#the bullet hole also sort of looks like a big glint of than's eye

[datcravat]

pe ru so na

[alkhale]

Shoot the Ball Pt.2 (Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader) Ko-fi request

Hi. Could I get a ushiwaka trying to hopelessly flirt with a clueless OC? I requested Shoot the Ball and I am in love with what you did (and basically everything else you wrote and will write) thanks!!! ❤️❤️❤️

Aaaaa I love your writing!! Would it be possible to get a part two of the Shoot the Ball (Ushijima x Reader) fic?? That story is so fucking adorable and Id love to see more of Ushijima and the readers relationship (maybe throw in a confession or something in there)?

It’s here on AO3 if that makes for easier reading too! More to come!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551512/chapters/59287438

Shoot the Ball Pt. 2

“Um, senpai, are you alright?”

You laughed, almost a bit haughtily. “Alright? Of course I’m alright, what are you talking about?”

You hardly looked up from your kneeling position on the wooden boards of the humble kyudo hall, bow laid across your lap as you worked on tightening the new string. It wasn’t the best time to readjust to a new one, given your still aching wrist, but you couldn’t have your old one breaking on you with the first round of tournaments coming up.

The hall itself was in impeccable condition, thanks to the hard efforts of yourself and your team. The lot of you spend hours toiling to make sure the grass is cut, the range is kept clean, and the hall itself shines in case you receive curious faculty visits or sponsors otherwise. Shiratorizawa Academy may be a wealthy one, but not all the wealth was concentrated kindly to each part of the school. It was up to you, the captain, and your members to keep the hall shining as though it were just as good—especially because it was —so new visitors would only continue to be impressed.

But instead of shooting rounds like your younger members should be doing, a small huddle of the closer second and first years were shooting you worried glances. You were the only third year still spear-heading the entire campaign since the rest had left for studies or quit beforehand. Your vice-captain was a second year and close confidant and currently running around campus like a fool because you sent her on an errand so you could get more practice in before she chased you out.

“(L/n)-san you’re good at kyudo, so of course you’d stay. We just did it for fun.”

You can be good at it and have fun. You thought tirelessly, remembering watching the third years leave the hall, standing alone in the waning sunlight across wooden floorboards. You’re just giving up.

It wasn’t as though you were born gifted. They can joke you were born with a bow in your hand, but it was pure luck that your mother turned the television on to that channel that day, showcasing the national kyudo archery performance at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. It was luck that you fell in love with that sound and the way the bow bent and the arrow flew.

And it was hard work to follow through with the luck that brought you here.

They all told you you only had one thing on the brain—kyudo, and they also said it’d probably be the end of you. Even your parents had been dropping light hints as of late that perhaps you should finally peel off the sport and bunker down for your studies. “What about college? Kyudo might not get you there, you know.”

“Are you going to do it forever?”

What else were you going to do? Die? Of course you were going to do kyudo forever. If it didn’t get you into college then you just wouldn’t go.

There was nothing you loved more than this sight, this bow, this.

Nothing.

N-o-t-h-i-n-g.

Your juniors shot each other more nervous looks. One brave young first year who you secretly planned to have join the five-team shoot finally took a step forward, hesitantly pointing to your lap.

“Senpai,” she said nervously, “...your string is…”

“Impeccable,” you said simply, holding up your bow like a sword, a sharp glint in your eye. “Now get back to the range. I’m shooting rounds right after you guys before—”

“You put it on… wrong…”

You calmly stared at your junior for several seconds, the other archers looking frightful behind her. You glanced down to your bow, staring at where your string was, sure enough, notched to absolutely nothing instead of the other end.

You felt a vein throb on the side of your head, cheeks flushing as you did the only reasonable thing and blamed the one person who had shoulders big enough to shoulder the brunt of all your problems.

Ushijima!

----- ----  -----

Shiratorizawa Nurse’s Office, One Week Ago

“You watch kyudo ?” you spluttered, scrambling off the floor and grabbing your stool in disbelief. Ushijima considered you with a cool sort of calm, staring almost blankly back at you.

He stared at your sprawled form on the ground and offered a hand. You slapped it away but it barely moved. The stupid tree of a teenager.

You watch my kyudo?

“Yes,” Ushijima said. You almost jumped, realizing what you’d thought. He set his hands back onto his lap, returning to his solid posture. “My grandmother was well-acquainted with a friend who performed for the national ceremonial procedures. We often have the kyudo channel on within my household.”

Each sentence leaving Ushijima’s lip with frightening ease was punching holes into your gut. His grandma was pals with someone who shot for the national ceremonies? He watches kyudo? He knew what a kaichu was and —

“It is a graceful sport,” Ushijima continued, meeting your gaze evenly. “I have long admired the poise. I watched your debut on the national stage when they broadcasted your first-year tournament. You performed admirably.”

Your brain short circuited, snapping like a bowstring. Ushijima, merciless, continued matter-of-factly, “They also had a small segment on your performance in the prefectural collegates. It is a shame there isn’t talk of scouting, but it does not seem kyudo works the same way our volleyball season does. My grandmother is familiar with your accomplishments and noticed we attend the same academy.”

Huh?

Huh?

HUH?

“I hope you perform well this season as well—”

“Wait one second!” you blurted, flying across the stool and slapping a hand over his mouth. “Wait one damn second!”

Ushijima seemed only mildly surprised that your hand was now plastered over his lips. He blinked once, calmly back at you and you pointed aggressively at him with your other hand, nearly towering over him except even when he was sitting, he seemed to match your height.

“....are you trying to mess with me?” you said suspiciously, eyes narrowed. Ushijima blinked once more, calm. “You’re—you’re just some star volleyball player! And you’re a high schooler! It doesn’t even make any sense! How do you know about all of that, huh? No one even watches that channel on their own unless they’re real—”

You stopped yourself. You blinked rapidly. Real… fans… no, no, no, there’s no way! Ushijima Wakatoshi could not be a kyudo buff—volleyball and kyudo were about on the farthest ends of the spectrum as you could get! It didn’t make any sense.

This strangely nonchalant, weird classmate of yours was supposed to be nothing more than some poster-boy with tried and true skills in volleyball who stole the spotlight from the other sports at Shiratorizawa Academy, who was nice enough to pick up your flyers and greet you in the morning and say hello in that low, rumbling way of his when you spotted him and he made eye contact with you—

I don’t get this guy! You felt a vein throb on the side of your head, tempting to fist the collar of his uniform and really show him what for—all due to your unjust frustration—if this hard-to-read volleyball jock was just messing around—but, well, Ushijima didn’t really seem like the type for that either.

You blinked stupidly at Ushijima when his hand calmly came up, holding your wrist and lowering your hand down so he could speak. “I watch.”

He seemed to think for a moment before continuing, as though answering a question asked by the teacher, “You’re on channel KNJ most Thursday nights. Some Sunday mornings. I often record the broadcasts when there seems to be something notable.”

You felt something stab through your entire being, ripping into your existence on this universe, turning the world around you upside on your head.

Mr. All-Youth-Japan tuned into broadcasts that featured your kyudo accomplishments and—

“I watch,” Ushijima repeated, never breaking contact with your gaze. His large fingers circled easily around your wrist, holding them loosely against the calloused heat of his palm. “As I said, I am a fan of your archery.”

Something incoherent left your lips. A croak of some sorts. Ushijima’s brows furrowed slightly. “Yes?”

“L-Let me get this straight,” you said shakily. “My… my archery… you watch it?”

“Yes,” Ushijima said.

“You… like it?”

“Quite,” Ushijima said.

The faint smell of salonpas tickled your nose. The light hint of sweat and fabric softener. Up close, you suddenly realized that Ushijima had more complex eyes than you thought, hinting a little bit of gold. Lighter than his hair. He smells different from what I’d expect too.

Wait, what the hell were you expecting in the first place?

Ushijima frowned briefly, eyes suddenly leaving your face and turning to your wrist. He considered where his fingers touched your skin, feverishly warm. His thumb lightly pressed the inside of your wrist and he turned his gaze back to you. “(L/n)-san, is your wrist swollen—”

“W-Well, it only makes sense, I guess!” you said loudly, yanking your hand entirely out of his grasp and tossing them both into the air. Ushijima looked up at you with furrowed brows as you laughed, nervous and sweating bullets with your fingers waggling. “ The Ushijima Wakatoshi? A fan of my archery? Hah! Haha… hah! Of course you’d be! Y-You have good taste! I’ll give you that, Ushijima-san! I’ll give you that! But that doesn’t mean anything else in the grand scheme of all this—y-you’re still nothing but a competitor for the sponsorships of this school!”

Ushijima apparead mildly confused, brows furrowed in a touch of a heavy set over his normally stern features. “Sponsorship?”

“That’s right!” you blurted, pointing right at his face. Your eyes were spinning, head twisting in circles. “All anyone cares about is your stupid volleyball!” Ushijima’s frown deepened. “Your team gets the spotlight even though we’ve got plenty of great achievements—you’re flattery won’t get you anywhere! My club is still going to come out on top and all anyone’s going to be talking about is kyudo and—and more kyudo!”

“Volleyball isn’t stupid,” Ushijima said calmly. “But I did not realize that others in our student body were not watching kyudo—”

“I’m going to go shoot right now!” you declared, almost delirious as you hurriedly grabbed your bag. Ushijima stood up from his stool, looking after you. “G-Gotta get those results—bye!”

Before Ushijima could say anything otherwise, you were sprinting out the door, nearly tripping over your feet and covering your face in your hands as you still tried to process the fact that Ushijima Wakatoshi was your first and probably only fan.

You probably fainted somewhere in the kyudo hall. This had to be a dream. A weird, warped dream caused by delirious induced hallucinations of Ushijima’s volleyball posters.

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

Sadly, it hadn’t been a dream. The entire interaction a week ago had been very, very real, and it’d annoyingly been on your mind since. You tried furiously to dispel all thoughts of it with waves of your arrows and aggressive scrubbing of the floors, but to no avail.

“I watch.”

Ushijima of all people? You couldn’t wrap your head around it. Him? Kyudo? That muscle head?

But… if he knew so much about it and even recorded broadcasts… then he really did have great taste. Kyudo was an amazing sport. Anyone willing to give it the attention it deserved was worth a good tick or two in your book. Not only that, but he complimented your archery—

No, no, forget it! You furiously shoved your things into your bag, wrapping up your bow and unstringing it as you slung everything over your shoulder. Several bags hung off your back and shoulders as well, stuffed with targets you needed to take home and repaint for tomorrow’s practice. You were the last one in the kyudo hall, sending all your juniors home to rest. Who cares if he watches your archery? Just a month ago he was some stranger on a poster!

You nodded to yourself, satisfied with your roundabout answers. Yeah, stop worrying about him. What are the odds we’ll run into each other again, anyway? Only on posters. You and Ushijima Wakatoshi were still a decent world apart, even with the recent amount of run-ins. Who was to say they wouldn’t stop tomorrow?

You nodded again, kicking the door open with your foot and struggling to pull all your bags out along with your bow, strapped neatly to your back. You huffed, shaking free like a wet dog and hobbling down the corner of the hall to begin the long trek back to the dorms. Just focus on kyudo, (Y/n). Kyudo’s all that matters anyway, not volleyball players the size of oak trees and —

“Good evening, (L/n)-san.”

AND WHY THE HELL IS HE HERE TOO?

You gaped in disbelief, pale as a sheet with your arms bulging over the top of your bags, looking like a pack mule in the middle of the road.

Ushijima Wakatoshi calmly gazed back at you, expression neutral. His volleyball bag, neatly printed with the school’s logo was slung over his shoulder. He wore the deep purple track jacket over a black t-shirt and volleyball shorts—a young athlete clearly fresh out of practice.

And now here he was, standing in front of the kyudo hall, looking at you.

Ushijima raised one big hand in greeting, staring at you. The evening glow cast a nice little warm light around his broad shoulders and hair, turning it soft.

HAH?

You almost dropped your bags in shock, blinking rapidly. You rubbed one of your eyes, blinking again and squinting in disbelief at Ushijima right in front of you. He brought his hand back down, calmly facing you.

“Um,” you said intelligently. “...take this however you want, but… what are you doing here?”

Ushijima’s eyes swept once over the amount of bags bulging out from under your arms, taking particular interest in examining the tall, towering form of your unstrung bow rising high above your head. He turned his eyes calmly back to you.

“I was waiting for you.”

Oh, right. You thought. That makes perfect sense. For some reason, Ushijima Wakatoshi is waiting for me outside the kyudo hall.

HAAAH?

“Is there… a reason why?” you asked tentatively, keeping your eyes on him as you shifted side to side like an uncertain crab.

Ushijima answered, without missing a beat, “I wanted to talk with you.”

You almost dropped all your bags. Almost. “Uh… about…?”

Ushijima seemed to consider your words for a moment longer this time. He faced you with an ungodly amount of calm, reminding you more of a statue for some kind of demi-god than a human with his towering frame and golden glow against the sunset. “Whatever it is that you might want to talk about.”

What the heck is that supposed to mean? “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” you asked, outright confused. Ushijima’s brows furrowed slightly. “And, hold on, correct me if I’m wrong or something, but you weren’t… waiting for me… right?”

(Y/n), are you an idiot? Of course this guy wasn’t waiting for you. Why would he be waiting for you —

“No,” Ushijima said. You sighed in relief. “Practice ended fifteen minutes ago. It was not much of a wait.”

You dropped all your bags to the floor, except your bow, sturdy against your back. Ushijima’s eyes turned down to the mess at your feet.

You stood like a cardboard cut out in the middle of the road, frozen in disbelief. But why?

“Do you need help?” Ushijima asked, stepping closer. You jumped back into action quickly scrambling for the bags. “You were heading back to the dorms, correct?”

“S-So what if I was?” you snapped, trying to precariously balance all your bags again. Ushijima waited, watching you struggle. You defensively added, “I-I have a system! You surprised me so I just have to get them stacked in the right order again!”

“I see,” Ushijima said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

What the hell is this guy’s problem? You thought in horrified confusion, grabbing at your bags and huffing. What does he want from me? Is this some new type of bullying?

“Why are you carrying so many bags?” Ushijima asked. In any other manner, it would’ve sounded completely different, but his voice was calm, as though stating fact. You’re mouth opened and closed like a fish, still trying to wrap your head around this strange interaction.

“B-Because I have to repaint the targets!” you snapped. You struggled to fit them all back on your arms, scowling. “They were chipping yesterday so—”

In one sweeping motion, Ushijima’s hand closed over several of the bag handles, lifting the bulky materials up into the air. You blinked rapidly in disbelief, hands still hanging in the air, holding nothing but your own bow on your back while Ushijima calmly held onto your targets.

“I’ll carry them,” he said simply, gazing down at you with those impassive, unreadable eyes. The sunset made them a little warmer, but only because of the sunset. “What part of the dorms do you stay in?”

You gaped at Ushijima like a fish. He waited patiently for your answer, standing beside you and holding all your bags like they were nothing.

“I-I don’t need your help, you jerk!”

Ushijima had the nerve to look confused. “It’s more efficient this way.”

“Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“Are you on the west or east side?”

“West—I-I’m talking to you, you tree trunk! Put those down! I’ll carry them myself!”

“I do not see why you would choose a less efficient manner to—”

“You want to get beat up?”

“No, that was not my intention. Have I done something to upset you?”

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

But the problem didn’t stop there.

Every evening after practice, Ushijima waits, without fail, outside the kyudo hall. You’re always the last one to leave, and it seems for some ungodly reason, the timing of the end of his own practices mesh perfectly with yours.

You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it, staring in disbelief day after day as Ushijima appears, again and again, waiting for you outside to walk you back to the dorms. He offered to take your bag for you, asking dutifully each time even though you always turned him down since it’s just your bow and backpack and Ushijima just nods and continues, speaking every other bout of silence.

You tried to figure out why, but all he does is answer, in his stupid, impassive Ushijima-way, “I wanted to talk to you.”

Talk? With you? What the hell was that even supposed to mean? What kind of game was this guy playing? It didn’t make any sense! Each day you set out to figure out how to stop this nonsense, but each afternoon, Ushijima brought up several other topics of conversation that made you pause, pushing it off another day and then another.

And then you just… sort of resigned yourself to this strangeness.

Is it because he’s my fan? You rubbed your chin in thought, frowning at your shoes while Ushijima walked in content silence beside you. A few students shot the two of you curious glances, but you just furrowed your brows, automatically following Ushijima as he navigated you two outside a crowd of track runners and moved to the other side of the walkway with you in thoughtful tow. Is that it? I mean, I’m flattered, but this is still weird.

He talked to you about all kinds of things too—kyudo, mainly. Ushijima was a weird person to hold conversations with, seemingly blunt and forward with his intentions, but an absolute enigma at the same time. He would ask without fail how your practice went, your intentions for the upcoming preliminaries, how the competition looked, how your kyudo was going, your team—

And, yeah, maybe you would answer because it was kyudo and you loved talking about kyudo—but that was the only reason why. The only one. If someone was asking about kyudo, you’d always answer without fail.

“Well, what about volleyball?” you snapped one day, the two of you standing in the middle of the pathway, still a good few minutes away from the dorms. Ushijima turned to you, fixing you with his entire attention like always. “You’re some kind of crazy volleyball nut, right? Why aren’t you talking about it?”

“...I was under the impression you were not interested in volleyball,” Ushijma said. Did the jerk sound pleased? No way , Ushijima Wakatoshi was practically limited to two emotions. Ushijima one and two.

“I think volleyball is fine!” you said. “It’s a great sport. It’s not as great as kyudo, but it’s fine. Isn’t it your whole life? Stop talking about mine, you creep. What about yours?”

You looked up at him when Ushijima didn’t say anything. The quiet expression on his impassive face made you pause, staring at him with curiously round eyes as a third Ushijima seemed to finally appear and he started, almost… warmly , to talk about it—volleyball, him.

“Yes,” Ushijima said. “I like volleyball.”

Well, he really did seem to know his stuff about kyudo.

So… maybe Ushijima Wakatoshi wasn’t too bad after all. I mean, if he’s my fan… you should do your duty then, right? Your personal vendetta against Ushijima had mostly stemmed from the unjust bias in publicity, but it wasn’t really his fault… But only because he’s my fan… yeah. It’d be mean to turn away someone genuinely interested in talking about kyudo.

You figured you could put up with this. Just for a bit longer.

Maybe. Just a bit.

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

At the crack of dawn one weekend, you looked up from tying your running shoes, spotting a familiar, hulking figure only a few feet away. Steam billowed past his lips, making him look just as much of a monster as he did that one morning almost several months ago now from the club meeting.

Dedicated. You blew hot air into your freezing hands, shivering at the morning chill. Guess he really isn’t a nationally ranked player for nothing.

“Ushijima!”

His arms moved neatly at his sides, stride even, form impeccable. Ushijima’s eyes swung across the school courtyard and landed on your lone form by the benches. You couldn’t make out the shift in his expression from where you stood, but instead of waving in response like you expected, he veered off his running track across the pathway and made his way to you.

“Good morning,” Ushijima said, hardly sounding winded. This guy, I swear. You lifted a hand again in greeting, stuffing your freezing fingers back into your pockets. He stopped beside you, radiating warmth and thrumming with a low, even pulse of energy. You almost wanted to put your hands on him just to warm them up.

“I didn’t know you ran on the weekends too,” you said. “You don’t go home?”

“I visit when needed,” Ushijima said evenly. “My household isn’t far from campus. It’s easier to stay in the dorms.”

“Oh, I see,” you shuffled on your feet, shifting your hands inside your pockets. “Uh, sorry to disturb you. Just wanted to say hey.”

“You didn’t disturb me,” Ushijima said.

Give me something to work with after you say stuff like that! You grimaced, somewhat used to this sort of flat-ended conversation by now. You rubbed the back of your neck, Ushijima still waiting in silence beside you, seemingly content to just stare at the pathway, steam lightly slipping past his mouth when he exhaled.

“...you, uh,” you started awkwardly. “Want to run together?”

Ushijima’s dark eyes turned toward you. You shrugged, waving a hand. “If I can’t keep up, just keep going. I’m not looking to mess with your training regime or anything.”

“You’ll be able to keep up.”

You stopped, looking at Ushijima with round eyes. He gazed evenly back at you as you searched for a hint of mockery or some kind of tease, but his expression was dutifully earnest.

“...okay,” you mumbled. “...Let’s go then.”

The two of you broke off back into a jog, slowly finding your pace together, arms and legs moving in unison.

The run warmed you up faster than you expected.

You and Ushijima never once broke pace with each other.

---- --- ----

“Tendou-senpai, who is that with Ushijima-senpai?”

Tendou hummed, swinging his legs back and forth as he stretched lazily out across the court. In a few minutes he’d shape up before Coach could lecture him about his terrible form. Shirabu was stretching out beside him, eyes turned toward the double-door opening of the gym where they were letting a bit of a breeze come through. Goshiki looked up at Shirabu when he mentioned Ushijima, quickly peeking his head around too.

Sure enough, outside the double doors stood a completely rare sight to behold. Ushijima Wakatoshi himself cut several minutes close to the beginning of practice to stand outside and speak with someone.

You.

Goshiki frowned in confusion, barely catching a glimpse of you blocked by Ushijima’s hulking figure. His head was turned downwards, speaking with you. A massive, clothed staff seemed to come up from behind your back, however, rising even over Ushijima’s head. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Kyu-chan~” Tendou hummed. “Our dear captain’s new little friend!”

“Kyu-chan?” Goshiki repeated loudly. “Who is that? Is she close to Ushijima-senpai?”

