#i feel like that kid who just stares point blank at the barrel of a gun and says “shoot me”

[yeyinde]

This might sound so cringe and cliche, but I wanna be of help in some way-

how about price faking injuries to see a specific nurse he has a crush on but won’t admit.

Cringe and cliche are quite on brand for me, tbh.

It starts as a concussion, a stiffness in his neck. A pinch in his shoulder. 

Then it changes shape, shifting, evolving, into something more. A tenuous dance held together by silken threads. He tugs on the ends sometimes, just to watch little pieces of you begin to unravel. Raw skin, untouched and new bared to his curious eyes. 

You’ve thrown him off-kilter, left him feeling strange. All asunder. 

He shouldn’t be too surprised by the way you unmoor him so easily. Your eyes swallow the atmosphere around him, eating through gravity. Weightless, he’s left to drift in the aether until you snatch him from the air, leaving him wing-clipped, and kept cupped in the soft swells of your palm. 

It’s greed, he thinks. That awful little thing that makes him keep coming back for more.

The helicopter crash did a number of things on him—mild concussion, a fractured rib, sprained wrist; it seemed to have flipped his insides all askew for a moment when he plunged to the earth before somehow righting themselves when he'd landed—but in retrospect, hindsight, whatever, it could have been a lot worst. 

A fact Gaz seemed to have picked up on quicker than he had when they'd met in the medical bay together, holding their broken bodies with trembling hands. 

(Or maybe threaded together by a statuette of Nefertem laced in the fibres of their hearts.)

"What's this now," Gaz asked when he limped in, knee smarting without the surge of adrenaline keeping him upright. Mirth rolling through his teeth, ge offered Price a fractured grin that very likely might have been a grimace. "Two for two? Might be a sign, cap…"

"A sign for what?"

Gaz shrugged, pressing tender fingers against the gash on his forehead. "Stay the fuck out of helicopters. Take the bloody bus instead."

There's a retort in the back of his throat, but it's swallowed when you walk in, hands gripping a medical bag between blanching knuckles. He's closest to the door, and you turn to him with an air of pensive uncertainty that nudges the spot inside of him that preens under authority. That likes law, order, and the simplicity of life. A natural-born leader. He plays the part, of commander and captain, and dips his head toward Gaz, a silent motion meant to convey him first. 

The always in that is ironclad, he thinks. Brassbound. Even if he was bleeding out on the pavement. His men, his boys, first. 

Except, he catches Gaz doing the same thing toward him. A stalemate, then. 

You're new, he notes; ears still wet, face still green. He braces himself to step in, to lay down the authority you need before you flounder, unsure what to do, but instead of being met with uncertainty, he finds himself breathing in your ire. 

"Well, heroes," you snip, brow pinching together in displeasure. "One of you has to go first, don't you? So while I put my stuff on the table, I expect you to have figured it out amongst yourself, yeah?"

And it's—

It's something. 

A strand of static in the air. Direct current to his heart. It thuds in a strange murmuration, off rhythm, off balance. But it makes sense. You'd thrown him so wildly off kilter. 

He clears his throat of the soot that congeals the back, and nods once. Sharp and jerky. 

"Right, yeah…" 

Price turns to Gaz, brows pinched in the middle. A messy bow. 

It isn't like him to be so askew, but you turned everything upside down before he could familiarise himself with the world in its right state. He's adrift for a moment. Floundering, he notes, tasting something sweet behind his teeth. 

Gaz meets his eyes somewhere in the fog, the furrow in his brow asking the questions he won't voice aloud—you alright, cap?—but he isn't sure what he's meant to say. Everything feels like it was knocked loose inside of him, left to roll off shelves and clatter to the floor. Disorganised chaos. Awash. Lost in tangled webs. He isn't used to this. To feeling so useless, so askew. 

He later finds it just the concussion warping the edges of his mind, turning his thoughts into a slurry. That the mild part was an oversight, one that was immediately corrected by you—firm fingers holding his chin still, nails scratching against his beard as you peered into his eyes with a clinical air of detachment that shouldn't have made his heart beat as loud as it was. 

You smell of summer rain. The musk of water on a hot pavement. He breathes it in until it's clogging the back of his throat, so thick he can almost taste it. So heavy, so heady, his head swims. Ozone. Charred wood. War tucked in a bottle.

The soft fingers against his pulse was a shock, made potent by the little curl of your brow when you counted the beats per minute and found they were much too fast. He isn't embarrassed. Doesn't think he has it in him anymore to feel that way, but there's a sense of frustration in the back of his mind as you move around him, commandeering him with an ease that leaves him feeling a little breathless. 

"You're concussed," you say at last, lips pitching downward as you read his charts, the scrawl left behind by the nurse who'd seen him earlier. The one who promptly sent him to you. "And it isn't mild."

With that, and a list of things he ought to do (non-negotiable), you send him on his way. Gaz, too. Fixed up with gauze and made shiny and new. 

Soap asks why he's so quiet later when they meet for a debriefing later on (one that he knows is definitely on the list of things you told him not to do), and has to stop the rip current from spilling past his lips. 

"He's concussed," Gaz supplied, narrowed eyes clipping the side of his face when it lands; a physical blow. "Doc said he needed rest. But good luck telling him that."

"Don't need rest," he grumbles. There's a blossom of pain in his temple. A little sapling that flourishes under the waning sunlight. "'M fine."

They don't believe him, but the debriefing is too short to push him to lay down, and he spends the next hour pretending he's not seeing shadows in his periphery. That the words on the pages don't bleed together. 

(That the scent of Petrichor doesn't glue to the back of his throat.)

When the hurt in his head dims, he finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Meek and unassuming. A wolf in sheep's clothing. It lingers long after the meeting has ended and he's ushered to the barracks for rest. Home tomorrow, Gaz promises on the tail end of yawn. Gonna sleep for a whole year, I think. 

Aye, gonna head home in the morning, Soap murmurs, but his eyes don't stray from the corner where Ghost leans, chin dipped low to his chest. 

(Price wouldn't put it past him to be asleep already.)

They tell him to get some sleep, dressing the worry in their voice as a friendly admonishment, and he takes it as it is. 

But rest doesn't come. 

He's curious about you. The little hellion that managed to snatch him clean from the air, and cup him in the palm of your too-small hands. 

(He wants to feel it again.)

It begins as idle curiosity.

Price is a large man full of bulk and grit. The snarls in his throat command authority, respect. He isn't used to feeling so wing clipped, sidelined, and he blames that on why he seeks you out. 

A pinch in his shoulder. His chest feels swollen around the broken rib. His knee hurts. There's an ache in his throat. A throb in his kidneys. 

Each time is met with the same stern expression, firm hands. You commandeer him around the room, dragging out the ailments with ease that always seems to leave him off-kilter and breathless. 

He realises what it is the fourth time he comes to your office, exacerbating some mild pain. 

You take up space. All of it. Any crevasse, or corner is immediately filled by you. You have this presence about you that is so at odds with the meek façade you carried on your countenance like an ill-fitting mask when he'd first laid eyes on you. 

You're an enigma, a paradox. A riddle begging to be solved. He wants to take you into his hands and pull you apart until your insides are bared to him, true and real, and known. 

He's met people like you in his lifetime. Leaders in roles that don't fit them. He thinks you belong in worn pages of history, tucked behind a desk as you commandeer the world around you with firm hands and a gnarled smile instead of standing before him, musing softly at whatever ailments he throws your way. 

Despite his plethora of issues, you tackle them all with an air of severity and seriousness that he finds kinship in, touching softly at the twined mass that writhes before him. The cuts in your gaze are made from the same shorn razor as his, and he wants to see what's behind that ill-fitting mask. 

He wants to see you slip. 

But you don't. 

Tongue between teeth, clenched so hard that blood blooms and swells in the tip, you keep everything locked tight to your chest, and usher him out with pantomime remedies to heal his farcical hurts. 

Price isn't sure why he keeps going—curiosity, maybe. An attraction that cracks like lightning striking through his chest. A gale of turbulence that leaves him seaswept and standing on shaking knees. He doesn’t know what to do with the kinetic energy that buzzes in his veins, begging to be free, and so he tests. Pulls and tugs at the seams that keep you spooled tightly together just to see that fissure that once split across your face, leaking fury and fire into the air until it ripped through his nerves, an electrical fire, and set him alight from the inside out. 

(He finds he likes the way it hurts.)

As much as he tugs, he finds he likes it when you pull back. 

"Should be careful," you coo, and the syrupy sweetness of your voice sparks against some dormant part of his mind. "You seem to have a lot of bad luck when it comes to ailments."

He shrugs. "Just unlucky."

"Or you're being cursed." 

"Oh, yeah?" He hums. "Could be." 

You offer a flimsy smile, but it’s enough to soothe the ruffle through his plumage. 

"What's your name?" He asks, fingers plucking at the gossamer that sits between you, unsettled by the quiver in his chest. 

The smile you flash at him is all teeth. "Sekhmet."

Laswell doesn't ask why when he requests your records, but he senses the confusion in her voice when she calls. 

"All of them?" 

He grunts in response. 

"I vetted them personally, John… but," there's a shuffle in the background. Boxes sliding on linoleum. She's overseeing the tearing up of Shepherd's office, and this minute request suddenly turns his stomach sour. "Fine. If that's what you want."

"It's just—"

He isn't quite sure what to say. He was weakened and flummoxed by the world around him. You turned the tipping axis on its head, leaving him feeling asunder. 

"Heard they were quite rough with you," she teases, an olive branch. An excuse. "Bossing around the boss. Is this what it's about?"

He scoffs, then, and only feels an inkling of pain. "No, Laswell. And I wasn't bossed around."

"Manhandled?"

It gives him pause. That feeling from before swells in his chest. Soft hands against his talons, clipping his wings. 

"No," he mutters, but the airiness of his voice gives him away. 

Laswell, in a feat of mercy, just hums. "They're good, John. Good for this team."

Good for you, she doesn't say. John thinks she doesn't have to. He hears it, anyway. 

There are cracks inside of him, ones made from the chipped clay that once concealed an unslaked black hole. 

You fill space, he thinks. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fill the gaps inside of him, too. 

He goes again, but this time it’s real. A bullet grazed his shin, deep enough to warrant stitches, and finds you waiting for him with that clipboard pinched between your hands. 

The look on your face gives him pause. It’s pulled taut, coiled like a defensive viper, but where he expects the same clinical efficiency and detached airs, he instead is met with a palpable sense of uncertainty—too much, he thinks, like the first time you walked into the room, unsure and wobbling on unsteady feet. 

His heart thunders under your prying gaze. “Need some stitches,” he says, if only to fill in the terse silence that settles over the room, hushed and aggrieved. 

“Right,” you echo, eyes dropping to the blood that runs in streaking rivulets down his leg. 

And you say nothing else after, working quietly as you knit skin back together and sponge the drying blood from the wry thatch of curls that blanket his shin. 

Price takes in the paleness of your lip, pinched tight against your clenched teeth. The deep ravine that cuts a line between your brows, heavy with shadows and flooded in some strange amalgamation of anger—potent enough that he can catch the embers in the air on his tongue—and this uncharacteristic sense of disquiet that makes your shoulders tense, your hands slacken. The firm, sure touch is gone—replaced, instead, with clouded unease—and you no longer commandeer him around the room, catch him from the air and manoeuvre him to your fanciful whims. You nudge, now. Soft utterances; requests. 

You don’t move space to fit yourself between the brackets. You linger in the periphery. 

He isn’t accustomed to this, and the hesitancy in your brow needles behind his ribs, pinching and pushing until he’s left feeling that same, strange sense of weightlessness as before. But where you led him around by the tip of his ears, he finds himself unmoored. 

(He likes the loss of control, but only when it’s tethered to your hand.)

His wound is patched up, skin knitted together with silken black lines that cut a neat crisscross through his tumid skin. There is no reason to linger, despite the weight on his tongue urging him to speak. 

But you strike first, catching him at the door. 

"Is there a problem?" You ask, words stripped bare, and masticated between clenched teeth. Reluctance is a heavy weight on your brow when he turns to you, as if you don't want to ask, but are compelled to. Forced to. 

It's the first time he's felt any sense of control around you. He stretches his wings. 

"Problem?" He echoes, and tucks his hands beneath his arms. Steadying his stance. Preparing for the fight. 

You mimic his pose, but grab the knobs of your elbows between tense fingers instead. There's fire in your eyes. The room fills with smoke. 

"You asked for my papers."

The meagre file tucked away in his cabinet spoke of your accomplishments in the same detached, clinical distance as one of the many façades you adopt. It listed your education, your former employment, and your accolades in Times New Roman, all standard affairs. Impressive, of course, but he found it all to be quite lacklustre. 

It didn't mention the firmness of your fingers when you take his pulse or commandeer him to your liking. It said nothing about the paralysing weight in your gaze, vipers tucked in the corners of your eyes when he meets your stolid authority with his own fiery wrath. 

(Or the softness of your cheeks when you try to hide a smile. The admonishing pinches made in jest when he says something that distracts you from your task.)

"I did."

"Okay," you breathe heavily through your nose. "Why?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?" 

"You just—" another breath. He has the peculiar urge to syphon the next directly from your lungs, to taste your air on his tongue. "You come here, week after week, with some—illness, and just—"

"Just what?"

"If you have a problem," you say at length, eyes flashing. "You could have come to me? One on one. I would have—"

"A problem?" He singles the word out, tossing it back at your teeth. “I don’t have a problem.”

You laugh, but it's scathing. "Are you undermining me? Is this—hazing?"

“Hazing? No,” he shakes his head, chasing the tail end of your derision. “Consider this vetting.”

And there it is—that fissure. Heat pops from the lavascape, spilling down the split of your lips. 

“Right.” You snip, shaking your head. “Well, I hope I met your expectations, Price.”

He huffs, then. The noise is a broken facsimile of a laugh forced through crooked teeth. “Of course you do.” The pinch in your brow wobbles. “Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, love.”

He rents the air with his admission, splits the seams of this tenuous dance you make each week he shows up, speaking of some phantom pain ripped the pages of the textbooks that sit, worn and well-loved, on the shelves behind your desk. 

You say nothing when he leaves. 

(Or when he rests a piece of himself on the doorframe—a glossy feather from his primary remiges just for you.)

He doesn’t go for the next three weeks, but it isn’t cowardice that drags him away from this oddly shaped choreography. He’s caught in a storm halfway across the world with sand in his hair, and the curve of your confusion nudged between the fibrils of his chest. 

In the softness of night, he wonders what you've done with his clipped feather. 

Price meets you at the beginning, but this time, he stands in the medical bay with firm knees, and a clear head. Searching, seeking. 

The thread vibrates, and he finds you with your back to him, doling out gentle, firm, commands to the medical staff congregated around you. Clinging to your breathy orders with the same listless uncertainty that makes his chest swell with the urge to lead whenever it's rested on his shoulders. 

He isn't sure if you can feel the reverberations through the thread, the leftover sutures from when you weaved a needle over the cut on his forearm, and accidentally sewed a piece of yourself into his skin, or if it's just the heavy weight of his gaze burning brands into your back that draws your attention. 

(It certainly garners enough from the staff around you, their flighty eyes flickering from the mountain of a man seething at your back, to you—feigning obliviousness as he strips you bare beneath his glacial gaze, cutting a path to your membrane where he knows he'll find the piece of himself that you snipped off months ago.)

When you finally turn, you give a peculiar look over your shoulder, eyes clouded over, gaze inward. He watches you for a moment, taking in the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose. Foreign, of course; but familiar under the cloak of darkness and the hail of gunfire. 

The fire still burns in your unreachable depths, but the embers are smouldering. He feels the heat even from this distance, but when you return from whatever thoughts were racing through your head, he finds the look that fixes itself there to be strange. Pensive. 

A quiet contemplation as you take in the length of his shoulders, the width of his chest. 

His heart hammers against the cages of his sore ribs, leaping to the base of his throat where it pulses like a raw wound. 

The whole of his body smarts like a massive contusion—muscles bending at odd angles, bones brittle—but he knows in an instant that he won't mention it to you. He'll tuck the hurt aside. Let it moulder. Let it rot. 

This thing between you—crafted from the design of his heart—has been pulled and pinched, flexed and stretched too taut. It's ready to snap. To break. 

He waits for that moment, bracing himself for the inevitability of the recoil clapping him against the chest, but it doesn't happen. 

You give a small dip of your chin. 

Then, you're gone. 

You've been moulding him between form hands since the beginning, moving him around however you please. 

So, it just feels natural when he follows. 

This time it's his chest. 

You go through the same dance, steps known. Ingrained in muscle memory. Your hands are firm, authoritative as you lead him on this little chase, pushing and pulling, tugging on the threads that keep him sewn up and whole. 

But an incipient path is born. A new routine. The hand on his cheek, as you read his temperature, lingers, thumb brushing over the dividing line that separates skin from wry curls. 

The touch is familiar. You’re no strange to feeling around the phantom aches and pains he presents to you, but this is an electric shock that rattles through his nerves. The trail your thumb leaves behind as it strokes idly at his skin prickles and burns. Goosebumps rise, creating cresting hills and peaks along his topography. You map it all with nimble fingers, firm and sure. 

You take the thermometer out of his mouth after a moment, not even pretending to read the results (thirty-seven degrees, always), and it’s tossed back on the tray quickly before your hand returns to his skin, drawn there by that same innate pull he feels in his iron bones. The warmth of your palm threatens to suffuse his skin, mated together in ferromagnetism. 

His chin rests, plinthed in your palms, and there’s a sudden swell, a rush, that gorges on his heart. The façades fall, clattering to the ground. The broken pieces lay in remains by his feet. 

Price doesn’t spare them a glance. 

Can’t, maybe, because in azimuth he finds that solidary feather he plucked for you resting between your teeth. 

Wonderment. Awe. He feels the surge of something ripping through his body—a paroxysm—but he can’t look away from the shapes of your bare face; the imperfect asymmetry, the wrought iron lines, the convulsing atoms. It’s mesmerising. 

And maybe it’s an electrical phenomenon—no let go—but he doesn’t spare it a single thought, even as the current burrows deeper into his chest, igniting his tissue until red-hot, blistering, charred. Even then, even with the scent of smouldering, necrotising flesh brimming cloyingly into his scenes, the absolute apathy he feels for himself at that moment is a testament to the unshakeable draw, that primal magnetism that glues him to you; met in perfect equilibrium in the middle.

It’s you who moves, who splints the poles until they fall apart when you let your hand drop.

But you’re not finished. The tips of your fingers move, a long peregrination down the twisting, sloping topography of his visage; snaking down his temple, the dip of his nose, the rough bushel of curls, the soft pout of his lips, the ulotrichous hair along his cheek and jaw, the long decline of his check, the ridged of his collarbones, the swell of his chest. It’s there where it lingers, fingers spreading like webs along the birdcage of his thundering heart. 

Price watches you, rapturous and nearly choking himself on the avarice that spills from his heaving lungs. 

You rest the flat of your palm there for a beat; lost in perambulation. Feasting on the thud of his heart. 

He thinks you’ve had your fill. Quenched yourself. 

But when you look up from the slight tremor of your hand, pulsing in time with his hurried beats, the look in your eyes is distinctly unslaked. 

(—and he can’t stop the rumble from spilling out of his chest at the sight.)

Price isn’t sure how long you stay like that. Minutes, seconds, hours. Aeons might have passed since you let your mask slip. Since he plucked at threads keeping it upright. But he shakes back into cognisance when you pull away, cutting through space and time, and filling the gaps once more with the heavy weight of your presence. 

“You’ll be fine,” you say over your shoulder, reaching for your clipboard. “A little rest is all you need, captain.”

There’s an insurmountable number of things he can say, but you press on his throat, and he swallows them down, nodding at your back instead. 

The cloven strands fall around him, broken with distance. There’s an urge in his bones to sew back into his skin, to press them like drying flowers into the folds of his heart where they’ll say, nurtured on his blood and suffused into his being. He rests his laurels on it for a moment, feels the weight of his want, his desire, and compares it to the fraying wisps dragging along the linoleum. 

But he doesn’t reach for them. 

He is wing clipped and flightless. You hold the only feather that gives him lift between the monoliths of your teeth. 

A fine place to keep it, he thinks and turns around, ready to leave on unsteady feet, but—

"Seven," you say, firm and sure. No nonsense. But when he turns, he catches the pallor of your knuckles gripped tight around the clipboard. You hold it to your chest like a shield. The vipers in your eyes quiet their hissing, tongues lashing out to scent the air. "There's this place in Manchester that makes the best Beef Suya."

You're not asking him. 

(But you don't really have to, do you?)

His lips pull up. He catches the drifting threads in his bare palm. "Manchester, mm?"

"I hope you like a little bit of spice."

"I can handle the heat." 

You swallow thickly, and he thinks the action on anyone else might be easily mistaken for nerves, but the livewire that pulls taut between you thrums with a heavy sense of anticipation. 

"I hope so, John," he startles at the mention of his name. It makes your lips curl back, and he shouldn't find it so mesmerising when can't tell if it's a smile or a sneer. "Otherwise I'd be quite disappointed." 

His chin dips to his chest. It renders his voice to little more than smoke and ash, but you shudder from across the room at the growl. 

"Wouldn't want that, now, would we?" 

It isn't breathless when you speak, but he licks his lips and tastes the pulsing excitement that sparks in the air. It curls in his lungs. Saltwater on burning coals. 

"Don't be late." 

It's a promise, he thinks; a warning, too. A threat. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."

He turns away from you, shielding the growing smile from your searching gaze, but your voice stops him short at the door, fingers curled around the frame.

“And Price?”

“Yes, love?” He calls, featherlight in a way he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen and free. Ready to soar, to fly.

"You know," you say, brows knotting together. Despite the severity of your expression, there's a note of playfulness between your teeth. "If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked." 

After dinner, they fucked so nasty that Qadesh could be heard gagging across the aether.

[prettyblondguys]

Eye Contact

Here have this Eddie comforting/being nice to reader fic i definitely didn't write bc I was feeling bad about my anxiety '_' Eddie is a very nice weirdo in this and I love him.

Warnings: reader has bad anxiety, mentions of an anxiety attack, minor mentions of tactile hallucinations bc those fkng suck, cussing, I think that's it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Open your eyes."

The demand throws you mentally off balance, eyes shooting open to stare at the teacher standing in front of you, the sentence you were in the middle of dying on your lips.

"What?" You smile nervously, feeling the looks from the other students sitting around you.

Mrs. Silmore, the history teacher, looked less than pleased by your question, her hands resting on her hips as she stares you down.

"You keep closing your eyes when you talk, and avoiding eye contact. It's very rude."

You hadn't noticed you were doing that, but the flood of embarrassment washes over you like a cold front, palms suddenly sweaty and mouth dry. You believe her, you knew you struggled with eye contact because of your anxiety, but you didn't know it was that bad, and certainly not that noticeable. And you didn't know you closed your eyes, but now that's all you can think about as you try to say something.

You had been answering a question about the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, feeling somewhat proud for making yourself raise your hand, something you were now regretting.

"Oh, oh um, I'm sorry.." You stutter out, feeling the heat flush to your cheeks as a few kids snicker, your mind going blank, "I was saying that...that uh..if he hadn't, hadn't been..there…" The snickers get louder, or maybe they don't, maybe they're just echoing through your head, bouncing around and ricocheting off the thoughts of "you're a freak" "who closes their eyes while talking?" "You're not normal" "you're not normal you're not normal you're not normal"

"Sorry," you mumble, voice pathetically small, willing yourself to keep eye contact, "I lost my train of thought."

"Hm," Mrs. Silmore walks back to the blackboard, finally looking away, "anyone else?"

Your eyes drop to your desk and stay there for the rest of class, trying to ignore the anxiety induced itch creeping along your arms. Freak. You just can't be normal, can you? The bell signals the end of your quiet suffering, and you stand to hurry out of the room, apologizing when you accidentally bump into someone in your haste, speeding out of the room before they even reply. Out in the hall you side step and avoid the barreling masses as you try to make your way to the bathroom, a ball forming and growing in your chest, crawling up your throat and making it hard to breathe. You burst through the bathroom door and grab hold of a sink, taking deep shuddering breaths as your fingers grip the basin, eyes squeezed shut. In, 1 2 3 4, hold, 1 2 3 4, out, 1 2 3 4 5 6. Repeat. The feeling shrinks and crawls back into your chest, nestled against your breastbone where it normally resides, smaller but never gone. Always there.

