#no condescension is intended at all I’m just trying to explain

[fandomsoda]

Last night someone said something that was somewhat yikesy and it just got blind likes and stuff from everyone else.

This is not a call-out post. This is not here to belittle or shame the person in question and I hope that is understood. I’m currently working on a much larger post to address this issue broadly because it is an issue that is bigger than one person’s bad take and I already have attempted to explain why the take is… wrong and very evident of a lack of understanding of how the topic at hand works because I see it from many people.

but y’all I am pretty disappointed. Because everyone just sat there and accepted that claim. And it shows y’all have a lot of learning to do when it comes to understanding of the caveats of life and social issues and oppression.

For now I will just say this.

A member of a minority making a member of the majority uncomfortable or being rude to them regarding their identity IS NOT EQUAL TO OPPRESSION. Is it nice? Probably not. Should a minority person have to be polite in order to have what they say be valid? Hell no. Are there times where what’s being said is wrong? Yes. Are the majority person’s feelings hurt? Maybe. Is that oppression? No.

There is no heterophobia, there is no cisphoba, to my knowledge y’all seem to understand that. So you should understand it regarding other situations. Because that group has the systematic upper hand, it’s punching up, not punching down.

of course there are always complexities and caveats and exceptions to rules, but broadly that’s how it usually works.

And insinuating that minorities fighting back or being somewhat rude to their oppressors is “oppression” is not only insensitive and offensive, it is downright harmful to that minority. It might hurt their feelings, it might not be nice, hell it might even be too cruel or wrong, but it’s still not oppression. And I know people who hold this take are not intentionally being harmful or cruel and I know you may feel the urge to defend yourself, that’s human, but stop and wait before getting defensive. Understand that you are not under attack. No one is calling you a bad person. And chances are that you aren’t. You are simply being criticized. And I know that can be hard to handle, but in order to grow and become better people and better at understanding the world around us we must be willing to accept that sometimes we are wrong.

That’s all for now but this is just a small, specific part of a wider issue I’m noticing.

Do better, people. I understand you’re gonna make mistakes and mistakes are a part of learning but you’ve gotta be willing to learn and understand the matter. Because if you don’t learn now from someone who is being very gentle about it, you might have to learn it later from someone who is not nearly as patient or nice. Or you may never learn at all. And that’s not good either.

final note- please do not attempt to go looking for and shame the “someone” in question. Do not mention them in the notes either if you know who I may be referring to. They have responded very well to this criticism and should not be attacked for something they are willing to get better on.

[mochegato]

I Can’t Fight This Feeling

Chapter 3

Chapter 1     Chapter 2

He just came here for a fucking break.  Somewhere none of the people he normally works with would be caught dead.  Which is the only reason he was in an art museum right now.  Because Black Mask aside, none of Gotham’s rogues or henchmen had the slightest interest in art and Black Mask would never deign to be in the presence of Gotham’s unwashed masses.

So here, this place, it was a safe haven.  A relaxing place.  A place where he could let his mind wander and his guard down, as much as you could anywhere in Gotham.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the painting of a dark haired, blue eyed woman glancing hopefully into the distance that he had been staring at for the last hour, the same painting he ended up in front of every time he visited.

But his peaceful reprieve was being intruded upon.  He couldn’t see the person, but he could feel their eyes boring into him.  They’ve been on him for at least the last ten minutes.  That meant it was more than just someone who wanted to hit on him. They would have made their move already. He would give them five more minutes to move on before he acted, but he could feel his rage rising with each passing second.  

After another five minutes, he rounded on them, ready to threaten them until they regretted even breathing in the same building as him.  “What are you fucking…” he hissed out, but his anger dissipated when he was met with the same blue eyes that had consumed his mind for the last hour. Or rather, if he were being honest, for the last three years.  “…looking… at.”

“Oh, sorry,” her eyes widened in surprise before she looked away awkwardly. “That must have seemed so creepy. It’s just… you look so familiar?  I could swear I know you from somewhere.” Her eyes returned to his, searching them for familiarity.

He stared at her wide eyed.  She couldn’t be here.  Why would she be here… in Gotham.  She didn’t belong in Gotham.  She was supposed to stay in Paris where it was safe, now that Hawkmoth was gone and the League couldn’t track her, where she could stay innocent.  “Marinette,” he breathed out.  

She gave him a brilliant smile and let out a relieved breath.  “Oh good.  You do know me.”  She laughed nervously.  “I’ve never remembered anyone from that time before.  And it has to be from that time, right?  Otherwise I’d remember how I know you.”

“What are you doing here?”  He continued to stare at her still in a haze.  She had somehow gotten even more beautiful in the last few years, her eyes brighter.  God, they had always been mesmerizing, but now they were positively hypnotic.  Maybe that had more to do with getting away from the Hawkmoth situation, being free again, not bogged down by the responsibility of protecting millions of people as a child, being in a whole new time in her life.  He was so lost in thought, it took a second for her words to register.  “What do you mean ‘that time’?”

“I was looking for a little design inspiration.”  Her voice was unsteady, slightly shaking.  She tapped her fingers together nervously.  “I have, um… a commission I need to figure out and homework and I have no idea what to do for the homework.  The direction was so vague or maybe it wasn’t and it’s just me.  It’s just not something that registers with me, you know.”  Her voice became stronger as she babbled.  “Like, I can design a thousand dresses based on a flower, or the rain, or a building, but design based on a heart?  I can’t do it.  Ask for something based on a star?  I got it. A circle?  Hundreds of designs.  A square?  Got that too. Even a triangle would be fun.  But a heart?  So cliché.”

“I meant,” he interrupted harsher than he intended to.  He let his voice soften.  “What are you doing in Gotham?”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened in surprise and embarrassment.  “I go to school here.  My best friend and I moved here last year for school.  I go for design.  He wants to be a teacher.”

“In Gotham?” he asked incredulously.  “Of all the places you could have gone, why Gotham?”

She tilted her head to the side in consideration, weighing her words carefully. It was the first time since they started talking that her body seemed to relax.  He studied her body language a bit more.  No, not relax, slump.  Her shoulders slumped as she thought of the reason that brought her here.  “Because Gotham doesn’t judge,” she answered quietly. “Because you can just disappear in Gotham.  No matter your past, as long as you aren’t actively trying to hurt them, nobody cares. There’s no hostile looks, no glares, no thinly veiled insults or completely unveiled insults.  You can just be.”

Jason’s heart clenched and his anger started to build.  He took a step closer to her.  “Why was that important to you?  Who was looking at you like that?”  He kept his voice even and calm, but he was sure his eyes were starting to show hues of green edging in.

She shook her head and looked down.  “Not me.  My best friend.  He tried moving to London and New York, but it just… seemed to follow him everywhere he went.  I mean he still had all his friends but… they started getting into trouble too because they were getting into fights defending him and… yeah.  So we applied to transfer here and both got accepted to our different schools.”

He nodded in understanding.  That seemed like something she would do; uproot her entire life for a friend.  “Gotham is good like that.  They let you rebuild yourself.  We’ve seen too much pain to judge too much.”  He looked away for a few seconds before he realized something.  “You never answered the second question.  What did you mean ‘that time’?”

“Oh… um…” she looked away awkwardly again and shuffled her feet a few times. “I have amnesia?  I lost a few years of my life a few years ago.”

“Amnesia?”

“Yeah, it was super weird.  I wasn’t even in an accident.  No physical injuries.  Just memory loss.”  She was rubbing the back of her neck and looking up at him sideways as she spoke.

He stared at her for a few more seconds.  That made no sense.  Why would she lose her memories like that?  The League could have done something, he supposed.  But if the League had been involved, she’d be dead. So it must be something else, something related to the miraculous was most likely.  A few years ago would put it right around when Hawkmoth was caught and Ladybug and the other miraculous heroes disappeared.

His eyes flicked to her ears.  She wasn’t wearing earrings.  She wasn’t wearing her miraculous.  He reached up toward her ears where they should be, but realized a few centimeters from her what he was doing and pulled back his hand like he’d been stung.  She lost being a hero.  Could the miraculous really do that?  Remove any parts of a memory that related to the miraculous?

“Um, speaking of losing things.  I don’t remember your name,” she prodded shyly.

“Jason.  Jason Todd,” he answered, still somewhat in a daze, still focused on her ears.  

She smiled at the answer, but her lips quickly turned down into a slight frown. The shift caused his hear to stutter. Why was she frowning?  Did his name bring back who he was?  No, that couldn’t be it.  She never knew his name.  So why the frown?  Did she… had she heard of him?  Was she disappointed in him?  Was she scared of him?  Was she aghast at the approach he took to cleaning up Gotham?

The thought pressed against his chest like a vice.  Every decision he’d made since he left her in that park had been touched by her.  Would she approve?  Would she understand?  It didn’t change how he acted… usually.  He still did what he needed to do, what needed to be done.  But the thought was still there.  Would she think he was the evil villain he tried so hard to be?  He knew she would be disappointed, but seeing it reflected on her face was something else.  He steeled himself and rolled his shoulders in false nonchalance. He gave her a forcefully charming smile. “What’s the matter, don’t like the name?”

She quirked her head to the side as she watched him.  Jason braced himself for whatever her next words were going to be. They had to be how disappointed she was in him, right?  Disappointed in what he became.  “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just disappointed.”  

Jason drew in a breath.  There it was. The reaction he was expecting. Even though he knew it was coming it still hurt more than he thought it would.  Why was he letting this person he didn’t even know affect him, damn it! She didn’t even know him.  She had no right!  He tried to meet her eyes so he could deliver a devastating glare, but she was staring ahead blankly.  His eyes softened involuntarily.  That’s why it hurt.  Because she was the best person he’d met, the most forgiving, and if even she thought he was disappointing, he must really be.

“I don’t remember your name,” she continued, oblivious to his reaction.  She looked back up at him with an adorable pout on her soft, pink lips.  “I was so excited that seeing you sparked something.  I guess I was hoping your name might help recover more memories. But my head, you know?”  She tapped her head with her knuckles gently.

Jason gaped at her.  She was disappointed in herself?  Not him? “No!” he cried louder than he meant to, he just couldn’t let her think this was her fault when it had to be some kind of magic.  “You never… you didn’t know my name.  And, I’ve known lots of people with amnesia.  Living in Gotham, people get their heads rattled or hit frequently. Memories are hard.  They don’t come back the way you would think they do. Sometimes they don’t ever come back at all.”

She scrunched her face in confusion.  Her lips turned down sadly.  “But… you knew my name.  And I remember you.”

Jason opened his mouth to try some kind of explanation.  He snapped his mouth shut.  What could he say?  How was he supposed to explain how he knew her?  This is where his years of training in bullshit and condescension would come in handy.  Except he didn’t want to be condescending with her, so just bullshit then.  He sighed heavily.  But he didn’t want to lie to her either, not to her.  She was the one good thing he’d done since the Pits. Helping her was his one saving grace.  “We… we weren’t friends.  We weren’t close.  I honestly have no idea why you would remember me.  I wasn’t a good person.  You knew that.”

She stared at him in surprise.  Her brows furrowed in thought, but she stayed quiet as if waiting for him to elaborate. He opened his mouth again, but snapped it shut again quickly when the sound of gunfire echoed through the museum. Jason’s head immediately snapped to the sound and he moved before he realized it to put himself between Marinette and the doorway.

Marinette sighed at the shots.  Jason whipped around to look at her.  A sigh is definitely not the response he was expecting.  It was not the normal response.  That was much closer to an emotionally damaged response, a tired of life response, a response he had tried to save her from having.  Granted his reaction wasn’t normal either, but he knew why he reacted the way he did.

She shrugged.  “The Walker Emerald,” she explained.  “It’s in the Ancient Art exhibit.”  When he still looked confused, she continued.  “It’s an Incan artifact.  They used emeralds in some of their works.  The Walker Emerald is the largest emerald they’ve found in excavations.  It’s held in place by a solid gold setting.  It’s huge.  They named it for the archaeologist that discovered it.  What bullshit is that?” she grumbled, seeming more upset by that than the gunfire.  “I stayed away from here for weeks after they opened the exhibit because I figured this would happen.  But I thought it would have happened earlier. Guess they were waiting for people to put their guard down and it worked.  I did.”

Jason moved to the doorway and peeked around the corner.  “But why now?  Why during the day when there would be people here?”

“Because security at night is a lot worse for it,” Marinette said as she peeked out next to him.  He grabbed her and pulled her back into the room behind him.  “Just my luck they would do it when I finally visited again.”  She tried to move to the doorway again but Jason pulled her back again with a scowl, moving them further from the door.  She really had no self-preservation instincts.  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t fight him, instead slumping into his side to wait for everything to blow over.  “If you remember me, then you probably already know how bad my luck is.”

He barked out a laugh at the irony.  He stopped immediately when they heard more gunfire and someone behind them call out. Marinette peeked past him again.  She cursed quietly and took off running.  Jason cursed loudly and ran to the doorway just in time to see Marinette slide into the feet of one of the goons, knocking him off his feet and into the goon next to him, knocking him down as well. Before the second guy landed, she’d jumped back up and swept a little boy who had been in their path off his feet. Fuck!  She was still acting like a hero, but without the suit or magic to help her.  

He groaned to himself.  Bad luck his ass.  That was either extreme skill or luck… or both.  But considering she hadn’t thought to follow it up by making sure they couldn’t follow her, if it was skill, it was subconscious remnants of her time as a hero, not something she could pull on at will.  And she probably hadn’t intentionally trained to be able to defend herself, because she didn’t remember being a hero, so why would she.  Which meant she had no self-preservation skills.  She was acting purely on her emotions.  She was going to get herself killed with her good heart. Where was her friend who came here with her?  Why weren’t they protecting her?  Somebody had to, since she clearly wasn’t going to do it herself.

He moved before he thought too hard about it.  The goons were already standing up, guns out and cocked, and had their eyes trained on the statue’s pedestal she was hiding behind.  He punched one in the temple, knocking him out immediately, and grabbed the gun from his hand as he fell.  He pointed the gun at the goon and was about to pull the trigger when he heard the gasp behind him.  He heard Marinette quickly fussing over the kid and telling him not to look. He groaned silently and tightened his grip on the gun.  He couldn’t kill him in front of the kid… or Marinette.  

He motioned to the gun in the goon’s hand and held his hand out.  “You know who I am, yeah?”  The goon nodded slowly.  “Give me your gun and get the fuck out of here and I won’t come after you.”  The goon dropped his gun and backed away, never turning his back on Jason until he was out of the room and rapid footfalls could be heard.

Jason took a breath and slowly let it out to calm himself before moving to Marinette’s truly terrible hiding spot.  He silently reached out for her hand to help her stand and escorted her and the kid back into the room they had been in.  The kid immediately perked up and reached out for a woman in the corner with two other kids.  She thanked Marinette and him with tears running down her face, clutching to the boy like a lifeline before bringing him back to the other two kids and holding them all the same way.

Jason yanked Marinette into his chest and wrapped his arms around her.  He watched the door for any indication they were going to send more goons after them.  After a few seconds he pulled away just enough to look at her.  “Stop doing that!” he whisper yelled.  He pulled them into the corner where they were at least partially hidden by marble statues.  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“You ran after me,” she pointed out with a roll of her eyes.  “Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

“I… you…” he scowled at her.  He opened his mouth to lecture her more articulately, but snapped it shut again. “Let’s get you somewhere safer,” he gritted out.

She shook her head.  “I’m not leaving them and I already feel safe.  I feel safe with you.  I trust you.”  Jason scoffed at her.  How was she still alive?  Why was her friend not watching her at all times if she was this trusting and bad at judging people?  “I remember you.  You’re the only thing I’ve remembered.  That must mean you were important to me.  You wouldn’t have been important unless you did something I thought was significant. So that means I thought I could trust you.  And I trust myself that I can trust you.”  She smiled confidently at him.

Jason groaned and motioned to himself.  “Do I look like someone you can trust?” he exclaimed as loudly as he felt he could safely.  He may not be in his Red Hood suit right then, but he was definitely dressed in mob boss chic, designed to emanate a powerful asshole vibe and cultivate fear and respect.  

She kept her eyes focused entirely on his, not bothering to take in his carefully crafted vibe. Just staring at his eyes, staring into his soul, and seeking out that part of him that he thought had died years ago. That part the League had trained out of him.  The part the Joker had beaten out of him.  “Yes,” she said immediately and confidently.

He stared at her blankly.  Why would she trust him?  He was untrustworthy.  He was a killer.  He was brutal.  He had cultivated that reputation.  It was well deserved.  Hell, he’d attacked her.  And yet here she was, looking up at him with those big, bright, trusting, blue eyes.  “Okay.” He swallowed hard.  Those blue eyes were more deadly than half the rogues in Gotham.  Those blue eyes could get him to do things nobody else had ever been able to.  

It only took half an hour for the police to clear the museum and let them back out on the street, likely because some of them had been in on the heist in the first place.  It felt strange and unsettling to wait for the police instead of acting.  His skin itched to act in a way other than decking the officer that had been staring at him with distain since he came to tell them they could leave.

He escorted Marinette and the small family to the sidewalk outside and stuck next to them to make sure the police didn’t harass them.  He was determinedly not looking at Marinette, but he could feel her staring at him again.  When he finally looked over at her, he lost his breath for a second.  She was staring at him with such adoration and respect, his lungs couldn’t function correctly.  Jason frowned.  “You've got to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm a hero,” he groused.  “I don’t deserve it.  I haven’t earned it.  I’m not a hero.”

Marinette blinked at him a few times and cocked her head to the side curiously.  She smiled sweetly at him.  It seemed vastly out of place considering the situation they were in and yet perfectly in place on her lips.  “You’re that kid’s hero.  And that mom’s… and mine.”

Jason stared back at her breathlessly.  “Look… you don’t remember me.  If you did…  I’m… It’s dangerous to be around me.  I’m dangerous to be around.  You shouldn't be seen with me. It's dangerous for you to even talk to me.”  She smiled softly at him.  “And why are you smiling?  I just told you to go away.”

Her smile got brighter his indignation.  “Because if you were as evil as you seem so intent on convincing me you are, you wouldn't care.  But you do, so you're not.  So I was right.”

“Pixie, you have no idea how hard I worked on my reputation, what I’ve done to deserve it.”

Marinette nodded in faux seriousness.  “Right.  Terrible person that almost died protecting a kid he never met and would do it again in a heartbeat and stayed with us to make sure we were safe.”

“Who intimidated the henchmen out of harming us, because they knew what I could do, because they knew I’m not a good guy.”

Marinette laughed.  She had the audacity to laugh at him.  He was one of the leading crime bosses in the city.  “Oh yeah, okay, Wreck it Ralph.  Whatever you say.  I bet you jaywalk and everything.”

“I do!” he exclaimed throwing his arms out in exasperation.  “I’m going to do it again when I leave here.”  She laughed harder at him.  He stopped and thought about what he just said.  “No.  I mean…”

“Truly terrifying,” she agreed, cutting off his objections, still mocking his seriousness.

Jason hung his head in defeat.  His head snapped up when he heard the batmobile arrive. “And you are safe now.  But, I have to go.”  His eyes stayed on the batmobile, analyzing the threat to him.

“Now?”

He looked back at her with a wry smile.  “Batman and I don’t get along so well.  That should tell you something.”

“It tells me even heroes make mistakes,” she said defiantly.

Jason let out a long suffering sigh, but nodded. “Stay safe, Marinette.”

“Will I see you again?”  Her eyes were brimming with hope, but her voice was fragile.  She tucked a piece of her hair that had come undone while they were escaping behind her ear. Jason’s eyes traced her hand as it moved.  

He hated to kill that in her, but he couldn’t allow her to be in his life.  He couldn’t bring her down like that.  He couldn’t see her again and he couldn’t lie to her.  He opened his mouth to answer her, but got a reprieve. “Marinette!”  She hadn’t bothered to look at the source of the call, keeping her eyes on Jason.  But, the eye contact was broken when she was tackled by a blonde man.  “I came as soon as I saw!  Are you okay?”

Jason disappeared into the crowd before she recovered from the onslaught.  No matter what she believed, he wasn’t good and he wouldn’t be good for her.  He vowed to himself that he wouldn’t look for her. He wouldn’t follow her.  He wouldn’t give any rogues or henchmen in Gotham any indication that she was special to him.  He would protect her in any way that didn’t make her a target.  He gave one last look over his shoulder just catching a last glimpse of her searching the crowd.  He turned away and continued forward.

Chapter 4

Tags:

@jasonette-july-event @jayjayspixiepop @aespades @how-to-function-properly @pawsitivelymiraculous @maribatserver

[collecting-stories]

Dear John - John B Routledge

Request: can i request dear john by taylor swift with John B

A/N: I love this song so much, I think it always gets over looked as just another breakup song but it really is deeper than that.

TS Anthology Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

_ . ◦ ⭐︎:*.☾.*:⭐︎◦∙._

Maybe the ocean should’ve given away the temperate feeling that cascaded over you as you stepped off the ferry, or maybe you should’ve known that the Outer Banks wouldn’t feel like home any longer. Either way, the warning signs were ignored as you stood on the dock hands clutching onto the straps of your backpack, that familiar feeling settling into the pit of your stomach. The feeling that had haunted you for a year, a long, excruciating year, of nothing but emptiness. And if it wasn’t for Pope graduating you thought, you wouldn’t be here at all.

-

“I’m going to fall!” You’re voice felt like it echoed in the darkness as you climbed out of the window and onto the roof with John B, your hand gripping onto his.

“You’re not gonna fall, I’ve got you.” He promised, pulling you as your knees found ground, collapsing against him. “See?”

“I see,” you laughed, leaning into the space between the two of you to kiss him.

The sun was just rising and he’d woken you up, insisting that the two of you watch the morning sky together. You had stayed up late with him the night before because he couldn’t sleep, plagued by nightmares of his father out at sea, and had practically begged you to come over and ease them. Exhausted yourself, though feeling guilty instantly for thinking you’d rather sleep, you had snuck out of the house and gone to the chateau.

“Hey,” he nudged you when you leaned your head on his shoulder, “stay awake.”

“I am,” you promised.

“No, you’re falling asleep. I want you to see this.”

“I am, I promise.” You repeated, blinking back sleep to watch the sun.

-

The road back down the cut to the Chateau was etched into your memory. A recent hurricane had taken down the tree you always thought was shaped like an arm, reaching out to grip passers by in terror, dragging them back to the woods. It was cut up in pieces now, lying on the shoulder, defeated by the storm and then again by men with chainsaws determined not to let some old tree stand between them and the rest of the island.

You steadied your breathing as you drew closer, heart pounding in your chest as your mind did it’s best to conjure up images of John B. You couldn’t help yourself. You had gotten so far away that you told yourself you forgot what he looked like, what his town looked like, and yet each landmark seemed to jump out at you along the way, familiar to you, however changed. You wondered how much of that would be true of John B. If he too was familiar but changed and in what ways? A new coat of paint, like the Wreck, just a fresh color covering up all the disappointment and manipulation. Or would he be like the ghost tree, cut down and pushed aside, had he retired his condescension and his snark.

-

“No, of course not,” you swore, holding your phone against your ear as you sat up on your bed, trying to apply enough pressure to the heating pad on your stomach, “I just don’t feel good, JB, the last thing I wanna do is go out tonight.”

It wasn’t technically your anniversary, that had been three days prior, when John B was busy with ‘stuff’ as he so eloquently put it and couldn’t get together. He’d promised to make it up to you and tonight he had intended to fulfill that promise, which might’ve been fine if you weren’t laid up in bed with ginger ale and saltines, trying to keep anything down.

“Oh well, I’m sorry that the last thing you wanna do tonight is spend time with me!” He snapped and you could hear the sound of things being slammed around.

“That’s not what I said!” You snapped. You were exhausted, the stomach bug had kept you unable to relax for the entirety of the day and all you were really hoping for was a little relief now.

“Look whatever, you’re still pressed about not spending the actual day together but I rearranged my whole day just to go out tonight!”

You knew it was a lie, it wasn’t even a necessarily good one. But still, the anger in his voice would’ve made you get up and go out if you didn’t think you could puke at any given moment. “I’m not upset about the other day,” you promised, “I know you had work.” You replied, “I’m really sick though John B, ask Pope, he’ll tell you.” You just wanted him off your back and for a split second you failed to realize that telling him Pope knew you were sick would only send him into a tailspin.

“Ask Pope?” John B repeated, “should I call him or do you just wanna slide the phone over…maybe he could do a fake sick voice too?”

“He’s not here!” You snapped, frustrated and a little more confident since he wasn’t physically in your room, just a disembodied voice on a phone. “He came by earlier cause I called Heyward’s for groceries. God, what is your problem today?”

“My problem is that my girlfriend is unappreciative of the fact that I had other shit to do and I put it aside to take you out.”

“I’m sick!” You practically yelled it, hanging up the phone and throwing it across the room before pulling your blankets over your head and closing your eyes. The phone rang again, ten more times in total but you ignored the calls, trying to get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow John B would be feeling different, better.

-

You pulled off the road and down the dirt driveway that Big John had always sworn he was going to pave. It had never happened, mostly because saying things and doing them were not actions easily connected in either of the Routledge’s minds. You parked behind an older Subaru that you recognised as Kiara’s, a ‘save the turtles’ bumper sticker on display near the license plate.

There were other cars, some familiar to you, like Luke Maybank’s truck, no doubt driven over by JJ, or Sarah’s SUV, but there were other cars you didn’t recognise. Ones that belonged to people you didn’t know well enough or know at all. You cut the engine but didn’t open the door, sitting there in the yard just staring at the house. Could you do this? Could you walk back in there? Would the parts of you that had taken so long to reconstruct, the pieces that you had to reassemble into some new version of a past you, survive inside that place?

It had been some months, years really, since you had run. Not so long that you had erased all the bad memories but long enough that they no longer played on a loop in your mind. John B wasn’t your only example of love, just the worst one.

The car door felt heavy when you shut it though not so much as the screen door on the porch of the chateau. It was Sarah who answered when you knocked, graduation gift tucked securely under your arm. She hugged you, looking a little more tired than you remembered and you wondered how much of a place you had to step in and say something. Was she there yet? That desperate place where she would listen because this wasn’t what she remembered wanting.

“How’re you?” You had never been mad at Sarah. Everyone always acted like you were, they scarcely talked about her, as if you were waiting for the chance to villainize her. In actuality, you liked Sarah, she was too good for this.

“Good,” her smile strained, “we didn’t think you’d make it.”

“I promised Pope I’d be at his graduation.” You replied, stepping inside with her. Pope looked up at the sound of his name, smiling at you, “I never break a promise.”

-

You stood there in the Chateau, eyes cast just to the side of John B as he tried to explain some trip to Chapel Hill that he took. You stared down the picture of his mom, smiling, and wondered if Big John was the same sort of man his son had become. Had she left because she was selfish or because she wanted her freedom back?

“…and I needed to get into the college to see the paper-“ he kept going, overfilling the story with details you didn’t think actually mattered at all.

“So what’s your point?” You tried again to get him there. Maybe it was the after effects of being sick but the exhaustion that you’d been feeling for the past year and a half had crept into your bones and settled there, wrapping you up like a blanket. You had no other way to explain yourself other than to say that you felt done. Done with this conversation, with his roundabout way of telling you something you didn’t want to hear, as if he got brownie points for ‘breaking the news’ delicately.

“Sarah and I kissed.” John B replied.

“Oh.” What emotion did he want you to have, which did he think you were still capable of mustering?

“I don’t love you anymore, I don’t think I ever did.”

You had to agree, really. You hoped he didn’t, at least, because if this was the way John B loved people, by draining them of any kind of life at all, you hated yourself even more for hanging on.

-

“Oh my god!” Kiara hugged you next, followed by Pope. John B was by the table, you had seen him immediately, waited for the ache but it didn’t come. He was watching you though, as if he was assessing the damage. “You look good,” Kiara said, “happy.

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling, “I am.”

The house was just a house after all, just walls put together and not a prison. And John B was just a boy.

-

Taglist: @heavenlymama @vindictive-hearts @alexa-playafricabytoto @dontjinx-it @randomficsandshit @niamhobrien @strangerthanfanfiction713 @tovvaa @freckled-and-daydreaming @harleylynn @bibliophilewednesday @dpaccione @bolaurel @poguestyleskye @beautyandthebleh @under-a-canyon-moon @mysterious-adventurer @minigranger @obxsummer 

[cal-puddies]

remember when we couldn’t take the heat || ashton irwin

a lovely anon requested another trope fic for @kindahoping4forever​ and i to tag team, so we did.

As always Crystal is amazing and please share love with her as well (i do share any comments you all leave with her as well!) With her help I really think we were able to take this to next level, so it would not be this good without her! I hope you all love it!

You check your bag one last time before zipping it shut. You check your phone, seeing you still had about an hour before Michael and Crystal picked you up on their way to the airport. 

A week long getaway at an all inclusive resort with five of your best friends (and one last minute addition of a new significant other) was exactly what you needed. 

You thanked your lucky stars every night that Kay Kay was too busy, meaning Ashton had decided not to go. The two of you had never gotten along and you don't think you'd ever be able to relax if he was there.

So you're more than disappointed to see him strolling up to the gate. The second you spot him, you groan to Sierra, “You guys promised me he wouldn’t be here.”

She frowns and rushes over to have a quick sidebar with Luke. She returns, super apologetic and quickly explains that Ashton's relationship had recently blown up again and that he had texted Luke last night some vague questions about the trip but they had no idea that meant he intended to tag along.

“Well. He better not be next to me," you pout, crossing your arms.

But of course he is, because why not start off your relaxing vacation this way? And instead of seeming heartbroken about his break up, he’s flirting with all the flight attendants and every girl in line around him, until he sees he’s sitting next to you. He plops in the seat and immediately scrunches his face up. 

“There’s gotta be another seat,” he grumbles, flagging down a flight attendant who assures him it's a full flight and there is in fact not a single other seat available. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me," Ash murmurs after the flight attendant walks away. 

“Not like this is my dream flight either, buddy,” you groan.

Sensing the already mounting tension, Luke looks across the aisle with an apologetic smile to you and mouths ‘Sorry.'

Ashton immediately pulls out headphones and makes a big show out of ignoring you. He pulls his leather jacket off, accidentally elbowing your shoulder and smacking the sleeve in your face. 

“What the fuck, Irwin?" You seethe. 

He glares at you and shrugs, going back to his music. 

Who the fuck wears a leather jacket to a fucking beach getaway? Could he look any less practical? You wonder briefly if he even brought anything suitable for the weather before you realize you shouldn’t give a single fuck about what’s in his bag.

You successfully ignore each other through the rest of boarding and take-off. At the earliest possible opportunity you order a drink and he comments, "A little early, don't you think?" You search your mind for a better retort than "Not when I'm sitting next to you, asshole" but then you realize it doesn't matter what you say because he didn't even bother to take off his headphones to make his remark.

To compound the dirty look you receive from him, Luke and Sierra order a drink for you as well. You gratefully chug both before ordering another, grumbling under your breath that this flight could not be over soon enough. 

Ashton makes nice with the flight attendant and even takes his headphones off to flirt with her a bit. You roll your eyes at whatever bullshit lines he's feeding her and think now would be the perfect time to doze off for a cat nap if his voice wasn't so fucking loud.

You huff as she walks away, “Can you keep it down loudmouth?” You adjust your cardigan against the side of the plane and close the window shade, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning your head against the balled up fabric. 

“I’d like to be able to see the sun," Ashton says, putting his sunglasses on and flipping the shade up. 

You grit your teeth, “What’s the fuckin point if you put the sunglasses on?” 

“Does it inconvenience you?” He asks, looking at your face and finding you must agree. “Then that’s the fuckin point, Princess.”

Your eyes narrow as you stare at him in disbelief, but you manage to keep yourself from selecting one of the literal hundreds of insulting comebacks you have running through your mind. 

Guys like Ashton live off of getting reactions from people and the best way you could stick it to him is to simply not give him one.

You lean back in your seat and shake out your sweater, draping the sleeve over your face to create a makeshift eye shade for your nap. He scoffs at your actions, clearly hoping you'll take the bait and when you don't, you feel his glare on you for several beats before he pulls out his phone to find another way to entertain himself.

You’re able to ignore him for the rest of the flight, and you feel accomplished knowing it's driving him nuts that you’re no longer reacting to him. 

You wait patiently to get off the plane, getting more than mildly annoyed at Ashton’s impatience. But you try not to say anything. He gets out of the row and you let Sierra and then Luke out across the aisle. “You two can no longer be trusted,” you jab at Luke. 

“I’m sorry, bub,” Luke gives you an apologetic smile. “I didn’t know he would really come and I wouldn’t have wanted you to miss this.” He tries to explain with a pout but you just roll your eyes at the giant man in front of you.

You manage to claim your baggage without incident and you narrowly avoid the misfortune of having to sit next to Ash on the shuttle to the resort. Luke, obviously trying to win back your favor, offers to let you sit with Sierra and he sits in the open seat next to Ashton.

“Just don’t let him get to you,” Sierra says. “We’re still gonna have fun and there’s enough of us that you shouldn’t have to interact.”

Her reassurance helps soothe your nerves for the time being. 

When you arrive at the resort, everyone mingles and chatters excitedly in the lobby while Luke and Sierra check your party in. Calum and his girlfriend keep Ash occupied and away from you and you couldn't be more grateful, taking the opportunity to make small talk with Michael and Crystal. 

Check-in is taking a lot longer than it should and you crane your neck to try and see the front desk from where you're at. You happen to catch Sierra's gaze from across the room and she offers you a forced smile before she quickly looks away. Whatever's happening, it can't be good and you have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with the last minute addition to your trip.

When Sierra and Luke come back, they both refuse to make eye contact with you, making you even more suspicious. They hand out key cards to the other two couples and then both take a deep breath and look between you and Ash. 

“What?” You ask point blank. 

Luke purses his lips together, “They’re booked, they don’t have a room for Ash... but... your suite has a couch...” 

“You’ve actually gotta be kidding me,” you quip. 

“We won’t even be in the rooms except to sleep, it’ll be fine babe!” Sierra tries to convince you. 

You groan, not even bothering to look at Ashton. “Fine.” You grit your teeth.

Ashton is obviously not thrilled with this arrangement either and you see him pull Luke aside, animatedly waving his hands as he complains. 

You take the opportunity to head up to the room first in hopes of marking your territory: claiming the good drawers, the prime counter space in the bathroom. He needs to know you're doing him a favor by letting him stay in your room.

Ash comes in while you’re setting up in the bathroom and he immediately tries to stake claim on the bed. He’s flung himself across it when you come out of the bathroom. 

“Keep dreaming, Irwin.”

“I got here first,” he states, tucking his arms behind his head with a smug look on his face.

You push his boot-clad feet off the bed with a huff. "Yes, you got here to MY bed first," you say with exaggerated enunciation. "MY bed in MY room. Since it was booked for ME. Since I was INVITED on this trip."

“I was invited too,” he reminds you, standing up, ready to argue. 

“But you declined! And reinvited yourself literally last minute. If you had agreed when you were originally asked, we wouldn’t be sharing a fucking room," you say with exasperation.

"It worked out though," he shrugs dismissively. 

You feel like your eyes are about to pop out of your head as you glare at him. "Does this seem like things working out to you?!"

“Honestly yes. We’ve both got a place to stay, I get to be here with my brothers... besides... Rock Star here, need I remind you, I don’t sleep on couches,” he starts. 

“Blow me with that bullshit,” you quip. “This trip was supposed to be relaxing and now I can’t get laid because I can’t bring anyone back here... AND I have to see you literally first thing in the morning... AND you’re trying to take my bed... it’s the couch for you, Irwin. I don’t give a fuck who you think you are. And I think your BROTHERS would back me up on this," you say mockingly.

“I don’t know why you have to be such a bitch about this. And of course Luke will back you up, he’d hate for Sierra to be mad at him,” he rolls his eyes. 

“I think he’d hate to know what a fucking diva you’re trying to be,” you sneer. “Why can’t you just go crash on one of their couches?”

