#Steve knows he's there but has been dutifully ignoring him

[gyokujyn]

There was a war on. You take comfort where you can get it.

Marvel cinematic world and actors being indefensible aside, are we all just going to sit here and act like their swinger dynamics aren't happening

If you put these five souls on a graph and started red lining who's in a relationship with what and who's broke up with who and who had homoerotic relationships with who's dads you'd Pass Out

[shieldofiron]

Vibe Check Part 6

The Party Never Dies

The Frat Boy Au

Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.

Beer tastes like ash when Steve is mad at him. He says he isn’t but there’s something about the way he’s acting, the way he always has his head in his phone now, hardly wants to hang out… it’s driving Billy crazy.

But beer is beer and the bass is heavy and he’s looking at Jason Carver wondering how he didn’t see it.

Jason is dancing with Eddie Munson and girls Eddie procured from nowhere, part of an endless parade. Tinashe is pounding from the speakers, and a girl is grinding against Carver’s jeans and he looks just sort of vaguely embarrassed by the whole thing. his hands keep jumping around the girl’s body like he’s not sure what to do with himself.

Munson is cackling, conjuring another girl out of thin air, and he doesn’t seem to notice Carver’s discomfort at all, which explains one thing at least.

Carver was still awfully bold leaving the lube and hardcore dvd out in his bedside table with his loudmouth of a roommate. But Munson probably knows. Has to know, right?

It would explain why Carver doesn’t seem to care about Munson’s girlfriend, if Munson is covering for his secret too. Billy hasn’t seen Carver on the apps but he seems like a real one trick pony so he probably has some secret boyfriend.

Billy’s not sure if he wants to do anything about it yet, but he also isn’t sure he wants to do nothing either. It’s not like Steve is around to talk to anymore, not really.

Billy drifts away from the dance floor back to the kitchen where Steve is holding court. He has a huge bucket out, like the sort you might wash a large dog in, and he’s pouring in bottles with reckless abandon. A little of this, little of that. He turns to Billy, and the smile on his face falls off.

Steve brought a girl. Or this girl has been hanging around him, Billy can’t say. She sidles up to Billy now, eyes curious.

“Can I get you another?” She asks.

He frowns, “Isn’t that my line?”

She blinks at him, “come on, it’s no bother.”

He downs the rest of his beer and shrugs, handing his bottle over.

She half climbs around Steve’s mess of bottles, hand lingering on his shoulder. She doesn’t look like Steve’s usual type, black polished chipped on her fingers, smudge-y liner around her blue eyes. But she’s pretty. Billy’s certainly not going to start picking her apart now, or he won’t be able to stop. This used to be Billy’s job, back when Steve gave him the time of day.

The thought occurs for the five hundredth time. That Steve knows. That he’s sensed something and is just too nice to say it, doesn’t want to out Billy. But they can’t go on like this.

Or to be more accurate, Billy can’t go on like this. His palms itch. He’s sweaty and out of place in his own kitchen, with his own supposed best friend.

He turns and leaves, ignoring the girl’s squawk when he does.

He stalks over to the dance floor, “Hey, Carver!”

Jason’s head whips up from where he’s looking at Munson grind with two girls.

“Stevie needs more supplies. You sober enough to drive me?”

Carver frowns but nods, whispering something to the girl he was dancing with and patting her rather awkwardly on the arm, like a stereotypical dad at a barbecue.

Billy has never been so happy to leave a party. They head out towards Carver’s truck, and he dutifully starts up, staring his left turn signal to turn towards the closest liquor store. A Christian rock station is playing quietly, and Billy switches it off as soon as Carver looks up at the road.

“No,” Billy says. “Go straight.”

The irony of those words isn’t lost on him, but Carver just nods along.

“Does he need something from Meijer?”

“No. We’re going to the Cottonmouth.”

“What’s that?” Carver asks after a beat too long.

“Come on man. You looked like God’s weakest soldier out there.”

Carver’s eye twitches. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well I do. Because. Because,” Was he really doing this? “Because if I have to see Steve hang out with that Robin girl one more second I’m going to go batshit.”

Carver whips his head around, “you’re serious?”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ serious. I wanna go to the Cottonmouth and I wanna dance with like five twinks at least, and I think only you or Argy would go with me.”

Carver’s eye twitches again. “Yeah. Ok, I can do that. Fuck yeah.”

“That won’t get you in trouble with a boyfriend or anything?”

Carver doesn’t move his eyes off the road, but rolls his fingers on the wheel. “Not tonight.”

Billy nods. “You want me to sober up for the drive home?”

Carver shrugs. “Or we get shithouse drunk and call someone for a ride home. I have a title on the mechanical bull, I get a free drink whenever I go.”

“Bullshit you do.”

“Check it if you don’t believe me.”

“How have I never seen you there?”

Carver shrugs. “I was thinking the same thing.”

They both seem to hold a breath for a second, and then break into a slightly nervous laugh.

“How’d you know?” Carver asks, grin still on his face.

“Now don’t shit a brick but I was in your room lookin’ for my weed and I saw your nightstand.” Billy cringes. “But then I just started looking closer. I don’t know how I missed it.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Carver smirks. “I’ll have you know I’m totally masc.”

“Please. You just have fraternity letters on,” Billy laughs. “You really have a boyfriend? Do I know him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is that an answer to the boyfriend or the knowing him?”

Carver just shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Just trying to figure out if I need to stop you from going home with someone tonight. Do I?”

Carver glances at Billy as they stop at a light. “Do I have to stop you?”

“No way, man. I’m going home with someone tonight come hell or high water.”

Carver just nods. “Unless I show off my mechanical bull skills. No one will look twice at you.”

“You’re on, Carver. And I’m beating that record tonight.”

Carver just scoffs. “You wish.”

[natrogersfics]

Super Bowl Sunday (Romanogers Version)

Edits in this collage by @faith2nyc Read on AO3

The whistle blows, sealing their win. But even as the confetti rains down from above in a plethora of colors and his teammates erupt in elation all around him – jumping and high-fiving and joyfully screaming over the blaring music – Steve can’t help but steal a glance at the scoreboard just to be sure.

Avengers 21-14 Guardians FINAL

They had truly done it. Against the odds, their team had pushed through a season littered with injuries and shock, last-minute trades. He takes his helmet off, his lips curling up in a smile as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“How does it feel to be a three-time Super Bowl Champion, Cap?”

He turns to see that Maria Hill, the lead anchor from SHIELD Sports, has made her way to him. She holds a microphone up as the rest of her camera crew and the Avengers’ PR team crowd around them. Impressing a seasoned veteran like Maria is no easy feat, but even he can see the touch of awe in her expression, and his pride swells just in the slightest. He chuckles, his shoulders lifting in a shrug as he contemplates her question.

He recalls the first time he had won as though it was just yesterday. The adrenaline that had lingered in his veins long after the whistle had blown and he had gotten his hands on the Lombardi. The satisfaction of having conquered his life-long dream was euphoric. The thirst to feel this high once again immediate. In that moment, all the sacrifices he had made from the grueling workouts to the missed Holidays with his family – they were all worth it.

His second win was further sweetened by the vindication. Of having proven to the media and the pundits and every person that doubted his return from injury that they were wrong. Bringing the trophy home for the Avengers was his way of repaying the fans for their continued belief in what he still had to offer and the team for standing by him after the circus that his personal life had thrown them into. Above all, though, his second ring was another means for him to show Natasha how much he valued every risk she had taken for him – for them – and for this beautiful life that they now shared.

But this time… This time feels disparate. It’s no less sweet by any means. When there are footballers who could only dream of winning the Super Bowl once, much less three times, he knows what a privilege it is for him to be standing here, victorious, at this very moment. And it’s not as though this time is any less hard-fought or miraculous as the others. In more ways than one, getting here has been harder than it’s ever been. Even so, there’s something distinct about this particular win that he can’t quite put a finger on, so he tells Maria the one thing he does know for certain.

“I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet,” he says, earning a laugh from Maria and the crowd around them. “But what I do know is that I’m so proud of this team. Every single person played their hearts out tonight and gave their absolute everything. They deserve this.”

“As do you, their fearless leader.”

“They make my job easy, that’s for sure,” he says with a grin.

“To that we can agree,” Maria says. “Let’s talk about the fans then. Any message for them?”

“Oh, definitely-”

“Daddy!”

Even in the midst of the pandemonium surrounding him, the voice is one he could pick out anywhere. Years of media training had honed his ability to tune out the loudest of distractions especially when he’s right smack in the middle of a televised interview, but not this one. He could never ignore this one.

He turns towards the sound, and he feels his face threatening to split in half with how wide his smile grows when he sees Nadia making her way towards him, her pigtails swinging from side to side as she runs as fast as her little legs will take her. Bucky is a half a step ahead, his teammate clearing a path for his daughter in the melee. Natasha lingers a few paces behind them, carrying Brady as Pietro dutifully flanks her. His eyes meet Natasha’s for the briefest of moments, and they share a smile before he crouches down, opening his arms out wide.

“There’s my girl!” he says as he scoops Nadia into his arms and rises to his feet.

“You win, Daddy!” Nadia exclaims, beaming from ear to ear. “I so proud of you!”

There’s a chorus of aww around them, but he can’t focus on anything other than how his heart feels too big for his chest right now. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, making Nadia squeal when he nuzzles her cheek. And, as if sensing her presence, he shifts Nadia against one hip so he can use his other hand to pull Natasha into his side just as she comes to stand next to him. His smile widens as he looks down at her and their son, who’s still somehow sleeping soundly against her chest. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Natasha greets before smiling. “Congratulations, Cap.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning down for a kiss. There’s a smirk on her lips when they pull away. “You’re about to say something about how sweaty I am, aren’t you?”

“More like how you might be forgetting something,” she deadpans, nodding towards the cameras when his brow furrows in confusion.

His eyes widen. “Oh, right,” he says, earning a laugh from everyone as he turns back towards Maria. “The fans. I mean, what else is there to say but thank you? Thank you for the support and the belief you gave this team.” He shakes his head. “I’m sure I speak for the entire team when I say that your support has powered us through the most difficult of challenges this season and it’s the reason why we did whatever it takes to get to this final game. We hope you enjoy this one!”

Maria nods before a playfully sly grin makes its way to her face as she adds, “And maybe start preparing for the next?”

Despite the chuckle that falls from his lips, Maria’s question gives him pause. Regardless of the season’s results, his response to this very question has been the same for as long as he can remember – a resounding hell yes! and a call for their fans to lock in for what’s to come. This time, though, he finds himself only pulling Natasha closer just as Nadia rests her head against his shoulder.

“Let’s celebrate this one first,” he says finally, and from the corner of his eye, he catches the way Natasha’s head suddenly whips towards him.

“You heard the Captain’s orders,” Maria says into the mic before nodding at him. “Thanks, Steve. Enjoy the rest of the celebrations.”

“Thanks, Maria.”

With a final smile at Maria and her crew, he drapes an arm around Natasha, leading her in the direction of the sideline. It’s when they make it out of earshot of the reporters that Natasha places a hand on his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. He knows he’s good enough to convince Maria and the rest of the country that there’s nothing more to his response other than him wanting to live in the moment. But he can’t fool his wife. And as she looks up at him now, a million and one questions swirling in her eyes, he knows without a doubt that she understands the implication of his words. She sighs. “Steve-”

A soft whimper interrupts her, and they both look down to where Brady is situated against her chest to see their son stirring awake. Natasha smiles when his eyes flutter open. “Hey, you,” she coos, lifting Brady out of his carrier. “Look who finally decided to join the party.”

Brady blinks up at her before looking around, his eyes settling on him. “Dada win?”

“Hey, Bud,” he says, moving to take Brady from Natasha’s arms. “Yes, dada won.” Brady gives him a little clap, and with a chuckle, he dusts a kiss to the little boy’s temple before doing the same to Nadia, who’s still busy taking in the lively scenery around her. He pulls both kids closer to him, reveling in the joy of just having them in his arms before letting out a contented sigh. He’s held many titles in his life from Rookie of the Year to MVP. None of them could quite hold a candle to his favorite – Dad.

When he looks back at Natasha, he finds that her expression has softened to one of pure admiration for the scene before her. “Later, okay?” he says, because yes, while he had seemingly made his mind up in a single moment of clarity, this is a discussion they need to make as a family. And they would, just not right at this moment. “We’ll talk later.”

She holds his gaze for a second longer before nodding. “Okay.”

“Get in here,” he says, smiling when Natasha just shakes her head fondly before wrapping her arms tightly around them. “Oh, I love you guys so much.”

“We love you too, Daddy,” Nadia says. “But can we get Icees now?”

He and Natasha share an amused glance, and as he looks back at Nadia, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing when he sees his daughter staring patiently at him, waiting for a response. “Yes, baby girl,” he says with a chuckle. “We can get Icees now.”

Masterlist Read more of the Game Plan 'verse here

[hotluncheddie]

'I haven't swam in so long' steve said in a small voice, a little wistful as they passed the public pool on the way to watch a movie.

'oh yeah?' eddie looks at him, smile small and surprised at steves little declaration.

'mmm' steve doesn't go on but does reach over to hold eddies hand, keeps driving to the theatre in a comfortable silence.

eddie though, he can't seem to stop thinking about it.

eddies never seen steve swim. he knows he likes it because he still has all the trophies from the high school team and the first time he gave eddie the swim jersey to wear it was with an air of reverence. followed by some making out that felt a little possessive, which eddie was not complaining about.

last time he saw steve in water it was followed by horrific upside down shit so he does not! count that! thank you!

eddie also knows steve’s pool is not somewhere he enjoys anymore, for very good reason. but he can’t help but feel a little sad knowing that if all the shit hadn’t gone down steve might still spend time in there, practicing and enjoying himself.

eddie just wants steve to be able to do things he enjoys. steve is wonderful and deserves it! deserves a good solid hobby that has lots of benefits for his mental and physical health!!

so eddie suggests they take everyone to the lake. its a little while away in the next town but nothing too crazy and if they leave early there’s more than enough hours of sunlight for everyone to enjoy themselves and eddie will have time to force steve into enjoying himself too.

steve seems a little surprised and then a little apprehensive to the idea. but it's the promise of everyone together, in the sun, being young and that's just about steve's favourite thing in the world so he agrees.

the section of lake they find is blessedly quiet, allowing everyone to spread a little. their silly family filling the sand with books and towels, the water with games and laughter.

eddie stays dutifully by steves side, lounging by the shore. steve letting out the occasional huff if things get a little too rough, 'don't like kill each other, guys come on!' he's ignored but eddie can't help how endeared he feels.

after about an hour steve hasn't touched the water more than to paddle a little and eddie can tell its because he won't let himself relax enough to even think about going to swim properly.

he can't hold it in anymore, fiddling with his hair he bites the bullet.

'why don't you take a swim love?' eddie isn't sure why he feels so nervous, the plan isn't anything insidious, its just steve getting to swim again.

humming a little steves face scrunches, like he's not sure if he's allowed that ‘i just gotta make sure they’re okay first’

‘i’ll do that for a bit doll, leave it to me yeah?’ god eddie loves him, he so so kind. he gives so much.

‘i haven’t swam in so long’ steve says with a far away look on his face, voice softer against the breeze.

‘you miss it?’ eddie feels the moment rising, the bubble about to burst.

‘yeah, i always liked it. things would get quiet.. but it’s been so long.’

‘you can do it now though yeah? go swim for a bit, let your brain turn off for a while. i’ll look after everyone and i’ll be here when your ready to get out.’

‘yeah, yeah okay. it’s been so long’

and eddie, he really doesn’t know shit about any sport really, especially swimming. but eddie knows that steve is good. he waded halfway in before propelling forward in a dive and he was off with solid, fluid strokes. he fucking glides and eddie is mesmerised.

the lakes pretty sizeable and steve, well he just keeps going, all the way to the other side where there’s a small bank the same as where eddie is seated. he can see the little figure of steve stumble out of the water. hands on knees for a moment to breathe heavy before he spins to wave big and wild, with both arms above his head, at eddie across the water. eddie let’s out a laugh and matches steve’s energy with his own wave and wolf whistle. almost certain he can hear steve’s laugh of delight travel through the wind between them.

then steve is diving back in, pulling himself through the water, back to their little shore.

once out, a little breathless, steve all but tackled eddie back into the sand. but he's laughing and eddie cackles, their wrestling turning more into just hugging. two boys in the sun.

'thank you' steve whispers and eddie almost doesn't hear. but he sees the soft smile and the way steves eyes look a little glassy and god, eddie would give anything for steve to be this happy all the time. always. forever.

[licensedqueerio]

OMG OMG could u write an eddie munson x reader where they like each other but are both awkward little shits so robin has to help them out and get them together?? ILY and tysm if u write this !!

So I kind of adjusted this and added Steve into the mix with Robin (and Gareth and Jeff make an appearance in Eddie's corner) but I hope this fulfils your request :)

---

Word count: 2.6k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Warnings: swearing

Request here

---

“So…how’d it go?” Robin sang nudging your shoulder as she joined you behind the counter, getting on the computer. “Did you finally tell him?”

You groaned and shook your head, burying your head in your hands. “I didn't go,” you mumbled, completely indecipherable as your hands muffled your words.

“In english?” Robin asked, poking your hands repeatedly in an effort to get you to lower them.

“I blew him off,” you cried, ducking down to hide behind the counter, a cloud of misery hanging over your head. This was a common occurrence when Eddie Munson, your crush of two years, was involved. “I blew him off, I couldn’t do it.”

“You…oh god, you’re helpless,” Robin scoffed, patting your head condescendingly. “You, Y/N L/N are totally, undeniably helpless,” she stated. “Steve, guess what Y/N did!” She called. You assumed Steve had returned from organizing the shelves.

“What was it this time?" Steve drawled. He leaned over the other side of the counter to stare down at you. “That bad, huh?” He asked, hair hanging weirdly in front of his face thanks to gravity.

You glared up at him. "Not helping. Either of you."

“They’re about to have you beat on dating fails,” Robin ignored you. “They blew Eddie off. Again. Y'know I don't know who's worse. You, who can't get a date to save your life. Or Y/N, who's got dates but never shows up!"

You whined in pure misery, “you don’t have to keep saying it! I feel terrible as it is!”

“Really, Y/N?” Steve deadpanned. “You cannot keep standing your dates up. You’re going to get a reputation and then you won’t have any dates to blow off.”

“I know,” you groaned, standing up when your legs began to ache. You stared at Steve with a crestfallen expression. “I feel terrible about standing him up, but you don’t understand! He came to my locker to ask if we were still on, and I said yes. Because I planned on going, but then it got quiet and awkward. And he wasn’t saying anything, and I wasn’t saying anything, and it was painful! I didn’t want to do that for actual hours!”

“How do you know it would have been awkward?” Robin chimed in. “You would have been at his place, and might I remind you, high, so I doubt it would have been awkward.”

“Yeah, I realized that. But by then it was too late for me to show up and I didn’t…I couldn’t just…”

“You’re pathetic,” she stated, shaking her head. “He probably thinks you hate him.”

“He definitely thinks you hate him,” Steve replied, pushing off the counter and going towards the back. “You blew the guy off for what? The third time?”

“Shut up,” you said. “I’ll figure out some excuse to tell him.”

“I think you’re running out of family members,” Robin snorted.

You grimaced. The first time you stood Eddie up, you said your cousin died. The time after that, your uncle. You didn’t have either. But you could only cover up your own faults with dead relatives so many times.

“He’s going to end up hating you if you do this a fourth time,” Robin said. “I would have hated you after the first. But Eddie is a softie at heart.”

“I know,” you sighed, a smile forming on your lips. “That’s what I love about him.”

“Gross,” Robin pulled a face. “Go clean the store windows. You can think of your excuse then,” she said, making a shooing motion with her hands. “I have inventory to do.”

You scowled. You hated cleaning the windows. But you dutifully went to complete the task (that felt more like a punishment that you totally deserved.)

---

“They hate me,” Eddie said, aggressively cutting the old strings off his guitar. “They hate me. They hate my guts.”

“Maybe,” Gareth agreed, tapping the snare drum to make sure the tension was nice and tight.

Eddie glared at him.

“What?” Gareth exclaimed, setting his sticks down.

“You weren’t supposed to agree, man,” Jeff shook his head, idly plucking the strings on his guitar.

“What? He got stood up three times. The first time? Fine, life happens. The second time? They get the benefit of the doubt. But three times? They’re not into you, man,” Gareth said, restlessly picking his sticks back up and spinning them between his fingers.

Eddie set down his tool before he lobbed it at poor Gareth’s head. He went about removing all the strings. Honestly, he likely didn't need to do this for another few weeks, but he was stressed, goddammit.