A group of girls walk in and shoot you glances, you recognize one of them, Nancy, you think, as she eyes you quizzically. "Hey, are you okay?" Freak. Freak. Freak. Your hands begin to shake as you turn the water on, "Yeah, I'm good." You manage, running your hands under the stream before turning it off, grabbing a few paper towels and brushing past her out into the hall, halfway to your next class when you realize you're still holding the paper towels. Why can't you be normal?

~~~~~~~~~~~

You finally reach free period and it couldn't have come sooner. You'd been stuck in your head ever since history class, well, more stuck than usual. Flytrap level stuck instead of scotch tape stuck. You sit on the bottom bleacher, staring out at the empty football field, mind swarming despite the fresh air and fair weather.

It hadn't even been the first time someone pointed out your social issues, just the most public. You couldn't count the number of times your parents had reprimanded you for not looking at them when speaking, or moving away when they went to touch you during a bad anxiety episode. They didn't understand that none of it was an insult to them, that you wished you could act like everyone else, laughing and talking and not having to worry if you were doing what a normal person would do, wondering if you were sitting like a normal person, talking like a normal person, existing like a normal person. They had no idea what it was like in your head, and boy oh boy, they sure didn't want to either.

Freak. Freak. Sitting here by yourself staring at nothing like a freak.

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!" The shout comes from a few feet away, from a guy standing on the bleacher seats and walking towards you, arms waving towards the empty field. He plops down beside you with a huff, "Can you believe he fumbled the ball like that?" He shakes his head harshly, shaggy hair whipping around as he sighs dramatically, eyes moving across the field as if watching a game. You remember him from the cafeteria a few times, always loud and energetic, not seeming to care who looked his way or what they thought of him. You had wondered many times how he could be so comfortable drawing that much attention to himself. But then again, dressed the way he was, in ripped black jeans and a leather jacket, chains and a shirt that fits him like that, he had to be more than ok with the looks he must get.

"Yeah," you mumble, wondering if he's crazy or just bored, "what a disgrace to the team." He lets out a snort before adding, "Oh, to the very game itself!" You laugh, deciding he must just be bored. You both sit there quietly, staring out at the field and not saying anything. Which is fine. Sometimes people do this. They just sit. This is normal. You aren't being weird. You aren't being weird. You're being weird. He's probably waiting for you to talk, he spoke last and now it's your turn. But it's been too long since the silence started, won't you look even weirder for a delayed comment as opposed to an absent one?

"Oh look, a streaker." He calmly breaks the silence for you, and you can't help the laugh that bubbles up, sharp and loud, your hand flying up to cover your mouth in embarrassment. "Come on," he continues, apparently spurred on by your outburst, "don't laugh at the poor guy, his bits don't look that weird." You laugh again, this time not bothering to suppress it. "You're right," you say, playing along, "I don't wanna give him a complex." He laughs, a deep, full laugh.

"Hey, don't worry about it, by the way," he says after a minute, eyes still fixed on the field. Confused, you rack your brain for what he could mean. "Huh?" He leans forward like he's suddenly enthralled by the imaginary game, then disappointedly slumping down. He's really invested in this bit, isn't he? "You skedaddled outta there before I could tell you." He explains, as if that explained anything. You slowly shake your head, more confused than ever. "Sorry?"

"COME ON COME ONE COME ON COME O- OHH, DAMNIT." He's suddenly standing up, screaming at the field. Nope. Not bored, crazy.

"History class," Oh. Was he there? Did he see? Of course he did if he was there. Was he snickering? The thoughts start flooding back. "You bumped into me," he clarifies, sitting back down. "You left before I could tell you not to worry about it."

"Oh."

"Not that I blame you," he adds, leaning back on his elbows, "Mrs. Silmore is a total soul-crusher."

"Yeah, I guess." Freak. Freak. Freak. He saw you. He thinks you're a freak. He's just trying to be nice because he feels bad for you.

"Yup. Eye contact is overrated." You chuckle at his words, feeling that ball of anxiety staying firmly snug in your chest, sated for the time being. "I'm just.." You start, choosing your words carefully, "not good at it, when..talking to people." He nods like it's the most normal thing, like I'm normal.

"Well, I won't look at you if you don't look at me."

You smile, yeah, definitely crazy. "Deal."

A few minutes pass in silence, although it's a comfortable silence this time, interrupted by Eddie letting out a long sigh.

"Would you look at that score? 0 to 0. What a terrible fake football game." 

[th3sp4rr0w]

Day Five

A03 Link <- Starts at Chapter/Day One for those just joining us :))

Prompts For Day Five Hostage/Kidnapping/Held at Gunpoint

Alt. Prompt For Day Five; Blackmail

Prompts Used For Day Five; All

Tw; Kidnapping, Guns, Injury, Blood, Violence

Chapter under the cut!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

“Hello, little birdie,” Joker sneered, aiming his pistol at Robin.

Without thinking, he tugged Sheila behind him. “Joker,” he greeted neutrally, and he was proud of himself when it came out even.

He began laughing. Robin fought the urge to cover his ears as everything seeped in.

Batman didn’t know he was doing this. If he reached for his emergency button right now, on the inseam of his boot, Joker would kill him. If he reached for his com unit, Joker would kill him. Batman was on a stake out and wouldn’t check in with him for at least another hour, more likely longer than that. He’d never faced the Joker by himself before.

He’d always dreamed of it, back when he was watching kids who were around his age then disappear from the streets when Joker was out and never coming home. After he became Robin he imagined the day Batman let him do it solo, when he could truly stand up to the clown and do something cool, like kick his face so hard his jaw snapped. Instead, he listened to the manic laughter, staring down the barrel of the gun, trying to protect Sheila who was-

Who had pulled out a gun.

“No!” he yelled. “He’s not worth shooting! Get behind me, I can-”

“Do nothing,” Joker interrupted. “Oh, poor birdie. You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” The voice dripped with condescension and malice.

“Know what?” Jason Robin asked, a sinking feeling overwhelming him. He knew.

As Joker smiled and Sheila refused to look him in the eye, he knew. As Joker opened his grotesque maw to seal his fate, the red flags had sewn themselves together to paint the picture he had refused to acknowledge until it was too late. It was just confirmation of something he’d already known, deep down, nearly the minute he and Sheila had begun emailing.

“Oh, you stupid, stupid bird. She called me here.” He laughed.

She didn’t love him. She didn’t care about him. She knew what happened to his twin. She had been working with the Joker. She ran from Gotham because she was targeting poor families with sick kids for sick experiments and got caught.

He was an idiot. He should’ve asked Bruce what was going on. He should’ve told Dick, or Alfred, or somebody other than his little baby bird about what was going on.

He knew he should’ve stuttered out something like, “No! She’d never do that!” but at this point it’d be more of a formality than anything he actually believed. He could’ve asked something like, “How could you?!” but that also felt like more of a performance.

He looked over his shoulder, trying to catch her gaze. She pointedly looked anywhere but at him. He only had one question.

“What really happened to my brothers?”

The Joker looked at him and grated on his ears once more. “Now, little birdie, why would I-“

“Not you!” Jason ROBIN snapped out. He fully turned around to face her. “She knows. You know!” he yelled. She finally looked at him, bored. “You know what happened, don’t you?! What happened to them?!”

The silence was suffocating. His dwindling hope wished she would show some remorse. Maybe cry. Apologize. He had hoped she would show some reaction, begging for it whether it be genuine and apologetic, pleading him for his forgiveness, or something else entirely. He had almost expected her to turn with a sadistic grin, all teeth and bitter emotions. Spout something about how she couldn’t possibly deal with them. He already shouldn’t love her, just based on this alone; he craved a reason he couldn’t . Hurting him wasn’t enough. He hated himself for it, but he almost hoped she did something to them.

She smoothed her face into a blank expression, looking at him like he was just another kid asking stupid questions. That was almost worse than anything he could’ve come up with on his own. The Joker’s insipid noises grated his ears as he nodded towards her. She spoke.

“Dan choked. Willis was watching him and he let our little boy die. Danny, well... I couldn’t take him with me like I’d planned. A friend had a sickly baby boy born a few days before you two. I was babysitting one day so they could go to an event. He passed away in his cot that night and, well, they looked enough alike. They even shared a name. The only other one in the house was the sister, and she was in bed. It was easy.”

The sickening realization hit him with that maddening cackle ringing out in his ears. It sounded like a bad sitcom that relied on laugh tracks to try and convince you it was entertaining.

Joker said something. He could tell from the way the man’s mouth moved, but all he could hear was the manufactured laughter coming out like rotted peels. Sheila looked like she might actually feel something, anything, but it quickly smoothed over into a carefully blank expression.

“Why would you do this to us?” his voice was soft.

“I had no choice. Your brothers were out of my control, and you, well... if you ran off to Batman, you’d find I’ve been taking a big cut out of the cash myself. Couldn’t have you ruining that for me, could I?”

He was such an idiot . He knew not to trust her! Alfred was going to be so disappointed…

One of Joker’s white vans peeled into the parking lot and stopped abruptly near them. Joker looked at him for a moment and, before he knew it, the Joker’s arm was moving. He heard the shot ring loud in his ears, and suddenly he was on the ground. He heard someone screaming in pain with manic laughter in the background.

“There, now my little birdie can’t fly away,” he heard a giggle, then- “Where do ya think you’re goin’, blondie?”

Sheila turned around from where she’d been walking away. She kept cool despite the gun that was now trained on her instead of the little boy she’d lured here. “Home. I want to watch my shows and go to bed.”

Joker’s smile widened. “You’re comin’ with us. Our payment still isn’t in, though I like the little gift you’ve given us in the meantime.”

He kicked Jason in the knee he’d just shot. Jason’s hand went to his belt. If he could just...

“Don’t think so, bucko,” the man who’d been driving said as he grabbed Ja... Robin’s wrist.

He looked up to see three pairs of eyes trained on him. So much for that plan.

“Tie him up,” Joker said eventually. “We’ll take him to the fun house, yeah?”

He gestured to Sheila, motioning her into the van. “Come on, doll, you too,” he added, looking her up and down.

The goon ripped Robin’s gloves off his hands and tied his wrists behind his back in tight knots. As it happened, he did his best to remember the training Batman had given him, flexing his muscles as best as he could to make them loose when he relaxed them. Even relaxed, they cut into his wrists.

The goon roughly grabbed his hair, turning his head from side to side. He ripped the com unit from his ear roughly, causing him to bite his tongue to hold back a swear. He didn’t want to give these people the satisfaction.

The man picked Robin up by his hair and threw him into the back of the van. His knee hit against the metal of the floor, causing him to hiss. He felt a gentle hand against his cheek.

“Jason-”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Jason, please-”

“Shut up, Sheila.”

“I am your mother-”

“You’re not shit to me,” he spat, finally looking at her face. “You didn’t do shit for me. You didn’t do shit for my brothers-”

“I did everything I could-”

“ I told you to shut the fuck up ,” he hissed. “You didn’t do shit for me, you weren’t there. You sold me out to the fucking Joker.” His voice didn’t shake, and he was proud of that as he regarded her with the same frigidness she’d adopted. “And it’s Robin in uniform. If we want to survive this, it’s Robin.”

“We’re not going to die, Jason,” Sheila denied.

“He’s going to try to kill me. It’s his ultimate fantasy to break the Bat enough to kill, and he thinks killing me would do the trick,” Robin stated. “And you’ve already crossed someone once. He won’t trust you not to do it again. Either shut the fuck up or call me Robin, because you’re fucking stupid if you think he won’t kill you, too.”

“If that was true, why didn’t he just shoot you?”

Robin grimaced. “It’d be too easy. He wants to play his game first. We’re like toys to him; he’ll play with us until we break, then he’ll cast us aside.”

The ride was silent after that.

He thought about the emergency button in his boot. He didn’t trust Sheila to try to press it, not after this stunt, so he tried to shimmy his boot off and into his hand. Unfortunately, Bruce had designed the damn thing too well. It hadn’t even budged, and the button was bump-proof after one too many awkward conversations with Dick. Robin cursed under his breath.

He tried to do something, anything, as he lay there on the floor. This was bad. This was so, so bad. He tried to think of something, quick, but nothing came to mind as the van sped through the streets.

When they got to the warehouse, Robin decided his tactic.

The van doors opened and Robin glared at his captors. He knew they couldn’t see from behind his back, but the gesture he made was like a calming balm on his soul. He could see Sheila stand to her feet the best she could out of the corner of his eye.

“Now, now, look what we have here,” Joker said as he giggled. Robin hated fighting this guy for that reason the most, he thinks. He’s never letting Nightwing watch his shit sitcoms ever again.

“What we got, boss?” the goon asked besides him.

Joker fell back. Jason watched as he raised the gun to his head and hooked Sheila’s foot with his own, pulling her leg out from under her. She lost balance and fell just as the shot rang out. The bullet went through the man’s skull, whizzed through where Sheila’s head would’ve been if Robin hadn’t pulled her down and shattered the windshield behind them. Blood and brain matter spattered them both. The body hung in the air like that for just a few moments before falling, slamming against the door of the van and sliding down in a heap of limbs.

“A red robin!” he giggled.

Robin took a breath, doing his best not to show a reaction. His ears rung.

“Oh come on, nothing? That was some of my best material,” he huffed. He grabbed Robin’s shoulder, dragging him out of the van and towards a warehouse. “Blondie! In front of me!”

Sheila walked briskly ahead of them. Her face was stoic.

Fucking bitch.

He limped to the warehouse as Joker stood behind him with the gun to his back.

He knew if he tried to fight, he’d only get Sheila killed. Even if she hadn’t spotted the danger yet, he knew Joker was like a viper, just waiting for the right moment to strike. As loathe as he was to say it, he couldn’t leave her behind. His best bet was to wait for the Bat.

It was unlikely, but he hoped the com unit had busted when the goon had thrown it, sending an automatic emergency signal to the Bat. That would likely cause him to investigate and find his gloves or tire marks or something-

“Faster, birdie,” the clown shoved him forwards a little, “Unless you wanna end up like our friend back there.”

Batman would’ve been able to save the guy. Batman wouldn’t have gotten captured. He wished Batman was here right now.

Jason did as he was told, walking faster. It felt like a death march. No, Batman was coming; Robin just has to stay strong for a while longer. If he had full use of his leg, he might be able to take care of it himself. Nightwing might be the better acrobatic, but he’d still been trained by all of the bats before him.

He put too much weight on his knee and nearly crumpled. He could hear Joker’s manic voice behind him, mocking him.

Staying strong to wait for rescue meant that he had more time than usual to take in his surroundings. Other than the Joker and Sheila, they were alone. Joker raised the pistol he carried above his head. He bore the butt of the gun down against his skull, kicking his injured knee as he fell to the floor. Robin fought not to cry out.

There were crates lining the warehouse. There were several different prototypes for only god knows what, and he could smell gas from somewhere. He hoped he was wrong, but he could’ve sworn he saw wires coming out of the back wall earlier. There was a row of blunt objects in front of them. Joker walked up to them and grabbed the crowbar from the lineup.

Sheila went over to the stack of crates and sat down.

Joker raised an arm, yammering some nonsense about how he was a naughty bird and needed to be punished. He swung, hitting Jason in the cheekbone first. He heard the crack.

He focused his energy on not crying out. This was the best way to prolong Joker’s torture and save them.

He looked over at Sheila to try and distract himself. She calmly reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette and matchbox. The Joker kept swinging. She put the cigarette between her lips. Joker was laughing as he brought the weapon down again. She lit the match, bringing it up to her mouth.

“Come on, Birdie,” he taunted, “What would the big ol’ Bat say?”

He swung harder. She took a drag, watching the smoke billow from her mouth and up in the air. She hadn’t once looked away.

Each hit felt like, well, getting smacked with a crowbar. He heard snaps. The Joker had aimed at his leg at one point, and Robin prayed he hadn’t broken the emergency button so Batman could track it.

He thought about all the red flags he’d ignored. All the times he’d almost told Bruce what was going on and didn’t. He wished he’d told Alfred he loved him more often. He wished he had said a more heartfelt “goodbye” to Dick before he left for his mission instead of saying he'd be glad to have the manor to himself the next few weekends. He wished he took his phone to text his little baby bird.

He wished he’d told Bruce he loved the little zebra plush he’d given him instead of just nodding-

The crowbar hit his stomach and that was it. He’d stayed strong as long as he could.

“Papa!” he cried out.

The Joker paused. “Oh, well, well, well, well, welllll,” he started, dragging out his last word, “What’s this about, bird brains? Missing Daddy, are we?”

Jason whimpered.

“Do it again,” the voice was cruel, all malice and hatred. He brought the crowbar down hard on Jason’s head.

“Papa,” he sobbed. “Help, please, help me...”

The Joker laughed again before bringing it down once more.

Jason cried out louder.

“Awe, you seein’ this, Blondie?” he asked, grin on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her nod. Jason chokes on his sob as the guilt from the last couple weeks boiled over.

He crouched down next to Jason, “D’awww, don’t worry, birdie, we’re not done playin’,” he mocked. He could see his own blood on the man’s face.

His wrists burned from the rope. The lens from his left eye was missing and the right was completely shattered and fragmented. The hearing in his left ear was weird and he couldn’t discern if that was because the goon from earlier had ripped his com out or if it was because Joker had hit him there. There was blood everywhere.

“Care for a smoke?” he heard Sheila offer.

Joker turned to her with disgust, “Those things’ll kill ya,” he said, then cackled.

He left them to debate while he arched his back as far as it would go. At this point, he just wanted to get out himself. If he could protect Sheila, great, if not, well... he could pretend to be fine with it, he thought.

His finger just barely caught the edge of the pocket on his belt. He could feel the blood that had pooled there, refusing to sink into the nearly soak-proof fabric. He opened it silently and brushed his fingertips to the contents. Band aids. He tried again on the other side. Lollipops. He went for the next closest pocket, staring at the Joker and Sheila as they chatted away like they were anywhere but here. He grabbed the side of it and pulled up, barely managing to unlatch the snap.

The wing ding. Why Batman let the 9 yr old pick the name for every one of his contraptions, he’ll never understand, but in this moment he’s so glad that the old man had a lapse in judgment so big as to let him carry around what were essentially projectable razor blades. He slid one out carefully and started working at the ropes. Sheila made eye contact with him for just a second.

He froze. He waited to see if she’d rat him out, but she continued her sentence without falter, looking back at the clown.

He didn’t stop to contemplate why she’d done that. He continued to cut through the thick rope.

He finally got through the ropes, sparing a glance back at the duo. He knew he couldn’t run away like this, but he could probably stall for a little more time.

The first thing he did was check the inseam of his boot. The emergency button was intact. He pressed it. Even if the com had broken, it wouldn’t hurt to press the button. Maybe Bruce would understand the need for more urgency and get here faster.

With shaking hands, he grasped the wing ding. It was a miracle he didn’t cut himself on it by accident with the amount of blood soaking its surface.

He threw it at the Joker.

The projectile hit the man’s cheek, causing a deep cut. The man cursed, cupping his cheek and spun around. There was nothing human about his expression.

“Oh, you little... Fine, you want Uncle Joker to play with you?” he muttered darkly.

He grabbed a handful of bloody hair, dragging the boy upwards to meet his face.

He could smell his rancid breath and an undercurrent of something acidic. “Let’s play!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

After his frankly insane nightmare, Danny was feeling drained.

He slept again that night, for one, and almost didn’t bother getting up when his ghost sense went off. He did, of course, and helped the Red Huntress kick some ghostly butt.

Tucker and Sam, however, had noticed and were confronting him.

The Black Dahlia

You know why we’re doing this, right?

Ghost Boy Because you hate me?

The Pharaoh

No dude, we’re concerned.

Ghost Boy Well stop? What if there’s a ghost during the day? Red’s only active at night

The Black Dahlia

We’ll text her??

Ghost Boy … Sam We’re not supposed to know

The Black Dahlia

You dated her, remember?

We’re friends now

The Pharaoh

You’re friends?

The Black Dahlia

Shut up

Tell you what ghostie

Ghost Boy What Also dont call me that

The Black Dahlia

Take a break for the day, just 24 hours

OR

We tell Jazz you were lying about getting hurt and got dunked in cursed kool-aid

Your choice

Ghost Boy You wouldnt dare

The Pharaoh

Already have screen shots of everything ready to send

Ghost Boy … I hate you both

The Black Dahlia

Love you too!!

The Pharaoh

Care about you, man

So, yeah, he was pretty much screwed. He sighed, stirring some of the shredded cheese they’d managed to salvage into his microwave mac n’ cheese cup. Once upon a time, he’d have cut up hotdogs in this, but after one too many times of a certain food group trying to eat you back, you tend not to eat it anymore.

He supposed he had to act like a normal human being today.

His ghost sense bubbled in his chest. He didn’t turn his head in time and the breath from his lungs froze the food in his hand. Danny mourned for a moment before cutting his losses, tossing it in the trash and updating his friends.

Ghost Boy My sense just went off

The Black Dahlia

Contacting Red

Ghost Boy Be a lot easier if I dealt with it myself

The Pharaoh

Stfu

Corner of Maple and Elm

The Black Dahlia

K

Ghost Boy Thought you were hacking the GIW, not the citys cams??

The Pharaoh

I did both <3

Ghost Boy Omfg

He smiled slightly as he texted his friends. Even if they were annoying sometimes, he knew they had his best interest at heart... most of the time.

He knew they were probably going to be busy the rest of the day, Tucker (apparently) looking at the city’s cameras to make sure nothing was going wrong and Sam had to leave soon to get a dress fitted for a gala her parents were dragging her to. Something about how Bruce Wayne adopted another kid that he was apparently super protective of? Hadn’t even hosted a gala for him yet? Though that was mostly because every time they tried, a supervillain trashed the place the night before. It was freaky. Sam was certain the same was to be said about this one, but her parents were insistent.

Speaking of parents...

Shouts and clangs could be heard from the basement. He could hear something heavy being dropped onto the floor. There was nearly no possible way for him to make it past them without getting caught. He... might be able to convince Jazz to let him go to the library with her for her study group.

He’d gotten the rest of his work done last night, prepped and in his bag for Monday. That sounded like a normal teen activity to do. He could see if they had any more Jane Austen there since he’d finished Jazz’s copies already.

He ran up the stairs to find Jazz packing her bag and on call with one of her tutoring students.

“Yes, we had geography homework.... Yes, I know that’s a weak area.... Mhm.... Hang- hey, hang on a sec, my little brother’s staring at me,” Jazz pulled the receiver away from her mouth, “What?”

“Can I go with you?

Jazz kept her eyes on him and pulled the phone back up. “Would you be alright if my brother crashes our session?... Perfect. Danny, go get ready,” she shoo’d him out, “Bring your stuff, I’ll look over your homework for you!” she called as he booked it out of her room.

He went into his room, picking up his bag. He grabbed his phone charger (he had no idea how long they’d be there, sue him), and double checked to make sure he had a pen.

He went down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen to fill the water bottle Sam had given him for... ugh, Christmas. He only used it because she was nice and got him something. That, and it had little ghosts on it and said “Boo, Witch”. He loved it.

He didn’t care what kind of truce there was, he hated Christmas.

He decided to wait for Jazz in the car.

It was... weird. Just going to the library like a regular teenager would. Good weird, though.

He opened the door, sliding into the front seat. He texted Jazz, telling her he was already in the car. She sent him a thumbs up.

He crossed his legs on the seat before putting on his seatbelt. Jazz hated it when he did this, but it was comfortable. He scrolled on his phone, unsure of what else to do.

He smiled to himself. He was going to the library . He was going to the library, he was going to go over his homework with his big sister, and then he was going to check out a book. He was... excited. Maybe he had taken it for granted so often he hadn’t known what he missed, or maybe he was too busy to notice it before, but he missed this feeling.

Jazz slid into the driver’s seat, scolded him for the way he was sitting, and began driving.

It was a surprisingly peaceful drive. The ghost attack was on the other side of town, so they completely avoided all the action.

It was surreal. He still couldn’t believe it was happening. They got to the library without incident.

They walked through the doors where Jazz lead Danny to a study room, where the kid she was tutoring was already waiting.

“Hey, Jazz, hey lil’ dude,” he greeted with a lazy wave.

“Hey, Kip,” Jazz greeted.

“Hi,” Danny said, waving back. “I’m Danny,” he said, extending his hand.

Kip smiled easily and took his hand, “I’m Kip. Heard you were crashing today, what’s up? Your friends busy or something?”

“I got grounded for punching someone’s tooth out,” he said cheerily. Kip laughed as Jazz flushed.

“Daniel James!” she scolded and turned to the other boy. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s-”

“He’s cool,” he amended, “I heard about it is all. That one kid was friends with my little sister, she needed something to wake her up to how shit her friends are.”

“Who’s your sister?” Danny asked.

“Star Franks, why? You know her?”

Danny shuddered. “Yeah, I do. She faked dating my friend awhile back,” he started.

“Oh, god,” he muttered, “She does that a lot. She was dating this girl and the other kids in her shitty group decided that homophobia was cool I guess? And they told them they could stay together, but only if they got fake boyfriends. Apparently there’s a gay kid on the football team as well? Kwan or something? That she fake dated for awhile,” he went on.

“Okay, guys, let’s get work done first, then we can gossip,” Jazz jumped in. “Though, we should really talk about that later,” she said.

“Oh I plan to,” Kip laughed. “So, what you got, lil’ man?”

Danny grabbed all the papers he had in his bag, handing them to Jazz. “I’ve got my work done, I kind of only tagged along to check out the books they have here,” he admitted.

“That’s cool,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get Star here since they have a surprisingly killer LGBTQ section, but she said it wouldn’t be good for her ‘socials’...? Whatever that means?”

“Knowing what I know about Dash and Kwan, I’m surprised a single one of them can read, honestly,” Danny said seriously.

Kip covered his mouth with his hand as he wheezed.

“Be nice. Alright, it looks like you’re good here,” Jazz mumbled, “Did you have any questions? Did you struggle at all with the math?”

Danny shook his head, “Not really. I did pretty good with it, and it wasn’t too hard. Can I go now?”

Jazz sighed. “Fine. Don’t destroy the place, and text me if you don’t remember what room we’re in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he turned to Kip, “It was nice meeting you!”

“Nice meeting you too, lil’ man!” he said. “You should come over for more sessions, you’re a riot!”

“That’s exactly why he doesn’t come to my tutoring sessions,” Jazz teased.

Danny snorted, closing the door as he left.

He wandered around for a while before finding the classics section. He ran his finger against the spines of the books, finding what he was looking for rather quickly.

He picked up copies of Sense and Sensibility and Emma before heading to the check-out.

He greeted the woman behind the desk, who looked at him for a moment. “Hi, sweetheart, what can I do for you today?” she asked, not unkindly.

“I just want to check these out, please,” he said politely.

“Alright, can I get a name?”

“Daniel Fenton,” he said immediately. She looked at him.

“Fenton?” she echoed.

“I know,” he said immediately, “I promise I will be keeping these in my bag unless I’m reading them. They will not get within 10 feet of my parents,” he promised, remembering the fallen library books through the years that Jazz tried to bring in. It truly was amazing how many small fires his father started every week.

She laughed, “No, hon, that’s not what I meant. I used to help babysit you and Jazz when you were babies,” she said. “You just... wow, you reminded me of a friend we had years ago for a second. You look just like her.”

Danny cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”

She shook her head lightly, “Don’t worry about it, dear. Let me see those a sec?”

Danny handed them over for her to scan.

“All right, there you go, sweetie. Wow, Austen isn’t something I see a lot of kids your age checking out,” she commented.

Danny huffed, only slightly dramatic. “I was grounded recently, Jazz had a copy of Pride and Prejudice , and I was bored. I picked it up and now-”

“You can’t stop reading?” she guessed.

“I can’t stop reading!” he said, slightly exasperated. She laughed at him.

“Well, we’re always here if you want to read more,” she promised, “And there are always free bookmarks on the table over there if you’re interested,” she added, pointing to the aforementioned table.

“All right, thank you, miss,” he replied politely. “I’d better go before Jazz thinks I’m burning the place down or something.”

She hummed in amusement, “Wouldn’t want that. You have a nice day and tell your parents I said hi!”

“Will do, have a nice day!” he called over his shoulder.

He decided not to go back up to the study room, afraid of distracting Jazz and Kip. Instead, he wandered around until he found a cozy little spot hidden away from the rest. It was labeled “The Quiet Room” and had a quaint little set up.

He sat in a rocking chair, bringing his legs up onto it to sit crisscross apple-sauce style. He moved his torso gently back and forth to subtly rock the chair as he opened Emma first.

“Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich...”

He was immediately just as invested as he had been with Pride and Prejudice . He felt he could read for hours.

Ooo, he knew this was going to be good. The audacity of this woman! She’d never worked a day in her life and yet here she was, thinking she can just meddle in other’s affairs? He could see the heads rolling now.

Emma may be an adult, but she acted like a spoiled child.

He kept reading, making little noises as he did so whenever things got good. The peace of the room made it easy to breeze through the words and hang on to every one of them, watching as Emma made a fool of herself. It was highly entertaining.

He grimaced at some parts. Emma really didn’t have self-awareness, did she? For one who makes such bold claims as she did, she truly had no emotional maturity. Emotionally secure people don’t go around meddling in other’s business-

He needs to stop hanging around Jazz.

He yawned, his mouth dry. He decided it was probably around time he went back to Jazz in person, anyways.

He got up and out of the comfortable chair, making his way towards the exit. He walked around for a bit before spotting the white rooms, looking through the little windows of each before spotting where Jazz sat with Kip. He turned the knob.

“Hey, lil’ man!” Kip greeted as they turned towards him. “You find what you were lookin’ for?”

“Yeah!” he said and held up his prizes.

“Austen, huh?” he commented. “Isn’t that the same chick that wrote that one book Mrs. Dean is always on about?”

“ Pride and Prejudice , yeah,” Jazz said. “He borrowed my copy last week and breezed right through it. Said it was like gossiping with a friend,” she said fondly.

Kip lit up with realization. “Oh my god, you’re right! Maybe I should read the book.”

“You haven’t read it yet?” Jazz asked, confused.

“Nope, read the first couple pages and thought it was boring. But viewing it as gossiping...”

“Do I want to know how you wrote your essay? Don’t answer that,” Jazz muttered. “If you want, I have a personal copy, or I’m sure Danny can show you where he got his books from.”

“Right on,” Kip said easily. His phone chimed a moment later. “Oh, shoot, okay I gotta go,” he said.

“Already? We still have 20 minutes!” Jazz exclaimed.

Kip looked at her, guilty, “I know, but Maria’s bringing the baby to the hospital. She spiked a fever last night and it reached 103 a few minutes ago. Maria’s picking me up so we can go together,” he said.

“What if you guys clean up here and meet me in the lobby? I can go grab a copy of the book,” he offered.

Kip looked at Danny, touched, “You’d do that, dude? Thank you so much,” he said sincerely.

“No problem, man,” he said, grabbing his bag and water bottle so Jazz wouldn’t have to, “Good luck with your kid. This must be really scary,” he said.

