#i have a punch of prompts in my inbox that are like months old and this point because i'm pathetic

[letsperaltiago]

you and all your little things | jake & amy

Based on an old prompt I received in my inbox a loooong time ago:

"this is either a fic request or just a nice thought, depending on if you like it haha! i saw a reddit post today about a woman who said she loves finding kitchen appliances in the wrong place bc she knows that means her boyfriend must have tidied up the kitchen. she said on a stressful day, coming home and finding something in the wrong place makes her feel happy that her bf is trying to do something to make her day easier - even if he messes up a little. gave me early j&a vibes, season 3ish"

Rating: G (Pure fluff <3)

Words: 1.4k

Read here or on AO3

----

She doesn’t think too much about it… Or maybe rather she tries not to think too much about it. 

Amy Santiago tries not to think too much about the fact that she really likes being in a relationship: the solid, silly, and amazing kind with Jake Peralta. She might even be loving it, if she has to be completely honest.  

It’s the smallest things she usually loves the most and it drives her that much more insane that the man does the tiniest, trivial things and she swoons as if he’s asking for her hand in marriage - not that she’s thinking about that yet… duh. Or… maybe a bit? How can a guy she’s been with for just barely 6 months mean so much to her already? Is that normal? More importantly: is it safe? 

Even during the entire (and very intense) ‘annoying and difficult to be around’-phase Jake happened to go through when she first started at the 9-9, deep (very deep at times) down,  Amy always knew she liked Jake. Even before they were dating, obviously, but now that she has him her true and completely unhinged feelings are starting to surface and show. Slowly, bit by bit like the iceberg in the horizon, threatening to come closer and crash into her. No, of course, she doesn’t think of their relationship as a fatal shipwreck but they did just watch Titanic a few days ago and the metaphor is right there. After the movie, tiredly stretching after having fallen asleep with her head resting in his lap, Jake had suddenly gone silent and looked at her through the dark with a look so intense she could’ve sworn he was about to tell her a century old secret that could change the world. 

“Ames?” he’d said so seriously that it made her heart drop to her gut.

“Y-yeah?” 

“I’m about to ask you something very important.” Even in the dimmed light of her scented candles, she could see the depth of his brown irises grow darker. What had happened to the lighthearted and never-serious boyfriend of hers? 

“W-what?” She was tired, disoriented from her mid-movie nap, and now she was supposed to sit here and just witness him breaking up with her or something. Her life was definitely a joke. Silence swallowed them as he reached over the tiny gap between them and grabbed her hands. Another few seconds snailed by. Neither moved from their seats on the couch. 

“Will you paint me like one of your french girls?” 

What? Her brain short-circuited. 

“What?”

Then she saw it. A glimt, so mischievous it couldn’t hide, ever, appeared in his eyes. Lips broke into a tight line that told her he was holding back a grin. Even in the darkness, it was clear as day that he was messing with her. 

“Jacob, you asshole!” she punched his shoulder and he finally broke, letting out a cackle. 

So yeah, no actual Titanic happening in their relationship, and Jake has totally stolen her heart, and Amy is all at once completely enamoured but also horribly scared of how quickly she’s falling… getting used to it. Mainly, as already mentioned, the little things. 

Jake utterly, obliviously and completely messes with her way of thinking logically and even worse… her love and respect for organizing. 

Example: A couple of months ago, Jake had stayed the night. Even though she was going to work the in the morning, while he had a day off, Jake had insisted on staying the night. In the morning he’d sent her off with a kiss (and a playful smack to the butt) before passing back out in her bed. Driving to work Amy couldn’t help but overthink all the mess she’d come home to because untidiness was part of her boyfriend’s DNA. Even though it took some minor controversies and time getting used to, now she didn’t mind too much. Cleaning was fun and if it meant that Jake was making himself at home and stuck around more often then she’d gladly put up with it. It was safe to say that she was both pleasantly surprised and amused upon arriving back home to her now-empty apartment. 

When she walked into her home the air was crisp, clean even, telling her that Jake had aired the apartment for her before leaving. Lucky her because she’s pretty sure that the smell of their miserably burnt popcorn from last night must’ve been hell to get rid of. Suddenly she wondered what else he’d done. She didn’t expect anything but maybe Jake Peralta had the potential of being a tidy boyfriend. After taking off her boots and coat, putting it away as per usual, Amy wandered through her apartment as if she was visiting an exhibition at a museum; curious to learn and openminded. 

The blanket from last night was folded and rested across the sofa’s armrest - just how she always did herself but she’s positive that she didn’t do that yesterday. They’d made out on the couch and Jake had carried her straight to bed to continue the horny activities. It was safe to say that neither of them had gone back to the living room after that. Sure, the blanket could’ve been folded more neatly but Amy couldn’t possibly get herself to do anything about it; she’d been too busy smiling from ear to ear at the image of her boyfriend folding the huge, black plaid to the best of his abilities. 

The kitchen had been cleaned as well but she did happen to do a double-take when her eyes wandered across the sight of their two mugs (yes, they have stupid matching couples’ mugs) standing very much washed and clean, she also noticed, on top of her coffee machine.  Following her own logic, mugs would always belong in the cupboard: above the plates, next to the glasses. 

However then, suddenly, Amy could also see it from her boyfriend’s point of view: what do you use mugs for? Coffee. Where do you make the coffee? Coffee machine. Duh. Thus they belong together. 

She’d napped a picture of it and sent it to him right away. 

Amy Santiago:

Never thought of doing this but it somehow makes sense.

A few moments later her phone pinged, notifying her of a new message.

Jake Peralta:

oh ames welcome to the wonderfully logical world of jake peralta

She’d chuckled at it before heading for further exploration of her own home. Besides it being tidy as usual (almost up to her own very high standards) she didn’t notice much. The bed was made, shower scraped clean and his dirty clothes in her laundry basket. From day one they’d made a rule: she didn’t mind washing his clothes but the least he could do was put it in the laundry basket and not leave it all over the place. Never had he broken the rule.  And for him to clothes leave behind for her to wash is okay since he always does the same for her when she leaves something behind at his place - so far he’s only turned two of her white items pink. The first time, very early on in their dating slash situationship, he'd confessed straight away.

Jake Peralta:

don’t be mad. i turned your t-shirt the color of love.

click to open attachment. 

He’d texted her the first time.

Amy Santiago:

Wow, what a unique take on messing up my white t-shirt.

Jake Peralta:

sorry :( 

Amy Santiago:

It’s okay <3 I’ll just have to steal one of yours

The second time he'd left the item on her bed, folded in something resembling a heart, with a note with 'color of love' and a tiny heart next to it. She couldn't be mad - even if it was her night shorts. The note she kept in her drawer. 

Although she hadn’t noticed earlier that day he'd stayed over on his day off, she later comes one more puzzling yet amusing surprise. One is when she’d been looking for her reading glasses and couldn’t find them, only to randomly come across them… lying next to her toothbrush. She’d been more than curious to understand the logic behind the placement and sent him a picture. 

Amy Santiago:

What is the logic behind this? 

Jake Peralta:

You always read in bed before going to sleep. You always brush your teeth right before getting into bed. I thought it was normal to pair the two? 

Wow. She’d been smiling and blushing so hard and if he had been there with her then he definitely would’ve teased her about it. 

He definitely wasn’t a titanic. He was a million things, tiny little things, that made her heart flutter and lips curl into stupid school girl smiles. What can she say? Jake Peralta has a wonderfully weird brain and she’s slowly, bit by bit, falling more and more in love with him and his logic. 

[bigilante]

〖 her best friend ❣ zendaya 〗

「 zendaya x gender-neutral!reader 」 ┅ 「 2.7k words 」

: a.n : back at it again with the unsolicited fics :)) i hope you guys like it 👉🏼👈🏼

⤷ : prompt : separated forcefully or for reasons you can’t control, run into each other again years later on accident.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop making headlines calling us ‘very good friends’?” You halfheartedly laughed at yet another Instagram post by some magazine that showed you and Zendaya out and about LA. “Like, the minute you hang out with any guy they’re like, ‘Oh! Date alert!’ But I’m just your ‘best friend’” You were ranting now, unable to hide the annoyance you felt.

“Why does it matter what they say?” Zendaya quizzed, her hands playing with the waist string of your sweats. She looked up at you from her slumped down position on the sofa, her faint frown making you sigh.

“Because... don’t you feel is a bit homophobic?” You wondered, placing your phone face down on top of your stomach to give her your full attention. The brunette just shrugged nonchalantly and you let out another sigh picking your phone again to close the app, “I’m gonna head out.” It was best to just leave then, you didn’t want to get in a stupid argument with her not before you were set to leave for New York the very next morning. You began to incorporate but Zendaya’s hands gripped your thighs keeping them draped over hers.

“Y/n, come on.” She said, gorgeous hazel eyes pleading at you. What exactly? You had no idea but for a second, you were about to give in however a loud ding coming from your phone stopped you. Your eyes scanned the screen and the reminder that had popped up read ‘PACK ! 4 ! N Y C !’, you sent her an apologetic glance before getting off the sofa, gathering your stuff and petting Noon goodbye.

Zendaya had stood up from the sofa too, watching your every move intently, probably trying to figure out if you were upset with her. The truth was, you didn’t know if you were upset with her or with the media, it was possible that both had a little part in your now sour mood. “See you next week, best friend. Love you.” You joked before swinging the front door open and leaving. The week was going to feel like a month, you knew, but the hope that making that simple joke followed by the declaration would ease things up was strong.

But what did hopefulness ever bring if not disappointment and heartache?

Seeing medium-quality paparazzi pictures of your girlfriend as soon as you landed from a five-hour flight wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to be welcomed to New York. You sat quietly in the back of an Uber trying not to cry as your eyes stared at the images on your phone. A series of pictures of Zendaya and Tom leaving her house, —they must had been taken that morning while you were on your way to the airport— the further you scrolled down the Twitter trends the more you felt like throwing up. Them in his car. Tom’s hand reaching for Zendaya’s jaw. Both leaning in. Kissing. Laughing.

It felt like a punch to the face, it was the worst feeling you had ever endured and the people that caused it were the last you would’ve thought could ever dare to hurt you. Your trembling hands fumbled with the settings on your account, privating it and blocking her and Tom, doing the same with Instagram followed by their numbers on your phone. It felt like doing a cleansing, the pressure in your chest easing only minimally when you locked your phone and looked out into the running city. You wanted to scream and cry, break stuff, throw your phone away and not show to work, you just wanted to go hide in your Airbnb for the rest of the week and pretend you and Zendaya never happened.

The reality was that you two had happened and it was far too hard to pretend it didn’t, your heart ached both physically and metaphorically and you hated every second of it. For that week you spent in New York no one shut up about the photos, every person you worked with had that hot, brand new ‘goss’ about the pair that had hurt you so badly.

You sat in the quiet living room of the apartment you had been living in whilst in the big city, laptop sitting in front of you as you cancelled your flight back to LA, changing the tab to the Airbnb’s one to pay for a few more days. You had been holding yourself together the whole time you were there, work keeping you busy and sleeping pills doing their magic at the end of the day but it could only go so far. Glassy, stinging eyes stared blankly at the empty inbox of your email, the cursed images projecting over the blank space and you just weren’t strong enough anymore, you couldn’t, so you cried and choked and screamed until your throat and eyes were sore; until your whole body was drained of every bit of energy.

Little by little you were sweeping your life clean of her, clearing out your phone’s camera roll, changing your number. Deleting social media was a big no for your job so filtering everything and anything that had to do with them was the only option, that and spending little to no time online. You had stopped to think one night of the what-ifs of the situation, you were aware that Zendaya’s publicist wasn’t so happy about you and her dating publically and Tom’s was obsessed with boosting the Spider-man movies at all cost, still, giving you a heads up about it would had been the right thing to do.

For a year and a half, you made yourself busy, going back and forth wasn’t something you enjoyed but it worked to avoid unwanted visits and accidental encounters. Enough time had passed, you thought as you stopped booking in so many clients across the country and settled back in your LA home. “You know what? I could go for a thick, sugary milkshake, right now.” Naomi told you as you put down your half-empty box of fried noodles on the coffee table.

“Are you serious?” You asked incredulous receiving an enthusiastic nod from your friend. “Naomi, we just had Chinese and you wanna wash it down with a milkshake?” She rolled her eyes at you when you pointed it out.

“Fine, what about Bubble U? Bubble tea is Chinese isn’t it?” She offered, her question prompting you to send her an unamused glare. “Yep, Bubble U it is, then!” Naomi jumped up, going straight to the door. Reluctantly you got up from the floor, groaning all the way to the door where you got ready to go out, “Come on! It’ll be fun!” She chirped while she pulled you out of the house. You hated to admit it but you had completely modified your life after the heartbreak, once you settled back home you barely left it, you didn’t attend parties unless it was for work or go out with your friends unless it was at any of their houses. You didn’t walk around the city that often anymore in fear of bumping into her.

“I miss this.” You sighed as you walked down Chinatown with your friend, the coldness of your drink pleasant against the palm of your hand. “Just walking around town.” You continued taking a sip of the milk tea.

“I still don’t get why you had to stop going out with us.” Naomi said inciting you to turn to look at her, “I mean, I know why it’s just… you didn’t have to stop.” She rephrased it giving you an apologetic glance. You knew how much your friends hated the idea of you not being able to be you after the whole thing with Zendaya and Tom happened but it was your way of coping with it and even though they didn’t agree with it, they supported you.

“Well, I’m outside now, aren’t I?” You nudged her side with your elbow making her giggle as she nudged you back. “Maybe this is me getting back to my old self.” Hope laced your every word as you looked around the busy street. The way the golden light of the setting sun washed over the buildings made the outing worth the risk.

LA was the second-largest city in the United States, with a population of nearly four million that one could think the chances of crossing paths with a lover-turned-stranger was one in millions, yet, there you were rooted to the pavement as your wide eyes stared at the tall and thin figure coming out of one of the many restaurants that dotted the street. “Come on, let’s go back.” Naomi said, placing her hand on the crook of your elbow ready to pull you out of there but something inside your chest told you to keep moving forward.

So you did, you started walking again letting your friend’s hand slip away from you. She was quick to follow, whisper-shouting at you that whatever you were doing probably wasn’t the best idea. The closer you got to her the more nervous you felt, it’s been over a year since you last saw her and god, was she even more beautiful than before; long legs clagged in camel coloured trousers, feet sporting her beloved black converse. Her top was white, a little see-through and you cursed at how much it still drove you absolutely crazy in the most irritating sense.

Curls tucked into an elastic on top of her head in a carefree and relaxed way, a few stubborn strands hanging out framing her face and gracing her neck. She was laughing loudly at something Darnell said, that laugh you had forced yourself to forget but the second it hit your ears, you realised how badly you had missed it. Then everything stopped, Naomi’s panicked telling off, Darnell’s chatting and Zendaya’s laughing. It all had stopped but the rambling around the four of you.

You stood in front of Darnell while Naomi stood in front of Zendaya, your friend’s usually amicable attitude disrupted by the scowl on her face as she glared Zendaya’s way only the brunette’s pupils were set on you with no apparent intention of averting. “It’s you,” She breathed out, hope barely perceivable in her tone. You only hummed at the observation, your eyes moving from hers down to her hands that were gripping the long lanyard that held her phone around her neck. Her nerves were evident then, the intensity with which she clutched it seemed to be draining the blood flow from her fingers. “I— How—” Zendaya tried to speak but failed, letting out a shaky breath. “How have you been?”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Naomi protested, you understood where your friend was coming from but you also needed that, you needed to speak to Zendaya just one more time to be able to finally let everything go. You needed her to confirm your theory just so you could move on and Darnell seemed to be on the same page as you for he stepped in between you and Naomi, throwing his arm around her shoulders to guide her away from you two. You heard her object some more but ultimately she complied and walked away.

“I’ve been fine. You?” You eventually spoke after short but agonising seconds of silence.

“I don’t know. There are good days among the terrible ones, so... fine, I guess?” She shrugged a shoulder. With a nod of your head, you looked past her over her shoulder to see a man pointing a camera at you, you were about to warn her when she began speaking again. “Y/n, I’m so sorry about—” Zendaya started but you shook your head no making her stop, you realised then that you did want to talk to her but not on the street in front of that many people and certainly not when there were paparazzi nearby.

“Heard the movie did well.” Your tongue betrayed your brain. Zendaya tried to speak once more but you cut her again. “I’m glad it did. Made it all worth it, didn’t it?” You faked a small smile nearly choking on the words, the anxious lump in your throat threatening to cut your airflow.

“No, It didn’t.” Zendaya denied taking a step closer to you forcing you to hold your breath with the sudden move. “I was a total asshole to you before you left, then Marla wanted me and Tom to do that for a while and I don’t even know why I did it.” She ranted in one breath.

“I upset you.” The statement earned you a furious head shake from the tall girl. “I did. I kept bugging you about the articles,” You carried on, inconspicuously your eyes started to line with tears. The more you talked the more you realised that maybe, just maybe there was a bit of blame in you too, however, that didn’t mean Zendaya was absolved from any. “You never said a thing to me about the stunt.”

“I felt like I didn’t need to, I wasn’t gonna do it.”

“But you did. The morning I left LA.” You mumbled, trying to hide from the second man with a camera that had appeared closer than the first.

“Fuck, I know it was a shitty thing to do and I’m sorry,” She took another small step forward.

“You always told me kissing in public wasn’t your thing.” You exposed, tears irrevocably breaking the surface tension and cascading down your cheeks. Flicking your gaze up at her you saw nothing but hurt and regret written all over her gorgeous face and your heart squeezed at the sight. She had never spoken about it and neither had you asked, you just felt it in your heart that she was scared of how the media would treat you both if they ever found out you were dating, you knew the times had changed but there were still closed-minded people that ran gossip magazines and could make your lives a living hell the moment they caught you holding hands in public or worst, kissing.

The murmuring around you increased, reminding you that you were in a very public place crying in front of your secret ex-girlfriend. “Fuck that.” Zendaya grumbled. One moment she was a small step away from you and the next her hands were cupping your face and her lips were softly pressed against yours. The action took your breath away instantly, still, you found yourself powerless against the familiar taste and feel of her and allowed her to kiss you as long as she wanted to in front of how many people she wanted to. There were yelps and gasps all around the two of you and you started to regain conscience and pulled away.

Wide, watery eyes staring up at the girl mere inches away from your face. “Th-there’s pap—”

“I don’t care.” She whispered before she captured your lips once more, this time deeper and twice as intensely as the first time. Your hands scurried to her waist, bringing her flush to your body as you kissed her back gladly, desperately wanting her lips to make the past year bleep out of your core memories.

The night went by slowly as if the universe was granting you more time to spend in the arms of the girl you loved. She never once let a second of silence go by you, filling it with a whispered apology and a kiss. You talked about everything the time you spent apart brought to both of you, she told you about firing her publicist right after the pictures came out, about how she understood why you had cut her off without any explanation and how bad both her and Tom felt with the whole thing.

Articles flooded the internet that very night as well as the next morning, however, neither of you knew of them right away for any device that could be hooked to a WiFi signal was rightfully turned off while you basked in the presence of each other under the covers of Zendaya’s bed.

“Spider-man Star Zendaya shares intense kiss with BFF, Celeb Stylist y/n l/n in the middle of Chinatown! Swipe to see the pictures!”

It might be 2021 but some things refused to change.

【 thank you so much for reading! ♡ please, consider reblogging and letting me know what you thought of this ♡ kit xx 】

[theevangelion]

Are you still active on AO3/will be updating any of your fics there? Or are you patreon only as of right now?

Hello friend, apologies for your long wait on a response! I've had asks switched off for a few months now. I'm going through my old inbox today and I figure I'll answer whatever catches my eyes. So, I'll start here and probably write needlessly verbose responses—thought-piece style—because I'm fucking GROSS like that.

Other than some rest periods when my health is getting dangerously bad (which you may have asked this question during one of said recovery periods earlier this year now I'm thinking about it) I'll always be active and sharing my stories on AO3, Tumblr, or whatever other free websites we (the gays) collectively migrate to in the future, because I'll always be femslash to my dirty, chronically-online core.

Femslash is this chaotic, lawless and gentle thing we write for ourselves and each other. We've done it for decades. We'll do it until we're all dead in our graves. I believe that my femslash works (erotic, kinky, weird, or just erotic weird kinks maybe) are all supposed to go and retire in their completed glory within open and free community domains—no exceptions.

Except for semi-exceptions, I guess? We may as well talk about the elephant in the room. I make money from my writing and the stuff I'm most requested to write, from my Patreon subscribers, is femslash—usually AU prompts. So the stories do go on my Patreon first, and sometimes they stay there for a brief while and sometimes they stay there for longer than long. Then the stories always go out into free-access places like AO3, Tumblr, etc, when I feel happy the story I'm publishing is something along these lines:

It's going to be a complete and finished body of writing for people to enjoy (or hate) start to finish.

It's something I think a 19 year old girl questioning her sexuality—with several AO3 links for weird femslash porn saved on her phone—will excitedly click on faster than you can say: "You're not just an ally, Shannon, stop reading ABO hucow smut on public transport—you're making us all look bad."

It's something with quite sad/deep moments that I think a dyke in need of a cathartic hard cry will feel moved by enough to perhaps text her friend, "This story just punched me in my fucking heart and here I am crying in the club." And then all of a sudden she's talking to her friends and not laying in bed, alone, with the big sad stuck behind her tits with nowhere to go.

TLDR: I will always be active on free-access platforms because femslash is a meal best shared at a big table that the whole family is invited to. Though, the reason I'm able to continue making and sharing these stories—particularly for people who don't have disposable income for escapism—is solely down to the fact I'm paid for my labour. Those people get to read it first, because it's usually their prompts and requests, and they're the only reason I can still do this thing I've been passionately creating for...

Fifteen years now.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Bollocks to Patreon, someone please set me up a Pension?

[vowel-in-thug]

The SilverFlint Mixtape Vol. 2 (9521 words) by vowelinthug Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Captain Flint/John Silver Additional Tags: Tumblr Prompt Summary:

a bunch of tumblr prompts i wrote awhile ago and posted on my tumblr and then totally forgot to put on ao3

some fics include: roleplay, a vague understanding of the greek language, romantic conversations on cannibalism

M because only one of these is Explicit, so it's a little like playing russian roulette with boners

[shikakunaras]

53 or 88 for shikashino if your still taking prompts?

53 - “I just want to be swept off my feet…is that so bad? I’m fed up of being alone.”

My inbox is always open for prompts :) Shino = bugs so there’s a bug or two mentioned.

Ao3 Link 

Post mission activities usually involved Shikamaru sitting at his favorite cloud watching spot, smoking a cigarette, and sleeping. It was all he could think about during the debriefing, while talking to his father in his office, and while making plans later for a team dinner. 

He nearly giggled when he was finally alone and able to walk to the empty watchtower he usually occupied. 

He was hit by voices halfway up the steps and his joy ended immediately. 

“I think you are a cool dude Shino.” Kiba’s voice was loud. 

“I just want to be swept off my feet…is that so bad? I’m fed up with being alone.” Shino mumbled. 

Shikamaru felt like he was intruding and he was going to leave and come back later but, Hinata pulled him in. 

“Why don’t you talk to him?” 

Him? Shikamaru leaned back against the wall, listening closely.

“I don’t know. I try to but it ends up being awkward.” Shino sighed. 

“Shikamaru’s weird but he’s easy to talk to.” Kiba reassured Shino and it sent electricity through Shikamaru’s veins. He shouldn’t be here. “He’s not the kind of guy to wine and dine ya, but he’ll listen and love ya right back.” 

Shikamaru wanted to hit Kiba. They date for a month and suddenly he’s an expert on him. 

Shino sighed. “I guess I’ll talk to him. Thanks guys.” 

That was the Nara’s cue to leave. He raced down the steps, as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to get caught. He wandered around the village trying to choose another spot to decompress but he couldn’t get what Shino said out of his head. “I just want to be swept off my feet.” 

Shikamaru snuffed his third cigarette out. Maybe he should jump on talking to Shino first. He thought about it again and then shook his head. He didn’t want Shino thinking he was spying on him. 

“I just want to be swept off my feet.”

He won’t wait. He’ll have to catch him before the team dinner. 

“Shika!” Ino waved him down as soon as he rounded the corner. Shino wasn’t outside, the Nara missed him. “We got a nice table. It’ll fit all of us!” Ino grabbed his hand and yanked him into the restaurant. 

“Hey Shikamaru.” Kiba waved, a little too bright. 

“Hey.” The Nara was placed next to the man he wanted to see. “Shino.” 

“Shikamaru.” 

Once the food arrived, conversation engulfed the table. No one was paying any real attention to anyone outside of their own circle of communication. Time for Shikamaru to pounce. 

“I like you.” Shino beat him to the punch.

“Um.” The Nara was stunned by the blunt confession, he had forgotten everything he was going to say. 

“I’m sorry.” Shino stood up and walked away from the table. He had sounded hurt. 

“Hey where ya goin’?” Kiba shouted at Shino. 

“Bathroom.” 

Shikamaru let out a sigh. It was his fault, he should’ve said ‘Shino I like you too.’ like he had rehearsed in his head. Now the Aburame is probably upset. He could feel Kiba staring. Shikamaru glanced over, shrugged and then followed Shino’s example, praying Kiba wasn’t following. 

Luckily Shino was washing his hands at the sink and not hiding in a stall. 

“You walked away too fast.” Shikamaru leaned on the wall next to Shino. “You didn’t get to hear what I had to say.” 

Shino shook the water off his hands, attempting to find a towel to dry them on. Shikamaru realized he was in front of the machine. The Nara passed over a paper towel and then continued. “I like you too.” 

The Aburame paused. “Like? Love?” 

“Love.” Shikamaru chuckled. “To be honest I’ve had a crush on you since you saved me from getting eaten by that spider.” 

“It was a small spider and you were a ten year old.” 

“Saved me.” Shikamaru stepped closer, he could see a faint smile on Shino’s face. And some color Shikamaru took pride in it. He leaned in and hugged the blushing man. 

“Just a small spider. Hardly a hero.” Shino was sputtering now, blush higher on his face. 

“My hero.” Shikamaru whispered in Shino’s ear and he felt him go limp. He thought the Aburame had passed out. “Shino?” He turned his head and saw that Shino was still conscious. 

“I’m okay. I haven’t been held in a while. I like it.” 