"Like I said, I'm not trying to sleep on anyone's couch, sweetheart," he explains, the condescension dripping off of his words. "Plus, there's no way I'm about to be anyone's third wheel, something you clearly have no problem with."

You take a beat, pinching the bridge of your nose and taking two deep breaths. “Hate to break it to you Rock Star, but you ARE a third wheel on this trip. I just wanted a vacation with friends... but, as per usual your thotty ass comes along and turns it into my own personal hell. I paid for this room, so you can find yourself on the couch, freeloader.”

He gives a single snort in response which honestly infuriates you more than if he had come back at you with some long-winded monologue. He drags his suitcase to the couch and busies himself with unpacking, slamming drawers and grumbling every step of the way. You can't even be happy about winning the bed argument because you're so worked up now you can hear your heart pounding in your ears.

You grab your phone and angrily text Luke and Sierra, “Does 5sos really need a drummer? Can he be replaced? Because the current one is about to be dead.”

Luke responds with the crying laughing emoji which has you about to launch your phone across the room. Sierra is typing for quite a bit but eventually just ends up sending a simple "Hang in there sweetie, it'll be worth it tomorrow!"

You call room service to order a bottle of vodka, it’s the only way you’ll be able to deal with him. You hear Calum in the room and make an appearance, plastering on a fake smile. He gestures to his girl, “We were just gonna go check out the resort, wanted to see if you guys wanted to come?” 

“I’ll pass thanks, I just ordered some room service. But Ash, you should absolutely go,” you encourage, gritting your teeth. 

“Gladly... who goes on vacation to sit in their room anyway?” He quips.

Rather than fight in front of Cal, you give the group a sickly sweet "Have fun!" and breathe a sigh of relief when they shuffle out the door.

You take the chance to relax, changing out of your plane outfit and into something more appropriate for the more tropical setting, you open the balcony doors and wander out onto it. It really couldn’t be prettier. You’re drawn out by a knock on the door and you think it must be room service, but it’s Luke, Sierra, Michael and Crystal. Luke is holding your bottle of vodka. 

“Had it charged to our room,” he says, thrusting it toward you. “We wanna go exploring. But let’s all get a drink first.” He smiles, “Save this for later.” 

“Ash still here?” Crystal asks, peering into the room. 

“He went with Cal... thank god,” you grumble. You set the vodka on the bedside table and grab your bag and sunglasses to head out with them.

One drink with the group becomes two which becomes decidedly more than two and they convince you to explore with them. By the time you get back to the room, Ashton has returned and is lounging on the couch as if he hasn't a care in the world. "Hey roomie," he dryly greets you without looking up from his phone.

“Hey asshole,” you slur, followed by a hiccup. You walk toward the bed and kick your shoes off, and very quickly follow it up with peeling your top off. “Why’s it s’hot?” You hiccup again and land haphazardly on the bed.

"AC wasn't acting right so I called the front desk and they said someone could look at it tomorrow," he explains noncommittally. "I, however, had the decency to leave my clothes on because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable." 

You scoff at his implication. Or you mean to, at least. Despite the climate of the room, the events of the day combined with your intoxicated state has you drifting off before you know it. As you fade into unconsciousness, you think you hear Ash snipe in the distance, "If you barf on the bed during the night, I'm not helping you clean that shit up."

You make a mocking tone at him, you think. And you’re out. 

After an evening of drinking, you wake up at 3 AM, needing the bathroom. You immediately notice you’re somehow tucked in bed, even though you’re 90% sure you passed out halfway on it. Your shorts are unbuttoned but not off and all the lights in the bedroom are off. When you make your way to the bathroom, you peek over at Ashton on the couch and he’s sprawled on his stomach, only in his boxer briefs. It’s then you realize it’s still ungodly hot in the suite. You shut the bathroom door, turn on the light and take a quick look at yourself in the mirror before deciding you need to wash your face before going back to bed.

You're in no rush as you use the toilet, wash your face and brush your teeth. It's been an exhausting day and you could use the alone time. You're careful to shut off the light before you open the door and start to tiptoe your way back to bed. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when a gruff voice barks at you, "Think you could make any more noise in there, princess?" You're livid but you say nothing and lay back down.

When you wake up in the morning, you’ve managed to almost completely forget about sharing your room with Ash. So it’s a rude awakening when you find him emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from his hair, muscles rippling as he starts digging through his drawers.

“Oh... the princess has decided to grace us,” he rolls his eyes, seeing you’re awake. “You’ve got like 45 minutes till we all do breakfast and judging by the way your phone has been buzzing, someone thinks I killed you last night.” 

You groan and wipe your hand over your face, “More like making sure I didn’t kill you.”

As you reach for your phone on the nightstand, you realize the sheets are sticking to your skin which is covered in sweat. "Did the front desk say what time they were coming to fix the air? And Jesus, as if this place wasn't humid enough, why exactly did you need to take the world's steamiest shower?"

“Gotta relax these muscles after sleeping on the world's most uncomfortable couch, sweetheart,” he retorts. “And no, I was not given an ETA but I’m sure when we go down for breakfast you can complain again. Maybe if you do it, it’ll get fixed faster,” he snarks. 

You roll your eyes and grab something to wear from your drawers, slamming the bathroom door behind you.

You take a cold shower, partly to wake you up and partly to cool you down (and mostly because Ash definitely used all the hot water on purpose). Even without creating steam, the bathroom is sweltering so as soon as you get dressed, you crack the door open in hopes of maintaining some airflow. You throw your hair in a ponytail and are applying a basic face of makeup when you feel Ash's eyes boring into you. 

You look behind you through the mirror and see him propped up against the door frame, observing. "We're just going to breakfast, not the royal ball, Princess. You don't need all that shit."

“Why’s it any of your business?” You ask, staring at him in the mirror. You wait a beat and then work on finishing your makeup, topping off with mascara and lip gloss.

"Just an observation," he begins but is cut off by a knock at the front door. He leaves to answer and you take a few deep breaths to relax yourself. All you have to do is get down to breakfast and then you can enjoy the  company of the people you actually came on this trip to spend time with. You hear Ash loudly joking with someone and you exit the bathroom hoping to see a handyman on the receiving end of his banter, but it's just Luke and Sierra.

Sierra smiles at you, “Hey beautiful, how’d you sleep?” She asks. 

“I think the only reason I slept so well is because I drank so much. It’s fuckin hot in here.” 

“It’s bad in our room too,” Luke shares. “We tried to call maintenance but no ETA on when they’ll be up, sounded like we weren’t the only ones suffering.” He shrugs.

Sierra notes your look of concern and interjects, "But we've got a ton of fun shit planned for the day so we won't be in our rooms too much anyways and hopefully it'll all be sorted when we get back!"

Luckily you were able to get some much needed space from Ashton during breakfast. You sat at opposite ends of the table and Sierra and Crystal did their best to keep your mind off of things. 

"Sorry I'm being such a bitch, you guys," you confess during a trip to the ladies' room. "I don't want you to feel like you have to baby-sit me the whole time, you're supposed to be enjoying the time off you have with your guys."

"Babe, we get it," Crystal reassures you. "It's not like this thing with you and Ash is anything new, we're all used to having to navigate it."

"And it's fine, sometimes people just don't get along," Sierra chimes in. "You're not obligated to like all of your friends' friends. We’re all adults, we can handle it."

After breakfast you do a few touristy things and a little bit of shopping before going back to the resort to prep for some much needed beach time. 

Ash scoffs as you sort through bikinis, “How many of those fuckin things did you need to bring? Are you going to be ready anytime soon?” 

“It’s not like you’re actually waiting for me anyway,” you murmur, otherwise ignoring him. 

But he’s not ignoring you, he’s watching your body move through the space, clad only in the bikini you selected. And it almost makes him more annoyed the way you definitely seem to be so confident in it. “Was that your best one?” He snarks.

"Sorry that some of us are actually into making an effort," you shrug. "And why is it your new favorite hobby to just stand there and watch me get ready, don't you have anything better to do?" 

You shove past him in the doorway to fetch your beach bag out of the closet. The room's swampy temperature has not improved and you hate that you can feel the transfer of sweat from his skin to yours when you brush up against him.

“I was just trying to be polite and wait for you to head down but I didn’t realize it'd be such an ordeal,” he grumbles, slipping his sandals on. “Fucking ridiculous,” he mumbles to himself. 

“No one asked you to wait, just fuckin go, Irwin. I don’t need an escort,” you exclaim, pulling on a pair of shorts. 

“An escort is probably the only way you’d get laid with that attitude,” he gruffs, slamming the hotel room door behind him.

You ball your fists up in rage and whip a sandal towards the door. It hits with a satisfying smack and you can't help but wish you had tossed it 15 seconds earlier so that noise would've come from the back of Ashton's head.  You walk over to retrieve your shoe and are startled by the knock at the door. 

You open it to find Cal with a half-amused, half-concerned expression on his face and his girlfriend looking bewildered. Their relationship was new and this was really the first she had experienced your dynamic with Ash in all of its dysfunctional glory. 

"You doing alright?" He inquires, trying to peek inside the room behind you. 

"I'm just ready to lay in the sun and not think about anything,” you say, grabbing your bag off the counter behind you and closing the door. 

Turns out the sunshine and drinks was exactly what you needed to calm down and within an hour you were laughing and playing in the water with everyone, though you had to watch Ashton flirt with everything that moved, even encouraging them to call him “Daddy, because all his friends do.”

As much fun as you're having, you can't help but notice the heat of the day doesn't seem to be passing. Tired from being in the sun, everyone agrees to head back to their respective rooms for a short rest before meeting back up for a late dinner. You know even Ashton must be spent when the hot wind starts blowing your beach hat off your head and he retrieves it and returns it to you without comment.

“D’you wanna shower first?” He asks, when the two of you return to the room. “Think you got some extra sun,” he mentions. “I can put aloe on if you need.” 

“First shower would be great, thanks,” you yawn. “You'll probably need some aloe on your neck and shoulders. I have some if you didn’t bring any,” you offer and then head for the bathroom.

You take your brief shower and come out in just a towel. You grab the aloe, gently toss it to Ash and he makes quick work, lightly coating your red skin in the gel. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says, capping it and heading for his own shower.

It doesn't hit you how weird it was to have a pleasant interaction with Ash until after you're dressed. You're rooting around in the suite's fridge for cold water and without thinking, you place two on the counter. You stare at the bottles for a beat, almost as if they appeared there on their own.

"One of those for me?" Ash's voice asks from behind you, startling you out of your confusion.

"I... guess so?" You answer with a shrug, turning to hand him the beverage. He's shirtless and the pair of athletic shorts he's chosen for his post-shower attire hang low on his hips and you wonder why you've made note of that.

“Thanks?” He replies, equally confused. “Wanna watch some tv?” He asks. 

“Sure,” you shrug. He clears his stuff off the couch and you sit at opposite ends. You doze off before you even decide on what to watch.

You awaken to the sound of both your and Ash's phones vibrating on the coffee table. You're disoriented but cognizant enough to realize you must have slept through the time you agreed to meet for dinner.

“Oh shit,” you murmur, wiping the sleep from your eyes. You grab your phone and look at the texts and quickly shoot off a reply.

-fell asleep, be down soon-

You gently shake Ash, “Hey they’re waiting on us, we fell asleep.” You wait to see him open his eyes and then you flit off to change into a sundress. “Why is it so hot? It must be cooler outside by now.” 

“Open the balcony door,” Ash sleepily replies, peeling himself off the couch. He quickly changes into black jeans and a short sleeve button down. 

You throw on sandals and mascara and are ready, quickly, which he appreciates.

Some of your friends trade surprised looks when they see you two peacefully arriving together but none of them comment on it. 

You join the group and you all walk together to the restaurant you agreed on for dinner, at the far end of the resort. 

Since you and Ash delayed things slightly, the place is crowded and you have to wait by the bar while the staff finds seating to accommodate your large party. Ash volunteers to order drinks for everyone while you wait and you can't decide if it's endearing or annoying that he brings you a vodka soda without you having to tell him what you want.

Once you’re seated, Luke and Sierra voluntarily put space between you and Ashton but he still ends up across from you. You don't mind his presence as much as you thought you would. 

The air conditioning appears to be working on this side of the resort, the cold drinks are flowing and you feel yourself truly relax for the first time since you arrived. You even catch yourself laughing at a couple of playfully snarky comments Ash tosses at Luke's expense.

You reach across the table to grab the pitcher of water as you’re all winding down and your arm knocks Cal’s drink, spilling it all over him and Ash. Ash blows his top, going out of his way to make a scene. Everyone tries to move past it but you know all the headway you two had made going into tonight was probably ruined as he refused to let it go, continuing to groan about his wet shirt and jeans.

"If the air hasn't been fixed, our room is probably so hot it'll dry the second we walk in," you joke, trying to lighten the mood. 

"Is this fucking funny to you?" He sneers, forcefully tossing his napkin on to the table. 

“It is kind of funny, Ash,” Cal says, trying to calm the situation down. 

“I said I was sorry,” you shrug. “It’s not like I meant to.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he snarls, storming off to the bathroom.

Defeat settles into your features, upset from the interaction, being tired and the ungodly heat you knew you were about to face. “I’m gonna head up to bed,” you announce, kissing Sierra and Crystal on the cheek. You wave at the rest of the group while Luke stands to give you a hug. 

You hear Cal’s girlfriend, “That was a little harsh of him.” 

“It’s just the way they’ve always been,” he explains quietly.

When you pass by him, Michael stops you and offers to walk you back since it's dark out and a bit of a journey to where your rooms are but you wave him off, you're looking forward to being alone. 

Heading out of the restaurant, you cross paths with Ash and his eyes shoot daggers at you but he says nothing. As you push through the door, you hear him loudly complain to nobody in particular, "She gets to run off and act like this is MY fault again?"

You ignore it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Once you get back, you change and pour yourself a vodka soda. The room is still unbearably hot so you lay across the bed checking your phone, and take advantage of the breeze coming through the balcony door.

About 20 minutes later, you're in the bathroom washing your face when you hear the front door slam and Ash barges into the suite like a tornado; he cranks the TV for no apparent reason, bangs around in the fridge and slams some drawers with little regard for who or what he disturbs. You give a silent thanks for the fact that the surrounding rooms all belong to your friends so you don't have to feel embarrassment on top of everything else. 

You brace yourself for whatever you're going to encounter on the other side of the door and turn the knob. You immediately stumble on Ash's still damp clothes, which he evidently stripped off as soon as he walked in the room. You roll your eyes but as an act of good faith, pick them up and hang them over the side of the bathtub to dry. You exit the bathroom once more and find him standing in front of the balcony, clad only in his boxer briefs. "How is it still so goddamn hot in here?" He says, exasperated.

“I don’t think they even came to look at the AC,” you observe. “I really am sorry about the drink, Ash,” you murmur at his back. You’re having a hard time tearing your eyes away from his back and thick arms. Your eyes take in the tattoo on the back of his neck. You let out an audible sigh, accidentally. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says looking back at you, face red, indicating he was still kind of heated.

"It's just... we had a pretty nice time this afternoon and I was kind of starting to enjoy the peace," you start. 

"You know, that's one of the things I've never liked about you?" He says with a calmness that betrays the harshness of his remark. "You're one of those people who can't STAND not being liked by everyone. I feel bad for you." His brow furrows as if in deep thought.

“I don’t need everyone to like me, I just need to know what the fuck I’ve ever done to you, you fuckin fake deep thot. You know everyone sees right through your bullshit? Your fans and your friends, just humor you.”

"You seem to put a lot of stock in what other people think, is all I meant," he says, seemingly unaffected by your words. "And you especially seem to pay a lot of fuckin attention to what people think about me."

“I actually couldn’t give a fuck less what people think about you, but when you parade around like some sort of imbecile, having random people call you ‘daddy’ because wow what a fuckin turn on - girls with daddy issues- it’s fuckin ridiculous, Ashton. You walk around here acting like I have the holier than thou attitude but it’s you thinking you’re some big shot because you have a few gold records. That doesn’t mean shit in Hollywood, every third fucking barista has a gold record and then flopped. Congrats you’re well on your way to being a 4th rate barista, I’m sure your father is so proud.” 

Even as it left your mouth, you knew the dad line was too far.

You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, your words hanging in the air. His jaw twitches but doesn't clench. You briefly think to apologize but part of you is still stunned by what you just said and part of you doesn't want to prove his point about caring what he thinks. He considers your statement for a beat more and then finally, he chuckles darkly. He stalks past you without a word and slams the bathroom door.

You stalk toward the bed and grab a pillow to scream into. It’s barely been a full 24 hours and you’re convinced you’ll have the drummer of 5sos dead within another 24. You’re pissed at him for being cocky and hot... wait, what the fuck? You’re pissed at your friends for putting you in this situation. 

You forgo the glass and grab the bottle of vodka, setting up on the balcony because at least it’s cooler than the room, and you seethe.

You instinctively start to text Sierra to vent about the incident but ultimately decide you and Ash have done enough damage to everyone's morale for the night. You settle for absentmindedly playing a game on your phone to take your mind off things. You eventually hear Ashton back in the room but you promise yourself you're not going to be the one to apologize first. He has to come to you. And it’s just easier if the two of you let it cool for a minute. 

He comes out to the balcony, watching you shotgun straight from the bottle. He drags a chair to the other side of the balcony. “I know you know that was a cunty thing to say,” he says quietly. “You’ve definitely got a way with insults though.” 

You don’t respond because you don’t know how, but you exchange a glance in acknowledgment.

You both sit in silence and while the tension between you is thick, you're still able to find comfort in the relatively cool night air and the unspoken truce. You zone out, questioning if this trip is even remotely salvageable and how to proceed with Ashton from here. After a while, you look down at your phone and notice the time, you've been out here longer than you thought. You glance over at Ash, who's scrawling away in some sort of journal, with those goddamn headphones on again.

You stumble over to him and tap what your brain notes is an unreasonable large shoulder, "Hey,  's late."

“Careful, Princess,” he says, pulling his headphones off and resting them on his neck, he checks his phone for the time. “Yeah, it is. Let’s get you to bed.” He breathes, standing quicker than you thought any person should. 

He holds your arm, walking you to the bed. You know you’re drunk but you can’t help the words that spill from your lips, “Should stay in tha bed.” You don’t let him go as he gently pulls from your grasp. 

“You're drunk and we’re both likely to be pissed in the morning. I’ll get you a water,” he mentions, walking away. 

You do everything in your power to stay awake for the 90 seconds he’s away and you latch back onto his larger than normal forearm when he comes back. “Don’t leave me alone,” you whimper.

His gaze focuses on your hand on his arm and then shifts to your face, which he searches carefully. "You're not serious," he declares.

"Bed's closer t’window, can leave it open." You sit up and take a sip from the water he sat on the nightstand. "You'll be more comfortable. No big deal." You shrug and lay back down as if this offer was the most casual conversation you've ever had. To be honest, it probably was one of the more casual conversations the two of you had ever shared. 

“I’m not staying because you asked,” he clarifies. “I’m staying because that breeze can’t be beat.” 

Ash climbs in the bed in just his underwear and he scoffs a little when you strip off your shorts and tank top, leaving you in a sports bra and panties for bed. “Why are you constantly taking your clothes off in front of me? Sobriety might do you some favors,” he grumbles, getting comfortable on the other side of the bed.

"Doing you a favor by letting you see my bangin' bod," you drunkenly giggle. "And please, I've seen your naked torso more times on this trip than I've seen my own." You blow a raspberry that goes on for a little longer than you intended, given your inebriated state.

“Well you definitely take care of yourself.” He agrees, ignoring your childish behavior. 

You plant a pillow between the two of you and turn off the lamp, “Night ‘Shton.” You murmur, cuddling into the bed. 

“Night.” He stares at your back in the dark for a while. Not understanding this new feeling creeping up, or caring why the hell you look so good. It’s not the first time he’s seen you like this, but it is the first time he’s wanted your attention.

You wake up a few hours later, dying of thirst. You spot the water on your nightstand and lunge for it a little too quickly and your head starts to spin. As you gulp it down, you remember you invited Ashton to stay with you and your eyes dart to the other side of the bed. The moonlight pouring in from the open balcony shines on his near naked form and it's a sight to behold. You look him up and down, though you're not sure why. You think to yourself how much easier it is to find him attractive when he's not speaking.

You admire him for as long as your drunk brain can handle, before drunkenly texting what you think is just Sierra -he’s pretty when he’s quiet- and you barely put your phone face down on the table before passing back out. 

Your drunk brain processes your slight attraction and the fact that you begged for him to stay better than you’d ever let your sober brain and it creates quite the dirty dream about the man sleeping next to you. Your brain reminds you just how much of a man he is and how easily he’d toss you around. 

You’re awoken by your own moan and open your eyes to see Ashton staring at you from the next pillow, eyebrow cocked.

"Sleep well, princess?" He smirks.

You shove your pillow over your face, half out of embarrassment, half out of necessity because the sun shining into the room is BRIGHT and your head is pounding. "It's too early and I'm too hungover for you to use that tone of voice with me, Irwin."

“Not very often I have girls moaning in bed before I’ve even touched them,” he says, sounding bemused. 

You groan and reach for your phone, closing one eye and turning down the brightness before unlocking it. You realize the text you thought you sent to Sierra also had Luke, Michael and Crystal on it. Luke commented about you getting soft for Ashton, which vaguely enrages you around your headache. 

“Not like I’m moaning for you,” you quip, slowly moving toward the bathroom. 

Ash is still laying on the bed when you return. “Still fuckin hot,” he grumbles. 

Your phone buzzes and you look at it, Luke had forwarded a text from the hotel, - heat warning in place, advising everyone stays inside, hydrated and cooled.-

You throw yourself back on the bed in disbelief. "This can't be happening."

Ash turns on his side to face you, a little closer than you'd like both because of the heat and because of the dream you had. "What's the matter, princess?" He says with a teasing lilt to his voice.

"Stop calling me princess," you grumble and shove your phone in his face.

“Yeah, I already saw. Don’t worry I plan to escape this room as soon as humanly possible,” he admits. “Just waiting for Cal to get his lazy ass up.” 

“Are you ever just like... nice to anyone?” You shove your face back in the pillow. The sun really is too bright and you can’t take it.

"Are you ever just like... not super judgmental?" He mocks, getting out of bed and pulling the curtains shut for you. "I've been pretty nice the past couple nights putting your drunk ass to bed. You thought I was nice enough when you begged me to sleep in your bed."

“I didn’t beg for anything from you. And I’m more than capable of putting my own drunk ass to bed... you just think you’re better than everyone because you got sober when you realized you couldn’t handle your alcohol. Seriously, if the worst fuckin thing I’ve done is offer you a spot In my bed where it’s more comfortable then that’s worlds better than the damage and destruction you’ve undoubtedly caused in your drunk state,” you spew.

"You're unfuckingbelievable, you know that?" He shakes his head. "There's no WAY anything I've ever said to you has warranted some of the shit you've said to me recently. You always gotta take it too far, always gotta get personal. And I’M supposed to be the asshole?"

“Just shut the fuck up, Ash... I can’t. I’m done. I don’t have the energy. This trip was supposed to be relaxing.” You groan, plopping the pillow over your head.

"Cool. Good talk," he says dismissively and heads for the shower.

You stick your middle finger up in the direction he headed off. You sigh loudly when you hear the water turn on. “What the fuck happened,” you ask yourself, exasperated, thinking over the last couple days and how the day before you and Ash had been chill for at least a few hours. “I just need to shut my fucking mouth,” you decide. “The only way to salvage this trip now.”

You must have dozed off again because the next thing you know Ashton is standing over you -shirtless in those athletic shorts again, goddammit- and poking at you with his room keycard. "The fuck?" You say with only moderate interest.

"Oh good, you're up," he jokes. God, he's insufferable. "Cal and I went downstairs and they've closed the restaurant dining rooms but they're still offering room service. I need to know if you want breakfast."

“Yeah... pancakes.” You wave him off. “..Bacon and hash browns...” You murmur out, going back to sleep. 

A short while later you wake to the smell of maple syrup. You drag yourself out of bed and follow the scent to where Ash is sat on the couch, already eating, full breakfast spread out on the coffee table. "Gee thanks for letting me know the food was here," you snipe without thinking. Dammit. You've already forgotten your plan to keep your mouth shut.

Luckily, as you've learned is the norm, he's preoccupied with something on his phone. "Uh-huh," is the only response you get.

You grab your plate and get a water out of the fridge and then sit at the end of the coffee table furthest from Ashton. 

“I hope it cools down some tomorrow,” You mumble, mouth full of food. 

“What was that? Speak up princess,” he says pointedly to you. 

“I just said I hope it cools off. So we can go back to the beach tomorrow,” you shrug, digging into your food.

"You mean we all didn't fly all the way over here to sit in our hotel rooms with broken AC?" He mocks for no apparent reason.

You roll your eyes but keep your mouth shut, not looking to give him the benefit of another snarky comeback.  You eat as much of your plate as you can manage before heading off to shower. To your slight dismay, he’s still sitting on the couch on his phone when you get done. 

“Ash.” You mention quietly, his head tilts up but his eyes don’t leave his phone. “Do you think you could do the aloe again?” 

His eyes snap to you and he stares for a minute before nodding. “Uh... yeah,” he agrees. 

You grab the bottle and sit next to him as he does your back and your shoulders. “Sorry I always take it too far,” you apologize.

He breathes out forcefully and you can feel it on your neck. It gives you goosebumps. He seems to be choosing his words carefully before landing on "Just seems like you don't think about some of the stuff you spit out in anger." His hands stop working over your skin. "I talk shit and yeah I get you think I'm an asshole, but I have never nor would I ever say anything to you as disrespectful as some of the things you've said to me," he says with a quiet firmness.

You nod, because you know he’s right and you chew on the inside of your cheek for a moment, thinking carefully on your own words. 

“I know. I don’t have an excuse. You get under my skin and it’s always guards up with you. Sometimes we’ll be just fine and then you’ll turn on a dime, like last night at dinner. Easier to push you away and keep you at arms length than to let my guard down because I don’t know when you’re gonna snap.”

"Right because this continues to be exclusively my fault," he says condescendingly and sits back on the couch.

You take a few deep breaths and then get up, leaving him to sit while you go change. 

You come back out, sports bra and lounge shorts and look at him. 

“I’m just trying to be nice. It’s my fault too, I know that. I was explaining why I get that way. I know I’m like that, and I’m working on it. I was just trying to clue you in on a trigger.” You sigh and then head back to the bed, collapsing on it.

He bounds over to you, not ready to let this go. "Sorry to break this deluded narrative you've constructed, princess, but 'I'm only a bitch because you make me one' isn't a trigger, it's an excuse and a weak one at that." 

His face is flushing and his chest is bright red. You know he's getting heated and you know it's not just the tropical climate of the room. 

"You've been like this with me from the second you met me, it's like you never had any intention of liking me and fuck getting to know me." He raises his voice, "If I'm such a shitty person then why are literally all of your friends friends with me? You ever think about that, sweetheart?"

“Well that's a two way street, Irwin,” you huff out. “You’ve never tried to get to know me either. So before you come over here acting like you’re any better than me, remember when you point a fucking finger there’s three pointing back at you.”

You stand to square off with him, like the fight is going to get physical. You know better than to think Ash would lay a hand on you but you’re prepared for anything in this moment. The blood is rushing in your ears again.

"I never said you were a shitty person," he says lowly, stepping closer to you. "I just said you were a judgemental, inconsiderate hypocrite and I don't like you."

“I’ve never said you were a shitty person either, I just think you’re an asshole with entitlement issues that definitely needs to take a look in a mirror when slinging his insults,” you say quietly, also stepping closer to him.

"Sounds like we have a lot more in common than we realize then," he challenges, staring you down with fire in his eyes.

“Seems like if either of us had taken even five minutes to consider the other, then maybe this all could have been avoided.” You don’t waiver, standing your ground. “And maybe, we could have spared our friends.”

It seems like he's about to move somehow even closer to you but the sound of his phone buzzing on the coffee table cuts through the tense air. "Finally something we agree on," he mutters under his breath as he stomps away to check it.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding. You realize it was in anticipation but you don’t know what you were waiting for.  

You collapse back on the bed, grabbing for your phone. You make a mental note of how his phone is more important than any person in front of him and you slink back into your normal feelings about him.

A couple hours pass of you dutifully ignoring each other with your phones. But the heat is unrelenting and eventually the scorching sunlight starts pouring in directly onto the bed. Even with the curtains shut, the warmth is sickening and you have no choice but to find another place to relax. 

Obviously the balcony is out of the question until the sun sets. You huff to yourself and head for the couch where Ashton is sprawled out.

“Can I sit?” You ask. 

“Your space is over there,” he says pointing to the bed. “This is my space and it’s probably best we keep the two separate.” 

“It’s too hot over there, even with the curtains closed,” you whine. 

“It’s what you wanted,” Ash cocks an eyebrow and doesn’t move a muscle.

"Are you fucking serious, Irwin? You're being a child, just move over."

He looks directly at you and stretches his large frame even further down the length of the couch. 

"Sorry, Princess. No room at the inn. Think I saw a cot in the closet."

“Selfish prick.” You mumble, turning to walk away. 

But that gets him up. “What’d you just say?” He asks, tone sharp. 

“I called you a selfish prick,” you whip around, saying it louder.

"Aww, did Princess get her feelings hurt because someone finally won't cater to her every fuckin whim?"

“Literally nothing about this trip has gone my way. You show up last minute and I have to share my fucking room with you because there’s nowhere else for you to stay? Excuse me for thinking for a minute that you might be fucking polite enough to accommodate me a little. Thankless asshole.”

"Didn't realize you were so affected by the mere presence of me," he says with a dark cockiness. He gets in your face. "And I'm gettin real tired of hearing you call me an asshole, Princess."

“And I’m getting real fucking tired of your condescending ‘Princess’ nickname, so I guess we’re both just fucked here.”

"Ohhh I think the name suits you just fine, Princess." He's impossibly close to you now, practically nose to nose. "Unrealistic expectations for everyone and everything. Particular. Judgy. Demanding. Keep waiting for you to tell me to bow down, Princess.”

“I doubt you're good at anything that’d require you to be on your knees, including bowing down.” Your eyes narrow. 

“Shouldn’t I say that to you?” He snorts.

"Well then we'd have to add 'liar' to the list of your many offenses." 

“Can’t make claims like that without backing them up.”

You roll your eyes. "Is that the only way to get you to shut the fuck up for once? Figures," you sneer. You involuntarily lick your lips and you regret it the second you do, he definitely notices.

“Blow. Me. Princess.” He enunciates.

You're not sure where this audacity comes from but you grab at his crotch. OH. He's more than half-hard in your hand. Your heart is pounding from what you assumed was anger but you're now realizing may be something else. You lean into his ear, hardening cock still in hand and challenge breathily, "Make me."

He inhales sharply, “Gladly.” He pushes you to your knees, pushing your hand away so he can drop his shorts, he does a couple quick tugs to get himself fully hard before pressing his tip against your lips. “Open.” He quietly demands in a way that says not to fuck with him, so you do what he asks.

He taps his cock up and down, over and over your open lips. You make a point of maintaining direct eye contact with him when you jut out your tongue defiantly, catching on a vein, making him groan.

You grab it from him and he easily lets go, curious of what you’ll do. You lick the underside from base to tip and slowly rub your hand over his length, placing sloppy wet kisses along the shaft to slick him up more.

You start suckling at the head, hoping to coax out some precum and you'd never admit to it but you accidentally let out a small moan when you feel the substance on your tongue. By the way Ash is tangling his hands in your hair, you can tell he's getting impatient. "Figures you'd be a fuckin tease," he critiques.

You slowly lick the tip a few times before taking him in your mouth, hoping it will shut him up. You slowly work your mouth up and down his cock, not really trying to take all of him, but enough to keep him quiet. Your eyes are still locked on his as you palm his balls.

He bites his lip and you wonder if it's because he's trying to hold back a snarky comment or a moan. You wonder why you care. Rather than unpack that thought, you decide to press your luck and take him down further. He's larger than you realized and he hits the back of your throat before you're ready and you gag. He grunts approvingly. 

Of course he does, you think to yourself, annoyed.

His hand tightens more in your hair and he pushes you further, silently encouraging you to take his cock in your throat, so you do. He lets out a loud guttural moan. 

“If I’d have known the way to shut you up was to put my cock down your throat, we would have done this years ago.” He gently caresses the side of your face.

You wish you didn't lean into his touch but you do. You wish you didn't like the weight of his cock on your tongue as much as you do but that's another thought entirely. You quickly determine you like this experience much more when your mind is quiet so you focus on making him moan loud enough to drown out your thoughts. 

You confidently bob your head on his cock with the occasional detour to tongue at his balls. You make sure your methods are as loud and as messy as possible. He's easy to read, you know what he likes without you being told.

Your jaw aches a bit from having your mouth open that wide for him but it’s a minor inconvenience for hearing his moans, tasting him. Shutting him up. 

“I was wrong about you,” he murmurs. “You can suck a cock.” He smirks and you flick his thigh.

You give him a good suck just to hear his breath catch before you pull off. "And I was wrong about you," you pant, wiping your mouth sinfully. "Turns out there is one thing about you I don't mind." You flick your tongue over his slit to punctuate your point. 

He snorts and looks down at you, yanking your hair so that you meet his gaze. "Tired of you running that goddamn mouth of yours, Princess. Mind if I fuck it?"

“Wish you’d fuck something around here,” you saltily reply.

“I promise I’ll find another wet hole to ruin as well.” He grips your hair in both hands and guides your mouth back on his cock. He gets a couple slow test thrusts in to get you used to it before he starts full force face fucking you. It doesn’t take long for him to grunt and fill your mouth with cum and he holds you on his cock, without being in your throat. “Swallow it,” he demands.

You moan around him and do as he says, though you intentionally let some dribble out of your mouth, mostly to be defiant but also because you think that's something he'd like to see.

“Cheeky little fuck," he murmurs, wiping the cum with his thumb and pushing it into your mouth. “Better than I thought you’d be for a pillow princess.” 

“Not at all a pillow princess and you'd better be returning that favor.”

He clicks his tongue and pulls you up off your knees. "There you go with your demands again, Princess," he says, stripping you naked in record time. "But I'll definitely do you a favor, sweetheart. I'll bet you've been dripping for me since you first got those pretty lips around my cock."

“Try when I first got my hand on your cock.” 

Ash looks at you, gropes both of your tits and pinches your nipples, pulling them a bit. You let out a little whine and he smirks and drops to his knees, quickly hooking one leg over his shoulder. He flicks his tongue along your clit before licking around your opening. “Very wet... Princess likes to suck cock.”

"I like doing things I'm good at." You hope it comes out as confident as you intended but an accidental whine swallows the last word of your sentence.

Ash pulls his face away and chuckles. He slides his hand up your thigh and lightly rubs your slit with his fingers before applying pressure on your clit. “I’ll give you credit, you were good at it.” He smirks, quickly pushing the two fingers in and then pulling them out with a bit of a twist, at an agonizingly slow pace. He watches your face and feels you get a little wobbly on one leg so he grabs you, pushes you back onto the couch. He wraps his arm around one thigh and pushes your other to spread you. He continues the slow pace with his fingers and rolls his tongue over your clit. 

You run your fingers through his hair and breathe deep. You'd be lying if you said he didn't know what he was doing. He catches your clit between his lips and sucks hard. You shudder and tug at his hair harder than you mean to. For a split second you think to apologize but he lets out a groan indicating he didn't mind the pain one bit. He sucks over your clit again and you pull even harder just to hear that noise.

The back and forth continues until he draws out a very loud moan from you. You don’t even think twice about the fact that your friends' rooms are around yours. “Fuck, Ashton, yes!” You whine.

He pulls back to nip and suck marks onto your inner thighs. "That's the most positive thing you've said to me this entire trip, sweetheart, I like it." He lifts your leg and pushes his fingers in as deep as he can. "Princess gonna do me the honor of cumming for me?"

“Please make me cum for you!” It sounds desperate even in your own ears but you can’t seem to care about it. 

