautiful man’s arm wrapped firmly around Peter’s shoulders.

Their time in line went by pretty pleasantly and the meal was better than either of them expected. Peter’s waffle was one of the best he’d eaten in a long time. When they left, Peter was floating from the high of being with Tony and having a full belly – he was so preoccupied, he didn’t see Quentin until a hand on his shoulder was stopping their movements. Looking up, Peter sucked in a harsh breath – the man who so carelessly tossed him out on his ass was standing right in front of him. The petty part of Peter was glad that he didn’t look all that good. The pretty boy appearance no longer carefully kept – the hair that was meticulously done up looked longer than Peter remembered it ever being and a lot greasier, too. He looked like shit and a huge part of him, one that was trying so hard to win out, wanted to laugh in his face. So much for better off without me, Peter thought.

Peter forced himself to blink a couple times before he even thought to speak. “Quentin.” The hand in his own tightened and Peter could feel the question in the squeeze. “Peter Parker. It’s great to see you, babe. You’re looking great,” Quentin said, the hand still on his shoulder giving him a squeeze – the uncomfortable feel of his touch a total contrast to the safety he felt with Tony’s hand clenched in his own. He tried to come up with something to say but was beaten to the punch. He should have known Tony would pick up on what was happening – the man was incredibly perceptive and insanely protective.

“He’s not your babe. He does look great and you’re kind of in the way,” Tony’s voice was an octave Peter hadn’t heard before – the tone a little frightening, honestly. He looked over at Peter, his brow raised in that signature arrogant Tony Stark look. “We’re off to live happily ever after,” Tony’s smirk was evident, and he returned it with his own grateful look. Tony Stark to save the day. Peter pressed a kiss on his cheek in thanks – the man a total hot head, but absolutely amazing. “And we might never come back. If you’ll excuse me, Quentin,” Peter finally got out, his smile growing at the look of confusion on his ex’s face.

The laughter they dissolved into not even a block later was the last little bit of healing Peter needed. For the longest time, he’d been debilitated. Quentin Beck took his trust and twisted it until Peter didn’t trust himself. Getting thrown out of that apartment all that time ago was the best thing to happen to him – he knew that now. The feeling of Tony’s arm wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him close was worth all the heartbreak and recovery it took to get back to the person Pete knew he could be.

It wasn’t all on Tony – Peter knew giving the man that much credit would only create a rift in their relationship, and he didn’t want that. Most of the work came from deep within him and the confidence he got back was probably the thing that landed him Tony in the end, anyway. No, for Peter, Tony was the guiding light that kept him on track. The older man could keep him grounded and when he didn’t remember the path that he was on, Tony put his arms around him and held him close until he found his way again.

There were many things that could be said about a person that didn’t try to control or push – many things that wouldn’t even come close to doing them justice. Tony’s presence in his life brought a type of peace that Peter couldn’t remember ever searching for. Understanding his self-worth made it easy to appreciate how Tony felt about him. And in the end, Peter found himself falling in love with the man every single time he didn’t float away, every time the teether back to the ground came from one Tony Stark and the simple way he could make Peter feel like the strongest person on the planet. He didn’t know much about the future or what it held in store for him, but boxing and Tony were two things Peter knew wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. In fact, he had a long way to go if he ever intended on putting Tony on his ass. There wouldn’t be any peace between them until that happened.

Later, when Peter found himself in the tangle of Tony’s arms, he felt happiness boil over the edges. They didn’t do a lot of talking about their feelings and each man seemed to appreciate that in their own way. For some reason, Peter couldn’t hold himself back – if he did, he might actually explode. “I love you, Tony. I love you and I’ve probably never been happier. Never.” Peter’s words were muffled by the skin of Tony’s chest, but he knew the other heard him. That chest under his head fluttered – with bated breath and the slight quiver of nervous excitement. Tony’s fingers stopped the tracing they’d been doing over the skin on his back and dug in ever so slightly. Those arms were tight around him by the time Tony collected himself enough to say anything back. “I know. I love you, too. Have for a while. I hope you’re happy enough to stay. There’s no one else this world seems quite right with.” Tony pressed a kiss to his head to cover up the vulnerability of his words. Peter recognized the gesture and leaned into it – his heart forever growing for the complex man surrounding him.