“I can hold you as long as you want. After dinner. Kiba will kill me if we don’t go back.” Shikamaru pulled away and took Shino’s hand. 

“He means well.” Shino threw the paper towel away and let the Nara lead him out of the room. 

“Does he?” 

“Yes Shikamaru. He’s my best friend.”

[starkeristheendgame]

hey!! im really sorry to bother but i really love your writing & saw that you were taking prompts!! i was wondering if you could do one where tony has a sort of kink for calling peter ‘kid’ in a way, if your comfortable of course! sorry if my English isn’t the best!

I’m so sorry that this got buried to the bottom of my inbox! I hope you’re still around and that you get to see this, and I’m so sorry again that it drowned! I hope you enjoy it and I can only apologise if you hate it 😂

Also; please, please don’t ever apologise for your verbal or lingual ability. Learning another language is hard, and English is noted as one of (if not the most) hardest languages to learn. Being bi/multi-lingual is something to be insanely proud of!

I hope you don’t mind, but all of my prompts recently have been in canon universe, so this is a neighbours AU with no powers. In which Tony is a rich ex-businessman who just wants to tinker on old cars in his (not) retirement and Peter is the high school kid that won’t leave him alone.

TW: ‘Kid’ kink (the term) | Underage character | Underage (SS&C) sex | Daddy kink

Someone had bought the house next to his over the half-term. Peter knew this because the sale sign went down and the garden was immediately de-turfed and a notice was posted through everyone’s door on Wayforest Road that ‘minor construction’ would begun within the next two weeks, from 8am to 5pm daily, save for Saturdays and Sundays.

Peter wanted to laugh in - and then punch - the face of whoever decided to term it minor. Abruptly on the following Monday, almost a full half-hour before his alarm was due to go off, Peter was awoken by deep, loud voices and the clanging of scaffolding poles as the workmen arrived.

Groaning did nothing. Neither did flopping about pathetically on his bed like a beached fish. Burrowing under his duvet and his pillow was also a lost cause; he’d left his window open to keep his room cool in the night.

Seething, Peter flung himself from bed, turned off his alarm, and hopped in the shower. The workmen were gone when he came back, but the house was now a big, ugly grey thing besides his own, and he paused on the sidewalk to eye it mulishly. “If you’re another crabby old man; I’m not helping you walk your groceries up to your porch” he announced loudly to the empty house, and scuttled away to the safety of his own home after being eyed balefully and judgmentally by Mrs. Witkin’s cat.

At the dinner table, the new house and its new occupants were all Aunt May seemed to want to talk about, despite the way Peter’s face resembled less of his usual ‘ :) ‘ and more of a ‘ -.- ‘ as she went on, guessing the features of their new neighbour animatedly around mouthfuls of mashed potato.

Tuesday morning found him jolting awake to a shout of “Jim! Jim! For fuck’s sake, Jim, get tha’ fuckin’ plank!” In a thick, overly loud Irish accent.

By Friday, Peter was ready to forgo just a punch to the face, and was willing to commit all out, planned murder. At somewhere around seven-am every morning that week, the workmen had woken him up with their clanging and their shouting and their existing. Friday evening he stomped around the corner with a glower, fingers tight around his backpack straps. Not even Mrs. Witkin’s mean old cat could deter him from scowling at the house the entire way to his door.

Town rumours be damned; that cat was just old and judgemental, like half the residents there. It was no trapped old lady or cursed young Prince.

Hopefully.

Peter crossed himself on his porch quickly just in case. It could never hurt to be a little superstitious. Especially not after the day that Mr. Herald proclaimed himself immortal and was then promptly wiped out by the tree in his yard collapsing.

By the following Monday, Peter caved and stayed at Ned’s for the night, for the first time in his entire life thankful to hear the music of his alarm and not a series of clangs or yells. It was even good enough that Ned’s snoring didn’t disturb him as much as it usually did. He felt chipper, refreshed. Right up until he turned the corner and found his street lined with vans, the workmen a little late finishing.

The next two months were cesspit of noise and strange men and sleepless days off. Apparently the person who had bought the house must’ve only liked the area and nothing about the house at all, because by week three, all that remained of it was the bare skeleton, gutted and stripped and ugly. But Peter was willing to concede that his new neighbour had good taste.

By the end of the second month the house had been entirely re-built, and Peter was convinced that his new neighbour was some very famous or important person looking for a secret hideaway, or a mob boss. There was no other logical explanation. What had once been a decent but generic detached property with a neglected garden was now a mini-mansion of sorts, all soft creams and light earth tones, with a stonewall front and staggered steps that led onto a half-gravel and half-grass front yard.

Large paned windows were already lined with thick curtains and plants and a sweeping gravel-scape led to a large garage, that seemed to be the most work of the renovation. It was huge, probably taking up over half of what used to be side garden and dead grass. No fence bordered the property, but the difference between Peter’s space and the new person’s space was immaculate and definitive.

“Huh” he mused aloud, blinking. Suddenly, he was less irritated at all those lost half-hours and more curious about who was going to be living there. They had money, for sure. Inheritance? Insurance claim payout? Illegal happenings? Aunt May’s two joking theories were suddenly looking less of a joke and more genuine possibilities.

As it would happen, Peter wouldn’t actually find out for another three or so months. The man moved in on a Saturday, quietly and with a small fleet of sleek SUV vehicles and fancy moving vans. Peter enjoyed a lazy morning, napping until the start of the afternoon and basking in the summer warmth, stretching in front of his bedroom window and looking down in time to see the last of the delivery and moving people packing down their vehicles.

Peter eyed all the bodies curiously, but it soon became clear none of them were his new neighbour, because they all stood around, flipping through paperwork, and then promptly left. Peter lingered under the pretence of dusting at his window ledge, but the street was quiet and empty.

Aunt May was anything but quiet when he finally dragged himself downstairs in search of food. “Peter! Morning, honey. Did you see the vans outside? Very fancy. Big enough for bodies, too, though” May hummed, flipping through the book she was currently reading.

Thirty Ways To Revive Your Youth.

Peter grimaced, and begun to rummage through the cupboards. “Not to question your intelligence, but. Why would a mob boss carry around his victims? Like a few teeth or knuckles ought to serve as good souvenirs. I don’t think carting around whole bodies is practical” Peter pointed out, settling on fruity oatmeal. Aunt May paused in her reading, nose twitching to adjust her glasses as she considered it.

“Hm. Point. Unless they bought the house because they run out of burial room, and these are fairly recent bodies they need the new soil for” she pointed out, and Peter pointed his spoon at her as he passed.

“Point” he agreed.

And so the weeks passed, but the mystery remained. No matter what time Peter tired to linger, or how early he awoke, his neighbour never seemed to be around. Here and there he would catch a figure roaming past the windows, kinda like a ghost, but never a clear view or a face. It was vastly disappointing, but his interest didn’t wane over the months that spanned between his rueful lack of sleep and now.

Now being a hazy Saturday morning, warm but not overly stuffy. Peter was coming back from a morning at Ned’s wherein they’d been steadily chewing away at the LEGO Galactic Supership. He was halfway down the street when a large trailer vehicle begun to drift down the street steadily, heading straight in Peter’s direction.

He paused on the sidewalk, watching it with interest. It was a transportation vehicle, and as it drew closer Peter could see there was a car on the back of it, heavily clamped down and chained to make sure it wouldn’t roll off. The vehicle passed him by some, and he got a clear view of the other car. It looked old, a little broken, rusted. Huge, though. Bigger than all the cars he’d seen before.

It pulled up right outside his neighbours house. Sensing an opportunity, and genuinely curious, Peter lingered, taking a few steps across the sidewalk to eye the car. It was a glossy red, though it had sun fade and was patchy. The chrome was glossy in places and dull, rusted in others. One headlight was missing.

The door of the cab opened, and Peter turned on his heel to see the driver getting out. The friendly greeting died on his lips as toned, thick thighs slid from the cab, followed by trim hips and a long, solid torso only half-hidden under a tank-shirt and overshirt. Broad shoulders prefaced the hottest man that Peter had ever laid eyes on.

He had a shaped jaw that was cut by stubble in a unique style that Peter had never seen anyone wearing before. He had sharp cheeks and dark, deep eyes with long lashes, tanned but not exactly browned and dark, dark hair with the barest flecks of grey at the roots, at his temples.

The man seemed surprised to find him there, pausing mid-way through pushing the door shut and peering around the street before looking back at him. One shaped brow lifted, and Peter stumbled to remember his manners, thrusting out a hand.

“Hi, Mister. Sorry - I was looking at the car. Is it for the new house?” He asked, forcing himself not to blush under the intense gaze. After a brief pause, the man took his hand, palm large and slightly rough, grip firm. He was even more attractive up close, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dark lips and the strong scent of motor oil and grease.

“Would seem that way”.

And Ho-ly voice. Deep and with the softest of rumbles, soothing like a thunderstorm in the far distance. Peter clutched at his jacket when their hands dropped, coughing politely to hide whatever facial expression he’d pulled. The man strode past him and to the car, beginning to work on the many safety straps and chains.

“Did they…Is this theirs?” Peter asked after watching him quietly for several moments with a gesture towards the house besides them. Peter had discovered the house had a second parking bay on the other side, where a glossy black muscle car from the 60′s never seemed to move.

“Theirs’?” The man echoed, pausing in his movements to look up at Peter with curious amusement. It occurred to him then that it was likely some random car recovery guy had seen his new neighbour(s) before he had.

“Uh…Well. I’ve never actually seen them. So I don’t know if its one person, or a whole family, or…” Peter trailed off meekly, looking over his shoulder at the building. It looked as empty as it always did, no lights on and no figures moving behind the windows.

“Townsfolk say its some celebrity having a breakdown. Others say its some old widow using her husband’s life insurance. Even heard from someone that its a mafia lord, settling down in the middle of some quiet ass nowhere town” the recovery man grunted, hauling on a thick, heavy chain. Peter flushed.

Yeah. He was…Guilty of some pretty crazy guesses. But come on. Someone buys a house, spends upwards of hundreds of thousands doing it over, and then…Nothing. No new faces at the grocery store. Never seen, or even heard. Like a ghost.

“They’re not big fans of being…Seen. I guess? I mean, I know a guy with groceries comes around every Monday. Sometimes multiple times a week, but he always puts them in the garage and leaves. And this town is full of judgemental old people - Half of whom probably have mercury poisoning or something. There’s gonna be some pretty wild speculations going around” he pointed out, moving closer to look at what appeared to be a scratch in the paintwork.

The car gave a faint creak as the man released all of the holds on this side, snorting as he rounded the back of the vehicle and went to the other side with a loud, amused snort. Peter followed, and stifled a gasp at the sight of the other car. The man turned, eyeing him for a moment, before nodding.

“Got T-boned by an estate car. But she’s a tough old thing. Heavy metals and good steel; not like today’s cars. She came out better off” he mumbled as he worked on a thick strap, carefully taking apart the various clasps and buckles. Peter approached the car carefully, stretching up on his toes to brush his fingertips over the warped metal. He felt almost….Sad for the car.

He traced the flaking paint and the twisted, dented metal tenderly, and when he pulled away, the man was watching him again, movements slowed as he pulled the material through the metal. “Is this their car? What good is it now if its all broken up?” He asked curiously.

The man ducked his head, moving onto another thick chain. “Its just the one guy. I guess its a…Hobby. Of his. Bought her yesterday at a scrap lot”. He seemed uncomfortable saying it, but to Peter it was like gold trust. One guy. Huh. A big old house like that? That seemed rather lonely. Maybe it really was some rich old person retiring, enjoying a quiet place and a mechanics hobby.

Peter was going to ask more, but the car was freed with a grinding sound, and the man gestured him carefully back with his hand, holding it out in front of Peter to walk him back like a horse, to a safe distance. The man used two remotes to bring the car to the ground, Peter watching in fascination as rotors and rolling mechanisms moved it backwards and onto the tarmac of the road.

“How do you plan on moving it now?” Peter asked, and immediately regretted it as the man shed his over-shirt. Biceps. Shoulders. Forearms. His throat went dry and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

As it turns out, the plan was simply ‘push’. Peter scoffed, but was soon at a loss to anything but stare as the man leaned heavily against the trunk of the car, muscles bulging in the afternoon sun. Heavy or not, the car soon begun to roll, and after a moment Peter dropped his backpack and came up besides the straining man, leaning all his might against the metal.

It probably did fuck all, but the man gave him a wry grin all the same, chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths as they moved the car across the flat ground and onto the side-drive space. Peter’s shoulder ached and his arms and thighs suddenly felt like jelly, but the man slapped him across the back.

“Good effort, kid” and then moved away, heading towards the front door. Peter gaped as the man simply grasped the doorhandle and pushed the door open, and floundered on the drive. “Wait! You’re just gonna walk into his house?” He called, and the man paused mid-step, looking back at him.

“Well. I ought to just ‘walk in’. Its my house”. And with a lewd, perfect wink he was gone. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself, flailing on the driveway with error logs flashing behind his eyes. That was his neighbour. His neighbour was some rich, late-thirty something hot-hot-hot guy who fixed broken classic cars.

“Oh my god” Peter muttered, stomping down the driveway to get his bags. Four months. He’d lived next to this Playgirl model for four months.

He decided against telling Aunt May. It felt selfish, but it also felt good to know he was the only person to have seen him. Even though he realised not long after reaching his room that he hadn’t even gotten his name. Peter waited by his window for hours, but saw neither hair nor hide of the man again. By morning, the transport truck was gone and the cherry red car was presumably inside the garage.

The damned guy was magic. There was no other explanation. Fuelled, Peter spent the Sunday morning in the kitchen, furiously baking with narrowed eyes and a plan. The muffins were done by mid-day, and Peter iced them carefully before boxing them, and stomping across the sidewalk to his neighbour’s house.

Peter knocked, and waited. Knocked again. Waited. “If you don’t answer the door then I’m just going to sit here” he announced loudly, knocking again before plopping down onto the porch just to prove a point. Several long minutes passed before his neighbour appeared around the corner, from the garage judging by the grease steaks up his arms, scowling.

“Kid. Here’s a life tip; if someone doesn’t answer the door, its because they don’t want company” the man huffed, but his eyes zeroed in on the box with intense curiosity, and Peter shrugged, smug.

“You came out, though” he pointed out, pushing himself to his feet. The man scoffed, but allowed him to follow, leading the way around the building where a small side-door was open.

“I came out about thirty years ago, kiddo. If that’s a congratulations cake, you’re a little late”. Peter tripped over the gravel, fighting his legs to remain upright and his stomach did a weird knot inside him. Oh. Not only was his neighbour hot, but he was at the least male inclined, too.

Very interesting.

“Actually, these are just welcome muffins. Chocolate and orange” Peter murmured, stepping inside the garage. It was bigger than it seemed, and the cherry red car stood in the centre, sanded down and clearly being worked on already.

“Peter, by the way. Peter Parker” he added after a pause, and almost offered his hand for a second time, but settled instead on thrusting the muffin box at the man. He raised a brow, but delved inside to pull one out, clearly eager at the prospect.

“Tony” he offered simply, and Peter tested it on his tongue, enjoying the shape. For now; he’d let the lack of a last name go. Good things in time, after-all. Choosing to invite himself to stay, Peter perched primly on top of the edge of the workbench, electing another raised brow, but Tony’s mouth was too full of muffin to object.

Tony begun to work as he ate, and Peter sat in content silence, watching as Tony and his bulging arm muscles took each wheel off the car and begun to strip it of all its chrome features. Peter checked his phone after a while and was surprised to find that around four hours had passed. May would be home from her sewing group about now. He ought to head home.

“I’ll be back tomorrow” he announced, and jumped at the same time Tony did, the man smacking his arm off warped metal with a shout. Tony whirled on him, eyes wide, gaze flicking between him and the door, before he looked…Confused.

“You’re still here?” He asked, and Peter snorted as he dusted off his pants, heading for the door with a shake of his head. May came home shortly after he did, and Peter supposed he ought to let her know that he’d be visiting Tony again tomorrow.

“So he’s not a mafia boss? Or a celebrity?” She asked around a mouthful of roasted chicken, looking rather disappointed as Peter shrugged and shook his head.

“He just seems…Aloof? I don’t know. Maybe he’s some business tycoon or something. But he seems nice. I’m just going over to help him with this car he’s got. It’s real nice, too” Peter hummed, and Aunt May narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know him. He’s a stranger. Albeit a hot one, apparently. And you have school tomorrow, too. You shouldn’t be hanging around strangers. Unless…If he happens to be single…I’d be open to his number” May shrugged after a pause, and Peter blinked.

May was surprisingly easy to placate, and he assured her that if she wanted to, she could march right over to Tony and give him a Mother Hen Talk after dinner, but she decided against that, and in favour of a hot bath. School on Monday rolled around quicker than Peter could say ‘garage’ and he decided against telling Ned about Tony.

He wanted Tony all to himself. At least…For as long as he could. It was strange, but he found his heart thumping as he marched down Tony’s driveway and up to the garage door this time, knocking on it loudly. He’d brought lemonade and sandwiches this time.

The garage door opened, and Tony looked equally as startled to see Peter there as he had the day prior, gaze raking his body before frowning, and stepping aside with a sigh. “You’re like a mosquito, kid. I came here to get away from people” Tony announced pointedly, and Peter founded on him with an unimpressed gaze and an arched brow of his own.

“If you truly wanted to get away from people, you’d have moved out in the mountains or something. Now, get back to work. In an hour you can stop for supper. I brought chicken sandwiches” he ordered, taking his seat from the day before and pulling his calculus homework from his bag.

He kept his gaze down as Toy stared at him, mouth opening and closing several times, before he went for his wrench, muttering to himself as he lay down on a wheeled bench and rolled under the car. Peter smiled quietly into his papers. A little over two hours later - he lost count, sue him - Peter pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the car, kicking Tony lightly in the ankle that stuck out.

“We can eat now” he announced, walking back over to his pack and taking out the tupperware he’d packed this morning. He could hear the sound of the wheels moving, and he turned, holding out the box. Tony looked perplexed, but approached and took it, still looking puzzled even as he bit into his own portion.

“Not that the pattern of snacks isn’t appreciated, kid, but…Why are you here?” he asked after he’d swallowed, and Peter actually had to think about it, flushing as his mind conjured up inappropriate responses like ‘I want to lick your arms’ and ‘You look like the hot mechanics in my pornos’.

He settled on a shrug, chewing slowly for more time. “You’re interesting. You’re my neighbour. You’re not a mafia boss or a broken down celebrity” he pointed out. Tony twitched on the last one, but gave a hum and moved away, scarfing down the last of his sandwich and returning to the car. This time, when Peter informed him he was leaving and would be back tomorrow again, Tony neither jumped nor looked surprised.

It became a pattern. Three out of seven days a week, Peter would sit in the garage with his homework or revision and Tony would work on the red car, which Peter came to learn was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. “Just like in Christine” Tony had huffed proudly, and had then been quickly appalled when Peter had simply stared blankly.

That night, Peter had watched the movie, and his next visit was spent talking animatedly about it with Tony, discussing their favourite parts and what it might be like if it was ever re-made. After a month, Aunt May picked her way across the gravel to finally meet the man her adopted son kept disappearing off to be with, and Peter had the unfortunate experience of watching them flirt together, Tony in a cheeky, smooth, outrageous manner and Aunt May like a school-girl. When he begun to gag in the corner, Tony threw an oil rag at him.

One day, a week before the summer holidays, Peter rounded the corner to find Tony stood on the porch, looking angry and tense and talking to a tall woman with red hair, tied up in a ponytail. Peter stopped and lingered, unsure of what to do. Besides him and May, he’d never seen anyone else talking to Tony. Even the grocery delivery guy simply put the bags in the garage and left.

After a while, the woman turned away, looking sullen and displeased, and slipped into a sleek black SUV, pulling off with a screech of her tires and the rev of her engine. By the time Peter reached the house, Tony was back inside, and he knocked quietly, leaning closer to the door.

Tony didn’t answer.

“Mr. Tony? I’m not sure what happened, but…If you’re not up for hanging out today, its cool. I brought soup, but I’ll leave yours on the porch. It might be hot, so…Be careful”. Peter stooped and left the thermos close to the door, before leaving. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the day, longed to go see Tony, but everything in his gut told him to let him be for a time.

Whoever that man had been, he was clearly someone Tony didn’t like or want around.

Almost a whole week passed in which Tony didn’t answer the door, and by the Saturday, the first official day of the summer holidays, Peter was moping. Not to anyone that asked, but it was clear to even Ned that he’d been a little down lately, declining a celebratory LEGO fest in exchange for slinking up to his room.

No sooner had he toed off his shoes, the doorbell rung. Peter groaned, turning on his heel and abandoning his sweater on the staircase. It was probably another of Aunt May’s Amazon orders. Since she’d discovered the wonders of online shopping, Peter had learned their regular post-man was named Greg, he had two kids and a poodle, and was allergic to shrimp.

“What has she bought this ti- Tony?” Peter paused mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight on his doorstep. Tony looked rough, dark circles under his eyes, his face looking more lined than before, but he gave a weak smile up at Peter, still stiff and unsure.

“Hey, kiddo. Figured you might…I made spaghetti. And I still have your thermos. Was gonna work on the car a bit”.

Peter recognised it for the attempted invitation that it was, and didn’t bother to fight off his broad grin. “Lucky for you, I love spaghetti. I just gotta grab a sweater on” he beamed, practically flinging himself up the stairs. Tony’s spaghetti was amazing, with some kind of pink-ish sauce, little chunks of shrimp and prawns, all tangy and sweet.

He even let Peter help with the car. Or…Well. He let Peter hold the torch. And the wrench. But still.

He was still grinning when he skipped home that evening, and when he crawled into bed his dreams were filled with oil-stained arms and a low, rumbling voice. He gasped awake in the early hours, cock hard and leaning against his hip, Tony’s voice echoing in his skull.

He shouldn’t.

He bit his lip and reached down, whimpering as he wrapped a hand around himself. He was too hard to last more than a few minutes, stifling his yell of “Tony!” Into his pillow as he came. When he arrived at Tony’s house later in the day, he could barely look the man in the eyes, flustered and shy.

The holidays continued in a similar fashion. They hung out almost every day in the garage, often for an entire day. Peter felt guilty about abandoning Ned, but looking at Tony’s broad smile, listening to his quips, watching his abs flex under his shirts as he lifted things...It was worth it.

By the fourth week of his holidays, after numerous days of lounging together with takeout and Tony helping him with his homework, Peter piped up.

“Peter”.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Peter” he repeated, nudging Tony gently where they lay together on the floor of the garage, staring up at the underside of the car. It was almost complete. Something to do with the clutch, and then all it needed was new paint. “You keep calling me ‘kid’. So. Y’know. In case you’d forgotten” he hummed.

Besides him Tony stilled, only briefly, before relaxing and swatting at him. “You are a kid, though”.

“I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid” Peter huffed, rolling onto his side and kneeing Tony in the thigh. Tony let his head loll, looking across at him with dark, dark eyes, and Peter’s breath hitched. Tony was close enough to kiss. And god, Peter wanted to kiss him. Had spent the past few weeks staring at his body, his mouth when he talked, waking up at night hard and aching.

Peter let his gaze drop, to plush lips outlined by dark stubble, and then he pushed himself up, momentarily hovering over Tony as he got his legs beneath him. “And you’re an old man” he tried, teasing, tugging at a lock of hair at Tony’s temple.

For the briefest, briefest of moments, Tony’s gaze went even darker. Hungrier. Peter thought about it in the shower that night, two fingers stuffed inside himself with too-little prep, mewling against the shower tiles. Almost as if…

He begun to get bolder. Touched Tony more. Stood closer. Any excuse to be in his space. If Tony noticed he said nothing, only giving lingering, unreadable looks and only ever turning away with a poorly hidden smirk whenever Peter said anything just a little too obvious.

On the last week of his holidays, Peter was kneeling half over Tony, dabbing gingerly at a slice on his bicep while the man clutched an ice-pack to his knee. The cherry red car was out, and an old, 1957 Chrysler Saratoga was in. And apparently, angry.

“Kid, seriously. I’m fine” Tony huffed, swatting at him as he dabbed away another crust of blood, peering at the wound. It wasn’t that deep, but it had bled something fierce. Peter lifted his gaze, scowling at him.

“I’m not a kid!” He snarked, pressed a little too hard on the wound just because he could. Watched Tony flinch under his touch and instantly felt guilty. He pulled away the cloth and ducked down, pressed a kiss to the wound before he could ever think about it. Aunt May had always done it for him, kissing his ouchies better. He froze, lips against jagged skin.

“Kid” Tony rasped, looking down at him with wide, dark eyes. Peter jerked backwards, and huffed.

“Keep calling me kid, I’m gonna start calling you ‘old man’“ he scowled. He was about to say ‘Or worse, Dad’, but…That was a bumpy road and he wasn’t ready to loose whatever he had built with Tony. Not yet. The older man snorted back at him, eyes rolling, and reached out, fingers closing around his jaw gently to shake his head a little.

“Look at you. You are. That little baby face. And you’re so small, like a cat. All slender. Couldn’t even lift up the gearbox. All big eyes and too must trust. I could’ve been an old pervert or sex criminal and you just walked right up to me and wouldn’t leave” Tony murmured, voice half-gone and gaze fixed on where he held Peter’s jaw.

“Wouldn’t - Did not” Peter managed, though he was already getting hard, his breathing was already a little shorter. Sharper. Tony gave a deep breath, fingers flexing against his jaw.

“You’re just a kid. A little baby. All soft-cheeked and gentle. You’re a kid now and you’ll be a kid for a long time. Nothing like me”.

And. Huh.

Peter blinked, jaw still clasped in Tony’s grip, and he relaxed his body, inching a little closer. “What is it about that, then? Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Its not. Its not bad. I’m just…I’m the bad one. Christ. Kid. You’re - You sit here doing homework. You don’t even have facial hair yet. I bet you haven’t even popped a stiffy before”. The words startled Tony as much as Peter, both visibly jolting, and Tony immediately looked like he wanted to die.

“Hey! Not true! Every night this holiday I’ve done more than ‘pop a stiffy’ over y-”. Peter bit down on his tongue, hard, watched the way Tony’s eyes widened. Fuck. They both jerked backwards, equally as taken aback by the revelation. There was no doubt as to what Peter had been about to say. Now way he could laugh it off or change it; though the subject was bad enough.

