#do you know how often tony has blue eyes in comics?? it's like one time out of two

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

not me waking up a billion years later to yell at everyone and everything because THEY GAVE TONY BLUE EYES IN WHAT IF SEASON 2???? WHAT?????

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

ARE YOU KIDDING ME

they had it right in the first season too what HAPPENED

like,,,, why?????? why would you get it right and then go back on it like you're a cheap comic book run??

does this guy ↓↓↓↓ look like he has blue eyes to you???

colourism is one hell of a drug and disney is snorting it with both nostrils wide open

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - August 28th

Happy Sunday!! Here’s what I read this week. Be sure to leave your author a comment or kudos if you enjoy a story! 

***Marks my recent favorites 

~*~ 

***break the chain (can't live in circles again) by orphan_account 

There had been seven amazing weeks of dating Steve Rogers before Tony realised that they weren’t dating at all. And then it was a scramble to adjust to the situation as it had always been: being Steve’s friend-with-benefits.

And if Steve seemed a little confused and bewildered by the way Tony was acting, well. Tony was probably just misreading that, too.

Hiraeth by sabrecmc

"Do you believe the universe fights for souls to be together?" Tony asked, trying to keep his voice steady and tell himself the answer wasn't everything.

it should follow, you know this (like the panels of a comic strip) by gyzym

Four, eleven, fifteen, twenty-one, thirty-six, forty, as old as he's always been, too young, and everyone knows Tony Stark.

Cause Baby I'm a Fool by SuperstringSymphony

“Oh yes, you have uncovered my terrible plan; spoiling you rotten and keeping you all to myself.” The sound of Tony's bright laughter rings through the room. It's such a good sound, one he wished happened more often. Tony kisses his neck, toying with the tiny white buttons of Steve's pajama shirt. Just the clever brush of his fingers there, popping a few open and then slipping in against his skin makes him shiver. “Mmm, what do you think? Would you like to stay in bed all day, because I have something you might be quite interested in trying.” Tony's hand is so warm against his chest, sending thrilling trails of sensation down his spine-that it takes him a moment to register what has been said.

Something he would like to try? For a moment he thinks Tony might mean more food, but then he takes in the lean of Tony's body against his, the dip of Tony's long dark lashes, and he realizes Tony means something completely different.

Or, Steve tops for the first time with Tony, and has a grand time of it. OR Tony Stark's Manuel on How To Make Your Supersoldier Deliriously Happy in A Few Simple Steps.

Trash Talking by vulcan_slash_robot

Tony has some harsh words for himself. Steve is having none of it.

***My Heart Would Benefit From a Little Tenderness From Time to Time by SuperstringSymphony

“Come with me.” Tony licks his lips, blue eyes lifting to meet Steve's. “We've both had a long week, I thought you might like to relax.” Tony's gaze darts from side to side. Steve has noticed since they started this that Tony only ever truly looks nervous when he's talking to him. “The car is around the front, what do you say, weekend getaway?” Tony smiles, stroking a hand down his back with a featherlight touch. Steve just barely represses a shiver, eyeing Tony for a moment. With other people he's always a little shuttered. Here though, with Steve, his expression is unguarded, eyes bright with hope. He looks a little strained though, as if the week has taken its toll on him as well.

Before you jump, Tell me what you find (When you read my mind) by Fluffypanda

Mind reading is more of a curse than a blessing.

posing up a storm by picturecat

“I have an idea. Can we just pretend the day ended with that really badass Superfriends pose we did?”

Tentacular Spectacular by Sineala

When Amora the Enchantress lays a peculiar curse on Tony, its effects are not at all obvious... until Tony gets home and sees what's happened to Steve. And as for breaking the curse -- well, that happens to be Tony's number one fantasy. (Or: Tony never turns down a good tentacle. Or several.)

***Slowly Into Focus by Sineala

Steve and Tony continue to joke about safewords. And then they're not joking anymore.

Shouldn't have got on the bus by orphan_account

It's a field trip au. With a bit of Spideypool and a bit of Superfamily.

  “Peter here is my favourite intern,” He explained proudly to the group. “The kid has done more for Stark Industries than any of our full-time employees.”

Flash raised his hand. “Our tour guide earlier said Peter wasn’t an intern, and Stark Industries don’t take high-school age interns.” He said, only sounding slightly snarky in the face of the world-famous billionaire.

Peter has to deal with embarrassing parents, a high school bully, and his disaster of an extended family.

He deserves to get paid for this.

Vanilla Human Problems by manic_intent

Written for the prompt: "AU where Tony isn't Iron Man. He's a consultant for the avengers, so they still live in his tower, he still builds/improves their gear, but he never invented Iron Man. He's still close to the team, and is still a genius, so as the non-superhero member, he gets kidnapped. A lot. The team becomes increasingly protective of Tony."

Delusions of Grandeur by Wix 

Steve and the others have finally returned to the Compound after the Avengers Civil War, but Steve's having a hard time catching up with Tony and he's not really ready for the answer as to why.

Bulletproof by foxxcub

At age fifteen, Steve Rogers had been in love with Tony Stark.

By age twenty, he’d (mostly) gotten over it. And then he promptly became Tony Stark's fuck buddy.

***Trust Fall by AlchemyAlice

He watched Cap—Rogers—take in the gleaming armour on the floor, the outfit Tony had on, and the utilitarian but still fairly sophisticated interior of the medical bay. Watched as consternation gave way to creeping dread. “How long?” he asked, after a long moment. He sounded hoarse and far off. “Have we won?”

The door slammed open and both of them jumped. Tony put a hand tentatively on Cap’s wrist. Cap looked at him, watchful, but more trusting than Tony deserved. He tried to keep his voice steady.

“We won,” he said. “We won seventy years ago. My name’s Tony Stark. I’m Howard’s son.”

Bullshit Magical Sex Whammy by coaster

When life gives you bullshit lemons in the form of a witch randomly bespelling you into really wanting to have sex with the person you're in a relationship with, who was also bespelled into really wanting to have sex with you, the best course of action is to lock yourself away in your workshop to conduct experiments on the effects of the bullshit 'spell' so you won't end up sleeping with the person you're already in a relationship with because you have issues keeping you from being happy.

~

It was the worst 24-hours of Tony's life. He just wanted to have sex with Steve. He's never had sex with Steve. He shouldn't have sex with Steve. He really wanted to have sex with Steve.

Build with love, your life by captainstars 

“Oh!” Peter gasped. The kid’s reactions reminded Tony of the emojis Rhodey liked to send him a slew of. “Are you going to make me, like, your protege or something, Mr. Stark?????”

Weaknesses by HannaHazzard

Bound up tightly, Steve could do nothing but watch. Tony had no chance against the Hydra soldiers. Red Skull enjoys every bit

Nowhere Else He'd Rather Be by tinystark616

The penthouse is empty except for them, and when Steve pulls back it's to speak against Tony's mouth, breathing hotly against his lips.

"JARVIS?" Steve calls, a little breathless. "Don't let anybody come up here, please."

"Of course, Captain Rogers," JARVIS replies without hesitation.

Tony chuckles, but it turns into a moan as Steve's hand finally reaches his groin, touching Tony's already half-hard cock through his pants. Steve's fingertips rub against the head and Tony gasps, leaning in to press his face against Steve's neck with a sigh.

"Damn, if I knew you'd be like this, I would've come home earlier," Tony says, his words muffled against Steve's skin. 

Or,

Tony gets home after a stressful day at work and Steve helps him relax.

A world lacking of colour by endlesstwanted

Steve has to start listening to his heart instead of his mind.

Tourniquet by romanoff

Stranded in a cabin, no contact and no way out. Cue gratuitous hurt/comfort. Written for the prompt 'Permanent Physical Injury and Recovery'.

Like Gene Kelly in the Movies by lyra_wing

Everything Tony Stark does is a dance. And it's super confusing for Steve.

***Senseless by Scavenge4Dreams

Blinded, deafened, exhausted, injured and afraid, Tony raised himself up into a defensive position, the knife coming up just like Nat had taught him.

“That had better fucking be you, Steve Rogers- it had better be you. Fucking disarm me. If you let me kill you, I swear I will be very, very pissed.” Tony snarled, sure it was Steve approaching. Had to be. Had. To. Be.

What if it wasn’t?

Irreplaceable by orphan_account

There are obvious downsides to being the only member of the Avengers who is not a super soldier, a god, or a super assassin, and does not Hulk out when aggravated.

The most obvious one is that when villains want bait, they've got a go-to guy.

Tony already knew Mondays sucked. He did not need his opinion reinforced this way.

***More Than Skin Deep by Sineala

Tony can just about accept the fact that he and Steve were kidnapped and replaced by Skrulls for three months. But what he can't figure out is why none of the Avengers noticed. And what he really can't figure out is why none of their teammates will tell them what the Skrulls did while they were gone.

[bireggiemantle]

📸 this I gotta see :)

hii sorry this is so late I just got very caught up in life yk how it gets :(

technically this is one pic but it's a looong one so I cut it into two parts. also this is a jabitha fic, but I hope it's okay with you that I added in some elements of their friendship with archie, since I do like those dynamics :)

The couch already looks worn down and well-loved by the time they stumble across it in the corner of the thrift store, but Tabitha falls in love with it too fast to resist buying it.

It's a much larger sofa than their current one, with thick round arm rests, and three rectangular cushions lining the back. The plush green fabric is faded from age, but there's still hints of that original emerald color buried in there.

They had to call Archie to help them carry it inside later that same day, offering to pay him in free food and a movie (The Sandlot, Jughead remembers it being his favorite) as long as he lugs half of it up the three flights of stairs of them.

The three of them practically melt into the chair when they're finished, collapsing into a pile of tangled limbs and heaving chests as Tabitha switches the TV on.

Ever since that afternoon, the couch has gotten a lot of use.

Jughead's made a small office space on the right side of the couch, covering it in pages and pages of unfinished comics and scrawled out plot points. The shape of his hunched-over back is practically etched into the cushions after a few weeks, and Tabitha can trace the phantom line of his shoulders in the fabric whenever he's gone.

Tabitha's managed to claim the left side of the couch for herself. There's a small stack of her favorite tapes nestled beside the arm of her side, just close enough for her to reach down and grab one for an impromptu movie night. A few of Jughead's go-tos have made their way into the pile, but Tabitha isn't complaining. As much as she pretends to be annoyed by his films choices, she does secretly have a soft spot for Scorsese.

The center of the couch has been left open for any guests that might come by. Their door's almost always open for passerbys, and more often than not Archie, Veronica, Toni, or Betty can be found seated between Jughead and Tabitha, the three of them lost in a conversation together.

Currently, Archie's laying between them, sprawled out the same way he was on the first day they picked up the couch. His forehead is covered in a thin sheet of sweat from the summer heat, and Tabitha watches his chest slowly rise and fall in rhythm with his panting breaths. Their air conditioning broke a couple of days prior, and while Tabitha can tell Archie is uncomfortable sitting there, she knows that he doesn't have the heart to complain about it.

When Harry Met Sally is playing on the TV across from them, but none of them are paying much attention to it. It's one of the few movies they can all agree on, so they've seen it close to fifty times, but between the searing heat and each other's company, all three pairs of eyes keep drifting away from the screen.

Tabitha decides to turn the movie off just before they get halfway through.

Archie and Jughead simultaneously turn their heads to face her, confused expressions on both of their faces.

"I was thinking that we could head to Pop's and make some milkshakes instead of sitting here waiting to get heat stroke all day. What do you think?"

"I thought Pop's was closed on Mondays." Archie frowns.

"Pop's is closed to the public on Mondays. But you're forgetting who has the keys." Tabitha jumps to her feet and retrieves the diner's keyring from the pocket of her apron, which is hanging alongside their front door.

She watches as Jughead and Archie move to follow her. Archie discards his button-up on the couch as he stands, leaving him in just a gray tee. It isn't the first time he's left something of his in their apartment, left alone in the exact spot his blue shirt is positioned right now, and Tabitha knows it won't be the last. Part of the Tabitha wants to point the garment out to him now, but the rest of her rules against it. It'll give him an excuse to come back soon anyway, and she always enjoys seeing her friends.

She lets Archie leave first, and he shoots her a grateful smile as he walks past her. Jughead is trailing shortly behind him, stopping only to give Tabitha a small kiss on the cheek for holding the door open. She waits until they're both midway down the hall before leaving herself, slowly shutting the lights off as she does. It's still early enough in the evening for the sun to illuminate the high points of the apartment, causing the corners of the countertop and the curve of the coffee table to glow the same warm yellow color as the sky outside. It even manages to reach the couch, embedding itself into the cushions and forming a faint halo around the silhouette.

"Tabs? You coming?"

Tabitha turns her head to the side, one hand still wrapped around the silver doorknob. Jughead is waving her towards them, waiting with Archie in front of the elevator.

"Just a sec, babe."

Tabitha smiles to herself as she shuts the door before smoothing out her skirt and catching up with the others. She's already got a new milkshake flavor in her head that she's excited to show them, and maybe she can even convince them to look for some maroon throw pillows to compliment the couch with her afterwards.

[the-obelisk]

Source - Fae Collection

Loki x Reader

Summary: The one where he helps you to channel your powers with patience, while pissing off Tony Stark in the process 

You felt utterly useless. 

Here you were, standing in front of Earth’s mightiest heroes unable to conjure up your magic like many of your cousins had with ease as children. 

Magic, for you, never came easy.

When you had left your realm that floated right above earth’s visible plane, you fell in love with the mundane and the ordinary. You found beauty in the ease of things and small bursts of excitement because humans only remained on their plane for a short lived while, while you would age among various generations of humankind slowly. 

When Thor had found you seated in a SHIELD interrogation room, eyes closed simply breathing deeply, he looked to Coulson-- a high ranking agent at the time. “How long has she been indoors?” 

The man shrugged his shoulders, “About a month or so. She refused at first and then they stopped asking.” 

“She is of Fae. Her people are connected to nature. She has lost her energy.”

Thor was cleared to bring you to the Avengers compound where you met the rest of the team. They welcomed you but you had seemed to lose the small amount of practice you had accumulated before your time of confinement. 

Your powers were bounded at birth in protection from the dark elves that reigned terror on Alfheim now, it was why you were sent to the invisible plane above Midgard. Outcasts, refugees, and runaways— your history was erased. With that, hope was lost and the understanding of why your power were bounded remained unknown. 

“Wanda, I don’t think I can do it.” 

The redheaded was enlisted by Tony to help mentor you. It had seemed Wanda and you shared one common trait, the ability to tap into others minds. It was something that came of ease for you, however, they already had a mind reader, a witch with the ability of telepathy, they wouldn’t need you. 

“Yes, you can. Feel your energy. Where is the source?” Her voice was calm but you were growing increasingly frustrated. 

Tony, Steve, Natasha, Thor and Loki stood watching as Sam and Bucky waited for Rhodey to return with their snacks. Clearly it had been forever, and they were growing impatient. Thor every so often would give you an encouraging nod. He believed in you. 

In a way they all did, but in that moment you didn’t feel it. Or specifically, hear that. 

“How long is she going to take? I should start my training.” 

“I have dinner with Pepper at 5. She’s gonna kick my ass if I hold her up.”

You closed your eyes again but knew you had no idea what source she was even talking about. All you felt was annoyed, tired of standing, and hungry.

Sensing this, Loki rolled his eyes and glided over to you, passing Wanda who stood off to the side of you. Tony and Steve immediately tensed up at the quick movement, while Rhodey entered at the moment already suspicious of why Steve’s fist was clenched. Thor looked over and spoke in a low voice, “Trust him. I think he may have an idea.” 

Natasha rolled her eyes and offered him a pointed look, “Let’s hope it isn’t anything harmful.” 

Loki smiled softly at you, “You feel no source, do you?” 

You bit your lip and looked down, “No.” You looked at Wanda and shrugged, “I’m sorry. Maybe I just don’t have anything else to offer other than telepathy.” 

The raven-haired man bowed his head catching your eyes, “But you do. I can feel it.” You looked up at him with questioning eyes only to see he had turned around and stared at Tony and Steve, “If you had let me help her originally, you would know that unlike the witch, her power isn’t sourced in her, it is in nature.” 

“Well, how do you expect us to trust you, Reindeer Games? You are here because Thor gave us his word that you meant no harm.”

Loki rolled his eyes. He never cared what Tony Stark’s perceptions were of him. He turned back to look at you and caught your eye, “Do you trust me?” 

You looked into his eyes and nodded. Of course you did.

While you both never spent time together in front of the other members on account that Loki always hid in the library. So when you weren’t buzzing around the building, and walked in to see him sitting in his usual chair— you would smile and begin talking.

Many times for extended hours, and with the exception of a few nights, your conversation often remained light.

But there were nights when vulnerability would seep in. And so, a blossoming interest in one another and a friendship developed in the quietness of late night conversations in your library.

“Very well.” He smirked and looked back at the group, “Being surrounded by this Midgardian garbage of concrete and rubber mats will do nothing for her. We shall take this outside.” 

Tony glared daggers into Loki’s head as the group followed Loki and you to the courtyard. “Midgardian trash? This cost me a fortune. What the hell is he talking ab--” 

You pushed his thoughts out as he projected them loudly. You giggled softly, Loki had looked down at you while holding the door. “You heard it too. Glad you find his anger equally as comical as I do.” 

“I don’t think he will let that one go.” 

“Good, I hope not.”

Loki smirked at you as you walked on the grass. He stopped soon after, and you followed. The rest of the group stopped at a distance. Wanda joined the spot next to Natasha and Thor, they all watched intently. 

You looked at all of them until you heard Loki call your name softly. “Y/N, focus on me.” You met his eyes and inhaled deeply before nodding. “Sorry, I can’t focus with all of their eyes on me.” 

He blew out a short breath in acknowledgement.  “The redhead witch keeps trying to enter my barriers. Quiet annoying, I will say.”  You smiled as you peeped a quick look at Wanda who seemed extremely focused on the man standing in front of you. 

You heard him speak again, “May I?” Hands held out, he waited for your answer. You looked down and slid your gloves off. Your eyes drew back up to his and you slid your hands into his, feeling his cool hand wrap around your warm ones. 

Normally, you hated touching but once you held his hands it felt as though the world slipped away. All you felt was energy, all that surrounded you. You basked in its soft hum.

He continued, “Now, I want you close your eyes and take a deep breath in with me, little one, and clear your mind.” 

You closed you eyes in response, and smiled sweetly at the pet name subconsciously. To which Loki caught and smiled in return, knowing you couldn’t see. 

“You are one with the world around you. Feel the warmth of the sun on this brisk day. You are at peace— the very center of the world around you. Everything here has energy. Nature holds memory of the past and present. You are here, darling. You are safe.” His voice was soft and smooth.

It would be a lie if you didn’t feel yourself melting into his words. They were slick and entrancing. “What do you hear, Y/N?” He asked in his soft lulls.

“The trees. The wind is blowing...” You spoke to him in a quiet voice. 

Loki nodded, “Tell me, dove. How does the wind on your skin make you feel?” 

“It’s soft and slightly warm after the initial cold.” You stated once again causing him to observe you curiously. He turned your hands to face each other slowly in hopes he wouldn’t sever the connection you found. 

His hand cupped against the back of yours as if you were holding an invisible ball. “Gods, she is intoxicating.” Immediately you were pulled out of his thoughts at the sound of his voice, “You aren’t supposed to be intruding in my mind, little one.” 

You smiled tightly embarrassed of getting caught, you heard him chuckle. “Do you feel all the tethers connecting through you? They flow in and out of you. Concentrate them between our hands. 

“I don’t know how.”

“Just feel and trust. Visualize it.”

Slowly you felt warmth gathering closer and closer to your hands. It was forming and growing, you projected a thought to him fearing you would break concentration if you spoke. “It feels like the sun.”

He smiled, “Open your eyes slowly and take a look.”

You opened your eyes to his eyes staring at you. He smiled at you endearingly.

Holding his gaze for a bit, you then followed his eyes down to the ball of light in between both of your hands. Inside it was white with several revolving colors that interchanged. Hues of purples, red, green, and blue shone with gold shimmering around the outside. 

“We did that?” She looked at him with surprise. 

“You did.” He spoke softly. “You are harnessing the world around you. Its energy.”

A smile grew on your lips out of excitement. He moved around you stopping behind you shoulder. You felt his hands slide down your arm, resting them on your elbow and back. “Now throw it.”

You gave a little push it forward and was greeted with a cloud of smoke and Tony yelling. “Not the tree! Come on.” He threw up his hands as Sam, Bucky, and Rhodey laughed throwing popcorn at one another. 

“That was awesome.” You looked at Loki in pure amusement. You couldn’t explain the feeling that coursed through your body. 

He smiled at you and nodded, “I told you that you held power. Come, I have a few books to show you.” 

You nodded eagerly and followed him as Tony yelled at Thor. The blonde smirked at his brother knowing he found joy in pissing Tony off even more. However, he was even more amused at the the scene they had all watched. He noted Loki’s softness, one that the team didn’t get to see. It was shocking to them, but to Thor, it was an emotion he know Loki rarely let others know of. 

It was the quality of a small effort towards redemption. 

“Thank you, Loki. Really.” You said walking alongside him.

The raven-haired man smiled, “No need to thank me, little one. Now, let us go before he combusts out of anger.” 

“You got it, Trickster.” You said acknowledging that he full well enjoyed getting to Tony once more. 

[quietlyimplode]

This is the most randomist of thought and Ofc you don’t have to do this. Firstly what’s your opinion on buckynat like for me I find it really uncomfortable just because if it was mcu canon then bucky would have had to train Nat when she was just a little girl. Like my idea for a fic would be (ig it would only kinda work if you have similar opinion on buckynat so) Natasha telling Tony about what she remembers of bucky in the rr like maybe she’s scared of him and Tony wants to know why maybe cacw?

Hi Anon, it’s all good. Don’t worry. I love sharing thoughts on what may or may not have happened and what that may have looked like for Natasha (and sometimes the others).

I wasn’t really sure how to write this one, because I like the idea of Bucky/Nat and there’s some great scenes of them in comics that I adore. I’ve tweaked this a little because of that, but I’m hoping it’s kind of what you were thinking.

I suppose it can be read either way and is open enough that you can take your musings of what’s happened in the past and fit it in. It’s supposed to be disconnected and an insert but of course ended up at 805 words and not reread. Thanks for the prompt Anon and for your kind words. Sorry this has taken so long to get to.

Content warning for discussion of the Red Room, triggers and maybe self harm if you squint (it’s more about grounding though)? Set after Civil War (forgive me I haven’t rewatched in ages).

.

Nisi Te Ipsum.

They’re sitting at the long table, glassy accusing eyes stare at her.