His smirk is definitely making you more wet at this point and he notices. “So slippery in here. Can't believe I finally found a way to make you agreeable," he taunts, slowly thumbing your clit.

You hate that his cockiness is threatening to send you over the edge at this point. "Ash... God, Ash, please," you plead.

“Alright alright... don’t need you begging me just yet.” He brings his mouth back to your clit and sucks hard so you’ll yank his hair. His fingers are pumping at an ungodly pace. 

“Yes fuck right there, like that.” 

Your chest is heaving and Ash thinks he likes the view. “Can you be any louder?” He teases.

"Give me a reason and we'll see," you manage to pant out.

He sharply slaps your inner thigh, over one of the marks he'd already left, fingers grazing your pussy as he does. You do indeed, cry out louder. 

"Don't get smart with me when I'm about to make you cum, sweetie, you won't like the outcome. I promise you," he warns.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please make me cum,” you whine. “Ashton, please!” The whine is loud and the moan when he goes back in with three fingers is obscene. He pushes you until you fall over the edge, chanting "Ash" and tugging his hair while he slowly licks over your clit.

You whimper and writhe as he expertly works you through your orgasm, easing the curling of his fingers as he feels you finish pulsing around them. He dutifully cleans you with his tongue until you're pushing his head away, too sensitive to take any more stimulation. 

He lifts his fingers to your mouth and traces one across your lips, coating them in your juices. You look directly at him as you lick them carefully, groaning at your own taste. You keep the eye contact going as you reach for his hand and draw the rest of his fingers into your mouth, sucking them clean.

“Naughty little slut, aren’t you?” He comments, watching in awe. “Be surprised if our friends didn’t just hear that little show.” 

“Like I give a flying fuck," you murmur, pulling his fingers from your mouth.

He smiles as he runs his hands over your tits, giving them an appreciative squeeze. "Gotta tell ya, Princess, I'm finding that you're full of surprises."

You sit up and reach for his cock, which you're pleased to find already hard for you again. "Gotta tell ya," you mimic his smarmy cadence. "I'd rather be full of this." You give him a squeeze for emphasis.

He grins and gets in your face. "Greedy too?" He places his hand over yours and you begin slowly stroking him. "My kind of girl." You feel his breath on your face and you wonder if he's finally going to kiss you. You wonder why you want him to.

Instead of waiting on him, you push slightly forward and press your lips to his and the kiss quickly gets deepened. 

When you come up for air, he cocks an eyebrow at you, “Couldn’t take anymore of your talking.” You shrug. 

He pushes forward and kisses you again. “I want you over the fuckin couch,” he growls. You know he means business, so you quickly turn.

His first priority is to land a hard smack on your ass. You probably should've expected it but you yelp loudly nonetheless. Satisfied with both your reaction and the red mark decorating your ass cheek, he delivers a blow to the other side to match.

“Fuckkk me," you moan, wiggling your ass in front of him.

"Oh is that what you want from me, Princess?" He teases, running his cock over your thighs and ass, everywhere except your throbbing core. You hear a whine you don't recognize escaping your throat when you feel drops of precum drizzling onto your skin.

"Even with my ass in the air for you, you've still gotta talk shit," you groan in frustration.

He slicks the tip through your folds and you press your face against the back of the couch in anticipation. “If you fuck half as good as you lick, I think we can be friends," you smirk. 

“All you need to worry about is if you can take my cock.” He lands another smack to your ass. 

“My throat took it just fine.” You look over your shoulder and wink at him.

"Alright, alright, that's enough out of you," he starts to push in and you gasp at the feeling. He snorts. "My throat took it just fine," he mocks, sinking in more.

He does a couple shallow thrusts before pushing in further. You push your hips back to meet him, taking his cock all the way. 

You moan loudly, “Never been so full in my life.” 

Ashton spanks you again, ensuring he's gonna be leaving your ass red and sore. He gives a couple slow thrusts and then stops. “You want this cock, Princess? Get it.” He lands a smack to the other side of your ass.

You take his challenge, finding a rhythm as you throw yourself back on his cock. He watches, fascinated at the sight of his length disappearing inside you again and again. He holds your hips tight enough that you'll undoubtedly have bruises. "You look real good fucking yourself on my cock, Princess," he groans.

“Feels phenomenal," you breathe. You brace your arms on the back of the couch and look back at him while you take his cock. “Fuck yes, Ashton,” you pant. 

He takes mercy on you and grips your hips tighter, deciding to take over for you. He pulls one leg up, rests his foot next to your thigh for more leverage and starts to pound into you.

The noises filling the room are obscene: heavy breathing, skin slapping against skin, the slick sounds of your arousal, the endless moans, groans and curses pouring from both your and Ash's mouths.

He pulls you by your hair up against his chest and roughly turns your face so he can sloppily kiss you. He pushes your face away when he's done. "All our friends definitely already heard you cum for me, think this time I can make you scream loud enough the whole floor will hear?"

“I don’t care who hears us at this point, I just need to cum on your cock,” you breathe. “Please," you ask nicely, tossing a smile over your shoulder for him. 

The grin that graces his face says it all. He goes harder still. Your quiet whimpers quickly escalate into loud moans of begging.

He smacks your ass a few more times as well as your upper thighs for good measure. He presses into the already forming bruises on your hips. "Pleeease... Ashhh... Fuckkk," you whine, each word at least two syllables longer than usual. 

He yanks on your hair and leans in to calmly command, "Cum for me, Princess. Wanna feel you all over my cock."

It sends you over the edge and you lean heavily against the back of the couch while he continues fucking you through your orgasm. His pace increases and then you hear his breath catch and you feel him cum inside you. He stays tucked against you for a minute. He shallow thrusts all the way in once more so you’ll remember how it felt. 

“Holy fuck,” you groan. 

Ash pets your hair and pulls out. You instantly feel the cum dripping down your thighs. “Don’t move,” he warns. He comes back moments later with a washcloth and cleans you up. You stay in position, panting over the back of the couch because you're unsure if you can even move at this point.

He runs a hand down your back with surprising tenderness. It's then that you realize how goddamn sweaty you are because of course you had to decide to have the most intense fuck of your life in a room that feels like it's on the 4th floor of hell. 

"You ok, Princess?" Ash asks, sounding a bit unsure of himself. It's so unlike him. You're kind of into it.

“Yeah… it's just fuckin hot and now I’m fucked out. And I fuckin love it," you mumble against the couch. 

“Wanna grab a cool shower... together?” He asks, ready for you to bite sarcasm at him. 

“You might have to carry me, legs aren’t working,” you chuckle. 

He stands and gestures for you to climb into his arms, "Well then, Princess, your chariot awaits."

You roll your eyes but you notice you don't feel your blood boiling as much as it usually does when he calls you that. You shift on the couch, he scoops you up and carries you into the bathroom, sitting you on the counter while he gathers towels and turns on the shower.

Once you’re under the cool water you relax and regain some composure. Ash gently grabs your chin and softly kisses you. “Gonna be honest, that’s not at all what I expected from you," he states and then fits your lips back together.

You raise an eyebrow, "Oh yeah? You spend a lot of time wondering what kind of lay I'd be, Irwin?" You tease, softly biting his lip.

“Well no... not really. Maybe a couple masturbatory fantasies about hate fucking you, but you were tied up and gagged for those…" he explains, gently rubbing his soapy hands over your red ass and bruised hips. "Just with who you’ve been to me, I didn’t assume you’d beg to cum on my cock."

You smirk, "Tied up and gagged, huh? Well let's put a pin in that conversation..." 

He shakes his head and grins at you.

"To be honest I didn't expect to hear those things come out of my mouth either," you admit, pausing to hiss when his fingers brush over a particularly sore mark. "But to be fair, based on your past behavior I didn't see you as the type to gingerly clean me up after you came inside me."

“I’ve got a thing for after care, not really a 'fuck em and leave em' type of guy,” he shrugs. 

“What are our friends gonna say?” You wonder.

“I have no idea but I’m betting both of our phones are buzzing off the hook right now," he laughs. 

“No doubt about that... so are we going for round two later or was this a one time thing?” You smile playfully.

He purses his lips as if deeply considering it and you briefly wonder if you'd gotten too comfortable and embarrassed yourself but then he presses you up against the shower wall.

"Like I said before, such a greedy Princess," he teases before crashing his lips into yours with a groan.

After a short makeout, you end your shower and the first thing you both do is go to your phones. Ash snorts. “Cal just sent a bunch of the side eye emojis,"  he announces. 

“Crystal and Mike want to know where I am because something is definitely going on in my room,” you giggle. 

You change into your shorts and a fresh bralette and Ash pulls the black athletic shorts back on. He gives you a quick kiss but is interrupted by a knock at your door. He answers it as you settle on the couch. 

It’s Luke and Sierra. Luke seems chill but Sierra pushes her way into the room and looks astonished she sees you on the couch.

"Hey sweetie," she greets you with what sounds like surprise in her voice. 

"Hey guys," you start but you can tell their attention is focused elsewhere, eyes darting around the room and exchanging wide-eyed glances with each other.

Ash shoots you an amused look but you subtly shake your head at him, waiting to see where this goes.

“Hey… just wanted to check on you guys. There was a lot of noise coming from what we thought was your room.” Sierra looks confused. 

“What kind of noise?” You ask. 

“Sex noises, moaning, ‘fuck Ashton that’s so good’,” Luke mocks, eyeing the two of you. 

Sierra playfully jabs him in his side and he yelps. "Or you know, something like that," he offers half-heartedly.

Ashton, barely keeping in a giggle, says with concern, "Oh I definitely didn't hear anything like that, did you Princess?"

“No... don’t think so, Ash. We’ve just been watching TV,” you explain to the suspicious couple. 

“In here? In this room? Together?” Sierra clarifies, so much doubt in her voice and on her face. 

“I swear we heard someone moaning Ashton’s name. Asking him to make her cum. Begging, really,” Luke muses with a smirk. 

There's another knock on the door and Luke opens it. It's Cal, having walked over from across the hall. “Ok so did you guys hear that too?” He asks.

Luke stands in the doorway discussing the mystery with Cal while Sierra bewilderedly studies your faces.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing when you hear Cal thinking out loud, "But how would he get a girl in here without her knowing?" 

"No, man, she's been here the whole time."

"The WHOLE time?"

"Apparently."

"Well... I mean… Maybe… No..."

Sierra’s eyes narrow at you, “It was the two of you.” She determines, looking between you and Ashton. “You two hooked up...” 

“You said I was crazy for suggesting that!” Luke laughs. 

“I didn’t think she’d do it.” Sierra laughs in disbelief. “Holy shit.”

You realize Michael and Crystal must have visited Cal's room to discuss the incident because he shakes his head and announces behind him, "Mike, you were right." 

You hear a shout of "Yay! No, wait, ew that's weird. Not yay" mixed with a quieter "Whyyy?" that must've come from Crystal.

You didn't think you were the blushing type but you feel your cheeks getting warmer and you hope everyone will assume it's the heat. But Ash notices and starts waving your friends out of the room, "Ok folks, show's over."

"So we're right then?" Luke teases.

"Get the fuck outta here," Ash playfully shoos him away.

Luke and Cal shuffle out while Sierra turns back and mouths "Oh my God?" at you and mimes for you to text her.

As Ash shuts the door behind them, you flop onto the bed, exhaling loudly. He laughs and climbs on next to you. He kisses your shoulder reassuringly. "You good?"

You turn to face him, "Yeah, they're just. A lot sometimes." He snorts in agreement. "Fuck, they're gonna be so obnoxious about this, what should we do?" You ask, curious for his opinion.

"Well," he starts but then kisses you long enough that you begin to wonder if he forgot he was in the middle of a sentence. He pulls away and looks at you mischievously. "I say we give them about 15 minutes to settle back into their rooms and then we really give them something to talk about."

Tag list: @cocktail-calum @1dthewantedlove @youngblood199456 @lustingforwunder @calumsphile @neso-k @rosecoloredash @radmcqueen @justayoungandwisefangirl @itsnotmyblood  @lietoash @pushthetide21 @5sosfanficrec @therealmrshale @fallfrxmgrace @lukashemmos @justarandomgirlthatyoudontknow​ @5sos-microwave @madbomb​ @sweetheartmendes1000​ @literally-anythin​ @lfwallscouldtalk​ @clemmingstylins0n​ @ccnicole02​ @lustingfor5sos​ @buteverythingiscopacetic​ @rosesfromcth​ @bodaciousbonzi1996​ @ashtontotheirwin​ @captainam-erika-trash​ @xxgendurvikixx​ @jazzyangel242​ @bluebabycal​ @rhiannonmichellee​ @iovehemmings​ @glitterycalum1205​ @katcontreras​ @cashtonasfuck​ @ificanthaveu​ @kindahoping4forever @here-for-the-uproars​ @canterburyfiction​ @opheliaaurora​  @queer-5sos​ @banditocth​ @gigglyirwin​  @glitterycalum1205​ @rebelwith0utacause​

gc tags: @sublimehood​ @sugarcoated-pain​ @5sosnsfw​ @angelbabylu​ @aspiringwildfire​ @irwinkitten​ @lashtoncurls​ @myloverboyash​ @singt0mecalum​

masterlist || ashton || calum || luke || michael

wanna be tagged? go here

[shera-dnd]

And we are back, this time with some wonderful backstory for our favorite cat.

Also featuring Ozpin being his usual weird self and Adam being a cunt

AND ANGST

so all the things we love here

The night was dark and the rain was loud. An army could march around this human village, and would have been none the wiser. But the fae didn’t need an army to wipe them out, all they needed was a single woman with just enough hurt to compel the world to act.

The Black Cat emerged from the nearby woods. Her mission was clear in her mind, and her pain fresh in her heart. Silently she stalked through the night and circled the human village.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

With each full circle she recited the crimes of their people. The true names of those they had killed, the forests they burned, the villages they destroyed. And with each circle the shadows grew longer and darkness grew deeper. Threatening to engulf the village entirely.

It was when she had finished the third circle that she saw him. A man standing alone in the pouring rain, his smell both impossibly old and incredibly young. The man raised his cane, and The Black Cat flinched as she saw the glint of metal, but it soon became clear that it was made of silver, not iron. Then he brought his cane down.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

And the shadows receded.

Though the Cat was certain that her magic still hid her from sight, the man looked into her eyes and addressed her directly.

“I was hoping to have a chat with one of your kind,” he spoke, more calmly than she liked.

Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was a need to assert her power over the strange human, but something spurred the Cat to emerge from the shadows. She stood up now on her hind legs, easily towering over the man.

“You’re rather bold, human,” she snarled.

“Just an old man who knows a thing or two about magic,” he answered.

She had heard about people like him. Humans who had learned the secrets of magic. “A wizard then? And you think your magic can protect this village?”

“I am hoping it will not come to that,” his tone was as calm as ever even as he stood within mawling range of the large fae.

“Again, very bold for a human,” she commented.

He smiled at that.

“Now, tell me,” he began, “why exactly are you turning your ire towards these people?”

The Cat growled, “they’re too close!”

“And yet, for each tree cut down, a new one is planted. For each animal hunted, their bones are buried in the woods. When a circle of mushrooms is found, we step around them,” he explained, and the cat could tell that his voice matched his smell more than his face, “we shun iron, and abide by the ancient ways. Surely, this is the sort of cohabitation that could not possibly offend our fae neighbors?”

His words touched the tiniest ember of hope that still hid in her heart. It was the most insignificant remnant of her life before she became unseelie, and for a moment it sparked with life. The Cat was quick to bury it under a mountain of contempt.

“The unseelie do not seek cohabitation,” she countered, “you’re too close!”

“Can we not convince you to change your mind?” The man asked, unwilling to let go of hope.

“You cannot atone for humanity’s sins,” she snarled.

The man let out a tired sigh, and for a moment looked so old she was convinced he would crumble to dust before her.

“Humanity is divided, my friend,” he argued, though that statement seemed to hurt him to say, “you’ve clearly met those who arm themselves in iron and march into your woods, I’m sure. Now you’ve met those like us. Are we not as different from one another as your courts?”

That quiets her. Though he was human, he echoed the words of a fae she had abandoned long ago. Another black cat whose strength of body was matched only by his strength of heart.

“You’ve been chatting with me far too long for a true member of the unseelie courts,” he commented.

She growled and bared her teeth at him.

“My apologies,” he replied, hand raised in surrender, “it was simply an observation.”

“I’ve made my choice!” She shouted, “I do not intend to change my mind.”

That caught his attention, “so you chose to walk the path of the unseelie.”

She should kill him. Slit his throat. Bite his head off. Poison him, and leave him to die, it didn’t really matter how. He was human -a threat - she should return him to nature then and there. But something about that felt wrong. Something in her still truly wanted to believe what he had to say.

So instead she answered, “yes.”

“And yet, you have your doubts,” he said, clearly seeing the conflict within her, “please, listen to them, listen to what your heart has to say.”

She hesitated, unsure of the path she should take.

“Why do you seek this alliance with our kind?” She asked.

“Because that is the right thing to do,” he spoke with true faith, and conviction behind every word. It felt strange and familiar all the same.

Once more his words rang true, and once more she felt those embers ignite.

“I would like to make a statement, in the near future,” he continued to explain himself, “of hope and goodwill, and of harmony with the natural world. I do not rule this kingdom, but its lords value my insight, and have agreed that perhaps it is time...that a fae joined our ranks.”

“Join you?” Her words didn’t sound like mockery, as much as she wanted them to, “am I to be your diplomat? Your Servant? Or perhaps there is some heir of yours you’ll have me marry.”

“No, no. Goodness, nothing of the sorts,” he answered with a hearty chuckle, “if you’ll allow me to explain. Our four kingdoms are guarded by four sacred orders of knights, each led by a witch who grants us small boons of magic when the times allow. Though their primary function is to commune with our vacant divines.”

“So you want a fae to take that role? A faery witch for an order of human knights?”

“That would maybe be too bold for my colleagues’ tastes,” he replied, “but there is an empty seat in the Order of the Fall Maiden, and we would be honored to have one of yours fill it.”

She studied him for a moment, pondering his words. Something about the man still unsettled her, something that made him…not fully human. She couldn’t quite tell what that something was, but it unsettled her.

“Am I to be your appointed knight?” She asked, quietly now, like the embers that were burning would snuff out if she spoke any louder.

“You are the one they call The Black Cat, yes? Blake, I believe was the name,” he asked, the name he offered was wrong, and he knew that, was he offering her a courtesy? “Well, I think you may be more than qualified for the role.”

Years ago ‘Blake’ would have taken that offer without a second thought. To be the bridge between her people and the humans, to usher in an era of peace and cooperation between their people, it would be the greatest honor. But too many years, too many scars made sure she couldn’t just trust their kind like that.

“And why would I accept your offer?” She demanded.

“We can grant you a boon,” he answered, “and the Fall Witch already has one in mind for you.”

Blake raised an eyebrow and the man smirked.

