#pepper is mildly worried but more amused than anything

[starkcontrasts]

I'm taking destiny into my own hands and reblogging this bc it did not get enough love and also the tags were important so I'm keeping them

Jurassic World or Harley & Peter’s Bro-cation?

i just realized the youngest of the kids in jurassic world is played by ty simpkins and basically if you replace his older brother with peter you have the makings of “tony stark misplacing his children for a weekend only to realize they’ve just had a near death experience on a dinosaur island he told pepper they should have raised serious questions abt to the authorities years ago but apparently it’s all ok bc harley brought his spare rescue armor and peter didn’t forget his suit and also we took lots of pictures mr. stark don’t worry we were completely safe and also your space boyfriend was here??”

[itadorisgf]

— my beautiful boy.

note: ah yes, i am indeed itadorisgf <3

ft. itadori yuuji

warning: gn!reader, fluff, kissing

⤷ main page

“You’re beautiful.”

Itadori blinks. And then blinks again. The silence that proceeds after your statement doesn’t bother you; you know it takes him some time to process things. You closely observe his expression and envision the wheels in his head turning as you wait for your words to sink in.

“Huh?” You don’t bother to stifle your laughter at the response that greets you after waiting for a minute or so. His head is tilted at an angle, face fixed into an adorably confused expression: brows knitted together as his mouth hangs slightly agape.

“I said you’re beautiful, Yuuji.” It takes you a few moments to compose yourself, loud laughter quieting down to soft giggles so you can be heard clearly. Your amusement seeps into your words, and Itadori can hear the smile that crosses your face.

So, he did hear you correctly the first time. Your words bounce around Itadori’s head once again. Itadori wouldn’t consider himself particularly unattractive. In all honesty, he’s pretty content with his appearance, but then again he’s never really paid all that much attention to his looks. Although, he’s confident that he’s never been called beautiful before.

“Really? I don’t think anybody’s ever told me I was beautiful before,” he thinks aloud, shifting his weight back onto his palms and staring up at the sky. It’s a nice day, today; the sun hangs high in the sky shrouded by only a smattering of loose wispy clouds. The heat isn’t sweltering, which Itadori is grateful for. He loathes the way the suffocating heat of Summer makes his clothes stick to him with sweat.

He much prefers the subdued heat of a day like today in which there's a subtle breeze that brushes across his skin and causes the leaves to whistle in delight.

“Well, you are.” You beam with confidence and resolution as if the words you speak are fact and not a matter of opinion. You mindlessly tug at the strands of grass that lie beside you. “It sounds cheesy, but you’re beautiful inside and out.”

You feel no shame expressing the way you feel because Itadori really is that beautiful to you.

He is light despite the burden he carries and the tragedies he’s witnessed. He’s the kindest person you know, always putting others before himself, always with an easy grin on his face. Itadori cares so much for others, which you deeply admire, but you worry that it will one day lead to his ruin. He cares so much for others, but not nearly enough for himself.

He regards his life so flippantly and you wish he would get it through his thick skull that his life is as valuable as others. That his life cannot be easily discarded, that his life matters. That there is more to him than simply being Sukuna’s vessel.

No matter how hard he attempts to brush past things, you can see the toll it’s taking on him. You only hope that Itadori trusts you enough to ease the weight etched into his bones.

You let your head fall against your shoulder in order to properly admire the male sitting beside you.

The full leaves that hang overhead scatter the rays of sunlight with every rustle they make. Soft shadows flicker across Itadori’s face before he glows once more under the warm beams of light. Whoever said brown eyes were boring must have been mad because you’re certain that they’ve never had the pleasure of seeing something as wonderful as Itadori’s warm brown eyes glinting underneath the diffused sunlight. Your eyes linger over the thin scars underneath Itadori’s eyes for a brief moment; you’re mildly surprised that Sukuna hasn’t popped out and said anything yet, but you won’t question it.

Your eyes trail the slope of his nose before falling down to his lips, pink and faintly chapped, and you wonder if they would taste sweet like the dessert you just shared. You lean closer to Itadori, lessening the little space there is in between you with ease. Itadori doesn’t move, just watches, as you slowly bring your hand up towards his face. The pad of your thumb ghosts over his bottom lip before you move it to his lower cheek and brush off a cake crumb.