“Did you know?” Tony asks.

Natasha holds his gaze.

“No.”

He stares her down, non-believing, trust gone.

“Do you know him?”

He crosses his arms across his body, hostile and cranky.

“It’s complicated,” she admits. There’s anger in her tone. She still hasn’t forgiven him for the double agent quip.

It hurt.

It stills hurts.

“Uncomplicated it.” He demands in a snarl.

She sighs, a heaviness falls over her, a command of friend vs bringing traumas to the forefront of her mind weighs on her. Everything that’s happened over the last month, down to getting Clint and the rest from the raft has made her tired. Exhausted even.

They’re at a stale mate where she wants Tony to know why she’s made the decision she did.

But.

She didn’t expect to have to take a trip down memory name.

Tony stares at her expectantly, his face stoic.

She mirrors his body language, crossing her arms across her body.

She presses her nails into her side, reveling in the grounding feeling of pain.

They stay in the holding pattern, and she wonders just how much to reveal.

“Where I grew up” she starts, but that’s not right. She pauses and gathers her thoughts.

“Where I was trained,” she starts again, “we had words. Words that made you compliant, that made you.. Forget who you were.. Are.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Trigger words.” He supplies.

She nods slowly. It’s vaguely accurate she supposes. It doesn’t take into account, all the pain, the torture and shear inhumanity that went into molding little girls into compliant killers.

“Bucky has them, it’s what Zemo said to change him.” Horror crosses Tony’s face as he says it, and then as he realises what she’s getting at, he stands pushing himself against the table.

“You?” He leans across to her. “You have them too?” Fear crosses his face, then pity.

Natasha isn’t nearly as prepared for this as she thought she was, she has nothing to prove to Tony, only that she’s his friend, and she doesn’t want him to feel so alone.

She uncrosses her arms and digs her nails into her palms instead.

“I had them.” She clarifies.

She sighs again. “He was the example. Often we were made to watch as they programmed his triggers, a taste of things to come for us, a way to perfect the process before they trialled it on us.”

She leans forward.

“You see, Tony, I didn’t know him. I know of him, the stories they would tell, the images they would show us, the example they would make him set. I watched him, I saw as they wiped his body and mind and knew that’s what was in store for me.” She says the last word with emphasis.

“I don’t know him.” She says quietly, “but he was the blue print for me, for us, especially for those words.”

Tony sits back down. Deflated anger oozes out of him. The silence is uneasy as she works on leveling out her breathing. The words she worked so hard to eliminate, pound in her head.

Sparrow.

Novel.

Glass.

Tony’s saying something as she shakes her head.

Radiator.

Makarov.

Bile rises in her throat; but she swallows it down as she makes herself be present. She bites down on the inside of her mouth, hard, and the taste of blood fills her mouth.

He leaves and comes back with a bottle of water, placing it next to her.

“Does this make sense?” She asks, ready to leave.

“This is..” she pauses. “This is hard for me. For him to be here, for the Winter Soldier to reappear, and even with the tension that’s now made a dividing line for the team.” Tony nods slowly.

She didn’t want to do this, but takes some solace in the fact that the information she is about to hand him has been curated.

“I don’t know him. I don’t know Bucky. But don’t judge him on the Winter Soldier. That’s not him. That’s what they made him. I am the Black Widow, but that is my choice. They made me become it but I chose it. I chose to embrace it, and now it’s who I am. I take ownership of it because I can.”

She passes him the usb and heads for the door.

“Steve’s holding onto his past, for something familiar. He craves it, and can’t give it up. He’s a man out of time.” She pauses.

“You don’t have to forgive them. Or forget. But you do need to understand.”

She gestures to the usb.

“I hope it helps.”

She leaves, heads for home, knowing the nightmares will come and that there’s no one to save her.

She is the Black Widow, she tells herself.

She will save herself.

.

[maxwell-grant]

Can we talk about the Black Bat both in general, and and how he may have been an influence on two superheroes (Dr. Mid-Nite and Daredevil) and a supervillain (Two-Face), but was proven in a court of law to have no connection with the superhero who immediately comes to mind (Batman).

Having finally read a couple of his original stories and runs, yeah I got some thoughts on him. 

While not the first bat-themed pulp character, nor the first fictional detective with a disability turned superpower (that would be Max Carrados, who actually was blind), Black Bat’s main claim to fame nowadays is his correlation to superheroes with the mixed traits he has that would all become massively popularized by characters who debuted afterwards. Regarding the Batman lawsuit, it wasn’t so much proven that they have no connection, as much as the publishers of both characters argued they did it first, and then agreed to stay out of each other’s territory, with Batman staying out of pulp magazines and The Black Bat staying out of comics (not that it would stop his publishers from rebranding him as “The Mask” and doing comics).

Black Bat actually couldn’t have inspired Batman, because Batman debuted 4 months prior. Plus, both were already ripping off the same guy, and both of them were far from the first bat-themed pulp characters at the time. And the idea that he inspired Daredevil I find too much of a reach. Dr Mid-Nite I can definitely see the resemblance, and while Two-Face doesn’t have much similarities to Tony Quinn past the origin and the anti-hero aspects, “handsome crusading District Attorney disfigured after getting splashed in the face by acid goes on a rampage” is not exactly vague enough of a concept to pass for coincidence. Two-Face debuted just 3 years after Black Bat, while Bat was still a pretty successful character (he managed to outlast nearly every other pulp hero), so it’s very possible that Kane and Finger had a look at Black Bat’s origin and used it as the basis for their Jekyll & Hyde-themed villain. 

Okay so, that’s that for Black Bat, but what’s the character actually like? What’s there to him other than historical oddities? Does he have what it takes to survive and thrive again in a modern landscape?

The thing that sticks out to me about Black Bat is that he is a pulp character who feels like he was designed specifically with the arrival of the superheroes in mind, as when comic book superheroes began to carve a space for themselves, one of the responses the pulps had was to put out new heroes intended to be a part of both worlds, hybrids of pulp heroes and superheroes who could try to capture success in either format, characters like Ka-Zar and Black Hood who started in one and then jumped to the other. 

Black Bat’s got a lot of the usual hallmarks of dark detective pulp heroes and his adventures are largely him battling ordinary criminal masterminds and gangsters, but he’s got an iconic costume, he’s got a super dramatic origin story that the stories keep coming back to (unlike most pulp heroes whose origin stories are not usually mentioned), and he’s got superpowers brought in the aftermath of a tragic accident. Not just skills anyone can have by training hard enough, actual superpowers, even if they don’t see as much usage as his pulp hero skillset. 

To the world that knew about him, Anthony Quinn, once a virile, upstanding representative of law forces whose name had held terror for evil doers, was now an impotent blind man whose sight had been permanently destroyed by acid thrown at him in a crowded courtroom, and whose face was horribly scarred about the eyes. For a long time he had seemed to live in a world apart.

Such actually had been the case during the long months when Tony Quinn had lived in a sea of blackness. But Nature had been as kind as possible, giving him something in return for what had been taken from him. As a result he had since realized that his senses of feel, smell, and hearing were far more acute than formerly. Under his sensitive fingers whatever he touched had begun to tell strange new stories. His sense of smell had sharpened. His ears had become the ears of a hound, picking up with ease and sifting multitudinous sounds that once had been inaudible.

More months had gone by until, in the darkness of a lonely night, a girl with golden hair and blue eyes hadcome in through an open window like an angel out of nowhere to offer him hope where eye specialists had said there was no hope. Through a delicate operation by an unknown small town surgeon the corneas of the eyes of Carol Baldwin's policeman father - dying from paralysis brought on by a gangster bullet - had been given to him. An extraordinary thing had occurred. When at last Tony Quinn had been allowed to remove the bandages, he had been astounded by the miracle that had happened. His were the eyes of darkness as well as the eyes of day!

Interestingly also, Black Bat actually became one of the most prolific of pulp heroes when brought over to Germany. When German publishers Pabel decided to reprint a couple of Black Bat novels for the KRIMINAL-ROMAN serial, they discovered “Die Schwarzen Fledermaus” was somehow so popular that in 1962, they retitled it Fledermaus (Bat) and ran with it, reprinting all the original 60+ stories and then, when those ran out, creating 900 more at least. In fact, it seems like they are still publishing Black Bat stories even today, and now that he’s public domain it’s something just about anyone could get into.

Problem with that is, it’s not easy to conceive of The Black Bat having any kind of substantial popularity again, when he’s doomed by design to always be compared to Batman, to always just be seen as first glance as “oh it’s earless Batman with Daredevil’s shtick and Two-Face’s backstory”, and of course he doesn’t have a chance in hell of playing catch-up to the popularity of those characters (well, at least outside of Germany). Whatever niche he could have as an alternative to Batman is also null by the fact that said niche of Not-Batmen is already filled out quite extensively. He doesn’t have an incredibly strong personality the way Batman and The Shadow do, nor is he, despite being ostensibly a serial killer, enough of a trigger-happy anti-hero to latch on to the appeal of characters like The Spider or Punisher. The latest Black Bat comic run by Dynamite played up his ruthlessness, outlaw status and drew him on the covers perpetually holding guns and often with a big creepy smile. But smiling murder pulp Batman is already a niche that Midnighter fills considerably better than Black Bat ever could. So what’s left for him?

If I had to find a unique niche for Black Bat, I’d play his unique traits in ways that separate him from the super characters that ran with those later. I’d ditch the whole “oh woe is me I’m poor and helpless because I’m blind” shtick that’s terribly condescending to actually blind people, and make him at least truly blind in some form. Maybe he’s blind by day and by night he sees too much, or maybe his vision has some terrible secrets that go beyond mere enhanced eyesight. Maybe his powers are growing and expanding in ways he doesn’t know where they will lead him. But alongside that, one take on the character could be based on the fact that he really has nothing to lose. He is not Batman, he is not The Shadow, he isn’t Daredevil, he’s got little reputation to speak of, and he’s never going to be any of those characters.

He’s lost the position he’s coveted his whole life, he’s lost the respect of his peers, his former professional ethics don’t mean shit now, he’s had a long and painful brush with darkness that scarred him for life in ways both literal and metaphorical, and in the aftermath he’s begun spontaneously developing abilities that would be incredibly painful and uncomfortable for an average person to just develop without years of growing up with them. And then, a mysterious woman walked through his window one day, gave him the eyes of a dead man, and now he sees things in ways no person was ever supposed to, and now he goes around at night terrorizing and killing criminals in an animal-themed costume. 

The most he has to lose currently is the life of his sidekicks who’ve worked very hard to help him heal and focus and find a new purpose, which only means that they are on the chopping block everytime you wanna give a gut punch to Tony Quinn. And no matter how famous, or even great, his adventures are, or how prolific and successful he is or even has been, he’s always going to be the Bat-themed superhero who couldn’t cut it. He’s Not-Batman, stripped of all the grand splendour and allmighty self righteousness and reputation and role as foundational figure of an entire genre and most popular bestest superhero of all time ever praise be thy Bat God, sharing more traits with one of Batman’s most personal and tragic villains than the titular character.

That’s not an indictment, that just means that Black Bat ultimately should have more narrative freedom, since he is unburdened by reputation and status. He is a public domain nobody best known by his association with characters who eclipse him in popularity, who’s always going to have that accursed Bat prefix and costume to damn him by association, so why not work with it? He could be the character you go into to tell stories that you couldn’t tell with Batman or other big name superheroes, the grimiest, sickest, even weirdest crime tales of all. What does the Black Bat have to lose?

Those who have nothing to lose stand everything to gain, after all.

Also, Masks 2 once presented an alternative version of the character called The Black Bats, who dresses like a baseball player and dual-wields baseball bats, which is nutty and I’d definitely prefer Black Bat to ditch the generic pulp hero guns and instead just go crazy batting everything in his way.

“I gotta tell ya, this is pretty terrific! Hahahahah, yeah!”

[dykeninthdoctor]

love you (to the moon and to saturn)

oh this got out of hand but have 2.2k of tony and kids

No one ever said Tony Stark wasn’t impulsive, and Tony himself has never disagreed, because he knows he’s impulsive, but he thinks things through, more often than not, and he calculates the answers to problems before the problems even arise.

So, when he meets five-year-old Harley Keener in a Malibu home for boys and immediately decides to adopt him, it’s safe to say he’s thought it through, but it’s also safe to say it’s the most impulsive decision Tony’s ever made.

-

It goes like this.

-

“Tony. You need to do something. Being locked up in your workshop for hours on end to build different models of a suit you’ve already perfected isn’t healthy and I know your therapist has told you the exact same thing. So pick something, or I’ll choose for you, and I know you don’t want that.”

“The suit’s not perfected,” Tony mutters, avoiding Pepper’s eyes.

“Maybe not, but you need something else to do, because you’re ignoring the work the board needs from you.”

“I’m not ignoring it!”

“Oh, because having JARVIS flag it as priority twelve isn’t ignoring it?”

“It was a mistake letting you know my organizational system.”

“I created your organizational system, asshole.”

“Ooh, call me asshole again,” Tony teases, because he hates the way he knows she’s looking at him and it’d be so much better to see a blush or a smile. Instead, he gets her hand under his chin tipping his gaze up to meet hers and a kiss on the forehead.

“You know you can’t deflect around me. Maybe it’ll work with Jim–“

“It doesn’t.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t, he just humors you, but Jim’s not here, so you’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck with you? Oh, my dearest Pepper-pie, I could never be stuck with you.”

That gets him a laugh.

“Find a different nickname,” she tells him, and Tony almost thinks he’s gotten away with that deflection–almost–but then she gives him a look, and he knows he hasn’t.

“I’ll pick something.”

“I know you will. Ask JARVIS for the options.”

-

It goes like this.

-

Tony spends a few hours–yes, hours, because he knows his therapist and Pepper are right, even if he doesn’t want to admit it–going through the selection of different “charitable” distractions Pepper’s curated for him.

There’s a few that catch his eye, more than a few, because despite what people think, Tony wants to help even when it’s not possible, and Pepper knows that too, so of course everything she and JARVIS picked are things he wants to do.

The home for boys, though, is the one that jumps out the most.

JARVIS makes a knowing noise when Tony tells him, and his coding abilities hurt sometimes, because damn if it doesn’t sting that it sounds just like his namesake, and damn if that isn’t the exact reason Tony chose what he chose.  

-

It goes like this.

-

Tony starts going to the home every other day, Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule, spending hours with children who don’t care what his name is or what his weapons did, who only care about the fact that he gives them all nicknames and actually listens when they talk about LEGOs or butterflies or the monster in the closet.

When the kids look at him with awe in their eyes, awe that has nothing to do with who he is, it makes working on the suit easier. It makes everything easier.

There’s seven-year-old Alex, who knows the name of every type of flower out there, and beams when Tony brings him a different flower from the local shop every day.

There’s five-year-old Robbie, with his quiet love of dinosaurs, who screams loud enough to burst eardrums when Tony brings him a shirt with the different eras of dinosaurs on it and a book about the Paleolithic era.

There’s nine-year-old Carter, whose memorization skills almost rival Tony’s when it comes to any cartoon, and when Tony finds the complete collection of the Calvin and Hobbes comic strips for him, he doesn’t stop talking about it for days.  

And there’s so many more, who call him “Tony” and make it sound like they actually care, because they actually do, who help him forget about scorching desert heat and freezing water filling his mouth, who let him be just Tony without anything else.

And then there’s Harley.

-

It goes like this.

-

The door is open when he gets there on Friday for him to drop into a crouch in the doorway, ready for the rush of boys who fling themselves into his arms. After they’ve all gotten their hugs, and Tony’s given Alex his new flower–snapdragon, today, a purple one since it’s his favorite color–Carter whispers in his ear, “There’s a new boy, he came yesterday. Mam said his name is Harley, but he won’t talk to us. He’s really little, like–“

The distance between Carter’s hand and the floor is less than a foot, but no one ever said kids were good at measurements. Tony just nods, though, and lets Carter grab his shirtsleeve to lead him inside.

“What time did he come in?”

“Before dinner, but like, he didn’t eat, so maybe he already ate dinner–Alex tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t say anything, so I don’t know. He looks really sad, Tony, but he won’t answer our questions. Oh!” Carter says suddenly, stopping in the middle of the hallway; Tony stops with him and trips over a collection of spare…engine parts? “He didn’t let Alex touch him either.”

There’s a rush of emotions in Tony’s chest at that, and when Carter’s hand slips off his shirt and into his, he takes it gratefully; children are better at reading emotions than any adult Tony’s ever met, and there’s no point in lying to him.

“It reminded me of you,” Carter whispers. “Of the story you told me about your dad.”

And that’s the kicker.

Every boy in the home has a piece of Tony in the way they move, or the way they speak, or the way they don’t speak.

“Okay,” Tony says, and crouches down again to be at Carter’s eye-level, ignoring the way his knees protest at the movement. “I’ll see if he’ll talk to me, okay?”

Carter hugs him, and Tony hugs him back.

“Thanks, Tony.”

“You’re good at taking care of your friends,” Tony tells him firmly. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Carter repeats, softer.

Tony ruffles his hair. “Course, kiddo. You wanna take me to see Harley?”

Carter nods his head towards the door Tony hadn’t realized they stopped outside of. “He’s in there.”

-

It goes like this.

-

Carter lets go of Tony’s hand after Tony forks over the candy he promised to bring last time and runs off to–fairly and equally–distribute it to the other kids. Tony watches him go with fondness swelling in his chest before turning back to the door and knocking a pattern lightly against the old wood.

There’s no response, but Tony wasn’t expecting one, and he opens the door quietly, pushing the engine parts in the doorway into the room with his foot.

It’s empty at first glance, the three bunkbeds in various states of disarray and LEGOs scattered on the floor, a Star Trek poster half-taped to the wall–Tony makes a mental note to bring more tape next time, and more posters, and a DVD of Star Trek seasons one through three–and clothes overflowing from the hamper shoved in the corner like an afterthought.

Then he hears a tiny sniff and the sound of fabric against skin from behind the clothes, and it’s like he’s five again and hiding from Howard in his closet.

“Harley?” he calls out softly.

Again, no response, but when he shifts down to his knees again and the floorboard underneath him wobbles, the noises stop.

“My name’s Tony, I’m here to say hi.” He pauses, then adds, “Your friend Carter sent me.”

There’s another sniff and a quiet exhale, and then the clothes move, and Tony’s face-to-face with liquid blue eyes and a freckled nose surrounded by a tiny mop of blond hair.

The kid–Harley–freezes. Tony freezes.

“‘m sorry,” Harley mumbles, and it sounds wrong, not just the words–because Tony hates when an unneeded apology falls from a kid’s lips, rotting fruit from the purest of trees–but the way he says them, like they’re clunky on his tongue. “Didn’ realize you were s’ill ’n here, ‘m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tony starts, but Harley keeps talking like he didn’t hear him, hands–tiny hands–shaking at his sides and eyes–scared eyes–focused on the floor.

“‘m sorry, Mis’er S’ark, I didn’ mean to–“

Then it clicks.

Tony raises his hands, slowly slowly slowly, to sign, “You don’t have to apologize.”

The rambling stops, and Harley’s eyes finally lift to meet his.

“You know how to talk to me?” he signs, hands moving almost too fast for Tony’s rusty knowledge of ASL to pick up, but the gist is clear, and Tony’s heart breaks.

“Yes. I do,” Tony tells him.

Harley beams.

-

It goes like this.

-

Through silent conversation, Tony learns about Harley, learns about a car crash that sounds all too familiar, learns about Harley’s affinity for engines, learns about this child, this child who shines as bright as the arc reactor in his chest, and the thought that maybe, maybe, this is what Jarvis felt, creeps across his mind.

Even if it isn’t, Tony looks at Harley, and understands, for the first time in his lifetime, why Jarvis was always there for him.

He adopts Harley on the spot.

-

It goes like this.

-

There’s paperwork to fill out, and questionnaires to answer, and pamphlet after pamphlet, but a two-month process gets condensed down to two hours, because he’s Tony Fucking Stark, and Harley’s eyes filled with tears when he realized what was happening.

With Harley’s tiny hand clasped firmly in his, he finishes signing the last document.

“All done, bud,” he finger spells.

“Thank you,” Harley signs, “Thank you thank you thank you–“

When he picks Harley up and settles him on his hip, it feels right.

“Time to go home, kiddo.”

-

It goes like this.

-

Pepper drops everything she’s holding, including the One Tree Hill mug that Tony bought her despite her protests that she didn’t like the show, when she sees Harley sleeping–and most likely drooling–against his shoulder.

Tony winces. “Hey, Pep.”

“Hi, Tony. Why are you holding a kid?”

“His name’s Harley.” “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Well, I–“

“The real answer, Tony,” she says, before he can even think of an excuse.

“He’s like me,” he says suddenly, without meaning to, but despite that, he does mean it, because Harley’s like him in every movement he makes, every word he speaks, and after all, that’s why Tony brought him home.

The crease between her eyebrows smooths out momentarily, before reappearing with force.

“How much like you, Tony?”

“I had Happy throw out every bottle before we came home,” Tony answers with, and it’s enough for Pepper.

“You can’t do this on your own.”

Harley snuffles against his shoulder. Tony’s gaze immediately shifts to him.

“No, but I can try.”

“No, you self-sacrificial idiot, I’m calling Jim and Roberta.”

-

It goes like this.

-

When Momma Robbie sees Harley–who’s curled up on his chest watching a cartoon with subtitles on while Tony “rests his eyes” on the couch–she just gives Tony a Look, kisses both their cheeks, and tells him that she wishes he’d waited until Jimmy was home, which. Is something Tony doesn’t need to unpack while Harley’s there.

Harley falls in love with everything about her, including, but not limited to: her cooking, her hugs, the way she signs, how she tucks him into bed, her kisses…the list is so endless Tony almost gets jealous, because that’s his kid.

Then again, Harley sits by his side in the workshop for hours on end, content to build his own miniature robot–a companion for Dum-E and U–and it’s him Harley comes to after a nightmare.

The nightmares are hard, for both of them. Most nights, Harley will crawl into his bed, face stained with tears, and fall asleep to the light of the arc reactor.

“’s a star. Our nightlight,” Harley mumbles, half-asleep, one night and for once in his life, Tony doesn’t hate the arc reactor.

The nightmares get easier when Rhodey comes home, three weeks and a day after Harley’s first day in the mansion. When he gets his first look at Harley–in the lab, playing around with his new bot while Tony builds his hearing aids–his face goes eerily blank, before he comes to hug Tony tightly. “He’s you, genius,” he murmurs, and Tony almost cries, because of course Rhodey doesn’t have to ask.

Again, something to unpack later.