Snuggling into the warmth there, Peter felt himself sigh with contentment.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

[wolferals]

🇪🇸ENCANTADO🇪🇸

This is the first part of my new arón piper fanfiction called „finally fallin'“

I hope you like it☀️

<arón piper x reader>

(The spanish is all google translate, i wont take responsibility for mistakes)

chapter 1

Your heart was pounding, your hands were shaking and your knees were weak. New things troubled you, made you almost anxious. Like college.

It was your first day of your third semester as you were studying design. When you had started dedicating your life on your projects you were still living in y/h/c (your home country), in a very small yet incredibly expensive apartment in the middle of the city with your best friend.

Everything was going perfectly fine, your grades were good and all your projects turned out the way they were supposed to.

But after one year of going to Uni, it bored you. A bad habit of yours. You got bored very easily and needed an immediate change.

It took a good amount of 5 weeks until your professor announced you could take a semester abroad in Madrid, Spain.

Your Spanish wasn’t exactly what you‘d call fluent but it was good enough to understand the basics.

A week before your time to leave had come you fortunately found a tiny little one room apartment somewhere outside the center for an affordable price.

It wasn’t quite fancy or anything but since you were a creative person, you were sure you could still make something out if it. Your parents had promised you to help you out with some money if you cant find a job to make you pay your bills. But besides that, the university was totally free for you because of your uni‘s connections back home.

And thats how you ended up here right now, staring at the huge doors of this tremendously big modern building in the middle of Madrid.

First day of Spanish university. Your classes were all in English which gave you a little bit of hope.

After taking a deep breath you opened the heavy white, wooden door and stepped inside just to be met with a dozen students walking through the halls, trying to find their class.

You didnt know where to go either but for your sake there was a campus map to your right that told you exactly where to go for your first class. Photography arts.

You loved photographing, finally taking that course excited you a lot.

By the time of 8:22 you reached the lecture hall and took a seat in one of the corners. You noticed that there weren‘t many students here yet which surprised you since classes start at 8:30 sharp.

You took out your Laptop to take some notes just in case and crossed your legs to observe the room a little before the professor came in.

In the next 5 minutes more and more students walked into the hall and found themselves some seats. A dark skinned girl with dreads and a septum piercing sat down behind you and smiled at you while passing by.

She looked amazing, you thought to yourself.

Checking out the other people you started asking yourself if they were all exchange students from non spanish-speaking countries.

Suddenly the second seat to your right got flipped down and a dark haired, brown eyed boy sat down, placing his backpack on the floor.

You tried to be nice and smiled.

He was cute, you thought and checked out his outfit.

He was wearing dark lightly washed out jeans and a white shirt. You immediately noticed the silver chain dangling off his neck.

He gave you a quick smile before grabbing his own laptop and putting it on the table in front of him.

Looking down you noticed that his phone had fallen out of his bag when he took his laptop out. But before you could indicate anything the door got slammed close and an old woman walked up to the desk in the middle of the hall.

„Welcome class of 2019. My name is Profesora Rodriguez and in this semester i‘ll be teaching you the arts of modern photography. I‘m assuming you‘ve taken photography classes before so I‘m going to spare you the details of basic skills you have to possess.“

She seemed like a very strict yet kind of sweet „teacher“ and you were sure she was going to teach you a lot about the topic you really wanted to know more about.

*time skip, after class*

Profesora Rodriguez endet the course about 2 hours later and the students started to leave the lecture hall very quickly.

Slowly you packed your laptop and your notebook back in your bag, taking your time since he door was stuffed anyways. The guy who had sat close to you had been one of the first to leave the hall, but unfortunately you had forgotten to tell him about his phone being on the floor.

It was still there.

You grabbed your back and then bent down to pick up his black iPhone.

You actually wanted to take it to a professor since you didnt even know his name.

As you walked out the door shortly after, it rang.

The display showed a weird looking phone number and a name. Arón.

You let it ring for a bit and then decided to pick up to maybe ask this person where his friend could‘ve gone so you could return the phone as fast as possible.