You tilt your head up and meet Itadori’s waiting gaze. His brown eyes are bright, and you find yourself easily entranced by their warmth, not that you mind in the slightest. You allow your hand to rest against his cheek as your heart is overcome with fondness for the male whose face you’re cradling.

“I love you.”

It’s a whisper, barely louder than the gentle breeze that envelopes you both. Itadori’s face nearly splits into a wide grin upon hearing your words.

“I love you most.” He tilts his head to press a chaste kiss to the inside of your wrist before tugging you even closer to him. You fall against his chest with a sharp exhale and the two of you dissolve into laughter. Once you quiet down and all that is left is you and him and the sunlight bathing you both in warmth, Itadori gently pulls your head down, and his lips meet your own in a kiss.

Your hands rest against his chest, loosely gripping the material of his shirt, as your lips slot over Itadori’s lips. He readjusts his grip and moves his hand down to the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. You smile against his lips when you realize you were correct in guessing that he would taste like the cake you had eaten together.

When the need to breathe proves to be too much, you separate from one another with a content sigh. A flush has crept up Itadori’s neck, flooding his cheeks with color, while his lips are swollen a pretty shade of pink.

“You’re beautiful,” Itadori murmurs against the crook of your neck. His words are softer than usual but no less genuine. The way he says it leaves no room for argument so you simply press a kiss to the crown of his head in response before running your fingers through tufts of pink hair. He buries his face further into your neck, peppering your skin with kisses until you squirm in his firm grasp.

“Yuuji, that tickles,” you whine, squealing when he nips at the area right below your jaw. You attempt to push him back, but Itadori’s grip on your waist doesn’t allow you to do so. He migrates his kisses from your neck to your face, littering quick pecks over every inch of your skin that he can reach.

“Mhm, it’s your fault for being so cute. How am I not supposed to kiss you?” Itadori pauses, leaning back slightly to pout at you. You playfully roll your eyes before leaning down to press a kiss of your own in the space in between his brows.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.

A large dopey grin quickly stretches across Itadori’s face.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

You rake your fingers through strands of pink before resting your hand against his cheek, gently running your thumb over one of the scars right below his eyes.

“Yeah, you are,” you fondly agree.

There truly aren’t enough words to describe how utterly enamored you are with Itadori Yuuji.

[embrassemoi]

Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 31

Pairings: Sirius B, F!Reader, Remus L  Warnings: Language, smoking weed, shitty parenting, mentions of death A/N: more of a filler but it helps establish stuff. *unbeta'd

【 Masterlist | Previous Chapter | ao3 】

Chapter 31: Drowning on Dry Land

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The week before her flight back, Matthew’s parents invited her over for dinner.

Waiting to greet them at the door was Mrs. and Mr. Gaplin. Matthew’s father, a Half-Maj, was a Potioneer while his mother, an Old-Maj, was a Court Scribe. They wore large, kind smiles as Mrs. Gaplin pulled her into a tight, crushing hug.

After pleasantries, she and Matthew kicked off their shoes while his parents ushered them to the dining room.

“How are you darling? '' Mrs. Gaplin asked, floating plates in their direction as everyone began helping themselves to food. “Matt wouldn’t stop talking about you since we knew y’were coming.”

She side-eyed Matthew who groaned loudly. “Did not!”

“Sure thing,” she added, which caused Matthew to slump in his chair as his parents laughed at him.

It was a nice, charming evening; filled with laughter and heartfelt conversations. His parents continued to gloat about Mathew’s achievements that he hadn’t told her. It caused him to almost get up and run out of the room from embarrassment before moving to boast about Y/N. Even Mr. Gaplin asked her regarding her OWLs which pleasantly surprised her.

A few times, Mr. Gaplin pressed a few cheeky kisses to his wife’s face as Matthew made loud retching noises.

“Disgusting!”

Mr. Gaplin laughed. “Ya sixteen. Suck it up.”

“But you’re still my baby!” Mrs. Gaplin cooed, getting up to collect the plates.