“...she’s the captain of the kyudo club,” Shirabu said, blinking in recognition. “I see her passing out flyers to the lower grades. She and Ushijima-senpai are friends? Are they classmates?”

“Something like that,” Tendou said. “Waka-kun is a bit of a fan.”

“Of kyudo?” Shirabu looked over in mild surprise. “I didn’t think Ushijima-senpai could look at any other sport beside volleyball.”

“Well, something like that too?” Tendou touched a finger to his chin, feigning ignorance. “It’s more like he became a fan of the sport as a result!”

“Of what?” Shirabu continued, raising a critical brow.

“Kyudo?” Goshiki said. “What’s that?”

Shirabu rolled his eyes, looking done with the wing spiker’s nonsense. Goshiki gaped in disbelief, quickly turning to Tendou who’d rolled over onto his stomach, watching the sight of you and Ushijima in amusement, as though it were some kind of television soap opera.

You said something to Ushijima, shoving a plastic bag his way. He took it calmly with one hand, holding it tightly at his side as he said something else to you. Tendou watched a dumb sort of laugh touch your lips and you shook your head, waving to Ushijima over your shoulder as you headed off to your own practice.

Ushijima watched you go, waiting there until you disappeared from sight. He held the bag at his side, waiting a second longer before he turned back toward the gym.

“Ah,” Tendou said, “young love.”

Shirabu’s grip on his ankle slipped and Goshiki choked, the two of them looking at Tendou in almost disbelieving horror. “ What? ”

---- ----  ----

"Ushijima-san brings the game to a match point now with that finishing serve. His powerful strikes are yet to be received by the opposing team. His statistics are still on the rise and he might just be able to finish the set with another service ace, bringing it up for — ”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to admit it. Maybe a couple months ago you wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, because it would have left an unfairly foul taste on your mouth, reminding you again that there was perfectly good reason for Ushijima and his team to be receiving the kind of publicity and acclaim they did.

But now… well, sure, Ushijima wasn’t a bad guy at all. You might even say you were sort of acquaintances now. Maybe friends. To an extent. He was a bit awkward, blunt, and sometimes hard to talk too if you didn’t figure out the nuances in his rather simple and earnest approach—that still rubbed you the wrong way from time to time but what was life without some disputes—but the evidence was glaringly obvious.

Ushijima Wakatoshi worked hard. Terribly, frighteningly so, in the same way that you could understand with every new ache of your wrist and pull of your bow, straining to push and push and rise higher and higher. You noticed it in his runs, in his practices, and now, even sneaking a quick watch of a few of his highlights online, which lead to an endless spiral of watching several more taped games of his performances.

He dedicated himself to volleyball the same way you did to kyudo. You were both hopeless causes for these things you were willing to give your all too.

You replayed the last point again, watching huddled up on the bench as you waited for the lunch bell to ring. You’d had to tape up your wrist today, finally giving in to Ushijima’s persistent, dull-tone nagging. You’d go easier on practice too, just this once, since he seemed to adamant about it. Just this once.

“Many will be disappointed if you can’t shoot.”

I mean, I can’t let my fans down, right? Heheheh...

The announcer started speaking in your ear and you followed Ushijima across the court, watching him toss the ball up for that killer serve again. I know how it ends but I still get anxious watching this.

“(L/n)-san.”

You let out an inhuman screech, phone flying into the air as your limbs spazzed out. Ushijima blinked once, calmly catching your phone before it hit the unforgiving floor and holding it in his grip as he waited for you to calm down. You wheezed, slapping your chest to make sure your heart was still in it, cheeks flushed red as you gaped at Ushijima in disbelief. “U-Ushijima! You scared me! Say something next time!”

“I did,” Ushijima said, only mildly confused. “I said your name.”

“Louder!”

“I see,” Ushijima said. He grabbed your dangling earbuds and paused, turning your phone screen over.

His own face looked back at him, impassive and collected.

You slapped your phone out of his hand, letting it hit the floor with a clack. Ushijima blinked once at it and then looked back at you. You heaved, cheeks flushed a bright red as you stuttered, practically shouting, “It’s not what it looks like!”

Ushijima bent down to pick up your phone.

You quickly scooped it and shoved it into your pocket, completely frazzled. Ushijima considered the now empty spot in his hand before looking back at you, completely unfazed.

“We were seeded for Inter-High this year,” Ushijima said calmly. “Next month we’ll play. Would you like to come then?”

“Who said I wanted to watch your stinking game?” you snapped, cheeks till bright red as you practically hissed at the towering young man. Ushijima’s face remained almost expressionless, almost, but he simply waited for more words to come out of you, as they always did. “When is it? In a month? Maybe I’ll come! Maybe!”

“I look forward to seeing you there,” Ushijima said. He glanced back down to his hands before looking over at your bow strapped to your back. “Your beginning preliminaries don’t allow for outside spectators.”

Stop saying it like you mean you’ll come if it were different! You waved Ushijima off. “Yeah, yeah, but we’re making it past prelims so you can come to the official tournament.”

“You’re confident,” Ushijima said.

“Of course I am! What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”

Ushijima’s hands shifted to his sides. He gazed down at you, expression almost light. No, no, no, you’re just imagining things. “I look forward to watching you then.”

“Check your calendar first,” you muttered. “You don’t even know if you’ll be able to come.”

“I will attend, if it is alright with you.”

This guy is really something else! You ran a quick hand through your hair, fighting back the furious flush of pride that threatened to overtake your features. Ushijima started saying something else, calmly talking about how he felt your form improved lately, but he had yet to see so for himself. You can’t help but think about how he’d opened the gym doors for you, allowing you to take a peek into their harrowing, rigorous volleyball practice schedule simply because you were a bit curious and—

You’re not sure what possessed you next.

“You can come if you want,” you said suddenly. “To practice today.”

Ushijima paused, looking back to you. You finally met his gaze, rubbing the back of your neck. “Since you like it so much, right? Kyudo. I can… you can try it, if you want. Just this once.”

(Y/n) I think you’ve completely lost your mind, maybe you really are practicing too hard after all and —

“If it is not a hindrance to your performance,” Ushijima said. “I will come.”

You scoffed, scuffing your foot along the floor. “What, you think I’m gonna choke?”

“No,” Ushijima said.

“You know, would it kill you to give me something to work with for once—”

“If you intend to watch more matches, please watch our match against Itachiyama,” Ushijima said, after a pause.. “It was where I received my ranking. My performance is… better, during that match.”

“Please stop talking.”

--- ---  ---- ----

A round of terrified gasps and gargles from your fellow club members was about the best warning you got that Ushijima had finally made his appearance at your kyudo hall, right as rain, bright and early like he promised.

The poor first year who’d been the one to open the door looks downright terrified, face pale at Ushijima’s towering figure now blocking the doorway into the entrance hall. He gazed down at her, the top half of his face nearly obscured until he lowered his head slightly in a fearsome bow.

“Good morning. I’m sorry to intrude.”

She gaped, staring in disbelief at his appearance while the other girls had all turned and then made equally disbelieved faces, eyes round and popping out of their heads.

“H-Hey, (Y/n)!” your vice captain hissed. “I might be going crazy, but isn’t that Ushijima standing at our door? What’s the boy’s volleyball team captain doing here?”

“Are they trying to run us out?” one girl gasped. “So they can expand the gym?”

“They’ve come for our kyudo hall!”

“Captain, please do something!”

You know, maybe a few months ago you would’ve thought exactly the same. You sighed in amusement, crossing your arms over your hakama as you exited the shooting range and set your bow down against the wall. Who would’ve thought?

“It’s fine guys,” you said, waving to your club members who gaped at you. “I invited him over. Ushijima wanted to see how a kyudo practice went. I promised I’d help him shoot one round.”

“Captain—”

“Invited—”

“Ushijima-senpai—”

You walked over to Ushijima, looking up at him with your hands on your hips. He seemed to take in your formal kyudo attire with particular care, reaching up to his chest and setting his hand down on his black shirt and shorts, his volleyball jersey hanging over his shoulders. “Is the attire required?”

“Not this time,” you said with a grin. “We probably don’t have a uniform that fits you anyways. Come on in.”

The girls around you continued to gape in disbelief. Ushijima bowed to them once more, politely taking off his shoes and bending down to make it into the hall without hitting his head. He rose to his full height below the arching wooden beams, calmly taking his jacket off as well and slinging it over his arm as he followed behind you, trudging like a massive shadow.

You secretly took note of his mannerisms in the hall, curious about whether or not you’d need to correct him for this or that. To your disturbed surprise, Ushijima found himself at perfect ease in the completely formal setting, properly shifting to the side to stay out of the presentation range and moving in even, clear steps across the floor.

He looked to you, waiting for your next instructions. It was almost cute, like a giant, big dog.

Almost.

“We’ll match you with a bow and show you the practice movements,” you said cheerfully, getting a little pumped up about teaching someone for the first time in awhile. Not to mention a total newbie to the sport who was a god in his own—truly a bit satisfying for your ego. “Then we shoot, just a bit.”

Ushijima nodded, his expression settled into one of ease. You stopped just short of grabbing the unstrung bows, blinking in surprise.

Did he just smile?

---- ----  ---  ----

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this with my own eyes.”

“I know! It’s the Ushijima-senpai. I thought he was some kind of scary giant!”

“I heard he’s cold to everyone else! He glares at anyone who comes close!”

“Did you hear? Apparently he comes from a super wealthy, really well-off family! And he’s gifted! He’ll go pro for sure!”

“Why’s he here with senpai then?”

The first and second year girls all shared looks, frowning at each other before they peered around the corner of the sliding doors into the shooting range.

The height difference was pitifully apparent when you stood beside Ushijima, hands on your hips as you loudly and carefully instructed him on what he’d need to know to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. The obvious pride and ego in your stance seemed to make up for any height difference though, as Ushijima patiently craned his head down and listened to you, holding the bow and arrow in his hands.

You eagerly touched your own bow, showing him in exaggerated motions the stances, shuffling backwards to show him how you knelt and then stood, coming to stand in shooting position. Ushijima listened to all of this with obvious attentiveness, following your every motion and nodding, asking a quiet question once or twice.

Your juniors made eyes at each other, nervously peering around the corner.

“Is this something she’s doing to show kyudo is worth attention?”

“Is it a fight? Do you think he challenged her to a fight or something?”

“But if it’s senpai, wouldn’t she be the one challenging him to a fight? She’s been so worried lately about new members…”

Your vice captain observed the two of you in silence, arms crossed over her chest. She carefully considered Ushijima’s attentive stare, the quiet and swift way he moved to follow your motions, coming always to stand beside you unless you shooed him back to make another demonstration. Her eyes finally tracked back to Ushijima’s bag hanging in a small visitor cubby, neatly folded bags of energy drinks and protein bars with two boxes of cut fruit—one wrapped and the other one not.

“Can you believe who I ran into trying to get that drink you told me to get? That jerk all over our school!”

The drinks sitting in Ushijima’s bag were the ones she’d told you about all those months ago.

“I think,” she said. “It’s going to be okay… probably.”

Your juniors gaped in disbelief. Your vice captain shrugged.

“The nice thing about archery is that it doesn’t really matter if you shoot right or left!” you said amiably, growing more and more excited as you showed Ushijima the correct position for a left-handed archer. “Not like volleyball, right? The ball goes a totally different way. Arrows always fly straight if you shoot it right.”

Ushijima’s hand flexed against the bow. He gazed down at you. “You noticed.”

“Well, duh , who couldn’t tell what hand you’re hitting with? Anyway, you’re lucky I can actually shoot crazy good with both, here, this part gets easier.”

You stood right beside Ushijima, hardly even coming up to his shoulder. His eyes were focused on the top of your head for a moment, gazing at the crown of your hair before his eyes shifted to your hands, small and calloused as they reached for his and you molded yourself against him. Your eyes were shining as you guided his hands against the bow, showing Ushijima how to pull the string. You pressed your fingers into the crook of his elbow, squeezing to draw him back and lightly touching the small of his back to straighten him out.

He could feel the whisper of your heart against him, the light pulse like the flutter of the net after a strike into its side, shaking its hold.

“There,” you said softly, pulling back with a grin. Ushijima’s gaze turned over his shoulder to look down at you, properly taking in the way your hair framed your cheeks, how your eyes brightened, more and more, as though being here could make you invincible.

The way I feel on the court.

“Now if you just pull and release like I taught you,” you said gently, touching his wrist one more time and then mimicking the action with your own arms, copying his left-handed stance. “You’ll be golden!”

Ushijima carefully considered his form, focusing intently on the arrow and the target that seemed an entire court away. It was reassuring, in that sense. It wasn’t hard to envision the power he’d need to send a ball that far. The arrow and bow in his hands were rather different, fragile yet stiff when he pulled, bending and bending but not breaking.

“Don’t hold back,” you said right by his side. Ushijima’s eyes met yours over the bow and he took in fully then, the sight of your eyes, burning. “We can handle more than you think.”

Ah.

Ushijima never took his eyes off you, firing off the arrow, shooting straight into nothingness.

Your eyes quickly shot to where it landed. You laughed, shaking your head at where the arrow hand landed, just a few inches from the target into the sand. “Hey! That’s actually not bad for a first time—guess even you can’t get it on the first shot though, right?”

The grin on your face was flooded with pride, cheeky as you laughed, turning back to him and picking up your bow. Ushijima followed the curve of your lips, disappearing into a smile, the crinkle of your eyes. “Here, here, one more time! I want to see the Ushijima Wakatoshi give kyudo another shot, or even a dozen more!”

You raised your bow, grabbing your waiting arrow as you went through the foot motions and stopped. “Maybe you can get a little good—then I’ll gloat to the whole world that a nationally ranked volleyball player learned kyudo from me , right?”

“That seems unnecessary,” Ushijima said, watching your arms, your hands, your body coil like a practiced, well-oiled machine.

“Publicity!” you said. “Help me out here, would you? Kyudo isn’t as loved as volleyball, you know. Look, watch how a pro does it.”

He felt something stir in his gut at your words, lurching.

You copied his stance and turned your gaze forward. Ushijima looked behind him when he sensed a sudden hush fall over the hall, your juniors watching in rapt attention as you pulled your arrow back and adjusted your entire stance.

Your eyes zeroed in on the target. You exhaled.

The light in your eyes never seemed more fierce.

With a resounding clap the arrow shot out from your fingers, as though guided by the wind. Your hair blew out from your face, coiling backwards. It slammed dead-center into the target.

Ushijima felt again, the stir, quick and fervent in his gut. His grip on the borrowed bow tightened as you gazed at the arrow, smoothly holding your bow at your side and then you turned to him. The memory of the television flickered through his head, the garbled, clear words growing louder as he faced you and your eyes focused on him, bright.

“Maybe we could make an archer out of you just yet,” you laughed, rubbing your chin as you observed Ushijima’s own charm as he held the bow. “In our uniform you’d really look like you belonged here. You’ve got the poise for it.”

“...but?” Ushijima said, sensing the continuing hang of your words.

“But,” you agreed, propping your chin up as you nodded to yourself. “Yeah… you really do look better on a volleyball court, you know?”

Twang! Twang!

He’d always thought they were a bit similar—that sharp, satisfying sound that always left your bow when you shot and the sound of his hand connecting with the ball, sending it just right through the air.

Ushijima let the stir in the pit of his stomach flood his chest, calmly seeping down to the tips of his fingers as he gazed at you.

“Let’s give it one more go. Next time you can show me how to spike if it won’t rip my arm off—”

“(L/n)-san,” Ushijima said, his voice like a low rumble. Your juniors flinched at the back of the hall and you simply hummed in response, looking back at him. “Thank you.”

“...you’re welcome,” you said amiably, laughing a bit. “If you like it so much, you can come when you’re not busy—”

“I like you, (L/n)-san.”

Your juniors froze. Your vice-captain’s eyes bulged from her head. You blinked, grinning at Ushijima.

“Yeah, I know, you dork. You’re my first and biggest fan! Were you just blown away about seeing my shooting in person?”

“Yes,” Ushijima said. He properly turned to face you, eyes heavy, expression set. You suddenly felt a suspicious chill curling up your spine, forcing you to blink at him with wide, confused eyes. “I like watching you shoot the best.”

Ah, see! Nothing to be worried about. What was I even thinking in the first place? Your juniors sighed in relief behind you. “I know! I really am the—”

“But you,” Ushijima said, completely and utterly calm, voice clear as water, “are what I like the best as well.”

For once, you committed one of the gravest sins—your bow clattered to the floor. Your face turned pale in disbelief, color slowly starting to color it back in soft red as it came up from your neck and to your face. The entire kyudo hall went silent at Ushijima’s words, resounding like an echo.

“Uh… yeah, I mean… um… what’s that supposed to… mean?”

Ushijima continued, without missing a beat, merciless—

“I like you,” Ushijima said. A heartbeat longer and he added, calmly, “I want to be with you.”

Thud!

“S-S-Senpai’s collapsed! Someone call a teacher, we’re being attacked!”

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

Two Years Ago

Ushijima Household

“Wakatoshi, I believe this young lady attends your academy as well.”

Ushijima calmly looked up from the steaming cup of tea placed carefully in front of him. The usual quietness, the faint stuffiness that resided within his grandmother’s studies and quarters was still prevalent to this day as he joined her for her afternoon tea. The attendants had already been dismissed, waiting outside the hall to bring in lunch once his grandmother was ready.

His legs itched to shift in their resigned position, a sensation he was training himself to forget. These were small, trivial things he had no business entertaining. Once he stepped onto the court, it would mean nothing.

The large television set was fixed to a low but clear volume. Across the screen, an array of young people were being presented in an orderly fashion across a kyudo hall. His grandmother was always watching their segments, but the time slot had changed to coincide with their afternoon tea.

She talked less about his future during these moments now, since the kyudo channel shifted time. He felt, in a childish, small corner of his heart, grateful for that.

“Do you intend to play volleyball beyond your studies, Wakatoshi? There’s more beyond the sport for you within our family.”

His mother had already informed him to consider saying the correct words to placate his grandmother. Ushijima did not know what those words could be. Not if they involved anything other than volleyball.

His left hand twitched over the top of his lap. Ushijima faintly followed the announcer’s words, trying to find what it was his grandmother had meant— there.

A fierce young girl glared hard at the expanse in front of her. Her hakama clung tightly to her body, hair pulled back and out of her face. He wasn’t familiar with her, not personally, but he had a vague sense he might have passed her on more than one occasion after practice—the kyudo hall on campus was close to the volleyball gym.

It was a final shoot off, according to the commentator. His grandmother watched with rapt attention, quietly commenting that she was fond of this girl from Shiratorizawa— she shoots like she means it. He’d never heard his grandmother speak in such a manner over any kind of sport.

Ushijima watched the screen with newfound interest, a touch critical. Kyudo was a quiet sport, not the kind that received acclaim the way volleyball did. He’d never once considered himself partaking in it though he harbored no ill will.

“There,” his grandmother said. “Watch this now, Wakatoshi.”

Ushijima watched you through the screen, your stern, serious face matching that of your competitors as they set up their shot. Their arrow fired, hitting the mark barely off from the center sphere, it seemed it was practically center. The commentator announced what this meant in the shift of points and that you would have to score consecutive kaichus once more to take the entire competition back. Full marks. You had to hit dead center to make up for your team’s single miss.

You moved, elegant and poised. He could understand why his grandmother liked you. You matched all her tastes.

His left hand curled, tighter against his lap.

And then you smiled.

Ushijima felt the world slow, silence flooding across the screen.

Your arrows fired off—again, again, and again. Each time you greeted the shooting range with a smile and left it with a frown, as though the parting, only seconds long, was already too much for your heart to bear. Your opponent remained unfazed, serious, but you smiled each shot, hitting dead center, dead center, bullseye.

The commentator’s voice was flooding with rapt emotion, though they tried to stay impartial. Everyone’s eyes were on you, a second commentator a touch critical over your confidence, hinting arrogance in your grin.

No. Ushijima wanted to correct, almost immediately, entirely entranced. Not arrogance. Not baseless confidence.

You loved it. Kyudo. Shooting—

Every last bit of it.

For a second the screen blurred. Ushijima saw the other end of the court, the ball connecting with his palm, his own lips barely turning up into a near breathless smile, almost fierce—

He wanted to play.

“Good,” his grandmother said. “She will advance next year. If she participated in the individual tournaments, I’m sure she’d do much better. She keeps playing for a team, such a shame.”

“(L/n)-san, it seems as though you were born for the sport!” his eyes quickly turned back to the screen. In an instant the crowd had cleared and you stood, calmly holding your bow as a commentator got your final words on the march. “You’re a true prodigy. What words do you have for any aspiring archers?”

(L/n). Ushijima thought. (L/n) (Y/n). A prodigy? He could imagine so, with the beautiful way you shot. It was as though you were made for the bow.

“I’m not a prodigy,” your voice cut, shooting straight through Ushijima and forcing his complete and utter attention back onto you. “Don’t get me wrong, I think plenty of people are born for this. Maybe you could say I was, if that’s how you want to see it. At the end of the day it’s work though, lots and lots and lots of it.”

You faced the screen, eyes shining, boring straight through Ushijima, as though speaking solely to him, even though you possibly couldn’t be.

“It’s luck,” you said, “I’m lucky nothing’s happened to keep me from being here. I’m lucky my parents haven’t tried to make me stop. Yet, at least. I just got lucky. Kyudo found me. It’s all luck.”

“Ushijima, why do you think we get to stand on this court? People like us?”