“I…”

“Kid…”

Peter huffed, leaning back on his haunches and dropping the cloth. “What, you got a kink for the word or something, Mister Tony?” Peter grumbled, but he could see Tony physically tense up opposite him, and he looked up, watched the almost shameful way that Tony turned his gaze away.

It hit him.

“You…Do” he huffed numbly.

“Its not…Christ. Peter. I’m not a…I’m not attracted to kids. I don’t know what it is. I just…Fuck. Maybe you should be calling me an old pervert. Fuck. I…Peter. You have to believe I don’t..I’ve never touched a kid. Never. My youngest partner was twenty when I was thirty. She was a hooker in Dubai and…Wait. You’re a fucking kid. I shouldn’t be talking about hookers and swearing and-”

Peter clamped a hand over Tony’s mouth, shaking his head. Jesus. He knew it was true, though. Tony was a recluse and laughably inept at anything social, but he wasn’t some scorned kiddie-toucher banished to a quaint little town.

“I know, Tony. I know. And I believe you. But if its not that, then…What is it?”. Tony only blinked at him slowly, for several beats, and it was then that Peter realised that his hand was on Tony’s mouth, and the man couldn’t speak. Though he could well have moved it himself. He let it drop, flushing.

“I don’t know” Tony croaked helplessly, and he looked so small, so lost. It was instinct that had Peter leaning forwards, gathering Tony in a tight embrace. The older man stiffened, but then relaxed, hand hesitantly falling to Peter’s side, featherlight like he was scared to touch him.

“Its…You’re so delicate. So…Untouched. Like a painting. Pretty. You shouldn’t be touched. Not yet. Not by me. But I want to”. It made Peter’s spine tingle and arch, letting out a surprised breath against the curve of Tony’s jaw. Tony made him sound like the Mona Lisa or something.

“I’m not a good person, Peter. I’m…All these months, you don’t even know my last name. Half the town thinks I’m a murderer or some kind of lunatic. But I’m worse than that”. Tony practically breathed it into his shoulder, head falling. Peter clutched at him, suddenly scared. Worse than those things?

“Tony Stark”.

Peter paused. Was silent for such a long time that Tony tensed against him again, before he begun to pet gently at Tony’s shoulders. “…Who? I mean, the name is vaguely familiar. But…Who?”

Tony pulled away, leaned back, looking up at him with glossy eyes and a ludicrous expression. “Stark. Tony Stark”.

Peter raised a brow. “Bond, James Bond?”

“What? No. The weapons company? Stark Industries?” Tony asked after a pause, like it was information Peter ought to know. After another pause of his mind being ridiculously blank, Peter sat upright, head tilting.

“Oh! Yeah. Stark Industries. But…What about it?”

Tony blinked at him, slowly, like there was a punchline he’d missed, and then he was reaching out, crushing Peter to his chest to the boy fell half over him with a yelp, squeezing him gently.

“You’re - Unbelievable. Never change, kid. I’m…I did bad things. I killed people. Carried on the family name despite spending my life trying to outrun it. I…I was betrayed. So I fixed it, and I left. And I was supposed to keep my hands off anything good. Anyone good. And here you are”.

“Okay. Firstly? You gotta stop calling me ‘kid’ now I know its a kink and you don’t intend to do anything about it. Secondly…I don’t know what you did. Or what happened. But I know what you’ve been since you got here. Who you’ve become. And I think you’re a good man” he breathed, adjusting so he was no longer straining, half-straddling Tony.

“You shouldn’t…” Tony didn’t finish the sentence, and there were a million things he could’ve said. But Peter chose to ignore them all, squirming his way closer until he really was sat in Tony’s lap. And this was more than they’d ever done.

More than the one-armed hugs and lingering touches, more than leaning shoulder-to-shoulder eating noodles. More than Peter listing against Tony’s side in the early morning hours, maths homework forgotten on the bench and Tony sitting still, so still, so as not to wake him.

“I’m old enough to know ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’, Mr. Stark. Besides. This is just…Hugging. Right? Innocent” he hummed, even as he deliberately shifted on Tony’s lap, a little heavier than he ought to, spread his legs wider around Tony’s hips.

“Ki- Peter” Tony huffed against him, fingers tightening around the hem of his sweater. It wasn’t until Peter shifted again that he realised; Tony was hard. Well. Getting there, but hard enough for Peter to recognise it. To feel it, digging into the round meat of his asscheek.

“I don’t touch kids” Tony repeated, and Peter snorted softly, shaking his head as he gripped at Tony’s broad shoulders, muscle honed by years of hard work. Muscle that led up to rough stubble, a sharp jaw that Peter nosed at.

“Good thing I’m not actually a kid then, Mr. Stark. That means you can touch”.

Tony surged forwards on a growl, lay Peter out like a feast on the garage floor; but still hovered over him. Reluctant. Uncertain. Peter lifted his legs, wrapped them around Tony’s waist, tight and steady. “Kiddo…”

“Mm. Your kiddo. Or I could be. If you kissed me” Peter grinned, breathless and bold with the sweet taste of Tony so close. Mere inches. “Kiss me” Peter repeated, and Tony growled as he surged downwards.

When Tony came, it was with ‘kid’ sharp and electric on his tongue. And…Well. Peter felt a little mollified, so naturally, it led to round two, pressing Tony down against the concrete, milking him for all he was worth as a broken ‘Peter!’ cracked on his tongue like a prayer.

The rounds after that were just…Well.

Purely selfish.

[winchest09]

Our Virtual Lockdown - Lowdown

Hey everyone!

Our lockdown livestream was once again one fulled of fun, laughter, fic recs, games and...one unplanned round of charades! Ahaha!

6 hours we were talking...SIX and again, I loved every single second. It was so nice to see so many gorgeous faces, and I’m so happy that so many of you joined us! We had 18 in our party at one point! I just hope that all of you had a blast and enjoyed yourselves.

Me and @katehuntington​ love holding these events and we are already planning the next live stream (date to be announced) but it will be in this month (May).

This is the lowdown for the third lockdown party!

Below you will find:

Everyone who joined - their tags, what’s coming up fic wise and their masterlist.

A Challenge to join

Blogs who want to help with your writing

Fic Recs

Supernatural DnD

Announcements

Q + A’s with the writers.

So without further ado… *cracks fingers*

To everyone that joined...

You are the guys that make it the live stream what it is.  So below is a list of everyone who was on the chat last night accompanied by their masterlist and what they have coming up soon! In no particular order…

@katehuntington​​: Kate is currently working on the next instalment of Ride With Me, All I Want and a two part commission. We will see this on her blog soon!

Her masterlist can be found HERE

@flamencodiva​​​: This babe is currently working on Call of the Ocean, A revoluntionary war fiction, an ABO Greek Goddess fic AND an untitled angst filled fic including Dean, a girlfriend and secrets! She is also rewriting Underworld and Legend of Van Helsing.

She’s one busy gal and we LOVE IT. <3

Check out her masterlist HERE

@whatareyousearchingfordean​​​: Alex is currently writing the ending to her Jensen fiction Et Cetera and she already has a sequel in mind! At the moment she’s trying to decide her next move...Firefighter Dean OR Secret Service Dean? Head over there and let her know!

Her masterlist can be found HERE

@talesmaniac89​​​:  This beaut also has a lot that she’s working on at the moment. The next instalments of The Man in Apartment 43. The next chapters of Lost (which is a little darker), a fluffy Dean oneshot and a Castiel comfort fic.

Behind the scenes, she’s also working on a Heist AU, Another ‘Choose your own adventure’ fic and a Ghost Writer AU.

Check her out guys, her masterlist is HERE

@superfanficnatural​​​:  This babe is currently working on the next chapters of The Bringer of balance as well as the next chapters of The Choice! He’s posted a few oneshots in the past two weeks and is writing Male!Reader fics!

Behind the scenes he’s currently working on an RPF called Matchmaker, A reader knight of hell/demon dean fic which is a love hate relationship as WELL as a Marvel SPN crossover. OOFFT.

A new writer that is nailing it! Go and give him some love, his masterlist can be found HERE

@emoryhemsworth​​​: This beaut is currently working on a series which is based off of an album called ‘Losing Sleep’ Each song will be a chapter and we’ve already been treated to some of her plans! She also has some other goodies on her masterlist.

Check our her masterlist HERE:

@anathewierdo​​​: Is yet to create a masterlist but she is currently working on Call of the Ocean with Flamencodiva. Not only that, she’s also working on a Princess Diaries AU, a Serial Killer AU and after the livestream...a gunshow fic!

By gunshow we do mean The Winchester’s muscles.

*drools*

@girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​​: This wonderful lady joined us briefly on the live stream and although she left before we could find out what she has coming up!

Check our her masterlist HERE:

Me: I’m currently working on two series, Life for Rent and Man’s Best Friend! I also have a couple of Dean series being worked on in the background as well as a couple of oneshots…watch this space!

To the new writers...

These guys were all new to the live stream this week and were welcomed with open, loving, spn fam arms! After speaking to these babes, we know that they are fairly new to writing to the supernatural fandom. They all have AMAZING idea’s when we played our prompt game and hopefully all of them will bite that bullet and post their ideas soon.

Remember guys - we’re all here to love and support you! My inbox is always open if you want to talk fics, want me to look over one etc.

Go and follow and give them some love!

@janicho88​​ @queenbeesback​​ @imjustadrummer​​ @malfoysqueen14​​

and to the readers that joined…

@leissa1287​​​ @waywardbeanie​​​ @dawnie1988​​

We love you, we thank you for reading and we thank you for all the support and love you give us constantly. Thank you for joining the chat and we hope you had an amazing time <3

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

CHALLENGE TIME

Ohhhh yes! One of our amazing writers, the darling @flamencodiva​​ is holding a celebration in regards to reaching 1700 followers!

Congrats babe!

Not only is she hosting a character take over on her blog she’s also posted a writing challenge for all us writers out there!

Check it out HERE

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

Need Help with a fic?

We’ve got you covered!

Need to has out a plot with someone?

The lovely @malfoysqueen14​​ has offered herself up to be a plot buddy to anyone that needs it. Stuck on a plot point, want to talk through a story line with someone? Give her a message! She’s here to help <3

Need help writing those all important fight scenes?

Give our babe @imjustadrummer​​ a message! They are filled with knowledge and even give us a demonstration on how to punch correctly on the livestream! Definitely one to have on your contacts list! <3

Need help with research for a fiction?

The most wonderful @waywardbeanie​​​ has offered herself up to be a researcher for anyone who wants help with their fiction. She has been a die hard SPN fan forever and she’s like the Ellen of our live stream.

Need a researching buddy? Give her a message! She’s a doll <3

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

Fic & blog Recs!

In our live stream, we want to highlight what we’ve been reading and the amazing authors behind the words. So below is a list of all the fics that we recommend for some good ol fic binging!

@deansdirtylittlesecretsblog​​: We were told of this lovely little gold mine by Alex and we just have to include it on here! This writer has so many fics on her masterlist...you’re gonna be there for a while!

Check them all out HERE

When You Least Expect It by @coffee-obsessed-writer​​

Summary: After a hard breakup, Jensen decides to throw himself into organizing a Music Festival in Austin that is meant to raise money for a few of his most cherished charities and organizations. As he throws himself into planning it, he stumbles upon a spirited, undiscovered performer, who he convinces to come aboard to help plan and coordinate the event with him.

What transpires after that takes both Jensen and his new friend, by surprise. But when their respective pasts come back just before the event kicks off in Austin, they will both have to decide if the unexpected feelings are worth perusing, or if they should just walk away and go on with their lives.

Dear Dean by @smol-and-grumpy​​

Summary: After taking Saint Lo, by sheer dumb luck, Lieutenant Dean Winchester from the 29th Infantry Division, Baker Company, received a truckload of replacements for his platoon that was falling apart. Little did he know, that one recruit would change his life forever.

Almost Paradise by @amanda-teaches​​

Summary: Dean finds himself looking at pictures of old loves. Will he ever be able to find that paradise again?

Turned Sideways by @crashdevlin​​​

Summary: (Rockstar AU)  When Y/n gets an opportunity to meet her favorite band backstage at their concert, she assumes they won’t even ask her name. But when she impresses the front man, Dean, with her voice and knowledge of their entire catalog of songs, it launches a chain of events that is sure to change her entire life.

Crash Into Me by @crashdevlin​​

Summary:  Dean meets and befriends a witch in NW Florida. This is their interactions over the course of season 8 through season 14.

Midwife Crisis by @ellewritesfix05​​

Summary: (Elle hasn’t written one it appears but in my words) - You were heavily pregnant with Dean’s child, hormones raging and Dean was receiving the brutal end of it. Needing a break, he fakes a case to get away. When your good friend Gabriel hears of this...he decides he needs to teach Dean a lesson with a little help from is prankster ways...

PHEW! I definitely think we have enough fics on here to last us for a few days…don’t you? ;) Please guys don’t forget to give these writers some love when reading their fics, comments, reblogs, asks. It means the world.

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

Interested in roleplaying & DnD?

@imjustadrummer​​ is setting up a Dungeons and Dragons campaign set in the Supernatural (main) universe!

If you’re into role playing, fancy bringing one of your OFC’s to life or just wanna be badass yourself...why not consider joining?!

All the information you need on this is HERE

Make some new friends, live out your dreams of being a hunter, angel or demon and HAVE FUN!

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

ANNOUNCEMENTS!

We have three wonderful announcements to make this time! We have THREE blogs celebrating followers!

A massive congratulations to:

@flamencodiva​​: This beautiful mama has reached 1700!

@whatareyousearchingfordean​​: This absolute babe has reached 1000!

@superfanficnatural​​: This beaut has reached 200!

WOOHOO!

*pops the party poppers*

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

Q & A With The Writers!

During this live stream, we asked everyone to join in and ask questions to the writers you want to know more about...the write up is below :)

- If you could collab with any other writer on here, who would it be? Alex ( @whatareyousearchingfordean​​) : @superfanficnatural​  because of the male reader aspect/sides of things! 

Emory (@emoryhemsworth​) : I’d like to collab with @winchest09​ (Tabby)

- Has anyone ever guessed the plot twist of one of your fics before you posted it?

@talesmaniac89​ : This did happen once and what was once a fluffy ending got turned into a bad ending because it was guessed. It happened once that they managed to get it so i changed it. 

- What was the last line you wrote?

@katehuntington​ :  “The cowgirl smirks and gently pushes him into the tack box in order for them both to be out of sight. Once they are safe from Bobby’s eyes, she kisses him, short and sweetly, but it’s enough to make Dean’s head spin”

- Have you ever cried whilst writing a fic?

@superfanficnatural​ : I cried to one last time, the angsty fic i wrote. I  was trying to get into the mood, i was mad, so went fuck it i’m gonna break peoples hearts. And then i cried haha.

- Can you tell us what writers you really admire?

@emoryhemsworth​ :   All of you are included in this live stream, that’s a given but I am going to talk about people who aren’t in here.  @impala-dreamer​, @kittenofdoomage​, @supernatural-jackles​, @ravengirl94​ are just a few. In regards to Rhi (Kittenofdoomage), everything she writes is just gold. She’s not written anything that’s bad! For Beka (impala dreamer) I just love her as a person. Oh and @bringmesomepie56​, her fics are just amazing.  

- Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

@flamencodiva​ : No, not really. My stories tend to evolve in the writing process. Underworld princess and Call of the Ocean were meant to be super different than what they are now. We realised we had changed certain plot points as we were writing but that was before we started to post it. 

- Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?

@winchest09​ :  Yes and no. I’ve had stories which were originally meant to end a certain way and they changed over time. Sometimes I do wonder what the reactions would have been like if i had gone with the original ending for Shatter Me and if hadn’t have gone down the angsty road for Yesterday but then I think fics choose their own path as you write them. It felt right at the time. 

- What is your favourite genre to write for?

@malfoysqueen14​ :  Angst. Never mind the fluff, the smut, the crack, it’s all about the angst. The angst is my ultimate goal. 

- Where do you get your inspiration from?

@imjustadrummer​ : A daily situation, or films. If the kids I worked with have said something weird i’d be like…”oh yeah, hey that can be a fic!”  A lot of different places really!

- Funniest story you’ve written?

@queenbeesback​ : It was an online thing, where they met online and it took a while for them to meet up. That was quite light hearted. 

- What is everyone's favourite ships?

Everyone: Dean and Donna. Benny and Dean. Sam and Eileen. Dean and Jo. Charlie and Alex. Sam and Gabriel

- What’s your favourite trope to write?

@anathewierdo​ : Friends to lovers and enemies to lovers

- Which part of your upcoming fic was the hardest to write?

@imjustadrummer​ : Trying to work out all the clues and cleverness to it. Like codes and things, working out how to put in all the easter eggs in my upcoming fic. It’s like a treasure hunt so I need to ensure there is cleverness in there.

- If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

@superfanficnatural​ : Oh that’s...ok...most definitely...Smuuuuttttt (pretty much how he announced it)

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

I think that’s it!

Thank you so much once again to everyone who joined the chat, we had 6 hours of laughs and i cannot wait to do it again. I’d appreciate it if you could share this to spread the love of the fics and authors on here!

Keep an eye out for the next date for our next livestream! It will be in a couple of weeks, date to be announced. If you guys have any idea’s or want something included, let us know. If you want to be tagged when we announce, let us know!

@deanwanddamons​ - tagging you babe as you asked so you can catch up on what we talked about <3 

THANK YOU.

xox

[css1992]

Domestic!Starker

[REPOST]

Guys, I’m soo sorry, I’m reposting this because Tumblr made my post from earlier disappear from the Starker tag :´(((

An Anon sent this request:

“Tony's feet are killing him and sweet bf, peter messages him.”

Look at me, sloowly filling prompts. This was supposed to be ready last week, but I wasn’t feeling well, some things happened and I couldn’t write, but now I’m back on track!

Anon, I hope you don’t mind that I took your prompt a little too far, I’m not sure that’s what you had in mind, but I promise there’s a foot massage there. Haha! I hope you like it.

I still have other prompts in my inbox, remember to have patience with little ol’ me.

Domestic!Starker, established relationship, fluff.  

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: I believe there’s nothing triggering here, but if you spot anything that might be triggering to anyone, please let me know!

-*-

Peter was eighteen when he joined the Avengers. Tony had been after him ever since he got his powers, at sixteen, and started posting videos of himself on YouTube. He always came to him as Iron Man, though, on top of buildings late at night; in dark alleys, when Spider-man was overwhelmed and outnumbered; during world-ending wars against purple skinned aliens. Tony was always there when Peter needed him – or, Iron Man was always there when Spider-man needed him. The press loved it, they portrayed him as Iron Man’s sidekick, his apprentice. Peter didn’t mind, he liked it, wished it was true, but they only ever met in highly stressful situations. It was like Tony was watching over him or something, like he knew where to find him if he was ever in danger.

Which – yeah. Of course he did.

Peter thought his secret identity was safe, that no one knew who he was, but, who was he kidding, it was Tony Stark, he knew everything. He had been helping him keep his identity a secret from day one, had FRIDAY monitoring the internet for pictures or videos of him changing into the costume. He erased all security cameras’ videos of him changing carelessly in alleys – there were hundreds of those, according to him.

“A little dumb for such a smart kid, but who am I to judge, I’ve done my fair share of dumb in the past,” he’d said, shrugging, sitting on his aunt May’s couch one night, when she was away at work. It was Peter’s eighteenth birthday, and Tony Stark had just rung the bell, invited himself in and asked Peter to join the Avengers. Just like that.

“I’m – uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir, and I don’t know what use I could have for the Avengers, I’m just – I’m just some kid.“ Peter laughed nervously, wringing his hands, but Tony was barely listening to him, he was searching for something on his phone.

“So this isn’t you?” He asked when a 3D hologram video of Peter undressing popped up from the phone. Peter spent exactly fifteen seconds thinking about how cool that was before he started freaking out. “Your secret is safe with me, kid. I told you, I’ve known since the first time you ever put on that awful onesie and started punching bad guys.”

“Why – you’ve never said anything. All those times we met.” The older man put his phone back in his pocket, then shrugged.

“You were just a kid, you had enough on your plate just being our friendly neighborhood Spider-man, I didn’t want to overwhelm you with superhero drama. But you’re all grown up now and we could really use your help, so what do you say?” He looked at him expectantly and the young man blinked owlishly.

Peter learned that day that he couldn’t say no to Tony. Not that he wanted to, but he was used to being a lone wolf, he didn’t know how he would fit into a group of superheroes who had so much history together, but he said yes, anyway. Even if he was moving to Boston in just a few weeks, even if he was starting college – and not just any college, MIT –, even if it would be almost impossible to keep his identity a secret for long after that, even though he knew he’d have to finally tell May everything – he looked into the older man’s eyes and said yes.

That was when Peter Parker’s relationship with Tony Stark officially started, without the suits, and it was so very different from what Iron Man and Spider-man had. When Peter was in the mask, everything was so much easier, he was sassy, smart-mouthed and sarcastic, there was safety in anonymity. With the mask off, though, it was so hard to interact with Tony – the man was a genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist, Peter was just – Peter.

Tony noticed, too, he always looked amused when Peter stuttered and stumbled around him, like the first time the billionaire showed up in his dorm room one night and told him to “suit up, we’re going to Wakanda”, and Peter blushed bright red as he tried to cover his naked thighs by pulling down the hem of the old t-shirt he wore to bed instead of pajamas.

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be, kid,” he told him on the Quinjet, when they were on their way to Africa to deal with some alien threat. He sat right next to Tony in his only clean T-shirt and not-so-clean sweatpants and he blushed furiously as he looked at the impeccable tracksuit that the billionaire usually wore under the Iron Man armor if he had time to change.

“I-I’m sorry.” He dropped his gaze, biting his lower lip, but Tony placed a hand on his knee, patting it gently.

“Don’t apologize, I like it. Spider-man is kind of a brat, anyway. I like you better.” He winked, and Peter’s eyes widened in awe.

During his freshman year, they didn’t meet that often, at least not in person, but they texted a lot and sometimes even talked on the phone. It usually started with a good excuse, like the time Peter asked about getting a suit upgrade, but they always ended up talking for hours; at first, it was always about Peter’s classes, Tony’s projects, Avengers’ missions, that sort of thing, but slowly their conversations became more personal, intimate. One night, Tony told him his relationship with Pepper was over – had been for a few months at the time, but the press didn’t know about it yet.

Peter didn’t know what to feel when he heard that – on one hand, Tony sounded broken. He wasn’t drunk, thankfully, he’d been sober a few years, but he was clearly devastated, even if all that ever came out of his lips was “It’s okay, I just want her to be happy”. On the other hand, Peter had fallen in love with him over all those months, and he knew he was just a kid and he shouldn’t really know what love was, and people would assume it was just a crush, hero worship, but he just knew deep in his bones that he loved that man. With all his scars and all his flaws, his crazy ideas and his acid jokes, his genius inventions and his big heart.

He didn’t say anything, though, he was just an eighteen year old kid, and even though Tony never really treated him like a child, he knew he didn’t stand any chance. Tony was forty-eight at the time, the richest man in the world, he was fucking Iron Man, the man who saved the whole universe with a snap of his fingers and lived to tell the tale – he was way, way out of Peter’s league and he was okay with it. The fact that the man was willing to talk to him, be his friend, his mentor, whatever, was good enough for Peter. He’d take anything he could get.

He was nineteen when he got back for his first summer break. They all agreed that it would be best for him to stay with the Avengers at the compound, for training exercises and meetings, and he could go home to stay with May during the weekends. Tony didn’t live in the compound at the time, he lived in his penthouse in the city, but he was there almost everyday during Peter’s summer break. His very first night there, actually, Tony invited him to dinner in his private living quarters and then they headed down to the lab and started a bit of a routine. They would spend hours together down there, Tony helped him with his projects and with his school work and Peter helped him with S.I.’s new products and with suits upgrades for all the Avengers. It was already perfect, already so much more than he could hope for.

But it got better. One night, when they were both exhausted after almost 33 hours working non-stop, Peter was babbling about his sparring match with Natasha and how he got his ass handed to him  when Tony kissed him. Peter figured he did it because he wasn’t even thinking straight anymore, blind from exhaustion, maybe he just wanted him to shut up, so he took the chance and kissed him back, trying to commit every detail to memory, every single taste and texture, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around his waist, his beard brushing against his soft skin, the smell of grease and sweat, and the taste of coffee and too much chocolate to keep them going for so many hours. He thought he’d never get to experience that again, but he was wrong.

Tony didn’t pretend like nothing happened the next day, he greeted him with a kiss good morning when he walked into the kitchen. The other Avengers present stared, but didn’t say anything. The younger man’s insides were in knots, he was so happy, excited, anxious, and so fucking in love with that man. They only had The Talk that night at dinner, in Tony’s quarters.

“I know you’ve probably heard a lot of shit about me, kid, and I need you to know it’s all true, okay?” Peter stared at him with big, round eyes, cheeks full of spaghetti – that Tony had cooked with his own hands, which somehow made it tastier –, surprised by his words because they had been talking shop and pretending that that wasn’t a date until that moment. “I was a bit of a player –“ Peter actually choked on his spaghetti at that. “Wh – are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sorry, go on.” Peter took a huge sip of water and prepared himself for the blow. That was Tony’s way of dumping him gently, apparently. It involved pasta, candlelit dinner and stories about his playboy years. Great.

“So, I was a bit of a player, I’m sure you’ve heard that, and it’s all true, but – I’m too old for that shit now. I don’t – I’m not like that anymore. I’m saying this because you’re young, you’re in college, and I’m sure you’re not looking for anything serious, you’re just having fun, and I should have thought of that before – before I kissed you. I don’t do ‘just fun’ anymore, kid. So I understand if you wanna stop this right now, I just wanna let you know there’s no hard feelings if you do, it changes nothing, we’ll still be friends, and lab buddies, and sidekicks or whatever. Ok? It doesn’t have to change anything.” It took a while for Peter to piece the words together in a way that made sense, but when he did, his eyes rounded and he choked – again – on his water. “Pete –“

“I want things to change,” Peter blurted, face red with embarrassment and lack of oxygen – either or. The older man seemed a little surprised, but his expression remained neutral. “I-I don’t do ‘just fun’ either, Tony. It’s not me. I want this – us – to mean something. If you’re willing to try.”

