#if one of them isn’t old enough to be their parent does it even count

[thehoneybeestings]

𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚...?

𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 2k Content/Warnings: sfw, ex marine!sev, librarian!reader, vi and powder appearances, mentions of ptsd/alcoholism/death, first-gen american pressures/traumas A/N: full preface, this fic and this page are anti-us military industrial complex! If u are not, this isn’t for you (and also… get real.) If it is, then walk with me… this was supposed to be a drabble and here we are 2k words later. i have so many diff headcanons for modern!sev, but this one of them; her unyielding loyalty to silco because she just wants a better zaun, her decision to put her life on the line and to commodify her body to do so... it all led me to this idea. could be controversial but it's better than enforcer!sev LMFAO why are we doing that... anyway! enjoy!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Veteran!Sevika, who’s a first-generation American citizen and felt it was her responsibility to repay her parents for uprooting their entire lives just because they believed she’d have more opportunity in the States

୨ৎ She thought about becoming one of the big three- a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer- but the thing is, despite being incredibly smart, Sevika has a hard time applying herself if her heart’s not in it

୨ৎ The one thing she’s always loved, though, is pushing her body to its limits. She shot up like a weed to an awe-striking 6’2” her freshman year of high school, and started spending all of her afternoons in the gym not long after that. She began with strength training, and then she got into Muay Thai, started kicking ass, and thought, ‘damn, wish I could do this for a living…’ ୨ৎ By the time she was a (crazy built) 18-year-old, she was honestly considering it- becoming an instructor or pursuing fighting seriously- but the idea was quickly snuffed out by the voice in her head telling her that her parents didn’t come to America so she could be a Muay Thai fighter…

୨ৎ And that’s when she walks by the military recruitment table on her way to lunch at school one day, and thinks, ‘why not?’

୨ৎ She’s already got what it takes physically, the harsh discipline of basic training can’t be that different than dealing with her father when she gets a “B,” and if she doesn’t want to be in school for another 8 years to get some fancy job and a shiny title, then she can bring honor to her family this way

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Veteran!Sevika, who laments every single day that she can’t go back and tell her younger self to do anything but go into the military

୨ৎ No amount of pleasing her parents or bringing honor to her family is worth the dehumanization she faced, the PTSD, the crippling pain of losing your found family, the phantom pains of losing her left arm

୨ৎ She was honorably discharged after it happened, given nothing but a pat on the back, a Purple Heart veteran’s license plate that she doesn’t even use, and three free sessions with a counselor

୨ৎ And when her insurance won’t cover the fourth, she resorted to drinking instead

୨ৎ It’s all she could do to cope with the irony that in her 16 years of serving, she’d grown extremely distant from the parents she enlisted to make proud (it’s the biggest reason she re-enlists after her first 8-year contract; she thought it'd be easier than facing them), and the guilt that comes with knowing there’s innocent blood on her hands

୨ৎ Funily enough, it’s why her values and principles are what they are today; she’s seen just how evil this country is willing to be in the name of “freedom,” knowing damn well what they really had her fighting for was oil

୨ৎ It takes a few years and an insurance plan that does cover therapy for her to recover from her alcholism and finally begin processing just how traumatic her young adult life had been

୨ৎ But what really snaps her out of it is when she’s about to walk into a grocery store one day and sees that familiar table set up outside of its doors, lined with pictures of men in camo and posters with quotes about how there’s no better way to give back than to sell your body to the country

୨ৎ The pink-haired kid giving the table an appraising gaze really catches her eye; probably because she reminds Sevika of herself when she was younger. Built, pierced up, wearing all black, but none of it concealing the heart beating on her sleeve

୨ৎ “You’ve got ‘em all wrong if you think they’re gonna let you waltz in with pink hair.”

୨ৎ The younger of the two turns to find a knowing smirk on Sevika’s face, icy eyes glinting like the sun against her prosthetic 

୨ৎ “I know… that’s like, the only thing stopping me, to be honest,” She quips.

୨ৎ Sevika lets out a low chuckle, shaking her head as she reminisces on being that same young girl; seeing those posters and the men in uniform at the table and thinking to herself, ‘what else could I possibly be good for?’

୨ৎ “Don’t do it, kid,” she gruffs. “Unless you’re accounting for the thousands of dollars you’ll have to spend when your arm gets blown off. It’ll be the hand you write with, too,” she snorts, turning to look at the girl she’d soon come to learn goes by Vi

୨ৎ “Then what the fuck else do I do? Excuse my language…” Vi quickly corrects, cheeks flushing the color of her hair

୨ৎ Sevika chuckles again, dismissing the apology with a wave. 

୨ৎ “Anything else. I’ll even buy you a coffee and help you figure your shit out, if you want. Anything to keep somebody from landing where I landed.” ୨ৎ “Well… you seem to have landed somewhere pretty good.”

୨ৎ The kid’s comment both breaks and mends Sevika’s heart in ways completely unexpected, and as she’s sitting across from her, nursing a black coffee and learning that she’s been taking care of her younger sister by herself since she was in high school, Sevika realizes that if all these vulnerable kids need is for someone to listen, then by god, she can do that

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Veteran!Sevika, who’s back at the library to print out flyers for her free class on post-secondary options that don’t include going into the military, because her own god damn printer is broken again

୨ৎ That’s when she overhears you talking to a man at the front desk, who’s inquiring about using one of the library’s classrooms for a “job fair”

୨ৎ “Sure,” you chime, “What kind of job fair?” ୨ৎ “Military recruitment,” he confidently states, and you don’t miss a beat as you respond, still as cheerful as ever,

୨ৎ “Oh! Never mind, then. We don’t allow those here.” ୨ৎ Sevika’s head pops up at the sound of this, her eyes darting back and forth between you and the man, still as she can be, as if no one will notice her clearly eavesdropping if she doesn’t move

୨ৎ “Can I at least speak to a supervisor?” He asks, once he’s finally picked his jaw up from off the floor

୨ৎ “I am the supervisor,” you deadpan, now mindlessly stacking sheets of cardstock, “and my library isn’t a place for teenagers to get preyed on by the military-industrial complex. Have a good one, sir.” ୨ৎ For a moment, he just stands there, shocked and clearly offended

୨ৎ You look up at him, stare him down with narrowed eyes as if to ask why the fuck he’s still in front of you looking stupid, and then, your eyes lock onto hers, and you’re glad someone else is there to bear witness to the hissy fit he’s absolutely about to throw

୨ৎ But, before he can get a word in, Sevika walks up behind him, crossing her hands behind her back to signal that she’s waiting in line

୨ৎ “I can help you over here!” You beam, walking her over to the other side of the receptionist’s desk

୨ৎ When the two of you are face-to-face again, you finally get a good look at her; striking eyes, chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw, and a stunning scar complementing the faint wrinkles that have started to appear in the corners of her mouth and eyes

୨ৎ “How can I help you?” You ask, keeping it professional; but damn if she isn’t gorgeous

୨ৎ And she’s thinking the same thing about you

୨ৎ “I, uh… I didn’t actually need anything,” she begins, and her voice is so much softer than you would have guessed after taking a look at this tank of a woman. “Just thought you could use an out.” ୨ৎ You sigh, and a grin stretches across your face

୨ৎ “Thanks,” you chuckle breathily. “It certainly wasn’t necessary… but it’s very appreciated.” ୨ৎ She pauses for a moment before asking,

୨ৎ “You guys have classrooms available?” ୨ৎ “Yeah! We do,” you confirm. “Next availability is…” your eyes flick up to the ceiling as you think, “Next Tuesday. If you’d like to reserve it, I can help you out now,” you nod. ୨ৎ She shrugs; it definitely beats hosting her class in her small-ass living room

୨ৎ “Why not. You’ll be happy to hear that the entire point of the class is making sure kids aren’t preyed on by military recruiters.” ୨ৎ “You’re absolutely right,” you chuckle. “Follow me; I’ve got a form in my office for you to fill out.” ୨ৎ You walk her through several doors- none of which she lets you open- back to your office, which has been thoroughly decorated with all things you, and it makes her feel warm and fuzzy in ways she hasn’t in a long time ୨ৎ “So, tell me about yourself,” you muse, parsing through your file cabinet for the Classroom Reservation Request Form. “It sounds like you’re critical of the military, too. How’d that happen?” ୨ৎ “I was in the Marines,” she reveals, taking a seat in front of your desk. “Didn’t realize what I was getting into, and now I’m down an arm and my peace of mind.” ୨ৎ She notes that you just chuckle; you don’t shy away from the difficult subject, you don’t seem put off by her blunt comment or by her in general; in fact, you lean in, placing your elbow on your desk and your chin the palm of your hand as you hand over the form

୨ৎ She clears her throat and continues. “I met this kid once; she was thinking about enlisting because she just… didn’t know what else to do. That’s exactly how I felt when I was recruited. It got me thinkin' about how many other kids just need someone to tell them that it’s okay not to have things figured out. What’s not okay is that the military tends to prey on folks who don’t.” ୨ৎ You nod, impressed

୨ৎ “You’re doing good work… what was your name?” ୨ৎ “Sevika,” she fills in.

୨ৎ “Sevika…” you repeat, and the sound of her name on your lips makes her feel a bit more than warm and fuzzy… ୨ৎ “It’s nice to meet you, then. I’m Y/n. It’ll be an absolute pleasure to have you come talk to some of the kids.” ୨ৎ And when she does, you’re leaning against the classroom’s open door the whole time, unable to tear your eyes away from just how good she is with them

୨ৎ She finally wraps up the class, bidding a farwell to each and every one of the students as they file out; but one stays behind, a pink-haired girl who looks to be in her early 20’s

୨ৎ “You ready to head out, kid?” Sevika asks, pointing at her as she stands from her place perched on the desk in the front of the room

୨ৎ And you’re just about to turn away to leave when a flurry of blue comes bounding toward you

୨ৎ “Hey, Powder!” You greet emphatically; and then, she’s skipping over to Sevika with a stack of books in hand, pleading to check them out

୨ৎ “She’s yours?” You ask, having had no idea

୨ৎ “For all intents and purposes,” Sevika shrugs with a grin

୨ৎ Powder’s still asking if she can check out more books when you chime in;

୨ৎ “Last time I checked, A Wrinkle In Time is a month overdue…”

୨ৎ Sevika looks down at her with a quirked brow and knowing grin, and doesn’t even have to tell Powder to go put everything back before Powder trudges away to do so

୨ৎ “Fine… but Vi, you have to help!”

୨ৎ “What? Why the hell do I have to help?” ୨ৎ “Language,” Sevika bemoans, watching as the two make their way down the hall

୨ৎ When you look back up at her, there’s a coy grin on your face that she doesn’t miss

୨ৎ “The class was really great. You’re a natural with the kids,” you praise

୨ৎ “I do what I can,” she says, waving the compliment away. “I’ll bring A Wrinkle In Time back tomorrow.”

୨ৎ “ No worries,” you assure. “We’ll meet for coffee soon, and you can give it to me then.”

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[h0neylevi]

Levi Month - Day 21 (Post-War: Children)

cw: canonverse/post-war, written with fem!reader in mind, suggestive sexual content, established relationship, mostly domestic fluff

word count: 857

“I found condoms in Falco’s room today.”

You peek over the top of your book to find Levi frowning in the bathroom doorway.

He had quietly retreated into the room several minutes ago for his usual nighttime routine, leaving you with the job of locking up and shutting off the lights. If relinquishing that task hadn’t been enough to clue you in that something was wrong, the familiar little scrunch of concern that is now etched between his eyebrows says everything. He’s worried.

Despite his obvious displeasure, the revelation still makes you smile. It isn’t the news necessarily–that isn’t as shocking to you as it apparently is to Levi. You’ve witnessed enough by accident of Gabi and Falco hurriedly pulling away from one another in the empty kitchen to know that something was going on.

But the second bedroom–first door on the left down the hall–is actually a guest bedroom. In the years since you and Levi have relocated and the restoration project began, a number of people have used it–Connie, Jean, Onyankopon, even you–but it seems that Levi has subconsciously deemed it Falco’s. It’s so like him to reveal his feelings in such an unintentional way. It’s cute.

You decide to tuck away that knowledge instead of antagonizing him for once and shrug.

“At least they’re being responsible,” you reply and return to your book.

Quietly, Levi crosses the room, a look of dissatisfaction still polluting his expression as he sinks onto his side of the bed.

“You’re not worried about it?” he asks.

You turn, meeting his concerned gaze with a sardonic tilt of your head. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about sex at his age.”

His lips purse slightly, and you know you’ve made your point when the tips of his ears begin to turn a faint shade of pink. “I wasn’t acting on it,” he says as if that makes any real difference.

You laugh. “Well, I think that was more because of your circumstances than anything else.”

He doesn’t say anything to refute what you say. Instead, Levi settles into his side of the bed, propped upright on the pillows next to you. With a slow sigh, his hand finds your thigh much like it does almost every night. It’s an idle touch, one that you’re not even sure he realizes he does anymore, but it still causes you to scoot closer, seeking out his warmth.

“That doesn’t mean they should be having sex. They’re kids,” he continues, seemingly still preoccupied with the topic. “Maybe we should talk to them.”

“Gabi and Falco are almost eighteen, Levi,” you point out, not looking up from your page. “I’m sure their parents have already had that kind of talk with them. Pretty soon they’ll have little ones of their own running around. And that’s what we fought for anyway, right? For people to live and fall in love. Have families, grow old.”

He doesn’t reply.

For a few minutes, you sit like this, absorbed in your book. Coaxed into comfort by the slow caress of Levi’s thumb on your skin. Some nights, Levi will read over your shoulder, and you think that’s what he’s doing again tonight, until–

“Have you ever thought about it?”

You don’t look up when you ask, “About what?”

“Having kids.”

Your eyes stutter on the page before freezing entirely. Any attempt to recall anything you just read is impossible, so you carefully bookmark your place at the end of the chapter and set the book aside.

Levi is already watching you when you turn, the expression in his one good eye now open and passive.

“I have,” you tell him slowly. “But never seriously. Never thought I’d get the chance to.”

He nods to assert he knows what you mean. It’s difficult to dream for a future when each day feels like it may be your last. It’s a feeling you’re both well accustomed to.

He keeps his gaze fixed and even in a way that makes your heart flutter. “And now?” he asks.

You swallow.

An implication sits in the air that you’re sure is intentional. You’ve been by Levi’s side as a comrade for almost a decade but as his partner for only a fraction of that time, only revealing your feelings a few months after the battle at Fort Salta. Thankfully, he had reciprocated.

And now, he’s asking if you want children with him.

Scenarios immediately flash through your mind. Ones of Levi holding a little boy with his eyes and your nose. Others of a little girl with both of her parents wrapped around her finger.

It conjures an indescribable feeling, but if you had to choose, you think joy might be the closest thing to it.

“I’d like that,” you finally say, eyes focusing on him once more. “But we’re not exactly young anymore. We’d have to start trying soon.”

There’s a small twitch of his mouth upwards–the tiniest of movements that you’ve come to recognize as the precursor to mischief. So when he reaches to pull you in for a kiss, you’re not surprised when he says, “We can start trying right now.”

[dclovesdanny]

Something I will never get enough of is Danny killing the Joker. However, something I want to see more of, is Danny killing the Joker for Ellie.

Like, Jason and Danny are neighbors and they’ve been friends for a little while. Jason knows Danny has the 20 something year old mechanic with a six-year-old daughter who is an absolute gremlin. He really likes them both, and he might have a little crush on his neighbor.

Then when they are out at the park or something, the Joker attacks. The joker decides to grab a hostage and who does he grab, but this six year old girl who only seems to have one person who knows her, a scrawny 20 something person. She has dark hair and blue eyes and only person who seems to care about her is her older brother/possible father? Perfect bait for Batman.

He wasn’t counting on Danny being able to fight god for his family. He didn’t realize that Danny will do anything to protect his family, that, in his literal core, he is sworn to protect his people, no matter the cost. the joker did not realize that Danny loves Ellie enough to not only die (again) for her, but to kill for her.

The Joker doesn’t die to Batman, or in some big battle. The Joker dies to a man no one knew because the Joker kidnapped his daughter. The joker dies, because he forgot that not everyone has the same hangups about killing that Batman does. The Joker dies because he pushed a parent too far.

Jason is there during all of this. I think he’s either there as red hood, watching through the cameras, or there is Jason. All three of these have many different pros for various forms of angst.

If Jason is there as red hood, he’s probably with some of the batfamily, and they are holding him back from killing the Joker. They’re trying to figure out how to make it so that the joker won’t kill this little girl, and Jason is going feral because that is his kid. That is the little gremlin who lives next-door, who knocks on his door and treats him like a jungle gym. That’s his kid. When he sees Danny jump at the Joker, he’s going to have a straight up panic attack and he’s gonna get the guns ready, but he doesn’t need to.

If he’s there as Jason, I think the joker would also take him hostage. Jason Wayne, the brat who would get him a lot of money. Especially if the Joker knows that this was the second Robin, because this just means he can get two killed in one swoop. And Jason is trying to protect Ellie with everything in him, cursing himself for not bringing a gun with him and praying that this time Bruce isn’t too late. And he can see the pain in Danny’s eyes and he is so scared to lose this family he has. He praised to a God he doesn’t believe in this time, history won’t repeat itself.

I feel like it would be most painful, if he’s watching through cameras. He’s probably injured or in the middle of doing something for his civilian life . Maybe he’s even out of town, but turned the camera on to look out for the joker, and had a heart attack when he saw the little girl next-door being held by the Joker. This man is trying so hard to get there, breaking every traffic law, praying that he won’t be too late that this won’t be the same as his death. His trauma is excruciating, because this feels like when he was waiting for Bruce and Bruce not getting there until it was too late.

No matter which of these scenarios, he needs to see Danny snap and kill the joker. Maybe, in the camera scenario, it’s just this he arrives that he sees it. Either way, he needs to see the moment, the Joker dies at the head of a single father, and the parallel of Bruce and him and Danny and Ellie need to be very apparent. Because this time the dad wasn’t afraid to kill.

This is the moment I feel, Jason would fully acknowledge that he would do anything for these people. That these two neighbors of his have become his family. The moment he sees the two of them holding each other, and the jokers body at their feet, I guarantee you this man is fighting tooth and nail not to go over his red hood exposed them. if he’s Jason, he can run into hug them no problem, but if he’s red hood, he’s not going to be able to do that.

This man will fight with Batman if he even that should get in trouble for killing the Joker. He will threaten to never ever speak to Bruce ever again, will be ready to bribe the police into letting Danny go, we will race every camera footage out there of the event, will do anything for this family.

Later that day, he won’t have nightmares of the Joker for the first time in a while. He will be able to look at his family and rest easy, knowing that there’s no way that Joker can take them from him.

[woncheolisms]

you are part of me. (gojo satoru x reader)

summary: when gojo satoru loves, he is loud about it. and he doesn’t care if you don’t love him back.

word count: 3604

warnings: fem!reader, friends to lovers, very mild angst, swearing, gojo being gojo, canon compliant storyline

Gojo Satoru enters your life at 16 years old.

His presence suffocates the room, his cursed energy is something not best ignored. Quiet, yet noticeable. Like something that’s bubbling just under the surface. It’s almost as if a very dangerous animal has been reigned in, held back on a leash. That’s how his cursed energy feels to you. You, who is a mere novice. New to the world of curses and sorcery, landing in Jujutsu Tech after everything near and dear to you was ripped from you by this world.

He intimidates you.

He is loud, lean, but very tall. He demands attention when he walks into a room. He is jovial, a little aloof (you're not sure if it’s on purpose), big goofy grin and round, almost comical sunglasses. His hair is so bright, and his eyes are so blue, it’s almost blinding to look at him.

He is everything that you are not.

He is a year older, and your classmate Haibara can never stop talking about him and Geto. Nanami does not enjoy being around them, but he holds them in regard because they are his seniors. Shoko might be the only one he truly respects, and that almost makes you fear her. You make up your mind to try and stay as invisible as possible around them. You do not enjoy the spotlight.

Unfortunately, Gojo thrives in the spotlight, and he has a knack for pulling other people into it with him.

“Oh hello. Fresh meat?” He is grinning down at you, eyes barely visible behind the dark, circular lenses. “And aren’t you cute. You better toughen up sweetcheeks, or the big bad curses are gonna eat you up.”

You don’t know what exactly he means. You’re too caught up in the fact that he called you cute. It makes you heat up under the collar of your brand new jujutsu uniform. And his intense stare makes you fidget.

You do not like it.

You just frown at him and turn away, taking advantage of the fact that Nanami was leaving the room and going along with him. You don’t notice how he stares at the back of your head as you leave, but Geto sure does. The raven haired boy lets out a pained sigh before leaning back on the creaky classroom chair.

“Here we go.”

Gojo hums questioningly, glancing at his best friend once you have left the room.

“You’re going to fixate on her now. And you’re going to be an insufferable prick about it.”

Gojo doesn’t deny it. He merely settles into a chair of his own, feeling the corners of his lips twitch.

……………….

Life at Jujutsu Tech isn’t as bad as you expected.

Your room is spacious enough to hold all your belongings. It has a nice view of the gardens, and is warm enough that you sleep comfortably through the nights. Your classmates are easy to get along with. Haibara loves carrying the conversation, and while Nanami isn’t as energetic, he shares a lot of your interests so you love talking to him.

The deep, sorrowful ache in your chest is slowly subsiding. Very slowly. Oftentimes, you remember your old life. You remember the smiles on your parents’ faces, and you shed tears in the late hours of the night. But they are gone. And you are here. You can’t do anything about it.

And then there’s Gojo Satoru.

For someone who is apparently the ‘strongest’, part of a major jujutsu clan and heir to the infamous Six Eyes, you would think he would be a busy person. But somehow, he finds a way to always be lazing around the campus, and unfortunately, he loves engaging you in conversation.

“Fresh meat!” He hasn’t stopped calling you that. He hasn’t even learned your name. Or introduced himself. Of course, you already know who he is. But it would be the polite thing to do, wouldn’t it?

You would soon learn that Gojo Satoru has no manners, and no amount of scolding could teach him any.

“Heard you took down a fourth grade all by yourself. Congratulations!”

You eye him with a scowl, while all he does is grin back at you.

“You’re mocking me, senpai.”

Gojo places a hand on his chest, gasping so loud it was comical, acting shocked at your accusation.

“I would never!”

You sigh deeply, a regular habit you have developed since the boy had decided to shadow you, continuing to make your way back to your room as he trails behind you. While a fourth grade may not be a big deal to someone like Gojo, it is to you, who has never interacted with, let alone fought a curse.

You open your room door, stepping in and looking back to stare at your senior as he smiles down at you. You wait for him to say something cheeky like he usually does, about how you should invite him in so you can hang out, or his usual ‘let me take you out to dinner’, which he loves tossing around whenever he sees an opening.

“I’m real proud of ya, sweetcheeks.” He says instead, and his voice is softer, having lost the sharp edge that it usually carries.

There it is again, the heat under your collar. The little knot in your throat.

You close your room door in his face.

………………

“He likes you.”

“He doesn’t. He just likes to annoy me.”

“That’s his way of spending time with you.”

“I’d rather he leave me alone, then.”

“That’s an impossible ask.”

The chocolate icing on your brownie melts in your mouth as you chew on it, giving a disdainful look to Utahime who is apparently hell bent on proving this nonexistent crush Gojo seems to have on you. You don’t believe her. Mostly because you don’t think Gojo is capable of liking you, of all people. You also doubt his ability to genuinely give a shit about anyone that isn’t his closest friends. You’re just some underclassman that he thinks is fun to pester every now and then.

(‘Every now and then’ in this context means ‘every possible second of every day’.)

Utahime takes a big gulp on her coffee, and you have to wonder why the hot liquid doesn’t burn her throat as it goes down. Your phone pings again, for the seventh time in the last half hour, and Utahime stares pointedly at the unsaved number on your screen. You swipe the phone off the table quickly and flip the switch to ‘silent mode’.

“You haven’t saved his number? Ouch. He’s not gonna like that.”

You roll your eyes and glare at the screen of your phone. How long has he been texting you with random crap?

“I don’t give a shit what he likes.”

“You will. When he whines about it and never lets it go for the rest of your life.”

You sigh defeatedly and give your friend pleading eyes. “Can we please talk about something else? I see and hear Gojo enough during the day. I don’t need to talk about him with you too.”

When your friend agrees, you are blessed with a wonderful, Gojo-free afternoon of chatting, shopping and excessive eating. You’re still buzzing as you climb up the steps to Jujutsu Tech at sundown, rummaging through the tote bag where you had dropped all your little purchases. Just small knick knacks that made you happy to look at.