"Maybe something came up," Eddie said, ever hopeful. "Maybe this doesn't mean anything. Maybe they were busy," he said.

"Sure, man," Gareth replied.

"Gareth," Jeff hissed.

"No, let the man speak," Eddie stared at him consideringly. "Gareth, you're honest."

"It's my worst quality," Gareth agreed. "You hate when I'm honest. You threw my own drumsticks at me once."

"Do you think I should give up?" Eddie asked regardless. "Things just get so awkward. I don't know what to do. Or say. I'm speechless when I see them so I don't say anything, and Y/N doesn't say anything, so we're just staring at each other—"

"Gross, dude," Gareth interrupted, lips twisted in disgust. "I don't need to hear about your crush. Thanks."

"I'm about to throw my guitar at your face, Gareth," Eddie threatened.

Gareth raised his sticks threateningly.

"Let's not throw any guitars or drumsticks," Jeff said, holding his hands out to prevent any physical violence. "Gareth. We talked about this. You don't need any more bruises."

Gareth scowled at the scolding and turned back to Eddie, setting his sticks down with an annoyed huff. "I dunno, man. Sounds like they're behaving the same. Only difference is they're scared so they blow you off. I don't know." He held his hands out and shook them. "Now I'm done talking about this while you have a guitar in your hands."

Eddie pondered that for a minute, a very thoughtful expression on his face. It soon turned to hope. "You're not fucking with me, man?"

"I said I was done talking about this," Gareth answered, shaking his hands again for emphasis.

"Gareth!" Jeff hissed with more irritation than the first time.

"Shit, what time is it?" Eddie asked. "Shit!" He stood up, setting his stringless guitar aside. "I'll be back," he said, yanking his jacket and vest back on before hurrying off.

"He's going to them, isn't he?" Gareth asked, rolling his eyes. "Pathetic."

"Like you aren't the same," Jeff replied with a knowing grin. "Let's go. No slacking during practice," he said, clapping his hands together.

---

"Shit!" You loudly swore, staring out of the newly cleaned windows, spotting Eddie's car pull up to the curb. You spin around, diving behind a shelf. "Shit, shit!"

You ran towards the counter, hopping over with grace, albeit clumsy grace, and ducking down in your favorite hiding spot. You did not want to face him today.

"This will be fun," Robin said, dashing forward towards the door.

You peeked over the counter to see what she was doing, screaming, "no!" When she flipped around the closed sign that you just put up. She stood there, in front of the glass door and waved to Eddie. "Robin, you're dead to me," you snapped.

"You'll thank me later," she replied out of the corner of her mouth. She opened the door.

Steve, who stood beside you behind the counter greeted Eddie with a, "what's up?"

"Where's Y/N?" Eddie asked, sounding breathless.

You looked up, making eye contact with Steve, who arched a brow. You shook your head in a panic.

"Hiding," Steve said, looking back up at presumably Eddie.

You swore under your breath and pinched Steve's leg in retaliation. You mentally prepared yourself, armed with your excuse as you popped up.

"I was not hiding," you stated. "Just so we're clear. I wasn't hiding. I don't hide," you said, looking at Eddie, who was smiling.

"Hello to you too, sweetheart," he replied, braced against the counter.

Behind him, Robin dramatically and silently mocked him. You forced yourself to ignore her.

"Hi," you said shortly, staring at him. At his beautiful brown eyes. You loved his eyes, how soft they were. How they twinkled in the light. And how they always displayed his emotions.

"I'm gonna…go rearrange the tapes in the back," Steve excused himself, making a quick escape.

"That's it?" Eddie prompted once he was gone, leaning closer to you.

You looked away, reaching for Steve's tapes piled on the counter and began to rearrange them. "...I'm sorry," you said eventually.

"This is the third time you've ditched me," Eddie stated. "Without even a courtesy phone call!"

You grimaced, looking up at him. "I'm sorry," you repeated. "Really, I'm—I'm so sorry for doing this again."

"Y'know, I'm starting to think you don't like me," Eddie mused, tapping his fingers against the counter. "Gareth said you hate me and I'm starting to believe him."

"I don't hate you!" You quickly exclaimed. "I don't hate you, I swear. I just…it's stupid."

"...hanging out with me is stupid?" Eddie asked.

"No!" You shouted, your nerves worsening. You really didn't want to ruin this before it was even a thing. "No! No, shit—"

"Hey, relax," Eddie said, reaching across the counter to take your hand. His rings cooling the top of your hand where they touched. "Relax."

"I'm sorry," you whined. "I'm just…I didn't expect to see you here, it threw me off I guess," you nervously chuckled.

Eddie nodded. "I wanted to talk to you," he said. Then proceeded to say nothing.

You stared at him awkwardly, and he stared back with his hand still resting on yours.

"Why yes, Eddie!" Robin suddenly exclaimed as she came up behind Eddie. "They would love to join you at your place to hang out." She smiled, tossing an arm around his shoulder.

Your eyes went wide.

"Or wherever you wanna go, they're not picky. Right, Y/N?" Robin asked.

"...right?" You asked, brow furrowed.

"And Eddie's gonna be a real gentleman, aren't you?" Steve chimed in, strolling over and throwing an arm over Eddie's other shoulder.

Eddie quickly let go of your hand and stood up straight. He nodded quickly. "Yeah, man. Totally," he replied.

"Great," Steve and Robin chorused before stepping away.

"Alright. You two have fun," Robin said as she ushered you forward.

You walked around the counter, looking between the three of them.

"Curfew is midnight. Unless you wanna…have some more fun," Steve smirked. "Then call so we know Eddie hasn't murdered you. Got it?" He clapped you on the shoulder and gave a light squeeze.

"Yeah, dad," you said with a sarcastic smile. "Anything else?"

"Have fun, kids," Steve said, pushing Eddie around towards the door. Robin did the same to you.

And then you and Eddie were walking out of Family Video. He opened the door to his van for you, shutting it once you were inside before going around and climbing in the driver's seat.

Metallica began to blare through the speakers as soon as Eddie turned the car on and he scrambled to turn it off.

"So," he said, tapping the steering wheel as he began to drive. "Where to?"

"I don't mind," you replied with a shrug. "We can…go to your place if you want?" You asked.

Eddie nodded, going to fiddle with the radio again. "Do you mind?" He asked.

"No, no way. Go ahead, I love Metallica," you replied honestly. You loved it because he did, in all honesty.

Eddie turned to you with surprise evident in his eyes. He grinned, turning the radio back on but lowering it to an acceptable level. "I didn't know you liked metal," he said.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Munson," you slyly replied.

"Oh yeah, L/N?" Eddie replied in the same tone. "Like what?"

"Like I like metal music," you replied with a laugh.

Eddie joined you in the laughter. And when that died down, it was quiet. Metallica filling the car.

"Why did you blow me off again?" Eddie eventually asked, glancing at you. "If you don't like me, you can just tell me. It won't hurt my feelings. Promise."

"It's not that I don't like you," you sighed. "It's…it's complicated."

"Oh wonderful," Eddie said unenthusiastically.

"Eddie…I do like you. A lot. A lot a lot. I like you so much that I'm at a loss for words when I see you. I get so nervous when I'm around you that words fail me and it just turns awkward. That's why I blow you off, because I'm scared you'll see how awkward I am and you'll hate me," you confessed, picking at your fingers because it gave you something to do with your hands after dropping that bomb.

Eddie suddenly jerked the steering wheel to the side, turning sharply onto the side of the road. He pulled over into the dirt and killed the engine. "I knew it!" He cheered, first bumping the roof of the car. He clapped his hands and turned to face you with a brilliant grin. "I knew it," he repeated.

"Knew it…?" You asked.

"That you liked me. Duh! I knew it. Why didn't you just say that?" He cried dramatically, clutching his chest. "I feel the same way! You didn't have to ditch me!" He exclaimed.

You began to smile at the confession. "You feel the same way?" You asked.

Eddie seized your shoulders, shaking you gently. "Of course I do!" He exclaimed. "Yes, Y/N L/N. I feel the same way. I like you a lot a lot," he parroted. "I like you so much that words fail me—"

"Alright, alright, please don't repeat my cheesy words back to me," you laughed, holding onto his leather clad forearms.

Eddie shut up and stayed grinning at you like a goof. "So…" he trailed off, his hands moving to cup the side of your neck, his thumbs caressing your jaw. "Can I get a kiss now?"

You answered his question by leaning in and kissing him. Once. Twice. And a third time before pulling away. You grinned at his lovesick expression. His puppy dog eyes looking even more adorable. And if it was physically possible for his pupils to form hearts, you had no doubts that that's what they'd currently look like.

You were no better, really.

"If we're gonna do this, then I want to propose a deal," Eddie said suddenly, releasing you to take your hands instead.

"Let's hear it," you replied with an easy smile. You felt so much more at ease now that it was out there and you knew he felt the same. You felt safe.

"No more ditching me," Eddie said with a huff. "Not unless you have a very good reason. And I expect to be repaid for the past three times you left me waiting," he laid out.

"And what kind of repayment do you want?" You asked, trying to control your expression, but you'd never been very good at keeping a poker face.

"I'm sure we could think of something."

You chuckled and pulled him close, capturing his lips in a kiss. You pulled back a bit, "I'm sure we could," you mumbled, lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Eddie's lips curled up into a grin, chasing your lips for another kiss but yo were already sitting up straight.

"Let's get off the side of the road first," you suggested.

"Wonderful idea!" Eddie said, turning the car back on, Metallica once again greeted you as he tore down the road like he was being chased by the police.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Kidnapped

Bucky's not naturally a worrier. Not really, not for anyone else except a select few individuals that he dutifully kept close. And when you waltzed into his life, he found himself constantly worried about you. Everything and anything about you, he found himself completely and utterly concerned with. Eventually, he'd learned to back off a little. To trust that you were an adult and could take care of yourself. 

But today, he can't talk himself off that ledge. 

That off-putting feeling of wrongness. 

And he's getting really worried about you. You went on a mission earlier, texted him as you landed that you were going to the corner store and then you were coming right back with an hour to spare for your movie night. You were supposed to come right back.

Right back. 

And that was over two hours ago.

Now it's 6:30, and he's been anxiously waiting for you since you were supposed to meet him an hour ago for your weekly TV watching night. There's an uneasiness settling in his gut, you've never been late for you weekly tradition with him before.

It feels off, not just that you're gone. It's everything. It's that you're not texting him minute-by-minute, play-by-play. You're not calling him asking what snacks he wants even though you know that he likes those sour gummy worms you got him one time.

It's strange, and he's not one to ignore that gut feeling that's kept him alive all these years.

"Hey, has anyone seen-" Bucky starts to ask the room filled with various teammates.

"Barnes, we got a problem," Tony urgently interrupts him, nudging his head and pulling him into the conference room. "Just got an anonymous tip- thought you should see it."

"Go ahead," he says, though Tony's not really holding his attention as much as you are.

"I want you to stay calm," Tony says, clicking the link. The large screen is suddenly filled with a video of you. You, completely unconscious in some unknown location.

"When was this sent?" Bucky demands, standing up so quickly that his chair goes skidding across the floor.

"Team, I need everyone in here. Code, uh, missing teammate," Tony announces over the intercom. Though not fast enough for Bucky- within 60 seconds, most of the available team is here: Steve, Natasha, Bruce, Sam, Wanda, and Vision.

"What happened? Who's missing?" Steve asks as the last person to rush into the room.

Tony opens the link again, showing the clip of you once again. "I have an anonymous link - that's all we have so far."

"Okay, what if it was doctored?" Bruce asks. "That doesn't mean she's missing."

"Yes, it does," Bucky grits. "She went to the store two hours ago. We were supposed to meet at 5:30."

"And it's only," Bruce looks down at this watch. "6:35. She could just be late."

"It's Thursday?" Sam asks. "Golden Girls night - she wouldn't be late for that."

"That's what I said," Bucky agrees.

"We're gonna get back to the fact that you two watch Golden Girls together," Tony remarks. "But Barnes and Wilson are right. She's not responsive- her phone was turned off. I think we need to find her and find her fast."

"Okay, so where do we sta-"

That's when a new video starts loading on the screen. "What the hell?" Tony says, violently tapping buttons trying to get his technology back.

"Hello, Avengers," a masked man eerily announces. "I think I have something that belongs to you."

All the lights turn on in the room the masked man is standing in and just behind him they see you. You're being held in a large glass-like container and still completely unconscious with a large black collar around your neck.

That's when Tony gets a call from an unknown number.

"Answer it," Bucky demands.

Tony nods, picking up his phone and putting it on speakerphone. "Who is this?"

"You chose the wrong person to steal from, Avengers," the man eerily speaks like he knows they're all listening. "Now you're going to give me the artifact you stole back. Or I'll kill your pet."

"Damn it. Give her back. Give her back or so help me, God-" Bucky barks.

"You're in no position to make threats. I'll send you the coordinates. Oh, and you may want to hurry- I have a lot of fun planned for your friend."

You're engulfed in darkness, the heaviness of your limbs is finally fading. As you finally regain feeling in your limbs, you jolt to your feet. "Oh, look who is awake!" A man in front of you exclaims. "I think I'll keep this camera on- you can watch how you kill one of your own," he remarks then hangs up.

As the man moves out of frame and zooms in on you, they can see as you try to take in your surroundings. You're in a clear glass container, shackled to the bottom of it. There's a large pipe leading into the box. "What's going on?" you groggily ask.

"The Avengers have taken something of mine. In return, I've taken their little pet."

"And I'm the little pet?" you ask, pointing your finger at yourself in disbelief.

"Yes."

Your hand flies at the glass, instinctively pounding on it and trying to get a feel for the sturdiness of it.

"Ah, ah," the man tsks. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. You break the glass, if your friends decide to try any heroics- I'll press this button and kill you instantly."

"Ooooohhh," you exhale shakily, though it sounds more out of amusement than fear. "James' going to be so mad...You know he's always telling me I need to be more careful. I think this is the kind of thing he's talking about."

"This is exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about," Bucky shouts at the screen.

"You know she can't hear you, right?" Steve asks, putting his hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"I imagine they'll all be upset when they watch you slowly drown," the man says, sending another fresh wave of dread over Bucky.

"This containers gonna fill up with water?" you ask, pointing to the large pipe leading inside the container. "And they're watching this right now? Like you're filming this?" you question plainly, pointing at the camera.

"Correct."

You turn to look at the camera placed behind the man. You wave gleefully. "Hi, guys! Don't worry I'm okay!"

"You won't be for much longer."

And just like that ice cold water is rapidly funneling into the large glass container. You can't contain the yelp that leaves your mouth when your feet are hit with the most ice-cold water you've ever felt. It almost sends Bucky over the edge. You stick your hand out and try to channel your abilities, but it's useless. The man's head nudges to the collar on your neck, the man taunts, "You're powerless here."

"Hey, um Mr. Villain Man?" you shakily chatter. "I'm sorry I'm being rude, what's your name?"

"That's none of your concern," he hisses.

"Oh okay, I guess. It's just- the water's really cold."

"An incentive for your friends to move quickly."

"Don't worry. We'll get her back," Steve promises Bucky, who refuses to tear his eyes away from the screen.

"After she freezes to death or after she drowns?" Bucky snaps.

"Well this here- this is one of the reasons I have tracking devices on all of you. Just give me a minute and I'll find her," Tony says, already tapping away on his screen.

"Wait, what?" Steve challenged. "You have tracking devices- On all of us?"

"Of course I do. For this very reason," Tony shrugs, only half paying attention to Steve.

"How did you manage to hide tracking devices on our person?" Nat questions, slightly freaked out that Tony managed to chip her. 

"Easy. Different spots for all of you. Microscopic, you can't even tell that they're there," Tony touts.

"Well, where's her's?"

"I put it in the charm on one of her bracelets."

"Her friendship bracelets?" Sam asks.

"Yes?"

"Who the hell got a charm?" Sam demands, holding up his wrist. "And why didn't I get one?"

Everyone looks down, examining their own bracelets. Everyone except Bucky, who doesn't need to look because he knows his bracelet like the back of his hand. Just like he knows the charm hanging off of it.

"You mean this charm?" Bucky asks, lifting his arm and gently flicking it knowing it'll piss off Sam even more.

Sam's mouth drops a little and he shakes his head. "I'm not gonna lie. That hurt- that stings."

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns back to the screen. "Tony," he urges, watching the way you're already shivering, though he knows you're doing your best to put on a brave front.

"Just give me a minute," Tony hisses.

"So, we're just going to wait?" you ask, letting your eyes wander around the room.

"Yes," he man sighs in frustration.

"Soooo," you start again, kicking your foot through the cold water and making it splash around. "Do you do this a lot? Kidnap Avengers?"

"You're hardly an Avenger," the man laughs bitterly. "You could be the most powerful being on this Earth and yet you settle for being their little sidekick."

"I like working with my friends."

"Hmm...and where are you friends now? How long did it take them to realize you were gone?"

You shrug, your words coming through uneven breaths. "I don't know. But I do know, that James will scold me for this after I get out of here." You turn to the camera. "Hey, when I get back can you guys tell me if I used that word right? James likes to scold me."

Bucky looks down pinching the bridge of his nose. While the man talks to you again, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, Steve told me that James doesn't show affection like most of us. He's actually kind of grumpy, but I think he yells at me because he cares."

"Or maybe he's not as good of a friend as you think?"

You ponder that for a moment. And Bucky's heart drops, his stomach twists with the thought that you could even doubt how much he cares about you.

"Nah," you wave your hand dismissively. "I mean sometimes he's confusing. And I don't really know how much he likes me, but I know that he does."

"So naive, thinking they'd give you the time of day if you couldn't do the things you can do."

"That's not true. They're all nice to me- they're my friends," you reply defensively.

"Are you always this irritating?"

"Hey, you asked and I answered." Then you look down, the water already reaching around your knees. Your breath is shaky and you feel the freezing water all around you - so cold that it feels like it's burning you. "And according to Tony, yes I am."

"Tony," Bucky impatiently urges again. "If you don't find her in the next minute, I'm taking that artifact and I'm giving it back."

"Can you just be patient? I'm doing the best I can."

You're waist deep in water, watching as the man picks up your wallet from the same table that the camera is resting on. He flips it open and start rifling through it's contents.

"You carry a picture of the Winter Soldier, interesting," your kidnapper says holding the picture up to the camera. It's a picture of you and Bucky. The two of you are on the couch, both fast asleep, curled up into each other. What the cute little captured moment in time didn't show was that Sam had taken the picture, woken Bucky up with the shutter of the camera, and then proceeded to get chased by Bucky for taking said picture. "And one of your little friends."

"Yeah, you know for a bunch of superheroes it's really hard to get everyone still enough to take a picture."

"I got it," Tony announces. And as quickly as the words left Tony's mouth, Bucky's up out of his chair before anyone says anything else.

"Hold on, Bucky," Steve interrupts, blocking Bucky's exit. "We still need a plan. We can't just go in there gun's blazing."

"You want me to hold on?" He says gesturing to the screen, the water now reaching up to your waist.

"You heard the man, he gets a whiff of anything funny and he'll kill her. We have to be smart about this," Steve reconciles. 

"Fine," Bucky snaps. "But we figure it out on the jet."

And it takes much too long for Bucky's liking before him and Steve are standing outside of the building you're apparently being held in. He's practically vibrating with desperate anticipation, all he needs is the cue from Tony. 

"You're going to have 30 seconds to get her out," Tony says into Bucky's ear piece. "If he has a generator set up they usually take a minute before they kick in, and if he has a fail-safe set up..." 

"I get it," Bucky curtly replies. "I'll go straight to her - Steve you get the control just in case I don't get her out in time."

"Don't worry, we'll get her out."

"You've got 30 seconds. Starting...now," Tony announces, all the power in the surrounding area suddenly out.

When Bucky runs in, he runs straight to the container. Your head is completely pointed up and you're on your tiptoes trying to keep your face above water. "Don't worry. I'm going to get you out of there."

Your eyes flicker down to see Bucky standing there, swearing he's going to get you out. Then you take one last gulp of air before you're completely submerged in the container. Bucky punches the glass, once, twice, three times and nothing.

"20 seconds, Barnes."

"Will you shut up?" Bucky snaps. He takes a deep breath and with all of his strength, he punches the glass as hard as he can. Finally seeing a large crack appear, he concentrates on the very center until water is pouring out all over the floor. He pays no attention to the water pouring out and drenching him, he grabs you and picks you up in his arms. Your lips are blue, you're shivering so hard that it seems more like shaking, and you're breathing is so uneven it frightens him to his very core. "I got you. Don't worry- I got you."

"I need a blanket," he calls, running you to the jet where Tony, Bruce, and Dr. Cho are waiting for you. "Jesus, you're freezing."

"Doll, can you keep your eyes open for me? Talk to me," he says, gently stirring you.