Matthew tried to look insulted but she could see the small smile that threatened his lips as jealousy nipped at her toes.

The next few days were spent staying at the Gaplin household. Matthew’s parents insisted constantly that she should stay over so they could utilize the little time they had left before leaving. At first, the idea made her feel intrusive. Although, her mother hadn’t returned to the brownstone house, preferring to sleep in the on-call rooms at the Brooklyn Memorial Hospital. It quickly got lonely and boring before Y/N finally agreed. Besides, Mrs. and Mr. Gaplin were only around for breakfast and dinner - working for the day but never failed to return; always wearing larger smiles than the previous night.

They made her feel welcomed and warm - even taking her and Matthew to the local pictures. They included her in everything, even their trivia and board games after dinner.

It was quite the change compared to her family life.

Then an identical routine ensued. She would wake up, get ready for the day; spend hours with Matthew; then twilight fell as they stayed awake into the early hours of the morning.

The day before she was due to leave, she and Matthew ran up to his room after dinner. He went to lean on top of the small coffee table, rolling up a joint as she collected her possessions scattered around his room; not wanting to leave it for the last minute.

“Fancy some grass?” He asked in a poor British accent.

“Nah,” she shook her head, “But thanks love.”

Mathew’s smile turned bashful as he stood, turning on the radio in the background. She moved to open his window which was just above the roof of his shed as she stepped out with steady feet. Perching herself down on the blankets and pillows they hauled outside the night prior, she stared at the glowing city splayed in front. From the window, The Velvet Underground flowed softly.

Matthew proceeded to hop out, sauntering over as he threw a flirtatious wink.

“Brough this,” he said, tossing the camera he’d taken from her bag. She caught it as he nestled beside her and lit the joint; placed in his mouth. Billows of smoke clouded around them while she snapped a few photos of the view.

“Ya sure you gotta leave?” Matthew whined, embers of the end of the joint sparking with another huff. “Maybe you can smuggle me. Shove me into that trunk.”

She pulled the camera away from her face, inhaling the earthy, pungent scent. Her head felt a bit lightheaded from it. “A hardcore criminal at sixteen?”

Matthew was mildly amused until a troublesome look passed through his features. “Um — name something ya miss most about home.”

Home. What a funny word — place — feeling. Home was supposed to be something that made your heart glow, feel warm and happy — by that definition, a year ago home would’ve been her little house back in Toronto with the beautiful maple trees swaying in the backyard. Or home would’ve been Ilvermorny and its tall ivory walls. But now, London, or maybe just Hogwarts, had become her home. The scrolls around the Herbology greenhouse, the library, sneaking around past curfew; the Black Lake, Hogsmeade — Lily, James, Marlene, Dorcas, Remus, Regulus…

Unsure of what to say, she opted for, “You?”

Matthew rolled his eyes, bringing the joint to his lips. “Real charmer.” Then, smoke surrounded them. “But really.”

“Why?”

“C’mon! I need an answer! — I don’t know… say somethin’ like… lobstah.”

She chuckled. “Lobster? Really?”

“Or coffee from ya regular cafe.”

Deliberating it for a second, lips tugged up. “Coffee Crisp.”

He snorted. “A candy bar? Really?”

“Or Ketchup chips. Haven’t seen them in London yet.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

And then the silence returns but it makes Matthew shuffle in his spot. He blurted out, “Go — more brit insight.”

Y/N felt a bit hazy from the secondhand smoke. “More? You’ll get bored.”

“I won’t,” Matthew replied quickly, sounding oddly sincere. “Please, just… go on. Tell me everything.”

“Um… a friend of mine says crikey a lot. I think it just means to be mildly surprised? — They don’t say bloody or blimey as much as you’d think… Oh! Tea — they really drink that much tea. Also —”

Continuing, Matthew shut off again, going completely silent — not once speaking up or adding funny commentary; only staring at her, simply watching.

“Okay,” she turned to take the joint from his hand, “You're freaking me out. Spill, what's up?”

“S’nuthing.”

Whack!

“Jeez! Would ya stop wiv that! Gonna kill me…”

“Spill.”