“Did ya get me anything?”

You yelp and jump, nearly falling off the step behind you but catching yourself before you can faceplant on the concrete. Gojo lets out an annoying cackle at your reaction, making you glare up at him.

“What is wrong with you?! I could’ve gotten seriously injured!”

He scoffs, walking the few steps between you two, hands buried in his pants pockets. “Like I would let that happen. You gotta trust me more, sweetcheeks.”

You ignore the now familiar way your ears and neck heat up, choosing to walk past him and continue your way up the steps.

“So? Got me anything?”

You groan internally, knowing he wouldn’t leave this alone. If you say no, he will complain about how he isn’t important enough in your life to warrant a little gift. If you then say he isn’t, that will result in even worse (and louder) whining, and you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. You scramble through the bag slung over your shoulder, pulling out a cute carrot shaped pen with a smiley face on it. You had gotten two pens, one carrot shaped and one that looked like corn. You just thought they were insanely cute. It’s okay. You can afford to lose one.

Gojo eyes the pen when you hand it to him. “Why did ya get me this?”

He clearly knows you just pulled a random object out. He just wants to see what you will say.

“It’s…. tall and thin. You’re tall and thin.” You deadpan.

Gojo snorts, seeing through your very obvious lie. “You love me so much, don’t you?”

You stop in your tracks, watching Gojo’s back as he keeps walking, unaffected by your shocked gaze.

“Senpai-”

“See ya tomorrow!” He calls, twiddling the pen around his fingers as he disappears near the landing of the stairs.

Your heart races at his words. You feel angry and frustrated. But you’re not sure at whom.

………………….

When it’s Shoko’s birthday, you are forced to be around Gojo all day.

It’s a harrowing experience, one that can only be withstood by god’s toughest soldier, and god thinks that is you, apparently, because as per his usual habits, Gojo doesn’t leave you alone.

“Oh, this is nothing.” Geto comments, sipping on some fruity punch that you are almost sure contains alcohol. Both of you watch as Gojo tries to tie a conical party hat on Nanami’s head, while the boy in question puts up a valiant fight to try and keep his upperclassman at bay.

“He once had a crush on the daughter of some prominent gang leader in Tokyo. Almost landed himself in jail with the kind of stunts he pulled.”

You blink at him, watching as he brushes some strands of black hair off his face. “Seriously?”

He nods, smirking at your shocked silence, watching the gears in your head turn. “Don’t worry, he won’t do that to you.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “What makes you sure of that?”

Geto shrugs, watching the way Gojo’s eyes flit to you every now and then. You fail to notice it, too caught up in making up scenarios in your head where Gojo does something potentially illegal and lands both of you in serious trouble.

“You’re different.” Is his simple reply. It does nothing but confuse you more.

Later in the night, Shoko forces you to down an alcoholic drink. You sputter on the horrific taste of it, trying to get out from under her hold as she laughs at your reaction. Haibara enjoys your misery just as much, while Nanami’s face is blank. You are sure he is trying to erase tonight from his memory entirely.

The night is cold, but your hands are warm and your head is buzzing with happiness. Your cheeks hurt from the constant smiling and laughing. Every now and then, your eyes would meet brilliant blue ones. You are so cheerful that you even giggle when Gojo makes some lame pun at Geto’s expense. So cheerful, in fact, that you don’t protest when he decides he wants to walk you to your room.

You hum the song you had sung karaoke to, walking without so much as a thought in your head. Gojo is munching on a mini chocolate bar, one hand in his pocket. For once, he is silent.

When you stop at your door, you turn to look at him, trying to search his eyes. You find nothing, and you feel the sudden urge to know more about him. Geto’s words roam through your head.

“Senpai,” You whisper. “Why am I different?”

He smiles then, not his usual toothy grin, but softer, kinder. It makes him look even younger than he is. Somehow, it seems he knows exactly what you mean.

“Because I’m in love with ya, sweetcheeks.”

He leaves it at that. And you don’t ask any follow up questions.

……………………..

Gojo’s love is loud.

He never says the word after that one night. But he never exactly negates his declaration. He continues to be around you as much as possible. He loves pinching at your cheeks until they sting, loves draping an arm over your shoulder and laying a sloppy kiss on it when he can get away with it. He is much taller and stronger than you, so pushing him away does nothing except spur him on even more. You realize that he is naturally a very touchy-feely person, so you dismiss his affection as just him being annoying as hell. Both of you settle into a strange dynamic, one where he teases you endlessly and you try not to appear affected by it.

It’s unconventional but it works. You will even go as far as saying that he is your friend.

When you refer to him as such, he stares at you mouth agape, before letting out a big whoop and crushing you into a hug. You protest his grip and try to free yourself, failing as usual. Deep in your chest, your heart stutters at his proximity.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t have a single subtle bone in his body.

He introduces you as his girlfriend to curses, claiming it doesn’t matter because they are all stupid and can’t understand him anyway, so he can say what he wants. Besides, he’s gonna kill them mere minutes later. You don’t even know where to begin to fight his logic on that, so you just facepalm and let him do it, provided he doesn’t say it in front of actual people.

“You say it like being my girlfriend would be so bad.”

“It would be the worst thing known to mankind. I would kill myself actually.”

That earns you a very strong pinch on the cheek, one that has you yelping and pushing him away. It leaves behind a red mark that makes you hold back a smile every time you see it in the mirror.

Sometimes you wonder how easy it is for him to talk to you like this. He seems to not have an ounce of fear of rejection, no matter how many times you have told him that you aren’t interested. Like he is confident that it simply isn’t true. He makes it seem effortless, to attach himself to you and declare that you’re his ‘favorite’ person and one day he would be your favorite person too.

You try to ignore how accurate you think that is. And how close he is to actually becoming your favorite person. You can’t possibly let him find that out. He would become even more unbearably smug than he already is.

And so you continue to bask in this…. strange limbo. You warm yourself in the glaringly bright light of Gojo Satoru. And you secretly pray that it never goes away.

When Geto defects, you almost lose him.

You find him on the steps of Jujutsu High, staring out at god knows what, completely silent. In your years of knowing him, you had never seen him sit in one place for so long. He doesn’t even budge when you sit next to him. You don’t say a word. And neither does he.

The wind moves gently through his silver locks. The blue in his eyes has dulled and darkened. You sit on those steps for hours.

Something changes between you two after that evening. Somehow, Gojo is more…. human to you now. You see him struggle to come to terms with what has happened, to truly realise the unfair responsibility that he bears on his shoulders as the strongest sorcerer in the Jujutsu world. You sees how that changes him, how it dims him, and how he matures in that time.

Yet Gojo is still Gojo. Even years later, he continues to love you loudly and proudly. He is still constantly attached at the hip to you, even more so in your adult years now that you live off campus. He is somehow always at your place, even after you take away his emergency key because he never uses it for emergencies. There is a ‘Gojo drawer’ in your storage closet, huge bathroom slippers and an extra toothbrush. His preferred brand of shampoo and conditioner are housing in your cabinet, spares that he keeps for when he crashes in your guest bedroom.

(Let’s be honest. It’s less of a guest bedroom and more so Gojo’s room at this point).

You commute to work together in the mornings, which you think is funny since Gojo can just teleport wherever he wants. He says it’s because he wants to spend more time with you.

Oh yeah, he still constantly says he is in love with you.

Years and years after his first declaration, Gojo has still not budged. At this point you are so used to it that it doesn’t bother you anymore. Like it’s second nature. Like Gojo is meant to love you. Like there was never any doubt about it. Your mutual friends have accepted it too by now. No one bats an eye when Gojo whines about missing you. Or when he waltzes into your on-campus office claiming “two hours is enough time for us to be apart”.

You don’t know when exactly it settles over you. How important Gojo is to you. How you can’t go a day without him. How you get pissy and irritable when he goes on missions overseas that take weeks at a time. The transition is so smooth that sometimes you think you were always meant to love Gojo, just like he was always meant to love you.

‘Senpai’ becomes ‘Gojo-san’. Which becomes Satoru’.

It never occurred to you that Gojo was still, technically, a friend. You were with him so often, bickering and snickering, cuddling and lounging around. He was a part of you, like you were a part of him.

Then you hear words that shock you to your very core.

“In my eyes, you two are already married.”

Never in a million years would you have expected Ijichi to say those words. Everyone else is one thing. But fucking Ijichi?

You stare at the back of his head when he says them, the silence in the car deafening. You know Ijichi well enough to be certain he isn’t saying these words falsely, even if he means them lightheartedly. If this is what Ijichi truly thinks, then….. Is it what things are actually like?

It takes only a few minutes of reflection for you to realise that he isn’t far off. Gojo is so deeply ingrained in every nook and cranny of your life that it is beyond irreversible now. There is no way to untangle your lives. He is part of you, just as you are part of him.

It’s almost as if the universe is nodding in confirmation when you open the door to your apartment and find Gojo sprawled on the couch, flipping through TV channels. He is wearing sweatpants and a black T-shirt that looks unfairly good on him, especially since he clearly isn’t trying at all.

He stands up and you notice on the coffee table before him that he has laid out a myriad of snacks, both savory and sweet to cater for your varying taste buds. You spot at least three of your preferred treats in them. Your heart beat slows down, settles. Like you are at peace again. You feel a warmth under your collar. One that you haven’t felt since you were a wee teenager just stepping onto the Jujutsu High campus. You eye the back of Gojo’s head.

“Hey.” He calls, barely glancing back at you, eyeing his treasured snack collection as if contemplating which one he should start with. “Some shitty American reality show is on. You wanna make fun of ‘em together?”

He turns to look at you when you don’t respond, raising an eyebrow. Brilliant blue eyes bore into you.

“You okay?”

You walk closer to him, still silent, until he is mere inches from you, craning your head up to look at him. The background noise from the TV gets tuned out.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Gojo blinks. “I’d kiss you back.”

Your breath hitches. The knot in your throat tightens. No hesitation. No shock. Not so much as a stir. It’s like you’re asking him what to make for dinner.

“Okay.” You whisper. And then you’re leaning up, pressing your lips to his.

His hand reaches up to cup the back of your neck. The other stabilizes you at the waist. His lips are soft and smooth, almost dainty, slowly picking up intensity as he presses closer to you. Your heart is racing a mile a minute, and as you press closer to him, you feel that his is just the same, the only indication that he is affected by you just as you are by him.

When your lips part, you don’t open your eyes. Your foreheads touch and you let yourself feel, truly feel, the effects of his touch on you.

“I love you.”

Gojo’s smile is soft. His touch is tender. Comforting. Familiar. “I know.”

[gremlingottoosilly]

"If you need to be mean"

Konig just got his promotion to colonel. It also came with deployment in a terrorist-ridden country, but at least he would get an adorable, civilian you as a prize. TW: Konig being a huge pervert, Canon-Typical violence, Dub-Con, Innocence kink, Age difference(Konig in his yearly 40, Reader in young 20)

Pairing: Konig x fem!Reader Tags: Fluff, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Size Kink, Possessive Konig, Yandere Konig, Creepy scary stalker Konig, written mostly from Konig perspective Word count: 5213 My AO3

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

König hates this fucking country.

Shithole in the middle of nowhere, with literally nothing going on – some border quarrels with some terrorists that are desperately trying to settle into the big war on terror that won’t achieve a thing and would be meaningless anyway. No one wanted to actually station here – this is why they promoted him so quickly, just so they could send him away like a pack of garbage they can’t give two shit about throwing out. 

He never even wanted this promotion. Too much work, too many people, never enough time to relax. Payment is sweet, of course – if he only had time to use any of this. He is too old for new titles, you can’t teach old dog new tricks – and, quite frankly, he does feel terribly old while doing nothing but pushing papers and listening to some useless fucking recruits with their reports. 

Job is simple – stay on the base, make sure that the locals won’t become too villifed to the soldiers that are supposed to protect them, even though he already knows how people would feel about the PMC stationed in their city. Fights with occasional resistance from the outsider force that decided “Hey, let’s just annex our neighbor, what could possibly happen?”. He doesn’t know a lot about this country – but if they have enough money to hire KorTac to help the local forces, he might be quite interested. If he only had energy for that anymore – between relentless paperwork and occasional yelling at his stupid fucking nonsense of rookie – seriously, it feels like they hired a bunch of edgy 12 year olds instead of normal soldiers. 

Job is simple and he finds himself bored to death because this isn’t what he enlisted for. He wanted to fight, to kill, to burden this urge to hurt people who once wronged him with someone who is – probably, maybe, somehow – deserve it. Not really a noble cause, but he stopped playing knight in shining armor once they used him as an infiltration weapon instead of what he actually wanted. All hopes and goals in his life were buried deep with his first sniper rifle – and rude comments about his inability to sit still, even though he is still as good at being a killing machine as a human being possibly can. 

— Sir! We, uh, have a problem to report. 

Gut. 

A problem – this sounds as exciting as it can be. Last time his brigade got a problem, it was about some new recruits falling down with stomach ache because of the forged alcohol they were drinking. Also that one time someone tried to burst their way into the base – not fun, since officers took care of him, but it was at least something to do except for reading and scrolling through various housing options like he actually has a use of buying something with more than one bedroom. Like someone would look at him and love him – enough to pass through some easy fling and start living with him. No one would do that – even his parents couldn’t. 

Still, the problem sounds exciting. Maybe, he could actually go on a mission instead of feeling useless. They promoted him just to pin on the wall like a trophy.

— Repost immediately, soldier. What is it? 

— A civilian, well…a civillina woman…lady, broke the curfew. 

And here it is. Not an unexpected attack from his enemies, not even a drunken fight that someone from his subordinates decided to join and ended up getting their asses kicked. Is this what years of service come to? Watching over some stupid club girls broking the easiest fucking rule to follow, like getting home at midnight is a completely alien experience for them. One of the things he hates about his rank – he is used like a public figure, giving speeches, trying so hard to come up with something other than “Ja, we will kick asses of everyone who tries to infiltrate your country, don’t worry” and then he has to act like he knows what he is doing. Which he obviously doesn’t. If there was a way to just give up his rank and become a shadow again, a monster under a terrorist’s bed, he would do it. Without even a second to think. 

— Send her to the police. We aren’t supposed to deal with…

Then comes the second guy – he doesn’t even remember his name, fuck this, he is supposed to be a father to his troops, or big brother at least, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck to someone weaker – inferior, smaller, someone who will die within a week or so in his first battle because apparently, higher-ups just love recruiting spineless teenagers now. 

Second guy comes to the room, holding someone very firmly by their hand – and König isn’t religious, he isn’t even sure when was the last time he was at any church, the little prayers his grandma used to sing is long forgotten for him, but he sees your face and almost believes in angels. 

König is too old for this shit, again, he hates this country, his team, his rank – then he looks at your face, the way it twists with fear and nervousness because of course, one of his dumb subordinates is holding you too tight and the softness of your flesh – why in the world you are wearing such light clothes, it’s night outside, you will catch a cold and he would give you his jacket, but that would drown you under the weight of it, and he don’t want you to smell the alcohol he has on his clothes, terrible coping mechanism with boredom, and he might just give you something else, maybe, like his shirt or a…

Wait a minute. 

He doesn’t even know your name, even though he is sure this is something gorgeous and would look perfect next to his last name, but he looks at your face and all the years of his military training is suddenly washed away because he can’t even muster a thing out of his mouth. Thank god no one is forcing him to stop wearing his hood – he wouldn’t be able to survive otherwise, not with how hot his face feels right now. You are nervous, this is obvious, since you broke the curfew and went on the streets past 11 pm. He should just bring you to the police, he isn’t even sure why his soldiers would bring some random civilian to the base. He immediately wants to give this private a raise – for bringing him a goddess walking on Earth. Angel, succubus, all of the fancy names and…it feels like he is going crazy. And he should compose himself. Be a good example of a rotten mercenary commander. 

— Why were you breaking the curfew, miss..?

He hates how squeaky his voice sounds, even after all the years in service he can’t get rid of that boyish tone and nervousness every time he is talking to women. All the fear is immediately washed away after you tell him your name – and it’s gorgeous, perfect, feels like something he can devour, something he can moan in the depth of the night while using his hand as a poor substitute for the warmth of your body. 

The pause lingers too much and he already suggests just…taking you. To further investigation. to see if you are really just an innocent person caught up in breaking the rules or an enemy spy – which would give him the perfect opportunity to interrogate you and hold you for a bit longer. He wants you to be a problem, actually – that would give him the authority to hold you here, to think about you in a way that won’t immediately make him a bad person. 

— Went to the pharmacy. Forgot about the time, I’m…I’m sorry. 

You look guilty and weak and nervous obviously – a good girl caught up in the reality of her home country now implementing new rules just so it won’t get annexed by their neighbor. He wants to protect you – or give you the real reason to be scared of him. He wants to be good, but you look too cold in those clothes and he wants to give you something more. Or warm you up in a different way – which makes him feel horrible, his skin crawls and hands are fidgeting again even though he is almost sure he forgot about that habit after a few trigger-happy moments with the enemies. 

— Pharmacies should be closed by this time. Why were you here so late? 

Soldier that brought you here left you with König – colonel, you saw him in the newspapers and on TV, some public speeches while concealing his face in various ways. You don’t trust him, don’t trust the mercenaries – how can you believe that they are going to save you if they don’t even dare to show their faces? He is even scarier in person – big, hulking, too muscular to feel safe, with something like a sack thrown over his head. You want to forget about the medicine you bought and just run away, but that would only mean outright saying that you are guilty. 

You brace yourself and try not to feel too small, but König just wants to wrap his hands around you and throw that weak body of yours on his shoulder. Not letting you go away. Ever.

— I…got lost. Sorry, I know what this looks like, but I just changed the apartment and…look, this is a bog misunderstanding. I have my documents, I’m local! Not some spy or anything, I promise. 

Too bad – you would have the opportunity to escape if you were an enemy. Some evil and wicked femme fattal that is here to seduce him and get the important information out of him – but if you are telling the truth and nothing, but a civilian, he isn’t sure that he could save you from…falling to his hands. It’s stupid, he should really just find someone to fuck, he is getting desperate over the first cute and gentle girl he saw in this place – but really, do he has a chance with a soldier if just a helpless weakling like you can make him kneel? He needs to compose himself. 

— You really shouldn’t be out so late. There is a reason the curfew is upheld. It saves you from the danger. 

— For now the only danger after midnight is your soldiers, apparently. 

Your breath hitches as you understand what you just said – god, who was holding your tongue and making you blurt this in front of the fucking commander? You might have had the chance of just escaping before, you weren’t doing anything wrong, you know that some of your friends were breaking the curfew after a party or late visits, but they were never held to the police or martial law – soldiers are understanding of the situation, no one from the young people actually wants to stay in their houses no matter the threats war can bring. You might have the chance of going out with nothing but some harsh words about those stupid younglings ignoring the rules – but now you insulted his men and this will probably bring you to jail for the night at least or something even more…

He laughs. And the sound of it makes your cheeks warm. 

— Ja, I can understand why you would say that. But you shouldn’t break the curfew. 

You feel like winning a lottery, but the prize isn’t money – it’s the chance of getting out of this creepy building and going home to your warm sheets and slight smells of devastation and loneliness. 

— I’m really sorry, sir, I won’t do this again. Promise. 

You look guilty, and König loves this expression. The softness of your face, the way your eyes are filled with tears when you think he would actually make you goto jail or do something even worse. He relishes in this power over you – even though he doesn’t mingle with civilians, always keeps a safe distance with women around him, never dares to even give them a careful look. He wants to take you away – protect from the world around you, from this fucking place, from all the dangers. The only thing that is dangerous to you seems like him – because he is the only one with power here, the only one who can decide whether he wants to behave like an asshole and lock you away or…

— I can’t just let you go. Let me…I can escort you to your residence so I can make sure you actually went home. And not somewhere else.

He looks at your pharmacy bag – it's a shitty plastic one, transparent and see-through. He understands immediately why you would decide to run to the pharmacy so abruptly even within the vicinity of the curfew – and the fact your bag contains pads and pain medicine only makes him want to scoop you in his arms and get you to his quarters. Government gave them a pretty nice location for the base and he, as the commander, got a bedroom that won’t even make you think about the military. Perks of quartering outside of base, even the barracks are nicer than the ones at home – and he would love to introduce your sore body to the comforts of warm sheets. 

You look at him, surprised and nervous, your adorable lips twists in a pout as you think about your options. You can’t really say no, this can make him angry and resentful – and these aren't emotions you want the local military personnel to feel about you. He is also scary, and stares too much – you don’t want him to look at you like this, both surprised and depraved, but something in his figure still makes you trust him. Maybe it’s that weird propaganda about them protecting your country – he is a public figure, he can’t be evil, right? Maybe it’s just the way his hands fidgets as if he is nervous about your answer – or little cracks in his voice that makes you blush just a little every time you hear it. Or you are simply too tired to not comply. 

— I, um…are you sure? You must have some other things to do. I don’t want to be a bother, really. 

— I want to protect you from harm. Nights are dangerous. 

You want to say that it’s okay, you spend more time in this country than he is – and you know every little corner of the city by this point, no matter the military outposts and destruction. You also want to say that this is creepy as fuck and you don’t want a random guy to just know where you live – but you can’t say that, you are already almost buried yourself with that long tongue of yours, and the only thing you want to do right now is just drink your ibuprofen in peace and get teleported to your bed. 

You want to say no, but it almost feels like something romantic and even though he isn’t showing his face, the view of his muscles, bursting out his clothes and body armor, enough to make you agree. You can regret that decisions later – but with the way his eyes light up like he is a puppy, you probably won’t. 

— Okay. I…I mean, if that’s okay with you, sir. 

— I live to serve. Und ich diene gerne jemanden, dir so bezaubernd ist wie du.

— Sorry?

It sounds like German, and the way he pronounces it makes you feel like it’s something important – but you don’t want to ask for translation, he mutters it under his breath, Maybe some curses about stupid girls getting caught by his soldiers and how he needs to escort them to make sure they are not enemy spies ready to put their knives in his back.

— Just show the way. 

He is awkward, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he looks at you and fights the urge to just squish you with his hands. You are pouting, your hands are trembling, and you are shaking – maybe from the cold or just from fear. König hates himself for not understanding whether he wants you to be scared of him or not. There is something dark, predatory almost, in having someone as adorable as you shaking like a leaf – but he also wants to just scoop you in his hands and make sure you will never be afraid of him. 

He is awkward, silent, he goes on the open side of the sideroad like protecting you from any vehicles that may cross the road at this hour – even though the only ones who are allowed to move at this time of day are hospital workers and his soldiers. His hand looms over your side, like he is not sure whether he wants to just grab you by your shoulder or allow you to lead in a more simple way. You feel protected in a way – you can’t even read his expressions because of that weird mask he is wearing, but his eyes are strangely warm every time he looks at you and thinks you are not looking at him. 

König wants to talk, but he isn’t sure what he even can say to you. The weather is nice? It’s the night, a cold one, and he doesn’t want you to catch some weird illness, but he also doesn’t want to seem like a creep by giving you his jacket. He would do so in a blink of an eye, he would die seeing your smaller body wrapped in his clothes like a nice little gift – but he knows who he is. Monster, giant, always too much and never enough, zero experience with someone who is one his one night stand in some lousy pub when he hates himself a bit less than usual. And you smell clean, civilian, sweet almost, he feels like a dog by just looking at the way your cheeks are blushing from the cold weather. 

He wants to initiate the conversation, know what you like and dislike, maybe learn your opinion about the situation – many locals dislike military presence, he understands this, KorTac isn’t known for being the best guys around here, but they get the job done, however bloody this might be. He would give away anything to just be able to talk – to speak like a normal person, without scaring you or making you think that he is weird. It’s borderline embarrassing, over the many years of his life he was thinking that he would outgrow his anxiety somehow – and here he is, fidgeting with the stupid anti stress toy in his pocket that his therapist gave him, not knowing how to talk to a girl in his grown up years. 

— You’re local.

It doesn’t even sound like a genuine question, it’s more like a threatening statement and he doesn’t like the way it sounds. He can’t gave it back now, it would be even weirder, he just wants to calm down and breathe, but even this is fucking impossible when every time he looks at you, it seems like you are only getting prettier.

— Lived here all my life, sir. 

You’re nervous, and he at least finds some comfort in this – he is not the only one who is scared here, even though he understands that you will surely be more scared than him. But it still comforts him just a little, knowing that you are in roughly the same boat – he can smile under his hood and attempt to at least pretend to be normal. Even if this would be literally impossible for someone like him. 