"I'm sorry- I got kidnapped," you chatter, barely able to breathe. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the feeling of being in Bucky's warm arms, the knowledge that you're finally safe. At least, that's what it feels like to you. Like your just giving in to the darkness, letting it soothe you. Until Bucky shakes you awake again as he runs you up the ramp and up into the small room they've got waiting you you.

"FRIDAY, vitals," you hear Tony call.

"Blood pressure and pulse are dangerously low, body temperature is down to 85 degrees," FRIDAY announces.

"Put her down, Bucky. We've got her," Bruce says, but Bucky refuses desperately wanting to hold onto you. 

"Bucky, you've got to let them work," Steve interjects, trying to pry you from Bucky's grasp. "She'll be fine, but you need to let her go."

Bucky nods and finally lets Steve lay you on the table. "I'm staying here," Bucky grunts.

"Just stay out of the way," Tony states, already completely focused on the task at hand. Bucky reluctantly takes a seat, never once taking his eyes off of you. He cranes his neck over Bruce and Tony trying to get any indication that you're going to be okay. 

And he watches...

When they cut off your favorite yellow shirt.

When they hook you up to an IV with warmed saline.

As they cover you in heated blankets. 

"She's crashing," Bruce calls. And only then does Bucky have to look away when they pull out the small crash cart and try to resuscitate you. Involuntary tears slip out of his eyes as he clutches his hair.

This can't be it, it can't be, he chants to himself.

Clear, they call the first time. Then the second. By the time he hears it the third time, he's sure he's lost you. And for the longest second of his life, he hears complete silence as they listen to the monitor you're hooked up to. Then they hear it, the sound of your heart still beating in your chest. And he's thanking God that just one time he gets to be the lucky person. That for once he doesn't have to lose.

He's next to you the entire time. Once you're stable in the hospital, he's tucked under the blanket with you. When the doctor tells him that skin to skin contact is best for warming, he does it without hesitation, though he doesn't actually take off any of your clothes. His forehead is dripping sweat with the amount of warmth surrounding the two of you and he still refuses to move an inch. Even when Sam makes fun of him for it.

And when you wake up in the hospital, the first thing you are aware of is the heat source right next to you. Without even opening your eyes, you find yourself cuddling further into it, making Bucky's heart flutter.

"Doll?" he whispers, feeling you beginning to stir.

"James," you croak, your tired eyes slowly opening.

"I'm here."

"Without a shirt on?" you quietly chuckle, feeling his bare skin against your arm.

"Sorry, they said skin to skin contact was best," he sheepishly replies, grabbing his shirt from the nightstand. 

"I didn't say I had a problem with it," you mumble, stopping his movement. He sighs in relief against your head, putting his arm around you and pulling you even closer. "You're never going to let me go to the store alone ever again, are you?"

"Not a chance."

"Okay," you peacefully hum against his bare shoulder.

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series Masterlist

[writer-in-theory]

steve knows he won't get a senior prom in the same way he knows he'd give anything to bask in the warm sunlight of billy's smile.

"you really want everyone to know?" billy had countered when steve brought it up in march, finger gesturing between the two of them. "c'mon, pretty boy. it's just a stupid night where everyone dresses up in stupid outfits no one can afford anyway only to have a miserable time and have an awkward bang at the motel on 6th."

and, he's not wrong. so steve swallows the little kid dream of picking out a tux and dancing under soft lights with the person he loved (because he always knew he'd find his person here in hawkins). "i guess you're right."

"i am," billy insists, slinging his arm around steve from where they sat close on the couch. "we'll have a much better night here."

so steve doesn't bring it up again. he dutifully works on the prom committee because apparently the homecoming king has to be involved somehow, dodging every question on if he thinks he'll be prom king or if someone new will take the throne. he hid the tiny heartbreak well, never once letting it slip that sure, it may have been stupid but it used to be important to him.

steve hid in his room the night of prom, trying to ignore the cars he can see exiting loch nora on the way to the school. it doesn't matter, it's just a stupid dance that a stupid boy once cared about, but he's not that anymore, he's not.

but then there's a knock on the door and that's strange enough because billy has long since stopped knocking, preferring to waltz into the house like it was as much his as it was steve's. he has half a mind to ignore it but after two minutes he pulls himself from bed and trudges to the front door where—

—where billy is standing, in actual goddamn tux holding a beautiful purple flower he's pretty sure came from Mrs. Williamson's garden down the road.

"what are you doing?" steve asked blankly, mind not processing the sight in front of him quite yet.

"we're going to prom," billy told him simply, as if that explained everything.

"you said it was stupid."

"and you said it was special."

"i didn't," steve protested, not wanting him to feel obligated to go.

billy just raised an eyebrow, that amused little smile on his face that made steve fall in love with him just a little bit more. "carol let it slip that you've been talking about this night nonstop since you were ten. there's no fuckin' way i'm letting you miss that."

"you're gonna hate it."

"i'm gonna love seeing you enjoy yourself."

"i don't have a tux."

"i planned ahead."

"i...are you sure?"

"of course," billy answered, stepping closer now to rest his hands on steve's arms. "you're gonna get all dolled up, and we're gonna go to the school. we're gonna dance all night and top it off with you being crowned prom king."

"you know they'll probably take away the crown when they see who my date is."

"nah, you'll always be king to me." and that was enough for steve. so he took the bag from billy's hands, taking the stairs three at a time and trying to fight the grin pulling his lips apart. so maybe it wouldn't be quite like the night he'd imagined years ago, but at least he had one thing right: when the slow song came on, the love of his life would pull him close and sway to the music, and steve would know was magic felt like.

[looooooooomis]

F I N A L  G I R L  |  T H R E E

You were his final girl.  And there was no chance in hell that anyone or anything was going to mess that up.

p a r t   t h r e e  |  j e a l o u s y

masterlist here

pairing: Billy Loomis x f!reader word count: 4.3k warnings: angst tbh. and not the healthiest relationship but ya know what it’s billy so we persevere, unwanted advances, more angst x

I had a request for a jealous billy, so I hope you like my take on it x

That was the third time in the last thirty minutes that Steve Shit-For-Brains Orth touched you. Three fucking times. The first two times he was willing to look past but the third? Fuck no. The asshole, who was sitting with his clunky arm on the back of your chair, had not-so-casually rubbed his thumb along your spine, inciting a rather surprised look from you and a rather murderous one from Billy.

Of course, Steve couldn’t see the rage practically oozing from Billy, but boy was it there. Especially when you went out of your way to lean further into your desk as though to avoid his grabby little hands.

But that didn’t stop Steve.

Billy could see the frustration on your face as you fought to keep your cool in front of your classmates as his hand dipped beneath the desk to give your thigh a firm squeeze.

The same thighs that Billy’s face had been buried in just this morning.

All Billy saw was red as you pushed Steve’s hand away, muttering something to him under your breath before raising your hand to excuse yourself. With an anger so palpable radiating from his every pore, Billy watched you leave the classroom and thought of the various ways he could kill that fucker before you returned.

“Billy,” the girl, Sam, he’d been paired up with groused, “are you even paying attention?”

“No,” he simply said, barely hearing her above the sound of his own blood coursing to his ears. “Sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry, of course, only irate. The vein in his neck pulsed against his skin as his blood pressure skyrocketed. This was the type of thing that drove him to the brink of insanity when it came to having to keep the two of you a secret for the sake of his plan. It was bad enough that he couldn’t parade you around like he wanted to, even worse that he knew, deep down, that your little arrangement hurt you beyond belief – but this? Watching you get pawed by these dickheads all the while he was forced to take a backseat?

He couldn’t stomach it.

His knuckles were white from the grip he had on his pencil but even as he felt it splinter off into his palm, his grip never waned. Not for a second. It was either that or kill Steve Orth and, while that sounded great, he couldn’t. Not yet, at least.

Just as the pressure of the pencil in his hand got to be too much, you waltzed back into the room with your head held high, seemingly unfazed by the naked eye – but Billy saw right through it. He knew you, more than either of you would like to admit, and he could see the irritation as clear as day in those gorgeous eyes of yours as Steve smirked playfully up at you from where he sat.

Subtly, you gave Billy a gentle nod, silently talking him down from doing anything stupid in the middle of the classroom, before taking your seat yet again.

Thankfully, Steve managed to keep his hands off of you for the remainder of the class but, unbeknownst to both you and Steve, that assholes fate had been sealed. Billy might not have been able to do anything to him yet, but he would. And he was going to enjoy every second of it.

The bell eventually rang out and Billy, wasting no time at all, pushed himself off of his desk and walked up beside you. “You okay?” He asked, but his eyes were trained on Steve who was much too busy high-fiving one of his friends to notice Billy’s murderous stare.

“I’m fine, Billy,” you laughed, “he’s an idiot, but he’s a harmless idiot.”

“Harmless?” Billy’s voice was low and impressively tame considering the fact that beneath it all, his blood was boiling. “He has no right to touch you.”

Glancing over your shoulder you smiled at one of the other cheerleaders before looking back at Billy. “I appreciate the concern, Billy, but I’m fine.”

That casual tone of yours just about killed him every single time. It was a punch to the gut compared the woman he had all to himself behind closed doors. This version of you, this censored version, was just a part of the charade, he knew that much, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

The rest of your classmates slowly filtered out of the room, eventually leaving you and Billy alone as you tossed your notebook into your bag. That weighty stare of his was ever present, but you pretended not to notice in fear of someone walking in. Billy Loomis was a lot of things, but subtle, he was not.

At least where you were concerned.

“That’s bullshit,” he seethed, “someone ought to show that fucker he can’t just go around touching what isn’t his. He—”

“What isn’t his?” A bitter laugh tumbled out of your lips. “I’m not a piece of fucking meat, Billy. I’m not his, sure, but I’m not yours, either.”

You watched the muscle in Billy’s jaw clench and that vein in his neck that always seemed to swell whilst he was under pressure visibly strained and pulsed before your very eyes. “I didn’t say you were,” he muttered, “I just meant that he needs to learn some respect.”

“He does,” you agreed, “but that’s not your job to teach him.”

Leaning against the desk, he ran a hand through his hair and glowered across at you. “I could tell it bothered you, so why the hell are you defending him?”

You rolled your eyes and swung your bag over your shoulder. “I’m not defending him, Billy. Steve’s an asshole, we all know this, but I don’t want you to get in shit thinking it’s your job to defend me. I can look after myself, Billy. I promise.” With another futile glance towards the door, you reached forward and gently ran your thumbnail against his bottom lip. “Besides, you’re too cute for a fistfight.”

Upon dropping your hand back down at your side, Billy caught it and gave it a squeeze. “I can’t help it if I get heated about all these assholes. Look at you.”

“You can help it, actually,” you laughed. “Don’t engage, first off. And, secondly,” you leaned in a little closer so that your lips were dangerously close to his ear, “try to remember who it is I’m fucking at the end of the day, hmm?” You pulled away and offered him a quick wink before walking out of the classroom. “See you at lunch, Loomis.”

»»-------------¤-------------««

“All I’m saying is that if he didn’t want me giving sage advice to those renting a fucking movie, then why hire me in the first place?” Randy asked with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

You, Tatum, Sid and Randy were all outside eating at the fountain whilst waiting for the other two idiots to join. Pushing your sunglasses further up your nose you smirked across at Randy. “Randy, you told the guy not to rent the movie. Your job is to make people want to watch these movies.” You popped a carrot into your mouth. “How you’re still employed is truly a mystery.”

“That’s the thing,” he laughed, “he fired me!”

“Shocking,” Sid chuckled, “what did you say when he fired you?”

Randy stole a celery stick out of your Tupperware container and bit down. “Nothing, I kept working. Fire me? Not on my watch. No thanks.”

With a shake of your head, you stretched out your legs on the concrete slab of the fountain and found Stu bounding towards you with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Did you guys hear?” He asked, swooping down to kiss Tatum’s cheek. “Our man, Billy, snapped.”

You froze mid-bite and immediately looked at Sid who had sat up looking concerned as ever. “What?” She asked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Billy and Steve, man,” Stu laughed and snatched a carrot stick from your stash. “The two of them got into it during one coach’s drills and Billy just,” he bawled his hand into a fist and slapped it against his other hand. A resounding smack echoed out around you. “Clobbered him, man. It was awesome!”

With your appetite long gone, you slowly swung your legs back onto the ground and pinched your brow. You were raging. Not only had the idiot ignored you by engaging with Steve, but he’d gone ahead and fought him, too.

“What?” Sidney croaked. “W-Why would he do that? He’s never been the type to just fight someone like that. Did Steve do something to provoke him?”

You chewed on your lip and stared ahead as Stu merely shrugged. “Don’t think so,” he stole another carrot and grinned at something in the distance. “Ask him yourself, here he comes.”

Your blood was boiling beneath your skin as you watched Billy casually waltz over to your group as though he wasn’t wielding one hell of a fucking bruise on his cheek, accentuated perfectly with a small, clean slice along his cheekbone that would almost surely scar. The fucking moron.

“Billy!” Sid gasped, jumping up to tend to her boyfriend’s injuries.

You, on the other hand, forever the other woman, remained dutifully planted on the edge of the fountain. Not that you would have tended to him in any way, shape, or form in that instance. In fact, you weren’t sure you could trust yourself not to add to the mess on his face.  

“I’m fine,” he muttered, giving her hand a quick kiss as she gently observed his cheek. “Things just got heated on the field, is all.”

“You should see the other guy,” Stu beamed, “I hear Steve lost a tooth!”

Your anger swelled, momentarily blinding you as the rest of your friends laughed and asked for a play-by-play of events. Not quite trusting yourself, you pushed yourself up from the edge of the fountain wall and grabbed your bag. “I’ll see you guys later,” you hummed, not looking up at the bruised idiot in fear or snarling at him.

“You don’t want to stay for story time?” Stu asked, looking between you and Billy in amusement.

“Can’t.” Smacking on what you only hoped was a convincing smile, you shook your head and gestured to the school. “Forgot I had a meeting with Miss Wills about getting my biology grade up.”

Just before you turned on your heel to head back into the school, you just managed to catch Billy’s eye as he dutifully sat beside Sidney. She was leaning into him, gently prodding the scar along his cheek with a concerned frown marring her pretty face. He, on the other hand, was staring evocatively across at you with a small frown of his own.

Clearing your throat, you waved them off rather quickly before heading back inside of the school. You were too angry to care about how you felt the weight of his stare all over you before finally disappearing from sight.

»»-------------¤-------------««

You locked your bedroom door that night and closed your curtains to avoid rolling over and seeing the idiot that was currently plaguing your every thought staring back at you from the second story of your house. In fact, that was what you did for the next three nights all the while managing to avoid Billy Loomis as much as humanly possible whilst at school.

So far, he had tried on four separate occurrences to get you alone. Whether it was subtly nodding towards an empty classroom with the gang around or lingering by your desk after English in hopes of pinning you down for a chat, it was obvious that Billy was desperate to talk with you. To smooth things over. To move on from this rather ugly display of jealousy.

But you weren’t. And, honestly, you weren’t sure if you were going to be any time soon, if at all.

A small dose of jealousy was only normal every once in a while. Not healthy, by any means, but a normal part of any relationship. Only this relationship you and Billy had was anything but normal. He had a girlfriend. A lovely, kind girlfriend who would have given him the world three times over if he asked. So just how Billy was the one with the audacity to be jealous made no sense.

Whenever you thought about it, you got mad. The injustice of it all was truly something you couldn’t wrap your head around. Just how Billy Loomis, the one with a girlfriend, could get jealous of a guy you were barely even acquaintances with really threw you for a loop. And yet you, the asshole who had somehow fallen in love with him, had to quietly take a seat and watch him dote over another girl in public.

Dote over your best friend.

Oh, the irony was delicious.

Tossing the book you’d been reading aside, you let out a quiet groan and closed your eyes as you heard the familiar jiggle of your window. It, like it had been for days, was still locked, thankfully, and your curtains still drawn in fear of seeing him.

The commotion tonight, was brief. He only tried for a second or two before you heard him meander his way back down to ground level. With an annoyed sigh, you reached for your book only to stop dead in your tracks when your doorbell rang out through your whole house.

Shooting up from your bed, you immediately lunged for the door and held your ear to it as your mother quietly complained about just who it could possibly be at this hour of the night.

Please be anyone else, please be anyone else, please be—”

“Oh, Billy,” your mother gushed. She’d always liked Billy. The traitor. “It’s awful late, is everything okay?”

Furling your brow, you pressed your ear further into your door and heard Billy’s deep voice say something – something probably charming – before your mother’s voice called up to you.

“Y/N, sweetie,” she beckoned, “Billy Loomis is here.”

You opened and shut your mouth several times over as you thought of your next few words. Somehow swearing at him from where you stood didn’t seem like the best idea with your parents in the house so, instead, you opted for the next best option.

You said nothing.

Holding your breath, you stood at the head of your room in nothing more than your flannel sleep shorts and tank top while hoping beyond hope that Billy would be ushered out of your house.

“I’m afraid she might be sleeping, dear,” your mother sympathetically cooed, “was there something you needed?”

Pressing your ear tighter to the wood, you barely made out the words ‘book’ and ‘homework’ before another sympathetic cluck escaped your mom’s lips. “And it’s due tomorrow?”

Bastard.

You panicked. His ploy was obviously to come up here and search for a book that didn’t exist all the while your parents carried on with their regular scheduled programming downstairs – but your parents weren’t dumb, nor were they naïve. Surely, your mother would offer to come up and root around for whatever it was he lied and said you had before she would inevitably have to wake you up in order to deliver the goods to the lying Loomis.

Your anger pulsed as realization dawned on you.

You had to go downstairs.

“Did you say something?” You asked, feigning innocence as you pushed your door open and made your way down, barely glancing at Billy who still stood in your entryway. “What are you doing here?”

Billy licked his lips. “I, uh, wanted to swing by and pick up the book for our English assignment. I think you must have grabbed mine, too, when you were putting your stuff away.”

“Nope,” you shrugged, “I don’t have it.”

Billy awkwardly smiled across at your parents before looking back at you. “You sure?”

“Positive,” you replied coolly. “Maybe you left it at Sid’s house?”

His shoulders briefly fell at your tone and, for a split second, you felt your heart fall into your stomach. You knew you were hurting him with the callousness of your words, but you had to stick to your guns this time around for your own sanity.

“Guess I must have misplaced it,” he wryly admitted. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Y/L/N.” His eyes flickered to you. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

You nodded, prepared to watch him leave, but before he could get a foot out of the door, your mother stopped him.

“Wait, Billy,” she ran out of the living room and into the kitchen, leaving you and Billy alone for all of three seconds before she shuffled back in. “Here,” she held out a dish packed to the brim with Shepard’s Pie. “I know your dad’s been working a lot of late nights so dinner’s might not be the most well-balanced, but a growing boy has to eat.”

Feeding the enemy. Typical.

“Y/N made it,” she bragged, unwittingly fanning the flames of annoyance in your chest. “It’s delicious, too.”

Touched, Billy grabbed the Tupperware container from your mom before glancing at you. He knew you could cook, you’d cooked for him several times in the span of your friendship – long before the two of you began…doing whatever it was you were doing – but as he accepted the container, there was an emotion there that was much too raw and real for you to try and decompress.

You realized, slowly, that your mother’s offering of Shepard’s Pie was probably the first time a maternal figure had paid him any mind since his own mother had walked out on him all those months back.

Your stomach dropped at the thought.

“Y/N is a great cook,” he agreed. This time, his voice was much quieter. “And thank you again, Mrs. Y/L/N.”

Once again, you watched him turn on his heel to leave the house but, with that niggling feeling of guilt twisting inside of your belly, you opened your mouth before you could so much as think to stop yourself.

“I’ll walk you out,” you muttered, flashing your mother a fleeting smile. “Be right back.”

Slipping on some shoes, you ignored Billy’s obviously surprised face as he lingered in the doorway before finally looking across at him. “Let’s go.”

The night was brisk as the two of you strolled towards his car in silence. You shivered absentmindedly as your pajamas offered no real sense of protection from the chill before glancing at Billy. Naturally, his eyes were already on you.

“Do you think your mother’s watching us right now?”

“Knowing her?” You shrugged. “Probably.”

He swallowed hard. “We should talk about what happened.”

“No,” you shook your head, “I know what happened. You saw Steve touch me and got irrationally jealous over it and, rather than deal with it like a grown man, you punched him and he lost his fucking tooth.”

A flicker of anger crossed over his handsome features. “It’s not that simple, Y/N, he—”

“That is probably the only simple thing about our little situation, Billy,” you acknowledged quietly. “You got jealous and you punched a guy. Doesn’t get simpler than that.”