“Fine! It’s just that…'' Matthew shifted, obscuring his face. Maybe if she didn’t feel so fuzzy, or if there wasn’t the smoke coming from the blunt or her small headache forming, she would’ve picked up on all the little signs. “It’s just —” he sighed, “I wanna hear ya talk — commit it to memory.”

“Obsessed with me? Not new.”

But that seemed to trouble him more. “It’s just… I don’t know if or when I’ll hear it again…” He looks up to the city in front. “Ya my… best friend. Could never forget ‘bout ya, but s’hard — keepin’ in touch.”

She pats him, encouraging and smiling. Her voice was hopeful, so much so that it made Matthew’s lip quirk up. “We’ll find each other. Always.” She said simply. “You and me, we’re like… salt and pepper. Soap and water — Hansel and Gretel!”

“Fuckin’ Dr. Seuss,” he smiled, that worried look fading away.

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The warm summer breeze flowed around them, just as the sun peeked above the airport. Expanse, clear skies with blue mingled with deep purples and pinks shimmered against the metal from the building.

“Gonna miss ya,” Matthew muttered into the crown of her head. Her mother didn’t want him to come, but Y/N simply ignored that request as he came to send her off.

“Don’t get mushy on me now,” she joked but felt her throat become tight.

“Betta get goin’ — Doc’s lookin’ like she’s ‘bout to butcher me if ya don’t.”

She snickered, pushing Matthew’s shoulder as she picked up her bags, walking backwards while waving. “Write me!”

“Course I will! Until next time!”

“Till next time!”

Once the plane took off, awkwardness swelled among the two women. Not once had her mother said anything to her — not to apologize or see how she was doing — although they never really did talk much. Honestly, she half-expected her to leave her in New York with the Gaplins. Easy to dispose of her.

The next few days Y/N, poorly, attempted to fix her sleeping schedule. It was a miracle that she managed to get up before dinner as her head poked into the master bedroom.

She cleared her throat, feeling herself swaying in place. “Um — hi. I’m making dinner tonight.”

Her mother was dressed in a simple, yet sleek dress. She was bent over, putting on high heels as she looked up.

“The hospital is throwing a party for me — the surgery was a success.”

“That’s amazing! Er — will you be back for dinner though? It’s just that I leave soon and... two parties are better than one.”

She considered her for a long time, eyes mostly distracted by her hair slowly changing to a different colour.

“Sure. But I have to go now.”

“Right, sorry, have fun.”

Thudding down the stairs and the door clicking shut, she followed not too long after. Making her way to the kitchen, she picked up a dusty cooking book, blowing off the dust and cracked it open; flicking through the pages.

Deciding on the seemingly easy noodle dish, she rushed out of the house to the local grocery shop for ingredients. It would be the first time they would be spending any time together. It had to be perfect. But she overestimated that no matter how closely she stuck with the dishes’ instructions, the outcome was a disaster.

The noodles somehow were rock hard. The sauce she made looked grey and was chunky, similar to badly mixed concrete and it tasted horrid. At one point, even the stove exploded into flames as she had to grab her wand and use magic to extinguish the fire.

Potions... She could use a cauldron, use multiple ingredients, make some of the most complicated spells and even had tricks of her own to make the process easier but she couldn’t make a simple dish…

Her face screwed together as she glanced up to the clock; she was going to come home soon as the dinner she made was disastrous. She panicked, cleaning up everything in a rush and decided to order food.

Waiting patiently at the dinner table, her eyes fluttered up to the clock in anticipation. She felt giddy, a surge of excitement rattling throughout her bones at the prospect. Her mother wanted to spend time with her! And she should be home any minute.

But then a minute turned to two, then five, ten, twenty, thirty — then an hour ticked by.

And then another.

Y/N got up, her chair squeaking loudly. Losing all her appetite, she went to her room, sleeping in early.

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August 20th, 1976

Going through the potential NEWT courses she could take was the highlight of her day. The possibilities were endless.

Wanting to take Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfigurations and most of all, Potions, left her excited for the school year.

But the more she thought about the upcoming school year or potential courses, she was left to contemplate what ther5 future entailed.