— Where do you work? 

It sounds like an interrogation and you are not sure if you want to answer truthfully – he isn't trying to force you right now, he isn’t even touching you no matter how closely you are walking, but you are smart enough to understand why telling a random man you just met where you live and work is a bad idea. Even if the man itself is a prominent figure in protecting – or not – your country and literally walks you home because you got lucky to not be sent to the police for breaking the curfew. You would just lie to him about where you work and, hopefully, never see him again – but it’s not just a random guy you met on Tinder. He probably has the resources to check if you really work in said place and if you didn’t and just lied to him then, well…he isn’t threatening you, but your overthinking is enough to make you scared. 

— Just a waitress. Cafe I work at isn’t very far from my apartment. 

You even tell him the address, all while praying he won’t visit you at work. He has the right, of course, especially if he would leave a good tip, but military personnel staying at your cafe probably won’t be good for business. Clients may go away, and that would mean leaving you without tips – and then you can kiss your shitty apartment goodbye. He probably won’t visit you, he is just asking this to fill the awkward silence and check whether you are a spy or not – how confident your answers are, if your story checks out or not. He is a colonel, he must have a lot of other stuff to do instead of chasing over some rule breakers. 

— Hm. 

König already knows where he will be eating every day from now on. But…hell, can he do this, really? It would probably be very awkward for both of you, and you may think that is stalking you, which he definitely is, but doesn’t want to show it yet. He can give you a nice tip every time, he sure as hell has money for it, but then you would think that he is trying to buy you, which he would of course try to if you would be fine with it because honestly, girl as adorable as you should get all the nicest thing she wants to, and he can provide for it, but his damned awkwardness would never let him outright say this, which would lead to a very uncomfortable situation and…

— We might need someone local to help with operations. 

Nailed it. Right? 

— Wh…what do you mean, sir? 

You look scared, nervous, he doesn’t want you to be scared, you’re supposed to feel safe around him! He might hate higher ups for giving him this rank and sending him to this fucking country, but he will protect you no matter what. He wants to be useful, for people to stop being scared of him – to start liking him instead, even if some cold, dismissive way of just stopping bothering him with stupid stuff. He would allow you to bother him all the time, he would protect you and make sure you are alright – you just have to let him, that would be really easy and…

— We’re strangers here. Lots of operations crossed because locals refuse to cooperate. We might need a guide out here. 

He sounds nonchalant, like he doesn’t really care about your answer, but the grip of his hands is stating otherwise. He throws you nervous looks, cold eyes flickering with anxiety as you take your time to answer, secretly hoping that you would get home before you’d had to state this. It doesn’t feel like a genuine question, more like a statement again. More like you don’t really have an option to say no, since he still has the power over you. Since he still looks and sounds like someone who can and will throw you over his shoulder and use it as a cannon folder. 

— I…I’m not sure, sir. I have to work at my actual job. 

Can he blow up your cafe? That would greatly diminish the chances of bumping into you on a romantic Sunday morning, ordering coffee just the way you secretly like it, and then leaving you a very generous tip that would immediately show you what a sophisticated and loaded gentleman he is. He can say that enemies did it, and then he would execute those poor people for ever messing with civilians. He can also get some people from the government to close it, so you wouldn’t have any place to work and then you would be simply forced to work with him – and help him get out of this country as soon as possible. He would pay you well, of course, and being your boss would be a very…interesting experience for him. 

— Are you sure?

You bite your lips and it's proven to be a horrible idea in such terrible weather – your skin breaks easily and you feel the blood in your mouth. Nice – now you would have to invest in lip balms again even though you are sure as hell that even yesterday the weather was nice. Colonel – König, you remember his callsign, no names of course, some twisted secret identity over protecting people who can literally kill you and won’t have consequences – look at you and you can swear to god that his eyes are narrowed, studying your features a bit more. Is he going to kill you for refusing the…job offer? Demand of working with mercenaries to protect your country? 

— Sorry, I…I really need to think about this. And get at least two weeks notice from my job. 

He is too focused on the way blood is glistening on your lips. He wants to lift the lower half of his hood and lick every little drop lingering in your mouth. Kiss this little wound until you would turn into a moaning, crying mess under him. Hold you so tight, he would leave bruises in places his fingers were – all while you are allowing him to. He isn’t delusional enough to think you like him the way he adores you already, but he is delusional enough to imagine you would comply with him mostly – he is a great person. Except for almost everything, of course. 

The road to your home is lonely, no one around, obviously. People aren’t breaking the curfew on the main streets – except for you, apparently, they are tending to do stuff in the shadows if they need something to go out at night. He looks at every street light with suspicion, almost wanting for someone to try and attack you – that would allow him to be your hero, protector, to put out all of his pent-up aggression on someone else while being praised for it. He wants someone to try and kill him just to feel a bit more alive – but then you stop in front of the house, and it only takes one look for him to decide that no, he isn’t going to let you go that easily. He may not be a good or even decent person, but he is not allowing an adorable little thing like you to live in that fucking rathole. 

— You live here? 

— Yes. Thank you for, well, looking after me. I know that I broke rules, I won’t…won’t do that again. Sorry. 

— No. 

— What do you mean “No”?

Is he going to inspect your apartment? You are pretty sure that you left your bed in a very chaotic state and there is more than one pair of panties lying on the couch. Not even speaking about how horrible your living conditions are – tiny apartments, barely enough space for one person fitting in 20 square feet with all of their stuff inside, and an overwhelming desire to blow something up each morning when one of your neighbors is fighting again. 

You don’t have anything to hide, but you are getting pretty tired of people who just think that because they sold their bodies to the military, they can do what they want. 

— It’s a horrible place for a girl to live. 

Hey! You might hate your place, but even that rathole of an apartment doesn't deserve something like this. 

— Well, it’s not a castle, but…I manage. 

— Don’t you have another place to sleep? 

He is fighting with the urge to invite you to the base instead. Far greater place for a little goddess like you, much nicer than…this. He has to physically restrain himself from throwing a hand on your shoulder. He just stared, hoping that you would pull a prank on him and actually has some better living conditions – he can’t bear thinking about you in that kind of life instead. 

— It’s a nice one, really! At least I don’t have to live with roommates. 

He can be your roommate. No, not even like this. He can buy you a freaking house if you would want, just pick a place, preferably in Austria, and that would be easy. He would love to just provide for you, to get to live with someone as adorable – as in need of protection as you. He understands that being this delusional is off brand even to him and his wild fantasies, but he spends too much time hating his work lately, and he needs some outlets, breathing room to just drown himself in fantasies about a nice girl who can actually like him. Who can be his everything, a cure to fix him even though his therapist says such expectations from your partner are toxic and codependent. 

He knows that he can’t say anything to you right now. If anything, you would dismiss any of his worries and just call him a psycho – would be right, probably, he doesn’t even know why he is so obsessed with your safety all of a sudden. He is only self-reflective enough to understand that he can’t act right now, no matter how much he would want to. He can only sigh and let the situation go, for now. He can always just show up at the place you work at. Totally not creepy at all, definitely, completely. 

— Be safe, hase. This time is very dangerous for a girl like you. 

— It’s…okay, really. You don’t have to worry about me, sir. 

Oh, but he wants to. 

Oh, but you want to run up the stairs and close the door behind you as fast as you possibly can. And maybe, just maybe, give him your number – definitely for consultation about the safety and how you can forfeit from breaking the curfew later in life. 

He puts a hand on your shoulder, large fingers tracing over your thin shirt, and goosebumps that are running on your skin aren’t from just the cold weather. You feel ashamed for kinda liking the situation – you are creeped out by him, you are curious about him, and you kinda want him to do something else. But he squeezes the soft flesh of your shoulders, rolling a bit lower, to your back – and then lets go. You breath hitches as he takes a step back, clenching his hand as if fighting the urge to do something else. 

— We’ll meet again. 

You just nod, not sure if you want it or not. König makes a point to determine which apartment is yours based on the window placement and pay you a visit in his leave time. 

[crazylittlejester]

More about Time and Twi in your modern au pleaaaase 👀

ofc ofc!! i love to talk about these guys :3

- Twilight is Time’s sister’s kid, but she and her husband both passed so Twilight fell into Time’s care when he was 13 months old. Time and Malon are the only parents he’s ever known (he’s always known they’re technically his aunt and uncle, that was never hidden from him, but to him they’re mom and dad and he calls them that). Time and Malon couldn’t have had their own children and were going to be adopting anyway and though initially they’d planned on adopting more than one kid, Twi is an only child

- When he was little, Twi was really just Time’s little buddy. He’d follow him EVERYWHERE and get genuinely very upset if Time didn’t take him with him somewhere, though Malon talking quietly to him and just physically being there was always enough to calm him down again. Daycare did not go very well, the other kids stressed him out too much and he missed Time and Malon so badly he’d sit as close to the door as physically possible and he was just so distressed because he’d been ‘left somewhere’ that after like a month of trying, Time and Malon eventually just kept him on the ranch. Kindergarten also failed miserably, but because the ranch is so far away from things and other people they really really didn’t want to homeschool him because they wanted him to get to interact with other kids so they tried again for first grade and Twi DIDNT spend the entire first day crying so they counted it as a success (though he didn’t say a word to anyone all day, not even the teacher). EVENTUALLY he made a friend (Ilia), but it really did take him a few months before he spoke to anyone at school

- The first time he ever saw the goats Twilight just became OBSESSED with them, and he was too little to do a whole lot to ‘help’ take care of them, but Time would hold him and let him gently pet the goats and call it ‘helping’ so Twi could feel like he did something (ofc as he got older Twi started GENUINELY helping out on the ranch, but little baby Twi got to help by petting goats and it made him happy so Time wasn’t about to take that from him alksdkdk). Time also lifted up baby Twi to pet Epona and Twi just adored her so so much, Time will never be able to not smile at the memory of how big Twi’s eyes got with pure wonder and amazement when he put his little hand on Epona’s nose

- Time is the reason why at eleven years old Twilight was terrified of the muppets. They watched Muppets Most Wanted and Twi (bless his heart) was a little bit scared of it, and Time thought it’d be funny to put a bunch of pictures of evil Kermit all over the house as a joke and Twi ran into one in the dark and well, Time paid for his stupidity by staying up all night with his poor child (Twi’s not scared of the muppets anymore, but his heart WILL start beating faster and he does feel a little anxious if he runs into anything kermit related where he isn’t expecting to)

- Time would not call himself an anxious parent and Malon would very much like to disagree with him because he is SO overly worried about something happening to Twilight after Twilight at nine years old hopped off a horse a little carelessly because he was trying to be cool and ended up tripping, falling, and splitting his head open and poor Time just saw his kid go down and go limp and then there was blood just EVERYWHERE, and another time when Twi was 15 he almost died and Time was the one who was with him then too. Twi doesn’t feel like Time hovers over him by any means, he feels loved and like Time really cares about him, but Time’s genuine fear that Twilight is going to die or get seriously injured in some bizarre accident has led him to check his kid’s location at 3 in the morning (now that Twilight at 21 years old has been living in the apartment with Sky and War for 2 years) to make sure he made it home safely, and he’ll also pace and it drives Malon INSANE (she loves her husband and she understands his anxiety and she really wishes there was something she could do to help him calm down, but HE stresses HER out with the pacing and nervous muttering). Twi is well aware Time has his location, he also has Time and Malon’s and he doesn’t care that they can see where he is. He knows it makes Time feel better to be able to check in on him and also it’s very useful for when he texts and says he’s on his way to the ranch because its a decently long ass drive and then Time and Malon can see how far away he is (Twi also has War and Sky’s locations, and they have his)

- Time paid for Twi’s first tattoo after making him save up for it because he wanted to make sure that Twi was both serious and also going to be financially responsible enough to save for something he wanted while also being able to buy the things he needed, and he let Twi keep the money’d saved for something else. He’s paid for a few others too, and a couple piercings

- Twi really looked like a mini Time growing up. He has a much darker skin tone and brown hair and eyes, but his face shape and like his facial structure are identical to Time’s and the resemblance is so strong people have never doubted Time being his dad (even though he’s technically Twilight’s uncle)

- Twi and Time both have a habit of collecting strays, and they’ll bring them home to Malon and take care of them on the ranch until they can find the animal a nice home or release it back into the wild, though about four dogs now have been kept around because Twi and Time got too attached, as well as a couple cats and one person (War) /hj

[clockwayswrites]

Like Betta Fish Do Part 28

wc: 3020, masterpost

“I get why you insisted on picking me up,” she said as she watched the black sedan part the sea of reporters outside of Wayne Manor. Her hand made a half aborted motion, like she wanted to fidget with with her hair despite the red being cropped close to her scalp in a pixie cut.

The haircut would be a new thing, or new enough that in stress old habits were still there. Perhaps something she did when moving into her doctorate. A new hair cut to go with a new stage of life. She went for an extreme though, maybe trying to shed a metaphorical weight or maybe a bob would have been too much like her mother’s hair. Maybe both.

Dick gave his head a little shake and tried to stuff the parts of himself that couldn’t help be analyze someone away.

It was worse with the stress of it all.

“I know, right? They’ve been crazy,” Dick said with a laugh.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Dick blinked. “Do what?”

“Pretend everything is okay. You don’t have to do what with me. After all, we’re both big siblings, aren’t we?” Her own, wry smile didn’t reach her aquamarine eyes.

Dick wanted to protest and for a moment he almost did. Then Dick just sighed and let himself slump into his seat. “That obvious?”

“No, I just know what it’s like,” Jazz said.

“I shouldn’t be putting this on you though, not with what happened to Danny—”

She held up manicured hand. “Don’t. Suffering isn’t a competition. Besides, I got to learn this happened knowing that Danny was already safe and being taken care of. I didn’t have to think he was dead like you all did. I also didn’t have to learn about all the rest of it. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“Knowing my little brother is still dead?” Dick gave a bitter bark of a laugh. “Yeah, it’s hard.”

“Half dead,” Jazz said with a smile that was all too understanding. “That half part is important to them. They’re half dead. They’re half alive. They aren’t the little brothers we had before and that’s hard. It’s okay for that to be hard.”

Dick rubbed at his face. “It shouldn’t change anything.”

“But it does.”

“It does.”

“That’s alright,” Jazz soothed. “It’s a big fact, of course it’s going to change things. As long as he’s still your little brother and you love him then the rest won’t matter so much, not with some time.”

The car came to a stop in the garage. Dick let himself take a deep breath as the door rolled closed. It was always about needing time, but at least they still had it.

“Well, Miss Nightingale, shall we go inside?”

“Thank you, Mister Grayson,” she said and took his offered hand to get out of the car. “And thank you again for the ride, Alfred. Picking me up from WE was the right move.”

“And you needn’t worry about your car, it will be safe in the parking garage,” Alfred assured her.

She covered an amused snort with her hand. “You saw my car, no one is going to try and steal that old thing.”

Alfred held the door to the house open. “Perhaps slightly more worried about the press hoping to find something.”

“Would they really break into my car?”

“They would,” Tim said from where he was standing inside the door, typing away on a tablet. “Gotham’s lost prince shows up at a gala with his mystery boyfriend and then proceeds to press the kill button for said boyfriend? The press is going insane for it. If it was just Gotham’s press it would be one thing, but it’s broken containment and fast. Have you said anything to any reporters? Even any non statements? Is there anything that the might dig up on you, other than your parents, that we need to know about?”

“Jazz, this is Tim. We’re sorry about him,” Dick said with a strained smile. It only got worse when he took in Tim and the heavy bags under Tim’s eyes. “Tim, when was the last time you slept?”

Tim waved the question away. “I had a power nap after breakfast.”

“What Master Timothy means is that he fell asleep at the table mid-meal,” Alfred chastised as he continue into the manor proper.

“Still counts,” Tim muttered. Finally he looked up from his tablet to blink listlessly at them. “Well?”

“Tim,” Dick chastised.

“No, it’s fine,” Jazz said with a patient smile of someone used to behavior like this. “It really is… everywhere. I haven’t said anything to any press other than ‘no statement’ and I can’t think of anything. Well, I mean, I have a girlfriend but if they have an issue with her they already have Danny and Jason to rage over. How is Danny handling it all?”

“Tim has blocked all social media from the manor. You need a password to get through it and I don’t think they’ve been bored enough to try and crack it yet,” Dick said.

Jazz looked thoughtful. “That’s probably best. I’m alright with you asking more questions, but can I see Danny first, please?”

Tim blinked as if startled by the thought. “Yes, right, of course. They’re probably still in the library, that’s where I saw them last.”

“That was yesterday,” Dick pointed out.

“Oh, well,” Tim tilted his head but didn’t stop talking. “I bet I’m still right.”

Dick just sighed and exchanged a look with Jazz. Little brothers.

-

Jazz crouched down in front of the couch and reached out to run her fingers through Danny’s hair.

“Danny.”

“Nn.”

The corner of her mouth ticked up. “Danny.”

“’ive m’er min, Jazz,” he mumbled sleepily.

“If you don’t get up, I’m calling Cujo.”

“I’m up, I’m up!” Danny explained and jolted awake before he was left just blinking confessedly at the room. When the rest of it snapped together for him he smiled brightly. “Jazz!”

“Danny!”

“Your hair looks even better in person!” Danny said, reaching out to ruffle the short locks.

“I don’t care if you’re on your deathbed Danny, I will bite you.”

Danny sighed dramatically as he sat up properly. “I never get to die on a bed. At least this time I was sitting.”

Jazz leaned forward and wrapped Danny up into a crushing looking hug. “Oh Danny, what am I going to do with you?”

“Still don’t have an answer for you there, Jazz,” Danny said. He was practically curled around Jazz and stayed that way as she shifted to sit with him on the couch.

She looked up at Jason who was still standing awkwardly by the couch where he had greeted her. “You can sit. I don’t bite.”

Jason snorted. “You just threatened to bite Danny. I don’t believe you.”

“Her bites aren’t bad,” Danny said with a yawn. “But her aim is horrible. And don’t let her have a baseball bat. She’s lethal with one of those.”

The almost fanged way that Jazz smile made that easy to believe.

“I approve of you, Nightingale,” Damian said with a decisive nod from the armchair he was occupying.

“What are you going to do now that there are two Nightingales?” Tim asked, far too innocently.

Damian scowled, his whole face scrunched up before he gave a sharp shrug. “I am confident that the Nightingales are intelligent enough to know which one I am referring to.”

Jason shook his head at the easy way the brat seemed to accept Jazz and settled on the far side of the couch from her, leaving Dick and Tim to take the two seater.

“You didn’t have to come all this way, Jazz,” Danny said, though his words were at odds with how thoroughly he had relaxed into her side.

Jazz rolled her eyes. “You were electrocute Danny, again. Of course I was going to come see you. Even if classes were in session, you’re more important than them.”

“Hum, fine,” Danny said with a huff of air. Somehow he settled in even further to his sister’s side. “Sam, Val, and Tucker send their love. With all the crazy press I told them to stay away so not to get caught up in this.”

“It is something for sure,” Jazz agreed. “How are you doing?”

“I’m tired and tired of being tired, it sucks. Oh, I’ve got more Lichtenberg scars!” Danny stuck his legs up in the air. His fuzzy, Nightwing patterned pants slid down his legs enough to show the scarring that wrapped around his ankles. The marks were still raised and red. Jason caught the legs as they dropped and settled them into his lap. He couldn’t help but run his thumb over the mark as soft reassurance that Danny was there and alive despite it all. “Not sure if these will stick around since they’re not ghostly.”

“You need to stop collecting them. No more getting electrocuted, big sister’s order.”

“Second that on boyfriend’s orders,” Jason said.

“Thirding that from the in-laws,” Dick said. In-laws? “Aw look at that, Jaybird is blushing.”

Jason pulled a throw pillow out from behind him and lobbed it at Dick. “Shut it.”

Dick easily caught the pillow with a laugh. “Jason and Danny, kissing in a tree—”

“Grayson, try to not be an embarrassment,” Damian said with a sigh.

“What? Jason and Danny could totally kiss in a tree. Danny can fly! I mean, not that we’ve seen it yet but he says he can,” Dick said.

“Oh he can. Nothing like walking into your little brother’s room to find him sitting on the ceiling,” Jazz said. “It was an interesting childhood.”

“It makes hanging things easy too,” Jason teased.

Danny sighed dramatically. “I knew you were just into me to be your glorified ladder.”

“That’s just because he wants to climb you,” Tim muttered absently.

Jason held up his hands for Dick to throw the pillow back to him and then lobbed it at Tim. It smacked Tim square in the face, making his little brother’s shoulders slump as it landed on his tablet.

“Really?”

“Don’t be crude,” Jason said.

Tim glared at Jason from under his bangs. The kid’s hair was getting long again. “Oh that’s rich coming from the Red Hood.”

“Red Hood?” Jazz’s voice cracked slightly.

Jason buried his face in his hands with a groan.

“Oh, shit, did she now know? I thought she knew!”

The whole couch shifted as Danny pulled himself up by Jason’s shirt so that he could cuddle him. “It’s okay, I love my hero.”

“Vigilante,” Jason mumbled.

“Daniel John Nightingale!” Jazz screeched. “Tell me you’re not doing vigilante stuff again!”

“Ooooooh full named!” Dick heckled.

“I am not doing vigilante stuff again,” Danny said.

“He’s really not,” Jason promised as he shifted Danny around to be more comfortable. “That’s just family business. I wouldn’t ask him to get involved.”

“Family…,” Jazz said. Jason watched her eyes dart from Danny to Jason to the rest of them. “Ancients you’re all, what would you call it? Various Batmen?”

“Usually we just go with Bats,” Tim said with a little shrug. “Especially since we’re not all, or only, men.”

“Okay, Bats,” Jazz said with a sigh. “Really, Danny?”

Danny shrugged, completely unrepentant by the way he smiled. “I didn’t know! I didn’t even know Jason was a Wayne until just before we started dating. That one is maybe on me though, I’m bad with faces.”

“You always have been,” Jazz said. “Really though, no hero stuff?”

“None. I’m focused on school. Well, and Jason. Dates are very nice, but mostly I’m focused on school. You can’t blame me for enjoying dates too!” Danny said.

Jazz laughed and shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’m glad you’re enjoying dates. Just try to stay out of the business, okay? I want you to be able to just enjoy your life. You have enough obligations waiting for you when you’re dead.”

“Do we have to work when we’re dead?” Tim asked desperately. “Please tell me we don’t have to work when we’re dead. That’s when I was planning to sleep.”

“No, Tim,” Jazz said gently. “Most people don’t work when they’re dead. Danny’s just an idiot—”

“Hey!”

“—who became the Ghost King without realizing what he was doing. His forever job starts when he dies.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dick spread his hands. “Danny is royalty?”

“Mhum.”

“Oh my god,” Dick said with a gleeful smile that Jason didn’t trust one bit. “Does that make Jason a prince? Queen? Does it feel like you’re in one of your regency books, Jay? What’s it like.”

Jason groaned and buried his face into Danny’s hair. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Dick cooed.

“Oh good, Jason can work then,” Tim said. “I just want to sleep.”

“You can sleep now,” Jason pointed out. “No one is stopping you. Hell, Alfred would encourage it.”

“Can’t,” Tim said. “I’ve got to get this PR stuff done. Is this a diplomatic issue now too?”

“What can I answer to help?” Jazz asked in such a patently big sibling way that Jason glanced up to exchange a look with Dick. Having one more person after Tim to rest couldn’t hurt.

Tim pursed his lips. “We’ve already done the usual asking for respect during this difficult time. Babs and I have been working on making sure the part of the video where Danny asked Jason to press the button is in circulation and in the right hands. There have been some pointed emails sent. Bruce is going to go on tomorrow and give a brief statement— which we need some answers for. We’ve got Clark coming to interview in a few days to do a proper story. Luckily Vickie Val has made it easy for us to go out of Gotham for that story with how she’s been behaving.

“They’ve found out about your parents, of course, but we were able to respond instantly with your name change and, in all essence what was nearly emancipation with how quickly you did it and moved out. There are some character stories from old classmates though calling you odd but also defense from current ones that we’ve been pushing further up in the SEO. Between those details and his survival, it’s no wonder that the question of Danny being a meta is circling That’s the main thing we need to know how to address and if we want to play into it.”

Jason had to take a moment to respond to all that. He’d been so focused on helping Danny heal and stay happy that he hadn’t even thought half of that through. He knew the press were out there, of course they were, but… “You’ve really worked this out, haven’t you?”