“He deserved it,” he argued. “He’s a moron and shouldn’t have touched you. Do you know how hard it is to see that and not defend you the way I wanted to while it was happening?”

“Defend me?” You sneered. “Or stake your claim on me? No offence, Billy, but the entire male population of our school could ask me on a date tomorrow, and you’d have no fucking say in the matter. Whether they touch me or ask me out or anything, because you and I aren’t a thing.”

Billy chewed on his bottom lip as his grip on the Tupperware tightened considerably. “Yes, we are.” His voice was eerily calm despite the panic surging through his chest. “I love you, I told you that at the cornfield and I meant it. I fucking love you, Y/N.”

“You did,” you said, “and my feelings haven’t changed but you can’t be blind to the fact that this isn’t working, Billy. You getting jealous over me getting unwanted attention from a guy all the while expecting me to sit there and watch you and Sid flaunt your shit all over town?” You could feel your eyes begin to water as your emotions got the better of you, but you wouldn’t cry in front of him. You wouldn’t dare. “I’m supposed to sit there and trust what you’re telling me. That you will break up with Sid, that you do love me, that, if things were different, it would be me you’d be with and only me. But one guy squeezes my thigh and you lose your shit? Where’s the fucking sense in that?”

“I fucked up,” Billy admitted, his bravado long gone. “I see that now, I fucked up. But --”

“But,” you scoffed. “See, there it is. An excuse. I don’t want your excuses anymore, Billy. I want you and while I thought that was enough, I’m seeing it’s not that easy anymore. Not if you get to act like this unhinged asshole whenever I get a sliver of attention.”

You watched Billy’s eyes search your face as his hands trembled. He wanted to reach out and cradle your face, you could tell that much, but – tale as old as time – with an audience, even if it was just a possibility that it was your mother, he remained still. “Don’t do this to me, Y/N,” he pleaded, his voice shaky. “Please. I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sosorry.”

“I just think we need to take some time away from each other,” you muttered. “For our own sanity.”

“No,” Billy argued, stepping towards you in desperation. “No, Y/N, I need you. Please don’t do this.”

“I think you need to either make a decision with Sid or be more open with me about what the fuck is going on inside of that head of yours. You can’t go around punching people because you get jealous, Billy. And, until you figure your shit out, I think we should stop this. Whatever this is between us.”

“It’s a relationship,” Billy’s brows furrowed in outrage. “Two people who fucking love each other is a relationship, Y/N.”

A sad smile broke out across your face as you stared up at the starry sky above you. “Two people who love each other but can’t show it. Who have to hide whenever people are around in fear or being seen as anything more than good pals.” You shook your head and met his frenzied stare. “That’s not a relationship, Billy. That’s fucked up. We’re fucked up.” You sniffed and gestured down to the Tupperware in his hands. “Enjoy your food. I’m going back inside now, and I meant what I said. We need some time apart so, please, don’t come around here anymore. At least not until…” you let the sentence hang in the air, unsure of your next few words.

“Until what?” He was clinging to your every word but there was an anger so palpable radiating off of him that made you take a small step back. “Until you decide that you don’t want me anymore? Walk away and leave me like my mother did?”

You cocked your head to the side and hoped like hell the hurt you felt at that accusation didn’t directly show on your face. “If you truly think I would do that, Billy, then we’re even more fucked up than I thought.” You sniffed and began to turn back to your house. “I have a lot of faith in you, Billy, and a whole hell of a lot of trust. It’s about time you showed me that same consideration.”

The raw emotion on his face was jarring and almost made you hang back long enough to console him like you would any other time, but you couldn’t. If he couldn’t trust you, what the hell hope did either of you have at this becoming a real thing? Walking back to your house, your heart broke and any emotion you fought so desperately to keep down began to bubble to the surface. But you wouldn’t break down though, at least not yet.

You always had your cards on the table when it came to Billy Loomis and it was about time that he started showing his, as well.

[withoneheadlight]

ok i saw this cap of zoë kravitz in hf and she's got such a dreamy expression, she looks so deeply self-absorbed and infatuated by whatever she's imagining and those lines. and i couldn't stop picturing billy exactly like that for days so,

,

There’s a pretty unusual sound coming off the house when Max comes back home, that summer afternoon.

Full volume. Walls shaking. And she quietly walks to the source of the sound, holding back her breath right in front of Billy's room because, there's this second sound? Stranger and way more unsettling and Max's not sure-sure at first but then Steve Perry’s voice takes off and Billy’s follows it and then he's like, singing along and. Well. Max did know Billy liked Journey but not like, their 'stuff for pussies' but uhm, he does, apparently. Rasps his voice all the way through ‘Faithfully’. Kind of, sighs. Longingly? When it ends? But pfff, ok, big brothers are weird. Definitely weirder after being possessed and then kind of resurrected. Even if it's in a good-weird way but, whatever. So Max's just about to sneak to her room, dutifully rolling her eyes, steps muffled by the first chords of 'Edge of the blade' when―

Click. Click. Billy stops the tape. Click. Takes it out. Tap. Tap. Click. Puts on― Billy puts. On,

Heaven.

Bryan Adams’ Heaven.

And Max―

Being a younger sister is a meticulous kind of full-time, private detective job. You gotta learn how the person you’ve been watching so carefully for years and years works. Hafta develop some sort of―sense about your target. And Billy’s been—un-Billy-like? These past two months. Smiling more. Telling more jokes. Playing ‘You shook me all night long’ in a loop on their drive to school and back, not complaining at all but even joining when’s Max who can’t help but sing along so.

So. She retraces her steps. Knocks. Takes the distracted grunt she gets as a ‘Yeahyeah, c’mon in c’mon in’ and,

Creak. Creak. ‘―baby you’re all that I want’

“Billy?”

Billy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Radio close to his knees. Cassettes scattered everywhere. Piles and piles of breakwater surrounding Billy’s old, rusty beacon of sound. He’s reading through the song-list of one of the tapes, a smoke locked on the corner of his mouth, bouncing up and down with every little, absent suck he takes, and he looks. He looks―

Self-absorbed and even. Relaxed. Happy. Like whatever he’s thinking about right now is actually carrying his thoughts away to fucking heaven.

“Ehh”

“Uh-hu?”

‘When you’re lying here in my arms!’

“Billy are you. What―” ‘I'm findin' it hard to believe. We're in heaven’ “What are you doing?”

But there’s this orbit around the sun and then there’s whatever one Billy's been spinning along with the last couple of months so he completely ignores her question. Shakes the tape on his left hand. Picks another one from the pile on his right. Asks her.

“Is Billy Ocean too much? ‘Cause I think it’s too much. But it kind of fits into what I'm trying to say so” he says, shrugs, looking up at Max and waiting for the answer of what she realizes was not really a question. Not at all. So she does her little sister job and just, nods “Right. That’s good. I think it’ll slide just nicely into Bruce Springsteen and―”

“Billy” Max insists, waiting for the charm of the third time to work. It doesn’t. Not really. But keeps Billy's eyes on her long enough to squeeze an “A mixtape?” And, uh. That’s what gets it on. The charm “Are you making a mixtape?”

“Uh?”

And it’s like Max just shook Billy out of a daydream. Ash plopping down from his cigarette as his lips try but can’t purse and Max― she’s good. She’s stellar at this detective thing. Recognizes an opening the moment she sees it, right there in front of her, frozen in the middle of shaking Billy Ocean and Bruce Springsteen in the air right before cocktailing them together. Shaken, not stirred, please. Max’s upgraded to James Bond-level just right now.

“You’re making a mixtape for someone”

“Oh-nonoMaxi―”

“But you didn’t have those tapes before. Not even in your secret stash”

“How do yo―?”

“Holy. ShIT. You’ve been listening to somebody else’s music” This is. Oh, God. This. Is. GOLD. Max gotta take a moment. Blink. Breathe. Process. Her hands move by themselves, palms spread toward Billy in a wait-a-minute kind of gesture except. Max’s gonna need way more than a minute for this “You’ve accepted a music recommendation”

“Maaaaax”

“Gosh, you’ve even listened to the tapes enough to. Make―”

“Max!”

“I just can’t believe it”

And Max was glad. Well. As glad as one can be. Bunch weeks ago. Her mom and Neil out for the day. Coming back home a little earlier than she usually does to hear those ugh. Those other noises. Happy screams. Again. After months and months of Billy being basically alone except for her and the party and Steve. And Max’s so glad, of course she is. But she’s also a little sister. And all this investigation work has a high, rightful purpose.

Make her big brother’s life a living. Hell.

“Oh my god, you must be so gone!” Max brings her hands to her mouth. Takes a deep, deep breath that’s more a poorly restrained giggle. Shoots her index at him “Is it Bon Jovi? What I’m seeing right there? Goddam, Billy are you in lo―”

Bam.

Bam. Bam!

The front door.

What a way to spoil the fun. Max doesn’t have time for this. She’s working.

“BILLY?” comes a voice from the other side “Billy are you in there?”

Steve.

Oh.

What a way to make the fun a hundred times better.

Bam.Bam.Bam!

She’s starting to move to get to the door, sinsonging “Well, I guess Steve’s gonna find out you’re so stupid in love you’re willingly listening to―” when she realizes Billy’s eyes have widened and he’s jerkingly trying to unfreeze, he’s mumbling something in around his already extinguished cigarette in the ways of “Can’t” and “Find out” and “Surprise” and “Fucking help me!” While literally trying to shove the huge mass of tapes under his bed, his tone like hurryhurryhurry!, like he would start gagging and throwing his lungs out at any given minute, so nervous he looks.

So Max doesn’t go for the door. Yet. She basks in the enjoyment.

“Oh, is it a secret romance or something?” She sighs happily, leaning against the doorframe instead. “‘Cause you look pretty worried”

Steve’s banging the door now, voice wavering a little as he asks-shouts “Billy? Billy answer me! Hey, bab―Are you ok?”

“Max, please” Billy begs. Begs. Crawling over to where a Madonna’s Like a virgin is laying with the tape looping slightly out “He really can’t find out”

“What? That you’re in lo-o-oh-oh-OH―”

Billy stops at the tone, right there on his knees. Spits his forgotten cig to the side. And in the instant it seems to take him to make up his mind they both can hear Steve shout “Ok. I know you’re in there!. I’m coming in now!!”

“Fuck! Yeah. I am. Ok?” he looks like he just realized he’s tripped. Blushes. “Making it, I mean”

BAM!

And Ohhhhhhh.

Zero-fucking-zero-fucking-seven.

“Steve,” Max gasps. Because. Hear it makes it like. Easier. To process “You. And Steve”

B A M!

“Yeah, Max, Yeah. And this is a fucking surprise and he’s gonna―”

‘I've been waitin' for so long. For somethin' to arrive. For love to come along’

Ok. Oh. Okok.

“Door!” Max hastens him.

“What?”

“You. Door. Run!” She commands, and Billy― sometimes Max can’t honestly understand how he's got the grades he's got, because Billy blinks, looks clueless “C’mon slow ass. Hurry! I’ll hide all this shit”

And Billy finally gets it. Nods. Slow. Then fast. Stumbles up. Literally runs, to get to the door.

Max still gets to hear his labored “Fuck, pretty boy. “That was really hardcore of you. That's how bad you wanted to see me?” And Steve's own breathless “Really?” Before pushing Billy's room door close with her back, and kneeling on the floor to check for stray, incriminating cassettes.

Pretty boy. Maybe Max isn't as clever as she thought she is. Or hasn’t been doing her job right, clearly.

It's when she’s making ‘It’s a kind of magic’ disappear into the rest of the pile that she lays eyes on it. The case. The J-card written almost all the way down to the B-side already. A mixture of songs Billy's heard so many times there are parts where his tapes screech, and others she'd bet her life he wouldn’t have deigned to listen to. Not ever. Definitely not because―no, for, somebody. Bowie and Cher and Cindy Lauper and Bob Seger right next to Metallica and Guns n' Roses and Meatloaf and― there. There. Almost hidden in the back of the spine. A note. A tiny, thin-lettered thing Max really, really shouldn't be reading but―

‘Thanks for driving me back.

Love. Billy’

But. That's what little sisters do too, she guesses. Intrude. Annoy. Snoop. Feel this sudden rush of relief. Of happiness. When Billy laughs softly, on the other side of the door. When Steve laughs back. Maybe a tear. Or two. But just maybe. She’s really good at this little sister thing, after all.

Hopes for stellar.

,

or: that post s3 where steve lets a camaro-less billy drive him around in his own car "really? again, hargrove?" almost every single day, for months, after he comes back, because "you’re gonna perpetually stick yourself to my ass at least let me do the one thing that frikin’ calms me down" which results in steve resigning himself to deejaying in the shotgun even if "jesus, what's that shit, harrington?" "my car, my rules, sweetheart" which results in billy developing a ‘songs steve harrington is in love with’ mental playlist, realizing he’s probably a little bit in love with the way he loves them and, possibly, a little much love with steve and then stealing steve's tapes one day and,

making a mixtape about it.

(the first of a whole lot, of love letters)

[avengerscompound]

Canvas

Canvas: A Captain America Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  1844

Warnings:  smut (vaginal sex, messy sex,)

Synopsis:  Steve has been painting you for a while.  In a lot of ways you’ve been his must.  This time, he has decided to use a whole different canvas to practice his art on.

Canvas

The brush was soft and tickled your skin.  Paired with the cool, wet paint, it set off a ripple of goosebumps in its wake.

Steve was an artist.  You hadn’t known that when you’d first started seeing each other.  The serious and stoic Steve Rogers who had devoted his life to protect the world as Captain America didn’t seem to be the soft artistic type.

He had surprised you though.  First with the fact he wasn’t as serious as he made himself seem when he was in uniform.  He was funny and snarky, and he cared deeply about people.

And he liked to paint.

You’d first discovered his artistic side when you’d woken up to find him sitting on the end of the bed sketching a picture of you sleeping.  There was a way about Steve - an open vulnerability - that meant he could get away with doing things like watching you sleep that didn’t feel creepy.  There was something romantic about the way that he wanted to capture the moment.  Not with a camera to show how it was, but with a pencil to show how it made him feel.

Since that day he’d gotten more and more into his art when he was around you.  Your place and his became littered with sketches and drawings, mostly of you, but sometimes just of things that made him feel real.  Not the symbol of America, but a real man who wanted a quiet life with someone he loved.

When the painting started, you would sit for him.  You were his muse and when you would sit for him, you’d find yourself holding all kinds of unlikely positions, in a variety of different states of undress.

It was a strange feeling being his life model.  Sexy.  Uncomfortable.  Flattering.  Safe.  The best part was seeing the finished product.  It was like getting to see yourself through the eyes of the person who loved you most and there was nothing more intimate than that.

Today Steve was interested in a different canvas.

You stood naked in his home office, a drop cloth below you to capture any stray drops of paint.  Steve had his shirt off too, and there were already a few smears of paint on his perfectly sculpted chest.  There was something sexy about the look.  Like the mess made him seem raw and unbridled in a way Steve rarely was outside of sex and battle.

The brush moved down and around the curve of our breast in a long sweeping motion.  You shivered as the cool of the paint sent a tingle up your spine.  Your nipples hardened and you weren’t sure if that was only because of the cold.  Steve’s eyes drifted from the line of his paint to your breasts and his cheeks turned slightly pink.  “Is it very cold?”  He asked.

“It’s cold, but I’m not sure that’s the whole problem,” you coyly answered.

The blush deepened in Steve’s cheeks and his tongue glided over his plump bottom lip.  “Mm… for me too,” he said and leaned down, pressing his mouth to your breast.  Your nipple fit perfectly between his soft lips, and as his tongue swirled over it, you let out a sharp breath.

“Steve…” you sighed, your hand going to his shoulder to steady yourself.  He sucked on your tender flesh, his tongue curling around your hardened nipple, and as he pulled back, his teeth grazed over it, making a buzz spiral out under your skin.

He returned his attention to his art, leaving you trembling slightly from the brief interlude.  You blinked and shook your head as you tried to focus on the art, rather than the heat building between your legs.

You watched as he added some black to the blue he was painting on your skin, darkening the shade as he filled in the color under your stomach.  “What are you painting?”  You asked.

“You’re just going to have to wait and see,” he said.

“It’s not a flag, is it?”  You asked.  “I don’t want you to paint me to look like a flag.”

Steve laughed softly and shook his head.  “No.  It’s not a flag.”

He dipped his thumb into the purple on his pallet and ran it down between the two shades of blue on your stomach.  It tickled and you squirmed away from him a little.

“I need you to try and stay still, sweetheart,” Steve said.

“You try it when someone’s doing this to you,” you teased, and poked him in the abs.  He jumped away with a laugh.

“That’s cheating,” he said, grabbing your wrist.

You giggled and he kissed your hand before letting your wrist go again.  His fingerprints remained on your skin.  Blue spots to mark where he’d held you.  You studied them as he returned to painting.  Admiring the way they marked how easily his large hands wrapped around your wrists.

You took one of Steve’s spare brushes and dipped it into the red paint.

“What are you doing?”  Steve asked, raising his eyebrow though he didn’t look away from his work.

“Thought I’d do a little bit of body painting too,” you said and pressed your red palm against his chest.  When your hand left his body, the perfect impression of your hand was left in scarlet against his pale milk skin.

Steve’s lips quirked at the side and he shook his head.  “Very pretty,” he said.  “Shall I give you one?”

“Won’t it mess up your design?”  You asked.

“I can paint over it,” he said as he began painting his palm with purple paint.  “Where should I put this?”  He teased, waving it in front of you.

You squealed but your body seemed to curve toward him like it was aching for his touch.  He hovered his hand over your breast.  “Here?”  he whispered and watched as you shivered slightly, pushing your chest out toward him.  He licked his lips and moved his hand up to your neck.  “Maybe here?”

You swallowed thickly.  “Please?”

He moved his hand down around your waist and smacked it down on your ass.  It was firm and made a sharp crack as his skin met yours, but it wasn’t painful.  You gasped and he dragged your forward, his fingers digging into your ass.  “Here?”  He said, bringing his lips to yours.

You kissed him hungrily, his other arm curling around your waist.  You moaned into his lips and pressed your body against him.  You could picture the mark on your ass.  His large palm staining your skin purple.  His hands slid around your waist, smearing the paint as he moved them, leaving a wet trail up to your ribs.  His fingers tightened and he pushed you back against the wall.  You submitted to him, melting under his touch.  His hands gripped your chest just under your breasts and he dragged them up, breaking the kiss so he could lean down and suck your breasts.  You let your head fall back against the wall and wrapped a leg around him, pulling your bare cunt against his clothed crotch.  His cock was hard and strained against the thick fabric of his khakis.  You cunt smeared your fluids on his jeans as the friction drew them from you, sending a hot tingle spiraling out through you.

He sucked and bit at your breasts like a hungry man.  Dutifully moving from one to the other and back again, sending a dull ache down to your core.

“Steve,” you moaned.  “I need you.”

He groaned and spun you guiding you back to the tarp and knocking his paints to the floor so they splattered over the drop cloth.  He lay you down, ignoring the paint as it pooled around your body.  You put your hands in the wet mess and watched as he hurriedly unfastened his pants.  As he positioned himself above you, you spread your legs wide and wrapped your arms around him, welcoming him in and marking him as your own.

He was kissing you again, hard and passionately.  You matched him, bringing your tongue to meet his and swirling it around.  He lined himself up and with a hard thrust, he was inside you.  You gasped arching up into him as an eclectic pulse passed through your body.  He didn’t wait for you to adjust, he just began thrusting into you again and again.  The head of his cock hitting your cervix and sending sharp jolts through you again and again.

You cried out and bunched your hands in his hair.  The paint on your hands clung to the strands, sticking them together and making them stick up in clumps.  You could feel your climax building, and you nudged him.  He took the hint flipping you over.

The paint you’d been lying in dripped down your back onto his thighs.  He smeared his hands through it and then used it to finger paint on your body as you rode him.  You started slowly, swirling your hips like you were doing a seated dance, his cock moving inside you and pressing against your walls.  You began to move faster, bouncing on his cock.  Steve groaned as he watched you, his hands caressing his body.  Faster and faster you moved, up and down, up and down.  Sweat mixed with the paint as you chased your orgasm.  Steve began to snap his hips up into you, your bodies slapping together each time you connected.

He pushed you back, first so you were seated face to face, you sitting in his lap, and then pushing you back on the floor again.  He pushed your legs up so they were pressed against your chest.  His cock penetrated you so deeply you thought it was going to split you in two.  You cried out and your orgasm hit, shuddering through you and making all your muscles seize up.  Steve kept thrusting, fucking you through it, and as he reached his own climax, he pulled out pumping his cock in his fist and releasing, spattering your stomach and chest with thick white ropes that stood out against the rainbow of paint.