Was she ready to give up magic? Something that fundamentally altered her life and moulded her into what she was? Magic was her essence, something she developed and nurtured — but to put her life in danger…

Rethinking that word again: home… Was London her home? Was she willing to leave, move again to be safer? But practicing magic around the world these days for New-Majs was dangerous. Or the potential danger she would put her mother in if she continued with it?

But magic… Maybe home wasn’t necessarily a place — but rather something she carried. In all sense, magic made her heart glow, feel warm, safe and happy — it felt like what home was supposed to feel like. And the idea of being ripped away from it, forcing herself to live a normal, Muggle life…

Magic was home.

So die, but have what she cared and loved most was by her side or live a dull life without magic — ensuring her life would be miserable.

There was a clicking of shoes in the hallway that snapped her out of her thoughts. Her mother came walking by.

Lips smushed shut into a tight line, still annoyed from the other night but was determined to spend some time with one another.

“I was planning to go to Diagon Alley for the first time — to get my textbooks... '' She stood awkwardly. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I can’t,” she replied, so quickly that it had Y/N almost scoff in disbelief. “Work. But have fun.”

She sighed but still waved her off and said a small, ‘I love you, stay safe.’ Her mother only gave her a look, something unreadable and left without a word. With a heavy heart, she grabbed her purse filled with gold and left for Diagon Alley.

Passing through the Leaky Cauldron was an adventure in itself. The shabby, tiny pub was jammed with wizards and witches zipping by.

Diagon Alley was bustling with so much magic she could feel it pumping through her blood. Students were hypnotized by the shiny new Firebolt on display; others were giggling, running around with shopping bags while older witches and wizards took a scroll. Her head turned in every direction; walking into the Apothecary, a potions ingredients and book shop.

Emmeline was there. She gave a tight-lipped smile which she returned.

Emmeline by every definition was nice, extremely kind and neither girl ever had a problem with the other. James was the problem and Y/N would gladly stay out of their feud.

Passing clamouring students, she managed to get all her supplies but stopped in front of the potion ingredients. She took a few minutes, flicking through the Advance Potions textbook and grabbed everything listed needed for most of the potions.

She made her way around Diagon Alley, going through many shops. The shelves were stacked high to the ceiling with books and materials. She spent more time than necessary there but it was beautiful.

As she was paying for her Herbology textbook, a large boom! rumbled the ground. Y/N took her bags, ready to sprint to the Leaky Cauldron but the shouts caught everyone’s attention.

“WE WILL NOT BURN WITH THEM!” A crowd of witches and wizards shouted. Their wands were transformed into microphones as a few shot fireballs up in the air.

“What’s happening?” A woman asked an old wizard. He only shook his head, grabbing a copy of the Daily Prophet, handing it to the witch.

On the front page, there were moving photos of people protesting, similar to the wizards and witches currently shouting.

‘Protests Break out in Light of Muggleborns and Halfbloods Burned Alive

Voldemort and his followers have been attacking Muggleborn and ‘blood traitor' families with the usage of fire. By burning them alive, or their houses. They bonded the witch or wizard with magic, making it impossible to apparate or leave their houses. Their broken wands were found at the scene.

Since then, protests all around Britain and Scotland have broken out. The Ministry of Magic —’

“WE WILL NOT BURN WITH THEM!” The crowd chanted.

Rage filled every inch of her body as she stomped out of Diagon Alley.

If she wanted to stay in the magical world, she had to be the greatest at whatever she did, because if she wasn’t, someone of her status was never going to get anywhere.

Magic was home, and she wasn’t going to let them take it from her. She didn’t want to surrender. They weren’t going to take that away from her.

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Immediately after Diagonal Alley, she began working; taking in her thoughts from earlier to heart.

Making sure to cover any windows from prying eyes, Y/N fiddle with first with new charms. Still unassured by her abilities in Charms, she considered taking another class before realizing all the different routes it led to. To become a Healer, Auror or Potioneer, she needed Charms.

Multiple charms backfired, causing them to ricochet off the walls, leaving a dent or chipping the wallpaper.