Harley adjusts to Rhodey’s presence like he was there from the first day, like he was there when Harley didn’t want to talk at all, like he was there when Harley didn’t stray from Tony’s side, like he was there when fear was the primary emotion in Harley’s big eyes, not joy and comfort and safety.

Harley lets Rhodey in just as easily as he let Tony in.

That Tony cannot fault him for, and maybe the fact that Harley’s like him isn’t a bad thing.

Maybe Tony can guard him from the worst parts of it all.

After all, that's what Jarvis did for him.

[poepoe-thebunny]

Rudy/Tony and Fam during Quarantine

Cause this is where my life is at, apparently. I thought I escaped the “quarantine fever writing” that everyone else got. Apparently I was wrong. 

After another visit to the castle, the Thompson’s end up there in quarantine once miss rona hits the world. Thank god for WI-FI and working remotely, even if his parents look vaguely like zombies due to time zone differences. Tony can’t talk, his online schooling schedule is all sorts of weird and he’s pretty sure his teacher just wants to sleep until the whole thing is over. Honestly Tony can’t say he blames her. 

The Sackville-bagg clan, as it turns out, is a surprisingly overprotective bunch when they need to be, especially now that they have accepted their humans into the fold. Even with catching up on modern medicine and germ theory, they won’t allow anything to happen to their precious humans. 

(AU/headcanons incoming??

Rudy/Tony: 

- Think Rudy was protective before? Think again. 

- Rudy is over 300 years old, he’s old by human standards and he has met people who are old by vampire standards. He’s seen Things(TM) ok?

- He has been through more than one plague in his life. He has seen what it can do to the sick and the poor. He knows it’s a different now, that life-saving machines exist, that they’re working on a vaccine, that soap is widely available. 

- But he also knows it’s not. 

- Tony? Not going anywhere as far as he is concerned. Say hello to your prince, Rapunzel, cause Rudy is keeping Tony up in that tower if it kills him (again). 

- He knows where all of Tony’s masks are, and where he puts the extras. 

- He’ even shops online for masks with Tony, finding cool hand-sewn, gothic looking ones for Rudy himself to wear. He’s not sure if Corona even effects vampires, but Tony likes finding stuff to match his “aesthetic’ and it keeps his mortal happy. 

- He waits on his mortal hand and foot in between videogames and watching Netflix. (Tony likes How to Train Your Dragon and Paranorman, Rudy likes The Little Prince and Kubo and the Two Strings.). 

- Rudy’s first introduction to Tumblr is through Tony, and at one point they reach the Plague Doctor Aesthetics. While Rudy hasn’t spent much time in Italy, he doesn’t think they’re very accurate, and complains as such to his mortal. 

- Rudy is surprisingly easily offended about historically inaccurate things, and it sends Tony into laughing fits. 

- Rudy is Bad At Memes. Like, just in general he doesn’t always get them, and when Corona Memes become a thing he’s just constantly confused. Poor Rudy honestly. 

- Tries to learn to cook healthy human food, except he hasn’t had any major kitchen experience in 200-odd years and it comes out as a disaster the first few times he tries it. 

- It turns into a teaching session between him and the other adult humans, turns out the old couple who owns the castle like to feed people. Rudy walks into Tony’s room with a tray piled so high Tony can’t see his head. 

-Always offering to fly around the castle to get things for Tony, even if he isn’t sick. 

- TikTok dances. Tony shows him, then teaches him. Rudy is shockingly good at them, but Gregory thinks he’s cringy. 

Gregory: 

(Not me flexing my love of the good big brother trope, absolutely not, nope)

- Surprisingly rather take charge about the whole thing, he’s come around to the Thompson’s and the old couple. 

- While his parents help when they can, they sort of take a step back, and let the three siblings explain what’s happening in the world to the clan (if they are there). Being the oldest, Gregory sort of defaults to being the leader. 

-Checks in with the Thompson’s, as well as Otto and Emma (The old couple who run the place.) Asks if they need anything while they work/are in school etc. 

- Warns the clan to be very careful when visiting, not just for the Thompson’s, but also because Otto and Emma are getting on in years and could become sick very easily. Always asks for a heads up before a family visit. 

- Won’t tell anyone but, late at night if he’s not busy, he’ll do things around the castle for the humans, especially upkeep for Otto and Emma, while they sleep. 

- Dusting hard to reach spots like chandeliers, organizing books in the old castle library, moving heavy furniture and stuff since he can fly. 

-Low key drags Rudy and Anna into helping him clean 

(”But Gregory, this is our home now too! I’m sure they don’t mind.” 

“Humans are fragile, and they’re letting us stay here out of kindness, so don’t be rude. Clean up after yourself little brother.” 

“He’s right you know.” 

“Of course I am. And don’t think you’re getting out of cleaning the rafters Anna, and stop leaving your books everywhere for them to pick up.” 

 ‘hmph.” )

- Of the vampires he’s lowkey the best at cooking human food. Tony, Rudy, and Anna just walk into the kitchen at night and Fredrick is just watching his eldest, genuinely amused, as he dances around the kitchen in a “Kill the Cook (Too late, I’m already dead)” apron, blasting out dad rock from the stereo. 

-Bonds with the Thompsons over cooking human food, especially Tony’s dad after he teaches Gregory what an “air guitar” move is. 

-Gregory discovers pinterest food aesthetics, and is a machine of baking, mixing, and decorating sweet candies/cakes/brownies. He wants his food to look pretty dang it. 

- Anna and Rudy just watch, silently judging him. 

Anna: 

- She’s just thriving tbh. 

- She has internet access now, and her brothers have never been more terrified. 

-If Gregory is the vampire equivalent of a pinterest mommy, Anna is the vampire equivalent of creepy diy aesthetic tiktokers. 

-Not like, bloody horror diy, but like, the subtly creepy but still sweet kind, like the Addams family or Coraline. 

- She learned needle arts with her mom, so she’s out here sewing Coraline dolls, or patchwork dresses a la Nightmare Before Christmas cause she CAN. 

-Makes her own handbag with those felt cartoonish vampire faces and big fake bat ears on the side. 

-Learns more modern patterns and stuff, but will make masks for the humans as gifts, cause she doesn’t want them to get sick. 

- After watching Coraline together, she made “Other Me” dolls of her brothers, button eyes included, and stuck them in their coffins. She would make them “move’ by flying them around to different rooms when her brothers weren’t looking, just to freak them out. 

- Spoiler alert: it worked. They ran to Tony for help and she laughed over it for days. 

- Anna loves adventure books to Rudy’s poetry and Gregory’s fables/folk tales. She hates being excluded from her brothers “adventures”. 

-Tony introduces her to comics and video games and she just lives her best life. 

-One of her favorite comic book character is Cassandra Cain/Blackbat/The Orphan.

- She loves books like Matilda, The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Giver, as well as games like the Lara Croft/Tomb Raider series. 

-VICIOUS at video games, this girl has no mercy, she will blue shell you so hard. 

The Adults: 

-Life is Hard(TM) right now, but the Thompson’s try to make the best of it. They’re very grateful to Otto and Emma for letting them stay. 

-They’re both working remotely, so they’re a little messed up sleep schedule wise. But that’s ok, their vampire friends don’t seem to mind. 

- Freda teaches Dottie how to make proper tea, cause she likes it and Dottie is sort of addicted to caffeine. Dottie teaches Freda how to make mochas and smoothies, Dottie likes mango-pineapple smoothies and Freda likes hot white chocolate mochas with cinnamon. 

-Surprisingly, Frederick and Bob become pretty good friends. Frederick understands the stress of having to care for your family in very uncertain times, and the two men bond over unsure parental decisions. 

-Bob is also surprisingly good at making Frederick loosen up, much to Freda and Dottie’s amusement. While initially awkward, they have a surprisingly snarky and sarcastic sort of friendship. Frederick deadpans insults at him and Bob cheerfully annoys him into Being Nice For Once while being completely aware of the fact that he’s annoying Frederick. 

-Meals where Bob cooks often consists of him singing oldies into his spatula, making bad impression of certain singers, including Elvis and Cher. He is occasionally joined by Tony and Gregory, making the entire family laugh. 

- Anna’s bones may be old, but she can hand sew like a goddess, and has occasionally taken to fixing up the kids’ torn clothes, as Dottie can barely keep straight lines and Freda prefers knitting. 

- Someone (read: Freda) mentions that Frederick can play the cello, and after a rousing performance, it turns out that Otto can play an accordion, and of course Bob can play the guitar. A jam session occurs as the kids just stare in utter bewilderment.

- Tony’s grandparents were kinda hippies, so Bob and Dottie know a lot of oldies and folk songs, which while different than from what they normally hear, Otto and Anna connect too. They swap songs back and forth, and it turns out Dottie can do a mean Loretta lynn impression. 

- Dottie likes the Beach Boys, and teaches the others how to Twist. As in, the dance, and Freda actually likes it quite a bit. 

[angelic-holland]

Alice’s Masterlist

Series

Blurbs 

Commission Info

✼  - 1k notes! 

Fluff

Dirty Shirley 

- you’re an actress in Endgame and have a little too much to drink for your 21st birthday.

Fooled Around and Fell In Love 

- Tom is a photographer, you’re a single mom, and Tom is falling for you in your little bookstore. 

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy 

- Tom and his boyfriend get dressed up, go on a fancy date and dance the night away. 

Oh, Fiddlesticks!

- In a world where the first word your soulmate says to you is tattooed on your skin, your soulmate is left wondering who uses the words ‘oh fiddlesticks’. 

The Mitten Tree

- You just want to give the children at Saint Paul’s a great Christmas, what happens when a celebrity you aren’t expecting is thrown into the mix?

Not Like This 

- You and Tom aren’t meant to be, not according to fate, not according to the rule that dictates who your soulmate is. Will that stop you from falling for each other?

Smut (18+)

Dinner Party  ✼

- A dinner party with the cast of Far From Home, with a smutty twist. 

Unexpected  ✼

- You didn’t know your best friend feels the same way about you, until you’re forced to share a bed in a hotel one night. 

Know Your Enemy 

- You hate the son of the CEO of your father’s rival company, right? 

So It Goes 

- You’re sick and tired of other college boys. Tom shows you how a real man should treat you.

Good For You 

- You and Tom get a little riled up after a premiere.

Teach Me 

- Boxer!Tom teaches you how to defend yourself, you end up on top of him.

Happy Birthday Tommy 

- You make sure your boyfriend has a great birthday, including a special treat from you.

Video Games  ✼

- Tom plays video games and you try not to distract him, although he doesn’t last very long. 

Good Girl 

- You tease Tom, he decides to tease you back.

Lesson  

- Tom teaches you a lesson. 

Switching Things Up 

- You normally let Tom take control in bed, here’s what happens when you change things up. 

Long Night 

- You and Tom use a remote control vibrator at a premiere. 

Night and Day  

- Tom decides to punish you, it’s a shame you seem to enjoy it. 

Getting Even 

- You come without permission, Tom teaches you a lesson, one day at a time. 

Cherry Knots  ✼

- You’re just a stranger in a bar, trying to stay as anonymous as possible.

Familiar  // Navigate  ✼

- You’re a famous Youtuber and your fans figure out you and Tom are dating.

Arcade 

- Being friends with benefits can be tricky, especially when one person catches feelings before another does. 

New Girl, Old Feelings 

- You and Tom take your friendship to the next level.

Pretty As A Polaroid Picture  ✼

- You and Tom really like the gift Harrison bought for you.

Try Again 

- A sequel to Dinner Party, you and Tom mess around at dinner.

Wasabi ✼

- You and your lab partner decide to ditch a party and have one of your own.

We’ve Got Chemistry  ✼

- Tom teaches you how to use a vibrator.

Eighteen (mini-series) ✼

- You ask the tattooed boy you’re tutoring to be your fake boyfriend, imagine your surprise when it turns into something more. 

Best Friend’s Brother  ✼

- You’re Harry’Holland’s best friend, what happens when you have a crush on his brother, Tom?

A Touch of Cinnamon

- You own a bakery, Tom owns a record store. You’re neighbors, just neighbors, right?

Watermelon Sugar  ✼

- Tom gets jealous when you seem to be paying more attention to your favorite singer than him. 

Feel Your Love

- Tom loves to be blindfolded.

Your Shirt

- You can’t wear Tom’s shirt after sex, neither of you seem to mind much.

Counselor in Training

- Tom is supposed to help train you be a counselor at Camp Pine Islands, what happens when he finds you alone in the showers one day?

Call Me Angel

- Tom is lonely, craving a connection he hasn’t been able to find in meaningless hookups. He stumbles across your profile on a phone sex website, a little bit too eager to talk to the girl in the Spiderman t-shirt. 

Figure This Out (coming soon!)

- Tom is a hopeless romantic who writes songs for girls he falls in love with. You’re just a bartender who is great at keeping secrets and manages the bar where Tom performs his love songs. 

Threesomes +

Just Desserts (Tom, Jake, Sebastian, Mackie, reader)

- You have some fun after the Far From Home premiere.

When Two Becomes Three (Tom, Jake, reader)

- You and Tom decide to bring a third into the bedroom. 

Cover Me In Your Love (Tom, Jake, reader)

- Tom and Jake treat you for being such a good girl for them.

Four’s A Crowd But Baby I Like to Party (Tom, Sebastian, Mackie, reader)

- Tom surprises you after comic con. 

Good Boy (Tom, Jake, reader)

- Tom is a good boy for you, Tom is a good boy for Jake. Can you and Jake work together to put him back in his place?

Do Not Disturb (Tom, Laura Harrier, reader)

- Tom and Laura invite you up to their hotel room. 

Tutors (Tom, Jake, reader)

- You and Jake teach Tom a thing or two. 

Office Hours (Tom, Jake, reader) // See Me After Class  ✼

- The escapades of Professor Jake, teaching assistant Tom, and you.

Let’s Play (Tom, Jake, Harrison, Zendaya, reader)  ✼

- Tom wants to show everyone what a good girl you are.

It Will Last Longer... (Tom, Harrison, reader)

- You and Tom invite Harrison into the bedroom, a sequel to Pretty as A Polaroid Picture.

New Seeds In the Melody (Tom, Harry Styles, reader)  ✼

- Tom surprises you by inviting your favorite singer back to your hotel room.

Angst 

What We Deserve 

- Tom shows you that you deserve so much more than you believe you do.

Puzzle Pieces 

- Tom and you are two pieces of a puzzle, you fit together perfectly. Right?

When the Levee Breaks

- Tom loves you, but you don’t love Tom. Is there anything you can do to fix this?

Halo Effect

Y/N just wants to save her little sister. What happens when a handsome stranger promises her so much more? 

Wildflowers and Vanilla

You and Harrison get high and fool around. 

Misattribution of Arousal

You run into a cute boy while on a jog, you’re not mistaking adrenaline for attraction, right?

Penny For Your Thoughts...

- You try to make Harrison jealous. It works out for both of you. 

Craft Store Secrets 

- You and Harrison do some last-minute Christmas shopping. 

Take A Seat

- You and Harrison reveal a little more about yourself during a party. 

The V Word

- You and Harrison have always been close. Close enough to ask him to take your virginity? 

Lonely Blue Eyes

-  You’ve always gotten flowers from the florist across from your flat, a small way to keep your place lively and happy. When he notices you’ve stopped coming by as often, he makes a surprise visit. It turns out he has exactly the shade of blue you’re looking for.

Jake Gyllenhaal

On My Mind

Y/N’s been tasked with interviewing Jake Gyllenhaal during a press junket for his new movie. What happens when she runs into him later than night at a bar?

Princess Party  

- You and Peter get to know each other at your dad, Tony Stark’s, party.

Thick Thighs Save Lives 

- You find out your boyfriend is Spiderman. Cue earth-shattering sex.

Do You Want Me? 

- You don’t need Peter to tutor you, but you want to spend time with him. 

Touch Me 

- You and Peter try to sort through your feelings. 

Dear You

-  A mysterious boy in a red and blue suit leaves you letters on your windowsill. Will you finally find out who the boy behind the mask is?

Church 

- You and MJ fool around in church. 

RA on Duty 

- You like your roommate. She likes you. It should be easy. Right?

Too Late 

- Peter loves Ned. Ned loves Peter. Is it too late for them to tell each other? 

**

Special shoutout to @honeymoonparker for making these headers for me! 

[beccarooni]

Thorbruce cuddling fic?

(A.N: wow this one has been waiting a long time! I'm sorry it took me forever, but I hope you enjoy the fic and anyone else I do take requests!)

Bruce knew he shouldn't have agreed to watch horror movies with Tony. It had been late, the long night at the lab stretching into an early morning, and he knew he should've been getting to bed. 

But, the billionaire didn't seem to want to settle down quite yet. And so, who was Bruce to say no, really? 

Not a lot of people could say no to Tony Stark - not when he turned those big brown eyes on you and claimed he didn't want to be alone for the night. 

Bruce didn't want to be alone either. And so, he'd said yes. Obviously. 

And then Tony had put on some cheesy horror flick from the 80s, and Bruce had said, 'yes, of course'. He'd seen aliens invade New York, he transformed into a giant green monster sometimes on the daily. Suffice it to say, he'd seen enough to not get jumpy at horror movies anymore. 

The weather didn't help much. Cracks of lightning forked against the sky, wind howled, and rain pattered almost horizontally across the large windows as he made his way back to his room. The storm stretched out the shadows, made monsters out of coat hooks, and had Bruce significantly more on edge when he was imagining some knife-fingered murderer lurking behind every door. 

He was so caught up in meticulously imagining the theoretical ways that he could kick some monster butt that when he entered his room, he almost didn't register the other presence there. 

But, the large shape moved, and Bruce dealt with it as any strong and powerful superhero would. 

He yelped and tripped over a kitchen table. 

Groaning, he stumbled to his feet, different scenarios flying through his head when another fork of lightning illuminated the familiar face in front of him. 

Thor was sat on his sofa, hair dripping from the rain, blue eyes wide with something that shoved Bruce's imaginary foes to the side in exchange for something a touch more real. A touch more worrying. 

"Thor?" 

Bruce let out a careful sigh of relief, shrugging his cardigan from his shoulders in a fruitless effort to seem more casual after his...dramatic entrance. 

"I uh…didn't mean to frighten you, so. Are you well?" 

Thor leant forward, frowning with concern at where Bruce's knee had made great battle with the table leg. 

"No, no - I'm fine. Just wasn't expecting you, is all." He perched on the arm of the sofa, one arm extending towards the hanging cord of a lamp. 

"Thought you weren't due back from Asgard except for emergencies?" 

"Strictly speaking, I'm not back."

Thor's voice wavered somewhat, and the Demigod shied away from the light, scooting further back on the sofa - large, broad shoulders hunching over in an effort to look small. 

Not that Thor ever really could look small. But the action alone was somewhat concerning. 

Blonde hair fell over blue eyes as Thor jerked his head up towards the door, with a flash of recognition like he'd just remembered something important. 

"Please don't tell Stark I'm here. Or anyone. Asgard doesn't know I'm gone, and I just -"

"Hey, hey. It's fine, everyone's asleep now, anyway. No one's gotta know." 

Ok, Bruce was moving from concerned into outright fearful. Thor's voice was shaking harder than his shoulders, and he restlessly shifted from position to position - hands gripping the soft material of the sofa with so tight a grip that it was a miracle the wood wasn't splintering. 

"Just out of curiosity, why are you here? Is something wrong?" 

"Yes. Well, no. Well…" Thor trailed off, shaking his head as his frown deepened. 

"It's personal." 

"Right." 

Cautiously, Bruce extended a hand out to rest against Thor's shoulder. 

In moments like these, however far and wide they may have been, it was better to approach Thor slowly rather than rush in. Mostly out of self preservation - when the Demigod got upset, things tended to get…sparky. The kind of sparky that may entice a certain green individual out to see what all the fuss is about, and Bruce was really trying to keep the tower intact. 

Bruce's hand made contact, and mercifully, his nerves remained thoroughly un-electrocuted. 

"You uh...wanna talk about it?" 

"It is… difficult to explain," 

Thor glanced up, his face forming a bitter ghost of his usual 1000 volt grin. 

"You'll think me mad." 

"Try me."

Thor nodded, more to himself than anything else, and the ice cold fear in Bruce's lungs began to thaw. 

Thor, thankfully, was not as shut off as others would like to believe. Or, maybe he was, and Bruce was one of the rare few privy to the Asgardians feelings. Whatever the case, it never took too much prying from Bruce to get to the route of Thor's troubles. 

The two told each other things. That's just how it was. It was a warm feeling - comforting. Like a cozy blanket settled across the shoulders, or a mug of hot tea clasped between two cold hands. 

For so long, it seemed the both of them were encouraged to lock down feelings. To freeze emotion where it stood. 

For some reason, Bruce felt capable of thawing in the warmth of Thor's sun. And he was all too happy to return the favour. 

"I have not been resting well, as of late. Being on Asgard, knowing Loki is below me somewhere in a dungeon, it just feels...wrong. Like I shouldn't be sleeping - like I am undeserving, " 

Thor shrugged his shoulders, some of the tension beginning to seep out. 

"But I'm so tired, Bruce." 

The demigod's head fell into his hands, the rain outside hammering against the windowpane. Bruce tried not to flinch at the sound of thunder - a tremendously difficult task when you know for a fact that the storm is brewing right above your head, and that the source of it is curled next to you, currently having a crisis of guilt.

Bruce let a few beats of silence pass by, rubbing comforting circles into the demigods shoulder as he mulled over the words. 

"Thor, could you look at me for a sec?" 

Thor, albeit a little reluctantly, met Bruce's eyeline - suddenly seeming so much younger peeking out from behind stray strands of hair.

Younger, and so much more afraid. 

"You know what happened in New York wasn't your fault, right?" 

The scientist moved a little closer, until his knee brushed against the cold metal of the top of Thor's boot. 

"If I had not expressed an interest in Midgard, then-"

"Then Loki would've come through the tesseracts portal regardless. This one isn't on you. It's...I don't know, I don't think it's on anyone."

Tony's frantic eyes momentarily flashed before him, and Bruce's face fell somewhat as he muttered. 

"Anyone we know of, at least." 

"The damage is still done, Bruce. Regardless of where or who by." 

A shuddering sigh escaped the demigod, his voice suddenly sounding that much tighter. 

"It is my burden to bear, my penance to pay, and I am not even sure I can do that for much longer." 

Bruce smiled softly, bringing one calloused hand up to rest against the side of Thor's neck. The gesture seemed to bring a sense of familiarity, and for a moment, the rain outside didn't hammer so loudly. Thor's skin was warm under his hand, and in the silence of the living room, Bruce could've sworn he could feel the storm move and shift under Thor's skin. 