„Hello?“ you asked.

You didnt get an answer immediately but then a voice spoke:“Itzan? Quién eres tú?“ -„Oh I‘m sorry I dont speak Spanish. I found this phone on the floor in photography class. Do you know where I could find your friend?“

The guy coughed once before replying:“He is going to training now but we wanted to meet.. maybe you could come there too?“ You nodded even though he of course couldnt see that. „Yes of course, where is that?“

The deep voice then told you the address which you put in google maps to make sure you‘d find it.

He as well told you to come there by 12:30 so you still had some time to maybe get some food inbetween.

„Oh thanks so much! Im sure your friend will thank you for setting this up.“

He laughed a little and then spoke:“I‘m sure he will thank YOU for bringing him his phone.“

You chuckled back and then hung up to finally return to your apartment, grab a snack and text your mom about your first day of college in Spain.

*time skip to 12:35*

Nervously you were waiting for the guy who had lost his phone at the location his friend told you about.

You were standing in front of a restaurant somewhere in Madrid, holding onto your purse and his phone as if your life depended on it.

It took about 5 minutes until you recognized his face again and approached him. He looked confused as you were walking up to him.

„Hey! I found your phone in class before and your friend called and told me to come here to give it back.“

You held out his phone.

He smiled brightly.

„Ay dios mio, thank you so much! I was sure i would never find it again.“

His eyes were sparkling at you and he pulled you in a short hug.

„No problem, your friend was really nice.“ you smiled at him.

„What friend?“ He asked out of curiosity before putting his phone back in his pocket.

„Yo.“ a voice behind you spoke. „Ay hermano! Gracias por llamarla!“ (hey bro, thanks for calling her)

You turned around. And thats when you saw him for the first time.

„Arón, encantado.“

[secret-engima]

Have you played World of Final Fantasy? Because that stack sounds, a lot like that party system. Pease consider Ardyn, meeting his platonic Troll mate in Aulea, gender bending a few of his Somnus memories, & reaching deep into the briefings his Niflheim had given him on the Lucian Royal Family to craft stories of his supposed half-sister. When some moron with a death wish asks what this supposed sister looked like, cue some very flat stares. Nox and Ardyn work together to craft a painting (1/?)

Anonymous said: (2/?) of the supposed mother of Nox. They base it on Somnus, with bits of Aera, Cindy, and Aryana Highwind. It is both a tribute to those they've lost, and to those they've found. She's beautiful, with a mona lisa smile under her laughing eyes. She sprawls across a Solheim ruin, somehow seeming whole in her presence, and crumbling at the further edges.

Me: I have not, actually! That’s funny though, that my stack sounds like the party system XD. Also MY FEELS. WHY HURT MY FEELS THIS WAY. Alright my turn. Buckle up, let’s see if I can make anyone cry.

Ardyn and Nox are ... very nervous about making the painting at first, because what if Regis says he never saw a woman like that? Then they realize that their cover story supposes a single meeting, a one-night stand 15-16+ years ago, probably while Regis was drunk, so they’re fine. So they set about crafting a beautiful painting. A tribute to the women (and brother) who helped shape their lives so powerfully, a goodbye to those same people who they will either never meet again, or at least, will never have the same relationship, the same shared memories, as before.

They make her a white tiger (the closest they can get to this Aulea’s snow leopard without giving the game away), with a beautiful blue top that is reminiscent of Aera’s favorite dress (not her white Oracle dress, but the one she wore when she was just herself, when it was just her and Ardyn in the gardens, with the see-through elbow sleeves and the delicate gold embroidery), and a staff carved with travel blessings in her hands instead of a trident (Aera’s staff, her favorite for when she was traveling at least moderately incognito). Her hair is Ardyn’s violet-red to help maintain the image of sibling-hood, cut almost Somnus level short, practical and slightly wispy wild like Somnus’s the one time he had started to grow it out as a teen before deciding longer hair was too much of a hassle. Her skin tone is a bit darker than Somnus’s porcelain though, like someone who spends a great deal of time traveling beneath the sun (Cindy’s tan). She’s got a bright, full smile on her face, Cindy’s sunshine and cheer that show off her fangs, but it also has a large dose of Aranea’s lazy mischief in the expression, from lips to half-lidded eyes that makes the expression seem like good-natured trouble. Her outfit shows off the lean muscles on her upper half that match the corded power of her hindquarters, Aranea’s jumping power and speed on display, not that anyone but them know it.