“It is. She was a huge change, and we didn’t do everything we were supposed to,” he admitted. “We’re just trying to do right by her now.”

“That’s all you can do, Kip. Learn from your past and make better choices for your future,” Jazz said as she grabbed papers. “Okay, so this is due...”

Danny left, running slightly to the classics section. He found it easily, scanning the shelves for the book. He spotted it, scooped it up and turned to leave when-

“Fenton?” he heard a soft voice ask.

“Uh, hey, Star,” he said awkwardly.

“Hey. Didn’t know you were into... classics,” she said lamely.

They looked at each other a few more moments.

“Yeah,” he replied awkwardly. “Well, I gotta run, so-”

“Do you know where my brother is,” she asked, in a rush.

“Um, he’s supposed to be meeting me in the lobby, actually-”

“Okay. Okay, I... he wanted to show me something. I guess. And I was rude but-”

“Star, I really gotta run,” he said, “Kip has an emergency and he asked me to grab this for him.”

“Oh,” she said.

He felt bad for her. “If you follow me, I can show you a cool room I found and we can wander around together if you want.”

Star smiled, “That sounds nice, actually.”

“Cool.”

Danny started walking, Star following close behind. They made it to the lobby as Jazz and Kip were bounding down the stairs.

“I found it!” Danny called over to them.

“Sweet. Thanks again, lil’... Star? What are you doin’ here?”

“I, uh, well...” she stammered.

“She wanted to apologize for earlier,” Danny jumped in. “She mentioned you had something to show her earlier, and I told her you had an emergency,” he handed the book to Kip for him to check out. “I also offered to show her around, help her pick out a book and show her the room I found earlier,” he added.

Kip smiled at them. “Thank you,” he said softly.

He checked out the book as a car pulled up in the parking lot. He ran out, waving goodbye.

“So,” Jazz started, “You want me to stick around, or pick you up later?”

Danny turned to Star, “You mind if she joins in? She has more recommendations than I do,” he admitted.

Star giggled for a second. “Sure, I don’t mind.”

Danny smiled to himself for a moment. He let Jazz lead them through the library, pointing out certain books to them. He occasionally made his own comments, about how the movie was good or that he heard good things about that one.

Jazz ended up with Tom Sawyer , Star with Red, White, and Royal Blue . They sat in the quiet room as they read, Danny in the chair, Star on the couch and Jazz at the desk.

Turns out, being a normal teen for the day was the best idea his friends ever had.

He was never going to tell them that, though.

Although...

He was going to have to tag along with Jazz more often. He may not be able to do whole days like this, but maybe he could spare a few hours every weekend. This was too nice not to do that.

He’d had too much fun today.

[howl-fantasies]

A/N - Oh dear, oh lord. That one is so sweet your eyes will get cavities. Be ready for fluff. Like BIG assassin's fluff. I'll continue to make Zsasz and Y/N roasting each other alive don't worry.

But we're all human here and need a break sometimes. So, I wanted to give Victor and Y/N a fictional cookie, and a sweet overdose.

Domesticity

One woman lazily slumped against the chest of a man laying as lazily under her, wasn't exactly an accurate description of a deadly assassin's duo. But here she was, drifting in and out consciousness, lulled by the old black and white movie Victor and her ranted for the night.

He, on the contrary looked exactly the same as usual, eyes opened wide and focused intensely on the TV. The only cues of his relaxing state were is bare forearms, one snaking around her hips, the other around her shoulders and his right hand buried in her hair, massaging her scalp slowly.

His tallies marks glowed with the faint light produced by the television and the woman found herself tracing it pensively. She remembered the first time she saw him injuring himself with his blade "Oh wow. What's next, are you gonna skin some kitties alive now, for Satan's glory? You need professional help dude. Much more than I anticipated" She had say to him with a blank face.

His face matched her at that time, and he explained her the "keeping tracks of the people he killed" thing. She just stared at him after that and blinked. Finally saying that he was at least sure to never lose it, unlike a record book or a piece of paper.

She snorts, earning a curious glance and a raise of one of his bald eyebrows. She didn't say anything though, only tilting her head to kiss the mark and focusing again on the film.

He was still looking at her, she could feel his so unique and cryptic gaze analyzing her every features. He told her once that she was quite fascinating. Difficult to read at first, but he was a master when it came to enter one person's mind.

He now knows exactly what was going on in her beautiful head. But what still keeps him on his toes was how she was going to react. Knowing what a person thinks of a situation or feels about it is one thing. Generally, you can deduct the way they'll react. Except for her.

She may laugh and be sassy, or she can also point the barrel of her gun on your forehead, or says nothing about it at first and make you pay ten times what you have done later. He never was 100% sure of which reaction he would get when pushing her buttons. And that's maybe why they clicked so well at the end of the day. He was kind of similar, unpredictable.

Some people would call it insanity. But she was certainly not insane, nor a fool. A bit crazy at times, like when she demolished the wall of the GCPD interrogation room with a rocket launcher, but a thoughtful craziness. So to speak.

Victor moved a bit, continuing to massage her hair and watching her like a hawk. She was intelligent, far more than people give her credit for, like Riddler once said. And he agrees. She has sharp eyes, as sharp as her silver tongue, and a very sharp mind too, which often helped her to be one or two steps ahead of her opponent. One of the reasons Nygma seemed to appreciate her in his petty way, without doubt. Same for Cobblepot. And even Gordon.

Y/N was no major rogue in the city, but if one was seeking information, contacts or even an advice, she was the right person to go to. How was she able to amass so much infos and details about Gotham and its main as well as minors actors was a mystery.

He knows practically nothing about how she became who she was now: used to be a kid from the Narrows, absorbing knowledge like a sponge and with a strong sense of survival. She made her way out of the mud, into the underworld and also succeeded to connect herself with the 'good side' of the city.

One of her wisest move, according to Don Falcone himself, as she placed herself in a sort of chaotic neutral position. Helping the police just enough to be considered a valuable asset and make them look twice before trying to send her to Black Gate if caught. Well, more Arkham than Black Gate he chuckled silently in his head. She was talented enough to play the insane card and escape the facility in a few weeks if needed.

And she wouldn't even need his help for that. One of the many reasons he was so attached - in his twisted way - to her, without doubt too. He remembered the meaning glances Falcone send them, when they started working together. The Don quickly understood that the fierce woman would become a constant in his life, like a string connecting him to the bit of humanity he may still have.

It sometimes feels like it, like tonight. When they were so domestically entangled on her sofa, not worrying about anything on surface. Other times, she feeds the dark blood thirsting beast he knew he was, assisting him in his most devious and horrible shenanigans. And sometimes, she kind of tames the beast, with a few wise words or strategic touches, sending it back to sleep until his next burst of rage. She was quite adaptable.

He finally noticed her steady breath on his chest and blinked like a lazy cat. Deep down he was still amazed by her trust in him to let her still breathing in the morning. Particularly, when she had witnessed all the atrocities his filthy hands were capable of.

That may be love. Or incredible stupidity. Now he was grinning like a wolf, knowing that if he asked her, she would probably prefer to call herself stupid than recognize the affection she has for him.

But it was ok. He didn't need to hear it. The simple fact that she doesn't try to repeatedly stab him when he gets on her nerves or that he never wants to torture her to her breaking point and add her to his tally collection were speaking volumes.

So, he decided to be incredibly stupid too and closed his eyes, joining her in her slumber. After all, a bit of domesticity never killed anyone.

[himaboroshi736]

IronDad fic recs

Here. I’m a french reader, but I’ve read A LOT (like...a lot) of IronDad, so, eventually, here my fic rec. (I tried to class it by categories, but well...) (it’s gonna be very long, guys)

 Peter Parker has anxiety 

Don’t let me get me, by hopeless_hope 

He picks up his phone and sends a quick text. "hey, happy! i’m not feeling too hot today, so i think i’m gonna have to cancel. tell mr. stark i’m sorry!"

He stares at his phone, waiting for a response. It never comes, and Peter sighs sadly. There was a part of him, a small part, that really hoped he was wrong. His insides burn, and he curls up tighter into a ball and turns off his phone.

(No one’s going to try to contact him anyway.)

or

Anxiety has a way of convincing Peter that everyone hates him. Tony has a way of proving him wrong.

Midnight Oil, by @jolinarjackson

After everything that has happened to Peter over the last year - or five, really - he shouldn’t be worried about something as mundane as the ACT. When he fails it, though it sends him into a spiral of self-doubt, which only gets worse when Peter realizes that he doesn’t seem to be able to fix whatever is broken.

Tony Stark has anxiety 

do you even remember what the world looks like ?, by @iron--spider

Tony’s heart has been working on overdrive since this whole thing started. Friday has a countdown clock plastered on the heads up display, but it feels like hieroglyphics to him at this point, like some ancient language he could never master.

Because when Peter Parker is missing, things start losing their meaning real quick.

“Should be around here,” Rhodey says on the com. May is still on the other line, listening in, because once a certain amount of time goes by without word from Peter, things move into Extremely Worried Aunt territory. They’re already in Tony Is Panicking territory, and when both of those territories overlap it’s never a good time for anybody.

Time? What the hell is time? His mind is blanking numbers out entirely. Minutes are seconds are hours are years.

not like megatron, by @iron--spider

“Hi! This is Peter Parker, I can’t get to the phone right now, so leave a message and I’ll call you back later! Hopefully not too much later, but don’t get your hopes up!”

Tony knows that message by heart. He’s heard it hundreds of times, in a greyer world, and it sends shivers down his spine as he climbs into the car.

He doesn’t think about that place. That half-world. No way, that’s done, that’s over, that’s history.

“Hey, kid, don’t you know it’s bad etiquette to go and disappear on your birthday? Not allowed, really, really bad vibes from the universe. What’s going on with your suit? I wasn’t watching. Nope. Just got an alert. What’s going on? Uh, call me back.” He clears his throat and hangs up like a moron, driving out into the street.

Hypothermia trope (i really like it so if you have any suggestions...)

i knock the ice from my bones, by hopeless_hope

Peter tries to move his legs through the water, dread filling him when they don’t move, and he just hangs there, doing anything and everything he can not to focus on the feeling of ice clinging to his bones. He feels sluggish, the world blurring around him, and he rests his head on the ice, not even registering the cold anymore.

He’s just so damn tired.

“PETER!” he hears someone yell, but it’s all muffled, and he lazily drags his eyes up to see a figure descending towards him.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thinks, This is not how my vacation was supposed to go.

or

While on what's supposed to be a relaxing vacation with the Starks, things for Peter quickly go south, and he finds himself on thin ice. Literally.

Ice Ice Baby, by @wolfypuppypiles

If Tony, Bucky or pretty much anybody that knew Peter had seen him that morning they would have smacked him upside the head. Helping people was great, everyone should give it a go, but when helping people puts you in danger it’s not so smart anymore.

AKA Peter can't get from Avenger tower to the subway without giving his winter clothes to homeless people and ends up with a severe case of hypothermia

Candle in the Window, by @madasthesea

Finals are over and Peter just wants to go home. The weather has other ideas.

Burn This Out, by @ephemeralstark

It's summer and Peter is free to be Spider-Man all day which is great, but it's summer and Peter is out as Spider-Man on the hottest day of the year which is not great.

Or, Peter gets heat stroke because he can't thermoregulate and things could not go worse for him.

(yeah, it’s not an hypothermia, but it’s linked to the fact that Peter can’t actually thermoregulate)

Post-Endgame (really like this trope too lmao)

the first birthday after, by iron_spider 

(Endgame spoilers. But The Thing doesn't happen.)

The rain falls harder and Tony turns, his neck creaking and cracking, and he sees Peter asleep over by the window. He’s holding a small, flat box, and he’s slowly slipping to the right side of the easy chair he’s in.

Tony thinks about letting him sleep, but he finds himself speaking anyway. “Pete,” he says, his voice rough and raspy.

Peter immediately startles awake. “Happy Birthday,” he says, almost like he’d fallen asleep practicing it, planning to say it as soon as he woke up. He blinks at Tony, shivering a little bit, and then he smiles. “Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday.”

Tony snorts, smiling back. “Thanks, bud,” he says.

Second Best, by Rowan_M

Tony had adjusted to parenthood quickly when Morgan came along, and was always conscious of making sure Peter isn't left out ... Almost always. When Peter gets hurt while taking care of Morgan, Tony obsess over his daughter and takes his anger out on Peter, without even checking to see if he was okay. Steve finds Peter later that night in serious pain and in need of immediate medical attention.

Or, Peter gets hurt while taking care of Morgan and Tony basically ignores him.

when you’re feeling empty keep me in your memory, by JkWriter

after everything with thanos he forgets it's his birthday. he just assumed everyone else did too.

All For You, by @ironxprince

Three weeks after the snap that saved the world, Peter learns he was the reason behind it. He learns that Tony risked death, and now has to live with the ramifications, both physical and mental, all because of him.

This doesn't sit right with him.

you save everybody, but who saves you ?, by @iron--spider

Tony doesn’t sleep, because he can’t, because too many things are plaguing him, most of all where Peter is and what he’s doing. Tony has a good view of the hallway through the windows to his room, and he stares and stares until his eyes cross, until he hallucinates, until he knows he’s going insane.

He sees Peter sneaking into the med bay at about four in the morning.

The kid’s mask is off and he’s got two short, harsh slashes across his cheek, and he’s bleeding from a slice across his neck. His suit is ripped in a few places and he’s holding onto his middle, and Tony can see his hands are shaking.

It’s like something splinters in Tony’s already broken brain, like his world narrows and there are hazy edges, both weakness and strength entwining in his veins when he sees Peter struggle up onto one of the beds in the main atrium, starting to tend his wounds without calling anybody to help.

BAMF Peter Parker 

Pizza, a Movie, and... an Attempted Kidnapping ?, by Pogokitten

“Tony. We’ll be fine,” Peter tells the man for what must be the tenth time in the last half hour.

Peter’s sitting on the couch of his and May’s apartment and building Legos with Morgan as they both watch their father’s methodical, yet anxious, pacing. He’s dressed to impress, as is Pepper who is watching the scene slightly exasperated.

“Are you sure? We can ditch the gala, kid. Just say the word,” Tony offers, halting in front of his kids.

Or: Tony and Pepper leave Peter in charge of Morgan while they go to their first gala since the third snap. Peter is expecting a calm night in with his adopted sister, but some thugs throw a wrench in his plans.

he’s good like that, by @iron--spider

“Get the hell outta here, boy,” the man says. “Or you’re gonna watch your boss die in front of you.” Then he grabs Tony by the shoulders hard, and shoves him down to his knees. The gun is louder now, like it’s filled with words that are eager to be shouted, and Tony winces when he feels the barrel press against the back of his neck. His knees weren’t ready to hit the ground that hard, and he tries to keep the pain from reaching his face.

He must fail, because Peter looks pissed.

“You’re not gonna shoot him, mister,” Peter says, somehow still trying to maintain a respectful tone, despite the clear anger written all over him.

stark robotics and technology conference, by @iron--spider

Peter leans against the wall while Tony chooses their floor, and the doors close. “Do you, uh, want me to do some interning stuff? Like go and get you coffee? Make sure the, uh—programs are all ready? Make sure the paintings are straight in the ballroom? Make sure the chairs are—”

Tony snorts. “Kid, I just thought you’d enjoy this. May told me about when it came through Queens but you two couldn’t make it because she was working and didn’t want you to go alone, and I thought, after all the shit you’ve been through lately, that you deserved something fun. No interning for you. That’s just an excuse.”

Peter remembers that. It was six months after Ben died, and he wasn’t gonna bother May too much about the conference. He didn’t know how much tickets cost anyways, or if kids his age could even go.

He really hung onto the idea of Iron Man after Ben died. Peter held him closer than ever.

Peter and Tony fighting 

dinner and a jailbreak, by killerqueenwrites

“I’m not your kid!” Peter shouts.

“Don’t walk away from me, I’m not done–“

“You’re not my dad!”

Peter fitting in after the Blip isn't as easy as Tony hoped it would be. He wants his kid back, but they can't seem to stop fighting.

and then Peter goes missing.

my old man, by parkrstark 

"I just want to help you. I want to help you understand what's wrong here and how to stop it. I used to be the same way until my father showed me how to be a man." He glanced back at Peter to sneer. "He's old enough to know better by now, but it's not your fault you didn't know how to teach him." "Teach him what?" Tony asked even though he didn't want to know the answer.

"Discipline, of course," Junior said with a wink.

--

Tony takes Peter on a weekend trip to try and change his mind about college and things go wrong. Then, they go even more wrong.

Between how it is and how it should be, by @frostysunflowers

''Doesn’t Captain Rogers ever…wonder,'' Peter winced as he fumbled for the right word, ''where you are?''

Bucky smirked. ''Steve’s a regular mother hen. Used to be me that worried about him.'' He gave Peter a pointed look. ''Better question is, isn’t Stark wondering where you are?''

Soulmates trope 

presumed dead, by killerqueenwrites 

Tony gets his first soulmark when he’s fifteen, his second when he's thirty. He's forty-six when his third appears, and forty-eight when it fades to grey.

did you see the flares in the sky ?, by justt-ppeachy

‘hi’  

One simple word was displayed proudly on the inside of his right wrist. Tony wasn’t sure when this word showed up or how long it had been there.

A line formed underneath the word and Tony could almost feel the pressure on his arm from the marker his soulmate was using to push one phrase from their skin into his.

‘i loev yu’

The letters were written slowly and messily as they showed up upon his wrist while he watched in disbelief. Not sure if he was hallucinating or just going insane, Tony rubbed at the writing, wondering if they would disappear once he looked again.

The words were barely recognizable, but they were still the best thing Tony had ever seen.

IronDad Fluff (yeah)

peter wearing tony’s hoodie, by killerqueenwrites 

Tony’s used to his clothes going missing. His MIT hoodie doesn’t often leave his closet, though, which is why he notices its absence straight away. There’s a lifetime of safety and comfort in this old hoodie, for both of them, and that’s all Tony could ever wish to give Peter.

Career Day, by @superhusbands4ever

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Peter’s enhanced senses picked up the familiar voice from outside the door. “I had a meeting this morning and then I got lost looking for the class… anyway, I’m here for Peter? Peter Parker?”

He frowned at hearing his name, still unsure what exactly was going on. He watched as his teacher continued to stand and stare out the door for a minute before seemingly remembering herself and taking a step back.

“Of course! If you could just go sit next to him until your turn, he’s in the back on the right side.”

The man stepped through the door and Peter gaped with the rest of the class as Tony Stark, in his signature suit and goatee, sporting a pair of red sunglasses and carrying a suitcase walked through the door.

Kryptonite, by forensicleaf 

The kid is acting weird.

Tony tries to figure it out.

father’s day, by @iron--spider 

It’s Father’s Day, and Tony never really had a father. Not in the real sense of the word, not in the way that counts.

Peter Parker doesn’t have a father, either. Not anymore, anyway, not since he was little, and the amount of years that have passed since then outweigh the amount of time he got with Richard Parker.

Tony wouldn’t call himself Peter’s dad. He wouldn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t think of himself that way, no way, no way.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He pulls down on his cheeks, makes his eyes water. He runs his hands over the roughness of his jaw and sorta hates everything about himself right now, because he’s acting like a goddamn idiot. It’s Father’s Day and he’s not a father. He doesn’t know why the hell he’s pining for something that isn’t his, shouldn’t be his, can never be his. He isn’t a father, he isn’t Peter’s father, so there’s no reason on God’s green earth for Peter and him to do something for Father’s Day.

ain’t no valley low enough, by @iron--spider (yes, again, ‘cuz she’s the best)

Peter snorts. “You know I didn’t apply anywhere in Florida.”

“Please, kid, you know all you have to do is write a beautiful essay with my recommendation attached to it and you’re in. You’ve got the scores.”

Peter has a list. Of all the places he applied to, all the places he got into. A lot of it was encouraged by the adult role models in his life, some of it by Ned daydreaming about places like California and Colorado. Mostly, Peter just applied everywhere he could think of, because he’s known for a long time that Tony was gonna help May pay for it, and he didn’t wanna limit his options. Thinking about college has been strange for him, strange to the extent that he had a full blown panic attack about it in the middle of Avengers taco night last month. He can’t really understand it, doesn’t get why it feels like the end of the world—because he’s experienced the end of the world, and it’s not which campus has a bowling alley and which school has circus classes. But he nearly blacked out all the same, sobbed in Tony’s arms on the balcony until Tony proposed this. The road trip.

and when it’s hard, i’ll place your head into my hands, by hopeless_hope

“Tony,” Pepper sing-songs to get his attention. “Your mother hen is showing.”

“What?” he snaps indignantly. “I am not a mother hen. This is just... concern. Of the average kind. Perfectly normal.”

“Of course,” Pepper humors him, and he shoots her a dirty look as he types out a quick text to Peter.

or

It's been five days since Tony's heard from Peter, who's away at college, and Tony is not coping well. (Neither is Peter.)

Peter likes cuddles (and Tony too, but he always denies it... until he can’t)

my arms will hold you (keep you safe and warm), by parkrstark 

“So, you’re telling me your body...is going through Oxytocin withdrawals?” Tony asked slowly.

“Cuddle withdrawals,” Peter corrected him. “Mr. Stark cuddles.”

TW : Rape/non-cons

make me strong, by parkrstark 

It all started when Tony introduced Peter to Skip Westcott. He just didn't know until it was too late.

(There is a lot more, but I can’t find it rn ;-;)

5+1 

5 times peter clung to tony, by parkrstark 

... and the one time tony clung to him.

You are my Dad, you’re my dad, boogiewoogiewoogie, by Hittinmiss

“Peter? What’s going on kid?” Tony asked, him popping up on the phone’s screen.

“Hey da-” Peter started automatically before immediately noticing his mistake, the look on Ned’s face proved that yes, he almost called Tony Stark dad. He needed to try recover quickly because the look on Tony’s face seemed confused, especially with his slight pause. “-aaaaaamn Mr. Stark I really like your shirt. Where’d you get it?”

Smooth.

---

5 times Peter called Tony Dad and the 1 time Tony called himself Dad

5 Times Tony Took Care of Peter..., by As_Clear_As_Crystal 

“Think if I coded a sign into your suit that says ‘Baby on Board,’ maybe criminals wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about murdering you?” Tony asks airily, poking at the bottom of Peter’s foot.

Peter halfheartedly kicks at Tony with his toe. (“That’s offensive, Mr. Stark.” )

- - -

aka: Five times Tony took care of Peter, and one time Peter took care of Tony.

5 times Peter is stuck with Tony, by @iron--spider

(...and one time he’s stuck alone.)

“I wonder if Pepper’s reported me missing yet,” Tony says, with an exaggerated sigh. “I wonder if this is some kind of scheme to kidnap me or something.”

“I think the ride’s just broken,” Peter says.

“Today of all goddamn days,” Tony says, exasperation clear in his voice and in his eyes. “Ruining our trip—”

“It’s not ruined,” Peter says. “Look, we’re hanging out."

“Real quality time,” Tony huffs. “Us, a few other trapped members of the general public, and a handful of animatronic pirates. Drunk pirates. Repeating themselves.”

5 times tony forgot peter was just a kid, by @parkrstark

...and the 1 time he didn't.

Or the one where it was hard for Tony to remember that the kid fighting next to him was still just a kid.

can i get a good night’s sleep ? can i PLEASE get a good night’s sleep ?, by peterstank 

The doors open and there’s Peter, perched on a gurney with his shirt gone and a whole lot of blood staining his side. He’s bent awkwardly, clearly trying to feel his way around whatever wound he’s got.

“Um,” Tony says, approaching, “What.”

Peter looks up and—yeah, he’s lost a lot more blood than Tony had originally thought. His face is completely fucking drained. “Hey,” he says, offering a jaunty wave before returning his attention to his side. “I got shot.”

“Oh!” Tony nods. “Oh, okay. What the fuck, kiddo?”

or: five times peter doesn’t sleep + the one time he does

Five Times Peter and Tony Had Each Other’s Back, by Sahiya

... and One Time They Needed Help.

Peter is Tony’s Biological Child

I Had the Dream Again, by Skeeter_110

Peter calls Tony in the middle of the night crying.

Congratulations, it’s a Boy, by capiocapi 

"Sir, I have the results.”

“Okay, Jarvis. Hit me.”

“It’s a match. 99.9% chance that he is your biological son, which is the percentage needed to be recognized by law as a biological parent.”

Tony’s stomach did a funny swooping dance. “Great. Congratulations to me then, eh? It’s a boy.”

You Are My Sunshine, by @iamconstantine

Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. His eventual encounters with Norse gods, alien life, and sorcerers did kind of quake this a little bit, but still.

One thing that had always confounded him as the one thing that had no scientific explanation was fate. Murphy’s law, Finagle’s law, the butterfly effect, the domino effect, the snowball effect, and the wisest of all: “Shit happens.”

So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne?

Serie i love you more than anything, by @iron--spider 

The highs and lows of Tony unexpectedly becoming a single dad at 31– from Peter’s early baby years, all the way past the defeat of Thanos

May’s abusive boyfriend trope 

A Peter Parker Problem, by @spagbol99

Peter Parker was back from the dead. At least that is what everybody told him. He'd been snapped out of existence until some sort of time travel and an active death wish by his mentor had saved him and the universe. Just your average sort of life for a 16 year old from Queens.

Peter comes back to find May has a husband and a kid. A new family he has to fit into. But he has done it before, he can do it again.

The only thing that feels solid is Tony: the Blip and fatherhood have mellowed him and Peter loves the bond they have now. He knows Tony would be there for him through anything. But Tony needs to focus on his own recovery - not small time Peter Parker problems. When things at home take a turn for the worse, Peter decides that he'll handle it himself. He is Spider-man. He's been to space and fought aliens. He can get through anything. After all, if May is happy, he is happy, right? Right?

(again, I’ve read a lot more but can’t find it...)

Peter Parker Whump (everyone’s favorite trope)

Danger Pizza, by alice_in_ink

The window was pushed open, and Iron Man’s head popped into his bedroom. “Here’s where I’m confused—why lock the front door but leave the fire-escape-accessible windows unlocked?” He clambered through said window. “Seems like a safety hazard.”

Peter eyed the metal suit as it straightened to a standing position. “Did you break into my window to kill me?”

The face plate lifted, and Tony’s eyes quickly looked over the teen. “Christ, kid. It looks like you’re halfway there.”

...

A wild night on patrol leaves Peter with a broken back, and boy, does he want to be able to move without dying. (So he calls Anthony Stark, obviously.)

If You Can’t Catch A Breath (You Can Take The Oxygen Straight Out Of My Own Chest), by @losingmymindtonight

"And I would hurry. Little Peter is about to be under quite a lot of pressure, and it might get a little hard to breathe.”

I’ve Got You, by @thedumbestavenger

Peter runs into a Copycat Vulture out on patrol, from there, everything escalates.

Meetings and Migraines, by AllThingsGeeky

Peter has another migraine at an unfortunate time and despite his best efforts he can’t ignore it forever.

The Most Important Thing In The World, by S0lstice

Peter’s door creaked and began to bend under the force of the crowbar and for the first time since regaining consciousness, fear began to press into him. Something very bad was happening and it was happening fast - too fast for his sluggish mind to keep up.

He went with his instincts instead, the first one always being, Help Mr. Stark.

Friendly Fire, by @jolinarjackson

Finding a careful truce with the government, the “rogue Avengers” are allowed to return to the Compound where they are put under house arrest. Peter coming to spend one week at the Compound during his summer break couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time as the opportunity to bond a little more with his mentor is overshadowed by a conflict he doesn’t quite understand. When he starts to develop a mysterious medical condition, however, the former team is forced to work together – not just to protect Peter’s identity from the DODC, but also to find the cause for his illness before it’s too late.

“He’s my kid,” Tony said, his voice hoarse. “He’s my kid and I failed him.” He covered his eyes and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. “All I ever do is fail him.” Natasha knelt down in front of him and cupped his face in her hands, waiting for him to meet her eyes before she said, “Right now, he doesn’t need you to fix this. He doesn’t need you down here. He needs you over there, in the medbay, by his side.” She thumbed tears from the corners of his eyes and ignored the ones running down her own face. “You haven’t failed him yet.”

alarm bells and panic levels, by @iron--spider

Tony lands heavy on the dock, the wood splintering hard under the metal suit. He’s having trouble breathing, his nose is bleeding, he most definitely has more than the recommended amount of broken ribs. But none of that fucking matters. The sky is clear, the assholes are down, but there’s one thing missing.

He looks over his shoulder when Rhodey lands too. His suit is dented in a few places but other than that he looks alright. His face mask flips up and Tony lets his mask retract.

“Where’s Peter?” Tony asks, his voice rough with the amount of yelling he’s been doing. Fuck these stupid assholes. They were supposed to go mini-golfing today. The kid had been looking forward to it for weeks.

Rhodey looks around, breathing hard through his mouth. “I thought you knew.”

there’s something wrong, by @iron--spider

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Tony whispers. “We should have checked you for something like this when we were resetting your arm and checking on the concussion. Goddamnit. We didn’t think.”

“He poisoned us both?” Peter asks, trying to open one eye to look at him.

“Yeah,” Tony says, brushing Peter’s hair back from his forehead. “He’s dying. He got the brunt of it, a nice fucking cocktail of bullshit, including mercury and a bunch of other toxic shit—”

“Am I dying?” Peter whispers, voice breaking.

Fitting In (Tiny Spaces), by aloneintherain

Peter's trapped beneath a collapsed building during a mission, hurt and unable to move. Luckily, his comm still works. Unluckily, the Avengers don’t realise how bad of a state Peter is in, and Peter isn’t inclined to tell them.

“Spidey, they’ve got reinforcements. We’ve hit a bit of a snag here, and I don’t think anyone will be able to help you for a while. Think you can sit tight while we deal with this?”

The pressure on his lower back and legs was becoming too much. Peter swallowed thickly, fighting down panic. He could handle this.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I can do that.”

Collections/Series (’cause I could make an inventory of all @iron--spider stories, you know, but you have to read all of her work, if you haven’t yet) (God she doesn’t even know who I am)

iron dad bingo, by @iron--spider

stay at home, by @iron--spider

whumptober, by @iron--spider

Whumptober 2019, by @marvelous-writer

Day in the life of the Iron Family, by @marvelous-writer 

The Tumblr Archives, by @losingmymindtonight

Everything comes back to you, by @losingmymindtonight

Nice work, kid, by @madasthesea

Irondad Bingo 2019, by sahiya 

The Adventures of Spidy-son and Iron-dad, by eva7673

Tony adopts Peter (why everyone kills May, btw ?)

Accepting the Tides, by @emma--anacortes

Tony had dragged Peter from the depths of despair after May's death. It was normal that he'd grown to care a little about him, right?

Yeah, okay. He freaking loved the kid.

So naturally he would feel a little weird when Richard Parker randomly shows up in Peter's life. Naturally he'd feel protective, nervous, and confused because where has Richard been all this time? And why does Tony feel sick every time he sees him around Peter?

All he knows is if Richard hurts his kid, Tony's gonna give him hell.

Series Out of Darkness, by @starryknight09

“Is this Peter Parker?”

“Yes…”

“This is Dr. Nguyen. I’m sorry but your aunt’s been in an accident and we’re going to need you to come to Queens Memorial as soon as you can.”

Peter's life shatters with a phone call. The last person he expects helps him pick up the pieces.

[ldouble]

Can’t Help It | Antonio Dawson x Reader (Chicago PD)