"Y'know, we've got a saying here on Midgard. 'A problem shared is a problem halved' - you know that one?"

"No," Thor frowned, turning to face him a little more. 

"What does it mean?"

"It means that you don't have to bear this burden alone, Thor. I've got you." 

He unclenched his other hand from the sofa, linking his fingers between Thor's. 

"You can rest here." 

Watching scary movies with Tony had been a bad idea. It made sleeping alone that much more unbearable, when you'd imagine monsters of every calibre creeping up behind you. 

But, it seemed that Bruce had stumbled across a cure for that particular ailment. One in the form of a large and thunderous Demigod, sprawled across his sofa, head laying in Bruce's lap - snoring loud enough to put the wakened dead back in their coffins. 

He was glad Thor didn't take much coaxing with these sorts of things. The Demigod didn't seem to indulge in comforts of the emotional kind too often - the large armour and the old English seemed to speak of a childhood where comfort like this was pushed away. 

But, Bruce was happy to be an exception. Happy to lend Thor a t-shirt and sweatpants that were comically small on him, happy to endure shoulder cramp if that meant the demigod would get a good night's sleep for once. 

Thor would return the favour, someday. But for now, Bruce could provide a sanctuary of his own. 

[astranne]

FanFiction.net MASTERLIST

Here are the FanFiction I’ve read on FanFiction.net. Hope you’ll enjoy!

For each recommendation I’ve linked the story to the title and wrote/copied a little summary. Please remember that many stories are rated M or E, if not stronger. Read on your own risk!

justhugefangirl’s masterlist

fanfiction recommendation masterlist

Love’s Labour Found  by Peanutbuttertoast1

The War may be over, but Hermione Granger's life is just starting as her true heritage is revealed. Being the Heir to the Throne of England and a real life Princess is just the beginning of Hermione's story...but how will the Wizarding World react when they learn the Golden Girl and Gryffindor Princess is really a real life Royal?

This fanfic os one of my favourites, read it already three times- I can’t. It’s perfect, okay? For me it’s perfect. 

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A Witch in Gotham by Peanutbuttertoast1

After the Second Wizarding War, a curse rips through the Magical World, leaving devastation in its wake. Hermione Granger is tasked to find the reason, and the cure before more lives are lost. Retreating into the Muggle World to start over, Hermione finds her way to Gotham City as Mia Black, Head of the Black Foundation. Her decision to help the Batman changes her life forever.

A perfect crossover- honestly, this author is perfect. As well this story. I don’t link more of the authors work but there are some other ones which are just ... perfect.

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Mischief Managed by fringeperson

A man with black hair, green eyes and pale skin watched over a child with black hair, green eyes, pale skin, and a variant of the Elder Futhark rune Sowilo etched upon his brow.

Mischief Mastered (part of story)

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Green Eyes and Red Hair by fringeperson

He was a practical joker with messy black hair. She was a talented woman with bright red hair. It turned out that they both had green eyes. Their daughter, when she came, was untouchable for more reasons than one. Loki-is-James, Natasha-is-Lily, Rogue-is-Fem!Harry.

I love the relationship between Loki and Natasha :)

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Love on Her Arm by Eye Greater Than Three

During a trip to Gringotts, Hyacinthe Potter discovered she met her soulmate, William Weasley. Bill/Hyacinthe. female!Harry.

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The Winter Witch by Kneazle

Hermione realized it began with a sense of Impending Doom and finished with a battle outside her tent. The deciding line between staying and helping Robb Stark, or returning to her universe, is getting harder to see the longer she's in Westeros. But it's a decision that she has to make, or it's one that will be made for her. Part 1 & Part 2 complete! Part 3 now ongoing.

This... is one of my favourites crossovers,,, the slowburn between Hermione and Robb,,, and it’s so fluff,,, I’m such a sucker for dark stories but this is just pureness and ugh-

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Moratorium by Darkpetal16

Harry Potter could never be the hero. But, she might make a great villain. Satire. Parody. -COMPLETE- F!Harry Fem!Harry Gray!Harry.

Uhm- this is one of the darker fics I love. It’s very good written, cause of this I really don’t mind the ship fem!Harry x Tom Riddle

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A Life Twice Lifed by Nemesis13

Draco Malfoy died at the venerable age of 107, and who awaited him at the crossroads? His mother? His wife? No, it had to be his eccentric former rival, eventual best friend, and far too often partner in chaos Harry Potter. Oh, and of course he had a deal to offer Draco to live his life anew, and obviously there was a caveat to it all that he wasn't privy to, damn Potters.Fem!Draco

Ahh, Drarry. How I love this ship

---

Persephone by dulce.de.leche.go

Better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path. Better still to be the consort of Hades than a part of his collection of souls. Ten years after Voldemort has won the war, Hermione reaches a breaking point and shreds the flow of time to change her future. If she can't change the world, she will change her place in it. Extremely dark Tomione/Volmione. Warnings inside.

As already written in the summary, this fic is hella dark. So if you don’t like dark fics (especially with all the warnings mentioned in the first chapters) don’t read. I still love it tho-

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The Muddy Princess by Colubrina

Just another Pureblood!Hermione story. A hidden adoption revealed, a brother found, a new world to figure out: "What are you hoping for?" he asked as they stood ready to do the spell. "I don't know," Hermione admitted. "You?" His knuckles were white on his wand. "A sister," he said, his voice very low, "I'm hoping for a sister."

There are more stories from this author which are just- awesome and absolutly perfect, like the next ones. Since they have over 60, I won’t link every work here. 

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Lady of the Lake by Colubrina

Hermione and Draco team up after the war to overthrow the Order and take over wizarding Britain. They have plans and they'll get power, but the cost of victory may be higher than they expected and more than they can bear. Dark Dramione. COMPLETE

This is perfection. Nothing more to say. 

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Dark Cherry Chapstick by Colubrina

Hermione returns for an optional 8th year after the war and Draco Malfoy, also back at Hogwarts at his mother's request, notices she's changed. A brief dip into the 'makeover' trope AND the 'goth' trope in one fic. ONE SHOT. Dramione.

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The Green Girl by Colubrina

Hermione is sorted into Slytherin; how will things play out differently when the brains of the Golden Trio has different friends? AU. Darkish Dramione. COMPLETE

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The Last Peverell by animerocker 646

Being the Master of Death made life difficult, especially when you need to save all of magical Europe from inbreeding its way to extinction. At least Death was enjoying watching his Master attempt this over and over again. Harry didn't find it nearly as entertaining. Well, tenth times the charm right? (FemHarry)

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Soft, Low, English Accent by Tsume Yuki

'God, you've got a beautiful voice.' Hariel always found it funny, that of all the things her soulmate could take note of -the messy hair, the bright green eyes, the scar- it's her voice he points out first. FemHarryxMatt

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Bless the Broken Road by Tempestas D. Uzu

Her resolve crumbled in the face of Pietro Maximoff's scruffy good looks and warm blue eyes, and she found herself falling for another person who would be doomed to die for her selfishness. (One Shot)(fem!HarryXPietro)(cannon-divergent)(full warnings inside)

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The Death of Natasha Romanoff by Philosophize

While helping to stop Stane, Natasha encounters a face she never thought she'd see again. Forced to deal with memories, decisions, and a life she thought she'd long left behind, will she survive the emotional upheaval, not to mention the rampaging, homicidal Stane? Or will she have to face her fears & transform herself, becoming once again what she once was? AU; fem!Harry; femslash

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Code Of Conduct by tlyxor1

A year after the war, Gwen Potter joins SHIELD. It's a life in the shadows, and a perpetual dance with death, but for the Witch Who Won, SHIELD - and Clint Barton - is exactly what she needs. She just doesn't know it yet. AU. Clint/Gwen. Fem!Harry. Pre-MCU. Post-Hogwarts, Post OOTP. Discontinued.

It already says it’s not finished,,, but oh well- I still liked it.

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The Almost Forgotten Marriage Contract of 1763 by worldtravellingfly

What would you do when suddenly confronted with a 200+ years old marriage contract by a teen and her lawyer? Run for the hills? Call the nice guys with the white jackets? Certainly not - agree? Well, Tony Stark always was a bit unique.

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Some Hearts by sakurademonalchemist

Robin Black was a bound witch. However, as the new Mistress of Death she was able to break free to Asgard and prepare to reap her vengeance. What she didn't count on was falling for a certain green-eyed, silver-tongued God of Mischief or being hit by Time Sand before the war restarted. Can she make her way back to Loki, or will she be stuck on Earth? FEM HARRY! YOU WERE WARNED!

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A Man of Honor by bloomsburry-dhazel

One day, Lyanna Stark discovers an unconscious man in the Wolfswood. Not knowing who he is, she takes him back to Winterfell where he is nurse back to health... Steve Rogers can't remember what happened to him, or how he ends up there, but he does remember who he is. He is Captain America, and somehow he has become Lyanna Stark's sworn shield.

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The Origin of The Black Widow by The Black Shadowx

The story of how the Black Widow became to be. detailed description of her life in the Red Room and what happened when she defected. this is my own creation so if things appear that is not in the comics thats the reason. i don't things can ever be too far stretched so excuse me if it gets weird. DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING TO DO WITH MARVEL . WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT ONLY

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will be updated...

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: mentions of character death, cursing, haunting, spooky stuff, angst

Word count: 7.1k

Summary: Steve Rogers is a man out of time. He knows more ghosts than people. One of his ghosts has come home. 

A/N: This is waaaay longer than I normally write, but I just wanted to do it justice. This is my submission for @barnesrogersvstheworld​ AYAOTD writing challenge! Sort of an Endgame AU, also features an appearance from a rather obscure Marvel comics character. The prompt I had was “Don’t look behind you.” - it’s highlighted in bold. This is also really sad. I’m sorry for that...but please let me know what you think! 

His tastes have changed.

Most people wouldn’t have known that - wouldn’t have seen anything abnormal about a 100+ year old man reaching for minute oatmeal and Folgers at the grocery store. There had been a few articles, before, in health or men’s interest magazines, about the ‘Super Soldier Diet’. They were much more colorful than this - full of sugary cereals and peanut butter and seasonal frappuccinos. The articles always ended with reminders that a normal human should reach for more nutritious foods.

Steve pulls his oats - plain, made with water, no sweetener - from the microwave, and stirs just a little. Not thick enough; he replaces the bowl and adds another 30 seconds to the microwave timer. On the counter, the Mr. Coffee drips away, slowly filling the pot.

He eats quietly, perched on a stool at the island; he never uses the table anymore. A few news highlights appear in the notifications on his phone, and he scrolls through them, eyes scanning as he spoons his tasteless breakfast into his mouth.

New York Nears Completion of Relocation Program he reads, letting his thumb swipe down to read more of the article.

“Almost three years after the globally devastating event in which Earth’s population was reduced by half, the people of New York City are finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel in their relocation efforts for residents whose homes were damaged or destroyed in the aftermath of the Decimation. The project, one of the last proposals by Tony Stark before his retirement from the Department of Damage Control, is expected to end-”

He closes his phone.

**********

There are three support group meetings that he attends each week - two as a leader, one as a participant.

“You should come, Nat.” He’s a broken record, but he just keeps spinning. Like the planet, like the solar system. If he falls out of orbit- “Just once. You might be surprised…”

“Some of us still have jobs, Steve.” She raises a still perfect eyebrow, now back to its natural red. He finds a little comfort in that.

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Maybe not. But don’t wait up for me.”

The Tuesday meeting is the hardest, though it was the first one he ever lead. It caters to a specific group, a group that looks to him because...well, because he lost what they lost. He wonders if they know, if they realize, that it’s all his fault.

“Jackie was...she was my rock, you know?” The new woman, Elsie, sniffs as she continues. “We went through a lot together, and I remember thinking all that time ‘God, what would I do without her?’ And now I know the answer - spiral and-and become an alcoholic.”

“You can’t blame yourself for all of that.” Steve shakes his head. “There was so much more going on - the world was practically in flames, and you were trying to cope. What matters is that you’re here now, trying to get better.”

Elsie is nodding, accepting a tissue from the man sitting next to her. She gives a shaky little smile and settles back in her chair, done sharing for now. Steve glances around the circle, waiting for someone else to speak up.

It was such an odd reversal for him, especially at first. When he first wandered into one of Sam’s support group meetings, he had felt out of place and alone - and that feeling was exactly why he belonged in a place like that. Sam could see it. It was one of his gifts; he was better at reading people than anyone Steve knew, except maybe Natasha. Even when Bucky came along, and Sam played the tough act, he could see all of that fear and pain, and knew exactly what to do with it. Over the years they were in hiding, Sam would secretly reach out to Bucky - during their visits in Wakanda, Steve found the two of them sitting at the lake behind Bucky’s hut and talking, low and intense.

“You know, sometimes-” It’s a man on the opposite side of the circle, dark-skinned with a greying beard. “I don’t know about all of you, but sometimes...I wonder if they can see us. If they know what we’re doing. Does that make any sense?”

He gets a few nods and murmurs from the group, so he goes on.

“I mean, after my old man died, my mom used to say he was watching over me.” He swallows thickly. “She was on her own, tucking a 9-year-old boy in at night, and telling me that Daddy could see me from heaven, that he was looking out for me. And I just think....well, I wanna know - where are they? Are they in heaven? Is that even possible?”

He turns to Steve, several of the people in the circle do. It’s always like this - whenever the sessions turn to specific questions or musings about what happened, they look to him. Because shouldn’t he know? He had lead them, he failed them, he was there when their lives went up in dust.

“Well, I don’t think I’m qualified to offer religious advice,” he starts with a rueful smile. “And, from everything I’ve seen, I don’t think we even know what’s possible. All I know is, we can’t live in the past...even if they see us, wherever they are, we have to accept that they’re really...gone.” He crossed his arms. “They’re not here with us anymore.”

The group has gone quiet, reflective. Most are staring at their hands rather than him, each lost in their own haze of memory and ashes. He wishes he could offer them more, but he knows grief like this, and Steve Rogers is honest to a fault - he won’t lie, even for the sake of comfort.

“We’re on our own now.”

**********

He goes for runs alone now.

No Bucky to keep up with him, pushing the pace and trying to trip him. No Sam to complain about his hamstrings and insist on coffee afterwards. Not even music on those weird tiny headphones she had gotten him. Just his sneakers and pavement and the sound of his own breath. Sometimes he hated that - how he never got winded anymore, never sounded hurt and tired, the way he would wheeze through his asthma attacks with Bucky holding him up and reminding him how to pull in air. The machine of his body was too efficient for that.

In his apartment, he takes short showers, cold and fast, like in the Army. The soap is blue, with a generic smell that is clean and reminds him of nothing. He turns and tilts his head back under the spray, allowing a few more seconds to rinse and-

He nearly jumps when a burst of heat runs down his back.

The water has suddenly turned hot, a steamy, balmy, sultry hot that turns his soft Irish skin pink. He had never had this problem with his showers before - never run out of cold water certainly. Maybe something was wrong with the…

When he turned around, he saw the hot water knob turning slowly clockwise, centimeter by centimeter, untouched.

He shut off the water and got out.

**********

“I’m gonna have to call a plumber sometime.”

“Oh yeah? I thought all you old guys were handymen.”

“Ha ha.” He watches Nat scoop some spaghetti into bowls for the two of them. “I was the artist type. Not really handy around the house.”

“Guess that means Barnes was wearing the pants?” She’s smirking, and he feels like he’s seeing the real Nat again, so he goes along with the joke.

“How could he not? Who’s gonna let a 90-pound asthmatic wear the pants?”

“So what’s wrong with your plumbing?” Nat peeks over the fridge door as she grabs some parmesan and a bottle of wine. Steve, under strict orders not to help, is watching from the kitchen table.

“It’s my shower, something happened the other day. The water turned hot while I was in the middle of showering, even though I had it turned cold.”

“Hm. Weird.”

Steve comes out here at least once a month, or as often as he can. He sees the way that Natasha would rather slip into her work, lose herself in the business of holding the pieces of the world together, let go of her own life. The pantry, open and visible from where he’s sitting, is stocked with the bare minimum dry goods and canned foods; the fridge isn’t much better. He’s seen her on missions, seen her at home in her mismatched socks; he knows that she’d barely feed herself, surviving on a sandwich a day, if the thought or the hunger struck her. So he comes and threatens to cook and she saves the compound from being burned down by making a meal for the two of them.

It’s a far cry from normal. From pizza nights with Sam and Wanda at the compound, the two of them taking turns introducing Steve to movies he missed - all the “classics” he hadn’t heard of. They were missing their monthly family dinners, too; Tony always made room in his schedule to attend, dragging Pepper along from the office, and Steve sat at the head of their long dining table watching this strange, funny little family he had share and eat and laugh with each other.

Now he sits across from Natasha at a table otherwise occupied by her scattered files and reports, a pair of pointe shoes laying in the chair next to her. He didn’t come often enough to expect her to clean for him. She had enough on her plate.

“You know, I was talking to Carol last week,” Nat says, twirling her pasta around her fork. “And she said she might make it to visit us next month. It’ll depend on that trafficking case she was working in the Pegasus galaxy.” She shrugs a little.

“That’s good.” Steve chews, sips his wine. “It would be nice to see her.”

They don’t talk much throughout their meal; there isn’t much new to share. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall of the compound, Steve watches the early sunset fall over the grounds, shadows reaching and reaching, as quiet as it was empty.

**********

Sometimes, sometimes, when he’s feeling more stupid than usual, he opens the drawer.

That drawer. The lower one in his bedside table. With her box inside.

The box isn’t really anything special - just plain black, with her name written on the top. He got it at the suggestion of the team’s - his - therapist, Dr. Rajan. She recommended that putting some things away, rather than leaving them around his room, might help him move on, realize that his life had changed. He thought about putting the compass in the box, too, but it felt wrong. She wouldn’t want that in there. Somehow it mostly ends up in his pocket, and he stares at it from time to time, at the picture inside, thinking about words like should have and what if.

He’s staring at the drawer now, remembering the night before, when he thought about getting the box after he shuffled in from support group. When he was halfway through his flask of that Asgardian shit he kept under the bed. Steve had shuffled out of his clothes and fallen asleep in his underwear instead, flask still clutched in his hand, just sober enough to turn down the bad idea.

So why was the drawer open?

**********

“Have you thought about getting back out there? Dating again?”

His laugh is humorless.

“Doc, come on. I think we both know I’m not the type.”

“All we know is that you’re a serial monogamist.” She smiles. “And a very eligible one.”

“Sure, but…” Steve pauses, rubbing his palms against his jeans. He looks around the office, trying to find something to focus on. “I feel lucky...really lucky, to have had the kind of love I got. I mean, I never really expected to have it, not after I woke up in this century. And then, with her, it just sort of happened so naturally...well, lightning never strikes twice, as the saying goes.”

“It seems like, for you at least, it did,” Dr. Rajan raises her brows. “Two great loves in one lifetime? More rare than lightning.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still long on the top.

“I-I guess so. But it won’t strike a third time.”

“Because you’re not going to give it a chance?”

“You know me too well, doc.” His smile is apologetic, kind.

**********

At night, he sweats through dreams of her. His legs tangle in sheets where they used to twist and curl around her. The pillows smell only of him, his blue generic soap, but in his mind, locked somewhere far and sweet, her scent fills the air. Fills him up until he tastes it.

He tastes her, too, in dreams; under him, around him, pressed close in that intimate haze only lovers can know. Her lips chase his and smile into his mouth, following the curve of his jaw as he tucks his own face into her neck. It’s in his veins now, her smell and taste, ripe and alive on his tongue and oh, he’s swimming in it. She sighs, blissful, and sinks her teeth into that spot at the base of his throat-

Bedsheets fly off him as he bolts upright in bed, chest heaving, the sweat rolling in little beads down his temple. The smell is fading, drifting away from the room even as he tries to hold on to it; she was here, right here, and it had all felt so real, having her in his arms again. But now he’s wading back to consciousness, unwillingly, the tide of his dream pulling away from the shore and tugging at his ankles, carrying her with it. He wants to drift out to sea on it, drown in it, never resurface in this half-empty world.

Always so dramatic, Rogers.

Something nags at the corner of his eye, and he turns to the bedside table. In the pre-dawn light of the window, he can see the second drawer open. Her box is pulled forward to the front of the drawer with its lid propped up, asking, begging to be seen. He feels himself almost chasing the tide, diving back in as he leans over the side of his bed…

He slams the drawer shut.

Steve blows a harsh breath past his lips and swings his legs out of bed, tugging the sheet from between his thighs. His bare feet brush the cold wood and he arches up on his toes, tight muscles protesting the stretch. Palms scrub at his heavy eyes, brushing away what he can of his sleep. He has no plans to go back to bed, not now. He’ll just get an early start on his run. Maybe put in a few extra miles. He runs a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching absently at his scalp.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he turns the cold water tap in the sink and splashes his face a few times, feeling the two-day stubble on his cheeks. The shave can wait until after his run, he thinks. He stands straighter and reaches for the towel next to the sink, patting his face dry - he leaves his eyes closed, buried in the cotton for a moment before meeting his own gaze in the mirror. Immediately his eyes are drawn down to - what the hell is that?

At the base of his neck, just where it meets his shoulder, is a small red mark. A love bite. He presses it with a finger and hisses at the tenderness of the skin. Unbidden, the wave of his dream crashes over him, rolling him under, and he can almost feel her lips again…

The hair on the back of his neck and arms is standing straight up, his body gone cold all over. He thinks, maybe, he should go back to bed after all. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he hears his own name. What if...what if she’s waiting for me? He almost turns around, almost looks at the rumpled bed, almost expects her to be in it, rolling over in that tangled mess and smiling past the curve of her shoulder…

He yanks on a hoodie and running pants, toeing into his sneakers without socks, and leaves the apartment unlocked. Hardly knowing it, he clocks 50 miles, the sun high overhead before he can force his legs to stop, even his enhanced muscles starting to twitch. His sweat is still cold.

**********

There’s a memorial. Lots of them, actually.

All the major cities have at least one, and New York has built theirs, unsurprisingly, in Memorial Park. It’s huge, a sprawling garden of sculpture installations covered overhead by a soft white canopy. A retaining wall, approximately 3 feet high, lines the garden beds and holds in the dark rubber mulch, its outer white brick etched with the names of the lost. Even Steve could admit that it was beautiful, and so different from the solemn obelisks and walls of names he had expected when the memorial was announced.

The city had commissioned a team of artists, led by the famous Chihuly, to create blown glass sculptures using...well, as much of the collected ashes of decimated people as they could. “Cremation glass” it was called. The concept was morbid; though symbolically beautiful, most hadn’t imagined a stunning art gallery, more suited to the Met than this mass grave of the unknown.