And try they did. They learned as they went, one day at a time. As mature as Peter liked to think he was, he was nineteen, and very inexperienced when it came to relationships, so he let Tony take the lead. The older man didn’t mind to take it slow – way too slow, even for Peter. They went on dates that ended with chaste kisses in front of Peter’s bedroom door, Tony never offered to come in. Those dates escalated to movie marathons in Tony’s quarters, where hands and lips were finally allowed to wander, but always above the waist.

Peter wasn’t a virgin and he told Tony that, but still the older man wouldn’t even try to go any further then a little kissing, so, on his last week home, Peter took matters into his own hands and  straddled him, blushing furiously, and kissed him hard, pressing his hard-on against Tony’s. He wished he had done that sooner, apparently it was all the green light Tony needed to get things going. Waking up beside the older man the next day was arguably the best thing that had happened all summer and they barely left the room for those last seven days. But when they finally did, Tony had to drive him to the airport with the promise to visit in a month.

They made it work around their tight schedules, between Peter’s classes, Tony running S.I. and they both saving the world on occasion, they had candlelit dinners, quiet movie nights and slow love-making in the shower. If they had enough time for a short trip, Tony would take Peter out of the country, somewhere secluded and safe, where they could spend an entire day lying on the beach or cuddled up in front of a fireplace.

That was Peter’s first relationship, and it seemed to make Tony feel insecure and – guilty. Most of the time, the older man just let it happen, just rolled with it; some other times, though, he’d freak out and rant about how Peter should be out there living his life, meeting people, kissing other mouths. Not even once did Peter feel tempted to do any of that, so as Tony freaked out, he just looked at him and smiled softly, waiting for him to finish to tell him that “It’s okay, we’ll be okay”.

As the years passed after Thanos, things finally started to settle down, the world was as peaceful as it could possibly get, at least Peter thought so. The Avengers weren’t needed as often, so slowly people started leaving the compound, some even moving away from the city or the country – Wanda and Vision were the first to leave for Europe. By Peter’s third summer home, there wasn’t anyone at the compound, so he stayed with Tony at the penthouse.

The older man seemed surprised when Peter showed up, he probably had just assumed that he’d stay with May, but he was so happy he couldn’t stop smiling all day long. It was a new experience for them, “living together”. At the compound, even if Tony had his own living quarters and they mostly stayed there, there were other people involved in their daily routine, way too many people.

At the penthouse, it was just them – they shared house chores, Tony complained about doing the dishes, Peter chastised him about wet towels on the bed, they cooked together and Peter tried not to ruin whatever they were making. Tony worked most of the day a few floors down and Peter stayed in the workshop, working on his personal projects or studying. He’d put together an easy, healthy  lunch and he’d head down to Tony’s office so they could eat together everyday. Sometimes they only had fifteen minutes before the older man had to get back to work, some other times they even had enough time for some fun before eating.

They started going out together publicly and the press went wild, but they didn’t really mind. They went to functions together, helped at May’s charity events, had dinner at fancy restaurants or at Burger King, whatever felt right at the moment. Tony took it upon himself to dress Peter up, declaring himself the most stylish out of the two of them, he always picked the (matching) outfits they’d wear to go out in public, which was why Peter’s last day home before summer was over was so ironic.

He had just finished doing laundry when Tony walked through the door, limping slightly and wincing. Peter dropped the basket of clean clothes he was carrying to their room and rushed to his side.

“What happened? Are you okay?” He asked worriedly, looking Tony all over. He seemed fine, didn’t smell of blood or anything, but Peter hadn’t turned on the TV or checked his phone all day, he could have gotten in trouble as Iron Man and he wouldn’t know – although, FRIDAY would probably tell him.

“Nah, I’m fine, it’s just these new shoes, they’ve been killing me all day long.” He winced as he leaned on the wall to take them off and Peter stared at the expensive leather shoes with a frown.

“I told you they weren’t comfortable enough for work, these are obviously party shoes, you’re not supposed to spend a whole day on your feet in them,” he chastised, as Tony sighed in relief, slumped against the wall with his eyes closed when his feet were free.

“And I told you there’s no such thing as party shoes and work shoes.” Tony opened his eyes to narrow them at Peter when the younger man crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well, I guess I was right, then, huh?” He smirked, raising an eyebrow, and Tony laughed.

“Yes, I guess you were. As usual.” He rolled his eyes and opened his arms. “Be a good boy and come kiss it better.”

“I really shouldn’t, you stubborn ass. You’re lucky you look so hot in that suit.” He dragged his eyes over Tony’s body and felt the blood rush south. Tony was 51, and just like fine wine, he only seemed to get better over time. He approached the older man and let him hold him, burying his face in his neck, where he placed a soft kiss.

“You smell like fabric softener, were you doing laundry?” Tony muttered against the top of his head and Peter nodded, feeling the older man’s arms tighten around him. “Are you packed yet?”

“Not yet, I’ll do it later, maybe after dinner. Are you hungry?” He snuggled closer to the other man and felt him nod against his head. “FRI, our Saturday usual.” The AI didn’t even answer, sensing the quietness of them room, and they stayed there by the door for a few more minutes. “Are you stalling because you don’t think you can walk to the couch, old man?” Peter whispered after he almost fell asleep with his nose buried in the other’s neck.

“Shut up, brat,” Tony grunted, pushing the younger man away softly, eliciting giggles from him. “No, but seriously, don’t you ever let me walk out of the house wearing those again.” He huffed, pushing away from the wall to start limping towards the couch. “Actually, remind me to burn them or something.”

“Well, I did try to stop you this morning, you big baby, you never listen to me.” Peter rolled his eyes, watching with amusement as Tony tried to make his way to the living room. He picked up Tony’s shoes then went back to get the basket he’d dropped earlier and headed to their bedroom. “Stay put, I’m just gonna put these away, then I can give you a massage.”

“I love you forever!” Tony shouted from the living room as Peter disappeared down the hallway.  

“I know!”

When Peter got back to the living room, Tony was lying on the couch, no suit jacket, no tie and with pretty much all of his shirt’s buttons undone. He had and arm thrown over his eyes and was snoring softly. Peter smiled with fondness and decided to make some tea as they waited for dinner – Tony used to hate tea, but they were trying to cut down on caffeine, mostly because the older man’s doctors thought it might help with his insomnia and maybe even with the nightmares.

He made chamomile tea and grabbed a bottle of massage oil from the bathroom, when he got back to the living room, he watched Tony sleeping peacefully for a while, it was such a rare occurrence, Peter was always asleep before him – he was afraid to ask Friday how many hours of sleep the man got each night. It was nice to see him so calm and relaxed, he was always on top of everything, trying to fix anything he thought was wrong with the world, even when it wasn’t needed.  

He sat on the opposite end of the couch and put Tony’s legs on his lap; he stirred slightly but didn’t wake up. Peter took off his socks and dripped some of the oil on his hands, rubbing them together to warm it up. As soon his applied pressure to the sole of his right foot, Tony startled awake, moaning.

“Oh, fuck, right there, baby.” He arched his back, clearly in pain, but the good kind of pain. “Ooh, I really needed this.”

“Good thing we don’t have neighbors.” Peter smirked, letting his thumbs slide all the way down to the arch of his foot, then up to his sole again. Tony grunted, but said nothing smart back, truly enthralled by the massage. “You look tired, did something happen? Besides the bad shoes.”

“Nah, just the usual bullshit. There was a board meeting today, but it was short. Then I had a meeting with a few investors, that was long as fuck, even Pepper was pissed by the end of it. Then I  headed back to R&D to see if I could get some work done, but not really. So just basically a lot of walking around with pain, both physical and psychological, ‘cause I couldn’t stop thinking that you’re gonna leave tomorrow and I should be spending your last day here with you.” He pouted slightly and reached one of his hands to rub Peter’s arm. “I’m really sorry, love, I really wish I could have stayed.”

“It’s just one day, Tones, we had a great summer.” Peter grinned, lifting his foot to place a kiss on  the bridge, then made circular motions on Tony’s sole and the ball of his foot, where it seemed to hurt the most by the sounds he made. “Drink your tea.” When Tony started complaining, he pressured his arch a bit harder, making him yelp. “None of that, mister, we agreed we’d try this, didn’t we? When I’m gone, you have to promise me you’ll keep it up. And only one cup of coffee a day, okay? No more than that, I mean it.”

“Yes, mom.” The older man smirked, poking Peter’s ribs with his foot, but the young man grabbed it before he could tickle him. He glared at him sternly, resuming the massage, moving his fingers up to his heel and ankle.

“If you act like a baby, I’ve gotta act like your mom.” Peter rolled his eyes, hearing the other man chuckle.

“Is it weird that I find it hot when you mother-hen me? Does that mean I have a mommy kink? Since you call me daddy in bed, should I call you mommy?” He pretended to wonder out loud and Peter burst out laughing, shaking his head in exasperation.

“You’re impossible, Tony Stark.” He smiled fondly at his older boyfriend, finishing the massage by rubbing his toes one by one, before moving to the other foot.

“You like it.” He wiggled his eyebrows with a smirk, but Peter just kept smiling at him.

“I love it.”

They fell silent as Peter moved his hands over Tony’s left foot. It was established early in their relationship that Peter gave great massages, his super-strength and super-soft hands were the perfect combination for a good kneading. Whenever they came home from battle battered and bruised, Peter would rub Tony’s back, his feet, his calves – not many people knew that, but operating the Iron Man suit actually required a lot of strength and it often put a strain on Tony’s body.

“Come here, baby,” Tony called him quietly once he was done with his left foot and Peter went willingly, snuggling to his chest and trying to make himself as small as possible in order to fit against the older man. “I’m really gonna miss you, love.”

“I know, I’m gonna miss you, too, Tony, so much. You have no idea,” Peter whispered back, nosing the other’s throat, smelling what was left of his cologne and aftershave, a smell he grew so used to it made him calm and relaxed.

“I think I do.” He felt Tony smile against the crown of his had and he sighed.

“Just one more year, okay?” He raised his head so he could look at the older man’s face. He looked back at him, smiling softly. Tony held his chin and kissed his lips gently as he nodded.  

“Just one more year,” he agreed, and they fell silent again, Peter’s head back to resting on his chest. “Next summer, when you come back for good – will you – where are you staying?“

“Are you preemptively kicking me out?” He asked, amused, moving again to look at the older man, who frowned at him.

“Of course not!” He sighed, closing his eyes for a few seconds, before focusing on his face again “Peter, I really want you to move in with me, but are you sure you wanna do this? Baby, you’re so young, you could –“

“Don’t ruin this, Tony.” He placed a finger on his lips, beaming. “I wanna remember today as the day you asked me to move in.  Don’t taint it with one your speeches about how I should be sleeping around with college boys.”

“That’s not what –“ The older man started indignantly and Peter laughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Shh, just shut up and kiss me, that’s all I wanna remember.” He didn’t give Tony time to answer as he leaned in and crushed their lips together. For a few seconds, the older man still tried to protest, but soon melted into the kiss, hands sliding down Peter’s back to hold him close. When they parted, Tony had a slightly confused look.

“So, what just happened is I asked you to move in and you said yes?” Peter grinned, nodding excitedly, and the older man chuckled, petting his curls fondly. “You do realize that your future involves a lot of foot rubs and back massages, right? You’re basically marrying an old man.”

“I think I can handle that, I have strong, steady hands, so we’re good.” He closed the distance between them again, tasting Tony’s laugh on his lips as he closed his eyes, thinking that was a very small price to pay.

[thepartyresponsible]

another whumptober fic! the prompt for this one is isolation. so here’s steve rogers waking up in the wrong century and moving into clint barton’s apartment building.

warnings for depression and angst, but, again, this one is fairly sweet.

SHIELD puts him in an apartment in a building in Bed-Stuy, citing ongoing concerns that he is exhibiting an alarming lack of social integration. Steve doesn’t see how the hell they expect him to stop being lonely. His whole generation is dead or dying. And the older people, the men and women he looked up to, are bones buried under untended gravestones.

A man should lose his mentors one-by-one. Like baby teeth. One bloody bit of bone in your palm is a life lesson, but a whole mouth full of blood, a graveyard full of teeth, that’s a tragedy. That’s a nightmare.

He went for a swim, and, when he came up to breathe, everyone he ever knew was gone or changed.

Every night, he dreams about putting that ship in the water, and, somedays, all he can think when he wakes up is: It was supposed to be quick.

God knows, by the end of the war, he didn’t have the heart left for anything slow. But he’s here anyway, plodding along. Breathing, walking, fighting. These days, people never quit, never slow down, never take time off. There’s always a war somewhere. Always somewhere for him to be.

There’s a woman that SHIELD wants him to talk to. She asks him questions that are probably meant to help. “How are you feeling, Steve? What do you do in your spare time? Have you spoken to any of the Howling Commandos? What about Peggy Carter? Have you made any new friends, Steve? When was the last time you left a SHIELD facility for a reason other than a mission? Did you go outside today, Steve? Are you sleeping? Are you eating?”

Honestly, he’d probably have a better time if she dispensed with the questions and just started ripping his fingernails out with a pair of pliers. It’s a hell of an exaggeration and a disrespect to Bucky besides, but sometimes, after an hour with her, all he can think about is Bucky, strapped to a table, repeating his name, rank, and serial number with empty eyes.

He spends one too many nights walking the hallways after particularly murky missions, and SHIELD gets unnecessarily proactive about it.

“We’re worried about you,” Phil Coulson says. There’s a heaviness in his eyes that isn’t quite disappointment. Steve remembers when Phil used to look at him with the feverish light of hero worship.

“I’m fine,” Steve says.

There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not hungry, not tired, not cold, not sad. He’s nothing. It’s like his brain and body woke up, but his soul stayed in the water. Like every human part of him is still frozen solid.

“If you need time,” Coulson says, “if you need a break from the missions--”

“I don’t,” Steve says. He tries to be patient about it, but the words feel like a threat. He doesn’t know how he’d fill the days if he didn’t have the missions to keep him occupied. There are only so many punching bags in SHIELD storage. There are only so many times he can reread the obituaries of people who died simultaneously four days and forty years after he saw them last.

“We’re worried,” Phil repeats. And he looks it.

From a hero to an object of pity. Well, he’s had worse falls.

“I’m getting better,” Steve says. “I’ve been reading the reports. I have an email account.” One of the SHIELD agents on the latest Strike Team told him he needed a private email address to sign up for things online. Steve’s not sure what he wants to sign up for, but he dutifully checks the empty inbox every morning.

It’s good, he thinks, to be prepared.

“I haven’t broken a phone in two weeks,” Steve tacks on, when Phil still seems unconvinced.

He’s trying. He doesn’t know what the hell they expect from him. Six months ago, he lived in a pre-atomic world. Now people walk around with technology in their pockets that far exceeds what they used to walk on the moon. He can use his phone to check baseball scores and grocery store stock and the weather anywhere in the world. He can order food he’s never tried from a place he’s never been made by people he’s never met, and they’ll deliver it to his door, and he can do all of this without seeing or speaking to a living human being.

No flying cars, though. Guess Howard never did figure that one out as well as he wanted.

“We’ve found an apartment for you,” Phil says. “You need to reintegrate.”

Steve is baffled as to how Phil expects him to reintegrate. His whole world is gone. He’s not coming home. There is no home left. He’s homesick for a time and place that don’t exist anymore. Like a refugee who can’t ever go back. Uprooted, transplanted.

He’s a woolly mammoth, a sabretooth tiger. A reanimated extinct species, brought back to pace the bars of a cage he doesn’t understand. Useless and ludicrous and out of place. A man out of time.

“Sure,” Steve says. It’s no use fighting about it. No reason to upset all these people who just want to help. “That sounds fine.”

  What he appreciates most about Clint Barton is that he never once tries to pretend like he isn’t Steve’s assigned babysitter. “Hey,” he says, that first night, crashing into Steve’s apartment with a couple of beers in one hand and the other holding a freezer bag of peas to the side of his face. “I’m Clint Barton. I kinda own the place.”

“Kind of?” Steve asks, blinking as Clint careens a little unsteadily from one corner of the apartment to the other, apparently looking for a place to land. He settles, finally, on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah,” Barton says. He arranges himself on the cluttered kitchen counter, squeezing between the boxes of unpacked dishware and kitchen appliances SHIELD thought he’d need. “I mean, legally. I do. I’ve got paperwork.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. He’s been thinking about getting unpacked. He was coming up with a plan. He got a little distracted staring out the window after all the helpful SHIELD agents disguised as movers left, but he won’t sleep tonight anyway, so he’d figured it didn’t matter how long it took him to get started.

He hadn’t been expecting a guest.

“Um,” Clint says, after a few seconds of silence. He juggles the peas, pinning them against his face with his shoulder, and then pops the caps off both of the beers. “Here. To your new place.”

Steve thinks about asking him to leave, but the ghost of his mother hisses at the discourtesy inherent in refusing a gift-bearing guest. He crosses the apartment to take the beer, knocking the bottle gently against Clint’s before lifting it to his lips.

What the hell. He doesn’t know a poison that will kill him. And he figures SHIELD will have vetted the place from rooftop to basement.

“Thanks,” he says. The beer is cold and hoppy. Decent, he thinks. It tastes vaguely medicinal, the way most food tastes now.

“No problem,” Clint says. He’s blonde-haired and blue-eyed. There are bandages on his hands, and, when the peas droop, Steve catches a glimpse of a still-blooming shiner that’s going to cover a quarter of his face.

“You have some trouble?” Steve asks, tipping his chin toward the bruise.

Clint shrugs. He takes a drink of his beer and kicks his feet, looks perfectly at ease in Steve’s apartment in a way that Steve decidedly does not. “Milk run,” he says, offhand. “Guess I got a bit expeditious about things toward the end. Wanted to be sure I got back in time for your first day.”

Steve blinks. Milk run, he thinks. He hears the word in old echoes, memories of soldiers reporting back. Some of the old slang survived. It’s nice, hearing it. He wonders if someone gave Clint a list of terms to work into casual conversation.

“You’re SHIELD?” Steve asks.

Clint shrugs, grins up at him. His smile is slanted sideways, held down on one side by the bag of peas. But his eyes are bright and friendly, and there’s something comforting in the lazy disregard of his body language, like he doesn’t know or care who Steve used to be.

“Don’t tell them I told you,” he says. “I have a bet going with my buddy that I can make it at least a week.”

Steve snorts. He’s quiet for a second, weighing out the mischief in Clint’s eyes. It’s been a long time since anyone dragged him into anything even remotely playful. “Sure,” he says, caving the second Clint waggles his eyebrows. Something aches and splinters in his chest. He ignores it, clearing his throat while he turns to regard the mess of boxes and bags scattered around the place.

Someone’s going to have to do something about this mess. He figures, as usual, that the someone is going to have to be him.

“Hm,” Clint says. He slithers to the ground, heavy boots clattering on the kitchen floor. He surveys the kitchen counter and then visibly perks up, dropping the peas so he can grab a box, cuddle it lovingly against his chest. “C’mon, Steve,” he says, hefting the new coffeepot onto his hip, “we’ll start with the important stuff.”

  Clint leaves around midnight. The living room and kitchen are unpacked, and Steve hasn’t even started on the bedroom, but he’s not worried about it. He goes out to wander the neighborhood until dawn. Just keeping his feet busy, shushing the buzzing hum of his mind. He tests his tether, climbing up onto the roof to watch the sunrise, but, if he has a tail, he never sees them.

When he goes back to his apartment, he encounters Clint in the hallway. He’s mussed and sleep-dazed. There are red lines on his face from where he slept too hard on his pillow. There’s a bit of toothpaste stuck to his chin, and he has a piece of toast shoved in his mouth, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a dog’s leash in the other.

“Mmph,” he says, greeting Steve through the toast.

“Morning,” Steve says, going stock still at the sight of such disarray.

Clint’s wearing pajama pants with little purple bullseyes on them. They’re tucked into combat boots. That bruise got ugly overnight, but all those dark shades really set off the bright blue of his eyes.

“Hey, Steve,” Clint says, after he hooks the dog’s leash around his wrist so he can take the toast out of his mouth. “You sleep okay?”

“Oh, sure,” Steve says. “You?”

“Like a fucking rock,” Clint tells him. And then, with a grimace, “Sorry, I gotta—this is Lucky, and Lucky really needs to pee.”

Everyone Steve’s encountered on this side of the new millennium is efficient and serious and professional. Everyone’s been so bloodless. He thought that was how they raised people these days. But Clint’s a loud, frazzled, mussed-up mess. Clint’s the first living thing Steve’s seen in this century.

Well, right up until the dog sticks its cold nose into the palm of Steve’s hand and whines like a thing with a heart breaking clean in half.

“Oh, hey,” Steve says, crouching down. “Sorry, pal. Didn’t mean to ignore you.”

The dog pants kibble-scented breath in his face. He’s missing an eye. His fur is soft and warm under Steve’s hands.

“Oh, for—Lucky, stop guilt-tripping Steve. He’s a nice guy. C’mon.” But for all his complaining, Clint doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. He’s standing unsteadily, sloping slightly to the side, with one eye closed like he’s letting that half of his brain catch a quick nap.

“You gotta go,” Steve says, giving Lucky one more gentle scratch behind the ears before he stands up. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, definitely,” Clint says. “Just come see us whenever.” He straightens up, gives himself a little shake, and then smiles sweet and sleepy, right in Steve’s face.

Like they’re friends. Like Steve’s a real person. After all this time, after everything he’s done, he can still just be someone’s neighbor.

“See you, Steve. Let me know if you need any more help unpacking.” And then Clint shoves the rest of the toast in his mouth and reaches out to pat Steve on the shoulder as he walks by. He misses pretty catastrophically, getting a handful of Steve’s chest and then just committing to it anyway, patting him like Steve had just patted Lucky, before he dozily meanders his way up the hall.

Steve stares after him for a long moment and then he goes into his apartment, locks the door, and makes some coffee. He drinks it sitting up on his new couch, and he doesn’t expect to fall asleep, but he does anyway.

He dreams about the water. He always dreams about the water.

But he keeps getting flashes, little glimpses through the ice. A black eye and a friendly smile. Soft fur under his hand, a dog’s sad whine echoing from years and years away.

Coffee. He tastes coffee.

And he feels something on his chest, a warmth that spreads outward. A patting. Or maybe a knocking.

Wake up, he thinks. And he does.

[bitofthisandthat]

.:HOW I RUN MY BLOG:.

✔️SPEED: Varies. There is no consistent speed here. Sometimes I’m toute suite, sometimes you’re waiting a couple weeks. I never make you wait more than a month, but if it happens? Poke me, and see what’s up. I may have lost it, thought it was YOUR turn, or dropped it. 90% of the time I will drop threads automatically if I’ve been waiting longer than 2-3 months, because my muse will ??? at it. And I will ???? at it. You can always answer back in your own time regardless, but know it’s a crapshoot with me if I answer an old as balls thread. SOMETIMES I will continue them because my muse DOES want to, but don’t assume I’m keeping threads past 3 months. Shorter/Medium stuff gets answered faster, of course. Long paras/novellas I tend to hold onto a little longer because I want to do them thoughtfully. Not that my medium/shorter stuff doesn’t get thought out, but let’s be real. Novellas are going to take hours sometimes, and everything else minutes. And if the thread or ask happens to be sent to a low-activity or even a medium activity muse, you’re going to be waiting, regardless. If the muse is TOO low, I may not bother until they wake back up again. The muses that are hella strong will always rule the roost, because loudness and strength of muse will always determine speed. Which is a general rule for any muse, any fandom here. Same goes for “favoritism.” I won’t hide it nor deny it. Some interactions are going to punch out faster simply because the chemistry and story is vibe-ing hardcore. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you/appreciate our interactions, but I will always strike when the iron’s hot and make no apologies about it. This also goes if a strong muse/s of mine is/are super active on the dash for 1-2 partners, and you, a third party think “Imma poke them now, too!” Yes, please do!! But bear in mind if I’m doing angst or serious subject matter in those rps, and you come onto my dash with crack or fluff, you’re going to have to sit tight. Because I won’t break muse mood either. And same goes if I’m doing lighter stuff and you BOMB me with darker stuff out of nowhere. Smut ain’t happening on THIS blog, but on days where I’m on the Sinblog? Ya gonna have to wait. XD  ✔️REPLIES: Like above, size varies. I tend to write a lot, and a chunk of my characters tend to “BLAB BLAB BLAB.” So I always have a goodly amount of dialogue in my stuff. I do paras/novellas if we’re really feeling a story, and my partner loves them too.  I have nothing against replies that have little/no dialogue as long as my muse has something to go on. However, on the flip side, if you give me one line, one word replies, chances are I will drop that thread after one day. I also do a lot of medium/shorter rps--like small paragraphs or just a few sentences. I don’t care what your posts look like either. I don’t care about your icon style or if you use them at all. I don’t give a FUCK about aesthetics, I only care about your character, our writing vibe, and storytelling, and if I can see your text. I use small font and my icons vary from 125x125 to 110x110, but I don’t uniform that stuff. I tend to match your style also, so if you’re someone that needs regular sized font, I will leave my font that way for you. Same for length---I try to match your length, but I always end up writing a little more. NEVER FEEL PRESSURED TO MATCH MY LENGTHS. YOU DO YOU. I am a stickler for grammar, so if I see errors or misspells, I tend to fix them for us both, and dudes, please feel free to fix mine if you see a glaring misspell or error. Also, cutting. Please cut our threads, as I will. ( 2-3 reblogs shown max ) 

✔️STARTERS: I am............selective on taking un-prompted & surprise! starters posted for me, because most times I wanna know you’re making it before you do. I may be swamped and can’t do it, and don’t want you to waste your time. If I like your starter call, do it. If you post a thing asking “who wants to be on a permanent starter/inbox call” and I DO like/comment that I do? Yes, post me stuff all you want. I don’t always post starter calls because people seem lukewarm to mine. I’d rather you and I send memes/asks to each other and make something out of that. OR we ask about it in IM. HOT TIP:  Almost all of the IC “dash commentaries” I post, are basically open starters too, not just commentaries. I also watch IC comments from your muses in my text posts, and sometimes my muse HAS to say something back. But, it’s never an obligation for your muse to turn that into anything. I am a low pressure mun. ✔️INBOX: It’s open to everyone. I may not do everyone’s thread requests, but for me, the askbox/meme deal is the BEST way for our muses to break the ice or bug each other for small things! You do NOT have to be mutuals or even an active partner of mine to send stuff. Spam my muses! XD Personals, you can send my muses stuff as long as it’s “Interviewing” or headcanon based, I do not rp with self inserts/self-shippers. ANONS are ok, and if you don’t have a rp blog but want to send my muses an IC ask by some character from their canon, DO THE THING. NB: If I can’t think of a way to answer anyone’s ask, I delete it. I don’t keep asks and memes past a couple weeks if nothing comes out or my brain, or my muse decides to skip off.