summary: You never expected flowers to be delivered to you. You weren’t one for girlish things, for goodness sake you were a cop who liked strapping a gun more so than clicking into heels. With this, it’s a pleasant surprise when you are delivered flowers not once, not twice, but three times in the span of a week. For Antonio, your partner and the guy who definitely did not have feelings for you, its more suspicious.

You stare at empty board, the lack of thumbtacked pictures a rare sight. This was the Intelligence Unit. There was always a case. Sometimes you thought the crimes rolled in like such clockwork you could have a TV show.

Wednesday. 9 PM Central.

With the clear board, you were sure to get cancelled.

You didn’t want anything up there. The first piece of evidence or any sort of lead usually meant someone was dead. You didn’t wish that at all.

The sight just made you uneasy.

Work wasn’t supposed to be mundane. You were supposed to be constantly thinking. Gears shifting as you tried to catch up with whatever or whoever you were after.

Drug cartels. Sex trafficking. Gang related violence.

It made its way to this board. And you sure as hell always found your way back to it.

The sound of a phone brought you back. The rough voice of your partner cueing in that your team was up to bat.

You looked to Antonio, your arms crossed, half your mind still on the blank panel, for answers.

Even fewer leads sat with him, his face stone cold and unreadable. That was weird. After working together for years, literally saving each others lives (after nearly losing each other one or twice) you could always read Dawson. His quiet demeanor was easy for you to pick up on, you yourself one to speak without words. You thought the time spent wordlessly communicating - either over beers at Molly’s or the barrel of your gun prior to a riot - would help you figure out who was on the other end of the phone.

His eyes met yours, a low ‘mhm’ escaping his lips before he let the receiver clack gently against its holder. “Delivery for you.”

“Screw up your address-”

Ruzek called after you, your last names barely heard as you skipped down the steps to meet whoever was at the cage entrance.

“Didn’t order anything.” You called before lowering your voice. “Especially nothing I’d get sent here.”

Your mind wandered to the Wine of the Month club you just subscribed to, and for a second you started believing Adam that you really had fumbled the address. But upon opening the cage door to see a patrolmen standing with your package, you knew you definitely didn’t mess up.

You told the officer just that, laughing at the sick joke it was. Sergeant Platt was having none of it, yelling up at you (without so much as lifting her gaze from her desk), “Take the goddamn flowers.”

So you did. You awkwardly and begrudgingly, took the goddamn flowers.

The goddamn flowers that had you sneezing upon arriving back in the bullpen.

A low whistle from Kevin was heard despite the allergy response. You didn’t know which one had caught the attention of the entire squad. Honestly, you didn’t know which was worse.

“Nobody give me that look.” You spat, concluding it was neither whistle nor wheeze that had everyone curious. Rather it was you, dressed in dark jeans and an ever darker long sleeved shirt, holding a budding bouquet of bright yellow-

“Are those sunflowers?” Jay asked, leaning closer to take a look.

“Yes.” You huffed, setting down the gift like it was a bomb. That’s what it felt like. Like any second something was going to go off. 3....2...

“Who got you flowers?!?” Adam buzzed, jumping up to peer at the present.

“No one.” You quickly said, hating this. Hating the attention. The attention brought on by some stupid-

“Nice greenery.” Voight said from his classic perch of leaning against the door of his office.

At the sight of your boss you gulped. You were chummy enough with him but knew even he wouldn’t appreciate a dispute over something as stupid as this.

So you took a breath, smiled, and agreed with him. “Yeah, nice.” You peered at the object in question...just like you would a suspect.

Jay called you out on it, coming to look at it beside you. He hip checked you. “Whose it from?”

“Great question.”

“There’s usually a card someone.”

You looked over your shoulder at Antonio whose attention now seemed completely enthralled with his computer. You knew for a fact there was nothing on there of importance. if there was, he wouldn’t be asking about flowers. Flowers you never would have gotten because you wouldn’t be here but rather out on the case that filled that goddamn blank board.

“You a frequent customer of ‘Ode a la Rose’, Dawson?” Ruzek asked, coming up on the other side to look at the business ribbon tied to the vase.

“No.” You titled your head at your partner who quickly avoided eye contact after looking up for a mere second. He clicked away, his mouse suddenly much louder to you. “But I know a bouqet of flowers when I see one.”

That had you rolling your eyes back to the problem at hand.

You really didn’t know where to start, that is until Voight walked right up and plucked the paper envelope from between the....blooms? Was that they were called?

Reading your mind Jay and Ruzek leaned in at the same time, whispering, “Buds.” in your ears.

You sighed, watching them return to their desks before opening up the letter.

You don’t know why you needed a breath but you did. It was all so bizarre. Remembering your boss’ words, the very ones you had agreed with, you concluded it to be nice. Nothing less and nothing more.

The card certified that, its blankness leaving the mystery solved.

“What’s it say?” Kevin asked from across the aisle as you sat down in your chair.

“Nada.” You replied, tossing into the bin at your feet.

“Yeah, right.” Antonio said, standing up and crossing the room. When he went to dive through the can beneath your desk you rolled away, the invasion of space surprising.

What was more surprising, the look of jealousy you swore you saw on his face.

Again, your guess was confirmed when Jay asked if Antonio was jealous somebody else was congratulating me on a case well solved before he could.

You didn’t like what Jay said but it was better than clutching onto a defensive statement with no proof. You were a detective. Couldn’t argue with evidence. And Antonio storming over to dig through trash...pretty convincing.

“I told you, I’ll take a free beer over flowers any day.” Your hand graced your partners arm. It stole his attention from the empty paper he was analyzing, his eyes finding yours for a moment. The way they raced across your face, taking you in like someone he was saving, crushed you.

More than that, it terrified you. Because it seemed to terrify Antonio.

You sneakily took the note from his hand, shaking your head with a light laugh. You were hoping he didn’t notice how forced it was because you really couldn’t sit here one more second with him looking at you like that. Worrying you. Terrifying you.

“It’s all good. Probably just some appreciation for your girl.”

You had stood at this point, reaching around to dump the flowers but your hand was caught. Antonio met your gaze, his tongue quickly wetting his lips in thought. A million things went through his head before he plucked the note from you.

“Keep em. Till I get you that beer.”

You watched him walk away, your eyes tearing away when you heard Adam cracking another joke about how sunflowers resembled your bubbly personality. When you slapped his head in warning you chanced another glance at your partner.

Sauntering down the hall a flash of white caught your eyes.

The once pristine note, white as day, was now crumbled in his hand. You watched it soar into a nearby trashcan, hitting the rim and bouncing onto the floor. The slam of the cage, announcing the exit of your partner, couldn’t even take your eyes away.

----

Molly’s atmosphere would always put you in a good mood. There was nothing like sitting with your colleagues, amongst the other servicemen and women of Chicago, after a long day. 

You hadn’t even made it to the bar when Otis called your name, waving you over.

Leaving Ruzek and Kevin to chat it up with some of the Firehouse 51 guys, you made your way through the throngs of people.

“What’s up?” You asked over the cheers of a home run being hit.

“You tell me.” The fireman said, a suggestive tone on his lips.

You turned to your coworkers, now joining you, shrugging your shoulders. Their equally confusing looks send you repeating the action back at him. Even then, its hard to force up your arms in chagrin when theres an icy feeling down your back.

The Russian fireman rolled his eyes before disappearing below the bar. Your head tipped forward to follow only to bounce back at his sudden reappearance. Its not his dark curly hair that scares you, but rahter the bright array of...flowers.

He placed it on the counter with a thud. Identical in nearly every way to the vase gifted to you two days ago, the only difference is that the blossoms have grown. Double the amount of stems sit in the square jar.

The aroma of spring met your nose despite the smells of the bar. Mixed with beer and greasy food, your lunch is prepared to make a reappearance.

But its the sight of Antonio, followed closely by Jay, that sends the meal back down. You have to gulp it down again when he gets closer, the look of anger directed towards the flowers, terrifying you once again.

“You got to be kidding.” Jay mumbled, tracing over the business seal.

“When did you get these?”

“Who delivered them?”

“What’d they say?”

The men around you fire out questions but none of them register. You’re always one to investigate but never before had you been so involved. Never before had you been the lead.

You liked the board empty. You’d take a clear slate and nothing to do over thumbtacking your own picture up any day.

Especially today.

Antonio tried to find your eyes, silently communicate among the raising volume of the bar, but you ignored them. There’s something to be said. But you don’t have the words.

The message envelope does.

You ripped through the flowers, tossing stems and wrecking the beauty of the gift, until you find what you’re looking for.

A gasp escaped your lips once you’ve read it, your head following to hang low.

“What’s it say?” Someone asked. You didn’t catch who, the neatly typed and printed words consuming everything in you.

Someone grabbed it but you release the words into the air before they can be read again.

If you could’ve stopped them you would. No one else should have had to read those chilling words. No one except you.

And your detective friends.

“I scent you this.” You looked up at Antonio, his brows furrowed as they came up from the note. “Can’t wait to watch you wilt.”

“We’ve got a gardener on our hands.”

Your head slowly turned to Otis, innocent and unknowing Otis, who thought it all to be a cute little love note.

You told him it wasn’t.

“More like a weed killer.” A faux smile found your lips right before your eyes found the door, your feet following quickly.

The hot summer air was less of an escape than you’d have hoped. Still, you pushed on, farther from the bar and the noise and the people and everything.

Your arm was caught just before a passing car took you out, sucking you back into the real world.

Antonio’s eyes, the fullest of concern you’d ever seen them, sent you pushing him back. You’d take reality but not from him. Not right now.

“You can’t just leave.”

“Let my pedals fall, won’t you, Dawson?”

“No.” His hands found my arms, my bare skin burning. There was no anger in his action. If anything you were producing the heat, frustrated beyond belief.

Antonio saw it, squeezing gently to bring you back. You couldn’t the strain breath that you released.

“He’s in my head.”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“Women don’t send flowers.” You deadpanned. You took a step back upon seeing the rest of your coworkers stirring a few feet away. They held a respectable distance but some things just needed to be said - partner to partner.

And boy were some things about to be said.

Cops had no on and off switch. Their minds were always in investigation mode. You were your lead, your evidence, your victim, your everything.

And you felt like you couldn’t even breathe at the moment.

“Just let me go home.”

“Not with some guy-”

“He’s in my head, man.” The crack in your voice scared you but you pressed down the fear, going straight up to your partner. Chest to chest you tapped a finger on his temple. “He’s in my head and I can’t help it.”

“You’re in his and I can’t help that.” Antonio huffed.

You didn’t know who was more upset with the situation - you or him.

But that’s what partners were for. To have your back. Even when you didn’t have your own.

The thought of Antonio guarding you, unattended and unfocused, had you shaking your head.

It wasn’t right. None of this was.

You told him just that. To which he tried whispering your last name not as your partner but as your friend. You could tell by the way he said your first name...something he never did.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

“Save your detective work for the office.” A choked laugh escaped you as you slipped by him, heading towards Kevin. “Something tells me this is just poor planning on some gardener’s part.”

The flower puns had been over ages ago. They never really had a place at all.

But again....desperate times, desperate measures. Dark humor was your desperation.

You plucked the flowers from Adam’s arms, meeting his eyes with a nod.

You heard Jay say your name but it was no use. If Antonio couldn’t get through to you, it’d take Voight. And your boss never frequented this establishment at this hour.

Like you would hear him over the buzzing. You wanted to believe a bee was enjoying your unexpected gift but you knew that wasn’t true. The only thing ringing was your heart, beating faster than ever before.

You turned on your heel, only dropping your “I’ve Got It All Together” smile when you threatened them not to follow you. It wasn’t until you got home did it all fall apart, the vase crashing to the ground. The only reason you didn’t hear it was because of Antonio’s voice in your head.

“I can’t help that.”

He meant it like he couldn’t help but worry.

But combined with the concern he radiated, you thought your suspicions to be true.

He couldn’t help. No one could.

----

Your hand hurt from clutching your gun in your sleep.

At the thought of how pathetic that was, you flexed your fingers before shaking them out to study the card.

The wording, the gift, everything, really nothing, made sense.

You had racked your brain for cases that it could connect to. It wasn’t uncommon to be tracked down by former...clients.

Your job was to put people in jail. Jail wasn’t always a life long sentence. Finding you, the person who’d put them there, could possibly be a life long commitment.

The knock of your door made you freeze. You weren’t able to pinpoint a crime that could lead to threats in the form of flowers but you were able to recognize that knock anywhere.

A confirmation through the peephole had you standing with your hand on your hip as Antonio walked into your apartment.

He rambled on and on, jumping between the points of the mysterious flower deliveries and how there was no way you were going to let him stop from figuring this out. On a tangent about your lack of respect to the Senior Detective of the unit (a title he only used when he wanted authority) you wrapped your arms around him.

Suddenly your outburst against the second in command didn’t matter, his own arms looping around your lower back.

“You look like shit for having slept in your car outside my place.”

His chuckle vibrated through you - the sound the most pleasant thing you had heard since entering Molly’s over 12 hours ago. Since then it had been your partner yelling at you and the eery silence of your apartment.

Neither were a match for Antonio’s laugh.

Which, speaking of, quickly died out as he gave you a once over. You could hear the quip on the tip of his tongue, how the bags under your eyes made him think you spent the night in the passenger seat, but it never came.

All that stayed was the worry in his eyes. You wiped your hands over them, forcing them closed. “Don’t look at me like that.” You whispered.

Without moving he replied, “When this is fixed, I’ll stop.”

“Then keep them closed.” You headed toward the couch, heaving a sigh and setting your head on the wall. “I can’t figure it out.”

“What do you think I’m here for?” You felt the couch dip beside you, the weight shifting as Antonio looked over the files sprawled on your coffee table. After a moment you joined him, your eyes quickly glazing over at the papers you’d practically memorized.

“Had he sent some blood or common drug I would’ve pinned him.” You waved a hand over the evidence. “I’ve got nothing.”

“You have to, or else you wouldn’t know who he was.”

“Antonio, I don’t-”

“You do.” He interrupted, a hand finding your knee. He’s quick to remove it, clearing his throat and referencing the table again. “We’re cops. We know more than we think.”

You sighed, wanting to agree but not seeing enough evidence to do so.

Flowers. Scents. Spring.

You were linking the whole ordeal to cotton candy (somehow) when someone else knocked on the door. You didn’t even bother standing, knowing Antonio (who had been on watch all night) wouldn’t let you answer it.

So you weren’t surprised at all when he returned, the rest of the squad entering.

“Still picking petals?” Kevin asked.

“He kills you, he kills you not.”

Adam’s joke impressed no one, his hands flying up defensively. “We not in the mood for jokes or what?”

“We’re not.” Voight’s voice run out strong. It both reassured you and frightened you. This all was so odd. How everyone was here. Except the guy tracking you down.

“No jokes when one of our own is on the line.”

“Line.” You mumbled, the word sticking with you.

“What is it?” Jay asked, crouching down in front of you. It was his classic, “witness remembers something” action, which you didn’t appreciate. There was no time to blow him off, tell him you weren’t a victim in this, because you were just getting somewhere.

Antonio caught on, shoving Jay away for you.

You didn’t even need to say thanks, silently communicating it without as so much as a look.

“What did you say Adam?” You stood, heading towards your bookcase.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to repeat-”

“Say it again.” You insisted turning from the shelf for a mere moment to give him a look. “Please.” You said, your tone lighter.

“He kills you, he kills you not?” He mused, avoiding eye contact with Voight.

“That’s a bad line, man.” You heard Kevin say under his breathe.

“Exactly.” You excited, grabbing the book you were looking for.

“Exactly what?” Antonio came up beside you, his eeys darting between the page and your face. You said nothing - out loud or silently - which he impatiently couldn’t wait for. “Exactly what?”

“Exactly this.” You pointed to the page. “He loves me, he loves me not.”

Confusion and what appeared to be fear raced across Antonio’s face. Jay asked if you could fill him in before you got a chance to question your partner’s response to your revelation.

“It’s a line.”

“We know.” Voight said.

“A line from a case.” You went on to say, heading back toward the table. “There was a guy at the University of Chicago, posed as an English major, sucked girls with the whole ‘I’ll read you poetry’ thing.”

Papers were flying everywhere and Kevin was trying to keep them in order, that is till Antonio started digging with you.

“I know this one. He brought girls in and then,”

“Raped and murdered them. Leaving nothing but a note that said,”

“He loves me, he loves me NOT,” Voight answered, remembered. the case he handed over to you and Antonio.

“He definitely did not.” You stood, file in hand. “He left that line and-”

“A flower.”

You looked up to Antonio, his gaze pointed at the pile of what was your second bouquet, sitting in the dustpan where you left it when you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it out.

His eyes found yours after a moment and you couldn’t help but smile. You had solved it.

Of course, you had solved it three years ago.

Jay reminded you of that point when he took a look at the report.

“The clues he’s leaving aren’t keeping him too well hidden. Why send the cop who put you away flowers?” Kevin spectated.

“Paid in cash.” Adam added, rubbing his chin in thought. “Might want a chase.”

“Who leaves a calling card like that and wants a chase?” Voight pondered.

“He’s not the one being chased.” You said, the room quieting from the many guesses being vocalized. “I am.”

The knock of the door piqued everyone’s interest, each head whipping towards it. Then you all looked at each other. No one else who needed to be here wasn’t.

Antonio connected those dots first, undoing his gun from its holster and walking towards the door.

It was no point for him to ask who was there. You already knew.

You just made it to see the delivery boy, eyes wide as Antonio pointed the barrel at him.

You took the smallest of steps forward, further intimating the boy and causing the vase to drop. Triple the size of the first one, flowers spewed everywhere, a white card sliding across the floor to your feet.

You bent down, opened it and read it silently. When you looked back up at Antonio you couldn’t help the words that escaped.

“He’s not asking to be found. He’s already picked me out from the bunch.”

----

I wanna smell you. Just you. You don’t bloom, you lose it all.

The last part of the note didn’t need to be repeated in your head. Not when you were there right at that moment.

Lurie Garden looked beautiful on the Spring Saturday. Lavender wafted through the air and all colors spread through the field. The Bean was barely visible over the high walls. If you stood in the penny fountain you wouldn’t have been able to see 20 feet into the greenery. Not with the spurts of bushes that traveled higher and higher the further into the season.

3 Pm was peak time. Little kids ran around, parents following quickly. You had spotted more than one older couple, walking through the fields to literally smell the roses.

Like on every other OP, you thought of if you’d get there. Make it through this.

Good cops were good people. And no good person walked into a dangerous situation without playing with the idea that they wouldn’t see the light of the next day.

Your eyes found the sun, beating down on you. When you couldn’t take it any longer your refocused, finding the very couple that sparked your philosophical train fo thought. A green ring formed around them from the light exposure. They looked angelic. Happy. Perfect.

“Everything looks perfect.”

You toed the gravel, Ruzek’s voice loud and clear in your ear piece. No one had said much the last 15 minutes you spent waiting for your guest.

Mark Cameron, ever the ‘fake’ student, was running late for class.

Only you would be penalized, though, if you slipped up.

The kid, no college graduate, was still smart. When you’d busted him he had a barely alive girl in his arms. When unarming you he called out every weapon.

Hence your lack of protection right now.

No gun. No knife. You didn’t even have the pin you wore for highly specialized ops, its edge sharper than any pocketknife you could’ve snuck into your pant leg.

“You’re going to be fine.”

You turned halfway before stopping yourself. Antonio’s voice hadn’t come form your ear piece but rather behind you. Posing as a fellow garden goer, he stood the other way, admiring the monkshood you just looked at (15 minutes had given you plenty of time to read up on the plants. That and you needed something to do other than wait).

He was effortless when it came to undercover ops. So it took everything in you not to tell him he was blowing it. Cameron could show up any second. Antonio knew this. Never one to break protocol it wasn’t right to see him doing just that.

“Let’s hope.” You breathed, bending down to smell.

“He’s not in your head. I can’t help you if you’re in yours.”

You didn’t respond - not knowing what to say as well as gettin interrupted by COMMS.

“Cameron just entered the North East corner.”

Kevin went on giving description - jean jacket, information packet in hand, etc. - but you didn’t care.

You remembered that sweet couple without a care in the world and you needed to see Antonio once more. You needed to believe him he’d help. You needed your partner.

“Thought you might need this, honey.”

Cameron’s voice was icy in your ear. You fought the urge to grimace, instead smiling up at him and accepting the garden sheet he was extending to you.

“Thanks. Was dying to know what smelled so bad.”

“So you say.” He whispered directly into your ear piece. “What do they think?”

Jay mumbling something foulw as cut off as Cameron picked apart the tech. You couldn’t help but slam your ear into your shoulder, his touch radiating goosebumps off of you. The exposed movement was worth it when you caught no sight of Antonio - who had thankfully cleared the area.

There was no one in your row. No one you could really see either with the sloped ground and the high stalks of greenery.

You hoped your team had you. You knew they did. It was just hard to believe when you didn’t have yourself.

Cameron had found you. Found a way into your work and your bar and your home. More than that, he found his way into your head. And Antonio would never admit it but Cameron got into his too.

Partners. Had each other’s backs but also had each others brains.

You hoped Antonio’s wasn’t as corrupted as your felt right now.

“I told you to come alone.”

The stomp of his foot on the ear piece emitted a high pitched frequency just loud enough for you to catch.

Your lips formed a straight line as you told yourself not to panic. Something about you being the target made this op different. You cared about victims more than you did yourself - evident in the way you put your life on the line.

But this...this focus on you, on your friends, made breaking up a drug cartel seem like heaven.

Being here, with Cameron, even in a beautiful field of flowers, was actual hell.

“You know, I’d make some cruel joke about no flower growing alone but I don’t think you’d appreciate that.”

Cameron pretended to weigh the options. Coming to a decision a sick smile grazed his face before his hand found your hip. It hurt, a pressure point being hit, but you didn’t let it show.

“Good choice. Makes you love you a bit more.”

His eyes wandered to the flower I was still gripping, its orange petals crumpling with the tense hold I had on it. His own hands found one near by, picked it and brought it up to my nose. His brows raised, asking me to pluck a petal. I did as told just as he said, “Or love you not.”

“Sir!”

You spun around to the voice, only having his hand grip into you harder at the sight of a park ranger approaching.

“You can’t pick the flowers, sir.”

“My fault!” Cameron chuckled, his neck settling on your shoulder. Again, he put more force than necessary, your collarbone taking the brunt of it. “My girlfriend here wanted to see if I still loved her not. You know the rhyme.”

The ranger gave a tight smile, clearly weary. She shook off the feeling, going back into work mode. “I’m going to have to write you a warning.”

“Ma’am-”

You attempt at reconciliation was lost as Cameron pressed his hand and neck harder into you - equal points of pain rolling through. He was all bone and it hurt like hell.

“That won’t be necessary,” He leaned forward, bringing you with him. “Jan.”

“Sir, it’s policy of the park not to-”

“It’s-”

This was going all sorts of wrong.

No ear piece. This ranger. A much more aggriavted Cameron than you wanted.

Maybe this was it. Your final chance to smell the roses.

“You need to leave, now.” Th ranger said, summoning the most authority she could in her voice. Cop or not you could see her wavering.

You could also see a crowd forming. Nothing interested tourists quite like a public conflict.

“I said, no.”

“Sir!”

The ranger stepped forward, clutching what you assumed was a baton.

Cameron, ever one to see something for more dangerous than it was, though it a gun, and was quick to pull his own out.

Where else could it go than up against your head.

He held a firm choke hold, tossing you around as you showed the neely joined audience exactly what you had. It was all it took for your team to come out, their own guns blazing.

Screams. People running. Dust picking up.

You wished for the smallest deliver of flowers. No mess. No note.

This was so much worse.

You stayed strong, though. You knew there was more coming.

“All so protective of your girl when a guy sends some roses, huh?” Cameron asked Kevin and Ruzek, whipping you around to talk to both of them.

“Put the gun down.”

“Let her go.”

Now you understood why no hostage felt safe in this moment. Guns pointed at you. Words their first line of defense.

This wasn’t help, you wanted to tell Antonio. This was a placeholder for help.

“Yeah, right.” Cameron snarled. His nose inhaled your scalp, posseviley claiming you. “She smells like mine.”

Threats were repeated. Voight and Al and Jay appeared. All who was missing was your partner.

And without your partner you weren’t you.

You closed your eyes, hating this. Hating this because it wasn’t right. Antonio should be here. Having your back. Helping.

So you did what any cop would do. You proved you were than just your partner or your team or your badge.

You opened your eyes, now facing the fountain just a few rows ahead. In it you barely saw your reflection. if the image of you being held wasn’t enough to spark something, the shadowy person just past you was.

In one swift moment you hit Cameron’s instep, freed your hand, twisted his shooting hand, which caused him to fire into the fields, and threw him over your back, made him hit the ground and had you pinning him down.

The next thing you knew there was a gun, another one, pointed mere inches from his face. You didn’t need to look up the leather jacket arm to know who it was. So you didn’t. Not until Kevin stood Cameron up and Ruzek handcuffed him.

That’s when you turned to Antonio. Fell into his arms. Breathed the scent of the flowers for the first time.

He whispered encouragement to you, assuring you were fine, saying how horrible that guy would suffer.

None of it mattered. All that mattered was him. You were ready to say that after you pulled back to look at him when his eyes found the ground. With you still firmly held in his arms he reached down, a cheap connivence store bouquet of flowers in his hands.

You couldn’t help the choked laugh that escape you

“Thought this might be better than the beer. Ya know, for catching the guy.”

You accepted the gift that had fallen out of Cameron’s grasp, tilting your head. “Yeah, but you helped.”

Antonio shrugged, forcing the flowers out of your hand as he brought you closer.

“I can’t help it.”

The End.

[angelicamerlinbarnes]

Seven times someone spoke to a Marauder alone in a portrait and one person who spoke to them all together

In a world where all the Marauders died in the first war, their souls are preserved in portraits in Hogwarts. Their stories are legend if a bit tweaked, and their names are famous if a bit forgettable. But they were painted individually, and housed all over the castle, separated for all eternity from each other.

(Also, there are seven Marauders because Lily, Severus, and Regulus. Fight me.)

(FOR CONTEXT: Regulus married a Muggle named Amir and had a daughter with him named Hailee. Regulus and Sirius never fell out and Regulus calls Remus “Mum” because reasons. Sirius and Remus married and died without children and James and Lily had Harry with their partner, Severus. Peter had a nonbinary partner named Max, but they died in the war.)

ONE: Regulus Black (Room of Requirement) & Draco Malfoy [Second Year - Youth (Daughter)]

Draco is coming back from Quidditch practice after calling Hermione a Mudblood. He’s walking alone down a hallway empty of doors when one suddenly materializes in front of him. He walks inside, too curious not to, and finds a room with two chairs in front of a crackling fire.

Over the fire hangs a portrait of a young man with pale skin, ebony hair, and striking grey eyes. Draco sits down in one of the chairs and picks up the cup of hot cocoa from the coffee table, looking up at the portrait, which has now started moving.

“Who are you?” He asks, and the portrait shoots him a grim look.

“My name is Regulus Black. Do you know who I am?”

Draco shakes his head. Regulus hums, tugging at something around his wrist.

“I’m a Death Eater who defied Voldemort,” he says, pulling his sleeves up to reveal a blank wrist. “They didn’t paint me with that wretched Mark, thank Merlin.”

Draco puts his cocoa down, nervous, and finds his eyes darting around the room for a door.

“How do I get out of here?” He asks with all the politeness he can muster, and Regulus offers him a wry smile.

“Right through that door,” he says gently, pointing to the door now etching itself out of the wall. “But please remember, Draco - you make your own choices in life. You decide who you are. Not a House, not a name, not a Mark. You. Do not forget that like I did.”

Draco nods, backing towards the door.

“But you defected,” he says, feeling small. Regulus smiles sadly, his eyes cutting.

“Yes, I did. And I paid for it with my life. And the life of my partner, and my daughter, and my brother and my mum and my best friends. I paid, Draco. I’m still paying.”

Draco has his hand on the door knob. “Huh,” he says, and opens the door when Regulus adds, “Oh, and Draco, dear? Don’t call people Mudbloods. There’s no such thing. And it’s rude.”

Draco nods frantically and closes the door so hard he lands flat on his ass in the hallway, watching the door seal itself and fade back into stone.

TWO: James Potter (Gryffindor Quidditch “Hall” of Fame, Gryffindor Common Room) & Seamus Finnigan [Fourth Year - Never Not (Lauv)]

Seamus finds himself alone in the Gryffindor common room one Wednesday morning, pretending to be sick with a cold. He’s wrapped in a blanket and staring into the empty fireplace when he hears, “YO! KID!”

Startled, he falls off the couch, and stumbles up and over to the Quidditch trophy case in the corner. There, in a small frame, is the smiling face of a boy who looks just like Harry, except without the mark, with dark eyes, and happier. Seamus reads the plaque, James Potter, and smiles sadly, wondering if Harry has ever talked to this portrait before.

James, meanwhile, barrels forward, “You’re the one in love with that lanky black kid, right?” Seamus’ eyes snap up as he sputters, but James just grins. “Cool. I thought so. Can I give you some advice…?”

“Seamus.”

“Can I give you some advice, Seamus?”

Seamus, now bright red, says, “Um, sure?”

James’ eyes twinkle and he says, “Tell him.”

Seamus starts coughing, beating his chest as James laughs and he protests, “No! No, I can’t just tell my best friend I’m in love with him!”

James shrugs. “You can,” he says. “You wanna know a secret?” He leans in just a bit. “My best friends fell in love.”

Seamus startles. “What?” He breathes, and James grins.

“Yeah. Sirius Potter and Remus Lupin. Wasted six bloody years apart before finally giving in and admitting it. They’re the most in love people I’ve ever met.” His brow wrinkles. “Well, except Sev and Lily and me.” It wrinkles further. “Nah, I gotta give ‘em this one.”

Seamus gapes in shock for a moment before blurting, “That werewolf and the Black runaway were in love?! And you - fuck, you were with Severus Snape???” James stares at him for a moment before blinking and then bursting into laughter.

When he finally calms down, he looks back up at Seamus’ flushed face and says, “Sirius is a Potter and a Lupin, not a Black. And he and Remy loved each other more than anything. And yeah, Sev and Lily and I had some real fun times.” He tilts his head in consideration and says, “Actually, now that I think about it, some of those happened right on that couch over there. It’s weird they haven’t gotten a new one, huh?”

Seamus sputters for a third and final time and skitters away with a tomato-red face as James shouts after him, “TELL HIM, KID! SHOVE HIM AGAINST A WALL AND SNOG HIM SENSELESS!”

(Seamus, later, to Harry: “Your dad is fucking wack, bro.”)

THREE: Lily Evans (Library, Restricted Section) & Cedric Diggory [Fourth Year - Someone To You (BANNERS), Good Old Days (Kesha, Macklemore)]