Tim just blinked owlishly at him. “Of course I have. It’s what I do. I know you didn't like me looking into Danny when we first found out about you dating him, but… this is why I do those things. Not just to protect the family from other people, but to protect the people who get close to us. I can help direct the conversation because I know ahead of time that things like the Fentons will come up."

“Thank you Tim, really.”

“Um… you’re welcome,” Tim said before he looked back down at his tablet. “We do need to decide if we go the meta route at all. Would that cause issues with the Fentons? Do they also hate metas?”

“No,” Jazz said. “Well, they would basically look at superheroes to make sure they weren’t ghosts in disguise or possessed, but other than that they didn’t really mention metas. It was actually pretty much a non topic in our town with everything else.”

“But we’d have to be careful with what we say I can do or… well, they’ll clock me as a ghost. I’ve never wanted to find out what would happen then.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to go to a hospital?” Dick asked in that carefully gentle tone of his.

Danny shrugged. “That but more old fears. There used to be a group called the GIW that were government funded ghost hunters that had legal clearance, basically, to experiment and exterminate any ecto-entities. I really don’t want to be dissected like some classroom frog.”

“Vivisected,” Jazz corrected in such an absent way that it spoke of old arguments.

Jason clutched Danny closer to him.

“It’s okay. They never really were very above the board, it turned out, and when the power changed hands they lost their funding and just sort of disappeared.”

“But it doesn’t mean there fear did,” Dick summed up.

“We will look into them,” Damian said, standing. “To be certain that they are gone and no longer a threat to you or Todd. Drake, you will not be needed on this while you are in this sleep deprived state. I will seek Gordon’s help instead.”

“Hey! I can still—”

“Finish up asking us questions,” Jazz interrupted smoothly. “It wouldn’t be hard to spin Danny as a mild meta from the results of a lab accident.”

“Maybe even give a half truth,” Jason said. “He was electrocuted around some chemicals and he ended up with a mild resistance to it.”

“That could work,” Tim said, tapping away on his tablet. “Generally useless in day to day life other than cutting down on annoyances when wiring something but just enough to survive this sort of trap. Have Bruce throw in a joke about how Danny produces a lot of static electricity or something to lighten the mood.”

“And it would make it seem like Danny has a resistance, not a weakness, in case anyone tries something again,” Jason added.

“That would be nice. Being tased really, really sucks,” Danny whined.

Jason pressed a kiss to Danny’s temple. “I know, fish.”

“Yes, alright, Bruce will need to put it in his own Brucie wording but I think this will work,” Tim said with a little nod. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

---

AN: Rereading through this, this might just be the whole chapter. Maybe I'll make the interview it's own chapter to cut down on the shock of going to that style of pov and piece. And then the final* chapter? Thoughts thoughts...

Anyways, words are hard, brain is tired, here is Jazz!

You can subscribe to the masterpost here.

[boybandbaby]

The Sweet Escape Part II

911 AU (Prince!Evan Buckley x Fem!Baker!Reader)

previous part | series masterlist

word count: 3228

warnings/tags: toxic parents, forced/arranged marriage, classism, bullying?, shit-talking, cussing, eventual non-friend (wouldn’t say enemies) to friends to lovers, reader has a grandma, as always please lmk if i missed any

note: this is what I picture the reader wearing (does not indicate a specific hair color, skin color, or body size, I just really like this outfit!)

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The Buckley's cordially invite you to a Royal Ball at the Palace

Please join us this Saturday the 5th at 7pm

Your fingers graze the invitation, white with gold writing, raised and shiny. You groan, throwing the invitation onto the desk in your room. You toss yourself back onto the bed and grab a pillow to let out a frustrated scream.

“Don’t be so dramatic, y/n.” Your grandma states from your doorway. “If you don’t go, I’ll just have you work with Ravi at the ball.”

“Then I guess I’ll be working.” You pull the pillow into your lap after having smothered your screams into it.

“So, why is the prince coming to our bakery to hand deliver an invitation to my granddaughter? Is there something I should know about?” She raises an eyebrow.

“No! He’s been bugging me almost everyday since I started delivering.” You groan. “He does this stuff to get under my skin.”

“Or because he likes you.” She suggests.

“Maybe in your time, the whole ‘boys bother girls because they like them’ thing was considered romantic but not today.”

“My time?” She scoffs.

“Come on grandma, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I get it. The old lady isn’t hip to your new customs and slang.” She shakes her head. “I’m just saying, he seems sweet. Give him a shot.”

“He doesn’t even like me and I don’t like him! We’re not even friends.”

“Okay, well don’t be so mean next time. It’s bad for business.” She smiles. “I love you. Goodnight.”

“Love you too, grandma. Goodnight.” You lean into her forehead kiss before shutting off your lamp.

Buck doesn’t come down to the kitchen the next few deliveries and you’re wondering if you’ve actually upset him. You decide it’s better to go to the ball as a worker just in case he doesn’t actually want you there anymore.

You listen as Ravi tells you about his college classes. He’s a few years younger than you and works at the bakery on his days off for school. While his family comes from some wealth, he’s humble enough to work a regular job while also going to school.

You’re both tidying up the table you’re standing at, replenishing treats as people come and go.

“You came?” Buck asks, surprised. You jump at the sound of his rushed voice.

“Mhm. My grandma wasn’t too happy with my behavior the other day, said I might've hurt your feelings.” You turn to him.

He looks really good. He’s wearing a navy blue suit with a baby blue tie, some embellishments on the shoulders and a white sash across his broad chest.

“I wouldn’t say you hurt my feelings.” He smirks, having watched your eyes travel over his figure.

“No? Just bruised your ego?” You smile back, your usual bite and attitude gone.

“Just a tiny bit, yeah.” He watches as you set a cupcake onto a tiered marble display. “I didn’t invite you here to work.”

“Well, your mother had different plans.” You shrug.

“Promise me you’ll save a dance for me tonight?” He tries to meet your eyes. “I mean you kind of owe me.”

“Is that so?” You tilt your head.

“Yeah, since you bruised my ego.” He smiles, “Okay, so what’s the best flavor?”

“Here, try this one. It’s a vanilla cupcake with a caramel center, cinnamon sugar buttercream on top.” You hand him the gold foil wrapped cupcake.

You snicker behind your hand as he dives in. He’s a sloppy eater and gets frosting on the tip of his nose.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” He says, mouthful of cupcake.

“Yes, you’re so messy!” You giggle.

“Where? Here?” Buck puts the cupcake to his cheek, frosting stuck to his skin. You shake your head, laughing. “Here?” He touches the frosting to his chin, cream cakes in his stubble. “Did I get it?”

“You’re such a dork, Buckley.” You grab a napkin and usher him forward. Buck leans over the table, cheeks warming when your left hand comes to hold his face as your right hand wipes the frosting away. “There.”

Bucks eyes flick to your lips as you say it. “All clean?”

“All clean.” You nod, pulling your hand from his face. Buck's eyes meet yours for a moment before he stands up straight.

The interaction is interrupted by an aggravating voice. “Evan, you don’t need to be eating sweets, you need to be out there mingling.”

“Mom-" She snatches the cupcake from his hand and tosses it into a trash bin.

“Evan.” She raises a brow at him. He sighs before saying goodbye to you with very sorry eyes. When he passes behind her, he mouths “one dance” with his pointer finger up as a reminder. You watch as he swerves through the crowd, heading into Eddie’s direction.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a cough. You meet the Queen’s eyes. “Good evening your majesty.” You bow to her and then swivel on your feet to bow to Maddie, who approaches for a cookie.

“The bread has been a little dry lately.” She states to you.

“Mom!” Maddie chokes on her bite of a snickerdoodle cookie.

“Oh hush,” she waves her hand at Maddie. “I hope tomorrow’s batch will be fixed?”

“Yes ma’am.” You gulp. You’re normally one to argue but know there’s no good in fighting with the Queen. Plus, your bakery is known for how fluffy, moist, and airy your baked good are.

She makes you feel so small and the sinking feeling in your chest drops to your stomach. She reminds you that you don’t belong in this world, his world, and the realization that you’ll never have Evan Buckley, hits you hard. The Queen nods once before moving into the direction of her husband.

“I’m sorry about her.” She grabs a napkin from the table. “She can be a lot. I mean, can you believe she’s put on this whole thing just for Buck to get a wife?”

“What?” You startle.

“You don’t know? They want Buck to find a wife by the end of the night. That’s why there’s so many girls here. It’s kind of an unspoken thing.” She chuckles. “Buck isn’t very happy about it.”

“Oh… I wasn’t aware.” You mumble. You start to feel sick to your stomach. Is this why he invited you here? Does he possibly feel the same? Or is he trying to use you to get back at his parents?

You excuse yourself, Ravi stating he can handle the table while you’re gone. Your corset feels like it’s getting tighter around your belly and chest. You start to feel yourself losing control of your breathing. You rush into the bathroom, passing the powder area, then locking yourself into a stall.

You won’t let yourself cry here and not for these people. Just as you’re ready to exit the stall, you hear a voice.

“Did you see him with that baker girl?” The voice is shrilly as she sprays perfume onto her gown.

“I did! She was touching his face, basically, draping herself all over him and sticking to his side like a Velcro dog. I mean come on, his parents would never let him date let alone marry trash like her.” Another girls voice states, lips smacking to smear her newly applied lip gloss.

“You think she’s sleeping with him?” The first voice states. “He was pretty flirty with her.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, I mean Evan slept with me on our first date but then again look at me. I definitely don’t think he would hook up with her, just look at her.” Lip gloss girl laughs.

“And did you see her dress? God, it just screams poor.” Perfume girl chokes out another laugh.

“You’re right, Evan has standards. I mean she could never give him what he needs.” Lip gloss girl puckers her lips and blows herself a kiss in the mirror.

“And you can?” Another spray of perfume.

“I already have.” She slips the gloss into her bag. They both laugh before slamming the bathroom door shut behind them.

You’d fought with yourself on whether you should leave after finding out this whole thing is for him to find a wife but after hearing those girls say those things about you, you’re ready to bolt. You can feel tears blurring your eyes and a tight ball in your chest.

Why do you care so much about what those wenches think? You’ve never cared about girls like that and their opinions but after dealing with The Queens micro-aggressions towards you, you wonder if Buck feels the same. Maybe he thinks you're an easy lay or someone he can walk all over.

You run to the sink to splash water on your face before going back to the table. Your grandma would be upset with you if you left the ball and you’d be mad at yourself for letting these uppity assholes get to you. Also, you’d never leave Ravi alone to deal with everything.

With a deep breath, you check your face for any signs that you've been crying and smooth down your skirt. Just as you exit into the hallway, Buck turns the corner and stumbles into you.

“Whoa! Hey! I was looking for you. I’m cashing in my coupon for a dance.” His fingers inch toward your sleeves, feeling at the fabric.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Your parents won’t be pleased.”

“Nonsense. One dance.” He hand grips your arm, not tight enough to bruise but firm enough to have your head reeling.

“Is that an order?” You attempt to smile, he doesn’t seem to notice that it’s forced.

“Only if you keep rejecting me.” He winks. When you don’t come up with a quick response like you normally would, he grins and holds his other hand out.

You hesitate, hand lingering at your sides. He wiggles his fingers and you forget for a moment that something between you two could never happen. You let yourself go and wonder if this would be the only and last time you’d be able to interact with him like this.

After tonight, he’ll be an engaged man. He’ll soon have a wife and then be a ruler and maybe a father. You hardly know him! Does he even want children? His duties will force him to produce an heir but you wonder if he wants kids himself. You think he’ll be a great father one day and hopefully a great king.

As he pulls you onto the dance floor, a wordless, piano ballad echoes in the room. He wraps an arm around your back, hand placed respectfully at the center, as his other hand holds your own. You place your empty hand on his chest.

“I think this is the closest you’ve ever let me get to touching you.” He points out.

“This is least annoying you’ve ever been.” You joke. He laughs, it’s boyish and loud. There's a moment of brief silence. “So, you’re really going to be king soon?”

“Sounds like it.” He sighs.

“And that’s why you invited me tonight? To be an option in your pool of potential suitors?”

“Not an option. More like my number one choice.” He flirts, though there’s sadness laced in his words.

You laugh incredulously. “You’re a piece of work, Buckley. So, what’s your deadline for picking a wife?”

“By the end of the night.”

“By the end of the night? Have you even really gotten to know anyone here?” You look around.

“No, that’s kind of why I was hoping you’d agree to be my wife.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You roll your eyes. “What makes you think I would agree to something like that?”

“I know it was a long shot but I also know you have a soft spot for me. You try to act like you hate me but deep down I know you don’t.”

“Agreeing to an arranged marriage with you sounds like torture.”

“So, you really don’t like me, huh?”

“I mean the whole idea is just… wrong and I know you don’t have much choice so I’m sorry for that. But I know who ever you choose will be lucky. You can be really annoying some days but I also know you have a big heart and mean well. Just don’t give your heart to someone who’s not in it for the right reasons.”

“I’ll take that as you do like me.”

“Shut up, Buckley.” You push his shoulder. “Let’s say I do agree to be your wife. What’s in it for me?”

“I know you’ve been telling Bobby that you need a new stand mixer. I could maybe buy you that?” He offers.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. I know a stand mixer isn’t equivalent to marriage but that’ll just be the start. Then maybe we can get those renovations you’ve been dreaming of.”

“You remember when I talked about those?” You gasp. “That was like 2 years ago.

“2 years and 3 months. Plus, I remember everything you say.” He bites his lip.

It’s unlike you to agree to something so crazy, so permanent, but Evan Buckley has a way of getting to you. His blue eyes and his sweet smile, the way his eyes crinkle shut when he’s so happy, his birthmark, so unique and beautiful. It’s all the initial reasons you fell for him before you got to know him. That part you’ve tried to shove deep down comes up as you look at him and you find yourself agreeing to marry him.

It’s probably the most unromantic proposal: “Will you be my arranged marriage wife?” He whispers in your ear, both arms wrapped around your waist.

You laugh before nodding. “This is crazy, Buck.”

“You’re a life saver. I’ll never be able to thank you for doing this.” He rests his cheek against your head.

Buck has pulled his parents, Maddie and Chim aside. They stand in the King's office.

“So, who have you chosen son?” The King asks.

“Y/n.”

In comes a forced laughed then a strict “no.”

“But I chose someone like you asked and I’m happy with my choice.” Buck begins to get worked up.

“Evan, we said someone who would fit the role of future queen. She is a baker. I mean, running a bakery is not like running a kingdom.”

“She’ll learn. I’ll help her.” He pleads.

“No, you’ll choose someone else.” He commands.

“How about June? Her family owns the shopping plaza, they make good money and we would be able to maintain a strong network with them.” His mom chimes in.

“Please, I never ask for anything. I’m asking you to let me choose this one thing. Please.” Buck nearly cries. Maddie steps forward to run a hand over his back.

“Y/n, she’s a… nice person but she’s not right for you.” His mom cringes at her words.

“She’s perfect for me.” Buck looks to Maddie for help then to Chimney on Maddie’s other side.

“Evan, she’s… she’s just not good for the family.”

“What does that even mean?!”

“It means she’s not good enough. She doesn’t come from wealth, she’s a villager. Don’t you have higher standards for yourself?”

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know her.”

“And you do? You see her when she delivers the bread every morning. Bread delivery! You could have any woman in town and you’re going for the lowest of the low. You know just as much about her as we do. You’re living in fantasyland, Evan.”

“It’s not a fantasy.” Maddie interrupts. “Buck is smart, he wouldn’t be choosing her if he thought it would be bad for the family.”

“This is not up for debate anymore. I’ll choose your bride and we’ll be done with it. Get your head out of the clouds Evan, you’ll never be a good king if you don’t shape up.”

They exit the room. From your position in the hallway, you crouch down behind a large vase with a bush of flowers. You’ve heard everything and it’s cemented in your mind that you and Evan could never be.

With tears streaming down your cheeks for a second time tonight, you wait until their footsteps and conversation can no longer be heard. When it’s all clear, you make your way down to the kitchen where you hope no one is there to see you. You’ll collect all of your items and make your way back home on your bike. Ravi has since left so you will have to go alone.

You’re almost fully free, just the few steps that lead you up to the back door where your bike rests.

“Don’t leave!” Buck cries, pulling you back by your arm, not too hard. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“It’s fine.” You turn away, not wanting him to see you like this. “Look, maybe your parents are right. Plus, if we were to marry, I would have to leave my grandma and the bakery and I just can’t do that.” You justify.

“You wouldn’t have to, I’d make sure of that. Please just stay so we can talk about this.” Buck intertwined your fingers. “I’ll persuade them to change their mind.”

“Buck, let’s be real. It’ll never work between us. We come from different worlds. We’re too different. I’m sorry.” You rush out. “I’m sorry I couldn't help you out. I hope you find someone who treats you right.”

“Don’t go. Please.” He sobs. “Look, I know we’ve never been friends, you’ve made that clear but I feel like we’re getting somewhere. I wouldn’t want to go back on the small progress we’ve made.”

“Consider us friends then. I’m sorry. I wish you the best, Buck but I have to go.” You pull your fingers from him before making your way out.

Buck feels the wind knocked out of him when the door shuts with a slam. He stumbles on the stairs and holds onto the brick wall as he descends into the kitchen. He feels lightheaded and nauseated.

The night’s events have gotten you worked up and burnt out. You don’t even bother undressing when you get home and your grandma has been asleep for hours. You have a restless night, tossing and turning, replaying the words and actions of everyone in Buck’s social circle. You can’t get the image of Buck’s cloudy blue eyes, the sounds of sticky lip gloss smacking or the scent of floral perfume out of your head.

When you finally get to sleep, it feels like minutes later that you have to be up for your daily delivery.

In bold print, fresh off the printer, is the morning paper sitting beside your apron.

ANNOUNCEMENT

Attached below is a photo of Buck, hand in hand with a woman you’ve never seen before. Below reads:

Phillip and Margaret Buckley are pleased to announce the engagement of their son Evan Buckley to June Samuels, daughter or Ronald and Antoinette Samuels. Plans are currently underway for the big day. The palace workers are working their hardest to ensure the Buckley’s vision comes to life. The Buckley’s are overseeing every detail to celebrate the special occasion. Announcements will soon be sent to a carefully chosen guest list. We congratulate the beautiful couple and wish them the best in their future endeavors.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

next part

[lafiametta]

for the anora x Igor one-word fic prompt : scars

When his shirt first comes off, she’s too distracted to notice, so it’s only as they’re lying there on her bed, the thin morning light filtering in through the curtain, that her eyebrows lift a little and she traces her fingers up towards the center of his chest.

She glances up, cheeks flushed with the sheen of exertion.

“Holy shit.”

Igor says nothing. She does enough talking for the two of them already and he sees no reason to change that now.

“Did you get fuckin’ stabbed or something?”

He shakes his head softly. “No.”

This isn’t really how he had imagined their first post-sex conversation going—even though technically they’ve already had sex, which he’s not sure counts, given how complicated the whole thing was. He’s mostly just pleased that they got to do it in a bed this time and that it seemed like something she was enjoying for its own sake, not because she thought she owed him anything.

“So then what happened?”

He curls onto his side to face her, his arm slipping under a lumpy, flannel-covered pillow. He doesn't have to glance down to know what’s there: a pale ridge running down his sternum, almost twenty centimeters from top to bottom. If she looked closer, she would see a dozen tiny pocks on either side, now faded with time, marking where they put the stitches in.

“Heart surgery.”

A small pinched line appears between her eyebrows and for a moment he’s touched at her display of concern.

“Was it like a heart attack?”

“No,” he says, suddenly feeling the need for a cigarette. But the pack is in his jacket pocket, all the way across the room, and he doesn’t want to leave the tiny nest of warmth that her body and the sheets are providing. “I was born with...” —he pauses, the English words frustratingly distant and unreachable— “There was a hole.”

What he’s telling her is not enough, and he knows he could switch to Russian and have the whole story out in thirty seconds, but there are things that even in your own language you don't really have words for, that can't be shaped into easy explanations. It’s impressions, mostly: the antiseptic smell of countless doctors’ offices, the strained voices of his parents behind closed doors, the blindingly bright room he woke up in, his scrawny ten-year old body nearly swallowed up in the expanse of the hospital bed.

“You were born with a fuckin’ hole in your heart? Jesus Christ.”

She curls back and reaches towards the top of the nightstand, returning with a vape pen. The bedsheet has fallen down to her waist, offering him a distracting enough view that he doesn’t fully register that she’s finished taking a puff and is now offering it to him. It’s peach-flavored and fairly disgusting, but the sensation of nicotine hitting the back of his throat is enough to make up for it.

“Although it’s kind of ironic,” she murmurs. “Igor’s supposed to be the hunchback, but that’s some real Frankenstein shit right there.”

Perhaps to soften the bite of the joke she inches closer, until she’s almost snuggling against him. Her dark hair curtains over her cheek and shoulder, glints of pink tinsel shining like tiny stars.

He reaches out to run his hand along the bare skin of her back. It's smooth, unmarked, perfect. But he knows as well as she does how little that can matter. There will always be scars no one can see.

[send me a one-word Anora x Igor prompt]

[sourpatchys]

My personal Headcannons for Daryl Dixon that I will defend with my life

Just a warning! there is some nsfw❤️‍🔥 content in this list (not a ton)

This is a list full of random Headcannons I have, some are xreader related, some are just fun little things I’d like to believe because they’re fun

He l o v e s head scratches and chin scratches, just like a dog, his mom used to do it to him as a kid, it’s just really comforting to him

He is 100% dyslexic, he’s super insecure about it, which is why he leaves reading and writing up to anyone else who’s willing to do it.

This dude is secretly a math wiz. It came super easy to him, but he does tend to keep it on the down low because it was never something he was allowed to be proud of as a child, and it’s not really a needed skill anymore

I personally do not believe Daryl did anything hard while running around with Merle, Shrooms and weed were his limit 99.99% of the time, unless he felt pressured, but even then it would take a lot of convincing

He’s very self conscious about how thick his accent can get, he grew up in a much more rural area than the rest of Rick and Co. (apart from Maggie of course) and he feels out of place with his speech patterns at times.

Daryl was definitely a highschool drop out, assuming his birthday is January 6th, he left as soon as he was old enough to do it without a parent’s consent (18)

I just know this man never got his license. Can you imagine him paying his way through classes and taking a drivers test? I can’t. He probably just got a state ID for booze and just drove around illegally (if he got an ID at all, I’m sure he knew quite a few places that didn’t card)

He runs hot, the cold is a lot easier for him to handle than the heat, which is why he tended to wear sleeveless shirts or half sleeves

He has never had a “crush” in his life. He’s thought people were hot before, of course he has, but romance was never really on his mind

He’s not a total virgin, but he’s not exactly skilled either. His body count is probably 3, and I guarantee you he was not sober before, during, or after.

He’s a thigh and breast man. Hands down.

I know deep in my soul that this man enjoys some face sitting.

He’s not an overly sexual guy, if you were asexual he’d be okay with never doing anything, so long as you were happy

If you’re nonbinary, he was definitely mean to you at the start, with the way he was raised it simply didn’t make any since to him, BUT once you get closer and he starts to trust you, he might (he will) start asking some questions to understand you better

He isn’t a pet name kinda guy. He’s completely on board with calling you sunshine or princess, but anything past that just isn’t for him, and he really isn’t a fan of you giving him one either, unless it’s just a joking matter like how Carol calls him “pookie” from time to time

He’s a morning person and he hates it. He always wakes up at the ass crack of dawn, and every time he wishes he hadn’t.

He is definitely an insomniac, likely derived from having night terrors as a kid

He’s definitely self conscious about his scars, but not enough to cause issues if anyone happened to see them, he isn’t ashamed of them, but he doesn’t want to explain where their from, and he genuinely hasn’t thought of a good enough lie to tell instead.

When rick saw them for the first time Daryl had him fully convinced he was in a fight with a bear for about a week (rick never asked for the real reason)

He has a heavy sweet tooth, and likes to keep hard candy with him at all times (if possible) and he has never, and will never, pass up chocolate in any form.

He genuinely has chicken scratch for handwriting, he does not plan on ever attempting to make it easier to read, he enjoys the struggle people face when he’s put in a position where he has to write anything down. (Plus it helps conceal his errors if they do figure it out)

He does genuinely want kids in his life. Even if they can’t be his biologically. Being “uncle Daryl” is the best feeling he’s ever experienced, and he really wants to experience that with you if you’d allow it/want it (he would never pressure you to have kids)

Headaches and migraines plague his existence and they always have

He had super long hair as a kid and one of his punishments was his dad shaving it all off, which is why he kept it short until after the outbreak.

