#imagine they have one wall of knives and one of mugs

[ridiasfangirlings]

Saruhiko collects knives, unfortunately, his daughter isn't old enough to touch them, she collects mugs instead.

Unfortunately she can’t hide multiple mugs in her clothes and throw them at people when in danger :P Imagine even when she’s little Fushimi’s daughter is pretty fascinated with his knives, they’re all so interesting and shiny. Maybe combine this with that earlier ask about him having a whole collection, Fushimi having things like a shark knife and a penguin knife and all other varieties makes the knives even more tempting, his daughter sees them more as toys to be played with. Fushimi doesn’t want her to cut herself so he tries to steer her towards something less dangerous, which at some point probably involves him unintentionally pushing a coffee mug towards her. The mug is a cute one Awashima bought him with an adorable bespectacled penguin on it and Fushimi’s daughter is now sufficiently distracted, she wants cute mugs. Of course this means space is a bit at a premium, imagine Yata or one of the S4 boys stopping at Fushimi’s place and there’s this wall of multi-colored mugs on one side and then the wall facing it is just entirely interesting types of knives. Fushimi can’t even deny her new mugs because all she has to do is point out that Daddy just convinced Uncle Reisi to buy him three new boxes of knives and Fushimi just sighs and gets her another mug.

[seastarblue]

Writemas Day Seven!

yay <3

the prompts for today

and the ones I picked were:

Stillness

Dead of night

a staircase as a setting

"If I were to die, would you try to save me? Or would you quicken my ending?"

He tried to speak, he really did, but no sound would come.

———

The night was still, as it always was these days, Though, despite the utter silence surrounding them, Noha’s mind whirled.

They supposed they shouldn’t have drank all that ale, or any ale at all, but at this point? They didn’t care. They stumbled down from the rooftop they found themself on, muscle memory overpowering their intoxication, and dropped onto one of Vespar’s many mountain staircases. Mossy stone greeted their hand as they steadied themself against the wall.

It was awfully late, and Noha was sure they’d get in a bit of trouble for sneaking off at night and getting drunk. They imagined they’d be in more trouble if they were found passed out in an alley. Despite that, they plopped into a sitting position, back against the wall. The others didn’t need Noha right this moment. They could wait.

Closing their eyes, they sighed. How did they, once a prized weapon of the Red Sun, become indentured into a suicide mission? How did they fall so low? Enough to start drowning their sorrows in booze? They’d left, done what they thought was the best thing for them. And it worked, sort of.

They had everything planned out. They’d work as a spy, or an assassin, or whatever. They’d get a decent amount of cash. Then, Noha could blow this godsdamned city and carve a okay living out for themself somewhere.

It would have been perfect, had he not shown up.

Noha’s ears picked up on something behind them, and they—sluggishly—pulled one of their many knives out of its sheath. Their eyes narrowed, as they tried to make out who dared sneak up on them. Between the alcohol, the dark, and their poor eyesight, they really hoped it wasn’t an enemy.

Once they heard his voice, saw his silhouette, they really hoped they had been found passed out.

“Oi,” he started, hands shoved in his pockets. “Where’ve you been?”

Noha stayed quiet, but they put the knife away. No need to commit murder now.

He crinkled his nose in disgust. Probably smelled the ale from there. “What, have you been drinking? This late? Ya knew we had stuff to do tomorrow, aye?”

“…like you didn’t start me on alcohol in the first place.” It was true. Noha never drank before they met him. The first night they did, they almost passed out. He kept giggling about it for days afterward.

“Aye, I did, didn’t I? Anyways,” he turned around, waving a hand behind him, “I’ll let the others know yer alright.” He almost seemed cordial, but Noha caught the muttered ‘unfortunately’ as he strolled away.

For whatever reason, Noha asked, “Aren’t you going to bring me back?” That’s what he did that night. He led Noha all the way back to their shabby little room and plopped them on the bed, safe and sound.

He stopped in his tracks. Without turning around, he remarked, “Now, why on the green fields would I do that? You’ll stab me. In the back, probably. Or have you gotten tired of that?”

“I could get mugged here.”

“And?”

“I might die.”

That gave him pause. His shoulders stiffened.

“If I were to die, would you save me?” What the stars were they even saying? Of course Harper wished them dead, any sane person would. So why… why did they dread the answer he would give? “Or…”

“Or?” His voice was quiet.

“Or would you quicken my end? Finish it off while I’m weak. The smart thing to do.” They cringed at their own words. They should sew their mouth shut. ‘Father always said I spoke too much. But then again, since when have I listened to him?’ They stood—or rather sat—their ground, eyes trained on the nape of his neck, right where his curly hair stopped. They knew there was a white patch of skin right above that point, closer to his eye. They touched it once.