Cedric sneaks into the Restricted Section to hide from all the pressure of the tournament. One night he’s thumbing through the books in his boredom when he finds an unframed portrait of a smiling redhead. As soon as he lifts her out of the book, titled The Marauders: A Complete History of Unfiltered Pranks (by Minerva Mcgonogall for Minerva Mcgonogall, signed by Regulus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Severus Snape, James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Lupin (Love you Minnie!), and Lily Evans), the portrait pipes up, “Hi! I’m Lily!”

Cedric nearly drops the book in shock, but manages to catch it at the last second, mustering up a smile for the grinning portrait and introducing himself. She beams and glances at the book in his hand, her smile turning mischievous. “That’s a good one. We did get up to a lot, didn’t we?”

Speechless, he nods, not really processing that she’s just admitted to being Lily Evans, and her eyes dull with sadness at the sight of one of the injuries on his collarbone from the most recent challenge.

“Where’d you get that?” She asks, and he explains the tournament. She hums, and finally murmurs, “I heard them say my son is in that. Is that true?”

Mouth dry, Cedric nods, and Lily looks up at him again with glassy eyes and rasps, “Can you tell him I love him? That I’m proud of him and so are his fathers? Can you tell him that for me?”

Cedric nods again, hearing a creak and turning his head towards the noise when Lily whispers, “Go. Go, Cedric, before you get caught. Be brave, honey.” Cedric shoves the portrait back into the book and the book back onto the shelf with a muttered goodbye before sprinting away, Lily’s words echoing in his ears like a dying child’s scream.

FOUR: Sirius Black (Mcgonogall’s Office) & Ginny Weasley [Fifth Year - Alone (Bazzi)]

Ginny is sitting in Mcgonogall’s office, waiting for her professor to come and scold her for punching Zabini (he touched Luna’s ass, what was she supposed to do? Ask him to kindly stick his nose up where the sun don’t shine? She’d still be here, and he’d still be snickering like the slimy motherfucker he is in that dungeon cell he calls his bedroom). She hears a cough from somewhere on Mcgonogall’s desk and straightens up, ducking her head to peek around when she hears, “Pssst. Over here.”

She looks over and sees a framed picture of Sirius Black, grinning as if he’d never died. She swallows down her tears and nods her head in a polite hello. Sirius’ smile saddens as he says, “I hear you’re dating my godson.”

Ginny blushes, but nods, and for a moment, Sirius looks like he’s about to cry. “Why are you here, Ginny?” He asks softly, and she shrugs.

“Punched a Slytherin who touched my friend’s ass.”

Sirius grins at that, nodding his head in respect. “Good girl. You ever think about why that is?”

Ginny’s brow furrows and she opens her mouth to ask what he means when she sees his eyes wandering to a sketch of a wolf howling at the moon on Mcgonogall’s far wall, with the note For you, Minnie. Moony didn’t want it. Love, Sirius.

“I fell in love with a boy once,” Sirius murmurs. “My best friend. Remus Lupin. And he loved me back.”

I know, Ginny wants to say. You two were married and gave baby Harry joint Christmas presents and danced in the kitchen when you thought no one else was still awake. I’ve heard the stories, I’ve seen the pictures. I know. But instead she stays quiet, listening as Sirius tells his story.

“But instead of admitting that, I dated Marlene McKinnon for three years. Sold my gay ass out to a lesbian whore because I was too afraid to tell him how I felt about him.” Ginny has a lot of questions about the “lesbian whore” part - “I mean, she was a friend of mine, but I never wanted to kiss her, or sleep with her, but I did anyway. And he looked so fucking sad all the time. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t wanna ruin my happiness. I didn’t know how to tell him that he was my happiness. By the time I figured it out, it was too late.”

Ginny swallows, finally speaking up, “Why are you telling me this?” Sirius finally tears his eyes away from the picture of the wolf and the moon and gives her a bitter smile.

“Because I’m dead and my husband and I spent a mere three years together in all of the ten we knew each other. What kind of bullshit is that?”

Ginny shrugs. “Some bullshit,” she answers, and laughs uncomfortably.

Sirius laughs too, then sighs. He looks deep into her eyes and says, “I love my godson. You make sure he knows that. But I also love my husband. And I spent too damn long running from that. So let me save you a bit of trouble, Ginny - the greatest love is often the scariest.”

Ginny purses her lips. “What are you saying?” She says slowly, and Sirius smiles sadly as Mcgonogall’s heels come clicking down the hall.

“I’m saying maybe you shouldn’t waste your time on Harry when both your and his hearts lie elsewhere.”

Ginny blushes, looking down at the homemade bracelet Luna made her three summers ago, and at the sound of the door opening, she looks back up at a frozen Sirius, whose eyes are caught on Mcgonogall, somehow still twinkling.

FIVE: Peter Pettigrew (Outside Gryffindor Dorms) & Ron Weasley [Fifth Year - lovely (Billie Eilish, Khalid)]

Ron is sulking on the stairs outside the Gryffindor common room after a particularly bad Quidditch loss. He wishes he were with Hermione and Harry, but they were already tangled together when he came upstairs and he didn’t want to intrude, even though they invited him to.

He knows they’re all best friends, he just feels so much like the third wheel sometimes. So he’s sulking when he hears a soft, “Hey.”

He looks up in surprise and sees a portrait of Peter Pettigrew, and he immediately steels his eyes, backing away. Seeing this, Peter shouts, “Wait, no! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I know! I just - I didn’t actually betray them, you know? Okay, well, I did, but - but I fixed it! They forgave me! I promise I’m not evil, I’m not, Ron -”

“How do you know my name?” Ron blurts, and Peter jumps back in his frame, startled, then smiles softly.

“They say it,” he answers. “Harry, and that girl you’re always with. They say your name all the time.”

Ron blushes. “Oh,” he says, ducking his head with a smile. When he looks back up into Peter’s sad eyes, he says, “We lost today. Quidditch.”

Peter cocks his head. “To who?”

Ron shrugs, looking down at his lap and fidgeting with his fingers over his knees. “Slytherin. Never lost against Slytherin before.”

Peter shrugs. “James and Sirius did. All the time.”

Ron looks up. “Really?” Peter smiles softly.

“Yeah. Mostly because they wanted Severus and Regulus to feel good, but. Yeah, they lost to Slytherin all the damn time.”

Ron’s smile fades. “Severus? Like, Snape? The Death Eater?”

Peter winces, then shrugs. “The Order spy. But, yeah.”

Ron blinks in shock. “They were friends? Even after Lily?”

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion, but he answers anyway, “Yes? They were dating. Them and Lily. Sent the whole school up in flames.”

Ron’s jaw drops open. “You can do that?”

Peter shrugs. “Yeah, ‘course you can. You can date Harry and that girl if you want. No one’s stopping you.”

Ron flushes, looking down in shame.

“They don’t want me,” he mumbles. “Not the way they want each other.”

Peter hums. “Severus said that too. So did James. They were both idiots.” Looking up at Ron’s glistening eyes and pouting lips, he smiles.

“Just because you’re not the smartest or the strongest or the funniest or the best at anything in particular doesn’t mean you’re not important, or that people don’t care about you.”

Ron nods, slowly. He stands and heads back inside without another word, pretending he doesn’t hear Peter sigh and say, “You’re welcome,” bitterly as he mumbles the password to the Fat Lady and slips back through the crack in the door.

SIX: Severus Snape (Headmaster’s Office) & Hermione Granger [Sixth Year - Ophelia (The Lumineers), O Children (Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds)]

Hermione is visiting Dumbledore’s office for her Prefect badge and an overview of the position while Ron and Harry are brooding in their room. The three of them have become far closer than normal lately, and she’s almost glad to be away for a moment, as they’ve always been more honest with each other when she isn’t around. She can’t decide if that bothers her or not.

She’s waiting for Dumbledore to get there when she hears, “Miss Granger, correct?” in a slow, molasses drawl.

She looks up at the portrait labelled Severus Snape and answers the boy in the Slytherin tie, “Yes. Hello, Mr. Snape.”

Severus grins slowly, a cat-like expression of amusement and carefully calculated arrogance. “Smart one, aren’t you?” He asks, and she nods. He clicks his tongue. “Should’ve been in Ravenclaw.”

She flushes and opens her mouth to retort when the Sorting Hat starts shouting about insecure fuckwads who don’t know their place and Severus starts screaming back about it not doing its fucking job right until finally Hermione screams, “STOP!”

The hat grumbles off to sleep again while she stares a shocked Severus down, her shaking hands curled in fists as she says, “Please don’t shout at it. It’s tired.”

Severus raises an eyebrow, but huffs and turns away. She sees his blank arm as he turns his back to her and feels her heart break open with pity.

“You’re Harry’s father, right?” She asks softly, and his head whips towards her in shock. She offers a sad smile and explains, “Lily and James. There are no records, of course, but…”

“You’re Mcgonogall’s favorite,” Severus finishes, smiling wryly. “Yes. I am one of Harry’s fathers.”

Hermione nods, looking down at her books, and swallows before looking back up again to say, “He really loves you.”

Severus rears back in shock, his eyes searching her for lies as she tears up. “He really does. You may not know it, and he doesn’t speak of it, but - but I can tell. He misses you.”

Severus’ eyes turn dull and glassy and he turns away, hiding his face with his long shaggy hair. Hermione swallows down her tears, smiling again. “Yes, well -”

“I love him too,” Severus interrupts, voice soft. “I miss him too. We all do. Tell… tell him that, would you?”

Hermione blinks, then nods.

“Of course,” she says, ducking her head as the staircase starts to rumble. “I’ll take good care of him, sir.”

Severus smiles that sad wry smile again and stills just as Dumbledore steps through the door, but Hermione hears his silence echo in her ears.

Thank you.

SEVEN: Remus Lupin (Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom) & Luna Lovegood [Seventh Year - Dynasty (MIIA), Towards The Sun (Rihanna)]

As the war comes closer and closer to Hogwarts, the students there grow more and more anxious. Luna herself takes refuge in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where only Harry and Ginny know to find her. But with Harry on the run with Ron and Hermione and Ginny trying to hold down the fort with Seamus and Dean, Luna often finds herself alone.

One day she decides to make her way up onto the balcony over the classroom that leads to the office, and she reaches for the knob on the office door when she hears, “Don’t go in there, Miss Lovegood.”

She looks over at the portrait who’s spoken, dubbed Remus Lupin, and smiles. He smiles kindly back and asks, “What are you even looking for?”

Luna shrugs. “Some way to help, I guess.”

Remus smiles wryly and nods, glancing down at the wedding ring adorning his finger. His smile softens for a moment before he says, “Sometimes, Miss Lovegood, the best way to win a war is by treating others with kindness.”

Luna tilts her head to the side. “Like, with hugs and smiles?” She asks, and Remus smiles, biting his lip and nodding. His eyes are glassy, but she pretends not to notice.

“Yes, my dear, with hugs and smiles. Support each other. Take no conversation for granted. Merlin knows the only thing that comforted me in the first war was the constant reminders that I still had my family. That they were fighting with me, and that I was fighting for them.”

Luna nods sagely and looks down at the bracelets littering her wrists, each one made for a different person in her life: Ginny, her girlfriend; Harry, her partner; Neville, her best friend; Draco and Ron and Hermione, her friends. She asks, “What comforted you when you died? I know… I know it wasn’t fast. Or painless.”

Remus smiles, his eyes shining with kindness and hope despite the exhausted bruises beneath them and the scars across his face.

“I wasn’t alone,” he answers, his voice soft. “I died by Sirius’ side. I was holding his hand when I saw the light. And in the light there were silhouettes - James, Peter, Lily, Severus, Regulus. They were waiting for us. And I knew we would be okay.”

Luna nods. She twists a ring on her finger and says, “Thank you, Mr. Lupin. I’d best be going now.”

Remus nods as she begins to descend the steps, his voice ringing out one last time, “Good luck, Luna. I hope to Merlin your victory will be more permanent than ours.”

Luna twirls around, cocking her head as she asks, “You think we’ll win?” Remus smiles.

He nods, his eyes twinkling, and says, “Someone has to. Why not you?”

ONE: All Together Again (Grimmauld Place, Harry & Ron & Hermione’s Bedroom)  & Harry Potter [After Graduation of Eighth Year - Daylight (Taylor Swift)]

Following the end of the war, Harry moves into Grimmauld Place, left to him by the godfather he never knew. He takes Hermione and Ron with him, the three of them having been in a committed relationship since sometime when they were on the run and following an unspoken agreement that they will follow each other anywhere.

Luna lives nearby with Ginny, in an apartment by Draco’s little cottage and Neville’s tiny hovel. The three of them live quietly, though their friends visit often. Harry feels better, happier, though the hole left by his missing family is still there.

One day, as he’s putting up pictures of him and his partners around their shared bedroom, he hears, “Harry?”

He looks up, and there, on the opposite wall, is a picture of the seven Marauders, all young and staring at him in shock. Harry tears up and rushes over, taking the picture delicately in his hands and smiling as he rakes his eyes over his lost family. They all grin back, and Harry reads the inscription on the frame: My dear Marauders, You have been my pride and joy for seven long short years. I know you will all do great things; I cannot wait to see what you accomplish. You are, and have always been, my favorite students. All my love, Minnie.

Harry covers his mouth, emotional, until finally James asks, “Are you happy?”

Harry looks at Remus and Sirius, their fingers intertwined and their eyes sparkling. He looks at Regulus and Peter, their arms around each other’s shoulders as they grin. He looks at Severus and Lily and James, his three wonderful parents. And he looks down at the two wedding rings on the chain around his own neck, bearing the initials R.W. and H.G.. And he nods.

“Yeah,” he answers, grinning. “Yeah, I’m really fucking happy.”

[aotxfan]

Stranger in Familiar Skin (Floch)

Summary: Female unnamed character realizes that the man she once loved, Floch, is gone to her forever.

Warnings: Mentions of violence and blood.

Her heart was stuttering in her chest as she stared down at the barrel of the gun. She could feel her pulse roaring in her ears as her hands shook in front of her. It seemed like time slowed down as the man before her pointed it directly at her head.

“Floch?”

His name left her lips in a quiet whisper. Desperately, she prayed that she was wrong. Surely this cold hearted man before her wasn’t the same boy she had grown up with.

She hoped he would react with confusion, hoped his name out of her mouth would snap him out of whatever trance he had fallen into, but it didn’t work. At her voice, the finger on the side of the gun simply moved to the trigger. He didn’t press down yet, but the threat was there all the same.

“I told you not to resist,” the man, Floch, responded. He sounded bored as he said it, voice lacking any emotion, and he nodded at the empty cell behind her.

Her eyes were trained directly at the barrel pointing at her forehead. Never in a million years had she imagined they’d be in this situation. Nothing about any of this made sense.

The man before her was someone she knew yet didn’t recognize. A loved one and a stranger all at once.

She and Floch had grown up together as kids and enlisted at the same time in the military. He was her childhood friend and later lover. She had once thought he was her other half, a piece of her soul.

They had known each other since they could toddle and had trusted each other more than they trusted themselves. She had thought she knew him like the back of her hand. He had never given her any indication of being someone dangerous.

“Please,” she forced herself to speak out, “Put it down.”

Her hands were shaking like leafs and her eyes were burning with unshed tears. However, it wasn’t fear that made her freeze. It was heartbreak.

She could feel her heart shattering inside her chest. All around her, her world was spiraling. She felt light headed and sick. It was a miracle she hadn’t passed out yet.

He called her name in a monotone voice. It sounded so wrong coming out of his mouth. She had heard him say it hundreds of times. He had shrieked it in laughter as a child, whispered it reverently as an teen, and used it as a form of a prayer as an adult. Now, however, it sounded hollow and meaningless. There was no affection behind the enunciation of each syllable nor any indication that this encounter pained him as much as her.

“I won’t ask again. Get back in your cell,” he nudged his head towards the empty prison behind her.

She had managed to escape somehow, yet she couldn’t exactly remember how. Ever since he had arrived at the restaurant where the Marley POWs worked, her mind had blanked. After Floch and the other Yeagerists had entered pointing their weapons, she had stopped processing things. So startled by her former lover pointing a gun at her, she hadn’t realized that she been imprisoned nor could she remember how she had gotten out.

“Floch,” she tried again. Her voice sounded like a whimper, but it had no effect on him. Where once his name from her lips would have sent him running to her, he now seemed like an unmovable statue.

Hange had warned her, she recalled. They had told her that Floch had escaped from his cell and joined the Yeagerists. She hadn’t wanted to believe it then, her mind couldn’t have made sense of it, but it was evident now that they had been telling the truth.

The Floch before her was not the one she remembered. Gone was the man she loved. Left in his wake was a terrorist who had killed and would kill again. His hands were stained red, yet his sins seemed not to weigh heavy on his shoulders. His eyes were cold and dark like the bitter sea that churned past the walls, and his hand on the gun was steady despite the fact that he was pointing it at the girl he had once swore to love forever.

“What happened to you?” She exhaled the question out and her first tear rolled down her cheek.

“Happened to me?” He cocked his head to the side and his lips rose in a mocking sneer, “Have you forgotten everything already?”

He advanced on her, and she took a step back. Her heart was beating against her chest like a hummingbird stuck in a cage. Desperately, she wanted some sign that her Floch was still in there. He had to be, she refused to believe that the man she had once loved was gone forever.

“Did you forget how I almost died? How a demon led me to a suicide charge where I was the lone survivor? How the one person in this world that could save humanity was killed in favor of some nobody little boy just because he had friends that staged a mutiny? Did you forget about the way the military you served betrayed humanity’s hope of winning against the Titans? The one who could beat Marley and restore the Eldian Empire to glory? Have you forgotten how I was arrested for telling the public what they had a right to know? Treated as a criminal when all I have ever wanted was to protect my people and serve my nation?”

Another step forward from him. Two more steps back from her.

“I know that-”

She cut herself off knowing not how to continue. She knew everything that had happened. Of course she did.

She had wept at the Battle of Shinganshina when she had imagined him dead, had held him as he woke up from nightmares screaming and covering his head from imaginary rocks, had comforted him as he seethed about Marley, and had visited him every day after Hange had ordered his arrest. She had been there every step of the way, yet nothing had prepared her for this. Somewhere along the way, he had lost himself. Burning like the morning star, he had fallen from grace.

The demon before her now was not the same boy she had once loved.

“Don’t you recognize me? Don’t you know me?” His tone seemed mocking.

“No,” she breathed out.

She really didn’t. She knew Floch, but this wasn’t her Floch.

Her Floch was a little boy introduced to her by her parents as a toddler. He was a little boy who had loved to play with her as a child and would race her down the hills in summer.

Her Floch was a cocky little brat with a dumb haircut who had decided to join the military and enticed her to follow. He was a little brat who liked to tease her and gave her smirky smiles that made her want to hit him.

Her Floch was the teenager that had returned from Shinganshina with a haunted look in his eye. He was a teen that had wept as she held him and had been woken up by his own screams from nightmares that made his throat raw.

Her Floch was the man that had swore to love her and marry her once the war was over. The man that had pledged himself to her and kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered in their cruel world.

This demon before her was not someone she recognized. He was a stranger in familiar skin, a traitor in her country’s uniform, and she could feel her heart crack painfully in her chest.

“I wanted you to join me, you know,” Floch broke the silence, “I told you to help me leak the information when the time came. Had you helped me then, you could have stood at my side rather than being locked up in a cell.”

She closed her eyes and more tears fell. He had asked her for help back when Eren had been arrested. She had refused because she felt it was the wrong thing to do. She had trusted Hange and the military and thought that their orders for secrecy were for a good reason.

Now she couldn’t help but wonder if she had been wrong. If she had gone with Floch, could she have stopped all of this from happening? Could she have led him back to the light and kept him from losing himself in the darkness?

She had a feeling the question would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“Please,” she tried again, “Please come back to me. It’s not too late-”

A cold laugh broke through his throat. He lowered the gun just slightly and pressed a hand to his forehead as if the very thought made him want to double over. His eyes made her shiver.

“But it is too late, doll. Pretty soon Eldia will be restored and all of you, the military that betrayed Eren, will be known as traitors. The people will want you hung. Anyone who stood in the way of the Eldian Empire from rising will water its prosperous fields with their blood.”

“Is that what you want? Do you want me dead-?”

Her breath hitched. She felt lightheaded and had to lean against the cell door in order to keep herself from falling.

What was happening? The room seemed to be spinning.

This wasn’t the man she loved. The man she loved was kind if cocky.

He had been her childhood friend and had seemed an extension of her own soul. She had known his name before she had even known her own, had spent hours at his home playing with him, and had embraced him with sticky fingers from the candy they would share as a symbol of their friendship. He had been the cocky little teen that had stars in his eyes when he told her he had enlisted, had spun her around in excitement when she had joined the military to follow him, and had kissed her when she had chosen the Scouts just like him. He had also been the man that had promised to love her forever, the one that had held her through all those years, and the one that had teased her about marrying her once the war was over.

This man before her was none of those things. He was a cold hearted terrorist that had killed and would gladly kill again. Nothing of the old Floch was left in this new stranger.

“I don’t want you to die. It’s actually a shame to let someone so valuable die. You were a great soldier, no one could beat you in training, you would have made a great fighter for Eren. It’s a tragedy to let someone’s potential die with them.”

She swallowed painfully. She could feel her pulse roaring in her ears, and her hands shook from keeping them up for so long.

“For Eren,” she whispered, “You only want me to live for Eren. Nothing else matters then?”

“Can anything ever matter when the Eldian Empire is facing a dangerous enemy?” He shrugged.

She shook her head and desperately wished she could get through to him. There had to be some part of him that had survived. He couldn’t have lost himself completely, surely?

“Floch,” his name tasted bitter on her tongue, “Please. You know me, you grew up with me-”

You loved me.

She couldn’t bring herself to say the last part, but the phrase could be read in her heart. She bared her soul to him and waited for his response. There had to be some part of him that still cared. He couldn’t have been completely lost.

“Once upon a time,” he finally answered, “Once upon a time I did. Now, all I see is a traitor. You sided with the losing side, doll. I told you Eren was our future, but you just stood there as Hange ordered my arrest. I really, really thought you would-”

His breath hitched and a part of his mask cracked. She felt a flicker of hope rise in her, but it faded as fast as it came. He gathered his composure again before she had even had time to blink.

Soon, the gun was pressed directly to her forehead. Her breath caught in her throat.

“But you’ll pay for it. All of you will pay. When Eldia rises, it’ll rise on the sacrifice of those who doubted it. Your mountain of corpses will serve as a throne for Eren and Zeke to sit on. They will lead this island to greatness, and you all will regret betraying your blood.”

He moved away and shoved her roughly inside the cell. She landed on her back and stared up at him stunned.

He was gone completely. The man before her was a stranger on the opposite end of a battlefield. Whatever he had been before, the man she had once loved, was lost. In his wake stood a demon who would love to see her dead.

Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face. She could feel the last of her strength seep out. Despair churned inside her.

“I love you, Floch,” she meant it as she said it and hated herself for it, “Even now. Even though I can’t recognize you, my heart is still yours. Is it not the same for you? Were all those promises of marriage a lie?”

“Shut up.”

He hissed the words out as he slammed the cell door shut. Locking it, he leaned forward until his face was pressed between the bars. His eyes were cold like a tundra.

“You know what’s really funny? I didn’t do this for Eren, not at first. I did this all for you.”

At that, she froze. Staring aghast, she could only blink up at him. “What?”

He continued and leaned forward further until their faces were only inches away. The bars dug into his skin, but he seemed not to notice. His eyes were trained on hers.

“I did this for you. All I’ve ever done has been for you. I joined the military to fight the Titans so that you could live in a world without them. I joined the suicide charge so that you could escape once the battle was over. I even joined the Yeagerists so that Eldia could rise to power and take its place as a powerful empire. I wanted you to live in a country where you didn’t have to worry about foreign enemies across the sea. I wanted our kids to live in a world where their blood wouldn’t be a death sentence across the world-“

“Our kids?” She repeated it numbly and felt her eyes burn, “I never asked for any of this! All I ever wanted was you!”

He slammed his hands against the bar startling her. She jerked back in shock and hit her head against the cot. Stars burst across her vision and a piercing pain reverberated against her skull. When her hand went to the back of her head, she felt blood.

“Shut up! You were the one who betrayed me! Don’t you remember?!” He was all but frothing as he clenched his fingers against the bars. His knuckles were bleeding from where he had punched the metal, but he seemed not to care. “You just watched as Eren was taken in chains. You just watched as Hange ordered me arrested. I wanted you at my side! I wanted you to join me and fight for our home! In my head, you were always at my side! You stood next to me and we watched our Empire proudly flourish with our family! Yet you chose the wrong side! You sided with the military. You chose them over Eldia! You chose them over me-”

He let go of the bars and moved away. His rage boiled under his skin and simmered in his eyes, yet he shoved it aside. Returning to his mask of neutrality, he pressed a hand to his nose and pinched the bridge.

“You chose this,” he repeated to himself almost as if he wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it. “You chose the wrong side, doll. Now you pay the price. Eldia will rise and all of you traitors will regret ever standing in the way of your motherland.”

She scrambled to her feet as he turned around. Her head was bleeding and she pressed one of her palms against where it throbbed. Her other hand reached for him through the bars, but he was out of reach.

“Floch, please!” Her tears were running down her face now and her vision was doubled. The blow to her head made her feel dizzy and nauseous. “Please! Come back to me! Please! I love you!”

Numbly she repeated it. Her vision was growing dark, and she wondered if she had a concussion. She swayed in place but kept reaching for him.

If only he would turn around. Then he would see that she meant it. Then he would see the love that blazed in her eyes despite the hatred that burned in his heart-

But he didn’t. Instead, he gave her his back and swung the weapon over his shoulder. Snapping into the facade of a terrorists, he banged on the door to signal the Yeagerists outside to let him out.

Ignoring her pleas, he nudged his rifle as he walked away.

“Don’t escape again, doll. Next time, I will put a bullet in your brain.”

With that, the door clanged shut behind him.

Left alone, darkness creeping into the edges of her vision, she sank to the floor. Her eyes struggled to remain open and her head felt like it was splitting into halves.

She called his name softly and was met with silence. Heart obliterated in her chest, she sank to the ground and let darkness take over. The fight had left her just like him.

He was gone, she realized, the man she had once loved had been replaced with a stranger. The boy from all of those years together had been killed by the terrorist inhabiting his body. Whoever the demon in his skin was now, he was not someone she could ever hope to save.

The thought made her close her eyes and fall limply to the ground. She curled up into a ball and let the concussion win out. Her will to fight had been broken just like the remnants of her heart.

And, as her consciousness faded into the darkness, so did all her hope of ever bringing him back into the light.

[icedthoma]

what happens under the mistletoe stays under the mistletoe

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Summary: You somehow manage to end up under the mistletoe with none other than Bakugou himself. After that one kiss, you can’t help but see him in a different light...but does he feel the same way? 

“Um, whatcha got there?” you asked, staring at where Mina and Denki were sneaking down the hall holding several sprigs of what looked suspiciously like mistletoe. 

They looked wide-eyed at each other, then turned back to you. “Decorations?” Kaminari said. 

You rolled your eyes. “Mistletoe, seriously?” 

“Putting mistletoe over every doorway and wall is a sacred and romantic tradition!” Mina protested. 

“It’s based off the Norse legend where Loki tricked a blind god into killing someone by throwing a spear made of mistletoe,” you countered. “Real romantic, guys.” 

“You’re just salty because you’ve never been kissed!”

“Shut up!” you yelled, a blush creeping along your cheeks. “You know what, I don’t care if you put your stupid mistletoe up, just make sure everything else is set up, okay?”

“You know who’s also never been kissed?” Kaminari said off-handedly after flashing a thumbs-up your way, avoiding your gaze and looking at Ashido instead. “Bakugou.” 

“Really?” your pink friend asked. “What an odd coincidence--”

“Very funny, guys,” you groaned, crossing your arms. “I could care less about Bakugou’s lack of a love life. Now quit getting distracted and do your job!” 

Three hours later, the decorations were all set, the food was ready, and those from class 1B that had agreed to come were starting to filter in. You were taking note of all the surfaces that had mistletoe on them and planning the best possible route to head to the common room without getting caught under any of those cursed plants. You had already caught two of your classmates smooching in the elevator (Todoroki and Deku). 

“Uh-oh! Someone’s standing under the mistletoe!”

You panicked and glanced up, but there wasn’t any mistletoe above you. 

“If you come near me, I will rip your mouth off,” Bakugou growled from somewhere behind you, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Katsuki looked as grouchy as ever, sulking in his spiky Santa hat and red Christmas sweater as he leaned against the wall, a small branch of mistletoe above his head. 

“Okay, Grinch,” Kirishima cackled. You shook your head at their antics and continued to weave your way through the crowd, the food being the only thing on your mind at this point. 

You piled as much as you could on your plate and found an empty spot on a couch in the common room. Midoriya and Uraraka plopped down on either side of you. “Isn’t this great?” Deku asked, eyes shining and hair even more tousled than usual. 

"Yeah!” you replied with a grin. Despite your slight annoyance at Mina and Kaminari for insisting on the mistletoe decorations, it was really nice just hanging out with all your classmates, relaxing, eating, and celebrating Christmas together. 

“Have any of you seen Bakugou?” Iida asked as he walked by. 

“Uh, I don’t think so?” you replied. “Why?”

“I haven’t heard any death threats in the past thirty minutes and it’s getting suspicious.” 

“If I see him, I’ll make sure he doesn’t kill anybody,” you promised him. Turning back to Deku and Uraraka, you said, “I’ll be right back.”

“You’re done with your food already?” Ochaco exclaimed. “How?” 

“It’s my real quirk,” you joked, standing up and making your way to the trash can to throw your paper plate away. As you were standing at the trashcan, a familiar shout reached your ears. “That’s Bakugou,” you sighed, and followed the noise to see what was happening. 

“Bakugou and Tokage are under the mistletoe!” Pony from Class 1B squealed. 

“HELL NO.”

“Guys, guys!” you intervened, holding Bakugou back before he sent someone to the ER. “Listen, no one has to kiss anyone they don’t want to. This was just something that Kaminari and Ashido did for fun.” 

The small crowd that had gathered begrudgingly dispersed, mutterings of “you’re no fun,” drifting through the air. 

“Thanks,” Setsuna sighed in relief. Bakugou let out a huff and stalked away. 

“Yeah, no problem,” you said, eyes still fixed on the empty space where Bakugou had been a second ago. After waving goodbye to the girl from class 1B, you followed him. “Maybe if you didn’t keep standing near any mistletoe you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this,” you called out once you had caught up to him.

He whipped around to face you, and you thought he was about to bite your head off. “It’s not my fault the damn things are everywhere,” Bakugou grumbled instead. “I’m going to murder those two idiots.”