Steve was there when it was dedicated, as was Tony. He was asked to say a few words, and he did; he has no idea, now, what he read from those cards handed to him by the administrative team. A black suit stretched around his shoulders, no shield in sight, his tie more like a noose as he watched the somber faces of the attendees. Loved ones and friends of people he had failed. A living memorial. Tony stood next to him, year-old wedding band still shining as he crossed his hands in front of him and declined to speak.

There are a few locations he has memorized around the park, the Lost Garden, as it has been named. A blooming blue hydrangea bush, sculpted white flowers and leaves pressed between the green, with the name “James B. Barnes” carved a few inches below. Across from it, red and yellow globes hang from a white tree, the round shadows falling over “Samuel Wilson”. Two rows over, an exploding tower of tangled green and blue spirals, surrounded by bushes, guards the name “Wanda Maximoff”.

Hers is carved neatly - block letters, plain font - into the white brick near the entrance of the memorial. Above it, a cherry blossom tree blooms sweetly, the pink flowers joined by purple and pink glass stems sprouting up from the ground around the trunk of the tree. Soft green bushes hem in the sculpture, as though keeping the glass from growing too far. It’s whimsical, charming. Elegant.

He fucking hates it.

He hates how this is meant to honor her - the vibrancy of her memory, the slyness of her smile, the passion of her love, the ferocity of her anger. She was more solid and real and hard than the delicate stems of glass that stood for her now. It wasn’t even her ashes in there anyway - he knows that for certain. He knows because he felt her drift through his hands under a hot Wakandan sun. He had watched the dust float and settle and knew that all the parts of her he kissed and held were under his feet and in his mouth and Jesus God it made him want to scream.

He doesn’t know whose ashes are here, in the glass above her name. But he wants to smash it. Put a fist through it. Hear that tinkling glass shatter on the ground the way she did. It would only be right.

As he stands there, staring at the falling cherry blossoms scattered around the sculpture, he feels the air go cold around him. His whole body breaks out in goosebumps and the little hairs on the back of his neck start prickling. He shudders, looking around, but no one else is nearby. It’s a late spring day, warm and getting warmer, with the sun beaming through scattered clouds. He shouldn’t be shivering.

The wind picks up, light breeze growing stronger, and the long stalks of glass begin to vibrate. A low hum builds as the wind carves its way between the sculptures, a plaintive, lonely noise that he feels low in his belly.

Steve…

He whips his head around, looking up and down the row, but he’s alone - no one else is here. That whisper, his name, it was so close…

Steeeeve

He’s turning a full circle, looking for a microphone or a drone or something tiny like Scott’s suit.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Stevie …

A cloud of cherry blossoms billows into his face, making him jump back. The chill sinks through his skin, slips down his spine bone by bone with each breath. His heart is hammering hard and fast. That name, that voice - it’s been three years. They’re gone. It’s not possible. He closes his eyes as he feels a presence close beside him, right at his shoulder, and he knows, he knows if he turns his head she’ll be-

“Captain Rogers? You alright?”

He jumps again, startled, and looks over to see a policeman watching him, eyes wary and concerned. The officer was young, like all of them now - mass recruiting in public services has been going on for a couple of years, with things nearly falling into chaos after...everything. The military, the police, trying to swell their numbers enough with what was left of the population to keep the world in check. Not like the Avengers were doing a very good job.

“Captain?” The young officer asks again, inching a half-step towards Steve. His hand, unconsciously, twitches towards his radio.

“I’m fine - really,” Steve shakes his head and offers a smile. “Everything’s fine. Just...remembering someone.”

The kid nods; Steve wonders if he himself ever looked so young in a uniform.

“I understand.” He’s tugging at his uniform jacket. “My, uh, parents - they’re over there.” He points at a patch of lilies, not far from Wanda. “And my brother.”

“I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he ever says these days. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Everyone pretends that it’s enough.

He walks the kid - the officer - back to his patrol car, shakes his hand; the boy has to crane his head back to look up at him, and he stares up at Steve like there’s still hope in this world. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

**********

The chill follows him into the summer. Even with the sun high and New York sweltering with heat, Steve shivers in his apartment, cold biting at him until he aches with it. He cranks the heat on his thermostat, yet still finds a harsh breeze blowing through his apartment somehow. He allows the shower faucet to continue turning hot - blistering hot, the way she liked it - now that this chill won’t let him go.

Despite that, he finds himself staying in more than ever. He was never exactly a social butterfly - Bucky could testify to that. It tumbles him into memory: Bucky, slicked-back hair and spit-shined shoes, a rose tucked into the lapel of his jacket; Bucky, chin thrown back and ready to laugh at the world, an arm around Steve’s shoulders as he drags them on yet another double date. “Ya gotta get out more, Rogers,” he’d say, cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I’m a piss-poor excuse for real company.”

The only people he sees now are Dr. Rajan and the members of his support groups. Occasionally Nat, but she’s been traveling more lately, following the crumbs of Clint’s trail. Their emails are few and far between, containing only the bare bones.

It’s a Friday night - or maybe it’s Saturday, Sunday. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning the little thing over in his hands. The compass stays in his pocket most days. He flips it open, stares at the portrait inside, the one he’s had memorized since ‘43. He could draw it with his eyes closed, probably.

Suddenly, the compass snaps shut, unbidden, in his hand. It shakes, the mechanisms inside rattling violently, and grows hot to the touch. He yelps and it falls from his palm, dropping to the floor between his feet. The skin of his hands is red, scalded, and he flexes his fingers, watching the trinket warily. It lies on the floor, perfectly still.

Behind him, he hears the second drawer of his dresser roll open.

**********

More dreams come to him, sweet ones, and he sinks into them without protest. He falls into his bed at night happily, searching for the smell of her somewhere behind his eyes. She’s always there, always smiling for him, reaching and pulling him further down into their own special hiding place. She’s there in her uniform, in her sweatpants, in his t-shirt, in nothing at all.

“C’mere, Stevie baby,” she nuzzles his nose, and he’s close to tears but he doesn’t know why. Then she’s tugging at his own clothes and he’s not thinking about it at all.

The ache in his throat returns when he wakes empty-handed and alone. Beneath his jaw, a line of hickeys leads down his neck and across his shoulder. His breath puffs in small clouds as he pants and tries not to cry.

**********

“You don’t look so good, Steve.” Nat’s tone is worried, her voice tight. She watches him stare at the wall with a cup of coffee in his massive hands. “Have you been sleeping?”

He nearly chuckles at that.

“A little too much, I think.” He goes quiet then, mouth turning back down, carved sadness in that larger-than-life face.

“I think...God, Nat,” Steve slumps forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Join the club.” She sits down next to him, sliding a soft hand across his back. Her voice is just above a whisper. “We’re all still struggling. You know that. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it feels...it feels like...you’re just holding on by a thread.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes.

“Have you - do you dream about them? Ever?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean…” Steve rubs his eyes. “I mean...do the dreams feel...when you wake up, does it feel like it really happened.”

Nat frowns.

“I’m not following you, Steve.”

He sighs, heavy and resigned.

“No, I know. I’m not making any sense.” He leans into her embrace a little. He likes the contact of it. Hasn’t had that in a long time.

“Listen, Nat. I know S.H.I.E.L.D. used to keep a lot of records of...enhanced individuals…”

“Sure. Everyone that pinged on their radar,” she nods. “So, pretty much anyone with abilities.”

“I need to have a look at them.”

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Yes. But if I told you, you’d have me committed.”

“Yeah, that really makes me want to help you.” She leans her head against his shoulder, fingers squeezing his bicep. Her voice still soft and low. “Tell me what you need.”

**********

They meet in a public place. It’s not hard now, with the world half-dead, to go about their business as though they are two men with nothing to hide. A bright, hot July sun beats on their heads, and Steve adjusts his sunglasses as a bead of sweat slides down his neck. On the street, traffic grumbles along, bikers and street vendors and tourists darting between. The hard metal chair of the café presses into the soft underside of his knees, leaving little dents in his skin.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Captain,” the man across from him smiles. The white symbol on his forehead stands out starkly against his dark skin. “I understand we move in different circles.”

They’re sitting outside a small restaurant in Port-au-Prince, only coffee on the table in front of them. The heat is sweltering, oppressive, different from the New York heat that Steve knows. Part of him wishes they were near the beach, with the wind coming off the ocean. She would have begged him to go to the beach.

“That we do,” Steve raises his eyebrows. “Even with everything that’s happened, aliens, Thanos...things like magic are still...hard to believe.”

“Hm.” Jericho Drumm leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “I think you are here because...it’s not so hard anymore, yes?”

He grits his teeth. There are fingernail scratches on his back and they chafe against the sweaty cotton of his shirt.

“You’re a smart man, Jericho,” he sighs. “And I think you might be the only person who can help me.”

Jericho Drumm nods.

“Yes, I think so, too.”

According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files Steve spent all his free time digging through, there were only a few enhanced individuals with supernatural abilities. And now half of them were gone. Some, like the sorcerer Tony told him about, had managed to stay under the radar for thousands of years. With precious little to go on besides an alias, Steve commandeered a quinjet and packed a bag for Haiti.

“What you are asking me...communication with the spirits…” Jericho shakes his head. “It’s not what you think. Or what it looks like in the movies.”

“Then tell me,” Steve presses, leaning his elbows on the table. His coffee is half full. He can see his reflection in the oily surface of it.

“I’ve served as a houngan for many years; I’ve served as Sorcerer Supreme. In fact, with Stephen Strange gone, they may ask me to serve again. But inviting spirits into this world is a dangerous practice - not white magic.”

“But it can be done?”

Jericho narrows his eyes. The white streak in his hair is bright in the noonday sun.

“When Thanos tore a rift in this world, in this universe,” he speaks slowly, choosing his words with careful consideration. “He tore through the other side as well. The things he’s done affect us all, the living and the dead. It is possible, the things you describe, are caused by this. A ripple effect, if you will. A door not closed.”

“A ripple.”

“Yes. However,” Drumm raises a finger, leaning forward to speak in a low voice. “I will say something else. I may have years of experience with the supernatural, but I studied psychology as well. My time in America was mostly in a university, studying the human mind, how it works…” He pauses for a moment, giving Steve a look that is on the suspicious side of apologetic. “Our minds are powerful. When a person wishes for things, even terrible things, the mind can give them what they seek.”

Steve closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“Believe me, I know how I sound,” he sighs. “I know. My therapist says the same thing. But if anyone’s going to believe me, it’s you. This is not in my mind.” His fingers are shaking and he curls them into fists. “This is real. She’s...it’s real. It’s her.” Haunting me.

Dr. Drumm nods, sympathetic and quiet. He watches this captain, this legend, the age showing in his young man’s body. With the sunglasses propped up on his head, the dark circles beneath Steve’s puffy eyes are on full display. His shoulders curl in, posture defensive, small. His knee bounces under the table, and his jaw ticks every so often, teeth clicking in his mouth. There is a bruise visible at the base of his neck where the collar of his shirt has shifted to one side.

“Very well, Captain. I will do my best to help you.”

**********

He sits cross-legged on the tile floor of the bathroom, surveying the items in front of him. According to Dr. Drumm, he would need only a few candles, items that belonged to her, a circle of salt to protect himself. Incense, too, burning in the corner, the smell of sage and smoke floating around him. The lights are off, only the flickering candles illuminating the room.

He feels a little silly, setting all of this up. When he was a boy, vampires and werewolves and ghosts were all just stories - hiding under the covers with Bucky and scaring themselves silly. No real monsters hid under his bed. All of that came later.

Under his shirt, the amulet rests against his chest, growing warm with his own body heat.

“If you must do this alone as you insist,” Jericho had said, shaking his head. “Then wear this. Bene gris-gris. It is the best I can do to protect you from dark magic.” His steel grip closed around Steve’s arm. “And this may be a dark thing, Captain. Her coming back to you. It doesn’t feel like white magic.”

Steve had only nodded, his hand closing around the amulet. He was beyond light and dark now, beyond counting costs. He had chased ghosts for so long after he woke up. It’s only right for him to chase her, too.

Here, in the bathroom, toes pressed to cold tile, he digs two more items out of his pockets. Dr. Drumm said to bring something that would ground him to himself, something special. He turns the compass over in his hand, flicks it open, and sets it on the edge of the circle. From the other pocket, he fishes a black velvet box. His fingers twitch, feeling the soft fabric; he doesn’t want to open it. He hasn’t opened it, since he took the ring off their nightstand in Wakanda and put it back in the box. She hadn’t worn it - didn’t like wearing it on missions or in fights. Afraid of scratching it. She had wiggled it off her finger, smiling at him, leaving a kiss on his bearded jaw-

He leaves the box closed for now, and places it in the center next to the other tokens - a photo of her, a necklace with a small silver pendant she used to wear whenever they went on dinner dates, a little jar of seashells from a beach vacation she took in college. All the little things he had packed away in that nightstand drawer. Memories he had put into storage.

Safe inside his little circle, he reaches in his shirt and grabs the amulet tight in his fist. He closes his eyes. Breathes deep the incense and soft curling smoke from his candles.

He says her name softly in the dark.

In his mind, he shifts his awareness down the plane of his body, piece by piece. He learned meditation techniques during his therapy sessions; now he has another use for them. He says her name again.

“I want to speak to you.” He says, voice low, a lover’s intimacy. “I call on your spirit.”

Her name. Her name. Her name.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, curled on the floor, but the chant of her name lulls him into a trance. His eyes are half-open, the candles wavering in front of him, casting long shadows on the walls. He licks his lips, calls her name again.

One by one, the candles snuff out.

He goes quiet. Smoke curls up to his nose, but he can’t see - the only light is coming from underneath the bathroom door. That familiar chill trickles down the back of his neck, raising the hairs. His flesh is covered in goosebumps; his muscles tense up, coiled tight, ready to spring. His tongue lies dry and thick against his teeth.

“Hello?”

Steve?

He sighs her name. “Sweetheart, is that you?”

A cold breeze passes over his face, rumpling his shirt.

“Are you there?”

The compass flies up and smashes against the wall.

Steve…

Her voice is harsher. Sadder.

“Baby, please,” he’s begging now. He can feel how close she is, she’s in the room, he knows it like he knows his own body. Like he knew hers.

For the first 25 years of his life, he lived with asthma - any little trigger could set him aching for air, his lungs betraying their purpose and seizing up on him, his whole body trembling in relief when he managed to pull in oxygen. He feels that ache for her now - acute and sharp as it was the day he first lost her, a physical pain and its cure so close, so close, if she would only let him - let him breathe-

Oh, Steve.

“Honey, I’m here, I’m right here.” He stands in his little circle, spinning around, though he still sees nothing in the darkened bathroom. He feels the tip of his nose go numb in the frigid air, his body shivering slightly.

I’m here, too, Stevie.

“Where, baby? Where are you?” He’s desperate, so desperate. He’s going to cry if she doesn’t-

I’m here. Look.

He feels, thinks he feels, cold fingers brush down his cheek, and he turns. The mirror above the sink is frosted over, he can see it now that his eyes are adjusting to the pale dark, and he stumbles towards it. Pulls a sleeve down over his hand and wipes at the fog, the remains of his body heat melting it away in streaks.

“Oh...oh god.” He grips the edges of the sink.

Hi, baby.

There she is. There she is. Standing right behind him, over his shoulder. His eyes sweep over her face in the mirror, scanning the details he never forgot, not for a moment. Her lips quirk a sad little smile, tilting her head.

You don’t look so good, Rogers.

His laugh comes out as a sob, and he nods. Fingers curl tighter over the edge of the sink because it’s all that’s holding him up right now. In the reflection, he sees her take a step closer to him - feels her presence, her smell is right behind him and if he can just turn and take her in his arms then everything will be alright again…

NO DON’T!

The force of it is loud in his mind, sends him reeling forward against the sink. Her lips are trembling in a soft frown.

Don’t look behind you.

It sounds so soft. So sad. And he knows, knows in the marrow of his bones, that this is it, this is all they can have. This halfway, this inbetween, this ships in the night barely seen as they pass - it’s all he gets. All he has left.

He presses his hand to the cold glass of the mirror, tips of his fingers stroking the image of her face. His chin feels weak, jaw slack, his hip leaning against the sink. She’s crying, too, tears shining against her soft cheeks.

“Where are you? Do you know what’s happening?” He manages to ask. It’s the question, the question everyone would ask of their ghosts. She shakes her head a little.

I...I don’t really know. But I know I’m not with you.

He nods, tries to swallow around the thick lump in his throat.

Wherever I am, I’m not with you. And I miss you, Steve.

“I miss you - God, honey, I miss you so bad-” his breath hitches, and he wonders in the back of his mind if he’s going to have another asthma attack, his first in 70 years. “I-I need you, sweetheart. Jesus Christ, I miss you. I don’t know what I’m doing without you and-and-”

He’s hyperventilating, breaths stuttering in his chest. The hand that’s pressed to the mirror has gone numb with cold but he won’t move it, not if it’s the closest he comes to touching her face. He watches her come closer to him, behind him - her smell fills the room, no smoke, no incense, only her. His teeth are clattering in his mouth even as he tries to grit them together, lungs stuttering and he’s so so cold but he only half feels it; the muscles in his back jump and twitch as he feels her, really feels her, right behind him. And then-

I know, baby. I know.

Her forehead presses between his shaking shoulder blades. Icy hands creep up beneath his shirt, pressing right over his heart. Her arms lock around his ribs and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze - as if she could brand herself there. In the glass, Steve’s lips are blue and his sobbing breaths come out as little frozen clouds. The mirror is starting to frost over again; the goosebumps on his body won’t lie down. His eyes slip closed, tears chilling in their tracks on his cheeks, and he presses his hand over hers at his heart.

I’m right here.

The ache in his chest sharpens, then dulls, slow and familiar. Something he always carries. His breaths are slowing now, the trembling in his muscles calms a little. She traces a frozen circle over his heart.

I’m right here.

He sighs her name before he blacks out.

**********

Natasha watches Steve in his kitchen, her green eyes sharp and narrow. She hasn’t been to his apartment in a long time, but three days of no answered phone calls, texts, or emails and the Black Widow will investigate. He seems...fine. As fine as Steve has been since it all happened, when he went clean-shaven and cropped his hair, like girls do after a break-up. He smiles over his shoulder while stirring the pot in front of him.

“It’s the one thing my ma made sure I knew how to make for myself,” he says. “She knew I’d need this soup every time I got sick.”

“That’s sweet,” she says. And it is, though she’s never heard him mention it before.

They eat on barstools at the island, sharing little bits of conversation, small talk, mission updates. Sound bites of friendship. Still no explanation for his radio silence.

“Can I use your bathroom?” She sighs as he scoots back his stool, scooping up their bowls to take to the sink.

“Of course - you don’t have to ask, Nat.”

She slips down the hall. Doesn’t go to the bathroom - turns right instead.

On the floor of his bedroom, she sees the candles. The circle. The pictures. A little jar of seashells on his nightstand. While they were eating, she had seen something new - a little chain around his neck, the shape of something underneath, suspiciously like a ring.

Natasha leaves without saying a word, maybe hugs him a little tighter at the door.

She won’t begrudge him this.

[nicole-lynne]

A Pair of Dummies

Hi there! This was a request from a lovely nonnie and I hope it finds its way back to them.  “I was wondering if I could request a fic where you have eyes for Steve and Bucky tells you to go flirt with him, but Steve’s being an oblivious little butt and doesn’t get what you’re doing. So later you just tell him that you like him.”

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader Warnings: Some minor cussing

It was three in the afternoon and the only sounds in the gym was the sound of Steve’s weights slamming together after each rep and Bucky shouting commands as he paced around you on the mat. However, your gaze was focused on Steve’s back muscles tensing each time he pulled the weights back and the tiny little grunt he would make.

“Hello?! Anyone in there?” Bucky’s punching mitt slapped against the side of your head, knocking you sideways. 

“Ow, what the hell, Barnes?” You snapped as you tried to shove the super-soldier but he didn’t move an inch. 

He chuckled smugly at your failed attempt, “maybe if you’d been paying attention to me instead of Steve’s ass, then I wouldn’t have hit you.” 

Your mouth gaped open and closed like a fish, trying to think of some comeback. “I-I wasn’t- you don’t- just shut up and put your hands back up, buddy boy.” You wiped off a bead of sweat with the back of your hands and got back into the stance. 

Bucky worked around you in a circle while you worked through the combo he’d showed you. You shot your leg out and kicked against the mitt roughly and he shook his hand. 

“Okay, that one actually had a little bite to it, kid. Ya know, you don’t have to be so defensive about crushing on a certain Avenger.” 

You swung your fist hard toward Bucky’s head but he ducked just in time. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Your breath was starting to get heavier as he moved quicker. 

“Hey, I totally get it. He is literally America’s wet dream. The perfect man. He embodies everything about the apple pie and the white picket fence.” 

Annoyance was bubbling up in your stomach so you hit a two punch combo, hitting the mitt with a loud smack. “Barnes, you are so insufferable.” 

“There’s no need to be so elusive. I’m just saying, I think I saw a little bit of drool coming out of the side of your mouth.” He pointed to the corner of his mouth for a moment, giving you the very opening you needed. With lightning reflexes, you threw your fist out and were centimeters away from connecting with his jaw when Bucky grabbed your hand and flung you onto the mat. 

A little puff of air escaped your lungs as your back connected, Bucky’s body sitting on top of you, holding your arms pinned back. Dropping your head, you growled with frustration. Both of you were drenched in sweat and it was making your back stick to the mat uncomfortably. 

“You didn’t really think I’d let you get me, didcha?” He mocked. 

“I’ll admit, I thought I might have a small chance.” 

Bucky rolled off you and held his hand out, hefting you off the mat in one swift motion. Dropping a heavy hand on your shoulder, he steered you toward the locker rooms. Steve was still in his own world, ignoring the two of you leaving the area. 

Rounding the corner out of his sight, Bucky spun you around and rested his hands on your shoulders. 

“Be honest, kid, you into Steve?”

Your eyes widened comically as Bucky stooped down to your level, making extremely pointed eye contact with you. An unease settled in you and you shifted your eyes down to look at your sneakers.

This wasn’t really the type of thing you wanted to talk to your friends about, let alone his very best friend. You had cleverly avoided discussing your embarrassing crush on Steve Rogers for two years, opting for admiring him from afar.

“Buck-”

“I’m not judging you, I just want to know if I’m wrong because if I am, I’ll shut up right now. But I’m telling you right now, I think you’d be good for him.” 

“Uh,” wait, did you hear that right? “Wait, what?” 