“We can make you immune to iron.”

~~~

That night Blake ran through hidden trails, and down non-existent paths. She leaped from shadow to shadow, through roots and branches, until she reached the one place humanity had never, and would never, touch. She was back home, with the unseelie, though she didn’t approach her people just yet.

She stalked at the edges of their home, looking for the one man she wished to speak to. Thankfully he was - as always - the center of attention, boasting about the blow they were about to strike against humanity, and how his lover would be the one to deliver it.

Huh, that word had never bothered her before now.

Getting his attention on the other hand was a bit harder, but she asked the wind to whisper his name for her. Though he did not stop his speech immediately, he at least seemed to notice her presence. Thankfully his boasting did not last much longer and soon he walked up to meet her.

“My love,” he greeted, full of pride, “by the smell of human on you, I take it your mission has gone perfectly.”

Taurus.

Her love.

A great blind bull, with fur as red as blood, his body scarred from iron brandings. He was the rage of the fae given form, the epitome of everything the unseelie believed. But right now, Blake had to hope he would be her lover first.

“The villagers still live, my love,” she replied, shrinking in shame.

“What!?” Anger flashed in his voice, but he soothed it quickly, “I mean...did something go wrong?”

“Not exactly,” Blake answered. Explaining things to Taurus would be a delicate process, she had to choose her words carefully, “the night answered my call at first, but the villagers…they had a wizard with them.”

He huffed at that word, “if he as much as touched you with his filthy human magic tricks I swear on the moon and stars I’ll--!”

“He didn’t!” She interrupted, trying to keep his rage from rising once again, “he only used his magic to stop mine. He didn’t want to fight me, he just wanted to talk.”

“The human wanted to talk?” He scoffed.

“Yes!” She insisted.

“Tell me you did not allow the human to poison you with his words,” his tone turned demeaning, in a way it did far too often in these recent months.

“He did not poison me!” She bit back, her own fury flaring at his condescension, “we spoke and he made me an offer.”

“How bold of him,” he mocked.

“Will you at least listen to what he had to say!?” Blake snapped, tired of his derision, “he offered me a chance to help stop an all out war between our people!”

“And you believed him?” He accused, “don’t you see what that means? They fear us, beloved. They know they cannot stop us if we go to war, so they try to trick us instead.”

“This is no trick, my love,” she insisted, “we can finally have peace.”

“I do not want peace!” Taurus shouted, “you think I will accept anything less than retribution? You think I will rest until I have my revenge?”

When had her love become so self centered?

It was as if a glamour had begun to crack in front of her, and she did not like what hid behind it.

“What about the rest of us? Are we not allowed to choose peace!?” She countered.

“My love, don’t you understand?” He asked, voice turning sickly sweet, “the humans are just trying to divide us. They know how strong we are, and they know they don’t stand a chance if we fight together. Their peace is nothing but a deception meant to weaken us.”

“But love--”

“See?” He interrupted, moving closer and gently holding her in his arms, “If they can make us argue like this, can you imagine how easily they would split our people?”

She pushed him away and growled, “you think me some child who can be swayed by some treats? You think I let those humans live because some old man with a fancy cane dangled a boon in front of me?”

That made him quiet down for a moment, and she had hoped he had seen reason, but she had no such luck.

“What boon?”

“He promised to take away our only weakness,” Blake answered, “make me immune to the touch of iron.”

And so Taurus laughed, “you believed that?”

“Yes!” She roared back, “and it’s my choice to offer him my trust. I did not come here to ask for your permission. I came here to let you know I would be leaving.”

“What!? You’re just gonna leave me like that? Gonna choose some human lie over your people? Over us!?” He accused, hand reaching to grab her.

Her tail whipped and poisonous thorns scratched at his skin. Her toxin would not kill him, but it still caused him terrible pain.

“If this is truly about us. If you really do love me, then say my name, Taurus!” Blake demanded. His name that had once tasted like love in her lips, now tasted of rage, and bitterness, it was an accusation, and a challenge. Show me that you love me, or leave me forever!

And so Taurus made the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

He hesitated, and that told her all she had to know.

He would never see her again.

[riotwritesthings]

Melt into Me (Your Words Are My Own)

WinterIron, E, 18k, Heavy casual praise kink, pining, non-graphic injury, self care is big sexy | AO3

Remember when I said this prompt for WinterIronMonth got way out of hand? I was young and naive. It’s a monster. Here it is I’m super proud of it. 

This fic, like lots of other fic, is all Stella’s fault. Everyone say thank you. And an extra big thank you for the idea, and the title, and in general letting me whine about this fic at you all the way through. You are truly a treasure.

-

Bucky has a new strategy for getting Tony to take proper human care of himself. Tony has never been so well fed, hydrated, thoroughly rested, and confused in all his life.  

That doesn’t mean he wants it to stop, and it’s amazing how many boring adult things Bucky can get him to do just by patting his head and calling him ‘good boy’. Right up until Tony possibly ruins everything.

-

“Did you actually go to medical before coming down here?” Bucky asks as he walks into the lab. He fixes Tony with an expectant stare, looking freshly showered and gorgeous and-

Tony viciously shoves down that line of thought, instead holds up his arm and shows off the neat line of stitches on his forearm “I did,” he says smugly, “and you can tell, because these are much neater than when I do it myself.”

“Your stitches are terrible, I’ve seen literal evil scientists with better needlework than you,” Bucky says agreeably, stepping close to inspect Tony’s arm before giving a satisfied nod.

“That’s hurtful,” Tony says, dropping his arm and turning back to his worktable before he does something stupid like lean in and try to get a big whif of the shampoo Bucky uses. “Now where’s my treat, that was the deal, I went and let the ‘professionals’ sew me up and you better not be backing out on your end of the deal, or-“ Tony cuts off when a ziplock bag of homemade cookies lands on the table in front of him, straight from Bucky’s secret stash that no one has been able to find. “Yay,” he says gleefully, ripping into the bag.

Bucky’s hand is suddenly resting on top of his head, gently ruffling it, and Tony is uncomfortably aware of the fact that his hair is a sweaty mess because he may have gotten distracted on the way to his post-battle shower. Then Bucky pats his head and coos “yeah, tha’s a good boy.” His voice is equal parts teasing and amused, maybe a hint of condescension and underneath it all a fond warmth, like he really is pleased Tony dragged his pitiful human ass to medical after a relatively routine fight.

Tony flushes hot, nearly chokes on his giant mouthful of cookie and the only saving grace is that Bucky has already wandered away to play some kind of elaborate game with the bots. Tony still does not understand the rules of said game, and he wishes he found it less endearing that Bucky refuses to explain it to him.

Okay, so. That... that happened. Tony turns his attention back to the gauntlet he’s trying to repair and tells himself it’s fine, it’s not like it’ll ever happen again. It’s fine.

-

And the thing is, it’s not like Tony meant for it to happen again. It’s not like he was aiming for it. At least... not intentionally.

It’s just that Bucky’s been pestering him about actually remembering to eat lunch at a decent time recently, so when one day Tony actually does remember he decides to rub it in a little. ‘Ate lunch,’ he texts even though it’s silly, it doesn’t even matter and Bucky is only a couple floors up helping Steve rearrange furniture to Natasha’s liking for the millionth time. ‘Don’t see the big deal, but now maybe you’ll leave me alone you big mother hen.’

About half an hour later, Tony is heading to check out the new common room arrangement when Bucky texts him back and he laughs when he sees that it’s just a cookie emoji. Then Bucky adds ‘good boy’ and Tony makes a strangled sound as he walks into the still-opening doors of the elevator.

Tony spins on his heel and punches the door-close button before anyone spots him. Because he really doesn’t need company while he presses his flaming red face against the cool metal wall of the elevator, his heart thumping hard in his chest. Tony firmly tells himself that had not been his intention, and it’s really a good thing he’s so experienced at lying to himself.

-

Tony tracks Bucky down to hand over the fancy new scope he’s just finished, and finds him in the library curled up in an oversized armchair. It’s unfairly adorable, and Bucky’s smile does dangerous things to his heart.

“Thanks doll,” Bucky says, staring up at him instead of inspecting his new toy. When Tony tries to literally wave him off, already turning for the door, Bucky catches him by the wrist and gives a gentle tug until Tony relents and meets his stupid earnest gaze. “I mean it,” Bucky says, “I know how hard you been workin’ on this, thank you.”

Tony sputters, and then makes a couple nonsense noises while something uncurls warm and amazing in his chest. “No worries,” he finally manages and it’s both a relief and a disappointment when Bucky releases his wrist. “Making scopes is my jam. That’s better than the one I just put on Clint’s bow. Don’t tell him.”

“I’m gonna tell ‘im,” Bucky says instantly, smug and grinning and still just staring up at Tony, like he could possibly be more interesting than a digital scope. “I get the best stuff an’ I wanna make sure he knows it.”

“Whatever makes you happy, snowflake,” Tony says, face warm because oh god he’s so obvious, isn’t he? When he turns to enact a manly flee, Bucky lets him go and the sound of his soft, fond laugh follows Tony the rest of the day.

-

It kind of spirals out of control from there. Tony tells himself he doesn’t love it, but even he doesn’t believe himself anymore.

Bucky snatches the coffee cup out of Tony’s hand and replaces it with a glass of water before Tony can even begin to formulate a protest. For a long second all Tony can do is blink in stunned silence because how dare?!

Tony narrows his eyes in a glare, and apparently the twitching of his free hand gives him away because Bucky shifts to hold the mug way up above his head with that wide, gorgeous grin. Tony is pretty sure, if he tried hard enough, he could get that mug back, but it would probably end in both of them covered in water and/or hot coffee. And it would involve a lot of pressing himself against Bucky and attempting to climb him like a tree, which is... probably not a great plan.

So Tony chugs the water, glaring the whole time, and then Bucky hands back his coffee with a quiet “good.” Tony struggles to fight back his blush, can’t at all help the smile that takes over his face, and Bucky just smiles back before continuing on his way.

-

“JARVIS, please wake Bucky up just to inform him that I am pointedly not getting more coffee at three in the morning, and please do it as obnoxiously as possible,” Tony says as he stares into the depths of the fridge, “I’m thinking air sirens. Neon lights.”

There’s a soft, low chuckle from right behind him, and Tony has just enough time to freeze up, his eyes going wide. Then Bucky’s hand is in his once again messy hair, and Bucky’s low, sleep-rough voice is rumbling out “good boy.”

By the time Tony finds his own voice again Bucky has leaned in close against his back to swipe one of Clint’s juice boxes, patted him on the shoulder, and started for the door. “If I’m a good boy then where’s my cookie?” He calls after Bucky’s retreating back, tongue thick and heart racing.

“Good boys go t’ sleep,” Bucky calls back, pointedly, and Tony grumbles all the way to bed.

He sleeps like a fucking baby, wakes up still feeling warm and happy and flushed.

-

"I don't need a brain scan," Tony insists. Again. “My brain is fine. It’s excellent. It is a stunning example of a human brain, ask anyone. Except Bruce, but he’s still just mad that I broke his favorite microscope.”

Bucky continues to stare him down, then lifts his shiny metal hand. "How many fingers am I holdin’ up?" He demands, and Tony would be insulted if he wasn’t having such a hard time focusing.

Tony stares at his hand, counting carefully. "Three," he finally declares, with full confidence.

"That took entirely too long!" Bucky says, dropping his hand again even though it looks like what he really wants to do is just throw both hands in the air and yeah, Tony gets that a lot. "You have a knot the size of a fuckin’ golf ball an’ no offense, but it’s ruinin’ your pretty face. Go get th’ damn scan!"

Tony taps his screwdriver against his chin, eyes on the ceiling, and decides he should probably wait to freak out about the ‘pretty face’ comment later, alone. So for now he turns a sunny smile on Bucky, pointing his screwdriver, and says "no.”

"Please, doll? Do it for me?" Bucky asks, completely shifting tactics, and he even has the gall to pout at Tony. With his blue eyes and red lips. The nerve of it.

Tony holds firm. For about five seconds. "Fine," he sighs, dropping the screwdriver to the table so he can throw both hands in the air himself.

Bucky smiles at him, warm and relieved and something that Tony almost wants to call thankful and Tony has to drop his chin because he can’t deal with that face.

Moving his head so suddenly kind of makes the room spin, and Bucky ends up having to carry him to the medical wing. Bucky also lectures him the whole time, but his hands are so gentle and he stays for the entire thing and Tony finds that he only minds the lectures a little.

-

Tony wakes up from a nap he definitely hadn’t intended to take, still sprawled out on the couch in the common room with Bucky’s fingers still running through his hair. He has no idea how much time has passed but the TV is off and the windows are dark. He appears to have stolen Sam’s blanket, at some point.

He twists his head, still resting on Bucky’s thigh, to fix Bucky with a baleful look and says “I thought I told you I didn’t need a nap.”

“‘S not like I made you fall asleep,” Bucky says, smiling innocently even though he basically did, with his stupid magic hands. Then Bucky’s grin turns into a smirk, voice low as he adds “but don’t you feel better now?”

Tony pouts harder, because he does, and Bucky laughs, continues petting his head until Tony falls right back to sleep.

-

“You do not want me helping you cook,” Tony says with a sputtering laugh, but he steps further into the kitchen anyways, because whatever Bucky is cooking smells amazing. And because it’s Bucky. “I can’t believe you’d ask me to come help you cook. Did JARVIS not tell you how much of a terrible idea that is?”

“Just be good an’ get over here,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t look up from stirring whatever’s in the giant pot but Tony can hear him rolling his eyes.

“I will be no help,” Tony assures him, but steps up to the stove anyways, trying to peek over the rim of the pot. “Is that tomato sauce? Please say yes, and then please don’t let me ruin it.”

Bucky lets out a huff of laughter and turns towards him, wooden spoon outheld, and says “c’mon doll I need a taste tester.” When Tony just blinks at him, Bucky wiggles the spoon a little and says “open up, sweet thing.”

Tony does his best to ignore what that particular choice of words does to him, instead making a big show of checking the spoon for signs of poison or sabotage, humming suspiciously until Bucky gives an impatient huff. Only then does Tony give in, leaning in just a little more to drag his tongue up the flat back of the wooden spoon and then groans happily, because holy shit that is some good sauce. He opens his eyes to tell Bucky so, not sure when they fell closed in the first place, only to find Bucky watching him with an intensity that has Tony’s breath catching in his throat.

“Good?” Bucky asks, like he doesn't already know the answer, and when Tony nods emphatically he grins. “See,” he says, voice suddenly gone low and deep, not looking away from Tony even as he returns to stirring the pot, “you can be good an’ helpful, knew you could babydoll.”

Bucky finally turns back to the stove, just in the nick of time because there’s not a damn thing Tony can do about the warmth spreading across his cheeks, unfurling in his chest. “Yes, very helpful,” Tony says with a dry laugh, “what would you do without me here to lick things?”

Bucky’s eyes flick over to him, lids lowered in a way that is giving Tony ideas, and his lips quirk up and as he says “have to lick things myself I guess, an’ where’s the fun in that?” Tony barks out a startled laugh, face heating, and Bucky grins down at the pot. “Gonna stay and eat with me, right?” He asks pointedly, like he’s just daring Tony to say no.

Tony pretends like he actually has to think about it, making considering noises and dragging his eyes away from the smug curve of Bucky’s lips. “Do I get a treat afterwards?” He asks obnoxiously, giving Bucky a little nudge with his elbow.

“Mmhmm,” Bucky hums, gaze shifting over to him again. Tony can feel his pulse in his fingertips in the best possible way and he has to bite his lip so he won’t start blurting out suggestions. Bucky’s eyes flick down, just for a second, and then he says “go get some plates.”

So they eat dinner, and Bucky demands to know all of Tony’s greatest cooking disasters and yeah he laughs his ass off but he also keeps giving Tony these wide, warm smiles, and Tony finds that he really doesn’t mind. He’d tell Bucky every embarrassing thing he’s ever done if he gets to hear that laugh. And he’s done a lot.

When Tony starts shoving his empty plate across the table, knocking it into Bucky’s obnoxiously, Bucky just laughs and goes to rummage around in the pantry. Which is a foolish move, because now Tony knows his secret sweets stash is in fact somewhere in the pantry. Which is more than anyone else knows.

Bucky returns with a chocolate and peanut butter cookie roughly half the size of Tony’s face, and then watches him eat it with an unfairly intense stare. Bucky barely glances down at his own plate as he devours a second, and then a third helping of food, just watches Tony eat the cookie that he’s starting to suspect Bucky has been saving just for him. Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing in the world, nothing more interesting than watching Tony make a mess of himself with baked goods, licking smears of chocolate off his fingers.

The heat in Tony’s gut is battling for attention with the warmth in his chest, and he can’t do much more than stare back. He barely even remembers the walk to the elevator after Bucky firmly suggests he should get some sleep once in a while, the weight of Bucky’s eyes on his shoulders all the way down the hallway.

He falls asleep thinking the word ‘ravenous’ and wakes up panting, stuck to his sheets and aching.

-

Bucky walks into the room, and Tony switches from eating his breakfast like a normal, rational person, to eating it pointedly, fork scraping across his plate, loud chewing, the works.

Bucky just smiles, big and genuine, says “look at you, feedin’ yourself, I’m so proud,” like he really means it. Tony swallows thickly, heart thundering in his chest and an addictive warmth spreading through him. That still doesn’t mean he lets Bucky get away with trying to steal his bacon, though.

And okay yeah, Tony feels a little bad, if he stops to let himself think about it. Feels like a bit of a creep, but only a little. Because it’s not like Bucky knows that every tiny nice thing he says goes straight to Tony’s head. And his heart. And also a little bit to his dick. Just like Bucky doesn’t know that Tony has had a big useless crush on him for like a year now and really, what’s one more secret?

And besides, unless Tony is actually as out-of-touch as some people like to accuse him of being, it almost seems like Bucky is happier too. Like for some reason he actually likes keeping Tony alive and functional, and really, who would Tony be if he took that away? If Bucky gets some sense of accomplishment out of forcing Tony to get three square meals and eight-ish hours of sleep, then who is Tony to deny him?

It’s just one more tiny little secret.

-

Tony barely manages not to audibly sigh in relief as the reporter who’s been hounding him gets distracted by some kind of commotion over by the catering table and hurries away, lest he miss the story. Tony’s smile doesn’t slip, because he’s a pro, but it’s difficult. Tony loves his mother’s charity, he really does, it’s the only gala he doesn’t have to be convinced to go to, but he really wishes people wouldn’t ruin it by insisting on asking about Howard.

If Tony has to grit his teeth one more time and say that Howard was a ‘great man’ (debatable) or that he ‘always supported Maria in her causes’ (outright lie), then he’s going to snap and do something drastic. Like go raid the entire bar. Or cry.

“You don’t have t’ put up with that,” comes a voice from right beside him, and Tony jumps hard even though he’d know that voice anywhere. Apparently, Tony is even more tense than he’d realized, and the concerned look on Bucky’s face means he’s probably noticed too.

“I’m going to put a bell on you, almost gave me a heart attack,” Tony grumbles, clutching one hand to his chest and hoping like hell that they can just not talk about it.

Bucky hums thoughtfully, then grins and says “Sneakin’ with a bell, sounds like a fun challenge.”

“That is not the point of the bell,” Tony says seriously, pointing at him, and not letting his eyes drag down the line of Bucky’s body, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how good Bucky’s legs look in a well-fitted suit.

“I mean it,” Bucky says, smiling dimming a little, and so much for Tony’s attempts to deflect, “you know you don’t have to put up with that, right?”

“What?” Tony asks blankly, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers, he never gets away with playing dumb. Sure enough, Bucky fixes him with a flat look until Tony sighs and says “Yes, I kind of do.”

“No,” Bucky says, so firm and urgent that Tony is a little taken aback, catching Tony gently by the elbow when he tries to turn, tries to look for a distraction. “Maybe you have to be here, an’ maybe you have to play nice, but you don’t have t’ answer anythin’ you don’t wanna. And you especially don’ have to talk about him.”

Tony doesn’t know what he feels at this point, some mix of frozen and warm and fuzzy, flushed hot while ice runs through his veins, and he kind of can’t believe that Bucky has been watching him that closely-

“I don’t?” He asks and hates how weak his voice comes out, how unsure, but he’s been talking up Howard at these stupid things for as long as he can remember, it’s second nature, and no one has ever told him that he doesn’t have to in his his entire life-

“No, Tony,” Bucky says and his voice has gone soft too, rough and a little sad and he smiles crookedly as he adds “jus’ tell ‘em to fuck off if they keep tryin’.”

“Well I definitely can’t do that,” Tony huffs. Bucky’s fingers are still holding him so gently, thumb dragging over the inside of his elbow, making Tony shiver just as much as holding him standing.

“You’ll figure it out,” Bucky says, smiling a little wider again and tapping his thumb against Tony’s pulse through his sleeve, “you got that way with words, sweet talker, ‘m sure you’ll come up with somethin’.”

“You’re the sweet talker,” Tony grumbles, and Bucky laughs softly.

Not even half an hour later the same damn reporter corners him as he steps off the stage after his speech, asking the same damn questions, and Tony hesitates. Then he decides fuck it, throws out all his prepared responses, slaps on his sharpest smile and bites out “I’m not going to talk about that anymore.”

The reporter actually looks a little thrown for a second, then visibly steels his nerve and says “People just want to know what it was like growing up with-“

“No,” Tony says, smiling wider, sharper, “I’ve already answered that question what must be a million times by now, how about you go dig up one of those stories and republish that. I’m sure it’ll be better written that way, anyways.” The reporter is still sputtering as Tony turns and walks away, slips into a side hallway to pat himself on the back and maybe panic-breathe, just a little.

He’s barely slumped back against the wall before Bucky is right in front of him, breathing out “Oh, Tony.”

“Seriously, a bell, a big one,” Tony repeats, smile only a little wobbly as he drags his eyes up to meet Bucky’s, and then can’t help blurting out “Did I- was that... okay?”

“Perfect,” Bucky says instantly, jolting forward and then stopping, like he’d been about to pull Tony in for a hug before thinking better of it. Which is too bad, Tony could really go for a hug right now but it’s almost just as good when Bucky says “That was perfect, you did so good sweet thing, don’t you feel better now?”

“Yes,” Tony says with a heavy sigh, not even realizing how much he means it until all the tension bleeds out of him and before he can stop himself Tony is leaning forward to thump his forehead against Bucky’s chest, letting his eyes fall closed and breathing in the comforting, earthy smell of Bucky’s cologne. He just can’t take the warmth and open pride in Bucky’s gaze anymore, not without running the very serious risk of turning to a useless puddle of mush.

Of course, then Bucky’s right hand lands warm and gentle on the back of Tony’s head, wide palm cradling his skull easily and thumb stroking down the line of his neck, the other hand curled around Tony’s shoulder and pulling him a little closer. “So proud’a you, Tony, did so good, knew you could do it doll,” Bucky says softly, speaking directly against the top of Tony’s head while his fingers slide through Tony’s hair.

“I’ve told off reporters before,” Tony huffs, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers, Bucky apparently sees right through him, “I do it all the time. Did you miss when I snapped at one of them during that last press conference and Steve gave me disappointed face?”

Bucky just hums, taps his metal fingers against the curve of Tony’s shoulder blade. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice barely more than a breath, “For everyone else. Always makin’ sure the rest of th’ team never has to talk about anythin’ they don’t want to the press. Never cut yourself any slack like that, though, do ya?”

Tony’s breath catches in his throat, and how does Bucky do that?! He has no response, no idea what to say, absolutely never expected to be called out. Not on this. When Bucky makes a soft, expectant sound, like he’s actually waiting for an answer, all Tony can do is shake his head a little, careful not to accidentally dislodge Bucky’s hold on him.

“You’re worth it too, ya hear me?” Bucky asks, his hold on Tony tightening ever so slightly, one finger tap tap tapping at the back of Tony’s head until Tony finally huffs and nods. “Good boy,” Bucky says, still so softly, and if he notices the way Tony all but melts against him, at least he doesn’t say anything about it.

-

Tony shuffles down the hallway, frowning at his phone and glancing up every now and then just to make sure he’s not about to run into anyone. Considering he lives in a tower full of spies, soldiers, and other assorted superheroes, they all have surprisingly terrible situational awareness sometimes. And sure, it’s heartwarming that they can all let their guard down, at least a little, but he’s also a little tired of people tripping and breaking things because Thor likes to nap in hallways.

When he glances up and spots Bucky in his path, he steps to the side and barely has time for a “Hey frosty, Clint was looking for you. He was also holding a water gun, so I’d be careful.” After a quick grin Tony returns to squinting at his phone, and therefore does not see it coming at all when Bucky gently grabs his elbow and halts him in his tracks.

“Hey, you okay?” Bucky asks, an adorable little concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. He also lets go of Tony’s arm, which is a shame.

Tony blinks, then glances down at himself. He’s not sure what gave Bucky the impression that something is wrong, if it was the stained and hole-littered jeans, the wrinkled shirt, or the fact that Tony apparently lost one of his socks somewhere. Huh.

“Yeah, fine,” Tony says and waves his phone a little, “just got a lot to do. You know how it is. Every day I receive emails, so on and so forth.”

“You got a headache?” Bucky asks, randomly, even though Tony does. It’s pounding right behind his eyes, and all along his temple, and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. All in all, it’s a high quality headache.

“No,” Tony says anyways, because he has things to do, and Bucky is making ‘go take a nap’ face at him. It’s a very specific face. “My head feels awesome, better than awesome, I gotta get down to the lab, so, you better be getting on with your water gun fight. Watch the furniture.”

Tony tries to step away again, before Bucky can guilt him into not working, but Bucky snaps a hand out and catches him by the belt loop on his hip. It’s everything Tony can do not to swallow his tongue.

“What you gotta do is take a break,” Bucky says firmly, and Tony is opening his mouth to ask if that means he’s invited to the water gun fight, but Bucky apparently sees it coming and cuts him off. “Go take a nap, Tony.”

“I don’t want a nap,” Tony whines petulantly and braces his bare foot against the ground, leans against Bucky’s hold and trusts him not to actually let go as Tony pouts at him.

“Then at least go lay down,” Bucky says, heartlessly. When Tony just pouts at him harder Bucky rolls his eyes with a soft huff and says “Do it an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ to drink.” When Tony opens his mouth Bucky immediately adds “not coffee.”

Tony gasps in horror, but Bucky remains unswayed. “Fine, hot chocolate,” he demands, leaning a little harder despite the way his worn jeans are gaping at the waist and more than likely to rip at any second.

Bucky considers, eyes dragging down Tony’s chest and probably counting the grease stains on his shirt, and finally says “Water an’ then hot chocolate.”

“Fine, I will go to my room and await my beverage delivery,” Tony says, already running mental calculations on exactly how long he has to run to the lab and grab his tablet then stash it somewhere before Bucky catches him.

“You goin’ straight to your room?” Bucky asks, one eyebrow raised, and damnit how does he do that?! Tony is seriously considering

Tony groans, then gives what Rhodey has assured him is the worst salute humanly possible as he says “Sir yes sir, Sargent Tastee-Freeze.”

Bucky grins with lots of teeth and tugs at Tony’s belt loop to pull him back upright again as he says “Good boy.”

Tony goes straight to his room, and Bucky’s smile when he finds Tony already curled up under a blanket with the lights in the room down low is totally worth it. The amazing hot chocolate is just a bonus.

-

“Tony,” Bucky says, voice frantic, “Tony, you gotta stay awake.”

“Hurts,” Tony complains, just in case Bucky hasn’t noticed that he’s bleeding out here. And he’s supposed to be the observant one.

“I know, I know it does,” Bucky says and his fingers are shaking as he brushes Tony’s hair off of his forehead. His other hand is incredibly steady as it presses a crumpled jacket to Tony’s bleeding stomach, making him groan pitifully. “You gotta stay awake for me, doll, jus’ stay awake.”

“Wanna sleep,” Tony says petulantly, because that sounds way better than being awake for all this agony. His eyelids are already fluttering shut and he’s not worried about the asshole that shot him, if Bucky is here then there’s nothing to worry about. Tony is pretty sure Natasha was around here too somewhere, but it’s surprisingly hard to remember.

“No no no, wake up,” Bucky says, voice cracking, and maybe there is something to worry about, if Bucky sounds that upset. Tony wonders what it is. “C’mon, wake up for me sweetheart, be a good boy and just- jus’ open your eyes.”

“Good?” Tony slurs out and cracks one eye open, just enough to see that Bucky’s face is wet and if Tony didn’t know better he’d think Bucky was crying.

“Yeah Tony,” Bucky says with a smile that’s entirely too shaky, sounding entirely too desperate, “jus’ be good and stay awake for me, give you all the fuckin’ cookies you want, give you anything.” His hand is on Tony’s cheek again, fingers so warm, and when Tony’s eyes start to fall closed again Bucky gives him the slightest of shakes and says “Hey, hey, c’mon doll, don’t you got some demands for me? Gotta stay awake to tell me what you want, baby.”

“Wanna be good,” Tony manages to croak out, struggling to get his stubborn eyes to open and actually focus. He almost wishes he hadn’t, because there’s something horribly stricken about Bucky’s expression, something startled and scared and it drags a pained noise out of Tony’s chest that has nothing to do with the blood pooling below him.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks after a pause and he’s shaking all over now, everywhere but his metal hand still pressed firm and agonizing over the bullet holes in Tony’s stomach. “Wanna be good for me, you gotta stay awake until the paramedics get here, can you do that sweet thing?”

“Gross, hate them,” Tony says, and Bucky’s laugh sounds more like a choked sob. Tony flails one hand up until he can grab weakly at Bucky’s shirt. “‘Kay, stayin’ awake,” he says and decides to not mention that he can taste blood with each word, instead tugging at Bucky’s shirt a little as he slurs out “just cuz y’re a worrier.”

“That’s real sweet of ya, darlin’,” Bucky says and at least his laugh sounds a little less ragged, a little less like it’s being dragged out of him.

Everything goes a little fuzzy after that, but Tony doesn’t let go of his grip on Bucky’s shirt until the EMTs start heartlessly cutting into his nice suit. Bucky doesn’t let go for even longer.

 -

Tony did something wrong. He doesn't know what, but he knows he did something. Which is just, Classic Tony.

Except he does know, he knows exactly what he did and the knowledge sits in his stomach like a weight. He made it weird. He hasn't seen Bucky since he woke up in the hospital. Not really. Because Tony made it weird.

He’s not even sure what he did, exactly, except possibly everything. He’s got this huge sad crush on Bucky, sure, but he’s had that for ages now, and Tony is dealing with it. He’s dealing with it fine. And okay sure, maybe Tony has been acting like a bit of a creep about it, lately, getting all warm and fuzzy and tingly anytime Bucky does something nice for him. Which Bucky does all the time, because he’s a nice person.

And now Tony has scared him off, somehow, between bleeding out mid-press conference and being discharged from the hospital. Painkiller-Tony probably said something to give himself away, that loopy bastard has no filter.

But Tony tells himself it’s fine. It’s fine. Maybe he’ll finally get over this stupid, useless crush now. It’s not like he feels cold and lonely without Bucky’s constant hovering, or anything. It’s not like the fact that Bucky will barely look at him hurts more than the multiple lines of stitches in his stomach, or anything.

It’s fine.

-

He shuffles slow and careful into the kitchen at stupid-o-clock in the morning, after his second (third?) night without sleep, and there’s no super soldier laying in wait to snatch away his coffee. And force feed him an obscene stack of pancakes. And bitch at him for not sleeping enough when he’s technically still recovering from his unintended run-in with multiple bullets.

The best he gets is Natasha telling him he looks like a zombie and throwing an apple at his head, which really just doesn’t have the same charm. Even if she does do it gently, while giving him concerned eyes.

So Tony gets his coffee, takes his apple, goes back to the lab and wakes up later that day with everything aching because he passed out sprawled across a worktable again. His back is sore and he’s hungry and his stitches burn from being hunched over for hours.

But it’s fine. Tony is fine, he’s an adult, he’s been barely-taking-care-of himself for years. It’s fine.

-

Bucky is still around, is the thing, he still cracks dry jokes at Steve’s expense and hoards all the blankets on movie nights.

He still wanders down to the lab to play with the bots, but it’s not as often. Not that Tony has made charts, or anything, just to prove to himself that it’s not all in his head. He brings down plates of food, also less often, and doesn’t stick around to make sure Tony eats them. Tony never plans to, plans to shove the food away for a proper pout, but after the third time he finds himself finishing off the plate and halfway through texting Bucky about it before realizing better, Tony gives up. He switches to just eating as soon as Bucky leaves the lab, and he doesn’t even have to lie to himself that it’s just a different form of pouting.

When Tony tracks him down to hand over some new body armor, Bucky still thanks him with entirely too much sincerity, like he still doesn’t realize that this is just what Tony does. It still makes Tony’s heart lurch and his stomach swoop and his face heat, but when Tony goes to run away because he still doesn’t know how to deal with that, Bucky doesn’t stop him.

Bucky still watches his back in every fight and suggests weird sci-fi books, still leaves leftovers with Tony’s name on them in the fridge just like he always has. Tony still has his friend, is the thing, and when he tells himself that’s all he’d ever expected it’s not even a lie.

-

JARVIS is the one to gently remind him when it’s time to have his stitches removed, Tony is nearly overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cry. Because he can’t remember the last time Bucky wasn’t the one dragging him down to medical for boring things like follow up appointments, bribing him with baked goods and smiling all the while.

Tony is tempted to just remove them himself, he’s so tempted. Because it’s not like he can’t, it’s what he used to do before Bucky started his whole ‘aggressive mother hen’ routine. He even has the tiny scissors in hand, sterilized and everything, but he can’t stop picturing that sad little twist to Bucky’s lips, the way his eyes go wet and pained when he catches Tony doing his own first aid. And Tony can’t even lie to himself that Bucky doesn’t care anymore, because they’re still friends, it’s not like Tony can exactly blame him for needing space now that he almost definitely knows Tony has feelings.

Eventually Tony throws down the scissors so aggressively that DUM-E makes concerned beeping noises at him, and he definitely gets some weird looks when he stomps into medical grumpy and painfully alone. No one asks any questions about it though, about the sudden Bucky-shaped hole in his side, and Tony wonders just how miserable he must look.

-

He nearly runs straight into Bucky in the hallway at something-past-midnight, and it’s all Tony can do to not spill his extra large mug of coffee all over both of them.

“You give me one more heart attack and I’m actually putting that bell on you,” Tony threatens, clutching his mug close to his chest even though odds are pretty good Bucky isn’t going to try and take it from him anymore.

Sure enough, Bucky only makes sad-eyes at his coffee for about two seconds, then drags his eyes up to Tony’s face and says “Just make sure they sound extra Christmas-y, to fit with my whole ‘winter’ vibe.”

Tony laughs and tells himself that this is fine. He still has a friend, still gets to enjoy Bucky’s weird sense of humor, still gets to see him around in the common rooms and that’s plenty, it’s fine. He almost manages to believe it. “Christmas anti-stealth bells, your wish is my command,” Tony says, nodding seriously. And then he raises his coffee to his lips and takes an obnoxiously loud sip, doesn’t know why he does it except that he absolutely does, stupidly trying to bait Bucky into snatching it away from him, insisting Tony take it easy, get some sleep some time this week, something.

All Bucky does is make sadder-eyes at him, which is not what Tony had been going for now he feels terrible. Bucky opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it again, and honestly that’s worse than the way Tony’s stomach still throbs dully anytime he laughs, it’s an aching hurt that settles deep in his chest and makes it hard to breathe.

“Well, I better get on it,” Tony says and takes a shuffling step back because he doesn't know what else to do, he doesn’t know how to fix this. He’s tried to stop having this big stupid crush, fuck has he tried, but he can’t. It just gets worse and Tony is starting to think he’s never getting over it, just one more chronic ache he’ll never shake.

Tony needs to go, he needs to get out of here and go put himself back together so he can stop doing this to himself. But when he turns too quickly it sends a sharp pain lancing through his gut and Tony can’t quite stop the hiss that slips out of him. He doesn’t stop moving though, just pushes through and keeps his steps as carefully measured as he can, even when Bucky makes a soft, wounded noise that sounds like he’s trying to swallow it down.

Bucky doesn’t actually say anything though, and soon enough Tony is alone in his room holding a mug of coffee he’s just now realizing he doesn’t even want. He dumps it out in the sink, crawls into bed for another good pout and ends up falling asleep for eight hours.

-

So Tony keeps feeding himself and getting a good night’s sleep every so often. He even waits until he’s officially cleared by the doctors to start demanding to be let back into the field and he drinks the occasional glass of water. He keeps doing all those things even after he stops hoping Bucky will ruffle his hair and call him a ‘good boy’ in that tone that’s somehow the perfect mix of fond and amused and bossy and maybe just a little condescending.

Because they’re still friends, and Tony doesn’t want to ruin that too. He doesn't want to keep making Bucky make sad-eyes at him across the lab when he catches Tony chewing on coffee beans to keep himself awake, holding a half-melted ice pack to his face and squinting at his screens.

So maybe Tony has a big sad crush, and maybe Bucky figured that out somehow. Probably the fact that Tony got inappropriately tingly when Bucky treated him like a particularly stupid house pet, because Bucky has completely stopped. Tony is not letting himself think about how much he misses it, because that’s not the point.

The point is that they’re friends, and if it makes Bucky sad when his friends can’t take basic human care of themselves, well the least Tony can do is try to do better. It was just a lot easier when he could look forward to Bucky patting his head and calling him ‘good’ in that way that sent heat spiraling through Tony’s entire body.

But whatever. Tony manages.

-

“We should order pizza,” Tony announces, marching into the common room and nearly shouting to be heard over what appears to be half the team heckling a baking show.

“Are you trying to start another screaming match?” Steve demands, giving him a horrified look, “this tower cannot agree on pizza toppings, we’ve learned this.”

“I’ll just order everyone their own, no screaming, no problem,” Tony says dismissively, “I just finished with an all-day meeting that could have lasted an hour tops and I’m starving and the only thing that can make it better is pizza.” He ends his declaration with a whine and a little stomp of his foot, and tells himself that the sound of Bucky’s quiet laugh doesn’t make his chest warm. He needs to get better at lying to himself.

“But then I still have to see the abomination Clint calls a pizza, and how am I supposed to eat like that?” Sam demands, shooting a look at Clint who’s already half on-top of his arm chair and drawing in a huge breath to no doubt shout his rebuttal.

“I’m still going to do it,” Tony says gleefully, drowned out by the onslaught of yelling and already pulling out his phone.

“Are you happy now?” Steve demands as Sam and Clint start whipping throw pillows across the room at each other while Bucky laughs, egging them on and tossing Clint more ammo.

And yeah, Tony kind of is.

-

Someone walks into the workshop and Tony’s head snaps up, but it’s just Clint. Tony is not disappointed.

“Stop giving me that look,” Clint says, pointing one finger at Tony’s face. “Bucky wanted me to come down here and remind you to go to medical. He also told me not to tell you he told me to, but I’ve conveniently forgotten that part.”

“Convenient for who?” Tony asks with a huff of laughter, and ignores the way it makes his stupid heart feel all warm that Bucky still worries, at least, even if he doesn’t actually want to come down and face Tony’s crush himself. It’s still something.

Clint ignores him in favor of poking at the things scattered across the worktables, never mind that most of it is weaponry of some kind, and when Tony throws a screwdriver at him Clint spins around with an unimpressed look. “What’s up with you two, anyways? You’re being weirder than normal,” he demands, throwing the screwdriver back.