You caught his sleeve before he could fully storm away, only slowing him for a moment. He ignored you and continued to march on, and you yelped as you were being pulled along by your grip on his sweater. “Bakugou--wait!” 

“Y/n, Bakugou, stop right now!” Kirishima yelled, bursting in from nowhere. On instinct, and mainly because he took you by surprise, you and Bakugou stopped moving and turned to where Kirishima was pointing at the two of you triumphantly. No, he wasn’t pointing directly at you...but somewhere above you. 

No way. 

“Are you kidding me?” you screeched. “I don’t have to do anything if I don’t acknowledge it!”

“I don’t know...you seem to be acknowledging it a lot right now.” 

“Shut up, Kirishima!” you shouted, and let go of Bakugou’s sweater (that you had for some reason been holding all this time). You swallowed hard as you nervously scratched the back of your neck and turned to the boy beside you. You opened your mouth to say something, what it was you weren’t really sure, but the half-formed words died on your lips at the look on Bakugou’s face. 

You had expected him to be mad or annoyed at another run-in with the mistletoe at least. He was...none of those things. His expression was blank, but the tips of his ears were beginning to turn red. Everyone was looking at the two of you expectantly, and you still weren’t sure what was going through Bakugou’s mind. 

“There’s nothing to see here!” you protested in an attempt to defuse the situation. 

Bakugou’s hand in yours stopped you in your tracks, and you froze as he pulled you a step closer to him. “Just go with it,” he whispered, and then his lips were on yours before you had a chance to blink. 

You stared wide-eyed at Bakugou’s face millimeters from your own. His eyes, on the other hand, were closed, his mouth gently pressing against yours with a tenderness you never would have expected could come from the explosive boy. You remembered to breathe, and as you inhaled you got a whiff of...caramel? Your mind raced a million miles ahead of your body, making you aware of Katsuki’s calloused fingertips brushing against your palm, his small breaths tickling your skin, the warmth of his presence, and the sweet caramel scent you couldn’t stop thinking about. You closed your eyes and leaned in, deepening the kiss to the shock of those looking on. 

The two of you pulled away by a fraction, your gaze raking over Bakugou’s flushed face and how he was rapidly blinking, as if he couldn’t believe what just happened, either. The two of you jumped away from each other as soon as you came to your senses, your face feeling like it was on fire. 

Everyone else, who had seemed to be as stunned as you were, immediately started yelling in excitement. Take that, Kaminari, you thought dazedly. 

“Whatever,” Bakugou scoffed, and barreled up the stairs to his dorm before anyone could get a word in edgewise. 

“Nothing to see, huh?” Kirishima teased you. 

You weren’t listening, for you kept subconsciously touching a finger to your lips where Bakugou’s had been just a few moments before.  

What just happened? 

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

PART TWO

[peterthepark]

Cold as Ice

Billy Hargrove x Reader

Summary: Billy just doesn’t understand why you’re so cold to him. He becomes desperate to warm you up. But, the killer heat of Hawkins combined with a stupid school project gives him the chance to know what’s truly underneath all that ice.

Warnings: cursing, smut, sExUal tenSion, some angst, some fluff, LOTS OF SIN

A/N: Definitely my filthiest fic at the moment, enjoy!

“You’re my partner.”

You look up from the register, hands on your hips as you stare at Billy Hargrove with a blank, unamused expression. There are a few people behind him, arms crossed against their chests - Tommy, Carol, and some other bimbo.

Funnily, you realize that they all resemble a group of poodles.

Cute.

Billy raises his eyebrows at you, smacking his gum as he impatiently awaits for a response. You glance at the folder that he slaps down onto the counter, knowing exactly what it contains.

“Hm, didn’t think you guys were recruiting for the next douchebag of Hawkins High. Are these the applications?” You finally pick up the folder, skimming through the thick pages of paper with a toothy smirk. “To be honest, I consider myself more of a bitch than a douchebag. Isn’t that right, Harrington?”

You chuckle devilishly as you hand Steve a couple dollars, who snickers at the interaction. Billy seems confused, but by the way he clenches his jaw and barely blinks, you can tell you’ve also hit a spot.

“Looks like I’ve won the bet, Y/N. Fuck, yeah! Robin! I told you I would win!” Steve runs into the back room of Scoops Ahoy, waving the dollar bills at his friend.

You turn back to Billy, re-adjusting the hat on your head. “Now, can I get you something, pool boy?” You lean over, hands splayed onto the cool marble of the counter.

“Did you not pick up on what I just said? I’m asking you to be my partner for the project. No, I’m picking you to be my partner.” Billy tries to keep a steady voice, but you easily catch the deep breath he takes between his words. His ‘friends’ are whispering behind him, exchanging dirty looks.

“Well, I’m actually not allowed to have personal conversations with customers right now,” Billy scoffs, tugging his lip between his teeth. “And so, if you aren’t ordering ice cream, then be my guest, and leave. I’ve got a few angry customers to deal with if you can’t tell.” He follows your pointed gaze, and surely enough, the line behind him is fairly long - filled with crying kids and irritated parents. “Come back later? Or never at all?”

Billy groans, pacing in short steps. He knows you’ll come around. They always come around.

You truly are a bitch.

Yet, somehow, Billy waits till the end of your shift to speak with you - hopefully in a more private spot and in a less aggressive manner.

You roll your eyes when you see him, sitting by the table nearest to the register. He seems to be alone, yet it annoys you even more.

“I don’t wanna be your partner, Hargrove. Is that not clear?” Your eyes follow him as he stands up. He’s much taller than you, so you can only send him an intimidating glare in hopes of scaring him away. “Pick someone else. And let me give you a hint - it’s not me.”

Billy inhales deeply, before a small smile forms on his face. He grabs your arm before you can walk away, hoping that he can win you over with his charm. But he knows he has to put away his pride to do so.

“Sweetheart, I really need help with this project. You’re the smartest girl in our class, and if you can’t tell, I hang around a bunch of dumbasses.”

Oh, so this is why he was alone. So he could talk crap about his shitty friends.

Billy continues, smile never wavering. He still has his hand wrapped around your arm, holding you in place as he speaks by your ear. “And anyways, it’s already set in stone. I asked Mrs. Johnson if I could pair up with you. She thought it was a great idea. Guess we’re in this together now, huh?”

He harshly pushes the folder of papers into your chest, letting go of your arm.

“What? You can’t do that!”

But he certainly did do that. Because when you storm into Mrs. Johnson’s classroom on one Monday morning, she’s rambling over how excited she is to have you and Billy working together.

“But Mrs. Johnson, I never agreed to this. How is this fair?” You whine, waving the folder around with wide eyes.

“Miss Y/N, you’ll be doing Billy a huge favor by helping him. He isn’t failing, but he is struggling. He could most definitely use your help.”

Despite all the complaining, Mrs. Johnson doesn’t allow you to pick anyone else. To her convenience, you and Billy are the only ones who haven’t had a designated partner - and now, you really don’t have a choice.

-

The next week, Billy is back in Scoops Ahoy. He can see your snarl from the other side of the mall. He’s got you trapped in cage, and he knows you’re having a hard time trying to adapt to it.

“I knew that he’d pick you.” Steve says through a mouthful of banana, hitting you in the face with its peel. “I mean, you’re the only girl - besides Robin - who hasn’t given into him. He’s probably just trying to cross off your name on his list.”

“He has a list?” You gag dramatically, protesting as Robin pushes you jokingly.

“Dude, Y/N, he’s literally coming over here.” She points at Billy, who actually is coming over.

“I don’t care. Change spots with me. Steve! Robin!” You shout, pulling at the ends of your hair as they run into the back room, locking the door behind them. “Screw you both!”

You turn around, meeting eyes with the damned Billy Hargrove. You fake a smile. If this was a cartoon, steam would certainly be coming out from your ears.

“Bad day?” Billy pouts mockingly at you. His hands rest inside the pockets of his jeans, eyes looking over your angry state. “Should I come back or....”

“Actually, no. But you know what?” You slide yourself over the counter, brushing away at the lint that has accumulated on your blue shorts. “I’m not doing this stupid project alone. You’re staying here till my shift is over. And when it is, you’re gonna drive your ass to my house, where the both of us can work on it. Together. Happy now, douchebag?”

Your breath is almost minty, and somehow feels cool against Billy’s skin. He steps back with a cocky grin, raising his hands as if he were surrending to you.

But he wasn’t surrendering.

“You just gave Team Hargrove one point. But Team Y/L/N? Zero.” Billy snaps with a flash of his pearly whites. He crouches down to your height, hands resting on his thighs. He knows that he is pissing you off. “I’ll see you when you’re done.” Then, you cross your arms at him, nose pointing up as he stands to full height. His eyes flicker down to your lips. “And honestly? I think I’m more of a dick than a douchebag.”

You want to slap the stupid grin of his face. But you don’t. You don’t know the real reason behind it, but you try to convince yourself as to why.

Because it’s against company policy?

Steve and Robin poke their heads out of the other room, coming out when Billy cockily walks away from you. You’re still standing there, eyes narrowed and face drawn into a look of displeasure.

“Should we not bother her?” Steve whispers, elbowing Robin. “I kinda don’t wanna get yelled at right now.”

“No, no, Steve. She’s hotter when she’s angry. Trust me.”

“Guys!” You scoff at them. She laughs at the sudden smile on your face, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I mean, she’s not wrong, Y/N.” Steve shrugs before taking your place at the register. “You’re pretty hot, I guess.”

“Oh, stop it, Harrington. I’m out of your league.” You wink at him, hopping back over the counter.

You let out an exasperated breath when Robin tells you to sort out the shipments in the back. You push the back door open, groaning audibly when you see the tall stack of cardboard boxes. There’s a clipboard on the table in the middle of the room, and you read over it lazily before you begin to sort through the deliveries.

No one really knows why you despise Billy. Not Steve, not Robin, not anyone. It seems as if you had woke up, saw him, and decided that he was someone you disliked.

That was partly true.

But in detail, you did dislike - or hate, whichever was fitting based on your mood - Billy for a few things.

You never understood his sudden popularity, or the sex appeal he carried along with him. You never understood the hair, the smoking, the people he hung around, or the recklessness and the partying.

You just didn’t get it. You didn’t get why people would waste their time around him, when clearly, he wasn’t grateful for any of it.

Maybe your hatred of him spiraled from insecurity.

He had everything. He was popular and easy on the eyes. He was charming and fun. You’d never admit it out loud, but he truly seemed like a good guy, underneath that whole douchebag act of his.

You were nothing alike. Or so you thought.

-

“Honey! There’s someone here for you!” Your mother calls out from the bottom of the stairs, a slight smirk on her face when she realizes how handsome your guest is. You come barreling down the stairs, feet heavy and frowning deeply when you see who’s sitting on the sofa.

“Billy.”

“Y/N!” He comes to meet you, pulling you into an embrace. Your reaction is one of utter shock, because suddenly, all you can smell is expensive cologne and the faint scent of cigarettes. “Your mother was just asking me if we wanted to join her for lunch.”

“Oh. Uh, thank you, but we have to work on a project, Mom.” You send Billy a look, clearing your throat when you see his lips twitch upwards. “We’ll be upstairs.”

Your mom disappears into the living room, giving you both a second glance and a knowing look as you jog up the stairs.

“How do you know where I live?”

“That little girl from the mall? I think she’s Sinclair’s sister. Bought her some ice cream when I saw it fall, she just returned the favor.”

Erica. Damn it.

“Okay, well, I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.” You complain, running your hands through your hair, damp from a shower. Billy follows you into your bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He takes in the sight, something he wouldn’t expect from someone like you. There are various posters plastered onto your soft pink walls - band posters, movie posters, and he huffs at the one of a shirtless man. There’s a record player on top of your bookcase, where you stand, occupied as you flip through your vinyls. “What’s your cup of tea? Queen? The Beatles? Metallica? Foreigner?”

“I really don’t care.” He scoffs, licking his lips as he takes a seat on your bed.

Foreigner it is, then.

“And I really don’t want you on my bed. Get off, Hargrove.” You throw a paper ball at him, hiding the smile on your face when he doesn’t dodge it in time. “Thought you played basketball. What happened to those reflexes?”

With a dramatic eye roll, Billy tosses the ball into the trash, sliding off of the bed and onto the floor instead. You grab the project folder from your study table, sitting down across from him. You’re reading through the directions when Billy starts to light a cigarette.

And you gasp - really loud. “Billy! No! None of that in here.” You take the cigarette from his lips, his coughs fading in the background as you throw it out your window. “Are you crazy?”

“I just wanted a smoke!”

“Yeah?! Then not in here!” You shake your head at him, handing him a sheet of paper as you calm down. “Your turn to read, asshole.”

Your head begins to become fuzzy as Billy’s fingers brush against yours when he grabs the paper.

He reads, voice soft and surprisingly enthusiastic - if he didn’t act like such a dumbass, you’d think he was somewhat intelligent.

(However, you know he is intelligent - somewhere in that douchebag brain of his - though, that’s one of the things you could never admit to anyone).

The room is suddenly blazing hot, uncomfortably warm despite the numerous open windows. The air conditioning isn’t enough, and you’re silently cursing as you feel sweat build up among your skin. You’re fanning yourself, swallowing as you notice the bead of sweat that rolls down the side of Billy’s forehead.

“God damn, it’s hot.” Billy curses, unable to continue reading with how tight his chest feels. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, hoping he could get some sort of air.

“Our air conditioning sucks.” You push your hair back, “Summer’s coming.”

Billy nods in agreement, picking up from where he had left off.

Maybe it’s just the heat, but suddenly, you start to space out.

Your eyes focus on the rise and fall of Billy’s tan chest, how his skin glows with sweat, and how his muscles flex under that shirt of his.

Oh, wow.

“Y/N? Did you hear me?” You snap out of your trance. “Hope you haven’t passed out.” He sets the paper down, leaning back against your bed frame.

“Huh? Sorry, I - I was distracted.”

Don’t let your guard down.

“I was asking which part you wanted to do.”

“Uh, whichever one is the hardest. I can take it.”

And Billy stops breathing. Maybe because there’s some sort of - sexual - euphemism in that sentence, but also because he’s noticing how flushed you look: cheeks red, skin glistening, breaths heavy. Your hair sticks to your arms, resting on the tops of your knees. But then, he sees this look in your eyes.

It’s not the normal glare he gets. But your eyes are softer, less intense, more - was that longing?

You’re just staring at him, lips slightly parted as your eyes quickly drop down to the floor.

“Unless, um, you want the harder part then you can have it, I guess.” You pipe up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You’re avoiding his gaze, and Billy isn’t sure that he recognizes this Y/N.

Did he win you over yet? That easily?

“Here, you can look over it with me again.” Billy scoots beside you, his denim-clad thigh pressed up against your bare one. His breaths are even, blowing over your hands as you hold up the paper. “I was thinking I could do the research on the biographical context and symbolism, and...” He glances over to you, eyes trailing over the expanse of your neck. Your jaw is tightly clenched, but you don’t meet his stare. “... and then, maybe you could do the overall analysis. Or we could do it differently, if this way doesn’t meet your standards, princess.” His voice is low, a sultry tone laced subtly in his words. He peeks his tongue out to lick his lips, and you look over at that exact moment.

Aw, shit. You wouldn’t give up that easily, would you?

He’s not the only one that can play this game.

“No, I like your idea. We can do that.” You turn to him, hair slightly hitting him in the face. You pucker your bottom lip slightly, rolling it between your teeth as you pass him the paper back.

“Is it getting hot in here?”

Not this line.

“Nope, just you.” You let out a sharp exhale, reading over more of the project.

“Whew. I gotta take off my shirt.”

“Excuse me?” Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull, causing you to drop your pencil. But it’s too late once Billy is pulling his shirt over his head. “Hey!”

Though, he wears a tank top underneath.

And honestly, you’re kind of disappointed.

Wait, what?

He hurls the shirt towards your bed, running his hands through his messy curls. His arms look even bigger, and you can see the faint outline of his abs through the thin, white material. You catch the tattoo on his upper bicep, and you have to put a hand to your mouth from saying anything - now this was ruining you.

Don’t give in.

“Like what you see, Y/L/N?” He flexes his arms in a subtle manner, biting down harshly on his lip. He grunts as he leans over to pick up your pencil, handing it to you. “Didn’t mean to make you drop this.”

Yeah. Apology accepted. Jerk.

“If this is your way of seducing me, it isn’t working.” You cross your ankles over each other, shaking your head at Billy.

He laughs, running his hand through his hair. “And why would I want to seduce you, Y/N?”

The question does sting, but it doesn’t change the fact that his face is literally inches away from yours.

You aren’t done playing the game.

“Oh, I don’t know, Billy. Maybe because I’m the only girl on that - that list of yours that you haven’t yet crossed out? Or is it because you’ve fucked all the pretty girls at school and you’ve finally come to the realization that you’d rather fuck someone with a bit of brains?”

Billy hums with a slow, antagonistic nod, tongue poking out from the corner of his lips. He abruptly stands up, turning up the volume on your record player. He’s dancing. But the bitter look on his face is all you can focus on. You stand up as well, pouting as you lower the volume of the music. It’s a back and forth between you, Billy, and the music.

“The problem with pretty girls, Y/N...” He starts between breaths, still dancing as you stand ahead of him - not happy. “... is that they can’t tell when a guy is no longer interested in them. They got the looks, but no brain.” He chuckles, parting his lips as he taps the side of his head. “And the girls that do have brains? They also got a problem. They’re smart, sure, but they just don’t know when to quit being a bitch.”

That’s when he turns up the music to full volume, hooting in your face as he dances even more.

This was Billy Hargrove at his finest.

“We’re never gonna get this project done if you keep thinking with your dick instead of your head, asshole.” You almost growl. You’re fuming now.

He really knows how to piss a girl off, huh?

“You ever had a boyfriend, Y/N?”

No. Never.

“Yeah, I have. Why?” You gulp, pushing past Billy. You sit down on your bed, continuing on writing your analysis for the project.

“What was his name?”

“Uh - It was - It’s Steve.”

What are you doing?

“You dated Harrington? King Steve?” He slowly stops dancing, panting loudly as he looks down at you.

“Dating him, actually.”

Oh, God.

“Huh. You ever had sex with him?”

“Hargrove, this is getting a little personal.” You chuckle nervously.

“Is that a... no?” He crouches down in front of you, eyes blinking at you. He’s catching on. Surely, you weren’t this good of a liar. “I’ll take that as a no. Must suck, yeah? Harrington doesn’t know how to handle a woman like you. Poor Y/N. You just want a little lovin’ from King Steve...”

His thumb hooks itself under your chin.

And his blue eyes are almost hypnotizing.

“Are you really dating Steve Harrington? ‘Cause you seem a lot out of his league. You’re not even in the ballpark, baby.”

His big hand cups your jaw, fingers rubbing against your skin. Somehow, his hands are freezing - despite the hundred degree weather.

“I have a... boyfriend.”

Billy knows you’re lying now.

“Why are you so cold to me, Y/N?” His eyes are fixed on your lips, flickering up to you when you speak.

“I don’t know. Why are you such a douchebag?”

“Sure. I’m a dick, but you - you’re somethin’ else. You are mean. Steve seems a little soft for someone as headstrong as you.” He shrugs animatedly, “Maybe you’re looking for a - a... thrill.”

“What do you want from me?” You scoff at him.

“I think I know why you hate me.” You hold your breath as he continues, “We’re more alike than you think we are.”

“Yeah? I’d like to hear it, then.”

Deathmatch.

“We both crave something more. Most people go after someone with a little... heat to their name, but us? We thrive in the cold.”

“You’re wrong.” You shake your head at him.

“Then why am I still touching you?” He stands, hands leaving your jaw.

No, come back.

“Billy, this - this isn’t-“

“Surely, your boyfriend wouldn’t like the way I was touching you, wouldn’t he? What’s Steve gonna do if he finds out? Fight me?”

“Steve’s not my boyfriend! Fine! You win!” You explode, rising to your feet.

And it all comes rushing back to you.

You both really are alike.

“You see it now, don’t you? All this competing, this - this fighting, we clash because we’re the same. And it scares you. Because who would’ve thought you had something in common with the douchebag from school, huh?”

He takes a step closer to you. And you do the same to him.

“Smart girls need attention, too.” He says softly, leaning in to whisper at your ear. “But you... you’ve been looking for someone who’s as cold as you. And I respect that, Y/N.”

You make the mistake of locking eyes with him when he pulls back.

“I’m way out of Steve’s league.”

You look down at his plump lips, glancing at how his neck bobs when he pushes your hair behind your shoulder.

There’s an unfamiliar feeling that sparks in your chest when Billy’s fingers trail past your collarbone.

“Can I kiss you now? Because all this tension might give me high blood pressure.” He smirks at you.

You don’t reply.

But you do lean forward, on the tips of your toes, mashing your lips against Billy’s. Your hands are cool against his shimmering skin.

The kiss isn’t sweet, but fueled with fire and pent-up anger. Billy is fast enough to show you that he really wants you, but at the same time, he’s slow, wanting to prove to you that you aren’t just another name on his so-called ‘list.’

You don’t give a shit about winning anymore.

Stubble tickles your cheeks as Billy moves to kiss your neck.

“This doesn’t... this doesn’t change the fact that I still hate you...” You breathe raggedly, screwing your eyes shut at how his mouth feels on your neck.

He tugs at the straps of your tank top, pulling it over your head as he hoists you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his hips, and you can feel the tightness form in his jeans.

“God, you’ve been such a bitch to me for the past week.” He moans into your skin, pressing you up against your bedroom door as he uses one hand to hold you, and the other to unclasp your bra. You let out a choked moan, only for Billy to place his hand over your mouth. “Don’t forget that your mama is downstairs. What would she think if she saw me doing this to her daughter?”

You bite at his hand, smiling as he groans pleasurably at the sensation.

He’s so rough, but you’re enjoying it.

Billy swivels on the heels of his shoes, laying you down onto your bed as he kisses down your torso. His saliva sticks to your skin, and he chuckles when he watches you arch your back into him. Your hand reaches for his, and he doesn’t pull away - despite how intimate the action is for him.

Billy Hargrove doesn’t hold hands with flings.

That’s how he really knows you aren’t one of them.

“B-Billy...” You gasp as his lips pass over your breasts, his hands cupping and kneading them softly.

He reaches up to kiss you again, whispering, “This isn’t your first time, right?”

You shake your head, “No, no.”

“Okay.” He nods with a grin, taking off his top. “But no one is ever gonna make you feel this good.”

He groans as you crawl to the edge of the bed, playing with him through his jeans. You glance up at him innocently, his fingers card through your hair. You leave short kisses on his abs, slowly making your way up to his neck. You suck and lick at it, surely leaving a prominent mark there. He pulls out his belt, flinging it onto the floor as you unbutton his jeans for him.

He licks his lips, pushing you back down onto the bed. You scoot over, making room for him as he takes off your shorts. You chuckle when he moans at the sight of lace.

“Didn’t know you were wearing those.” He says, obviously surprised as he wraps his fingers around the waistband, letting it snap against your skin. You gasp, letting his hands wander over your back.

“Just be glad I’m letting you see them.”

He flips you over so that you’re on your knees, ass in his face as he pulls the lace panties past your ankles.

You bite back a loud moan. His face and his mouth is down there and you swear you’ve entered heaven itself.

Hell was too hot for the both of you, anyways.

He hums against you, the vibrations nearly sending you over the edge as he toys with you in places you didn’t even know existed. He pulls away, causing you to whimper.

But as you look back at him, the sight is enough to make you cum. His boxers are nowhere to be seen, and instead, he’s touching himself, grinning as he sees the dumbfounded expression on your face.

“You’re okay with this?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows. You’re shaking your head. “I need to hear it out loud.” He kisses your lower back, hands caressing your ass.

“Yes. Please.”

“Condom?”

You wink, rubbing yourself against him. “On the pill.”

Billy lets out a moan, chuckling. “Mm, that’s my girl.”

You hold back a breath as he pushes himself into you. He’s huge, and it stings with how much he’s stretching you out. You let out a sob of pleasure, hand coming to touch Billy’s upper thigh.

“Slow?” He asks, voice gruff as he bottoms out. You’re sure that he’s as deep as possible, but part of you longs for him to go even deeper.

“No, fast.”

Billy pulls out, only to slam back in. His movements are quick, hips thrusting at a rapid pace. You’re moaning, falling into the mattress with how good he feels inside you.

“Holy fuck!” He grunts as he leans over you, hand coming to rest by your face. He outstretches his fingers, and you take his hand into yours. “Y/N...”

“We have to - to be quiet...” You moan once more, throwing your head back as his arm wraps around your stomach, pulling you closer to him.

He pounds into you, grunting as silently as possible. You can feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Good girl, such a good girl for me.” He cries out, taking a fistful of your hair. You yelp out of surprise when he gently pulls you back.

You liked that.

“D-do that again.” You stutter, mumbling incoherent words when he repeats the action.

The record player still plays music.

And you’re so grateful that it’s loud enough to silence the filthy sounds between you and Billy.

Thank God for that.

But this... this was a whole new level of sinful.

Billy brings a hand to touch your throat. And you nod in approval, shutting your eyes when you feel the pads of his fingers tighten around your airway. He’s still soft and cautious, but the way he was fucking you was enough to send you into overdrive.

Your hand comes up from the bed, jaw hanging open in utter bliss as you flex your fingers. “I’m gonna cum. Billy, holy, I-“

“C’mon, baby.” Thrust. “I’m right there...” Thrust. “...With you.”

You’re cumming.

Your legs are shaking and you feel the wave of heat fall over your body like a spell. Billy follows shortly, groaning sinfully as he buried himself inside you. He pulls out, pumping himself as he lets himself go onto your body. You feel the warm drops of his cum drizzle across your back and over your ass, trickling down your thighs and between your legs before you fall onto the bed.

“Oh, my god.” You sigh, curling up. Billy falls beside you, eyes studying your features for any sign of pain or sadness.

“Was that okay?”

“I just had sex with Billy Hargrove. Oh, my-“ Your hand comes up to massage your temples.

He chuckles.

“And I just had sex with you, so I guess we’re pretty even.” He states, kissing your neck one last time.

He’ll give it to you.

You both win.

But who said that the game would be over?

-

“Here’s the project, Mrs. Johnson.” You smile respectfully, exchanging glances with Billy as you hand her the folder. Her eyes bounce from you both, hands sorting through the papers of the project.

“This looks good.” She nods, eyebrows raised when she finds the part that Billy had worked on. “Wow, Y/N must’ve been a great help to you, Billy.”

“Yeah. She helped me a lot.”

Billy links his pinky with yours under the table, where your thigh rests against his. His fingers come to toy with the hem of your skirt, and his touch: cold.

“Well, I might say that this project deserves an A. It looks very well-planned and thought out.” She takes off her reading glasses, placing them carefully on her desk as she re-organizes your papers. “How would you feel about an extra credit project, Billy? Just to boost your grade a little more before the year ends?”

You and Billy share a knowing grin.

It’s wicked.

It’s spiteful.

It’s cold as ice.

But there’s an inextinguishable heat that lingers between the two of you.

“As long as Miss Y/N can be of help to me.” He flashes a charming smile, hands coming up to rest on the wooden desk.

“Of course, Mr. Hargrove.”

You shut the door of the classroom behind you, following Billy into the bustling hallway towards the cafeteria.

He turns to you and winks as he rounds the corner, denim jacket slung over his shoulder.

“See you later, partner.”

“Later, douchebag.”

Oh, how you loved the cold.

[freshiegayboi]

That night Sans stalked to his bedroom, kicking his shoes off with a vehemence and flopping face down on the bed, unwilling to even look up when a weight popped suddenly in beside him.

“So. Rabbits huh. Assholes, the lot of them.”

Sans snorted, turning his face to the side. “Don’t let Bertha hear you say that, she’ll revoke your donut rights.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

so i figure i should post actual content here sometimes lol so have a fic update! Chapter 5 of Blank Shot :D

tags: Fellcest, Kustard, Kedgeup, attempted murder, allusions to sexy times, general violence

read it on Ao3

or read it below!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’d been a long day, Sans having been busy writing letters to congressmen for negotiations for monster rights, signing petitions for the same, and generally making sure everyone under his employ had been fairly paid and were still happy with their positions.

Not one of them had ever said they were unhappy with where and what they worked with, but he had gotten a few complaints about one of the more lazy bodyguards that had been employed nearly two years. He’d once again started harassing some of the weaker workers that cleaned the house. This was the third time the young rabbit had been caught doing so, and while Sans believed in giving someone a chance… there was a zero tolerance policy for sexual harassment.

Sans was as gentle as he could have been, letting him know gently that he would need to find another job because Sans wasn’t about to let him stay on. So of course things got nasty and Portugal had been called in as well as Ursula to take the nearly feral rabbit from the property. He hated that things had gone that way, but he’d rather keep his employees safe than keep on a worker who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.

That night Sans stalked to his bedroom, kicking his shoes off with a vehemence and flopping face down on the bed, unwilling to even look up when a weight popped suddenly in beside him.

“So. Rabbits huh. Assholes, the lot of them.”

Sans snorted, turning his face to the side. “Don’t let Bertha hear you say that, she’ll revoke your donut rights.”

Red made an offended noise, Sans chuckling as he rolled over, sighing as he stared at the ceiling. “Did the kid get him off the property alright?”

Humming as he examined the ends of his claws, Red didn’t really answer. “If you mean, ‘Did P give that asshole a good punch to the jaw for threatening to hurt you’, then yeah, he got him off the property alright.”

Sans laughed once, loud and sharp. “Well. I guess he sort of deserved it.”

He didn’t look at the bruise around his wrist, could still feel it, but he wasn’t going to look at it. Not when Red was right there to clock every emotion on his face and shut the entire place down just for one bad worker.

Edge was likely already losing his shit about it, but Sans was trying not to think about that either.

“I guess I’ll need to make sure Bertha gives him an extra muffin tomorrow.”

Red snorted at that, but went still as the door opened, Sans feeling his intent turn from alert aggression to a begrudging affection. Which only really happened for one person, Sans grinning as the weight of a body climbed up on his own, Edge straddling his hips.

He glanced up, finding Edge staring down at him with a sly, sharp grin, promise in his eyes.

“Well? You two gonna fuck me up or not?”

~.~

It was a long night, between the two of them, and it left Sans asleep on the bed with Red holding him from behind, thoroughly sated the both of them. Edge was standing at the window, the thing propped open like it never was, cigarette dangling from his sharp fingers. The nicotine helped him think, after a round of awesome, tender sex with the two monsters he loved most, brought him back to a place of clarity. Which was why he spotted the far off glint of moonlight on the barrel of a gun long before the shot actually rang out.

It gave him enough seconds to slam the bullet proof window shut, scooping Sans and Red up both to huddle behind the bed.

Just as he’d shoved them under him, the sound of bullets hitting the glass were sharp in the air, Red shouting a curse as one made its way through the wall just above his head. Edge shoved Sans further beneath him, glancing furtively around to find the case that held their own stash of guns they kept in the bedroom. Locating it under the bed, he snatched it out, grabbing Red to pull him close.

“Get Sans to the safe room, let me handle it.”

Red gave him an unsure glare, but grabbed Sans by the arms and was gone with a pop of distorted air.

Edge growled as a fresh barrage of bullets hit the side of the building, crouching as he moved past the mattress and to the edge of the window sill, glaring at the wall as the shots finally went silent, sliding the window open before standing to his full height and aimed his rifle where he’d seen the glint of the gun.