“Steve is a dummy, always has been and getting the serum didn’t help him any. I see him perk up when you’re around, though. I think you’d be a good fit with him. You’re ballsy, intelligent, albeit a smart ass, and you don’t push...that much” 

When Steve had first started helping Bucky reintegrate into modern society, you had casually taken him under your wing. First it had started with tiny things like getting him to participate in small talk, then it was going out in public so he could realize that civilians didn’t worry about him. Gradually, you started hanging out all the time. Bucky quickly became one of your best friends at the compound. 

It was clear that he still struggled with PTSD from his time as the Winter Soldier. You never acted like it was something he should be over already and you tried not to push him into talking about it for the most part. 

The longer your friendship went on, you assumed that Steve would hang out with the both of you more, but he always kept his distance.  He’d have small conversations with you, but more often than not, he wouldn’t move any further than ‘how’s the weather’ or ‘Tony called a meeting’. 

Hesitantly, you shrugged Bucky’s hand off and took a step back. “But...Steve doesn’t even like me. Why would I be into him?” 

“What the hell are you talking about, you doo-doo bird?” 

Offended at the implication, you scowled. “I mean, Steve doesn’t even talk to me for longer than five minutes, so why would I be crushing on him, ass-hat?” 

“Boy, you two are dumber than I thought.” Bucky mumbled to himself. 

“Excuse me?” You squint your eyes and took a menacing step toward him. 

He looked back at you and held his hands up, stopping you in your tracks. “Calm down, killer. What I meant is, you are both missing the obvious. Steve is just too stubborn so he thinks he doesn’t deserve happiness, which comes in the form of you. And you, well I’m not sure why you haven’t pursued him, but I just don’t think you’d be staring at him as much as you do if you didn’t like him.” 

Your shoulders sagged in defeat. Why, oh why, did you have to be best friends with a sniper? Of course he saw right through you from a mile away. 

“He doesn’t like me, Buck. How am I supposed to get anywhere with him if he won’t talk to me about anything but the weather or how many cookies Thor ate last time he was on Earth.” 

“You’ve got to flirt with him, knucklehead.” Bucky smacked your shoulder. “He’s not gonna get the hint unless you actually act like you’re into him. Ya know, maybe ask him out to a meal or something. And talking about Thor isn’t gonna help the situation so cut that shit out right now.” 

“But-”

“No buts, just go out there and flirt with him like the woman I know, love, and wish would get a life.” Then he was shoving you back towards the weight room with a huge shit-eating grin on, ignoring your shouts of offense. Hesitating for a moment, you glanced back to see Bucky shoo-ing you forward. 

Letting out a huge sigh, you walked around the corner and slammed right into a large wall of muscle. Steve’s hands shot out and steadied you, the contact making your skin break out in goosebumps. He’d put his shirt back on and the blue was making his bright eyes even more hypnotizing than normal. 

“Whoa there, sorry doll, I didn’t see you there.” Steve chuckled bashfully. “I thought you and Buck left a while ago.” 

“We did. But we didn’t really, we were just talking. I-I came back to talk to you, actually.” It felt like you were sweating more than you had been during your workout. His hand was still on your arm and you couldn’t focus on anything but that sensation. 

There was no reason for you to be so irrational right now, he’s just a man. Just a man who had saved the country and the entire world numerous times and was America’s Adonis. A man who also just happened to always have the most flawless hair that you always wanted to run your fingers through. Lord almighty. 

“What did you want to talk about?” 

“Ope, um,” crap, you hadn’t thought that far ahead. Here goes nothing, “I...just wanted to tell you that you looked really great during your workout today.” 

He gave you a puzzled look, “Oh thanks, yeah I was really burning steel in there.” 

“I could totally tell.” You reached forward and felt his bicep, “it looks like it’s really paying off for you.” 

Steve’s gaze fell to your hand on his arm before giving you a small smile and you promptly let go again. “I think that might be more thanks to the serum than the workout.” He teased. 

You chewed on your bottom lip, wracking your brain for what to say next. You weren’t good at flirting, it’s why you never did it in the first place. Bucky said to ask him out for lunch. “I guess you’re probably right about that. Well, I bet you worked up a huge appetite after that, huh? All that hard work.” 

“For sure, I could eat a buffet out of business after a workout.” 

Here was your chance. 

“Would you want to-” 

“But I’ve got a meeting with Tony in like twenty minutes so I’ve got to get a move on.” Steve kept talking and you grimaced slightly. “Did you have anything else you wanted to talk about?” He tilted his head, a little half smile on his lips. You wanted to leap forward and press your lips to his but that probably wouldn’t go over well, so instead you just shook your head confidently. 

“Nope. I’m all good. Enjoy your meeting with Tony!” You called in a sing-song voice as he made his way to the door. He rolled his eyes at the mention of Tony and waved back at you before letting the door swing shut. 

The air deflated out of you and you fell back onto the wall behind you, sinking to the floor and curling your knees up to your chest. If someone were to look up “embarrassing” in the dictionary, that interaction would be found. And you still hadn’t even made it past five minutes. 

“Oof, that was painful.” 

You lifted your gaze to find Bucky leaning on his shoulder above you, still in his workout clothes. Great, he’d heard the whole thing too. 

“Why did you make me do that, you ass-hat?” You yanked on his leg hair harshly, making him jump further away from you. “I’m not good at flirting!” 

“Wait, is that what you call flirting?” He exclaimed baffled. 

You scowled up at him, “I’m not friends with you anymore.” Dropping your head back against the wall, you closed your eyes in hopes of going to your happy place - without Bucky around. 

“It wasn’t that bad, kid, it just wasn’t much of anything. You started off strong but...” He crouched down so he was at eye level with you.

“But nothing. I’m an embarrassment and I will never be talking to Steve ever again.”

“No, no, no, stop being ridiculous. You just have to...flirt better. Maybe you could ask Tasha if she’d help you.” 

You flung out your hand and pushed Bucky hard in the chest, making him tip backwards onto his butt. “Not happening, Barnes. I’m not asking the Black Widow,” you emphasized, “for help flirting with Captain America. You can just forget this ever happened and I will resume being friends with you in one to two weeks - you will be notified.” 