You lay back panting as you came down from your orgasm high and Steve lay down beside you.  “God, you’re beautiful,” he sighed.

“We ruined your art,” you said, looking down at yourself.

“I think we made it better,” he said.  “I know I’m going to remember you like this for a long time.  My gorgeous artwork.”

He brought his lips to yours and kissed you deeply and tenderly.  You closed your eyes and hummed, relaxing into it.  When he pulled back he smiled at you.  “We really should go shower.”

You giggled and Steve helped you to stand.  He looked down at the drop sheet below him and smiled.  “I think I might frame that,” he said.

You looked down at the colors.  They swirled together, but you could see everywhere the two of you had touched.  You liked the idea of hanging it in the apartment.  A permanent reminder of what you and Steve had.

[earliebirb]

for better or for worse

My dearest friend Alle ( @iam93percentstardust​ ) sent me this prompt a lifetime ago. I’m sorry for taking such a long time, but this fic turned into a 5K fic (which is longer than anything I usually write) because my brain kept giving me Ideas. Alle, I know this is probably not what you expected, but I hope you enjoy reading it anyway.

for better or for worse

steve/tony, au: no powers, hurt/comfort, getting back together, 5815 words

(54 from this list)

Tony wakes to the sensation of his head pounding and his ears ringing. He groans, stirring on the bed and burying his face into the nearest pillow. 

The ringing persists and Tony squeezes his eyes shut, willing the noise to go away and—

Oh. That ringing is his doorbell. Someone is ringing his doorbell. 

Tony sighs, glancing at the clock on his nightstand before groaning again when he realizes that it’s ten minutes to seven. In the morning. What kind of lunatic is visiting him at this hour?

He gives himself a couple more seconds to stay on the bed, cursing his own self for being awake. For a brief moment, he is tempted to just ignore whoever is standing on his porch in the hopes of making them eventually go away. 

The doorbell rings again and he lets out another long sigh. Slowly, he sits up on the bed and immediately regrets the decision to do so as all his muscles start aching all over, the kind of all-encompassing pain he only gets throughout his body when he is really, really sick. He feels like crying from the pain. 

The second he hears the sound of the front door being unlocked, however, he instantly freezes. His blood runs cold, adrenaline numbing his pain for the moment, his senses alert in shock.

Quietly, he gets to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. God, this is the worst time to fight off an intruder. Not that there is ever a great time to have someone illegally entering your home, but it’s early in the morning, and he’s sick, and alone, and—

“Steve?” 

Steve jumps, turning to face him with his blue eyes wide in surprise. Either Tony is sicker than he thought or Steve is really standing right there, a few steps away from the front door, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Tony. I’m— Sorry. I tried calling you but I think your phone is dead, and I tried ringing the doorbell but—”

Oh. It really is Steve. With the threat of imminent danger gone, immense relief and pain ambush his senses simultaneously.

“—you didn’t answer the door, so I used my key. I’m so sorry. I know it’s really early in the morning, but I was about to leave for a meeting and I tried to do a final check of the blueprint of the exhibition only to find the file corrupted. The only other copy I have of it is the hard copy I had left here, so I—”

Tony’s knees feel weak. He frowns as he squints, because why are there two Steves in front of him? 

“—panicked and I drove all the way— Tony?”

Tony tries to take a step forward, but he wobbles unsteadily. The floor is moving, and the walls are spinning, and oh wow look at the ceiling—

“Tony!”

***

When Tony comes to, his ears come around before the rest of his senses. 

His eyes are still shut. As he slips in and out of slumber, he manages to catch snippets of someone’s voice in the distance. 

“...Yeah, um, I’m actually calling to let you know that I won’t be able to make it to the meeting today…”

“...I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’d leave if I could, but I can’t…”

“...Family emergency. We’ll just have to postpone the meeting, or I can just send scans of the blueprint via email, and have Peggy handle everything…”

“...Okay. Just give me a call and let me know…”

Everything is silent for a while. When Tony’s eyes eventually blink open, he finds himself back in his bed, his body tucked under the covers. The door of his bedroom is ajar and Tony stares at it uncomprehendingly, his brain still struggling to make sense of his current situation.

As if to answer the questions floating around in his brain, the door opens inwards and in walks Steve, a glass of water in hand. He pauses when he sees Tony staring back at him. 

“Oh, you’re awake. Good.” Steve smiles. He pads over and sits down on the edge of the bed, setting the glass of water down on the nightstand. He cups Tony’s elbow carefully. “How are you feeling?”

Tony blinks. So that wasn’t a dream? Steve is really here. 

“Why are you here?” Tony croaks. Steve’s face does something complicated at that before eventually settling with another smile, soft and reassuring.

“Don’t worry about that right now. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Tony answers honestly, sniffing and grimacing at his unpleasantly congested nose. The lopsided smile Steve gives him sends a wave of longing so strong, it feels like a kick to his heart.

“I figured,” Steve says, voice hushed. He opens his mouth to say something else, but his phone rings right that instant. Steve fishes the phone out of his pocket and holds it up to his ear.

“Hello? It has to be today? Okay, don’t panic. It’s going to be okay. I know, I know. I told you, I can’t. I really, really can’t.” For some reason, Steve’s gaze flits briefly to Tony at this before drifting away. “I told you, Peggy knows the blueprint inside and out. We’ll just have to leave it up to her. Tell the rest of the team I’m sorry, okay? Uh-huh. Right. If we get a second meeting, I’ll join you guys then. Okay. Mm-hm. Alright. Thanks a lot, Sam. Bye.”

“Do you have to get to a meeting?” Tony asks as he watches Steve slip his phone back into his pocket. 

“Are you warm enough? Do you need more blankets?” Steve asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern as he assesses Tony’s condition.

“No, I’m fine,” Tony says, runny nose turning his voice nasally. He sniffs a few times. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you have a meeting today?”

Instead of answering Tony’s question, Steve leans towards the nightstand to grab some tissues and proceeds to hold them under Tony’s nose.

“Blow.”

Tony leans back with a scowl, putting some distance between him and the tissues. “Steve, seriously, do you have a meeting? You don’t have to—”

“Blow your nose, Tony,” Steve says firmly. He stares at Tony, gaze unwavering.

Tony sighs before doing as instructed. He blows into the tissues until his nose feels relatively clear. Something stirs in his chest at the way Steve takes all of it in stride, not showing even an inkling of disgust at Tony’s sweaty and snotty state.

Then again, he supposes that’s the kind of immunity you develop after two years of marriage.

Would be three in a few months, if they didn’t—

Well. It’s probably for the best, right?

It has been a month since Steve moved out and his foolish heart still refuses to relinquish the sliver of hope that maybe—

Tony closes his eyes.

The fight they had had been of massive proportions, the biggest to date in their relationship, and when Steve suggested that they take a break—Tony still wonders if he was sparing Tony’s heart by avoiding the word “divorce”—Tony quietly agreed to it, no matter how much he hated the idea. Steve ended up moving back to his old apartment, an hour away. 

He didn’t want to imprison Steve in the house—in the relationship—if he didn’t want to be with Tony. 

After all, Tony can only keep Steve for as long as he wishes to be kept. 

“Go to the meeting, Steve.” Tony watches as Steve continues to dab at his nose with the ball of tissues, his hand careful and gentle. Even after blowing his nose, his voice still sounds nasally. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’m fine, I promise. You don’t have to stay.”

“Drink.” Steve hands him the glass of water, staring him down until he drinks the water. He downs the water in a few gulps under Steve’s watchful gaze. After he finishes, Steve takes the glass from him and sets it back on the nightstand. He glances at the clock, all the while ignoring Tony’s disapproving stare. “Have you taken any meds?”

“No. I thought I’d just sleep it off.”

Steve lets out a sigh, looking disappointed but not exactly surprised. He walks out of the bedroom before returning with a simple peanut butter sandwich and some pills. He gives out strict orders for Tony to have at least a few bites of the sandwich before taking the meds and then proceeds to clean up the pile of tissues scattered all around Tony, dumping them into the trash can. After that, he disappears into the ensuite bathroom for a moment. Tony hears the sink running.

By the time Steve emerges from the bathroom, Tony has eaten half of the sandwich and taken his meds dutifully. After confirming the evidence of Tony’s actions with his own two eyes, Steve looks satisfied.

“Okay. Go back to sleep.” 

Tony frowns. “I just woke up.” 

For a minute, Tony thinks that Steve is going to argue with him again, but he just hums and makes his way to the other side of the bed. He slips under the covers beside Tony and reaches for the TV remote.

“What movie do you want to watch?”

“Steve, please. You don’t have to do this. I know—”

“Sci-fi? Or do you want something lighter? A romcom, maybe?”

“—you have work to do, so—”

“You hate being alone when you’re sick,” Steve interrupts, eyes on the TV screen. “And you’re terrible at taking care of yourself, especially when you are sick. I know you, Tony. I know you’d just end up skipping meals throughout the day because you don’t have an appetite.”

Tony pauses. Steve is still staring at the TV, but he is no longer scrolling through the list of available movies.

“You’re… not wrong,” Tony allows, “but you really don’t have to.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come earlier if I’d known.”

“What— Of course I didn’t.” Tony shakes his head, incredulous. “After all, this doesn’t have to be your responsibility, considering we’re on a—” —break. 

The sentence is completed in his head, but Tony can’t seem to let the last word fall out of his mouth. Steve seems to hear it anyway, if the way his jaw clenches is any indication. 

Tony clears his throat and breathes through the persistent pounding in his head, inhaling through his mouth. 

“Just go, okay? I’ll be fine, Steve, I prom—”

“I won’t be.”

“What?”

Steve finally turns to face him and takes a few long seconds before meeting his eyes, blue eyes tired and resigned.

“I’m the one who won’t be fine, leaving you here all sick and alone.” Steve’s mouth twists into a small smile, wan and bittersweet. “I won’t be able to stop worrying. Won’t be able to work, or go about my day, or…”

A beat. Steve inhales a tremulous breath, blue eyes wavering as they hold Tony’s gaze. “Won’t be able to stop thinking about you.”

Steve looks down at his own lap, fingers grabbing a fistful of the comforter. Silence stretches out between them. Sitting quietly like this, Tony can almost pretend that nothing has happened, that this is just another normal day of Steve waking up in bed next to him. Married and in love with no threat of divorce looming on the horizon.

Of course, that is before he catches sight of Steve’s bereft ring finger.

Then his heart leaps to his throat and he feels his stomach dropping like a rapidly sinking anchor. He wonders how long it has been since Steve’s ring finger is empty.

He wonders if he should start taking off his own, too. He wonders if Steve wants him to take it off. He feels a visceral pain in his chest just at the mere thought of the ring leaving his own finger, a sharp twinge that has nothing to do with him being sick.

Steve swallows audibly. “Just because we’re on a… break, it doesn’t mean I stop caring about you, Tony.”

Tony clenches his jaw and finds himself wondering if Steve would continue to care about him if they ended up separating for good.

He doesn’t ever want to find out the answer to that question. His eyes dart down to Steve’s ring finger again and he has to inhale to keep his nausea at bay. 

Steve takes a deep breath before turning to face Tony again. Although he is facing him, this time Steve’s eyes are nowhere close to meeting Tony’s, lingering somewhere in the vicinity of Tony’s chest instead. The bright blue of his eyes has become muted, something heavy and wistful diluting its luminescence.

“So you’re right. You’ll be fine without me, but I won’t be. So please, let me stay.” Steve’s eyes flit down to the bed, lightning quick, and the moment they flit back up, he does meet Tony’s eyes. “For my sake.”

Tony swallows, feeling like a hefty weight is sitting on his chest, suffocating him. He has to look away to catch his breath. 

Staring at the TV screen, he says, “Love Actually.”

Steve recognizes the acquiescence for what it is, and turns to the screen, smiling. 

“Love Actually it is.”

They lie quietly in bed, side by side. Despite being sick, Tony feels content in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. He ends up falling asleep somewhere during Colin Firth’s character's awkward meet-cute with a lovely Portuguese woman.

***

Hours later, he wakes up to an empty bed. 

Steve didn’t stay.

He blinks quietly and tries to swallow down his disappointment. It’s a good thing, he tells himself. Steve is busy enough as it is, of course he’d leave after making sure Tony is okay. 

The first thing he realizes when he sits up on the bed is the fact that he feels a lot better than he did in the morning. His nose is still congested and the dull throbbing in his head is still there, but at least his muscles and joints don’t ache as much anymore.

His mouth tastes like something has died inside of it, though, so he makes his way to the door, intending to grab himself a glass of water, and—

Steve is still here. 

He is dressed in something more comfortable now, having exchanged his long-sleeved, form-fitting shirt for one of his own sleep shirts and his jeans for a pair of sweatpants. When Steve moved out of the house, he hadn’t managed to take all of his clothes with him.

Tony would probably never admit this even on pain of death, but he is grateful for that. There have been many nights—most nights—since Steve moved out where he would sleep in one of Steve’s sweaters or shirts. They are all too big for him, but they make him feel safe and comfortable enough to fall asleep because the truth is he has been finding it near impossible to fall asleep without the warmth of Steve’s body pressed up against him. 

Steve is standing by the stove, his back to Tony, stirring a pot of something that is bubbling away nicely.

A stray piece of memory floats into Tony’s head, unbidden. It presses at the corners of his mind, demanding his attention. It is a recollection of a defining moment of their relationship, dated sometime during their first year of marriage. 

Tony had been doing something similar, trudging out of the bedroom one morning and finding Steve in the kitchen instead of at work, where he should be.

At Tony’s perplexity, a fond smile had bloomed on Steve’s face. Tony remembers that it had been snowing outside. Bathed in the late morning sunlight and clad in a cozy-looking, broken white cable-knit sweater that complimented his blond hair beautifully, Steve’s figure had glowed golden.

Behind him, eerily similar to today, there was also a pot of something steaming sitting on the stove and a delicious smell had wafted around the house. 

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Of course I’m going to stay in and take care of you. Look at you, you can barely stand up straight.”

Tony had blinked and realized that he had been leaning on the bedroom’s door frame for support. “Don’t you have that meeting today? With that… that British man. The gallery owner.”

“Rescheduled meetings are a thing, sweetheart. It’s not the end of the world,” Steve had said, chuckling lightly as he padded over to tuck his arms around Tony’s waist. “Besides, if Merridew does turn out to be an unreasonable man, there are plenty of other galleries in the world.”

Steve had said it so easily, so dismissively, as if it hadn’t taken years of hard work and months of careful persuasion for him to even get to the point he was at. 

“You, however,” Steve then whispered, voice low and sweet as he cradled Tony’s cheeks in his warm hands, eyes staring softly into Tony’s, “I have to take care of. After all, there’s only one Tony Stark-Rogers in the world. Well— The only Tony Stark-Rogers I care about more than anything.”

Tony had made an incredulous face in response, still finding the whole situation ridiculous.

Steve had laughed at Tony’s expression and leaned in to plant a kiss on Tony’s temple, uncaring of the fact that Tony was sick and gross, carrying an abundance of infectious germs.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if my beloved husband succumbed to his sickness in the dead of winter due to my callousness,” Steve had said as he pulled Tony close, body pressed flush against him, chin resting atop Tony’s head. “In sickness and in health, sweetheart. In sickness and in health.”

“...Tony?”

Steve’s voice calling his name promptly breaks Tony’s reverie. Tony blinks and finds Steve gazing at him, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Did you need anything?” 

For a few seconds, Tony finds it difficult to form an answer, part of his mind still lost in the memory of the past. Eventually, he manages. “I— Uh. Water.”

“Oh.” Steve proceeds to pull out a glass from the kitchen cabinet and pours Tony some water. He walks over, handing it to Tony. As Tony’s fingers close around the glass, Steve steps closer and presses his palm to Tony’s forehead. His lips press together in a thin line. Tony swallows audibly.

A few strands of Tony’s hair cling to his forehead, damp with perspiration. Using the same hand, Steve sweeps Tony’s hair back, simultaneously wiping the beads of sweat away. 

“Go back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute. Soup’s almost ready.”

Dazed, Tony nods before heading back to the bed as instructed. 

Steve shoulders the ajar door open a few moments later, carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming soup sitting on it. Quietly, Tony watches his every move. Steve bends down to put the tray on the nightstand, slow and careful. As he does, the pendant of Steve’s necklace—one that Tony has never seen before and just realized Steve’s been wearing this entire time—slips out from beneath his shirt, dangling back and forth from the golden chain hanging from his neck. Curious, Tony leans forward slightly. He squints at the pendant.

When he realizes what it is, his mouth goes dry.

Steve straightens and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Now that the pendant is properly resting atop Steve’s chest, there is no mistaking what it is.

From a short distance away, Tony still recognizes the inscription that peeks out from the inner surface of the ring, the words written in his own blocky handwriting: To My Beloved.

Tony stares at it, frozen. A million thoughts are running through his head and it feels like he can’t hold onto any of them. Try as he might, he can’t seem to form a coherent thought. 

Steve had taken off his wedding ring, only to wear it as a necklace. 

What could this possibly mean?

“—ony. Tony?”

His train of thoughts broken, Tony blinks and finds Steve staring at him. One of his hands is already hovering midair, holding out a spoonful of soup. The other is situated right under the spoon in case of spillage. 

“You okay?”

“Uh—Yeah. Sorry.”

Steve continues to stare expectantly at Tony. Tony stares back at him and finds himself wishing he could read Steve’s mind.

Misunderstanding his silence for something else entirely, Steve raises the spoonful of soup slightly with an encouraging nod. “Don’t worry. I blew on it, so it’s not scalding hot, I promise.”

Just to further prove his point, Steve blows on the spoon again, careful and gentle before holding it up to Tony’s mouth.

Tony opens his mouth quietly to let the spoon into his mouth and lets the warm soup soothe his taste buds and throat.

A companionable silence settles over them. As Steve feeds him the soup until the very last drop, Tony takes the time to process his own thoughts. 

When he comes to a decision, Steve is already back in the kitchen. Tony can hear him doing the dishes, the clink of glass and ceramic accompanied by the sound of running water. 

Once again, he makes his way to the doorway of the bedroom. For a brief moment, he stands wordlessly, watching Steve’s back muscles work as he wipes the utensils dry.

As Steve places the last of the utensils on the dish rack, Tony says:

“Let’s have a kid.”

Steve freezes. Tension turns the line of his back rigid as he grips the edge of the kitchen sink.

“Tony—”

“I’ve thought about it, Steve. Let’s have a kid.”

Tony watches Steve’s shoulders rise and fall as he breathes. When Steve turns around, his expression is not at all what Tony expects.

For someone who had tried so hard to convince Tony to adopt a child with him just a month ago, fighting tooth and nail and disagreeing with Tony on every point, Steve doesn’t look happy or relieved.

Instead, there is something heavy in his blue eyes, in the sharp line of his clenched jaw.

Something that looks like heartbreak.

“No, Tony.” 

Tony’s heart sinks. He can feel his throat closing up, finding it difficult to breathe. He has done it now. He had wondered whether they could come back from this. He had wondered whether this fight would be Steve’s last straw.

Here it is, the answer, clear as day in front of Tony. He had tried so hard to convince himself that this was different. Steve would stay, unlike so many others that he had scared away. This time, it would be different.

He had believed it, too. That’s the worst part. 

Tony proves to be too difficult to love, even for Steve. Sweet and generous Steve.

He should have known this would happen. He should never have let his guard down. He should have—

“Tony.” Tony looks up at the sound of his own name to find Steve standing much closer than before. “Sweetheart.”

Tony lets out a sharp exhale, fresh tears blurring his vision as a stab of unadulterated pain shoots through him at the term of endearment. He hasn’t heard that word from Steve’s mouth in an entire month and it’s not fair, so incredibly unfair that the first time he hears it again after such a long time is when Steve is trying to break things off with him. Steve, ever kind, ever gentle, even when he’s trying to—

“We don’t have to have children, Tony.”

Tony blinks, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Steve stares back at him, his baby blues also brimming with tears.

“You don’t need to force yourself to become a father, if you really don’t want to, and especially not for my sake. I’ve thought about it too, Tony. And—”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tony braces himself. Here it comes.

“—I realized that, as much as I want to be a father— As much as I want to adopt a child and raise them as my own… I realized that I really, really don’t want to do it with anyone else but you.”

Tony’s thoughts grind to a halt. When Steve exhales, it comes out in the form of a wet, desperate-sounding sob.

“I love you so much, Tony. So much. I love you more than— Anything. More than children. More than my desire to become a father. This past month we’ve been apart— It’s been hell, for me. We don’t have to have children, Tony. So, please, just— Can I come back? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving, sweetheart, I’m so—”

Tony pulls him into a kiss. Steve tastes of tears, his body racked by sobs, and Tony’s heart breaks. A turmoil of emotions wreaks havoc within Tony and his knees are weak with the sheer relief of having been granted the privilege to have Steve in his arms again.