✔️SELECTIVITY: Semi-selective af. I will consider most rp requests, but I will not do everything asked of me. If you send a muse to one of mine that they do NOT wanna talk to, even if you really want it, I won’t do it, I will politely decline. I hate to lead people on. I don’t follow personals or Hubs. I only follow your muse’s blog. If I follow you first, it means I’m interested in rp’ing with you. I don’t always follow everyone back, because I’m controlling my dash content, but that doesn’t mean I won’t rp with you if we’re not mutuals! I am NOT mutuals only. Sometimes I just don’t follow back because 1) I keep forgetting to look your blog over, oops. 2) I have, and you have a fandom or content that I don’t want all over my dash.

I will still follow you/write with you even if you play with someone I don’t like. I don’t give a crap if you play with someone I don’t, or have blocked, because I’m a big girl that uses post block, blacklists, and url blocks. It’s ALL good with me. It’s not my business who gets along with who, and some people have JUST writer’s relationships and not friendships, so meh, no worries. I only stand up and say something if that person hurts YOU. But I overall, mind my p’s and q’s.  Also: If you never cut posts, rp with really bad grammar/no punctuation, are pro-call out, are an ANTI, and generally have a “trigger list” that is as long as my arm? Not gonna risk it, not gonna follow. If you’re a blog that pushes personal politics, “make everything woke or else” is your motto, and all you care about is projecting that shit though your muse and rp, that’s a never follow.

✔️WISHLIST: You can flip through the tags: #WISHLIST & #WISHLISTS. I haven’t updated my verses/AU list in like 4 years, so that list is pretty weak. Typically, if you present the idea, 9/10 times I’m down for whatever. Same goes for the darker, scarier AUs. You want to do a twisted, “no one else will do this AU with me”? I’m your girl. I just ask we lightly research things alongside writing it so we’re on point. Smut AUs will ALWAYS be on the Sinblog and you & your muse better be 18+. Different aged eras for our muses are always awesome, Swap! AUs, historical AUs, Fantasy AUs, Book/Movie/TV show AUs, “What if??” AUs, Random scenarios like stranded together, rockstars, etc. etc. I’m up for most anything except “coffeehouse & flowershop” AUs because I will gag the whole time at them. They’re dumb and ridiculous to me. You may love ‘em just don’t push that cliche fluff junk on my muses. ✔️HONEST NOTES: If I have reached my limit of like 25? drafts ( main ) ; 15 drafts ( sinblog ) I will be SUPER selective on what I take in as new. I may have a total of like 50 threads across the board, but if some are out there in limbo, yeah, I will take on more. I want to always keep stuff going, but I am also honest about what I can and can’t do. I don’t want my partners waiting forever for me. I want the threads to be lucrative for us both. And I adhere to the credo: “Even if we drop a thread/meme, it just means that we can pick up another, NEW plot/interaction later.” Dropping threads/memes NEVER indicate a “forever ban” on our muses together. PLEASE don’t take it personal, because I drop stuff whether you’re a main partner or a new one. I used to accept every request and thread asked of me and then I’d end up with waaaaay too many things owed and it’s just not worth it to me. I hate, hate, hate making people wait. However, I am patient, and I will wait for things promised. I just don’t want YOU doing anything YOU don’t feel anymore either!! If you DON’T have muse for our thread/meme, JUST DROP IT. Again, we can do something NEW!!! Also, I always announce when I’m deleting stuff. I may also pop in IM’s and ask you what’s up and if you wanna continue, if it seems like a meaty thread for our muse’s verse. But it’s never meant to pressure you into anything, it’s just communication.

✔️RANDOM SIDE NOTES:

[  NO-NOs  ]

Hating dumping to me about my muses and what they’re doing in my verses. Passive aggression ooc and in IMs about how I, the mun, am not rping what you want to see. Passive-aggression/bullying my partners. Displaying any kind of stalker-jealousy about what me and my other partners are doing. Pitching shit-fits and having your muse project your mun hatred, pettiness, and jealousy on mine for not getting their way. 

I will mute or post block anything I don’t feel like dealing with on my dash to keep the partners I love 99% of the time. Don’t assume I agree with you because you are a friend or partner, just as I expect you may disagree with me from time to time. I DO value free speech, and I 100% believe: “your blog, your content.” But if it gets to a point where your RP BLOG has become more of a personal and political blog than a rp blog, and you post nothing but things that upset me over and over, I may unfollow. If you post a lot of call-outs and guilt mongering begging for attention, I will unfollow. I only block troublemakers, scary people, hate anons, or people I know can’t take “no” for an answer. I don’t block lightly. 

Sinblog-wise: Smut is ONLY with partners comfortable with it, and 18+;  that’s a hard ignore or possible block if you’re persistent and don’t take no for an answer. 

Tagged: ( Swiped from ) @dragcnsden | @ducktales-wco-oo Tagging: Meh, you do it.

[somewhere-in-my-weird-mind]

What did he just say? - Sebastian Stan

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Female!Reader

Request: Prompt #9 “You know who I’m hot for”

Word Count: 5.1 K

Warning: None as far as I can remember... though maybe there’s a bit of swearing spread through it... But honestly, I’ve got a sailors mouth and I’ve lost track of how much my characters do the same by now. The real warning should be about a shirtless and wet Sebastian Stan... Proceed at own caution!

A/N: So... (She says after having not written a single thing or made it seem like she was still alive for two whole years) I’m back! Life’s kinda going to shit, but by some miracle, it’s meant that I’ve had some spare time and energy that I could invest in writing again. So, here we are. 

In an attempt to help the new spirit of writing flow to keep going, I might lose some old request in my inbox that’s now been taking up space for like the last 3 or 4 years, and instead, I’m going to open it up again to new requests. If you’re an old follower who actually made a request, that I didn’t finish writing because life and time went on, I’m really sorry for letting it go. But if you want, please send me a new one, and I’ll do my best at writing it this time! 

But enough chatting, here’s some Seb fluff get together for ya!

It had all started out with an eviction notice. The apartment building you had been staying in for the past couple of years now, after you first made the move to New York, had been bought up by someone who’s plan had seemed to be knock your building down, only to build some new, modern and most likely expensive as hell apartments instead. Now you’re not saying that the place didn’t need a good loving hand, the elevator had been broken down for 2 years now, and the heating bill was always high in the winter due to cracks letting all the cold in. But it was still your home, and just your luck, it had seemed it had been one of the last, somewhat decent apartments in New York, for a somewhat decent price.

That had at least been your judgment in the month you tried, desperately finding some place new to stay, with the eviction notice hanging over your head, telling you that you only had a month to find a new place to live. And anyone who knows New York, and its realtor market, while being on a strict budget, knows that’s an impossible feat. It wasn’t that it had been for a lack of trying, considering how you had almost spent more money on transport that month, looking at apartments you had found on odd listed pages around town, than you had on food. For a brief moment, you even thought you had succeeded the impossible task, when you had finally found a place. Only for it to be snatched up right under your nose, and you were back to ground zero.

It was in that moment of weakness and despair, you had gotten the call. A friend of yours had been trying to help you out with your situation, but apparently when you had that conversation to her, you hadn’t mentioned how you kind of wanted to keep it a quiet thing, maybe because you knew that they were exactly the kind of person to lecture you on how accepting help isn’t a bad thing. So in your attempt to avoid the lecture, you had forgotten your mutual friend, and just how much your friend didn’t mind asking other people for help.

Hence, the call.

Now, the thing is, yes, Sebastian Stan calling you and telling you that you could just stay in his spare room until you figured it out, was a really convincing argument. After all, you’ve been at his place loads of times, and you’ve seen his bathroom and dreamed of hanging out in that bathtub, and you’ve sat on that couch and fallen asleep on it way too many times. So yeah staying there wouldn’t be too bad, also because it would give you a more manageable time window to look at places, considering that you were going to be evicted in a matter of weeks. It’s not a bad offer, is the point.

But there is however another side to that good point, and that’s how even after weeks now, you still haven’t been able to get that question out of your head. That damn question that your friend asked you, and a question that seemed to unravel everything you thought you knew.

“So what is it with you and Sebastian?” Your friend asked you, just as you were stuffing your face with the popcorns she had brought to you on the couch, in the middle of your marvel marathon.

“Huh?” you asked, as it was currently all the noise you were capable of making with a mouth full of popcorn.

“You and Sebastian, what’s happening there, are you hitting that?” She asked as conveniently Sebastian’s face appeared on the screen as Bucky Barnes.

“Wait, what! Hitting that?” You exclaimed as you managed to swallow the popcorn.

“Yeah, I mean cheers if you are, because, well, look at that body,” She said as the screen was focusing on Bucky’s mind getting wiped, while also showing a good look of a pretty impressive body that Sebastian was the proud owner off.

“No, no we’re just friends” You laughed, though you did keep looking to appreciate that body a bit longer, because, well yeah, damn.

“Wait really? Your friend turned away from the screen and looked at you as if she didn’t quite believe you.

“Yeah, we’re just friends, nothing more. Besides, it wasn’t even that long ago since he broke it off with his ex”

“First of all, that is like a year ago now, which you should know since you helped him get over that, which is also why I’m asking, just how did you help him get over it, with cuddling or with bow chica wow wow” You friend sang, causing you to laugh.

“What, oh god no”

“Oh please, as if you didn’t want to hit that”

“That’s not what I meant, I just meant, well, we’re friends, so yeah no, no ‘Bow chica wow wow’ just, the good old take out and movie marathons, and being there when he need to talk, it works all the time.”

“Is that really all it is?” Your friend asked, looking like that was definitely not the response she had expected.

“Yeah, just friends.” You said and returned back to the screen. But there didn’t go long before you turned back to her again. “Okay, I gotta ask though, why did you think there was more?”

“Well, it’s the way the two of you are together. Like, ever since you moved to New York the two of you have been hanging out a ton, and after he broke it off with his girlfriend it was like I could barely reach you sometimes. And then, well then there’s the way that he looks at you sometimes like you hung the sun or something like that. Not to mention the fact that even when he’s away for movie stuff, the two of you talk every day, like what was it a bit under a month ago that the two of you passed your 400 days snapchat streak. So yeah, I don’t know, it just seems like maybe there was something more there. But I might be wrong”

Sometimes you hoped she was wrong, that it was just her imagining it, but ever since she mentioned it, the thought had barely left your mind.

So when he called you, offering you to invade his space for however long you needed it, well then you blamed her for thinking more into it than there might be. So that had been why you had first told him that it was a nice thought, but that you didn’t want to be a bother to him any more than you already did. So instead you kept looking, but after you woke up with a hangover the first of January, and you knew you only had a week to find someplace to be, you realised that there was nothing else to do, so you called up and even more hungover Sebastian.

That had been two weeks ago. And still no apartment.

You were currently spread out on the couch in Sebastian’s very comfortable apartment, enjoying his Netflix account connected to the quite nicely sized TV. But to your defence, you had deserved it. You were exhausted, both physically after having spent so much time, both in your lunch break and after work trying to meet different realtors to help you find a place. And then mentally exhausted, because just like the many other times you’d talked to them, they had not given you any good news. You were starting to consider maybe changing realtors, especially after the horrible place you were shown last week, with a murphy bed installed that didn’t even have enough room to be completely unfolded.

So yeah, you’d say you deserved to lounge a little bit, and forget your troubles watching Netflix, and eating Sebastian’s snacks, that he technically wasn’t allowed to eat anyhow, with him being on a new strict diet and training regime for a new movie. On the topic of training, the stench of a sweaty Sebastian having come back from the gym, warned you of him being there before his greeting did.

“Don’t they have shower at your fancy fitness place?” You called out as you heard steps walking over to the couch.

“They do. But it’s much more fun to come home and annoy you like this” Sebastian laughed as he jumped over the couch and got his one arm around you as he sat down, right next to you, like that was the only option on the massive couch.

“Ugh, you’re disgusting” You groaned as you tried to get away from the sweaty embrace, much to Sebastian’s amusement. As a payback you decided to turn around to punch him in the arm, only to be met by rock hard muscle that really was just not fair on any normal human being. The same way that the sight of Sebastian sitting there in a wife beater, sweat glistening off him (because the idiot probably decided to run back from the gym, because yeah sure, that’s what sensible people do) just staring at you with such glee in his eyes, while shaking a little bit from his laughter, really was not fair on any normal human being, much less you.

But no, get that thought out of your head, you were not going to start thinking those kinds of thoughts about him. Instead you decided to turn around to continue watching the Netflix, while pretending that it was your disgust with his sweat that made you blush, not any other reason, nope, nothing at all.

“Well I would say it’s an appropriate payback for you messing up my Netflix recommendation with you watching teenage girl dramas, I’ll let you know it never suggested Riverdale to me before you came in and messed up my streaming history”

“Oh please, don’t pretend like you don’t very well recognise the title of the show. When I clicked in on it, it asked me if I wanted to continue watching it” You said with a chuckle pointing at the TV showing Serena van der Woodsen having a series conversation with Dan Humphrey. You decided to focus completely on how ridiculous and upper class they were being, instead of focusing on the close proximity Sebastian was sitting.

“Alright, well I can reason it with revisiting old memories, what’s your excuse for sitting here alone watching Gossip Girl” Sebastian asked looking at you for an answer.

“Well it’s partly because it’s funny to see you looking all scrawny and awkward and posh in it-“

“Hey, I was like 27 at that point” Sebastian interjected, looking almost genuinely offended if it wasn’t because of the small smile he always seemed to wear around you.

“Yeah, yeah whatever, if you would have let me finish, you’d known that I really didn’t focus too much on you in it” You felt yourself say, while also knowing that it wasn’t completely true.

“Right, then do tell, what is the reason that you oh so love this show, of questionable quality” He asked while looking intensely at you for an answer. Again, him and his intensive focus on you, you didn’t like how much it affected you, because when it did, you had an extra hard time ignoring how much it just really shouldn’t, because playing with that idea was a dangerous thing, that you knew were never ever going to happen anyhow.

“I have the hots for Chace Crawford” You said, and turned around to watch the show again, hoping that it would stop the stare coming at you from the side, from a certain sweaty someone.

Turns out it only amplified the stare he was sending her, but it did stop the oncoming questions, as he had somewhat fallen quiet.

“Oh, well, he’s a good guy.” Sebastian added after the silence seemed to have become too long.

Thing is, it’s a pivotal part of their friendship that you knew just when something affected him, and that you then weren’t afraid to tease him about it. That’s how it had always been, and that’s how it was always going to be, you knew that. So it was really a duty to keep this going, after all it would be a let-down to everything you stood for, if he would go around thinking you wouldn’t annoy him anymore.

“Wait, you must have his number don’t you? Could you hit him up for me, hell you could give me his phone number!” You said excitedly, partly because you could really see how much this was bothering him, which just made you want to push it further. And, then the idea of hitting Chase up wasn’t really that bad of an idea either.

“C’mon. Do me a favour, give me his number. Let me have a chance with Nate Archibald” You were full on teasingly poking him now in his sides, which finally made his smile come out again.

“How about no” Sebastian laughed and tapped your nose, much to your annoyance.

“How about a trade then. Tell me who you’re hot for, and I will do my best at trying to get their number. It’s most likely going to be an impossible feat, but I will try my best anyhow.” You thought it was going to be a great way of continuing to tease him, only, suddenly you saw the smile falter a little bit.

“You know who I’m hot for” He finally said, but the joking seemed to have faltered a bit. Maybe he was just tired after the workout, that happened sometimes.

“Well, clearly I don’t. So, c’mon, tell me, is it someone that I have a chance of getting their number to make it a fair deal” You asked, turning around to face Sebastian completely, he repaid the favour, and suddenly it all seemed a lot less funny. Sebastian’s smile had faltered again, until there were no smile at all left. Instead what was left, was a Sebastian you had only seen a couple of times before. A Sebastian who wasn’t the same one that the public saw, a Sebastian that wasn’t even the same that most of his friends saw. But it was one that you had seen.

“I already have their number” He said and turned around to face you, though not really looking at you, instead looking at his hands that he was fiddling. Because he was genuinely nervous about something.

“Well that’s good then” You said in a calm notion, causing Sebastian to look up at you again. “That’s like a severe advantage you have then.” The only response you got was a small nod from him, and you knew that this person he was talking about, was someone serious. Your heart ached a little bit, and you knew why, but this wasn’t your time and place for this. No you knew that his face meant that he was struggling with this, and his friend, you had a duty to help him. And that duty meant pushing down everything else you were feeling right now.

“So you have this person’s number, and you clearly have the hots for her. I’m not seeing a reason why you haven’t called this person up then.” You didn’t exactly know what you expected, but the silence you were met with, and Sebastian just fiddling his fingers as the only somewhat response, wasn’t what you had expected.

“Okay. How about this” You started, causing Sebastian to look up. “What if I help you with what you should tell her? I’ll help you come up with a line that’s so irresistible, that she simply can’t not tell you she’ll go out with you” You tried saying it with a smile, and you think you mainly succeeded, but it wasn’t like Sebastian’s facial reaction gave you any clear answer to that.

He seemed to be thinking deeply, like the thought of getting help to tell the person you liked, that you actually liked them, was something he had to consider. You knew you didn’t have to consider it if someone offered it to you. Because sitting here, right across from the guy you liked, you couldn’t help but think that you would definitely accept some help right now, if it meant you could figure out a way to tell him what you felt. But no, instead you were sitting here, offering him help, on how to tell some girl that he liked her. Because that’s just how good your life was going right now.

“Okay” Sebastian finally said, and looked at you suddenly with a smile on his face, and a certain fire and certainty, that suddenly made you so much more jealous of this girl that made him feel like that.

“Well a good start would be to tell her that you’ve been thinking about her[SMS1] . It’ll make most girls feel appreciated, well when it isn’t from some creepy stalker, but when it’s from someone who actually cares. And when she knows that you do, then that’s when you ask her out.”

“It’s that simple then is it?” Sebastian said with a little smile, like he knew something you didn’t.

“I mean, if you do it right, then… yeah” You said, trying not to let the smile get to you.

“Huh” Sebastian just said before looking like he was wondering something, whatever it was, you didn’t know, but maybe it was the silence that became too much, or it was just you wanting to find another way of hurting yourself that you started up the conversation again.

“So who is it?” You asked with a smile you hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. Everything was fine, and you were fine, and there were no reasons why you shouldn’t be smiling now. You were just helping out a friend of yours. That’s what this was.

“You wanna know who I’m hot for?” Sebastian asked with a little smile, probably one that thinking about whichever girl that he was thinking of who he was hot for. It should make you happy, really it should, he was happy, and you were happy that he was happy. That’s how friendship works.

“Clearly, since I’m asking” You lied. Because having a name for this person might not help you, it was probably going to be some very famous actress of something, someone amazing that you had no chance of measuring up to.

“Well” He started. Here it comes, the name that you were going to be thinking of for almost every day from now on. The woman you had no chance of measuring up to, the woman who had won Sebastian’s heart, the woman who –“

“It’s you” The woman who was you? What.

“Anyway, I’m going to head to the shower” Sebastian said and suddenly very quickly left you there alone on the couch, with a question that felt larger than life.

You?

He was hot for… you?

No that couldn’t be. He couldn’t be.

At least that’s the thought stream you’ve had for the past years. From almost the moment you had met Sebastian, you had been attracted by him. Then again that wasn’t really any news to anyone who met Sebastian. But then you had gotten to know him, and you had found this sort of gentleness about him. The way that he met anyone with such love and kindness, that only increased when you really got to know him, and he let you in. It surprised you that not more people fell in love with him. Or maybe they did, you wouldn’t be surprised, the same way you weren’t surprised when Sebastian talked about some girl, because off course he would find someone to love.

You just didn’t know that you could be that person.

Because that’s what he had said right? When you had asked, he had said you. He had said he had the hots for you.

Honestly, who even says they’ve got the hots for someone anymore. Well apparently you did, but you meant it about some person you saw on the TV, like those imaginative crushes you got, celebrity crushes, that’s who you had the hots for. So what about him, what did he mean when he said he had the hots for you.

You needed to know.

Deciding enough was enough, as your inner monologue wasn’t going to help you clear this up in any way, you jumped over the edge of the couch and ran through the hallway until you reached the bathroom door, where you stopped and started hammering down the door, until finally it opened.

“Oy, I was showering” Sebastian complained as he opened the door, standing there dripping water down on the carpet in the hallway, while only standing there in just a towel around his waist. Because, yeah sure, this was something you could handle, seeing him standing there, showing off his very, very defined abs, glistening wet, and did she mention very defined.

Weren’t there something you needed to do?

Oh right.

“Don’t oy me” You finally managed to get out. “You can’t just say something like that, and then walk away without giving me any explanation” You yelled angrily, because you were angry. Angry that he was now pretending like you hadn’t just had that conversation a minute ago, leaving you there on the couch having to figure out everything on your own.

“I thought I explained myself pretty alright” Sebastian said with a small smile, like this was all to his amusement.

“Yeah no, you didn’t explain. You just said you had the hots for me, what the fuck is that even supposed to mean?” You asked waving your arms around the air, in hopes that it would clarify for him, that you had no fucking clue, and maybe that smile he was wearing wasn’t really helping you deal with this very well.

“Just that. That I have the hots for you” Sebastian replied, once again with that little smile.

You were slowly starting to start a vendetta against that smile. Because when the two of you were joking and he gave that smile, you could appreciate it, but this, this was something completely different, and it felt like a really bad joke.

It seemed your silence and lack of understanding finally seemed to get to Sebastian, the smile on his lips faltered a bit and he tightened the towel around his waist before he looked down on his feet, like he was trying to figure out what to tell you. You heard him mutter something that sounded a bit like he was saying ‘what was it she said I should say’ before he suddenly met your eyes again, and opened his mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about you” He said. You stayed silent though, because you were sort of expecting there to be something more after that. Except there wasn’t.

“What, that’s all you’re going to say?” You exclaimed while looking at Sebastian like he was mad. Because, well you kind of thought he was, who says that and then just leave it be.

“That’s what you told me to say” Sebastian called, as seemingly your frustrations seemed to have rubbed on him as well. Well good.

“Well it’s not that simple”

“But that’s what you said”

“Oh don’t use my words against me” You snapped, you were not the one on trial here, it was him and his rubbish way of making himself clear.

“Okay. Fine. “Sebastian thundered before lowering his arm that had just been waving in the air because of his frustration a second ago. “I’ll use my own words then” He said before taking a deep sigh. Somehow, you already knew then you weren’t ready to hear them, but there was no stopping it now.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. That much is true. For a long while, I had gotten really good at not thinking about you on a constant, even though I had been wanting to do just that for a long time. But then suddenly, you were everywhere. I thought I did a kindness to a friend and it was just going to be just that. But then suddenly I’m being tortured with your favourite shirts being in the wash all the time, and with that brand of yoghurt you like so much in the fridge right in eye sight whenever I open it, and then your fluffy pillows you’ve left scattered over the couch, that are like way too comfortable. It’s impossible not to be reminded of you, no matter where I look. And it turns out, maybe what I thought was just torture, was something more. Because when I can’t stop thinking about you, it gets real hard to subside these feelings I’ve been feeling for a really long time. Until I realised, I just couldn’t anymore” Sebastian ranted, until he finally, took a deep breath, and seemed to realise he was done.

Well what does anyone say to that? Apparently your stupid mind had already thought of something.

“No.” Real articulate Y/N, real articulate “You don’t have any feelings for me. You can’t.” Those were the words that had been swirling around your brain ever since Sebastian had left you on the couch, because they were the only ones that made any sense.

“Who says that.” Sebastian asked, looking at you again, this time without a smile, and without that shield he sometimes put up to be the happy and all dandy Sebastian Stan, famous actor. No this Sebastian, this was the one that wore no shield to protect himself, this was the one who bared everything to you. You had seen it multiple times before, but it had never hit you as hard as it had now.

“I do” You whispered, as if speaking too loudly now would break the heavy feeling that was weighting both of you down right now.

“Why?” Sebastian whispered, as if he was feeling the same way.

“Because…” you started, attempting to find head and tails in all these feelings you were feeling right now. “Well because we’ve been friends for 5 years now, and not once in that time have you ever made a move?” Well, almost, not counting five minutes ago on that couch, when he had done exactly that.

Maybe he had been thinking the same thing, because he took one step closer to you, so close that you could feel the steam coming off his chest from the shower you had interrupted.

“What if I did” He muttered, before licking his lips, and suddenly any agitation you had, almost seemed to melt away, as your eye was drawn to his lips, that were now looking slightly moist, and soft, god so soft.

“I don’t know” You replied just as quietly, simultaneously feeling like you were on fire, and like you could just let go of everything and float down the river.

“Well it was just a minute ago you were screaming at me looking for a definitive answer to your question, and now you don’t even want to give me one” That little smile was back on his lips, and suddenly you didn’t hate it as much. As much. You still hated it a little bit. And maybe that was why you made your decision very quickly.

“You want a definitive answer? Fine, I’ll give you one” You said, sounding a lot more sure in yourself than you were. But one thing you were sure off, was that what you were planning next, you didn’t think Sebastian would mind that much, if everything he had said the last couple of minutes were true. And as much as you had been unsure about whether it was before, that little smile he was giving, and that raw honesty he had showed you before, made you 99% certain.

So certain, that you decided to say ‘fuck you’ to that other 1%, as you reached up your hands, one to fit in his wet hair, and another on his neck, before you pulled him down, and you met those kissable lips you had thought way too much about lately, with your own.

It only took a brief moment of shock, before Sebastian enthusiastically greeted your lips with his, and made sure that 99% got rounded up to a round number. Especially because kissing Sebastian felt as natural as breathing air, while also being as addicting as a sniff of coke.

It was a natural respondent between the two of you, of who took control and who gave leeway, only for it to change just as quickly again. And it wasn’t just your mouths that was making you lose all control, it was everything from how close Sebastian was standing, to his hand in your hair, to the stubble burn that made you lose a sense of time, until you finally had to pull apart to take a breath.

Which was why you now stood there, in the doorway, both of you staring at each other with blown pupils and heaving chests, with not an inch of space between you.

“You really need to take that shower now” You somehow managed to breathe out.