Bucky was chortling and yelling at you to stop, but you’d already stood up and were booking it to the hallway, letting the door slam loudly on the way. 

~~~ 

Life had been perfectly fine when you were admiring Steve Rogers from afar. You were content with pining for him but knowing that nothing would ever happen, resigned to the fact that you would find a good man someday and that would be the end of it. 

What you hadn’t expected was Bucky butting his nose into your business and telling you that you’d be great with Steve. Or the fact that you couldn’t get the feeling of his hand lingering on your skin or his rippling bicep out of your head. 

It had been a full week and you were living in a continuous loop of ocean blue eyes and trying to put the lid back on the feelings you’d successfully ignored for years. 

You hadn’t talked to Bucky since you’d walked out of the gym, regardless of how many times he’d tried to trick you into speaking to him. And now you were being called for a meeting where Bucky and Steve would both be in the same room as you.

The sound of Steve Roger’s laugh made you look up instantly from the snack table and your stomach flipped at the sound. He was talking animatedly with Wanda, one hand flailing around in the air while the other hand was gripped tight to a stack of paperwork.

“You should talk to him, ya know.” Bucky’s voice was right in your ear and you elbowed him in response before walking to your seat across the room from him. You didn’t want to think that Bucky might be right so you’d rather take him out of the equation all together. 

From his chair near the front, Steve glanced over and raised his lips in a timid smile at you. It felt like you could melt into a puddle of goo right there in your chair. You returned his smile cheerfully just as you felt a small nudge on your ribs. You swiveled your chair around to see Wanda grinning like the Cheshire cat. “What?” You asked innocently. 

“I think you know what.” She giggled. “And Barnes is not wrong, you should ask him out.” 

“Hey! You promised you wouldn’t look in my head anymore.” You pouted and turned back to the front room where Bruce had just started talking about the numbers from the previous quarter - how many civilians had been saved, how much structural damage had been done, ways to stop wasting so much on utilities.

The meeting could have been only fifteen minutes but it seemed like it’d been two hours. The entire time, your mind had been on one thing, well one person. This was getting out of hand, you couldn’t even focus on a simple meeting now.

Before you knew it, Bruce was dismissing the team and everyone was stampeding to the doors. Steve, on the other hand, was casually gathering his paperwork back up with his back to you. It was just you and him alone now in the conference room. 

Sheepishly, you shuffled your shoe against the floor, praying for any smidgen of bravery to come. Steve peeked over his shoulder, surprised to see you still hanging around. 

“Hey, you. Figured you’d be headed down for lunch, I heard Tony ordered in sushi from that fancy-pants place everyone loves.” 

You shrugged loosely, “eh, thought I might stick around here for a little bit. I’m not really hungry anyways.” 

“Oh yeah?” He leaned against the table and folded his arms across his chest with a look of concern on his face. “Is everything alright? I noticed you and Bucky haven’t been hanging out much lately.” 

“Yeah, we haven’t... It’s kind of because of you...” 

It was dead silent as you both exchanged looks. 

“Me?” He asked, stunned.

Gradually, you moved to stand side-by-side with him. Maybe if he wasn’t looking directly at you, rejection would be easier. “Do you remember the day in the gym last week?” He nodded once. "The reason that I came in to talk to you was because... well, Bucky told me that I needed to flirt with you if I wanted you to realize that I liked you. But then I’m shit at flirting, and you didn’t really seem to notice or care, so I got mad at him for giving me the idea in the first place.” 

“Wait- Did you say you like me?” 

You glimpsed over at him and slowly nodded. Steve angled his body so he could see you better and you were just waiting for the moment where he starts laughing and mocking you for ever thinking he could want you. But it hadn’t happened yet. 

“You were flirting with me?” His face was scrunched up like he was trying to think back on the whole interaction. 

“Well I was trying to flirt with you. I figured you thought I’d had an aneurysm or something.” You joked, trying to lift the mood of the room but he didn’t crack a smile.

“I didn’t even realize...” Like lightning, he stood up straight and faced you, his blue eyes focused only on your face. “I’m sorry, doll, I didn’t even realize.” 

“Steve, you don’t have to be sorry. I know you don’t feel that way about me, and I was just mad at Barnes for letting me get my hopes up.” 

He lifted his hand and cupped your face delicately, his touch making your heart rate skyrocket. “Who said I don’t have feelings for you?” 

“U-um yo-you never, well you never wa-want to talk to, ya know, me...” You stammered out clumsily. 

“I thought you liked Bucky, doll.” He said without hesitation. “You guys are always spending time together and I didn’t want to get in the way of either of your happiness.” 

“Are you serious?” You couldn’t help the loud laugh that passed your lips. “I wanted to be friends with Bucky in the first place because you thought he was worth being friends with... and I thought you might hang out with us.” 

Steve shut his eyes and let his head fall forward, his forehead bumping against yours softly from how close he was to you. His hand was still against your cheek and you allowed yourself to relax into his touch more. 

Finally, he lifted his head, “so last week when you asked if I was hungry, that’s because you were-”

“Trying to ask you out, yes.” 

“Boy am I dumb.” 

You snorted at that, “that’s the same thing Bucky said.” 

Steve let out a breathy laugh before moving a bit closer to you. “I hope I haven’t lost the chance to take you up on that offer.” 

The smell of his minty breath fanned in your face causing your mind to go blank and the only thing you could do was smile up at him like an idiot. As if your body was moving on its own, you shifted closer and his arm wrapped around your waist as if he’d done it a million times. 

At the same time you both leaned together and connected your lips in an innocent kiss. The entire world stopped turning at that moment. It was so soft and pure as he held you tightly against his body, a good thing because your knees had buckled at the contact.  Draping a hand over his shoulder, you twisted your fingers into his hair, letting your other hand curl up on his muscular chest. 

After the most blissful moment of your life, Steve pulled back and was beaming. This beautiful man had just kissed you and was happy about it. Damn, life couldn’t get any better. 

“Would you allow me to take you out to lunch, doll?” He asked, his voice a little husky. 

“Absolutely, Captain. Lead the way.” You said, laughing when he blushed from you using his title. 

Setting you back down firmly on the floor, he intertwined his fingers with yours and led you out to the elevator. The whole time, you were so enamored with Steve that you barely noticed Bucky waiting at the end of the hall with the most arrogant, smug look on his face.

[heli0s-writes]

VII. Blessed Be the Mystery of Love

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes Summary:  An epilogue. Six months later. A/N: The last chapter! And with that, Mystery of Love has concluded :)

A large hand paws lazily at your back as you fix the blouse you’d just slipped on. It had taken you almost an hour to get out of bed and even longer to get ready today, so you’re in a bit of a mood when the same hand starts walking itself up your shirt. You slap it with a sharp thwack and it retreats with a sniveling whine.

There’s a rumbling of laughter that follows as you slip your blazer over your shoulders.

Rolling your eyes, you land them on the bed where your two lovers lie. Steve is nursing his offending hand under his cheek as he peers up with his signature ocean gaze. Bucky is lying on his back, inoffensive limbs tucked neatly behind his head, telling you: look at me, I’m a good boy.

They’re both shirtless, taut chest and abs radiant in the chiaroscuro light your vanity table provides. The striped comforter comes up to reach just beneath their waists and you know for a fact Bucky’s completely nude this morning, but avert your gaze.

“Brat...” You shoot at Steve instead, who pouts even more. In the mirror, you swipe on a quick layer of mascara before slinging your purse over your shoulder.

Crossing your arms at the foot of the bed, you regard the men lying in it, eagerly awaiting your attention. It’s such a comical sight, you think, as you step from one heeled foot to the other, blazer fixed neatly and buttoned. You, nearly 70 years younger than them, look like some kind of sugar-momma or dominatrix, in complete command of two compliant subordinates.

As naughty as they were, keeping you up last night after they returned from a three-day-long mission, you couldn’t help but melt under their coquettish-bitten lips and puppy-dog sulking eyes. You’d been woken up past midnight and weren’t able to sleep until nearly three in the morning, and they both knew you had to be up at six.

It wasn’t entirely their fault, of course, since it only took half a mischievous bite to your neck from Bucky before your clothes were completely shed.

“Boys, this is ridiculous.” You want to be stern, but their absolutely endearing expressions melts your mood right off. A tiny quirk of your lips appear and they quickly match your countenance.

“Does that mean you forgive us?”

Your smile says more than enough. Yes, of course. Always.

“Good. I’ll drive.” Steve rises from the bed and Bucky follows. They head into the restroom to brush their teeth before pulling casual clothes on in a rush, eager to spend as much time with you as possible. You’d been taking the car by yourself for the past week, but you do love it when Steve drives. They’re much better company than what your radio can give you.

At the car, Bucky pinches your bottom and climbs in before he shuts the door.

“You know,” Steve grumbles, squinting at the rearview mirror image of Bucky nipping at your ear, “I thought you’d sit up here with me.”

“Nah, pal. I’m much better company. ‘Sides, you don’t need any distractions while you’re driving. But me? I’m a free agent back here.” He starts peeling your skirt upward, “How bout you, hon?”

You only laugh, catching Steve’s eye before intertwining your fingers in Bucky’s and kissing him, leaning your head against his shoulder. Steve puts on a song and starts singing along.

The drive is a lengthy one, and it gets even more tiresome when you get into the city. Steve is in bumper-to-bumper traffic as you gaze off in contemplation.

The last six months of your life have been the absolute nuttiest, you think, watching the streetlights go past against a gradient of orange, pink, and blue hues. Sunrise has started coming up a little bit later, now that it’s well into fall, and the chilly morning air lets Steve roll the windows down a bit.

He’s taking you to work, and it’s a procedure that you’re still trying to get used to.

You started two months ago at Cooper Union- just a visiting artist position, but still one that you take very, very seriously. Byrne kept good on his promise after the show and had given you a list of opportunities to interview for. It’s all by choice, anyway, since the profit from the show totaled more than enough to set you up comfortably for at least five years. And that’s saying quite a lot considering that you live in Manhattan of all places.

You wanted to start your job with baby steps to avoid overwhelming yourself in an academic setting. Being a visiting artist gave you a lot of freedom and just the right amount of responsibility.

The position entailed no more than three public speaking events, your own studio to develop a show at the end of the semester, and the opportunity to work closely with a mixed group of graduate and undergraduate students as their mentor. You were required to be on-campus at least once a week, but you usually went in twice just to keep your office open.

So far, it had been smooth sailing.

You look from Steve up front to Bucky at your shoulder, sighing happily and nuzzling deeper into his chest, flicking his nose with your finger. He growls playfully in response.

This had been smooth sailing too, save for a couple of rainy days and one very turbulent storm. All natural and expected aspects of being in a relationship. The biggest fight you’d had so far was a furious row after a mission where you were so cross afterward that you didn’t speak to either of them for an entire night.

You had sat in on the debriefing out of curiosity and learned that they’d taken an impulsive risk that had put their lives in more danger than the mission anticipated. Even worse, this was a regular occurrence. Tony called them the “Super-Annoying Soldiers”.

That night, you slept in Bucky’s room and ordered them into Steve’s.

The next morning, they both came in, stammering, apologetic, promising that they would never, ever be that careless again. The make-up session lasted four hours and you emerged around noon thoroughly convinced and dog-tired.

 The three of you learned new things about each other every day.

For example, Bucky religiously ate bad Chinese take-out and Steve danced in the shower. Steve loved it when you pulled his hair and Bucky loved pulling your hair. The three of you spent nights fumbling all over each other when they had time at the compound, and if one of them happened to be away, the other two would Facetime when possible. It wasn’t a necessity, by any means, it was more of consideration; they were also content to let each other be with you privately.

Jealousy never arrived to bother any of you.

In fact, you often let the boys have time to themselves. Especially on your days at work. There had been many evenings when you’d come back to the compound after dinner and they were cuddled up on the couch, enjoying a movie or a nap. It was the sweetest thing. Sam and Clint took many pictures and both turned red after you casually mentioned that they should see pictures of what else the Steve and Bucky get up to when you’re not around.

“Because... they get up to a lot. I’m not always a necessary part of the puzzle, you know.” A single wink was all it took for your friends to high tail it out of the room.

It was a running joke with the team that the three of you had a very adventurous sex life together- as predicted by Tony. Admittedly, yes, it was exciting, but beyond the sex (and there was quite a lot of it- so many positions and scheduled water breaks), you were more than happy to just sit with a cup of tea and a board game, or going for walks, or watching them spar. You had even started to go on short jogs and spent time working out with them as well. It was painful at first (leg day was fine, chest day was the devil’s invention), but the showers together afterward really made up for it.

Every day brought something new to the table.

Last night, after Bucky fell asleep on the edge of the bed a little past three, Steve settled in the middle and you laid your head on his chest, kissing the sweat-slick skin beneath your lips.

“Hey...” You began slowly, pressing your mouth to his neck.

“Mhm... Hey back,” he parroted, slurring through the sleepy fog. “What’s on your mind?”

“Honestly, kind of a lot...?” You felt yourself come down from the high peak of love and marching up a peak of anxiety. You had started to babble about the mechanics of domesticity because the television prompter in your brain began to marquee way too fast. This ritual of sleeping together and waking up together had been blossoming into some future fantasies that you’re not sure how to bring up. You supposed this was as good of a time as any.

Steve was a bit stunned from your sudden outburst, “Hold on honey... Let me wake up for this.”

“Sorry... But Steve,” You rambled onward, “What about being Captain America? And how does that I don’t know- what does that mean when it comes to a family? Marriage? Children?” Your face burned at the thought of a little blue-eyed toddler running around by your feet, perhaps fair-haired, or rowdy and cleft-chinned.

You’d been dreaming about it at night, blanket forts and stuffed animals, a nursery, and a crib, and a mobile full of stars. The rational side of your brain chastised it- you were too young, you wanted to keep exploring the world, getting used to your position, and your relationship. The rational side also continuously brought up the fact that the father of your children would be one of two Super Soldiers- Jesus, maybe both, whose lives were always precariously balancing on … God, you didn’t know what.

Underneath you, Steve buzzed awake—as much as he could.

“Well… I’d love that.” He exhaled a deep breath, arm coming up to rub your shoulders. “Always wanted to be a dad, but let’s start with uh, maybe sleep for now. What do you say?”

You mumbled against him, “I didn’t mean to sound like I’m rushing you into those things, by the way. I suppose it was just a natural discussion to bring up.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Steve had rubbed his nose against your ear, breath warm and inviting. You distinctly felt a smile grow on his face. “I also know Bucky would appreciate being in the loop. Let’s save it for the morning.” He placed a hand on Bucky’s bare back, drawing circles along his spine as he groaned in his sleep.

You kissed your man sweetly, and before you knew it, you’d fallen dreamlessly asleep in his arms.

-

“Ready, honey?” Bucky squeezes your thigh, snapping you from your daze. He’s a little concerned that you’ve been so quiet for the whole trip, and grumpy that he’d been subject to Steve’s awful bellowing. The car’s parked on the street, about a block away. “You okay?”

“Yes, sorry... just thinking about our conversation last night.”

Bucky’s eyes light up delightedly, “Kitten, I don’t know if dirty talk counts as a conversation... but I’m all ears.”

“Buck, you fell asleep early. We talked about havin’ kids, pal.”

“Mhmmm—what?” After a pause, with you and Steve exchanging concerned looks, Bucky grips your hand so tightly it almost hurts, “Babe, I... I... wh-” The expression on his face changes from shock to concern, then finally, it knocks the air from your lungs when he looks at you.

“I can’t... I can’t.”

You see the storm over the horizon in Bucky’s eyes. His blue fades into grey, and billowing clouds have cast a shadow over the sloping mountain of his nose and the sharp plains of his cheeks. You can only console him with a sad smile and kisses along his jaw. He’s lost, now, in the past of his actions, in the raging tempest of thunderous roars and lightning strikes in his mind. It’s all scorched earth and barren wasteland to him. It’s filling your chest up with embers—not for yourself, but for him, and you are struggling to speak calmly.

“It was just a thought, Buck. For the future. Don’t think about it too much.”

You exit the car, kissing both your Soulmates softly. Steve gives you a final lingering look before you disappear down the campus street, starting to fill up with student bodies. Bucky is motionless in the back as Steve shifts gears and takes him back home.

-

They spend the next hour arguing in the bedroom, taking their squabble from the car to the garage, to the common area where Natasha raises an eyebrow too sharply for Steve’s comfort. Bucky’s pulling his hair and stomping, Steve’s sitting with both fists clenched on his knees, head leaned back in frustration. It’s moved beyond just the possibility of children, and deeper into the territory of Bucky’s repentance.

It’s a conversation Steve is sick of having because he doesn’t think Bucky needs to repent for anything. Steve has physically fought for this; he’s bled for this. But every time it seems like he might have pushed his boulder to the peak of the hill, it rolls back down on top of him.

“Buddy, you gotta stop.” Steve admonishes, feeling the aggravation building, deflecting a glare from his friend, “We’re not talking about if you deserve kids, Buck. We’re just … talking about kids. That’s it.”

“Look at me, Stevie, what th’ fuck am I gonna do with a kid?” Bucky sputters and waves his arms around, and then he takes his flesh one and points it to his cybernetic one. “Look at me!” There’s a panic in his eyes- the same one that’s lasted for over an hour with no sign of quelling. “She... sh-she can have your baby. I’m not... I can’t be a part of that.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels himself clench up with a devastating truth that hurts too much to imagine.

Steve crosses his arms and stands, using his full height to stare down at Bucky. He’s not that much taller, but it’s enough for Steve to say with his body I’m bigger than you and you need to listen to me. Bucky flinches at the hard stare and puts both hands over his face with a groan.

“There is no that without you.” Steve says firmly, arms tucked under each other so tightly his biceps bulge like boulders against his chest. He’s trying not to get angry because he knows it would be like squirting kerosene into a burning building. He needs to smother the fire, not encourage it.

“There is no this without you. We are Bound, all three of us. Buck, this isn’t happening tomorrow, or even next year, or even the year after that. We just talked about the possibility of it in the future.” His voice grows softer the longer he talks, and Bucky’s fear begins to slow to his pace, fizzling out like a candlelight.

“Pal, can you blame her? She’s twenty-three. She’s in love... with you of all people. Gee, Buck. Someone’s in love with you so much they think about havin’ a baby with you... And ya run for the hills.” Bucky mulls it over as Steve approaches, and there’s regret sinking into his stomach as he thinks about your sad eyes in the backseat of the car. He thinks about how you still kissed him before you left.

“Shit. I screwed it up, didn’t I? God. We got the sweetest girl and..” He grimaces, eyes flickering with anxiety.

Steve pats him on both shoulders before pulling him into his arms. Bucky is hard, tense muscle and warm breaths as he leans into Steve and they embrace until he calms down again.

They’ve always been happy to give and receive hugs as friends, often patting each other on the back fondly or comfortingly. It’s been moreso as of late- a result of spending more time together intimately. The hugs are more tender, more loving.

When Steve wakes up in the middle of the night in-between two bodies, he often looks over at Bucky, too, admiring the way he looks when he’s at peace. It’s something Steve’s wanted to see since he found Bucky; it’s something he sees more of every day. He wants to keep it that way.

“Think she’ll forgive me?”

Steve can only laugh as he brushes the hair out of Bucky’s face, rubbing his knuckles over the bristles along his jaw. “Yeah, Buck. Of course.” The sigh against his shoulder once more is a response all on its own.

Steve thinks back to the night he woke up and you were sitting on the sofa crying. It was your first time without Bucky since the three of you had started sharing a bed together. It was the first time you hadn’t slept with both in almost a month; it was long enough to pine for and ache about. You were used to being in the middle, he had thought, so maybe piling pillows on the empty side to simulate a presence might help. You stirred anyway.

He quietly sat down next to you, kissing your bare shoulder that peeked out from under the throw blanket. There were tears in your eyes as he cradled you in his arms.

“I miss him too. He’ll be back soon.”

“It’s not that…” You sniffled, “I was just thinking about... something Pietro told me.” You turned to him, crossing your legs and opening up the blanket to invite him in. Steve wrapped the edge as much as he could around his large frame and pulled you into his lap.

“What’s that?”

“Remember that day I came back, and you saw me by the pool?”

He nodded. Of course he remembered. He had spent three days in agony, feverish at night, freezing in the morning, waking up dripping in sweat. His chest hurt every waking moment and only ached even more in Bucky’s presence as if it was the Binding’s reminder to them that there was a missing piece that wouldn’t be forgotten. Seeing you by the pool that day extracted all of Steve’s pain in a single scoop. He had almost slipped running out of the room to catch you.

“Pietro said... There are two meant to love you. You never have to wonder, it is wonderful.”

He didn’t understand why you looked so sad until you glanced over to the bed where the pile of pillows had been kicked off, exposing the vacancy. “Do you think… Bucky knows that? I don’t wonder about the future and think that either of you will leave me, and I don’t think about me leaving either of you.”

You paused to wipe your cheeks, “But does Bucky know? Does he still think that he’s unlovable? He never tells me the truth, but I see it when he’s just looking at me. It hurts, Steve. I’m so worried all the time. I don’t want him to wonder about us.”

Steve Rogers kissed you that night with the intensity of a lover leaving for war. He held onto you so tightly you thought you might sink inside of him. He made love to you on that sofa in the darkness and caressed the tears on your cheeks so sweetly you cried. He had seen more and more of your heart every day, and it filled him with so much love it sometimes hurt. You loved them, together, equally, and separately, with their individual flaws and quirks.

And God, Steve thinks, there are a fucking lot of flaws.

“Buck,” Steve says, taking his friend’s face in his hands, fingers running through the dark mane. “She loves you. She loves you more than she knows what to do with. You can’t treat yourself like this. It hurts all of us.”

Another silence envelopes them as Steve holds onto him, massaging the back of his head tenderly. They break apart after another long moment before sending each other half-smiles and understanding nods, affirmations exchanged through smiles and blinks. Bucky speaks first.

“I love you too, Steve.”

 -

The boys arrive around two to pick you up and wave from the car, parked outside of the Art Building. The students surrounding you eventually let you go but stare open-mouthed at the shiny classic Mustang and Bucky’s vibranium-black hand holding your favorite drink. It’s his own personal white flag. The conversation is casual throughout the whole ride as they sit up front and you in the back. You tell them about your day and the work you’ve been up to, mentioning a few favorite teaching moments with students. They listen intently and coil their intended conversation slowly around your own, reading your mood with prudence.

At the compound, it’s turned up many notches when Bucky falls to his knees and lays his head against your tummy.

“I’m s’rry, babe.” He mumbles “S’rry I jumped t’ conclusions and... I’m such an idiot. Please don’t be mad with me, even if I deserve it.” His twang comes back when he’s emotional. The slurring of his ‘r’s and dropping his vowels brings a slight pinch to your chest when you think about all of the things he’s been through and how he could have so easily have just been another soldier returned from war, living out the rest of his days as a Brooklyn boy. But the path he’s been on has led him to this moment, to this darkness inside of him.

You pat his head gingerly, watching the smile grow on Steve’s face as he stands beside you. You know this is his doing, pulling Bucky from his own trap and bringing him back out. You’ve spent enough time with him to know that without help, Bucky will torture himself for days, biting off his own tail in a box of his own design.

“Bucky, the problem isn’t that you jumped to conclusions; the problem is that you think you’re an idiot. And that you think you deserve it.” You’re stern with him but continue to pet his hair.

He nods, over and over frantically, but you’re not sure if he really hears you. He wants this moment to be finished, you think, and so for now you’ll let it be. Sometimes you had to pick the right battles to fight, and for now you were content with this battle ending how it will. You don’t mind repeating it later, you know Bucky needs more assurance than most, and you’re happy to a part of that constant thing for him.

For now, he wants to be touched. It’s how he knows you still love him.

So you do. You kiss him all over. Steve latches on to his wrist and takes him to the bed. You both undress him and then yourselves. Bucky lies on his back, still sorrowful and regretful, but as the two of you hang over him, fingers intertwined, he feels his sadness vanish into the sheets.

Between your soft hands and Steve’s firm grasps, Bucky falls apart completely.

When Bucky goes to starts the bath, you spend a few minutes lying in bed with Steve just to caress him. You want to let him know too that he’s just as important, that you care just as deeply and passionately for him.

“You’re amazing.” He says, eyes dancing under your gaze, “He’s just stubborn. Always has been.”

“Mmm,” you smile back, “Reminds me of someone I know.”

“Who’s that?”

You pretend to contemplate it before planting countless kisses on his lips. “Come on, he’ll get fussy if we’re late.”

He gives you a piggy-back ride to the tub.

They take turns lathering you up and each other in the water, in-between playful splashing and affectionate touches. The three of you are a sight to behold, all covered up in soap suds with mops of wet hair. Steve dutifully washes the shampoo from Bucky’s locks as you lean your head on his shoulder, patiently waiting your turn. They start getting into a powwow about whose turn it is to do the laundry next and you space out, smiling into the mass of bubbles when you feel Steve’s fingers spitefully leave Bucky’s hair and go to yours.  

You know he’s stubborn. Steve is too. And so are you.

It doesn’t really bother you when Bucky gets into one of his moods, because you know he’ll always come back. It doesn’t bother you either when Steve’s impulsive on missions because he always comes back too. They both know that they must… simply because you’re home expecting them. Unless they’re acting dangerously- which, they’ve promised that they’d stop- you give them all your trust, just like you’ve given them your heart.

You have the rest of your life with them to figure the remainder of it out.

It sinks in, like the soap and bubbles, like the perfume of the shower gel and the gentle motions of Steve’s hands on your body. It sinks in that for the rest of your life, you’ll have them, both of them. No matter where your paths take you, you’ll be walking hand-in-hand with two perfect Soulmates by your side.

In the background, Bucky and Steve nag and jab each other with their sarcastic taunts and jibes of past embarrassments. There’s name calling and noogies, pinching, and snapping of teeth against fingers. Bucky blows bubbles in Steve’s face. Steve flicks droplets in Bucky’s eyes.

You lean forward against the edge of the porcelain tub, draping yourself over it and grin at them.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” Steve asks, quieting the chatter and rubs his hand against your spine.

The look you give him melts him on the spot. There’s an unfathomable light in your eyes, swimming in something unspeakably loud but necessarily silent. He wants to pull apart the puzzle of it, finding the pieces that you’re keeping to yourself, but something keeps him immobile. Bucky splashes as he leans forward too, intrigued by the look on your face.

Saying nothing, you turn back around, humming a tune and motioning for Steve to continue. You’ll let them contemplate, you think, because eventually they’ll arrive at the same ending that you have. Bucky might take a while longer than Steve, but that’s okay too.

It’s kind of funny that you’d gone through so much of your life fearing love to the point of near madness and physical ailment. It’s so strange to think of how in the span of six months, you’ve transformed into a person so far removed from who you were then.

At 23, you had once rejected love.

But also, at 23, you’ve solved the mystery of love. Its disarray of angst and apprehension that’s long gripped your mind has been untangled by your dutiful hands. It’s Gordian Knot has been completely dissembled, slipping away into the depths along with your fear and anxiety.

You now tread over its strands, blissfully following the trail leading to your lovers’ embrace.  

[factoffictionwriter]

Tiva Fic Amnesty #5

Another piece of the multichapter fic. What you need to know: Ziva returned weeks after ppf. Now she and Tony are in a relationship and preparing to birth/raise a child together. This is their first ultrasound.

I remember learning so much about pregnancy while trying to research this chapter, but it’s still probably inaccurate. All the more reason to include it in amnesty. 

Remember: these are old. Be nice. 

Tony winced as a nurse in blue stuck a needle into his girlfriend’s arm and drew blood into a series of small vials. Ziva was totally calm and at ease throughout the entire process, and he found himself asking her how the hell she did that after the mean blood-stealing nurse had walked out of their small exam room.

“Not everyone is afraid of needles, Tony.” 

He made a face, “Well they would be if they ever had the plague.” 

She shrugged and turned to listen to another nurse who was holding up a small cup and giving her directions to the nearest bathroom. She slid off the table effortlessly and shot him a wink as she moved past him and out the door. 

“Did you say you had the plague?” Yet another nurse was holding up a clipboard and addressing him.

“Uh, yeah. White pestis.” 

She looked at him incredulously, “How the hell did you get pneumonic plague in the 21st century?” 

He grimaced, “Occupational hazard, I suppose.” 

She just stared at him for another second before glancing down at the clipboard, “Well, that isn’t one of the diseases on my list, and I don’t think it would have any effect on your potential offspring, but I’ll mention it to the doctor just to be safe. Any other medical conditions we should know about? Anything that runs in the family?” 

He swallowed, finding this miniature interrogation to be much less tolerable without Ziva in the room, sending him reassuring looks every time the nurse made any sort of concerned comment.

“Just dangerous charm and good looks,” he smiled awkwardly, finding that his normal jokes were much harder to pull when confronted with the possibility of passing on some horrible genetic disorder to his kid. 

The nurse didn’t roll her eyes, thankfully, and she went on to make several marks on the paper in front of her. Once she seemed to be done, she stood back a bit and gave him a once-over.

“Why did you wait so long?” She asked. 

His eyes widened, “Excuse me?” 

“To have kids. Why did you wait?” 

He looked around desperately, sending telepathic pleas to Ziva, wherever she was, to return quickly, “Uh, that feels like a pretty weighted question.”

She shrugged, “Not really. It’s just- you’re considerably older than most of the men we have come through here.” 

He stared at her, mouth open, completely unsure of how to respond.

“Am I older than most of the women you see here?” Ziva’s voice was in the doorway as she placed the now full cup on a table just outside where she had been told the nurse would grab it. 

The nurse seemed surprised, “Uh, no, actually. You fit the age range quite well, Miss David.” 

Ziva made her way back across the room to the table, purposely walking between him and the nosy nurse on her way, forcing the woman to take another step away from him, “That’s good, considering my age is likely to have a much more profound impact on the health of our child.” 

Her words seemed to draw the nurse out of whatever unprofessional daze she was in, and she quickly dismissed herself from the exam room saying she would talk to the doctor and they would return shortly. 

Once she was gone, Tony let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “Thank you.” 

She smirked, “What? You cannot handle the interrogation when it’s you in the hot spot?” 

“Hot seat. And no, I can handle an interrogation just fine. That- “he gestured in front of him, referencing the awkward conversation for more emphasis, “That was a full on ambush.” 

“She is one small woman. How could she have ambushed you?” 

He stood from what had been referenced to him as the “daddy chair” and joined her at the exam table, “She’s good, that’s how. She starts with the simple, innocent questions. Then she starts digging around, asking if you’ve been exposed to this and if you’ve ever contracted that. And then, when she has you right where she wants you: BAM! She attacks a man’s age. I have a feeling that wasn’t the first time she did that dance. I’m almost impressed by her strategy.” 