He would let you paint his toenails, or match his middle finger with whatever polish you decided to wear

This dude HATES clowns. Seeing a walker in a clown get up would absolutely kill him on the inside

You got sick? Don’t worry about it, he will absolutely attempt to make you soup from scratch using bone marrow and whatever else he can find

Fishing is not his thing. He knows how to, but he much prefers just catching them by hand or with a spear.

The closer you two get, the more likely he is to try and convince you that Bigfoot is real

Daryl is a secret star wars fan

He does NOT like country music, Led Zeppelin, Rob zombie, Ozzy osbourne and Lamb of god are much more his thing

He wasn’t a technology kind of guy, so if you tried to explain any aspect of social media to him he’d be completely lost (he didn’t even have a cellphone)

He has a super dry sense of humor

If he had to choose between starving to death or eating plain Cheerios, he would choose death.

One of the reasons he isn’t big on showering is because he doesn’t have a strong immune system from his childhood neglect, and he doesn’t want to shock his body and get sick

He also just hates the way soap feels on his skin. It’s way too sticky

During sex, he’s not strictly dominant or submissive, he’s ready to adapt to whatever you want, even if that means being strictly vanilla

He’s afraid of Santa Clause

And the Easter bunny

He’s willing to try anything once, even if he doesn’t think he’ll like it

He knows a lot of information on plants and herbs, so depending on your mood, he’ll try to find a flower to brighten your day with a little scribbled note explaining its meaning (because you can actually read his atrocious writing)

He’s never once told you he loves you, and your relationship wasn’t a spoken fact. His actions tend to speak louder than words, and if you say you love him, he will occasionally reply with a “back at ya.” Or “me too”

He always has weird shit in his pockets, like cool rocks he found, dead flowers, and fallen leaves.

He genuinely does not understand a single thing that Eugene says, and he never has.

The first time he ever kisses you on his own (you 100% have to make the first move) it’s a very rough and embarrassed act where he just grabs you and plants one in ya before you can even think about what’s happening

He will change his favorite color to whatever yours is, because if you can see beauty in it, then it’s all he can see from then on out

[cricket-reader]

Inheritance

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers know that their love is wrong. So they hide it with stolen glances and fleeting touches. Never enough to make the Avengers suspect. Their facade comes crumbling down when Tony outs them, and Steve is quick to deflect their beliefs. Now, Bucky has to find a way for both him and Steve to disappear before the consequences of their forbidden love catch up to them.

warnings: sick Peter, near-death experience, medical innacuracies, past child abuse, bad parent Howard Stark, human experimentation

word count: 7,466

A/N: prompt fill for day 11 of @juneofdoom | Cold Sweat | Experiment

{Read on A03}

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” The cheerful voice of Peter Parker echoes through the lab space. Tony looks up from the Iron Man schematics he was working on, failing to hide the fond smile that creeps up onto his face.

“Hey, kiddo. How was the field trip?” Tony would have never envisioned having a son—a teenager at that. He never thought he had what it took to take care of another human being—not when he could barely take care of himself on a good day. If it were any other child, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle them. At first, he’d taken the poor kid in after hearing a sob story good enough for any orphan—first his parents in a plane crash, then his uncle in an armed robbery, then his aunt with cancer. It was honestly sad how much the kid had been through.

It’s not like he didn’t have the means to take care of a kid either. He had money, food, a roof to keep over his head—all that jazz that kids need. It’s not like he had anything better to do with Pepper off running the company, the Avengers in hiding, and Ross still refusing to let Iron Man help with any of the issues that popped up around the world.

But nothing could have prepared him for the curly brown-haired, doe-eyed boy that walked through the elevator with nothing more than an old, beat-up duffle bag and a backpack hanging on its last threads.

He knew the kid was smart—no one gets into Midtown School of Technology on a scholarship alone who isn’t, but he wasn’t prepared for the kid to immediately break out into an awe-struck rant about Tony’s scientific advancements and how it was an honour to meet one of the greatest minds. (Tony pretended to act offended by the kid’s words, saying he was the greatest mind, only for the kid to go on about Dr. Banner and Dr. Richards—he’s still not bitter about that, no siree).

Whilst Tony was completely out of his depth with this whole parenting thing, he learned that the kid loved to hang out with him in the lab, fiddling with his own little experiments or doing homework. It was so domestic that the Tony before would have probably been sick.

“It was awesome!” Peter discards his backpack underneath his personal workspace with a flourish. “We got to see Oscorp’s robotic dog prototype. It’s so cool. It even did a backflip!”

Tony raises a brow at him. “Oscorp? Really? A robot dog that does backflips? What’s the point of that? At least Stark Industries makes things that are useful. You’d think that a school as great as yours would go to a company that’s actually competent.”

“Oh, come on! Oscorp isn’t that bad. They had some other pretty cool stuff—like their huge bioengineering lab. It was so awesome! We got to see some of their projects. There were a bunch of radioactive spiders, which was kinda creepy—especially since one of them got loose, but they said it was okay; the one that escaped wasn’t harmful to humans. They said they were experimenting with cockroaches too, but that’s where I drew the line.” Peter sticks out his tongue, face twisting up at the thought of the creepy creatures.

“As long as you didn’t bring any creepy crawlies home with you, that’s fine by me,” Tony says, eyes narrowing at the thought of a stowaway spider getting loose in the tower. Peter laughs at him before going over to his lab station, where he’s been working on a project for his engineering elective.

Tony and Peter get lost in their heads, each working on their own project, Tony’s lab playlist playing in the background to disrupt the quiet. It’s only when Jarvis reminds them to take a break to eat that they pause. “How does pizza sound?” Tony asks, barely looking up from the schematics to his suit.

“Only if we can get Hawaiian,” Peter counters.

Tony’s head snaps over at him, his face screwed up. “You are an absolute heathen, Peter Parker. Pineapple on pizza is a crime—a federal crime. I should arrest you right now!”

Peter chuckles. “You wouldn’t arrest your favourite lab buddy, would you?”

“If he likes pineapple on pizza, I just might have to.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter goads. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that—Not that bad? Are you kidding me?” Tony cries in mock outrage. “I am going to disown you!”

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Peter pleads, using his sad bambi brown eyes against his father.

Tony points accusingly at him. “Now that’s just not fair, kid.”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Peter pouts leaning his head closer to Tony with the saddest eyes Tony’s ever seen.

Tony playfully shoves his head away. “Now you’re just overdoing it. I guess I’ll allow you to eat that crime against food. But don’t think that I will ever forgive you for this betrayal. I really thought you were my kid, but no self-respecting Italian would ever go to the dark side like that.”

“Good thing I’m only like 50% Italian then, right?” Peter smirks as Tony grabs the phone to order pizza.

“That should be enough Italian to know that you’re committing an atrocity.”

Tony orders the food—one Hawaiian and one supreme pizza. Peter tells him more about the field trip as they eat—Tony interrupts every once and a while to tell him how Stark Industries is better. They go back to work in the lab when they’re finished eating, promises of a late-night movie hanging in the air.

The fever hits Peter like a freight train, slamming into him out of nowhere. He stares at the project in front of him, vision blurring together. His insides boil, skin flushed and damp with sweat. He sets down the screwdriver he was using on the table, blinking as the metal underneath it warps slightly.

“Pete?” Mr. Stark’s voice is muffled against the blood rushing in his ears.

A chill sweeps through his body, causing him to violently shiver as he stands up from the workbench. Vision blackening at the edges, he sways on his feet as nausea curls through his stomach. He grips onto the metal workspace in an attempt to steady himself, not seeing or hearing the metal warping under his fingers.

“Jesus, Peter,” he hears beside him as a warm arm is draped around his waist. The familiar comforting scent of his father sends another wave of nausea coursing through his body. Hunching over on himself, Peter swallows back the saliva gathering in his mouth.

“I’on’t feel so good,” he murmurs, head spinning as he attempts to make his way to the bathroom. He can’t get sick in Mr. Stark’s lab. He crashes into Stark, body trembling violently. Tony guides the kid to the restroom, most of his weight resting against the older man as he stumbles to the bathroom.

“I knew pineapple on pizza was bad, but I didn’t think it was that bad,” Tony says, a poor attempt at humour to disguise the terror flooding through his veins. This is the first time Peter has gotten sick under his care—and it definitely hadn’t escaped his notice that the kid had bent fucking metal with his bare hands.

Peter groans from over the toilet, arms wrapped around his stomach. Tony grimaces, placing a hand on the kid’s back. He recoils upon feeling the damp fabric under his skin. Brows furrowing, he asks Jarvis to run a scan. “I’m going to call in a doctor, okay, Peter?”

“Don’ leave,” Peter cries, pathetic, tear-filled eyes shining up at him. Tony’s heart twists inside his chest at the sight.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kiddo,” Tony says, brushing back the damp hair sticking to Peter’s forehead. “Jarvis, can you get a doctor, someone close by. We need to get him checked out right now.”

“Of course, sir. Dr. Cho is in one of the labs a few floors down. Would you like me to summon her?”

“Yes, tell her it’s urgent.”

“Of course, sir. Upon your request, I have scanned Mr. Parker. It would appear that his body temperature is dangerously high. I would recommend getting him down to the medical bay as soon as possible.”

“Peter, buddy, I need you to get up,” Mr. Stark says, voice tight. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get you down to the med bay.”

“I’m tired, Mr Stark,” Peter whines in protest, eyes drooping and head dropping.

“No, come on, Peter. Don’t pass out on me now.” Tears burn at the corners of Tony’s eyes, his heart beating frantically as he wraps an arm under Peter’s arms. He helps Peter stand up, holding him up as his body sways dangerously.

“I don’t feel so good, Mr. Stark. What’s… what’s happening to me?” Peter chokes on a sob as his vision fades in and out. His entire body trembles with the exertion of standing. His body feels like it’s on fire.

“I don’t know, buddy,” Mr. Stark says. “We need to get to the elevator, okay? Just hang on a little longer.”

With great difficulty, Peter and Tony stagger to the elevator. Peter’s knees give way from underneath him three times, and he crashes into Tony’s side at least five separate times before they finally make it to the elevator. Tony holds onto Peter as the elevator descends, his heart breaking as the kid shakes with the force of his sobs. “It hurts,” he wails, clutching on tight to his father’s arm. Mr. Stark doesn’t have the heart to push him off, even if the grip his kid is using is strong enough to leave bruises.

The elevator arrives on the medical floor, where Dr. Cho and two other doctors are waiting for them with a gurney. They help Stark load him onto the gurney. Peter doesn’t let go of Mr. Stark’s shirt as they wheel him to the nearest medical room. He snivels fretfully as the doctors try to make him let go of Mr. Stark.

“Please, no,” he whimpers. “I want my dad! Don’t leave me, please!”

Mr. Stark’s heart stops in his chest, staring uncomprehending at the kid. He’s never called him that before. The tears he’s been pushing down begin to creep down his face. “It’s okay, kiddo. I’m right over here. They need to look you over, but I’m staying in the room, okay? You’re going to be alright.”

Peter mumbles something back, incoherent as his eyes roll back in his head. Tony’s entire world stops as Peter grows eerily still, eyes closed and tears shining on his cheeks. He can’t hear what the doctors are saying over the buzzing in his ears. His lungs do overtime as he watches his son get poked and prodded. His heart rate is abnormal, his temperature is rising higher and higher with each passing minute. Oh god, he thinks, this can’t be how I lose him. Not now, not so soon. He just finally started to relax around me; I can’t lose my son, not like this.

“-ter Stark? Mister Stark?” a voice drifts through his internal chaos. He looks up to see Dr. Cho standing over him with furrowed brows. Blinking, Tony briefly wonders how exactly he ended up on the floor before standing back up.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tony asks, voice garbled with gravel. He glances back over to his son, pale and shivering on the hospital bed.

“We found a spider bite on the back of his neck. Has he been outside the country or somewhere that he could have come into contact with any dangerous spiders?”

“Fucking Oscorp,” Tony mutters, murder in his eyes. “He went on a field trip to Oscorp today. One of their lab spiders got loose. They said it wasn’t dangerous!” Tony fumes, pulling up his phone to call his lawyers. He was going to sue Oscorp so hard, they’d be drowning in legal fees for the rest of their miserable lives.

“Did they do any experiments on the spider before it bit him?”

“Hell if I know,” Tony grumbles.

“Statton, get samples right now. We need to make sure the patient didn’t contract anything from the spider.”

“On it!” the younger man chirps, digging through one of the drawers.

Tony curses under his breath as he pulls up Oscorp’s website—an announcement of a science panel with radioactive spiders set for this upcoming Friday is displayed on the front page. “The spider may have been radioactive.”

Tony watches as Cho’s face blanches, and a pit settles in his stomach. This is bad, really bad.

“What can you do? How can we help him?” Tony asks, ready to pull out his hair. He had always joked that the kid was trying to give him grey hairs because he was always so clumsy and had the self-preservation skills of a moth drawn to the flame. This, though… this really took the cake.

“We can give him treatment for the radiation, but nothing like this has ever been documented. I’m not entirely sure that it will do anything at this point. We’ll give him drugs to help alleviate the pain and put him to sleep.” Dr. Cho looks back at the kid. “You should stay with him. The drugs should be taking effect soon, but I know he’d want you by his side.” She gives him a pained look before making her way to the door.

Which… no… this can’t be it. He has to be okay. He’s going to make it, he just has to.

Sighing, Tony trudges over to Peter’s bedside. Peter’s entire body shakes, silent tears roll down his face—Tony’s certain the image will haunt him for the rest of his days. He grabs onto one of Peter’s hands; they’re clammy and incredibly warm. He hopes the contact is comforting—hopes that Peter knows that he’s there—he’ll always be there for his kid, always.

“Is’so cold, dad,” Peter croaks, slurring his words. Tony’s heart leaps, eyes darting to Peter’s face. Tears creep down Tony’s face; he’s never been so terrified—not in Afghanistan, not in Monaco, not at the disasterous night at the Expo, not when he flew that nuke into space, not when Wanda showed him his worst nightmare, not when Steve tried to kill him with that damn shield—nothing could ever hold a candle to the sight of his child, his precious Peter lying in a hospital bed, looking like death warmed over.

“It’s okay, Peter, you’re gonna be okay,” Tony choked out because Peter had to be okay. He had to make it out of this okay. He couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. “Just get some rest now—let the drugs do their job. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“It hurts,” Peter mewls, face scrunching up. “Make it stop, Dad, please make it stop.”

Tony chokes on a sob, reaching up to wipe the sweat off of Peter’s forehead. “The drugs should kick in soon, okay, buddy? Just hold on. You’re being so strong, kiddo. Just hold on a little longer.”

He continues to hold his son’s hand as he shivers and sobs. “Dad?” Peter mumbles, eyes drooping. “Am I going to die? I don’t wanna die. Please, I don’ wanna die, Dad.”

Tony’s heart stops in his chest, his insides feel like they’ve been carved out and filled with lead bricks. “You’re not going to die, kid,” he says, hating the fact that he might very well be lying to his son. “You’re not allowed to die, y’hear me?”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter blinks up at him, confused, and his eyes glazed over. “I love you, Mr. Stark… is that okay? I… you’re the best dad ever. I’m sorry.”

The tears Tony’s been trying his best to keep hidden stream down Tony’s face, heart aching. Tony can’t take this—he swears if the kid keeps saying shit like this, he’s going to carve out every piece of Tony’s blackened heart. “Why are you sorry?”

“You don’ like the whole ‘feelings’ thing. It’s okay if you don’t love me too, or think of me as your son… I… I don’t want you to feel like you have to… I just… You’re a great dad.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Tony gasps, clutching Peter’s hand tighter. “I… I love you too. You’re… you’re such a great kid. Get some rest, okay? I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Peter doesn’t fall into unconsciousness, however. The pain remains front and centre, hot and burning.

“Why aren’t the drugs working?” Tony yells at the poor nurse that’s monitoring Peter’s condition.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know,” the nurse stammers, fiddling with the medical equipment.

“Dr. Cho said that they should have taken effect soon, that was like fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know what constitutes for ‘soon’ in the medical world, but it’s not good enough. My son is in pain, and whatever drugs you guys gave him aren’t helping.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m doing everything–”

“You’re not doing enough, can’t you see how much pain he’s in?” Tony questions, gesturing wildly to the boy on the hospital bed. His entire body is flushed red, tiny whimpers and groans escape from him even if it’s clear he’s trying to hold back.

“I’m sorry, I can’t administer any more drugs–”

“Why not?”

“I’ve already given him the max dosage for a kid with his weight, any more could severely damage his brain or even kill him,” the woman explains.

Tony exhales shakily. “So what? He’s just… he’s just gonna have to go through the pain?”

The nurse purses her lips. “I’m afraid so. I paged Dr. Cho, but I don’t know if even she’ll be able to explain this.”

Tony feels as if his strings have been cut. He collapses into the chair at Peter’s bedside. If—no, when Peter makes it through this, Tony is never going to let the kid go on another field trip—scratch that, Peter is never leaving Tony’s sight after this. He’ll wrap him up in bubble wrap and keep him high in the tower where nothing can touch him.

He never understood why parents were so highly overprotective before. Now, though, he completely understands.

Tony spends the night at his son’s side, wiping away the sweat and tears from his face. Peter never falls asleep, too uncomfortable, too anguished to even get in the slightest wink of sleep. Let it be said that Tony is not a religious man—he’s probably the furthest from it, but for the first time in a long, long time, he prays. He prays to a god he isn’t even sure is there because he doesn’t know what else to do.

By the time the sun creeps back up, Tony and Peter haven’t slept a wink. The nurses and doctors had flitted in and out of the room the entire night, checking up on him, collecting samples for tests, doing anything they could to help the poor child.

Pepper, having just arrived from Stark Industries’ Los Angeles division, sweeps into the room with a cup of black coffee and get-well soon presents. Tony sets the coffee aside, grateful for the gesture, but entirely unable to even think of consuming anything at the moment. Meanwhile, Pepper fusses over the scratchy blankets, fixes Peter’s damp hair and holds back the tears threatening to surface.

Dr. Cho walks into the room, face grim. “Mr. Stark, Miss Potts, can I speak to you outside, please?”

A boulder settles inside Tony’s stomach, the worst scenarios flipping through his mind at an inhuman pace. He nearly topples over upon standing up—Pepper comes to his rescue as she supports him. They walk out of the room, arms linked and dreading the words that may follow.

Dr. Cho shuts the door behind them. “There’s something wrong with Peter.”

“Yeah, we know that already,” Tony says, furrowing his brows.

“No, Mr. Stark, you don’t understand… His DNA… It’s completely changed.”

“How is that possible?” Tony questions.

“It shouldn’t be possible. If anything, the radiation could have caused damage to his DNA—breaks or deletions—this… I’ve never seen something like this before.”

“What does that mean for Peter?” Pepper asks, clenching her hand around Tony’s bicep.

“I don’t know,” Cho says, sounding more defeated than she ever has before.

When they go back to the room, Peter’s eyes are closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically. It’s the most peaceful Tony has seen him since they sat down to enjoy their pizza. He wishes Peter would stay this way, wishes he would never be in such pain again.

It’s too much to hope for, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from holding onto the fragile hope that maybe Peter could come out of this okay.

Peter wakes up ten hours later. In that time, Pepper somehow managed to convince Tony to eat something and change into a new set of clothes. It’s only due to the fact that there was a restroom attached to the room Peter was staying in that he did the latter. She tried to get him to take a shower—to get some of the grease from his arms off, but he shrugged her off, saying that he’d do it when Peter was okay again. She just gave him a sad look that he didn’t want to dissect.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter murmurs, sitting up on the bed.

“Woah there, kiddo,” Tony gently pushes his kid back to the bed. “I don’t think you should be getting up so soon. Jarvis, call the doctors.”

“I feel fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter protests.

Tony narrows his eyes at the kid. “You said the same thing when you had an allergic reaction to that salmon I gave you.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Peter says.

“You wouldn’t stop throwing up! I thought you were going to hack up your stomach at the rate you were going!”

“Mr. Stark, you’re exaggerating! Besides, I feel completely fine now.”

“You were bitten by a radioactive spider. I don’t think anyone just walks away fine.” Tony grabs Peter’s glasses from the side of the table and hands them to him.

Peter takes them from him and puts them on. “Woah,” he immediately removes them from his face. “Why are they so blurry?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t see out of them,” Peter explains, brows furrowing. “…I can see just fine without them.”

“Peter, you have terrible vision. You’re not seriously telling me that suddenly it’s all just magically fixed,” Tony says, disbelief coursing through his tone.

Dr. Cho walks into the room in a flurry with a few nurses. “Peter, how are you feeling?”

“I feel completely fine,” Peter says.

Dr. Cho raises a disbelieving brow. “Okay, we’re just going to run some tests on you, is that alright?”

Peter nods his assent, sending the nurses into a flurry of movement. Tony watches, heart teetering on a precipice as he watches them check over his son.

When Dr. Cho pulls him aside later, results in hand, she tells him, “Peter shouldn’t have survived this. It’s a miracle he is alive.”

The words echo through his head, sending him back to that cold, damp cave where he was once told the very same thing. “So, how did he survive?” Stark asks.

“I don’t know.”

The answer doesn’t sit well with Tony. If there’s one thing that bothers him the most, it is the unknown. Whether it be worlds beyond theirs or an inexplicable cure to his son’s ailments, he needs to know the answers.

Pepper sighs upon seeing Tony drowning in notebooks of research down in the archives, where he shoved everything SHIELD had given him from his father. Every other route had come up empty, so now he’s left grasping at straws.

“Tony, you’re not going to find anything down here,” she says, exasperated as ever. “Why don’t you just give it up? Miracles happen sometimes. Maybe you should just be glad Peter made it out okay.”

“But what if he didn’t? What if it’s a fluke? What if he gets better only to get worse later on?” Tony questions, not looking up from the worn notebook.

Pepper frowns, stepping around the scattered papers to reach him. She lowers the notebook in his hands and fixes him with a firm look. “That’s a job for the doctors. He’ll be kept under observation for another week, just as you asked.”

Tony huffs, running a hand through his grease-ridden hair. “They haven’t been able to explain anything about his condition, Pep. If they can’t get answers, I gotta get ‘em myself.”

“Tony,” Pepper’s mouth purses, “the world doesn’t rest upon your shoulders. It’d do you some good to remember that every once and a while.”

Tony’s heart skips a beat, tears gathering in his waterline. “I’m supposed to protect him, though. He’s my son.”

“I know Tony, I know,” she coos, resting a hand on his unshaven cheek. “Just, please, don’t destroy yourself in the process.”

He finds the answer two days later, hidden in a small black notebook. He never knew something so unassuming could hold something so world-shattering. He pores over the pages time and time again—seeing but not really believing. Each readthrough draws him further and further from reality. The earth crumbles beneath him with each handwritten word until nothing is left but him and his father in that cold sterile lab.

He can almost see it now, memories suppressed so deep, he’s not even sure they’re real. The feeling of a cold table, of leather straps and pointy needles. He remembers crying—remembers the fire licking through his veins with each attempt. Remembers Howard yelling, screaming at him because it isn’t working, god dammit! Why can’t you just be as good as Steve?

Tony gasps back into reality when he feels a hand against his back. His cheeks are wet, hands trembling around the damning notebook that confirms everything his brain dredged up.

He half-convinces himself that he’s hallucinating when he sees Peter crouching over him, brows furrowed.

“Peter?” Tony snaps the notebook shut. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on bed rest.”

“Pepper sent me, said you needed me.”

Tony’s heart clenches as he looks at his child—a boy he brought into this world without knowing the risks involved—without knowing that his DNA was tainted. A surge of anger pulses up beneath the surface—what if Howard’s foolish tests had endangered Peter’s life? What if instead of being the thing that saved him, it was the thing that damned him? What then?

“What’s that?” Peter asks, gesturing to the notebook. Tony swallows, his throat suddenly as dry as a desert. He opens his mouth, once, twice, then closes it. How does he explain to Peter that there’s a pretty good chance the only reason he’s alive right now is due to Tony’s piece of shit father?

It’s the one thing Tony’s been putting off since he met Peter, telling him about his grandfather. Every time he came up, Tony expertly segued the conversation into something more comfortable—just as he does every time the media asks him about his father. He knew he couldn’t avoid it forever; he’d just hoped he’d have a little more time. But now that Howard’s actions directly affect Peter, it would only be sensible to disclose at least part of Howard’s abuse.