When they break apart, Steve’s shoulders rise and fall repeatedly in an attempt to catch his breath. He stares at Tony with wide and searching blue eyes, wet lashes clumped together. 

“Tony?”

Tony looks down, clears his throat. “Sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I’m sick, and now you’re going to be sick, and—”

Pulling Tony in by his shirt, Steve joins their mouths together once again, showing exactly how much he cares about that particular line of reasoning. He kisses Tony like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to steal all of Tony’s breath from his lungs and keep it for himself. 

This time, when they pull apart, Steve’s lips are slick and swollen, his face flushed. He is still looking at Tony like Tony is going to vanish into thin air any second. 

“You’re staying. I’m staying. No one’s leaving.” Tony wipes his thumbs through the tear tracks on Steve’s cheeks. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Steve nods. “Okay.” 

Tony leans forward, resting his forehead against Steve’s. He closes his eyes, feeling the puff of Steve’s unsteady breath hit his own lips. He takes both of Steve’s hands in his, giving them a squeeze. 

He takes a deep breath.

“And we’re having a kid.”

Steve stills. “Tony, I told you—”

“And I told you that I’ve had some time to think about it, too.” Tony leans back to meet Steve’s eyes, hoping his own eyes would be enough to convey the truth of his sincerity. “I’ve thought about it, and… You’re right. I do want to have a kid, I’m just scared. Really scared.” 

Tony watches the bob of Steve’s throat as he swallows.

“You know how my dad was with me, and I’ve told you repeatedly how scared I am that I’ll turn out just like him. Children are like sponges, you know? Blank canvases. They internalize stuff really easily and then they end up having issues. And then their issues have issues. Case in point.”

Tony gestures to himself with a bitter smile.

“Truth is, I still don’t believe I’m father material. I want a kid, but I’m still terrified of fucking things up.” He swallows, pauses to gather his thoughts. “But Steve, I’ve seen how good you are with kids, you’re such a natural. And I thought about what you said to me, that I won’t be alone in this. I’ll have you standing right beside me, every step of the way. And… I’ve also thought about how you seem to have such faith in me. Faith that I can become a good father. And I thought, that has to count for something. Your faith in me has to count for something, because… you know me better than anyone, Steve. Sometimes I even think that you know me better than I know myself.”

Tony looks down at their joined hands, nodding decisively. 

“So, I’ve decided.” He looks up, watches hope bloom in Steve’s azure eyes. “Let’s have a kid. Let’s build a family together, Steve.” 

Steve’s smile, when it comes, is beautifully blinding. 

***

Later, as Steve lies beside him in bed, Tony finds the courage to ask.

“Steve?” Tony calls, voice a low whisper.

Steve is lying on his side, facing Tony. One of his elbows is planted on the bed, hand propping up the side of his own head as he gazes down at Tony, eyes lingering and thoughtful.

His other hand reaches towards Tony’s face, brushing the back of his knuckles across Tony’s cheek before traveling further back, tucking a lock of Tony’s unruly hair behind his ear.

“Yeah?” Steve says. The soft glow of the nightlight sitting on the nightstand casts shadows across his face and illuminates parts of it in yellow light. It renders the lines of his face soft, the edges less sharp and defined. 

Tony swallows and averts his gaze, takes a while to let the words form properly in his mouth. Meanwhile, Steve cards his fingers through Tony’s hair in a single motion, looking at the dark strands caught between his digits like they are the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“It’s longer,” Steve muses. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, and then clears his throat when even that single syllable fails to leave his mouth properly. “It’s been a while. I need a haircut.”

Steve continues to toy with his hair, twisting strands of it around his fingers gently.

“Do you hate it?” Tony asks.

Giving Tony a quick shake of the head, Steve looks down at him with a lopsided smile. “I like it. I’ve missed it. Reminds me of your hairstyle when we first met.”

Tony blinks and swallows, pretending that the innocent statement doesn’t bring about a surge of warmth in his chest.

“What is it?” Steve asks, when Tony’s question doesn’t seem to come.

Tony thinks of brushing it off, considers swallowing back the question sitting on the tip of his tongue for a brief moment, but eventually he says:

“Why, uh,” Tony licks his dry, chapped lips, “why did you take off the ring?”

Steve’s fingers still in his hair. 

When Tony finds the courage to meet his husband’s eyes again, Steve is looking at him with wonder in his eyes. He pulls his hand back, away from Tony’s hair and toward the ring hanging from the chain around his own neck.

Steve hums in thought, fingers fiddling with the metal band. Tony watches Steve stroke the words engraved on the inner circumference of the ring with the pad of his thumb.

He pretends that Steve’s answer isn’t everything.

It takes entirely too long for Steve to present him with a reply, but when he does, it is one that is not even remotely within Tony’s realm of expectation.

“I took up pottery.”

“...What?”

Steve exhales through his nose, his lips pursed together in a manner that suggests he is holding back a smile.

“It’s fairly recent,” Steve says, eyes still staring at him with careful amusement. “I needed something to distract myself from constantly missing you. A friend from art school happens to own a pottery studio. She offered, and... I started taking pottery classes.” 

A knot unties in Tony’s chest.

“How did that go?” Tony asks, voice thick with emotion.

“Not very well,” Steve admits with a wry smile. “Still missed you something fierce.”

Steve holds his hand up, fingers splayed. Even under the dim lighting, Tony can still make out the faint circular mark around his ring finger, the small strip of skin a few shades paler than the rest of his hand. The sight of the empty finger still looks disturbingly wrong and Tony finds himself having to look away just to feel less unnerved.

“Does it bother you?”

“Huh?”

Steve wiggles his fingers, blue eyes staring at him, soft and curious.

“My naked finger. Does it bother you?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly. Yes is the honest answer that wants to crawl out, but Tony bites down on it.

“Uh, it’s— No.” Tony swallows, throat clicking and eyebrows furrowing. “It’s fine.”

After all, the last thing Tony wants to be is an insanely possessive spouse who obsesses about something as simple as a naked ring finger when the wedding ring itself is still hanging from a chain around his husband’s neck. Steve still carries it on his person at all times, just not on his finger.

Steve gazes at him for a long moment, quiet in thoughtful consideration.

Slowly, an amused smile starts to bloom on Steve’s face.

“It bothers you, huh?”

Steve has always been able to read Tony like an open book.

Embarrassment colors Tony’s cheeks. “I don’t— It’s okay if you want—”

“I like it.”

“I— I know. It’s fine, Steve. I get it. Besides, it’s too much of a hassle anyway, constantly having to take it off and put it back—”

“I like that it bothers you. Me not wearing the ring.”

Tony goes quiet at that, wide eyes blinking at Steve. His husband shrugs, smile unwavering.

“I like it when you notice little details like that,” Steve whispers, shuffling closer. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kinda like having you obsess over me.”

His hand cups Tony’s cheek, thumb stroking the delicate skin under Tony’s eye. “I like hearing how much I mean to you.”

Tony stares at him, emotions turbulent in his chest. He focuses on Steve’s eyes and the warmth of his palm against his face. 

Steve’s smile turns fond. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll wear it on my finger again, I promise. I suck at pottery anyway.”

For a while, they lie motionless in the quiet, gazing at each other. Steve leans close, eyes squinting. Tony feels the light scrape of fingernail on the skin of his cheek and Steve pulls his hand away to show Tony something that is sitting on the pad of his thumb.

“Eyelash,” Steve announces gleefully with a child-like grin. Carefully, he transfers the eyelash onto the back of Tony’s left hand. “Make a wish.”

Tony huffs, but proceeds to close his eyes obediently. After a few moments, he lifts his left hand up to his mouth and blows the eyelash away. 

When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by Steve’s curious stare. 

“What did you wish for?”

“You know the rules. If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

Steve narrows his eyes. Eventually, he relents, sighing in resignation. “Fine.”

He lies down properly, letting his head rest on his pillow before throwing an arm around Tony, pulling him close until Tony’s head is safely tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Get well really, really soon, sweetheart,” Steve whispers, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Tony lets his eyelids fall shut, reciting his wish once more in the private confines of his mind, hoping that it reaches the ears of whatever deity is watching over them:

Please let me keep him. Whatever happens, please let him stay by my side. ‘Til death do us part.

[thepartyresponsible]

For the wip ask (they all sound very interesting ngl it was hard to pick just one!) LostSteve

lost steve! yeah, so. what if shield defrosted captain america, and he broke out and just...kept running? what if they lost him? what if he ended up hiding out in tony’s tower, away from the fight for long enough to get his feet underneath him?

this fic is mostly about steve and tony finding each other first, so they can form the heart of the avengers, instead of the fault line that splits the team in half. here’s the first part of it.

                                                          —  

There’s an alert from Nick Fury that Tony chooses to ignore, for the sake of his convenience and Fury’s ongoing character growth. JARVIS announces its arrival and then diligently reminds Tony about the message twice before Tony tells him to mute it until morning.

“If it’s really that important,” he says, “they’ll just send someone to break in anyway.”

Which is why, on some level, he’s not at all surprised to find a man sitting on a couch in his penthouse twenty-seven hours later. He will admit to being caught somewhat off-guard by the specifics of the situation, though, because Steve Rogers has been dead for longer than Tony’s been alive.

“Zombie?” Tony asks. “Hallucination? Oh, clone? Are you a clone?”

Steve Rogers looks at him the way people look at wax sculptures. Like he’s interested in the details of the creation in front of him, but doesn’t believe for a second that what he’s looking at is real. “Mr. Stark,” he says, politely. His voice is deeper than Tony would’ve guessed.

“Robot,” Tony theorizes. “Sexbot? Updated Trojan Horse? If I let you inside me, are you gonna--”

The man’s brow furrows, and his mouth twists down, and his eyes are too sad for circuitry. No one would code that kind of grief.

Tony pauses for a moment, rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels. He studies this intruder carefully. Someone sent him a Steve Rogers lookalike in a white t-shirt and stained khakis. He’s hale and healthy, built like a god, but his feet are bare and dirty.

Bloody, too. There are bloody footprints on the carpet.

“Wait,” Tony says. “Wait. Who the hell are you?”

There’s a long beat of silence. The man on his couch just stares at him, eyes tracing over Tony’s face, his shoulders, looking at him like he’s starving for something. He’s quiet and small, somehow, in a way that doesn’t relate at all to the amount of space his body takes up.

And then he stands, light and graceful on his bloody feet. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders pull up, and he’s an American Hero, suddenly and decisively, like he’s made some kind of choice about it.

“Mr. Stark,” he says, again, “I’m Captain America.”

And he is, Tony thinks. The same way that he’s Iron Man. Because once you put on that kind of armor, whatever else you used to be is irrelevant.

                                                           —

He’s Captain America, and he’s back from the dead. SHIELD had him and lost him, and Nick Fury wants Tony to go looking for him. That’s the message he left with JARVIS over a day ago. And Tony can’t imagine he was the first name on their list, which means Steve Rogers has been alone in the wrong century for an unknown but considerable amount of time.

“Hey,” he says, calling out from where he’s slouched against the kitchen island, watching Captain America dutifully eat through every scrap of leftovers Tony had in the fridge. “How long have you been here?”

“I was born here,” he says, through a mouthful of fried rice that he hides behind a napkin. He chews, swallows, and jabs his fork over Tony’s shoulder. “In Brooklyn.”

Tony knew that. Of course he knew that. He memorized everything about Steve Rogers back when he thought he could become enough like him to make Howard consider him worthwhile. “No, I mean,” he says, waving his hands, “in this century. How long have you been--- Jesus. I dunno. Awake? Aware? Unfrosted flakes?”

Steve blinks at him. He stares for a second and then ducks his head, stirs his fork through the open takeout box in front of him. “Spent a couple days,” he says. “Looking around.”

Looking around. Steve Rogers, unwitting time-traveler, barefoot in New York. What had he been looking for? Why did he come here?

“Why didn’t you get any shoes?” Tony asks, instead of any of the more complicated questions.

Steve tucks his feet under his chair. He washed them half an hour or so back, walking uneasily into the bathroom Tony showed him and then locking the door behind him, like he thought Tony was some kind of pervert who would bodyslam through the door to catch a glimpse of him sudsing up his bare ankles.

“Didn’t have any money,” he says, surprisingly mulish about it.

“You couldn’t smash and grab a pair of Sketchers?” Tony shakes his head. “If you get lockjaw, you’re gonna have to tell Fury you caught it from somewhere else. Fuck’s sake, when was your last tetanus booster? 1943?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t seem concerned. He’s busy eating his way through enough calories to keep your average winter-starved grizzly happy.

It’s hungry work, coming back from the dead. Tony remembers the unholy things he would’ve done for a cheeseburger.

“Didn’t have any money,” he repeats, scraping his fork around the sides of the takeout box, diligent and serious, like it’s the very last scrap of food he’ll ever get.

Tony clears his throat, hip-checks the counter to heave himself to standing. “I’ll get you some cash.”

                                                           —

There’s a weird moment, when Tony gives him the money. It’s just a few hundred dollars. He’s not Tony’s problem, not his project raised from the dead, but he still doesn’t want to give Steve Rogers the means to get himself truly lost in a world he doesn’t know.

Five hundred dollars will get him some food and somewhere to sleep for a few days, but it won’t get him far enough out of SHIELD’s orbit to get himself in trouble.

He looks up when Tony gets close. There’s a well-worn wariness in his eyes. He watches him the way a dog from a bad home might watch him through the bars of the shelter’s kennel. Resigned instead of hopeful, like he knows how this goes, like he knows he can survive it.

“Here,” Tony says. He leaves the money two chairs away from him, within easy grabbing distance. “And I have shoes your size, if you want to borrow them.”

“I don’t need that,” Rogers says, pointing at the money.

Tony lets his mouth tip up sideways, smirks like this is the part of the whole situation he finds truly unbelievable. “You’re going to come into my house,” he says, “uninvited, unannounced, and then you’re going to refuse to accept my hospitality? Rogers, what would your mother think?”

There’s a stall point in Roger’s stare, like watching a bird fly into a window. There’s a moment, right around the word mother, when those blue eyes blank out, and Tony’s just staring into empty space.

“She didn’t,” he says, and it’s fascinating. He’s stitching himself up right here at Tony’s dining table. Tony can practically see it happening, vertebrae stacking up, pulling him taunt like a needle tugging on a thread. “She never liked charity.”

Tony is familiar with pride. He has something of an overabundance himself, although he comes by it honestly. He knows hurt pride hates an audience, so he looks away.

“I imagine she hated the idea of you starving, too,” Tony says. “Probably worked very hard to make sure that didn’t happen. Going to waste all her work now, Rogers? Seems ungrateful.”

He’s half-taunting by the end of it. He’s not sure why. He finds weak points like a magnet finds iron. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s pulling on until after he’s accidentally ripped out someone’s heart. It’s not one of the traits he’s proud of, but, like his pride, he knows where it came from.

Rogers glares at him, but he hooks the next takeout container over anyway.

“I’ll get those shoes,” Tony says. JARVIS has already measured; Rhodey left some boots that should fit.

Steve doesn’t say anything, but, when Tony comes back, the money is gone, and so is he.

                                                           —

Tony doesn’t tell Fury a damn thing. If Fury lost a national icon, that’s his problem. And anyway, Tony’s still not completely convinced that the blonde who materialized in his penthouse was actually Steve Rogers and not some kind of really confused, really well-built homeless man. Or a stripper.

Tony’s never actually met a stripper who showed up in khakis, refused to disrobe, and then ate ten pounds of takeout before silently disappearing, but he’d be willing to pay another five hundred dollars for a repeat performance.

He figures out how the maybe-Steve got into his penthouse. He upgrades the security, but he tells JARVIS to let him in if he ever comes back. He’s not sure what he’s hoping for, but he’s too curious to lock him out.

                                                           —

There’s a bit of nothing that kicks off in New York, some Hammer tech that goes haywire. Tony puts it down like the cheap knockoff that it is, but he gets stuck in debrief with Phil Coulson afterwards, because he’s not quite quick enough to abandon the scene after the fight’s over. In his defense, he was holding a car above a partially-trapped bicyclist, and Coulson caught him before the EMTs could finish disentangling her.

He makes it back to the Tower after an hour of mostly-wasted time. Steve Rogers is sitting at his dining table. Tony bites back the ludicrous urge to “honey, I’m home!” him.

“Hey,” he says instead, as he steps in from the balcony, stripped down to the skintight suit he wears under the armor. He didn’t expect company. “You get something to eat?”

Steve seems somehow offended by the question. “I didn’t break in here and steal anything,” he says.

“Okay,” Tony says, moving past him. “Well, that’s a gold star and an empty stomach for you, Rogers. We’re all very proud.”

“It’s not my food,” Steve tells him. If he had hackles, they’d be raised. Tony wants to pat him on the head, but only because he’s always had a sort of neurotic tendency to see how hard people bite before he decides whether to trust them.

“Yeah, and a twenty-dollar grocery bill is really gonna break me,” Tony says. He takes a smoothie out of the freezer. “You want pizza? I’m gonna order pizza.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment before he shrugs. “I could eat,” he says.

“Great,” Tony says. He has JARVIS order three pizzas, because he wants at least half of one for himself, and Steve Rogers is a human garbage disposal.

Steve takes a shower while they’re waiting. He asks first, which Tony supposes is the polite thing to do, and he takes his backpack with him, like he’s worried Tony’s going to steal his wallet.

“You know,” Tony says, when Steve remerges, wearing another knockout set of some grandpa’s Goodwill khakis and button-down shirt, “you keep showing up like this, and it’s gonna get harder for me to lie to Fury about having no idea where you are.”

Steve flips open a pizza box and carefully selects a slice. His hair is wet and neatly combed back from his face. He’s handsome from a distance but damn near devastating at close range. Tony takes another bite of pizza, hopes it’ll help swallow back the urge to sink a few grand into war bonds.

“Fury’s the guy with the eyepatch?” Steve doesn’t settle into a seat. He takes his pizza and wanders over to the window, stares out at the skyline.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Tony says.

Steve makes a face. Tony can see it, dulled and faded, in the reflection on the glass. “He’s persistent,” he says, slowly. Not like it’s a compliment.

“Yeah,” Tony says, again, “that’s him.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else. Tony finishes his slice of pizza, eats another one. There’s an ache in his right shoulder from being wrenched around by Hammer’s ridiculous creation, and he should be icing it, but he doesn’t want to. Not with Steve Rogers here.

He’s never liked looking human in front of an audience. His problem has always been that he couldn’t figure out how to stop. At least, not until he built his armor.

Steve comes back when he’s out of pizza. He’s catlike in his wariness, in the way he seems pissed at Tony for daring to exist in his proximity.

“That fight,” he says, apropos of approximately nothing at all. “Earlier.”

“Oh,” Tony says, rising out of his chair and moving toward the bar, giving Steve the room to loom over the pizza like he’s defending his kill. “You see that on the news?”

“Saw it on the street,” Steve says. “Heard the screams.”

Heard the screams and came running. So he’s still in the hero business. Fury will be happy to hear it.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Steve tells him. He sounds angry about it. At Tony, not the situation. “Where’s your backup?”

“Backup,” Tony repeats. “Cap, c’mon. Read a newspaper. I work alone.”

Steve Rogers looks up from his pizza perusal just long enough to roll his eyes. It should feel like a slap across the face, and maybe it does. However it feels, Tony likes it. Wants more of it. There’s always been something grounding in being dismissed, like Tony’s never known where he stands until someone shows him how he doesn’t measure up.

“Is that supposed to be impressive?” Steve asks. “Men who work alone die alone, Stark. And they’re not very effective when they do.”

Tony knows he’s meant to be offended. He is, probably. But he couldn’t bite back his smile for anything. “I think I liked you better when you called me ‘Mr. Stark.’”

“Seems to me,” Steve says, “you want everyone to call you Iron Man these days.”

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Tony says, “surely they had that line about glass houses in the ‘40’s?”

Steve frowns at him. “I never asked anyone to call me Captain America.”

“And yet,” Tony says, tipping a bottle of whiskey his direction, “that’s how to introduced yourself to me.”

Steve gives him a look like he thinks Tony’s being deliberately obtuse. “That’s who I am,” he says.

Tony rolls his eyes and flips a tumbler right side up. “But when I start using a stage name,” he says, “suddenly I’m a narcissistic asshole who doesn’t--”

“Do you think,” Steve says, looming up suddenly, shifting gears like something mechanical, going battle-ready with more decisiveness than a faceplate clicking down, “that anybody spent years, spent—I don’t know. Millions of dollars? Do you think anybody did that for Steve Rogers?”

Tony’s caught wrong-footed. He did it again. Drilled until he found the nerve, cut until he broke the skin.