Because we’re—

Ushijima felt his chest tighten. His pulse raced, hard against his skin. The itch to move, to run, to play flooded through his entire body. He felt it all, simply by looking at you—the urge to play volleyball a hundred, a thousand times.

“There’s unrest that youths your age will have to focus more on studies instead of pursuing kyudo as a profession. Many find that as a sport, it does not hold up to — ”

“No way,” you said, looking offended. “I’m doing kyudo until I die.”

Ushijima imagined it then, his ball shooting across the court like an arrow, his spike sailing through the air, the same way your arrow pierced the target.

“Now, Wakatoshi,” his grandmother began. “I hear your career forms are going about next year. What exactly will you be writing on yours?”

“...volleyball,” Ushijima said, clear, resounding. His grandmother raised one fine brow, but he faced her, poised, polite, unyielding.

“I will continue playing volleyball.”

He’d remember your name. He’d remember you. If possible, he’d thank you as well. You both attended the same school—a chance would surely come.

For the record:

- The kyudo club ended up getting their funding, enough to see them through for several more years. You came to Ushijima (your boyfriend of one month) sobbing buckets over it and pawing at his jacket while he calmly rubbed your back and congratulated you. The donation was an anonymous one from a rather prestigious family familiar with the school.

- You come to the rest of Ushijima's games, your team makes it through prelims and he gets to watch you through the finals for your prefecture and has plans to go watch you at nationals.

(Spoilers for the latest chapters of the manga, proceed with caution or just end it here if you don't want to see the last headcanon!)

- Romero comments about the cool archery that Ushijima watches in his down time in the locker room. Hoshiumi and Kageyama mumble in surprise that someone like Ushijima could be interested in anything other than volleyball. Ushijima admits it was a very important person he became a fan of first before the sport. "I admired the athlete and then found myself watching."

"Wow, that's unexpected," Hoshiumi took a seat beside Ushijima on the bench. Romero continued to watch over his shoulder, clearly intrigued by the Japanese form of archery style. "Is this woman a pro?"

"Yes," Ushijima said, showing them the screen. Kageyama glanced over, catching the hint of pride in Ushijima's normally settled tone. "She's the best in Japan. She will be at the next Olympics for archery as well, even though she prefers this."

"I've never really watched archery," Kageyama said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"I've grown to admire it," Ushijima said. "I'm mostly a fan of the athlete."

"Who is she?" Hoshiumi said, squinting at the screen to look for a name. A wide, bright grin came over your lips and you thrusted your bow into the air. "What's her-"

"She's my girlfriend," Ushijima said calmly, without missing a beat.

Kageyama blinked, looking stunned. Hoshiumi's eyes bulged out of his head. They both looked at each other, jaws dropping.

"She's beautiful!" Romero laughed, clapping Ushijima over the shoulder. "Wakatoshi! Congratualtions! When's the wedding?"

Ushijima looked mildly bothered by the topic. "She says we're still too... young. I don't entirely agree."

"I get you! I get you! Some advice from a married man, you have to reel them in and..."

- You sneezed before the final round, shaking your head with a frown.

(Hope you enjoyed!)

[aliferous-ly]

Seeing Red

based on this by @illogicallyinclined​ because um? i love it ? i took a fewww creative liberties also wrath is rage bc i didnt see the wrath tags until After writing so /peace sign/

warnings: injury, blood, knife as a weapon, loud terrible noises (like nails on a chalkboard esque), bliiinding, eye trauma, basically all the og warning tags plus like. logan freaking out

<3

--

Logan clutched at his collar. Air clogged in his throat like it moved through molasses, and he tore the first few buttons clean off of his shirt. His tie, already loosened, flopped, almost completely undone, against his chest. 

“Shit shit shit shit!” 

“Virgil?” 

“Honey, what’s going--”

“Goddamnit!” Virgil’s voiced pounded against Logan’s ears. He could hear Patton worrying, hear Roman asking what to do, while Virgil shouted, his voiced fused with frustration-anger-fear-fear-fear. 

“I’m gone!” Virgil finally said. “I’m gone! He took control, I’m gone.” 

And by that, of course, he meant he no longer could influence Thomas’s decisions. Patton’s control had flown out the window rather early on, similarly with Roman’s. Virgil, the deep-seated highly volatile Anxiety, usually kept the reigns for… ever. He’d never slipped yet. Anxiety had some sort of hand in nearly every part of Thomas’s life. 

Logan could hear all of this happening, but he was in another room. Not completely by choice, he’d been tugged there by… something, something, why can’t he remember -- and, well. He couldn’t really breathe. But it was fine. Everything was fine. 

A sharp, piercing noise shot through his head like a knife scraping down a chalkboard. A warbled gasp of pain shot from his lips but -- but -- 

“Logan! We have to get -- we have to get Logan--” Virgil’s voice cut through the walls, loud and frantic. 

“Calm down, calm down, he’s fine.” Roman’s. Strong, willful Roman. Steady and flighty all at once. 

“No, he’s -- Rage -- he’s --” Logan could hear the words tearing from Virgil’s mouth in gasps, bullet words catching on the wind. 

“He’s just in the other room, I’ll go get him.” Patton, now. A gentle force from behind, a safety net. The doorknob rattled. A knock. Logan hadn’t locked the door. 

“Logan, buddy?” Patton called out. Tentative, concerned, fear-fear-fear--

The piercing noise grew to a cacophonous level until he couldn’t hear what was happening, here there or anywhere, a never-ending onslaught of high-pitched noise barraging his senses, stuffing his brain with nothing but echoes and ringing and he couldn’t hear everything he touched was static and -- 

Silence. 

“Oh, Logan~” 

He knew that voice. He knew that voice, so why couldn’t he remember -- 

His senses flooded back to him, one right after another. Carpet under his fingers, a steady beating in his ears, two black leather boots with pitch dark spikes. 

He looked up. 

Rage smiled, lips stretching and gruesome. His teeth glinted bright, bright white. Logan could feel his heart in his throat, a foreign feeling sweeping through him. An external pounding echoed in the back of his mind, like it was happening but he couldn’t -- really -- hear -- 

Then Logan blinked and realized that his teeth weren’t the only things glinting, that he was holding a long -- silver -- knife. 

Logan scrambled to his feet with a reserve of energy he didn’t know he had, everything loud and narrow and bright. 

“Oh, don’t freak, freak,” Rage said. He twirled the blade once, twice, before a power-hungry grin overtook his face. “I’d say it’s nothing personal but I’m going to relish every moment of this.” 

“Don’t--” Logan extended his palms but in moments Rage was upon him, gripping at his arms his shirt his tie -- Logan pushed against him, something primal and raw erupting as he yelled. Rage’s wrists were burning, hotter than anything Logan knew, his hands slipping against rough obsidian skin. Rage was a flurry of limbs and Logan couldn’t see, couldn’t see, couldn’t see and --

The knife hovered above his eyes, just between his glasses. Rage laughed and laughed and laughed, eyes flung open wide, golden red eyes -- orange black eyes -- fire and brimstone -- 

The bridge of his glasses snapped. 

The world erupted into red. 

“Can you see it?” Rage might’ve whispered or yelled but it all sounded the same to Logan’s ears, crashing waves of fear and pain filling his head. Can you see it? 

The color was never ending, lacking depth and feeling and Roman loved red, he loved the color, but it didn’t feel like Roman, this hateful burning hellfire scarlet -- everything hurt, it hurt and he couldn’t see because of all the fucking red in his vision, he just wanted it all to go away and --

Silence. 

Rage was gone -- Logan could sense it, in the room. Rage’s presence filled every crack, every hole. He needed to be seen, had to be known. Rage was gone. Rage was… gone. 

Logan choked. His ears burned. Something viscous and warm slogged down his cheeks and Logan thought, well, tears are thicker than I remember, well, would the others find him, well, Rage really got what he wanted. 

And then he remembered, oh. Oh. Tears don’t hurt, not like this. Not like this. 

And he remembered the big silver knife, settled between his eyes, and Logan realized his eyes weren’t closed. He wasn’t guarding himself against a bright world. He no longer saw red and instead everything was -- 

Dark. 

A sob tore from his throat. His shoulders shook and he trembled, trembled for someone to help, for someone to give him his sight back give it back --

Hysteria rose and he forced it down. Object impermanence renders you --

But Rage was different than Remus, Logan knew this -- 

Object impermanence renders you pretty unintimidating. 

Something loud cracked, like wood splintering in half. 

What’s so frightening about something with no real world impact?

A warm touch, cool against his burning skin. Soft hair against his neck and ears, a pressure on his arms. Movement, smooth and swift, the fabric of the couch against his elbows. 

Someone wrapped their arms around him, sideways, like they leaned against -- against the arm of the couch, and his own back was against the back of the couch. 

The muffled ringing in his ears subsided, just enough. He could feel fabric -- a sweatshirt? -- against his arms. A voice murmured in his ear and as time trekked on he could make out more and more. 

“We’re here,” the voice was saying. Virgil was saying. Virgil, who was holding on tight to Logan, unwilling to let him go. Undoubtedly getting blood all over his sweatshirt because that’s what was dripping down Logan’s face. That’s what was… 

“It hurts,” Logan said. 

Virgil pressed his forehead against Logan’s jawbone, lips against his shoulder. “I know. I know. Roman and Patton are here to help.” 

Logan made a small, pitiful noise, but when they asked -- Roman, Logan thinks, but the voice was so soft it could’ve been Patton -- if they could help him, treat him, he nodded. 

It hurt so much less than he thought it would. 

Logan knew that cleaning wounds -- anywhere, not just on the face -- hurt like hell. Hurt almost more than the initial wound, because the residual adrenaline had worn off by then. But he barely noticed it -- a prick, a tug. He was more aware of Virgil’s heavy weight around his torso, his head pressed against Logan’s neck. 

“Done,” Roman (definitely Roman, Logan was positive this time) said. “Patton brought some soft clothes for you.” 

“Thomas,” Logan said. “What about--”

“Thomas is fine,” Virgil said, interrupted. “After…” He swallowed. Logan could feel it in the way his shoulders shifted, in the closeness of his chest. 

“After Rage left,” Roman picked up. “Patton found a crack and forced through.” 

“Thomas is letting off steam,” Patton said. His touch landed on Logan’s arm, feather-light. Fabric followed soon after and Logan just -- Logan just moved when he could, as Patton and -- Virgil, slowly dressed him. “He needs to take a breather. Rage is being released in a healthy coping mechanism.” 

Logan nodded, suddenly exhausted. “He’s okay.” 

“He’s okay,” Patton confirmed. “And you are, too.” 

Logan didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t know if his sight would return. Logically, probably, maybe. When Thomas recovered his faculties then Logan would… return to himself. Five senses and all. 

But… 

What if it didn’t? Would he be blind for -- for the rest of Thomas’s life? 

Virgil tightened his grip. Not enough to be painful, but just enough for a surge of appreciation and comfort to flow through Logan’s veins. He felt -- he felt safe, in Virgil’s arms. He knew Patton and Roman were close. And with those around him he was guarded from the rest of the world. 

Another wave of exhaustion swept through him. 

“I’d hug you, but Virgil’s kinda hogging all your hug time,” Patton said. Joked. 

Logan’s lips quirked. It was weak, but it was there. 

Virgil settled his chin atop Logan’s shoulder. “Nope. I’m legally obligated to stay here.” 

“Rude,” Roman said. “I knew you were a dragon but I didn’t know you were this much of a hoarder.” 

Virgil hissed at him. Something comforting and relieved exploded in Logan’s chest, releasing in a singular exhale of almost-laughter. 

“Did you just -- did he just hiss at me?” 

“There there, Roman,” Patton said. “It’s okay. I’ll hug you.” 

“Thanks, padre. You’re my favorite.” 

Logan imagined Virgil sticking his tongue out at Roman, imagined Patton and Roman giving each other the biggest, most obnoxious hug known to man. 

“Thank you,” Logan said. The words were dusty, and warbled, and choked, but they were there. 

“Of course,” Virgil said. 

“It’s no problem,” Roman said. He sounded like he’d tried for boasting but couldn’t manage to sneak out the soft undertone. 

“We’re always here for you, Logan,” Patton said. 

His heart lightened. Logan didn’t smile, he didn’t know if he had the energy for it, but he was… content? Comforted. Maybe even happy. 

“This won’t happen again,” Virgil promised. “I have a brand new crippling fear of Rage taking over. He won’t ever gain this much power, ever again.” 

“That’s good,” Logan said, because it was. Thomas shouldn’t be enraged so completely, he shouldn’t lose control so fully. And now Virgil had the means… to prevent it. And Patton had evidently grown stronger, too, being able to wrench some of Rage’s control from him. 

And with Virgil by his side, Roman and Patton aiding him every step of the way… they were okay. 

Logan could breathe. 

Everything was okay. 

[hawkbucks]

Number One With A Bullet

I saw a prompt comment on the WinterIron subreddit, and I thought I’d try my hand at it. It read:

Tony grows up in an average household, but his brain still lands him at MIT. One unlucky night, his trip to the bank gets interrupted by a robbery. However, the criminals leave as soon as they see Tony’s face. Looking into it, it turns out Tony was put on the No-Harm list by the leader of a global crime syndicate who goes by the Winter Soldier. He is completely flabbergasted when the Winter Soldier looks exactly like his ex-boyfriend, Bucky Barnes.

Tony doesn’t live in a bad neighborhood per se, but he wouldn’t be caught at an ATM in the dead of night with no more as defense than his keys poking through the slits his fingers make when they’re balled up in a fist.

And yet, that’s how he finds himself, standing under a cloth awning with a yellow light doing its best to illuminate him and provide a feeling of safety. He slides his card into the slot and waits for the mechanical voice to tell him to punch in his PIN. Damn the fact that the nearest convenience store is cash-only (seriously, they might as well be an inconvenience store with that policy in his very humble opinion), and damn the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s going to need at least 2 extra cans of Red Bull to get through his courseload tonight. He squeezes his keys harder, his keyring starting to dig almost painfully into his palm. Maybe leaving New York was a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve just went to NYU; at least then he’d be surrounded by familiarity.

The ATM asks for his PIN.

As his thumb hovers over the keypad, something sharp presses into the base of his spine. He freezes, breath catching in his throat, and hopes to god that he’s just imagining things.

“We just need you to withdraw a li’l something for us, alright?” a raspy voice sounds from over his right shoulder. It’s muffled slightly, probably due to a ski mask or a pulled-up scarf covering a mouth. “We don’t want this to get ugly.”

Yeah. So much for imagining things. He has his makeshift claws, sure, but he never thought that he’d actually have to use them, and the usage of ‘we’ isn’t exactly instilling any sort of confidence in him, especially when the presence of another person is confirmed by a low hum in agreement.

‘Course, it’s either stand here and let these guys bleed him for all the money he has in his account, or act out—and possibly get stabbed to death—in hopes of scaring them away once they see he isn’t going to be that easy of a target. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t mind doing a little tango with death if that means he isn’t going to be evicted from his apartment and end up living out on the streets. It’s not like he has that much to lose anyway (unless you count his piles of rising student debt and well-worn clothes as something).  

“You know what to do, right?” the voice continues. “Just give us some money, and we’ll be right outta your hair.” The sharpness grows insistently, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until it breaks through his clothes and sinks into him.

“Just money?” he asks, swallowing down any residual fear.

“Just money.”

He blinks and nods twice. Now or never, Stark. Now or never.

He wildly turns around and punches out with his “claws,” satisfaction settling in his chest when he hears a grunt of pain. The knife clatters to the ground, and he watches as they reel back, holding the side of their face.  

He sets his shoulders, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his breathing becomes heavy. He glares at the other, daring them to come forward.

Except that the other doesn’t come forward. No, their eyes are wide through the holes in their mask, and their knife is hanging loosely at their side. “Oh, fuck,” they start, their voice higher-pitched and more nasally. They look at recently-punched-guy out of the corner of their eye before looking back at him. “Uh, shit. Dude, it’s him. Norman, fuck, it’s him.”

Tony furrows his brows together. “It’s him”? What the hell does that mean? Last he checked, he wasn’t anyone that would get people caught up while attempting to rob him, unless he somehow turned into a celebrity overnight.

“Aw, man,” recently-punched-guy—or Norman, as he’s recently learned—moans, looking at Tony, knees buckling from underneath them. “The Soldier’s gonna have our heads.”

The Soldier? The closest person he knows to a Soldier is Rhodey, and he’s pretty sure Rhodey isn’t the kind of guy who would go around threatening to have people’s heads if they screw with him. Or maybe he is, but he’s definitely not the kind of guy who would make good on that promise if the way his would-be robbers are looking like they’re staring their death sentence in the face is any indication. (Speaking of which, probably not the smartest move to have given Tony one of their names.)

“We didn’t know it was you, man, we swear!” Not-Norman pleads, sounding on the verge of hysterics. “Dude, you gotta tell the big man that we didn’t know!”

He stays silent, racking his head and trying to figure out who this Soldier could be and why it seems like they want to protect him so much. Rhodey’s out, obviously. Pepper may be the next most likely candidate, but there’s also the fact that she has better taste than to call herself the Soldier. It can’t be Peter, that kid he tutors, since Peter is 12, and it’s not Peter’s Aunt May because he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t hurt a fly even if it was buzzing all over her lasagna.

Norman and Not-Norman, however, take his silence to mean that he is, in fact, considering not telling the “big man” that they didn’t know. “Listen, if we knew it was you, we wouldn’t even have approached you!” Norman says. “Just tell him that, yeah? ‘Cause we have to go. You—fuck—you hit hard!”

“I’ll tell him,” he says. If he could ever find out who “he” was.

“Okay, okay. We good?” Not-Norman’s already backing away.

Tony nods.

Norman, still holding his face, turns tail and runs. “You can keep the knife!” he shouts out, Not-Norman lagging just a few strides behind him.

Tony looks down at the knife, considering.

See, someone calling themselves the Soldier sets off alarms in Tony’s head. Unless they’re some 14-year-old on an MMORPG, they’re probably involved in some shady, shady business, and it’s not like he can just Google who they are. Fortunately, Tony knows someone who deals in shady businesses (mostly because they’ve been friends since elementary school and, while they went down incredibly different paths, she’s always looked out for him). He sprawls himself out on his couch and dials a familiar number.

“Who the hell’s the Soldier?” he asks once he hears her pick up.

“Wow. Not even a hello,” Natasha quips dryly. Rustles of cloth and faint shouting can be heard in the background.

He decides not to ask. It’s probably for the better. “Hello.” He pauses for what he assumes is an appropriate amount of time. “Who’s the Soldier?”

“What makes you think that I’d know?” Natasha says in a tone of voice that makes it painfully clear that she does, in fact, know.

“C’mon, ‘Tasha. I’m curious.”

Natasha hums in acknowledgement. “Answer one of my questions first.”

Oh, great. Intelligence for intelligence, as she says. “I—sure, okay.”

“You’ve never asked me about them before, which leads me to believe that you’ve never even heard of them until now. Who told you about them?”

He stares at his ceiling. “Uh, Rhodey? You know how he works for the military and all? He—”

“The truth, Tony,” she sighs exasperatedly, cutting through his lie like a knife through butter. So much for that.

He mumbles, “I was in the middle of… getting robbed—”

“Getting robbed?” Natasha’s voice is razor sharp, concern seeping through.

“It’s not—that isn’t important.” He waves a dismissive hand although he knows she can’t see. “I wasn’t hurt, which is exactly why I’m curious, because those guys stopped once they saw me and then they started acting like this Soldier was gonna kill them.”  

“Who was trying to rob you?”

He could rat out Norman and Not-Norman, but he thinks that not even they deserve whatever kind of hell Natasha would rain upon them. “Not important.”

“It’s important to me.”

“Not to the story overall. ‘Tasha, please, I don’t want to talk about this any more than I have to.”

“…Fine,” Natasha acquiesces in her own way of apologizing. “I know him. Not personally, but I know him. Give me an hour and I’ll send you his address.”

“You can’t just tell it to me now?”

“I’m working, Tony.” With that, she hangs up.

He wonders if it’s revenge for him not telling her about Norman and Not-Norman. Knowing her, it is.

His base is near Boston, Natasha’s text reads, his text tone startling him awake. You’re lucky. Tell me how it goes.

If he’s being honest, he didn’t expect the base of someone with enough power to make a couple of simple-Joe-robbers nearly piss their pants at the thought of them to look so… plain. Bricks stained a dark red from the passage of time and accumulation of grime, black-tinted windows denying any nosey onlookers the pleasure of being able to look in, and a rather nondescript sign proclaiming the building to be under the ownership of a company calling themselves HC Inc.

He takes a deep breath and enters.

There’s a receptionist there, maybe a year or two younger than himself. Blonde. Her eyes widen when she sees him, but she quickly clears her throat and goes back to typing on her computer.

“Hi!” he greets once he’s up at the counter. He flashes her what he hopes is a friendly smile, because something about her tells him that she won’t hesitate to put him through the floor if she thinks he’s suspicious in any way, shape, or form. “I’m looking for, er…”

She smiles back up at him, eyes glinting. “The boss, right? Don’t worry, I’ll phone him.”

He nods politely before backing up and walking a few steps away, just far enough that he can still hear her without looking obvious (or at least he hopes he isn’t looking obvious).

“There’s someone here to see you, boss man,” he hears. “No, it isn’t her. It’s—” she glances at him— “it’s Stark.” A pause. “I’m sure. He looks like the picture.” Another pause. “Yes, of course.” She places her hand over the mouthpiece and beckons him over. “Can I see ID?”