Her eyes are a bright, armiger blue, and anyone looking at the picture would insist she has Nox’s cheekbones and a more feminine version of his jawline.

She’s sprawled out, as you say, in a Solheim ruin, as if posing for a picture. Around her the colors are lush and vibrant, the lines clean, the ruins somehow seeming alive and whole despite still being clearly ruins, but the farther into the background one looks, the more faded the colors are, the more crumbled and desolate the ruins.

When Ardyn and Nox reveal the picture to Regis and Co, shyly looking for approval to hang it somewhere where others can see, Regis finds his breath stolen. He wracks his memory for a woman like this, hoping to REMEMBER- but he can’t. He’s not surprised. It’s been long time, years and years, and there were several tigers, both white and orange, in his youth that he had flirted to bed, and he’s more than a little sure that they would have both been drunk the one time they met, or else surely a Niflheim woman would never dare have a one-night stand with a dragontaur, a Lucis Caelum. Even so, he sees Ardyn and Nox in the picture of the woman, in the eyes and hair and cheekbones and jaw. He sees hints of LIFE in the painting, of stories untold and adventures unspoken. The giant painting (because Ardyn and Nox do nothing by halves and did a life-sized painting) looks so REAL, so detailed and vibrant he more than half expects it to suddenly spring right out of the picture and start teasing Ardyn, who is himself staring at it with sad, nostalgic eyes.

Aulea bumps her hip against his and breaks the building tension made by his silence by calmly stating that, oh yeah, she can see why Regis tapped that. Regis sputters loudly, Clarus groans, Nox hides his face in his hands to muffle his semi-hysterical laughter while Ardyn just GRINS like a loon and chirps that “Indeed! His sibling was always QUITE the catch!”

Cor just tilts his head, considering the picture, trying to piece together a life story from the details Ardyn no doubt guided Nox through (they all know Nox was the primary painter of the two, but Ardyn would no doubt remember his half-sister much better, if Nox even remembered his mother at all). Cor sees ... traveller, warrior, mischief maker, leader. He sees a woman who travelled and let nothing stop her, who laughed loud and roared loud, who no doubt teased and bossed her half-sibling into joining her on whatever trip she had in mind, who let herself be teased and goaded into whatever madcap scheme Ardyn came up with that time. He sees a woman who could fight and knew it well, who lived easy in her skin because of it. He sees a hard worker in the callouses on her hands and the little smudges of dirt on her face.

He’s sees kindness in the tilt of her head and the flashing blue of her eyes, in the genuine cheer and goodnatured mixed in with the mischief of her smile.

Cor’s vague theories of an abusive mother for Nox ... fade. He trusts Ardyn’s memories enough to believe this is not a delusional, “clean” version, but rather a painting trying to capture what only memory could truly know. This woman would not have harmed her son. It must have been her husband, the one Ardyn has mentioned only once or twice with dark eyes, who took over Nox’s rearing after Nox’s mother died (died while Nox was very young, Cor recalls, not long after Nox had been born, he’d said) that had done the damage Cor has seen before Ardyn took custody and tried his best.

He wishes for a moment he could have met her. He thinks she would have been a good addition to the Citadel, once the awkwardness between her and Regis faded.

Regis ... ASTOUNDS Ardyn and Nox when he doesn’t just give permission for them to hang the picture somewhere, he insists the picture be hung in the special wing reserved for life-sized royal family portraits (not the Hall of Arts, that’s more of a museum of LC history and world history overall). Aulea is holding his hand as he speaks, unhesitating support in her every line and Nox quietly starts to cry when they hang up the painting he and Ardyn made right next to the one of Regis and Aulea together (and now Regis is glad that he bucked the tradition of separate portraits in favor of a shared one, it means there is a perfect spot for this one to rest next to his and Aulea’s, an appropriate place for the mother of his eldest and sister of his half-brother). Ardyn is tearing up too despite his grin, and Nox’s quiet, fervent thank you hurts Regis’s heart a little.