“I think you don’t get one without the other,” Tony says, trying now to soothe. But he’s not very good at it. His instincts don’t run this direction. His whole life, the only things he could ever repair were machines.

Steve shakes his head. He steps away from the pizza. He looks around, eyes zeroing in on his backpack.

“Stay here,” Tony says, sidling out from behind the bar, whiskey now in hand.

Steve straightens up like a cobra, like he’s going to spit venom in Tony’s face. Tony wants to put his mouth on him, which is probably only half because he’s always been hellbent on his own destruction. The other half is that Steve Rogers is beautiful like something made in a lab for aesthetics alone, carefully designed for universal appeal. Tony likes to tell himself he has a taste for the exclusive, but the reality has always been he wants exactly what everyone else does.

“You don’t want SHIELD to find you,” Tony says, “then stay here. Trust me, this is the last place they’d think to look.”

He’s not standing between Steve and the exit. He was careful about that. Whatever SHIELD might think about him, he doesn’t have a death wish. And also, when he’s thinking about it, he’s not usually deliberately an asshole. It’s just that, most of the time, he’s not thinking about it.

“Why should I trust you?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. Hell, he has no idea. “Why’d you come here? The first time. When SHIELD lost you, you came here. Why?”

“I went home,” Steve says, argumentative, all squared shoulders and tight jaw. “I went to Brooklyn. But it wasn’t there anymore. None of it was—I couldn’t find…”

He trails off, shakes his head, sharp and agitated, a horse bothered by a fly. It’s hard to look in his eyes. There’s something in them that Tony doesn’t want to see. It’s like watching a statue bleed.

“I heard there was still a Stark in New York,” Steve says. “I read about you. I thought maybe you’d--”

“You thought I’d be like Howard,” Tony finishes for him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I thought you’d be like me,” Steve says, which doesn’t make any sense at all.

“You,” Tony says. And then, a little helplessly, “What?”

Steve looks away. He shrugs, looks back. “I saw the suit,” he says. “On the news. I saw what it can do. I didn’t think--- things have advanced a lot. I didn’t understand. I thought Howard had…”

Tony squints at him. “You thought Howard did a Rebirth redux and tested it on his kid?”

“I thought a lot of things,” Steve says, snappy. “It was a very confusing couple of days.”

Tony can imagine that it was. “So you thought I was Rebirthed, and you wanted--”

“I didn’t want anything,” Steve says, and there’s that flash of exposed nerve again, that look like a sinkhole in the backs of his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Tony takes a sip of his whiskey. It settles, warm and sweet, into his stomach.

I didn’t want anything.

I shouldn’t be alive, unless it’s for a reason.

Tony holds the tumbler out. Steve needs the warmth more than he does. “Here,” he says.

Steve takes it, seemingly on reflex. “I can’t get drunk,” he says.

“Well,” Tony says, circling back toward the bar, “not with that attitude.”

[st4rlabsforever]

plant dads sam and bucky fic that absolutely no one asked for. you can read this as a one-shot but it’s part of a longer thing i’ll post on ao3 only when it’s complete. if you’re curious, this is what the pothos (heart-shaped leaves) looks like. the other plant is a crimson queen hoya. reposting for the evening crowd :)

It starts with a couple of houseplants in the corner of his living room. Sam doesn’t even notice them at first, nondescript as they are, hanging from one of the windows behind his couch. One of them has long, heart-shaped leaves with splashes of white over them while the other has waxy green leaves with white accents around the edges.

Huh.

He doesn’t think much of it initially – assumes Sarah wanted to liven up the space – but then he finds Bucky honest-to-god humming to himself one morning while tending to the plants with a bright blue watering can.

“So you’re a horticulturist now, huh?” Sam asks.

Bucky turns around with a little ‘oh’ under his breath and sleep still weighing heavy on his eyes. Sam tries not to pay attention to how cute he looks with his hair all sleep-tousled and unkempt.

“I like ‘em,” Bucky says softly. “Sarah said I could set up by the windows.”

“This a new thing?” Sam asks, feeling the heart-shaped leaves between the pads of his fingers. The plants are honestly a nice touch. “I didn’t know you were into houseplants.”

Bucky shrugs. “I had a lot of time in Wakanda. New hobbies, you know? Didn’t have much time in New York, but I figured now’s as good a time as any.”

There’s no trace of a frown or scowl or glare in the lines of Bucky’s face. This, combined with how soft he looks in his sweats and ratty t-shirt, makes it impossible to ignore just how young and unguarded Bucky is here. In Louisiana. In Sam’s home. It’s hard for Sam not to be struck by the domesticity of it all.

The thing is, though, that it’s such a far cry from normal that Sam’s really not sure how to process it. On the surface, he’s glad Bucky’s managed to carve out a slice of happiness for himself – the guy deserves it after all he’s been through. It’s just that this burgeoning friendship with Bucky is another thing to add to the list of sudden changes in his life that threatens to wash over him like a yawning tide.

And it’s taken Sam a minute to realize it, but he’s not the kind of person who necessarily does well with change. He’d been running through the motions after he’d lost Riley. Sure, he’d rolled with the punches just fine when Steve had come calling for help, running from HYDRA, then the U.S. government, even fighting for the fate of the universe, but he’d just been trading one problem for another. The Paul & Darlene for his wings, the failing family business for his fugitive status, not to mention his deteriorating relationship with Sarah and the boys for an intergalactic war with Thanos.

Nothing had been easy once he’d settled back down in Delacroix, but they’d been steady, is the thing. He’d had his contract with the Air Force and he’d known what he’d had to do to get the business back on its feet. It’d been a shitty hand he and Sarah had been dealt – had been for as long as they’d been alive – but Sam had been present. Finally with the resolve to deal with his issues head-on and prove to Sarah that he wouldn’t be disappearing again.

And then Germany happened. Madripoor, Riga, New York.

In the heat of battle, with the adrenaline pumping and the cameras rolling, it’d been easy to step fully into the title that came with the shield. Afterwards, though? When the celebrations are over and the high wears off, he’s left feeling jittery and uncertain. It’s not only the gaze of an entire country bearing down upon him, but the fear that he’s falling into old ways again. That whatever the stars and stripes have on the horizon for him will break this tenuous peace he finally has in Delacroix.

It occurs to him that maybe he deserves to have his cake and eat it, too. Just this once. He wonders what happiness would look like. How it would feel to successfully juggle his duties as Captain America with his commitments to his community and family. Maybe even start a family of his own one day.

And of course, there’s Bucky. Their friendship is undeniably different after the trials of the past month – the good kind of different. Yet it’s something precious that Sam can privately admit to himself he doesn’t want to lose, and in that sense it’s just another new thing he’s got to learn to navigate around.

For now, though, he can enjoy this quiet moment with Bucky when there’s no one but family around to scrutinize their every movement.

“You know,” Sam says lightly, “I’ve always wanted some houseplants. Seemed like the adult thing to do.” It’d never been possible before, what with him running from war to battle to catastrophe, but maybe now is as good a time as any for a fresh start.

Bucky’s eyes light up like a pair of firecrackers, bright and eager and excited, and it leaves Sam reeling in the humanity of it. He’s not sure there’s anyone alive right now who’s ever seen Bucky like this.

“Here,” Bucky says, pulling a pair of small garden shears out of God knows where and beginning to cut up a vine on the heart-shaped plant. “This one’s called a pothos. Marble queen pothos.”

He holds up one of the cuttings for Sam to inspect. “See the little green nub on the stem?”

Sam dutifully moves in closer for a better look.

“That’s a node. As long as you’ve got one of ‘em on a cutting, it’ll grow a brand new plant from there.”

“Huh. That’s neat.”

“The white marbling is actually a genetic mutation,” Bucky continues. His voice is raspy from sleep, and him being a geek about plants of all things shouldn’t be so endearing, but it is. “So you need to have the white streaks over the node if you want the marbling to continue.”

“What’re these little growths next to the node?” Sam asks.

“Oh,” Bucky says with a little huff of excitement. “Those are aerial roots. In the wild, the plants use ‘em to anchor to trees and grow above the tree cover, but in soil they’ll just become the new root system for the cutting.”

“Man, what the hell,” Sam says, laughing.

“What?”

“How is this the first I’m learning of your green thumb?”

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me,” Bucky says, but there’s no heat behind it. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve had time for hobbies since getting de-iced.”

Sam snorts. That was the truth, wasn’t it?

“Can you get the potting mix?” Bucky asks. “I put it in the storage closet.”

He’s already puttering around with an old takeout container while Sam heads over to get the soil. It should probably be a little more jarring to Sam that Bucky’s only been here for a week and he’s already populated the little closet with an array of gardening tools. There’s the bag of potting mix, a sack of dusty white pebbles labeled ‘horticultural perlite’, more pruning shears, and a large assortment of plastic and clay pots. When had Bucky even had the time to get all of this?

He returns with the mix and wordlessly passes it to Bucky, who fills in the plastic container with the soil, sticks the little cuttings right in, and hands the whole thing over to Sam.

“It’s yours,” Bucky says with an air of satisfaction. “Once the cuttings begin to root, they’ll grow new leaves. You just gotta keep the soil moist for the first couple of weeks.”

“You know I don't know the first thing about plants, right?” Sam says, amused.

“That’s what you’ve got me for.” Bucky flashes him a blinding grin. It’s the kind of declaration that should feel more significant than it actually does in the moment.

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you’ve got south-facing windows, more like. Can’t really get this in New York without all the high rises blocking out the sun.”

Right. Sam enjoys city life as much as the next guy, but nothing beats the full warmth of the Louisiana sun.

“I’d water them every other day to start, and we can adjust from there,” Bucky says, nodding at the new plant in Sam’s hands.

We. Sam can’t say he’s as enthusiastic as Bucky about growing houseplants from scratch, but he does like the idea of the two of them having a project that’s just for them. And there’s something just a little poetic about spawning new life from practically nothing. A new beginning to go along with their new friendship – this new chapter of both of their lives. Sam could get behind that. He sets a reminder on his phone so he doesn’t forget to water the pothos.

[vivithefolle]

Not sure if you already talked about this. (I’m pretty sure you have) but someone seemed to notice that when the trio get into fights, Hermione’s always in the right. Even when she’s supposed to be wrong she always seems to be half right. That kind of bothers me. Especially since it’s evident in the whole Scabbers situation.

I have indeed, on Quora, so let’s move yet another answer of mine to Tumblr!

Hermione is seldom wrong in the Harry Potter books. Sometimes she makes mistakes but those mistakes are either completely swept under the rug or downright ignored.

It’s partly due to lazy writing and partly due to Rowling’s own growing bias in favour of her Author Avatar that was fuelled by Steve Kloves, the primary advocate of the Hermione Granger Is The Perfect Girl Ever line of thinking (an utterly ridiculous line of thinking mind you).

Lizo: Steve, Hermione is a character that you have said is one of your favorites. Has that made her easier to write?

Steve: Yeah, I mean, I like writing all three, but I've always loved writing Hermione. Because, I just, one, she's a tremendous character for a lot of reasons for a writer, which also is she can carry exposition in a wonderful way because you just assume she read it in a book. If I need to tell the audience something...

JKR: Absolutely right, I find that all the time in the book, if you need to tell your readers something just put it in her. There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue. One is Hermione, the other is Dumbledore. In both cases you accept, it's plausible that they have, well Dumbledore knows pretty much everything anyway, but that Hermione has read it somewhere. So, she's handy.

Now this, right here, is the exact core of the problem.

Rowling herself admits it: if she wants the readers to have information, she puts Hermione in the scene. Hermione is our primary means of exposition because, like *grits teeth* Sssssteve puts it, it’s easy to assume that she’s read about it somewhere and it makes sense.

That’s all well and good but at first, if you notice, Ron also gave us exposition about the wizarding world, mostly about its culture. He was able to recall the exact year of the Wizarding Confederation that outlawed dragon breeding in Philosopher’s Stone! He explained what were respectively a “Mudblood”, a “Squib”, and Parseltongue, Hermione doing a little exposition about the history of that last one! He was also able to identify Sirius, after being dragged into the Whomping Willow, as an Animagi!

But then Goblet of Fire happens and you can notice the first change that will exponentially grow through the books: instead of Ron, pureblood Ron, born-before-the-end-of-the-war Ron, lived-through-the-aftermath-of-the-war Ron, identifying the Dark Mark, it’s instead Hermione, muggleborn Hermione, lived-as-a-Muggle-for-most-of-her-life Hermione, has-no-idea-about-the-emotional-impact-of-the-Mark Hermione who looks terrified as the Dark Mark shoots into the sky!

And it only will get worse, by the end of the series, Hermione pretty much knows about everything the plot needs her to know, instead of having to work with things she knows but can’t always apply to the situation:

Suddenly has a deep knowledge of Magical Law (in the will of Dumbledore’s chapter, while we had Rufus Scrimgeour who could have provided it to us, or to a lesser extent, Ron could have explained how a wizarding will basically worked)

Is suddenly an expert at finding edible plants and mushrooms. Apparently books are always the goddamn answer in JKR’s world, you can literally learn anything from them

She can decipher all the Tales of Beedle the Bard (may I remind you that they were written in Runes, okay Hermione may have a few years of Ancient Runes education BUT I once tried to translate a 3k+ story I had written for fun, from French to English, which means I knew what the subtleties and intentions were, I knew which turns of phrase I had to preserve so it would make sense in the end, and it still took me two gruelling weeks to get a satisfying result!)

Has suddenly grown a sense of quick-thinking (escaping Xenophilius’ house, using the jinx to make Harry’s face weird-looking) despite it being the only remaining flaw she had at the time (remember when she turned her back on her enemy while he was still conscious just to compliment Harry, and almost died as a result, even though she had been training in the DA to learn how to fight Death Eaters?) Quick-thinking under pressure can be learned, but it takes time and a lot of work to force your brain to override its instinct - and it’s fine because we’re all human and different. But no suddenly Hermione is the Greatest Strategist Evah™ and those silly boys (who actually were the original quick-thinking ones, and one of them was established as the strategist early on) better be grateful for this literal goddess because she protects them from all harm with her superhuman brain.

Somehow knows about Quidditch stuff - she knows about a Snitch’s “memory-touch”. Why should she give all the answers? Why can’t Ron give us this particular tidbit of information?

And then when we come to something Ron actually knows, the damn narration itself goes “woah a book that Ron has read but Hermione hasn’t??? shocking!! incredible!! Ron is not dumb, somebody call the news channel”. But… is that really so surprising? We’ve never seen Hermione read wizarding fiction or even Muggle fiction. We’ve never seen Hermione with anything other than schoolbooks in her hands. Of course Ron has read books she hasn’t read since she doesn’t seem to read fiction at all!

Sorry, bit of a tangent over here.

There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue.

So, that’s one part of the problem: the fact that Rowling, after making Ron our insight into magical culture and Hermione our provider of knowledge, ended up saying “eh whatever I guess Hermione can tell us everything we gotta know because it’s more convenient for me”. Which is a decision that was not based on Hermione’s character, but simply lazy writing. Long story short, it probably went: “Could Ron explain this bit of trivia? Meh, better make Hermione say it cause she’ll have read it in a book. It’s convenient and I won’t need to bother myself with exploring Ron’s characterisation.”

(And thus completely forgetting that Ron could maybe ask his big brothers via owl and provide us with a good heap of extra advanced knowledge - Bill is supposed to have aced his NEWTs after all.)

The other part of the problem is quite simply that Hermione is more often than not, either painted as a victim by the narrative (which makes more people take her side, classic manipulation tactic), or made to be right anytime it’s about a plot point.

Hermione’s mistakes are never explicitly stated, corrected, or even pointed out as being unethical.

Hermione only gets one mistake expressedly pointed out as being a mistake: her misadventure in Polyjuice Potion. The rest of them? Even her crush on Lockhart can’t be counted as a mistake - people get crushes all the time, based solely on physical appearance, it’s not something awful or terrible (Except when it’s Ron who crushes on someone. Ron crushing on someone is absolutely forbidden, and he must be punished with much ridicule and humiliation if he thinks he can get away with not worshipping Hermione like the goddess she is. The nerve of him, really.).

Throughout the books Hermione eventually morphs into Rowling’s Powerful Angel of Vengeance, that punishes the people who dared to do something she disliked - Rita is silenced but at a very ethically dubious price; Marietta gets scarred for life because she was more loyal to her mother than to a bunch of people her friend insisted she hang out with; Umbridge is led to a very, very alarming fate that is never made clear but some people have ideas and they’re not all very kid-friendly; Ron first is “helped” without knowing it because Hermione can’t be bothered to have faith in his capabilities, then when he fails to dutifully reward her for “helping” him, she causes him bodily harm before actively bullying him for not mind-reading her interest in him; causes even more bodily harm to Ron because that’s how feminism works; etc.

Hermione’s mistakes are always justified through the plot itself (which is lazy writing).

Turning into a cat? Only affects her.

The Firebolt? Scabbers? Well, in the end, it was really sent by Sirius Black and Crookshanks really wasn’t the culprit. Therefore all the feelings that were hurt and all the trust lost are irrelevant because Hermione was right all along.

Trying to free the house-elves? Well, it’s the intent that counts, right? And we’re never told enough about house-elf lore to know whether they’re poor brainwashed victims or powerful Penate-like symbiotes who need to serve a wizard to survive?

Kidnapping Rita Skeeter, trapping her and blackmailing her? Rita may be one foul little beetle, but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Harry approves? Oh, well, I guess it’s okay then…? A main character can’t have a dubious morality, right?

Manipulating Harry into forming Dumbledore’s Army and forcing him to relive a traumatic event with the same woman she’s kidnapped and blackmail and that she knows he hates? In the end, it all works out for the best and Harry’s hurt feelings don’t matter since it’s all about the greater good.

Using the centaurs to get rid of Umbridge (which poses the highly distressing question of what did the centaurs do to her?), realizing that the centaurs aren’t nice little horsies that are going to gently obey her every orders like good Disney princess’ companions, my goodness could this be an opportunity for character growth - nevermind, here comes Grawp the Giant Ex Machina, saving her arse and protecting Hermione from all that scary possibility of introspection. Thanks, Grawp Ex Machina.

Trying to dissuade a highly stressed-out and irrational Harry from rescuing Sirius by telling him exactly what he needed not to hear, a.k.a. “you have a saving people-thing” which causes Harry to completely go bonkers and go save his godfather without thinking twice? Well she was right after all, it was a trap! Nevermind how mind-boggingly insenstive and inadept at dealing with someone else’s feelings she was being, she was right! That means it wasn’t Hermione’s mistake!… probably. (Geez, I’m sensing a pattern here…)

Endangering Cormac’s life (Confunding him WHILE HE’S ON HIS BROOM) to promote Ron’s success? Oh but that’s so romantic! (Yeaaaah, how romantic to display exactly how much faith you lack in your crush. Top it off with a broken neck and that’s a picture perfect first date!)

Assaulting Ron with magic and causing him even more scars than he already had? But he was being cold with her first, right? And he totally should have known she was asking him out! It’s not like her invitation was even worse than his attempt to ask her out two years earlier! Plus she’s just a teenage girl expressing her emotions, anyone who tries to find fault in this is a disgusting abusive misogynist pig! Ha!

Getting all jealous that Harry is better than her at Potions, then pretending she’s not jealous by claiming that TEH BOOK IS EVIL, HARRY, and giving him the cold shoulder too? But no, she’s right, look, Harry used Sectumsempra and he almost killed Draco, nevermind that he’s very horrified about it! Hermione was right, like she always is!

Hermione Obliviating her parents, which pulls her from the “ethically dubious” zone into the “wow okay I’m pretty sure that this counts as a violation of basic human rights” zone, makes her one of those quirky wizardfolk who have the privilege to control those simple-minded Muggles because it’s for the greater good? But nooo she’s crying about it so it’s obviously very sad and angsty and it shows her devotion to the cause!

Splinching Ron while fleeing from the Ministry? Eeeh, but he’s fine, they’ve got Dittany, he’s good as new!… blood loss? Anaemia? What’s that?

Hermione was wrong about the Deathly Hallows not existing? Um, um, that doesn’t matter, LOOK DOBBY IS DEAD AND HARRY IS BACK TO LOOKING FOR THE HORCRUXES!! Therefore Hermione was right, the Hallows weren’t important for their quest, therefore the Hallows might as well not exist, HERMIONE WAS RIGHT NO REALLY I’VE GOT RECEIPTS -

The books never forget to remind Harry and Ron of their own shortcomings and moments of weakness.

Harry’s wrath and recklessness cost Sirius his life. This is the lesson he has to learn from his entitled behaviour in OotP: actions have consequences, and the greater your responsibility, the greater the cost will be.