Gods, they needed to shut up.

~~~ He tried to answer Noha. He really did, he tried his hardest to speak, but no sound would come. Why? All it would take was a lie or a truth, a yes or a no, and then he’d be on his merry way, back to his comfortable bed. So why was he silent?

He walked away without a word, leaving Noha behind. He knew they’d be alright.

But what he didn’t know was the answer to their question. Truth be told, he didn’t know what the truth even was.

———

General Writing List! Lemme know if you’d like on/off!

@bunnymermaidwrites @abiteofhoney @aalinaaaaaa @vesanal @cepheusgalaxy

@fifis-corner @urnumber1star @thebookishkiwi @sunflowerrosy @theink-stainedfolk

@threedaysgross @mundanemoongirl @satohqbanana @bamber344 @imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese

@ash-thedrawer @cc-writes-stuff @anothersummerofsleep @sharkblizzardblogs

@verdant-mainframe @kittrrrr @ruvastuon @agirlandherquill (<- the host!)

oughh not super proud of this but I GOT IT DONE RAAAAAH 🗣️‼️💥‼️💥🤺

[kentuckyfriedsatan]

🍁Midnight Secrets🍁

Not part of Kinktober, so completely sfw!

No warnings that I could think of, maybe a bit of anxiety because of a misunderstanding

Read it here or on Ao3!

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🍂๋࣭ 🦇⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Phantom has always been a bit wary of Mountain and Aether since being summoned. Sure, they’re kind, but their size and intensity can be… unsettling for someone new to the pack.

Lately, though, things have gotten even weirder. He keeps catching them whispering in hushed tones whenever he enters the room, and they’ve been sneaking off together during the evenings. It’s the looks they give him that are the worst. Whenever they see him, they exchange these knowing glances, like they’re hiding something.

One night, Phantom overhears part of their conversation and nearly jumps out of his skin when he catches Aether saying, “We’ll need something sharp for this. It has to be perfect.” Mountain rumbles in agreement: “Sharp is good. We don’t want it falling apart before we’re done.”

Phantom’s anxiety skyrockets. Sharp? Falling apart? His imagination runs wild-are they planning to do something to him? Are they going to ambush him? He remembers how Mountain’s massive hands could easily crush anything, but he can’t really imagine them being this sinister.

Over the next few days, Phantom can’t shake his suspicions. He keeps catching them making these cryptic comments like, “We’ll need to hide it,” or “It’s not good enough yet, but we’ll finish it soon.” And one day, he stumbles across Mountain’s bag left carelessly on a chair-inside, he sees long, pointed objects wrapped in yarn. Phantom’s eyes widen. Knives? Or worse? The growing dread in his chest is hard to ignore.

They’ve also started closing off one of the towers and locking the door whenever they sneak in there at night. Phantom knows something is up. He tries to convince himself he’s just overthinking it, maybe they’re working on a project? But every time they exchange those glances and drop vague hints about “hiding the evidence” and “covering their tracks,” he can’t help but feel like he’s the target.

Finally, after hearing them whisper about “midnight being the perfect time,” Phantom decides to take matters into his own hands. He’s going to follow them and see what they’re really up to.

That night Phantom quietly follows them up to the old tower. His heart pounds in his chest as he creeps closer to the door. He can hear muffled voices inside, along with soft music and the occasional clatter of… something. Are they sharpening weapons? He swallows hard and presses his ear to the door, catching snippets of their conversation.

“I hope this doesn’t make him uncomfortable,” Aether says softly.

“Yeah,” Mountain replies, his deep voice rumbling through the walls. “It’s going to be a bit snug, but I think he’ll like it once he gets used to it.”

Phantom’s pulse races. Snug? What are they planning to trap him in?!

Gathering his courage, he pushes the door open, ready to confront them. But what he finds is far from the dark ritual or sinister plot he’d imagined.

Inside the tower, Mountain and Aether are seated comfortably by a large, crackling fireplace. They’re surrounded by colorful yarn, knitting needles, and a half-finished sweater lying across Mountain’s lap. The music playing is soft and soothing, casting a warm, peaceful atmosphere over the room. Two mugs of tea seem to have been abandoned on a little table.

Phantom blinks, completely stunned. Mountain is clumsily but carefully knitting what looks like a sweater, his massive hands awkwardly holding the delicate needles. Aether, more practiced, is working on a detailed design-a bat in the center of the otherwise purple sweater.

They both look up at him, startled.

“Phantom?” Mountain says, his eyes wide with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I—uh…” Phantom stammers, completely thrown off by the sight. “I thought… you were… plotting something?”

Aether chuckles, shaking his head. “Plotting to finish this sweater before it gets too cold outside, maybe.”

Phantom stares, speechless, as Mountain holds up the nearly completed sweater.

“We’ve been working on this for you,” Mountain says with a small grin. “A little welcome gift. We noticed you like bats.”

Phantom feels a mixture of confusion and embarrassment well up inside him.

“Wait… this is what you’ve been whispering about? Knitting?”

Aether nods. “We didn’t want you to find out too soon, so we kept sneaking off to work on it in secret. We thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

Phantom flushes, a wave of relief and amusement washing over him.

“So when you said it needed to be sharp and not fall apart…”

Mountains laugh is rich and deep.

“We were talking about the knitting needles and making sure the seams held together. Knitting can be a bit tricky for big hands.”

Phantom finally starts to relax, realizing how absurd his suspicions had been. The warm glow from the fireplace fills the room with a golden light, casting flickering shadows on the walls as the soft sound of knitting needles clinks in the background. Mountain hands him the nearly finished sweater, and Phantom runs his fingers over the soft material, a smile tugging at his lips.

“You made this… for me?” Phantom asks to confirm, his voice soft.

“We wanted you to feel like part of the group,” Mountain explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s getting colder, and we figured you’d need something warm. And the bat’s because, well… we know you love them.”

His heart swells, they noticed what he likes, and they remembered.

And for the rest of the night, Phantom sits with his pack mates, learning how to knit by the light of the fire as the autumn wind whispers outside. The nervous tension he’d carried for days melts away, replaced with a deep sense of belonging and peace.

The sweater wasn’t just a sweater. It was a gesture of acceptance. It meant he isn’t just the new guy anymore. He is part of the pack.

[lilacliquors]

pairing: diego hargreeves x reader

word count: 1155

notes: on the fifth day of ficmas, lilacliquors gave to me ... making hot cocoa for diego hargreeves!

content warnings for: mentions of blood, knives, and violence ( doesn't sound christmas-y but i promise it makes sense )

it was hard, being a vigilante. for diego, it was a thankless job, but then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he stuck around long enough to maybe hear a thank you. he was a lone wolf, with the last person he dared to get close to ending up dead in a motel room, and the guilt ate him alive. maybe that was why he was in and out as fast as he was. it was too much of a risk, especially if he had the cops called on him again.

but one cold winter night, something felt different. it was the holidays, and around this time, crime always seemed to pick up. there had been a break in nearby, and as far as he knew, the authorities hadn’t been alerted. and that wasn’t a good sign. so, donning his mask and knives, he hurried to the scene of the crime. it was in a town house complex, full of single family units. the usual targets for these late night crimes. he crept over to the home and peered in through the smashed window, but he didn’t see much. before he pulled away, however, there was a muffled scream, and the sound of more glass smashing. without a second thought, diego climbed through the broken window and landed on the ground, wincing as a few shards of glass pricked at his skin. but there was no time to waste. 

he was silent as he inched up the stairs, and he could hear stifled cries coming from behind a shut bedroom door. faint pleas could be heard on the other side, and he gripped the hilt of one of his knives tightly. he had to come up with a plan, and fast. simply opening the door could get the hostage killed, so he would have to lure the burglars out into the hall. he slipped into the hall bathroom and whistled, a sharp, high pitched sound, and then it was quiet. aside from the creaking of the shut bedroom door.

“who the fuck?” a gruff voice asked, but diego remained silent

“seeing anything?” a second person asked.

“nah, think our host is just trying to play some games with us. and i’m not the playful type,” the first man said. they both chuckled, but then, there was a whipping sound in the air, and the first man barely had time to register what had happened before he dropped to the ground, blood spilling from his neck.

“what the fuck?!” the second man yelled, and he looked to the wall to see a single knife sticking out of it. then, he felt a sharp piercing feeling in his chest, and he dropped. the blade of a second knife was lodged in his chest, right where his heart was. both men were lifeless on the ground, and inside the bedroom, you were terrified.

you could only stare at the bodies, watching as the blood stained the carpeting in the hall, and you didn’t move. you only looked up when you saw your savior in the hall, the mask obscuring the area around his eyes. he looked at you, and decided to leave the knives where they were. they would prove your innocence when you called the police, and that was the most he could offer at that moment. he turned to leave, but then you were on your feet, moving on autopilot.

“wait!” you called, and he paused. no one ever asked him to wait.

“yeah? what is it?” he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“you … you saved my life,” you said softly, carefully stepping over the bodies and blood to meet him in the hall.

“just doing my job,” he replied with a shrug.

“well, i … thank you,” you whispered, tugging at the ends of your sleeves. “i don’t want to imagine what they would have taken from me if you hadn’t been here. i … here, come with me.”

you motioned for him to follow you, and to his surprise, you led him down into the kitchen. he was cautious, but watched as you took two mugs down from the cupboard, then grabbed cocoa powder, milk, whipped cream, and a larger pot from around your kitchen.

“uh … what are you doing?” he asked, his head tilting slightly.

“i, well, it’s gonna sound silly but i — it’s cold out, and i know you have to go back out there, so … i thought i’d make you a mug of hot cocoa before i have to … take care of everything,” you said, and you felt your face warm up. 

diego was taken aback. no one had ever really thanked him before, let alone offered to make him something. he was never encouraged to stay long. most of the time, people didn’t want his help anyways.

“oh, that’s … that’s really nice. thank you,” he replied, and you nodded. quietly, you set to work making the drinks. you added milk to the pot and let it boil, then added the cocoa powder to it. you mixed it for a bit, then turned off the heat and gently poured it into the mugs. you added whipped cream, then handed him one of the mugs with a small smile.

“hope you like it,” you said quietly, then sipped at your own. he did the same, and it was unlike anything he had ever tasted before. this whole moment was unlike anything he had ever experience before. this was what it felt like to be … appreciated. it was quiet as you both enjoyed your drinks, and then, in the distance, you could hear sirens.

“shit,” he mumbled, setting his now empty mug down. “i need to go.”

“guess the neighbors called someone. better late than never. but really, thank you. thank you so much. if you hadn’t gotten here when you did —”

“good thing you don’t need to worry about that. it was … nice meeting you. i’m … i’m diego,” he said, the words out of his mouth faster than he could stop them.

“diego. it’s nice to meet you. i’m —”

the sirens were getting louder, cutting you off, and you looked at him with an apologetic gaze. you were quick to snatch his mug and wash it, then set it back in the cupboard, trying to erase any sign of him being there.

“will i see you again?” you asked, watching out the window as flashing lights began to brighten your kitchen.

“i’d like to. and, uh, i know your address …” he mumbled, and you chuckled.

“you sure do. now go, before they catch you here!”

diego nodded and headed for the back door, glancing at you as he felt a smile on his lips. you … you were someone special. and he wanted to see you again. and your kindness, and hot cocoa, kept him warm the whole way home.

[swimmingcleaner]

The Wonders of Iodophor: Cleaning with a Dash of Science

If you're in the world of cleaning and sanitization (and who isn't these days?), chances are that you have come across something small but powerful called iodophor. Now, before you start scratching your head, wondering if this is the name of some mystical potion or a futuristic robot, let me assure you: iodophor is an unsung hero of cleanliness. So, grab your favorite mug (sanitized, of course), pour some coffee, and let's dive into the bubbly, foamy world of iodophors. Trust me, it's more fun than it sounds!

What Is Iodophor Anyway?

Think of iodophor as the sophisticated, socially acceptable cousin of iodine. A combination of iodine and surfactant (that is, a detergent-like substance), it does miracles to sanitize and disinfect surfaces. Unlike pure iodine, which can be too intense, iodophor is less irritating and more delicate on surfaces while remaining strong in its attack on bacteria, viruses, and fungi.

Iodophors are used in everything from food processing plants to breweries, and even veterinary clinics. Why? Because they are the perfect blend of efficiency and safety. And, they can be used in various concentrations for different purposes. They are like the Swiss Army knives of sanitation.

The Science Behind the Magic

Now, don’t glaze over just yet; we’re going to keep this simple! Iodophors work by releasing free iodine, which loves to mess with microorganisms’ cell walls. Imagine iodine as a tiny wrecking ball—it breaks down these pesky invaders, leaving your surfaces squeaky clean. And the best part? Iodophor is stabilized with a surfactant, meaning it’s both effective and user-friendly.

Bonus points: it's also an acidifier! That just means it lowers the pH level, making it an unlivable environment for almost all bacteria. It gives germs a one-way ticket to Nope-ville.

Applications of Iodophor: Where It Shines?

Food and Beverage Industry

Iodophor is a superstar in breweries and dairies. Cleaning tanks, pipes, and other equipment is easy with this solution. Brewers love it because it does not leave behind any funky aftertaste. Imagine sipping your favorite craft beer and tasting cleaning chemicals—no thanks!

Healthcare and Veterinary Clinics

Iodophor is the champ when it comes to cleaning medical and veterinary tools. It's used for pre-surgical scrubs and hand sanitizers, ensuring that everyone is always safe and sterile.

Home Brewing and Fumigation

Yes, homebrewers, iodophor has your back too! It's perfect for cleaning bottles and fermenters, ensuring no unwanted guests (read: bacteria) crash your brew party. And while iodophor isn't a direct fumigation agent, its disinfecting prowess can complement your fumigation efforts. Think of it as the dynamic duo of clean.

How to Use Iodophor Like a Pro

It's as easy as making instant noodles, except you won't be eating it (please don't). Here are the simple steps:

Dilution: Mix iodophor with water. The usual ratio is about 1 ounce of iodophor to 5 gallons of water. (Pro tip: Read the label for specifics.)

Application: Apply the solution to the surface you want to clean. This could be equipment, floors, or countertops.

Wait: Let it sit for a few minutes to do its magic. In most cases, 60 seconds is enough to kill the nasties.

Rinse or Not: Depending on what you are cleaning, you may not even need to rinse it off. Always check the instructions.

The Pros and Cons of Iodophor

Pros:

Effective against a broad spectrum of microorganisms.

Gentle on most surfaces and non-corrosive.

Doesn't leave behind harmful residues.

Affordable and easy to use.

Cons:

Can stain porous materials (hello, iodine's trademark yellow-brown hue!).

Requires proper storage and handling to maintain its effectiveness.

A Funny (But True) Note on Iodophor

If iodophor were a superhero, it'd wear a cape and carry a mop. It's not flashy, it doesn't have a catchphrase, but boy, does it get the job done. Just imagine bacteria and viruses looking at iodophor and going, "Not this guy again!"

Conclusion: Iodophor—Your Cleaning BFF

In a world of cleaning solutions, iodophor stands out as the reliable, hard-working friend we all need. It is tough on germs, easy to use, and versatile enough for everything from acidifiers to fumigation support. So, whether you're sanitizing brewing equipment, medical tools, or just looking for a solid disinfectant, iodophor is a top-of-the-line choice.

Next time you’re knee-deep in cleaning tasks, remember iodophor—the little solution that could. And if you’ve read this far, congratulations! You’re officially an iodophor aficionado. Now go forth and clean with confidence—and maybe a little sass!

[alfredosauce50]

The anatomy of the obsessed artist [2p! Italy x reader]

Synopsis: You have the golden opportunity to display your art at a newly opened gallery. Nobody stops to look at your work until an eccentric connoisseur praises it, even asking you if he can buy it. Touched and fascinated by his personality, you agree to meet him over coffee. Now that he’s no stranger, he keeps inviting you over to his lavish estate until he realizes it’s not the art he’s so obsessed with. It’s the artist. Wordcount: 3, 686 The reader is referred to as she/her. “Nihilism represented a crude form of positivism and materialism, a revolt against the established social order; it negated all authority exercised by the state, by the church, or by the family.” - Encyclopedia of Britannica

“It's hideous.” He murmured, his eyes narrowed with contempt. They were a hot magenta hue, quick-moving and critical of everything they fixed on. How much he wished to say he was standing back to admire a masterpiece. Tossing his paintbrush into the kitchen sink with a sigh, he sauntered to the couch and plummeted down on it.

A loud clang was heard, but it never fazed his companion, who barely dodged the trajectory of the brush. “Oh, really?” They snorted. “It looks the same as every other painting you've done.”

He whipped his head to him and glared.

“Like you'd have an eye for these things, Lutz.”

Said man gave a shrug. This was probably the hundredth time they had this conversation, so he could practically predict what Luciano was about to say—and how he would wind up listening unwillingly to his passionate spiels.

“Just listen to me speak for once.”

Lutz scoffed and poured himself a hot cup of coffee. “Here we go again...” He grumbled with a distinct droop to his features.

Rolling his head back to the pristine, white ceiling, Luciano threw his hands up in emphasis. “It's the only damn thing that gives this room some color. I need to do better, Lutz. Otherwise, I'll tear this whole place down!” Even then, his animated movements were minuscule compared to the tall walls that surrounded him.

The other sipped on his mug. “If you're so stuck—” He smacked his lips. “—how about going to the new art gallery downtown? Anything to get you to shut up.” Lutz grinned at that, half-expecting him to launch a few throwing knives his way. But he never did. Instead, he jumped up and extended an index to point at him accusingly.

“You think you're so smart, huh, cazzo? Well, I might just go. Just to prove you wrong.” Grabbing his coat hanging over the couch, he threw it on and marched downstairs. As the echoes of his footsteps faded, he gave one final reckoning. “You can't rush art, dumbass! I'll turn the place upside down, and I still won't find anything worth my time.”

The volume of his thoughts had never been so loud. It was the only thing he heard in this quiet institution during its downtime. Nobody was around, save for him, but that allowed him to ramble to himself--whatever he was staring at, it was everything he had been looking for.

“This was definitely worth my time.” He muttered with a pistol grip on his chin. As he scanned over the canvas to take in the brushstrokes, he shook his head. “I hate to think he said something smart for once.” They were so violent, yet so gentle. A unique balance of nihilism and faith. Reaching up to his dark maroon hair, he dug through it and laughed in awe. “This is magnificent. Bellisima!”

“I hope you mean what you say, sir. That means a lot to me.” He turned to the voice ended up gawking at a woman. As he processed the words, he was at a loss for his own.

“Oddio--you don't mean you painted this, do you, signorina?”

She nodded coyly, much to his delight.

“Mhm. The name on the label is mine.”

At the sound of that, he gleamed and took both her hands into his own. “How much?”

She blinked, unsure of whether she heard him correctly. Was he offering to buy her work? “Sorry?”

“How much do you want for your painting? I'll pay you handsomely. One grand. Ten grand. However much you desire! I just need this in my living room. Whatever you ask for, it's a done deal!”

In your short career, you never imagined capturing someone's attention so passionately with your work. Your initial impression of the man was a rich art collector of some kind--an eccentric enthusiast--and not a connoisseur by any means. He even dressed the part, having adorned himself in a loose, silky blouse with a coat tied around his waist. His fashion was flashy and exuded confidence, though nothing else could have suited his personality.

As you talked to him over a coffee, however, it became clear to you he was much more than that.

“I've never seen somebody use color like that! You must've done lots of practice to get that good, eh?” He mused, watching you light up at his praise. There was no denying the sincerity in his voice, so you couldn't help being drawn to him and his zeal. “I'll be honest with you, bella. I'm not letting you run off before we settle on something.”

He could tell from the way you leaned in so subtly, never once breaking your eye contact as you listened to him. And knowing this did wonders--he slowly found himself drawn to you.

“Thank you, Luciano. I'm really flattered, but I can't just sell it to you. It's part of the gallery now.” You smiled gently, curling your fingers around the cup handle. Even as you sipped on your beverage, your gaze on him never faltered. And before you could catch any disappointment on his part, you waved your hands at him.

“I don't mean anything by it, honestly. I'm glad that you understand what I'm trying to say--like, you could've interpreted it completely differently. I wouldn't be able to stop you, either. But the fact that you didn't...” He followed you attentively with those sharp and mysterious orbs, but you were strangely comfortable under his scrutiny.

“Maybe we have similar minds.”

The man had been studying you as you spoke. While he did, this one, singular thought occurred to him. There was nothing in the world he loved more in the world than being heard.

“Hearing you talk is the same as being listened to,” Luciano admitted with a small laugh. Deep inside, he knew Lutz always listened. Unwillingly, that was. But being heard and understood was another story. “You take the words right out of my mouth, bella. I don't know how you do it, but you have to stop reading my mind. It's invasive.” He darted his eyes over your expression that morphed into dumbfoundedness--which served as a prelude for embarrassment.

So he couldn't help but smile flirtatiously. “Take me out to dinner first. Only then will I let you finish my sentences.”

You furrowed your brows together, but his smile was far too contagious to be staved off. The end result was an endearingly stupid face that was a cross between a frown and a grin. “Does lunch count then, you impossible little man? I mean, it's around noon.”

He shook his head, amused. Luciano expected you to pull away, but it seemed like he bit off more than he could chew. You were a handful. He was never a fan of handfuls or really anything that required his energy, but he'd be damned if this was the last time he saw you.

“But seriously, (F/N). I need your paintings. And it doesn't have to be something you've already painted.” Standing up at that, he neared your side lowered himself to your level. He settled a hand on your shoulder, much to your surprise. But you never tried to pull away. “I want you to paint for me at my place. I'll do whatever it takes. I'll drink my weight in this mediocre coffee if I have to.”

With his intoxicating personality, all he needed was a few more espressos to do the convincing.

“I can tell from your taste that you're pretty nihilistic.” You commented with a hint of disbelief. “But this is just crazy! What do you even do for a living?” All the expensive decor and extravagance of his stupidly large mansion must have costed a fortune! Lifting your head to take in the sheer size and height of his living room, you then shot him an incredulous look. “Well? I'm curious.”

Luciano leaned against the couch and folded his arms. “Oh, you don't want to know, trust me.” He grinned devilishly.

“What, are you in the mafia or something?” You joked.

He craned his head from right to left.

“Eh. Something like that.”

You blinked, not expecting him to be so frank. Then, you laughed sheepishly, suddenly feeling as if you've walked right into a trap. “... Are you serious?” The man sensed your uneasiness and walked over promptly. Before you could react, he held your arm, but it was much too gentle to stir any panic.

“Don't worry. Nobody would go after an artist I hired.” He leaned in to keep you hostage to his piercing eyes. The close proximity only heightened the tension you didn't know existed. What he said next, however, would have you blushing like a bride. “To have a target on your head means you're a liability. So unless we were an item--”

He smiled contently at the sight of your reddening cheeks. “--nothing will happen.”

Fortunately, your mortification was short-lived as you remembered your circumstances. Giving him a light shove, you walked off to his hallway. While your back was turned to him, he bit back a sharp grin, but to no avail. Man, were you feisty.

“Stop being such a womanizer and show me your studio, Luciano.” You mused, pausing in the doorway to glance at him over your shoulder. Was that playfulness he saw in your eyes?