“Go tell him I’ve already been,” Tony says, barely managing to catch the tool before it hits him in the face, “my stomach is fine, they just taped up my ribs and gave me a tetanus shot. Tetanus!” And no, for the record, Tony had not spent the entire time thinking about how Bucky probably would have let Tony hold his hand, if he’d been there.

“Go tell him yourself, you incredible idiot,” Clint says, and then starts poking at dangerous things until Tony kicks him out of the lab.

-

“Why are you up before noon and looking like you actually slept?” Video-call-Rhodey demands, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “who are you and what have you done with Tony?”

“Fuck you, platypus,” Tony says pleasantly, “that’s hurtful, I know how to adult.” The look Rhodey fixes him with in return is so unimpressed Tony’s can feel it in his soul, even through the screen.

“I have known you for years,” Rhodey says slowly, “and I can emphatically say that no, you do not, and- Are you drinking water?”

“What? No,” Tony says, lowering his glass of water back out of frame. Rhodey continues to stare him down, and Tony just stares back, because there is no way they’re getting into this. Tony wouldn’t even know where to start, at this point.

He passes Bucky as he turns the corner towards the elevator, and Tony really wishes he had the time to ask what Bucky is grinning so wide about. As it is he has a meeting with Pepper to get to and best-friend-questions to avoid.

-

“You know what Steve,” Tony snaps, because he can’t take it anymore. He’s exhausted, he’s sore, he has a ton of work to do and he’s tired of being yelled at for shit that’s not his fault. He’s also tired of the sad look Bucky is giving him, like he thinks Tony can’t see him, like he thinks Tony doesn’t know that he doesn’t deserve this.

Steve actually falters, words trailing off as he blinks at Tony because yeah, Tony usually calls him ‘Rogers’ when he’s pissed, or at least ‘Cap’. And yeah it’s one of Tony’s favorite ways of distancing himself, what of it? He can feel Bucky’s stare like a physical weight on his chest, he’s frustrated enough with himself as it is, and Tony doesn’t want distance.

“I’m not a magician, okay,” Tony grits out, doesn’t snap it, keeps his voice even and clenches his fists to keep them from shaking, “hacking an encrypted system takes time, and it takes processing power. Processing power that is limited when I’m also using it to pilot the armor, so yeah, I hacked it as quick as I could, and if that’s not good enough then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Steve gapes at him for a second, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and Tony really wishes he could feel better about accomplishing that right now. “Oh,” Steve finally says, and Tony can’t help but notice that the debrief room has suddenly cleared out around them. “I- I didn’t-“

This is usually the part where Tony would jump on that moment of hesitation, tack on a couple barbs to easily push Steve from thrown-off to angry. It’s surprisingly easy, Tony has practically made an art form out of it. Because Tony is so much better at knowing what to do with people when they’re mad at him. But right now, Tony is tired, and he really needs a shower, and he really needs to get down to the lab and figure out how to up the power in the suit, make sure he doesn’t get caught unprepared again.

And yeah, Tony can still feel Bucky staring at him, and Tony doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it without breaking down and doing something ridiculous. Like demanding a hug. Or to have his head patted, or for reassurance that he did okay. And Tony doesn’t get that anymore, never should have had it in the first place, so he just turns and leaves.

Tony has nearly made his escape, and he’s managing to keep it together, right up until he catches sight of Buck’s face. Tony has spent a lot of time cataloging away all of Bucky’s expressions, telling himself the entire time that he’s not a creepy obsessed weirdo, and he’s never seen that face before. Some mix of happy and surprised and proud, and a hundred other things that Tony still hasn’t been able to figure out how to deal with. Seeing it less often apparently doesn’t stop Tony’s heart from lurching dangerously at the sight of that warm smile, doesn’t stop his stomach from working itself into a tight, heated knot.

No one follows after him, and after turning a couple corners blindly Tony finally lets himself slump back against a wall, just for a second. Just to try and catch his breath, try to fight down the warmth rising stubbornly in his chest.

-

Tony likes doing his test flights of the suits around dusk, when he can help it. He likes watching night fall over the city, likes watching the colors of the sunset give way to the bright lights that come to life in every window.

When he finally heads back for the tower he aims for the roof, figuring he’ll have the suit drop him off and then take itself down to the workshop to start running diagnostics on the new settings without him. It’ll take a while anyways, and Tony hasn’t had dinner yet. And for some reason, all of Tony’s friends seem weirdly invested in his eating habits and are weirdly thrilled when he remembers to do it. Tony is even doing a better job lately of convincing himself there’s not one friend in particular he’s trying to thrill.

Once the armor zips off towards the entrance on the workshop level the roof is dark, and Tony very nearly trips over Bucky on his way to the door. He makes an embarrassing squeaking noise but manages to keep his balance, only wincing a little as his toes throb because fuck what is Bucky’s shin made of?!

“Woah, shit, excellent lurking there, Frosty, truly A+ work,” Tony says, clutching at his chest, and he’s about to re-suggest his whole ‘put a bell on you’ plan when Bucky actually drags his eyes up from the ground to fix on Tony instead.

Bucky looks terrible. Which of course means he’s still one of the most gorgeous people Tony has ever seen, but the dark circles under his eyes hit Tony like a blow to the chest. Bucky’s hair is a mess, lines around his eyes deep and pronounced and he looks tired in a way that seeps straight down into your bones, eats you alive. Tony knows that feeling all too well, but he has no idea what to say in the face of it.

He doesn’t need to ask if Bucky is having a rough couple of days, it’s painfully obvious, and he knows Bucky isn’t going to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. And he very rarely wants to. It would certainly explain why Steve was looking for him yesterday, if Bucky has been hiding out avoiding everyone, which probably means that Bucky has been sitting out here on the roof for who knows how long and will continue sitting out here until he feels like a person again.

The fact that Bucky doesn’t say anything, doesn’t uncurl from his protective huddle against the wall, just stares up at Tony with shadowed eyes, means that he’s definitely not there yet. He barely even twitches when Tony’s stomach growls loudly, just raises one eyebrow slightly even though Tony is pretty sure that was loud enough for people down on the street to hear.

“I’m on my way right now!” Tony defends before Bucky can start making sad face at him, because that is probably the last thing Bucky needs right now, to be worrying that Tony is somehow going to starve to death without constant supervision. Bucky’s lip twitches in the barest hint of a smile, and Tony is absolutely going to count that as a win.

He’s about to leave, head inside and leave Bucky alone to his rooftop creeping, but then something occurs to him. If Bucky has been hiding out away from everyone, it stands to reason that he hasn’t been to the kitchen for food recently. There’s always someone in the kitchen. Tony hesitates for a second, and then decides fuck it. They’re friends, and fair is fair.

“Come on Snowflake,” he says firmly, no room for arguments, and holds out one hand for Bucky to take. “I’ll make you one of my specialties. Do you want a lumpy sandwich, or cold cereal?”

Bucky’s lips twitch ever so slightly further up as he takes Tony’s hand and pulls himself to his feet, and Tony is going to call that a resounding fucking victory.

-

Bucky loves sci-fi. Even worse, he loves cheesy, horrible sci-fi, and he gets a particular kick out of movies that are so inaccurate they send Bruce and sometimes even Tony into fits of rage.

It’s a serious problem, because Tony loves that Bucky loves shitty sci-fi. It’s hopelessly endearing, and Tony is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before he full on breaks down crying at the entirely-too-adorable sight of Bucky on the couch amid a mountain of blankets, happily humming along to the Stargate Atlantis theme song. Tony is only human, okay? He’s just trying to head back to the lab with his lunch and there’s only so much he can reasonably be expected to withstand.

It’s also a problem in that Bucky tends to get caught up in binge watching something and forget about things like sleeping, or the ever important feeding his super appetite. Which Tony gets, he really does, he is no stranger to getting wrapped up in something and forgetting everything else, so instead of suggesting Bucky take a break from his marathon at least long enough to get food, Tony just shoves his own plate into Bucky’s lap and leaves his glass of water on the coffee table with a pointed look.

Then he heads back to the kitchen to make another sandwich for himself, waving off Bucky’s stuttered, surprised-sounding thanks and refusing to let himself look back.

It kind of spirals out of control from there.

-

Tony sticks his head into the gym where, sure enough, Bucky and Steve are still having their stupid push up competition.

“Let’s wrap it up boys, it’s dinner time,” he calls, and then rolls his eyes when they don’t react at all. “Seriously, you’re both impressive, you both win beefiest belle at the ball, you can punch it out later,” Tony adds as he wanders closer, “Let’s go before Thor eats everything and then comes down here to show you both up.”

“Five minutes,” Steve huffs out between push ups, “He’s about to give up.”

“Like hell,” Bucky grumbles and does his next rep one handed so he can swat at Steve. It’s unfairly distracting.

“I’m evicting both of you,” Tony says pleasantly, “Just like I threatened everyone else with eviction until they gave in and agreed to order from that Korean-Mexican fusion place you’re both so obsessed with.”

“What?!” Steve demands, pushing himself upright on his knees to fix Tony with an affronted look, “why didn’t you say that?”

“Ha! I win!” Bucky says, still doing push ups and grinning at Steve smugly.

Steve looks so horribly offended for a second that Tony can’t help snorting in laughter. Then Steve grins wickedly, shoves Bucky over, and makes a break for the door calling “I’m gonna eat all your food, then we’ll see who wins!”

“Still a sore loser,” Bucky says with a sad shake of his head, pushing himself to his feet. A couple strands of loose hair cling to his forehead and fall around his face, his thin shirt clinging to his chest just right, and Tony’s life would be so much easier if he could just not.

Bucky is staring at him, curious tilt to his head, and Tony belatedly remembers to blurt out “Don’t worry Frosted Flakes, I hid your kimchi tacos at the back of the fridge where no one can get to them. Not that I know why anyone would want to.” The wide grin that breaks out across Bucky’s face still makes Tony’s heart thump dangerously, no matter how many times Tony tries to convince himself that it doesn’t, that it won’t next time. It always does.

“Thanks Tony, you’re the best,” Bucky says, all warm and soft and genuine, bumping their shoulders together gently as he heads for the door. Tony trails after him, face flushed and chest warm, and that was totally worth all the trouble of convincing Bruce that Korean-Mexican fusion is not a crime against humanity.

-

“You need to go lay down,” Tony says for what must be the tenth time since Bucky walked into the lab.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, again, despite the fact that he is clearly not fine.

Tony waves both hands at Bucky, trying to encompass all of him, the fact that Bucky hasn’t changed or showered since the fight when usually that’s the first thing he does, the way that he’s just kind of standing there letting the bots poke at him instead of chasing them around the lab. “I can hear your spine clicking when you move, and I have normal human ears!” Tony insists.

“No it’s not,” Bucky says, but he’s holding himself suspiciously still. When Tony just stares at him, unimpressed, he adds “it’ll heal.”

“Yeah, if you go lay the fuck down and avoid killing yourself before then,” Tony says, and only barely resists the urge to throw a bolt at him. He’s pretty sure Bucky would just let it hit him in the face right now, and that’s not what Tony is going for. No matter how well it would prove his point.

“No," Bucky says flatly. Tony throws the bolt, and Bucky winces when it bounces off his chest but otherwise refuses to move.

"Then you're going to medical," Tony says, throwing both hands in the air, "I’ll call Steve and he’ll carry you there, don’t think he won’t. He will be delighted to do it."

“I’ll throw ‘im out another window,” Bucky grumbles, and when Tony makes a show of grabbing for his phone Bucky sighs out “fine, fine, I’ll go lay down.”

"Damn straight you will," Tony grumbles under his breath and then blinks in surprise when, instead of heading for the door, maybe back to his room, Bucky slowly makes his way over to the lumpy couch in the corner.

And Tony's not complaining, it absolutely makes sense for Bucky to lay down on the nearest available flat surface, but Tony had really been expecting him to leave. Keep up that friendly distance, and all that. Instead Tony is left just staring dazedly as Bucky lowers him half down onto the couch with a level of care that completely gives away how injured he actually is.

Once Bucky is settled he turns his head where it's propped up on the armrest, only wincing a little, and stares back at Tony. There's something considering in his gaze, and he's probably trying to figure out how long it'll take before Tony gets distracted enough to not notice Bucky making his escape.

After several long seconds of mutual staring, broken only by them both glancing over when DUM-E gets tangled in the blanket he's trying to bring to Bucky and starts beeping in distress, Bucky finally breaks the silence. "Don't I get a cookie?" he asks slowly, innocently, like he has no idea that the reminder sets off an explosion in Tony's chest.

"I already gave you one of my favorite bolts, what more do you want from me?" Tony complains, turning back to his workbench so hopefully Bucky won't notice that his face has no doubt gone bright red.

"Somethin' edible, preferably," Bucky says with a soft laugh that has warmth spreading out from Tony's racing heart and mixing surprisingly well with the sudden influx of butterflies in his stomach.

Tony tells himself that it's fine. They're friends. He's glad that Bucky is comfortable enough to hang out in the lab with him again, making dumb jokes. All Tony has to do is not make it weird. Again. He can totally do that.

He doesn't have any cookies, but Tony does share his terrible energy bars, and when Bucky dares to complain about how terrible they are Tony throws a couple more bolts at him. Injured or not, he can't let that stand.

Eventually Bucky falls asleep, and Tony works as quietly as he can, and it's fine. It’s the closest to fine that Tony has felt in a long time.

-

Bucky’s nose scrunches up a little in disgust, but he doesn’t say anything. No one else seems to notice, arguing over their exact dinner order like it’s a life or death ordeal. They are all usually armed, in some way, so hell it might be life or death.

Tony slumps a little lower in his armchair, just enough that he can stretch out and kick Bucky lightly in the foot. When Bucky looks over at him Tony gives him an expectant look. When Bucky continues to stare blankly at him Tony does a little ‘go on’ motion with his head, and then kicks Bucky again. Just for good measure.

Bucky’s eyes widen, just a little, and then he blurts out “I hate sushi.” Everyone stops to stare at him, and Tony grins widely.

“What? Since when?” Sam demands, looking personally offended.

“Since always, it’s raw fish,” Bucky replies, throwing a pillow that bounces harmlessly off Thor’s head when Sam ducks. “Just get me some rice or somethin’, ‘s long as it’s cooked,” he adds and easily swats Sam’s return pillow away from him.

Steve immediately starts reading off other options from the menu, and Tony continues grinning all through the rest of the ordering process. He’s a little surprised when he looks over to find Bucky smiling back at him, something small and strangely delicate, and Tony just hopes his face isn’t as warm as it feels, hopes it doesn’t show that he’s melting inside.

-

Bucky has been giving him this look, lately, and Tony has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. It’s somewhere between surprised and considering, like he’s putting together the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t even know he was looking at. It’s mildly terrifying.

If he didn’t know better, Tony would think Bucky has figured out about his super secret crush, but that can’t be right. Bucky had already figured that out... right? And if that was the case he definitely wouldn’t suddenly be hanging out with Tony more, he’d be running even further away.

Tony is kind of tempted to avoid him, avoid that look entirely, because as long as he doesn’t know what it means it can’t mean anything bad. The problem with that plan, is that Bucky is suddenly everywhere he turns.

He stumbles out of his lab and it’s like Bucky is just laying in wait so he can drag Tony to the kitchen for an impressive lunch spread. And then he hangs out, watches while Tony gorges himself on soup and sandwiches and leftover donuts, and when Tony shoves the last donut towards him Bucky’s thoughtful little smile gets wider.

Tony doesn’t know what to do with that, or what to do with the warmth that lingers in his chest all day, growing something that feels dangerously like hope. Maybe he should give that avoidance plan another shot.

-

He makes it a full day. Mostly by hiding out in his lab the whole time. When he shuffles out, rubbing at his tired eyes and aching everywhere, Bucky is there before he makes it ten steps out of the elevator onto the common floor.

“What have I told you about sleeping?’ Bucky asks with an exasperated sigh that does not at all take away from the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, both hands coming down on Tony’s shoulders to stop him in his tracks. “And don’t say ‘it’s for the weak’, or I swear...”

Tony hums thoughtfully, then grins up at Bucky, who is standing so very close. If Tony were less sleep deprived he’d probably be more worried about that, more worries about what he’s giving away as he leans into Bucky’s chest ever so slightly. “Must have escaped my mind,” he finally says, grinning wider when Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I believe it was that you need to sleep, Tony,” Bucky says and uses the hands still on his shoulders to spin Tony in place and point him back towards the elevator. He leaves his hands on Tony’s shoulders, which is probably a good thing because Tony is dimly aware of the fact that he’s swaying in place. “Go on, before your zombie face scares Bruce again,” Bucky adds with a soft laugh.

“That was one time,” Tony protests, digging in his heels as Bucky starts pushing him towards the doors, “and I’m hungry.” The last part comes out nearly as a whine, and Tony doesn’t even try to stop it because this is all Bucky’s fault in the first place. Him and his regular meal schedules, and his insisting that Tony follow them.

“Nuh uh, I know how you are,” Bucky says, giving him another little shove towards the elevator, “you’ll go to the kitchen and then you’ll get distracted and I’ll find you five hours later half asleep and having a staring contest with your reflection.”

“Again, that was one time, and I had been up for days,” Tony says with a huff, then squeaks when the heels of his worn sneakers slip against the floor and Bucky’s grip on his shoulders is the only thing that keeps him from falling on his ass.

“Go get ready for bed, doll,” Bucky says and he’s definitely laughing now, “an’ I���ll bring you somethin’ to eat.”

“I want waffles,” Tony demands petulantly and finally stops leaning back against Bucky’s shoving, starts moving towards the elevator instead.

“Waffles, you got it,” Bucky says, all warm and amused, and his hands finally fall away from Tony’s shoulders. There’s a second where Tony starts to shuffle forward, elevator doors already dinging open, and he hears Bucky start to turn back down the hallway, and then Bucky’s hand lands on his head and Tony freezes in his tracks. He’s not even breathing, just holds himself perfectly still as Bucky ruffles his hair.

When Bucky steps away and his footsteps disappear down the hallway Tony is finally able to drag in a ragged breath and start his forward shuffle again. He spends the entire elevator ride thinking it’s a good thing he’s already half asleep, or he’d be really freaking out right now about what this all means.

Tony is slumped down low on his couch and poking at his phone when Bucky turns up with the promised waffles, but it’s totally worth the wait because the waffles are hot and fluffy and covered with the perfect amount of syrup. After Tony eats them all Bucky smiles at him warmly and says ‘good’, and what’s left of Tony’s poor batted soul feels like its been dipped in warm honey.

Tony doesn’t actually remember falling asleep, and he definitely doesn’t remember Bucky carrying him to bed, but he wakes up later curled under the blankets with his socks still on and oh look at that, he’s awake enough to start freaking out again.

Because Tony had been pretty sure he’d ruined everything, given himself away, and now everything is back to normal. Maybe even better. And Tony has no idea what to do. He doesn’t know what’s changed, and he doesn’t know how to not ruin it again.

-

Tony is heading for the gym, figuring he might as well accomplish something if he’s too angry to sleep at three in the morning. Sure, he’s exhausted, but maybe if he gets some of this energy out he’ll be able to sleep. And it won’t even be the first time someone has found him blissfully passed out on the gym floor in the morning.

He passes Bucky in the hallway, and it’s somehow both a surprise and not surprising at all when Bucky catches him by the forearm and pulls him to a stop. His eyes move over Tony’s face, and at least this is an expression Tony recognizes, it’s Bucky’s ‘figuring out why Tony can’t sleep’ face, and it’s a game Bucky is disturbingly good at. Even if it’s been awhile since he last played, not that Tony is letting himself think about that. Much.

“Hey freezy-pop, just heading to the gym,” Tony says and aims for an easy smile, but Bucky frowns at him and doesn’t let go. Not that Tony is actually trying to get free, that would mean losing the warmth of Bucky’s skin against his.

“People problem or math problem?” Bucky asks with a crooked little grin and Tony really hopes it doesn’t show how much it makes it heart leap that Bucky knows that.

“People problem,” Tony says before he’s even aware he’s going to say it, and then sighs as it feels like something tense inside him starts to unravel. “Huge people problem. The board is trying to slip some shady shit past me again, and I have to wait until morning to yell at them. Because I’m, and I quote, ‘not allowed to wake the old bastards up to yell at them’ any more. But I want to, I’m all riled up now and I want to bite some heads off.”

Bucky’s smile gets a little toothier and his gaze flickers down for just a second before he says “As much as I enjoy watchin’ you bite heads, prob’ly not a good idea. Might give ‘em a heart attack.”

“Which would be a bad thing, because...” Tony says and waves his hand in a ‘go on’ type motion.

“‘Cause then Pepper will kill you with her shoes,” Bucky says, very seriously, and damnit he’s right. Down to the exact threat Pepper had used, and Tony’s heart gives another little lurch.

“And that is a thing I do not want,” Tony recites with a sad little nod, and then grins when Bucky laughs. “So that’s why I’m going down to the gym. I’m going to imagine their wrinkled old faces on the punch bags. I figure hey, punching bag therapy works for Steve.”

“No it doesn’t,” Bucky says with a snort, then gives Tony’s arm a gentle little tug and says “c’mon, come watch Star Trek with me.”

“You think you can just distract me with Star Trek?” Tony demands, “because you can. What episode are you on now? Should I grab popcorn? What am I saying, of course I should grab popcorn, come on I need your hands.”

“How much popcorn you plannin’ on eating?” Bucky asks, but lets Tony start dragging him towards the kitchen with a smug little smile, like he’s getting exactly what he wanted.

Tony’s heart gives another little leap, and apparently this is his life now. If he dies tonight, it won’t be from an anger induced aneurism, it’ll be from choking on his own stupid heart just because Bucky is taking care of him again. Because Bucky is smiling at him all warm and fond and a little awed, like Tony is the one doing something amazing.

“Also, I love it when math problems keep me up, that’s the dream. The metaphorical dream, obviously,” Tony rattles as he drags Bucky along by way of Bucky’s hand still on his arm, just firm enough to not lose his grip, thumb stroking over the inner bend of Tony’s elbow as he lets out an amused hum.

Bucky doesn’t let go even as they settle onto the couch with their own bowls of popcorn, just shifts his grip down to Tony’s wrist instead, tap his finger against the wild flutter of Tony’s pulse in time with the opening theme. Tony shovels more popcorn into his mouth, mocks the questionable science until Bucky starts good-naturedly shoulder checking him, and doesn’t let himself think about the fact that Bucky’s hand on his wrist is leaching all the tension out of his body better than anything else ever has.

And Tony especially doesn’t let himself think about the fact that Bucky is giving him that look again. Like he’s solving some kind of riddle. Or maybe like he’s already solved it, and he’s just waiting for Tony to ask about the answer. But Tony is terrified to ask, because fuck he doesn’t want to be wrong. Even more terrifying, he’s starting to think he might not be.

-

Tony isn’t sure how Pepper convinced literally all of the Avengers to dress up to the nines and show up for the fanciest and most painful charity gala of the year. She even got Clint into a tux. Tony does know how she convinced him, at least, which was with threats to both his person and his cars. It was very effective.

Tony is still pondering the mystery as he heads for the common room to round up the rest of the unwilling ceremonial social sacrifices, and instead finds only Bucky struggling with his bow tie. “Either I’m late, or everyone else is extremely late,” Tony says and doesn’t even try to hide his wide grin as he watches Bucky nearly strangle himself.

“It’s both,” Bucky grumbles, yanking at the ends of the bow tie so aggressively Tony is a little surprised the poor thing doesn’t tear, “Some of ‘em were here, but then Bruce spilled his tea all over him an’ Clint, an’ Steve laughed so hard he ripped his shirt. So they all went to change. I think Nat left without us.” Bucky drops his hands to his side and scowls at this reflection in the mirror above the bar, at the lopsided bow hanging loose around his neck.

“That’s why she’s Pepper’s favorite,” Tony says, laughing as much at the story as the defeated slump of Bucky’s shoulders as he starts unknotting the bow tie again. Before Tony can think better of it he’s stepping closer and tugging at Bucky’s arm, all wrapped up in soft black fabric that somehow makes his arms look thicker. “Stop, stop, you’re killing the poor thing,” he says as he grabs for the tie with his free hand.

“Good,” Bucky says with a pout that has no right being so adorable on someone so lethal, “I dunno why it’s bein’ so difficult. I can do a tie no problem, but this?” He whips the bow tie off his neck and eagerly shoves it into Tony’s hand as he declares “bow ties are bullshit. Do you have a clip on around here?”

“Bite your tongue, you heathen,” Tony tells him seriously and forces himself to let go of Bucky’s arm, only dragging his fingers along Bucky’s firm bicep a little in the process. Then he takes a deep breath and steps forward a little closer, until they’re pressed practically chest to chest, and says “Here, let me help you with this before you somehow injure yourself with neckwear.”

“Please,” Bucky says with a heavy sigh, his hand brushing over Tony’s hip just for a second before falling to his side. “I swear I’ve tried fifty times now, you’re my only hope. You always clean up so nice an’ I’m just tryin’ not to make a fool of myself.”

Tony tries to ignore what that particular choice of words does to him. Later, he can work himself up into knots over the fact that Bucky thinks he cleans up nice, thinks he always cleans up nice, like Bucky has been thinking it for a while. But that’s for later, for now he just has to focus on getting this bow tie in place so they can all get over to the stupid gala and live through the stupid night. And then he can go back to his stupid panicked pining.

Focusing on the bow tie turns out to be a little difficult though, because all Tony wants to focus on is Bucky standing so incredibly close to him, the way Bucky is looking at him, eyes half lidded and chin tipped up to give Tony better access to his throat. His first attempt looks even worse, too tight and the bow lopsided, and Bucky barks out a laugh.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Bucky demands, play-swatting at Tony’s stomach, “Are you wearing a clip on?”

“You take that back!” Tony squawks, swatting back at him before he starts aggressively undoing the bow tie again. He needs to get it together, because the longer this takes him the longer he’s standing all up in Bucky’s space, and the more of a blushing mess he’s going to become. And if Bucky hasn’t figured him out already, which is something Tony still can’t get a definite, undeniable read on, then Bucky definitely will now.

Especially because Bucky keeps his head tipped back and smiles lazily in a way that has Tony’s stomach clinging up tight as he asks “Are you trying to kill me, is that what’s happening here?”

“Yes dear,” Tony says, sickeningly sweet, and gives an extra hard tug at one end of the tie, “I’m trying to kill you with a bow tie. Slowly.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, but his smirk gets wider and wider and finally Tony huffs out “Turn around, I can’t work like this.”

“Sure, much easier to strangle me from behind,” Bucky says agreeably as he spins in place to face the mirror again, and his reflection fixes Tony with an expectant look.

Before he can talk himself out of it Tony steps forward and up onto his toes, hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder to properly see what he’s doing in the mirror, and brings both arms up over Bucky’s shoulders. From this angle it only takes a couple seconds to get the bow tie perfectly centered and secured around Bucky’s neck, just like it only takes a couple seconds for Tony’s pulse to jump up to truly unsafe levels.

“There, told you I know what I’m doing,” he says with a smug grin and then can’t quite seem to pull himself away, can’t seem to break eye contact with Bucky’s reflection.

“Looks perfect, thanks doll,” Bucky says, low and warm, and raises one hand to gently grab Tony’s forearm where it’s still draped over his chest. Like he doesn’t want Tony to pull away.

“So how did Pepper talk you into this?” Tony blurts, which, all things considered, is probably the least damaging thing he could blurt out right about now.

“She pointed out that if the Avengers look good, it helps your company look good,” he says, like that’s any kind of explanation, still staring Tony right in the eye like that’s supposed to mean something.

“That- that’s not- what-,” Tony says, startled, taking an instinctive step back. Bucky doesn’t let go of his arm, just turns back to face him with his mouth already open to protest. “Seriously,” Tony says, cutting him off and feeling a little frantic for reasons he can’t name, doesn’t want to name, “That’s not something you need to worry about, what- why would that-“

“Hey,” Bucky says, soft like Tony is some kind of spooked animal, which, okay, that feels pretty fair right now. When Bucky gives his arm a little tug Tony steps closer, completely helpless against it. Then Bucky’s other hand is on his face, fingertips just barely brushing Tony’s cheek, the line of his throat, and cool metal thumb pressed oh-so-gently beneath Tony’s chin nudging his head up to meet Bucky’s gaze. “Hey,” he says again, “I want t’ make you look good, okay? ‘S the least we can do after all you do to make us look good. ‘Cause I know that can’t be easy.”

Tony just gapes uselessly for a second, breath caught in his chest, and he’s not sure when he grabbed two handfuls of Bucky’s tux jacket, but he doesn’t think he could let go if he tried. Finally he manages to drag in a shaking break and stutter out “w-we?”

Bucky smirks a little wider, taps his thumb against Tony’s chin, and confesses “I may have helped Pepper ‘talk’ some of ‘em into it.”

And Tony is right back to useless gaping, because what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?! Tony has never expected the rest of the team to worry about the effect their Avenging has on SI, that’s his responsibility, his problem to deal with, and he has the growing feeling that Bucky is trying to tell him something here but Tony is too busy trying not to hyperventilate to figure out what the fuck it is-

“I’m about to enter the common room!” Comes a sudden shout from the hallway, and Tony startles so hard that Bucky’s hand still on his arm is the only thing that keeps him from toppling over. “Please no one throw tea at me this time!” The voice continues and oh, that’s Clint. Of course, because they’re waiting for the rest of the team. Who will be here any minute, and Tony should probably get it together already.

“That was your own fault, an’ I think you know it,” Bucky calls back, smiling just a little ruefully as he drops his hands back to his sides. Tony untangles his hands from Bucky’s jacket and has to resist the urge to smooth out the slight wrinkles he’s left in the lapels.

“Now hold on just a minute,” Clint says as he bursts into the room to defend himself, wrinkled suit jacket only half on and waving a finger at Bucky and Tony sees his chance.

Tony runs. Sure, he says he’s going to get Bruce, but it is absolutely just a cowardly flee. He just needs a minute, he just needs to breathe, needs to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do with all the hope growing wild and unchecked in his lungs.

-

Tony gets home from a business trip and he honestly has no idea what time it is. He doesn’t even know what day it is, the only things he knows are that he’s jet lagged as all hell, and that he just wants to sleep.

When he gets to the penthouse there’s takeout from his favorite Italian place waiting on the table, still warm. There’s also a note that says ‘be a good boy and eat before you pass out for 12 hours’. It’s not signed, but at this point it really doesn't need to be.

He honestly doesn’t know what he’s expecting at this point, when he send a photo of the empty containers to Bucky with the caption ‘I want a cookie when I wake up.’

What Tony gets is an almost immediate response in the form of a picture of one of those chocolate-and-peanut-butter monstrosities that he loves, followed by a text that says ‘see you in 13 hours sweet thing’.

Tony wakes up almost exactly thirteen hours later, and he’s so far past wondering how Bucky does that. He’s also so far past his ‘avoid Bucky’ plan, all he wants to do is go find Bucky, get his cookie, and maybe even get the feeling of Bucky’s fingers ruffling his hair again.

So he does.

-

He’s heading for the elevator to leave for a press conference when Bucky and Natasha suddenly appear in his way, arms crossed and matching terrifying assassin glowers on their faces.

“Seriously, bells,” Tony says, clutching at his chest with the hand not clutching his to-go cup, “bells for everybody, I can’t live like this. I have a heart condition.”

They don’t laugh, but it’s not the usual ‘Tony please don’t joke about your heart condition’ not-laughing, and Tony is instantly on high alert, because something is going on here and he has a feeling he’s not going to like it.

The feeling only gets stronger when Bucky actually hesitates before slowly saying “I know you already talked t’ Pepper about this-“

“No,” Tony says instantly and he can’t believe he ever thought it was kind of sweet that Bucky talks to Pepper, that was clearly going to come back to bite him in the ass some day. Sure enough Natasha pulls out the very same body armor shirt Pepper had been waving at him this morning and Tony groans out “no.”

“You’re wearing the armor,” Natasha says flatly, and it’s completely unsurprising that she’s the one playing bad cop here.

“I am not wearing the armor,” Tony returns, just as flat, “because why would I? It’s a press conference, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could get shot again,” Bucky bursts out and his face is doing something truly fascinating, like he’s cycling through emotions too quickly for any of them to properly settle.

Tony can’t help rolling his eyes a little, because are they still on that? “What’re the odds that’ll happen again?” he says dismissively, “Smart assassins never try the same move twice, you know that frosty.”

Bucky’s face twitches harder and okay, apparently they are not yet to the point of joking about Tony’s recent gunshot wounds. Noted. “If you don’t wear the armor? Odds’re pretty damn high,” he growls out and yep, he’s even got his angry-eyebrows on. That’s usually reserved for Steve-levels of stupidity.

“You made this, it's the same material you use for all our gear,” Natasha points out, and okay, maybe she’s not ‘bad cop’ so much as ‘rational cop’. She holds the armor out to him, one eyebrow raised, and demands “are you saying it’s not good enough?”

“That is not what I’m saying, and I think you know it,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes because oh, that’s a low blow, how dare she imply he’d put his team in anything but the best. Her challenging smirk only gets wider, so Tony sniffs and drags his free hand over his chest as he says “I just don’t want to ruin the lines of my suit.”

“It’s the size of an undershirt, your figure will be fine,” Natasha says, but her lips twitch ever so slightly upwards.

Bucky remains staunchly unamused. “Yeah, I’m just gonna put the armor on you myself,” he says with a decisive nod, and Natasha gleefully hands it over.

“I’ll throw my coffee on you,” Tony warns, holding it up like a shield and taking a step back, “it won’t accomplish much, but then you’ll have to listen to me bitch about how I don’t have my coffee anymore. I might even cry.” Bucky keeps advancing on him, armor in hand and a determined look in his eye, so Tony pretends to fumble with the lid of his cup and warns “I’m talking ugly crying here, Bucky-bear, you’ve seen me without my coffee, it’ll be embarrassing for everyone, and-“

"Tony," Bucky snaps, standing right in front of him now, voice low and rough and cracking ever so slightly, "be a good boy and wear the damn armor!”

Tony's stupid heart trips all over itself. Natasha is somehow suddenly all the way down the hall, pointedly ignoring them while sipping Tony’s coffee, and when did she even steal that, and she is very clearly blocking Tony’s escape route. Not that Tony could actually flee right now if he wanted to, he’s much too busy just trying to stay standing under the force of the hot flush that rushes over him, stomach clenching hard and blood roaring in his ears. Tony can’t find the air to reply, can only stare, and Bucky’s face crumples a little further.

“Please, doll? I gotta know you’re safe, I can’t-'' Bucky cuts himself off, clenching his jaw, and Tony feels some confusing mix of horrified and elated. Because of course he feels terrible that he’s the reason for the terrified, pleading look in Bucky’s eyes, the reason Bucky’s right hand trembles slightly as he gives the body armor held between them a little shake. But on the other hand, Tony is the one who made Bucky look like that, cracked open and vulnerable, Tony did that. And oh, he knows that Bucky is letting it show, for him, it’s a gift that he hears the way Bucky’s breath hitches as he pleads “Just- jus’ do this for me? Be good and wear th’ damn armor so I can feel like you’re safe, will you do that?”

Fuck, Tony is pretty sure he’s going to die, he’s pretty sure the entire tower can hear the way his heart is racing in his chest, He has no idea how he’s supposed to respond to that, because all he really wants to do is take that single step it would require to bury his face in Bucky’s chest. But Tony knows he has to say something, anything, Bucky is still staring at him like he’s waiting for an answer, and it nearly knocks him off his feet all over again when he realizes Bucky has been waiting for an answer from him for a while now.

"O-okay," Tony finally manages, voice weak around the way his heart is lodged somewhere in this throat and already shrugging off his jacket so he can just take the stupid god damn armor.

"Yeah?" Bucky asks, voice pitched low, gaze heavy, so much in that simple question. It’s so new and so familiar and Tony is already nodding because oh fuck yes, anything Bucky is offering, anything he wants, yes.

Tony has to swallow thickly a couple times before he can actually say “Yeah, I- I can do that. Wearing the armor, being safe.” Being good, he doesn’t say, but Bucky’s eyes darken like he heard it anyways. Once Tony has finished tugging off his jacket and tie Bucky takes them from his shaking hands, and Tony can only manage a vague huff of protest as Bucky carelessly drapes them over his own shoulder and makes an impatient gesture with his free hand.

And here’s the thing, Tony is not generally what people would call ‘shy’. He left his shame far behind him about a decade or two ago and never looked back. But it’s Bucky, and he just keeps staring as Tony starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and Tony has a terrible feeling the flush on his face is spreading down his neck. He’s more or less gotten used to the scars that litter his torso, his teammates have all seen them and on a good day Tony even forgets they exist. He’s still getting used to the three new freshly-healed bullet holes scattered across his stomach, so of course that’s right where Bucky’s eyes settle and it’s all Tony can do not to fidget, not to snatch his shirt back out of Bucky’s hand.

Bucky’s fingers are warm as they trace over the shiny new skin, ticklishly light and unbearably gentle. “Jus’ wanna feel like I’m protectin’ you,” he says, voice barely more than a sigh, and Tony wants to protest that it’s not his fault but he can’t find the air. Instead all he can do is nod, scared to breathe too hard in case it dislodges Bucky’s fingers from tracing the edges of each slightly raised scar. Tony can’t help the soft noise he makes when Bucky’s hand falls back to his side, already mourning the loss of contact, and Bucky smirks just a little as he says “Arms up, babydoll.”

Tony definitely hears Natasha snort, somewhere down the hallway, but it’s pretty low on the scale of her ‘insulting snorts’ and Tony really doesn’t care right now. He’s too busy throwing his arms up so quickly that it’s a miracle he doesn’t smack Bucky in the face or dislocate his shoulder or something equally ridiculous. Bucky smirks a little wider but doesn’t say anything, just carefully slips the deceptively thin body armor onto Tony’s arms and then gently lowers it down over his head.

Bucky makes sure the armor is pulled all the way down, big hands running over Tony’s hips and the small of his back, and then hands back Tony’s shirt. “There y’ go, nice and safe for me,” Bucky says almost absently as he fixes Tony’s hair and Tony is mostly still just marveling at the open relief in Bucky’s eyes.

“You’re only paranoid because I’m an average squishy human,” Tony tries to accuse, mostly to distract from the way his hands are shaking as he does up his buttons, but it comes out wobbly because even he doesn't believe that anymore.

Bucky’s lips quirk up like he knows Tony doesn’t really think that, but he still says “Nah, I worry cuz its you,” voice soft, like he needs to be sure that Tony knows. His eyes are dark as he watches Tony settle the knot of his tie against the hollow of his throat, and Tony’s hands are shaking so badly that Bucky has to help him get his jacket back in place. “Didn’t even ruin th’ lines of your suit,” he adds with a smug little grin, running both wide palms down Tony’s chest, fingers spread wide, and there’s no way he can’t feel the way Tony’s heart is trying to beat straight out of his chest.

“Lucky for you,” Tony says, voice equally soft, and when Bucky’s hands fall away he drags in a ragged breath.

“Lucky me,” Bucky repeats absently, like he’s talking about something else entirely, and then leans forward. His grip is firm but gentle as he cups the back of Tony’s head with one hand, his lips are dry and soft against Tony’s temple, and Tony freezes up all over again. “Thank you, Tony,” he whispers, lips moving against Tony’s skin and sending shivers down his spine, “always so good for me.”