He fumbles with his wallet as he fishes it out. He flashes his MIT ID, hoping that’s enough.

And enough it seems to be. She nods towards a hallway off to the left. “There are elevators down there. The boss is on floor 30.” She uncovers the mouthpiece as he walks away. “I’m sending him up right now.”

The room the elevator opens up to is far more extravagant than he would’ve expected looking at the outside of the building. A heavy-looking mahogany table sits in the middle, magazines splattered all over the surface, while a pair of thick maroon curtains help block out anything the tinted windows can’t. A chandelier illuminates the room in a soft yellow light unlike the harsh flickering from the ATM before.

Either he’s about to be served the finest glass of red wine he’s ever had, or he’s about to be executed while Chopin bombards his eardrums. It could be both. Not that he’d mind.

He takes a few careful steps, looking around the room. “Uh, hello?” he calls out, trailing his fingers on the table. After a couple of seconds of no response, he picks up a magazine and flicks through it. He can play the waiting game.

“Tony?”

He yelps, turning around to smack whoever that voice belongs to with the magazine, but is stopped when a large hand wraps around his wrist. “Wh—” he starts, then everything he’s about to say dies in his throat. No way, right? There’s no way?

It’s been a few years since they’ve seen each other, since they broke up because he wanted so desperately to go to MIT, to leave their state, but he’s pretty sure that he’d recognize the other anywhere and in any life.

“James?” he squeaks. James is taller now, broader and more muscular with a fair amount of scruff on his chin and hair that reaches his shoulders, but his eyes have always stayed the same: this cool blue that brings him back to the ocean. “You’re the Soldier?”

“Winter Soldier, technically,” James says, releasing his wrist. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Winter Soldier?” Tony narrows his eyes and rubs at his wrist. He doesn’t doubt that James didn’t mean to harm him, but his grip is strong. “Like… like from when we used to play Runescape?”

James cringes, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I couldn’t think of anything else. What are you here for anyway? I never thought that you’d��� that you’d find out.”

“I—” Tony throws the magazine back on the table— “was approached by a couple of lovely guys, and they mentioned you. Said something about how you’d have their heads for even coming near me.” He crosses his arms. “I’d like an explanation, please.”

James rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a list that I have of people that, uh, that shouldn’t be hurt. You’re on it. So are a couple other people, but… yeah, you’re on it. You’re number 1, actually.”

“Number 1?” Tony isn’t sure if he should be flattered or afraid. Flattered because, well, it shows that James still cares for him, still thinks of him, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t send his heart aflutter. Afraid because there’s bound to people out there that aren’t scared of the Winter Soldier’s wrath, and the fact that James just offered his name and face up on a silver platter… he’d just have to hope, as with most things.

“Yeah. You’ve always been my number 1.”

No. Tony can’t have that. His head is already spinning what with all of this information that he’s under the protection of some mob boss (although Tony strongly suspects that James is the head of more than just a mob) and that mob boss is his high school boyfriend that he thought he left in New York. He can’t have old feelings resurfacing. He can’t think about the nights where he stared at James’ contact information in his phone, never quite building up the courage to call or text. “We haven’t talked in years, James.”

“Doesn’t mean you’ve grown any less important to me.”

Tony exhales. He can’t really come up with something to say against that. Or at least he can’t come up with something to say that wouldn’t make him feel like a monster (which is funny, because James has probably dealt with much worse people than an old flame with a lashing tongue). “What is that supposed to mean?”

James shrugs loosely. “Whatever you want it to mean.”

Oh, no. Oh, no, Tony, don’t, his mind says. James has changed. He isn’t the same boy that used to quote Star Wars with you all day. He’s dangerous, more than likely. “And if I want it to mean something along the lines of us trying again? As friends, and maybe… maybe we can see where it goes.”

James smiles sanguinely. “I can accept that definition.”

[red-pill-blue-pill]

The best of the class. Ruska Roma. John Wick.

A/N: Hello once again. I erased this by mistake (yes, I’m THAT person) and I had to rewrite most of it. I don’t remember what I wrote the first time but I tried to write it as similar as I could. I also changed this to a second person point of view since people liked it better (yes, the second part is still in third person). Anyway, I hope I don’t delete any other fic cause I’m going to throw myself out the window if I do. Enjoy 💖(again).

Word Count: 4929 

Part 2.

Sore muscles. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop. Twirl. Jump. No time to rest.

Ruska Roma had put their highest hopes in you and that meant practicing until you couldn’t walk and your feet were covered in blisters. You owed them. Being lost in the streets of Romania was the toughest experience you ever had to endure so when the Director took you under her wing when you were seven, gratefulness was the only thing you could feel. This was your way to pay it back.

“Stop!” the Director screamed in the empty theater, her harsh voice echoing in the air making the twirling dancers come to a halt. You all fell to the floor with a thump, relieved that the practice was finally over. “Terrible. Tomorrow I want it perfect.” her thick accent brought back terrible memories that no one dared to recall. Her footsteps were muffled by the carpeted floors as she exited the big space.

“Tomorrow?” Katya exclaimed. “Impossible. I can’t barely walk!” A chorus of agreements echoed between the other girls onstage. You and Katya had known each other since you were seven years old. You were brought in at the same time and you became best friends almost instantly. Now you were twenty one years old and it still felt like the first day. “C’mon, if we put our feet in hot and then cold water the pain will die down for a few hours and we’ll be able to practice.” You tried to lighten up her mood but she shot you a look that warned to you shut up.

“Okay okay. We’ll stretch and I’ll massage your legs. How does that sound, you moody bitch?” You helped Katya stand up and you grabbed your gym bags. “That sounds great.” she answered laughing and walking towards the backstage area.

The door opened and the darkness of the room flooded their eyes that needed a couple of minutes to adjust. There were girls sitting everywhere. Your group was the last one to dance which meant you had no free space to stretch and clean up after practice because there were girls talking, changing clothes and pulling out their toe nails. A not so pleasing sight that matched the smell. The air was thick with sweat and if someone who wasn't used to it came to visit, vomit was assured.

You kicked out some younger girls that were talking about stupid stuff. This wasn’t the place to chit-chat about your love life. Katya placed her gym bag on the floor right next to the chair you were sitting on. “Remember when we were like that? Those were good times.” she said as she unrolled the bandage around her ankles that kept them from spraining. You looked at the young girls as they left, the last one not missing the opportunity to turn around and shoot you a scowling look.

“They sure were.” Your teen years were the best of your lives. Hormones jumping around and eyes searching for cute boys to flirt with; mouths for gossiping after kissing a couple of them, for laugh fits born in the midst of thrilling situations. Ignorance is a precious gift with expiration date that you had tried to get the most out of. Being in the Ruska Roma meant little freedom but you managed anyway. Sometimes you looked back with regretful eyes, the possibility of not seizing it enough nagging at the back of your mind. Now you had other things to worry about. Soon you would leave this place and all you had was everything they had taught you: perseverance, patience, strength. You would be sent to a wealthy family to take care of obscure affairs, or maybe to a dancing company to dance all around the world. You didn’t really care as long as your life was sorted out and that meant being the best at everything you did.

You went upstairs, your quick footsteps echoed through the huge rooms. In some of them young boys were learning how to wrestle for the first time, some faces were already swollen and it wasn’t surprising; you learned the hard way or you didn’t learn at all. In others the oldest ones were fighting viciously, trying to earn their own spot at the Director’s rank of favorites.

Katya elbowed your side softly to get your attention. “Look who’s got his eyes fixed on you.” she shot a cheeky smile while you looked around the room, your eyes catching his. He was standing on the side with the other “students” that watched the fights. He was one of the best fighters in the Ruska Roma. His hair was damp with sweat and his eyes had something feral in them, a lion watching its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to attack, his cocky grin letting you know he was capable of eating you for dinner the moment he set his mind to it.

You blushed furiously and averted your eyes, looking down at the floor instead and quickening the pace of your steps. Katya followed close behind smiling widely. Once you closed the door to the corridor that led to the dorms, Katya squealed excitedly. “Did you see that?! Jardani was totally checking you out!”

You shushed her “Shut up! Someone might hear you.” the blush returning to your cheeks

“Dude, if Jardani checked me out I would want everyone to know about it.” Katya giggled while walking up to her dorm’s door. “I mean have you seen his face?”

You walked to your door. A shiver ran down your spine as she thought of his stare and the way his jaw clenched when your eyes interlocked. He was a very good looking boy, one of the most handsome ones in the Ruska Roma. Every single girl was obsessed with him. You were positive at least 6 in 10 had had wet dreams about him. Why was he interested in you? I mean, you had walked past each other in the halls for at least a thousand times and not a single “hello” had exited your mouths. Why now?

“You owe me a massage!” Katya yelled from her dorm and you huffed as you closed the door shut, you needed to rest. You lied on the bed and closed your eyes. Jardani. Your eyes shot open. Jardani. Your brain said matter of factly. A groan escaped your lips as you pulled the pillow over your head.

-

The shooting range was empty. It was your favorite training. You could blow some steam off and clear your mind while shooting viciously at a piece of paper. Sounded good. You were one of the best when it came to gun fighting. Your shots were precise and calculated, your hands as steady as steel. It was mesmerizing.

The shots, and every outside sound, were muffled by the headset you were wearing. It was only you and the gun. Or at least that's what you thought.

The last round of shots had just been fired. The bullet holes were concentrated around the head of the person's silhouette drawn on the target. You smiled proudly as the rack brought it forward, extending your arms eagerly to grab the paper. You needed to get the hell out of there, you were already late to dance practice and the Director did not tolerate the lack of punctuality.

You removed the headset from your head and put the safety back so you could put the gun back in your bag. A pair of hands started clapping behind you and you knew right away who it was. Of course, who else could have sneaked here while I was shooting?

"That was really impressive." His deep voice knocked the air out of your lungs for a couple of seconds and you debated whether to turn around or pretend he wasn't even there.

The politeness in you won the battle and you slowly turned to face him, a small blush creeping on you cheeks. "Thank you, I try." He was leaning against the wall, his hands on his front pockets, his hair was combed back allowing you to take a good look at his beautiful face that had the same cocky grin. His hazel eyes looked at you and glinted with mischief, and a mix of fear, thrill and arousal ran through your spine. But you had no time for this. Not for boys, not even for Jardani.

"How come you're here on your break?" He asked as he followed you. You had walked past him clearly in a rush but he didn't care. He knew what he wanted and nothing could stop him.

"Helps me relax and I'm good at it." You stated with no interest. You knew you could come across as rude but the only thing on your mind was not making the Director even more upset than she already was. He was about to open his mouth again but you interrupted "Listen, I don't have time right now I'm sorry." He stared at you while silence settled between the two of you. You felt naked under his gaze, you were certain he could read your thoughts. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I'll wait for you to finish dancing practice." He shot you his most charming smile trying to convince you. His sudden insistence was starting to get irritating. It was even more than "insistence", it was waiting for you after practice. Everyone would see (see what?), everyone would know (know what?). The thought of him leading you on to make fun of you made itself clearer. You were the wrong person to mess up with and you were going to make that very clear.

"Okay, cut the crap. What's this?" He was taken aback by your question.

"What's what?"

"All this sudden interest in me. We've seen each other around for like a thousand times." You were already late but it didn't matter anymore.

He thought for a moment before answering "How about I tell you tonight while we have dinner?" You snorted at his words. At dinner? The Ruska Roma was very strict. Dinner's at 8 pm, and by 9:30 pm everyone had to be in their dorms tucked into bed so they could wake up at 5:30 am. If one of the guards caught a student breaking the curfew the punishment was said to be unbearable.

"I'll take care of it. Meet me in the dorm's entrance at 7:45 pm?"

You hesitated. If they caught you it would probably ruin your perfect record, you had never done something like this before. You were 21 and had never broken the rules which was pretty sad if you gave it a second thought. The Ruska had gave you everything you had but also taken away the best years of your life.

Fuck it. You could always not show up if you backed away.

"Okay." You turned around catching a glimpse of the triumphant grin that Jardani had on his face and ran off to practice.

--

It went worst than you thought. The Director was indeed pissed when you ran onstage in the middle of a song and her anger grew each second that passed. Your mind was filled with that night's plans, with Jardani and with enough anxiety to make you mess up every pirouette. It was physically impossible for you to clear your mind and the Director could see it.

"Enough!" she waved her hand in the air and stood up walking towards the stage. "Go away." Every girl ran off the stage "Not you Y/n."

Katya turned around to look at you as she ran off the stage, a worried expression lacing her face. You swallowed hard, your mind racing a thousand thoughts per second. Does she know about tonight? Is she going to give me an ultimatum? You walked up to her with your head hanging low.

"What's wrong with you? You're a mess lately." The Director's gaze softened when she looked at you. You were her best student and not only when it came to dancing. Your fighting skills were impeccable and your shooting record was the highest of the whole Ruska Roma. If you started fucking up now it would be impossible to assign you to a family or dance company, you wouldn't have a future.

You looked up at her, your voice quivering slightly. "I'm sorry, it's been a hard week." You felt ashamed and disappointed on yourself. This was unacceptable for you.

She sighed and shook her head lightly. “It’s okay. Tomorrow I want it perfect. Go rest before dinner.”

Your eyes welled up with tears of relief and shame. “Thank you director.” You said before turning on your heels and running off to the backstage area.

Katya was waiting and she ran towards you with a worried expression as she saw you close the door. “What did she say? Is everything okay?” she said as her eyes widened with each word.

You smiled lightly as you walked past her. “Yes, she just wanted to make sure I was okay.”

“And are you? You’ve been in wonderland these past couple of days.” she followed you close, dodging the girls that lied on the floor while they stretched.

“Yes, I am perfectly fine. It’s nothing.” you went to open the door that led to the corridors of your dorm but she put her hand on top of yours as you reached for the doorknob.

“Where are you going? You never miss stretching.” she raised an eyebrow when she saw your face blushing furiously. It took a couple of seconds or her to connect the dots. Her mouth opened in surprise. “You’re going to see him aren’t you?” you nodded slowly.

”Oh my god!” she squealed as silently as she could. Making everyone turn their heads towards you two.

You fake smiled and grabbed her shoulder to turn her around, hiding your face as you talked. “Yes. Please don’t make a scene. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.” you whispered and she smiled cheekily

“No wonder why you’ve been so distracted. He’s got you under his spell.” she laughed and you opened the door, tired of hearing her comments, you knew she was right, as much as you wanted to deny it.

“Have fun!” she said just before you closed it and rushed to your room.

-

You turned to the clock that hung on your wall. 7:40. The anxiety was overwhelming you, even more after the talk with the Director. You knew she worried about you and you were about to betray that trust it took you years to build. The “backing off” sign was shining as bright as ever. Three minutes. Who were you trying to deceive? You were all dressed up with your make up on point. You wanted this more than anything even if the feeling of guilt was burning a hole in your stomach. Two minutes. You sneaked out of your room and walked through the corridor, your heart thumping on your chest as you got closer and closer to the door.

The wooden floor creaked under your steps and you cursed under your breath. You opened the door and closed it trying to make as little sound as you could. You took a quick glance around the room. No sight of Jardani. A sudden fear of being stood up and laughed at took over your mind. You mentally scolded yourself for being so naive. Footsteps echoed through the adjacent room. You heartbeat sped up. The rational part of your brain wanted for them to belong to a guard who would tell you to go to the dinning room and end this nonsense. You would never talk to Jardani again, problem solved. No more distractions, no more anxiety. But the irrational part longed to see Jardani's face and, deep down, the thought of not seeing him made your heart break a little.

When you saw him come around the corner you let out a sigh of relief. A big smile made its way through his face. His hair was combed backwards, the same as when you saw him in the shooting range. His white shirt tightened around his arms and put on display before your eyes his muscled chest and broad shoulders. It was tucked inside his blue jeans. He looked straight out a 60's movie.

You snapped out of your trance knowing you were staring a bit too much and he was completely aware. "Let's go please." You whispered trying to hurry him up.

He smiled cockily. "aren't we eager?" He said but before you could answer he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him "Come on."

You walked silently through the building, dodging the guards and sneaking into the first floor to jump out the window. He jumped first and held his hand out to help you land safely on the ground. You smiled at him and thanked him softly.

"There's a park two streets away, let's go." He said as he started to walk, you following him suit. It was only now that you noticed he had a backpack. The thought of him kidnapping or murdering you had never crossed your mind. It would be the perfect occasion though. Only Katya knew you were out the Ruska Roma but she didn't know where. You could fight him. He was one of the best and strongest fighters but you had mastered the technique and could match his expertise.

"Here we are." He stopped and swung his backpack off his shoulder. He kneeled on the floor and opened the zip to get out a picnic blanket and laid it on the grass. He also pulled put a couple of chinese take away containers and a big bottle of water.

You were in awe. Not only was he risking getting caught right now, he had sneaked out to get the food and then sneaked back in to meet you. You heart warmed at the thought and all that dread you felt towards him before melted away.

"Are you going to stand there all night or are you sitting here with me?" He asked patting the free stop next to him on the blanket. You rolled your eyes and sat down next to him. The golden hour sun shone on your faces. His long lashes casted shadows over his cheekbones and the light stubble that covered his chin and jaw stood out. His brown coffee eyes seemed lighter. He was so beautiful you couldn't hold his gaze for more than a couple of seconds.

"Alright, tell me. Have I suddenly become irresistible?" You asked before stuffing your face with noodles. It had been a while since you had eaten something that good.

"What?" He asked quirking an eyebrow.

You shot him a knowing look and he sighed.

"Look, I saw you, thought you were cute and asked you out. It's not that deep."

He shrugged his shoulders and took a big gulp of water.

You snorted at his response "Jardani, c'mon, we have seen eachother a thousand times. I know there's more to it."

He turned to look at you and his gaze softened. “You can look at people without actually seeing them.” he paused for a couple of seconds, thinking how to put his words together. ”Everyone talked about how you were the best in Ruska Roma and when you walked past wrestling class and I looked at you properly I thought you were really cute. So now we’re here.”

You chucked lightly and swallowed the food in your mouth. “Yeah right.”

“Oh my god. If I knew you were this stubborn I would never have asked you out. What is it now?” he said while rolling his eyes.

“I saw how you were staring at me.” you said in a burst of confidence. You were rarely the one to display vanity but this was an actual fact. He looked at you waiting for you to finish “Your eyes were… almost feral, filled with lust.”

“Did it turn you on?” he asked with a stoic expression on his face.

Your eyes widened and your face grew hot at his sudden question. You hand slapped his arm harshly. It would be embarrassing to confess something like that to someone like him, so filled with self-importance and in full knowledge of what his looks did to the ladies. “Jardani!” you screamed as he laughed at your flustered face.

“I’m just messing with you.”

Dusk was starting to set in, darkness flooded the sky and stars made their appearance. The food was long finished and you just stared at the sky, shoulders brushing slightly every time any of you moved a little bit. You tried your best not to get carried away. He was intoxicating and you needed to remain as rational as possible. You couldn’t face more distractions right now.

“I really like this.” you murmured without even thinking.

“What?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the night sky.

“Being outside, freedom feels good once in a while.” you said chuckling at your own words. You knew freedom was unreachable in your life but it comforted you to think that maybe you had experienced it at least once.

He didn’t say anything, he just leaned more into you, his arm flush against yours. The feeling of his skin on yours sent electric jolts down your spine. Your brain was clouded with confusion and you struggled to keep your tough façade. You thought about anything that could keep your mind out of this situation but the sound of his breathing always broke your concentration. That was the first time you noticed his scent. He smelled of mint and deodorant. Clean, fresh.

He lied on the blanket while letting out a loud sigh. You breathed in slowly, thankful for the loss of contact between you two, it was taking all you had to not jump his bones right there. Just as your relief came it went away as his hand rested on the small of your back, drawing small circles with his thumb. You heart threatened to jump right out our mouth and you were positive he could feel it.

You kept your back turned to him, trying to ignore his presence as much as you could. This was being some kind of test from the gods. A very mean one. You couldn’t even remember the last time you got laid, hell you couldn’t even remember the last time someone laid their hands on you. You were completely touch starved and your oversensitive skin reacting to his touch was sweet torture.

He squeezed lightly your skin “Lay down with me.” he whispered, his voice was like honey, cloying for your unaccustomed ears. Your mind rushed, trying to think of an excuse but nothing came so you just gave in and braced yourself for what was to come.

You lied down, his arm was against yours again. Your eyes scanned his profile. It was unbelievable how someone could look so good with such little effort. His gaze was lost in the vastness of the sky, his lips pursed lightly. You could only think about how badly you wanted to kiss him, to feel his soft lips on yours.

A sigh left your parted mouth as you looked back into the darkness.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked as if he was reading your mind.

“Nothing.” Your face grew red at the unspoken thoughts.

“You were thinking about kissing me, weren’t you?” he turned to look at you with a soft smile on his lips.

He was truly a smooth talker. You could tell he had a lot of experience in the flirting field. The way the words rolled off his tongue, how he knew when to whisper, when to lower his voice. He knew how to get you weak on the knees. And what was more important he knew how girls thought of him.

“Oh my god are you always like this?” you tried to hide the embarrassment in your voice with a laugh.

He joined you with a chuckle. “What do you mean? I’m lovely.”

“Yeah, sure.” You laughed even harder. “I’m actually having a good time, the company could be better but I’m not complaining.” you said when you managed to calm down.

“Me too. It’s been a while since I had last done this.”

The smile that was plastered on your face faltered a little. A pang of jealousy in your heart. Were you jealous? For a boy you just met? Well, that was new.