“It isn't very professional.”

He hung his head and threw his hands up. Being scolded and ordered around was his worst pet peeve. But when you did it, he was only more compelled to misbehave.

“Mi dispiace. But I was only kidding. If I was part of the mob, my windows wouldn't be this big. Nor this abundant.” Making his way to your side, he walked with you to the said studio.

“And Luciano is a bit of a mouthful, no? You call me Luci.”

Unbeknownst to the two of you, someone else had entered the kitchen to pour themselves a drink. And boy, were they in for a show.

“You got it, boss. You call the shots.” A voice spoke in a gravely-exaggerated mobster accent.

“You're milking it...”

“I'm just joking, Luci. Let me have this moment.”

“Fine. Maybe I should've kept pretending. That'll get you to be a little more obedient.”

“And where's the fun in that?”

“Hmph.”

Lutz narrowed his eyes once the voices faded into silence. And he thought he hated being called Luci.

A mischievous smirk plastered across his face.

“Looks like somebody's found their inspiration.”

A few hours later, he appeared in the studio with a canned beer in hand. Even in such a lavish estate, no form of entertainment could beat pestering an old friend. Waltzing inside like he owned the place, he grinned toothily at what he saw. You and Luciano were busy working on a painting. But rather than using brushes, you both used your fingers.

“Hey.”

Luciano glanced at him and immediately felt the beginnings of anger simmer inside. “What do you want?”

Lutz laughed breathily. “Heh. No knives today?”

“If you don't get out, there will be!” The other whisper-shouted.

You stopped painting and turned to the newcomer with nothing short of curiosity. “... Hi. Are you Luci's henchman?” The joke was probably long dead, but you couldn't resist. Not when the stranger was built on six feet of pure muscle. “Nice to meet you.”

So this was the mysterious artist who managed to tame the bastard, huh? Lutz flattened his lips thoughtfully. “... In a way.”

“No, he's not. Now, get out. Your presence is ruining the mood... And killing my brain cells.” At the sound of that, you exploded into a burst of hearty laughter. Seeing Luciano push him out and leave colorful handprints on his tank only intensified those laughs. Once he managed to get his henchman out of the room, he whipped his head to you with a flustered glare.

“What's so funny?” He frowned. For one, he was rather taken aback at how he wasn't annoyed at you. At all. If someone like Lutz pushed their luck by teasing him, there would be more than one scar marring that punchable face of his.

“Nothing, nothing. I just thought... Maybe we could ask for his top and sell it. That was definitely a masterpiece.” You sighed, catching him off guard yet again. “It's the best work you've done today...”

The blush on his face deepened. A comment like that should've ticked him off, but he only found himself thoroughly infatuated. But that was preposterous! He was only letting this slide because you weren't that German bastard of a bum. That had to be it. But no matter what you did, he didn't have a single mean bone in his body for you. And he was about to test that theory.

“If you thought that was a masterpiece, I'll make you some more.” Marching over and undoing your apron, he wiped his fingers all over your once crisp white shirt. Looking down with a gasp, you weren't prepared for him to clap your cheeks and leave two brown handprints.

“You bitch!”

In his whole life surrounded by the worst potty-mouths, himself included, he'd never heard somebody cuss with so much sincerity. So the most logical reaction was to return the favor, if not be a little annoyed. But even as you ruined his blouse, which happened to be more expensive than everything in the room, he was cackling hysterically.

By the time you both calmed down, he had settled his chin atop your head and wrapped two arms around your neck. The paint on his face was drying up, but he was in no hurry to wash it off. Giving you a squeeze, he leaned down and pressed his cheek to yours. “You're coming tomorrow, aren't you?”

“Mhm.”

“And the day after that?”

“I don't see why not.”

“Then what about the day after that?”

You faced him and pinched his cheek affectionately, but he never complained. “If I was, what's the point of leaving, hm? I have something on that day, but I'll update you.”

Standing up at that, you felt his arms slide off of your shoulders. Luciano pulled away reluctantly, and as you left his studio, he found himself trailing after you against his own will. As quiet as he was, inside, he was tearing himself apart, torn between asking you to stay in the guest room and driving you home. But in the end, he got in the car.

Once he arrived outside your house, his body acted out unexpectedly when he shot his hand out to grab yours. The sudden contact startled you, though you could only gleam at his paint-smeared face that stifled back a thousand words. “What, do you miss me that much already?” You chuckled, much to his pleasure.

“You're just missing me too less.” He closed his eyes for a satisfied look. When he opened them again, he added this. “I'll pick you up here. Same spot. 9 am. If you don't show up in five minutes, I'll break inside and pull you out of bed.” Only then did he let you go.

“You got it, boss.”

With that said, you waved at him and made your way inside. Once the door clicked shut, he returned his gaze to the dashboard and shook his head with a defeated smile. “Oh my god.”

When he climbed the flight of stairs to appear next to the kitchen, the hiss of an espresso machine was heard. Rolling his head to it absently, he dropped his keys on the island and dug his hands through his sticky hair. Without addressing the blonde, who took an obvious interest in his disheveled appearance, he sauntered to the couch and flopped down on it.

“... Luciano.”

“What do you want?” He muffled his voice into the cushion.

Lutz walked over with a mug in hand and sipped it. Pointing to his own face, he swirled his index in circles. “You have a little something there.” When the other rolled his head to him, so did their colorful face.

The next two days saw steady progress in the project he paid you to do. While the painting moved closer to completion, he cared less and less about the finished product. At the same time, his eagerness for you to come grew exponentially. He could never admit it, but that didn't mean Lutz couldn't see right through him.

A single glance at him working in the studio was more than enough to deduce the conclusion that he was hopelessly head over heels for you. For one, it wasn't right to say he was even working anymore. Instead, he was staring at you, and sometimes, for twenty minutes or more if you were particularly immersed in your art.

This was only confirmed in due time.

Trotting downstairs to the cellar, he discovered that over ten bottles of wine had disappeared. And the culprit promptly made an appearance when he returned to the living room. Luciano was holding an empty bottle when they bumped into each other, the contact on his shoulder causing him to drop it. When it shattered on the marble floor, so did his patience.

“What the fu--watch where you're going, you fucking idiot!” He hissed, giving the other a strong shove back.

Beer fizzed out of the can and splashed onto his white tank. Lutz couldn't care less about ruining his clothes, but wasting beer? He pulled back with a growl. “I could say the same for you. I'm not the stumbling drunk here cuz' I can actually hold my weight.”

Luciano rolled his eyes and inhaled a deep breath.

“You know what, just leave me alone.” He huffed, kicking the shards on the ground. Once he scattered the glass all over the hall, he stormed off to his studio. Letting out a frustrated string of colorful words, he tore through more canvases than he cared to count. Punching a hole in one, then using another as target practice, half of the artwork was completely destroyed by the time Lutz showed up.

“I don't get it! Why am I so angry? Why can't I paint something like this?” Luciano exasperated, gesturing forcefully to the painting you were working on. Then, he marched up to the man and gripped the front of his tank. “Am I just that shit? But that can't be!”

At this point, Lutz was done with arguing.

“... You know what I'm about to say.”

Luciano threw his hands up as they chorused the same line simultaneously. “It looks the same as every other painting you've done--yeah, I know! I didn't really expect you to give me any useful advice. I just wanted you to listen to me.”

“Don't I always listen to you?”

“No--”

“Wasn't it me who suggested for you to go to that art gallery?”

“Yeah, but it's not like--it's not like you knew she was gonna show up! (F/N) being there only happened once in a blue moon. You were just lucky, so don't think you're a genius or anything, ha!”

Lutz scoffed, but his unimpressed expression quickly morphed into a shrewd one. “Accept it, liebling. You're down bad. Down astronomically. Just invite her over, and when she comes, you'll know what I mean. It's not the paintings you're making a fuss over.” He watched Luciano's hair spike up like a cat, then him light up like a Christmas tree. That little man was many things, but an honest person was not one of them.

“You think you're so smart, huh, cazzo?” Luciano pointed at him accusingly. “Well, I might just do it. Just to prove you wrong.”

When he left, Lutz clicked his tongue with raised brows.

“That's what you said last time...”

And invite you over he did. When he spotted a silhouette on the other side of the blurry glass, he sprung up from the couch and swung open the door with great gusto. There you were, as effortlessly charming as he remembered, and a little startled. You never had the chance to knock, nor process his scruffy appearance.

“Luci--hey! You look... A little more tired than I remember.”

Without a shred of hesitation, he grabbed your hand and pulled you to his bedroom. Yet again, his body was acting against his will, but perhaps, this was what he wanted in the first place. He just never admitted it. As he slowly came to terms with it, his eyes widened to dinner plates, and his heart pounded obnoxiously in his chest.

“Hey, what're you--”

He pointed wordlessly to the bed.

You shook your head, unable to figure out what he meant. “What do you want me to do?”

Luciano glowered at you, but it served as a stark contrast to the softness in his voice. “I'll pay you. As much as you want. Just stay there.” Seeing that you had yet to go along with his requests, he marched over to you and laid you down. Before you could object, he threw the blanket over you and tucked you in.

Sliding himself in from the other side, he scooted in and coiled his arms around your stomach. “Now, sleep.”

Breathing out a soft sigh, you rolled to him and brushed his mussy bangs back. “For someone so straightforward, you're not very honest, are you?” Sitting up to unzip your jacket, you proceeded to take your shirt off. When you stripped down, blood rushed to flush his cheeks as he came to realize he was completely love-struck.

“... Holy shit.”

Climbing onto his lap, you laughed over his lips and squeezed his neck. “You're really bad at hiding things. But like you said, I can read your mind.”

Luciano knitted his brows together. Then, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your mouth. “And it's very invasive. Please stop it.”

“Only if you promise to pay me in the morning.”

“... You're not a prostitute.”

“Oh, but you are one too. We're all whores, if you think about it. We just sell different parts of ourselves.”

“Go to sleep, idiota.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

[iam93percentstardust]

Prompt: Stony, animal transformation

I realized about halfway through writing this that you probably meant a spell or something but I wrote shifters instead and I really liked what I had so I kept going. Sorry it’s a lot crackier than you were probably expecting; you can blame @maguna-stxrk for that

As always, everything I write is also available on ao3

~

“No.”

The first time Tony met Steve Rogers, he was both delighted and irritated. Delighted because hey! Captain America is another cat shifter! And that means that Howard was wrong and Tony is, in fact, like Captain America (in some ways at least; in others, that remains to be proven).

“I won’t do it.”

And irritated because Captain America is another cat shifter.

“You can’t make me.”

Tony knows that there are cat shifters out there who are perfectly friendly and like being around other cats. He is not one of them. There are multiple reasons why he and Steve clashed on the helicarrier and only one of them is Loki’s staff. Tony’s breed is highly territorial and everything in his tower is his and he doesn’t want another cat in there rubbing up against his stuff. But there Fury is, insisting that the entire team move into the tower.

“I don’t want them there,” Tony says flatly. That’s not entirely true. He doesn’t really want any of them there but he’s willing to put up with them. The only one he really truly genuinely doesn’t want there is Steve.

It’s probably a good thing none of the rest of the team is here to hear him complaining about them. But, well, they should know better than to expect friendliness out of him. He’s not friendly. He’s majestic and aloof and not in the mood to have anyone else around to see him when he’s not being majestic and aloof.

Fury eyes him. Tony doesn’t know what kind of shifter he is—he keeps that kind of paperwork on actual paper, ew—but he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s something sneaky and devious like Fury himself (probably a snake. Tony hates snakes).

“Stark, the ways I could make you do what I want—”

“—are all against the Geneva Convention,” Tony finishes smoothly. In his reflection on the table, he realizes that the tuft of hair behind his ear isn’t lying flat. He licks the back of his hand and reaches up to smooth the hairs back down.

“Stark.”

“Fury.”

“We are running out of options—”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

“—for Clint.”

Tony shuts up. Sighs. Glances through the window of the conference room where he can see Clint leaning against the wall, stuck in partial shift since Loki and the invasion. His golden tail is tucked between his legs, his ears are drooped, and he flinches like a kicked puppy (not an inaccurate description) every time someone walks by.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“People don’t want him on the helicarrier,” Fury says. “He makes them nervous. His pack bonds were broken when Loki took him, and with Coulson—well.”

Yeah, that. Dog shifters like Clint rely on pack bonds, even those formed between non-dogs. Tony’s always been more of a loner so he can’t really imagine what Clint is going through but judging by the way Clint looks, he can guess it isn’t easy.

“They’ve all been briefed on what it’s like living with a cat, even Rogers, and they know about your idiosyncrasies in particular.”

And that’s the crux of the matter. “I don’t want him there,” Tony says quietly.

“He’s not the same breed—”

“But he’s got the same instincts!” He sighs frustratedly and almost runs his hand through his hair before he realizes how much that’ll mess up his hairstyle. His tail lashes agitatedly behind him, instincts urging him to claw, to bite, to protect his home from the invader. “Why can’t it just be Clint?”

“Because where Clint goes, Natasha goes. Besides, Clint needs the pack bonds, which means he needs the whole team.”

Tony hisses, crosses his arms, pouts. “Fine,” he says eventually. “But I don’t like it.”

And then, before Fury can feel too smug in his victory, he keeps aggressive eye contact and knocks Fury’s water glass off the table, darting away before he can hear more than the bellow of rage.

 ~

“I don’t want you here,” Tony says, ears laced back irritably. It’s the first time he’s come across Steve in the tower so far and of course the man (well, actually he’s shifted into his cat form right now) is lying in Tony’s favorite sunbeam. The nerve of some people.

The single eye that Tony can see slits open and stares at him for a long moment. In the next moment, a ripple comes over the cat and then Steve has partially shifted back, stretching lazily as he yawns. “Okay, Tony,” he agrees.

“You’re in my sunbeam.”

“Okay, Tony.”

“I want you out of it.”

“But it’s such a nice sunbeam.”

“It’s mine.”

“We could share it.”

Tony lets out an offended yowl. They can’t share it. That would defeat the purpose of it being his. Steve stares at him for a long moment and then stretches again, muscles rippling in interesting ways that make Tony want to knead them for—no. No kneading. No accepting the interloper.

“Come on, Tony. It’s sunny and I want to nap. We can share the sunbeam,” Steve says around another yawn before flopping over onto his side, still mostly human. Tony wants to bite his tail. But… he does want a nap. And this is favorite sunbeam. And he shouldn’t have to find another one since there’s no way Steve will be leaving this one (sadly Tony has not yet figured out the right strength the armor needs to move him).

He carefully lays down, putting several inches of space between him and Steve. Almost immediately, he can feel the effects of the warm sun on him, pulling him under into a light doze. It’s not enough to fall asleep entirely, not when he can still feel Steve at his front but then Steve starts to purr and oh, that’s kind of nice. He hesitantly lets out an answering purr of his own. Steve’s rumble grows louder and almost without meaning to, Tony finds his hands kneading the ground contentedly.

~

But that won’t stand. It can’t stand. He conceded ground on the sunbeam because it and Steve were warm and that was clearly a mistake because now Steve is standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee from Tony’s favorite coffeepot out of Tony’s favorite mug as he talks to Natasha.

And this injustice cannot stand!

“Mine,” he hisses, fingers shifting into extended claws, ready to tear into Steve for daring to drink from what clearly belongs to Tony.

At his hiss, Natasha’s skin ripples until she’s scaly and blending in with the cabinets. Smart of her to stay out of his way. Few things are worse than a territorial cat and even someone as lethal as Natasha would hesitate to face him when he’s like this, even though Steve gives her an amused look and says, “Really?”

Steve takes another sip out of the mug. Tony’s hiss turns into a full-throated growl. “Tony, you have to learn to share.”

“No.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Mine.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Steve doesn’t sound very impressed. Or even particularly intimidated, damn it.

“It’s my mug, it’s my favorite mug, you have to give it back,” Tony says, eyes tracking the mug as Steve lifts it to his lips again—wow, they looked kind of pink and pretty in the morning—no, focus. “Give it.”

“Alright,” Steve says agreeably and holds the mug out. “Here you go.”

Tony’s tail lashes and he hisses again. “You know I don’t like to be handed things.”

“Oh right,” Steve says, sounding remarkably unconcerned. “Too bad then. Guess you’re not getting your mug back.” He takes another sip from the mug—Tony’s mug.

“No,” Tony whines, drawing the word out so that it has at least eight additional syllables. He flops over onto the kitchen table, rolling around mostly so that he’s treating this situation with the hysteria it deserves but also so that he can scent mark the table, which currently smells of the rest of the team and not like him.

“Tony, stop being overdramatic,” Natasha orders, apparently deciding that she doesn’t need to blend in with the background anymore. “Steve, stop being a shit and give him back his mug.”

“No,” they both say petulantly.

She pulls out one of the many, many knives she keeps on her person. Tony hurriedly rolls off the table. Steve quickly puts the mug down and pulls out another one. Immediately, Tony darts to his mug—all his, no one else’s—and cradles it to his chest.

“That’s better,” Natasha says smugly and stalks out of the kitchen.

Tony waits until she’s gone and Steve has filled his new mug. Then, as Steve busies himself with cooking his breakfast, he slowly, cautiously reaches out and bats Steve’s mug off the counter. He gleefully sprints out of the kitchen to the sound of Steve’s outraged yowls, clutching his own mug close.

~

“Clint says you’ve been working too long,” Steve says, surprising Tony so much all the fur on his tail stands straight up.

“Fuck,” he spits. “I have a heart condition, you know.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees like the asshole cat he is. “But I don’t think I’m going to give you a heart attack just by sneaking up on you. Not my fault you were in a zone.”

Tony grumbles wordlessly under his breath. It’s true that he’s been in a zone for the last couple hours or so, something that he achieves only through kneading or inventing, but that’s no reason for Clint to be concerned.

“Why do you care if Clint says I’ve been working too long?” he asks. Steve picks up one of his screwdrivers and spins it between his fingers before setting it back down. Tony immediately picks it up as well and rubs his cheek on it to cover it in his scent again. Steve shoots him a mischievous grin and promptly moves further away to do the same thing to a different screwdriver. Tony resigns himself to losing another couple of hours to scent marking everything once Steve is gone.

“I don’t,” Steve says, now rubbing up against one of the armors (and no, Tony is not thinking about how good Steve looks like that). “I thought we were doing a great job of ignoring each other. But he says it’s been more than twenty-four hours, which means it’s time for a break.”

“Says who?”

“Pepper, apparently.”

Tony winces. Okay, yeah, he can ignore pretty much everyone except for Pepper. She’s important.

“So you’re… what, here to drag me upstairs for dinner?”

Steve shakes his head and holds up a bag in his hand. “Thought I’d offer to split a bag of catnip with you.”

Huh.

“Huh,” Tony says out loud. He eyes it suspiciously. “It’s not laced with anything else, is it? You’re not going to take me to knock me out and take me to Medical.”

“Just pure catnip.” Steve opens the bag and Tony’s eyes dilate at the intoxicating scent. “Why, do you need to go to Medical?”

Tony thinks of the two cracked ribs he suffered during the battle yesterday that he’d wrapped himself. “Nope,” he says blithely. Steve’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t argue. “Are you going to judge me for straight up eating it?”

“Are you going to judge me for doing the same?”

“Fair,” he says and holds out a hand for the bag. Steve upends it and dumps half in Tony’s hand, watching without judgment as Tony stuffs half of it into his mouth.

And when Tony comes back from his catnip-induced high to finds himself fully shifted, Steve’s own shifted form wrapped so tightly around him that his short tabby fur is mingling with Tony’s longer white fur, there’s no judgment there either, just Steve purring and purring and purring.

~

“Why do you do it?” Tony quietly asks Steve one night. Some animated movie is playing on the screen but Tony doesn’t think anyone is actually paying attention to it. The rest of the team is busy sleeping together in a cuddle pile in their shifted forms, Clint’s golden retriever spooned by Thor’s panda, Bruce’s owl perched on top of Clint with his head tucked under his wing. He can’t spot Natasha’s chameleon but he can smell her so he knows she’s there somewhere. He and Steve are sitting apart from the rest of the team, studiously ignoring them. It had surprised him when Steve hadn’t gotten down there to join them—tabbies tend to be more social than other cats—and instead chosen to curl up next to him on the couch in his partial shift, but to his shock, he isn’t complaining about it.

Idly, Steve twines his tail around Tony’s twitching one and purrs, relaxing him until he’s a puddle on the couch. “Nat said it was a good way to get your attention.”

“What, picking a fight with me?”

“Tony.” Steve gives him a long look and then leans over to lick his ear. It should make Tony stiffen, run away, groom over that one spot until he no longer smells of Steve anymore. It doesn’t. It just makes his ear flick curiously. “I never wanted to fight with you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Suddenly, Tony’s brain is sifting through every interaction he and Steve have ever had, looking at them in a new light. Okay, and yeah, now that he’s thinking about it, he can see that this has all been Steve’s clumsy, well-intended attempt at courting him. And maybe he’s never really thought about Steve like that before but he’s thinking now and what he’s thinking is that when Steve isn’t stealing his things and laying in his favorite sunbeam, he actually really likes Steve.

“You’re not very good at this,” he informs Steve.

“Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”

“Natasha gave you bad advice.”

“I’m pretty sure she did it on purpose to stir up trouble.”

“She’s worse than either of us,” Tony agrees. “Now, hold still.”

“Wha—” He leans over Steve and licks at his ear, carefully grooming him. Steve purrs beneath him, eyes half-closed with pleasure. Tony’s own eyes drift shut as his heart beats a rhythm to the tune of mine, mine, mine.

~

“Hey, babe,” Tony says, coming up behind Steve. He drapes himself across Steve’s shoulders like the affectionate cat he is, giving a very sharp grin to the young socialite who has been holding onto Steve’s hand for the last minute. Doesn’t she know that that’s Tony’s? “I was wondering where you got off to.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve replies, relaxing now that Tony is here. “Got stopped by Miss—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

Tony knows Steve well enough to know that that’s absolutely not the case. He’s just saying it to irritate her. But she doesn’t know that, especially because none of them are allowed to be in partial shift for tonight’s gala—Fury’s orders—and Steve’s shifter form is a closely guarded secret. So she doesn’t know that Steve’s just following his instincts as a cat. Tony does though, and he smothers his laugh in Steve’s shoulder.

“Whithers,” the girl says, irritation bleeding into her tone.

“Pleasure,” Tony says, making no attempt to hide the fact that he thinks it’s the opposite. He twines himself around Steve so that he can reach his lips for a quick kiss. “If you don’t mind, I have to borrow Steve here. Although, I really don’t care even if you do mind. See, he’s mine and I don’t really like it when people touch what’s mine.”

And then, before her face can do much more than register shock, he bats her champagne glass out of her hand.

[heniareth]

Henlo lovely friend :3 I am nyooming into your askbox with all due speed and urgency regarding the OTP questions for Astala (my BELOVED!!) and Zevran (ALSO MY BELOVED!!). If I may enquire:

3: Do they wear the other's clothes? (Sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

4: Which one is more protective? Who needs to be 'protected?'

57: Who's the serious one when grocery shopping and who likes to toss random things in the cart?