When the servants go to attach her name plaque, they realize suddenly that Ardyn has never actually mentioned his sibling by NAME. Not that they can remember at least. They ask Regis, who asks Ardyn and Nox, and while Nox freezes a bit in panic (they can’t say any of the names she was based on, surely not even Aera’s), Ardyn tugs his hat over his face and softly says, “Stella. Her name was Stella.”

And Nox hurts quietly on his uncle’s behalf at the grief in his uncle’s magic, at the stiffness in his uncle’s wings, even as Regis nods and leaves to go relay the message. “Uncle...?”

“Mother always used to say,” Ardyn murmurs as he puts his hat back on, a smiling mask in place, “that she had hoped for a daughter. I had already been born to Father’s previous wife, so there was an heir to the kingdom and there would be no negative repercussions if she had a daughter to dote on.”

Nox pauses, thinks of medieval medicine, how in Ardyn’s time potions and other magical medicines had not yet been fully developed, “A stillborn?” He guesses in dread.

Ardyn huffs, “No. Nothing that tragic.” Ardyn starts walking away, aiming for the gardens and a sunny patch no doubt, “Stella was what Mother was going to name Somnus if he had been born a girl. I used to use it to tease him when people commented on his ‘delicate features’. It was my nickname for him for throughout our childhood, up until he became commander of the kingdom’s armies and insisted that I would ruin his reputation among the men if I was ever overheard and that I shouldn’t risk it anymore.”

Ardyn disappears around the corner. The old silence left behind is very loud.

By the next day, people are gossiping over the stunning new picture in the Royal Family portrait wing, right next to Regis’s and Aulea’s shared one, in the spot where traditionally the wife’s portrait would have been had they not gotten theirs done together. A beautiful white tiger with mischief in her eyes and sunshine in her smile and and flyaway violet-red hair that makes people whisper over the similarity to the king’s half-brother.

The little plaque on the frame of the painting reads “Stella Izunia Caelum”

[iwritethat]

Damian Wayne: Expectations

A/N: I have no idea where this came from but I wrote it anyway.

Warnings: Like 1 swear word

>>>>——————————>

Life in Gotham could be difficult, horrific and down right dangerous - so like any other kid who had been living it rough you turned to crime. Firstly creating an alias for yourself equip with fitted black costume as the colour made it easier to move through Gotham at night, it consisted of a hood and bandana to cover your face and conceal your identity. You took up minor theft, so by the time you reached your teenage years you were now a seasoned professional - you had perfected 'slight of hand', acquired fighting skills as well as being very good with disguising yourself to gain entrance to otherwise unreachable areas/events.

Most of the time it was thievery from those who seemed more wealthy, you considered it better to steal from the wealthier population rather than the poor as they would need their money more - though you were a criminal you did have some values intact. This time however was unusual, Catwoman had asked for your assistance on a job, you had met Catwoman before on numerous occasions and got on quite well but you didn't expect her to ever ask for your help, clearly she thought very highly of your abilities.

As a result, after robbing a museum of a cat sculpture you found yourself standing on a rooftop waiting for the promised payment your partner was currently handing you.

"Catwoman, you're going to have to return that." A deep voice sounded from behind you, sending a string of curse words through your head.

Surprise surprise, you turned to find the Dark Knight accompanied by Robin who had joined you on the building.

"Who are you?" The sidekick asked bluntly taking a step toward you.

"Hm, wouldn't you like to know?" You quickly replied, matching the arrogant tone meanwhile Catwoman looked genuinely amused. Your temporary partner, clearly unwilling to simply hand over the stolen goods, began to flirt with Batman - apparently reoccurring behaviour judging by Robins foul expression.

"They do this often then?" You commented, observing the two adults.

"Too often. You still didn't answer my question thief." Robin replied, getting into a defensive stance mirroring his mentor.

"It's (v/n) - thief is just rude birdboy." You earned a growl before he came at you with his katana.