Ziva rolled her eyes, “She was only asking questions to gauge the health risks of the child, Tony. She was doing her job.” 

“That’s easy for you to say. How come you didn’t have to go through your own trip down memory lane? Doesn’t your medical history matter, too?” 

She shrugged, “I have been a patient here for years. Dr. Brown already has my medical history.”

“You’ve been going to a pregnancy doctor for years?” 

“She is an OBGYN,” she watched as his face contorted at the word and knew she would have to explain more, “That means she-” 

“Takes care of mommies and not yet mommies all the same,” A woman with auburn hair and a comically small pair of glasses on a chain around her neck entered the room gracefully, moving immediately to Ziva’s side, leaving her flanked by her boyfriend and her doctor.

“Oh, Ziva. It is always a pleasure. It has been too long,” she glanced down towards her stomach at that comment, “And I suppose that is why we are here today. You know that 99% effective promise only holds true if you show up to receive your shots, right?” 

Ziva looked down, embarrassed for blowing off her health in the midst of all the chaos of the last year.

The doctor took that opportunity to address the other half of the couple, “And you must be the father,” she held out her hand, “My name is Dr. Cynthia Brown, and I will be taking care of your baby, and the mama.” 

“Tony,” he responded, shaking her hand automatically. 

“I wish I could say that I’ve heard great things about you, Tony, but I can’t say that Ziva has ever mentioned you. Have you two been together long?” 

Ziva’s eyes wandered around the room awkwardly, clearly uneasy about the situation. 

He took it upon himself to reply, “We haven’t been officially together for very long, but it’s complicated.” 

Dr. Brown looked fondly at the two of them, “It always is with baby daddies. Now, I want to be transparent with both of you. Based on Ziva’s medical history, I am labeling this as a high risk pregnancy without even examining the fetus. It is just a precaution on my side, and nothing to worry about for now. However, I do want to see you every 6 weeks to check in and make sure things are progressing the way they should,” She took a step closer to Ziva and gently took her hand, “I am not saying you are going to have complications, sweetheart. I am just being careful.”

Ziva nodded, only letting her eyes flutter toward Tony’s concerned expression for a second, “Thank you, Cynthia.”

The Doc turned around and retrieved a cart from behind a curtain, rolling it toward the table so they could all see it, “Most parents are the most excited - and nervous - about the ultrasound, so I say we get that out of the way first. When did you say your last menstrual period was?” 

“September 25. But I know we conceived around October 4th,” she sent Tony a heavy look, and he had to fight back a cheeky smile at the thought of those few days when they locked themselves in her parent’s farm house and did nothing but revel in their new found and quickly fleeting intimacy. 

“Right. So that should put you around the 7 or 8 week mark, so there is a good chance we will be able to hear the heartbeat today,” the doctor started fumbling with the machinery and the screen on the top turned on. 

“Okay, Mommy, I’m going to ask you to change into this gown really quick. You can step behind that curtain if you would like,” she gestured towards the back corner and Ziva obediently hopped off the table and went to change. 

“I thought ultrasounds were just done on the stomach. Why does she need to be in a gown?” 

“You must watch a lot of movies, Tony?” 

Ziva let out a hearty laugh from behind the curtain.

“I guess you could say that,” he answered.

“Well, then you must know that in movies they often sacrifice accuracy to make a situation seem less awkward. In the real world, the first ultrasound is normally done transvaginally since the fetus is too small to see in a typical one,” Dr. Brown reached underneath the exam table and lifted two metal bars with tube like attachments on top. 

Tony wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. 

Ziva returned in her hospital robe and hopped up on the table, unphased by the appearance of the metal contraptions. She laid back on the table and reached for his hand, pulling him closer toward her head as the doc lifted each of her legs and guided them into the waiting stirrups. 

“Don’t make this weird, Tony.” 

He looked pointedly at her lower half as the doc pulled out a long tubular instrument and approached the table, “Everything about this is weird. I’m the least weird part of this right now.” 

She rolled her eyes for what must have been the hundredth time that day and nodded toward Dr. Brown, giving her the okay to start the exam.

[cagestark]

Could you please write about Tony being jealous after Peter spends too much time sciencing with Bruce?

Sorry if you didn’t want so much angst. Hope this is okay

Read here on AO3.

Warnings: alcoholism. Unhealthy behaviors all around. But it does have a hopeful ending I think. 5.7k

Peter is elbow deep in his paper on NASA’s Fermi Gamma-ray Space Telescope when he gets that tingle, like a finger being dragged up his spine. It sets all his hairs to standing, heart pounding. He is not alone. Keeping perfectly still, he holds his breath to better listen and scans what little of the kitchen he can see without moving his head. But the breaths—so quiet, he can barely hear them—are coming from behind him. The person is still, seated, unthreatening.

He relaxes, twisting on the stool at the island. “Hey, Nat. I didn’t hear you come in.”

She is the picture of poise, perched in the armchair across the room. Peter still isn’t quite used to seeing her like this. In private, she is very different from the woman he first met on the tarmac in Germany with the chic hair and tight, dark outfit. Not relaxed, per se, but maybe as relaxed as the assassin can be, dressed in loungewear, face clear of makeup, her growing hair plaited back. It must be a huge sign of trust for her to show this side of herself, but Peter has been told that he always looks for the best in people.

“Peter,” she greets coolly. Her legs cross, slowly, the dragging of nylon loud. He thinks she might be trying to seduce him. The Avengers already know that he is gay, but maybe old habits die hard. His internal character assessment almost causes him to miss what she says next: “Are you aware of what you’re doing?”

Peter blinks. He points at the paper scrawled with notes. “Actually. Not really. I’m working on this paper for my Physics class, see. But we’ve been discussing gamma-rays and there is something about electromagnetic—”

“I mean with Bruce and Tony,” Natalie says.

His face puckers into a comical expression of confusion, glancing around the kitchen like the two scientists might actually be there without him knowing. “Uh—nothing?”

She looks unimpressed. “You’ve been spending every day with Bruce in his lab or up on the roof.”

Does she think that something is like, going on with Peter and Dr. Banner?

“We’re looking for signs of gamma radiation in thunderclouds. There was a big study last month that found gamma-rays preface some lightning strikes—” Natasha’s flat, unmoved stare stops him before his rambling monologue can truly begin. He swallows, throat dry, feeling some sort of dread in his gut, though he doesn’t know why.

Why is she being so cold to him, right now? It’s reminiscent of the stress dreams he used to have after Tony first offered him the position with the Avengers, dreams where he moved into the tower only for everyone to ostracize him and ignore him, dreams where Tony and Steve would sit down with him and say, Sorry Pete, it isn’t working out, you don’t mesh well with us, and may we please have back your suit?

“What is it?” Peter asks, trying to be brave. “Have I—did I do something?”

Natasha sighs, lifting herself from the armchair gingerly like she is twice or thrice her real age. She crosses the room and he has to force himself not to move away. The tingle is back, and this time, that primal spider-instinct inside him feels threatened, like he is bug beneath an incoming shoe. A large black stiletto maybe, with the Black Widow insignia on the bottom like a target for where his tiny body ideally will be smushed.

But he overrides the instinct and swallows down the fear: this is Natasha. She wouldn’t hurt him.

She does box him in, though, coming into his space and bracketing him with her arms, palms flat on the marble countertop behind him. “Tony doesn’t like me, much, Peter. Surely even you have noticed that. I once broke his confidence in me, and now I work very hard to make that up to him. You could say that a part of my reparations involves looking out for him.”

“That’s really nice of you,” Peter says, polite but firm. “I like to look out for Mr. Stark too. Excuse me—could you give me some space?”

After another moment, she pulls away. “You’re too smart to play dumb. Stop hurting Tony.”

Then she is snatching an apple out of the fruit bowl and strolling out of the room, not even leaving the scent of perfume behind. Peter feels baffled enough by the conversation to wonder if maybe the entire thing hadn’t been a hallucination. There’s no feasible way that Peter could be hurting Mr. Stark—he’s barely seen the man all week, since Peter has been so busy being tutored Bruce for his physics class.

Still, it takes him a long ten minutes for his senses to stop feeling like he’s in danger, and by then, he has completely lost his train of thought for outlining his paper. Sighing, he closes the book.

-

“It’s just going over my head,” Peter admits. It’s the weekend, when any other college student would be out on the town. Not many college students have the option of hanging out with the Avengers though, so. You know. Peter isn’t totally lame. At this time on a Saturday evening, most of the core Avengers are occupying their floor in the Tower. Peter has his own room there, with sheets that are royal blue and soft as silk and a picture on the wall of Tony presenting him with his Stark Industries internship certificate. “Every other aspect of physics is cake to me. Chocolate cake, even.”

“That’s his favorite,” Clint supplies helpfully. He’s playing cards with Nat and Tony at the other end of the island. Natalie is the best bluffer, but Tony can count cards in his sleep, so the odds are pretty evenly stacked, he’d say.

“Yes, it’s my favorite—! But as soon as gamma-rays come in, it’s like my brain shorts out. I failed the quiz over these, and it’s throwing off my curve. If I don’t ace the paper, I’ll freak out.”

“Cheer up, kid,” Tony says. There is an amber glass at his elbow, even though it was whispered very quietly around the tower a few months ago that Mr. Stark was working on getting sober. Peter guesses that it isn’t going well. Now that he looks closely, the man doesn’t look well at all: thinner, grayer, sadder. His dress-shirt collar is rumpled. That’s so not Mr. Stark. His voice is a warm vibrato that Peter feels in his bones: “Take a break. We’ll deal you in. No one is good at everything.”

“What are you bad at?” Natasha asks, maybe flattering him, maybe teasing.

The smile Tony gives her shows too much teeth to be friendly, eyes hidden behind his tinted glasses that he is wearing more often than not these days. “I’m bad at plenty of things, Miss Rushman.”

“He’s right, Peter,” Bruce says. They’re at the other end of the island, both of their shoulders aching from hunching over Peter’s textbooks for the last hour and change. “This is pretty advanced stuff. Difficult enough for scientists who are in this field to grasp. You said that this isn’t the focus of your major? Then I wouldn’t stress over it.”

Peter is stressing though. MIT has been tougher than he thought it would be, and he still worries that his success in high school was just him being a big fish in a small pond. Suddenly the pond is bigger: a fucking ocean. He feels like algae on the waves, tossed to and fro compared to some of his classmates.

Glancing up, he catches Natasha’s eyes. She is watching him, face blank, but he can’t help but feel that there is a silent message in her eyes. Seeing her unfriendly disposition makes him remember the conversation they had the day before—the one where she threatened him, in vague terms. Against his will, his eyes flicker to Tony. The drink beside his chips is empty now. His elbow is propped on the table and his chin rests in it, one shaking thumb running over the edge of his cards. He looks lost in thought. Sad thought.

“Maybe you’re right,” Peter says slowly. He closes his book. “Go ahead and deal me in, Mr. Stark.”

And that makes Tony sit back in his seat in surprise, glasses slipping down his nose to show pleased though bloodshot eyes. He grins—not one of those shark-grins he gave Natasha, but a real one. A smile. It makes butterflies spread their wings in Peter’s gut. God, he’s had a crush on the man for, like, ever. But Mr. Stark is a crush so unobtainable that Peter’s never even had to stress over it. Never had to stress about the juvenile stuff like does he like me back or what can I do to make him notice me. He’s just able to melt in it, enjoy his attraction and idol-worship. It’s all very sexually frustrating and uncomplicated.

Tony pulls back the stool at his side and pats it invitingly. When Peter sits down, he can just barely smell the bourbon on the older man’s breath. Tony then asks: “Bruce, do you want in on this, too?”

There is a difference in the way the billionaire asked Bruce to play when compared to when he asked Peter, but Peter can’t put his finger on what it is. Something about the tone, the inflection... Under the countertop, Tony’s hand comes to rest on Peter’s knee for a moment, squeezing warmly. But then it doesn’t move, just rests there, burning a hole through Peter’s jeans. It prickles, but this is a different kind of danger, he thinks. He’s so busy trying to remember how to accomplish basic human functions like breathing and swallowing that he completely misses Bruce’s response—a kind no thanks. Then Tony’s thumb is moving, brushing the outside of Peter’s leg in a few slow, firm strokes, and Peter feels a dangerous stirring in his pants. The hand starts to slide up his leg—

Then the hand is gone. His blood is still rushing south, propelled by his hammering heart, but it’s like all his senses beside touch come rushing back the moment Tony removes his hand—Clint is dealing, cards whispering over marble as he passes them out, Natasha and Tony are bickering though Peter doesn’t yet have the brainpower to decipher what about. His knee is still burning hot, and it tingles for the rest of the night.

But he doesn’t think it’s his imagination that the entire evening is lighter, smiles and laughter flowing more freely, and when Mr. Stark gets up to get a drink, he comes back with water.

-

From then on, Peter’s image of Mr. Stark begins to change. Mostly thanks to the patchwork of knowledge Natasha feeds him in passing moments—when they encounter each other in the hall going different directions, when she is running on the treadmill beside him in the gym, when she passes behind him at the kitchen island for another apple, or, like today, an orange.

“He only drinks when he’s sad,” she says in his ear.

Peter starts to look for that as an indicator to Mr. Stark’s mood: times when it’s late at night and he walks in on Mr. Stark standing alone by the window looking at the view of the city, shaking hand clutching a drink that rattles when he sets it down to avoid Peter seeing it. Nights when Tony passes through the living area, glancing at the group gathered around (almost always Clint and Nat watching television, and Peter and Bruce talking through Peter’s homework), rejecting their offer for him to join with a quiet, just passing through, before grabbing a bottle from the kitchen and disappearing into the elevator. If Tony drinks when he’s sad, then he is often sad.

Peter thinks it’s safe to assume that when Tony isn’t drinking, he’s happy—or at least neutral. And taking into account the poker tournament from a few weeks before, Peter begins to notice that he himself seems to make Tony happy.

The knowledge weighs down his shoulders…but mostly, it makes him feel full of helium, light and bouncy, liable to lift off the ground and break through the atmosphere should he not hold on to the world around him. Peter makes Tony happy. For some reason.

“Everything he does is for other people,” she pants, trying to keep up with his enhanced abilities in the workout room. Peter himself is sweating from the break-neck pace he’s adopted on the treadmill, but he doesn’t need to focus to run, so instead his mind is far away.

Natasha is absolutely right. The topic is a sore spot. Peter knows that there were cutting words exchanged between Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers at the beginning of their relationship when the super soldier accused him of selfishness. It’s obvious how little they knew each other then, because even now he sees the fondness Steve has in his eyes for Tony, the gratefulness he exudes and goes out of his way to express to the billionaire. Tony funds the entire Avengers Initiative. He lets them live expense free in his home, feeds them, clothes them, patches them up. Scraping by with his Aunt for most of his life in a tiny apartment in Queens has made Peter keenly aware of all the things he has in his life now, solely thanks to Mr. Stark. And the older man doesn’t bat an eye at it.

And alright, Tony is a billionaire. Those expenses probably don’t scrape the surface of his wealth. Yet there are many other ways his altruism is expressed, ways only Tony Stark could express them. When Peter’s suit was malfunctioning in the wetter-than-usual New York springtime, Tony didn’t sleep for three days while working on it. Got to make sure you’re safe, kid, he’d muttered. Wouldn’t get a bit of sleep otherwise. Tony hadn’t even delivered it in person so that Peter could thank him, just left it neatly for him outside his bedroom door.

There were other things, of course. Providing Bruce his own lab and the resources to expand his research. Once he sat for a portrait at Steve’s insistence, and it was the stillest he’s ever seen the billionaire be. Mr. Stark makes it his personal responsibility to enrich the lives of those around him—he even seems to enjoy it—

“Did you hear me, Peter?” Natasha asks.

Peter stops the treadmill, jogging while it slowly decreases the pace. He’s been a thousand miles away, or several stories away, rather, down in the lab with Tony. “Sorry, I didn’t.”

“I said—what does he have for himself? What does he want for himself?”

Then she is gone, ponytail bouncing as she disappears towards the showers, a towel over her shoulder. Tony has everything. He has an inordinate amount of money at his disposal. What he could possibly want for?

The questions haunt Peter for the rest of the night, even as he spends the evening in Bruce’s lab while the man reads over his paper on the Fermi Telescope. Peter is anxiously squeezing a stress ball—carefully, though, because last time he truly squeezed one, it crumbled in his hand—when Tony appears in the doorway. He’s dressed in what Peter knows to be his lab-attire: comfortable, cheap t-shirt, jeans that are wearing through at the knees. The man’s hair is un-styled, free from gel, and it looks so soft—

“Hey, Pete,” Tony says. “Bruce.”

Bruce doesn’t even greet him, still reading Peter’s paper. He does lift a hand though.

“I brought the LVC permits for you, fresh off the government’s press.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Bruce says absently.

“What are you doing up here, Pete?” Tony asks, putting the papers on a nearby lab table. There’s something in the older man’s voice—something. But Peter’s never been good at stuff like that: deciphering looks, or tones, or subtextual clues. On instinct, he scans the man’s face, trying to determine his mood. It doesn’t look promising, the circles dark beneath his eyes, the frown lines deep. Even when he smiles, it looks tired and sad.

“Just having Bruce look over my paper, Mr. Stark.”

“When are you ever going to call me Tony, kid?”

Peter laughs a little. “Never, probably,” he jokes.

Tony doesn’t look like he thought the joke was funny. He gives a half-hearted wave goodbye and then disappears. Peter is at the perfect angle to watch him through the glass door. He stops outside the elevator and hits the button, leans his head forward to press his forehead to the doors, the picture of dejection. There is an uncomfortable knot growing in Peter’s stomach.

What could the man who has everything possibly want?

Bruce glances up ten minutes later after flipping to the last page, glasses a little askew. “Was that Tony I heard?”

-

The days afterwards, Natasha seems more disgusted with him than usual. Her occasional comments about Mr. Stark have stopped, and Peter laments the loss of help, because he feels no closer to understanding what she wants from him or what’s wrong with Mr. Stark.

Peter spends his nights laying in bed, restless, staring up at the ceiling to avoid listening to the distant movements of the Avengers around him in their own respective rooms—he didn’t need to know so much about Steve and Bucky’s after-hour activities, thanks very much—pouring over his interactions with Natasha.

What do you think you’re doing with Bruce and Tony? she had asked. And what was Peter doing? He’d been spending much more time with Bruce lately trying to grasp gamma-rays. Usually his time was spent equally divided between patrolling, school, homework, and spending time down in the lab with Tony. Of those things to take the backburner, it had been his time spent with his idol-cum-crush. Was the man feeling neglected?

Peter rolls out of bed. He’s tempted to put on his suit and go into stealth-mode, but instead, he tiptoes out of his room in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, using all of his enhanced senses to make sure he doesn’t encounter any other Avenger on his way to Natasha’s room. When she opens the door, she looks like he’s the last person she ever wanted to see on the other side.

“It’s late,” she says. Peter slips through the crack between her and the door anyway, but he figures if she truly wanted to keep him out, she might have tried. You know. At all.  

Her rooms are as large as Peter’s, tastefully decorated. He notes that the only personal decorations in the room involve the Avengers: the group photograph taken of them and a few drawings of Steve’s, framed carefully.

“I’ve been thinking about all of the things you said, and I still don’t get it. I don’t know what’s going on—I see that there’s something wrong but I don’t know why and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Natasha sighs, already opening the door to usher him back out. “Everyone needs everything spelled out for them. It’s late, and I’m tired. Tony likes you. You like Tony. Quit choosing Bruce over him, or I’ll have to spend the next few weeks finding an incredible foreign benefactor willing to sponsor Bruce’s work only if he relocates overseas. That takes a lot of work Peter. A lot of work. Now get out, and fix this mess.”

He doesn’t even hear the real door shut in his face, because he’s too stunned by the metaphorical door that has been shut in his face. He gapes at the hardwood, eyes unseeing, all of his senses growing dim as he focuses his brainpower on the words that just spilled out of Natasha’s mouth.

Tony likes you. You like Tony. Quit choosing Bruce.

Peter lays awake the entire night. He can’t spot Natasha’s angle, can’t determine why she’d want to lie to him that way. Surely she has some sort of motive that Peter can’t see—he’s not a super-secret-spy type. Espionage and subtext aren’t his forte. She could probably run cryptic circles around him, and Tony once jokingly said that Natasha wouldn’t even sneeze unless she wanted someone to say bless you. So what is this? What is she doing to him? Hoping to embarrass him? Maybe she thinks that he’ll make some grand gesture, some romantic monologue to Tony and he’ll be so crushed at the subsequent rejection that he’ll leave the tower and stop Avenging altogether.

When sunlight is coming through the tinted windows of his room, he has not slept a wink, and has the throbbing headache to show it. His paper is due by 11:59 PM, and he still has a few revisions he needs to make. The other quizzes on gamma-rays and other electromagnetic radiations weren’t much better than the first, and all of his hopes for maintaining his perfect grade point average are riding on this one paper.

He dresses, only able to find mismatched socks, and takes the subway to make it to class on time. He’s there until early afternoon, and by the time he arrives back in the Tower, his stomach is growling painfully and he’s emotionally at the end of his rope. Why hadn’t he taken a gap year before starting school like Ned had? Maybe a year older, Peter would be more capable of handling all that is on his plate. As it is, he feels like a waiter balancing one-too-many glasses of water. Failure seems imminent.

As soon as he is in the tower, he cracks open his laptop and begins to finish the revisions Bruce advised him on—but then the word count is just under what the professor asked for, and now Peter is scrambling for extra content. His senses alert him that someone is coming, but he knows the length of the steps to be Tony.

“Hey Pete,” Tony mutters, looking like he just woke even though it is nearly three in the afternoon.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” says Peter. “How are you?”

“Has this coffee been here long?” Tony asks, pointing to the half-full pot. His hand is shaking.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I just got here.” Peter frowns to himself, fingers hovering over the keyboard even his brain feels like a train stuck on the same track. He has to say something to Mr. Stark. Has to. “Hey—um. I wanted to say. While you’re here—”

His mouth dries up as Tony turns to give him his full attention. The man is always so courteous, stopping whatever he’s doing to listen to what Peter has to say. It’d be impossible not to notice that the man has a problem with interrupting, talking over other people. But it’s never been that way with Peter. He stops. He listens with a kind of single-minded intensity that makes the younger man flushed. That much focus and attention feels like a laser beam directed at him, about to dissolve him into goo.

“—I wanted to say. That I hope we can hang out again soon.”

Tony leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. For a guy in his 40’s, he’s still fucking fit, biceps thick and strong, core toned. “I hope so too, kid. I’ve—missed you.”

Peter melts, heart aching in equal parts joy and sadness. “Maybe tonight? If you’re free. I could come down to the lab.”

Tony feigns like he’s thinking it over, knuckles rasping against his chin. “What about your—” he waves a vague hand at the laptop on the countertop. “I don’t want to come between you and school, Pete. I’m not very good at being a responsible role-model, but even I know that your education is important. That should be your focus.”

“Don’t worry about it. How does seven sound? I’ll finish this up, get it turned it, and then I’m all yours. I mean—we can—you know. Hang.”

The older man has that look he always gets when Peter’s mouth runs away from the rest of his consciousness: equal parts amusement and endearment and exasperated fondness. “Sounds good. You know where to find me.”

Peter does know. He does. The knowledge weighs on him for the next four hours that he spends staring at his laptop, writing a sentence just to destroy it, flipping frantically through the notes that Bruce gave him. Not meeting the word count means that he will automatically lose 10% of his grade, no matter how good the paper might be. But it’s like his brain is drawing a blank, all cylinders firing emptily.

By the time he is done, it ten PM. The hours ate him up like quicksand. His head aches with exhaustion, eyes burning from staring at the glow of the laptop, but he rushes into the elevator, eyes filling with tears. Surely Tony will understand why Peter is late. But it still makes him feel like shit.

“To the lab please, FRIDAY.”

The elevator moves without any verbal confirmation from the AI. By the time the doors open, he realizes he’s made a mistake. The lab is dark and quiet, lacking the usual soundtrack of classic rock hits. When he grasps the handle, it doesn’t turn. He’s too late. Mr. Stark was probably so angry that he went straight upstairs to the penthouse. If Peter were to follow, the door would probably be locked against him, refusing him entrance—

The door beneath him opens, automatic lock clicking open. Peter nearly falls through as it swings inward, his enhanced senses being his only saving grave. The lab is even more eerie from the inside, because it is all right and all wrong mixed together. The smell is comforting. The darkness is unsettling. He knows this place like the back of his hand when it is lit, but suddenly it is an entirely foreign place as he wanders through, carefully feeling his way, unsure why he hasn’t turned around and left yet.

Lights come up, blue dots like holographic breadcrumbs on the floor. FRIDAY. Where is she leading him, and why?

The lights circle on lab table, and when he comes close his eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to see why. Mr. Stark is there, slumped over the lab table. Peter would say that he is asleep except for the stench of alcohol and the empty bottles beside him, faceless in the dark. Sad sentinels watching over their king.

“Oh Tony,” he says. His heart feels too heavy for his ribs to hold. He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, gently trying to rouse him. It doesn’t work. Even when he whispers the man’s name in increasingly louder increments, the man doesn’t stir. Throat closed up tight in the fist of fear, he gently presses two fingers to just under the man’s jaw—

Tony jerks away from the lab table, striking out at Peter. His aim is off, so his knuckles barely glance against the younger man’s chest. The force of the failed punch tips over the chair and Tony nearly falls to the floor—would, if Peter weren’t there to catch him. Still he struggles against a foe he doesn’t recognize.

“Getaway—”

“Mr. Stark—it’s me, Peter.”

Mr. Stark blinks, eyes moonish in the dark. He squints. “Pete?” he asks, voice thick.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so sorry that I’m late.” He guides the man back to the chair and searches for one of his own, finds a stool with wheels and rolls it over so they can sit side by side. Tony is swaying dangerously even just sitting.

“’s okay, Pete,” Tony says. “You were with Bruce.”

“What?” Peter cries. “No, I wasn’t. I was working on my paper, remember? Just like I told you in the kitchen? Why would I be with Bruce when I had—” he just barely catches himself before the words a date slip past his lips, “—when I had plans with you?”

The laugh the older man gives is mirthless, slumped over the table. With every shaking breath comes a cloud of acrid liquor. Peter has never understood how Tony could drink that stuff, alcohol with so much burn and no sweetness or sourness. “Why wouldn’ you be with Bruce, kid? I get it.”

“I don’t know what there is to get,” Peter says gently. He knows from his minimal experience with drunk people that drunkenness heightens emotion, and they can be as likely to lash out in anger as they are to burst into tears. Without his suit, Mr. Stark probably couldn’t hurt Peter even sober, but he doesn’t want the man to hurt himself.

“No, no, Bruce ‘s a great guy. He’s a great man. Better man th’n me.”

Peter gapes, even if Mr. Stark isn’t even looking or couldn’t even see him through the darkness. Because, what? Seriously? “Mr. Stark, you’re like the greatest man I know. I don’t—I don’t know anybody who I, I admire or look up to the way that I do you.” That answer is maybe a little too honest, but he can’t help it. This vulnerability, this sheer pain coming from the man who has held Peter’s heart between his palms since he was just a little boy. It’s a terrible thing to witness, and he’d do anything to change it.

“You’re a good kid,” says Tony. He reaches with a hand like he wants to pat Peter on the head but loses strength far before then.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Mr. Stark.”

Tony laughs again in that terrible depreciating way. He rests his forehead in his palm, staring down at the lab table. “Trust me, Pete. I know.”

“Why have you been so upset lately?” Peter asks smally. “I’ve been worried.”

“Didn’t mean to worry you, honey.” The name makes Peter glow, even if its slurred in that terrible, sad voice. “I guess ’ve been—going through some stuff.”

“Like what?”

The exhale he gives is long and loud in the quiet lab. “Adult stuff.”

“What, like, erectile dysfunction?”

The sound Tony makes is indignant. “No you little shit.” It’s said with unbearable tenderness and fondness though, until it almost feels like a caress instead of an insult. “Just, you know, your general everyday average feelings of inadequacy and unbearable loneliness.”

“You’re too hard on yourself Mr. Stark. I mean what I said. You’re the greatest man I know and I—I like you a whole lot. I know you’re having a tough time. But I’m here for you. And I know that you don’t think I’m strong enough, but you can lean on me. I can take it.”

When Tony stirs, lifting his head from his hands long enough to glance at Peter, his cheeks are wet, tracks of tears that just barely catch the light. He could almost mistake it as his mind playing tricks on him, but the man’s shoulders begin to tremble like his hands when he hasn’t had a drink, and Peter gets off of the stool so quickly that it goes rolling in the other direction.

Peter wraps his arms around Tony, pulling his head to his chest like a mother might hold a baby to her breast. There are no sounds, no sobs or whimpers, but the shaking lasts forever it seems. Then all at once the man melts, soft and languid. When he pulls away a hairsbreadth, Peter’s shirt is wet where his face was pressed.

He turns his head and leans in again, this time resting his temple on Peter’s abs. The younger man barely resists carding his fingers through Tony’s hair—just lets one hand gently rub at his back instead. When he speaks Peter can feel the movement on his stomach. “You’re too good f’r me, Pete. I’m so sorry I’m like this. Hated seeing you spend so much time with Bruce ‘cause I’m just a jealous old pervert. A fucking drunk, just like Howard—”

“Don’t say that.”

“’s true, kid.”

Peter swallows, struggling to gather courage. But if he can’t ask questions of Tony now when the man is drunk and possibly unlikely to remember them, when the man is too relaxed to lie, then when can he? “Why—why are you a pervert?”

All the breath seems to go out of Tony in a hot rush of air that Peter can feel through his shirt. “C’mon kid. You have to know.”

It does all make sense then: Tony’s recent behavior, Natasha’s cryptic comments.

What does he want for himself, she had asked.

Carefully—so, so, so carefully—Peter lets his hand drift up the back of Tony’s neck and slide into his hair, dark waves that are soft and free of product. It feels like silk under his fingertips, so fucking intimate. If this is all he gets of Tony, then he’s going to savor it, sear it into his memory. Blunt nails scratch gently at the man’s scalp and he purrs. He groans, the vibrations sinking through cotton and skin and muscle deep into Peter’s bones. “God, Pete,” he says. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Peter gasps. He’s hard, 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye, heart hammering, struggling to draw in breaths. “I won’t, Tony.”

“Never stop,” Tony groans softly. “You are the most important thing in my life, kid.”

And then the man is asleep, snoring breaths into Peter’s abs. It takes a while, listening to the gentle breathing, for Peter to calm down. “FRIDAY,” he croaks. “Unmute.”

“Thank you, Peter,” she says. “May I turn the lights on? I’m afraid boss might need some assistance getting to his room tonight. Would you be of service?”

“Yes. To all counts, FRIDAY. Thanks.”

“You are welcome.” A pause. “And thank you, Peter.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters, hoisting the heavier man up. There’s no use putting just an arm over his shoulder—Tony is out cold. Instead, Peter scoops him up, grateful for his enhanced strength, and begins the trek to the elevator.

In the morning when Tony wakes, Peter will be there waiting. With some water and aspirin.

Because they need to talk.