60 (if it's not too personal): Who pulls the other closer when they're sleeping?

You take care and enjoy yourself!! No pressure on any of this, just whatever you fancy, whenever you fancy it. Have yourself a gorgeous day!!!

Hello Plant! :D The ask you answered yesterday inspired me to sit down and answer this one apparently, because I wrote the bugger up in one go!! Never happened before XD XD You do magic with those words. Before I get into the questions, a littel prelude:

These questions make me think about a potential modern AU. Astala probably would've dropped out of school as soon as it was legal to do so and started working whatever jobs are available. Maybe cashier? Waitress is still a possibility. She'd definitely have been juggling two jobs plus a few odd bits of work to make ends meet. Then she gets fired one day and lo and behold, Duncan offers her a place with the Grey Wardens. I imagine they'd pay well, which is why Astala would take the job. Zevran is still an assassin for hire, and eschews guns in favor of knives for his assassination attempt. To kill somebody with a knife, you have to get close to them and expose yourself to harm. A gun makes people way too easy to kill. A knife attack can also be written off as a mugging gone wrong or something. The party camp turns into an empty office building where the Grey Wardens had their HQ. The group would transform it into one big apartment. Cubicles are turned into rooms (walls between several cubicles are broken down for more space). There are sofas and rugs and a fully functioning kitchen and bookshelves and plants. Rascal is still a big dog. Shale is... a robot? A person in a very cool exo-skeleton suit for someone a la Iron Man? Oh and magic still exists. After the whole thing with the Blight is over Zev and Astala would have enough money for a tiny but cozy apartment in a quiet part of town, with enough space on the balcony to fill it with plants. Please feel free to picture what scenes are described in the answers as happening in said apartment. Other alternatives are Vigil's Keep, where Astala has a tiny portion (study + room + entrance) to call her own. Or a house in Antiva with white walls and a roof with red shingles with a porch where flowering vines creep up the walls. Also in the modern AU Astala would be finishing school after the Blight and discover that studying for exams is so much better than a night shift or killing darkspawn.

And now, off to the questions!!

3. Do they wear each others' clothes? (Sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

Yes they do! Astala does this particularly often, especially when Zevran is away, especially at night. She will wear something of his until it no longer smells like him, and then she'll pick something else. It makes the missing him a bit easier, but at the same time a bit worse because something of his is there but not he himself. She gives it back once Zevran returns, however. Most of it, anyways. One or two shirts might get lost among her things. How curious indeed XD Zevran I think would also wear things of Astala's, but it'd be because it's become a somewhat accidental habit. Maybe there's a scarf she has lent him so often it's as good as his (he did happily accept it every time she offered it of course). Or a bandana that Astala used once to tie his hair back and he finds it a year later in the pockets of the trousers he was wearing. And by that point Astala would insist he just keep it, since he's evidently using it more than she is

4. Which one is more protective? Who needs to be 'protected?'

Well now. This is quite the question 👀👀👀 They are both quite protective of each other, Astala in a more physical "I'll literally stand between you and harm" way and Zevran in a "stand aside and observe and be ready to strike if necessary" way. So during the Blight, they both do their fair share of protecting. Then of course Astala gets injured in the fight with the archdemon and just can't hold her own as well as she used to. Their roles are now inversed: Zevran is the more physical one because he can be, while Astala has to keep away from danger and can intervene only from a distance. But intervene she does, and she makes up for her lack of movement and her vulnerability with a quick and cold ruthlessness. If there's somebody an attacker could convince to stop and talk it out, it's Zevran now.

As far as being protected goes... Astala only catches glimpses of it, but Zevran works very hard behind the scenes to help her navigate Fereldan politics and later also the Antivan merchant guilds (I am playing around with the idea to have Astala give up Amaranthine and to settle close to Antiva as a merchant, at least for a time. She'd try to create a market for artisans from the Fereldan alienages in Antiva and the reverse in Ferelden, and I think she'd do pretty well). He'd suss out business practices, potential customers, do networking, all of that. And Astala would shield him from his own demons. It's hard to live with yourself when you've let yourself down so often. Astala would remind him when he's being too harsh with himself, pull him back when he's starting to slip into old patterns and habits, just be something solid around which to reorient himself and remember that he's not the kind if man who'd kill his love for the Crows anymore. So yeah. They have each others' backs pretty consistently

57: Who's the serious one when grocery shopping and who likes to toss random thing in the cart?

At the beginning of their relationship there's a very notable difference. Except when she's in a serious need for something to lift her mood, Astala will think every purchase apart from the bare necessities over thrice. Very expensive things she doesn't even look at, because they're firmly in the category of not in her budget. Zevran is much quicker at buying and wanting things if he has the coin for it, tomorrow be damned. He's mostly succesful at pulling Astala along, unless it is a veritably silly thing like a gigantic nug pillow or an outright luxury item (like the expensive kinds of jewelry or some rare foodstuff from Seheron or whathaveyou). In those cases Mistress Woolsey is a surprisingly adept negotiation partner. She will show Astala the numbers and will assure her that she can afford it and once doesn't hurt, it's an investment rather than a frivolous purchase and, if the arlessa will allow it, she will point out that the jewelry Astala already has just doesn't cut it for an occasion like the 5th anniversary of the slaying of the archdemon. I imagine Zevran learns budgeting skills rather quickly, while Astala takes a bit longer to shake off the compulsion to hoard money for emergencies. But she relaxes with age, and in their senior years they can often be seen snooping around the market for interesting knickknacks and curiosities, maybe some new food to try or something small for each other. Sometimes Zevran will play the part of the frugal husband to tease her. It's worth stopping and watching these two bicker like the old married couple they are

60. Who pulls the other closer when they're sleeping?

(Not personal, don't worry ^^ I'm okay talking about fluff, smut is where it can get a bit too personal for my liking. Depends on the question and if there's ever a particular item in an ask game i'm not comfortable talking about I'll write it in the tags when I reblog said ask game)

Zevran, I imagine. Zevran seems to be the kind of guy to briefly wake up, drape one arm around Astala, cuddle up and fall back asleep. Or he straight-up doesn't wake up and reaches for her on instinct. I already told you, but physicality is important for Zevran. I imagine pulling Astala in is an unconcious reminder that she is there. I also imagine he'd crave closeness the most when he's just come back after a time of being apart, and would thus pull her in more frequently. It helps that Astala sleeps like a log: she doesn't move much and somebody pulling her in doesn't wake her up. In fact, her sleep is too deep to pull someone closer, which is an action that requires a lot of steps done right. If she seeks out Zevran, it will be via rolling over the bed until she bumps into him, and where she bumps into him she settles. Sometimes it makes for a terribly sore neck in the morning, sometimes it even wakes Zevran up (who I headcanon to have a very light sleep due to his experience as an assassin). The only time she'll actively pull him in is when he's being restless, either because of a nightmare or because he just can't sleep. Quick movements by her side is something that will reliably wake Astala up enough to do that. And it bears mentioning that both of them are very given to sleeping close to one another (although they do change from glued to one another to wothin comfortable arm's reach over the years) except during an Antivan summer. Nobody could endure any kind of body heat during an Antivan summer

---

And that's that! I hope you enjoyed the answers and the glimpses of them both as much as I enjoyed writing them XD They are so very close to my heart. Thanks for indulging me and I hope you have the most gorgeous of days yourself!!

[feferipeixes]

Child I Will Hurt You

One of the weirdest things to Alcor about being a father was how automatically Toby trusted him.

Which really freaked him out because he didn’t feel he should be trusted to raise a child. After all, he was practically still a child himself.

(See the most updated version on AO3!)

===

The thing that scared Alcor the most about raising Toby was how fully the boy trusted him.

He’d experienced and marveled at that kind of trust before. When Mabel found him after that fateful day in 2012 and threw herself at him, sobbing with relief that he wasn’t gone after all, he felt it. When Stan took him and Mabel into his home a few years later, patted him on the back and said “It’s no problem, kid”, he felt it. When he warned Mabel that he shouldn’t be trusted with the triplets’ true names and Mabel shouted him right out of his self-flagellation, he felt it.

The first day he brought Toby home after finding him alone and shivering on the street, he felt something very different.

Panic.

Panic over who the child in front of him truly was underneath that thin layer of flesh. Panic over what would happen if he didn’t stop whatever Bill was planning. Panic as he remembered Weirdmageddon over and over again in complete, horrific detail.

“Listen kid,” he said, floating a few feet off the ground so he could better tower over the child, “no funny business, okay? You hear me in there, Bill?”

Toby only cocked his head, scraggly and unwashed golden locks tumbling away from his face to reveal his scarred eye. He still wore the half-scared half-curious look he’d had when he’d first caught the demon’s attention, but there was something else bubbling up. Something that tasted suspiciously like trust.

It really freaked Alcor out because he didn’t feel he should be trusted to raise a child. Trust was something you gave to adults who knew what they were doing, after all, and he was practically still a child himself.

Alcor grimaced, and lowered onto his knees so he could look the boy directly in the eyes. “I mean it. I’m watching you. I’ll know if anything bad happens.”

To his surprise, Toby smiled at that. “You can make the bad things stop?”

“Yes,” Alcor replied, his voice cracking like it hadn’t in centuries because he was already messing this up, he was sure of it. “N-no getting into trouble. Not on my watch.”

The boy’s face lit up, trust shining brilliant from both eyes, and before Alcor could tell what was happening, Toby had reached up and hugged him around the neck.

And the demon remembered

Bill’s little pipe cleaner hands iron-clad around his neck,

Squeezing the life out of him,

Blue fire rushing all over his body,

Over and into his soul,

Screaming until there was no more breath left in him,

And the little boy’s smile radiated such trust and hope that Alcor was left completely speechless.

“Thank you,” Toby squeaked, and Alcor felt it.

---

“Oh stars, I can’t do this, I can’t do this!” Alcor was in his human disguise, head in hands, elbows resting on the counter, rambling like the world was ending. “I’m way in over my head. Raising a child? Me? I mean I looked after Mabel’s triplets but this is so different…”

“...Sir?” The cashier’s hand hovered over Alcor’s head, unsure whether it was appropriate or comforting to actually pat him. “Are you alright?”

“No!” he fumed, lashing out and knocking over some of his groceries. “I have a six year old at home and he trusts me to look after him and keep him safe! How could this possibly have happened?”

“Uh…” The cashier peered behind the man to the customers in line, most of whom looked some degree of disgruntled or confused. She gave them a little wave to indicate that they should probably move to a different register, and then turned back to the man who appeared to be hyperventilating now. “Do you have a partner? Anyone who’s helping you?”

“Of course not, I’m alone, I’ve got no friends,” he moaned. “There’s no one who I trust enough to foist Toby off to. The poor boy has such bad karma -- he needs me to protect him from that or he’ll get eaten alive!”

“Well… it sounds like you’ve got the right instincts at least. You want to keep him safe.”

“That’s just it! I don’t!” Alcor picked his head up and the cashier saw streaks of a strange yellow liquid running down his face. “Everything I’m doing for him is just stuff I picked up from watching my sister raise her kids! I don’t have any kind of adulting instincts -- none at all! I transcended when I was fucking twelve and that’s where I’ll be stuck until the end of time. I’m just a pointless child! I’ve got too much power and no actual ability to help anyone!”

The cashier sighed and -- after the man nodded to say it was alright -- put her hand on his shoulder. “Listen, man, all of that stuff sounds normal.” (Except for the parts that made no sense to her at all but she opted to ignore them.) “No one knows how to raise a kid, and no one ever feels like they’ve grown up. You learn it as you go. Trust me, my kids ran me ragged and I had no idea what I was doing. But they turned out alright. So will yours.”

Alcor’s voice began to wobble, and he pressed gloved hands to his temples. “But he won’t! I’m developmentally frozen. I’m not capable of learning anything! Seriously, what kind of adult buys this much candy?”

She glanced at his cart, which indeed was half filled with Giddy Cowboys and Sneakers bars. “That is a lot,” she admitted. “I would not advise giving your kid that much candy.”

“What? No.” Alcor stopped sniffling and pulled a face like he’d just smelled poo. “That’s for me. I’m buying all these vegetables and milk and chicken for Toby. He’s a growing kid, he needs to eat healthy, get all those food groups in, you know. I’m not stupid. But I am childish for liking candy so much that I’d eat this much of it in a week! I mean, seriously! Oh stars, I’m hopeless!”

The cashier lifted an eyebrow and removed her hand. “You eat all of this… in a week?”

“I know, I know, I’m ridiculous!”

“That’s not what I meant,” the cashier cut in, before he could start gibbering again. “I’m just worried about your teeth. Your… teeth…” She trailed off as the man suddenly yawned, exposing two rows of jagged knives that could sink into her flesh in an instant. “Your, um, your- your-”

Alcor pulled a mirror out of seemingly nowhere and started picking at his teeth. “What, do I have something in them?”

The cashier’s eyes widened even more as the man’s gloves came off. “My… what pointy claws you have…”

“Thank- wait.” Alcor froze, one long blackened nail still pressed into his gum. “Wait a minute. Pointy. Sharp. Cutting and slicing and ripping open oh stars!”

“Um- um- um-” the cashier tried to say, but with every word she felt like she was shrinking until she’d be swallowed up by her clothes. “Slicing?”

Alcor shook his head furiously, and this time his fist was positively trembling when it came down onto the counter. “I haven’t child proofed the knife drawer in the kitchen!”

He flipped his hat off of his head and pulled out a wad of cash, which he then thrust into the cashier’s hands just as her lights went out. Before anyone else could react, he vanished into thin air, taking his groceries and the shopping cart with him.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,” Alcor grumbled as he zeroed in on the offending drawer. He pulled it open and there they were -- obscene, dangerous implements that he was a wicked and cruel caretaker to have potentially exposed his child to. He couldn’t stop imagining what might’ve happened if Toby had tried to pull open the drawer and it had fallen on him -- couldn’t stop thinking about his little boy sticking his adorable hand in and receiving cuts and lacerations and awful, awful sobbing filling the house…

With a snap, child locks were in place. Alcor tested them out by trying to pull the drawer open -- and it took a few tries before even he was able to. Sighing with relief, he leaned against the counter and slid down to the floor. His feet bumped up against the shopping cart sitting in the middle of the kitchen, overflowing with Reece’s Mugs and Chortle Taffy and Quasarbursts.

He couldn’t do this. He was too irresponsible.

Alcor dug a hand into the cart and pulled out a candy bar. He sank his teeth into it, enjoyed the rush of sweetness that was almost as good as flesh and bone. Slowly he began to unclench his muscles -- even though his form was imaginary, the cramps shooting throughout his body still hurt. He slid down the counter a little further, almost letting his head touch the floor -- and then he noticed it.

The stairs.

Bolting upright, Alcor let the candy bar fall from his hand. The stairs. How hadn’t he thought about that before? What if Toby fell down and tumbled into the banister and lost his other eye? What if what if what if?

Not a minute later, the demon was wrestling with child safety gates, somehow struggling even with all of his considerable power just to get them to attach to the wall. At one point he tipped his jaw back and used his tongue to line the edges with spit, which then solidified like glue. The stairs had to be safe. He couldn’t risk Toby getting hurt.

And with that thought came even more thoughts that sent Alcor racing through the house. What if Toby slipped in the bathtub? What if Toby climbed on top of the fridge and couldn’t get down? What if Bill slammed his arm in a drawer again and again and again and again until it was full of forks and then he poured soda into his eyes and laughed like a maniac while Dipper drowned in the vast emptiness of the Mindscape???

Alcor stiffened. He set down the intricate contraption he’d been building to keep Toby safe from wild animals in the backyard. And he looked into the mirror.

What was he doing?

This was Bill’s soul he was fretting over. It was always him, on the inside, and he’d known it from the very first day he’d seen the boy. He knew what was lurking beneath the surface, what kind of monster slept in that innocent form waiting until one day he could reach out and traumatize his father once more. Reach out and steal his beating heart, and laugh, and live, and die, and laugh, and live, and die, in a way he’d never be able to again.

A chill passed through Alcor’s body. Something had to be wrong with him, because he knew what Toby was and he’d spent the entire week worrying about the boy. Why did he care so much?

Quietly, he crept down the hall, and peered into the bedroom on the right. There he was -- the beast himself -- sleeping soundly in a bed decorated with race cars and rocket ships. A few more steps, and Alcor could see how small he looked, how even in his sleep he seemed so broken. And the demonic instincts that had rushed through Alcor since the day he’d gone up in flames were quelled, because every fiber of his being told him he needed to protect this child.

He rested a hand on the boy’s forehead, and watched him dream about running around in a field of grass, playing catch with his new father.

---

Thus started a new routine. A demon, trying day-to-day to take care of a small child. Playing grown up even though he felt so utterly unprepared for what he was doing. But Alcor’s life didn’t stop when he became a parent.

Neither did any of his other regular obligations.

“Oh, you’re asking for it now!” Alcor roared, jumping to his feet. “I’m gonna run you through with my sword! Die die die die!”

The dungeon master -- Damien -- peered over his half-rimmed glasses at the demon and smirked. “Not gonna work, I’m afraid. The slime beast’s armor is too thick to be pierced by a sword such as your own.”

Alcor gaped with disbelief. “Whaaat? I call foul play! You let Anushka do it!”

“Anushka’s sword has a fire enchantment on it. Slime armor is weak to heat.”

“Also, I said die five times,” Anushka added with a shit-eating grin on her face, jabbing Alcor in the side with her elbow. “Die die die die die!”

Alcor snorted and dropped back into his chair. “Well, you got me there.” He looked at the other players, disappointment rolling over into amusement. “Can I change my move or am I locked in?”

Damien shrugged. “Go for it. I don’t think you’ll be able to beat it this turn though, and you’ve only got one hit point remaining.”

Nat leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Yo, I’ve got an idea. You should defend this turn and try to survive the slime’s attack, and then on my turn I can fire enchant your sword.”

“Huh. Maybe…” He patted his head to get the spittle out of his ear, and surveyed the map of the dungeon they were in. Then he sat bolt upright in his seat, a large exclamation mark appearing over his head. “Damien. How many sword actions do I get this turn?”

Damien rolled a die. “Two.”

“Yessss. Okay. First, I lunge at the slime again! But with the blunt end of my sword so it gets knocked back.”

Damien rolled another die. “Yep. That works. Are you gonna use your free movement to approach it again?”

Alcor shook his head. “Nope. I’m gonna throw my sword -”

“Your sword doesn’t have enough piercing damage to make a difference from that distance, I’m afraid.”

The room’s dim lighting glinted off of razor sharp teeth. “- at the cable holding up the chandelier.”

Anushka and Nat dropped their pencils, and looked straight up, momentarily forgetting that they were not actually in the dungeon they were traversing. “You what?”

Damien rolled a die again, and sucked in a sharp breath. “Alright. The chandelier falls onto the slime beast before it can react. It quickly catches on fire, leaving it too weak to attack. Congrats!”

Beaming, Alcor scribbled some numbers on his character sheet. “Heck yeah. No slime beast is strong enough to get one past the Dreambender.”

“You’re so creative, Al,” Nat said. “Seriously, wow. I never would’ve thought of that.”

He wove off the compliment. “Naw, I’m just basically a large child. Being silly and immature is what they’re good at.”

Looking up over his dungeon master partition, Damien furrowed his brow. “Why do you say you’re immature -”

There was a ringing in Alcor’s head -- a tug on a bond -- and he held up his hand. “Wait, hold that thought. Speaking of children, my kid’s calling me. I’m gonna have to leave early this week.” He stood up, and did a dramatic bow. “I’ll see ya all next week! Don’t lose my summoning circle!”

Toby -- lying flat on the floor of the Mystery Shack -- perked up at the sight of his adoptive father walking through the door. Tyrone looked about as human as they come -- a man in his mid-thirties with soft brown eyes, no wings, and feet that always touched the ground. He opened his arms and Toby came running to hug him.

Right away there was that trust again, that total trust that Alcor still couldn’t believe he deserved. How could someone like him -- someone who’d just spent two hours playing a tabletop role playing game and laughing about memes -- be trusted to take care of a child?

Gingerly, he took Toby into his arms and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing?”

“I’m boooooooored!” Toby whined. “Can we play a game? I wanna play pretend!”

Chuckling, Alcor put Toby down and then sat beside him on the floor. “Sure thing, kid. You know, I’m pretty good at playing games like that. I was playing one with my friends earlier today.”

Toby’s jaw dropped. “Whoaaaaa! You have friends?”

A vein bulged in Alcor’s forehead. “Of course I- never mind. What’s the game, kid? What are we pretending?”

Toby jumped up and started pacing in a circle. “I wanna make up a story! It’s gonna be great! I’ll be the hero and you’ll be the bad guy -- an evil king who wants to kill all of the good people in the land! Is… is that okay?”

There was a mirror mounted on the wall behind where Toby had been sitting. Without the boy in his way, Alcor found his gaze fixed on it. He could see Toby gesturing as he walked and he could see the nostalgic decorations hanging on the wall of the Shack. But there was no Tyrone to speak of.

It took a moment for him to realize that Toby was talking to him. “What? Oh yeah. Of course, kid. I’ll be the bad guy.” He took a deep breath, discarding the voice in his head that furiously objected to him being the villain to Bill’s hero. “What’s my motivation?”

Toby cocked his head. “Moti- what?”

“What’s my backstory? Why am I evil?”

The boy continued to stare at him with a blank look on his face. “You’re evil cause you’re the bad guy and bad guys are evil!”

“That’s kinda boring- never mind.” Alcor grimaced and looked back at the mirror. “So you’re the hero, eh? How are you going to defeat me? What’s the hero good at?”

“Everything!!!!” Toby squealed, and his reflection grabbed onto something invisible. “The hero is the good guy so I should always win and I’ll have all of the magic and the biggest swords ever!”

Alcor shifted so that Toby was hanging onto his shoulders rather than around his middle. “Everything? But if the hero always wins, what’s the point?”

“The good guy always has to win!” the boy chirped, squeezing tight around Alcor’s neck. “Always!”

Oh my stars this is so boring, Alcor thought. How fricking uninventive is Bill’s soul? Children are supposed to be good at being silly and creative. I guess all Bill’s soul can think about is being powerful again.

A figure stepped into the room on the other side of the mirror. It was short -- looked to be about 12 years old -- and had clawed hands, bat wings sprouting from its hips, and a fancy suit that looked out of place for someone so young. Alcor’s jaw dropped as he watched the figure pick up Toby’s reflection, pat him on the back, and then stare directly out of the mirror at the demon.

“This is a game for children,” the figure said in a low growl.

“What?” Alcor yelped.

Toby giggled at the interruption. “I said that all the evil people should die because they’re mean! No one should ever do a bad thing!“

“This is what children are like. They see in black-and-white because they know nothing about how the world works.” Cold, black eyes bored into Alcor’s skull. “Have you forgotten what that’s like?”

“B-but I’m silly,” Alcor stammered, sweat starting to drip down his face. “I’m irresponsible. I love playing games and coming up with interesting stories. Those are childish things for someone as old as me to be doing.”

“Dad?” Toby asked. “What are you saying? I can’t hear you.”