Tony makes a sound that he refuses to categorize as a whimper, and Bucky pulls away smiling amused and warm and amazed. When Tony steps onto the elevator he’s still trying to catch his breath, but his hands are steady.

-

“You should date me,” Tony blurts out that night, because he can’t not, anymore. Because he’d smiled like a loon all the way through the press conference, face still warm, and at the end Pepper had asked him if he had a concussion, half serious and half knowingly smug. Because the warm flutter in his chest still hasn’t faded. Because Bucky has been giving him that look, and Tony thinks he’s finally figured it out.

Bucky just blinks at him for a second, and okay yeah, maybe Tony could have picked a slightly better place than the middle of the kitchen. At one in the morning. When they’re both in worn pajamas, odds are unfortunately pretty good that Tony has the remains of his PB&J sandwich smeared around his mouth.

He probably could have picked some better words too, so Tony scrambles desperately for some and all he comes up with is “Or, I should date you. We should date each other. No, I mean- yes, but- fuck-“

“Yeah,” Bucky says, cutting him off and still blinking at him like he’s vaguely dazed. “Yeah, we- us. Dating. Yes. Okay.”

Tony blinks back at him, because that sounded a lot like Bucky agreeing to date him, but it also sounds a lot like he just broke Bucky’s brain. “Are you sure?” Tony has to ask, shuffling on his feet a little, “Because-“

“What- yes,” Bucky says, surprisingly vehement, lurching up from the stool he’s been sitting on. Tony dares to let a wide smile start spreading across his face. Still-

“I’ll be a good boyfriend,” he offers helpfully, and really wishes he could sound more sure of that. He’s damn sure going to do his best.

Bucky is up and across the kitchen in an instant, taking Tony’s face in his big, deadly, gentle hands and breathing out “Tony.” He’s moved from looking dazed to looking something almost like awed and he says “Tony, doll, you are already so good to me, I just want you.”

Tony shudders all over and he’s not sure when his hands landed on Bucky’s waist but he’s holding on for dear life. “Bucky,” he sighs, and then, because he’s weak, he begs “Say it again.”

And oh, Tony just knew that Bucky knew what he was doing, and he gets his proof because instantly Bucky tightens his grip, drags his fingers along the hollows behind Tony’s ears. “Gonna be my good boy, yeah?” he asks, breath hot against Tony’s lips, eyes dark and intent, smirk to die for.

“Oh,” Tony gasps and when he shivers Bucky just holds him tighter, pulls him closer, until Tony’s eyes fall closed and he’s clinging helplessly to the broad muscle of Bucky’s back. “I- oh,” he gasps again when Bucky’s thumbs trace along his cheekbones, barely catching his eyelashes, and Bucky’s answering laugh is everything. It’s happy and amazed in a way that makes Tony's chest warm and fluttery, dark and just a little condescending in a way that makes his guy tighten up in heated want.

“I see you, Tony,” Bucky says, low and rough and insistent, “I see everything you do for us, for everyone.” His lips trace the line of Tony’s brow in soft, feather-light kisses, and his voice is barely more than a breath when he adds “For me. Gonna be good an’ let me take care of you back?”

Tony is caught between the urge to nod frantically and the need to stay exactly where he is, Bucky’s hands cupping his face like the most precious thing he’s ever held, so instead he croaks out “Yeah, I- I can- fuck I want that.” Tony cracks his eyes open again, because it’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

Bucky smiles, happy and proud and heated and a million other things that have warmth spreading through Tony’s chest, curling up tight in his gut, lighting up his entire body. “Can I kiss you, baby?” he asks, lips nearly close enough to touch already, and when Tony throws himself forward Bucky catches him easily, left hand sliding to the small of Tony’s back and pulling him in closer.

The first press of lips is electric, has Tony sighing out a soft noise and then Bucky’s hand still cupping his jaw tilts his head a little further back and Bucky licks his way into his mouth with a slow, consuming determination. Tony clings harder to Bucky’s shirt where it stretches tight across his shoulders and hangs on for all he’s worth, tries to catch Bucky’s tongue between his teeth and shudders when Bucky growls low in his throat.

Bucky’s thigh slots between Tony’s like it belongs there and Tony breaks away from the kiss with a shaking groan as he abruptly realizes that he’s achingly hard, soft cotton of his sweats damp and clinging and amazing. “O-oh, shit-“ Tony gasps out, helpless against the way his hips jerk forwards just once to grind himself against that thick thigh. “God, Bucky-“ he whines, ducking his head to pant against the curve of Bucky’s shoulder and then bites back a desperate noise when Bucky’s thigh nudges up against him a little harder.

“Tha’s real sweet baby, sound so good,” Bucky sighs out as his lips move over Tony’s hairline, down his temple, his breath as heated as his words. He shifts his hand a little lower, spreads his fingers wide over the curve of Tony’s ass and pulls him in encouragingly as he growls “C’mon doll, don’t stop, lemme hear you makin' all those pretty noises for me.”

Tony doesn’t need to be told twice, rolls his hips forward again with another muffled groan. “Bucky, oh my god-“ he whines and presses closer, until he can feel Bucky’s cock nudged up thick and hot against his hip. His legs shake and he just clenches them tighter around Bucky’s thigh, tucks his face into Bucky’s throat and grinds himself forward. The sweet friction against his cock has Tony gasping again, shuddering all over as fire races up his spine and his head spins.

“Good, so good sweet thing, fit so perfect against me, gonna take such good care of you, treat you just right,” Bucky says against the shell of his ear and presses his thigh up a little further, digs his metal fingers a little harder into the swell of Tony’s ass and pulls in time with the roll of Tony’s hips against him. When Tony moans and clutches at him tighter Bucky chuckles again, low and dark, and drags his calloused thumb along the line of Tony’s jaw as he asks ”Damn you’re easy for me, ain’t ya? Gonna come like this, grindin’ against me all desperate and shakin’ for it?”

It sends another wave of heated, slightly-embarrassed arousal crashing over Tony and all he can do is whine again because unless Bucky is planning on stopping him, then he absolutely is. At this point Tony couldn't stop himself if he wanted to, cock throbbing and leaking as he grinds himself against Bucky’s thigh, panting hot against the curve of Bucky’s throat.

He can already feel his orgasm building fast, feels like it’s been building forever now, and his voice is shaking as hard as the rest of him as he moans out “Bucky- please, I- I’m, I can’t, please-“ Bucky silences him with a scrape of his teeth over the shell of Tony’s ear that has him practically collapsing against Bucky’s chest, limp except for the way he can’t stop rutting himself against Bucky’s thigh, chasing the sparks that light up his body.

Bucky laughs again, just a low, warm rumble in his chest, and presses another kiss to Tony’s eyebrow before saying “You’re this worked up you better come for me now, babydoll. ‘Cuz I’m gonna take you upstairs an’ take my time with you, make you feel as good as you deserve an’ put you to bed real sweet, how does that sound baby?”

He somehow makes it sound like both a promise and a threat, and Tony chokes out a noise caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. “Y-yeah, fuck yeah that- oh- fuck please-“ Bucky’s fingers press a little more firmly against the base of his skull, sliding through his hair, and Tony feels like he’s burning.

“Good,” Bucky says, an uneven hitch to his breath and Tony can feel the way Bucky’s cock throbs against him, “Fuck, you’re so good sweet thing, so perfect, feel so good, sounds so sweet for me, c’mon Tony, wanna feel you fall apart for me.”

Every word settles hot in Tony’s gut, has his head spinning faster until all he knows is Bucky’s voice in his ear, Bucky’s hands firm and demanding against him, the rush of his own blood in his ear as the pressure builds inside him. His sweats are going to be ruined and Tony doesn’t give a fuck because he’s so close, thin cotton already soaked and clinging to his cock, thrusts of his hips gone short and uncoordinated as his fingers scramble at Bucky’s back.

“Bucky,” he moans out, completely shameless, and drags his teeth over the line of Bucky’s throat, just because he can. Because Tony still kind of can’t believe the way Bucky shakes and groans against him, pulls him in harder and meets every roll of Tony’s hips with one of his own. “God, you’re so- I, I can’t believe- oh- Wanted you so long-“

“I know,” Bucky says, surprisingly soft and something almost like sheepish. He presses his thumb a little harder to the underside of Tony’s chin and tips his head up again, making Tony gasp at the rush of cool air over his flushed face even as he keeps his eyes squeezed shut because it’s so much. He’s so close to breaking apart at every seam. Bucky’s lips brush against his and Tony whimpers even as Bucky says “I see you now baby, been taking care of me for so long, haven’t you? Been so good, takin’ care of yourself so perfect for me, shit- you’re so good for me doll.”

“Bucky,” he gasps again, so close to the edge, every inch of him tingling, burning, so close-

“Look at me, Tony,” Bucky says, barest edge of a demand to his voice and it still has Tony prying his eyes open instantly. Then he groans weakly because Bucky is right there, blue eyes gone nearly dark, wild and hungry and fixed on him like there’s nothing else in the world as he breathes out “now be a good boy and come for me.”

Tony’s orgasm hits him overwhelming and inevitable, leaves him moaning breathlessly and clinging to Bucky impossibly tighter. Bucky’s hand on his ass keeps pulling him in, dragging it out until Tony is shaking and nearly sobbing into the feather light brush of Bucky’s lips against his own as Bucky calls him ‘good’ and ‘perfect’ and ‘gorgeous’.

As soon as he gets back the bare minimum brain cells Tony tips his chin up to kiss Bucky again, blissed out and lazy and it makes him shiver all over again when Bucky clutches at him tighter with a deep groan. Tony has to break away from the kiss sooner than he’d like because he still hasn’t quite caught his breath, hasn’t been able to get his hips to stop twitching forward as aftershocks race through him.

“Damn,” Bucky sighs, one hand petting at Tony’s hair and the other gentling against his waist as Tony slumps against him fully, “Good boy, so good baby, so perfect for me. Let’s get you up into bed, huh? Spread you out real nice and get my mouth on every inch of you.”

And that sounds good, it really does, but Tony can still feel Bucky’s cock thick and hard and throbbing against his hip, and he wants it now. So instead Tony drops to his knees, moving quick enough that he slides easily out of Bucky’s lax grip, presses his face to Bucky’s hip and nuzzles his cheek against the clear outline of Bucky cock through his thin pajamas.

“Fuck-“ Bucky gasps and his fingers tighten in Tony’s hair, holding him in place as his hips jerk forwards. “Damn what a sight you make, you want it that bad, doll?”

Tony turns his head just enough to look up at Bucky, lips moving against the hard line of Bucky’s cock, and he’s never meant anything more as he breathes out “Please, honey.”

Bucky’s eyes get impossibly darker and his cock throbs, the scent of him thick and heady and Tony’s mouth is watering. “We’re still in the kitchen, baby,” Bucky points out, but he’s already hooking his thumb into the front of his pants.

“I can be quick,” Tony promises, smirking a little because Bucky’s hips keep twitching forward against him, parajams visibly wet where they pull tight over the head of his cock, and this isn’t going to take long at all. And Tony really, really doesn’t care right now that he’s in the kitchen in a tower full of insomniacs, all he cares about his getting his mouth on Bucky, making Bucky feel as amazing as he does.

Bucky groans out something that was probably meant to be Tony’s name, but Tony has more important things to focus on because Bucky shoves his pants down far enough for his cock to spring free and Tony wastes no time trying to choke himself on it. He’s so loose-limbed and orgasm-dazed that when Bucky’s cock nudges at the back of his throat Tony just keeps going, only gags a little even as his eyes water and a whine builds in his chest.

“Oh- fuck Tony, so good, you’re so good baby, so- fuck-“ Bucky’s every word comes out rough and gasping and his fingers dig harder into the back of Tony’s neck, hips jerking forward like he just can’t help himself.

Tony moans encouragingly and clings to his hips, presses his nose to Bucky’s stomach and swallows around his cock. Bucky pulls back and then thrusts himself deep into Tony’s throat with another shuddering groan. Then he does it again, and again, until Tony has spit and precome sliding down his chin and arousal building again, almost painful, in his gut.

“Good, fuck you feel so good, you’re so- Tony-“ The way Bucky groans out the compliments, practically snarls his name, sends a hot shiver down Tony’s spine and has shaking all over again.

There’s a desperate moan caught in Tony’s chest that comes bursting out of him when Bucky abruptly tightens his fingers in Tony’s hair and yanks him back, leaves Tony panting for breath. His protest dies away when he opens his eyes and meets Bucky’s gaze, dark and ravenous.

“Open up, sweet thing,” Bucky growls, metal hand flying over his cock and his other hand still holding Tony in place, so close to the flushed, leaking head of Bucky’s cock and yet so far.

Tony doesn’t even need to think before he lets his aching jaw fall all the way open and he doesn’t care that his face is wet, constant pleading noises slipping out of his raw throat. He doesn’t care that he’s kneeling on the hard tile of the kitchen with his own come cooling in his sweats, all he cares about is getting more.

“Good boy,” Bucky gasps, and then finally comes. It streaks warm across Tony’s chin, the bridge of his nose, into his open mouth, and Tony lets his eyes fall closed again with a pleased moan as he runs his tongue over his lip, chasing the musky taste of him. “Fuck- shit, oh, Tony-“ the way Bucky groans out his name is going to stick with Tony for a long, long time, ringing in his ears, lighting him up, and Tony wants to hear it forever.

He’s still catching his breath when Bucky pulls him to his feet, into his arms, and Tony is all too happy to wrap his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, his shaking legs around Bucky’s waist, and let Bucky take his weight. “Okay, now we can go upstairs,” Tony slurs out as he drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder, voice rough, still feeling like he’s floating on air.

Bucky laughs, quiet and rumbling, and his hand is so gentle on the back of Tony’s head again as he tucks Tony’s face down into the curve of his neck. It’s definitely smearing Bucky’s shirt in come but if Bucky doesn’t mind then Tony certainly doesn’t care, just snuggles in closer and wonders if it’s actually possible for his heart to swell straight out of his chest.

“Whatever you want, babydoll,” Bucky says, warm and fond, presses a quick kiss to the side of Tony’s head and then starts carrying him towards the elevators. “Gonna take such good care of you, my good boy.”

Tony is pretty sure it’s not physically possible to get any closer, but he wraps himself tighter around Bucky and gives it his best shot and he mumbles “Gonna take care of you back.”

“I know you are, sweet thing, ‘s what makes you amazing,” Bucky says with another warm laugh, and Tony could probably argue that, because he’s really not, but he decides to let Bucky have this one.

For now. Apparently, they’ll have plenty of time to debate it later, over dates, and Tony is so looking forward to it.

-

Tony wakes up sore in places he didn’t even know he had, teeth marks on his shoulders and stubble burn on his thighs and just- deliriously happy. He can’t even try to convince himself it was some kind of crazy dream, because the physical evidence is kind of overwhelming. The other half of his bed is still warm, and there’s a telling clattering sound coming from his kitchen, and Tony decides he can afford to let himself lay here grinning at the ceiling like a loon for a while.

Soon enough Bucky is back with a giant plate of waffles and a wide smile, pausing in the doorway to drag his eyes down Tony’s bare chest. His hair is a mess and he’s unbearably gorgeous, and Tony smiles back as he realizes he can say it now.

“A beautiful man and breakfast? Help, my heart can’t take it,” Tony says, clutching at his chest with one hand even as he makes grabby motions at Bucky with the other.

“Not funny,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing as he sets the plate down on the nightstand and crawls back into bed, into Tony’s arms, and he’s still smiling softly when Tony pulls him into a kiss.

[thebladeblaster]

Rebirth of A Samurai (Final Part)

Summary: This fic is a what if scenario to SMT4 Apocalypse. I would go into more detail, but I don’t want to spoil too much of what this fic entails. If this fic gains traction I may continue the story on from this one-shot. Warning: This is a long one.

This may be the last I write for awhile with college right around the corner. I won’t stop completely, but it will become a lot slower.

He only heard it when he got like this. When he became blind to anything else, but rage.

“A man who forgets kindness is no worse than a demon.”, he suddenly remembered Jonathan’s words as a feeling crept up inside him.

A part of him was also yelling at him to stop and realize what he’s doing. Flynn blinked trying to regain his sense of self which became blotted out by rage when Nanashi taunted him about Isabeau’s death. No. No. No matter what Nanashi had done this was far too cruel. He had to stop, he had to give him a chance to explain himself. The angered voice practically roared at him thinking that. But, he ignored his angered voice he remembered where exactly losing himself has gotten him. If he had a clearer head then his mother would still be alive. No he wasn’t going to listen anymore!

Vishnu-Flynn stopped his assault, greatly confusing and relieving Dadga. Flynn felt all the blood coating his skin like back then and he felt just as disgusted as he was then if not worse. He lowered his blades as he looked down at Nanashi’s mangled form which regrow itself. His blood ran cold after finally stopping and seeing what exactly he’d been doing. What was wrong with him?! No matter how angry he was, this was just...unacceptable.

Ryou rejoiced in seeing for once he reached Flynn. His feelings didn’t often reach Flynn because of how buried he was, but he finally got through to him.

Flynn waited for Nanashi to prepare himself before he pointed his blade at him. It wasn’t to attack him again, it was just to make sure he didn’t try anything. He could see the fear in Nanashi’s eyes as he looked up at him. He felt like looking away in shame, but he kept his gaze locked on Nanashi.

Nanashi was completely perplexed as to why Flynn stopped, but he wasn’t complaining. He was glad to finally take a breath. Though, he didn’t exactly need to breathe it calmed his nerves, something he desperately needed after that. He couldn’t help but tremble. He didn't want to look like a scared kid but...How was he supposed to keep cool after that massacre?! Vishnu-Flynn cast a massive shadow over hit feeble form. His gold and red eyes gazed into his soul. He shouldn’t have killed the others at least not before facing him. He needed their help, in his overconfidence he bit off far more than he could chew. His heart nearly jumped out of his mending chest when Vishnu-Flynn pointed his blade at him. He couldn’t hide his trembling now, his fear that Vishnu-Flynn wouldn’t stop trying to kill him till in stuck.

“Why did you do it? Why did you betray everyone?”, Vishnu-Flynn asked, he sounded hurt.

“I-I!”, Nanashi stuttered, still not completely together mentally believing if he said the wrong thing the former samurai would continue his assault.

He met Vishnu-Flynn’s gaze which was a lot less cruel and enraged now. He could see in his eyes he wanted to forgive him, to understand why he did this. The gaze brought up a distant memory from within him of a kind man with sympathy even for demons, Ryou. It helped him relax a bit and made him feel he wasn’t about to be killed on the spot for saying the wrong thing.

“I-I thought it was the only way...To free humanity from YHVH forever…”, Nanashi admitted.

“You think that was worth betraying everyone? Why don’t you just kill YHVH?”, Vishnu-Flynn questioned.

“Because he’ll come back and he’ll keep coming back as long as people long for gods. In our new world there will be no gods, people will stand on their own two feet, not relying on others or praying for help like weaklings. The others would have gotten in our way since we were going to destroy this universe before creating ours.”, Dadga said, revealing himself.

Dadga was taken aback when he heard Vishnu-Flynn wheeze and completely break into laughter. Dadga’s eye twitched he was laughing at him. He could feel a bit of condescension in his laughter.

“You’re a hypocrite like Lucifer and Merkabah. You claim you want people to stand on their own and not rely on others when you’re relying on someone yourself. A vulnerable fifteen year old boy is the one you chose to have do your bidding, Dadga. You're pathetic.”, Vishnu-Flynn said in a scathing and venomous tone.

“You tore apart that fifteen year old boy yourself! Oh great Tokyo Liberator your just as much as a fucking monster as Shesha.”, Dadga shot back.

“Way to change the subject...I guess that’s an admission. I won’t deny what I did, you're right I am a monster. To the point when I fight I sometimes completely lose myself like just now. But, I would never dream of betraying good loyal people like you did. If things had continued as they had I may have ended up killing Jonathan and Walter myself, but that’s because they had lost themselves and were going to ruin the world. But, if they hadn’t changed if they stayed themselves like Isabeau I would have never even thought about killing them. You on the other hand betrayed your own allies so you could create your stupid universe. Well, I don’t care what silly justification you give to justify for committing genocide on a entire people no universe,...I don’t care who you are. If you intend to sacrifice innocent lives for your plans I’ll wipe you from this Earth.”, Vishnu-Flynn said, staring into Dadga’s eyes with a fiery resolve.

Dadga grew nervous knowing he was serious about killing him. He could tell about looking into his eyes he had the eyes of a godslayer and a killer. That’s what he truly was. That’s what godslayers were and that’s why every faction wanted him for themselves. They wanted his monstrous power on their side so they could topple their enemies. He knew he was stuck. He had an idea before to make him pause, but he realized it might end up making things worse for them. His godslayer was a shivering wreck right now. He clicked his tongue. He’s going to have to cut his losses right now and hope Krishina doesn’t regain control over Flynn to bring about his salvation then try again. Dadga was ambitious, but he wasn’t stupid he knew right now neither he nor his ‘godslayer’ couldn’t defeat Flynn and he was almost out of power. So he ran. Before Vishnu-Flynn realized what he was doing he disappeared leaving behind Nanashi. Considering him a failure Dadga withdrew his powers from the boy, deciding that he’d start again.

Vishnu-Flynn’s attention snapped to Nanashi’s when his body clattered on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The form Vishnu-Flynn melted away leaving Flynn who ran to the dying Nanashi.

“Nanashi!”, he called out bending down over him.

“Why the fuck..do you sound so concerned..you fucking moron?!”, Nanashi questioned, genuinely confused as to why Flynn was showing him any sympathy.

Ryou, he’s back. Even now after all the shit he’s been through he still chose forgiveness. Damn. His current self right he is fucking moron. He always told Ryou that he didn’t have to feel sympathy for everyone. That he didn’t have to always apologize. Some people are just shit that’s just how it was. Yet, that idiot never once listened to him and continued to be stupid even when it tore him apart. After seeing Flynn’s rampage he realized that it was probably for the best Ryou never listened to him. Even after that rampage, Ryou's compassion once again entered his incarnation's eyes.

“Because you were used just like I was by Krishna. I think he sat back because he wanted me to kill you for him. Besides nothing’s wrong about having some by your side while you die. Everyone deserves that.”, Flynn replied, making Nanashi scoff.

He winced as he felt all feeling starting to leave his body. His vital organs were shutting down.

“That’s why...I called you a moron...You're hopelessly sappy...like Asahi...ah...I wonder if even she’ll be glad I’m dead...After everything I done…”, Nanashi muttered, weakly.

Flynn shook his head no at Nanashi’s words.

“I don’t think so. I didn’t know her for long, but I don’t think she’d hate you that much. I think even if they're mad at you now, one day everyone will forgive you.”, Flynn replied.

“Ahh...Bullshit…”, Nanashi muttered, he couldn’t help but chuckle at Flynn’s naive comment.

Flynn held Nanashi’s hand as it grew continuously weaker. He felt like Nanashi was trying to say more, but he lost the strength to speak. The younger boy’s hand shivered weakly and he stared into Nanashi’s natural brown eyes. Something about them felt vaguely familiar to Flynn, but he couldn’t remember where. Nanashi closed them knowing soon he would never open them again. Soon, he could no longer feel his grip and his hand slid down lifeless. Flynn closed his eyes, before he used to pray for those who passed, but after meeting real angels he couldn’t do that in good conscience. If left him not knowing what to do when someone died, the only thing he could do now was tell the others of his death. With a heavy heart he reclaimed Masakado’s katana.

Flynn got up leaving the room noticing Krishna was still worryingly silent. He froze when he saw the dead bodies of Isabeau and the others. He was shocked to see Nozomi; he didn’t know she joined Nanashi. Besides that he didn’t know many of the others who had been with Nanashi besides Asahi. He bent to looking to Isabeau’s crumpled form.

“I’m sorry...I was too late.”, Flynn apologized quietly to the fallen.

After that he went to Fujiwara and Skins who were glad to see him free, but confused that the others weren’t there with him.

“Krishna took control of me and made me kill them. I was too late to break free, most of the Divine Powers are dead and Krishna is still out there somewhere.”, Flynn lied.

“That’s…”, Fujiwara muttered.

“I’m sorry I failed everyone. I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago after that...I don’t know what I’ll do.”, Flynn said softly, before walking past them.

“Wait Flynn!”, Skins called, out but Flynn looked away and kept walked.

He went before the boulder in the 4th district crosswalk in Ginza.

“Masakado. I need your help to rebuild the world.”, Flynn said as he unsheathed the katana.

However, neither the sword nor the rock reacted.

“What?”, Flynn questioned.

Did Masakado give up on him? Does he no longer believe in him after he failed everyone?

“Tokyo no longer needs me.”, Masakado said from within the boulder.

“I need you! I’m lost! I don’t know what to do now!”, Flynn thought with bits of panic.

“Masakado?”, Flynn said.

“You no longer need my protection. You wish to remove the dome and restore Tokyo to its rightful form, no? That is no longer necessary.”, Masakado explained.

“W-what are you talking about?!”, Flynn questioned, not knowing why the god suddenly changed his mind.

“It is now possible for Tokyo and Mikado to coexist, just as you tried to with Nanashi. The two peoples can help one another regardless of the dome’s presence. This is something I realized when Shesha cut a hole through the dome. With Krishna sealed within you. I will rest. Shall fate call again, we will meet once more. The two lands now move through time the same, and gaze upon the same moon. I leave Tokyo’s protection to you, Flynn.”, Masakado explained.

“Me?!”, Flynn questioned in shock.

But, he failed Tokyo! His weakness led to more people suffering! Why was Masakado leaving everything to him?! That’s what got them in this situation! Because everyone left EVERYTHING up to him!

“Farewell, Flynn. May the future you build be filled with hope.”, Masakado said, Flynn’s eye twitched as he listened to Masakado.

A column of light bursts from the rocks and climbs into the sky. It fades from view as it stretches beyond the great blue blanket above. Flynn trembled, still gaping in disbelief at Masakado’s words.

“Hoy what the fuck are you saying?! Come back here you bastard!”, Flynn yelled and in a moment of rage kicked the god’s boulder.

Skins and Fujiwara sweat dropped as they walked in on Flynn yelling at Masakado.

“H-hey?!”, Masakado questioned, taken aback.

“Hoy to yourself! The reason we got in this mess is because everyone relied on me! Only me! What I learned from all of this is that an entire people should never saddle their hopes on one person! And what’s with you changing your mind all of the sudden? Me and Isabeau planned to bring the people down here so they can finally reunite with their kin, but you want to keep them divided by the firmament?! You think a stupid hole will truly reunite everyone?! Are you forgetting that Tokyo still has no freaking sun?! Do you want them to live without one forever?! How does leaving things like that make sense? Get off your ass and finish this with me!”, Flynn yelled as he continued to kick the boulder harder this time.

“He’s completely lost it.”, Skins commented, looking stunned at Flynn’s behavior.

“This is exactly why no one respects you gods! You just sit around and do nothing yet expect people to worship you anyway! You’ve done nothing so don’t peace out on me like you did something!”, Flynn yelled.

“It’s even freakier since he looks exactly like Ryou.”, Fujiwara commented.

Now, the mental image of the mild mannered Ryou kicking Masakado and yelling at him like he was a deadbeat husband was in their minds.

“I saved Tokyo from the nukes!”, Masakado yelled back.

“After I dragged your ass out of your sleep and made you do it! Tokyo was going to be blown to bits while you slept like some deadbeat guardian!”, Flynn yelled back.

“R-Ryou?!”, Masakado questioned, wondering how Flynn remembered that when the specific circumstances before he was used by his previous incarnation weren’t explained.

“If you’re not going to actually do something to reunite Tokyo and Mikado I’ll convince them all to come down here, remove the firmament myself and drag YHVH’s sorry ass off his throne!”, Flynn yelled, kicking Masakado for the final time

Masakado was stunned into silence by the outburst, but he remembered Flynn had been captured and likely tortured for days by the Divine Powers leaving him at his wits end especially with many of his allies gone. With Krishna inside him it probably wasn’t best to leave him in that state. He could feel Flynn has become a god far more powerful than even him.

“Y-you’re right.”, Masakado replied nervously.

“You bet I’m right Masakado take your chalice. I’ll give you the okay when everyone has been evacuated from Mikado.”, Flynn replied.

Then Flynn left for Mikado leaving the stunned Skins and Fujiwara behind.

To be continued?

[ibijau]

Jin Rusong Lives / On AO3

Nie Huaisang says things nobody wants to hear, because someone has to.

As Jin Rulan explained how Jin Guangyao had faked the death of his son to put him in a magical sleep before still using the shock of that fake loss to eliminate enemies, Nie Huaisang was hit by an unkind thought. Of course, most of his thoughts were unkind these days, it was the sort of person he had become. Still this one, passing through his mind while a child he loved had found protection in his arms, struck him as particularly awful. 

Nie Huaisang would have preferred for Jin Guangyao to have really murdered his own son. 

It had made him so easy to hate after all. A man capable of eliminating such a sweet little boy could only be a monster. So finding that he had instead kept his son hidden, that he had secretly worked for years to try to save him, collecting piles and piles of information on the sickness that plagued his son… And although he hadn't performed the surgery, although he hadn't been there to see it, Jin Guangyao had saved his son. 

"He didn't have the skill to perform the surgery himself," Wen Ning mumbled, his eyes darting again and again toward Jin Rusong. "But his notes were very clear and well organised. I… I've been training on animals since little Jin Gongzi was discovered. He'll still need to be monitored for a while but… but he should be fine now." 

Nie Huaisang smiled at him. 

He also liked it better when the dreaded Ghost General was just an abomination to be despised. 

"Well, that's just amazing, Wen gongzi !" he laughed. "Such skill, you are truly worthy of being your sister's brother! SongSong, I know Wen gongzi looks a little scary, but you should say thank you. He worked very hard so you could be healthy again." 

Jin Rusong shot a look at Wen Ning, then shook his head and hid his face against Nie Huaisang’s shoulder, bringing up the fan in his hand so he really wouldn't have to see the fierce corpse. 

"I want mommy and daddy." 

Unsure what else to do, Nie Huaisang pulled the child closer against his chest and exchanged a look with the other three. 

Wen Ning, without surprise, only looked extremely uncomfortable and clearly wished he could be somewhere else now that he had played his role in this mess. Wei Wuxian still had one hand clenched on Chenqing, clearly expecting Nie Huaisang to be pulling a trick of some sort. Rude, considering the efforts Nie Huaisang had made to allow his return among the livings, but smart as well, all things considered. As for Jin Rulan… 

Since the death of Jin Guangyao, Nie Huaisang had done his best to treat Jin Rulan like an adult. He remembered how Nie Mingjue, rising to power at a similar age, had hated the condescension of other sect leaders. After taking so much from him, it had felt fair to treat that young sect ruler as an equal and ignore his youth.

But right there and then, it would have taken too much effort to pretend that Jin Rulan was anything but a lost and confused teenager who clearly ached over yet another family secret. He was too young to deal with this, and Jin Rusong would have no reason to trust the other two, and… 

Once, years before, Lan Xichen had confided to Jin Guangyao that he'd always resented the way his uncle had handled the news of his mother's death. Nie Huaisang had overheard that, present yet ignored as he often was. Something Lan Xichen had said had stuck with him: 'Children deserve the same honesty as adults, because they can feel pain no less intense as those older than them.' 

Nie Huaisang looked down at the sobbing child in his arms, begging for his parents. Both the truth and a lie would hurt Jin Rusong, but only one would let him move on, and Nie Huaisang did not trust the others to give his nephew that cruel mercy. 

Ah, well. He had little hopes of being allowed to see Jin Rusong again after that day, and they all hated him already. 

Jin Rusong deserved the truth. 

"SongSong, listen, you understand what dead means, right?" 

Wei Wuxian glared at him, and hissed. "Nie-xiong, don't !" 

Nie Huaisang ignored him. He had no lessons in honesty to receive from Wei Wuxian. 

"It's when people are gone forever," Jin Rusong mumbled. "Like LingLing's mommy and daddy, and like grandma when she got sick. They go and you cannot see them again. Uncle Nie, I want mommy and daddy. I really want them now. It's scary here."

Nie Huaisang’s heart clenched. 

"I'm sorry, SongSong,” he whispered. “But mommy and daddy have died. It's just you and LingLing now. But I know he loves SongSong a lot and will take good care of you." 

"No! I don't want that!" Jin Rusong shouted, crying heavily and throwing away Nie Huaisang’s fan. "I want mommy and daddy! I want them now! Uncle Nie, I want them now!" 

The child started hitting Nie Huaisang with surprising strength that would leave bruises, and pulling hard on his hair. It was an ugly tantrum from a usually placid boy, but those were ugly circumstances, so Nie Huaisang allowed him to let his anger explode against him. 

Jin Rulan, more disturbed by this display, dared to come closer again. He put one hand on his cousin's shoulder, trying to soothe him. 

"A-Song, calm down," he asked in a voice that reminded Nie Huaisang of Jiang Wanyin in his kinder moments. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of you, like when I was little."

Seeing that Jin Rusong wasn't rejecting his cousin's touch, Nie Huaisang tried to gently push him into Jin Rulan's arms. This backfired when Jin Rusong grasped his hair tighter so he could not be handed over to anyone. 

"I don't know him!" Jin Rusong wailed. "I want mommy! I want my mommy, I want her now!" 

Nie Huaisang grimaced, and pulled the child as tight against his chest as he dared, rocking him a little to calm him. 

"I know SongSong. Your mommy would prefer to be here too. She was very sad that she couldn't see you anymore. Mommy loved SongSong so much!" 

Qin Su had nearly broken when she'd lost her son. Nie Huaisang remembered how she had looked like a ghost for months afterward. 

Maybe it was understanding how and why she had lost him that had broken her in the end. Nie Huaisang could still see her with that dagger in her chest, pale and bloodied, so much like her son had been years before… and it had been his own fault. He had known she wouldn't take well to the news, but as long as it could hurt Jin Guangyao… nothing else had mattered then.

Pushing away those thoughts, Nie Huaisang continued rocking the little boy in his arms and whispering whatever soothing nonsense passed his mind until, after what felt like an eternity, the crying and thrashing stopped. Jin Rusong had fallen asleep in his arms. 

"Jin zongzhu should take him now," Nie Huaisang suggested, looking down at the little boy in his arms rather than the people around him. He looked so peaceful now, much more like the Jin Rusong of old. 

He startled when Jin Rulan took him on that offer and quickly snatched his cousin. 

The problem with those Jins was that they carried a strong family resemblance. Holding this child, the young sect leader looked like his father, and like his uncle… and neither were men Nie Huaisang wanted to think about at the moment. 

"Well, that settles it for the time being," Nie Huaisang said with all the good humour he could muster. "Try not to lose him again." 

"You shouldn't have told him about his parents," Jin Rulan hissed. "You had no right!" 

Nie Huaisang shrugged. Someone had to say it. It wasn't going to be Wei Wuxian who liked secrets far too much, enough so that Nie Huaisang himself had never found out about his core until that night at the temple. And it shouldn't have been Jin Rulan either, who would already have a hard time getting his little cousin to trust him. 

But for him to break his nephew's heart… well, he'd done enough wrong already, a little more was nothing. 

"Get Zewu-Jun here," Nie Huaisang advised. "Jin Rusong adores him and it has always been mutual. Honestly, I don't know why you didn't think to bring him here already. That child needed to wake to a familiar face, not to his nearly adult cousin and two boogeymen!"

Wei Wuxian glared at him, while Wen Ning appeared unconcerned by the accusation. He'd heard worse, most likely. 

"We thought of it," Wei Wuxian explained, "but he's still in seclusion, and Lan Zhan wasn't sure how he'd react to the news. It might come as a shock to you, but he didn't take well being tricked into becoming a murderer. You might be cold blooded enough to take it in stride that Jin Guangyao didn't murder his son, but Zewu-Jun actually has a heart."

"Wen gongzi, don't presume you know me," Nie Huaisang retorted coldly. "And apparently, you don't know Zewu-Jun either if you think he wouldn't overcome his grief for this child. But fine, it's your choice. Now tell me, having awakened this child and performed a miracle on him, what do you intend to do with him?"

Wei Wuxian glared harder, while Jin Rulan looked away and Wen Ning suddenly pretended he was busy tidying the room. Their silence was an answer in itself. 

Suddenly, Nie Huaisang almost missed Jin Guangyao. At least he always had a plan, instead of just following whatever fancy passed his brain and hoping someone would clean up the mess if it went wrong. 

"I see. Was Jin zongzhu planning to raise a child himself when he's not even of age, while also keeping together a sect that's tearing apart and will take any excuse to turn on him? If so, you should have left that boy to his sleep."

"I couldn't leave him like that!" Jin Rulan exploded, making the boy in his arms stir a little and whimper. All four of them froze, but Jin Rusong did not wake up, and Jin Rulan continued in a quieter voice. "We had all those notes on how to heal him, and he's family! What sort of person would I be if I didn't do everything I could to wake him up?" 

A kind one, Nie Huaisang thought. Eternal sleep would have been less cruel than this mess. But of course, that was only his opinion as someone to whom the truth had never been kind. Jin Rusong might be luckier. 

"He'll be in danger in Carp Tower," Nie Huaisang pointed out. "Your uncle had too many enemies and friends, and I'm not sure which ones will be worse. With the current political situation, I'm ready to bet a few people will try to use him to their advantage." 

He was sure of that, because it had happened with Jin Rulan himself after the death of Jin Guangshan. Jiang Wanyin had been forced to steal him away to Lotus Piers until the situation had calmed down in Carp Tower, with Jin Guangyao coming on top of the struggle for power. 

"Now that you've started this mess, try to get your uncle involved," Nie Huaisang advised. "He'll think of some way to help." 

Jin Rulan scoffed. "Of course he will! I've written to him already and he's coming, we just didn't plan for A-Song to wake up so early!" 

Hearing this, Wen Ning mumbled a pitiful 'sorry', but Nie Huaisang barely noticed. All his attention was on Jin Rulan. He was still mostly a child, but to be able to put aside his pride and ask for help at such a moment… 

Up until then, Nie Huaisang’s opinion of the young sect leader had been decent, but not great. Finding out he had brought his cousin back among the living without a plan had lowered his opinion of Jin Rulan, in fact. But knowing when to turn to someone with more experience… that was a good quality to have for someone coming into power so young, as was the fact that Jin Rulan had known not to trust anyone within his own sect with this business, turning instead to his uncle and Wei Wuxian who were both crazy but reliable.

Jin Rulan might grow into a better sect leader than the rest of them, if nobody murdered him for being a little too smart and too just. 

Nie Huaisang’s eyes then fell on Jin Rusong, still sleeping. He wondered what he would grow into. If Jiang Cheng ended up raising him, if Lan Xichen gave a hand as well… then Jin Rusong would become a fine young man one day. After all Jin Rulan and Lan Sizhui had turned out pretty well, in spite of circumstances. 

But of course, none of that was Nie Huaisang’s problem.

"I think you don't need me anymore," he said with forced cheer. "I'll leave you to your business. Jin zongzhu, considering the circumstances, I think it's silly to continue pretending we'll be able to continue discussing sect business at present, so I think I'll be leaving Carp Tower now. Unless you think I can be of use again?"

"We'll manage without you," Jin Rulan retorted, holding his cousin closer, as if he feared Nie Huaisang might try to get him back. 

A ridiculous notion. 

Nie Huaisang wasn't stupid to let himself get close to anyone again, least of all this child he loved so much. 

"Take good care of him," he still ordered as he went to pick up the fan Jin Rusong had thrown away earlier. It had suffered no damage, thankfully. "He is a sweet boy, and things won't be easy for him." 

Without waiting for their reaction, Nie Huaisang left the building and walked away as fast as his legs would allow. 

He couldn't wait to go home and pretend none of this had happened. 

[rabble-dabble]

The Cancer King's Court ~ The Scourge Sisters

Vriska Serket/The Pirate Queen

Everything in this timeline goes the same as in our timeline up until Terezi confronts Vriska. Terezi can’t bring herself to kill her and Vriska goes off to fight Noir. Noir ignores her and proceeds to slaughter her entire team. Vriska is narrowly able to kill Bec Noir, but it’s too late. Everyone else is dead.

Vriska is overtaken by remorse. Stranded alone on the meteor in a Doomed Timeline of her own making, Vriska is left alone with her thoughts. She tries to make conversation with the humans, but she finds she can’t confess what she did. Eventually, the humans start asking about the other trolls and Vriska stops talking to them.