“Oh, so you do this often?” you asked trying not to sound too upset.

“Are you jealous?” he smiled cheekily. “I’ve done this a fair amount of times but never with someone like you.”

You could see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. You breathed in slowly. “What am I like?” You turned your head to meet his eyes, there it was, that feral look once again, that look that made you wet your panties. You said it. Jardani made you wet your panties.

He stayed silent for a couple of seconds, his hand reaching out to cup the side of your face. “A good girl.” it was barely above a whisper but you heard it as clear as if he had screamed it.

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the combination of touch and words, and let out a shaky breath. You were going to combust at any given moment. He ran his thumb over your lips, his eyes studying your flustered face. He knew the effect he had on you and was taking complete advantage. It was a delight for him to see you completely at his mercy.

It was getting hard to control yourself, your brain had hung the “on vacation” sign and the feeling of his breathing on your face was making it even more difficult. A sudden rush of lust ran through your body and you couldn’t help but to take his thumb into your mouth. His breath hitched at the unexpected action and you opened your eyes to meet his darkened gaze, watching you closely as sucked on his finger, running your tongue up and down before releasing it with a light pop.

His eyes pierced through yours and it felt as if he was trying to look beyond them. His thumb rested on your lips and you couldn’t help but let out a soft moan “Jardani.”

“Tell me baby, what do you want?” He tried to keep his voice as steady as he could. His breathing was ragged as he waited for your reply, almost impossible to hold himself back.

“Kiss me.”

Before you knew it his lips were on yours. Teeth clashed and tongues met in a heated kiss that surpassed your expectations. Even though it was rough and full of lust you felt how soft his lips were and how good he tasted. His hands grabbed your hips and pulled you to straddle him while yours were tangled in his soft hair. When you broke the kiss you stared at each other, trying to steady your altered breathings.

Laughter erupted as you thought about what you had just done. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, and his ruffled hair added a touch of innocence that made him look like a guy that was making out with a girl for the first time. He was genuinely confused by you not-so-good-anymore attitude. You looked wild, sexy. The small beads of sweat that rested on your neck and forehead glinted under the moonlight.

You leaned down again to kiss him softly as his hands travelled down to your ass, squeezing it through your jeans. You rolled your hips against his crotch in response, eliciting a loud moan against your mouth. You hands rested on his chest, occasionally scratching him through his t-shirt.

“How about we go back?” he asked in between small pecks making you smile.

You pulled away, biting lightly his lower lip, and rested your forehead against his. You obviously knew where this was leading to but you couldn’t care less. Some steamy hot sex with the Jardani was everything you needed right now to blow some steam off and relax a little.

You nodded and got up, helping him up to his feet and swiftly picking up all the picnic stuff. You had no time to waste. He put away the take away food containers and put the blanket back into his backpack, swinging it over his shoulder and holding his hand out for your to take it.

When he enveloped your small hand with his he pulled you against his chest and kissed you again. You rested your free hand on his chest and you felt his heartbeat thumping against your palm. When you broke the kiss you looked up at him and chuckled lightly before starting to walk back to the Ruska Roma.

“What?” he asked with an amused expression plastered on his face while he let you drag him along as you walked.

“It’s stupid. It’s just, when I saw you at wrestling class you looked so wild and feral, like a lion waiting for his prey, and I had the feeling that you could eat me for dinner if you wanted to.” you said brushing it off and chuckling again.

He spun you around and looked right into your eyes, his mouth curving upwards lightly. “Baby, I’ve already had dinner. You’re dessert.” he clashed his mouth against yours again, this time in a domineering manner, letting you know who was in charge.

[traumatizedtm]

Family Headcanons

Mallory’s relationship with her parents & older brother

BRAYDEN EVERS - OLDER BROTHER

His name was Brayden Taylor Evers and he was her whole world. Most siblings argued and fought but not Brayden and Mallory, they were two peas in a pod. He did everything for her and with her. When she learned piano he would sit and listen to her for hours and when he played soccer she would make glittery signs. He braided her hair and at night she would sneak into his room and sleep on his floor. Brayden was the best big brother and he protected her from everything. On Halloween, they would always dress up together and he would cover her eyes from scary costumes, guide her away from scary houses. He was afraid but always strong for his sweet little sister and because she had him as a safety net scary thing, they were less scary. They were always less scary, he made the parade seem funny and the bunny man seems less scary.

Mallory always remembers the day she picked flowers, she wore a pink dress and pale blue velcro shoes. They were at the edge of town, a bit past in the brush with trees taller than the Jersey Devil and thicker than the secrets the town held. Her brother wore a dark green shirt with a pair of sandals. She had seven flowers held in the ruffles of her skirt before she fell to the ground and a ruby red color fell from a skinned knee. It was a mean boy and his friends from school. She was 7 then, her brother was 11. But that did not stop him from yelling at the other boys and pushing them back. He ran to the well and washed her bleeding shin before laying flowers on to her shin. A bright smile to his baby sister before promising he would always stop her from getting hurt by people like that. There were other days when she heard strange noises and he took a flashlight diving headfirst into danger. He made Vinnie laugh and Billie has a friend just as brave as herself. He was their fourth, he knew the strange and unusual before any of the others did.

She doesn't remember if she said I love you to him that night before bed. But she remembers seeing his hand, the same ruby color from the flowers was on his hand. His painting, the last one he made was branded with the color. Sometimes she remembers more than his hand. She remembers the tears on a flushed face or the bullet hole in his chest, sometimes she remembers the doll she left in his room. She remembers it's broken and shattered pieces on his floor, some sticking into his frame. Just like the ones on her floor. Sometimes she remembers the smell of gun powder mixed with the strawberry and sandalwood scent that his shirts smell like. He was 13 then, but he still stole their dad's cologne. Sometimes she remembered running from the very nice man in blue who helped her to touch his face. To feel nothing there anymore, to feel a room once always felt with warmth drained to nothing but darkness. And sometimes, she forgot his face completely. But, most nights were littered with nightmares of a parade she hated, a bunny man wielding an ax and her family being chopped to pieces. Her dolls, shattered in the process and every time she reached to help, she screamed her body wouldn't listen. Sometimes, in the early morning hours, she thinks she sees his reflection. Feels his hand brush through her hair when she braids it and sometimes, in her friend's faces she sees his glint of curiosity or self-assuredness. And maybe, deep down inside she knows why this all started, and maybe deep down she knows why she wants to do this and try to be brave. Because of him, because of her big brother who stopped protecting her. To find a safety net again. Because if a place like Barren Falls can exist and can take her brother from her, then where does it go, where does the good go? The good that Brayden has, because it has to go somewhere, he has to be somewhere with the strange and unusual that took him away from her.

CAITLIN EVERS - MOTHER

Her mother is built of sugar and flowers. She was nothing but kind and because of that Mallory knew to be kind as a child. Their whole family was soft natured and gentle because of her. Caitlin traveled for a summer which is where she met Michael, her future husband. Eventually writing letters and sending each other packages turned into him moving to Barren Falls and eventually they fell in love. It was destined, and they were happy together. Caitlin was always the calmer of the pair, often keeping things much softer and to herself compared to her husband. But, they were both endlessly kind as if ripped from the pages of a storybook. It was warm and welcoming and their home radiated that. She was a born to be mother, it was an easy transition, she was a preschool teacher at first. She loved children and she was naturally gifted at teaching them and helping them so it made sense. Shortly following wedded bliss came their son Brayden but before they had another child they wanted to make sure they had the parenting thing down pat.

After having Brayden it was simple, she requested the rest of the year off and stated she would be done teaching afterward. It took a lot of thought but she wanted to dedicate all of her time to being a mother to her son. Caitlin struggled a lot at first teaching not only her new husband the rules and how things in their home town worked but taking care of a new baby as well. The first parade was hard, and making sure that Michael steered clear of the forest was hard but it all worked out eventually, they all had a system and things were content.

It wasn’t long after that they decided to try for one more child and were hoping it was a girl, they got lucky for once something in Barren Falls was actually gifted to a family and Mallory was born. The family only became warmer each member seeming perfect and that truly was real. They had little fights and lived in pure bliss. It was always nice to be encouraged and to help encourage her children Caitlin often put them in various activities and social groups even from very young ages she wanted both to be encouraged to try new things and try different sorts of things. Everything from sports, to knowledge courses there, was never a down moment with the family. As soon as they were old enough to make their own choices Caitlin encouraged them to pick what activities they stuck to.

Caitlin was the type of parent to have them do chores to create responsibility and do a weekly allowance which did have deductions if they were bad or if they did not do their chores. She liked to create a really strong moral compass in them both from a very young age and wanted to encourage responsibility. The only times she became cold and hardened was during festivals and the Parade. This was only because she wanted them to know how serious it was. Caitlin treasured and made sure to do almost exactly what a typical stay at home mother would and while it would make some seem a bit annoyed or like her family was fake it was genuine and she was wonderful at it. She was at her happiest with her children and her husband and what was left over after her death proved that. Caitlin had a good heart but like everyone else, she did have her secrets and that did include keeping her mouth shut when it came to working for other people. Late-night jobs cleaning up after the parade festivities were over just as added protection for her children. Just to make sure they were never chosen.

MICHAEL EVERS - FATHER

He was never from Barren Falls, he grew up in a large rich family in the city. He was the youngest son and not the favourite of his parents. Instead of taking over a law firm his father was starting he was being set up to work there. Nothing important in his life before he met Caitlin. It had been an accident, a simple mix up of their drinks at a coffee shop but they talked the whole day. He skipped two meetings to sit and talk with her. That was all it took for them to exchange information. And that was all it took for him to chase after his dreams and leave behind an unsupportive and harsh family.

At first, it was easy, chasing after his own dreams but bumps came. However, his letters and conversations with Caitlin always encouraged him to keep going. Painting was easy, and eventually, he was able to make money off of it, enough to move out to Barren Falls and finally be with Caitlin. Things were taken slow at first and steady, it took ages and time but he did not want to waste a moment and he did not want to rush anything. She deserved perfection and everything good in the world. Money was steady now and everything was good so he could give her everything that he could and he did. A nice home, good food, lovely gifts. The hardest part was adjusting to strange and unusual traditions he did not understand but for her, it was all worth it. Eventually, he stopped questioning things and just went with it. Soon enough they were married and Brayden came just as planned. Life was good and things were nice. He kept quiet about his family, and once a year they would visit but only to see if they could degrade him, but it never worked out instead they were met with a loving and perfect family which only caused them to roll their eyes and ask a billion questions about the children.

Michael was more stoic than his wife. A lot more quiet than she was as well but that did not mean people were not afraid of him or adored him. Half of Barren Falls would call him a friend and the other half based on solely how he looked would be too afraid to do anything to the family. He never questioned the late-night job his wife took, once a year the whole night was gone and she never spoke a word. He spent most of his time painting and when he was home and when he was with his family he would step up, allow his wife to take time to herself, he would cook or clean and even take the kids out to do fun things outside of the small town. He showered his children in adoration and gave them the childhood he never had but, he also had to be more of a heavy fist, Caitlin seemed too nice to them sometimes and he often did the grounding or the timeouts when they were needed. He never minded he knew one day the kids would understand that it was just how they worked, how parents were. A typical quiet father, but one that was more involved than people would think at the first glance and one who had a daughter who wanted to do nothing but spend her time with him and a son he wanted to raise to be better than he was, one he loved more than anything else in the world.

[thingr1]

oh well, i guess we’re gonna pretend

Rating: T

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Torture (non-graphic, mostly implied)

Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Summary: Robin!Tim gets caught and help comes from an unlikely source.

Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)

For: @lurkinglurkerwholurks for the prompt: A character flipping into hardcore MINE mode over another when the latter is in danger or threatened (bonus points if the two characters are currently on the outs but nevertheless go totally Ride Or Die)

~o~

This was bad.

This was the kind of bad that Tim had managed to avoid so far since taking up the role of Robin.  He’d only hit the streets officially for the first time three months ago, post-many months of intense physical and mental training.  This was exactly the second time Batman and he were apart for longer than a couple of hours at a time.

It was almost funny, actually, how fast Tim managed to screw everything up.  After all, he took on Robin in order to stop Batman from spiraling into a hole he would likely never escape from alone after the death of his partner.  The death of his son.

As far as Tim was concerned, he had one job: Don’t die.  He would also be the first to admit that that was harder than he’d thought it would be.

He’d made a mistake.  He’d gotten caught.  He’d been—was being beaten.  And he wasn’t sure if Batman even realized he was gone.  They’d separated earlier in the night, exactly according to plan.  Tim on recon on one end of town, Batman on the other, chasing two different leads on the location of a major arms deal that was supposed to go down the next night.  They would then continue on their normal patrol routes, Tim flying truly solo for the first time, and meet back in the Cave afterwards.  It was a first flight.  A test of trust on the Bat’s end and independence on Tim’s.

Problem was, the empty warehouse Tim was supposed to investigate hadn’t been empty when he’d arrived.  Either someone tipped the mooks off that the Dynamic Duo was onto them and they’d moved up the date, or Batman’s information had been faulty.  Tim was leaning towards the former.  However, before he could comm the Bat and warn him of the change, someone had clubbed him from behind.

Tim wasn’t supposed to check in for…maybe another hour?  Two?  He wasn’t sure.  Time seemed to be dragging by unnaturally slow, and there wasn’t exactly a clock he could check himself on.  He’d passed out a few times, too, which didn’t really lend itself to accurate time keeping.

His only frame of reference?

The bruise count.  Turned out, baseball bats hurt when they were swung into flesh and bone rather than rawhide.  His ribs could attest to that.  The more time passed, the more aches and pains he accrued.

The other hint that he’d overstayed his welcome: He could no longer feel his hands.  They were strung up somewhere above his head, metal cuffs digging into exposed wrists and holding him up so his bare toes barely grazed the ground.  Come to think of it, he couldn’t feel those either.  Which was…concerning.

But on the plus side, if he couldn’t feel them, they couldn’t hurt.  Unlike his rib cage, twinging and protesting at his current position and every subsequent movement.  Actually, his cheek hurt now, too.  Which…ow.  Ow.

Tim’s head snapped to the side with the force of the next blow, and he groaned as that set his whole body rocking, reigniting the pain signals through to his brain.

“—listening, brat?”

Tim blinked his eyes open—when had they closed?—squinting under the pale yellow glare of the stereotypical bare bulb abandoned warehouse lighting and into the leering face of his captor.

Miles Bandini’s gold tooth glinted a tad too bright in the dim light.  A greasy combover made his forehead appear entirely too large, and a domineering sneer that could put Two-Face to shame completed the mob boss look.

The best part was, there really wasn’t anything special about this guy.  He wasn’t a psychopath, didn’t have a PhD in some random field, and hadn’t assigned a colorful, inappropriate persona to theme his wrongdoings.  He was just another crime lord who’d taken a shine to Gotham and the ease of criminal activity therein.

And Tim, like an idiot, ran straight into his trap.

Noticing Tim’s attention, Bandini’s sneer somehow deepened.  “I guess you’re still alive, then.  For now.”

Tim remained silent, mustering what energy he had left to raise his head and glare.

This seemed to amuse the crook.  He patted Tim’s cheek, right on the bruise one of his goons had left behind.  “Wonder where your big friend is, hmm?  It’s a shame he’s left you alone for so long.”

The henchmen chortled behind him.

“Look, Robin,” Bandini drawled.  “You seem like a nice kid.  So I’m going to give you one last chance to walk out of this building alive.  Answer two questions for me, would you?  Just two, and you get to see the sunrise.”  He leaned forward, hook nose only centimeters from Tim’s.  “Where is the Batman?  And how much does he know about us?”

Tim licked his cracked, bloody lips.  Tongue working in an effort to muster up what moisture he had left.  He opened his mouth.

Bandini leaned forward eagerly.

Tim spat in his face.

The man recoiled with a cry, hand flying up to where a mixture of Tim’s blood and spit now coated his cheek.  Beady black eyes met his, a murderous expression twisting the man’s features.

Tim barely had time to think “uh oh” before the crook pitched a roundhouse into his stomach.  Something in his chest shifted.

Pain exploded as every broken bone, every abused muscle, every organ screamed in protest, even as his voice choked out nothing more than a strangled unf.

Tim couldn’t breathe.  Tim couldn’t breathe.  What air he managed to pull through his mouth came in short gasps and wheezes, not remaining long enough or deep enough in his lungs to perform the appropriate gas exchange.  Spots danced before his vision, fuzzy black creeping in on the edges.

Bandini was yelling, the words distant and muffled as if through fabric, gesticulating wildly with something suspiciously shiny, silver, and gun-shaped at Tim.

With a detached sort of panic, Tim realized he was going to die.  Either from his injuries, or from the bullet the crime lord was prepped to gift him, didn’t matter.

Only a year into the job and he’d already failed his main objective.

Something cold and achingly familiar pressed into his forehead.  The barrel of a gun.

Tears prickled in Tim’s eyes.  I’m so sorry, Bruce.

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse.  Tim flinched.  The gun barrel slid away from his forehead.

Wait…Tim shouldn’t have been able to flinch.  He was…not dead?  For sure, everything hurt too much for him to be dead.

A low, ominous chuckle burst through the ensuing silence, echoing through the warehouse and sending a shiver down Tim’s spine.  The sound of something heavy landing on concrete slammed into his eardrums.

Welp.  Only one way to find out.  Reluctantly, Tim pried his eyes open, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus.

The first thing he noticed was Miles Bandini collapsed on the ground at his feet, blood pooling around him from the hole in his chest.  The second thing was the bright red helmeted figure standing in the center of the room, back towards Tim.

“Well, well, well,” the Red Hood drawled.  “What do we have here?”

Whatever shock Bandini’s mooks seemed to be in began to wear off, half pulling their weapons, the other half taking an uncertain step back.

“Get him!” a voice—ah, the second in command accountant in the tweed jacket—screamed.

Quick as lightning, the Red Hood swung in Tim’s direction, gun hefted in one hand, knife in the other, and Tim flinched.   If he wasn’t dead before, he was definitely screwed now.  Hood pitched the knife in his direction.  But instead of slicing into Tim’s chest, it collided with the cable holding him up, cutting through the metallic fiber like butter.

Tim hit the ground with an oof, what little air he had managed to suck in abandoning him in one pained puff.

Ow ow owowowowow.

Fire lanced up his arms and shoulders as they were released from the strain of holding his weight, joining the steady inferno of what had to be at least two or three broken ribs in his chest.  His vision whited out as agony encompassed every inch of him, making him uncomfortably aware of every little hurt he’d received since being strung up.

Okay, Tim.  Breathe.  Breathing was good.  Breathing was life.

It really shouldn’t have been this difficult to pull in air.

Around him, gunshots rang off the walls and old shelving as round after round was shot off at the lone figure devastating their ranks.  Despite everything, Tim’s inner fanboy lit up.  This was as cool as it was dangerous—for the crooks and Tim alike.

It had been years since he’d last seen Jason fight.  Rather, fight in a way that didn’t involve Tim actively defending himself.  Jason was all muscle, visible beneath even the thick leather jacket, and yet he had the deadly precision of an expert marksman and the grace of a martial artist.  He used all of those things to his advantage as he tore through the mob, laying waste to everyone within his rather large range.  After all, how many people could claim to have been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins?  These amateurs didn’t stand a chance.

Tim just wished he had his camera.

And then, as quickly as the bloody battle started, it ended.  The Red Hood loomed in front of him, hovering almost protectively, gun pressed against the forehead of the last perp standing.

“The only one who gets to take a potshot at my replacement,” Hood hissed, “is me.”

Tim shivered.  From Hood’s tone, or the blood loss, he wasn’t sure.

Then Hood leveled a kick into the man’s rib cage, an audible crack sounding through the warehouse as the man fell to the ground with a howl.

“Tell your friends,” Hood said lightly.  Then, when the man gaped up at him: “Unless you’d rather join them…?”  He gestured at the limp forms of the bullet-riddled, definitely dead crooks scattered around them.

The guy was gone next time Tim opened his eyes.  Huh.  That was fast.

A brief thrill of panic shivered up his spine as Hood’s blank lenses suddenly leveled down at him.  Tim silently cursed himself.  He should’ve used the distraction to escape, should have unpicked the cuffs and scooted out of here before Jason turned on him.  Problem was, he didn’t think he could move even if he tried.

Jason cocked his head—almost considering.  He sighed, the sound echoing strangely through the filter and voice modulator.  “Guess if you bled out now, there would be no point, hm?”

Tim stared.  Not quite comprehending as the former Robin crouched beside him, rolling him over onto his back.  Which actually helped the breathing issue, but….

“I’m going to move you, Pretender,” Jason warned.  “This building’s rigged to blow, and that perp’s got the trigger.  Try to stay loose.”

One arm tucked under Tim’s neck, the other under his legs, and wow, okay, apparently they broke his tibia.

Tim blacked out.

He came to blinking up at the stars through a fire escape in an alley he recognized to be near the docks.  His body instantly protested his very existence, screaming as though he’d been dropped into a compactor and then thrashed in a woodchipper.  Dimly, he became aware of a shadowy figure over him, of gloved hands tightening a pressure bandage around his thigh.

It all came back in a rush—his capture, the fight, Red Hood—and Tim instinctively scrambled back from the man looming over him, heart pounding out of his chest.  He regretted the movement instantly as it jarred his broken body, his wrist apparently some degree of broken as it caved under his weight so he flopped gracelessly back against the pavement.

“Oi, hold still,” Jason snapped, “you’re making yourself worse.”