“Oh, shit, sorry, yes, I must stink” Sebastian took a step back and shook his head to clear it off the fuzziness state, that you apparently hadn’t been the only one feeling. “I’ll get cleaned up, and then maybe we can continue this afterwards” It was like the moment he had disconnected the physical touch of you, he was back to the same Sebastian that had decided skipping over the couch to avoid a conversation was the best choice. And one thing you knew for sure, was that you were not planning to go back to that. Not after this. Not ever again.

“Or” You said, now with a small smirk that could compete against Sebastian’s you were sure. “I could just join you” As soon as the words had left your mouth, you could see how Sebastian’s pupils dilated even more, though you weren’t fully sure how it was possible, but you loved it all the same.

“Yup. Yeah. I like that idea, a lot better” Was all Sebastian said before taking your arm and pulling you into the bathroom to join him with such eagerness you couldn’t help but giggle a bit. Though you were quickly interrupted from laughing by two lips meeting yours again. It wasn’t like you were complaining though, quite the opposite.

Permanent tagging:  @savaneafricaine   @purple-storm @cmbequestrian2402  @m4df4n 

Tell me if you wanna be tagged, either permanently or just for Sebastian imagines 

[palmettoes]

Aaron/Katelyn 61

(hehe this has only been sitting in my inbox for uhh 6 months i am so sorry! anyway !!!! never written aaron/katelyn before !!! also haven’t written m/f fanfiction since i was 13 but i love these kids thanks for giving me a reason to make up katelyn’s whole backstory)

disclaimer: if ur pro inc*st u are legally not allowed to touch anything i write

read it on ao3! | prompts are closed :(

61. “I told you not to fall in love with me.”

Katelyn, eight years old, loses her mother to white lights and hospital beds. It’s preventable, low mortality rate, chance of survival looks hopeful. Katelyn knows this because she looks it up on her dad’s old box computer when he’s working late one night, her older brother playing outdated records too loudly to notice her disappearing into their father’s private study. Katelyn knows this because the doctors tell her so—not in so many words, because she’s eight, but enough that she knows they are optimistic about the results.

Katelyn, eight years old, wonders why doctors can juggle something so fragile as a life playfully among them and lie through their teeth when they catch the corner of an eye.

Katelyn, eighteen years old, is determined not to be like other doctors. Getting into biochemistry at university feels like winning the sprint but losing the marathon. Her professors crack down on the workload immediately, adamant that medicine is not for those who do not want to be there. And Katelyn wants to be there, maybe more than anyone else, but life has already dealt her so much weight and Katelyn is fast running out of strength to lift these stooped shoulders.

She tries out for the Vixens, Palmetto’s cheerleading team, mostly because her roommate, Marissa, waxes poetic about the nights she’ll spend huddled between football players in one of the downtown bars, and Katelyn figures she could do with the extracurricular.

(The exy team does not factor into her decision, but gossip travels far and fast and the idea of standing in close quarters to them puts her on edge for reasons that can only be explained through hollow whispers and stolen glances behind their backs.)

The Vixens are a rough and tumble team, from the figure eight pattern of cigarette burns on Marissa’s forearm, to the handful of Zoloft Anaïs throws up in her dorm toilet during Freshers’ Week, to the way Billie sleeps with their chin tucked over their shoulder so they can watch their own back. Katelyn is just scraping this side of nineteen, knows the weight of Prozac on her tongue better than that of a meal, and cannot remember the last time her father looked at her without looking right through her. Inexorably, Palmetto State University feels like home.

“How about that backliner though? He’s a tall, dark stranger I’d welcome into my crystal ball,” Marissa says, shaking her pom pom in Anaïs’ face as they stumble towards the bus the night after Palmetto’s first exy game of the season. Anaïs bats Marissa’s arm away, switching her duffel to her other shoulder to put an extra distance between them.

“Didn’t notice. It’s their offensive dealer that I was paying attention to.”

“Their captain.” (It sounds like an innuendo but almost everything does coming out of Marissa’s mouth.) “Anyway, I heard from Mick on the football team that Ainsley told Prati that Mia sits with two of the exy players at lunch on Tuesdays and apparently Mr Tall and Dark is hitting it with the captain. Isn’t that a sandwich you’d love to get between?”

“Not particularly.”

“Boo, you whore.”

Marissa shakes her pom pom again and Anaïs’ shove gains force.

“Don’t boo me because I’m gay.”

Billie taps Katelyn’s elbow and rolls their eyes at the other two, sweeping an arm out to offer Katelyn to climb ahead of them onto the bus. Katelyn hitches her duffel a little higher and climbs the steps. Anaïs likes the seat over the wheel so Katelyn chooses the row in front, tucking her bag under her seat so Billie can settle next to her. Anaïs and Marissa scramble in behind them, still bickering over the attraction of various exy players. Katelyn glances out the window and catches sight of an orange and white gaggle making their way to the other PSU bus parked outside Breckenridge stadium. Mr Tall and Dark backliner is holding hands with the captain but chatting to a lanky boy with a frown too many shades short of pleasant. Most of the Foxes move as a unit, a crowd collected behind their coach, but several steps and a whole chasm behind them trails the remainder of the team.

Katelyn recognises assistant coach Kevin Day because, as strong as her distaste for the sport, she grew up this side of the turn of the century. She doesn’t think she could miss Kevin Day if she tried. He is flanked by two identical blond men and an emphatic, dark-skinned man a head or so above the other two. Katelyn had watched one of the twins block the goal all night with a ferocity like he was exercising a personal vendetta against the ball, seen the other punch an opposing striker square in the jaw seemingly unprovoked. She shudders, remembering the rumours she’d heard whispered about the exy team and, for the first time, believing them. She turns away from the window and bumps Billie’s shoulder with her own, pushing blond hair and murderous glares from her mind.

*

The thing is, Katelyn has no reason to engage with the exy team. She cheers at their games and catches glimpses of them between stadium and parking lot, but she doesn’t learn their names or dance with them at college parties the way she does with the football team.

The thing is, Katelyn’s hands are full enough already. She is unofficially deemed in charge of the first year Vixens—some combination of the fact that Marissa listens when Katelyn tells her to shut up, and Anaïs trusts her enough to press a pill bottle into her hand after her second overdose in as many weeks, and Billie talks to her more than anyone because Katelyn is the only one who speaks ASL. Katelyn finds she doesn’t mind it. The constant demand for attention makes a welcome difference to the stony silence of her family home. With homework, cheerleading, and three new best friends keeping her busy, Katelyn barely has time to dwell on the hollow feeling that has been cutting her chest open for the past decade.

The thing is, the short blond boy from the exy team is hard to miss. (Well, one of them is anyway.) Katelyn figures out he’s the backliner, the one she saw punching that striker from Breckenridge, and not the one that sticks to Kevin Day like glue, or a prickly burr. He crops up in her biochem lectures, at her favourite campus café, tucked behind a bookshelf at the library across from her and Billie’s usual study spot. He is always accompanied by at least one of his little posse, usually the noisy one, except during their shared lectures. Katelyn finds herself seeking him out when she enters the room and, more often than not, she catches him blinking back at her.

They’re two thirds through their first quarter by the time she learns his name. He stops by her desk on the way out of the lecture hall, causing her notebook to slip out of her hand in surprise. He kneels to pick it up for her and doesn’t smile, but there’s a friendliness to his eyes that Katelyn has never seen before.

“Katelyn, right?” he asks. Katelyn has no idea how he knows this but she nods instead of questioning it. “Aaron. Did you get notes on Voltolini’s lecture this week? I missed it.”

She’s so caught out by the disruption to their routine, by the brittle edge to his voice that she hadn’t expected, by the abrupt introduction to the quarter-long suspense of wondering his name, that she almost forgets to answer. When she realises she’s been staring at him for coming on ten seconds, she shakes it out of her system and finishes zipping up her backpack.

“Oh. Yeah, did you want to borrow them? Or,” she swings the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and steps towards the door, Aaron falling into pace beside her, “we could go over them together?”

He is quiet for a moment, as if the question requires extensive thought. Katelyn wonders briefly if she should be offended by his lack of immediate interest, but decides she finds it endearing that the authenticity of his response matters so much to him.

“At the library?” he offers. “I have a study period now.”

“Sure,” she says. She’d been headed that way to meet Billie anyway and doesn’t suppose they’ll mind the small intrusion.

“So how come you missed the lecture?” she asks when it becomes apparent their trek to the library will remain otherwise silent.

“Andrew,” Aaron says vaguely, waving his hand as though this is sufficient enough an explanation. When Katelyn doesn’t look convinced, he adds, “My brother. You’ve seen him?”

She nods, not totally understanding but realising it’s personal enough that she doesn’t want to pry.

Billie is already sitting at their table when Katelyn arrives, Aaron in tow. They have printouts of various articles spread across the desk and a focused frown on their face, but they look up when Katelyn and Aaron stop in front of them.

“Aaron, this is Billie. Billie, Aaron. From the exy team.”

Billie waves at Aaron, then pierces Katelyn with their gaze, tilting their head slightly in Aaron’s direction.

“Do you speak ASL?” Katelyn asks him as she pulls out a chair and begins unpacking her bag. Aaron settles into the seat next to her, tapping the tabletop anxiously.

“No. Was that in the lecture?”

“No, no, of course not. Don’t worry about it.” Katelyn laughs lightly and makes eye contact with Billie.

“Since when do we hang out with exy players?” they sign, eyes flicking to Aaron.

“He’s borrowing some notes. What’s wrong with being friendly?” she signs back. Billie shrugs and turns back to their articles. Katelyn flicks open her notebook and grins at Aaron.

“Let’s do this,” she says. His responding smile is small and fleeting but Katelyn catches the hard upturn of his lips and her skin tingles all over.

*

Aaron falls easily into place among Katelyn’s friends. He becomes a regular at their study sessions, reading notes over Katelyn’s shoulder or catching her eye across the table with that same smile like a secret that hurts his throat on the way up. He never brings any of his teammates, but Katelyn can’t complain. Study Aaron and Exy Aaron, she decides, are two sides of the same coin. He’s softer around her and her friends, all secret smiles and nervous tapping. She can’t imagine Study Aaron punching anyone in the face.

He spills into her other routines intrinsically. She stops making excuses to invite him out for coffee or to lunch or on a walk around the campus green when she’s feeling antsy. She struggles to remember a time when the sight of him intimidated her, when she believed the rumours turning the air sour at his heels wherever he walked.

Katie he calls her from across the hall to grab her attention, and Kate when he talks about her to her friends, and K (intimate and familiar and warm in her chest) over text. Katie-Lyn he teases when they’re alone on one of their walks and he relaxes enough that his smile stops looking like barbed wire. She laughs and elbows him and writes Double-A-Ron on the back of folded notes they pass between them during lectures.

Katelyn doesn’t engage with the exy team, but every rule has its exceptions and Aaron is hers. Brilliant, beautiful Aaron, who keeps his smiles a secret and his family a mystery and who holds her gaze across a crowded hallway like it is the most fragile of things.

They never call it dating, though Katelyn suspects that might be what it is. She hardly qualifies as an expert but the shared lunches and secret notes and blushing eye contact feel too reminiscent of her high school girlfriend to be anything else. (She asks Billie, once, if they think Aaron thinks they’re a couple and they roll their eyes and wave her off. She cannot bring herself to put up with Marissa’s crowing long enough to ask for another opinion.) So it’s hard to say where he falls in the categories of her relationships, but when she invites him out for dinner he doesn’t say no and, though she doesn’t call it a date, it doesn’t feel platonic.

They go to an Italian restaurant on campus, partly because Katelyn figures everyone likes pizza and partly because Marissa says the sundae for two is a date-saver. (Not that Katelyn likes to think their sort-of-date will need saving, but it’s always nice to be prepared.) And she’s right, because Aaron does like pizza and the sundae is delicious and the date doesn’t need saving. Until it does.

“I had to beg Nicky to cover for me tonight,” Aaron is saying, no trace of the curl Katelyn has come to search for at the corner of his lips. “He doesn’t like disrupting the balance.”

Katelyn isn’t sure she follows but she doesn’t have to ask to know the only explanation she’ll get is Andrew. His name is the answer to every question, no matter how she phrases it. His name is the flat line of Aaron’s mouth and the fierce swing of his uppercut. His name is the undeniable truth behind the rumours that tail Aaron wherever he goes.

“We can’t do this,” Aaron says and the ice cream turns to dust in Katelyn’s mouth. She thinks bitterly that at least she can prove Marissa wrong; no sundae for two is saving this date.

“Do what?” she asks and her voice is too small for her mouth. She is eight years old and Aaron is the doctor dangling hope too far out of her reach.

“You, me, us,” he says, frustrated and lonely and scared all at once. “You can’t fall in love with me.”

It aches in more ways than she could have known it would. Because how do you predict the outcome when you’re missing the beginning? How do you prepare for the fallout when you aren’t part of the equation? When you’re just collateral damage?

“Says who?” Katelyn asks, and then, “Andrew” in unison with Aaron because, of course. Because, who else?

Aaron’s cheek dimples between his teeth and he lets his spoon clang against the rim of their shared bowl. Katelyn pushes hers through the half-melted ice cream, appetite fast disappearing. She wants to demand answers or argue the absurdity of their situation or maybe just cry. Instead, she folds.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“I get it. It’s okay.”

She doesn’t get it, but Aaron looks at her like she’s handing him the moon so she breathes through her nose, counts to five, and offers him a shaky smile. Moulding herself into the shapes other people need her to be is Katelyn’s specialty. She grew up a chameleon in order to survive. This is no different to her father looking at her like he needed a clinically detached housemaid more than he needed a daughter mourning the loss of her mother.

“Ready to call it a night?” she says, because there is something irreparable in the air between them.

“I’ll walk you back,” Aaron agrees.

They say goodnight outside Katelyn’s dorm building, but what they mean is goodbye. What they mean is this is it. What they mean is we had a good thing and neither of us are good enough people to deserve that.

Katelyn, nineteen-and-three-quarter years old, watches hope shatter in all too familiar shards.

*

They never called it dating, so they don’t call it a break up, but that’s what it feels like. It is broken where Katelyn can’t reach to fix it because she does not know what fractured it to begin with. There is a week between Katelyn’s return home for the holidays and her brother’s scheduled time off, during which the silence of her childhood home sits heavy on her shoulders. She passes the time under a mound of blankets, drowning out her father’s refusal to acknowledge her with television static.

When Antoni returns, so does the life slowly trickling out of the air. He wields noise like a blade to the abrasive reticence of their home, and goads Katelyn out of bed to help him make potato fritters.

“Chiquita, college has made you so mopey,” he says, watching her instead of the eggs he’s whisking. Katelyn slices onions and pretends they are the only reason her eyes sting.

“More like being in this house makes me mopey. College keeps me too busy for that.”

Antoni hums, and watches her, and whisks his eggs.

“And how is college? Top of your class yet?”

Katelyn rolls her eyes but tells him about her lectures and her friends and her cheer practice. She finishes with the onions and starts combining the second bowl of mixture while Antoni scoops the first into misshapen ovals. When the fritters are under the grill and Katelyn’s eyes have stopped stinging altogether, Antoni pours them each a glass of iced tea and leans across the kitchen island to smile at her.

“So has the little Vixen caught a Fox yet?” He pauses to consider her a moment. “Or another Vixen perhaps?”

Katelyn sucks in a breath but doesn’t answer the question, and the silence rings deafening in her ears. She tells her brother everything but she cannot tell him this. (They never called it dating. There is nothing to tell anyway.)

“Oh, Kitty-Kat. Come here,” Antoni says. He doesn’t wait for her to move, instead rounding the island to wrap his arms around her from behind. She leans her head against his bicep, turning so her face is mashed into his woolen jumper, and closes her eyes. They stay like that, his chest to her back and his chin against her crown, for as long as it takes her to stop holding air in her chest until she’s gasping and shaky. She doesn’t cry, but her throat feels raw enough that she could have.

“Ant,” Katelyn whispers, her voice shaking on the vowel, “do you think I’m broken?”

“Of course you’re not.” His arms tighten a fraction around her shoulders. “Why would you think that?”

“It feels like everything I touch shatters.”

She thinks of her mother’s life splintering to pieces in Katelyn’s eight year old hands, of her father’s voice splitting in two and washing away whenever he tried to speak to her, of Aaron’s face contorting as their date cracked and caved around them. She feels like a fractured bone, cleft down the middle, never whole as she is.

Antoni lets out a soft breath against her hair and presses a kiss to the curve of her skull.

“No, chiquita,” he says, “you’re not broken. The world is.”

*

Returning to Palmetto is easier than Katelyn expects it to be. Antoni only has three weeks leave, so Katelyn spends the last month of vacation alone with her father. She is almost ready to welcome the noise and clutter of her college dorm.

Returning to the Vixens is more of a homecoming than entering her family house. As sophomores, they’re expected to throw themselves both into their own practice and that of the freshmen, and Katelyn and Marissa’s room becomes something of a communal ground for the first and second years. Katelyn doesn’t mind so much, because it takes her thoughts off the scowl she hasn’t seen leave Aaron’s face since they returned from break.

She watches the exy team walk to and from the stadium on game nights, their divide in half somehow having become thirds, until she realises the centre group is actually a solitary affair: a dark-haired, rabbit-eyed boy curled in on himself, alone in the rift between his teammates. She focuses on him because it stops her gaze from betraying her resolve and straying to where Aaron walks several paces behind.

And it almost lasts; this painstaking stalemate, this mutual ignorance. Katelyn sits with her back to his table in the library and Aaron walks past her without pausing on the way out of their lecture theatre. It almost stops feeling like a bruise underneath her skin.

But somehow he trickles back into her life as easily as he did once before. Katelyn finds she can smile at him when they pass each other on campus and she can make eye contact when she waves his teammates onto the court during games. She remembers the way he cupped her name in the curl of his tongue as if it were reverent and fragile as glass. She remembers how he held her gaze like he was trying to keep her afloat, and how he saved his smiles to share in the privacy of her company. She remembers he did not build the wall between them, only said he wouldn’t climb it, and she can’t blame him for resting his weary hands.

So when she misses her morning lecture because Marissa woke with a bad taste in her mouth and a tremor in her hands, Katelyn catches Aaron on his way to the library, a hand in his path and a question in her eyes.

“I had to skip this morning. Do you mind sharing notes?” It’s a surrender of sorts, an end to their face-off. Aaron made the first move all those months ago, so this time Katelyn dresses in white armour and guides her pawn forward. They have come full circle.

Aaron’s smile is slow, a tentative curl that crawls quietly up his face, and Katelyn realises for the first time how much she has missed seeing it bloom for her.

“I’m headed to the library now if you’ve got time,” he says. The words are marrow filling the cracks of Katelyn’s broken bone and she feels herself coming together as their steps line up with one another.

It’s easier, after their not-breakup, to build their routine around honesty. Andrew is still an answer, but this time one that comes served with an explanation. Katelyn still doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand the chokehold that Aaron calls family, but she respects it. After all, she isn’t in a position to point fingers at dysfunctional.

They confine their dates to the library café and the medicine building, avoiding places that Aaron’s family are likely to haunt. And it isn’t perfect, it isn’t textbook romance, but for the first time it is something whole that Katelyn cradles to her chest and it does not shatter on impact.

When Aaron leaves for a weekend and comes home a broken man—brotherless, breathless, hands a bruised and bloodied mess—Katelyn does what she has always done best and builds him back together with her own chipped pieces. She fights his nightmares with nothing but her fists and takes his hands in her own when he cannot look at them without seeing blood beneath his fingernails. She does what she can but she is still just collateral, she is still on the outside looking in on a rupture that happened long before she became a spectator. There is still a tear that Katelyn does not know how to stitch up.

*

(The dark-haired, rabbit-eyed boy is called Neil and his hair isn’t actually quite so dark and he is fixing the broken parts Katelyn can’t reach and when he says Andrew’s name it sounds like a question, not an answer.)

*

Getting Aaron back is the gift Katelyn doesn’t think she deserves. Cutting him off feels like shattering her own hope. She watches the pieces slide between her fingers, shoves the remnants deep where she can’t cut herself on their serrated edges, and tries not to think of the way Aaron’s face split apart when she told him Andrew was the answer to a question he did not ask.

She tells Billie, late one night as they pass a bottle of Marissa’s claret between them from opposite ends of the couch, that she doesn’t know if she’ll be whole again. It is a vulnerability that no one but Antoni ever sees, but Katelyn is wine-drunk and fractured, too disheartened to care that her misery has an audience.

“Why not?” Billie says, holding the bottle between their knees to free up their hands. “You were whole before him. He didn’t take anything you can’t replace.”

“He was the first thing I had that I thought I could hold on to.” Katelyn’s hands falter as the weight of her honesty hits her. She doesn’t know who she is when she isn’t fixing other people and Aaron is a fissure that is out of her hands. “What’s the point if I can’t keep anything without breaking it?”

“You have us. You have the team. You have a career path you’re good at and a hobby you love. You have a brother who adores you and you have Marissa and Anaïs and me. You are whole on your own but you’re part of bigger things too. He’ll come back to you or he won’t and either way you’ll still be the person you always have been.”

It doesn’t seem appropriate to cry, but Katelyn is wine-drunk and fractured, so she does anyway. Billie hooks their ankle around hers on the couch between them and knocks the claret bottle against her knee. Katelyn alternates between drinking and sobbing, and loses the rest of the night to the breaking of her heart.

*

Aaron comes back to her piece by broken piece. He shows up at her dorm with his pain a palpable weight in his hands and tells her he’s trying, he’s breaking faster than he can put himself together but he’s trying. And Katelyn knows a thing or two about falling apart.

They pour their fragments into one another in Katelyn’s bed because Marissa is out with some of the older Vixens and they both know better than to waste an empty dorm room. Later, with his back to Katelyn’s chest and his legs slid between either of hers, Aaron finds the parts of his voice he has been missing.

“You were the first beautiful thing I ever called mine,” he says and Katelyn remembers midnight with Billie, remembers the saccharine claret slipping down her throat, remembers thinking Aaron was the first thing she could ever keep whole. “I won’t lose you for him.”

Katelyn slides her hand across the bare expanse of his stomach, presses her face into the base of his neck, and breathes and breathes and breathes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, and means it.

They patch themselves up in tandem—Aaron knits one, Katelyn purls two—and they are old hands at this now. Katelyn watches their healing overlap in familiar stitches and she waits and she hopes and she breathes. Because this thing between them is chipped and bruised but it is whole. It is theirs.

When Andrew comes for her, Katelyn wonders if she should be surprised. She has heard his name in response to too many questions to be shocked when he treats his words like an arrow and her the target. He and Aaron are identical twins but when Katelyn looks at him up close for the first time, all she sees are the differences. He carries none of the regret that bleeds through Aaron’s teeth and too much of the horror that feeds behind his eyes.

“You won,” rabbit-eyed Neil says, gaze already chasing after Andrew like he might not be just any answer but the answer. “Aaron’s not in class now, if you want to call him.”

Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, her brain says and her fingers, though numb with fear, respond on reflex. He picks up while Katelyn is halfway through a choked sob and she hears his breath sharpen like a dagger.

“Katelyn?” His voice is a rush of concern, a spear and shield readying itself in her defence. “What happened?”

“Andrew,” is all she can say between broken breaths, and it is the answer to every question. After all this time, she gets it.

In the time it takes Aaron to get from his dorm to the library, Katelyn has found her breath but not her strength. She is still curled in on herself behind the bookshelf in the far corner and she knows her friends will be wondering but she doesn’t yet trust her legs to support her. Aaron sinks down next to her, an anchor holding her steady in the aftermath of Andrew’s storm.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks quietly and Katelyn doesn’t know how to answer. She thinks if she opens her mouth she might not know how to do anything but cry.

It’s enough of an answer though. Aaron vibrates with an anger that he almost never wears around her and Katelyn thinks of the Breckenridge striker who took Aaron’s fist to the face. He looks more like the other side of the coin, more like Exy Aaron, than she has seen him in a while.

“I told you not to fall in love with me,” he says. It is frustrated and lonely and scared, and Katelyn has heard him sound like that once before and she will do anything before she lets him shatter again.

“I didn’t listen.”

He falls into her at that, half straddling her lap, arms around her waist and face pressed hard to her shoulder. Katelyn raises her arms to cradle his body against her, rests her cheek in the nest of his hair, and thinks this is it. Thinks he is the answer. Thinks we won.

“My Katie,” Aaron whispers into her skin and it is the glue drawing her broken shards together.

[nova-friends]

Hello, Mr. E and fans. This letter will he a bit harsh, but I only speak the truth. I’ve been a big fan of the NVTFOA franchise for awhile, but the spark is dying down. Hell, we’ve been waiting for E to write a “new chapter” for more than a YEAR. Whenever he’s asked about it, he always says it’s coming soon. I was happy with the NVTFOA Tumblr because at least he’s keeping fans satisfied, but now he’s not doing THAT. It’s been months and he hasn’t answered anything. I’m angry with Mr. E right now

E: I am going to preface this entire thing with this: You are allowed to feel angry. You are allowed to feel that negative emotion because it is a healthy response. We as humans have those emotion to help us express what we are feeling and helps us get over our issues. What you should never do is act on that negative emotion because then you do something like this and I am forced to respond in kind. Don’t worry I am simply sharing insight with you. 

I don’t want anyone to respond omg this anon is a jerk and such a blah blah because based on the way this is written they were trying to be polite but firm which is a nice change of pace from the occasional asshat that leaves stuff in my inbox that I just delete because they’re just being an ass. It is well meaning ask but a little misguided. 

I am a person. I am not a machine that just cranks out stories because that is what I am forced to do. I have a life. I have responsibilities to people who depend on me and you are not entitled to anything. Do not get me wrong I greatly appreciate all the love and support I get so much that mere words can never properly express it but I do this for fun. I do this because I find enjoyment in it and I really wish I could get paid for this. I really wish I could sit back and write for the rest of my life with that being my job. You have no idea how much I wish I could make living off just doing something I love. Alas right now that’s not how it works. You say you speak truth but you don’t. You speak from the view of a reader whose favorite content who hasn’t been updated in 2 years which makes me honored you think highly of my work that it’s mere absence angers you. It’s kinda flattering. and I know you wrote this to express your frustration which as I have previously said is allowed. You were kind enough not to call me horrible words or demanding I write a chapter right now or you hate me. You express anger which I suspect might actually be more disappointment.  