After a few weeks of stewing in her own grief, Vriska gets an idea. If she can’t fix this problem, then her ancestor surely can. Everything Vriska did was done in a failed imitation of her ancestor’s exploits. Surely the person who did it right would have an answer for this problem. She could fix her mistakes. She could get her friends back. She could fix everything. Vriska dedicates her every second of sleep to finding her dancestor in the dreambubbles.

Vriska eventually tracks down the legendary Marquise Spinnerette Mindfang….. only to find her living in a regular hive. Sure, it was a fancy hive, but that’s every Cobalt’s hive. When she finds the ghost of her ancestor… she finds her lazily writing in her diary. Turns out, Mindfang’s journal was just her own self insert fanfiction. Everything Vriska had imitated, looked up to, and based her own self worth on was a lie. 

Vriska wanders the dreambubbles in a depressive slump when she’s approached by a cloaked version of Aradia. Vriska basically blows up at her, profusely apologizing for everything she did before trailing off as she realizes that this isn’t her Aradia.

“well, this pr0bably d0esn’t mean much t0 y0u, because i’m n0t y0ur aradia, but f0r what it’s w0rth, i f0rgive y0u. we’ve b0th made s0me pretty big mistakes, but it’s n0t t0 late t0 c0rrect them.”

“welc0me t0 the cancer king’s c0urt, vriska serket.”

This Vriska is almost unrecognizable next to her canon counterpart in terms of attitude. She’s here to make amends, but with her confidence smashed and no one to look to for guidance, she doesn’t really know how to do that. That’s why she’s willing to go along with the Cancer King’s plan, despite moral reservations. Honestly, that’s why everyone goes along with what Karkat says. They want the happy ending they were robbed of or they want to fix some huge mistake, they just don’t know how to do that. If Karkat, the guy with the huge heart hidden under all that bluster, says everything will be fine then it surely will right? More pertinent to Vriska, ignoring her friends concerns got everyone killed last time. She’d best listen to the leader of the group this time.

That said, she’s still Vriska. Sweeps worth of ego don’t just vanish. When she goes to apologize to Tavros, Tavros bites back. Vriska angrily points out that she’s not the same Vriska that hurt him and things nearly escalate into a fight until Aradia steps in. After a few rounds of mediation from the Red Death, tensions calm down a little. At least the Pirate Queen is trying to make amends, which is more than can be said for the Beast Master’s Vriska. Neither version of Tavros owes either version of Vriska any kind of forgiveness and they both acknowledge that.

Vriska actually sympathizes with her main timeline counterpart. She gets it. She was there. Literally the only thing that separates the two is a split second decision and a punch to the face. Out of everyone in the Cancer King’s Court, the Pirate Queen is the one who comes the closest to turning her main counterpart over to their side. 

But, while Tavros would never forgive Vriska, Terezi will. Both Terezi and Vriska admit that a relationship between the two of them isn’t feasible. They aren’t the same people from their alternate timelines, so continuing where they left off isn’t really feasible. Instead, Terezi makes a point of keeping Vriska from turning completely self destructive. Yes, she fucked up, but suffering does not equal redemption. Getting herself killed won’t fix the damage she did. 

“TH3 PROS3CUT1ON F1NDS GU1LTY VR1SK4 S3RK3T. BUT YOUR S3NT3NC3 1S COMMUN1TY S3RV1C3, NOT D34TH.”

The two are able to build a genuine friendship, something like what they could’ve had had they grown up somewhere other than Alternia. Vriska even serves as Terezi’s wingman regarding a certain feline hunter, but more on that later.

In combat, the Pirate Queen is the Magnificent that canon Vriska thinks she is. Now that she’s not glory hounding and us just trying to get the job done, she’s dangerously effective. She’s consistently misjudged by the Condescension’s forces as that same smug brat who keeps getting her team into trouble. Then they’re caught flat footed when Vriska fights smart and doesn’t take obvious bate. On the manipulation side of things, Vriska’s able to play up her remose and genuine desire to atone to earn people’s trust. It’s all technically true, they just don’t know how she intends to atone. It’s far more effective than the blunt mind control past Vriska would’ve gone for.

Vriska is every bit the dangerous, competent, complex, anti-villain she used to think she was. Difference is, now she doesn’t enjoy it.

Terezi Pyrope/The Hung Jury

Terezi’s timeline was exactly the same as ours up until one crucial point. Terezi was quick to notice when Vriska went God-Tier, so she decided to preemptively go God-Tier to match. Once immortal, Terezi’s precognition goes into overdrive and she’s able to instantly see into the future where Vriska makes the choice boost up Bec Noir and get everyone killed. She realizes that, for whatever reason, she doesn’t actually want Vriska dead, so she dedicates herself to trying to reason Vriska down. She sees the negative impact it would have on her to kill Vriska, after all. Vriska is confused by this abrupt change in behavior and so her responces are a mixed bag. As such, she ends up getting a lot closer to Vriska a lot quicker than in our timeline, but she isn’t quiet able to deter her either. Terezi understands what makes Vriska tick, far moreso than in canon, but she doesn’t understand how to rewire her. It doesn’t help that, from Vriska’s pov, her rival and kismesis is suddenly pale flirting with her.

So, when the time comes for her to kill Vriska to stop Bec Noir, Terezi can’t go through with it. Then the predictable happens. Vriska dies fighting against Noir, but Terezi manages to best him while he’s weak. Doesn’t change the fact all of her friends are dead because of her failure to act. Terezi isn’t sure what to make of her failure as she’s stuck floating on a meteor in a doomed timeline. She can’t think that killing Vriska would’ve been the right thing to do, because she was so close to redeeming her. But, her failure to do that got everyone killed. She starts to miss the days where Vriska was just the person who blinded her. When Vriska was just someone she wanted dead.

So, when the Cancer King approaches her about fixing her mistake, Terezi counters that she doesn’t even really know what her mistake was. She tried her best, made logical choices, tried to save everyone. What went wrong?

Karkat tries again. Saying that it’s unfair that she arguably tried to do everything right, but inexplicably failed anyways. Again, Terezi shuts him down. She’s getting the vibe that the only reason he’s having this conversation is because he fucked something up and, knowing Karkat, it probably wasn’t his fault. So she presses at his motive and Karkat explains his plan. Terezi remarks that it’s… incredibly cruel by his standards. Realizing that she’s unswayed, Karkat tries to drive his point home. He takes them to doomed, hopeless timelines that otherwise can’t be salvaged. If he gains control over the narrative, he can fix these. Terezi just asks him to take them to the timelines he’s already visited, see first hand what kind of damage he’s doing. This back and forth continues for awhile.

At one point, Terezi closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Words start to spill out. Words that seem wiser than her. Above her somehow.

She briefly wonders if the Terezi from Karkat’s timeline is speaking through her somehow. She’s more right than she realizes. 

“K4RKL3S… OK4Y, NO. DROPP1NG TH4T. K4RK4T. 1 DON’T KNOW WH4T H4PP3N3D 1N YOUR T1M3L1N3. 1 DON’T KNOW WHO D13D OR 1F 1’M 3V3N 4L1V3 1N YOUR T1M3L1N3. BUT, 1 KNOW TH4T NON3 OF US, NON3 OF TH3M, WOULD W4NT TH1S. SO WHY DO YOU W4NT TH1S? NO M4TT3R WH4T H4PP3N3D, NO M4TT3R WH4T YOU D1D, W3 WOULDN’T W4NT YOU TO HURT 4NYON3. 1 KNOW YOU'R3 TRY1NG TO S4V3 3V3RYON3. 1 TR13D TO S4V3 3V3RYON3 TOO. BUT 1T D1DN’T G3T M3 4NYWH3R3.

1 GU3SS WH4T 1’M TRY1NG TO S4Y 1S, SH1T H4PP3NS? TH4T F33LS L1K3 SOM3TH1NG TH4T D4V3 WOULD S4Y H3R3 4T L34ST. BUT, NON3 OF TH4T W4S YOUR F4ULT. YOU DON’T H4V3 TO BL4M3 YOURS3LF FOR G3TT1NG FUCK3D BY F4T3. 1 SUR3 WOULDN’T 4ND 1 KNOW TH3 M3 FROM YOUR T1M3L1N3 WOULDN’T. B3C4US3 W3 KNOW YOU TR13D YOUR B3ST. W3 KNOW YOU C4R3D 4BOUT US, 3V3N B4CK WH3N YOU W3R3 TO B1G OF 4N 4SSHOL3 TO S4Y 1T OUT LOUD. YOU D1D WH4T YOU COULD 4ND YOU D1D 4S W3LL 4S YOU COULD. 1SN’T TH4T 3NOUGH?”

Karkat stands there, far off in a way Terezi couldn’t quiet imagine. For just a minute, it looked like he might walk away.

There was still time. He could find an easier solution. He didn’t need to hurt anyone. 

…Karkat dismisses it as wishful thinking.

The Cancer King gives her a glimpse of the main timeline and the ruined state that it’s in. He shows her everything that’s been lost. Everyone who died. He shows her the image of a bloodparched Empress tearing through reality. 

“I KNOW… THIS PROBABLY ISN’T THE RIGHT THING TO DO.“ 

He chokes on the words, taking a deep breath before continuing. 

“BUT IT’S THE ONLY CHOICE I HAVE.”

Terezi’s gaze into the future reveals nothing. There’s only so far a doomed Seer of Mind can see. So her only choice is too believe him.

As a member of the team, Terezi serves as Karkat’s moral conscious even more so than Aradia does. Aradia keeps things in perspective for the group as a whole, while Terezi forces Karkat to consider his motives. Why are we going after these people? They aren’t God-Tiers and you swore you’d only absorb God-Tiers to keep from becoming as bad as the HIC. It helps that it isn’t just The Hung Jury that’s speaking to Karkat. Main Terezi, after dying and appearing in the Dreambubbles, has found a way to speak through her alternate timeline counterparts via a Heart artifact she got from Nepeta. She’s been trying to use The Hung Jury to redeem Karkat, but the Jury is becoming increasingly aware of her interference and is starting to hunt her down.

Terezi is a bit awkward around the Pirate Queen at first. A Vriska who is looking to atone for everything she did is uncomfortably close to what Terezi almost achieved. Still, she doesn’t hold that against her. Honestly, the two tend to act as moirails here. Terezi keeps Vriska from turning into a self loathing mess, while Vriska keeps Terezi distracted from her own guilt. Killing so many people in the name of the greater good weighs on her mind, and the only way Vriska knows to handle that is too keep her distracted. This has the added benefit of making main Terezi rethink her relationship with her own Vriska, seeing how comparatively healthy this one is.

At the advice of Nepeta (who I can assure you has been taking notes on this entire relationship), Vriska tries to help Terezi fill her other quadrants. Karkat is an immediate no, as his fuck ups with his own Terezi are still fresh in his mind. The others on the list turn her down for other reasons. Lack of interest, already taken, or have other quadrants to maintain. At Vriska’s suggestions, Terezi constantly ends up going back to Nepeta for advice about her latest target. Nepeta happily lists all the pros and cons about that particular relationship, points out all the things they might, and even roleplays with Terezi to practice her confession. Those meetings keep getting longer, Nepeta’s advice keeps getting more detailed. Nepeta starts slipping out of character in their roleplays more. Meanwhile, Vriska is watching from a distance with a shit eating grin and giving herself the greatest wingman award.

…Main Terezi is in denial about this having any effect on how she views her Nepeta. Not developing a crush, no siree.

As an active agent, Terezi tries to only target people she views as actively guilty. Not only will she set up large swaths of the Condescension’s army to be absorbed by the Cancer King, but she actively tries seeking out evil people so that she can bring justice down upon them. It helps her head rest easier. Terezi’s a consumate manipulator already, conning doomed players is a cinch. When The Hung Jury isn’t doing that, she’s actively hunting for her main timeline counterpart. Main Terezi knows better than to tango with a God-Tier version of herself, so she stays one step ahead. 

The Hung Jury is the King’s conscience and right hand strategist. A force to be reckoned with and a mind few can match.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO THE WAY THIS HINTS THAT THIS VRISKA IS FROM THE DOOMED TIMELINE THE OG TEREZI CREATED AND ALSO GOD TIER TEREZI ALMOST BEING THE PERSON CONVINVING KARKAT 

THIS IS TASTY OP THIS IS TASTY!!!

Also that neprezi - GOD YOU GUYS ARE ACTIVELY JUST THROWING THAT IN NOW HUH. should I just declare it the next ship on my list?? its the one that snuck its way up there. evil john anon this is SO good this is REALLY good I’m just AAAAAAAAAAAA

Anyway here are your outfits: 

Here’s your Pirate Queen - I imagine with Vriska’s assured blinding confidence gone and the image of her hero being shattered, she’d attempt to find herself while also still trying to seek that familiar ground. She doesn’t look like an awe-inspiring pirate adventure seeker anymore but she still has a fashion sense. What scored me this was this line: 

Vriska is every bit the dangerous, competent, complex, anti-villain she used to think she was. Difference is, now she doesn’t enjoy it.

Like OOF that just hits the mark!!

Terezi’s was more thoughtful, as she is - I imagine she finally takes up that fucking Lady Justice pose and setup but more like morally for Karkat, and I REALLY love what you did with her. I like how she’s the most pressing about his objectives here, because of course she would want to sniff out what this Karkat’s deal was, offering something of this magnitude, and then seeing the damage he caused to the main timeline. This Terezi doesn’t feel like a normal God Tier (although her outfit is heavily inspired so) but rather like a very ultimate mistress of Justice. 

Doesn’t change the fact all of her friends are dead because of her failure to act. Terezi isn’t sure what to make of her failure as she’s stuck floating on a meteor in a doomed timeline. She can’t think that killing Vriska would’ve been the right thing to do, because she was so close to redeeming her. But, her failure to do that got everyone killed.

Everything Vriska had imitated, looked up to, and based her own self worth on was a lie.

The sense of loss and hopelessness in this really drove it home.

[lady-divine-writes]

Hello! May I request something fun for Ineffable Husbands for Halloween? Maybe something a little spicy? TIA

Hello, nonnie! A little spicy it is! Thank you so much for the prompt

Costume Malfunction (Rated NC17)

Aziraphale orders a bunny tail and ears to wear for the trick-or-treaters on Halloween, but is heartbroken to discover the set he bought won’t latch on to his clothes, and Crowley has to find a tactful way to explain why ...

“Hey there, angel.” Crowley slides up beside Aziraphale and kisses him on the cheek as he sneakily swipes a chocolate biscuit from the plate on the table. Aziraphale doesn’t greet him back, doesn’t object to his thievery (which he never does anyhow). He simply stares, despondently, into a special delivery box open in front of him. Crowley nudges his shoulder, hoping for a smile, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem in the mood to give him one. “What’s wrong?

“Oh … nothing.” Aziraphale sighs. “I’m just a little disappointed.”

“Why? Is Lady Shadwell talking about cocoa beans going extinct again?” Crowley shoots a look behind Aziraphale’s back at Tracy, seated at the table even though Aziraphale has chosen to stand, and drinking her tea.

“Well, they are,” she defends between sips.

“No, they aren’t. That’s what I want you mortals to think,” Crowley says, taking a bite of his cookie. “You humans wipe out the good stuff too quick. You all need to slow down! I need to make sure there’s always gonna be enough chocolate for my angel.”

Aziraphale smiles gratefully, but it falls right away. “It’s not that,” he replies, accompanied by another longer, more dramatic sigh.

“What is it then?” Crowley’s gaze follows Aziraphale’s into the box, certain the source of his woes are tucked underneath the layers of paper tissue and bubble wrap stuffed inside it.

“I ordered a bunny tail and ears from a costume shop online to wear for Halloween, but I can’t figure out how to put it on.”

“It can’t be that complicated.”

“But it is! It’s positively Sisyphian.”

“Let’s see. Maybe I can help you,” Crowley offers, making a grabby hand gesture.

“Oh, I hope you can.” Aziraphale reaches sadly into the box and pulls out a fluffy white tail topped with a pink satin bow. “I was so looking forward to dressing up for the trick-or-treaters.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at that. He can’t ever remember Aziraphale saying he liked trick-or-treaters in his shop … or children … or people in general. But seeing as so much has changed for the two of them in the months following the Nada-geddon, maybe Aziraphale’s opinion on customers has, too.

Crowley would be surprised seeing as Aziraphale growled at a young man yesterday who wouldn’t stop asking questions while the angel was trying to read, but anything’s possible.

“Don’t you worry,” Crowley says with a fond sort of condescension in his tone. “I’ll have you up and bunnied in no ti---“ He stops, going slack-jawed when he turns the tail over and sees what has Aziraphale flummoxed. Instead of a clip or a pin, the snowy white tail, with its coquettish pink bow flowing over the top, is attached to a large, rather intimidating-looking, silver butt plug. “Uh …” He stammers, his brain stuck on an image of him using that glorious plush-adorned plug on his angel …

And of his angel using that plug on him.

His brain re-wires and he swallows hard, but neither does anything to bring his voice back.

“Is there something the matter, my dear?” Aziraphale asks.

“N-no!” Crowley stammers. “Nothing! Not at all! It’s just that … you wouldn’t normally wear this particular bunny tail outside.”

“That’s okay,” Aziraphale says, relieved. “I don’t intend on leaving the shop.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh. Then what do you mean?”

Crowley stares at the plug in his hands, trying to come up with an appropriate answer considering present company. Not that Tracy Shadwell would be shocked by Crowley explaining the mechanics of a butt plug. Far from it. But if Aziraphale doesn’t know, Crowley doesn’t want to fluster him.

“How about this - I’ll find a costume shop in London and pick you up a proper bunny tail. Then later on tonight …” He creeps in close, standing behind his angel with his arms wrapped around his middle, the plug cradled in his cupped hand “… I’ll show you what this one’s all about. You know, when we’re alone.” He glances at Tracy, whose eyes dart to her cup, her tea suddenly captivating.

“If you think that’s best, my dear,” Aziraphale says, wiggling back into his demon’s embrace.

“I do,” Crowley whispers, squirreling the plug inside his jacket and kissing Aziraphale on the cheek. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t take too long.” Aziraphale accepts another kiss from his departing demon, this one on the lips. Crowley gives a nod to Mrs. Shadwell. The former medium nods back from behind her tea cup, which has yet to venture too far from her mouth lest she open it and say something she shouldn’t. She waits until Crowley is through the door and out of earshot before she speaks at all.

“You cheeky little …” She clicks her tongue. “Are you sure you’re not the demon?”

“Why?” Aziraphale carefully replaces the remains of the packing material in the box and shuts it up tight. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You didn’t order that tail by mistake! You bought that plug on purpose! You even asked me which website to order it from!”

“So …?”

“So you lied! You’re an angel and you lied!”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “That barely constituted a lie. And if I did lie, it was to a demon, so by Heaven’s standards, that counts as a loophole.”

“That’s kind of harsh, in’it? He is your husband, after all.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says with a smug grin. “That’s why, personally, I see what I did as roleplay, so technically not a lie.”

“Roleplay?”

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale sits down to his guest and his cup of tea. “Besides, it’s so much more fun when he thinks he’s teaching me something new. And believe you me, after 6000 years, there’s not much left on this planet I can pretend not to know.”

“I can imagine,” Tracy mutters, sliding her cup closer to Aziraphale when he picks up the teapot to refill his own. “So, does everyone in Heaven deal in technicalities and loopholes?”

“Of course, my dear. Why do you think it’s on the top floor of a high rise office building?”

[silenthillmutual]

@milk-teeths wanted dadniil comforting khan during a breakdown. i’ve never written khan before so i hope this turned out okay ;; --------------------

Victor means well. He always does. And Khan knows he's very lucky, to have a father that means well. But meaning well doesn't exactly help in all contexts, least of all this one. One that Victor is far from able to advise him on, and he is not, under any circumstances, taking this spiral of self-doubt to uncle Georgiy. It's not even that Victor had suggested it, but knowledge hung there in the air between them both as they explicitly did not talk about Georgiy "such a pity we have no male heir" Kain.

He'll apologize to his father later, if he must. If he feels the compulsion to, though he knows the man doesn't expect it himself. Right now he just needs to get out. He'd get out of Town, if he could, even with the voice in the back of his head screaming Irresponsible at him. He has a town to look after, a future, a people, and he just wants to run away from it all. There's no privacy here, no place where he can just let the mask go and be sixteen years old and not have to worry about any of this. About leading. About being an example. About people finding out.

And who is he kidding? In all probability, they already know.

The Polyhedron is gone, but the Nutshell at least still stands as a neutral territory. He's counting on Capella's feelings, her connections to reach out to him and tell people to leave the place undisturbed until he's ready to go. It's three hours until nighttime, but people hang around here anyway. He bites his lip as he rounds the corner, but it's blissfully empty.

He almost vomits in the corner. He manages to push back the wave of nausea by leaning his head against the wall. He's not feverish, but God forbid if his father or his sister or worse, Artemy Burakh learns he's nearly been sick. He'll never hear the end of it. He guesses he's glad for it; again, he's made to think about how fortunate he is. Notkin doesn't have this, Capella hasn't in years, but he can't stand the babying. It's how they treat the women here, all of them, and he doesn't know how they stand it. But he sure as hell doesn't want it directed at him.

Khan pushes off against the wall and undoes his shirt buttons, fingers shaking. He needs to unwrap these bandages before he suffocates. He hates that he can't manage it for long, when he knows it's only going to get worse the older he gets. When he's eighteen, at least, he'll be able to talk to someone about it. Burakh, maybe, or Rubin if he won't. They're Olgimsky men, ostensibly, and whatever happens between them all he trusts Capella not to let him down.

...But the idea, the idea of the Capital, of seeing a doctor there who can take this weight off of him...

The door slams open clumsily and he barely has time to tug his shirt back over his chest before he spins around, scowling. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear - but at least this doctor, though bumbling as the others, makes a habit of asking before entering. If, of course, he knows where he's going. Dankovsky blinks at Khan, rather confused, and sighs at himself, rubbing his forehead. "Not again," Khan hears him mumble, and sets his bag down for a moment to look at his map. Over a month now, and he still doesn't know the streets.

"Do you need directions, doctor?" Khan asks, trying his best through the pain to lower his voice.

"No, no, I'll get it!" he says, waving his hand. His face doesn't exactly betray confidence, though, brow furrowing. Khan hears him mutter the word "Whatever" before he shoves it back into his bag, and looks at him, still frowning. "I needed to speak with you anyway."

Oh, no. "I'm afraid it'll have to wait," Khan says, attempting authority in his voice. "I'm indisposed."

Wrong choice of words. Of course he shouldn't have assumed the doctor would be any different here - Capital man or not, he's still a doctor. "All the more reason for us to talk," he says, removing his gloves. He's spent too long around Burakh, putting his hand over Khan's forehead. "You're not running a fever, from what I can tell," he says, apparently oblivious to his own slip, and continues. "Where is it you don't feel well."

"That's none of your concern," Khan says, but as the only adult who hasn't treated him with condescension, he's never been good at sending Dankovsky off. "I didn't call for you."

"Well I'm not leaving," Daniil says. "That would just be ridiculous, and your father and sister would never forgive me."

"I thought you weren't on speaking terms with Maria?" Dankovsky scowls at him, but he can see the man's not going anywhere. "It'll pass anyway, doctor, it's just -"

"Hang on." His voice is coming out slow and suspicious. Khan is unnerved. The doctor walks around him, frowning, and he knows what it is he's got in hand before he shows it to Khan. "Have you been -? Khan, is this where all my missing bandages have gone?"

It's the fact that his voice sounds hurt that's got him to breaking. God damn this time of the month. "I'm sorry," he says, voice squeaking. He hates it.

"Oh - don't cry, please." He watches Daniil squirm uncomfortably, from where they stand a few paces apart, Khan looking elsewhere with his jaw clamped shut. "Just - why? Is there something going on I don't know about? Your... your... What do you call them again? Dog Ears? Are they hurt?"

"No," Khan says, words coming out a little too loud. "It's something different. You wouldn't understand."

"Please explain it to me. I'll try." Khan fidgets. "Casper?"

"I need to bind -" he blurts out. He cuts off his words with his teeth. "Something. It's - I have to do it very carefully. And if I use anything coarser than bandages, I'll hurt myself. Do you understand enough now?"

Things are very quiet for a moment. "I understand perfectly well," Dankovsky says softly. "Better than you know."

"You don't know anything! None of you do!" But what should come out as an angry retort is lost behind tears. He doesn't sound commanding, he just sounds pathetic. "All of it is such a mess now! Everyone's scattered, and even you aren't helping! With your alliance with Burakh, you've got Capella thinking the future won't work out the way we'd intended. And the Tower is gone, so there's nowhere for me to even run to anymore, and - no! You don't get it!"

Khan stops shouting, covering his top lip with his arm. He feels stupid now, having said so much when he's supposed to be... different. More mature. More in line. He hears Dankovsky's "Oh, dear," and feels his shadow shift as he walks closer to Khan. He doesn't have to move his body much to look Khan in the eye to say, "Well, you're right about something - I don't understand a word of what you just said. But that first bit, about the binding - I understand what you're doing, and even with bandages, you *will* hurt yourself. I'll be surprised if you haven't got some internal bruising already. How long have you been binding for?"

"For as long as it's been necessary," he says, tone sour.

"Oh, dear," Dankovsky repeats, "So earlier than I'd been."

He blinks, and turns his head sharply to look at the doctor. His face is neutral. "Earlier than you'd been...?"

"Yes," Daniil says. "That's what I meant when I said I understood. It wasn't just a worthless platitude. I know how much those..." he trails off, looking for the right word, and ends with a flat, "Suck."

Breathing comes a little easier now, such an intense change that Khan almost feels light-headed. "How did you manage? Until you were able to -?" Khan gestures to his chest.

"Lots of layers," Daniil replies. "It helps that I'm usually quite cold, and that it fits my aesthetic. No one ever asks, and no one can tell." Khan nods. "So this sick that you feel, is it your cycle?"

And it's back to uncomfortable now, but at least it's the kind he can deal with. "Yes. I keep getting nauseous. It didn't used to be so bad in the Polyhedron, but now -"

"Closer to the twyre, yes. That *has* made things worse. I've prescribed lots of pain medications for headaches, cramps, insomnia - I don't know how  you all stand it, here."

Daniil is shaking his head, but Khan notices he's smiling. "And yet, you stayed," he points out, and watches the man blush. "You're part of what ruined everything, you know."

"What a surprise," he deadpans. "Howso this time?"

"You and Burakh. Getting along, like Simon and Isidor used to. It's made Capella think there's other options for the future." He shakes his head. "Love matches, and that nonsense."

The doctor keeps blinking, flustered, for a moment before he continues, "Well, do you really want to marry someone you don't love, just for politics? That's hopelessly old-fashioned, and you're meant to symbolize the future -"

"It's not that. I have no preference for that sort of thing, really," Khan says. "I'm only sixteen. But it means I don't -" He stops himself short. This almost feels unsafe to talk about, but... Though he stayed, he is still an outsider, so maybe he can... Offer guidance... "I don't have any way to stand out, now. The Polyhedron is gone. In a few years I'll be too old for the gang. My sister is the mistress. My uncle is the only remaining founder of this town. My father still lives with the ghost of my mother's memory, and even he means more to the town than I will if I don't marry Capella."

Daniil takes a moment to listen, before he hums, and nods. "There are other ways to stand out, I'm sure, if you really want to." He stops. "But do you really want to?"

Khan's fingers clench and fight against each other. "Does it matter what I want? I'm a Kain. I'm going to, one way or the other."

"But then that solves your conundrum. By your name alone, you'll stand out."

"But I won't have made a mark for myself," he explains. "And I have to."

"Why?" Daniil shakes his head. "My dear child, you don't have to do anything. I think it's enough, really, to just be happy."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Khan admits. "You, of all people!"

"Doesn't that sort of illustrate my point?" Daniil asks. "I came here thinking differently, feeling differently. Things change. I can't say that the plague should have taught you something, that wouldn't be very fair of me. But - quam bene vivas refert, non quam diu. Don't worry so much about the future. There's no fate, Casper. It isn't set in stone. And I think you'll be happier if you allow yourself to just exist."

He shifts weight between his feet, uneasy. "I don't know," he says. "I'll have to think about it -"

"But promise me that you will," Daniil says.

Khan nods. "I will."

[headoverhiddles]

I Fiori Del Male - John Brannox (The New Pope) x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: Scandal is trivial when it comes to Catholic factions, as long as it’s well hidden. You, a nude model, and the High Priest of England are forced to put that to the test during one last night of passion, when Papacy looms. 

Notes: Once again my love of old men is my downfall. I watched the show for Manson, and ended up really liking John Malkovich’s character as well. He’s just so sweet and charming! So here’s a sporadic one shot I really enjoyed writing.

Gif belongs to lousolversons!

Your robe trails behind you along the marble floors of the manor. It’s the middle of the night, and you knew he’d be waiting for you when you arrived on the grounds.  

“You’re early,” John says, smiling. You shut the door quietly, walking over to the bed and discarding your robe. The older man is sitting, contented, by his fireplace, harp resting comfortably in his lap.

“I got here just when I intended to,” you reply, and he pauses his playing of the harp to admire your body. He turns back to face the far wall.

“You’ve heard the news, I take it.”

You take a breath. You hadn’t expected him to bring that up before joining you in bed… it took a toll on the expected activities of the night. “Yes. I’ve heard.” He plucks a couple of the strings on the harp, and you realize you’ve closed the conversation too early. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.” That, you weren’t expecting. John glances over, eyebrows raising a little at your reaction. “You’re upset.”

“I’m surprised,” you correct, though you can’t ignore the tugging feeling you have in your stomach. John stands, abandoning his instrument, and walks leisurely over to the bed in his purple velvet dressing gown. A small smile appears on his lips.

“You’re upset.” Before you can search your brain for any excuse or assurance that you were, in fact, unaffected, he puts his hands on your shoulders. “I’m upset as well.”

“You agreed,” you whisper.

“After difficult deliberation.”

“It mustn’t have been all too difficult. Will you take all your books and antiques? Music, cultured possessions, what you need to teach Rome?”

“I’ll take what I can.”

“What about what you can’t?”

“The Papacy is an honor.”

“You’re a high priest.”

“Pope is a tad higher, my dear. An honor which should have been bestowed upon my brother. Or according to my dear parents, that is.”

“So, what?” you ask, blinking demurely up at him through your eyelashes, “You want to prove you can be a better Pope than Adam could have been?” Any other man with John’s history would have lashed out at that. But your lover was a gentle, kind man—commanded loyalty and obedience, no doubt, but he did so with benevolence.

“I do not know what sort of Pope Adam would have been, since Adam is dead. A living Pope is superior to a dead one, so right from the start, I… have a slight advantage.” His tone is contemplative, empty of any implied sarcasm. You sit up on your knees, and place your right hand on top of his, where it’s still resting on your shoulder. You then begin to kiss up his arm, until you can no longer bunch his dressing gown sleeve any higher.

“Take this off?” you ask, eyes hooded.

“Already there, are we?” he murmurs, taking your hand and squeezing it. “I thought there’d be more of an argument.”

“Passion, good or bad, shows its colors in the throes of pleasure,” you respond, and move your hands in, feeling his chest and shrugging the robe off for him. He removes his underclothes with precision, eyes never leaving your naked body.

“You’re like a sculpture, my dear (y/n),” he says, leaning in to brush his lips across your cheek.

“You can’t touch sculptures,” you breathe, crawling backward on the bed. He joins you, eyes descending to your spreading legs.

“I can do as I please. I’ll be the Pope this time next week.”

You grin, and he kisses you properly, lips always the perfect feeling against yours. The pleasant familiarity of his beard scratching your chin almost helps you forget that it may be the last time you’d feel it.

“A work of art,” he continues, “I stare at the painting of you we’ve got in our west wing drawing room. If I wasn’t leaving so abruptly, I’d have half a mind to have it moved to my study.”

“Why don’t you move it to your chapel?”

“What an intriguing idea.”

“People would certainly talk.”

“People do talk. It doesn’t mean we have to listen.”

You giggle, wrapping your legs around him and dragging your foot up his back. “You’re no Pope, John Brannox.”

“On the contrary. I believe I can restore sanity to the Vatican, if nothing else.” You hum, and he feels a hand down your chest, cupping your breast as he makes sure you’re wet and ready for him.

“I remember the day I was painted on that couch,” you say. “I do so many, it’s hard to recall most, but that one I remember. It had been commissioned by your estate. It was to go to the High Priest of England, Sir John Brannox, the painter told me.”

“And did that affect your position, my dear?” he smirks, touching your clit. You gasp, rolling your hips up to his hand.

“Yes. I posed as I do in my others, but my eyes… they bore the seduction. I imagined what you would do with the art. Perhaps, your reaction to it.”

“My reaction to it was most underwhelming, I must disappoint you,” he smiles, “I couldn’t very well show how taken with it I was.”

“But did you think of me that night?” you moan.

“Every night since,” he replies. “I was enchanted. I still am.”

“And I am enamored with you,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his again. “When you arranged that meeting with me, I believed you would be the same as every important man in this country.”

“I am not?” he asks.

“You know you’re not. You’re not arrogant. You flaunt, but you do so tastefully. That, I can forgive.”

“If your goal was to flatter me into proper form, it’s done the trick,” he laughs fondly, and you look down to see him hard. You place his hands on your breasts again.

“Soon, that painting will be your only reminder of me. Touch me while you can. Commit my body to memory for lonely nights, and I will do the same.”

He does as you say, burying himself inside you with a laboured intake of breath. You hold onto him as he builds up a perfect pace, each thrust deep and satisfying. He listens to your body, knows without a word from you when he needs to try something new.

“Will you find another lover as versatile as I am?” he teases, new vigor restored to his expression as he takes his younger companion. You roll your eyes. No man is immune to praise, especially that of the sexual nature and during the act.

“Your talents will remain unmatched, I’m sure,” you huff, and he thrusts in hard, grunting softly.

“Are you certain you won’t find some… younger man, who will bring you to your climax faster?”

“I will never fuck a man who does not appreciate the art of slowly taking a woman apart like you do,” you tell him.

“That’s reassuring,” he says, “These new romantics these days have studied up on their poetry, I’m sure, and I’m glad for it.”

You breath his name as his thrusts get faster, then recall a line of poetry out of Rome that you’ve always meant to write down somewhere. “Che mistero è questo, che posso sentire le mie labbra sulla punta delle dita.” (What mystery is this, that I can feel my lips in your fingertips.)

He gasps, hips moving quickly as he responds in broken Italian. “E quando mi ha guardato, avevo dimenticato quale fosse la sofferenza, ma sono morto mille morti.” (And when she looked at me, I had forgotten what suffering was, but died a thousand deaths.)

“I want you to take me harder than you’ve taken anyone,” you whisper in his ear, lips falling further open and legs spreading even wider for him, “I won’t break.”

He takes this seriously, reaching every part of your body and going harder than you’ve seen him ever before. It’s magnificent, but he’s starting to get tired, you can tell by the way his forearms are beginning to quiver.

“I’m very close,” the older man whispers in your ear, stroking your hair back, “Are you?” You arch your back, your fevered moans reaching their desperate crescendo in an answer to his question.

“Come when you need to,” you tell him softly, “I don’t mind.” But he’s not about to leave you. A few more thrusts, and you both finish together.

John breathes heavily beside you, lowering himself down and pulling out of you. You watch him as he gets up, and walks over to his mirror, sitting down in front of it to wipe at some of the dark eyeliner he had forgotten to remove before nighttime. You stretch out across his four poster bed, golden sheets satin against your skin.

"Do you love me, John?"

There was a steady pause, more silence following still.

"Yes."

The answer sounded careless, but you knew him to be a careful man. You meet his eyes in the mirror. "Then take me with you."

He merely looks back at you, a sort of softness in his eyes. It's nothing like condescension, the knowing male gaze that tells you that you simply wouldn't understand. His eyes carry the weight of knowing that you know, and knowing what that means for him.

A night spent together with an unmarried young woman carries more gravity when it is done wearing the Cloth. As a High Priest, it can be explained away to God as a simple sin, a carnal desire passed off and forgotten in a confessional, but under Papacy? Such a thing is not so easily forgiven.

“Everything evil in this world is hysteria of love,” he says. “Distortions of our ability to love. It’s a beautiful thing, but it’s just beyond my grasp. And my hopes are, you can share it with another. Please, for both of our sakes, my dear… mistake my love, one last time, for tenderness. For that is what I can offer you, and all that I can offer you.”

From that moment, you knew. He was the New Pope.

[gcldveined]

I got this reply in response to a post I made about loving Gwen, and I’m putting my own novel of a response in the tags. Here we go.

Actually, nothing you said about her is fair, and I’ll go into why. While Gwen is a character I hold very dearly, I need to preface this with the fact that I in no way see her as perfect (in fact, I’ll go deeply into why she isn’t), or better than any of the team. As anyone who knows me and my love of Torchwood can tell you, I’m arguably in love with every single member of the team evenly, and with Rhys as well. So I’ll try to hit all the points you brought up here.

The writing in the first 2 series —  Honestly, I’ll start with yes, the writing can be spotty and rough in points. It happens when you have so many different writers with differing views of what the relationships and characters are. For a non-Gwen example, take s1e12 Captain Jack Harkness - it was written by a woman who was fairly anti-Janto (a canon ship) and just wanted to see two soldiers kiss, by her own admission. So it took a very odd turn out of character for Jack to say “there’s no one” when asked if he had someone romantically involved with him. Owen’s development went back and forth from asshole to progress to asshole to progress again. Tosh got next to no attention outside of wanting love. They were all written in a bit of a shoddy manner in s1, when a show with many, many writers was just getting on its feet. Something of a sidebar, but important to note that the uneven writing does not apply solely to Gwen. Gwen being written as condescending and holier than thou - nope. I’m sorry, but no, that’s not what it was at all. Gwen was written as a point of humanity for Torchwood, which was desperately needed, as is evidenced as early as s1e2 Day One. Gwen was not a seasoned veteran of Torchwood, she was a woman who joined the police force because she wanted to help people. On top of dealing with the overwhelming nature of joining Torchwood itself, she first spoke up about morality, and humanity, (as was evidenced and clearly intended by the writers as they dubbed her The Heart of Torchwood) when she heard Carys sobbing in a cell because the poor girl was fighting with some murderous sex alien for control of her own body. Gwen was also written to be a vessel for audience projection, whether anyone likes it or not. And I believe it was necessary; if any of us were to react in any way but concern for someone in Carys’ situation, I’d question if there was something deeply wrong with us.

It was clear that nobody on the team had explained to her what was being done (Jack’s line about the computers running a bioscan on her makes that clear). It is only when he gets aggressive and defensive about it -

“Now, is that enough? Do you want more? Cos it gets kinda boring.”

- that she continues on about it.

“You've been hidden down here too long. Spending so much time with the alien stuff, you've lost what it means to be human.”

This line isn’t about being holier than thou, and it’s not about being condescending. It’s about the fact that she got caught up in the moment with them, laughing and relaxing and eating Chinese takeaway while a girl fought for control of her body and felt as though she was losing her mind in a dingy cell underground. It was a moment of shock at herself and a hope to find that same response in the others. And when they didn’t respond in kind, a realization about what they have done and how they have compartmentalized things in order to do the job before them. She doesn’t go on to build the background on Carys without prompting. She doesn’t go off on a sermon about how horrible they all are. Jack says:

“So remind us. Tell me what it means to be human in the twenty first century.”

and she does. She goes to pull up Carys’ life, as we all know, and in the end — Gwen was right. She was right in needing to keep Carys grounded, in a fight for control, though by the time they come to that conclusion it is too late and she has escaped. Later, she continues to argue with Jack about it, and they have a very sort of tense feeling between them through the rest of the episode. But then we get to the end, and Jack tells her —

“Do one thing for me. Don't let the job consume you. You have a life. Perspective. We need that.”