Ron’s envy and insecurity lead him astray; they’re used to humiliate, ridicule and torture him throughout the books. They’re supposed to teach him that he’s worth something - but how is he supposed to believe that, when nobody ever tells him he’s worth anything? When nobody ever apologizes to him? When his feelings are taken for granted over and over? When his two friends seem to discard him whenever he does one thing wrong?

Hermione is never punished. Hermione is never said to be wrong, never shown to be wrong, never called out on her behaviour. From Prisoner of Azkaban to mid-Deathly Hallows, she stays exactly the same character. She doesn’t grow up. She doesn’t learn. She doesn’t change. She has virtually no character arc.

The only time, THE ONLY TIME IN SEVEN BOOKS, the only time we have something remotely resembling a call-out of Hermione’s horrible behaviour is with this sole quote in HBP:

Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.

Note how it’s about “girls” and not Hermione in particular, which implies that any girl would do what Hermione does to Ron. Thanks for the generalization, JKR, but I like to believe I’m actually a decent sort of person that doesn’t resort to petty cruelty and exploits my friends’ insecurities whenever I’m angry with them.

Hermione NEVER has to apologize. Hermione NEVER has to learn from her mistakes because she’s always presented as a victim when she really isn’t. Hermione NEVER develops into something more - she’s emotionally stuck at fourteen years old. Even less than that when you consider that her reaction to Ron’s return in Deathly Hallows is to trash him with her fists - and she was going to get her wand!! The utter psychopathic b- wanted TO THROW BIRDS AT HIM AGAIN!!! - and this reaction is an appropriate one for a four-years old girl, but certainly not for a supposedly “mature” seventeen-years old.

(Yes, because what separates a child from an adult is the ability to reign in your emotions and not succumb to your impulses. Exactly what Ron did when he left the tent (notice that he had drawn his wand, then he left before he could start hexing Harry), he left to calm himself down. Exactly what Hermione fails to do when Ron returns (she has the impulse to strike him and immediately succumbs to it, which proves to us that The Brightest Witch Of Her Age has all the maturity of a very small child).)

All of that, on top of the awful portrayal in the movies which removes all of Ron’s characteristics to stuff them into Hermione and turns her into some impossible epitome of perfection, eventually contributed to the portrayal of Hermione as the one who is always right and knows everything.

Add to it JKR’s own ridiculous bias (“Ron was quite emotionally immature compared to the other two”, yeah right I don’t see him trying to force freedom onto unwilling creatures or making Harry fly into an irrational rage with mere words but you do you, Jo) and the sexist misconception that “girls are innately more mature than boys”, and you get yourself this apparent behemoth of righteousness that was literally the sole reason why those two silly boys survived everything, and don’t you dare criticize this angel of perfection OR ELSE.

[blu-eh]

Prompt request if your up to it (kinda specific idk how I came up with it). You know the idea that Peter steals the Avenger's food when they don't yet know who he is? I was thinking if he were ever stealing Thor's poptarts (or whatever other food) and Thor decided to put Mjolnir on top, maybe record footage of it at night, and Peter is half asleep while moving the hammer and taking the pop tarts leaving everyone watching him super confused at the whole situation. Weird I know but I thought this could be super funny, do with it what you'd like.

as per what I usually do with prompts: I took this and then ran with it in the opposite direction. messy & unedited ofc

“I know the hazing rituals for the Avengers would probably be a ride or die but this is just ridiculous,” Peter says.  

“It’s punishment,” Mr. Stark tells him. 

All in all, it’s pretty terrible punishment. Peter had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—or the poptart box, in this very specific case—no less than three times in the past mouth which, yeah. Peter can’t really say he was the best at sneaking around but, to be fair, it wasn’t like he knew the poptarts were Thor’s specifically. 

Following a very important Avengers level meeting that involved the entire team, the conclusion to protect Thor’s poptarts was not to write his name on them like any sensible person but instead to take his very large and very magical hammer and leave it on a box of poptarts so Peter could no longer access them. 

Which is the exact scene that Peter Parker walked into on that early Sunday morning after taking a car to the side and getting smashed around by the lizard. Devastated seems a little dramatic to describe the feelings Peter experienced upon realization, but there had been nothing he’d been looking to more than taking a poptart and possibly a nap. And as cool as it is to see Thor’s hammer up close, it’s currently in the way of Peter’s very important weekend cooldown that usually involves some tasty preserved parties and a bed. 

Now that won’t happen because the Avengers put Thor’s hammer on said box of poptarts. 

Still. You would think the Avengers would be more creative in their Anti-Spider-Man Stealing Mechanisms. 

Peter tells Mr. Stark as much. 

“Doesn’t need to be creative if it works,” Mr. Stark says which is more than a little hypocritical considering Mr. Stark takes the word creative to the extreme on a good day. “It’s stopping you right now, isn’t it?” 

Peter sighs with all of the exasperation of a super-powered teenager who hasn’t had food in at least two hours and a truck load of determination to spare, rolls up his nonexistent sleeves on his t-shirt, and says, “Okay. No one can say I don’t like challenges.”

 - 

“If you can put Thor’s hammer in an elevator and the elevator still moves up, then we’re working on the assumption that the hammer is only heavy when something interacts with it so—hey, Mr. Stark, could one of your suits lift it?” 

“Not with me in it,” Mr. Stark says. 

The rest of the Avengers had taken to watching Peter try and figure out the like it was some 90s soap opera—which is to say, they have been absolutely invested since the moment that Peter started writing on the whiteboard and pacing around the common room. 

“He’s still going at this?” Mr. Steve whispers to Ms. Nat. 

“He hasn’t stopped since he came here,” Ms. Nat says right back. 

Peter dutifully ignores outside conversations and scribbles his notes on the Avengers- approved whiteboard that he’d dug out of Mr. Stark’s lab for the sole purpose of trying to figure out how to free a box of poptarts from a magic hammer. “Yeah, you’re not worthy so you wouldn’t be able to lift it—”

“Thank you for the reminder, Underroos.” 

“But I’m talking about like, if it were just the suit. Hey, would FRIDAY be worthy? Could she drive a suit and lift the hammer? She’s not technically alive so maybe…Never mind, we’ll test that later. Would something like a pulley work? If I’m not directly lifting it, would that still influence the magic still? Dr. Banner, what do you think?”

“Truthfully, I have no opinion on this, Peter,” Dr. Banner says.  

“I think,” Sam says. “That you are putting way too much thought into a magic hammer.” 

“A magic hammer that’s on my food.” 

“It’s Thor’s,” Sam says. “Not yours.” 

“That hammer? I figured that was pretty obvious.” 

“Sam looks two seconds away from lunging and wringing Peter’s neck. He takes a deep breath and says, “No. The food.” 

“Minor detail,” Peter says. “Hey, do you think—”

 -

Clint whistles. “Impressive.”

Sam’s got that mom-friend worrying look in his eyes and a hand on his cellphone already to dial emergency services or, worse, Peter’s aunt. “Is that…is that going to work?” 

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Peter says. 

‘That’ is a cumulation of nuts and pipes and bolts and various scrap metal that Peter has managed to scrape up and put together in the last two hours. It towers over the living area and into the kitchen. A roller coaster of science, compacted down into a Rube Goldberg constructed out of more than a couple thousand dollars of junk pieces and starts with a single marble that’s no bigger than a quarter. 

Peter’s done a look of cool stuff in his two years of Avengering—missions, messing around in Mr. Stark’s lab, working on top secret projects for an even more top secret government—but he’s not quite sure anything lives up to this masterful creation. 

Mr. Steve and Mr. Stark are off to the side with the rest of the Avengers who cared enough to watch him construct everything after the five hour mark. Mr. Steve leans over to Mr. Stark and whispers, almost too quiet for Peter to hear, “Should you stop him?”

“The good mentor slash guardian thing would be to stop him,” Mr. Stark says right back. “But at this point, I’m invested so no.” 

That’s about as good of permission as Peter’s ever going to get so he takes the first step and drops the marble into a pipe. From there, it moves through wood pieces, metal sculpted into ramps and tunnels and pulleys until it’s caused a cascade of reactions. It takes a solid three minutes before it nears the end and Peter can only wait with baited breath and the whole mechanism comes to a valiant conclusion and the last piece slams into the hammer and…

The hammer doesn’t move. 

Sam doesn’t even bother hiding his laugh. “Better luck next time, spider-kid.” 

Clint shrugs. “It was a good effort.” 

In science, it’s not uncommon for things not to work. Peter’s had his fair share of exploding inventions, spider webs in his face, and code that doesn’t run. It still doesn’t prepare him for the crushing disappointment that he feels upon seeing that magic hammer still sitting on a box of poptarts that he so desperately wants to free.

At this point, it’s not even about the food anymore. Peter’s too invested to not see this through some way or another. 

So he starts building and tries it again. And again. And again. 

By the time night had fallen and the starts were covered by light pollution in the heart of New York, Peter’s no closer to those poptarts than he was during the early afternoon. The rest of the Avengers had lost interest at this point—content to longue around the lobby with a movie playing in the background and an ear peeled just to make sure Peter hasn’t accidently injured himself yet. 

Eventually, Mr. Stark wanders back into the room and knocks on the wall. When Peter looks up, Mr. Stark says, “Alright, Underoors, it’s bed time.” 

“But I’m not done,” Peter says. “I’m so close, Mr. Stark!”

Mr. Stark takes in the scattered pieces of junk and the hammer still sitting atop the poptart box, unscaved and unmoved. “Uh huh. Right. Well, I’m sure it will still be there next time you stop by but it’s a school night and I don’t want to face your aunt’s wrath if I bring you home too late.” 

“But…” 

“I am sure you can thwart the poptart box some other time,” Mr. Stark says which is really just the tipping point for this entire situation. 

By the end of it, Peter’s so frustrated the he goes to yank the poptart box out from under the hammer itself, damned if the poptarts get crushed, ripped, or otherwise destroyed in the process. He puts one hand on the hammer and one hand on the box and just pulls.

It’s not the poptart box that comes loose. 

There’s a hammer in his hand that hadn’t been there before, lightweight in a way that made Peter think he had been holding a piece of paper and not an extremely destructive magic weapon. The room around him goes so quiet that a pen could be dropped and the echo would be heard all the way down the hall. 

“Oh,” Peter says. “Huh.” 

“He did not just do that,” Sam says. “Please tell me the fourteen year old did not just do that.”

Peter pivots on his heel and points the hammer at him. “I’m sixteen.” 

The rest of the Avengers are looking at him in a way that Peter can’t quite really describe in a totality. Dr. Banner has a hand over his mouth, Clint’s jaw is about as close to the ground as it can be, Ms. Nat looks somewhat amused but there’s something else there—Peter’s not fantastic at reading expressions and even less fantastic when it’s reading expressions of a superspy so he doesn’t even try there. Mr. Stark looks a bit more exasperated than surprised but it’s that exasperation when you think your kid can’t do something and are pleasantly surprised to see them succeed. Mr. Steve is standing, white-knuckled grip on the couch’s arm and eyes wide in an expression of shock that Peter’s never really seen on him before.

Peter’s surprised the Avengers a handful of times but he thinks, with the hammer in his hands and the poptart box freed, that this is situation is the best. 

“I think,” Mr. Stark says in the same tone voice he always has when he’s trying to take control of a situation where he has very little control in. “That we need Thor. Right now.” 

[dragoqueen]

Whoops! Wrong Way 3/8

Summary: Peter has been living at Avengers Tower for 2 years, known to the workers and Avengers as Peter Parker-Stark-Rogers.  When his teacher announces that they're going on a field trip to Avengers Tower, or SI,  he's going to have to attempt to survive a day of embarrassment and keeping a secret identity.

Words: 2023

And here it was, the day of his death. The day of his misery. The day all his worst nightmares would come true. Friday... the field trip.

He had done all he could to convince each and every avenger to not mess with him. He got positive answers from Bruce, Steve, and Thor. However, he was going to have to deal with the rest in any way he could. He had tried to figure out their plan, knowing that they stayed up at night to plan his demise. However, he couldn't figure out a single thing. He had the bright idea to try and figure out what they were doing when he arrived by asking FRIDAY but until then he was doomed.

Tony woke him up an extra 30 minutes earlier than he usually did, not wanting Peter to be late for the field trip. The only good thing he had gotten out of it was that Bucky and Steve had gotten up early too to cook him a smorgasbord of food. He quickly scarfed down enough food to last him the beginning of the day before changing into his outfit and meeting Happy downstairs to get a ride to school.

Somehow, despite getting up early and getting a ride with Happy instead of walking, he was almost late. Almost. He made sure to spend extra long eating his food in hope that he would miss the bus and the school would just make him attend normal classes. Unfortunately, he was just in time to get on the bus and clamber to the back where Ned and MJ were sitting. Sadly, Flash wasn't too far from them either which made the ride to the tower, which he had planned on spending sulking and dying inside, worse.

Flash spent the entirety of the bus ride making jokes of Peter and insulting him. Most of them were intern-related, reminding Peter how he "didn't have an actual internship at Stark Industries" and "wasn't even smart enough to get an internship even at McDonalds". Luckily, before Peter knew it, they had arrived at the tower and the teacher was trying to keep them quiet so he could go check them in and make sure everything was ready.

Then, he got them out of the bus and lined them up in the lobby of the tower for their tour guide to explain the rules to them and hand out their badges. "Alright everyone. I'm Mars and I'm going to be your tour guide today. First, I know you all signed NDA's so please remember anything that happens in this tower that could be secretive you will be forced not to tell anyone or risk getting sued and, let me tell you, we have some very good lawyers. Speaking of the NDA, we are also going to have to confiscate your phones so we don't have you taking pictures or recording things. So I'm going to come by and hold out a basket I expect you to all place your phones in." Mars began walking down the row of children, having them all drop their phones in. when he got to the back where Ned, Peter, and MJ were, he just smiled at them and walked away, having already recognized them and knew that they were authorized to have their phones. Then, he returned to the front of the line where he placed the basket on the counter of the security desk and resumed his place at the front of the line.

"Now, first up on our tour is the Avengers museum. There are all of the first, fails, and worthy achievements of the Avengers. Everything from suits to fun facts can be found there. You will have 45 minutes to wander around before we head up to the intern labs so no dilly-dallying. However, first you're going to have to go through these scanners and scan your badge. For example..." Mars walks to the metal archway and scans his lanyard on the scanner before stepping through. The voice of FRIDAY spooks everyone except for Mars, Peter, MJ, and Ned, "Mars Bars, level 4, access limited."

"What the heck was that?" Cindy asks.

"That was FRIDAY. She's an AI that Tony built, she basically runs this building. But, back on track. Who's next?"

"Me!" Flash shouts, pushing his way to the front and scanning his lanyard before walking through, smug and confident that he was first.

"Eugene Thompson, Level 1, access very limited."

Flash smirks at his name being said by something that Tony Stark created. He walks forward to stand next to Mars while his next classmate goes. One by one, each of the students scan and walk through for Friday to announce their name and the same level and access type. Up until it was MJ's turn. She did the same as all of her other classmates, scanning her lanyard and then stepping through the metal archway but this time FRIDAY announces, "Michelle Jones, "Boss Girl" level 9, full access. Should I alert Scary Girl or Ms. Potts of your arrival?"

"No, that's okay FRIDAY. I'm on a field trip."

"Okay, have a good time." FRIDAY responds, causing everyone to stare at MJ in surprise. She just smirked before returning to her normal glare and stepped into the cluster of kids. Next was Ned, "Ned Leeds, "that one annoying hacker kid" level 9, full access. Shall I alert Science Bro #2 of your arrival?"

"No, FRIDAY. Bruce knows I'm on a field trip. Thanks though."

"Enjoy your time." FRIDAY answers.

Same procedure. The entire class stares at Ned in wonder and confusion. He blushes in response to the sudden attention and takes his spot in the cluster next to MJ. Last in line was Peter. He had been fearing this moment, knowing that he had the highest level in the tower, next to the other Avengers. Plus his nickname from Tony and Clint was sure to cause some questions to arise. However, dutifully, he stepped up and scanned his lanyard and stepped through. "Peter Parker, "Mini-Stark" level 10, full access. Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark of your arrival?"

"No! I mean... no that's alright FRIDAY. He probably knows I'm here anyways."

"Enjoy your trip, Peter."

He inwardly groans at the fact that she called him Mini-Stark, but was happy she had called him Peter Parker, rather than Peter Parker-Stark-Rogers. Tony must have cared somewhat of Peter's confidentiality if he changed that. He ignores the stares from his classmates and the smirk from Mars as he joins MJ and Ned in the middle of the group. "Alright, continuing with the tour if you will all join me in this elevator we will go up to the Avengers museum,"

While they all walk over to the elevator and begin piling into the cramped space. When Peter's in, Mars asks FRIDAY to take them up to the 12th floor where the Avengers museum was. Flash leans over and whispers into Peter's ear, "hey, Penis, how'd you manage to hack the AI to make it seem like you and your nerd friends have such a high access? We all know you're lying so just give up." Peter sighs and doesn't say anything, opting to move out of reach of Flash so that MJ is blocking them.

A/N:

For the sake of my sanity let's assume it's a big and strong elevator that holds all like 25-30 of his class okay? Thanks y'all

The door opens to the museum and the class spills out and begins exploring all of the corners of the museum. Each section was dedicated to a specific Avenger. The kids who wanted a more in depth explanation of things stayed by Mars who was walking around and giving his little "tour guide spiel" about the museum. Peter, MJ, and Ned, who had already explored the museum many times, walked around leisurely to explore different things that appeared to have been updated since the last time they were here.

At one point, Ned dragged Peter excitedly to a new section where Tony had added in a Spider-Man section. Peter observed the information happily...

" 1. Spider-Man prefers hanging from the wall than standing on the floor

2. Spider-Man's favorite snack is gummies.

3. Spider-Man is deathly afraid of spiders. "

"Dude, you're afraid of spiders? How?"

"First of all, shut it. Second, just because I have spider-like powers doesn't mean I like the creature. They're freaky."

Ned just laughs and continues to explore the exhibit. Peter looks over the things and makes a mental note to thank his dads later. The things included in it were incredible, a plaque with the phrase, "with great power comes great responsibility." And referencing his Uncle Ben. His first suit was also in a display case along with some of his old web fluid and a physical design of his webs that wouldn't disintegrate.

Suddenly, he felt an eerie presence provided by his Spidey Sense. He looked around the room, trying to detect where the threat warning could be coming from. Flash and his goons were all in a different section so it definitely wasn't them. And no one else was really around that could be threatening. Just then, he got a warning that someone was going to be coming out of the vents in 3... 2... 1... he stepped out of the way just in time to watch Clint fall out of the vents and crumple onto the ground. Then he jumps right up as if nothing had happened and smiles at Peter. (A/N: Clint was the imposter)

"Clint what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to embarrass you. But also Bucky made cookies this morning and Morgan threatened to take away my venting privileges if I didn't bring any to you."

"And you got scared of a 6 year old because... why?"

"She's scary. Also she has Wanda and Pepper on her side."

"Ooh, yeah. You'd better watch out for that. But, Bucky made cookies? Gimme."

Clint grins and reaches into his pocket to grab a cookie that's wrapped in a plastic bag. It's a triple chocolate cookie with extra chocolate chunks. The cookie is still warm so Peter can only assume it came out of the oven moments before. He takes a bite into it and it almost melts in his mouth. He lets out a sigh of comfort and tucks the cookie, in the plastic bag, into his pocket.

By this time someone had noticed that The Hawkeye was here and had shouted to the rest of the group. A crowd had gathered around him and were all shouting questions.

"What's your favorite thing about being an Avenger?"

"Whos' the scariest Avenger?"

"How do you know Pen- Peter?"

Peter cringes at the last one. He's sure Clint hears it and his suspicions are only confirmed when Clint's casual smile disappears and he turns to glare at Flash. "What did you call Peter?"

"I- uh.. I called him Peter, sir."

"Is that right? Mmh... you better watch yourself kid. And you'll have time to ask questions at the Q & A at the end of the tour with some of the other Avengers."

"Uh... Q & A? That's not on the list of things to do." Mars comments, having migrated over to where the crowd of kids had formed.

"One of your co-workers will inform you of the change in schedule during lunch. Don't worry, it was pre-approved by Tony."

"Mr. Stark? Oh, well... okay cool. Anyways, I think it's time Mr. Barton has to go. After all, we have to continue on with our tour as our 45 minutes are up. Everyone say bye to him."

A majority of goodbyes are shouted out, along with quite a few phone numbers. Clint gives them a mock salute before jumping back in the vents and crawling off to who knows where. Peter only calms down when his heightened senses are no-longer able to hear Clint clambering through the vents. Mars leads them all into the elevator and the doors slide shut, taking them up to their next destination, the intern labs.