I am human. I am one person and run this tumblr by myself. Deth does not run this and there’s no one helping me answering any of these questions. Deth has her own life and she can do whatever she wants because she is her own person. She is the official Nova artist because she’s a fan and I always so grateful for her work because she could give you things I never could as a writer. Many are not that lucky. 

Now let me enlighten you to the daily life of an E.

For 2 weeks every month I am the caretaker of my grandma whom I am lucky to have. She is 99 years old as of last week. She has a broken leg but she can walk because of a metal plate in her leg and a walker. She is very sharp and smart but she’s not there anymore. She suffers heavy from memory loss and pride. She doesn’t understand her leg is broken unless you remind her. She doesn’t understand she can’t help anymore or that she has asked me have I eaten breakfast for the 5th time in an hour. She loves me which is a testament to the work I do. When she is here I don’t sleep. From midnight to 6 am I watch her. I sleep with my door open. I listen for her in case she has nightmares (Rare but they happen) and I have to help her to restroom and then tuck her back into bed then maybe sleep for 20 30 minutes. an hour or 2 if I’m lucky until it is 6 am or she gets up again. I am getting older. I’ve finally shoved my pride and bought a baby monitor to ensure I don’t lose my mind. My grandma is getting older too and she’s getting more and more problems that are not easy to deal with. I’ve been watching her for 6 years but I have been taking care of her for the last 14.

Did you know that post I made a month ago was literally the first time I’ve been on vacation in 2 years? The first time in 2 years that I didn’t have to worry about anything aside my fear of heights which luckily I was able to control on my flight.

Then recently this last week we decided to change the flooring in our rooms. I had to physically move every single piece of thing I owned out of a tiny doorframe and find space for it along with my grandma’s stuff while my grandma was here and let me tell all that stuff in the living room really threw her off. 

Today was literally the first time in a month that I could actually hop on a computer to answer asks (Excellent timing btw). And honestly some days I look at that 141 asks inbox of nova (and the 22 stories prompts I haven’t written in my writing blog) And go “I don’t know if I am up for it today.” And I legit feel bad. I feel I should answer this consistently but last year really fucked with me to be honest.

Last year I lost my favorite uncle. I didn’t want to mention it because I didn’t want to hear I’m sorry or my condolences for your loss. I was angry because for the first time in my entire life, the first time ever I felt cheated. I felt robbed. It was a whole background of problems but long story short is that I didn’t really get to see him often and his death felt like a sucker punch. I...yeah. 

And that messed with my writing schedule and I am the type of person that once that is gone, it is so hard to get back in the groove of things. It is a very unfortunate flaw I have and I have been trying to get back into it but it’s hard.

I have been writing for 16 years of my life. I can write 1,335 words an hour if I’m focusing. it still takes 2 to 5 hours for me to write an average story of mine because boy am I wordy and that’s just my style plus an 30 minutes to proofread (which I still make mistakes) and another 30 to answer reviews. Then the last two season for star vs I personally don’t think they were good and that really hurts my motivation. and sometimes I want to write other stuff. Other stories or ideas, original and other series because damn do I have too many ideas. 

and of course I have to decide what to do with Nova. I love this series because this was the first time I felt like I could be a real writer. To create original ideas and series and have people love them. Like them. Invest in them. Like a real author. I’ve been writing since a time fanfiction was considered lesser. You weren’t a writer if you wrote fanfiction or aus or put ocs in a series and it took me a long time to get over that finally show Nova to the word. and my own original stuff. And of course the show threw so many curve balls at me and went in such wildly crazy directions that it directly affects nova since nova takes place 20 years in the future and I had to decide, on my own because Deth is a reader too and doesn’t want spoilers, what to do. Do i change the story I had plan, do i find ways to fill in the holes accidentally created for me? do I keep on going and just call it a future au where different choices and events just happened (Which i decided yes). I decided to keep the original plan. The plan I created when I first started this. and of course I left the cliff hanger on a fight scene. Fight scenes are very hard to keep engaging and epic yet clear and I haven’t properly written an like a year and I have to come back to a freaking fight scene. 

Literally the next chapter of the story is to show you this is the next arc of nova. this is the main arc of the entire story.

First Movement: A Magician’s Forte.

I’ve been waiting to unveil that chapter title for 2 years. 

Look I am not doing this to shame you or to make you feel bad. I doing this to remind you that I am a human being. Writers and Artists are human beings. I do this with my own time, effort and finding ways not to get burnt out and keep fitting this whole thing I love into my life. And I have always been honest with you. I answered an ask openly stating there was the real possibility that maybe I couldn’t finish Nova. That I would post my notes up so you all would get to at least know the things I had plan. 

If you are still angry, then I am sorry I lost you as a fan and as a reader. It is what it is. But you need to understand I am a person. it is super easy to have this blurred view where somehow your favorite content creator is somehow beyond the issues and problems of the world. But we’re not. We’re people too. I am just a guy that likes to write but I have a life beyond that too. 

Hope you have a great day and I hope you’re a little less angry now. 

[moonbeambucky]

The Price of Gold (Part 17)

Pairing: Lance Tucker x Reader Word Count: 4654 Warnings: angst, mention of cancer, mention of real life gymnastics sex abuse scandal

Summary: As a sports journalist you’ve traveled the world interviewing famous athletes. You’ve loved your job up until you find out your next article is on the last person in the world you ever wanted to talk to, Lance Tucker.

A/N: This was probably the hardest chapter I had to write but I love it so much and I hope you do too! This doesn’t follow The Bronze canon though some film details are mixed with real world events. Written for @green-eyeddragonfanfiction Dragon’s 3k Follower Creative Content Challenge. My prompt was “I can’t be in love with you!” gif source (x)

PART 16 | THE PRICE OF GOLD MASTERLIST

On the grand opening day for Tucker Gymnastics Lance looked like absolute shit. He spent the night in the ER again with his mother and Nadia, all for the doctors to tell him the same thing as before, his mother was dying.

Lance cupped Dorothy’s hands in his own, watching her hooked up to machines again. This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t call. Why didn’t you listen to him? Nadia said she received a phone call that made her really confused. There was screaming from the other end of the line and it was upsetting Dorothy but all she kept repeating was “Y/N.” She became so upset she started to panic, her mind couldn’t handle whatever was happening and Nadia couldn’t calm her down. Her blood pressure was through the roof and so she went to the hospital.

He contemplated everything, wondering if you were playing games with him from the start. Maybe he deserved it. Lance knew he fucked up in the past but he was young and stupid. He was also madly in love with you and every day he tried to explain, to apologize. Even if you didn’t forgive him he just wanted to see your face one last time to know it was really over. Instead you ignored him and the open wound that was his heart hurt more and more until it was infected. He partied to forget you, he became the asshole that would have driven you away if you even attempted to contact him. He convinced himself that he didn’t need anyone but it was a lie. He always needed you.

But now Lance doesn’t know what to think because you hurt his mother. He ignored your calls and texts, turning his phone off because he couldn’t stand to look at your face each time the photo of you cuddling together on his couch popped up. Once he thought you were beautiful but now he only sees a monster. How could you do this to him?

Lance left the hospital to run home quickly, disgusted that he stood in the same shower you shared only twenty-four hours ago. He changed and sped over to the center, hoping the bags under his eyes weren’t too deep, hoping he could claim he was up all night preparing for this day.

He was in a daze as the day went by. He should have been happy, this was his dream; his center was USAG accredited, there was an overwhelming sign up from excited children and their parents but Lance wanted to scream. He was too exhausted to deal with everything, wanting to go home and sleep for the next month instead of being there. Looking around all he saw were memories of you and he hated it. You turned his dream into a nightmare.

By the end of the following week Lance was exhausted after visiting his mom after a long day at the center. She had been back home for a few days, with new medication to ease her discomforts. She refused treatment knowing there was no point to it; she’d rather not face the side effects again especially after the cancer had spread.

Lance plopped on the couch slinging his arm over his tired eyes, even the soft glow of the flickering TV was too bright for him. His head was pounding and he wanted to sleep. The sound of his phone going off disturbed the small moment of peace he found. Now that the center was open his phone was always going off with notifications, emails regarding new students and scheduling, Twitter replies, and continued texts that go unreturned from women he didn’t care to involve himself with.

Lance instinctively opened the inbox for the email created for the center to find there was nothing new there, it was his personal email that had a new message and his stomach twisted into knots when he saw it was from you.

Sitting up now he stared at his phone, debating if he should even open your message. You never read any of the apology notes he left for you so he thought about doing the same but something pulled at his heart and he decided to click the box, bracing himself for whatever words were on the opposite side.

Dear Lance,

I want to apologize for many things but the most importantly for the phone call your mom received. An ambitious former coworker searched for her number and used my name to try to gain information. This shouldn’t have happened and I take full responsibility for everything. I love your mother very dearly and I would never jeopardize her health or privacy, ever.

I’m also sorry for accusing you of something that didn’t happen. I felt like my trust was broken, like I was that vulnerable teenager again who didn’t want an explanation. I ran away then just like I ran away now and I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine that I’ve come to realize since my trip to Spring Hill.

Speaking of, it comes as no surprise to us both that I was reluctant to go on that trip but I’m very happy that I did. Despite how things ended I want you to know that I’m truly happy we resolved our issues from the past. I’m really sorry it took so long.

Writing has always helped clear my head. When thoughts are swirling around my mind like a hurricane it’s comforting to get them out in this way. Since I’ve been back in New York I’ve taken the time to write down all of my thoughts about our experience together. Even though you aren’t approving the article I wanted you to read it, keep it for yourself and know just how much you’ve always meant to me.

I wish you the very best success with your gymnastics center and your life. You deserve great things Lance Tucker, you always have.

-Y/N

A lump was caught in Lance’s throat with tears burning his eyes as he reread your email. He felt horrible, saying those things to you when you were innocent. He knew you would never hurt his mom and now he hated himself for yelling at you.

Lance went into the kitchen to grab something to drink, leaning over the cool countertop of the island and opening the PDF attachment within the email.

IN DEPTH with Lance Tucker By Y/N Y/L/N

Sacrifice. Sacrifice is a word that’s tossed around the sports industry a lot with the focus on the athlete and the things they’ve sacrificed to get to where they are today. Sacrifices are never easy. Most athletes have strict diet and workout regimens to adhere to, others have sacrificed their time, losing hours that could be spent with friends and family in favor of practicing, training or performing halfway across the world. When you’ve achieved your goal of becoming that athlete it makes the sacrifices a little easier. They were part of the journey to the top but what about the sacrifices put you on the path in the first place?

Lance Tucker was a household name when he made it to the top by winning a Silver Medal in the 2004 Rome Olympics and the Gold in 2008 Beijing Olympics for the US Men’s Gymnastics Team, but the name you should know is Dorothy Tucker. If it wasn’t for the sacrifices of Dorothy, Lance’s mother, Lance would not have become the athlete we know today.

For the first time in my sports journalism career I haven’t had to do research on the person I would be going to interview. In 1991 I moved to Spring Hill, Florida and the first friend I ever made was the boy across the street, Lance Tucker. He and his mother Dorothy welcomed my family to the neighborhood and we all became very close.

Lance’s father Mitch was an intimidating man, loud and gruff, angry at the world for the cards he had been dealt. He was the type of man that dreamed of a better life but let his own insecurities hold him back. He settled in for a blue collar job, living every day with regrets that were pacified when he reached the bottom of the bottle.

Mitch insisted on being the sole provider for the Tucker family, something I learned later on that Dorothy heavily protested but after various screaming matches she ended up settling into her role as housewife. He worked long hours so Dorothy and Lance had become accustomed to being alone together. Dorothy sat through episodes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with her son excitedly jumping off the couch to reenact the fight scenes. She laughed as Lance’s little body spun around from the force of the punches he threw to the air as he pretended to fight The Foot Clan but he showed grace when he mimicked the turtles, doing cartwheels and somersaults around the living room.

On trips to the park Lance would climb the monkey bars and Dorothy noticed his agility, seeing him demonstrate more coordination and balance than his peers. She scanned through her VHS tape of the 1988 Olympics for the gymnastics portion she swears she recorded. Upon finding it, Dorothy asked Lance watch it with her and this was the day his life changed. The four year old was mesmerized with the sport and was especially excited to see a young man with his namesake, now retired Olympian Lance Ringnald, practically flying in the air as he swung over and under, flipping his body around the high bar. From that day forward Lance wanted to become a gymnast too.

Mitch was against the idea from the start but Dorothy fought for her son, sacrificing her sanity as Mitch continually yelled; his booming voice shaking the foundation of their home, all because of some old fashioned ideas about what it means to be a man.

Mitch Tucker grew up idolizing Mickey Mantle, an extraordinary baseball player whose life outside of the field was equally as exhilarating, indulging in the Manhattan nightlife offerings of endless booze and women. In Mitch’s mind Mantle was a real man he could look up to and while he never played any professional sports he certainly tried to emulate the lifestyle of his hero.

When his young son took an interest in gymnastics it was safe to say that Mitch panicked, worrying that it would make Lance soft and feminine. It was close minded thinking ingrained in him from a long line of other close minded thinkers.

Fighting with Dorothy over Lance’s hobby became a natural part of their relationship and while he didn’t appreciate her standing up to him in some twisted sense of pride he liked the devotion she had towards Lance.

Reluctantly, Mitch began to take Lance to competitions and despite his son’s talent, earning top scores and gold medals from an early age he would consistently demean Lance and his achievements, telling him he should quit and join a real sport instead.

When Lance was ten his parents separated. Mitch’s drinking and infidelity (something both Lance and I were unaware of as children) had reached an all time high but it was the way he spoke about Lance that angered Dorothy the most; Mitch was disappointed in him.

On the surface Lance was an award winning, talented gymnast who was dedicated to his training. He balanced schoolwork and house chores and still made time to see his friends. He was a smart and kind young man and he adored his mother. When you put everything together you can easily see what Mitch was disappointed in, Lance was nothing like him.

I won’t say that Dorothy sacrificed her marriage because she always deserved someone who treated her with love and respect, nevertheless with divorce on the horizon Dorothy was in need of a job. She worked hard, as a letter carrier during the week and got a second job on some nights and the weekend in a dentist’s office to ensure she could pay for Lance’s increased gymnastics training and it paid off in his achievements. Lance continued to compete and the walls of his room were decorated in medals and trophies from various competitions.

There’s a natural sense of pride in winning especially when you’ve worked as hard as Lance Tucker did. In middle school he began training exclusively with Coach Jaclyn Burrows who occupied most of his time after school and on weekends. Despite his exhaustion Lance never failed to hand in his homework and even if his body was sore and achy he never once complained. Although there was the time during my twelfth birthday party where he came very close.

It was held at a roller skating rink and Lance begged Coach Burrows to come in a few hours earlier in order to get out in time so he didn’t miss all of my party. When I saw Lance had arrived I skated over to him, jumping with excitement as he laced up his skates but the minute Lance got onto the floor his overworked legs were like jelly and they gave out on him. I helped him up as he gripped on to me and I skated us both to the benches. He apologized, asking if I would be upset if he didn’t skate. Of course I would never ask him to do that but had I said yes I know Lance would have forced himself to do it, gripping the rail against the wall for support with a smile on his face just so I would be happy.

Lance laid on the bench, resting his head on his mother’s leg as he watched me skate by, eventually closing his tired eyes and falling asleep because he was exhausted. Dorothy woke him up in time for cake although Lance couldn’t have any. He had an upcoming competition and he restricted himself, sticking to a regimented diet of lean meats and vegetables. For a thirteen year old that is sacrifice! Lance stared at the forbidden dessert decorated with flickering candles as he and I posed for a picture, smiling widely as we hugged.

By the time Lance was in his first year of high school he was completely overworked. He was training to compete for the Junior Olympic National Championships while trying to balance the heavy workload of his classes. He hardly had time to do anything, trying to read books for English class on the bus to Coach Burrow’s gymnastics center, training until it was dark, rushing through dinner and staying up late to start his homework. He was burning out easily and Dorothy hadn’t truly seen the effects until she received a call from the Principal’s office. Lance was sleep deprived and his body was too sore to move, so when the Physical Education teacher yelled at him for “being lazy” and not participating Lance snapped at the man, yelling and crying out of frustration (a terribly embarrassing scene for Lance in front of his classmates).

Dorothy wanted Lance to complete high school but she understood there was no way he could do it with the amount of training he required, so she pulled him out in favor of hiring someone to homeschool him. It was another expense she really couldn’t afford but she made sacrifices, dropping the expensive cable TV and only buying new clothes for Lance when he absolutely needed them. Unfortunately the boy was growing into a man whose body was growing as well, becoming taller and stronger but Dorothy never complained. She mended her own wardrobe as needed so Lance could get new clothes, it was a privilege for her to sacrifice things in favor of her son.

Lance homeschooled for a few hours six days a week and he trained for seven, dedicating as much time as he could. Nationals were an important step in his Olympic journey and my family and I were there to support him. Lance was neck and neck with Michael McNamara, each of them rotating between first and second place after each event. It wasn’t until Lance completed his routine on the high bar, expertly performing moves I still don’t know the names for that sent him to the top.

He twisted around the bar, varying his grip and changing direction. I watched with amazement at the way he skillfully controlled his body around the steel frame. Finally he swung around the bar gaining enough momentum to spring upwards, his body rotating a few times before he stuck a strong landing, reaching his arms up with achievement. The perfect execution of his routine earned him the Gold Medal with Dorothy running up to him, tears of joy streaking down her face as they celebrated a big win. Lance and I lost touch before he the 2004 Olympics but I watched as he took home the Silver medal. I was proud of him though Dorothy was the true celebrant that day; this was the culmination of the sacrifices she made.

A lot can happen in four years. In the four years between the Olympics Lance had turned from a boy on the brink of adulthood to a man at twenty-one, standing taller, stronger and more determined than ever. He pushed himself to train harder, wanting another shot at the gold.

Lance moved to Houston, Texas to train full time with Kevin Mazeika of the Houston Gymnastics Academy. Mazeika who has served on the National Team Coaching staff since 1988 spoke about Lance before Beijing stating “I’ve never met anyone as focused as Lance Tucker. He eats, sleeps and breathes gymnastics. He wants to be the best and I’ll tell ya [sic] with the way he’s training he just might be.”

Lance put himself through a grueling diet to ensure his body was at its peak physical condition. He pushed himself to the limit as he worked on his routines. He became a machine, training until ever imperfection was eradicated. He needed to be perfect.

Lance was obsessed, needing to win the gold to feel validation from the unnecessary demands he put on himself. He only visited home during the holidays and quickly returned to Houston to train. As Lance bent forward to receive his gold medal he was a changed man. He reached the top of the mountain and instead of being thankful for the journey and the sacrifices made he was boasting. To commemorate his win Lance got his infamous ribbon tattoo, an impulsive decision he looks back on today and regrets.

Lance was at the top of his career after his Olympic win, becoming the youngest National Team Coordinator in US Gymnastics history, purposely taking a position with the women’s team because his self-admitted ego would not allow him to train the men’s team and become overshadowed by anyone.

Lance had a successful career living in Los Angeles when he wasn’t travelling for USA Gymnastics and then his world came to a complete halt when the scandals broke.

Psychologists have argued about the various reasons why we like scandals. They’re a form of entertainment, a real life soap opera that plays out before our eyes, they give us distraction from our own lives, sometimes making us feel good if we can compare ourselves to the persons involved and think we’re better than them because of this.

In the early 1990’s sports scandals became surprisingly common beginning with the attack on Nancy Kerrigan followed by the O.J. Simpson murder trial. The scandals were ubiquitous between the endless cycle of news programs and media coverage.

On the day of the Simpson verdict everyone was waiting with bated breath, with workplaces standing still, listening to the radio to hear whether the former football player was deemed guilty or innocent. The actual verdict was irrelevant since the story was so sensationalized it had become detached from the facts. Instead of being concerned about the horrific murder of Nicole Brown-Simpson and Ron Goldman, the country was in hysterics over Johnnie Cochran’s infamous glove line. It seems like people will always enjoy the entertainment that scandals bring as long as they aren’t affected by them personally.

When Lance Tucker was at the center of various scandals his life was forever changed. A student accused him of fathering her child, another accused him of rape, and while every accusation was proven to be untrue Lance was let go by USA Gymnastics, a direct result of the case with former National Team Doctor Larry Nassar. USAG was under fire for not protecting the athletes as their employees who worked in and around Nassar at the Karolyi Ranch failed to report or tried to cover up the incidences.

Lance believed he was wrongfully let go as he was innocent and began to prepare an appeal until he received devastating news about his mother. Dorothy had cancer and with that knowledge Lance shed the hard exterior he created, his arrogance cracking on the ground like shattered glass.

Lance returned to Spring Hill, taking up permanent residence to be closer to Dorothy and assist her with treatment. Lance sacrificed his career, having neither the time nor desire to make an appeal to USA Gymnastics, staying in the shadows instead to care for his mother, the woman who sacrificed so much during her life for him.

Eventually Lance needed a source of income as the money he previously earned through endorsements was dwindling quickly thanks to the expensive healthcare system. He refinanced his home to start a business, Tucker Gymnastics in the heart of his hometown.

While Dorothy battled cancer Lance found the strength to fight as well, finally appealing the committee’s decision with a motion to be reinstated. Lance’s decision to do so was not for himself but for his mother, wanting to make up for his past behavior when fame and arrogance became more important in his life. He sought to bring honor back to the Tucker name so that Dorothy would know how appreciative Lance was for all the sacrifices she made for him, though Dorothy didn’t need any of that. She loves her son wholeheartedly and she would do it all over again to ensure his happiness, knowing his love in return is all she ever needed.

Tucker Gymnastics is in its infancy but under the care and direction of Lance Tucker I have no doubt the gymnastics center will flourish. Lance has lived a lifetime of ups and downs both personal and professional. He’s an excellent teacher and coach, and future gymnasts will have an opportunity to learn great things from him.

However the greatest gift Lance can give to his future students is the knowledge of firsthand experience. Lance wants them to learn about the path to the top of the mountain and the sacrifices they will make along the way. He wants to provide guidance for when they’re at the top and how to safely get back down and avoid the mistakes he’s made.

The price of gold is high and Lance Tucker wants to ensure his students know the sacrifice it takes to pay it.◼️

Lance had been crying as he read the article, wiping his tears on his sleeve. He was overcome with emotion as you fondly recalled your memories of his childhood, painted his life honestly and above all unexpectedly praising his mother in a way no one else had done before.

It was beautiful. He sniffled, ripping a paper towel off the roll and blowing his nose with it. His heart ached as it beat against his chest wondering how he ever could have questioned you in regards to the phone call. His throat became dry so he quickly finished his sports drink, wiping the tears from his face once more.

Lance didn’t know what to do with himself now. He felt terrible and wanted to apologize. He wanted to speak with you, to fly to New York and hold you in his arms again. To tell you how much you meant to him, to tell you that he loves you.

He ruined things between you though. He was embarrassed with himself, he yelled at you for the first time in his life and he hated it. He yelled at you like his father yelled at his mother, raising his voice loud enough to talk over you, shouting from the pit of his stomach. He was cruel, just like his father, the comparison disgusts him. He didn’t deserve you.

Lance took a shower to clear his mind and after tossing and turning for hours he finally grabbed his phone from the nightstand, opening your message and briefly replying “Print it.”

The beeping of your alarm awoke you from the peaceful sleep you finally managed to fall into. The moment your eyes opened you went to your phone. You hated how eager you were to see if Lance responded but you had to. Seeing his reply made your heart race but as you read his message it stopped entirely.

Lance’s short reply brought tears to your eyes. At least Susan will be happy he’s going forward with the article but there was no mention of your apology even though you explained the truth. Maybe he still thinks you’re lying or maybe he doesn’t care. The fact that his response was all business made you painfully aware of the fact that whatever you and Lance had in the past is where it should have stayed.

Months passed and you were now in the middle of a new assignment that had you packed in a stadium in Nashville, Tennessee, with thousands of people celebrating as others criticized a controversial call made by the referee. It was a decision that led to the Pittsburgh Penguins winning the Stanley Cup finals. Though he is captain, Sidney Crosby is as soft spoken as they come. He exudes a calm demeanor one wouldn’t expect when you think of hockey players, especially not a back-to-back championship winner.

The Penguins were celebrating their win tonight and though Sidney was happy for his team he was looking forward to going home to Nova Scotia to spend time with his family. He’s a fairly private person, not feeling the need to be on social media. His Foundation serves as his online presence but only to promote the work it does supporting children. Though his Olympic wins are something he regards with fondness, his true pride was opening a hockey school in his hometown of Halifax.

There was so much of Sidney that reminded you of Lance and you couldn’t help but think about him. He was always on your mind and though you wanted to reach out in the past in the hopes of reconciling again you didn’t. Lance didn’t want you.

Adjacent to the arena was the hotel everyone was staying in, celebrating their win with a spread of food and champagne. Nashville was famous for its delicious barbecue but right now your mind and taste buds were being blown away by hot chicken. Your nose was running, your fingers were coated with a delicious glaze that you sucked into your mouth. Still, you needed a napkin.

You stood up in search for more, because the singular one you initially took was not enough, passing loud and slightly tipsy players who were enjoying their win. Feeling your phone vibrate in your pocket you rushed to clean your hands, answering your mom’s call just in time.

It was hard to hear so you told her to hang on as you squeezed past a group of very large hockey players. You found yourself in a less noisy hallway and finally greeted her properly.

“Hi mom, what’s up?” you shouted, sticking your finger in your other ear to block out the background noise.

Your mother exhaled a heavy breath into the phone, her voice shaking with sorrow as she said, “Dorothy Tucker passed away.”

PART 18

[weelittleweasley]

I’m Yours | Sweet Pea x Reader

Prompt: When things get a little rocky between you and Pea, you can’t help, but want to make him jealous.

Warnings: strong language, mild smut aka grinding (that good shit) 

A/N: I have 50+ requests in my inbox currently. Like what? Also, I am so close to a thousand followers...WHAT? I started this blog a month ago on this day and I’m almost to a thousand of you lovely readers. That is absolutely crazy to me. Thank you so much ohmygoooooodness.

The sound of pool echoed in the background of the bar as you sat on the bar stool, sipping from a cola bottle. As you looked around, people were scattered throughout the Whyte Wyrm, talking and laughing while enjoying each other’s company on the Friday winter night. You watched as Serpents gathered around the pool table placing bets on who’d win the match. So far, your boyfriend as remained undefeated and everyone was betting it would stay that way, the minority cheering for the underdog.