Though you weren't specifically trained in any martial arts, you picked up a thing or two by watching others or brief involvements with street gangs which allowed you to hold your own somehow. Instinctively, you pulled out your daggers to clash with the oncoming blade before kicking Robin in the abdomen and running for it. Successfully, you made your escape without being followed equip with money from Catwoman and so, you made you way 'home'.

.

Over the next few weeks, you had various encounters with Robin which you found peculiar as there were far more dangerous villains out there that required his attention but here he was again - confronting you about the deal you’d just completed, selling off a rich mans watch for a very good price.

"Why are you doing this?" The vigilante asked, arms crossed as he blocked your path.

"Because it pays well? I'm not quite sure what you expected." You sarcastically remarked, scanning the area for an exit.

"You seem like a good person, from my observations you only rob the wealthy. You should use your skills for something more productive." He commented, noticing your glare.

"Uh huh. You're like the same age as me Robin, you can't tell me what I should be doing. Besides, I didn't have the perfect life, I highly doubt you grew up on the streets - you can't exactly get 'productive' with that, I wouldn't have these skills otherwise. So sorry hero! If this was all part of the ‘turning me to the good side’ plan - you've failed." You defended, venom lacing your tone despite the mockery situated there. It was possible that you were a little harsh but you didn't need this at the moment, you had somewhere urgent to be.

Robin released a frustrated sigh meanwhile you put your plan of escape into action, you hopped onto the dumpster to the left, grabbing the metal ladder that lead to the staircase running up the side of the apartments. You slipped through an open window muttering a string of apologies as you ran through the now startled woman's apartment and out the front door, you made your way out of the building through the fire escape.

Checking your surroundings you discovered you'd lost the Batman's sidekick allowing relief to flood your body, though you were growing more suspicious - it shouldn't be that easy to escape Robin but it was almost like he let you get away in all of the times you'd encountered him after your first meeting. You had seen him fight other villains on the news and take them down with a degree of brutality, yet with you things never escalated to that level. Robin was obviously a better fighter and had beat you many times, brought you the police station handcuffed at least twice but never really hurt you.

Shaking your head out of the trance, you entered the old corner shop you'd made your way to and collected the items you needed. Walking over to the familiar owner of the small shop, you were greeted with a warm smile, you'd expect a form of hostility from anyone else considering your vigilante attire but upon visiting the shop on multiple occasions they soon realised you weren't a threat and never caused any trouble.

"Quite a lot of chocolate today (v/n)." The owner commented politely, knowing exactly what it was for.

"Mhm, everyone deserves a treat now and then - even me." You replied handing over some of the recently attained cash and taking the bag of items. Next you intended to return 'home'.

Unbeknownst to you Robin was tailing you, Damian was undeniably curious about you for some strange reason and had decided to follow you this time. After finding out about part of your childhood he wanted to understand why you did this, he assumed you had a home with an unstable background/parent and provided financial support though soon realised he was somewhat mistaken.

Once you left the store now carrying a bag you made your way to an old apartment building, Damian continued to follow, watching from the building opposite as you entered one of the 4th floor apartments. The area of Gotham was quite run down meaning rent wasn't expensive and you managed to maintain clean, suitable living conditions despite your situation.

"(Y/N) is back!" A young voice yelled, filled with excitement as you strolled through, placing the bag on the table.

Damian was puzzled, a small group of young children raced over to your figure which was soon lost in an array of hugs, one jumped on your back another two hugged your sides while others screamed with enjoyment.

"Yeah yeah, I missed you kids too." You happily greeted, kneeling down causing them to slowly release you.

Robin perched in the darkness now connecting everything together, you pulled down your hood and then removed your bandana, revealing your identity. Damian was stunned, the dim lighting highlighted your features perfectly and the smile you wore made you all the more beautiful.

"What did you bring us this time (y/n)?!" One girl chirped, standing hopefully in front of you.

"Hmm, well I brought some fruit, vegetables, soap, toothpaste..." You playfully listed, though the kids were grateful, they weren't exactly ecstatic to hear about the vegetables.

"And chocolate!" You grinned, excitement lacing your voice - pulling it out of the bag, the children immediately erupted into squeals and cheers taking a bar each.