The figure sneered, baring two sets of sharp teeth uncomfortably close to Toby’s head. “Whoever told you that must’ve really hated the idea of growing up.” Toby stirred, and it spent a moment cradling him so he’d calm down. Then those eyes -- now bright and full of gold -- flicked back at the demon. “Who said it? Was it you?”

Alcor gasped and fell over. Toby shrieked as he suddenly found himself tumbling to the ground, and the sound broke Alcor right out of his trance. Quick as a whistle, he pirouetted and caught the boy in his arms, pulling him close to his chest in a tight hug.

“Oh no, oh Toby, are you alright?” he fretted. “Did you get hurt?”

“I’m okay!” Toby squeaked, his face pressed against Alcor’s collarbone. Alcor loosened up on his hug, and took in Toby’s smile. “That was fun! You always catch me! That’s how I know you’re really a good guy.”

“I’m a good guy?” Alcor gulped, and glanced back at the mirror. This time he saw himself, in his present human disguise, holding Toby close, and looking so, so utterly responsible. It freaked him out.

“...Dad?” Toby asked, brow crumpled. “Daaaaad what are you thinking?”

“I think…” Alcor sighed, and gave his son a little kiss on the forehead. “I think it’s time you got some friends your own age.”

---

From that day on, things were a little different.

Alcor bought a house in the physical plane, because a memory of a shack in the Mindscape was no place to raise a child.

“Dad?”

He doctored forms and documents so it not only looked like a certain Tyrone Pines actually existed, but also that he and his adopted son Tobias Pines were legal residents of a sleepy town in the middle of Washington. This let Toby attend school with kids his own age.

“What is it, Toby?”

He went to the library on the weekly to check out parenting books, having long exhausted the meager supply of advice his omniscience had to offer -- as it turned out, parenting was very much a learn-as-you-go experience with few absolute truths to guide you.

“What’s a demon?”

Alcor froze, his hand halfway in the process of turning a page in his book. He started to turn his head around to look at the boy, and remembered just in time to turn his body around with it.

“Where did you hear that?” Alcor asked carefully.

Toby kept his head down, opting to study his father’s shoes instead of his face. “I, um...”

There it was again, that emotion bubbling up inside of Alcor, that instinctual distrust he couldn’t help but feel for the soul who had once taken everything from him. It was all he could do not to jump up and yell “Aha! Caught you red-handed, Bill! I knew you were in there all along!”

He got out of his chair and knelt in front of the child, using a finger to gently raise the boy’s head so they could see eye-to-eye. “You can tell me,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

Alcor saw Toby reach into that pure, automatic trust he had for the monster who was raising him. The boy gulped, and squared his shoulders.

“Um... Devon’s dad said it to Devon.”

Alcor blinked. “Is that so? Devon, the kid in your class who asked you to play baseball with him?”

Toby nodded. “H-he was asking me again, and I know you said I wasn’t allowed to, but he started showing me anyway. He got his bat and swinged it and it looked really cool. Then his dad yelled at him and said ‘Devon, you little demon, cut that out right now!’“

Alcor could only stare, mouth agape, in response. Toby started to tremble as he continued speaking. “Then Devon’s dad took the baseball bat and Devon got really sad and I didn’t know what it means but it looked bad and I don’t want to be a little demon and I’m really really sorry I said I wanted to play baseball I don’t want to be a demon I don’t I don’t -”

He cut off with a squeak as his father took him into his arms and hugged him tight.

Alcor was a being with access to more power and magic than almost anything else in the universe. He could level mountains, he could turn cities inside out, he could institute universal basic income on the moon with a snap of his fingers.

But when he held Toby in his arms, when he saw the awestruck look on the boy’s face when he played the violin for him, when he listened to Toby babble excitedly about whatever he’d learned in school that day, Alcor felt powerful.

All of his magic crumbled beneath the obscene power granted to him by way of this child’s trust in him. He had the power to protect this child, to support and encourage him to grow up to be the best person he could be. He could also betray Toby’s trust so, so easily.

He could punish his son for no reason if he needed an emotional pick-me-up. He could disregard the boy’s concerns and laugh in his face. He could even raise his voice just a little too much, caught in a moment of frustration, and leave Toby wincing in distress -- an ephemeral moment in Alcor’s life but an upsetting and formative moment in Toby’s which could forever mar their relationship.

That would be childish. That would be immature of him.

Alcor had killed reams of cultists, had bestowed disturbing curses on people who’d only sort of deserved it, had terraformed the western coast of the United States in a fit of rage. He’d done a lot of horrible things with his magic, but.

This power, this power he had to shape Toby’s life.

This power horrified him.

“You’re not a demon,” Alcor said, (and it felt so unfair to be saying that to him of all people -- so cruel and dirty that he wanted to scream until his hair fell out. But he didn’t.)

“Don’t cry,” (even though no one had held him when he cried that day in 2012, because he’d simply slipped through their fingers, and he wanted to repay that favor. But he didn’t.)

“Daddy’s here,” he whispered, before kissing Toby’s tears away. “You’re not in trouble.”

The words came so naturally, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. As if he had the experience to understand what was upsetting his son, and the power to make it better. As if he had the maturity to push past his own conflicted feelings, because he was an adult, and this was a little child.

He set Toby down, and kneeled to meet his eyes. In that moment, he felt tall. Sort of grown up.

Toby sniffled. “You’d never yell at me? Even if I do something wrong?”

Alcor thought once again back to the day he’d seen Bill Cipher on the side of the road. Thought about the furious, vengeful part of him that enjoyed the boy’s suffering because that’s what he deserved. Remarked on how the universe had served him up his greatest enemy in the most vulnerable form possible, giving him the opportunity to take Toby’s trust and do unspeakable things to him.

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “I promise.”

Remembered how he’d instead chosen love.

---

It was a dark and stormy night that found Alcor wandering the streets of a mostly-abandoned city.

He’d been summoned -- it always started with a summons -- and he’d been angry. It didn’t even matter what had made him angry, because there were so many things these days that people absolutely would not stop doing no matter how much he screamed and threatened and threw flaming balls of plasma into their twisted places of worship. They never learned. And neither did he.

Alcor couldn’t stand how many people had to die because of him. How many people were killed in his name. How many lives he’d taken with his own hands because he couldn’t seem to stop, like an immature brat who throws tantrums when things don’t go his way. He wondered if he could ever change, or if he was just stuck this way.

It was deep in these thoughts that the demon heard a little noise. A squeak, barely audible over the rain. He dismissed it at first, because his grand thoughts were more important than the world around him, and right after a bad summons was the perfect time for self-hatred. It felt good -- it was one of the only things that still did. He considered burning the entire city to the ground. Maybe that’d feel even better.

Something told him that it wouldn’t.

He heard the squeak again, his eyes darting over to a heap of trash bags between two buildings, and that’s when he saw him. A little boy with golden hair, no older than six. He was dressed in rags. He looked like he hadn’t seen a scrap of food in days. The left side of his face had been eaten away by flame, leaving it patchy and discolored.

Alcor had seen right through Bill’s disguise, of course. There wasn’t a meatsuit pitiable enough to blot out the sins his soul had committed. Perhaps that was why he had been abandoned on the side of the street to begin with -- karma was finally catching up with him. Alcor wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. Something strange was going on inside of him. Some sort of instinct buried within him -- not one tipped with blood and claws, but one that creaked and groaned under centuries of exertion.

It was this feeling that prompted him to gather up the child in his arms. He felt how fast the boy’s heart was beating; saw in his past how much he’d been hurt without an adult to protect him. He knew that feeling well.

“It’s okay,” he murmured as Toby began to fuss. “Things will be better now. I’ll protect you. I might only be a child myself, but I promise I’ll protect you.”

One year later, one year of introspection, growth, and unbroken promises later, he had to admit he’d been wrong.

(AO3 link)

[ghost-oftheriver]

Parent Guidance Recommended

word count: 3,281

focus characters: Pacifica Northwest, Fiddleford H. McGucket

warnings: child neglect, implications of alcoholism, implications of infidelity, mugging, knives, threatening, generally awful people

summary: On the worst birthday she’s ever had, Pacifica finds herself seeking support from a source she’d least expect; the new owner of the once-Northwest Manor, her own former home.

Pacifica was turning fourteen on the Fourth of July. A perfect birthday. Perfect girl. Perfect family.

Her parents would throw a party. Like any Northwest party, with gorgeous, itchy lace ball gowns and impeccable etiquette, each word in every conversation spoken with flawless flow, with purposeful posture and respect-demanding mannerisms. A perfect party for perfect people, with perfect food prepared.

After claiming her designated ruby-studded chair at the dinner table, she would be shocked when her plate was revealed to her. Deep-fried Roareos. Stacked in a small sweet-powdered delicious heap in front of her, chocolately, cream-filled cookies, dipped in batter and deep-fried to perfection. Sugary. Messy. Pacifica had never had it before. How did her parents know she wanted to try it?

She turned her head to cast a quizzical look to her parents, who’d been watching her, holding each other with loving smiles directed at her. A warm feeling spread inside her like warm butter. She reached for a fork.. but hesitated, and hovered her hand over the plate instead. She casted another glance at her parents to see their reaction. No cold response was elicited so far. In fact, she could have sworn her father nodded in approval.

She delicately picked one of the cookies up with her thumb and forefinger, and raised it to her lips to nibble at it. Her senses were flooded with warm, sweet goodness. Just as amazing as she imagined. She stuffed the rest in her mouth, going so far as to lick her fingers. Her lips were coated with melted cream. She neglected the napkins beside her plate to instead lick the sugar mixture from her lips. Barbaric. But her parents didn’t seem to mind either of the actions. She thought she even heard an amused giggle from her mother.

“Sweetie, would you like your presents now or after you’re finished?” Priscilla— no, this was Mom— asked. Pacifica paused. She had a say? Were they not on a schedule? She supposed if she was given the option, she would love to open gifts while she snacked on the rest of the Roareos.

“Now, please,” the young blond girl responded. On cue, one of the butlers was beside her, placing a neatly-packaged gift box on her lap. A beautiful purple silk ribbon sat on top, holding it together. She couldn’t recall the last time she felt so eager to reveal its contents.

What was inside? Some comfy clothes? Paint, perhaps? A cute animal plush that would contrast the creepy porcelain dolls in her room? The possibilities were endless.

Delightfully, she tugged at it. The box opened. As she peered inside, her excitement dissolved. The warm feeling turned to ice.

The bell. The one her father carried on his person at all times. The one that willed his command in the mansion. The one Pacifica hated. Suddenly Preston was standing over her, slowly picking the bronze item up.

Loving smile gone, replaced with a disapproving, even disgusted scowl. She shrank in her seat.

“Pacifica Elise Northwest,” he boomed. “So it’s true. You’re mingling with the common, ignoble crowds these days.”

“No!” she found herself crying out. “It’s not like that! I have to!”

“Have to what? Work a lowly job as a waitress in that slobbish cesspit? At that- that disgusting, sorry excuse for a dining destination? THAT’S NOT ACCEPTABLE EVER. How can you call yourself a Northwest? How can you call yourself our daughter?”

The very first thought she woke up to was that it was too good to be real.

Tangled in her sheets, warm tears trickling down her cheeks. She sniffled and quickly wiped them away before slipping out of bed.

The house was dark. Silent. The clock on the wall read 7:52. Her parents’ bedroom was empty as she passed. It smelled of wine. They would not be back for a while. Pacifica found herself releasing a sigh, her tension easing a little, even if that meant she’d be spending her birthday alone for the very first time. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, trying to recall the good part of the dream, trying to revive the taste of the sugary treat, but it was gone. Soured by the unreality of it. All it was doing was making her hungry belly ache.

When checking the refrigerator, cabinets and pantry and coming to the realization that all that was left was a loaf of bread, a half-empty tube of Bringles and a couple dinner kits. No breakfast food. Not even a single egg. Not even leftovers. Something like despair and disappointment blossomed inside her. She would have to eat at the diner again…

She snagged her wallet from the counter only to find her twenty had disappeared, leaving only a couple measly ones and fives and whatever coins were loose inside. She felt the tears building a little again and slapped the wallet shut to try to stifle them. There was a time she had nearly everything, but now after Weirdmaggedon, she couldn’t even trust that her own hard-earned cash wouldn’t be snagged if left around her own greedy birthgivers. Her strength was being sapped by the will not to burst into a sobbing fit. There was enough in there to cover breakfast at work when she got to Greasy’s, at least.

With her belly still growling, she changed out of her nightwear, threw on her apron and a pair of aviators and began the walk to work.

The day was a bright one, sunny and a little breezy. A pleasant temperature. It did not reflect how Pacifica felt. Despite the summer weather, she pulled her scarf over her head, casting shade over her face. The neighborhood streets were mostly void of people, every house gated off. Just because they lost the mansion did not mean the Northwests were living in squalor, but her spending money was strictly monitored. Her parents now enforced that any money she spent, she’d have to earn. A fourteen year old. A child. Just so her birthgivers could ensure a few extra dollars in their account.

Pacifica couldn’t help but feel the fanciness of the neighborhood was almost deceitful. Her own household was a prime example. Her own rumbling tummy was a prime example. She wondered if there were others who lived in these houses that had similar problems as hers. Unlikely here.. however there were definitely others, people who’d been pushed to extremes just to get by.

Whether that was the reason behind why Pacifica soon found herself being followed halfway through the trip, she didn’t know. The feeling of being watched intensified by the minute, and glances into the reflections of shop windows told her there was a person. They refused to let up for at least a couple of blocks, the likelihood that they were just going the same direction by chance was steadily decreasing. They probably saw her leaving the wealthier neighborhood. The young girl picked up her pace. It did her no good.

The next moments were a blur. Her arm was snatched. When she struggled, a slice put a stop to it. Her arm began to bleed. Something sharp pressed to her throat, stiffening every muscle in her body. Vulgar language was hurled at her, demanding cooperation before her purse was yanked from her shoulder, and she was thrown to the curb. She was left winded, bruised, panicked and hyperventilating. She struggled for her breath back.

Mugged. She’d been mugged for the few measly dollars she had on her. And the fact that her first thought after all that was concern for what her parents would think that she let those precious dollars be nicked in the first place.. it only increased her distraught. Her breaths hastened more and more, and she didn’t realize her tears had finally started to flow until she was already sprinting down the street, her vision muddled. Every step felt like thunder to her ears. Home. She just wanted to go home. Maybe she couldn’t be herself as much, and maybe she was always busy, under constant supervision. But at least there was stability. At least there was certainty of the future. At least it was comfortable, at least there was always food on the table, breakfast, lunch and dinner. At least her father never stumbled around reeking of alcohol while only Lord knew where her mother was. Maybe her parents weren’t the best to other people but at least she could be certain they were true to each other. At least she could pretend everything was fine.

Pacifica wasn’t sure how far she’d gone. She was sweaty, she felt gross and sticky. Her legs were sore, threatening to give out if she went any further. She was still bleeding. She ached everywhere. But she’d reached her destination. She stood at the bottom of a familiar, long driveway, and at the top, sitting on a large hill, towering over the town stood the proud family mansion. Waves of nostalgia and sorrow crashed over her. Everything felt so gross. Every memory tainted by the knowledge of her parents’ true nature. She couldn’t even speak to anyone, not even her parents. Who would listen to a rich brat whine about how she used to be richer? Certainly not any of the townsfolk.

She found herself staring at the manor for a while, not entirely sure what to do.

“...What am I doing here…?” Pacifica whispered, sniffling and reaching for the tissues she kept in her purse, only to be hit with the whirlwind of events that had just happened again. Her arm stung. She could barely hold herself upright. She felt so… so tired. She meekly wiped her nose on her sleeve, and started to turn around when suddenly she bumped into someone.

“Wo-ah there, kiddo, careful, better watch where ya—” a cheerful voice piped, before cutting itself off when the sight of Pacifica in her disheveled state registered. “Huh? Hey.. Ah’ know you.”

Color drained from Pacifica’s cheeks. This guy again.. Why was he here? She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks as she tried a witty remark, but — “Y-y-ea-h, well-, wh-o w-ou-uldn’-t-” — ultimately failing when her quivering body wouldn’t stop heaving sobs. Again she sniffled. Disgusting. In front of the hillbilly too.

McGucket’s face morphed into something like sympathy. He kneeled down to her height. “Ah- hey, what’s goin’ on kiddo? Are ya alright?”

Pacifica parted her lips. She wanted to say yes. Her instincts screamed at her to say yes. She could practically hear her birthgivers demanding her to say yes. She had to be perfect. She had to be flawless. She had to be stoic, proud, happy, for her family.

But that’s not what came out.

“n-NO!” she cried, her knees finally buckling as if the years of abuse weighing down on her shoulders finally came crashing down on top of her. Her face buried in her hands, sobbing violently into them. She wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay. Wails and cries escaped. She couldn’t stop the tears anymore. She was in so much pain, she was so alone. The sobs wouldn’t stop. The raging storm of emotion only continued to demolish her walls, clawing at her pride and self esteem. Everything she pretended to be crashed and burned at that moment.

Fiddleford had been a little stunned by the sudden breakdown, but he started to piece the situation together from the bits and pieces the poor girl was babbling. He didn’t get up and walk away like Pacifica was expecting him to. He stayed put, even placed his hand on her shoulder to try to console her. When she didn’t flinch away from him, the old man started rubbing circles on her back as she cried and cried. Fiddleford never was the best at comfort.. though he could only imagine how long this outburst had been bottled up, and he thought it best that Pacifica let it all out before trying to say anything.

It was a while before Pacifica’s sobs began to calm enough to allow her to speak in more coherent sentences. The story became clearer. She spoke about how her parents had mistreated her, like she was an accessory rather than a human being, a literal child. How things had been getting worse this past year since they were forced to move due to her father’s irresponsible stock market decisions during Weirdmaggedon, to preserve what fortune they had left. How she felt more at home at the diner than she ever did at her own residence. How she hardly saw her parents anymore. How everything had changed for the worst. The way her parents had become about money, even how they scolded her for ‘nagging’ about her birthday the previous day, when it had been the first time she brought it up in half a year. It all hurt terribly to speak of but Pacifica couldn’t help but notice the sudden weightless feeling after getting everything out. She was surprised to find Old Man McGucket was still listening.

“Y’know,” he spoke finally, “Ah knew a fella once who thought ‘e had everythin’ before ‘e lost it all too. ‘Should’a been there for ‘im like he needed.”

Pacifica was quiet for a moment. “..W..ho was he?”

Fiddleford only waved his hand. “Ol’ college buddy. Doin’ mighty fine these days. Now whaddya say we get off’a the street an’ patch up that lil’ ol’ scratch a’ yours inside?”

It tooka moment to register the question through his southern accent, but when she did, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “..I- inside..?”

Inside the mansion. Pacifica almost couldn’t believe it. Old Man McGucket was the one that bought the Northwest Manor. She wondered how on earth a former homeless man was possibly able to afford such a grand purchase, until peeks into a couple rooms along the hallway that had been filled with computers and strange machinery told her she didn’t know nearly as much about McGucket as she previously thought.

It was so strange walking through the hallways again. Everything was the same, but different. Was the grand rustic architecture and furniture always so beautiful? And… were those.. raccoons she was spotting out of the corner of her eyes?

McGucket led her to a room with a couch- a familiar silver-themed room with a certain carpet pattern. It looked nearly the same, except for the banjo leaning against the couch’s armrest, and maybe a few more stains than its previous flawless condition “for guests- that is, for guests to look at”. Despite her emotional state, she found herself smiling at the memory of her adventures with Dipper Pines, trying to bust that ghost… until she recalled the punishment her parents had made for her after that was all over. She began to feel a little sick. Her gaze dropped to the floor as McGucket trudged into the room, plopped onto the couch and patted the cushions beside him. Hesitantly, she followed him and did as gestured. It was.. weird to be back. She wiped her eyes again.

“How’d that’a happen?”

“..What?” the question hit her like a slap.

“The cut.” He gestured to the bleeding injury with a bandaged hand.

“...Oh.” Again, her gaze dropped. Her eyes began to mist again before she shut them. “..I-I.. I was.. um.. mugged on the way here… They stole my favorite purse…” Shame burned at her belly. She didn’t see any sign of judgement in McGucket’s reaction, though. He didn’t ask why she let that happen, or why she wasn’t responsible enough to bring someone with her. There was only concern for her.

“Oh.. ‘Ahm sorry that’a happened. Gravity Falls’s usually safe.. er- ah..” The old man scratched the back of his head. “‘least, it’s not the people ya gotta usually worry ‘bout.”

“Heh.. yeah..” Shrugging, the old man pulled out a full-blown first aid kid, temporarily baffling Pacifica for a moment. “Wai- were you just carrying that—?”

The question went without a response as McGucket went straight to disinfecting the cut. “‘Doesn’t look terri-bubly deep,” he piped. “Should’a stopped bleeding by now but we’ll patch it up ta’ keep it safe while it’s a-healin’.”

“Wait.. how do you know how to do this..?” Pacifica asked, furrowing her eyebrows a little. The old man gave her a cheery grin.

“Well, ‘gotta pick up somethin’ ‘bout it after livin’ in the dump buildin’ evil whatsits and thingamajigs outta rusty metal for a couple’a decades.”

..Oh. Well, that would make sense, she supposed.. Briefly, the question as to why he was being so nice to her after the way she and her family treated him crossed her mind. She wondered if that friend he mentioned had something to do with it… Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d paid closer attention to the details of the relationships between the other people involved in the zodiac. She guessed it could be that hotter Mr. Pines (or.. Dr. Pines?), she recalled seeing some kind of emotional exchange between him and McGucket during Weirdmaggedon.

Occupied with her thoughts, she hardly realized McGucket had completely finished with the bandage until he announced it.

“Done!” he cheered, stuffing the first aid kit back into the oblivion from which it came. Weird. More Gravity Falls weirdness. “...Thanks.”

“Anytime, sweetie. Y’always got’a listenin’ ear right here if ya’ need it.”

Pacifica gave him a small, grateful smile. The old man would never know what that meant to her.

“I.. I don’t know..” she sighed softly. “Today was just… awful… It’s the first birthday I’ll be spending alone, and I guess it’s… getting to me…”

“Yer birthday’s today?? Ah, Ah’m sorry, sugerbun,” McGucket spoke. “Awful break, goin’ through somethin’ like a’this on’a birthday mornin’. Say, ya always got a place right ‘ere if ya need. Plenty a’ empty bedrooms.”

Pacifica raised her head. “...R...Really..?”

McGucket beamed. “Why sure! Ya remind me a’ my lil’ Tator Tot, Ah’ miss ‘em somethin’ terrible. It gets a lil’ lonely in this ‘ere big ol’ mansion sometimes and ah wouldn’t mind a visit from some young folk from a’time ta’ time.”

She could… she could visit. Whenever she wanted? Her old home, without her parents around. McGucket was that okay with her? Even going so far as to compare her to (presumably) his own kid? That was… incredible. Before thinking it through, she threw her arms around the old man, chorusing her ‘thank you’s with a bubble of laughter. Though startled, Fiddleford slowly returned the hug with a warm smile.