“I need to tell you something,” Tony says, his throat coated with sludge.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… um… is it… can we maybe go upstairs? Grab something to eat? I’m starving! How about you?” Tony jumps up from his spot. Peter blinks at Tony’s turnaround attitude, but nonetheless, follows him to the elevator.

Tony’s hands are still shaking by the time they reach the communal floor.

“Are you sure you feel okay?” Tony asks for the third time since getting in the elevator. “We can go back-”

“Mr. Stark, I’m fine! Promise. Plus, if anything goes wrong, Jarvis will alert the doctors.”

“What if they can’t get up here in time?”

Peter sends him an unimpressed look. “They are two floors away. And that elevator defies the natural law of elevators.”

“No such thing-”

“You worry too much, Mr. Stark.” Peter laughs—as if Tony’s worry was unfounded.

Normally Tony would make a throwaway, smart-ass remark—something like “Then stop giving me reasons to worry,” or “Do you know how bad it would look if I got a kid and lost it in less than five years?”—but he is rubbed raw, each and every nerve exposed, like a live wire set to blow.

So, he says, “You’re my son. It’s my job to worry about you.”

Peter’s laughter is cut short. His eyes blow wide like Tony had said the most unbelievable thing. Tony can practically hear his heart skip a few beats in his chest. Clearly at a loss for words, Peter ducks his head. Which only tells him one thing, Peter doesn’t remember what he said in his delirium, doesn’t remember what Tony said in response to him.

They stop at the centre island; Tony places the notebook on the countertop before separating to dig around in the fridge for something edible. Peter plops down on one of the stools, fidgeting with his fingers all the while.

“So what did you want to tell me?” Peter asks once Tony has pulled out an array of fruits and vegetables suitable for a snack to hold them over until dinner.

Tony visibly tenses, his hold on the carton of blueberries denting the flimsy plastic. He wishes there were a manual for this sort of thing: How to tell your son about being experimented on by your own father. He watches Peter pop a raspberry in his mouth, eyes wide and inquisitive as always. Looking at him like this, so pure, so happy, makes Tony want to protect him from the truth. He never wants Peter to know of the evils the world holds. But to hide such pertinent information from him would only cause him problems.

“My father wasn’t the greatest… father,” Tony starts, “He uh… he never really wanted a kid so much as he needed one… to take over the company and all that.”

Peter frowns around the strawberry he’s biting into.

“I avoided this conversation for obvious reasons, but… now that your life is being directly affected by his stupidity, I suppose now is as good a time as any,” Tony finishes with a flourish, stuffing a few blueberries in his mouth. He hopes that Peter doesn’t notice the tremor in his voice, the shining of his eyes, or the trembling of his hands.

“God,” Tony huffs, “There’s no easy way to say this.”

Peter glances at the notebook abandoned at the edge of the island, wipes away the red juice dribbling down his chin. “Would you rather me read it?”

“No!” Tony snatches the book, clutching it to his chest. No child, much less his precious Peter, should be subjected to Howard’s clinical notes—how cold and indifferent he was to his own child suffering and calling out for help and-

“Sorry,” Peter says, shrinking in on himself. Tony’s heart fills with ice at the sight. He used to do that whenever Howard snapped at him. Does Tony instil the same fear that Howard did? Does Peter feel the same dread seep into his bones whenever Tony walks into a room? Does he yearn for the moments away from him?

“Peter…�� Tony clears his throat, trying to rid the emotion clogging it. “Do you think I’d ever hit you?”

It’s something he’s always feared. Even before he knew of Peter, Tony was scared that the cycle of abuse would only continue—that he’d turn into his worst nightmare one day. Tony’s entire well-being hangs in the thread of Peter’s hands right now, and he doesn’t even know it. It is a blow he’ll never recover from, being told that he is no different from his father.

“What? Of course not!” Peter splutters, shock coating his face. “Why would I ever think that?”

Tony practically collapses, relief flooding through his veins. He fights back the tears as he says, “It’s my greatest fear. To become my father. I never want you to be scared of me.”

“Mr. Stark…” Peter trails off, his brows creased so deeply, Tony’s half-afraid it’s going to stick that way.

“Howard experimented on me as a child. I didn’t… I didn’t remember until now. These are his notes.” Tony continues forward, better to rip off the band-aid all at once, after all. “I shouldn’t have survived Afghanistan. Whether it be the bomb, infection, or whatever else, it was a miracle that I survived. And then you… Cho said the same damn thing about you, and I couldn’t let it go. Howard was trying to recreate Erskine’s Super Soldier Serum. He obviously failed, but hey… at least he saved our lives, right?” Tony lets out a chuckle, a bit hysterical at this point, but can it really be blamed with all that he just found out?

“Mr. Stark… I… I’m so sorry,” Peter says, tears welling up in his eyes. “I… I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have brought him up so much-”

Tony waves him off. “No sweat, kid. It’s not that big of a deal anyway. I just… um… yeah.”

“Um… it kinda is a big deal,” comes Peter’s rebuttal. “Your dad experimented on you when you were a kid. He… he abused you. That’s not… that’s not okay.”

“That’s not… I wasn’t trying to dump that all on you, kid. Jesus, fuck, sorry, don’t repeat that,” Tony narrows his eyes, pointing a finger at Peter. “You don’t have to… It’s really not that big of a deal. I just thought you should know that, I don’t know, your grandfather saved your life? Yippee. I should get the papers down to Cho, make sure she knows, just in case it affects you-”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupts, standing from his stool and dashing around the counter.

Tony is about to scold him for exerting himself when only three days ago he was bedridden, but is cut off by Peter slamming into him. Blinking, Tony looks down at his kid, clinging onto him like an octopus. He swallows down the emotions threatening to boil over and carefully wraps his own arms around Peter.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. He pulls away only slightly—just so he can look him in the eye— “But I want you to know that you could never be like him. You’re a great father.”

Tony chokes on air at Peter’s words, tears springing to life.

“I love you, kid,” Tony says, not even trying to hold back the emotion that coats every word.

“I love you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter hums, burying his face into Tony’s chest.

Tony bites his lip. “You called me dad when I brought you down to medbay.”

“What? No, I didn’t!” Peter exclaims, face turning beet red.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did it again.”

In the days following, Peter is finally released from the watchful eyes of doctors in medbay. Tony wanted to homeschool him, but Peter was adamant about finishing off the rest of his years at Midtown. Luckily, spring break had arrived, meaning that Tony had a little more time with Peter to hover incessantly.

“Maybe I should get sick more often,” Peter remarks when he walks back into his room to find it filled with LEGO sets that he’d been wanting for years. “How’d you even get this one? They retired it like three years ago!”

Needless to say, their days were spent watching movies, playing with LEGO, working in the lab, and trying to figure out Peter’s new abilities.

The peace didn’t last, however.

Word came around fast that the Accords had been repealed. Each Rogue Avenger was to be pardoned, reinstating them back into the United States and clearing their fugitive status. It didn’t catch Tony by surprise, if only for the fact that he was one of the big players in getting the documents repealed—he had been from the very beginning, not that the Rogues ever cared enough to look deeper. He was playing the long game, the smart game all along—tried telling that to them too.

Regardless, the Rogue Avengers were meant to live at the Avengers Tower as a condition of their pardon. Just until they got everything sorted out.

They hadn’t spoken directly to Tony since their return. They hadn’t needed to. The tension settled like a storm cloud the moment they stepped inside. Every time he ran into them in the shared spaces, the room crackled with unresolved resentment. The wounds from the Accords and the events surrounding were still raw for each member.

And though they haven’t said much, their silence spoke volumes. Cold shoulders. Watchful eyes. Like they were waiting—hoping—for a reason to confirm the narrative they’d clung to since the beginning: Tony Stark was a selfish, arrogant, asshole.

Which was just fine with him.

His entire life has been built upon a facade of indifference and arrogance. People thinking the worst of him without daring to look deeper is nothing new. It shouldn’t sting the way it does when Natasha avoids looking into his eyes, when Steve frowns in disapproval every time he sees him, when the people he hoped could become the family he never had look at him with unmitigated disgust.

The only thing that he cares about is how the team interacts with Peter. He set up an alert system. Call him a helicopter parent, but every single time the Rogues interact with Peter, he’d watch the interaction to make sure that the Rogues didn’t take out their hatred for him on the most wonderful kid he’s ever known. And they don’t.

Peter, not knowing the terms of their estrangement, greeted them with poorly veiled enthusiasm. He stuttered and blushed when asking Captain America to sign his comics. He lit up when Clint showed him around the vents, all the best secret hiding spots that Tony had made specifically for Clint back when they were redoing the tower. He always lost his tongue whenever Natasha talked to him. The Rogues invited Peter to their movie nights, invited him to share dinner, and to hang out in the training centre—and Peter declined most of them because he wanted to be with Tony.

On the one hand, it made him incredibly smug that this beacon of light chose Tony over all the others, but on the other hand, it made him feel incredibly guilty. “You know,” Tony said one night, scraping his fork along the container of Thai food, “you don’t have to keep declining their invites to hang out with your old man.”

Peter looked at him, finishing what he was chewing before saying, “If they don’t make an effort to include you, then I don’t want to hang out with them anyway.”

Tony didn’t know what to say to that, so he just continued eating.

Tony is in the lab, working on some upgraded tech for the Rogues, when Steve rushes into the room. Not even looking up from the Widow Bites, Tony asks, “What can I do you for this fine afternoon?”

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” Steve fumes, body tense.

It’s only then that Tony looks up, brows furrowed. What the hell did he do this time? Before he can even open his mouth to question the righteous fury pouring off of the blond, a fist connects with his jaw, sending him to the ground. Without another word, Steve storms out of the lab.

He raises a hand to his jaw, the skin tender to the touch. Wincing, he pulls it away only for it to come back red-stained. Tony groans as the blood trickles from his nose, staggering up to grab a tissue from his desk. Mind reeling, Tony can only begin to question what the hell he did to deserve that.

When the blood flow stops, he sighs. Best to get this shit show over with, he figures. If nothing else, he hopes that the other Rogues aren’t in on Rogers’ fury.

Loud voices echo through the halls leading up to the common room kitchen. Great, arguing, just what he needs. Just as he’s about to walk in and announce his presence, he stops, the blood in his veins turning to ice as he hears the subject of the conversation.

“What kinda piece of shit father experiments on their own son?” Sam questions. The floor drops out from underneath Tony’s feet. How could they possibly know about what Howard did to him? And why would Steve be mad at Tony for it?

“Tony Stark, apparently,” Clint says in response. “I knew he was an awful person, but… how could anyone do that to someone like Peter?”

“I never trusted it,” Steve added, his arms crossed tightly. “Stark taking care of a kid? Come on. There had to be something in it for him. There always is.”

From his place, hidden in the shadows, just out of view, Tony feels something coil tight in his stomach. Each word lands like a punch to the gut.

They really thought that little of him.

They really thought that he’d… that he’d use Peter. That he’d hurt his kid. That he was just as bad as Howard was.

Anger flared in his chest, burning brighter and hotter than the sun. He clenched his fists to keep from marching in right then and there and slapping that look off of all their faces. How dare they? After everything he’s done for them, after everything he’s done for Peter, how can they still view him as the villain? How can they believe that Tony Stark’s love for Peter was nothing more than greed?

To them, he would never be any more than the man they needed him to be: selfish, irredeemable, and a monster.

But before he could move—before he could walk in and set them all straight, another voice spoke up.

“How dare you talk about my dad like that?” Peter seethed in white-hot anger. Tony’s heart leapt up to his throat at the uncharacteristic molten anger rolling off of his son. “Mr. Stark is nothing like his dad! He would never ever hurt me!”

Realising what he had just revealed to the Rogues, Peter slapped a hand over his mouth. His wide eyes darted over to Tony’s hiding spot, leading the Rogues to glance back at a shell-shocked Tony.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” Peter mutters, ears tinted red, “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” Tony waves him off, aiming to keep everything about him casual. Tony is surprised that most of the Rogues have the decency to look ashamed. Steve stands stock still, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Tony is flippant as he says, “Alright, guess the cat’s outta the bag. Dear old dad, Howard, as I call him, experimented on his toddler. Didn’t quite work out like he wanted–” Tony sends a pointed look at Steve– “but, hey, it ended up saving both mine and Peter’s life… so, all’s well that ends well, huh?”

Steve looks absolutely horrified. “Tony…”

“Nope, Peter and I are going upstairs… you guys can continue shitting all over me or whatever else you like to do in your free time. By the way, I finished all your tech upgrades if you wanted to try them out—not the Widow Bites, though, still working out a few kinks. Go and check them out once you’re done shit-talking the person who made ‘em for you.”

Without giving any of the Rogues time to get a word in, Tony and Peter disappear into the elevator.

When the sleek doors slide shut, Peter asks, “Are you okay?”

Tony hesitates. “I’ve been worse. You?”

Peter shrugs, looking down at his shoes. “Just angry.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that-”

“You shouldn’t apologise for what they said. They should be the ones apologising. You didn’t deserve any of that,” Peter says, interrupting him, every word laced with so much passion.

Tony swallows down the urge to hold his child tight—the urge to thank him for standing up for him (something that so few others have done for him). “No, I didn’t.”

At the end of the day, they could believe what they wanted. Tony only cared about one thing: keeping Peter safe. And, all things considered, he’s done a pretty damn good job at it.

[kairiscorner]

i just want what's best for you. — miles 1610 x reader

summary: no matter how much miles may love you, you still have to get through his mom for you two to be together. first impressions didn't go so well, and now... now you're starting to think she's right about you. but somehow, you both come to an understanding, and... eventually, an understanding can be made between you two. pairing: miles 1610 x gn!reader genre: slight angst + comfort word count: 2,045 request: Could you do a miles (42 or 1610 or both) x reader where his mom isn’t to fond of her but, it’s only because she doesn’t want to see him get hurt. And reader considers breaking up with him and his mom overhears and feels bad. a/n: hello lovely anon !! omg this was really fun to do ngl, I WILL BE SO CRUSHED IF THIS GETS FLOPPED RGHHHHH i will cry bUT ANYWAY I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS, AND SORRY FOR THE CRAPPY SPANISH AND PROBABLY OOC RIO, I'M SORRY, I TRIED...........

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

meeting your partners' parents is never easy; it can be fun, if their parents take a liking to you and are amicable--maybe if they see you as family already for them, then you've hit the jackpot. though, in your case, you couldn't be any worse off than that. you did a few things that miles' parents didn't approve of, a few things that didn't settle right with them or made them slightly cautious about you. be it due to how you look, your lifestyle, your manner of speech and nonchalance around them, how you try a little too hard or not enough to get on their good sides--whatever it was, it didn't make them entirely fond of nor trust you, especially with the fact that you were dating their son and they have made it very clear to him: "no dating until you're 25".

they eventually gave in to miles' persuasion that he was 'old enough' to be dating, to be asking you out and going out with you, and being able to spend time with you without having to hide from his parents where he's been and what he's been doing. his father had to vouch for him, after he made miles swear he and you wouldn't be doing anything stupid nor hide anything from them, and though he trusts miles... he has little faith in you, seeing as how you two hardly speak and only exchange nods, glances, and greetings whenever you're around at miles' place. jeff isn't much of a problem for you, though, he's since accepted that his son loves you and that he wants to be with you--but miles' mom, rio, still hasn't come around to that fact.

in complete honesty... every time rio looks at you, you feel like she's glaring at you, staring you down, sometimes outright judging you in her head. miles swears she doesn't mean anything bad with how she looks at you nor how she speaks, even though she may sound dismissive around you. you try to believe miles, even though it does sometimes come off that rio wants nothing between you and her son. but that whole blind fantasy came crashing down around you during dinner one night when rio confronted miles passive-aggressively and a bit subtly on why his grades seemed to be going down and why some nights, he's out of his room when she comes in.

you were going to speak to miles in the kitchen, ask him if he'd like to watch a movie tonight in his room since you two hardly have time for each other these days, but you stopped in your tracks when you heard rio and miles' voices in the kitchen, sounding as if they were arguing over something. you crept close to the doorway, knowing that eavesdropping on their private conversation was wrong, but you wouldn't have stayed if you just didn't hear rio utter your name, followed by: "i don't even know why you picked them, but mijo, i... i have no reason to believe they're not the reason why you're so distracted these days. don't you think that, maybe... they're a bad influence on you?"

a cold stinging feeling shot up your body and spine as you heard rio talk about you like that, with your eyes widening as you realized what she just proposed to miles: she thinks you're a bad influence on her son. miles defended you, however, claiming that he hasn't even been able to see you for days at a time, that you're busy with personal stuff and school--that you aren't a bad influence on him, none of this is your fault. rio tried to hear miles out, but none of it was computing to her; in her eyes, her son was a good boy who couldn't do anything to disappoint her, maybe do a few wrongs here and there, but he'd never let something like a bad performance at school progress, and he would especially quit sneaking out at night after the first few times, right?

"mom, i'm telling you, they're not involved with anything bad, i'm not involved in anything bad! i just... look, i'm..." miles stuttered as he tried to explain to his mother all these anomalous occurrences and his behavior recently, and due to this hesitation, rio's resolve to pin the blame on you had only gotten worse. "mijo, look at me. please, just... tell your mom the truth. i don't want you to get hurt, to jeopardize yourself and your well-being all for some... person you like. what is it you're doing that's distracting you? is it them? it's gotta be them, otherwise you wouldn't–miles! aún no he terminado de hablar, jovencito, vuelve aquí!" rio called after her son as miles had enough and ran off out of the kitchen, feeling frustrated that his own mother couldn't even believe him that neither of you were up to anything bad. if he lied again, she'd be pissed; and if he told her the truth, she'd be even more pissed, it was a lose-lose scenario for him that had no good solution. at least... not one he'd like.

you crept up the stairs and knocked on miles' door, calling out to him in a soft voice. miles opened the door a crack, and once he verified it was indeed you, he opened the door wider and faced you properly. before you could get a word out, he immediately wrapped you in a big hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "man, babe, i'm... oh, am i glad to see you..." he whispered as you hugged him back, a little saddened at what you were about to tell him, about to do to him.

miles pulled away eventually and welcomed you into his room, closing the door behind you two as you he told you could sit down by his bed, as usual. you hesitantly sat down next to him, tensing up a little as you took your seat on his plush bed. he looked over at you with concern tinting his eyes; he reached out for you as you looked down to the floor, away from him. "hey, babe... what's wrong? did i do something, did something... happen?" he asked you as he brushed away the stray hairs on your forehead as you looked at him with sadness filling your frame. you breathed a sigh of reluctance as you fidgeted with your fingers, feeling that if you did this, you'd be doing him and his parents a favor--but on the other hand, you'd be crushing him to bits.

you took in a deep breath and finally exhaled after holding it in for a bit as you gazed back at him, with miles looking at you so anxiously and murmuring if you were alright, if he could do anything to help, but... this was all that could be done now. "miles... you can't be dating me anymore. i'm sorry, it's... my fault." you said in a quieted voice, though the way you said it sounded very vague, miles still felt incredibly crushed and confused by what you meant that 'it was your fault'.

a look of hurt dashed his face as he brought his hand upon yours and reassured you that, no, whatever you meant, it couldn't have been your fault. he tried to comfort you and help you realize that whatever was going on between you two, he'd make up for it. "is it... is it because we aren't able to, y'know, to... be together all the time? is that it...?" he asked you nervously as you shook your head, still looking away from him. miles heaved a little as he tried to calm himself down, rationalize first what could've been the reason why you wanted to suddenly break up with him after he just defended you in front of his mother without you knowing... or... or did you?

how could you explain to miles that a breakup isn't something you wanted, but felt was best for... well, not for you two, but for his parents to quit getting on his case? you didn't hate his parents, not one bit, you understood their concerns if you were in their shoes–but you didn't know what else to do, you couldn't stand seeing miles get chewed out by his own mother for your sake. you sighed as you tried to hold back your tears, as your throat flared up as you kept your sob in and shook your head. "it has nothing to do with you, miles. like i said, it's... it's my fault. i'm sorry, look, i don't... i don't think i'm good enough for you." you tried telling him without breaking down right then and there as miles kept getting his heart pierced in every which way with every word you uttered.

miles tried to understand, but most of all, he kept rambling to you how you both could make it work, he'll be there–it isn't... whatever happened between you two, it isn't your fault. miles teared up a little as he kept holding on to your hand, but his tears finally fell when you let go of his hand and got up to leave. "wait, love–!" he called out for you as you opened the door and, surprise-surprise, his mother was there by the door, listening in on you two with a sad expression.

you yelped when you saw her, with her yelping as well–miles yelped at the both of you yelping, and rio had to tell you both to calm down... no one need to break up with anybody. "i came to say that... that i'm sorry, mijo, and... i'm sorry i've been so cold to you." she said as she looked at you with guilt and remorse in her eyes and tone. she sighed as she leaned against the doorway and looked away from the two of you.

"i don't hate you, i'm just... scared, is all. i'm worried you won't love my boy as much as you say you can, because... i can't control either of you, i can't know what you both do at all times, especially you, miles." she said as she pointed at miles, with miles looking at her with a confused gaze. rio sighed again as she walked over to you and looked up at your eyes, placing her hand on your chin to get you to look at her square in the face.

"i'm sorry if i made it seem like... it was your fault my son hasn't been honest with me–" she said as she shot miles an angry look, "–but you have no fault in this. i'm sorry, just, mother instincts got out of hand." she apologized as you smiled and nodded. "it's okay, mrs. morales..." you said as she smiled. "you know, i kinda like you a little better now. 'mrs. morales', finally..." she said with a smile as you chuckled, with rio telling miles he can still be with you and go out with you if he promises never to sneak out anymore and to get those grades back up.

miles nodded as he told his mom he has to talk to you, alone. "okay, but no locked doors–" "yeah, yeah, got it mom!" miles called out from behind the door as he closed it on her. you rubbed the back of your neck as miles looked down at the ground, the both of you feeling really awkward but pretty relieved at the same time with how that 'breakup' between you two was very short lived.

miles cleared his throat as he began to speak, but you rushed up and hugged him, murmuring how glad you are that you didn't have to leave him. miles reciprocated your hug and whispered back to you he'd never let anybody–not even his own parents–get in the way of him loving you dearly. he was just glad his mom, though very slowly–started to realize you weren't a distraction to him, but someone he cared about.

he understands all she wants is the best for him, but... maybe now was the time he decided what was best for him on his own, and that'd be with you by his side, letting him love you wholeheartedly.

tags !! @ii01vq @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @k4tsu3 @solecitoszn @toneystank-3000 @fiannee @popeheywardssecretgf @lovefrominaya @onginlove @meowmoraless

[moodymelanist]

Loads of Fun

happy day 3 of @cassianappreciationweek everyone! we were having a very silly convo in the gc one day about whether illyrians could use their wings for assorted things, and somehow using their wings to dry their own laundry came up and here we are LOL. hope y'all enjoy and see you tomorrow for lover day!!

Summary: Cassian spends the morning training with his daughters.

Word Count: 1,535

Read on AO3 here!

⚔⚔⚔⚔⚔ Cassian

“Papa, how much longer!”

“My back hurts!”

“Papa!”

“I hate this! I’m telling Mama!”

“And Uncle Azriel!”

Cassian just grinned from where he was standing a few feet away, completely unfazed at his daughters’ outbursts. “Does all this complaining make your wings beat faster? I’ll have to try it sometime.”

Although Azriel tended to handle the girls’ flying training – on account of Cassian being unable to stand the thought of one of them getting hurt, no matter how necessary it was for them to learn – Cassian liked stepping in from time to time, especially when it meant spending more time with his daughters. He could train them right here at home, using the large clearing behind their modest home in Illyria instead of relying on someone to winnow the girls back and forth to wherever Azriel had deemed an acceptable training spot for the season.

Besides, maybe if he tired Seraphina and Nasima out enough today, he and Nesta would finally have more than a measly quarter of an hour alone for the first time in a long time. It was a win for everyone involved, as far as Cassian was concerned; the girls might have different views on the matter, but he wasn’t asking them.

Sera and Nasima continued their grumbling, but they did their best to keep up with the task Cassian had set for them: using their wings to dry some freshly washed clothes. It was a task that would’ve taken the space of a breath if they were using their magic, but that was cheating where building their strength was concerned. Cassian didn’t expect all the clothes hanging on the line to be dry by the time they were finished, but he was keeping his eye out for at least a few of their shirts to be dry to the touch before he let them off for the rest of the day.

“But Papa,” Sera whined, pouting in a way that reminded Cassian of himself at that age. She looked so much like him that it was like staring in a mirror, although she had enough of Nesta’s bone structure that it was a much prettier version. “This isn’t fun!”