Robin took this opportunity to slip through the window behind you making his presence known with a cough. You froze for a second, knowing that he probably knew you're identity now and where you lived - still, you recovered and turned around, the kids also taking notice of the unfamiliar company.

"Shit!" A child yelled from behind you, panic evident.

"Jake - language!" You whisper yelled, the children now gathered behind you.

"You're in a lot of trouble (v/n)." Robin sternly stated.

To your surprise a young girl quickly stepped in front of you spreading out her arms as a guard.

"No Robin! You can't take her away, I know she's bad sometimes but she only does it for us. Please don't take her to prison!" The girl pleaded, tears welling in her eyes.

Next was the boy, Jake, who ran to your side (chocolate long forgotten) and grabbed your arm.

"She isn't a hero like you or - or Batman but she's not a bad guy!" He claimed, also jumping to your defence.

"Yes! (V/N) is our hero, (y/n) protects us like you protect other people s-so there!" Another girl argued from behind you.

You and Robin were both shocked at the children's reactions, you found it heartwarming that they were defending you before one of their biggest heroes yet weren’t sure if their testimony’s would’ve be valid enough.

"I'm not taking (y/n) to prison." Robin boredly sighed, though he probably should - but you hadn't committed crimes at the same severity as the Penguin and you had legit reasons, so he took the opportunity to persuade you to take a more legal route.

Upon hearing Robin's assurance, the children calmed themselves dissipating into the apartment, finding suitable places to watch the scene unfold. You crossed your arms leaning on a nearby counter and looked to Robin expectantly - not having anything to say yourself.

"This is why you do it then?" He inquired, but it came off as more of a statement.

You nodded, observing the 3 children sitting on the couch while others scattered through the apartment.

"I try to take care of them when they need me, I'm pretty sure they live on the streets so I provide for them the best I can when they come to stay. But when they do, I need extra cash - with studying and my job I can just afford rent and the basics for myself. I steal so they don't have to, I want them to grow up 'good' I suppose." Robin listened carefully as he too looked at the children.

Silence.

"So... There you have it bird boy, I grew up on the streets but want them to have a better life than I had. The end." You calmly explained, your tone getting more defensive as you went on.

"You're not what I expected." Robin admitted confidently.

"Oh really? And what did you expect?" You countered, smiling with a challenging hint to your voice.

"It doesn't matter. I think you could be of assistance to me, obtain information and getting into secured areas etc. In exchange I can offer my assistance." The sidekick clearly proposed, observing the consideration dashing across your features.

"...Maybe.”

.

Within the next few weeks that's how it happened, you would assist Robin on select cases and in return he'd bring over extra supplies for any kids that decided to visit. Today was one of those days, you came in from work to find the children swarming around Robin who probably had to leave for patrol. Upon seeing you they rushed over with hugs and "Welcome home!"s before returning to their activities.

"What did you bring them this time Robin?" You curiously greeted, he threw the bag over to you which was effortlessly caught, after looking inside you nodded and placed it on the counter.

Out of gratitude, you made way to Robin and gave him a hug to display such thankfulness as you felt words weren’t quite enough this time.

"Thanks for everything bird boy." You added and pulled away from him.

"You're welcome?" Robin replied, still bewildered due to the sudden contact that it sounded as though he was questioning himself.

"So are you boyfriend and girlfriend now?" One of the girls mischievously inquired appearing out of nowhere.

"Uh - n-no. No." You briskly stuttered knowing you were blushing and attempted to conceal it to the best of your ability.

"(Y/N) is very beautiful but we are not dating." Robin answered in a much less embarrassing manner compared to you. You flushed deeper upon hearing the compliment, of course the sidekick quickly noticed your behaviour causing a smirk to appear.

Robin headed toward the window to leave for his previously mentioned patrol, though the young girl followed him and gently tugged on his cape gaining his attention.

She moved her hand to the side of her mouth so only Robin could hear her whisper "I think you should ask her out!"

"TT, I will." He assured her before disappearing into the night, finding that he’d have to learn to expect the unexpected when it came to your mismatched adopted family.