Tim froze at the command, staring wide-eyed at the crook who had himself beaten Tim to a bloody pulp only a few months ago.

This image didn’t fit.  It didn’t make sense.  There had to be some ulterior motive to saving him, perhaps some mind game to mess with Bruce.  What else would motivate Hood to help him out of the blue?

Resolve flared, hot and fast.  Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be used against the Bat again.

But Jason just continued twirling the fabric around Tim’s leg until he was apparently satisfied, snipping off the end and tying it off.  He snagged another pressure bandage and began work on Tim’s shoulder.  Not speaking.  Not even looking at him.

Slowly, Tim allowed himself to relax, mind spinning in confusion.

“W—Why?” Tim wheezed.  Wishing he could muster something a little more intimidating than the dry, barely audible croak that squeezed out of his throat.

Jason continued wrapping the bandages, quiet for long enough Tim figured he hadn’t heard him.

But then, “No one deserves to die without having a chance at fighting back.”  Quiet.  Angry.  And…if Tim didn’t know better, a hint of the growl Batman always got when he was feeling particularly protective.

Jason tied off the last bandage with a couple quick motions and stood.  He unslung Tim’s utility belt from over his shoulder, pressing the emergency tracker embedded in the side.  How did he know where—?

“Bats should be here soon,” Jason said, voice flat, which didn’t match the gentle pat he gave Tim’s uninjured leg.  “Don’t wait up.”

The older teen stood, his combat boots retreating down the alleyway the last thing Tim saw before his eyes closed against his will.

“Oh, and Replacement?” Tim heard, almost as if through a tunnel.  “Don’t expect a repeat performance.  This doesn’t change anything.”

Despite his swollen cheeks, Tim grinned against the pavement.  Of course not, he thought.  Inexplicably giddy.  Why would it?

Tim passed out to the sound of a grapple fun firing off into the distance and the rumble of a familiar engine echoing into the alleyway.

[raspberryparker]

chocolate orange | five

Peter Parker x Fem!Omega!Reader — A/B/O Verse AU

← previous | series masterlist | next → (coming soon!)

word count: 8,477 i apologize in advance summary: it’s finally over. but will they get to talk it out? warnings: see masterlist none, surprisingly (shocker, ik) this one’s just really soft (okay i lied, mentions of rut and heat but it’s not bad)

read it on ao3 add yourself to my taglist! like my work? check out my commissions!

BONUS PLAYLIST: spotify or apple music

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   The night was a deep, velvety black. Peter stared out at it as if it was the first time he was seeing it, eyes wide with wonder. How long had it been?

   It was night when he was brought there. He’d slept through most of it and his room didn’t have a window, so as his stomach dropped when the elevator began rising, it felt as if no time had passed at all. As if his entire rut had begun and ended in one single evening, though he knew that not to be the case.

   The glass walls of the elevator allowed him to look out over the night sky. The buildings of New York glittered like stars below him. Like a galaxy all on its own. The stars above him, the real ones, looked like sugar crystals spilled over the darkness.

   Maybe his rut had made him more sentimental.

   There was no blasting music, no screeching guitar riffs or heavy drum beats when the elevator slid open. Not this time. Instead there was the gentle mechanical humming and whirring as Dum-E’s single arm moved to carefully put down a fresh, steaming mug of coffee on the tabletop. The same tabletop that Mr. Stark was sitting at. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven with his face in his hands, the fingers of one hand closing around the handle of the Iron Man mug at a snail’s pace, while the other came up to rub at his temples. Dum-E whirred as his arm tilted to the side almost curiously, Peter noted. As if he was wondering why Tony hadn’t made any sort of remark about the coffee as the man brought it to his pursed lips and took a loud, slurping sip.

   He did have to admit that it was strange seeing him so quiet.  

   Peter swallowed down the dryness in his throat. Though before he had a chance to speak, he was interrupted.

   “Peter.”

   It was Bruce. He looked just as tired as Mr. Stark did, adjusting the sleeves of his white lab coat as he descended the steps and walked toward the boy. His hair was flattened against one side of his head, the way Peter’s did when he fell asleep at his desk doing homework after a long night of patrol. The creases under his eyes were shadowed by the dark evidence of a lack of sleep and Peter wondered for a moment if he was the reason the two men looked so exhausted.

   “How are you feeling?” Bruce asked.

   Peter shrugged indifferently. “Like death.”

   He really did. There was a certain kind of lethargy that clung to his body. He felt it all the way down to his bones, as if the marrow had been replaced by the heaviest substance on earth. Uranium, he thought offhandedly. He was surprised he had the mind to remember that.

   When he awoke that day (if it even was during the day) he immediately felt that his rut was over. He felt… disgusting. The way he did immediately after getting himself off on any normal day, shamefully closing the private browsing tab on his phone and asking why the hell he just did that. Except it was heavier and more of an all over feeling. Peter had to lie on the bed with his head in his hands, groaning into a pillow as the memories of the past few days (he didn’t even know the exact number) came back to him. He regretted everything.

   Apparently, F.R.I.D.A.Y. was also aware that his rut had ended. He suspected that Mr. Stark must have had her monitoring him because as soon as he stood to shower and clean himself of the mess of bodily fluids covering his skin that he didn’t even want to think about, her soft Irish lilt politely informed him that Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner were expecting him in the lab as soon as he was ready.

   Even walking to the bathroom was a struggle, not to mention getting dressed or walking down the hall to the elevator.

   So no, it wasn’t an exaggeration. He really felt like death.

   “Ah, teenagers,” Tony said suddenly. “Always so melodramatic.”

   Peter turned to watch him stand, the red and yellow mug still clutched in his grip as he offered the boy a soft smile.

   “Cut him a break, Tony,” Bruce said.

   “Only teasing,” Tony assured. “Seriously, kid. You okay now?”

   “I think so,” Peter replied. He brought a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck as Mr. Stark approached him. “I don’t really know yet.”

   Mr. Stark’s hand on his shoulder was a welcome weight, a grounding force that seemed to push his heels into the cold floor of the lab and for that he was grateful.

   “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. watching your vitals,” he said. “It looks like it’s over now. How long has it been, Doc?”

   “Five days,” Bruce replied, already busying himself with a glass tablet as he turned back to head into the medbay. “That’s pretty average for a first rut. To be honest, I thought it’d be longer since you were so late.”

   “So that’s… good?” Peter asked.

   “It’s a good sign, yes,” Bruce said. “If you’re okay with it, I’d like to run some tests again. Just to see how you’re doing in there.”

   “Yeah, sure.”

   The medbay looked the same as the last time he’d been inside, down the to placement of the needle on the small table next to bed. Peter sat with his legs dangling over the side of it once again, looking away as Bruce poked and prodded at the crease of his elbow. He winced as he felt the pressure but it only lasted for a second. Bruce’s fingers felt cool against his arm as he rubbed over the spot inside his elbow where he’d taken blood, soothing the dull ache there.

   “I’ll get these results back soon,” he assured him. “And do me a favour?”

   Peter glanced over at him, watching as he moved some of the crimson blood he’d taken into a test tube.

   “Drink some water. You lost a lot this week, you’re probably dehydrated right now.”

   He nodded weakly.

   He stepped back into the lab, pulling the sleeve of his hoodie back down over his arm. He stood next to Tony who had a pondering expression on his face as he looked at a hologram chart projected above him. Peter wasn’t even going to pretend he knew what it said.

   Instead he turned to him shyly, pursing his lips before deciding to just bite the metaphorical bullet and ask.

   “Hey, Mr. Stark?” God, he hated how whiny he sounded. He was eighteen years old, legally an adult and now socially too, considering he’d just presented, but he still sounded like a child. Tony hummed in response, not looking away from his chart. “How bad was it?”

   “Not that bad,” Bruce said from somewhere behind him. “Don’t worry.”

   Tony’s face took on an incredulous expression.

   “Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed. “For a couple days there I was scared he’d destroy the whole room. It was expensive, you know.”

   Peter winced.

   Before he’d left for the lab, he had taken a moment to examine the room he’d been held in for the duration of his rut. And to say he was shocked would be the understatement of the century.

   The sheets were ripped in multiple places, tatters of cotton fabric lying on the floor and big holes decorating the majority of it. Above the bed, he saw teeth marks in the wooden posts, scratches along the pale wall above the headboard. His mouth was still aching as he remembered it, his jaw throbbing from the force of his bites. His own arms were littered with bite marks, either from trying to stifle his noises or trying to keep his mouth occupied. He couldn’t remember. But it made him reach for something with long sleeves when he was getting dressed, not wanting Mr. Stark or Bruce to see the marks. There had been a lamp on the night table that illuminated the room, but he saw another on the floor by the door. It was broken into pieces with a bent lamp shade and a shattered bulb, shards of glass along the carpet glinting in the light.

   He almost groaned out loud thinking about it.

   “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

   “This is why I didn’t want to freak him out,” Bruce hissed, stepping around to the work surface on the other side of the hologram. “It’s okay, Peter. Ruts are unpredictable, especially the first one. What matters is you didn’t hurt yourself.”

   Peter’s eyes widened, looking up at Bruce with a frightened expression.

   “Th-that could have happened?”

   “It’s rare,” the doctor went on, noting the distress that came through in the young boy’s scent. “But not impossible. And the longer one goes without presenting, the more likely it is. I had to make F.R.I.D.A.Y. keep an eye on you just to make sure but, other than the furniture, no serious damage was done.”

   They fell silent again. Bruce was typing something on a glass tablet and Tony was still sipping his coffee loudly.

   “I’m gonna have to ask you some questions,” Bruce said suddenly. “They’ll help with the tests, narrow down my results.”

   Peter was unsure, still frightened and concerned about just what had happened during his time in that room. He glanced around nervously, eyes wide with panic.

   “Pete, you gotta help the Doc out,” Tony was saying. His hand was on the boy’s shoulder again.

   Peter sighed through his nose, nodding his head.

   “Okay.”

   “Great,” Bruce smiled. “Usually before a first rut or heat, the body gets ready for it by going into what we call a pseudo-rut a couple weeks before. It’s very similar; there’s feelings of arousal and desires to mate—”

   Peter felt his cheeks redden, looking down at the floor in order to avoid eye contact. Though he’d just spent five days in a haze of arousal and sexual desires, it was still embarrassing.

   “—but it only lasts for about a day, or at the most two. Do you remember anything like that?”

   Oh, no.

   Oh, God no.

   Peter let out a groan, trying to hold back from hitting himself for being so utterly stupid. The day he’d gotten sick. May thought he had a fever but he was just… he…

   “Yeah,” he sighed, a hand coming up over his eyes. “Two weeks ago. I didn’t… I didn’t know that’s what it was.”

   “I didn’t think you would,” Bruce said.

   “Hey, it’s okay,” Tony assured him. “You’re forgetting I went through all this shit too.”

   “I guess.”

   “Your aunt said that you called an Omega to the apartment,” Bruce continued. Peter felt his stomach drop at the thought. “Do you remember doing anything to court her?”

   Peter shook his head. “No.”

   What an idiot he’d been. He should have known. The way he acted, his feelings toward her, his confusion over the past couple weeks when it came to her; he should have seen it coming from a mile away.

   “It’s okay,” Bruce smiled. “It could have been any subconscious effort. Did you… go out of your way to keep her safe? Do anything to subconsciously get her ready to be with you through your rut? Anything like that?”

   “Uh,” Petter mumbled, playing with his fingers in his lap. “I guess? I… I’ve been walking her home every day, even though she lives ten blocks away from me. I got weirdly mad when our Alpha friend scented her and—”

   He was silent for a moment.

   “And what?”

   It was Tony who asked. Peter hadn’t realized that the man had been leaning closer, listening intently to everything the boy had to say with his undivided attention.

   “These past few days I’ve been giving her my lunch,” he admitted. His face felt hot with the blush that creeped over his cheeks.

   Bruce hummed thoughtfully. “You were getting her ready.”

   “For what?”

   “To spend your rut with you,” he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were feeding her more so she’d have enough energy to last the week with little time to eat in between—”

   “Yeah!” Peter interrupted, holding his hands up in front of his face as if to physically block the words from reaching him. “I think I got it.”

  “Little late to be shy, Pete,” Tony chuckled. He stepped toward the table, picking up the tablet from the surface. “You know F.R.I.D.A.Y. records everything that happens in the tower.”

   Peter’s eyes went comically wide, and his face paled quickly, the blush draining from his face in record time.

   “Shall I,” Tony teased, a smirk on his face. “Play you an excerpt?”

   “Give me that,” Bruce snapped, leaning over the table and snatching it out of the other man’s hand through the hologram. “He’s kidding, Peter. We wouldn’t invade your privacy like that.”

   “Not like we’d have to,” Tony went on. “I thought I soundproofed that room. Clearly, it was not enough.”

   The blush was back. Peter was pretty sure there was steam leaking from his ears with just how hot his face felt.

   “Oh, God,” he muttered.

   If there was any way he could sink into the metal grate along the floor, seep into the crevices of the wall and disappear, he would. He was blushing so red and hot that he was worried he’d start melting. Actually, worried wasn’t the word he’d use. More like hoping. Because at least then he wouldn’t have to listen to this.

   “Tony, stop talking,” Bruce said firmly. “Look at him. Stop stressing him out.”

   “Oh shit, sorry,” Tony winced. “Didn’t mean to break you, kid.”

   “I-I’m fine,” Peter insisted. “Just overwhelmed.”

   “I’d be worried if you weren’t,” Bruce assured him. “I got the results back and I think you’ll be pleased.”

   With a quick tap against the tablet, Tony’s chart disappeared and was replaced by a bar graph not unlike the one Bruce showed him the first time he was in the lab. Except this time it looked different.

   “What—”

   “Remember your hormone levels? They’ve changed,” Bruce smiled.

   He pointed at a tiny bar on the graph, the most minuscule sliver of colour against the blue of the hologram.

   “That’s your Beta hormone,” he explained. “It’s at a pretty healthy level for a presented Alpha. Remember, everyone has all three. And this one here—” he pointed toward the one next to it, which was slightly taller. “—is your Omega hormone. It’s a bit above average but I expected this considering your previous circumstances. It’s not too much to cause any serious health problems, you should be able to continue living normally. But if anything happens, you come to me.”

   Peter nodded though his eyes never left the third and final bar. It was huge. The first two looked like tiny specks compared to it. It was tall and looming and it seemed to tower over him.

   “So that’s…” he began.

   “Congratulations!” Tony exclaimed. Peter jumped. “You’re an Alpha! You got any party horns, Doc? Or some streamers? We gotta celebrate and all I have is this shitty coffee.”

   Dum-E chirped from the corner.  

   “Yes, it’s your fault,” Tony said, setting the mug down on the counter and pointing an accusing finger at the robot. “Tastes like piss. But since you’re an adult now, Pete, how about we ditch the piss-coffee and have a drink like real men, eh? What say you?”

   “How about,” Bruce interrupted. “He gets some water before he passes out and then goes home to his aunt? Or have you forgotten how many times I’ve had to answer her calls? She’s worried sick.”

   “You,” Tony frowned. “Are a killjoy. But for once I agree with you.”

   Peter couldn’t take his eyes away from the floor as Tony ushered him into the elevator.

   “Go down to the kitchen and get some food in that little Alpha body of yours,” he said. “And we’ll have your stuff packed and ready whenever you are. Happy’ll drive you home whenever you want. Okay?”

   “Okay,” Peter replied, turning to see Tony standing in the lab with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.

   “And don’t look so glum,” he said as the elevator doors began closing. “This is what you wanted, right?”

   The doors shut before Peter could answer and the car began taking him down.

   Was it really what he wanted?

   When thinking about what lay ahead of him, he couldn’t stop the anxiety the fluttered from within his stomach.

   Yes, he supposed. But that didn’t mean he was ready for it.

━━━━━━━━

   “So you gonna tell me about it?”

   She said nothing.

   MJ sighed loudly and dramatically, prodding her knee with the front of her combat boot under the table.

   “Come on, don’t play dumb,” she said. “That book’s upside down, anyway.”

   Y/N frowned, allowing her eyes to focus on the lines of text in front of her eyes and to find that they were indeed upside down. She lowered the book, and her frown fell on MJ’s smug face. She shut the book, setting it down on the library table they were sitting at and resting an elbow on the surface, her fist propping up her chin. She gazed sleepily over at her friend, too tired to even acknowledge the fact that she had failed at avoiding conversation.

   She’d been too preoccupied anyway. Too many thoughts. Too much to consider.

   “So,” MJ said, the smug look not leaving her face. “What happened last week?”

   “Early heat,” Y/N explained. “That’s all.”

   She let her eyes flutter closed and took in the sounds of the library.

   Quiet whispers to her right. The librarian’s shrill outcry when a student walked in with a drink. Typing on the old, clacking keyboards. Book pages flipping. She was close to falling asleep.

   But MJ just wouldn’t let it go.

   “So… you and Peter didn’t bond?” she asked.

   Y/N’s eyes opened just a crack. MJ was blurry but she could still see the shit eating grin on her face.

   “No,” she replied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “Oh come on, Y/N,” MJ insisted, she dropped her torso until she was level with the table, leaning across it as she extended her arms to reach for her friend. Cold fingers poked at Y/N’s elbow and she frowned. “I may be dumb but I’m not stupid. I wasn’t born yesterday. And I’m finding it pretty hard to believe that both you and Peter suddenly go M.I.A. for a week right after he was acting so weird around you.”

   “What—”

   “You’re so cute,” MJ said with a smile. “You think other people don’t notice things. A cute idiot. But if you’re gonna tell me that you and Peter both disappearing for a week right after he freaked out about me scenting you is a coincidence, then I’m going to have to call bullshit.”

   “You know about that?” Y/N asked, suddenly sitting at attention.

   Though her impromptu heat that she had absolutely no time to prepare for left her both physically and mentally drained and exhausted beyond recognition, she couldn’t believe that MJ had actually picked up on that.

   “’Course,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “That backpack shit? I’ve never seen him so passive aggressive. And Christ, the smell. Every time he looked at me, the little shit would start smelling like Willy Wonka’s factory exploded. It wasn’t fun.”

   “I’m sorry,” Y/N sighed. “It’s my fault.”

   “No it’s not,” MJ assured her. She reached up, grabbing Y/N’s hand and gripping it tightly. She was still lying on the table so it was a difficult maneuver. “It was mine, if anything. I think that of all people, I should have known that he had a crush on you. I should have gone to Betty.”

   “No, you’re okay. It’s just…” Y/N began. She brought her free hand up to rub at her eyes and pinch at her nose. “Don’t tell anyone.”

   “Okay,” MJ said, her expression turning serious.

   “He—” she said, but felt the words catch in her throat. “He texted me, right? He wasn’t making any sense and then he stopped answering me. I thought he was dying so I went to go see him and when I got there…”

   “He was rutting,” MJ nodded. “Yeah, I almost did that. Thank God my mom took my phone from me though or else Gwen would probably hate me.”

   “I’m sure that’s not true,” Y/N said. “But yeah, he was rutting. Which was a huge shock to me because I never expected Peter to be an Alpha. Maybe a Beta, but before last week, I never thought that he’d… anyway. He triggered my heat early but May got me out of there. I just— I hate not knowing what would have happened if she hadn’t been there. Why did he text me? Me of all people. And he didn’t even bother to court me or anything before begging me to come help him. What was he thinking?”

   “I feel like you should ask him that.”

   “Yeah but he’s not here,” she continued. Her voice was laced with something akin to anger and she swallowed harshly in order to keep from raising her voice. “It’s been over a week. His rut should be over by now, right? I’ve been back at school for two days and I haven’t seen him once.”  

   “Maybe he’s hiding,” MJ said. She let their hands go and sat up straight again. “I did that. It’s not easy, you know. Presenting as Alpha.”

   “I know, I’m sorry.”

   “Quit apologizing. I’m just saying. Peter’s really… gentle. I know what you mean about not understanding how he could be an Alpha. If I hadn’t smelled it on him last week I’d be just as shocked as you are. He’s too sweet to be an alpha, but people can’t help their biology. And I also get why he hasn’t come back yet. I thought the pack would hate me when I presented so I stayed home, but I got over it with help from them. So…”

   “What are you saying?”

   “I’m saying,” MJ said with a smile. “Maybe he needs just that. But not from the whole pack. Maybe he just needs reassurance from one person in particular.”

   Y/N frowned to herself, startling when the final bell rang and students started packing their things up. She placed the book she had been using to ignore MJ in its place on the shelf beside their table. Swinging her backpack over her shoulder, she started walking out of the library and toward her locker as MJ fell into step beside her.

   “Here, why don’t you call May?” MJ suggested. “You don’t have to talk to Peter but you can ask May how he’s doing. And based on what you told me, she’s probably worried about you, too.”

   “I guess you’re right,” Y/N sighed.

   “There’s no guessing involved, babe,” MJ smiled. “I’m always right, you’re just too weak to admit it.”

   “Ha ha,” she replied sarcastically. “Don’t you have one of your dumb clubs to go to instead insulting me?”

   “Yeah but insulting you is so much more fun,” she laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

   “See you.”

   Without MJ, the walk through the hallway was unbearably quiet despite the constant buzz that came from the students bustling past her in all directions. She knew the commute home wasn’t going to be a pleasant one, but she squared her shoulders and set off toward her locker.  

   Peter wasn’t waiting for her like he usually was.

   He wasn’t there to walk with her to the subway station.

   He wasn’t there to keep her from falling over on the train each time it turned sharply.