“Who said it was supposed to be fun?” Cassian asked with a grin. He was having fun, but that wasn’t the point. “And keep your voice down, Sera. Your mother’s sleeping.”

Nesta had spent the evening before with Emerie and Gwyn, a much-needed reprieve from all the running around she typically did. She’d been so tired the last few days that instead of waking her up with the sun to train as usual, Cassian had let her sleep undisturbed, only waking their daughters this time instead of the entire family. Nesta might pretend to grumble about it later, but they’d both know the truth.

“Maybe if we wake her up, she’d come save us,” Sera muttered to Nasima. Cassian decided not to even acknowledge the comment, not wanting to egg her on even further and risk Nesta’s wrath. 

“Not worth it,” Nasima replied, wise beyond her years at an adorable eight years old. She and Sera were closer in age than most fae children – only four years apart – and it had given them the kind of bond that made Cassian fiercely proud of his family. “Mama’s not as nice in the mornings.”

Cassian had to hold back his laugh; that was putting it mildly. Nesta was adorably grumpy most mornings, though she mostly reserved that for him and not for their children. She was so gentle with them that it made him wonder just how hellish those early years with her own parents had been, but mostly it made him stand around and smile like a lovesick youngling every time she so much as brushed a curl out of Sera’s face or bent down to press a kiss to Nasima’s temple.

“Come on, keep your wings up,” Cassian told his daughters, not missing a beat. “My trousers aren’t going to dry themselves!”

“They would if you let Mama help,” Sera retorted. 

“He won’t,” Nasima said, her little face all screwed up from the physical exertion. 

“If I let her help all the time, you won’t learn anything useful,” Cassian pointed out. Deciding to go in a different direction, he added, “And your wings will be so scared they’ll hide all the time. Like Uncle Rhys.”

Almost on cue, Cassian felt Rhys’ dark talons tap gently against his mind. Cassian opened the gates just enough for Rhys to tell him, I heard that, Cass.

Lighten up, brother, Cassian answered. I was just kidding!

We’ll see who’s kidding in a few minutes.

Rhys disappeared from Cassian’s mind, his presence instead replaced by the feeling of Nesta stirring to consciousness, a bit of confusion coming through the bond as she woke up alone and with the sun higher in the sky than she was used to. He figured it was only a matter of time before she came outside to investigate what was going on, and he silently cursed Rhys for waking her up before Cassian had gotten the chance to make her morning tea.

“Cassian,” Nesta said once she came outside, her eyebrows slowly inching closer to her hairline as she took in the scene before her. She hadn’t even bothered changing out of her nightclothes, but she’d at least grabbed her thick robe and some slippers before making her way outside. “What in the Mother’s name are you doing?”

“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” Cassian said back with a wide grin. He waited until she’d taken a few more steps so he could snap out one of his wings to gently nudge her closer, his happiness only growing at the feeling of having his mate at his side. 

“Well?” she questioned, snaking an arm around his waist and leaning into his side. 

“I’m so glad you asked,” he responded. He ignored the girls’ audible eye rolls as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, right where there was an adorable little line from the way she’d leaned against the pillow in her sleep. “We’re working on stamina today.”

“Are you now,” she replied with a tone that showed just how little she believed him. 

“We are,” he told her with a barely-concealed chuckle. “They’re loving it.”

“No we’re not!” Sera yelled, though the effect was lost with how out of breath she sounded. “This is terrible, Mama!”

“It’s what I had to do,” Cassian retorted without missing a beat. “And look how strong I am now!” 

Nesta snorted. “If you insist, Cassian.”

“I do insist,” Cassian replied, lowering his voice so only Nesta could hear. Sera and Nasima wouldn’t hear them between the sounds of their wings flapping and Sera’s nearly nonstop string of complaints and minor Illyrian swear words. “I’d throw you over my shoulder right now if I could.”

“Not in front of the girls, you insatiable old bat,” Nesta grumbled, her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. She fixed him with a look, silently threatening him to behave before she refocused her energy on their daughters. “Seraphina! I heard that!”

Cassian had been so absorbed with his mate that he hadn’t even noticed Sera’s switch from minor to more serious Illyrian swears, though of course Nesta had. Sera’s hazel eyes went wide at being called out, and she threw a sheepish look at Nesta.

“Sorry, Mama,” Sera replied, still sheepish. Nothing got past Nesta, whether it was in Illyrian or the common tongue, and almost nothing pleased Cassian more than hearing Nesta speak his mother tongue. “I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s alright, Sera,” Nesta answered with a reassuring smile. She looked back to Cassian and asked, “How much longer do they need to do this? Feyre wants to take them to her studio later.”

“Until my trousers are dry,” Cassian told her, already suspecting that she was up to something. 

“Would you look at that,” Nesta said with a wry smile. Her fingers barely twitched and all the clothes on the line magically dried out and began folding themselves. “All the laundry is dry!”

Both of the girls cheered and immediately stopped flapping their wings, Sera dramatically dropping to the ground and laying on her stomach to give herself a break. Nasima was much more dignified about it, sitting down slowly and sliding onto her stomach to let her smaller wings spread out. They were undoubtedly getting grass and mud and Enalius knew what else in their dark hair and all over their adorable little faces, but neither of them seemed to mind.

“Mama saved you this time,” Cassian warned them, holding back a laugh at how funny they looked on the hard-packed earth, “but don’t always count on that.”

“We’ll see,” Nesta countered. She slipped out from under Cassian’s wing and started walking back to the house, tossing over her shoulder, “Can I count on you to make some breakfast?”

“We’ll see,” Cassian repeated, teasing. He didn’t need to look at his mate to know she was rolling her eyes, and he grinned at her retreating figure before turning back to their daughters. “Come on, little ones. Let’s not keep Mama waiting.”

tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @fieldofdaisiies | @goddess-aelin | @c-e-d-dreamer | @talkfantasytome | @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk | @sv0430 | @talibunny30 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @champanheandluxxury | @lilah-asteria | @burningsnowleopard | @sayosdreams | @readskk | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @bellaful08 | @readergalaxy | @podemechamardek | @pearlfortears | @nerdperson524 | @jmoonjones | @kale-theteaqueen | @autumnbabylon | @hiimheresworld | @illyrianshadowhunter | @dustjacketmusings | @live-the-fangirl-life | @that-little-red-head | @sweet-pea1 | @brieq | @queercontrarian | @jsmelodies | @afflicted-with-wanderlust

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 7

Beta if you're reading this, I'll see you in a bit!

Notes: talks of ableism and homophobia, it's not reader full blown trauma dumping but he's talking about his experiences as a closeted man with a controlling family. Check masterlist for previous parts.

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris

Pantalone’s demeanour immediately changes the moment the two of you are finally alone. The air in the room is no longer thick with tension, but as he offers you the last little piece of cake, you’re aware of a looming dread hanging over you. You’re aware the choice to finally stand your ground and defy your parents’ wishes, even if it’s just staying for dinner, will have consequences. Even then, witnessing Pantalone scold your parents like children was immensely satisfying, and makes your moment of recognized agency all the more sweeter. 

Speaking of sweetness, the cherry bublanina is delicious. You hum at the taste, and swallow down your mouthful. “That’s actually really good,” you say, “did your staff make it, or did you get it somewhere?”

“It’s homemade,” Pantalone answers, “but I believe the recipe came from an old cookbook one of my chefs owns. I’m sure it’s out of print by now, so perhaps I can ask them to write the recipe for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Pantalone looks at you inquisitively. “Say, do you cook?”

“I can, I just don’t do it much,” you answer. “We have a couple chefs, and as you just saw, my mother is very… protective, so she’s never liked the idea of me handling knives or being around stoves.”

Pantalone cringes a bit. “I can imagine.”

“I get it to an extent,” you continue, “not being able to see anything that isn’t directly in front of me has way more disadvantages than advantages, but she acts like I’ll immediately forget something unless I’m looking right at it. I’m losing my vision, not my object permanence, I still know where the stove is because I’m not stupid.”

“Does this sort of… situation happen a lot?”

You furrow your brow. “The object permanence or barging in on my private outings?”

“Both, I suppose. I’m asking if she’s ever been this overbearing before.”

You click your tongue, and turn your head away from Pantalone. You find yourself staring at a painting depicting a field of flowers with mountains in the background. After a moment of trying to make out what the flowers are, you sort of snap out of it and remember he asked you a question.

“Um…” You furrow your brow and think of all the times your mother has been overbearing in your childhood. You count incidents in your teen years all the way until now, and come to a realization. “I think she’s getting worse.”

You see Pantalone open his mouth to respond, and then your words sink in and he remains quiet.

You go on. “Compared to when I was little, she’s incredibly overbearing. I don’t even think it’s like she’s just as protective as when I was little, but now that I’m older it feels suffocating. I think she’s genuinely becoming more clingy with me.”

“I… I see. I’m sorry to hear that?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” you say, “and honestly, I don’t really want to talk about my parents right now.”

Your host shrugs. “I suppose that’s fair enough. To be quite honest, I only asked out of courtesy. I put up with your father’s antics and burdens enough as is.”

You chuckle. “I’d tell you you’re lucky you don’t live with him, but it wouldn’t be that different from now, huh?”

“No, it would not.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Pantalone perks up. You hear it open, and hear it’s Fyodor. “Sir, the two guests are having an argument outside.”

You hide your head in your hands and groan. 

“Are they getting physical?” Pantalone asks.

“No, but it’s disturbing the peace and they’re not leaving.”

You hear Pantalone sigh. “If they don’t settle down and leave in the next two minutes, or if it does turn physical, get security involved.”

You presume Fyodor nods before he closes the door. You take a deep breath, humiliation washing over you and sinking into your pores. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know why I expected them to be normal. I should’ve just declined the invite.”

You hear the scraping of Pantalone’s chair, and the clicking of heeled boots approaching you. You feel him right next to him, and jolt when his hand settles on your shoulder. You lift and turn your head to look at it, and here, you can see manicured nails, shining gemstone rings, and to your shock, how blemished and scar riddled the skin of his hand is. Some of them are small and neat, little cuts and scratches, but some are deep and painful looking, you’re not even sure what would have caused most of them. You can only assume the silvery splits on his knuckles are from old fights. What the hell happened to him?

“Would you care to see the library?”

You tilt your head up and see Pantalone smiling expectantly at you. “Oh, sure,” you answer. Pantalone steps back and lets you stand up from your chair. You push your chair back in before you follow Pantalone out of the room. Trailing behind him like a duckling, you find your pace instinctively slows down and your eyes drift back to the oddly unsettling art pieces he has lining the walls of the hallway. You want to be able to take in the macabre sight of them, which would be easier if you could actually see things normally.

Pantalone’s made considerable distance before he realizes you’re lagging behind. He stops, turning over to see you’ve now fully stopped, staring up at a particularly gruesome scene with some concern and confusion. He chuckles, joining you in staring up at the painting.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Indeed,” you reply, “love the use of red. Some say it’s the colour of warmth and love. I imagine it really puts guests at ease.”

He lets out a little laugh. “You know, perhaps I should have expected an author to have a little knowledge in colour theory.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“We’re almost to the library,” Pantalone states, “though we can stop and chat about art. I’m in no rush.”

You hum. “I’m more curious why all of your art is so… morbid.”

“I enjoy morbid art pieces,” Pantalone answers, “there’s something about the raw and visceral imagery that strikes a chord with me. Do you not enjoy it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you reply, “I’ll read books about tragedy and horror every now and then, and I enjoy gruesome depictions in art as much as the next person.”

“But?”

You shrug. “I don’t think I’d put them up in every hallway, but that’s also my personal preference. If you like it, more power to you.”

“I’ve had a few members of staff say they’ve been startled by certain pieces when wandering the halls late at night,” Pantalone comments, “so perhaps that supports your argument better.”

“I mean, I probably wouldn’t even see them if I was walking around at night.”

“Right, no peripheral vision.”

“Oh, not even that.” You turn yourself so you can properly talk to Pantalone. “One of the other symptoms of my condition is night blindness. My eyes can’t adjust to darkness anymore.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“What are you… oh, oh.” Pantalone chuckles. “Very funny. I’m sure you make that joke a lot.”

“People take me going blind too seriously,” you say, “they’re always worried they’re going to upset me if they even bring it up. That or they try to baby me like my mother does. If I make fun of it, it kind of puts people at ease.”

“Well, going blind is rather serious, no?”

“I mean, yes, but if I’ve already made peace with it, then everyone else should too.”

The conversation continues as you and Pantalone make your ways down the hall. He glances at you over his shoulder. “Apologies if I’m overstepping, but doesn’t it scare you at least a little bit?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled,” you answer, “but you have to understand that I’ve known about this since I was eight. I’ve been living like this my whole life. Worrying isn’t going to make my eyesight better again, so I just have to grit my teeth, plan accordingly, and just keep going.”

“Fair enough.”

You follow Pantalone around a corner. “Besides, I can still see. I can’t see well, but I can see things.”

“What do you see, anyways? What does it look like for you?”

“Curl your index fingers and thumbs until they make two small holes, and then look through them. That’s pretty much it.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It certainly is.”

“Oh, here we are,” Pantalone says. He takes a step to the right and immediately disappears from sight. You turn to follow him–

Thunk! “Ow, fuck, shit.”

You hear Pantalone snort before he turns his laugh into a cough. “Are you alright?”

You rub your forehead. “It’s not the first door frame I’ve walked into, and it won’t be the last.”

“That was quite loud. Here, let me see…”

When you feel slim, calloused yet smooth fingers take hold of each side of your face, you immediately forget about walking into the door frame. He gently tilts your head up, and now all you can see is his face, and at this proximity you only see his face. He does not seem overly concerned, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. You nervously gulp, face growing hot. You’ve never had anyone this close to you, touching your face so tenderly, let alone another man. Not a man with striking eyes, with scarred, soft hands. Not a man who smells of black tea and leather scented cologne with notes of something floral. 

Your eyes flick down to his lips, for the briefest of glances, and then Pantalone pulls back with a cheery expression. “You have a slight mark,” he tells you, “but nothing that should bruise.”

You imagine you look incredibly and obviously flustered, and your brain is still reeling at the lingering feeling of his hands on your face. You somehow pull yourself together and clear your throat with the elegance of a brick crashing through a window. “O-Oh, good, that’s good.”

“With that out of the way,” he continues, “this is the library.”

Pantalone steps aside to let you properly step inside. Your head is on a slow swivel, taking in the magnitude of the room. It’s magnificent, truly. Walls with bookshelves packed full of books from the tall ceiling to the hardwood floor. In one corner of the room, you spy a liquor cabinet. There’s also a fireplace glowing red and gold with flames, and two armchairs with an accompanying end table, arranged symmetrically a comfortable distance away from the fireplace. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

You’re speechless, in utter awe of the room you’re standing in. You step further into the room, marvelling at the sheer amount of books. It makes the “private library” your parents have at home look absolutely pitiful. 

You hear Pantalone walk off. “Could I get you anything to drink? It’s a tad early for it, but I think we earned it for surviving that whole encounter.”

“Um… Oh, n-no, I’m okay for now,” you reply, still awestruck. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Enchanted?”

“Yes, thank you.” You turn to the direction his voice came from, and after a couple seconds of looking, you find him looking through his collection. He perks up when you speak. “How many of these books have you read?”

“All of them.”

You laugh. “Really? All of them?”

“A vast majority, at least,” he clarifies, “do you not believe me?”

“Would you be hurt if I said not really?”

“Absolutely shattered,” he teases, “I don’t think I would ever recover from the lies and slander.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, fine, I believe you.”

“Splendid.” He shuts the cabinet and gestures to the shelves. “You’re free to browse or take a seat. Dinner won’t be ready for hours, so if there’s anything you want to know or do, feel free to ask.”

“I don’t even know where I’d start…”

“I admittedly don’t read much romance,” Pantalone says, pointing to a shelf somewhere behind you, “but I believe I own some of the classics, and a few others.”

“Are any of them books I’ve written?”

“Not yet.”

“I figured as…” You blink. “Wait, not yet?”

He laughs. “I wasn’t aware of your work when I first met your father,” he explains, “in fact, the night I walked into your office was the same night I learned you were an author. I’ve since then heard good things about your writing, yet I couldn’t decide which book of yours I should read first, so I’m waiting for, what was it called again, Plucking Heartstrings?”

You feel your eyes widen and your face flush. “You… You want to read my new book?”

Pantalone gives you an odd look. “Yes? Did you think I sent the manuscript off simply because I felt like it?”

“You gave me this whole speech about using it to gain my trust and make my mother lower her guard, or something along those lines.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It wasn’t my only motive, and that was before today’s debacle. The point is I’m intrigued by your book.”

You feel your face grow warmer. “You are?”

“You ask that like I’ve said something unbelievable,” Pantalone remarks. “Honestly, I think most people would be naturally curious if someone they knew was related to an author, or an artist, or a musician. What little I’ve read of your draft, the fact it was accepted by the Yae Publishing House, and all this chatter and fuss about how this book is different and how you’d rather write books like this implies this is no low brow, poorly written smut or cliché riddled fairytale.”

“Well, it’s just…” You sigh. “If people saw you read it, they might think you’re gay.”

Pantalone’s laugh is especially loud, given the two of you are standing in the middle of a library. “I hardly see why that matters. I’m the richest man in the world and a Fatui Harbinger. My sexuality would hardly affect how the people already perceive me. Besides, I doubt me reading a book about two men is any more queer than you writing it. Hell, they’d probably assume the same things about either of us if it was a man and woman.”

“I… guess you have a point.”

Pantalone motions to the armchair closest to you, inviting you to take a seat. You do, and he does as well. The chair is rather comfortable, and you settle in nicely. 

“That actually brings me to something I’ve been meaning to ask, but was unsure how or when to bring it up.”

This can only be bad. “Alright.”

Pantalone crosses one leg over the other in his seat. “Aren’t you worried about your family, well, figuring it out when the book releases?” he asks. “I know you said your father won’t read your books, but I imagine the basic premise will make it back to him at some point, and I know your mother is going to read it.”

You feel a twinge in your stomach and an ache in your chest. Truth be told, that’s part of the reason it’s taken you so long to get the story out. You’ve spent nearly four years slowly poking and prodding at the idea before finally dedicating yourself to it because you feared what your family may think, both of the book and of you.

You think the look on your face conveys your worries, as Pantalone shakes his head. “You don’t have to answer, my apologies.”

“I-I had a whole plan,” you tell him, “for when this book released, because I know this will be seen as me coming out by everyone who knows me or reads my books.”

“Which was?”

“I wasn’t going to be in Snezhnaya when it was finally published.”

Pantalone quirks an eyebrow.

You continue. “I love my home here, but it’s just… with how my condition works, it’s a bit of a nightmare sometimes. The constant storms mean there’s not as much sunlight during the day and night seemingly falls faster. It messes with my night blindness. I’ve been saving up so I can move to Liyue, so I can actually go outside and enjoy some sunlight.” You shift in your seat. “I, um, also want to have a proper garden. I know I’m inevitably going to go fully blind, so I want to have something pretty to look at in my memories, and so I can at least enjoy the smell of flowers when I can’t see them anymore.”

At the mention of Liyue and flowers, Pantalone seems to immediately snap to attention. He appeared to be listening intently, but that really caught his attention. “Is that so?”

You nod. “That’s, um, mostly fantasy. It’s been hard saving up. I do have an inheritance from my late grandfather that was supposed to go to an Akademya education or buying my own home, but I also have to account for travel expenses actually moving to Liyue, getting items shipped over and then buying new furniture, buying my own food, and I’m paying for my doctors appointments and treatments to keep myself from going blind faster. As much as I love writing, I’m not at a point where I can actually live off of it.”

“You know, if you need assistance or advice, you can ask me.”

“I appreciate it,” you tell him, “but I shouldn’t trouble you.”

Pantalone lips suddenly curl into a smile. He leans forward in his seat, intertwining his fingers together. “You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

You look at him oddly, and then you remember Pantalone is literally a banker, and laugh. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“I am serious, though,” Pantalone states, “if you’re struggling to come up with a financial plan that fits your budget, that is a service we provide at the bank. If you want me to help you, though, you’re going to have to book an appointment ahead of time.”

You snicker. “Why not now?”

“Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to give you special treatment on my day off,” he teases.

You shrug. “Worth a shot.”

The conversation lulls. You hear the soft crackling of the fire, and find yourself looking around at the shelves again. Obviously at this distance you can’t see what they are, but you’re still very impressed by the collection. 

After another moment of quiet, Pantalone speaks up again. “So, why did you start writing?”

You clear your throat and look back at him. “I loved to read as a child,” you say, “I only had a few friends growing up, not including my siblings, so I spent most of my free time just reading. As I grew older, it grew into an interest in writing.”

Pantalone nods along. “Now, may I ask why romance?”

“I just like romance,” you tell him, “it’s cheesy, I know, but I enjoy stories about falling in love and finding your soulmate. My family would tease me about how they’re more for girls, so I would hide them in the dust covers of other books.”

“Like your reference material?”

You groan. “Yes, like my reference material. It is actual reference material, by the way, b-but I doubt you would believe me regardless.”

“Will it make it into your book?” Pantalone asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“No, it won’t,” you answer, “I spent so long trying to figure out how the hell to even write it that it stopped being appealing, so instead it just fades to black. Let the audience decide what happens and it’ll probably be better than whatever I was trying to do.”

Pantalone smiles. 

You sigh. “Anyways, part of the reason I wanted to write romance is that after a few years of reading about blushing maidens and their prince charmings, I realized two things.”

“Which were?”

“Well, one, that I like men.”

Pantalone laughs.

“And two… I couldn’t find any books that were actually tailored for men like me. Nothing that wasn’t egregiously explicit or horribly distasteful, anyways. I figured if I can’t find anything to read, then maybe I should be the one to write it.”

You watch Pantalone’s expression change slowly with every word you speak. He stops looking so amused by your joke, actually taking your thoughts in. His eyes soften, as does his smile, and in the glow of the fireplace, the way he looks at you is so… warm.

“That’s really a lovely mentality,” he says softly, not a hint of condescension in his voice. “I’m sure someone out there will greatly appreciate it, and I’m hopeful that it will be a success.”

Your stomach flutters, and you hear and feel your heartbeat. You can’t help the smile that twitches onto your lips, that stretches across your face. You tilt your head down slightly so his expression doesn’t distract you. “Thank you. It really does mean a lot to hear that.”

“I mean it.”

You feel your heart in your chest and your throat. Why does he sound so fond when he says it?

A knock on the open door causes you to jump, Fyodor’s voice makes itself known again. “Sir, could I borrow you for a moment? The chef has a question for you.”

Pantalone sighs and stands. He smiles down at you. “One moment, please.”

You nod and watch as Pantalone walks across the library to the door. You hear his heels clack against the floor, growing quieter and quieter until they disappear completely. Soon, you are left in the quiet of the library alone.

You quickly bury your face in your hands as realization hits you at full force.

This isn’t a little crush, and it never was. You want Pantalone.

[youknowwho-mustnotbenamed]

December 08 - Cookies | word count: 998 | @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius has to admit, Harry inherited the best traits from his parents. His determination and brazenness from Lily, and his mischief and creativity from James. For an eight-year-old, Harry is a downright genius, arguably far more devious than James was at the same age. Besides, Harry always puts his pranking tendencies to good use. Last week, he made a bet with Remus that he would be able to make his “icky peas” disappear without eating them. He managed to sneak his best friend, Ron, under James’ invisibility cloak—Sirius still isn’t sure how he managed to find it—to snatch the peas while Remus was turned away. The shock was enough to earn him the toddler version of the broom he had been eyeing for months. Two nights ago, he had somehow managed o stick all of Sirius’ socks to the ceiling and wouldn’t bring them down until he got some ice cream before bed. Today, however, is the first time he has roped Sirius into one of his pranks.

He is waylaid in the living room, tugged into Harry’s bedroom before he can say a word. Harry had ushered him onto his bed, and stated his idea—well, fully formed plan for his prank. He really thought of everything. The location, the “victim”, the prize, the distraction, and the execution. All of it is so perfectly planned, Sirius is sure James would be proud.

“I’m in.”

“Really?” Harry gasps.

“Have you forgotten who I am? Best Marauder out there—after your father of course.”

“Uncle Moony is the best Marauder.” Harry argues back. It is a time-old debate that isn’t really serious—ha ha—but manages to get looped into conversation every now and again. Sirius isn’t sure how it happened. He is the one who spoils Harry with every gift he can imagine. He is the one Harry begs to turn into Padfoot to run around with in the park. He is the one Harry is always pestering—his main target for his pranks. And yet Moony is his favorite Marauder.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-uh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-uh.”