He stank quite a bit. Pacifica recoiled a little at the realization of what she was doing. Ew. What would people think of her if they caught her doing something so unthinkable? Willingly embracing this stinky old man who…. gave incredible hugs.. Her concern suddenly dissolved. In its stead, a certain safety appeared, and she melted into it a little more. It was the same feeling she craved in her dreams. Dirt didn’t matter at all anymore. The feeling of a parental embrace shielding her from the unpleasantness of the world was all she could bring herself to care about at that moment. It felt so warm… Before she knew it, she was tearing up again.

“...Thank you, McGucket..”

“Heheh, anytime, sugarbun. Say, since it is yer birthday, whaddya say we hit th’ town an’ find somethin’ ta’ cheer ya up?”

Pacifica wiped her eyes with her palm. What an offer... To think a year ago she would never had even considered walking around with the old kook as a possible option, but.. She found herself looking forward to it. “I… I would love that.”

[Part 1 of ??? possibly 2??]

[marvelousstevetony]

Okay but those ways to say I love you prompts are all so cute 🥺 what about on a post-it note for Steve and tony if you’re feeling inspired? Thank you! 💖

Ahh, they are! Thank you for this prompt, friend, it is so sweet. I hope you enjoy this small thing 💖

~ ~ ~

“Please don’t leave me in this hellhole.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheeks to stop the laughter from bubbling out of him as he lets his eyes wander over to the bed where Tony lies, face smushed into his pillow.

His arm hangs limply over the edge of the bed, the blanket pulled up so it covers most of his naked back, apart from his shoulders. His skin has that sleep-warm glow to it, and judging by the soft, relaxed expression on his face, Tony is only about fifty percent awake as he lets out a small whine.

Now Steve is unable to keep the smile from gliding over his lips. “You’ll do great, Tony. And you know I’d much rather get back into bed,” Steve responds as he zips his bag and places it by the door.

“There’s nobody stopping you…”

“There kinda is, though,” Steve says, walking towards the bed, then sits down after nudging Tony’s leg to make space on the edge of the bed. “Besides, I’ll be back tonight. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

He threads his fingers through the mess of dark curls, softly untangling the knots that always come as a result of Tony nuzzling his head against Steve’s shoulder, chest or back, depending on whose turn it is to be the small spoon. It looks a little like a bird’s nest, Steve notes, all disheveled and mussed, but definitely the most adorable bird’s nest Steve has ever seen.

“’s not true,” Tony mumbles into the pillow. “I always miss you when you’re not here.”

Steve knows the hoarseness to Tony’s voice is probably from sleeping, but he can’t help but feel like it’s from emotion, too, and just the thought of Tony missing him even when they don’t see each other for mere hours makes something in his chest catch. Because Steve feels it, too; the constant want and need to be with Tony, as if Tony’s presence is the oxygen Steve breathes to keep him alive.

Steve clears his throat to prevent an emotional voice crack. “I won’t be away for long, okay? I love you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling even though Tony can’t see it with his eyes closed.

Tony hums, leaning into the palm Steve rests on his cheek. It’s only for a quick second though, because then he sighs heavily and feigns a pout. “Apparently not enough, since you’re leaving me to go to a stupid meeting. In D.C.”

Steve chuckles softly as he brushes his thumb over Tony’s cheekbone. “I’ll make it up to,” Steve promises and leans down to press a gentle kiss the corner of Tony’s lips. “You’re going to smash that presentation like you always do, and those investors are going to be every bit as smitten by you as I am.”

“I know,” Tony says, smirking even in his sleep-hazy state. “Still don’t wanna do it, though.”

“You’re gonna be great.” Steve gives his cheek another quick kiss before he stands and heads for the door, grabbing his bag on his way. “I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”

“Mm, love you too,” Tony mumbles, already falling back into the warmth of the blankets and the comfortable unconsciousness.

***

Tony curses under his breath as he woken up by the ear-splitting sound of his alarm going off, and for a few seconds he wonders who he is going to have to sue for making such a vile, atrocious sound. It doesn’t take much longer for his sleep fogged brain to register that he isn’t woken up by the ticklish feeling of Steve’s breath behind his ear that he’s used to.

Steve usually comes to rouse him from his slumber with that low, fond voice whispering good morning in his ear, and a steaming mug of coffee. Today, he gets neither, and it feels like a bad start to what Tony can only imagine is going to be a bad day overall.

He stretches out on the bed, joints clicking, and gives a jaw-crackling yawn that’s followed by an equally dramatic sigh. He lets himself revel in the softness of the mattress and warmth of the blanket before draping one hand over his eyes and reaching for his phone with the other.

He frowns when his hand identifies a piece of paper on the screen of his phone, then rubs at his tired eyes with a fist to clear away the blurry vision. He has to narrow his eyes to make out the words on the post-it, and god he feels old doing so, but the feeling is quickly replaced by the affection that pools in his chest when he reads the note.

Good morning, my love. Hope you slept well.

- S ♡

Steve might not physically be in the Tower, but Tony knows that he left his heart right here.

His heart is apparently not the only thing Steve has left in New York, because throughout the routine of showering, brushing his teeth and getting dressed, Tony finds another few colorful notes with small, sweet messages and cute little drawings on them.

Wish I could join you, the one on the shower cabinet had said, and, well… Tony definitely agrees.

When Tony had showered, sadly all by himself, and finished up in the bathroom, he’d gone to choose what to wear for the meeting with the investors. What screams genius, billionaire, philanthropist and a damn good businessman? he had thought, staring into a closet full of suits.

That’s when he’d noticed another post-it, a red one that said: You look amazing in all of these. Those investors are so lucky. Love you. Steve had added a small smiley face with hearts as eyes. Tony rolled his eyes fondly before settling on a dark grey suit and the maroon-colored tie Steve had bought him.

Now, as he enters he kitchen, he feels a little better, a little less like this day is pure agony.

Because he is Tony Stark, a caffeine-addict, he heads straight for the coffeemaker, his most treasured item, and he can almost hear the birds chirping and angels singing the closer he gets. His focus quickly switches to the piece of paper that’s stuck to it though, and the fact that he reads the note before starting the machine is truly a testament to how much he loves Steve.

Please drink a glass of water and eat something too. Coffee is not a real breakfast!

Tony laughs out loud. He can imagine the look on Steve’s face and the sound of his voice so clearly in his mind as he reads it. Normally he’d argue this point, just because he can and because coffee deserves to be acknowledged as a necessity in his diet, but he doesn’t have it in himself to disregard Steve’s request, so he fills a glass with water and puts a bagel in the toaster while the coffee brews.

When it’s done, Tony goes to grab his favorite mug from the cupboard and is not surprised to find another post-it stuck on it.

From the day I realized I love you, it says and Steve has drawn a tiny ferris wheel on there, too.

Tony smiles reminiscently, thinking back to the day Steve had gotten him the mug. He had bought it in the gift shop in Coney Island when the team had gone there on a day off. Steve had told him how he and Bucky used to go there, he even told him about the time he had thrown up after Bucky made him ride the Cyclone. Neither of them had been able to stop blushing and smiling that day.

He snaps out of his absorption of memories when the toaster chimes, fills his mug and takes a seat a the breakfast bar, scrolling through his phone as he eats. He contemplates calling Steve but remembers that he and Sam are going to be in and out of meetings all day, so he settles on texting him a single red heart emoji.

For the next hour, as he gets ready for the investor meeting, Tony finds several other post-its. Some are messages saying stuff like I love you more than Nat loves knives, others are small drawings with cute texts like the one of them with grey hair and wrinkles that reads Growing old together. Tony may or may not have teared up at a few of them, and if he does, no one will know.

He imagines this is what it would’ve been like if he had ever been hunting for easter-eggs as a child. However, notes from Steve are a lot more rewarding than those cheap, poor quality chocolates.

With each one he finds, Tony’s chest tightens and his heart squeezes. Most people believe Tony is the one who’s always super over the top when is comes to romantic gestures, which, to be completely honest, is true. He does the grand, romantic gestures because he likes to spoil Steve whenever he gets the chance to. He likes watching Steve’s cheeks turn pink and that shy smile that crosses his face when Tony’s done something outrageously extravagant.

But… Steve has always been good at the small details. Things that seem insignificant but really aren’t, because they’re intimate and heartfelt and the most Steve things to do. Like leaving a million post-its around the penthouse to make up for being away.

As the collection of vibrant-colored paper notes grows, Tony finds a small box to gather the messages and drawings. The last one he finds is inside the elevator as he goes to meet Pepper before the meeting with the investors.

Good luck, baby. I love you.

***

Tony can’t recall when the last time a presentation went this well; everything went smoothly and the investors were immensely impressed.

He’s still tired as he stands in the elevator though, head tipped back against the wall, and he can’t wait to drop himself onto the couch and wait for Steve to come home.

He frowns when the elevator door opens and something seems… different, is the only way to describe it. The light are dimmed and instead, the room it lit up by candles. The Netflix logo is big and bright on the tv screen in front of the couch, which has been turned into a nest of blankets and pillows, and on the coffee table, there are two pizza boxes that give off a comforting smell that Tony can detect all the way across the room. In the middle of the whole affair is Steve, wearing his favorite pair of sweats and his old cable-knit, smiling widely at Tony.

Tears of happiness well up in Tony’s eyes as he walks towards the couch, shedding his shoes, jacket and shirt until he’s just in his undershirt, and drops himself directly onto Steve, burying his face in his neck. Steve holds him closer, chuckling a bit at Tony’s excited welcome home hug.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Tony echoes, the sound muffled into the fabric of Steve’s sweater.

“Did you have a good day? Good. I’m glad,” Steve says, smile growing impossibly wider when Tony hums and gives a small nod.

They lie there for a while, breathing in the scent of each other, feeling their muscles relax the longer their bodies are pressed this close, fitting together like a perfect puzzle. Tony’s head is the perfect size to fit into the crook of Steve’s neck, and Steve arms makes the best embrace around Tony’s smaller frame.

After a few minutes though, Tony catches a whiff of the Italian spices and lifts his head to look into Steve’s sparkling, blue eyes. “Pizza?” he asks hopefully, and Steve’s smile is answer enough.

Tony sits up to open the box and on it, there’s a post-it. It’s short and simple and it might be Tony’s favorite.

I love you, Tony Stark ♡

“You still think I don’t love you enough?”

Tony swallows hard around the lump that has suddenly appeared in his throat. “I never doubted that you do,” he says soberly. The words feel heavy as they leave his mouth, because it’s true; Steve has never given Tony any reason to question his love for him. Tony knows that Steve loves him.

He knows it by the way Steve runs his hand through his bird’s nest of a bedhead even though it’s greasy and it has gotten too long because he doesn’t want to go the the hair dresser. He knows it in the way he makes sure Tony doesn’t kill himself by only consuming coffee. He knows it by the way they can tell each other embarrassing stories about throwing up after riding a rollercoaster and buy ugly mugs from gift shops. He knows it in the way Steve writes hearts above the i’s and j’s, in the small curves of his handwriting and in the drawings and texts that tell Tony that he wants to grow old with him. He knows it by the way Steve looks at him with his blue eyes and long lashes and by the sincere smile that plays on his lips when he says his name.

They’re silent for a moment, but then Steve leans in, his lips ghosting over Tony’s as he whispers, “I love you, Tony.”

“I love you,” Tony says, closing the final gap between them, sealing their lips in a gentle, sweet, perfect kiss.

[passable-talent]

oh oh oh! the blue spirit (zuko obv) rescuing reader from thieves in ba sing se and then later when he joins the gaang he tells her it was him? 😳

this is a fun request!! and that’s why I’m keeping it, but the continued use of female pronouns irks me,,,

There had been rumor of a masked man going by ‘the Blue Spirit’ in the Earth Kingdom, stealing from towns. He hadn’t yet appeared in Ba Sing Se- something you were thankful for. You didn’t have much, and you couldn’t imagine how it would devastate you if something further were stolen from you.

This was why you kept almost everything you really wanted to keep safe at home. Home wasn’t achingly secure, sure, but it was better than carrying it with you. If you got mugged, you’d lose anything on your person, you were sure of it.

You weren’t an earthbender, so you couldn’t defend yourself in that manner. And thanks to a childhood memory you wished you didn’t remember, you knew you’d freeze in any sort of physical fight. You knew you’d lose.

So imagine your panic when two men with knives managed to corner you in a narrow alleyway.

It was exactly what you’d always feared- and even though you had only a few coins in your pockets, you worried that this would end so much worse than losing a few silver pieces.

You flattened yourself against the wall and muttered the word ‘please’, whimpering it under your breath, hands shaking even as they pressed to the cool stone behind you. It was everything you’d always feared and more, their wicked teeth glinting just as much as the blades, and your vision blurred with tears before you shut your eyes.

But nothing happened.

You heard a light noise in front of you, as though someone either very light or very graceful landed on their feet. Then, blades crashing together briefly before muscle was struck and pounding footsteps carried two people away from you. You dared open your eyes, and there he was- the man in the mask of the Blue Spirit, who you had so feared. He had chased the other men away, but you... would he do something to you?

He gave a small nod in response to your stare, and turned to the wall beside you, beginning to climb back up and over it. You watched, awed, until he disappeared, and after moments longer had regained enough breath to leave the alley and return to the errand that had brought you here in the first place.

Months passed, and you had fallen in with the avatar. You’d recieved guidance and help from Katara to get you less terrified of fighting, and you were learning martial arts from Sokka. You were getting better, because you never again wanted to feel as helpless as you had when you were cornered, and relied on the kindness of a thief to save you.

You hadn’t ever known Prince Zuko, and so let the rest of the gang decide how to deal with him when he arrived. They let him stay, after a while, and you were one of the first to truly try and be actual friends with him- after all, you didn’t have much against him.

One night, after Suki and Katara had gone to bed, Zuko turned his head to look at you.

“Do you remember me?” He asked, which puzzled you.

“What do you mean? Of course I do. I met you a few weeks ago, what could I have forgotten in that time?” You said, tilting your head slightly.

“No,” he said, looking back at the fire. “From Ba Sing Se.” Your eyebrows furrowed as he mentioned your home, and you wondered further how he knew that you’d even been in Ba Sing Se.

“What about Ba Sing Se?” You asked, voice low, almost accusatory. Where was he going with this? What was he suggesting?

“When you were saved from those two muggers, by the Blue Spirit. That was me.” You looked at Zuko with many emotions flashing through your body. The coincidental nature of such a thing to happen was unbelievable, then again, how could he have possibly known what happened unless he was telling the truth? Why was he a thief? Why was he a thief, who did something good? Why was he in Ba Sing Se at all?

“That was you?” You repeated, and he nodded, slowly, the motion purposeful and smooth. You turned your vision from him and stared as well into the fire.

“So then you saw me panic, and freeze.”

“They had daggers, you didn’t. I’m not blaming you.” You let out a ‘hmmph’, a subtle disagreement, and he for a moment did not respond.

“I think that, uh, I’m happy that I met you then. It makes me even happier now, to see you training as a fighter with the avatar. You’ve improved.”

“You’ve improved,” you said, a small mocking tone in your voice. “Is that the best you’ve got?” He turned to you, expression slightly bewildered, and it was his turn to ask ‘what do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, “you meet this kid by saving their ass, and when you find them again, they’re fighting with the avatar. And all I get is ‘you’ve improved’?”

“What do you want to hear?” He asked, voice slightly flustered but light, as it was when engaged in playful argument. “That I’m proud of how far you’ve come, or that I’d save you again, but it doesn’t look like you’ll need it?”

“That’s pretty good,” you said, which stunned him into silence. He hadn’t expected that easy of an admission of victory. He let out a small, almost uncomfortable chuckle, and took his eyes away from you once again. For a moment, there was nothing but the flickering of the fire.

“Why didn’t you tell them about your good deed?” You asked him, and he shrugged.

“I wasn’t sure if you would remember. And if you didn’t, it would look like I was making it up.” You nodded, and a shiver overtook you. He took it upon himself to open his palm toward the fire, a deep inhale and exhale enlarging it so that more warmth was cast around it.

“Thanks,” you said, barely audibly. Your hands left your biceps as you slowly warmed up, and you watched his body as he used minimalist firebending to keep the flame engorged. It was a terrifying art, but a beautiful one, as the light flickered across his cheekbones while his chest rose and fell.

“I can start a fire in your room, if you like, to keep you warm overnight,” he offered, and your gaze remained on him even as he turned to look at you.

“I’d like that.”

-🦌 Roe

[bluejayblueskies]

philia

n. a love between friends; based on mutual respect, common values, shared desires, and unwavering trust

Words: 2.5k Relationship: Sasha James & Tim Stoker, past Sasha James/Tim Stoker Tags: Light Angst, Canon Compliant, Aromantic Sasha James, Lovers to Friends, Awkward Conversations Warnings: internalized arophobia (throughout), fear of arophobia from another character (doesn’t actually occur)

|| Ao3 ||

.

If one thing could be said about Sasha James, it’s this: she doesn’t scare easy. All the traditional spooks—spiders and the dark and heights and everything in between—don’t send her heart racing like they did some of her childhood friends, and when she was old enough to go to the library by herself, she slowly and methodically worked her way through the meager horror section at her disposal. She liked the way that the fear tasted, metallic in her mouth and sending gooseflesh tingling across her arms and lips, and even when she landed on a book or a movie that pushed her beyond her limits for terror, she found that she couldn’t look away, too immersed in the way that her hands shook as she turned the page.

 Maybe that’s why she ended up at the Magnus Institute. When the horror began to feel stale, each story contrived beyond the point of enjoyment, where better to turn to than somewhere that collected horrors that were real?

Sasha lasted three months in Artifact Storage before she decided that she’d finally found her limit, and it was gold monocles that turned your sight inward and stainless steel knives that leaked briny blood and a chalkboard eraser that could peel the skin clean off your face with a single stroke. Her brand of horror lay in stories, not in things, she decided then. In stories, at least, the fear was contained.

 The problem, though, is that it’s easy to not be afraid of stories. Even if they’re real ones, told by real people, they’re still just stories, and so Sasha can separate herself from them, lock them away in the Institute at night and return to the more mundane horrors of her television screen or her bookshelf. It’s much, much harder to not be afraid of the things she can’t escape.

 Sasha James doesn’t scare easy. But when she walks into the Institute on Monday morning and sees Timothy Stoker sitting at his desk, positioned opposite to hers and in the perfect location for mid-day glances and snippets of conversation, her heart jumps into her throat so fast she thinks she might choke on it.

 Sasha puts on her headphones, sits down at her desk, and doesn’t let her eyes stray from her computer screen for the rest of the day.

 And the next.

 And the next.

 Fear is a funny thing, she thinks as she stands in the shower that Friday night, letting the water drum against the back of her skull and trying to figure out why even after fifteen minutes of standing in the scalding spray, her skin still itches with unseen dirt that she can’t quite rid herself of. It can spur people to go to lengths they never thought imaginable. Like Gregory Chavez, who found he could run nearly two miles at a dead sprint when chased by a thing that had once been his son but that now craved nothing but blood and terror. Or Biah Wynn, who found it within herself to burn her family home to the ground with her brother still inside when a sharp-tongued thing from her dreams told her to.

 Or Sasha James, who’s been avoiding her best friend for a week because she had sex with him and now can’t bring herself to admit that it was a mistake. Or, more accurately, to admit why it was a mistake.

 Tim probably hates me now, she thinks as she tips her head back and lets the water run over her eyelids, holding her breath as it trickles over her closed lips and hits her arms where they’re crossed over her chest in a protective gesture. And he’d be right to. I kind of hate me now.

 Sasha turns the shower off, laments for a moment the state of her water bill for that month, and readies herself for bed.

 She allows herself to continue this way for two more days before the voice in her head manages to convince her that don’t ruin a good thing is becoming more and more of an impossibility the longer she ignores the inevitably awkward conversation that they need to have. Her resolve finally breaks through the sharp static of fear Monday evening, when Tim pushes back from his desk and Sasha says, breaking the silence with all the grace of a battering ram, “Fancy a cuppa?”

 Timothy Stoker doesn’t startle easy. At the sound of Sasha’s voice, however, he jumps so badly that the file folder he’d been preparing to stow away slips from his hands, spilling loose pages on the ivory tile floor in a mess of white paper and black ink.

 “Jesus,” Tim says, bending down to collect the papers. His eyes are cast firmly on the ground when he says, voice tight, “A little warning next time before you decide to break a week-long vow of silence?”

 Sasha’s wince is full-body. “Sorry,” she says, trying and failing to impart a week’s worth of apologies into a single word. Then, with forced levity: “Permission to speak again?”

 Tim’s quiet for a little too long. He’s collected all the papers and they sit limply in his hands as his eyes trace the lines between the tiles, lips curled down into a pained expression that Sasha hates, though she knows it’s nobody’s fault but her own. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t know, Sasha. Maybe a week ago, the answer would have been yes? But I… I don’t know if I feel like talking now.”

 Thorns of Sasha’s own design dig into her heart and claw up her throat, and she fixes her eyes on the surface of her desk. It’s full of yellow post-it notes she doesn’t remember writing and approximately twenty stray pens and pencils and a million other things that are far, far less important than the man still squatting on the floor next to her, pretending to organize the papers in his hand.

 “Okay,” she says, and the word bites into her tongue with razor-sharp teeth. Then, even though she said she wouldn’t, she says, “I’m sorry, Tim. And I want to explain, if you’d let me.”

 Please let me.

 Tim looks at her, just once, and the hurt in his eyes cuts into Sasha like broken glass. “I… I just need some time,” he says, like Sasha hasn’t given him too much of that already, like she hasn’t already had the thought of I just need more time, more time to figure this out running through her head for days.

 “Okay,” she repeats. The smile she musters up feels hollow, too full of hope to hold up to scrutiny.

 “Okay,” Tim says.

 Tim leaves. And Sasha works late, if only to give her mind something to do that isn’t wallowing in guilt and self-pity.

 She works late Tuesday, too. And Wednesday and Thursday. Then, as her computer blinks 17:00 on Friday and she flips open another file, she hears from behind her a quietly amused, “You’re turning into Jon, you know.”

 If asked later, Sasha will maintain that she didn’t startle at the sound of Tim’s voice. The file, at least, stays firmly clasped in her hand, though she sets it down before turning in her chair to see Tim standing a few feet away, jacket slung over one arm and hesitance written all over his face even as his mouth forms a teasing smile.

 “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sasha says, aiming for levity and coming close enough for it to count. “I don’t have nearly enough grey in my hair for that yet. Besides, you know I can’t pull off a sweater vest.”

 “Not with that attitude, you can’t.”