   Going home without him was so odd. It felt like something was missing, a part of her daily routine that had been so ingrained into her life those past two years that being without it just made her feel strange. She didn’t like it at all. But she’d been doing it for the last two days, and by now she was used to it.

   Though that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

   The train ride home was boring. Even though it was the New York subway, it was as if the whole city knew that something was wrong, because there weren’t any strange people to watch or anyone blasting music to take her mind off of things. No one had a dog in their bag that she could secretly pet, no one was dancing in the middle of the aisle, no one was doing anything remotely entertaining; so she just sat on the seat closest to the door and stared at her own reflection in the window opposite her. She looked miserable, but she felt it too, so it was fitting.

   The air was cold and biting when she stepped out onto the street at her station. She shivered as the minuscule flakes of snow fell around her, not large enough to stick but persistent enough to make the atmosphere freeze around her. She crossed the street cautiously, careful not to slip on the black ice that clung to the asphalt, and stopped when she reached the other side.

   Her phone was cold when her fingers closed around it inside her pocket.

   Maybe MJ had been right. Maybe Peter needed her.

   It took a moment for her to make up her mind, but she shook as she dialled the number for May’s cellphone.

   She held it up to her ear as it rang.

   The tables outside the small cafe just a few yards away from the intersection were empty given how cold it was outside, so she took advantage of them and sat down as she waited for May to pick up. The metal was frigid and she shivered unpleasantly.

   “Hello?”

   When she answered, May sounded tired. The usual enthusiasm that she gave when she answered the phone or greeted people was not there. Instead, there was the dull drone of her voice. It sounded like she hadn’t slept in days. And if that was the case then Y/N would not have been surprised.

   “H-hi, May,” she stammered. “It’s Y/N.”

   The change in demeanour from May, though it was just over the phone, was almost instantaneous.

   “Y/N, sweetheart,” she exclaimed. “How are you? Are you feeling better? I’m so sorry about last week, if I’d have known, I never would have let him—”

   “I’m okay, May,” she smiled. “I’m fine.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “I’m sure,” she assured. “But… I just wanted to call and ask how Peter’s doing. He hasn’t been coming to school and I—I got worried.”

   “Oh,” May said. “He’s fine, sweetie. Just a little overwhelmed. We both are.”

   “Yeah, I figured,” Y/N said. “Thanks. Just wanted to know for sure.”

   “You sure you don’t wanna come see him?” May asked.

   She froze on the spot, as if the cold from the seat under her had seeped into her bones and chilled her until she was motionless.

   “What?”

   “He’s been asking about you,” she said, and though Y/N couldn’t see it, she could hear the smile in May’s voice. “I’ve been trying to convince him to go back to school but he’s not listening to me. Maybe you can persuade him.”

   “I-I don’t think that would be a good idea, May.”

   Her heart was hammering away in her chest. She didn’t know why though.

   “It would really help him,” she was saying. “Plus you two might be able to get some closure. He’s been beating himself up about calling you last week. He feels really bad.”

   “May, I don’t think he wants to see me right now,” Y/N muttered. She glanced around as if worried someone was overhearing her but there was no one around except for the man sweeping snow away from his storefront across the street and the patrons of the cafe she was sitting in front of. At least no one had to witness her freaking out about something so mundane.

   “I think you’re the only person he wants to see,” May said. “He won’t even let me in his room and he won’t come out to eat. I’m really worried about him. If not for him, then do it for me? You know how worried I get.”

   “Is he really that bad?”

   “Yeah,” May sighed. “He’s been sleeping for the past three days since his rut ended. But if you really think it’s a bad idea, I’ll let it go.”

   Y/N was silent for a moment, watching as the man stopped sweeping to wave as one of his regulars entered the store. The cafe was radiating warmth and she wanted nothing more than to step inside and get herself a hot chocolate.

   But Peter seemed to be in dire need.

   “Okay,” she said finally. “I’m on my way.”

   “Thank you,” May said. “Really. He’ll be happy and you get to put my mind at ease.”

   “I’ll see you in a bit,” Y/N said.

   “I’ll put the kettle on for you,” May smiled.

   It had started snowing harder in the time it took her to end her phone call with May. And by the time she stood up and began walking toward Peter’s apartment building, the flakes were catching in her eyelashes as she tried to bury her chin into the collar of her sweater. She vaguely remembered leaving her jacket on May’s couch that day he called her over, so at least she’d be getting it back. It was far too cold out for an Omega.

   And admittedly she was shaking as she placed one foot in front of the other, slowly making her way to where she was going.

   But she wasn’t entirely certain it was because of the cold.

━━━━━━━━

   She only had to knock once, her fist still raised when May opened the door. If she had thought that the woman sounded tired over the phone, then she had severely underestimated her.

   May looked nothing short of exhausted.

   The bags underneath her eyes, partially obscured behind her large glasses, were the first things that Y/N noticed. Dark crescent moons were etched in the soft skin there, proof she hadn’t had that much sleep during the last week or so. Her hair looked disheveled and she her eyes were heavy with a lack of sleep.

   Y/N felt bad, and she smiled softly at her.

   “Hi, May,” she greeted.

   She was surprised when the woman pushed the door open and pulled her into her arms, a hand on the back of her head as she was squeezed in a tight embrace.

   “I’m glad you’re okay,” May said with a sigh. “You had me worried for a while. Both of you did.”

   “An early heat’s not gonna kill me,” Y/N laughed.

   “I know, but I worry.”

   “Yeah, I know.”

   May let her go almost reluctantly, stepping back to allow her inside. The apartment smelled warm and inviting, and though it was barely there now, she could pick on the faintest traces of cocoa in the air. It seemed May hadn’t been exaggerating; it didn’t smell like Peter had spent any time out of his room at all.

   Y/N smiled when she saw her jacket folded neatly on the couch. It looked like May had cleaned it for her, and her stomach flipped as she thought about why that might have been.

   “Didn’t expect you so soon,” May was saying as she moved to the kitchen. “The water hasn’t even boiled yet so I can’t make you any tea.”

   “I’m alright, May, thank you,” Y/N smile sheepishly. “Can… can I talk to Peter?”

   May gave her a soft, gentle smile. A knowing one. Her expression softened and she nodded.

   “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

   Y/N followed slowly when May moved toward Peter’s bedroom door. She was only a few steps behind.

   May rapped softly against the wood with her knuckles.

   “Peter?” she called quietly. “Peter can I open the door?”

   She was met with silence. Glancing over at Y/N and giving her an apologetic smile, she tried again.

   “Peter, there’s someone here to—”

   “I know.”

   The response was so quiet that she thought she’d imagined it at first. Peter must have caught her scent the moment she stepped into the apartment. There was shuffling from inside his bedroom, a rustling of sheets as if he was getting out of bed, before he spoke again.

   “You can let her in.”

   May pushed the door open gently and motioned for Y/N to go in. She stepped toward the door and had to hold her breath at the scene she was met with.

   Peter was sitting on the bottom bunk, the one he slept on, with both feet on the floor and looking like he’d spent the last three years rather than days of his life sleeping. His hair was sticking up in all directions, the giant shirt he wore was hanging off one shoulder and he wasn't wearing any pants. The blinds of his bedroom were shut, making it hard for her to make out the expression on his face.

   But that wasn’t the worst of it.

   Sure, Peter looked like a mess, but the smell that began to seep into the hallway the second the door was opened almost knocked her off her feet.

   It was different than she remembered. Before, Peter had smelled like hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day. Like a chocolate bar that had been left in the sun too long and melted. But as she breathed in sharply through her nose, she realized his presentation had done so much to his scent.

   It was rich and molten. Gooey. It reminded her of lava cake. Like dark chocolate smoothed over fruit. The air was heavy with it, hot and swollen like a bubble. As thick as chocolate syrup. It made it difficult to breathe.

   “I’ll be in the living room,” May muttered, shutting the door behind her.

   Y/N didn’t know how long she was standing in the doorway of his room just looking at him. But he wasn’t looking at her.

   No, Peter was staring at his hands as they gripped the bottom of his shirt.

   “Hi.”

   He didn’t respond right away. For a moment Y/N was afraid that he hadn’t heard her. But she saw the way he tensed at the sound of her voice and she knew that he had.

   He was reluctant to meet her gaze.

   “Hey.”

   “Can I—” she began, but the words caught in her throat. She swallowed thickly and felt the warmth of melted chocolate slide down her throat. “Can I sit down?”

   “Yeah.”

   She moved at a snail’s pace, careful not to scare him away. It was better that way. She didn’t know how he was doing or what he was thinking.

   Peter moved from his spot to lean against the wall at the head of his bed, legs crossing underneath him as Y/N took a seat on the mattress with her back leaning against the ladder that led up to the top bunk. Peter eyed her carefully as she adjusted herself. He didn’t dare move a muscle.

   “I’m sorry,” he muttered then.

   It caught her off guard, and when she looked up at him, he looked like he was about to cry. His eyes were glassy as he looked at his hands.

   “Peter—”

   “It’s all my fault,” he went on. “And I get it if you don’t wanna be friends with me anymore. It’d be weird after… after what happened. So if that’s what you came here to tell me, then I understand.”

   “Peter,” she said gently. Her voice was heavy with sadness and it made him finally meet her gaze. “I came here to check on you because I’m worried about you.”

   His brows furrowed. “Why?”

   Y/N shook her head almost incredulously, giving a dull laugh as she glanced around his room.

   “I haven’t seen you in a week,” she said. “You won’t return my calls or answer my texts. You haven’t been showing up to school. I thought something happened.”

   “I’m fine,” Peter said.

   “Clearly, you’re not,” she went on. “And what is this about not wanting to be friends anymore? Do you really think I’d do that to you?”

   “I—”

   “Peter, I’m here because I care about you,” she said with a sigh. “If I didn’t… I don’t know. I don’t know what would happen because I can’t imagine not caring about you.”

   Peter was silent as he let his legs stretch across the bed. Since it was so small, his knee brushed against Y/N’s thigh and he sighed.

   “Thanks,” he whispered.

   They were silent for a moment longer. Y/N took the time to look more closely at her surroundings, noticing all of the things that were out of place. A few of the Star Wars LEGO sets that had once lined his shelves were shattered along the floor. She remembered how happy Peter had been when he completed them with Ned, while she and MJ sat at the dining table doing their homework. She thought of his boisterous laugh as he and Ned did their ridiculous handshake that she always secretly loved, and how he’d rush over and brush their homework away, ignoring MJ’s curses as he set the completed piece in the centre of the table like a trophy. He must have been really frustrated to break them like that. It hurt her to think about.

   After a moment, she looked back over at Peter. He was looking at her, and she felt her cheeks redden.

   There was one thing she wanted to ask him more than anything else. One thing in particular.

   The words sat at the tip of her tongue and yet whenever she tried to ask it was like there was a spell on her preventing her from uttering them. But she was never going to get any closure if she didn’t ask him.

   So she took a deep breath.

   It tasted like campfire s’mores.

   “Did you mean it?” she asked.

   Peter looked away. He knew what she meant.

   “Mean what?” he asked quietly.

   “All those things you said,” she continued. “On the phone… in person… I just—I wanna know i-if it was just something you said in the moment because of your rut or if you—”

   “Yeah.”

   The silence that followed was so intense that she could hear her own heart beating out of control.

   “Yeah, I meant it,” Peter said. “That’s why I… why I get it if you don’t want—”

   “Really?” she asked.

   The look in Peter’s eyes when he glanced up at her was one she’d never seen before. She thought she could read him based on his eyes, thought she knew him well enough to know what he was thinking, but this was foreign to her.

   The dark irises were serious and sharp, seeming to look straight through her. They held an authority in them that she didn’t recognize, something that she took one look at and her mind begged her to submit.

   Begged her to present herself.

   She almost bared her throat at him.

   “Yes,” he said sharply. “I meant it.”

   It was obvious that he didn’t have control of his classification yet. Because here he was, staring an Omega down as his emotions got the better of him, and making her hold back a whimper. It was the most ‘Alpha’ display that she had ever seen come from him.

   Y/N had to bite her tongue to keep from making a noise. Her eyes were wide in shock and surprise. Though that didn’t mean it was necessarily a bad thing.

   Peter must have thought he was scaring her.

   Because his eyes softened in an instant and his expression turned sad. Concerned. He held his hands out in front of him as if to show he meant her no harm.

   “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” he said frantically. “I-I didn’t mean–”

   With a groan, he brought his hands up to his face, pressing his palms over both eyes and and throwing his head back against the wall. It hit the plaster with a thud and Y/N grimaced at the sound of the impact.

   “Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m such an idiot.”

   “Peter, it’s oka—”

   “No, it’s not!”

   She jumped at his outcry, though he hadn’t yelled. But he’d been so quiet before that she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t expecting it. He went on, his anger coming through in his scent. Y/N pressed her tongue to the roof of  her mouth and tasted charcoal.

   “I-I shouldn’t have called you that day,” he stammered. His hands slip up to grip at his hair. “I triggered your heat early and you went through so much shit because of me. And I didn’t even fucking court you or anything and I’m such a dick for doing that do to you. And then…”

   He trailed off, his voice quieting as he let go of his hair and brought his hands back to his lap, palms up and staring at his fingers.

   “And then I use…” he began. “I use my stupid fucking status against you. I didn’t mean to but I-I don’t know how to control it yet. And I know I scared you, I know and I’m sorry. I just—”

   This time, it was Peter’s turn to jump.

   He flinched as warm fingers brushed against his own. He looked up at her so fast, she was afraid he would get whiplash.

   Y/N’s arm was extended, reaching across the small space between them on the mattress and touching his fingertips gently. She was focused on his hand, not looking up at him, but Peter couldn’t take his eyes off her face.

   He was completely and utterly stunned.

   Y/N pressed the tip of her forefinger against the tip of his middle finger, just at the spot where his short nails ended. She watched as he flinched under her touch, the tendons in his fingers jumping slightly. But she waited until his hand relaxed. She waited for him.

   And when he did, she moved her hand forward, brushing the length of her fingers against his. Her fingertips rested against the top of his palm and she tapped gently. His skin was warm and soft. She should hear him breathing heavily above her.

   In one gentle, fluid motion, she moved both hands under his, cupping the back of his hands with her palms. She scooted closer to him on the bed so she didn’t have to reach so far and heard his breath catch. He was already doing better. He didn’t smell burnt anymore, just… sour. But sweet at the same time. He was nervous.

   Y/N smiled softly at his hands.

   She couldn’t remember how many times she wanted to do this. Touch him like this, hold his hands. She always thought they were pretty.

   But holding them now, her fingers against the back of his wrist, was better than she could have imagined.

   “What are you—”

   “Be quiet for a second,” she whispered. Her hands slid up his arms until her thumbs were just below his wrists. “Let me do this.”

   She could have sworn she heard him swallow nervously.

   When she pressed the pad of her thumbs against his wrists, it was like he exploded.

   She was surrounded by him. His scent. Completely and entirely and she didn’t want it any other way. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against his soft skin and she heard his breath stutter. He was already calming down. The sour note in his scent had dissipated and all she could smell was… him. It was almost peaceful. She watched as the scent gland in his wrist grew swollen from the attention.

   And when his fingers brushed against her own scent gland, the knuckle of his forefinger dragging against the spot she mirrored, she almost cried.

   He turned his hands over, carefully making her let go, before he looked up and into her eyes.

   Was he… asking for permission?

   Y/N almost laughed when she met his gaze.

   Almost.

   She would have if she wasn’t so busy taking him by the arm and leading his hand toward her free one. She moved her body along the mattress until she was sitting next to him, wrists aligned with Peter’s arm hovering over hers but not touching. Not yet.

   She took a deep breath in through her mouth before she moved her hand up, letting them brush together.

   This time she did laugh when they touched.

   It was airy and gentle, full of relief. Her eyes clouded over but she was still smiling, still laughing down at their hands.

   Peter’s fingers shook as they carefully came down to grip hers, pressing between them and squeezing tightly.

   She couldn’t tell if it was real or not anymore.

   Leaning against his shoulder and giving his hand a firm squeeze, she let out a sigh.

   Peter had relaxed enough now, and she deemed it alright to keep talking.

   “You’re not an idiot, Peter,” she said. The words were spoken like a whisper, because if she said them too loudly, she worried she’d break whatever veil of peace had settled over them for the moment. “You’re the smartest guy I know. And it’s not your fault, okay?”

   Peter said nothing.

   She glanced up at him then, and as she did, she saw the tear roll down his cheek as he looked down at their intertwined fingers.

   “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His lip quivered as he spoke.

   And it was then that she decided she couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t take him torturing himself like this any longer.

   When she let his hand go, he looked up at her with a worried expression, frightened he’d done something wrong. But his eyes grew wide when her hands came up to his face and he let himself be guided into a crouching position as she pressed his nose against her neck. Just under her jaw. Right against her scent gland.

   “Please stop,” she muttered. “Please stop apologizing. It’s not your fault, Peter. Please listen to me.”

   He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t dare to, not even as her fingers brushed through his hair, nails scratching softly at his scalp and then smoothing his curls down with her palm. He couldn’t bring himself to.

   But he knew he couldn’t last like that forever.

   He breathed in gently at first, testing the waters, and when the scent of her hit him, his eyes fluttered closed. He wondered why he’d ever tried to hold himself back.

   The syrupy sweetness of her seemed to swallow him whole.

   His arms came up around her waist but he didn’t remember moving them. He gripped her tightly and pulled her against him, trying to get as much of her as he could. She helped him in his scent-drunk state, parting her legs and kneeling on either side of his own. She tried to stay up but he wasn’t having it. No, Peter needed all of her.

   With one firm tug against her, she straddled his lap, sitting on the tops of his thighs. He hadn’t let her go and he hadn’t stopped crying.

   The tears were surprisingly warm against her neck.

   She breathed in sharply, eyes flying open when she felt the first press of his lips against her throat. His nose continued to poke and prod at her scent gland, and he drank up the scent of her like a man parched. He was shaking underneath her.

   “Peter—”

   “Don’t leave me,” he muttered. “I take back what I said before, please don’t—”

   “Hey,” she cooed. Her hands stopped their stroking of his hair and she moved to grip his cheeks, lifting him up to face her.

   He moved reluctantly, not wanting to leave the source of her delicious scent, but he let himself be maneuvered nonetheless. When she met his eyes, they were teary and red.

   “I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him.

   His eyes went wide and Y/N felt her heart tug.

   “Promise?” he whispered.

   “I promise,” she smiled.

   And that was it. Or at least, that’s all either of them remembered.

   Because the next thing they knew, Peter had pushed himself up against her with her hands still on his cheeks and his lips were pressed flush against hers.

   He was firm against her. Grounding. As if she would turn out to be a figment of his imagination if he was too gentle.

   His lips were soft and warm against hers. They fit together like puzzle pieces. She belonged on his lap with her hands on his face, and Peter belonged underneath her, hands sliding up her back and pressing his lips against hers.

   They pulled away for a moment, gasping for air. It appeared neither of them had breathed during the kiss, scared to shatter the moment.

   But it was over now.

   It had happened.

   There were nothing more to hide.

   This time it was Y/N who pushed toward him, hands squeezing his cheeks as she kissed his mouth again. It wasn’t like the one before. It wasn’t like those closed-mouth kisses that she’d seen so many times before, the kind you do when you’re in ninth grade and you’ve never kissed anyone before. No, this one was different.

   They moved in time with one another, Peter’s body pressing into hers and breathing heavy through his nose. She tasted like clementines.

   This kiss was different in the sense that it was faster, hotter; full of demanding bites along her bottom lip from Peter and her hands sliding into his hair and gripping the locks so tightly, she feared she’d scalp him. But he didn’t seem to care, because he groaned against her open mouth.

   He pulled back after a moment, still panting and his hair even more disheveled than before, if that was possible.

   There were no words exchanged between them.

   Peter simply looked into her eyes a moment longer, cheeks red from both his tears and the kiss, before he hugged her tightly and pressed his head right under her chin.

   Y/N laughed gently, her hands resuming their stroking along his hair.

   “Stay with me,” he muttered, lips moving against her collarbone.

   She laughed again, the wide smile never leaving her face.

   “Well,” she said.

   Peter could hear the happiness in her voice, and he almost growled against her chest in content. Almost.

   “I made a promise, didn’t I?”

━━━━━━━━

A/N: i feel like this had to happen. next chapter will be the finale. and it will be.... a lot. just remember i love you. 

read it on ao3 add yourself to my taglist! like my work? check out my commissions!

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[fockmeuprealgood]

The Bird’s Song - 8

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x OC

Warnings: violence, romance, slow burn, fluff, ptsd, angst

Description: Adelia is near the end when the Avengers save her from a Leviathan compound. She gets thrown into the world of superheroes when the Avengers try to figure out who she is and why she was a prisoner in the first place.

____________________________________________________________________________

I woke up to an anxious pit in my stomach. Lifted my eyelids, I didn’t even have to glance at the clock to know that it was too early in the morning. I rolled over to my side and took in the warmth of my bed for a second longer. I didn’t want to leave my bed, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back into my dreams.

I pushed myself up and planted my feet onto the cool floor and wondered over to the closet. I picked out another simple Avengers grade tee shirt and yoga pants that were provided to me. I combed my hands through my hair as I slipped my shoes on and made my way down to the workshop.

I decided it would be better to try and get a head start on the projects Tony’s given me, rather than waste the morning away lying in bed or watching the tv.

On my way down I made sure to stop by the main common room to grab a cup of coffee. Sipping on the black drink as I wandered down to the workshop. I quickly gained access through F.R.I.D.A.Y. and sat down at my station to begin organizing my tools.