That’s a bit long winded for that one episode, but this is the foundation of what Gwen does for the team and who she is. Any one of us would be shocked entering Torchwood, finding what they do and how they handle it. Jack knew from the beginning what Gwen possessed — compassion and perspective — and wanted to use that. We see Gwen fall into the more callous and detached side of Torchwood to an extent over the course of the series, but we also see other characters come around to a more caring side.

It’s balance, it’s not condescension. Jack — her boss — told her to keep up with what she had been doing. I don’t know about you, but if I came up with an opinion — much less a controversial one — in my workplace, and my boss told me it was good and to hang on to it, I wouldn’t just drop it. I’d keep at it, like she was instructed to.

What the writers wanted vs. what they portrayed onscreen — We’re going a bit out of order here, but I think this one fits in well here. The writers wanted compassion, an emotional and steadying hand for Torchwood’s detachment, and an audience surrogate. And that is exactly what they gave us. Every show has an audience surrogate; Gwen was simply Torchwood’s. Jack created Torchwood Three to be different than Torchwood One, and especially if you listen to the audios, Torchwood One was extremely callous and detached. Gwen’s POV was essential to the Torchwood Jack wanted, to the Torchwood Jack never stopped working towards. The writers didn’t always handle everything well, but they knew what they wanted with Gwen, and they gave it to us.

Gwen’s infidelity with Owen and Jack — oh boy. This is a topic, because I know Gwen gets a ton of hate for it. Let’s preface this with: she was wrong. Gwen Cooper should never have cheated on Rhys, emotionally or physically. However, let’s explore this topic and how hating just Gwen for it and not Owen or Jack as well is misogynistic and wrong, full stop.

Here we go.

We’ll start with Owen. We’ve established I do not condone it, but I feel I understand her thinking in that, and I think it’s an important to delve into it a bit.

Gwen started Torchwood, as discussed, shocked by the detachment from humanity. She would later fall into that to an extent, as well, and I believe part of her affair with Owen was the beginning. She was stressed, overwhelmed, and scared in a job that demanded a lot from her in every way - physical, mental, moral, and emotional. She couldn’t speak to Rhys about it, since it was confidential. She needed someone to confide in about the stress of the job (as seen at the end of s1e6 Countrycide), and as seen throughout the series in Gwen’s mannerisms, playfulness, and affection, she’s very tactile, hence the physical aspect. But most importantly, it wasn’t emotional. Gwen was not looking for another love — even in her most brainless moments (which they all have), she couldn’t have believed that Owen wanted an emotional affair. Even from Day One, he says:

“I torture people in happy relationships.”

In Countrycide, he gives her this speech while they are inches from making out, about the incredible sex they would have together:

“Doesn't happen with him, does it? You're too familiar. Whereas you and me, we're not cozy at all. We'd be amazing. And that scares the shit out of you.”

Owen cared about sex, and being Owen and the carer he is (though he pretends not to be), allowed her to confide in him about the transition and stress of the job:

GWEN: “And I can't share [the things she sees in Torchwood] with anyone.” OWEN: “You can now.”

That was what Gwen was looking for. A confidante. The cheating was shitty, and the later action of telling Rhys and retconning him was shittier (imho, the writers REALLY fucked that one up, especially by never bringing it up again), but Gwen was not the only person doing shitty things. Owen knew she had a boyfriend. Even referenced him repeatedly in his efforts to seduce her. Canonically “tortures people in happy relationships”. The point of this particular ramble being this:

IF YOU HATE GWEN COOPER FOR CHEATING AND DO NOT HATE OWEN HARPER FOR BEING THE OTHER HALF OF IT, IT IS MISOGYNY. FULL STOP.

Full stop. No excuses. Owen did exactly as badly as Gwen did. They both fucked up. I adore Owen Harper with my whole soul, but you cannot excuse for him what you hate Gwen for. They did it together, knowingly. You cannot cherry pick who you bash for their grey morality.

And on to Jack.

My personal headcanons aside**, we have the same situation. Gwen was not the only one flirting. Gwen was not the only one with feelings. Take s2e1 Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, for example. That scene in the cells, when he finds out she’s engaged to Rhys? That was him trying to seduce her (romantically more than physically). That was his poorly timed and awful attempt at making something out of it (Gwen also reciprocated in this scene. I don’t deny that.) To quote The Four Aces: “love is a many-splendored thing.” It’s complicated and rough, and Gwen had genuine feelings for Jack at the same time as she did Rhys. It’s not good. It’s bad. It’s immoral. It’s not ideal. Jack Harkness also had real, genuine, and complicated feelings for Gwen, too.

**I need to make a side note that I am not a Gwack shipper. My personal headcanons have Gwen’s initial crush on him fading by s1e4 Cyberwoman. I don’t enjoy the forced Gwack storyline, and it was dragged on endlessly, and I really kind of hated it. But we’re going by show canon. So the Gwack flirtation is a thing.**

So the point of this one is the same as the one before:

IF YOU HATE GWEN COOPER FOR FLIRTING AND DO NOT HATE JACK HARKNESS FOR BEING THE OTHER HALF OF IT, IT IS MISOGYNY. FULL STOP.

Full stop. No excuses. Jack was a willing, informed, and understanding participant in their flirtationship, despite her current and longstanding relationship with Rhys.

I’ll make one more point and then end this — it’s beautifully put in this post by @blipintiime​​, aka 1/3 of my heart, but here is this: every single member of Torchwood is morally damnable. Ianto Jones hid a murderous Cyberwoman in Torchwood Three, using the team and Jack to get her there. Owen Harper began the series by essentially drugging a couple for sex. Suzie Costello - well. Suzie. Toshiko Sato invaded each team member’s personal space, their thoughts, their most private recesses of their mind, for days, and then brought her alien girlfriend into Torchwood. Jack Harkness lied repeatedly and continuously to his team, murdered Ianto and Tosh’s girlfriends, killed when he didn’t need to, used an arguably sentient alien as bait, and a whole plethora of other things we won’t get into.

Torchwood is flawed, and that’s the point of the show. Each member is flawed in their own way, and has something brilliant to contribute. Hating Gwen for being the same is arguably misogynistic and unfounded. She is far from perfect. But she is not the fandom’s or anyone’s scapegoat.

Thanks for reading, stop blaming Gwen for things you pardon others for, goodbye.

[faejilly]

Into The Labyrinth

Uh. I have no explanation for this, really, besides the fact that I saw Inception again for the first time in ages and went ohh, right, this is great! Also Ariadne is such a warlock name, I couldn’t help it.

@shadowhunterbingo square: crossover 

More specifically: Shadowhunters/Inception Crossover, Arthur/Eames, background Malec, Ariadne POV. Guess who just found the Shadow World?

Ariadne isn't sure why Eames and Arthur have shown up on her doorstep at two in the morning, but she can admit (to them if they bother to ask, not that she thinks that they will, that sort of performative concern would be terribly out of character) that it's somehow not surprising.

The possibility of it happening may, in fact, have influenced her decision to access the tiniest part of her cut from The Job to get her own place while she finished up her thesis. Plus, she was tired of living like a 20-something-year-old again. It hadn't been fun the first time.

She waves them in, and is inordinately proud of herself that she remembers to start the coffee maker by hand rather than magicking it all together like she usually does. Potential dream heist complications were, as she'd already admitted to herself, (but not them, no, never them), not the only reason she'd wanted a place to herself, struggling grad-student appearances be damned.

She does surreptitiously combine two of her plates into one larger platter so she can get the mugs and spoons and milk from the fridge and a handful of her hoarded sugar packets over to the table in one trip though.

She turns back around, and almost drops the tray, saving it with a spark of distressingly bright purple magic.

Luckily they both have their eyes closed.

Because Arthur has his head on Eames' shoulder, and Eames is leaning right back.

"What the fuck." She manages to keep her voice down, but not swearing is way the hells too much effort, even if she mostly kept up a sweet-young-thing persona when she was being their Ariadne rather than her usual Ariadne.

Eames opens his eyes and offers her a smug grin, but it's a pale imitation of his usual one, and she feels a twinge of actual worry beneath her mostly pleased exasperation. "Did you never ask our darling Arthur his last name?"

Our.

Darling.

Last name.

She blinks at him, and puts the tray on the table. "That seemed like a thing that wasn't done, in your circles, if it wasn't offered."

Arthur snorts, and he waves a vaguely rude gesture at... well, presumably the whole damn world, though she assumes primarily at her and Eames, since they're here, but he doesn't bother to open his eyes. "Not like she asked you for your first name, either."

Eames nods gently, enough to make his point without dislodging Arthur's head. "You are the only one allowed to address me by my first name."

The very edge of Arthur's mouth tilts into the tiniest smile she's ever seen, and it is quite unexpectedly adorable.

Ariadne swallows the urge to actually say awww out loud, and finally remembers to sit down. She takes her own mug, and slides the tray the two inches it takes to get to the other side of her tiny table, right by Eames' elbow, since he's still the only one with functionally open eyeballs. "How long have you been married then, Misters Eames?"

Arthur huffs out a breath, but the tiny smile doesn't waver, and Eames' grin eases into something that looks a trifle more honest than he usually allows. "Misters Eames, I like that."

She notices neither of them even bothers to deflect her question.

Eames makes a cup, adds sugar, no milk, and slides it over next to Arthur's hand before starting on his own... milk, no sugar.

That's also oddly adorable, though she's not sure why.

She takes a sip of her own coffee (milk and sugar both, because why not), and watches the way they seem to slowly relax.

Silently.

"Well, if that's it for small-talk then," she puts her mug down with a slightly louder tap against the table than she'd intended. "What brings you to my door in the middle of the night?"

Arthur allows a full-blown frown to settle on his face, from forehead to eyebrows to mouth to jaw, and she feels another twinge of unease.

"Weird job went sideways," Eames says.

Arthur suddenly sits up straight, eyes open and entirely focused, and he leans forward just a little, staring right at her.

She almost sparks purple again, and wonders why she thought going back to school again was a good idea. She's too old for all-nighters and midnight meetings.

Catarina will die laughing if she ever hears Ariadne say that. She's not even a hundred.

"Well, thanks for being terrifying at two in the morning, it really adds to the ambiance." Ariadne glares back at him. "Very helpful. Nice thing to do to the lady who answered the door when she didn't have to."

Eames coughs, very unconvincingly covering his laughter.

Arthur is still frowning.

Ariadne rolls her eyes, and stands up. "Either tell me, or tell me it's none of my business, but glaring at me helps no one, and isn't nearly as scary as you think." She turns around to rinse her mug out. "You're welcome to the pull-out—"

"He reminded me of you." Arthur finally speaks up.

She turns around, leaning against the counter. "Who did?"

"Our mark."'

Fucking hells, it's like pulling teeth. "And how did the mark remind you of me, Mr. Arthur Eames?"

Eames shakes his head and leans back in his chair, far enough she's reasonably sure half the legs aren't touching the ground anymore. "Damn, I didn't know you could pull off the frosty condescension so well."

Ariadne shrugs. "I contain multitudes."

"I don't know!" Arthur ignores their by-play completely, his hands rising up in the air with exasperation. "There was something off about the whole job, someone else did the research, we were just helping out a friend of a friend." He pauses as if vaguely disappointed in himself that he'd taken a job without doing his due diligence.

She's a bit surprised, herself, but she supposes that everyone has an off day, now and then.

Even Arthur, somehow.

Even when he was on a job with Eames? She supposes he must have trusted that friend of a friend...

Who let them down.

No wonder they're here, with the one person who has no connections to any of the people who might have just screwed them over. 

No wonder Arthur's so prickly, even as he's trying desperately to let his guard down.

Arthur sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "He moved through the dream like you did that first time, like he could see around all the corners even before he knew they were there, and he threw lightning at us to kill us and shock us awake, but I would have sworn right up until the moment he did it that he didn't even know he was in a dream."

Shit.

"Ariadne." Eames leans forward, his chair legs hitting the ground with a thump heavy enough she spares a thought to hope it doesn't wake up her downstairs neighbor. Not that it's her fault werewolves have super-sensitive hearing, especially at this time of the month. "What do you know."

She opens her mouth, and closes it again. "What's his name?"

"Anton Senka."

Ariadne closes her eyes, and feels her body sag. Double shit.

"You know him," Eames sounds surprised, and possibly disappointed, and possibly five other emotions he's putting on just to confuse her.

She realizes they're here on a hunch, Arthur's hunch, and Eames hadn't thought it'd play out, but he'd backed it anyways, because it was Arthur.

His Arthur.

She's going to get in so much trouble for this. "Was he already gone when you woke up, even though he'd been the one to kill you in the dream, even though he ought to have still been under because of the drugs?"

"Yes." Arthur leans forward, and he's all sharp edges again, chasing a lead, because he knows he's got her, got it, whatever it is. "You had to talk to Yusuf about your dosage levels, didn't you."

Warlocks have to suppress their magic to stop it from metabolizing the drugs faster than Mundanes do, she thinks, but all she does is nod. Warlocks also aren't supposed to tell Mundanes about the Shadow World.

"Let me make a phone call."

Arthur frowns again, but Eames puts a hand on his arm, and Arthur sits back in his chair.

Apparently she's still theirs too, for now, and Eames is making sure Arthur doesn't jump too soon.

Eames won't stop him forever though.

Eames is perfectly capable of deciding to jump all on his own, if she takes too long.

This is bigger than just her, if the dreamers are starting to find the edges of the Shadow World. Bigger than Anton's High Warlock in Madrid, bigger than her own here in Paris.

She calls Magnus.

"Ariadne Sovanna, I know damn well you're in almost the same timezone as I am, if this is not an emergency I will hex you into the next century."

"Anton Senka was targeted by dream thieves and only got away because he threw lightning at them in the dream."

There's a deeply eloquent pause on the other end of the phone.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Ariadne says.

She hears Magnus sigh. "Well at least it wasn't a Shadowhunter, think what they would have gone through if someone's subconscious threw Shax demons at them."

Ariadne can't stop the snort, but she also shudders a little. "Now I'm going to have nightmares about Shax, thanks."

Shacks?, she sees Eames mouth, and he and Arthur share a concerned look.

"How much trouble will I get into if I explain things properly to my thieves?"

"None." Magnus answers promptly. "I'll tell Alec about it. In the morning, he somehow miraculously slept through this phone call."

She hears a murmur of a man's voice in the background, and doesn't even try to hide her amusement. "Are you sure about that?"

"Shut up." She's not entirely sure if he means her or his husband, but decides not to push her luck.

"Mm-hmm," she agrees.

She can practically hear Magnus roll his eyes. "Give them the overview,  please. Alec and I will need to talk to them tomorrow to see if we can track down who's mixing the Shadow World and the Mundane."

"Never a dull moment?"

"Some days I like to imagine a dull moment. Just one. Just to see what it might be like." Magnus sighs, loud and dramatic. "Think you could build me a dream like that?"

"It'll cost you, I've got a reputation now."

Magnus laughs, bright and delighted. "I think I can afford you."

"I'll give you a good deal."

"No need for that, darling, I always pay people what they're worth. Good luck, I'll call you in a few hours, yes?"

"Thank you." Ariadne hangs up before he can deflect it like he usually does.

Arthur just looks at her, but Eames plasters on an innocently curious expression.

She waves her hand, and summons the whiskey from her cabinet to land on the table in a shower of purple sparks.

They both jerk back, Eames hard enough he knocks over his chair and has to stumble his way to his feet.

"So." She tilts her head, decides to just go for it. "Magic's real, and you tried to steal information from a warlock."

"Fuck?" Eames asks, which is pretty damn eloquent, considering.

Arthur reaches forward, one finger pushing on the bottle. He reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a red die, which he rolls between his fingers for one long moment, two, before he exhales, long and slow.

"Is that for us?" he asks, poking the bottle again and lifting his eyebrows at her.

She grins. "Thought some Irish might help the rest of the story go down."

Eames grunts, and fixes his chair, and sits back down. He picks up the whiskey, and carefully adds a very heavy splash to his own coffee, and a slightly lighter one to Arthur's. "Is this a long story, then?"

"Oh, there are a lot of stories." Ariadne sits back down. "Get comfortable."

[francesderwent]

Morbid Curiosity, a delena fic an east of the sun west of the moon AU previous chapter chapter two: 

The great, sprawling house the monster brought her to was beautiful, but it was also dark, and every room was cold.  “Why so many rooms?” she asked.  He’d put her down, gently enough, in the foyer and she was rotating slowly, wondering how a place like this could be someone’s home.

“It used to be full,” he told her, tone detached.

“And now?”

“Myself – and you.”

“No one else?”

“No one else.”

She felt a chill, and not one originating from the drafty old house.  “Where do you stay?” she asked, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

He gestured vaguely toward one far corner of the upper floor.  “You can take the opposite, if you wish,” he said, drily.  “It doesn’t matter.”

She lifted her chin stubbornly.  “May I look and see which room I like best?”

He only shrugged.  “Explore, if you like.  Nothing is barred to you, though I would suggest avoiding the cellars.  I don’t think you would find them…very…” he paused, then finished delicately, “comfortable.”

She nodded.  “Are you going to show me around?”

He grimaced.  “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, startled. “We’re going to be living together –”

“We’ll live alongside each other,” he interrupted, derisive.  “I did not ask for your presence because I desired company.”

“But how can I help if you don’t speak to me?” she asked, bewildered.

“I’ll speak to you, Elena, just don’t expect me to hold your hand.”

She didn’t flinch, but she felt like flinching. “I’m not asking you to hold my hand,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not,” she repeated, and to prove him wrong, turned away and walked further into the house, leaving him behind.  She would find her way around on her own.

The ground floor had high ceilings and tall windows, but the overwhelming amount of dark wood and deep red curtains kept it from feeling open.  There was an excess of upholstery overall, she thought.  The carpets and tapestries were all obviously expensive, but perhaps hadn’t been well cared for, so that they smelled musty.  They muffled her steps in a way that made her feel lonelier and smaller than echoes would have.  She glanced up from time to time at the balconies overlooking from the second floor, but she never saw her host; presumably he had disappeared somewhere, which seemed like an ironic reversal of fortunes – a monster hiding so he wouldn’t have to run into her.

When she found her way to the second floor, she was disappointed to find that the first several bedrooms she poked her head into were arranged fairly similarly – larger and more fine than her own at home, than anything she was used to, but with little personality to distinguish them from one another.  If she didn’t like one more than the others, she would have to pick one based on the only other criterion she had: its relative distance from the room of the only other inhabitant.  She could pick a room near him, and prove she wasn’t afraid – or she could pick a room across the house from him, and prove she wasn’t going to be clingy.  She didn’t know which one would serve her better, and so she kept poking her head into rooms.

Finally, in the same wing as the monster’s room but several doors down, she found a bedroom that looked a little more lived in.  It was comfortably cluttered with books and candles, every surface scattered with papers, except for one small end-table which was incongruously possessed of a large globe.  It felt a little bit like the inside of her own mind.  She checked the doorway, and when satisfied that she wasn’t being spied upon, took a running start and launched herself onto the bed, where she sank into quilts and cushions.  

It would do.  

She tilted her head up to look at the ceiling, and allowed herself for the first time to consider what had happened, and what she had agreed to.

A year and a day.

A year and a day, alone in a drafty house with a man with eyes made for hunting and teeth made for cutting through skin, who needed her help, but didn’t seem to want it.  She believed that he didn’t intend her any harm, and he had said he was willing to speak to her, but if he was only going to answer her with spite and condescension, then perhaps she ought to give him a little space, at least for the first few weeks.  She had the whole house at her disposal – but was she allowed to move things, change things, make it her own?  Was she allowed to go outside?  What would she do, for a full year, with no school and no work and no family? There were books, yes – but was there anything else?

A spiderweb caught her eye where it hung perilously between the ceiling and one post of her bed.  She pushed herself up on her elbows and eyed it.  

She could hardly get in trouble for cleaning.  She had to live here – they both did.  He wasn’t about to begrudge her that.

She rolled out of bed and wandered back down the hallway, checking the little closets that she’d ignored on her first circuit.  She located a broom and a few rags, but got distracted with the dust and cobwebs on the railing of the balcony before she could get back to her own room.  The monster found her some time later, stretched on her tiptoes, poking carefully at a chandelier with a rag stuck on the tip of her broom.

“I didn’t ask for your presence because I wanted a servant, either,” he said.  

She hadn’t heard him come up behind her, and in her surprise nudged the chandelier too sharply, causing it to jangle.  She dropped the broom down to her side.  “It’s filthy,” she told him.

He raised his eyebrows at her, looking unbothered.  “I haven’t lived here for a long time.”

She sighed, and brushed the dust off her shoulders.  “No, I’m sorry.  You startled me, that’s all.”  

He nodded.  Then, as if he was testing the word, he said carefully, “Sorry.”

She nodded back.  

“There’s dinner downstairs, if you’re hungry.”

She leaned over the banister to look at the grandfather clock in the living room.  It was much later than she had realized.  “I am hungry,” she said.  “Where does the food come from?”

“The kitchen.”

“Alright, don’t tell me anything,” she said.

“I won’t,” he agreed.  Then, in contradiction to what he’d just said: “The dining room’s this way.”

She allowed herself to be herded down the stairs, thinking: he hasn’t lived here long, or it’s been a long time since he lived here?

The dining room table was, predictably, in a dimly lit room, made of a dark wood, and exceptionally long.  For a moment she envisioned herself and the monster eating at the two heads of the table, silently, every night for a year – but then she saw that there were two places set, across from each other on either side of one end.  She glanced over her shoulder at him, unsure which place to take, but he walked by her without making eye contact, and pulled a chair out.  He waited, and then looked back to quirk an eyebrow at her. “Well?”

“Oh,” she said.  She stepped around him, sat, and let him push her chair in, murmuring her thanks.  She picked up the cloth napkin from the side of her place and ran her fingers over it, then smoothed it onto her lap; when she looked up her companion was already seated and waiting for her.  Again, she hadn’t heard him move.  She started to open her mouth to ask a question, but then closed it, and only raised her eyebrows instead.  He smirked back.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to serve ourselves,” he said, pushing the platter in the middle of the table toward her.  

She selected what looked like some sort of chicken filet and a small pile noodles in a butter sauce, and passed the platter back. She took a cautious bite of the chicken; the seasonings were different than what she was used to, but it had been cooked well.  

“Wine?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Suit yourself.”  He poured himself a glass.  “Did you settle on a bedroom, then?”

She nodded.  “In the south wing, two doors from yours.”

“The one with all the garbage in it?”

“The one with all the books and things, yes.  It just seemed more homey.”

He snorted.  “Naturally.  I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”  

She blew out a frustrated breath and chased her noodles around the plate with her fork.  “And would you like to explain why you’re not–”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

He growled slightly, under his breath.  “And do you have everything you need?”

She looked up from her plate to stare at him.  “I left with nothing but the clothes on my back. I have nothing but the clothes on my back.  I need…” She trailed off, unable to convey in the moment just how much a human person required to live a year and a day in a place.  “Much,” she finished, lamely.

After an uncomfortable moment, he said, “That was a foolish thing for me to have said.  There are soap and combs and things in the washroom adjoining your room, and I know where there are some spare clothes.  I can fetch them for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, stiffly.

They ate in silence, after that – or rather, she ate and he sipped at his wine.  He’d put the smallest piece of chicken on his plate and barely sampled it, and he’d avoided the noodles entirely.  Even while pretending not to look, she could tell that his fangs weren’t well-suited for table manners – or maybe not suited for table food at all.  

She pushed her chair back and stood abruptly.  

He rose himself.  “Is the food not to your liking?”

She bit back the question “Is it not to yours?” and said instead, “Please, don’t get up on my account, I am too tired to be properly hungry.”

He nodded, and stepped out from behind his chair.  “I’ll see about getting you some things for your wardrobe.”

“You don’t need to –” she said, but within the space of a blink he was gone.  With a sigh, she trudged back up to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe, which proved to be full of men’s clothing.  She dumped it all out onto the bed, and then fetched her cleaning rag from the hallway and gave the inside of the empty wardrobe a cursory dusting.  

The monster announced himself with an awkward thump at her door, which, she saw when she turned her head, was due to the colossal armful of clothes he’d brought.  “The night things are all on top,” he said.  “You can look at the rest tomorrow.”

For lack of a better idea, she took the pile from him and simply placed it on the bottom of the wardrobe.  She held up the nightgown that was sitting on top, and found that it was a lacey affair that was going to do little to keep her warm, and was probably going to itch.  She folded it back up and hid it under her arm.  “It…does look about the right size,” she said.  

“Does it indeed?” he said.  “Imagine that.”  He had a towel slung over his shoulder; he handed that to her as well.

“Thank you,” she said.  

“Get me a list of what you need, and I’ll see what I can do,” he said, nodded at her, and left – praise God, at a regular speed.  

She gave the nightgown another look, back and forth with the bed, which did at least seem to have plenty of blankets.  It would do, and then everything else could wait until the morning.

// next chapter //

[eirian-houpe]

The Library Beneath The Clock Tower

Fandom: Once Upon A Time

Relationships: Belle/Gold (Also Belle/Gaston)

Characters: (so far) Belle, Gold, Ruby, Granny, Leroy

Tags: Slightly AU Cursed Storybrooke, Eventual smut.

Summary:  Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community.

Notes: Rumbelle comes in many shapes and sizes, and after I was harrassed until I read The Bookshop of the Corner: A Novel, by Jenny Colgan, I was perhaps innocent to the fact that it can happen outside of fan fiction too. If you haven't read the book, I would recommend it to you warmly, and challenge you /not/ to see Rumbelle in the telling of the tale. For that reason, this story renders the narrative arc of Colgan's book in Rumbelle form.

I wrote this story for @peacehopeandrats for a Christmas gift. I hope you all enjoy it too.

Chapter 1 - Not Quite According To Plan

Belle wasn't sure whether she was disappointed, angry, hurt, upset, astounded, righteously indignant or all of the above, as she left Mayor Mills' office, hurrying along to towards the diner she'd seen when she first arrived, rapidly brushing away rebellious tears as she did.  Why was everything just going so wrong?

It started when everything in her life had been looking up, for a change. She had been hospitalized for quite some time, she didn’t know how long, or what for.  Though they told her it was for the effects of trauma. She couldn’t remember anything like that happening, and as far as she could tell, if something bad had happened to her, well… she should be able to, but no.  They told her that was how trauma worked. The mind shut down any and all avenues of remembrance. Didn’t matter that she’d had therapy once a week for as long as she could remember, she simply couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know, to hear.  So, they’d kept her locked up.

And then, one day, suddenly, they didn’t, and she had no idea about that either.  She only knew it was a relief, not to be stuck in the same place, day in, day out, with nothing to do except to read.

Reading, and studying she was certain, kept her sane, and so when she ‘graduated’ from the asylum, as she had taken to calling her release from the hospital that was tucked away somewhere in a forgotten corner of Boston, and was asked if she had any idea what she wanted to do with her life, she had an answer.

“I want to be a librarian.”

It wasn’t going to happen overnight, not even with the credits she had already accrued from her studies at the hospital, she knew that, but she enjoyed the challenge of the study, as she enjoyed some aspects of being a part of a ‘real’ university. It was there, for instance, that she met the woman that it seemed was fated to become her best friend: Ruby.

Ruby was, for all intents and purposes, a strange dichotomy of a girl.  On the one hand, she was as equally studious and dedicated to her work as was Belle, and in that respect made an excellent study partner even though their courses couldn’t have been more dissimilar.  On the other hand, however, Ruby was the epitome of a party girl.

She was tall, and athletically built with long, dark hair in which she usually had some kind of red. Whether a bright red extension hairpiece, or a more subtle shade colored into her own hair, it was always there, like a part of her, a signature of sorts. Another signature that Ruby adopted was the length of her skirts. Undeniably short, and usually paired with a skimpy or revealing top, no matter where she was going, to work, to class, or out for an evening on the town - though that was generally where she was the most revealed of all - she was not afraid to be out and confident about her femininity.

Thinking about Ruby made her remember that she’d promised to call, and hadn’t. Not when she arrived, and certainly not since the mayor - arrogant fucking witch - had turned down her proposal almost without listening to it. Belle felt as though the woman had taken one look at her, and decided on the spot that she wasn’t going to have anything to do with her, and that included allowing her to open up the town’s small library again.

She dashed away a few more angry tears, and turned the corner without really looking where she was going.

The man she collided with wasn’t overly tall, perhaps only a few inches taller than she, but he was immaculately dressed in a black suit over a dark red shirt, and an even darker tie. He walked with a pronounced limp, a cane held in his right hand.  At the collision, he took a measured step back, and raised both of his hands to catch hold of Belle’s upper arms, steadying her a little as she would have bounced off him.

“I am so sorry,” she said immediately. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Well, that much is evident,” he answered, his barely accented voice dripping sarcasm.

Belle’s mood got the better of her, and she snapped back. “There’s no need to be so bloody condescending.” And then she realized he still had a hold of her arms, and had probably stopped her from falling, given that the shoes she was wearing weren’t exactly the most sensible.  It made her feel somewhat contrite, and she felt as though she should thank him for that, so trying for a less irritated tone said, “And thank you, by the way.”

He tipped his head onto one side briefly, looking her up and down, before asking, “For what?  My condescension, or for trying to act like a gentleman?”

She shook her head with a sigh, his words, his attitude, this… stranger, was doing nothing for her mood, or for her disappointment in the way the day had gone, and for the fact that in spite of finding Storybrooke quite to her liking, it didn’t at all seem to like her. Though why that should bother her so much, she wasn’t sure.

“No answer?” he said, and she realized she hadn’t spoken in quite some time, as lost in her annoyance as she was.  “Well then, you are most welcome,” he added, releasing her from his gentle, steadying grasp. “For whichever.” He moved aside, with slightly more than a nod of his head, and less than a bow, before bidding her, “Good day, Miss…”

She narrowed her eyes.  Why on earth would he think that she’d give him her name, after he’d been so insufferably sarcastic, when he could have simply accepted her apology and moved on.  Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all that it didn’t seem as though Storybrook was going to work out if it was full of people like the mayor and this man.

And yet…

“Marchland,” she said, as she began to stride away, and before he could say anything more.

She found herself walking straight past the diner without stopping in as she had first intended.  She wanted to find somewhere to calm the storm of irritation that was filling her, but not just that. It was coupled with a kind of fear.  If she couldn’t find something to do once her notice period with the library in Boston was complete, then how would she ever support herself?  She had no family, and would have only the little income she would make working her second job in the bookstore in one of the quieter parts of the city.  It wouldn’t be enough to support herself, not even with Ruby’s generous help.

The two young women had become roommates while they were both still studying, when Ruby asked Belle to move in with her, to help with expenses, and after graduation, they continued to share the small apartment  that Ruby owned. Of late, however, the relationship between them had become somewhat strained - and all because of Belle’s books.

Working part time at the bookstore, the owners allowed Belle to bring home any second hand book that they did not believe they could resell.  Her collection of books had started small, but over time had grown considerably, starting to fill up every available space in the apartment, and some that weren’t.

“I know, I know,” Belle often said to Ruby, “but it won’t be for long, I promise.”

“You said that last month,” Ruby would reply, “and the month before that.”

That was how the arguments began, and why Belle now felt her belly turning circles as she sat down on the bench in the park, turning her phone over and over in her hands.  She was certain that it would work out here.  The name alone gave her the promise of that.  She was sure that she would open the library, and add to it with the books she had collected over the course of the last year. Now she felt as though she were letting Ruby down, somehow.

With a sigh, she hit the speed dial on the phone and listened to it ring, though not for long. It was almost as if Ruby were waiting for her call.

“ How did it go? ” she asked, and Belle didn’t miss the eager tone in Ruby’s voice.

“Not good, I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh, “The mayor… well…  she wasn’t into the idea of the old library being reopened I guess.  She pretty much said a flat out no.”

“ Pretty much? ” Ruby asked.

“Well, all right,” Belle confessed with a sigh, “The minute I walked into her office, she said no.”

“ Just like that? ”

“Yes. Just like that.”  Belle felt her lower lip wobble a little bit, as she asked, “You don’t think…”

“ Belle, honey, ” Ruby said after a moment, “ You have to stop thinking that just because the idiots in Boston decided to let you go because of your hospital stay, ” Belle winced at Ruby’s attempt to be subtle, “ that it’s going to be the same with everyone. ”

“Then explain to me why Mayor Mills said a flat out ‘no’ the minute she saw my face and read my name on the letter I’d sent to her.” Belle’s voice held an edge.

Ruby sighed. “ I can’t. ”

Belle sighed too, and said, “I know I promised I was going to get all of those books out of your hair, but until I find a place--”

“ Don’t worry about that now, ” Ruby told her, “ If that place really is a bust, then come home.  We’ll figure something out, but Belle…? ”

“Hmm?” Belle said absently, starting to feel a chill in the air as the day marched on towards evening.

“ I know your dream is to run a little place, where everything can be personal and you feel as if you matter, but… ” Belle heard her swallow a little before she finished, “ maybe it’s just not the right time. ”

“I’ll see,” Belle said, feeling the worry and the anger just seeping away into something like tiredness. “The next bus isn’t until tomorrow though, so whatever, I’m stuck here overnight.  I’ll have to see about getting a room at the bed and breakfast here… Granny’s or something it’s called.”

“ Seriously ?” Belle could hear Ruby’s raised eyebrow even through the phone, “Just where is this Storybrooke of yours. ”

“Maine, I told you,” Belle said.  “And it’s not mine. If it were, I’d damn well open a library myself and damn the mayor.”

“ All right, ” Ruby said, “ Just call me to let me know you’re settled and safe. ”

“I will,” she promised, but her mind was already racing around the words she’s just spoken to Ruby. What if she could find some way to open a library here by herself.  Maybe a mobile library, if the town wouldn’t even let her rent the building. Surely they couldn’t object to that. She smiled, feeling happier than she had since her meeting with the mayor; feeling a sense of hope, if not confident determinations. To Ruby she said, “I’ll let you know what’s going on; call you before bed.”

The two women exchanged pleasantries before each hanging up, and Belle pulled her coat more tightly around her, and then began to make her way back toward the center of town, where she would enquire at Granny’s as to the availability of a room - at least for the night - and perhaps, if things went well, longer.

Several minutes later, she pushed open the door of the diner, allowing the warmth to envelop her and chase away the chill. The establishment was fairly full, and the mix of patrons was encouraging to Belle, as she let her thoughts again draw her back to the possibility of serving the people of this town as their librarian.

One of those patrons looked over to where she was standing.  He was a stoutly built man, with a full, graying beard and a stern expression, but when he saw her, his eyes flashed what looked like amusement, perhaps even admiration and he called out to her, “Right on, Sister!”

She frowned in confusion, but he had already turned his attention back to his companions, men of a similar age and build, who were all now leaning conspiratorially toward one another, as the man who’d spoken seemed to be telling some kind of tale.  She caught only snatches of the conversation, and heard words like, “gold” and “medicine” and she couldn’t help but wonder what it was they were saying.

“What can I get you?”

A stern, but kindly voice, which, as she turned and looked at the own of said voice, she could see matched the elderly lady entirely, interrupted her musings, and Belle offered a smile, and said, “I… am looking for the proprietor of the Bed and Breakfast.”

“Well,” the woman folded her arms, “You’ve found her.  I’m Granny, at least that’s what most folks around here call me.”

“Wonderful,” Belle beamed, and Granny raised an eyebrow. “Then would it be possible for me to get a room?  And perhaps also something to eat.”

The stern quality of Granny’s face left it, and her expression softened, and for no reason that she could explain, Belle found herself thinking of Ruby.

“Find yourself a seat, and I’ll have one of the girls take your order,” Granny said, “We can see to the room once you’ve warmed yourself, and have some good food inside you.  We don’t get many visitors to Storybrooke, so we'd best look after the ones we do get.”

“Oh, please, you don’t have to go to any trouble on my account,” Belle said, and Granny tsked and shook her head, as if she had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.  As Granny started to turn away, Belle said, “One more thing, do you know if there’s anyone in town that might know of any vehicles for sale? Something a little bit larger than a car though, really, more like a van or something.”

Granny’s face creased in thought.  “Can’t say that I do,” she said, “But you might try Michael over at Marine Garage.  If anyone would know, he would.”

“Thank you,” Belle said, and Granny nodded, leaving Belle to make her way to a booth in the corner of the diner, where he could lose herself in her daydreams, and in her book while she waited for her order to be taken and the food to come.

As she sat down, she noticed that someone had left a newspaper on the seat, The Storybrooke Mirror . Belle picked it up, and skimmed her eyes across the front page, reading headlines and bylines typical of a small town rag. On a hunch, she turned to the classified section of the paper, letting her eyes run over the various listings of items for sale, employment vacancies, and the few - very few - properties for rent… but then, nestled in the middle of a crowded column, as if trying to hide itself in plain sight a short, three-line ad caught her attention.

“Van for Sale,” it began. “Good condition, reasonable price for quick sale.” and on the last line, the name and telephone number of the contact, a Mister Moe French. She felt herself frown again, unable to shake the sense of coincidence that just when she was thinking of such a thing, she should find a classified listing for exactly what she wanted.

One of Granny’s girls arrived at her side ready to take her order, and Belle realized that she’d spent so much time looking at the newspaper that she hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“Oh, I er… sorry,” she said, “Got sidetracked.”

“Maybe I can get you something to drink while you decide,” the young lady said with a smile.

“Actually, that would be great.” Belle answered.  “Maybe some tea?” and then added, “And… can you tell me who this is?”  She held up the paper, and the girl peered at the ad beside her finger.

“Moe French,” she said with a shrug, “Runs the florist shop, Game of Thorns.”

“Thank you,” Belle said, and carefully folded the newspaper so that she could see the ad staring up at her as she picked up the menu to decide on something to eat.  She also decided then and there that first thing in the morning, she would call Mister French and find out the full details of the van he wanted to sell.