 Sasha smiles fully, letting tendrils of humor pull the corners of her mouth up toward her eyes, and the lines of tension in Tim’s face begin to smooth. The hesitance is still there, the hurt lying just beneath, but it feels a lot less like a wall and a lot more like a locked door. She just hopes that Tim still trusts her enough to give her the key.

 “Fancy a cuppa?” he says.

 They pick a little tea shop a few blocks away from the Institute, open later than the rest and with prices that only make Sasha wince a little bit as she orders a cup of jasmine green tea and then sits at a little corner table across from Tim, away from the hum of the rest of the café. He wraps his hands around his mug of Darjeeling, looks at Sasha, and says, “Is this the part where you say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?”

 Sasha winces and takes a long sip of her too-hot tea to cover it up. When she pulls back, the roof of her mouth thoroughly scalded, she says, “In… a manner of speaking.”

 It’s Tim’s turn to wince, though he doesn’t bury it in his tea, instead painting over it quickly with a mask that’s not so thick that Sasha can’t still see the hurt that lies beneath. “Right,” he says, and the little laugh that escapes him is entirely devoid of humor. “Guess that’s it, then. Nice and succinct—don’t know why it gets such a bad rap in rom-coms, to be honest.”

 The guilt is burning its way up Sasha’s throat, hot and sticky. It’s a struggle to force herself to speak around it, but she does, because it’s important. Because it matters. Because she’s not going to lose her best friend just because she’s afraid. So, she swallows the lump in her throat just enough to say, “It’s not because I don’t want to be in a relationship with you, Tim; it’s because I don’t want to be in a relationship at all. A… a romantic one, at least.”

 Tim doesn’t say anything at first, and though Sasha knows he’s just taking the time to parse her words, to understand what she’s trying to tell him—he’s ace, he told her before they… before, so he’ll know what she means—she can’t keep the anxiety from clawing up the back of her throat with acid-dipped nails. She takes a drink of her tea, and then another, until she’s staring at the bottom of her mug with her heart thrumming in the back of her throat. The sound of her own pulse in her ears is so loud that she almost doesn’t hear Tim when he says, quietly, “I’m sorry, Sasha.”

 Sasha sets her mug down hard enough to chip, surprise and guilt turning her blood to liquid nitrogen and her muscles to ice. “No, please- please don’t apologize, Tim, I should be the one who- I should have told you sooner instead of- of leading you on when I was never going to reciprocate. And then you told me you were ace and I- I still didn’t say anything because- because—”

 Sasha waves her now-free hand in the air wildly, grasping for a reason that just won’t come. Finally, for want of anything better, she lands on, “Because I somehow thought that was going to be the thing that you’d hate me for instead of for how I’ve been acting all week.” She deflates, ever so slightly, and says, “I am so, so sorry, Tim.”

 She affixes her eyes to the table, to the spiraling wood grains that trace lines across its surface, and doesn’t let go. She can think of a million expressions Tim might be wearing right now, ranging from guilt to sympathy to frustration to hurt, and she doesn’t want to see any of them.

 A hand, warm and terra-cotta brown, settles on top of hers, and Tim says, “I meant that I’m sorry for assuming that the reason you were avoiding me was about me. I should have asked sooner, but I…” He lets out a small laugh. “I suppose I thought you hated me. That I’d done something—though I couldn’t figure out what—and now you never wanted to see me again. And then I- I made it about me. Got frustrated when you wanted to talk. Didn’t even consider that there might have been something else going on.”

 “Why would you have?” Sasha says quietly, eyes still glued to the table. “I didn’t give you any indication that there was. I didn’t say anything.”

 Tim hums, a sad sound, and says, “I suppose neither of us did.”

 It’s quiet between them for a moment. In the interim, the sounds of the café filter in: the clank of cups against countertops, the hiss of steam as it spills free from stainless steel water heaters, the chatter of those around them who are lost in their own worlds of words and wants and wishes. Then, Tim’s hand tightens around Sasha’s, almost imperceptibly, and he says, “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”

 Sasha finally looks up from the table. Tim’s watching her, his eyes full of an affection so sweet it tastes of melted caramels on Sasha’s tongue. “I’ve loved you in so many ways, Sasha James, in so many times and places and moments. And I’m not going to give them all up if one of those ways isn’t something that you want from me. I’ll just put that one aside and replace it with new ones.” Tim shrugs and smiles, and it’s so casual, so easy, that Sasha thinks she must be dreaming it. “If you don’t want to date, then we won’t. And that’s not going to make me love you any less.”

 Sasha looks at Tim, trying to wrangle the tendrils of emotions within her into something beyond the electrifying, giddy happiness that she feels bubbling up in her chest. What comes out, in the end, is a small laugh and a quiet, “It’s that easy?”

 Tim holds up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

 “Huh.” Sasha taps a finger against the edge of her mug, feeling the press of now-cool ceramic on her skin. The smile tugging at her lips is insistent enough that she finally just lets it slip free, uninhibited by shaking hands or acid claws or rapid-fire heartbeats. It’s still a nervous thing—a fawn just learning to walk, a baby bird pushed from its nest and struggling to unfurl its wings mid-freefall, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon with stained-glass wings and a life turned upon its head. It remains so for several weeks, through the still-awkward coffee runs and the times Sasha spends curled up on Tim’s couch with the space between them burning red-hot and icy-cold in equal measure and the staggering guilt that still returns as Sasha stands in the shower or lies in bed or walks through the doors to the Institute to see Tim sat at his desk, his smile growing wider each day.

 Then one day Sasha reaches for it, almost absently—that nervous feeling, the almost-falling swoop of her stomach—and finds it gone. She reaches and instead finds Tim, standing in the kitchen of her flat with flour dusted on his nose and kneading a ball of bread dough as he regales her with a story of his first tried-and-failed attempt at making bread that involved not one, but two separate fire-alarm incidents. And when she smiles at him, it feels so light and freeing that a laugh comes with it, bubbly with surprise and affection.

 She spreads stained-glass wings, strong enough now to carry her weight and beautiful in their own right, and lets the wind carry her home.

[nerdygirl8203]

Old Money, New Feelings

Chapter 5

Summary: Ransom shows you some of the benefits you get when it comes to friends with benefits. Well, other than the amazing sex!

Warnings: Friends with benefits, some fluff, Ransom being Ransom, no major spoilers for knives out, swearing

A/N: Tag me if you want to be added to my tag list of just this series or all things or just a specific person or group. I am writing this at 3 am so no promises that it will be great.

//Previous Chapter//

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

I have always been subconscious about where I’ve lived. I have never been rich by any means. My parents worked hard to afford everything we had when I was younger and now that I am an adult it is no different. I work hard, I pay my bills, I but things I need, repeat. 

My living space was never big. There is a small kitchen that barely fits one person, a living room that is also a dining room, a bathroom, and my shoe box of a bedroom. I have a beat up old beige sofa from my grandmother, a small coffee table that is a few feet, if that, away from my two person table that had two chairs. Even for such minimal thing my living/dining room is cramped. Ransom standing there isn’t helping.

His huge and dominating stature makes my already tiny apartment look like it’s a doll house. This is the first time I noticed all the cracks on the walls and the chips in the paint. My floor is slanted slightly but it never bothered me before. That was before when i never had anyone in my apartment. 

Ransom looks around my apartment. He is obviously trying to keep the disgust off his face which bothers me more. He might be trying to be nice but I would bet he’s just trying to remember every tiny flaw. Every imperfection big or small will be amination for a snarky remark at a later date. 

“It’s not big or fancy but it’s a roof over my head.” I shrug trying to act casual when on the inside my stomach is filled with butterflies. I hate that I care what he thinks. I hate that I somewhat value his opinion in anyway, shape, or form. He was just meant to be a man who I would fuck occasionally. 

“Why this place?” He asks. His brows are knitted together in confusion. He doesn’t look like he’s judging me. I’m stupid for answering. “It’s a place I can afford. Get why I don��t want you to come to my place now?” I look down a little bit. I try to keep my façade on, pretend that I’m fine but for just a second I show just how not fine I am. 

“I want my best fuck buddy to be living somewhere better. I’ll make you a deal,” I cut him off with a groan before he can even continue. “What?” He asks his smug smirk falling off his face. “I will not make a deal with you.” I say stubbornly. “Just hear me out like the good girl I know you are.” He smirks again. I hate the effect those words have on me. “I’ll help you pay for a better place, you pay me what you pay for rent here and I’ll pay the rest but in return you will let me come over and fuck you anywhere in that house that I want.” 

I look at him suspiciously. No way he would actually kind of be a decent person ever. “What? I’m getting just as much out of this as you are. Plus, this means I don’t have to worry about getting a new fuck buddy because my old one was mugged and shot in this shitty part of town.” I roll my eyes at him “Fine. But you have to at least text before you come over.” “Deal. We will go out looking after breakfast. Now go get dressed.”

While getting dressed you try to wrap your mind around this. What is happening? Is Ransom trying to help me or be a sugar daddy? I have never once asked him for money or even mentioned his money. I didn’t even want him coming here! Should I not have said yes? Should I have kicked him out? What is happening? He is acting like a boyfriend and not just some bed buddy. Does he think I’m some stupid charity case he can talk about at his shitty parties? I need to get to the bottom of this.

I put on some comfortable clothes. I will not dress up for him until I figure out what is going on with all of this. I put on my socks and some comfortable sneakers. If I’m going to have this uncomfortable conversation I am at least going to be in some comfortable clothes!

I come out of my room to see Ransom snooping through my things in my living/dining room. 

“What are you doing?” I ask. He has never once taken an intrest in my life, why now? “I’m looking at your shit.” He rolls his eyes like this is just some normal thing he does every Tuesday. “Well stop.” I say firmly trying not to give him any room to argue. Naturally that does not work. “Why? Does me knowing you life piss you off?” He smirks and picks up a picture of you and your family.

When he looks at it I notice his tough guy facade fade away for a moment. “Is this your family?” He asks still looking at my picture. “Yeah, why?” He doesn’t try to put his tough guy act back up. “You’re all smiling. I never have any pictures of me and my family like this.” He sighs. He has a heart. Not even three hours ago I would have told anyone he didn’t.

I walk over to him feeling bad. I can’t imagine that. I wrap my arms around him gently. “What-what are you doing?” He is shocked “I’m sorry that your family is like that.” I say softly. Slowly his arms wrap back around me gently. “Please stay. Don’t leave. Please.” His voice is shockingly sweet. He is begging me to stay. It makes me not want to leave. 

[meigh-day]

Obligation (Tendou x Reader) - Part 7

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Title: Obligation

Pairing: Mafia AU Tendou x F!Reader

Characters: Includes characters from both Shiratorizawa and Seijoh/Some OC background characters

Includes: Swearing, Mentions of Guns/Knives and Violence, Blood

Status: Complete

Word Count: 1.8k

Previous Next

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The house was fairly quiet at this time of the night, even with all the members of staff and family who were still up competing their own work, the sounds of life within the house were dulled. Tendou raked a hand through his red hair, any product that had held it up and away from his face earlier in the day had worn away at this point. He'd spent the last few hours in a very heated meeting and was feeling completely exhausted. Seijoh had been sticking their nose in their territory, doing little things here and there to just be a pain in the ass. They were probably still sore after Tendou and his team had shown up to one of their safe houses and just laid the place to ruin. It had been a show of power, to keep them in their place and out of their district. The meeting hadn't come to any resolution for the problem which meant they would be meeting every day until the best course of action was decided upon.

He hated meetings at the best of times but especially right now with them looming over him and no indication of when they would end, stealing away the time he could be spending with you. It had killed him to leave you behind, it was a crime really, leaving you looking so flushed and cute. If not for Yamagata's, horribly precise timing, those lips of yours wouldn't have been left un-kissed. As he moved further down the hallway the light radiating from the kitchen caught his attention and as he neared the entry the sounds of a conversation reached his ears.

"I'm not saying he's my favorite person or anything,,,but I just hate the way she bad mouths him to anyone who will listen and in the same breath sucks up to him..."

"'Not like she was trying to hide why she came here in the first place. I heard her blabbering on the phone earlier saying how she only wants him because of his position."

"Ugh, and if that's not bad enough, she left this huge mess behind for us to clean up..."

Tendou stood frozen, hidden in the shadows next to the doorway. It felt like someone had punched him in the gut, their words kept replaying in his head as the fears he'd been trying to suppress suddenly sprang to life. You'd been lying to his face this whole time. Pretending he was special to you, just to get close to him, just so you could get something from him. He'd been right to be cautious in the beginning but he'd only done that because he was afraid he wasn't good enough for you, he never thought you might be using him. He never though you would turn out just like everyone else. It was too much, his heart was hurting and he didn't care to hear whatever else they might have to say. So, he pushed silently off the wall and disappeared down the hallway, fighting off the tears that threatened to obscure his vision.

"Well, now that Y/N is here, Nanako will have to find someone else to sink her claws into."

"Hah, fat chance anyone in this house will want her. No one did to begin with..."

.

..

.

Your night had been pretty uneventful after Tendou'd been called away. The kitchen was a bit of a mess but you cleared away the blood, some of the staff were even kind enough to help you out with the remainder. It was a little sad to have to put away the extra pillows and blankets you'd set out in the sitting room in preparation for the movie. When everything had been put away, you decided to simply spend the rest of the night in your room. With all the excitement leading up to the date, add to that the almost kiss, you were feeling a little rubbery as you made your way through the corridor. A loud sharp voice pulled your attention away for just a moment as you passed the girl you'd met in the garden several days ago. You'd found out her name was Nanako and that she wasn't very well liked among the staff. She wasn't someone you wanted to get to know, so as the two of you passed by each other, you kept your eyes elsewhere.

Nanako hated you. She hated every single thing about you. She had worked her ass off to get into this house, persistent in her pursuit of power. It wouldn't be possible to really attain any sort of status in the family as she was, no, for someone like her she would need to marry into it. Her sights had been set on Tendou, he seemed like the easiest target out of everyone, she had been sorely mistaken. Trying to get to him was like trying to crack open an egg only to find out you were holding a rock. But you? Well you just swan in and suddenly everything she had been trying to get was just going to be given to you. It boiled her blood and one of these days she was going to find a way to make you pay.

.

..

.

Morning found you retracing your steps right back to the kitchen, on the hunt for your morning caffeine. As soon as you cross the entryway, your eyes are greeted by a delightful sight, Tendou. He was leaning against the counter, mug in hand, taking a long drink of what you assumed to be coffee. The expression he wore reflected the sourness of his mood and you wondered if the meeting he'd been called away to had gone poorly.

"Good Morning Satori." You greet him with a smile as you move further into the room.

"Hm?" He turns his eyes on you and any warmth they'd held seemed to vanish as soon as you came into view. "...morning." His gaze didn't linger long as he greeted you. You couldn't put your finger on it but he sounded off. It was hard to tell if it stemmed from anger or melancholy. Either way, your brows creased in worry as you watched him.

"Did something happ--" You started to ask but were cut as he placed his mug in the sink, maybe a little harder than necessary.

"I gotta go."

He was gone in a flash and you were left standing in the kitchen feeling fairly startled by the shift in his attitude towards you. What the hell happened? Whatever it was, he'd made it quite clean that he didn't want to talk about it at the moment. It stung a little to have him act so coldly towards you but you couldn't even imagine the stress he might be under. There was almost nothing you could do to help him with his actual work but, still, you had to do something for him, anything to try and help bring some of the light back into his face.

So you tried, for days you tried. You sent him little text messages and silly pictures, hoping they would brighten his day but he never replied. You got up extra early to make him coffee but it remined untouched and cold on the counter. It got to the point that if you entered a room, he would leave. The breaking point for you was when the two of you had passed by each other in the hallway. Just a few days ago this would have been a perfect opportunity to have a quick chat. It had become so common that you immediately reacted with a smile and a wave, a cheerful greeting on your lips as he passed by, completely ignoring you, not even glancing in your direction. Suddenly you felt very lost, standing all alone in this big hallway. You could feel the prickle of uncertainty, of self doubt, begin to creep up in your mind. There was no way he didn't see you, there was no one else in the hallway. Could it be that he was mad at you? You tried to think over the last week or so, trying to remember what you had been doing, trying to figure out when you might have made a mistake.

Yua found you awhile later, still deep in thought, as you sat in the garden, staring blankly ahead at the bellflowers. Concern pulled across her soft features as she watched you a moment, unfazed by her appearance at your side.

"Y/N? You ok dear?" She places a wrinkled hand on your shoulder, the sudden touch jolting you back to the present with a small jump. "What's got you looking so upset?"

You feel the corners of your mouth twitch, trying not to fall into a frown as you prepare to say the words you've had rattling around in your head. "I-I think Satori is mad at me." You wince, a sensation of pain in your chest at the thought that those words might be true.

"Mad? At you?" Yua snorts in disbelief, finally taking a seat beside you. "I can't imagine why he would be dear. Did he say something?"

"No..." You shake your head.

"Then he did something..." She peers up at you, her gentle eyes taking on a sharpness as she presses you for information.

You give a non-committal shrug. "He's just...I think he's avoiding me. Every time I try to talk to him he leaves and now he won't even look at me..." The image of him walking by you earlier flashed in your mind. Walking by you without the smallest indication that he saw you, it was like you didn't exist, as if you were nothing. You felt your lips tremble as tears began to well, the memory clawing at your heart.

"Why that little...." Yua clenches her fist, wishing he was here so she could hit him upside the head. "Y/N, my dear." She took one of your hands in hers, offering up a reassuring smile. "I don't know what's going on in that boys mind but neither will you if you don't talk to him."

She had a point. Right now all you could so was sit around and worry about what ifs. The only way to find out what had happened, what you might have done, was to go and talk to him. Yua watched you in silence for a moment, curiosity getting the better of her. "You must like him quite a bit." Your eyes widen at her statement, the answer must have been written on your face since she simply nodded and smile. "Well then, best to go talk to him and get this whole thing straightened out."

"Mhm." You nod in agreement and stand as she releases your hands back to you. "Do you know where he is?"

"He should be in his office." She smiled up at you as you start to depart. "I'm sure this is just a little misunderstanding. Good luck dear."

[victoria-daydreams]

Something’s Gotta Give

Chapter Five: Avoidance

AN: I can’t believe I’ finally finished this chapter! It took me forever to complete it, I thought I would have this chapter out by yesterday or even the day before yesterday, but for some reason I kept getting easily distracted by other things. Also, shout out to everyone who has recently followed this story! Truly, I am thankful, because as I said before I really didn’t think anyone would read it, this story was just a plot bunny that I needed to get out of my head.

Chapter Six: Let’s Try this Again

Summary: Livia and Booker have reconciled with each other, but Livia still feels like she needs to make it to him up and she’s got just the plan.

Slowly, I could feel the heavy fog of sleep lift from my mind as I felt myself waking up. My eyes gently fluttered open, my vision slowly clearing until I could see rays of sunlight peeking through the window. The rays illuminated the room, bathing it in a soft, warm glow. My eyes scanned over the room, my surroundings were incredibly unfamiliar, the walls were painted in a beige color and not in burgundy like I have in my own bedroom. Quickly, I pushed myself up from my sleeping position, knocking off the blanket that was covering me.

I went into a small state of panic as my head turned from left to right before it dawned on me where I was. My eyes had landed on the spines of the antique books that rested on the bookshelf near the bedroom door. Closing my eyes, I found myself being able to breathe a lot easier and reopened my eyes. I swung my feet off the bed and planted them on the carpeted floor before pushing myself off the edge bed. Sliding my shoes back on, I made my way to the en suite bathroom, flipping the lights on as I entered and stopped at the sink.

I groaned internally once I saw the state of my hair, on one side my hair was flat as a pancake and on the other side my hair had shrunk. Not to mention the fact that I didn't sleep with my satin bonnet over my hair. I twisted the knobs and splashed some water onto my face, the water awakening me even further. I cupped my hands together and poured more water over my hair, hoping to rejuvenate it back to its usual state. Using my fingers, I gently fluffed my hair out to restore some of its volume, it was decent enough, but I would have to wait to get back to my apartment to really fix my hair.

I switched the lights off and left the bathroom reentering Booker's bedroom and I opened the door leaving the room. The smell of toast, bacon, and eggs wafted into my nose, bringing a smile to my face. I ran my fingertips along the hallway wall and as I got closer to the kitchen the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee teased my nose.

I leaned against the wall with a smirk on my face, "A girl could get used to this," I stated, folding my arms against my chest.

Booker lifted his eyes from the novel he was reading and flashed me a warm smile. "Good morning Livia," he greeted, placing his book down on the table.

"Morning Booker," I greeted back, pushing myself off the wall and walking to the small kitchen table. "You made breakfast and coffee," I remarked, gesturing towards the table as I slid into the seat across from him.

"Think of it as a thank you gift for all that you did me for yesterday," Booker stated, grabbing his mug.

My lips curved upward, "You're too sweet Booker," I replied, picking up the fork placed next to the plate. "Did you sleep well?" I asked curiously, sticking my fork into the scrambled eggs.

"The best I've slept in days," he answered, mirroring my smile.

I moved some of my hair behind my ear, "Yeah, sorry about falling asleep in your bed," I apologized, with a sheepish grin. "I know I said I would sleep on the sofa," I continued, picking up my own mug of coffee.

"You have nothing to apologize for Livia," Booker assured. "I'm sure the bed was a lot more comfortable than the sofa would've been," he joked, making the grin on my face grow wider.

"You even took the time to tuck me in," I remarked, before sipping some of my coffee, it was made just the way I liked it.

"I wanted to put you underneath the covers," Booker began, sticking his hand out. "But you looked so peaceful asleep that I didn't want to move you and risk you waking up," he explained, shaking his head.

I smiled, "Very considerate of you," I said, before digging my fork back into the food. I lifted the fork to my mouth, but then stopped when I recalled something that happened last night. "Booker?" I called, and he moved his eyes from the page of his book to me. "Why do you have a gun?" I questioned, before taking another bite of my eggs.

"For protection."

I narrowed my eyes, "It's practically to illegal to own a gun in France unless your job requires it," I pointed out.

"How do you know I don't need it for my job?" Booker challenged, and I just raised a skeptical brow. "You're American, your country is very gung-ho about guns, right?" He questioned, and I rolled my eyes. "Shouldn’t you be foaming at the mouth because the government is not allowing you to protect yourself?” He asked again, a smirk on his face.

"Really Booker?"