“He’s not giving you cookies. I’m the one who will get them for you.”

That seems to give Harry pause. The look on his face as he puzzles out this argument is so much like Lily that Sirius’ heart aches.

“Okay. You’re my favorite.”

Sirius pumps his fist with far too much enthusiasm. “Alright, let’s get us some cookies.”

He leads the way toward the kitchen. It’s there, that he finds Remus, humming along to a song on the wireless as he mixes the frosting for the cupcakes cooling on the counter next to him. The cookies are right next to them, easily swiped, but only if their studious warden looks away.

“How’s the baking coming along, my moon?”

“If Harry didn’t try stealing a cookie every time I turn my back, they would be easier.” Remus says, though there is a fond smile on his face betraying his false admonishment. Just as much as Remus is Harry’s favorite, Remus has a soft spot for Harry that he rarely does for children.

Sirius steps forward, latching himself onto Remus’ back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Sirius… what are you—no!”

He tries twisting away from Sirius’ hand which has crept down to his side. But it is too late. His fingers easily find Remus’ weak spot, and tickle. That was something Sirius was delighted to find out. That for all his stoicism and ruggedness, Remus is the most ticklish person he has met. Not even Regulus—who was far more ticklish than one would imagine—was like this.

And the thrill of being able to reduce Remus to giggles and gasping laughter is like nothing else. To see the spark of life in his eyes, and to know that he is the one who put it there… Sirius thrives on making those he loves know about his love, and to him, laughter is the best method. The love gets perceived and reflected back.

Remus folds over, the act knocking Sirius off balance. Since he is practically wrapped around Remus, the pair of them go tumbling to the kitchen floor, laughing and gasping for air.

His mind is far from his meeting with Harry. Far from thoughts of Remus’ exquisite baking. Far from pranking. He is fully focused and wrapped up in thoughts of Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus laughing. Remus’ eyes crinkling. Remus who is now retaliating in kind. Remus now pressing light kisses all across Sirius’ face. Remus, who Sirius wouldn’t give up for the world.

Eventually, they are forced to roll away from each other at risk of asphyxiation. And there they lay for quite some time, the cold tile under their backs, just breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out. Always the same rhythm. They have been breathing in unison for years now, their hearts even beating as one. Their breathing steadily evens out, returning to its normal cadence.

Once it has, recognition of why he is here hits him. Remus also seems to come to a similar conclusion. He scrambles upright, eyes searching. Upon seeing the missing cookies, he deflates.

“Can you blame him though; you really do make the best cookies.”

“It’s all my mum… she would have loved him.”

“She would have.”

“I should get back to the frosting. I think you need to go ride out Harry’s sugar rush.”

“Why me?”

Remus raises a brow. He knows exactly what Remus is trying to convey. ‘Because you are the one who just gave it to him.’

Sirius returns a look saying, ‘I have no idea what you are on about’.

‘Are you sure about that?’

“Welp, since the batch is incomplete now anyway…” On his way out of the kitchen, he swipes two more cookies. After all, Hope’s cookies really are the best out there.

“Sirius!”

Remus’ scolding laughter chases him out of the kitchen and into the sun-bathed backyard where Harry is waiting.

[bitchinfawkseh]

Every Breath You Take

Steve Harrington x Female Original Character

Chapter One: I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight

Summary: June Summers returns from her year away and intends to surprise her friend Robin at her job, Scoops Ahoy. Instead she meets Steve Harrington, and his attempts to flirt with her go over her head— but, she does invite him to join her and Robin at her house later that day.

Word count: 4504

Warnings: None

[A/N]: happy 420 guys. not proof read cope

AO3 link | Series Masterlist

1985, June 21st

It’s a particularly nice day in Hawkins, sun high in the cloudless sky and there’s hardly any breeze either. Kids are out of school as of three weeks ago, and the senior class of Hawkins high are officially high school graduates. Those who actually received enough credits to graduate, anyhow. By some miracle of God, Steve just so happened to be one of those 1985 graduates— he’s just as shocked as every one else by that fact, honestly. No college prospects, however. He hasn’t heard back from a single one he’s applied to— not that he has applied to very many or even expected a response offering him admission, but it’s a little hard to keep hope. Steve’ll probably end up working for his dad like he’s always thought, but much to his dismay. Is that really such a bad thing though? Stability… good income… insurance… benefits… you know, shit adults worry about. While those things are appealing, he isn’t quite ready to admit yet that he has to and should go work for his dad. Instead, he finds himself at a temporary summer job.

Scoops Ahoy.

Scoops Ahoy and it’s absolutely dorky uniform that deters the ladies away— that stupid stupid hat that hides his amazing mane. He’s not known as Steve the hair Harrington for nothing. He is King Steve for Pete’s sake— well, it’s not like that matters much anymore. It’s only him and this stupid job, still living in his parents house and there are no prospects of something better coming along. No girlfriend, no college, no friends (unless he counts his coworker, Robin), and no real non-humiliating job. Life is just great.

Today it isn’t very busy surprisingly, and Steve almost finds himself wishing that it was just so he would have something to do. He’s wiped down every table twice, swept and mopped once, cleaned the glass case three times, and they’ve only had three customers so far. To be fair, it is only ten in the morning, so business will be sure to pick up by lunch time. He just hopes that something more interesting will happen soon because he’s getting pretty tired of reading the back of this waffle cone box. Robin’s in the back handling stock while he “mans the front” as she said, so he’s out here alone handling the very few customers that decide they need ice cream at ten AM. Admittedly, Steve can’t blame them. Ice cream for breakfast sounds appealing to children, but to adults it's not— parents are very unlikely to allow anything like that even if it's summer. His mom would’ve never in a million years done that, even if it pissed him off as a kid.

Steve’s hazel eyes flicker up to the entrance hopefully after finishing the ingredient list on the waffle cone box for the fifth time, and this time there actually is a customer. It’s a girl— a lady. Her back is to him, but he spots an old hard suitcase with stickers all over it and a guitar case off to the side by her feet. She’s different, Steve can immediately tell. Despite it being summer, she wears a light brown afghan shearling overcoat, dark blue bell bottoms with little embroidered flowers at the end in an array of colours, and brown heeled boots that probably go up to her calves but are ultimately concealed by her pants. She has dark hair— lots of it, and most of it is in an attempted or either very messy braid that clearly has the heads of daisies stuffed into it. Steve is a little unsure of what to make of her until she turns around, and he swears he feels his breath catch in his throat.

Beautiful green eyes, long lashes, sun kissed freckles, plump lips and a smile that would put the sunrise to shame. She’s cute, undeniably cute. But then she speaks in a voice melodic like angels but warm like honey: “Hi there!” She chirps, her bright smile still having never left her face. Then, she cocks her head to the side as if studying him, but that damn smile never wavers. “How are you?” She asks like she’s the one who's supposed to be providing the customer service here. His throat suddenly feels sticky— like he can’t get any words out, but manages to stutter out “good.” Steve mentally curses at himself and he also blames the stupid hat for this, what the hell is wrong with him? Steve straightens his posture almost immediately and flashes her the most charming smile he can possibly muster. “Good, good. I’m good. Are you good? I mean, can I fancy you any ice cream?” He asks before clenching his jaw hard. Seriously, Steve? Surprisingly, his serious fumble doesn’t deter her one bit. Her smile widens somehow and she nods. “I’m good.” She answers his first question. Those green eyes dart down to the glass case, then they flicker back up to meet him. “Do you have any sherbert?” She asks kindly. “You betcha,” he answers, a little more eager than he would’ve initially liked. “We’ve got orange, mango, and strawberry— so pick your poison, really.” She lifts her chin a little as if thinking, and she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it. “Mmmm… surprise me.” “Alright,” Steve agrees. “Cup or cone?” “Cup, please.” “Coming right up, matey.” He grins goofily— another failed attempt to appear charming, but she giggles nonetheless. Steve tries not to relish in the sound of it even though it's been a very long time he’s made a girl laugh like that, but he deserves to gloat a bit, surely? He’ll have to have Robin put his first mark on the “YOU RULE” side of the board, and that’ll certainly feel good.

Thankfully, the sherbert is easily scoopable and is nothing like the hard rocky road that everybody is obsessed with. He doesn’t know what it is with it, but it’s always practically non scoopable— it would be if they could thaw it just a bit, but Keith rejected that idea and told Steve it’ll get him some guns. As if he needs more guns— he’s just fine. He played basketball in high school for Pete’s sake! He was good, too! Steve swallows hard and scoops up a decent sized ball of the strawberry sherbert. “So, uh… what’s your name?” He asks carefully. She smiles, her green eyes crinkling with joy. “June. June Summers.” She answers. “June Summers? What, are your parents hippies too?” Steve asks with an amused look as he places the generous scoop of strawberry sherbert into a cup like she requested. “Yes,” she answers truthfully. “My parents named me and all of my siblings after colours or months.” She adds. Steve tries to repress a snort, struggling to believe her statement. “Yeah? What’re all their names then?” He questions. He stuffs a red spoon into the cup, and they exchange money for the cup. Her fingers are decked out in an array of gold rings, and the one on the middle finger matches her gold sun shaped earrings with sapphire decals. Steve wonders if all girls own this amount of jewelry and if she’s just wearing her entire jewelry box, but something tells him she owns more than this. Of course, she does. “Oh, well… There’s Violet, Rose, Indigo, Periwinkle, then April, May, and me! June.” Steve’s eyes widen comically, and he really cannot believe his ears. Her parents are mega assholes. “Woah, woah, woah. Periwinkle? You’ve got to be joking.” He says in disbelief. June giggles before shaking her head, amused by his reaction. She can admit, the names are weird and she definitely wouldn’t name her future kids by that logic, but they all match— sort of. “She goes by Peri, but yes. Her name is Periwinkle on paper.” “Jesus, that’s just cruel.” Steve laughs. Even though a counter separates them, he subconsciously finds himself leaning closer. This girl is oddly captivating, and he thinks he has her on the hook— Steve’s ought to make his move soon if he actually wants to have something to do this weekend other than wallow in his failures.

The makeshift screen that separates the back from the front slides open much to Steve’s dismay— he was just about to close it with June here, and now Robin's interrupting them? She’s either got a wicked sixth sense for when he’s talking to girls or she’s just praying for his downfall. What’s a guy gotta do to get some action around here? “Who are you talking—.” Robin starts, but her words die on her tongue when she sees June. For maybe the first time ever, Robin’s face brightens with sheer joy, and she slides over the counter to go meet June in a tight hug. “Holy shit! You’re back!” She exclaims. June giggles, holding her sherbet cup out of the way to hug Robin back. “I am! I wanted to surprise you.” She replies, equally as giddy. All Steve can think about as he watches the sight is how in the world are these two friends? Robin doesn’t look at Steve, but she juts her thumb in his general direction. “You should’ve asked for me instead of wasting your time talking to dingus here.” She says. Steve takes offense to that and he’s about to retort something back, but June is the one to speak first. “Don’t be so mean, I think he’s very nice.” June says as a matter of fact. “Nice?” She asks in disbelief. “Have you lost your mind from all that time on the road?” “No,” June says, shaking her head. She finally glances back at Steve, and the corners of her mouth quirk up into a tiny smile. He tries to ignore how good it makes him feel, but that’s very hard. Steve straightens and a lopsided yet proud grin forms on his face. At least someone here is on his side. “Why thank you, June.” He replies. “Everytime,” her eyes dart down to his name tag and then back up to his face. “Steve.”

Everytime? He likes the sound of that.

Robin groans and throws her arm around June’s shoulder, steering her towards the exit. “I’m taking my fifteen, dingus. Try not to burn the place down.” She says as she walks June out of Scoops Ahoy. June doesn’t protest this action, and instead takes the opportunity to try the strawberry sherbert that Steve picked out for her. She’s pretty flexible about everything, whether it were mango, orange, or strawberry, she wouldn’t have cared. She glances back over her shoulder, spoon pursed between her lips before she pulls it down and she’s smiling, of course. “Strawberry is good! Thank you!” June calls out before the pair disappear from his view. Steve smiles as June Summers' smile is just contagious, and he slowly drags his eyes down to her guitar case and suitcase tucked neatly away up against the wall. He wonders where she went, and he also wonders if she really is any good at music. Either way, Steve knows one thing for certain: he definitely wants to see her again, weirdness and all. 

Somehow, it’s like every damn person in the mall suddenly knew that Steve was here solo and decided that they needed ice cream now. He slings his sixth ice cream in the past ten minutes, and he just hopes Robin shows back up soon. He also hopes that June sticks around for a little while longer too as he hasn’t had the chance to ask her out yet— he’s excited to see the look on Robin’s face when June (hopefully) accepts. Unfortunately for him, Robin decides to be tardy as usual and doesn’t come back till twenty minutes later. Again, Robin’s presence has seemed to cause the rush to die down again, and Steve’s incredibly thankful for it. “You’re late.” He hums out in a sing-song voice. Robin rolls her eyes at him and gives him the finger. “Excuse me for catching up with my friend who's been gone for a year.” She retorts. June smiles sheepishly yet apologetically at Steve. Her sherbert cup is gone, presumably finished and in the trash— he’s just glad she liked the flavour he picked out for her. “I’m sorry for keeping her. A year on the road means lots of stories to tell.” She says. Steve raises his eyebrows in interest, and he knows this is it. This is his opening— he’s got to ask her out. “Yeah? Well, uh, maybe this weekend you can tell me all about it— I mean, if you’re free of course.” He asks awkwardly. June frowns. “Oh, well, Robin and I were going to hang out.” She begins, and Steve immediately deflates. “But you’re more than welcome to join us though! The more the merrier, really.” Before Steve can answer, Robin cuts him off, eyes wide. “June!” She says through clenched teeth. June, innocent as ever, shrugs and beams. “What? I like meeting new people.” She says. Robin rolls her eyes and then glares at Steve. “Yeah, I know.” June turns her attention back to Steve and her smile widens, hopeful. “So you’ll come then?” She asks gently. Is that even a question? Steve nods once, trying to remain cool but ultimately fails when he answers her. “Yes! I mean, yeah, yeah. Yeah I will.” He agrees. “Oh yay! Okay, well, Robin will give you directions to my place then.”

Once June has left, Steve immediately looks at Robin and nods towards the board propped up on the counter. There’s a lot more tallies in “YOU SUCK” than he would like, but now is finally the time for a tally mark in “YOU RULE”. He’s a little giddy about it honestly— while June may be a little weird, he likes her so far and she’s very pretty. “You know what to do.” He smirks to Robin. “No.” She deadpans. “What? Robin, come on! I totally rule! She invited me over.” “Yeah, and it doesn’t mean shit to her, Steve. Trust me, she’s just being nice.” “I dunno… she seemed pretty into me.” “She’s like that with everybody. She’s just friendly. She doesn’t like you, dingus.” “Yeah, alright.” Steve says with an eye roll. “We’ll see about that.”

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

After finally getting it out of Robin, he learns what the plans actually are and where they are— a sleepover, today, at June’s parents place. Robin claims that her parents are super cool— like, weirdly cool about everything, so he shouldn’t have to worry about them freaking out about him being there. He’s not sure if Robin is messing with him or not, but he’s not about to pass up the chance to go to a lady’s house. Robin being there isn’t exactly ideal, but he’ll take what he can get at this point.

Steve’s going to pick Robin up in a half an hour so she can give him directions to June’s place, and it’s only just now that his nerves are starting to get a little wild. He took a shower earlier, washed and conditioned his hair with his trusty Fabergé Organics, and now he’s fixing said hair for the third time. It has to look just perfect, he won’t have it any other way and he doesn’t want to obscure his best quality from June— it’s bad enough he met her while in that stupid sailor hat. This needs to go well. It has to go well. Steve’s not going to bring anything else aside from his wallet and keys, that’s all he needs really. Even though it is a sleepover that June invited him to, he feels too weird and scummy about staying at a girls house when he doesn’t know her all that well. Steve won’t stay, he’ll let them have their chance to gossip about him after he leaves. Maybe— maybe if he’s lucky, he can score a goodbye kiss from June. It all depends on how he plays this, he’s got to be extra charming and super gentlemanly if he wants to woo her. Though, he feels that may not be as hard as he thinks it will be.

Steve’s missing the silence from before he picked Robin up because since then, she has not stopped talking. Most of what she says is insulting him, and the other half is her insisting that June is just being friendly, that’s how she is. He’d hate for her to be right, but he is starting to think that Robin is indeed right— this isn’t just some ploy to get him to stop pursuing her friend, and Robin’s just telling the truth. June is kind and wants to invite Steve over because she wants to be his friend and nothing more. It doesn’t help that she’s so god damn hard to read, either. Steve briefly glances over at Robin before turning his attention back onto the road. “I mean, if she didn’t want to see me she could have just said no.” He points out. Robin rolls her eyes. “First of all, she wouldn’t have said no even if she didn’t want to. And second of all, she does want to see you. Just not in the way you think.” “What other way would there be?” “Steve. She’s a peace loving hippie— she’s friends with everybody, and I mean everybody. It doesn’t matter if you’re a guy or girl to her, she’ll be your friend even if you’re moderately nice.” Steve shrugs, he doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince Robin or himself at this point. “Well— well, maybe I’m different to her, you know? Maybe now that she’s back home she… you know… wants a boyfriend?” He tries to reason. Robin cackles. “You and June?! Yeah, maybe when pigs fly, dingus.” “When pigs fly—.” He scoffs. “Is me and June really so hard to believe?” “I’m just saying you’re misreading.” Robin smiles smugly. Then she turns her attention out the passenger window, and she points to the bigger house at the end of the street. The woods are pretty close— this may be one of the only houses so close to the forest in Hawkins aside from the Byers, of course. The woods are practically in their backyard. “This is her. Pull in next to the van.” She instructs, dropping her hand down to unbuckle her seatbelt. Steve’s eyes narrow as they land on the blue and yellow 1960 Voltswagen panel van in the driveway, and he snorts. “Jeez, people actually own those things?” He asks rhetorically. “The Summers’ aren’t your typical people, Steve.”

The house itself is painted a bright yellow, and there is a giant garden bed full of various kinds of flowers surrounding the porch. They all are bright and full, probably just watered too by the little dew drops that stick to the petals. The lawn is bright green too, and there’s toys littered all throughout it— Steve knows that June’s the youngest of seven, so maybe it’s from nieces or nephews? A breeze cuts through the air, and the wind chime hanging from a beam on the porch sings its melodic song. He’s always liked wind chimes— something about them is so… mesmerising. Steve spots all of this from the windshield of his car, and he glances over at Robin. “It’s nice.” He says genuinely because it is nice— it looks like a family actually lives here. Like everybody is close and actually wants to spend time with each other, it’s nothing like his house. Robin waggles her eyebrows at him before climbing out of the car. “Wait till you see inside.” Steve follows suit, and his brows knit together. “What’s inside?” He asks curiously as they walk up the front steps. He’s about to ring the bell, but Robin only adjusts how her backpack sits on her own shoulder and goes on inside without warning. Either June and Robin are very close or Robin has no respect for any boundaries. She didn’t bother to answer his question, either. “Honey, I’m home!” Robin calls out in an amused tone. When there’s no response, she glances over at Steve. “Probably in the backyard. Come on, dingus.” She says before she begins to lead him through the house. It’s cluttered, but not in a hoarder way necessarily— maximalism or whatever the word is, that’s the best way to describe it. All of the curtains are drawn allowing for the evening sun to come through, and there seems to be a sun catcher hanging in every single window, too. Little rainbowed sunbeams are nearly on every wall, as well as pictures of the Summers’ family— in the hallway leading to the kitchen, there’s seven baby pictures presumably in order of oldest to youngest. All of them are cute looking babies, too. Round rosy cheeks, heads full of hair, and big brown eyes— everybody except for June who was born with eyes as green as jade.

The decor itself is a bit unusual, but Steve likes it. It’s homey— it looks like people actually live here, and he thoroughly enjoys all of the potted plants too. He leans a bit closer to Robin as he scans the place and takes everything in. “It reminds me of some cottage house.” He whispers as if somebody will hear him. Robin shoots him a look as they reach the threshold of the massive backyard that’s full of a million different things. A jacuzzi, trampoline, chicken coop, and another garden that looks to be full of herbs, vegetables, and fruits. Great, this girl has a hot tub and he has a heated pool— what are the chances? Robin doesn’t say anything else to him, because once she spots June pulling weeds from the garden she goes to join her. She’s changed since they last saw her, her hair is free flowing now— a little damp but shiny, and she wears a knee length strapless blue dress. Casual, but pretty. Steve thinks she looks amazing, even with dirt all over her.

June notices them pretty quickly, and she beams up at the pair, the sun highlights the few dark golden streaks in her hair. “Robin! Steve, you made it!” She chirps as she rises to her feet, rubbing her hands on the skirt of her dress. Obviously she doesn’t care much about what’ll happen to it, and upon further inspection, there’s dirt and grass that stick to her knees and she appears to be barefoot. This chick is weird. Robin grins wide. “Gardening?” She asks. June purses her lips together in thought. “Mmm… maybe later.” She answers innocently. Steve’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why would we garden later?” He questions. Robin and June both exchange a gift before bursting into laughter, and it only confuses him further. “What’s so funny?” He asks again, frowning deeply. June shakes her head, still giggling as she presses her fingertips to her lips. It’s obvious he’s missing out on some inside joke, but he has no idea of what it could possibly be about. “Nothing. It’s alright, don’t worry about it.” She tells him. “Okay…” He says, unconvinced. Then he looks around her backyard again, and resists the urge to run a hand through his hair. He really can not afford to mess it up right now. Steve’s eyes land on the chicken coop again, and his lips quirk up into a smile. “You have chickens?” He asks curiously. June beams. “They were a gift for my sixteenth birthday. Randall and Cherry. Randall— she’s a bit crazy. She likes to eat the raspberries in the garden.” “You named a chicken Randall?” “My niece did.” She answers. “She likes the name Randall.” “Which one? Mary?” Robin chimes in. June shakes her head. “No, Julie.” “Oh, Julie? I love that kid— she’s got a mouth. Damn funny.” “Not really.” June frowns, her eyes briefly flickering up to meet Steve’s. She wants to make sure that he feels included too, she would hate for him to feel left out— that’s not nice at all. “She’s in preschool, and she told her teacher to… eff off.” She whispers what would be considered the swear word. June doesn’t like to cuss, and she tries her very best not to— darn it, shoot, crap, and fudge are all a part of her vocabulary rather than the latter. Steve finds it endearing though, and Robin finds Julie’s antics highly funny. She’s laughing so hard that her face has gone bright red.

June attempts to fix a scolding expression on her face, but she only looks shocked. “Robin! It’s really bad, it’s not funny.” She says. It is very funny in all honesty, a three year old girl telling her teacher to fuck off— what pissed her off so much to go that far? Probably something trivial. Robin’s still wheezing, holding her face in her hands as June’s words only added to her amusement about the whole thing. Steve glances down at June, placing his hands on his hips subconsciously. “Why did she say it?” He asks out of curiosity. June gives him a half smile. “Teacher said she had to put on her indoor shoes if she wanted to go to the gym. Julie didn’t want to because they didn’t match her outfit, so she told her… you know.” Steve grins. “Looks like you’ve got a little fashionista on your hands.” June exhales and her smile stretches into a proper one now, a pure look of relief on her face. What Julie did was not nice or polite at all— and she’s glad he’s not laughing like Robin still seems to be— the context of the situation brought out another fit in her. “She is. She’s never not in a dress and matching shoes.” She says. “Three and she already knows how to match her clothes? Is she some kind of genius? I couldn’t master that till I was fourteen.” Steve replies. At this, June takes the opportunity to look him up and down, and she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I can see that,” she muses. “You look good. But I prefer you in your sailors outfit.” Steve flushes deeply, taken by surprise from her statement about his stupid work uniform. Robin has stopped laughing too, and he’s sort of grateful that she’s not saying anything— maybe she just wants to watch and see what happens or she’s just as shocked as Steve. She’s the one who said that June wasn’t thinking like that. He rubs the back of his neck and chuckles nervously. “Oh that ol’ thing…” He trails off. Robin rolls her eyes at him. “Smooth, dingus.” She says before seizing June by the arm and leading her inside. This time, Robin’s actually right and Steve doesn't like that one bit. He sighs heavily, cursing at himself under his breath and he follows the pair into the house.