It was no longer there, the slight shadow of whoever it’d been long gone, but he shot there anyways, letting his aim be a warning to anyone stupid enough to try this stunt again.

There was only woods around San’s main property, there being a few buildings that made up the main complex. The gunman had been sitting on the top of one of such buildings, an oversight to have the access point to Sans’ bedroom right there. Edge would need to make a note of that after he was done scouring the building from top to bottom to find where the leak in information was.

Someone had not only told whoever was doing these attempts at Sans’ life where the master bedroom was, but had likely let them on the premises. Edge was beyond pissed that they’d just gotten rid of trash like that today, only to find out that there was more hiding in the shadows.

He’d let Red know as soon as lock down was over that they had a mole, his older brother sure to be incensed about the whole thing. Edge already was, but his anger paled in comparison to what Sans’ would be when he found out that someone he trusted had betrayed him.

He winced as he crouched from his stock still survey of the buildings out the window, wishing not for the first time that Sans hadn’t painted such a large target on his back.

[my-happy-little-bean]

The Bookkeeper – Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Starry Night

pairings: logicality, prinxiety words: 4387 chapter warnings: mild swearing, allusions to mental illness, mild dark humour summary: in which we read letters to the dead.

[read on ao3] [masterlist]

< previous chapter

–

What on Earth was he looking at here? 

Logan stared at the display. A tiny baby figurine dangled in front of him, a long string of twine wrapped around its neck, thus hanging it from the ceiling.

His gaze hovered down to the nameplate for the piece: “ Fertility.” 

“Are you kidding me…” Logan muttered under his breath, crossing his arms. He begrudgingly attempted to act intrigued while his mind ran blank. 

He wasn’t sure if this display was what Patton intended for him to spend so much time at when he gave him the museum tickets, but here he was, spending precious time here : where the marble pillars stood at each corner of the room, where the air was thick with agreed-upon silence, where everything–  everything–  was beige, and where people in black turtlenecks lined the walls as they pinched their chins and hummed at the same time.

Logan knew Patton’s attempts of getting him out of the shop were well-intended, but he also knew this: he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be writing, researching– anything but standing here and looking at what must have cost the artist two dollars. 

Some cynical sense in him wondered if this answered his question more than he was able to on his own. Perhaps this was what giving up looked like. Perhaps, in a world with little to no meaning, art was meant to be a white flag; it was meant to mark where the earth cracked beneath your feet; it meant nothing. 

“Quite the piece, hm?” 

Logan spun on his heel. Facing him was a tall person, with brown eyes that basked golden in the sunlight that poured through the museum’s skylight. They wore a black vest overtop a pale, yellow button-up, sleeves rolled just before their elbow. Logan noted in particular the small enamel pin on the top right side of their vest; it was a small, twisting snake with scales of yellow, white, purple, and black. And Logan didn’t know much about people in general, but he knew that this was the sort of person you would look at twice in passing; once by accident, and once by enthrallment. 

“Ferbachi’s ‘Fertility’ ,” the person hummed once more. A slight British accent tinged the end of their words. They stepped beside Logan and pointed at the twine around the hanging baby’s neck. “The twine represents fragility.” 

“...It does?” 

“No.” The person smiled smugly, not looking at Logan. “Not at all.” 

Logan let out a small ‘ah’, awkwardly shifting back and forth. 

“But I assume you were trying to find some meaning from the piece,” the person continued. “I’ve been watching you stand here, perplexed, for probably ten minutes now.” 

‘It’s been ten minutes?’ Logan scrunched up his nose.

 “You’ve been watching me?” he asked instead. 

The person shrugged. “Only a little. Reminiscent of someone hiding a toy from a dog, and the dog trying to figure out where his toy went.” 

A pause. The person then added, “That is to say, incredibly amusing.” 

Logan narrowed his eyes on the individual. “Are all museum-goers this annoying?” 

“No no.” A wide, Cheshire cat grin. “Just nosy.” 

Logan huffed, muttering under his breath a string of curses. The person turned to face Logan and outstretched their hand. 

“My name is Dr. Janus Carson,” they said. Each word sounded rich with caramel. “And I am not a museum-goer, I am one of the art curators here.” 

Logan scoffed. “So you were the one who thought this was a worthwhile display?” 

“Well one, not necessarily how curating works. And two...you can blame my colleague, Dr. Remus Harden. Most of the things he curates are more contemporary and...well, strange.” 

“ This is contemporary art?” 

“I would invite you not to act so surprised,” Janus replied pointedly. “Everything is made by someone...” 

“Logan,” Logan supplied. “Logan Fray. He/him”

Janus nodded. “Everything is made by someone, Mr. Fray. Which means everything is enriched in some sort of purpose. Even if the purpose is meaningless.” 

Logan blinked. Janus’ words felt like sound that was lost in a cave, helplessly bouncing against the walls, looking for somewhere to go. 

“So why do you think someone made this?” 

“I don’t know, Mr. Fray. Why does anyone make anything at all?” 

A beat of silence.

“Precisely,” Logan murmured. 

“Pardon?” 

“I– um, is there somewhere I can get coffee here?” Logan blurted out. “I...I think I need a break from all–” He motioned at the hanging baby– “this.” 

“Me as well,” Janus hummed, already walking away. They motioned for Logan to follow them without turning around. “And afterwards, I can give you a tour of something that perhaps can give you some answers.” 

Logan felt his heart race. “How did you know I’m–” 

“You are not the first pretentious existentialist to walk into a museum,” Janus drawled, still walking. Logan quickened his pace, frantically trying to stay beside them.

“How–” 

“It’s Tuesday, Mr. Fray, and you’re in a museum alone.” Janus stopped and looked him up and down. “And honestly, the shoes give it away.” 

Logan, bewildered and with child-like embarrassment, looked down at his shoes. He thought the shoes looked rather nice. 

“Hurry along, Mr. Fray.” Janus’ accented voice rang in his ears like an alarm. “We don’t have all day.”

—

Patton paced back and forth along the shelves of Fray and Far Fables, Roman floating right behind him. 

“How about The Hazel Wood by Melissa Albert!” Roman magically lifted the book off the shelves and flew it over Patton’s head so it could stop Patton in his tracks. “I read it the other night and found it to be fascinating! There’s this grandma who writes real grim-dark fairy tales and dies and this girl– Alice– her mother gets stolen by someone in her grandma’s stories–”

“That sounds too spooky!” Patton waved his hand in front of the book and pushed through it, Roman lifting the book back up before Patton could barrel head-first into its hardcover. 

“Gah– how about The Signature of All Things! You read that one recently! Wouldn’t you want to visit the Whittaker estate: the flowers, the plants–” 

“I– I don’t know, I feel like I have already been there, ya know?” 

“Great Odin’s eyepatch–  Patton!” Roman flew over Patton’s head and hovered in front of his nose, arms crossed. “We’ve been walking circles around the store and you have yet to give me one book! When you said you wanted to go in a book nook, I didn’t expect to be bored!” 

“I know, I know!” Patton buried his face in his hands. “There’s just so many choices! I don’t want to make a wrong choice!” 

Roman sighed. “You can’t pick a wrong choice, Patton. And even if you do, we can always just leave and go to another one!” 

Patton let out a muffled groan beneath his palms. Maybe he should’ve done a bit more research before coming in today. 

He closed his eyes. A million stories appeared in the blots of the darkness; there were visions of the cotton-candy worlds in his bedtime stories, tall mountains and deep seas. Heck, if he really wanted to, he could just pick up Around the World in Eighty Days and he could go anywhere he wanted! (Probably!) So why was this so hard?

Patton opened his eyes and looked at Roman. 

“What’s your favourite story?” 

Roman’s frown sent a flurry of regret in Patton’s chest. But the feeling eased a bit when Roman scrunched up his face and whizzed right past him to one of the shelves behind the front counter. 

“I have a favourite,” Roman finally said, “but you’re going to have to keep a secret. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah! Yes, of course,” Patton stammered. He grabbed his sketchbook and watercolour set, tucking a brush behind his ear as he watched Roman disappear behind some of the books on the shelf. 

The books Roman moved behind began to slowly lift themselves off the shelves. Patton watched with wonder as they parted in the air, like double doors to a castle, revealing Roman standing beside a thin book that was pressed flat against the back of the shelves, only showing its brown, leather cover. It seemingly blended into the colour of the wood.

“Oh!” Patton tucked his sketchbook and watercolour set underneath his arm. He then held out his hands as Roman levitated the book towards him. Patton let the book sit softly in his palms. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one before.” 

He opened the first page. It seemed like a notebook, pages yellowed with time. Patton squinted at the faded cursive scrawled on the lines: The Midnight Forest by…

“V...Aries,” Patton read aloud. Roman nodded, flying over to sit on Patton’s shoulder. Patton looked at him with a frown. “Isn’t this the philosopher Logan likes?” 

“Mhm. Logan doesn’t know this ‘cause not many people do, but Virgil Aries used to write poetry books.” His smile faltered. “Well, a poetry boo k; it’s the one you’re holding right now . He only ever wrote one, and he didn’t even publish it.”

Patton smiled, flipping through some of the pages. 

“Why haven’t you ever told Logan about it?” 

A beat of silence. 

“I don’t think I could. You’re sorta the only person who’s ever asked.” Roman shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like many people knew Virgil Aries by his poetry– they only ever knew him by his theories of philosophy.” A pause. Roman added, “It’s...it’s nice to keep some unknown parts of him away from all that.” He laughed quietly. “Dude was really sad.” 

Patton nodded wordlessly, half-listening as he ran his fingers across the bumps of the pen marks on each thin page. It reminded him of the subtle glances he would sneak at Logan whenever he stopped by the shop, catching him writing or deep in thought as he browsed the books. He imagined if Virgil Aries might have let his pen dance across the paper, similar to the way he knew Logan did, ink gliding across paper floors almost seamlessly. 

He took one more look at Roman, who was also reading over his shoulder. His eyebrow was furrowed and his demeanour seemed to dampen. Patton wondered then if Roman was thinking the same thing too. 

“Alright! Well, I don’t know if you can make a book nook out of a poetry book, but I wouldn’t mind trying!” Patton finally said. Roman’s smile lifted ever so slightly. He floated off of Patton’s shoulder.

“I most definitely can!” Roman slowly descended onto the pages, going on one knee and pressing his palms flat against them. Circles of red magic appeared faintly beneath his hands. 

“Lemme show you how book nooks are actually made! Hold on tight!” 

“Hold on tight to wha–” 

And before Patton could finish, he felt the book tremble in his hands. Strings of red magic suddenly sprouted from the open pages. Startled, Patton let go of the book. His eyes widened in fear before realizing that the book was staying in place in the air where he was holding it, Roman still kneeling on the pages.

Patton watched Roman’s right arm shoot up into the sky, vibrant red magic following its path. A flurry of cursive handwriting followed his palm, creating a double helix of words and magic. 

Patton covered his face as a stream of it shot right past his ear. Warm air wrapped around him like he was in the eye of a hurricane. He clutched onto his sketchbook and his watercolours, grabbing the paintbrush behind his ear. He wielded the paintbrush as if it were some sort of sword, but somehow knew that he didn’t need to worry about protecting himself.

And then, Patton opened his eyes. 

The first thing Patton noticed was the sky above them. Peeking beneath the shadowed branches of the tall trees was a painted sky of all shades of blue. Flurries of yellow were layered on top of the sky as floating lanterns, moving slowly like clouds in the wind. 

Back on earth, small freckles of light spun around him and the forest clearing he stood in, as if the breeze was braiding golden thread in the air. It smelled like petrichor and freshly cut grass, and there was barely any noise; all Patton could hear was his own breathing, and his own heart. 

“Holy...shit,” Patton whispered, lowering the paintbrush to his side. 

“Why thank you!” Roman used the book as a makeshift magic carpet and guided it to rest on a log. The book easily gave into the shape of the surface it laid on like a blanket. Roman looked around the forest clearing, his smile falling. “Goodness, I haven’t done that in a long time.” 

“It was amazing .” Patton grinned at Roman, though it was tinged with a bit of fear– no, not fear, curiosity. How could Roman have done all this? Who was he? 

Patton held Roman’s gaze for a moment too long. Roman’s eyes glimmered with a dull sort of excitement and pride that felt as though it was meant for someone else. The air between them thickened with unexpected tension.

“Well, I can’t keep this open forever,” Roman said, clearing his throat. He motioned to the book. Patton caught sprinkles of pulsing red magic lining the book’s edges. “So if you’re going to get started on painting…” 

“Yes! Yes, of course.” Patton decided to sit next to Roman on the log, setting his watercolour palette between the two of them. Then, he laid his sketchbook on his lap and got to work. 

Patton wasn’t sure if time passed in the same way as it did on Earth (there was no way he was still on Earth) but he knew enough had passed for him to zone out in his painting, so wrapped up in his surroundings. 

In the background, he could hear Roman reading out loud from the book. 

“And if swirls of blue and yellow are not enough, and if the cities beneath are not enough

And if all these answers are not enough,  love, may I give you this: 

A forest made of spiral-words,  and a sky made of whimsy mist. 

Notice how I kiss you here, an angel lifted,  then earthy heels in dirt adrift.

So now, when you return here,  my love, I will never be missed.”

—

“I don’t love my job very much,” Janus hummed as they took a sip from their cup of coffee. They guided Logan through the halls of the museum. “All museums are a little problematic anyway. Most exhibits I see are just prizes for colonialism –  bleh. ” 

“Wonderful,” Logan deadpanned. “Life is just wonderful.” 

“Isn’t it?” Janus gave Logan a smile that was cheeky enough to be Roman’s, but more serious.

Eventually, they arrived at more modern displays of art. Logan snuck a glance of the exhibit name as they passed by its sign: “ Ever Yours, Vincent : Exploring the Inner Workings of Vincent Van Gogh”.

“This is a recent exhibit I worked on. It isn’t quite ready for the public, but it is down to its final stages of revision. While I was interested in Van Gogh’s works, I was more so interested in what occurred beyond his canvas; in particular, his many letters to his brother, Theo.” 

They both weaved through tall, staggered pillars of towering LED screens, which illuminated the dark room. The screens panned over rows of cursive handwriting, as if scanning through a list of ancient relics. 

The hall of pillars eventually led to an open layout of interactable displays, glass casings filled with notebooks and paintbrushes and photos. The walls had ceiling-to-floor digital screens that moved through various scenes of Van Gogh’s artwork. Logan recognized a few: Irises, Café Terrace at Night, The Red Vineyard and, of course, The Starry Night. 

“Such a bothered man created images that people see and feel enlightened by . I have never met a person who hasn’t felt hope looking at his starry night.”

Logan frowned, noting the swirls of blue and yellow that surrounded him. He didn’t know why, but he longed to touch the walls and feel each individual stroke of paint. He had looked at art before, but was never truly immersed in it. 

“Some historians say he was depicting the view outside his asylum window,” Janus continued. “One of my favourite quotes from Van Gogh’s various letters to Theo touched upon this idea.” 

Then, as if pulling the threads of their own memory, Janus closed their eyes and recited: “ ‘But what a beautiful land and what a beautiful blue and what a sun’. ” 

They then opened their eyes and looked over at Logan with a small smile. “ ‘And yet I’ve only seen the garden and what I can make out through the window’.” 

Logan found himself stunted by the quotation. 

“He had depression, yes?”

“The diagnosis varies, but yes.” Janus’ lips twisted ever so slightly, staring at the walls surrounding them. “As I said, he was quite the bothered man.” 

Logan nodded. On the tip of his tongue were questions about whether or not this proves his point; that even art cannot truly help someone escape the vast nothingness of life. 

“You know, Van Gogh wasn’t really famous until after his death,” Janus said after a moment of silence. “Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, his brother’s wife, was the one who told his stories. She pushed for his art to find an audience, and she translated the letters between Van Gogh and his brother.” 

As if on cue, translucent cursive slowly sprawled across the screened image of The Starry Night. The script ran alongside the slow-moving swirls of light over the silhouetted town depicted in the painting. 

“I told you that I do not love my job, but in reality, I need to do this job more than anything else I need to do. And it’s because of Johanna’s work. It proves that there are stories everywhere, hidden under layers and layers of paint. Beneath every painting is a canvas, beneath the words of a letter is the paper on which they are written.” 

Janus’ words were exhaled slowly, their surrounding air rich with a lifelong commitment Logan couldn’t begin to understand. They motioned at the walls, and Logan followed their hand. Logan’s irises were filled with pulsing light. 

“Without a canvas, The Starry Night would just be paint, still sitting in the cans. Without the paper, Vincent and Theo would never have talked. Without Johanna, none of that would have mattered. There can be no audience for a story without someone presenting it somehow. Someone needs to be the canvas, and someone needs to be the paper.”

Janus’ words washed over Logan like gentle, moonlit tides. The scene around them slowly dissipated into another painting. The same show of art danced around him like a bewitched merry-go-round. 

Logan then looked at Janus, whose eyes were filled with a sense of unshaken fulfillment. Their smile walked a fine line between the walls of definite and whatever laid beyond it.

“So why, then, does anyone make anything at all, Mr. Fray? Well, I am not sure. But I do know this: I preserve art and stories, which is to say, I preserve purpose . And I preserve all of this because they are important. In a life with very little meaning, art worms its way into the spaces that it can fit. And with the help of others, art– and everything it represents– is made bigger than the spaces of life they initially occupy.” 

Janus’ eyes twinkled. “All this being said, Mr. Fray, you can imagine what this means for all the stories that follow.”

Janus’ break eventually ended a few minutes later, and as the two parted ways, Logan felt unable to leave the exhibit. A whirlwind of oil paint and words filled his vision as he let Janus’ words settle in his chest. Then, similar to all things in life, the spectacle faded; and in the moment between the next digital display of painted scenery, Logan was left alone in the vast space of emptiness.

— 

Logan entered Fray and Far Fables much later than he had anticipated. He was unsure of whether or not he would catch Patton before he left, but said uncertainty was resolved as soon as he walked through the door. 

Patton was sitting on an armchair, in hysterics as Roman—to Logan’s horror—magically flipped through a photo album that floated in the air. Roman puppeteered the album like it was a pop-up book, blurry and holographic film footage folding up into view and then back down into the page. The footage showed a young Logan bounding through a backyard, and then an even younger Logan having a tea party with all his stuffed animals.

“What are you– Roman!” Logan bolted towards the photo album and swiped it out of the air, closing it with a swift slam!

“Aw, come on, Lo!” Patton pouted. 

“Yeah, rude interference, Moby Dick ,” Roman quipped, but with a smug smile all the same. “I was going to show Patton the pictures of you in your school’s play of The Sound of Music. ” 

Patton went starry-eyed. “You were in The Sound of Music?” 

Logan rolled his eyes, ignoring both of them as he sat on the chair opposite of Patton. 

“Is this really how you spent your first day of book nook adventuring?” He narrowed his eyes at Roman. “I am praying that the answer is no.” 

“No, of course not! I just had some energy left to re-animate some precious memories.” 

Logan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. A part of him burned wondering if Patton was somehow embarrassed by it all.

“And precious they were!” Patton piped in, diffusing the flame immediately. “Little Logan running around– ah, I was ready to cry!” 

“Thank you, I suppose.” Logan relaxed himself into a smile. “Well then, where did you both go?” 

Patton and Roman exchanged looks that, quite frankly, concerned Logan all over again. He had a feeling that mixing the two of them together spelled chaos. 

“Some old poetry book!” Patton finally said. “I don’t quite remember the name, do you?”

“Nope!” Roman barked out a laugh. “You know me! Ever the scatter-brain!”

“...Right. ” Logan pursed his lips, not believing either of them for a second, but feeling too tired to press on. 

“I did, however, make you something!” Patton grabbed his sketchbook off the coffee table and carefully tore out one page. Logan felt himself grow warm once more.

“Patton, you do not have to give me all your paintings…” 

“Nonsense! It’s the least I can do.” Patton passed over the paper. Logan carefully took it in his hands. 

In a stroke of odd coincidence, the palette that Patton had chosen was uncannily similar to The Starry Night. It was also less abstract than Patton’s usual style. Patches of navy blue and golden yellow flooded the sky above what seemed to be the silhouette of a forest clearing, which bordered the sides of the painting with dark greens and various shades of black. In the middle of the clearing were a circle of leaves, an open book laying in its centre. And hovering above the book was a small figure, leaving a trail of cursive handwriting and dark red dust, which glimmered ever so slightly in the moonlight that Patton had let fall upon the painted scenery. 

“My goodness, Patton...” He looked up at him, not exactly knowing what to say. 

“Pretty good, right?” Patton smiled with an uncharacteristic amount of confidence. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so immersed in anything in...well, my whole life!” 

“Art can do that to you, I suppose,” Logan let slip. In the corner of his eye, Roman did a double take. 

“I suppose so!” Patton stood up, scooping up his notebook and his various art supplies.

“Well, anyway, I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome! I was just waiting for you to come back from the museum– oh! How was that by the way?” 

Logan found himself without words once more. Eventually, he just ended up saying, “It was good, Patton. Very...good.” 

“Well, good!” Patton giggled. Logan could almost hear the twinkling of painted stars in his laugh. “I think I have an idea of where I want you to go next, but I might wait ‘till my next visit. I need to let everything just settle, heh.” 

“You’re valid,” Logan hummed. He held Patton’s stare for a moment too long before clearing his throat. “I...I look forward to seeing what you have next in store for me, Patton.” 

Patton broke into a wide, shining smile as he gave Logan a hug. Chills ran down Logan’s spine and jumped between the distance made when Patton pulled away. 

When Patton left the shop, Logan took a deep breath and began his routine of closing up. Roman trailed behind him. 

“So! What are you going to write about tonight?”

Logan could practically feel Roman’s smug smile behind his back.

“I’m going to write about nothing,” he murmured decidedly. Roman raised an eyebrow at him. Logan shrugged wordlessly. Janus’ words filled his mind once more, as if beckoning him to write everything down in a maddening fury. But even if the exact phrasing faded, the feelings elicited remained the same. And if he was going to understand those feelings…

“I need to lie down,” Logan finally said, going over to flip the door sign to ‘closed’ before heading upstairs. “I just...I need some time to be quiet.” 

But despite this attempt, Logan was everything but quiet. For the remainder of the night, he bounced his new ideas and revelations off of Roman, who comically flew above his bed, grabbing each word out of the air in a flurry of ‘told you so!’s. 

Logan, however, simply let it happen. He realized that for the first time in a very long time, the pressure of telling others things was slowly being lifted by the experience of being told something; of knowledge being given to him rather than taught. 

And somewhere underneath the sandy shores of his chest, a new tide of magic rippled through Logan’s entire core.

The next day, Logan glowed just a bit brighter.

—

next chapter > 

[donottouchredbutton]

aliit ori’shya tal’din

Part 1 - A Moment of Hesitation

Platonic pairing: Din Djarin x young OC

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: Roughly this story is an au where Din gets to KEEP his baby AND his ship because I’m sad but he’s also not against basically adopting another person to be a part of his Crew™ because Dad!Din is real (aka, welcome to “I’m a sucker for the found family trope”). I’m both nervous and excited because this is one of the first things of writing I will be posting here, but I’ve been planning/working on this for almost a year and I feel like I’m finally ready to share it! I hope you like it, and please be kind!! x

The door should have been locked, but it wasn’t. It slid right open as Din approached it. Had the tracking fob not stopped beeping when he did, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it. From his experience, this was a bad sign. The fob only stopped if the target was caught or terminated, and he hadn’t found them yet. He needed to tread carefully, so his bounty hunter instincts kicked into overdrive.

In actuality, Din wasn’t on a bounty mission. He recalled the conversation he had with Cara before he left. “If you’ll do me a favor, I need you to check on someone for me,” she had said. That was all she asked really, and she didn’t give much information. He had been confused when she first ask - and, to be fair, he still was - but she sounded... tender? Like this was more important to her than she let on. After all she had done for him and the child, this was the least he could do. The fact that she gave him a tracking fob, though, seemed inappropriate; it caused doubt to form in the pit of his stomach, and it only continued to grow the closer he got. If Cara trusted this person, what was it for?

As far as Din could tell, the small house was empty, completely void of any people and nearly empty of any furniture. There was a small cot, a table covered in papers, and a small kitchenette. There were two more doors - a back door, he assumed, and a refresher. Definitely someone trying to lay low, so he stalked in further. He could vaguely smell the ash from the worn, unlit fireplace, and he approached. It warmed his cold beskar the slightest bit. It had recently been used.

Searching the house, there wasn’t much to look at. Nothing of value, that was for sure. The papers scattered everywhere were maps and charts from what he could tell, and there were a few roles of blueprints. Tools were scattered all over the place. There were drawings on the mantle above the fireplace, as well as a small glass. In it were a few dried out flowers, and the petals wilted onto the floor.

Din had a lot of respect for whoever this person was. If he had learned anything about Cara, it was that she tried her hardest to create her new normal no matter where she was. If this person was anything like her - wherever they were - they would do the same. And Din respected that.

When he didn’t find anyone, Din was prepared to leave; however, something in the ash of the fireplace made him stop. It was almost hidden and nearly indiscernible, but it made him tense, hand reaching down to grab his blaster. In the fireplace, not quite burnt to a crisp, was an imperial uniform hat. His mind raced as he took a step back.

Whatever it meant, Din had to find Cara’s friend. He had to do this for her. If they meant anything to her, she had the right to know what happened. With tension in his shoulders, Din turned back the way he came, but the sound of the tracking fob caught his attention. He took it out again as it picked up speed. Before he could do anything about the noise, the buzz of a blaster firing up made him drop the fob. He whipped around and aimed his own at whoever was there. He... 

He hesitated.

“What are you doing here?”

She was pointing a blaster rifle at him - an imperial rifle, he noticed immediately - ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. Her gaze was unwavering and difficult to read. Her hands were steady, and he could barely tell if she was breathing. She didn’t look afraid. He was the one who’s grip faltered. 

He had many questions, the main one being “where did you get these things and why,” but something else came out of his mouth.

“How old are you?”

It came out before he could stop himself. Din’s voice twisted up, confusion evident even through his helmet. There was no way he had the right place, the right person. She couldn’t have been eighteen. Why would Cara send him to some kid?

“Old enough! What the hell are you doing here?” The girl took a threatening step forward as her voice rose. It was this that knocked him back to his senses and told him not to underestimate her.

Din’s grip tightened on his blaster, but he kept his finger off the trigger. Whatever age she was, there was still a weapon trained on him. While he didn’t want to get shot, even more, he didn’t want to shoot. His beskar would save him even at point-blank range. She wasn’t wearing any armor, only a red jacket that barely qualified. He couldn’t take any chances. 

“I was sent here,” Din said, voice strained. He barely breathed, filled with dread about what would happen if either one of them pulled the trigger. 

She still fixed him with an icy stare. “Of course you were. I know a bounty hunter when I see one,” she sneered at him. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

Din heard the slightest waver in her voice, and he knew he was playing this completely wrong. He was going to get himself shot if he continued like this. Rather than respond, Din raised his other hand.

“Hey,” he began warily, “take it easy.”

Din slowly lowered his blaster, keeping his hand out as he holstered it. He saw her eyes following his every movement. Once it was put away, he made sure she could see both of his hands. “I’m looking for someone.”

Her stance didn’t change even with his weapon gone. She scoffed. “Yeah? Who?”

“She didn’t tell me, only to come here and check on someone. The coordinates sent me here.”

The girl was quiet for a moment, and she just... stared. Her eyes pierced through his helmet as if she could see through it, like she was trying to stare through his soul. He remained rigid as a statue as he waited.

It was the smallest movement, but the girl moved her finger away from the trigger; however, he was still staring into the barrel of her weapon. She adjusted the rifle in her hands, asking, in a voice significantly less pressing, “Do you know Cara Dune?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding enough for her to see. “She’s the one who sent me.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, finally lowering the rifle. “And she didn’t even come herself,” she muttered, shaking her head. 

Din put his hands down slowly. Though he remained on guard, he let some of the tension in his body relax. So she was the one. “How old are you?” he asked again, following more urgently with, “who are you?”

“She really didn’t say anything?” she asked, and Din gave a brief “no.”

The girl huffed shortly. She put the weapon down at the table - her table - and Din finally let himself let his guard down. He wasn’t relaxed per se, but at least he wasn’t about to get shot.

“She usually just calls. She’s never sent someone to check up on me, much less a Mandalorian,” the girl said, and Din couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or not. He watched as her eyes widened slightly before turning back to him. “Did something happen to her?”

“She’s fine,” he answered, and she sighed. 

The door Din came through hissed open again, and they both whipped around, blasters out. At the door, however, was a small green form moving slowly into the house. Din sighed heavily as he holstered his weapon once again.

“I told you to stay on the ship, you little womp rat,” Din groaned. Grogu simply stared up at his father, tilting his head and smiling. Din shook his head fondly.

He turned back to the girl as the child approached. He wasn’t surprised to see her eyebrows raised at them. He watched as she knelt to meet the kid who had been walking toward her in curiosity, a hand outstretched. She was still for a moment, staring into the inky eyes of the child before her. She held out a finger for him to grab before looking up at him.

“I’m San.”

[2-cute-4-school]

Hiraeth III - Final

Group : NCT

Pairing : Lee Donghyuck/Haechan x f!Reader

Genre : angst, a pinch of fluff at the end maybe?

TW : blood, weapons, death

Word count : 5K words

Mafia AU  |   M.list

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - Final 

Chapter Summary : “ I am only loyal to love.”

Haechan’s knees buckled and he thought his heart might just explode at that moment. He could barely take a hurried stride forward in a desperate attempt to rip the gun from Y/N’s hands before he froze in his spot, his eyes enlarging almost comically as his lips parted, leaving his mouth open agape, a hand stretched to its full extent forward, a breath away from coming in contact with the girl whose words squeezed his heart so painfully moment ago.

Y/N also stopped in her tracks, the finger still firmly pressed against the trigger, but the expression that overcame Haechan’s features was enough to make her hesitate to fully seal her chosen fate. Her entire body went stiff and she mentally reprimanded herself for putting her plan on hold after everything she went through to get to this point. It only proved to herself that she wasn’t as strong as she thought she was and the thought left an ugly tear in her mind.