Ever since you started dating Sweet Pea, you have noticed a shift in his behavior. Before you were an item, you two were friends, then you started to like each other, you hooked up a few times, and then he finally asked you to be his girlfriend. You were over the moon when he said he wanted to date and he was too when you said yes. Lately, however, he’s been acting strange.

During hang outs like this, he’d be all over you since during the weekday it was harder to see each other. He’d usually be at your side the whole night, his hands on you at all times. But the past few weeks, he’s kind of taken his space. Not that it was a problem, he could have his space to decompress from the week’s events, you didn’t have a problem with that. It was just he’d talk to you maybe once during the night and then again when he drove you home, kissing you quickly before dashing off. It slightly concerned you, thinking he didn’t wanna be with you anymore. Or he lost interest with you being his girlfriend. 

You watched as Sweets finished off the pool match, winning yet again as people doled out money to each other from the bets. Sweets face turned into a bright smile, that laugh resonating through the bar as you smiled. But that smile faded, as you noticed a Serpent girl touch his bicep while looking at him with a look you didn’t like. She flipped her straight, black hair over her shoulder, betting her eyelashes at him as he laughed before sending a wink her way, continuing to engage in another game of pool.

At the sight of this, anger pulsates throughout your body. You sucked in a sharp breath, created fists with your hands. He has never behaved like this in front of you before. Before you started being a thing, Sweets had the reputation for sleeping around and getting with a new girl every night. But never did you think he would revert back to his old behavior when he was dating you. Never in a million years.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing over here?” you hear a voice distract you from your thoughts. Looking over, you see your friend Fangs walking over. You smile lightly at the sight of him. You have been friends with Fangs for a while, you both meeting through Jughead. The two of you hit it off immediately. “Shouldn’t you be cheering on the Pool Master?” Fangs teases before taking a sip from his cola can.

The mention of him reverts your attention to your previous thoughts as you look back over. The Serpent girl is in the corner, whispering to her friends as she checks Sweet Pea out. Sweets doesn’t know what is happening, too focused on the game to flirt back. Turning back towards Fangs you smile, “He’s the least of my worries, right now.” An idea pops into your head as you bite your lip. “You look good tonight, Fangs.” You fix the lapel on his leather jacket, fingering the material between your fingers.

Fangs speaks, “Thanks, hun.” You look up at him and smile, keeping your hands on his jacket, lingering there. “I have seen this number, yet,” he tells you as you look down at your outfit--a simple low cut, black romper with beat-up sneakers. “Lemme see.” Standing up, you mockingly spin in a circle, giggling. He claps as you pretend to model the outfit. Fangs grabs your hand, spinning you around, “Damn. Sleek and sexy. Very Y/N.”

He stops spinning you as you laugh, leaning into his side, his hand on your lower back. You hope this little show you had going on would catch the attention of your boyfriend. Looking over, you see him glance up at you and then look back at the game. It wasn’t enough. Sitting back on the stool, you talk to Fangs, “What have you been up to lately? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.” As he rambles on about schoolwork and Serpent work, you stare at him, biting your lower lip softly. In your peripheral vision, you see Sweets attention on you and you can’t help, but smirk. You take the opportunity to fix the collar of Fangs’ leather jacket, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Fangs notices what you are doing and he laughs.

“We trying to make someone jealous?” he asks, raising an eyebrows as you laugh in response. “Alright,” he smirks as he rests his hand on your waist, taking a step closer to you.

And that is what sends Sweets over the edge. He throws his pool cue to the floor before marching his way over to you and Fangs. “Can I ask what the fuck is going on here?” Pea fumes as you take your hand off of Fangs’ neck, but he still leaves his hand resting on your waist. Pea notices before ripping his hand off of you. “Don’t you touch her like that, Fogarty.”

You turn to Pea, “Relax, Sweets. Everything is fine.”

Sweet Pea looks to you and scoffs, “Fine? My best friend flirting with my girlfriend is not fine, Y/N.”

Laughing at him, you retort, “Oh, but you flirting with another girl is okay? Good logic there.” He remains silent before grabbing your wrist, pulling you outside with him. “Don’t touch me like that,” you tell him, ripping your hand away from his, taking a step back. He knows you’ll walk away from him if he doesn’t have a hold of you, so instead, he picks up your small figure, throwing you over his shoulder as you yell at him in protest. “Fuck you, put me down, you dick!”

When you are outside in the back of the Wyrm, he places you on the sidewalk as you cross your arms, scoffing. You wrap your arms around yourself, shielding you from Riverdale’s harsh winter evening temperatures. Pea notices you are cold, proceeding to take off his Serpent jacket. “It’s cold. Put it on,” he directs you as you look at him dumbfounded.

“I don’t want the jacket,” you tell him as he insists you take it. “Sweet Pea, I don’t want your jacket. Leave me alone.” You never used his full name like that unless you were really ticked off with him. It was always Sweets or Pea or SP, never Sweet Pea. 

The two of you are silent before he exhales, wrapping the jacket around your shivering body. The jacket is warm from his body heat and it smells of his cologne. “What the fuck was that in there?” he asks as you roll your eyes. “You were flirting with my best friend.”

You start, “Oh, you should be one to talk. That Serpent slut was all over you in there! And you kept her going. She was whispering in your ear, rubbing your arm, she looked like she wanted to pounce on you. And what do you do? Oh, yeah! You flirt back! A boyfriend doesn’t do that.” Sweet Pea looks away from you, knowing that he messed up. “You haven’t been the same in weeks. Ever since things started to be more serious between us, you’ve become distant and I can’t help but feel that you don’t want to be together anymore.”

After you confess that, Pea looks at you, noticing how distraught to were over this. His eyes flood with concern as he takes a step closer to you. “Baby, I didn’t know you felt like that...” he says, his tone completely shifting.

“Of course you wouldn’t! Because you don’t talk to me anymore! You trot around thinking that what you did inside was okay!” you exclaim as he exhales. “I know you aren’t familiar with this relationship thing, but if you really wanted to be together you would take an interest on how to make this better,” you tell him. “I want us to be happy, Pea. I want us to be happy together.”

Sweets licks his lips before placing his hands on your waist, pulling you close. “I’m gonna be better. For you. I want to be a better boyfriend,” he tells you as you softly smile. He dips his head down, connecting your lips. Compared to the winter atmosphere, his lips are warm and soft as you lean into him. Slowly, he backs you against the wall as you wraps your arms around him, pulling him impossibly closer to you. “When I saw him touching you like that,” he says between a trail of kisses down your neck, “I wanted to fucking punch his lights out. You are mine. All mine.” As he finishes, he grinds his hips gently into yours, as you sigh at the contact. “All of this,” he says, running his hands up your thighs, to your stomach, up to your breast, then to your lips. “Mine.”

He kisses your lips hard, grinding into you again against the brick wall. You moan into the kisses as you can feel like smile against your lips. “I want to hear you say it back to me, baby. You tell me who you belong to,” he says as he continues to kiss your lips, grinding his hips into yours, his hands massaging you outside of your romper.

Sighing, you say, “I-I’m yours, Pea.” He growls for you to repeat it. “I’m yours, baby. All yours. I belong to you,” you repeat before he presses his lips harshly on yours, his tongue dipping into your mouth. “Fuck, Pea,” you moan as his hands run up your thigh, trailing up to your core, running his hands over you.

Pulling away, he says, “How about we get the hell out of here and go somewhere where I can handle you properly.” You shake your head up and down as he chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

[arrow-guy]

It’s A Trap

Original request from @buckysendoftheline : Hey! So I was thinking, could you do a Matt Murdock x reader where y/n is really great friends with him, foggy, and Karen. However, an enemy knows that Matt is Daredevil so one day seeing Matt with Y/N maybe on a walk? the enemy just takes y/n during the walk so Matt (aka Daredevil) gets lured. Then you make the rest! Thank you! :D

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to get around to finishing this, but thank you for being so patient with me!! I actually ended up really loving this prompt, so I hope you like it!

Pairing: Matt MurdockxReader

Word Count: 4122

Warnings: Kidnapping

“Hello, boys!”

“Hey, (Y/N),” Foggy says, not even bothering to look up from his laptop. “It’s lovely to see you.”

“You know, you might actually mean that if you’d look up from your work.”

I watch his eyebrows raise as he finishes up the line of text he’s working on and looks up from the screen. His eyes go wide and a grin stretches his face. “You brought coffee.”

I grin back. “I brought coffee,” I affirm.

“(Y/N), you are an angel among men,” He says, taking his coffee from the tray and placing a smacking kiss on my cheek.

“You’re only saying that because I’m your caffeine supplier,” I scowl at him jokingly.

“Is that the loveliest paralegal in all of Hell’s Kitchen I hear?” Matt asks, poking his head out of his office.

“You’re such a flirt, Murdock,” I roll my eyes and place the tray of coffees on Karen’s desk so she can take her own cup and take Matt’s cup over to him. I take his hand and push the cup into it so he knows it’s there.

“What’s this?” He asks, eyebrows raised.

I roll my eyes. “It’s coffee, Matt. Just the way you like it.”

“Just the way I like it, huh?”

“Yup, black like the alleyways of Hell.”

He snorts before taking a sip of coffee and sighing loudly. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Anything on the docket for today?” I inquire.

“Nothing really, actually,” Foggy says. “We’re just finishing up the paperwork from our last case and then we should be free for the rest of the day.”

“Unless someone comes in looking for the best lawyers in all the land, that is,” I add, leaning on Karen’s desk.

Karen takes a rolled up newspaper and swats at my butt. “Get off, you’re wrinkling my rough drafts.”

I laugh and push myself away from the edge of her desk. “I’ll never understand why you want to keep up working here when you’ve got such a sweet gig with the paper, Karen. You know I can take over your place here so you can focus on your writing.”

“Why would I do that when I have such a fun babysitting job here?”

“Ooh, that really stings, Karen,” Foggy says, placing one hand over his heart. “You know damn well I can take care of myself. It’s Mr. Rose Colored Glasses over there who needs help.”

“I’m not even going to say anything,” Matt shakes his head and takes a sip of his tar-like coffee.

I bark out a laugh. “Yeah, because you know it’ll get you in trouble.”

A grin stretches his mouth and he lifts his coffee to his lips again. “Very true.”

I shake my head and head towards the door. “If any of you want to meet me for lunch in an hour, I’ll be at the usual place.”

“What makes you think we can just drop everything and meet you for lunch?”

“Well, the fact that you haven’t managed to land a case in a week is just screaming out for me to spill the beans on a very interesting and potentially high profile case that just happened to fall into our lap but, somehow, never made it to the inbox on my boss’s desk,” Foggy and Matt lean forward and I smirk at them. “If someone felt like treating, I might even throw in the file and spare you the pain of hunting down the client.”

“You drive a hard bargain, (Y/N),” Foggy scowls at me and Matt laughs loudly. “What?”

“Admit it, you want to go to lunch just as badly as she does.”

“Of course I do. (Y/N) picks the best restaurants!”

I snort. “So you two are coming?”

Matt shrugs. “Why not.”

“Cool. Karen?”

“I think I’m going to stay here and hold down the fort.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just bring me back leftovers.” She says, offering a small smirk.

“Will do,” I shoot her a smile before heading for the door. “I'll meet you two outside.”

--

“How'd you even find this place, (Y/N)?” Foggy asks.

I shrug. “Boss brought me here for lunch one day. Said it was one of her favorite restaurants before she got rich.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know, but if being rich means I can't eat at dive bars anymore then I think I'll be happy with the middle class for the rest of my life.”

“Amen,” Foggy raises his glass and taps it against mine when I do the same.

“So, you said something about cases earlier.” Matt says. “What kind of stuff are we looking at?”

I wipe my hands and mouth on my napkin before pulling several files out of my bag and flipping through them before handing them off to Foggy for safekeeping. “Nothing too crazy, just a few property damage cases that you could probably get settled before the week is out, might even be able to work it out before the first court appearance. The biggest one in there is a college student who's suing her college professor for stealing a book that she had been writing.”

Matt perks up at the mention of the last case. “Are we talking theft or plagiarism?”

“Straight up theft.”

“Are you sure this kid is telling the truth?” Foggy inquires. “I'm all for helping out someone who's been wronged, but I'd rather not drag out a case just because I need a paycheck.”

“Don't worry your pretty little head, Nelson,” I laugh lightheartedly. “I looked into all of these and they're legit. I even talked to the girl who brought in the case. She's got all of her hard copies, concept art and cover designs. She's been working on this since she was in elementary school.”

“Wow,” Matt lifts his eyebrows. “Even so, someone might say that she's faked all of it. Could've had a kid draw something for her, write something down. Even timestamps on digital files can be altered.”

“Very true, Matty. But, her mom worked as a patent paralegal and always told her to mail herself copies of whatever she's working on so that she could prove that it's her original work. Apparently that's what a fair number of inventors do to prove their work is original.”

“That's… actually fairly sound advice.”

“Yeah. It helps that she's been doing it since she was twelve years old. You've got a paper trail a hundred miles long. There's no way in hell you'll lose this suit.”

“I don’t know what to say, (Y/N),” Matt says, shaking his head.

“Well I do,” Foggy scoffs. “Thank you, (Y/N), we really owe you one.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Matt’s brow furrows. “Are you really sure we can take these cases? The clients won’t be upset over being sent to a different law firm?”

“I’m certain.” I smile sheepishly. “I may have sort of lied to you about sneaking the files out of the office.”

“Wait, what?”

“Boss lady knows I'm friends with you guys and she occasionally likes to help out smaller firms where she can. I didn't tell you because I know you guys would think it was a handout.”

“Isn't it though?”

“Absolutely not. It's a referral. The clients were consulted and were offered the option of waiting a month for her services or to be helped out immediately by the new up and coming defense attorneys in Hell’s Kitchen. They chose you guys. Not a handout, just a referral. If you choose to take their cases, that is. If you do well enough she'll send more people your way. Help build your reputation and client list.”

“Why didn't you just tell us this from the start?”

I shrug. “Had to get you out of that office somehow,” Matt snorts. “Besides, I know you guys like a good mystery mixed in occasionally.”

“Like I said back at the office, that's Matt. He's the reckless one. I like things nice and peaceful and routine.”

“Whatever you say, Foggy,” I check my watch and my eyes practically pop out of my skull. “Shit, I gotta go.”

“What? Why?” Matt asks.

“I'm supposed to be back at the office for a meeting in five minutes.” I flag a server down and manage to get my meal boxed up quickly. “Don't forget to get Karen something. I'll see you guys later.”

“See ya, (Y/N),” Foggy waves.

I sling my bag over my shoulder after stuffing the styrofoam box inside and head for the door. “Make sure you contact those clients. I don't want my boss thinking I've got terrible time management skills and horrible taste in friends.”

“Will do, (Y/N),” Matt says. “Just get back to the office safe and let us know when you get there.”

“I will.”

--

“Hey!” Someone plops their hand on my shoulder unexpectedly, making me jump. “You’re (Y/N), aren’t you?”

“First off, ” I stop dead in my tracks, pinching one of their fingers between my thumb and forefinger, picking it up and dropping it. “Don’t touch me like you know me. Second, I am one of many (Y/N)’s in this godforsaken city. What do you want?”

“Nothing special,” they say nonchalantly. “Just you.”

“Excuse m-?!” My cry of outrage is muffled as their hand clamps a rag over my mouth, their free arm pulling me to them and holding me firmly against their chest. “Mphf!”

I struggle against their hold managing to briefly dislodge their arm from around me, only to have the wind knocked out of me when someone walking past punches me in the gut before swiftly walking away. The air wheezes out of me and I unconsciously take a gasping breath, only accomplishing my assailants goal of introducing whatever's on the rag into my system. Within seconds I feel drowsy and my legs become weak. My body falls slack and my attacker hefts me up over their shoulder.

“Tell the boss we got her.” They say gruffly.

“You sure this is the right chick?”

I feel them sigh. “Don't give a shit. I get paid either way.” Their voices slowly fade as my consciousness does. “Let's get this over with.”

--

“Hey, has (Y/N) texted you yet?” Matt asks.

“No, she hasn't.”

Matts brow furrows. “It's been two hours since she left us at the restaurant. She should have reached her office building by now.”

“Maybe she just got distracted. Her workload is usually pretty heavy and she did say that she was late for a meeting.”

Matt shakes his head and pick up the phone on his desk and feels over the number pad before punching in the number for (Y/N)’s office. It rings twice before someone picks up.

“Hello, how can I assist you?”

“Hello, this is Matt Murdock of Nelson and Murdock. I was hoping to speak to (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N).”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock, but she isn't in the office at this time.”

Matt's heartbeat stutters and his brows pull together. “Alright, do you know where I might be able to contact her?”

“I'm afraid not. We weren't informed as to- I'm sorry, please hold for a moment.” Matt can hear her whispering with someone on the other end, but he can't make out what they're saying due to the static.

“Mr. Murdock.” A new voice crackles through the line. “This is (Y/N)’s employer.”

“It's nice to speak with you.”

“I wish could say the same to you. Unfortunately, (Y/N) never showed up for our scheduled meeting after she said she was going to drop off the case files with you. About an hour ago, I received a rather, shall I say, disturbing letter.”

Matt’s jaw clenches in anticipation of the news. “Is that so.”

“It is.” She says. “When I returned to my office earlier, I found a rather disturbing note. It said that (Y/N) had been taken and that you would know why. There was no signature, but was simply signed with a blood red handprint.”

“They wouldn't dare.” Matt hisses.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock, I didn't quite catch that.”

“I apologize, ma’am.”

“I assume you know how to get her back safely?”

“I certainly will do my best.”

“See that you do. Otherwise you'll find yourself ruined or dead by the end of tomorrow. Possibly both, we'll see what happens.”

“Understood. I will keep you posted.”

The line goes dead and Matt slams the phone down on its base.

“Bad news?” Foggy asks.

“The Hand took her.”

“What?”

“The Hand took (Y/N) because they know  I care about her and they I'm Daredevil. They're trying to lure me out.”

“Well obviously it's going to work because you have to get her back.”

“Of course I do.” Matt pushes himself away from his desk and quickly gets up from his chair. He grabs his bag and jacket before heading for the door. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Wait, you’re leaving now?!”

“I have to figure out where they’re holding her, then I can get her back, otherwise I could be searching for days. I’d like my balls to stay where they are, thank you.”

Foggy holds his hands up in surrender, more for his benefit than Matt’s. “Hey, I understand. Do what you have to do, just get her back.”

Matt nods once, turns on his heel, and exits the office.

--

The outside world slowly starts to break through the heavy darkness that's weighing on me as I come to. My ears are ringing slightly and my head feels like it's been slammed into a brick wall at least fifteen times. I scrunch up my eyes against the bright, fluorescent lighting and hesitantly open one eye, only to find the room I'm being held in to be empty.

Opening both eyes I look around me, finding abandoned desks and sparsely decorated, gray walls. I snort disdainfully and try to get more comfortable in the chair I've been tied to.

My hands are bound behind my back and my upper body has been tied to the backrest of the chair. My ankles aren't tied to the legs of the chair like I was half expecting, so I assume I'm safe from anything more questionable than a kidnapping for the time being.

The door slams open, the handle momentarily sticking to the old bumper on the wall. A man, that can only be described as being stubby, stands in the doorway, blinking at me dumbly.

I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly. “Well?”

“Ey, boys.” he calls into the next room. “The little lady’s awake.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Real classy,” I mutter.

“You say that like you’re in a position to complain, girlie.” Says a new, gruff voice.

I glare up at it’s owner and primly cross my slack clad legs. “You say that like I haven’t got the right to.” He snorts, dislodging something ugly in the back of his throat and spits it out towards the edge of the room. “Well, God gave me a voice, didn’t he? I intend to make full use of it while I can.”

The man raises a heavy fist, shaking it threateningly. “Why, I oughtta-”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” I snort amusedly.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I’m assuming I’m some sort of bargaining chip. Explains why I’m not dead yet.” I raise my eyebrows and smirk at the man’s shocked expression. “Wouldn’t want to kill the bait, now would we?”

“You don’t know nothin’,”

“Maybe not, but the real question here is, who on earth could we be waiting on?”

“They’re waiting on me,”

I strain to look past the burly man standing in front of me, only managing to catch a glimpse of deep crimson. The Devil of Hell’s kitchen? I'm bait for the Daredevil. Well that's just great.

“So you finally found us,” the man in front of me steps to the side, allowing me a better look at the masked man.

“You didn't exactly make it hard,” The devil tilts his head to the side as a hoard of broad shouldered, overly muscled, squat men surrounds him. “Practically left a trail of breadcrumbs.”

I flinch away from the circle of men in front of me and squeeze my eyes shut when they close in on the man in red. The sounds of metal hitting flesh reach my ears with a sickening slap followed by the occasional groan, scream and crunch. I crack open one eye, only to find the room pitch black. The Daredevil suddenly appears right in front of me and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. I lean away from him instinctively and turn my head away.

“Are you alright?” He asks, his voice quiet.

“Yes,”

“They didn’t do anything to you?” He moves his hands to the tie on my right hand. “Didn’t touch you or hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No, I truly think I was just here to draw you out.” When he frees my left hand, I rub at the red rings around my wrists before noticing his outstretched hand.

“Let’s go,” he says, his voice at a more normal volume.

“Why are you suddenly talking normally?” I ask, taking his hand only to be hauled out of my seat. The masked man doesn’t answer my question and instead guides me through the dark corridors of the building.

I dig my heels in when we’re a block away from what I can now see was an abandoned law firm anex. The Daredevil spins around and would have been glaring at me if I could have seen his eyes through his mask.

“What are you doing?!” He hisses.

I pull my hand from his grip. “I’m not moving till I get answers.”

He whips his head around, like he’s checking if the coast is clear. There isn’t anyone following us and I roll my eyes. When he’s satisfied, his gaze finally settles on me, his mouth set in a frustrated frown.

“What do you want to know?” He asks gruffly.

“Who are you?” I demand. “And why am I important enough to you for them to kidnap me?”

I watch with wide eyes as his hands curl into fists, worried that he’s upset enough to take it out on me. He slowly loosens his hands and flexes his fingers before sighing loudly and lifting his hands to his mask. He hesitates momentarily before firmly tugging his mask off his head. He shakes out his hair before lifting his eyes to meet mine. I feel my knees buckle slightly and he immediately drops his helmet, his hands shooting out to grab my arms in an attempt to steady me. I try to push away from him, but he just holds onto me tighter.

“Let go of me, Matt!” I land several hard punches to his chest and he barely moves.

“I won’t,” He says, pulling me in close to his chest and wrapping his arms around me. “I know you’re mad, but I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“I can’t believe you’re Daredevil,” I push away from his chest slightly so I can look up at him. “How have you been able to keep this a secret for so long?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a rueful smile, and he tilts his head to the side. “I’ll admit, it has made several relationships fairly strained, but the few people who needed to know, know.”

I lift one eyebrow at him questioningly. “And I didn’t need to know?”

“I had hoped that would be the case, but I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re an ass, Murdock. A total and complete ass,” I say, sharply jabbing him in the chest with my finger.

He smiles at me and gently takes my hand in his. “Yeah, I know. I’m glad to have you back. Foggy’s insults just don’t sting the way yours do.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head, crouching down to grab his helmet. “Yeah yeah, tell me how much you love me once we get somewhere safe, okay?” I scowl at the dark street. “It’s late and this place just gets darker and creepier by the second.”

Matt nods and carefully leads the way down the street, occasionally breaking away from the sidewalks and heading down a maze of alleyways. He seems to sense when my fear gets the best of me, his hand tightening around mine and even pulling me close to his side when he feels it isn’t safe enough for me to simply trail along behind him. After about an hour of walking, Matt leads me up several flights of stairs, into an apartment building. When he stops us outside of a door, I realize he’s brought me back to his place.

“Do you really think it’s safe for us to be here, especially if they know who you are?”

He unlocks the door and ushers me through. “You’re more safe here with me, and I’d feel better knowing where you are.” He turns to me and carefully brings one hand up to cup my cheek. “Please stay?”

My brow furrows and I frown, the weight of everything that’s happened to day crashing down on me all at once. I suddenly feel very tired and heavy, and find myself leaning into Matt’s touch.

I nod. “Yeah, I’ll stay. On one condition, though.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sleep on the couch.”

He laughs lightheartedly and takes his helmet from my hand, nodding. “Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and I sag into him as he leads me through the apartment towards his bedroom. He grabs a t-shirt, sweatshirt and pair of loose boxers from his drawers for me to use as pajamas and tells me I can change in the bathroom. I nod and quietly pad into the other room, closing the door behind me.

When I look into the mirror, I notice how tired I look. My eyes are barely open, and the dark circles that had already been well on their way to forming are even darker than they were this morning. I shake my head and quickly dress in the clothes Matt gave me, trying not to think about the fact that I’m putting on his clothing. I pull the collar of the sweatshirt up to my nose and breathe deeply, smiling to myself as I head back to Matt’s bedroom.

When I return, I find Matt perched on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. As soon as he hears me, his head snaps up, sightless eyes directed at me. He pushes himself up off the bed and walks towards me, head tilted to the side momentarily, like he’s listening for something. He reaches out to me and pulls me close to his chest, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. He gently combs one hand through my hair, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my nose into his chest.

“I’m so sorry you got roped into this,” He says softly. “I should have been able to protect you.”

I shake my head. “It’s not your fault. It’s not. The only people to blame are the ones you left in a heap in the middle of that room,” I feel my body growing heavier, my exhaustion finally hitting me full force. “You came, and that’s what matters.”

He sighs softly and I can feel him nod against the top of my head. “Tired?”

I nod and he guides us back towards the bed, pulling back the covers and allowing me to crawl in first before he slides in after me. I roll over on my side so I can face him and breathe deeply, slowly breathing out through my nose. Even in the dark I can see all the creases in his forehead, lines left there by worry and work and made worse when he pulls his brows together like he’s doing now. I smile and reach out to smooth my fingers over the space between his eyebrows, trying to get him to relax. The tension in his face slowly subsides and I watch as his entire body begins to relax. Happy with the result, I slowly move closer to Matt, curling into his chest.

Matt reaches out and pulls me flush against his body and gently cards his fingers through my hair. He sighs and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead before resting his forehead against mine. With the sounds of traffic in the city streets and Matt’s soft breathing, I feel myself nodding off. I feel safe.

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