~~~x~~~

Placing, our dirty dishes down onto the counter, I turned the knob to the sink and water streamed out. I rolled my sleeves up and placed my hand underneath the water waiting for it to warm up.

"Breakfast was delicious Booker, thank you," I stated, looking over to him.

He grinned at me, "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," he replied, placing the mugs next to the plates.

I squirted soap into the sink, "Now, I may have imagined this because I was half asleep," I began, scrubbing a plate clean. "But did you mutter something after you wished me a good night?" I asked, turning my attention from the dish to him.

"No," he answered, a little too quickly for my taste.

My eyebrow arched, "Are you sure?" I questioned, handing him the cleaned dish to dry. "I could've sworn you said something in French," I recalled, moving onto the next plate.

Booker shook his head, "You must've of been dreaming Livia," he suggested, glancing over at me.

"You know I have friends that are French right?" I questioned, a playful smile on my lips. "I may butcher the words, but I think they'll able to decipher whatever you said Booker," I teased, smirking at him as I passed him the second plate.

"Livia."

A smile worked its way onto my lips, it was becoming a habit of Booker’s to groan my name in annoyance.

I lifted my hands in the air, "Fine, keep your secret French mutterings to yourself." I joked, dipping my hands back in the water to finish the rest of the dishes. "Will you at least tell me what you wanted to say yesterday?" I asked, cleaning off the forks and knives.

Booker stopped in mid-motion of drying, "I did promise you that yesterday, didn't I?" he responded, sounding hesitant. "Well, I...um...I'm..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to finish his sentence.

I could see the discomfort in his face about whatever he wanted to tell me. I placed my soapy, wet hand on top of his.

"Though you've been leaving me in suspense this whole morning," I quipped. "Whatever it is that you wanted to tell me, I can wait until you're ready," I stated, an understanding smile on my face.

Booker let out a sigh, "God, you have the patience of a saint Livia," he commented, shaking his head.

I chuckled, "I try to," I said, with a slight shrug of my shoulders and removing my hand from his wrist. "This is still a lot for me to take in as well," I added, finishing up with the mugs.

"I know it is,” he agreed, nodding his head. "And you honestly probably deserve to freak out more,” he admitted, looking over at me.

I leaned my head from side to side, "You're not wrong there," I stated, lightly laughing. "I deserve a nice, relaxing night. Maybe I’ll cook to de-stress," I said, nodding to myself. And that’s when an idea popped into my head and a smile formed on my face. "Let's have dinner at my place tonight," I suggested, and the mug that Booker was drying nearly slipped from his hand.

"What?"

"I wanna make it up to you, seeing how I made a muck of things a few days ago," I explained, drying my hands on the hand towel. Booker gave me an uncertain look at the idea of my makeup dinner. I placed one hand on my hip and the other on the sink. "Come on Booker, what's the worse that can happen?" I questioned.

Booker just raised an eyebrow that silently asked 'really?'. Just as he was about to respond, I removed my hand from my hip and placed my finger to his lips.

"You know what, don't answer that question," I stated, shaking my head. Pushing off the sink, I walked over to the armchair where my coat was resting. "An executive decision is being made and the decision is you're going to have dinner with me at my apartment," I ordered, pointing at Booker who just smiled at me.

Booker crossed his arms, "How do you know if I don't have plans already for tonight?" he asked, leaning back against the sink.

I rolled my eyes, "Booker, it's you, we both know you're not doing anything tonight,” I pointed out, walking backwards.

Booker chuckled, "Ouch," he replied, placing a hand against his chest.

"6:00 o'clock tonight Booker," I informed, unlocking the front door. "Be there or be square." I said, looking over at him.

~~~x~~~

For most of the afternoon, I have been running around my apartment like a chicken with its head cut off. The first thing I did when I got back inside my home was start cleaning. My apartment actually wasn't that dirty to begin with, but I just wanted to tidy it up before Booker came over later on tonight. So, I swept the floors of my kitchen and living room, vacuumed the rug, threw the trash out, and other various things. When I was finished frantically cleaning my apartment I was met with the most challenging decision of them all.

What I was going to wear tonight for dinner.

There were so many outfits laid out all over my bed, I paced back and forth on my bedroom floor glancing at the clothes. There were dresses, skirts with a matching top to it, or pants with a top that matched it. I thought about wearing a pair of pants because it's easy to move around in them, but then I questioned myself on if that would be, I don't know, sexy enough. I mean don't get me wrong, I can fill out a pair of jeans very well.

Wait a minute.

"Why am I trying to dress sexy for Booker?" I thought. "We're just having dinner tonight, it's not a date-" I continued. "Oh my god, is this a date?" I wondered.

Leaning my head back, I covered my face with both of my hands and a loud groan escaped from me. I am making this so much harder than it needs to be. I dragged my fingers down my face, wondering if Booker was going through the same thing or if it was just me and my tendency to over analyze things.

I glanced back over to my bed. "It's decided." I stated, clasping my hands together. "I know what I'm going to wear." I declared, scanning over the combination of outfits I put together.

"God, what am I going to make for dinner!" I fretted, scurrying out my room and to the kitchen to look for a cookbook.

After several hours of working myself into a frenzy to make everything perfect, I was finally done. The meal I had prepared was stored in the oven to keep warm, a fresh table cloth was draped over the table along with the utensils, plates, and wine glasses that were neatly arranged on the table. The small fireplace in front of the coffee table was lit, warming up the apartment to the ideal temperature where it wasn't too hot but not too cold.

I was lighting the last candle I pulled out when I heard knocking on my door. I watched as the wick flared to life, emitting a sunset orange glow. Placing my lighter down, I wiped my hands together and made my to the door. Unlocking the door, I pulled it open to see the back of Booker and I placed a hand on the door frame.

"You're not getting cold feet, are you?" I greeted, a smirk pulling on my burgundy painted lips.

Booker spun around, "No, I..." He trailed off, his eyes scanning over my outfit. It was a simple rust colored v-neck jumper that stopped just above my knees and underneath the jumper I wore a plain black long sleeve turtleneck. "Wow, you look stunning," he breathed, returning his gaze back to my own.

I felt my cheeks heat up as a bashful grin made its way on my face, "Thank you Booker," I said, my grin widening. "You're looking rather dashingly handsome yourself," I complimented back.

Booker wore a plain blue button down shirt tucked into his black pants, it was somewhat strange to see him dressed this way. I was used to his casual style of clothes that he usually wore, but yet I liked this change in style. Another thing that was different about Booker tonight was his hair, I've been accustomed to seeing his hair tousled in some sort of fashion, but now it was neatly combed over and parted to the side. I almost wanted to run my hand through it to mess it up a bit.

Booker mirrored my expression, "Thank you," he smiled. "I brought you these," he informed, extending his arms forward revealing a bouquet of blush pink peonies.

"Oh Booker!" I gushed, taking the flowers from him. "These are gorgeous!" I beamed, looking at the flowers and then back at him. "Come in, come in, before we let out all the heat from the apartment," I said, placing my hand on his bicep and gently pulling him inside and closing the door.

"It's nice and toasty in here," Booker commented, pulling his jacket off.

I locked the door, "It's not too much is it?" I asked, a slight panic building up inside me.

"It's perfect Livia," Booker reassured, hanging up his jacket on the coat rack.

A breath of relief escaped me, "Dinner is ready, I just need to take it out the oven." I informed, walking past him. "And the wine has already been uncorked, so we shouldn't have any accidents tonight." I joked, looking over my shoulder as I entered the kitchen.

"Ha ha ha, very funny Livia," Booker deadpanned, following behind me.

I flashed him a smile before squatting down to grab a vase from the island, pushing myself back up, I laid the flowers down and moved over to my sink. Turning the knob, I filled the small vase half full of water before shutting it off, carefully I walked back over to the island and placed the vase down next to the bouquet. My fingers found their way to the ribbon holding the peonies together, I gently pulled it and watched as the flowers released themselves from the brown paper. Gathering them all together, I held up the peonies to my nose and inhaled the sweet fragrance.

I lifted my eyes from the blush colored flowers to see Booker watching me with a satisfied grin.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I laughed, lowering the flowers from my nose to the vase.

Booker shrugged, "I'm just glad that you like the flowers," he replied, before he raised his glass of wine to his lips.

I slightly cocked my head, "Is that really all?" I asked again, now sliding my oven mitts on.

Booker just hummed in response as I opened the oven before bending down and removing the beef stroganoff and placing it on the stove top. The mouthwatering smell of the meal drifts through the entire apartment.

"Whatever that is, its smells delicious," Booker remarked, and my lips curved upwards as I turned the oven off.

"It's beef stroganoff," I answered, pulling the mitts off and grabbing the wooden spoon from the counter. I scooped the pasta out and onto each of plates, placing a moderate amount on them. Plates in hand, I walk over to the table where Booker was sitting and handed him his plate. "Bon appetit!" I cheered, Booker grinned at me and shook his head as I took my seat across from him.

Booker dipped his fork into his stroganoff and raised it to his mouth, I held my breath in anticipation. He slid the fork into his mouth and slowly began to chew, I couldn't tell if he was savoring it or was disgusted by it. Swallowing his food, Booker placed his fork down and I felt my heart beat quicken as he leaned his head against his knuckles.

"This is d-" Booker began, I shut my eyes and clench my fist, preparing for the worst. "Delicious," he finished, and my eyes snapped opened.

"Wait, what?" I asked, furrowing my brows.

Booker just smirked at me, "I got you good, didn't I?" he asked back, picking his fork back up. My mouth opened in shock and Booker laughed at my expression, my leg shot forward and I kicked him in the shin. "Ow!" He exclaimed, still laughing.

"You ass!" I shouted, a smile forming on my lips. "Don't mess with me like that!" I said, joining in with his laughter.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to pull your leg Livia," he explained, before taking another bite of the pasta.

I nodded my head and smiled, "I hate you," I declared, kicking his shin again but this time much softer.

The two of us sat in a comfortable silence as we ate, not feeling the need to fill in the quietness. We had just finished dinner and I was about to stand up to collect our plates when I felt Booker's hand on top of mine.

"Wait," he called, and I gave him a curious look. "I...uh, I'm ready to tell you my secret from last night," he said quietly.

My eyes slightly widened, "Okay," I nodded. "Lay it on me," I said, using my other hand to pick up my wine glass.

Booked looked at me warily, "You won't freak out on me?" he questioned, lifting my hand to his lips and stroking his thumb across my knuckles nervously.

"It's not like I can run out my own apartment," I thought. "Well, I mean can, but it would be pointless to do so,"

"I will not freak out, scout's honor," I promised, and Booker nodded closing his eyes as I lifted my glass to my lips.

"I'm immortal."

I spit my wine back into my glass, nearly raising up out of my seat had not it been for Booker who had a vice like grip on my hand.

Booker stared at me in desperation, "You promised you wouldn't freak out Livia!" He stated, his voice shaking.

I placed my glass back down and lowered myself back into the chair, "I'm..." I trailed off, slowly letting my eyes meet Booker's. "I'm not freaking out Booker," I reassured, trying to catch my breath. "I'm just...processing," I corrected, briefly closing my eyes.

~~~x~~~

After Booker's confession, the two of us moved from my kitchen to the living room. At first, silence consumed us as we sat on my sofa, my mind was racing from what Booker told me. He's immortal. I wanted to say that it wasn't possible, that immortality was a thing of fiction. But deep down, I knew that belief was no longer true, how else could Booker's hand heal itself from such a deep wound and not leave a scar.

Immortality is real, and there's an immortal sitting next to me.

I clutched the pillow against my chest a little tighter as I stared into the reddish yellow flames that burst in front of me. I could feel Booker's eyes on me, they would often bounce from me to the fire as he anxiously played with his hands.

"Please, say something," Booker begged. "Anything," He added.

My eyebrows drew together and my lips curled up into a small frown, I knew that I had no reason to be scared of Booker. He's been nothing but a friend and gentlemen towards me, barring the first time we met each other. God, I probably shared more about myself to Booker in the month and a half that I've known him than I did with ex-boyfriend of six months. Meeting Booker was like a breath of fresh air, it was so refreshing to be able to talk someone who shared the interests and not feel like I was being brushed off. And the thing is, Booker didn't have to speak to me. He could've just turned down my invitation for tea and that would've been the end of it, but he didn’t.

Booker took a huge leap of faith by letting me in, rejecting him now for something he has no control over...would crush him.

I sighed and turned my head to finally face Booker. "So," I began, staring at the apprehensive immortal beside me. "Was Les Miserable anything like the actual French Revolution?" I asked curiously, my lips quirking up into a smile.

A sigh of relief left Booker's lips and his eyes lit up, a wide grin appearing on his face as well.

And that's how we ended up lazily relaxing on the floor in front of the roaring fire inside the fireplace, drinking wine from a freshly opened bottle. My legs had found their way onto Booker's lap which didn't seem to bother Booker too much as he let his fingers softly trail up and down from my knee to my ankle.

"Livia, I'm not teaching you any French countryside dances so you can live out your Pride and Prejudice fantasies,"

I pouted at him. "And why not?" I asked, taking a sip of wine. "It's not everyday you get to talk to a living relic," I pointed out, letting out a giggle and placed my wine glass down onto the coffee table. "I mean, the balls that were thrown in your time, they must've been so majestic," I swooned, placing my hands over my heart and momentarily closing my eyes.

Booker rolled his eyes, "I can't teach you the dances Livia because I don't remember how to do them," he explained, running a hand through his hair. "It's been well over two centuries since I was first taught them," he continued, shaking his head.

"Fine, I'll give you that," I conceded, with a chuckle as another thought crossed my mind.

"I wonder what he looked like before immortality?" I thought.

I tilted my head to the side, my eyes drifting over Booker's figure, trying to envision him in the elaborate fashion of eighteenth century France.

Booker quirked an eyebrow, "Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked, before downing the rest of his wine.

I chuckled, "I was just imagining you in one of those white powdered wigs," I answered, gesturing to my head with an amused expression.

Booker laughed and shook his head. "I wasn't a rich nobleman in the 18th century," he informed. "So, lucky me," he said. "Those wigs smelled quite terrible anyway," he added.

"You weren't some large estate owner?" I questioned, mindlessly playing with my hair.

"I wasn't a Mr. Bingley or a Mr. Darcey, if that's what you're asking," he replied. "Sorry to disappoint."  He added, a smirk on his face.

I grinned at his references. "So, a Mr. Collins then?" I inquired, cocking my head to the side once more.

Booker scoffed playfully, "Not a Mr. Collins either," he answered. "And please don't ever compare me to such a repulsive character," he requested.

"Never again," I swore, placing a hand on my heart. "So, what did you do for a living then? I'm very curious now," I said, aimlessly flexing and extending my feet.

Booker glanced down at the rug., "I was a master forger," he answered, looking back up at me. "Particularly in gold coins." He clarified.

"That takes a great deal of skill,” I remarked, nodding my head, sort of impressed.

"Yeah, well, my forging caught up to me one day. I was convicted of fraud by the French government," Booker stated, a slight frown on his face. "They gave me a choice, I could either hang for my crimes or join the Grand Armee," he explained. "Begrudgingly, I joined the Armee where I would be later hanged for desertion," he finished, with a sardonic chuckle.

I let out a breathy laugh and shook my head, "Wow," I breathed, running my hands over my hair. "I feel like I'm talking to a history textbook." I commented, staring at Booker in awe.

This has to be the coolest day of my life.

I leaned back on my hands, "You're so old Booker," I teased, and he playfully squeezed my calf in retaliation sending me into another flurry of giggles. "So, you were born in 1770, right?" I asked, laying down on my back and gazing into the fireplace.

"That is correct."

"And you died in 1812," I recalled. "By that math, you died at age forty-two," I stated, dragging my hand up and down the rug.

"Where are you going with this?" Booker asked curiously.

I smirked, "That even in your own time, you would be considered an old man," I pointed out, a snicker escaping me, but the snicker soon became a full on giddy laugh that vibrated through my chest.

Out of nowhere, I felt myself being dragged across the plush rug and I let out a yelp that was followed by laughter at the sudden movement. Placing my hands on the floor, I pushed myself up to look at Booker and noticed how close we were to each other. My thighs were covering his lap, one more tug and I would be practically sitting in his lap.

"I wouldn't be completely opposed to that," I thought.

"Then you should respect your elders," Booker retorted, smirking at me.

I rolled my eyes and lifted my legs from his lap. "That sounds like..." I trailed off, sliding my knees up to my chest. "Something," I continued, maneuvering myself around to bring each of my knees on either side of Booker's legs, trapping him between my legs. "An old person would say," I quipped, placing my hands on his broad shoulders. I ducked my head down to his ear, teasing him once more. "Booker," I whispered, my breath tickling his skin.

I pulled my lips away from Booker's ear, grinning ear to ear as a string of giggles bubbled out of my mouth. Booker swallowed thickly as a red flush crawled up his neck. I'm not sure what came over me, it had to been the wine that was making me this bold, I could never see myself actually straddling Booker. In my head, maybe, but physically doing it, no.

Shout out to the wine for the liquid courage, I guess.

"You know that I'm-"

I was cut off mid-sentence by Booker pressing his lips firmly against mine, his hands cupping my cheeks. My heart felt as if it skipped two beats and my eyes widened, I was completely caught off-guard and I felt my body stiffen a bit. It took a moment before my eyes slowly slid shut, my body relaxing into the kiss. My mind went blank as Booker began moving his lips against mine and I responded to the kiss in kind. The kiss deepened and I could feel my head spinning, the lingering taste of wine on his lips caused me to sigh wistfully against Booker.

Booker gently broke the kiss, the two of us catching our breaths. He pressed his forehead against mine, using his thumbs to softly stroke my cheeks. My eyes fluttered opened and his blue eyes looked into my brown one's. And it felt like a thousand butterflies were loose in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," Booker apologized breathlessly. "I just couldn't help myself," he admitted, his voice slightly hoarse.

My lips curled into a grin, "Please, don't apologize," I stated, letting out a breathless laugh. "You don't know how long I wanted you to do that," I confessed, looping my arms around his neck.

His eyes lit up, a smile washing over his face before he placed another soft, chaste kiss on my lips. Just as he went to pull away again, I leaned my head downwards to keep our lips connected. My fingers found their way into Booker's hair, my thumbs stroking his neck as Booker returned the kiss eagerly. His hands traveled down my body, one of them tightly gripping my waist while the other one slipped under my dress, running up and down my thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He pressed me against him as physically close as possible. My breath caught in my throat and I drew back slightly, my heart hammering wildly in my chest as Booker began nipping at my chin.

Booker pulled back, "Am I moving too fast for you?" he asked, concern painted over his face.

"No," I answered, shaking my head. "You're perfect Booker," I reassured, running my hands down his shirt and over his chest.

"What's wrong then?" Booker asked softly, rubbing the pad of his thumb in a circular motion against my thigh.

"I was just thinking," I began, feeling Booker's nose bump against my jaw as he hummed for me to continue. "That my bed is a lot more comfortable than the floor," I finished, an impish smile forming on my lips.

Booker drew his head back, "God, you're amazing," He breathed.

Chapter Seven: A Sunday Kind of Love