But as Y/N studied the boy’s frozen face, Haechan’s eyes slipped past her face, staring intently behind her, his pupils dilating even more from the icy fear that spread across his entire chest. He was face to face with the barrel of a gun, reflections of the artificial light that came from the cheap light bulb on the ceiling of the room bringing out every corner and bump of the weapon that was pointed straight at his head and seemed to already burn a hole through his forehead.

Haechan slightly shifted his gaze upwards, meeting the cold eyes of the gun’s owner, eyes that could freeze the harshest hell and turn the bravest heroes into stone at a mere glance. Haechan’s breath hitched in his throat, a weird mix of emotions drowning his already messy rationality, their eye contact enough to make his soul force a try to leave his body on spot.

“Don’t you dare touch her”

The voice was stern and so glacial that Haechan felt a chill run deep down in his bones. But while Haechan felt locked in a freezing hell, Y/N felt a hot pang ripping a shudder through her entire body. Her prior thoughts dissipated into thin air as she forgot all about the golden rule of never turning your back to the enemy and spun on her heels so fast it would have made her dizzy if not for the adrenaline that seemed to further spur her on as every second passed.

“Step away from her.”

She didn’t have to turn around to know whose voice spoke but the disbelief ran so deep in her heart that she desperately needed concrete evidence, she needed to see him. She needed to put a face to the voice that comforted her during her most ruthless nightmares and wrapped her in a blanket of safety that seemed untouchable by anyone who ever dared to lay a finger on her. She was already so hurt, so weakened it didn’t take a genius to imagine what she had to go through.

“Now, Haechan.”

She needed to see Johnny standing unharmed before her eyes.

“How is it possible?”

Haechan’s voice cracked, overcome by shock, but his legs instinctively carried his back a few steps, responding to the tone he knew Johnny only used when his job required him to put on his cruel mask. It was the voice that let everyone know the game was over. Y/N could barely feel herself breathe and for a moment she wondered if she was truly alive, if she had actually pulled the trigger or if she went crazy and her mind was playing some twisted game with her. Her entire body started shaking almost violently and her throat closed up, leaving her mouth dry. It was so hard for her to process seeing Johnny breathing in arms reach after weeks of being forced to believe that NCT was dead, that her family perished before she could see them one more time. It felt like an illusion threatening to swallow up her sanity.

Johnny’s eyes stayed trained on Haechan as if he could take the younger boy apart with just the look he was shooting him. He dearly wanted to turn to Y/N, to hold her and assure her she was finally safe, that he would die before he let anyone else touch her again, but there was enough time to do that after they got rid of the problem at hand. He let out a quiet snort, regarding Haechan with disgust as he stepped forward, past Y/n and towering over Haechan.

“Surprised to see me, you bastard? Seems like your little stunt didn’t work as well as you hoped.”

Johnny harshly gripped the shorter boy’s collar, raising him slightly so that he was forced to balance himself on his tip-toes with a gun pressed to his forehead, digging into his skin. Haechan seemed to recover from the shock of coming face to face with his supposedly dead ex-member and his eyes cleared up a little, meeting Johnny’s in a vicious clash.

“How are you alive?”

A humorless laugh slipped past Johnny’s lips.

“I will spare you the painful details, but I must say that this low gang of yours is dumber than I initially thought.”

Y/N’s mind was nearly blank, still trying to process the sight of his falling and rising chest of the man who swore more times than she could remember that he would protect her until his last breath. He was in front of her and if she reached her hand, she could easily touch his tensed back. He was alive and well and that was more than enough to set her will to fight alight once again.

“Are you hesitating, hyung? Why don’t you finish this off once and for all? Traitors don’t have the right to live, am I right?”

“But neither do they have the right to such a quick, painless death.”

A shaky, frail hand softly touched the arm holding the gun to Haechan’s head and Johnny’s nerves calmed down, basking in the familiar touch he went crazy without for the past weeks. Still, the firm grip on the gun didn’t lessen and neither did it move away from Haechan’s skin. 

“Johnny.”

Her voice was weaker than ever and it didn’t fail to make Johnny’s heart tremble with regret. He knew they had to leave, but he couldn’t wait anymore to ask what he had been wondering since their ambush.

“Why did you do this, Haechan?”

Johnny’s voice was softer, either from Y/N’s touch lingering on his arm or from the reminiscence of the madness he went through. Haechan’s eyes lowered, his words came out mumbled and filled with sorrow.

“I did what I thought was right.”

“And you thought it was right to send us to a sure death and make her go through torture? Is that what you thought was right?”

Haechan’s composure broke at that, his tone cutting through steel as his gaze became venomous.

“It’s easy for you to say! You didn’t have to watch helplessly as that sick excuse of a man pushed a gun against Y/N’s head and demanded that you choose between her life and everyone else’s! You have no idea...”

His voice got lost again between his train of jumbled thoughts, feeling as if he just relived his worst experiences. Johnny’s burning gaze looked straight through him, cracking him little by little. Gunshots echoed from downstairs, muffled by the distance but loud enough for Johnny to know that the rest of the members were taking care of Park Ji-won and the situation he had caused with no mercy.

“Maybe not, but I had to watch our members die before my eyes and find out everything went down because the kid we raised and loved all along betrayed us. I had to go through weeks of searching and waiting all while grieving in hopes of finding Y/N alive just to burst through the door and see her pressing a gun to her own head. I think it’s you who has no idea, Haechan.”

Y/N’s grip on the fabric that covered Johnny’s skin tightened at the mention that some of her members were actually gone. Her heart sunk heavily at the thought, her mind becoming cloudy once again. Of course it was too good to be true, no victory could be gained without a loss, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to come face to face with such a loss.

But Haechan’s chest also tightened painfully, despair crawling through his entire being and devouring his sanity with every word that left Johnny’s mouth. 

“I tried, hyung, I really did. Please believe me, I tried.”

Y/N didn’t know what broke her the most. She felt hurt everywhere, every bit of her being felt as if it was being burnt inside out and a weight heavier than the world fell on her shoulders, making her resolve collapse. 

“Who are you loyal to, Haechan?”

He didn’t hesitate, the response was immediate and his voice didn’t waver a bit as if there was only one possible answer and he only stated the obvious.

“I am only loyal to Y/N. I am only loyal to love.”

There was a pregnant silence. The air was heavy, chocking Y/N up even more and she lowered her forehead against Johnnys back, needing any kind of support she could get at the moment just to be able to keep herself upright. Her surroundings were spinning and the world seemed to be a mere illusion as she let herself be swallowed up by a numbing pain. Her sudden unsteadiness snapped the two males out of their daze.

“Y/N, hey!”

At the sight of her so frail, Haechan forgot all about the gun and reached out a hand to cradle the back of her head, a weak attempt to ground her, to bring her any comfort. Johnny slightly flinched at the movement before pulling Haechan”s hand away and wrapping his free arm around the girl in turn, not moving the gun away from Haechan.

“I told you not to touch her.”

But Johnny seemed conflicted. He knew he couldn’t let Haechan walk alone, as much as the boy’s words touched his heart in ways Johnny couldn’t believe existed anymore, he couldn’t trust him anymore, not even to walk downstairs where the rest of the members were taking out Park Ji-won and the rest of his men. Letting Haechan walk alone wasn’t a solution, but having to let Y/N go from his hold only hurt his heart furthermore. She was shaking so bad that a gust of wind could have broken her in two and with the way she tried to curl into herself as if to protect herself from the outside world, Johnny feared that the moment he stopped supporting her body she would collapse on the floor. Before he could make a decision, Y/N stepped away from under his arm and raised her head to meet Johnny’s eyes.

“Let’s go.”

He wanted to protest at first, concerned to the moon about her state, but the gaze she shot the pair of males was enough to settle the matters. She wasn’t fine, not at all. She didn’t suddenly recover and become stronger in less than a minute. She was afraid and hurt and broken inside out. But she decided that the fear of losing anybody else while wallowing in her own pity was stronger than her need to be held at the moment. They had to get out first and then she’d allow herself to crash.

Johnny gripped Haechan’s arm tightly and brought the younger in front of himself as they started walking towards the door. Haechan didn’t put up a fight, walking silently at the same rhythm as Johnny, knowing that the faster they arrived at the others, the faster Y/N could be attended to and that was his only priority. Y/N had always been his first and only priority and it would stay that way until his last breath.

“Keep your hands up and open. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

Haechan complied silently, raising his hands in front of him. As they exited the room, Y/N could finally hear the voices downstairs, some of them familiar. There were no gunshots anymore, meaning the job was finished. She couldn’t understand their words, but it was enough for an ounce of relief to blossom in her soul. While walking down the hallway that led to the same stairs she had sneaked up that same night, Y/N held her gun up, keeping her guard up despite Johnny’s assurance that they were safe, that the members took care of everything.

“Just to be sure. I won’t risk losing you now.”

Johnny’s heart warmed up at her words, knowing that she would be fine eventually. She was stronger than she gave herself credit for, they would help her recover and they were going to have their Y/N back in no time. He would make sure of that. 

As they descended the stairs, Haechan felt chocked up. How could he meet their eyes? How could he look straight at them after what he had done? How could he wish for forgiveness when some of their members died by his hand? He kept his lips sealed shut, trying to keep down the nervousness building up inside himself and threatening to overflow his senses.

As the living room came into view astonishment was the only word that matched Y/N’s reaction. She had seen death many times before, she had looked it in the eyes and laughed before slipping away from its grasp. Death and blood were no new thing to her and she had been sure that nothing related to them would be able to affect her after everything she had been through. But never in her life had she seen so much death in a single room.

It was clear none of the boys had shown any remorse or mercy. Most of the kills were clean, a single shot or slash to vital parts of the body. There seemed to be bodies decorating every corner of the room and Y/N was sure there had to be more around the house. The only one who sported multiple deep wounds was Park Ji-won. He was laid face-down in the middle of the carpet, crimson blood staining the expensive fabric that covered the entire floor. He must have been tormented before her members decided to spare him from further painstakingly slow suffering and gave him a final blow. Y/N felt a sick swirl of satisfaction deep in her chest at the sight.

Her eyes moved around and the only emotion she could fully decipher was pure joy. She felt almost overwhelmed by the heavenly storm going on inside her head when she caught sight of her members, the family she thought she had lost until mere moments ago. She had her angels back and if she were to die tomorrow she thought that she might actually not regret anything. Her heart soared with a profound feeling of euphoria and she truly felt that she had swum across oceans, climbed the way to the moon and back, but she felt no exhaustion. Y/N knew she would do it all over again for them.

Between the familiar faces, she could also pinpoint a few other members from their label. She knew they had worked with her members in the past, but she never met them officially, but that only served to pinch her heart even further. They didn’t know her, but they still put their lives on the line to save her, to honor her wronged members. And she couldn’t be more grateful.

“Y/N!”

Her eyes cleared as they met his, as sparkly as she remembered them and for the first time in God knows how long Y/N smiled, truly smiled out of clear happiness. He was there, looking at her as if she had put the stars at his feet with his lips parted, allowing air to flow through his lung that felt clogged up since the day of her mission. She was there, meeting his eyes with such raw emotion that he could feel his heart turn to jelly and tremble, scared by the strength she possessed over his entire being. She didn’t break her promise to him, she was standing in front of Mark, with a smile nonetheless.

Haechan could only watch. Oh, how he missed her, the her that resembled an innocent child who spread sunshine on a gloomy day. She was ethereal, out of this world and he desperately wished he could be the one to meet her tender gaze, but he just observed in silence as he lost her little by little. It didn’t matter that much to him, as long as she was happy, he could endure a war on his own, raging waves of fire overcoming his weakened heart that seemed to only beat for her, beasts clawing at his sanity that only cleared over at the sight of her. She was his all.

And if he could only admire from afar, he would let the world rip away his soul just to spend a moment longer worshiping the only smile in the world that mattered to him. Haechan swore loyalty to his love for her and he would die loving her.

Y/N started moving further from him, her steps directed towards Mark, who also left his initial spot to meet her in the middle. But nothing ever came that easily, did it?

While the room gazed softly at their regained strength, the exit out of a tangled maze they had been wandering through aimlessly, Haechan ripped his eyes away from her, distracted by the small movement he managed to catch with the corner of his eye. His heart dropped to the floor, crunching under the weight of his rushed footsteps.

“Y/N!”

The light in Mark’s orbs darkened and his eyes widened even more, changing his entire face. His voice cracked at the end of his yell and he broke into a sprint towards her, frantically reaching out a shaky hand. As Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, she felt an arm tightening around her, and then another one and a body slammed into hers, knocking the both of them to the ground. She was enveloped by Haechan’s familiar and musky scent and Y/N was vividly reminded of her dream back in her cell, Mark’s footsteps fading into the distance while Haechan kept her impossibly close to himself. And she was once again reminded that Haechan was the one who held her heart in the palm of his hand, playing it on his fingers and he would remain her keeper until the end of times.

“I love you” It was such a mellow whisper, like honey coating the petals of a newly blossomed flower, beautiful, but so fragile.

But the loud gunshot that followed wasn’t part of the dream.

The collision with the hard floor was anything but soft and it took Y/N several seconds to recover from the unexpected fall. Her head felt dizzy and her vision swarm as she attempted to lift her head. Haechan’s weight on top of her already weak self made it difficult to breathe properly, but the churning feeling settling at the pit of her stomach dropped her in a hollowness of fear.

Before Y/N could struggle furthermore, Haechan moved away from her and Mark’s fingers wrapped gingerly around her arms, lifting her in a sitting position.

“You’re alright, oh my God, you’re alright.”

His calloused hands gripped the sides of her face the moment another shot echoed, this time coming from one of their members. Despite Mark’s attempts at keeping her still, she caught a glimpse of Minho falling to the floor, a gun gripped in his hand tightly until his last moment.

“Shit”

The hiss coming from Johnny who was crouched beside them and the dark look in Mark’s dread-filled orbs were enough for the realization to dawn on Y/N. She hastily tried to turn around, praying to be wrong, but Mark forcefully tugged her against himself, tucking her face in his chest and keeping her in her sport with a hand cradling the back of her head and an iron-tight grip around her waist. She started pushing back against him, desperately trying to escape his hold, but Mark’s hold only tightened.

“YN stop, you don’t want to look!”

“Let me go, please. Please, Mark, let go!”

Y/N’s breaths quickened as she could hear rushed shuffling around them. The struggle against Mark was nothing compared to the storm raging inside her, but as she heard a muffled sob from their side, she found an inner strength she didn’t know she possessed any more. She pushed Mark away with such force he was ripped away from her, falling back on his heels.

Her head snapped and she mentally collapsed, letting herself drown along with her uncontrollable demons at the sight burned deep inside her soul. The dull ache that numbed overtime broke into a full-blown fire spreading across her chest, burning down the last of her hope, the last of her sanity, her last bit of happiness.

“No.”

She chocked on her words, crawling closer to Haechan whose eyes starred emptily at the ceiling above them, fading into nothing, the shell of her lost lover. Her knees soaked in blood as she settled beside him, reaching out a quivery hand to brush against his cheek. It was still warm and soft and it only spurred Y/N’s devastation further on.

“No, Hyuck, you can’t, you can’t.”

The sun of her world faded away, her sunshine slipped through her fingers, leaving her locked into a scary hell where no light was able to breach its walls, a frozen second in time that would bring her doom. She tried to shake him, miserably grasping on her straightened lifeline.

“I can’t without you, Hyuckie, I can’t.”

Her voice rose in volume and once Mark’s knuckles touched her shoulder, she lost it. She lost her everything, she lost herself.

“You told me it’ll be the both of us until the end, I can’t go on alone, Hyuckie, please, please you can’t do this! Not now, please! We were so close, sunshine, so close!”

“Y/N, stop-”

“Wake up, dammit! Don’t leave me alone, Hyuck! My sun, please, keep on shining...”

Her tears left trails of dying fire against her cheeks, ashes of sorrow mixing with the crimson underneath them. She closed her eyes, she wasn’t able to watch her world wither away underneath her fingertips. Her body was trembling, a wilted leaf blown away with the wind whispering the promise of her end. Johnny reached out, gently closing Haechan’s eyelids. 

Y/N leaned her forehead on his, her nose touching his, their lips a breath apart, a breath that was stolen away from him. She realized then that losing him was never an option for her, not even when her gun was still pointed at him, not even when she called him a monster. A monster wasn’t able to love, but he proved his purest form of love.

“I love you too, Donghyuck, too much and too late.”

He was her ride or die and she had just lost her ride, a ride to happiness, to the future she had been dreaming of since Haechan first shone on her and held her in his embrace, her cheek pressed against his chest where she could hear the steady heartbeat she would sell her soul for not that her breath was the only one fawning across his face.

The world around Y/N darkened and she knew her chance perished, the fire keeping her alive going out faster than the warmth leaving Haechan’s body.

“I love you to the end and after.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her fingers ran over the engraved letters in stone, the large pieces of marble attached to the wall in front of her only sticking needles deeper under her skin. She knew the room very well, although it had never hurt as much to step inside as it did now. The room of memories as everyone associated with SM calls it. Since bodies of their fallen comrades can’t always be recuperated it was decided that they would dedicate a room to commemorate everyone. Simple, white pieces of marble with pictures and a small description decorated the walls of the room, the smell of flowers lingering in the air.

“Are you sure you’re good to be here?”

His arm brushed against hers as he regarded her with cautious eyes. Her dislocated shoulder was immobilized and most of her skin was covered in bandages and soothing cream, but both of them knew he wasn’t talking about those wounds.

“Mark, I told you I’m fine.”

Her words didn’t convince anyone, a glance at her blank eyes was enough to confirm the freezing hollowness filling her from the inside.

She locked eyes with Jungwoo’s picture, puppy eyes staring kindly back at her. Such a pure happiness lost in the cruel world. He cried every time he was forced to take a life saying that all he wanted was to keep his dear ones safe as their medic and their rock. And he did in the end, he kept them safe until his last breath.

“He was braver than I’ve ever seen him.”

Mark’s voice was somewhat dreamy, regretful but admiring.

“He had always been brave in his own way.”

Died healing his family - so fitting for the only thing he had ever wished for.

Y/N moved on to the next marble piece, Taeil’s fiery gaze sending chills down her spine. Always a fighter, showing no mercy to anyone who dared to threaten his family. He was always considered their shield, a safe place for anyone he held close to his burning heart.

“He died while protecting me, you know? I didn’t even realize what was happening, but he did and he didn’t hesitate to cover me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Just like it wasn’t yours.” Y/N remained silent.

Died protecting his little brothers - it embodied his sole purpose.

Y/N chocked on air as she was met with her leader’s picture. She knew about his sacrifice, the way he selflessly laid his life at their enemy’s feet as long as the others were given a chance to survive, the way he didn’t hesitate for even a second to save what was left of the family he worked so hard to keep together. The hint of softness in his eyes reminded Y/N of the warmth of his hand the night she brought her in his home and declared her a part of them. She wished she had been able to thank him one last time.

Mark didn’t need to speak this time, he knew Y/N was deep in her mind, collecting her scattered thoughts in an attempt to gather herself before her guardian angel that got sent home before she could find comfort in his arms once more.

“Thank you, Taeyong, thank you more than I could ever express.”

Her voice was as shaky as her fingers, wavering at the edges like a wounded bird that tried to learn how to fly again.

Died as a true leader - as he would always stay in their hearts.

She could only stare with a vacant look glazing over her orbs at Haechan’s picture that followed. He was brightly smiling and Y/N could remember the way he strongly refused to stay serious for any picture taken, the way his eyes always shone brighter as his nose scrunched up and his lips pulled back in a blinding smile that stole away her eyes from anything else other than him.

Now his picture only sent rivers of  anguish down her skin, cracking her soul open at the sight of him. She thought that she was her half, but she was wrong. Haechan was the glue keeping her pieces together, raising her up to hover above skies and oceans. Without him she could only crawl in pitch dark pits, a numbing cold seeping deeper and deeper in herself and freezing her in time.

Y/N lowered her head, too overwhelmed to lock eyes with him.

“I lost, Mark, I’m lost.”

Mark could only swallow the knot in his throat. He slithered his warm fingers through Y/N’s, grounding her to the world, keeping her mind with him.

“You’ll get back up, losing doesn’t mean it ended.”

“No, it ended the moment I lost him.”

“But you didn’t lose him, Y/N.”

She slowly looked up, meeting Mark’s gaze. His eyes had a sad sparkle, a piece of the moon residing in them, bringing a shine of light in the dark night. He had a small smile that somehow made Y/N trust him despite her confusion and pain. He continued to watch her as she moved her stare to the piece of marble before them.

“If you look around, you’ll find him everywhere.”

Y/N understood. She felt Haechan in the warmth radiating from Mark’s hand wrapped around hers, a heat she found comfort in during the darkest of days. She felt Haechan in the soft rays of sun cascading through the small window and caressing her soul the way Haechan used to caress her heart with a few mere words that soothed her distress. She felt Haechan in the heartbeat pounding against her rib cage, in every breath that filled her lungs, in each moment that passed. He was still there, with her.

Died loyal to love

And the sun kept on shining.

[wwwafflewrites]

Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

As a Kite

"Dean?!"

"Right here, kid. Right here," he yelled from below. His words were steady, but his heart was not. "You able to get down?" He was pacing, though he didn't stray too far from you.

You shuddered, held tighter to the inclined platform, and shouted down, "No." Most of your weight was on the backboard of the basketball hoop, which was held up horizontally by pulleys on the ceiling. It was a twenty foot drop from where you sat, which was a fatal fall—or worse, paralyzing. If Bobby was any indication, that wasn't fun.

"Do you want me to come up there?" He was already gauging the structure, figuring out how to get to you.

"No," you said miserably, stopping him. Because what would that do? Then you'd both be stuck up here.

"Okay, okay, just—" A loud banging from outside the gymnasium cut him off.

The minotaur was close.

"Dean, you need to get out of here," you urged.

A minotaur was not something you wanted to tango with unless you had the right weapon. They were bulls on steroids. If your research sessions with Sam had taught you anything, it was that bullets were hardly going to tickle this thing.

Dean edged closer. "No way." He was both frustrated and scared for you. "How did you even get up there?"

"Do you really not see the person sized hole in the ceiling?!"

"I see it, I just—" another banging rattled against the gym's doors, which made you both flinch. "I fail to see how you always end up in these kinds of situations!"

"Better this than five feet in any other direction!" Ironically, you were very lucky to land on the basketball hoop, and not straight down onto the polished hardwood floor.

"Right, I forgot. You're the luckiest unlucky person I've ever met, and that's saying something, considering I've met myself."

You snorted, but it felt forced.

Dean paced, raking a hand through his messy hair and looking desperately around the gym. Then, he abruptly stopped, muscles tensing as an idea came to him. "I got an idea, but you're not gonna like it," he said. "At all." He began walking over to the doors.

"Dean?" No reply. "Dean?!"

For a second, you thought he was going to open the doors for the minotaur, but then he paused right in front of the control panel and picked open the lock. "Do you trust me?!" he shouted across the gym. Even from so far away, the look in his eyes was intense.

"I—yes—but Dean—!"

He flipped a switch.

Without warning, the hoop lurched into motion. You scrambled, clutching onto any handhold for dear life as the backboard slowly got steeper. "DEAN?!"

"Easy, easy, I'm right here." He was beneath you again, watching your every move.

You were tense, heart beating against your ribs like a bat in a cage. "A little warning would have been nice!"

"Trust me, okay? Just sit tight, I'll catch you if you fall. You're going to be okay, you hear me?" His arms were ready just in case you slipped.

The hoop was halfway down when the wooden gym door shattered.

The minotaur had rammed through it, having heard your commotion, and it was huge. It had horns as long as your entire leg; beady, soulless eyes; and clouds of dust stirring from its flared nostrils.

Your blood ran cold. "Run!" You kicked your right leg for emphasis, despite the risk of falling.

Dean hesitated.

The minotaur charged, leaving Dean barely enough time to roll out of the way.

It's horns drove deep into the hardwood where he missed, tearing up the floor like butter.

Somewhat of a silence overcame the room, only to be filled by your hoop noisily clanking in place.

The minotaur paused, reared its massive head around to look at you, and growled.

For once, you were glad to be high up.

Until it stood, that is. It was at least nine feet tall, horns adding an extra few feet to its height. It could most certainly ram its head into the hoop and kill you.

Dean's eyes were blown wide as he made the same conclusion. "Hey, you!" he shouted, pulling out his gun. "Pick on someone your own size!" And he shot it point blank.

As predicted, it just made it angry—except, it was too stupid to know who to be angry at. Funny, since it had nested in a freaking public school—because apparently they were the modern day labyrinths. But mostly not funny, considering it attacked you.

It roared, and the entire gym trembled.

Dean booked it for the doors. You couldn't blame him, but... man, that was cold.

The minotaur stomped toward you until you could feel its furious breath in your face, its grunts sending all your hair flying back. This was it.

Without warning, everyone—including the minotaur—stopped to listen to another obnoxious creaking which overcame the room.

You were like a statue, still staring into the dark eyes of the beast, not even daring to turn your head in the direction of the sound.

The minotaur flared its nostrils once more, pivoting on an angry hoof to look at the basketball hoop that was slowly but surely descending from the other side of the gym.

Your heart lifted, and you spotted Dean beaming at you from the control panel, probably high on relief.

You gestured around you. Excellent work, but don't get too smug, now. We still gotta get me out of here.

Dean mouthed one word, pointing to his phone: 'Sam.'

Well, that was good news. If Sam was on his way, then he probably had a weapon to kill it.

You both jolted as the minotaur slammed its monstrous head into the adjacent hoop and ripped it to shreds. Glass and plastic the size of plates dropped and shattered on the surrounding floor. All that was left were the beams that once held the backboard.

That would have been me.

Dean ran to you—having set off the third, fourth, and fifth hoop—and urgently mimed for you to jump into his arms.

You mimed back that, no, that was not something you could do. But you paused, his words from before coming back to you. Do you trust me?

And, yeah, you trusted him. You trusted him with your life.

So you clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming and pushed yourself off of the hoop.

Dean caught you with bent knees, cushioning the impact of your landing. One hand supporting your legs, and the other catching your back. He set you down, and, locking eyes, gave you a proud nod before turning a wary head toward the minotaur.

The hoops still occupied it, as it violently bashed its head into one hoop after another. Glass rained down in sheets, gliding dangerously on the polished ground until there was a small mountain of glass surrounding the minotaur.

You tried to stand—to get away—but your knees were weak.

Dean noticed, slipping your arm over his shoulder, hauling you up, and guiding you to the emergency exit all in one move. His priority was you.

You held your breath as a heavy rumble reverberated from outside the exit. At the moment, you wanted to strangle Sam for the worst timing ever.

You and Dean shared looks, glancing back at the minotaur who was aware of you once more.

Dean scooped you up, not even bothering to deal with your uncooperative legs, and tore his way to the exit. He barreled through the door, tumbling onto the concrete, with you falling out of his arms.

You watched, stunned, as the minotaur rammed at the door. It's horns were too large, locking in inside the building, for even it, for now, was no match for the sturdy brick that held it in place.

Dean interrupted your daze by breaking into a random fit of laughter. There he was, on the ground of a wet, public school parking lot, throwing his head back and enjoying himself for no obvious goddamn reason.

You weren’t sure whether to be concerned or laugh with him. "What the hell is so funny?"

"S—" he could barely spit it out. He couldn't breathe. "S-Sam's got a—ahaha—aha—hehehe's got a—haha—"

You turned to see what on earth Sam had and felt your eyebrows rise to your hairline as you watched a freaking wrecking ball crane align itself with the gym.

You had heard of the Winchesters 'borrowing' equipment, but this was next level. Where had he come across a wrecking ball?

And that bass you had heard from before? As Sam came nearer, it became more distinct.

Your jaw dropped.

Sam was blasting the song ‘Wrecking Ball’.

Dean's howling laughter only became louder as Sam drove closer.

You could tell Sam was smirking, obviously aware of what he was doing to Dean. As Sam hit the brakes, you could see him grin and chuckle—oh he was patting himself on the back for this one.

The minotaur, dumb as a rock, was still slamming itself at the doorway. If it had any brains, it would know to get out of the way because something much larger was about to come through those doors.

Dean eventually sighed, wiping tears, sitting up to watch the demolition.

"You think the cops'll show?" you asked.

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be blasting music at midnight for the entire neighborhood to hear with a wrecking ball crane on school premises." He stood and offered you a hand.

You took it. "Good point."

The wrecking ball collided with the doorway. It caught the minotaur by the chest, crushing every bone in its body.

"If it isn't the Winchesters. And... Winchest-ee."  

Crowley.

"Did I miss the party?" When you both glared at him, he smiled. "Is Sam enjoying his little gift?"

"You gave it to him?"

Crowley hummed. "I'm letting him borrow it. In exchange for one minotaur."

"You want the dead minotaur?" you asked. "Why?"

"I'm going to mount it on my wall." Crowley shrugged.

"That's… it? Taxidermy?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Yes. Do I need a better reason? It's cool. Obviously, I want it in Hell. Why, did you expect I'd want his soul or something? Well... of course, I want his soul, but that would never happen. We all know he's smarter than that, Dean, no need to go full mama bear."

Once Sam dismounted the wrecking ball crane, it vanished with a dark smoke.

Crowley sighed. "Well, I suggest you skip town—I’m expecting the school won't be happy about your renovation." Crowley began walking toward the now destroyed exit, disappearing into the dust and not walking back out.

Sam made his way over, smirking at the ground with his hands in his pockets. "So, how did it go for you guys?"

"Horrible."

"Great."

Sam was glancing between you both. "Well, someone's lying."

You shot Dean an odd look. "If you count me getting stuck on a basketball hoop twenty feet in the air with a minotaur trying to kill us, then you have a twisted idea of 'great'."

"Oh, c'mon, you handled it like a champ."

Sam's eyebrows quirked. "You were on the basketball hoop?"

"I fell through the cheap ceiling."

Dean snorted. "Guess they needed a renovation anyway."

You socked him in the shoulder. "You're an idiot."

"You love me."