This was always the best part for me, besides seeing the end product of something I had been working one. Sorting myself out and laying all the tools on the table relaxed me in a way. I was able to control where each piece went and why. It gave me a sense of a little stability.

I picked up the closest gadget to me and got to work.

I must have lost myself in my tinkering because I was startled when two big forms appeared across the table in front of me. I slowly lifted my gaze from the device I was working on up to the figures in front of me.

Steve stood in front of me, dressed in his dark blue tactical suit and covered in dirt and sweat. Bucky Barnes stood a few feet off his shoulder, in the same condition, dressed in black tactical gear. His black and gold arm glinted in the bright lights I had turned on before I started working.

It didn’t take a genius to assume that they had just gotten back from their mission Sam had mentioned.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. said you were down here,” Steve turned to look at Bucky, then back to you. “I came to drop my shield off, and he needs some help with his arm.”

Steve didn’t even bother asking why I was up so early. I looked over his shield that it was in dire need of a new paint job at least. Bullet scuffs covered the front, the red and blue paint was chipped.

“I don’t need help with my arm,” Bucky grumbled. “It’s fine.”

I turned to look at the metal limb. I couldn’t tell how hard Bucky was trying to control it, but I watched the vibranium hand move. Covered in a fingerless glove, the hand twitched and the fingers slightly bent out of Bucky’s control at his side.

“Does that look fine to you?” Steve asked as I observed the abnormalities of the movements.

I shook my head.

I looked up at his face, but he just continued to stare at Steve. I had never seen the former Winter Soldier in real life, and I never would have thought I would be looking at his arm for him. Even though I knew he wasn’t brainwashed anymore, it still made my heart jump a little to think about the things Hydra made him do. How they turned him into a killer.

I shifted my gaze back to Steve and stood from my seat. I cleared my work space, then patted the seat I previously occupied. Steve took the green light and slowly herded Bucky around the table and forced him to sit.

Bucky grumbled again, but reluctantly gave in and placed his prosthetic arm on the table. I swiftly got the work, carefully stepping around in front of him and placed my hands onto the smooth metal. I believed the faster I got this done and the quicker he got out of here, the happier he would be when he finally got to leave.

I located a blown fuse near the elbow of the prosthetic and rushed around the workshop to grab any materials I might need. As I worked anxiously, Steve kept up some small talk, aimlessly wondering around the room, poking at things left out on the tables.

I gave enough of an answer to keep Steve happy while also trying to pay attention to my work. At some point, he got a call from Director Fury, notifying him that he was needed for a debriefing meeting. Steve assured Bucky that he didn’t need to go and that he would be back soon.

Bucky just seemed to mope around after Steve left, it felt even more uncomfortable now that Steve wasn’t here to kill the silence with conversation fillers. I quietly melted pieces of metal together and replaced a wire and fuse in his arm. I wasn’t even sure if he could feel pain through the metal arm, but if he did, he didn’t let on.

I worked for a while before I finally stopped the spasms. I had Bucky lift and stretch his arm, flex it, wiggle his fingers, to make sure he had a full range of motion. He never said more than a sentence at a time, often responding to my short questions with grunts and just a yes or no.

I related to him in that way. I assumed that he was like me in the regard that he didn’t talk to many people, and would only have small conversations with familiar people, or I felt that way at least.

I relaxed a little once Steve returned, Bucky also seemed to notice his presence and untensed himself as well. I wasn’t sure if he could tell how stiff I was while I worked on him, but I was definitely a little uncomfortable when I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. It made me slightly nervous, I didn’t want to make a mistake or hurt him, or I didn’t want to see how he would react if I did.

I set down the soldering iron I used to melt the final pieces of his arm and began to pack away the unused materials.

“Adelia, um, Wanda made everyone breakfast. I thought I would extend the invitation to you.” Steve spoke. His eyes pleaded with me a little as I looked at him. He seemed to think that I was going to decline his offer, he wouldn’t be wrong since the idea crossed my mind. I would much rather hole myself in the workshop, work until my fingers were numb.

I let out a soft sigh and tilted my head to the side. “I guess I’ll give it a go, Sam’s going too?”

“Yeah, Sam’s already there.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bucky roll his eyes at the mention of Sam. He must not have been a big fan of the witty Falcon. The three of us silently made our way up to the common room. I made sure to keep Steve between Bucky and I in the elevator, he still made me anxious even after spending a whole half hour alone with him.

Exiting the elevator, our footsteps were soon buried by the sound of laughter and talking. Coming around the corner, some of the Avengers were scattered around the kitchen and table. Sam was cracking jokes with Clint and Wanda.

I approached the empty end of the table and placed my small body in the corner seat, farthest from the others. Steve ended up taking the seat that was diagonal from me, and Bucky sat on the other side of him, even farther from me.

Steve and I kept up some small talk and soon enough Sam came to join us, placing a big bowl of scrambled eggs on the table along with the rest of the food platters that already decorated the table. He sat to my side, across from Steve. I let the two start up their own conversation as I dished out food onto my plate and began to pick at my breakfast.

My eyes wandered passed Steve and landed on Bucky. I watched as he began to eat off of his own heaping plate. He sat with his big shoulders hunched over, as if he was trying to make himself smaller. He also didn’t participate in any conversations, letting the other more talkative members of the group blabber on.

I noticed that he was paying attention to the people around him, he would clench his jaw when Sam laughed just a little too loudly or when Tony called out to him and Steve from the other end of the table, calling Bucky some clever nickname, his eyebrows would scrunch together.

I pondered with myself, I felt that it was so odd that this man was once the Winter Soldier, and that he was once the Bucky Barnes from the 1940’s. I had heard stories about him from back then, that he was once very flirty and charming, outgoing. Now he was broody and reserved.

Throughout the meal, my eyes would drift back to him as I listened to Sam talk about his wings. Bucky just kept to himself and minded his own business. Soon after, most people were done eating, I watched Bucky out of the corner of my eye, excuse himself and quietly disappear behind the wall that lead to the elevator.

____________________________________________________________________________

Yay! We finally meet Bucky for the first time. I’m going to switch to posting every other day instead of everyday from now on with this story. Thank you for reading!

[bluboothalassophile]

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

There was one thing, one really important thing, Duke had learned from having a family like the Bats: Life Was Short, So Live It Like It Was Your Last Day Every Day.

With that philosophy in mind, because while it was a grim, honest philosophy, it was the only thing which was propping him up with the courage to do this.

Duke could sit here all day and point out the reasons that he should do this, mainly he wasn’t his brothers. But a talk with Jason, last night on patrol after Jason had taken a bullet for him had changed his mind. Dick and Kori were dead. Tammy was about to be pulled off life support. And… life was short, and Duke didn’t want to die not knowing if he even really had a shot with the most amazing, beautiful, smart, funny girl he had met. He didn’t want to be like Jason, Duke didn’t want to love his best friend and never know if he even had a shot. He had asked her out this morning.

Which was what brought him to right this minute as he lifted his hand and hesitantly knocked on the door.

The dorm was grimy, used, lived in. The door, the ominous door; he’d busted in one that was bigger last night with Jason when they’d been hunting down a dangerous killer; a man who killed kids. Shaking the grim thoughts from his head he watched the door open. She smiled brightly, her hair pulled up, the many braids were elegantly pulled up in a twist, her gold clips were lovely, he thought her the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

“Hey!” she stopped out, into the hall, shutting the door. He noted her white big scarf, the lovely grey sweater, a yellow jacket, her black jeans, and the black boots. She looked like a goddess; and he could say that after having met a few goddesses. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” he smiled as he offered her his arm.

“Duke?”

“I have an older brother and grandfather who’d kick my butt if I wasn’t a gentleman, a perfect gentleman,” he smiled charmingly.

“It’s archaic!” she said taking his arm.

“No, it’s manners, and my mama would insist I use them,” he corrected.

“Fine, but I’m getting the doors,” she decided.

“Nope, I promised to be a perfect gentleman,” he countered.

“Fine,” she rolled her eyes as she smiled good naturedly.

“So, where are we going on this mystery date!?” she asked with a light tone and a happy smile, her amber eyes were glinting in anticipation.

“Coffee, with some live music, I found a hole in the wall book café.” He admitted, grabbing the door before she could, and she walked through before they linked arms again. Jason had actually told him about it, but a little white lie for good coffee and good music weren’t a crime.

“Sounds lovely,” she smiled. “So… done any of the clubs sign ups or sports teams?” she asked.

“I was looking to join a club, but I just can’t see the time, and I am on a team, the Princeton Rowing Teaming,” he smirked.

“How did I not know this!?” she sputtered.

“‘Cause no one pays attention to rowing, what about you? Any clubs or sports?”

“Sports are out, because… you know,” she giggled mischievously with a delicate shrug. He laughed, Naomi McDuffie could lift a building, throw and asteroid, punch a crater in the earth, he guessed sports wouldn’t have the same thrill if it was a fight to be normal. “Instead I joined Spoon and Tiger Magazine,” she smiled happily.

“Damn, you’re busy,” he chuckled.

“Well, I figured those would be fun compared to my actual journalism courses,” she defended.

“Those must be terribly dry,” he decided in mock humor. She laughed as she leaned on him a bit.

“And what about you?”

“History and the Practice of Diplomacy and Translation and Intercultural Communication,” he answered.

“But you’re a…”

“I’m the middle child of an insanely large family, and feel that I want to make a difference, a real difference, in my personal and hero life. Also, there’s some jazz studies, cause its music my mama loved,” he smiled. “I hope to work for the State Department.”

“You want to be a politian?”she grimaced in obvious distaste.

“No, no I do not. I want to help people, actually do something to help people, and after many talks with my brothers, and family, I think working for the State Department will offer me that opportunity best,” he said. “And you?”

“I want to tell the truth, not enough people have access to the truth, I mean, there’s so much the world doesn’t know with other countries having blocks on media and what the people can and cannot hear about. America is great, because we can tell the truth, and I want to do that. I want to be an investigative reporter, and I want to help people get the truth.”

“Ah, so you want to be like Uncle C!” he smiled as they made it to their café.

“Yes, but I want to be like Lois Lane,” she smiled.

“Wise, Lois is formidable, but I can put in a word for you,” he offered.

“I…”

“Look, she’s family, of sorts, giving her your number isn’t me doing the work for you, you’ll have to prove yourself to her, this is just me introducing you to connections you might not make otherwise.”

“Alright, but no pushing it, if she says no, she says no.”

“Agreed.” As he grabbed the door and they joined the small line.

“Ooo! They have Raspberry Escargot! You HAVE to try this, it’s amazing!” she gasped stared at the pastry case.

“You’re competing with Gateau a L’Orange, but I’ll have a bite of yours if you try a bite of mine. They make it like my granmè, not even Alfie or Jay can make it this good!”

“Isn’t that a desert?”

“Aren’t all pastries?” he challenged with a wicked smile.

“No, no they are not, but I don’t even care because I’m hungry and I miss Raspberry Escargot so much I nearly cried the other night craving it and not finding it.”

“Fair,” he agreed.

They placed their order, with a brief battle of who was paying at the register. He won, but she paid the tip; they took a seat near the window.

“You said granme?” she said with a questioning look as she put her bag down.

“Granmè,” he corrected with a thick accent.

“You speak French!?” she smiled.

Dropping into his old accent with ease he smiled. “Non, non, non, cheri, mwen pale kreyòl! Kreyòl Ayisyen, ki diferan de kreyòl Lwizyana. Ak diferan de franse.”

“Whoa, I have no idea what you said, but that was the prettiest thing I have ever heard,” she blinked at him with large amber eyes. “Where’d you learn that?”

“My family is from Haiti, or was, we were refugees of Hurricane Georges back in ‘98,” he said. “I didn’t speak English until I was eight and going to school, and then it was poor. My mama tutored me. I still speak Creole, Jay’s the only other one of the family that does so I’m not out of practice. The rest of the time I speak French or Spanish with the family, David used to only speak French.”

“That’s way cooler than being an orphan from another dimension,” she decided.

He chuckled as their orders were called out. Getting up he went to get their food and drinks, picking up napkins, and utensils as he walked back, he evaded a grumpy looking customer and put their food down at the table.

“Thank you,” Naomi smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

“You know, having a gentleman isn’t bad, my last date was not a gentleman,” she said as she started in on the Raspberry Escargot.”

“Then you were wasted on a fool,” he decided as he slowly started in on the Gateau a L’Orange, he nearly moaned in delight. It tasted like old memories, good times, and just as his granmè would make it.

“If you could travel anywhere, where would it be?” Naomi prompted.

“New Orleans,” he answered without hesitation.

“Really?”

“Wi.”

“Why?”

“The music, the food, the history, the vodou.” He said. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

“Really? The voodoo?”

“No, vodou,” he corrected. “And yes, my granmè was a big believer, it’s all familiar.”

“You believe in that?”

“I don’t not believe in it,” he decided.

“Okay… why?”

“Well, my big brother’s best friend was an all-powerful, magic wielding demoness, and the JL regularly works with Zatanna and Fate, so while I do not practice or necessarily believe, I have not ruled it out as real,” he said.

“Makes sense, the world’s too weird to rule out anything.” Naomi nodded. “Here, try,” she offered him a bit of her Raspberry Escargot. Taking it, he popped it in his mouth, letting the tart sweetness wash over his taste buds. “Eh! Isn’t it good!?” she asked with a smile and a happy looked.

“Very delicious, here try,” he cut her a bite of his. She stabbed it and took it quickly. He laughed at her delighted expression.

“Dude, I… whoa,” she blinked and stared at his food.

“Pretty good, isn’t it?”

“That’s amazing!” she decided. “Okay, so weird q, but… why don’t you have the cool island accent when you speak English?”

“You mean this accent?” he asked, letting his old accent shine through.

“Yeah! It’s just… it’s warmer than a Gotham accent,” she chuckled.

“I learned English in Gotham, Gotham’s accent is hard not to pick up when you’re learning,” he chuckled.

“Cool!” she grinned broadly. He smiled, this was fun, and nice. “What about you?”

“Nothing cool other than the you know, from my dimension. I don’t even remember my birth parents. But I got lucky, I got an awesome set of parents who love me,” she decided.

“Always awesome to have a family that loves you,” he said.

“Agree,” she mused enthusiastically.

“So, other than being a journalist, what do enjoy doing.”

“Outside of studying my butt off, I like Hulu or Netflix & Chill, because those go together,” she promised. “You.”

“Same,” he chuckled.

“Oh my god! Okay, we got to compare shows!” she decided.

Thus started the great debate of the drastically different tastes in shows. Naomi was in love with This is Us , Brooklyn 99, Black Mirror, Orange is the New Black, and the Twilight Zone.

He was more along the crime shows; and firefighter shows; as it was the only thing the entire family would agree to watch without arguing. He also like the Resident, Chicago Fire, Mind Hunter, the Crown, and Supernatural.

It was about an hour later when his phone buzzed, his alarm for class.

“Oh, this has been an awesome date,” she giggled.

“I wish it didn’t have to end,” he sighed as he picked up their garbage and tossed it. Turning back to Naomi he offered her his hand, she gave him an exasperated look, but accepted it as she was hoisted to her feet, grabbing her small purse. Offering her his elbow again, she slipped her arm in his as he lead her to the door.

“We should do this again,” he said.

“We should,” she smiled.

“Dinner and a movie next time?” he asked.

“Sounds lovely,” she decided.

“Excellent,” he smiled.

“You know, I was not expecting a successful date, there’s always some calamity whenever we hang out, like in Metropolis.”

“To be fair, that was entirely Dami and Tim’s doing,” he defended.

“Oh sure, and Luthor’s baby clone had nothing to do with it,” she snorted.

“Matt is an innocent, devious baby!” he defended.

“He’s a baby!” she defended.

“He’s a member of the family, so he’s devious, it’s in our genetic code even if we are not related.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, our last kidnapper offered to pay us to take Terry and Helena back,” he defended.

“Oh God!” she laughed.

“B’s children, we’re nightmares,” he promised.

She was howling with laughter and leaning heavily on him. “This is fun, I like you Duke. I had an awesome time.”

“Me too, and the world didn’t end!” he grinned.

“So this second date…?”

“Tuesday at seven o’clock sound good?” he asked quickly.

“Sounds… are you stalking me?” she demanded.

“Never, I’m free, Tuesday.”

“Oh, good, so am I,” she smiled.

“Great, Jay told me of this Italian place and he swears it’s to die for.”

“Cool, but I’m not going to some sappy chickflick, so I’ll pick the movie we go to, so as to save you from the humiliation of taking me to something like Last Christmas,” she decided.

“Fair.”

“See you Tuesday, at seven,” she said.

“See you then,” he smiled. He caught her hand and pulled her to him, Naomi looked startled, so he moved slow, leaning over and kissing her lips lightly. She still tasted of raspberries, a small smile was on her lips when he pulled away.

“You call that a kiss Duke?”

“No, I call that a preview of a kiss, see you Tuesday,” he said as she walked into her building. Naomi paused, waved at him before she disappeared into the dorm. He waited a minute for her, then he ran like hell for his class before he could be late.

[deviantchronicles]

Peter and the Wolf

@tailorcadfael

Somehow visiting the boy in his trailer had become a standard of Vidar's routine. Nothing that happened with any sort of schedule, but still a faint regularity.

He appreciated the snack of chicken as a small token of the kid's generosity more than out of any need and the silent company was more than welcome. He also certainly never said no to the thin, clever fingers carding through his fur and scratching behind his ears.

What had surprised him at first was that he enjoyed the movies. He had never given media much attention, but curled around his gracious host, he found himself eagerly following the stories.

His visit's had never started with the smell of fire and the sounds of screams, however.

Looking up at the sky through the trees, Vidar could see dark smoke and another yell of agony propelled him from an easy trot into a sprint.

The moment he broke through the underbrush and onto the small clearing, he realised what was going on. Three men, all large and armed and the boy on the ground. Even through the smoke, Vidar could smell fear and blood.

He launched himself forward silently without another thought. Strong jaws clamped around an arm that ended in a hand holding onto a gun and the moment Vidar tasted blood and heard the snap of bone, he was deafened by the bellow of a shot. He didn't let go.

Instead, his jaws pulled tighter and a sharp shake of his head, together with him throwing his entire weight back, wrenched the forearm free of the rest of the body. Screams penetrated the ringing in his ears and he caught himself on all fours, only to launch again, this time for the soft tissue of the attacker's throat.

He only allowed himself a conscious thought again when the screaming had stopped and an almost deafening silence had taken over the clearing.

The copper of blood stung his nose and he could taste it as he licked his lips. It clung to his fur and no amount of shaking could get rid of it. Snorting twice, he tried to clear his nostrils before surveying the carnage. Dark red stained the green and brown on the ground, seeping from gaping wounds left by his teeth and claws.

And in the middle of it all, unmoving, lay his host.

In the four steps it took him to move from where he had been to the boy, the pale brown coloured wolf had turned into a naked man with blonde hair and green eyes. His compact, muscled body showed pale scars between the dark lines of tattoos on tanned skin, but none more prominent than the thick, roped one across his throat.

He dropped to his knees by the boy, looking him over, gently prodding at him until he realised that not all of the blood was from his attackers. One patch, blooming from a dark hole in his shoulder, came from the bullet wound, left by that one shot given off in reflex when Vidar had taken off the first attacker's arm.

Cold dread ran through him as he leaned down to place his ear against the boy's chest. The faint rattle of breath and the unsteady, slow beating of his heart was there, but no less disconcerting.

Vidar pulled him into his arms and stood, turning to move into the woods with determination.

"Braith!", the name came on a pained exhale. Rough and toneless and with considerable strain. But it was heard.

Heard and heeded and a moment later her lean figure was there, between the trees that were suddenly blackened and filled with thorns. Beside her, lurked her two beasts, their heads at her shoulders.

"Vidar.", she said in her husky, raven-call voice. Her face was like freshly fallen snow in the blue blackness of her realm where it did not seem stained by black ink. She reached out a hand that seemed longer than it should be, spanning the three steps between them with ease. Her clawed, black-tipped fingers plucked at the boy's clothes and caressed his cheek, just for a moment. Then she dropped her hand back to her side.

Her pale lipped smile was full of needle sharp teeth and her black eyes glittered as she stepped aside and nodded down a path now lit with fairy fire. "It will take you where you need to go."

And where he needed to go was Nadav's home.

The big half-satyr greeted Vidar with his usual jovial smile, despite the early hours, but it dropped quickly when the situation became clear and a moment later, he was ushered to the guest room.

A little after that, Nadav was working with herbs and amulets and quietly whispered words that Vidar had no way of understanding. "Go and shower.", the great man said and waved him off when Vidar had stuck his head over his shoulder for the fifth time. "You stink of blood and dog. Go. Shoo. Let me work."

When Vidar returned to the room, the boy seemed to be sleeping quietly. A faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his breathing seemed deep and even. Nadav was sitting in the ground, his back leaning against the bed and an open book on his lap.

He looked up with a glint in his eye that Vidar knew all too well.

Rolling his eyes, Vidar swiped a forefinger up his forearm and moved his hands from being half cupped together outwards.

'Long story'

"Alright, my friend.", Nadav grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. "He is going to be fine. He just needs rest now. And you need some clothes. Come on."

His large hand clapped down on Vidar's shoulder, steering him out of the room to hand him a sweater and a pair of jeans that was a far too small for the large half-giant. Vidar decided he didn't want to know who the original owner was, instead he dressed and returned to the guest room, climbing onto the end of the bed to rest his back against the wall.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and listened to the boy's even breaths.