After trying out more than half the Charms in the book, there was one spell in particular that she attempted to cast many times, but without fail, was never able to properly cast it. Frustrated, her hand made a sharp flick and the spell spurted out instantly.

She tried again with the same hand gesture. To her astonishment, the charm produced easily. Quickly, she jotted down the note in her book.

Next, she glossed over her Transfigurations and Defense Against the Dark Arts book until her eyes caught onto the word: werewolf.

She learned briefly about werewolves, but that was in third year. And now that she knew a werewolf, it would be good to rehash it.

A werewolf, also known as a Lycanthrope, is a non-magical or magical being who transforms under the rising of the full moon. However, non-magical beings have a greater risk of dying rather than turning.

As the name suggests, werewolves are closely related to the non-magical animal, wolves. However, they have distinct characteristics that make them easily identifiable from wolves.

She flipped the page.

Wolfsbane flowers are poisonous to the non-magical world but it has been proven to have no effects on werewolves like they do on wolves. Werewolves are immune from the poison they emit and there are reports that Wolfsbane flowers help alleviate symptoms.

She underlined that section.

It’s a uniquely magical illness known to spread by saliva and blood. Werewolves are dangerous, blood-thirsty beasts — she flipped the page.

They cannot choose to transform and will no longer retain their human mind. Given the opportunity, they would slaughter their loved ones — flipped the page.

A mixture of powdered silver and dittany applied to bites help seal bite wounds. It’s also commonly put in liquid and digested in anticipation of full moons to help with the symptoms of transforming.

Y/N’s face scrunched as she continued to read.

There is no known cure Potion used to help treat lycanthropy.

She felt oddly intrusive knowing parts about Remus’ condition. But then questions arose. How were there no Potions of any kind there to help werewolves during their transformation?

Pushing the thought away, she turned to the cauldron, picking a potion to brew. They all were fairly easy, some she’d even done before just by playing around. But one potion that grabbed her attention was Draught of Living Death. Even at Ilvermorny, that potion was notoriously difficult.

Starting up the cauldron, she grabbed hold of the sopophorous bean. However, it kept jumping when she tried to cut it. She quickly resorted to another method, running down to her kitchen and grabbing the handheld garlic press, placing the bean inside, squishing it down as so much juice spurted out, even going all over her clothing.

The potion turned into the light lilac like suggested. But then as she stirred, her potion quickly became ruined as she restarted immediately.

Hours ticked by; several items in her room were Transfigured into cauldrons, as she poured the existing solution into the nine other cauldrons as she conducted her experiment.

Stirring counterclockwise was a sham, so she stirred clockwise. Nothing, the potion went bad. The next cauldron, she stirred counterclockwise and then clockwise, alternating between every stir. It showed promising progress before it turned a bright red after the seventh stir, bubbling over.

The next cauldron, she stirred counterclockwise, then clockwise after the seventh stir as the potion turned a pink pale. That’s what the book said would happen. She quickly cleared the rest of the cauldrons, pouring in the pink liquid just in case.

She continued to stir until it became a clear liquid. Surely, that was good enough but she could never be sure. After all, she didn’t know if this was what it was supposed to look like.

Deeply immersed, she hadn’t realized how late it got.

She laid on her bed, her light on as she read the scribbles on the margins of the books she'd penned. The textbook was outdated and everything she’s written down, there were easier ways to perform spells, create Potions and more. The other books must’ve been outdated too.

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August 22nd, 1976

Today, her attention was drawn to her Herbology textbook as she flipped right to the medicine section. Y/N had sneakily stolen a few of her mother’s medical journals as she scribbled down notes.

She flicked through the diagrams. Wizards and No-Majs were different when it came to their bodies and sickness, she knew that, but their anatomy was still the same.

An opera played in the background as she sat in front of the television. It filled the silence as her mother came from behind her, creeping her way closer to the door.

Y/N called out from where she sat. “Care to join me?”

“Can't, work.” She grunted out.

She placed the pen down, full attention drawn to her. “I only have a few days until school starts… you can’t spend some time?”

Her mom wasn’t looking at her, ostensibly staring at the floor, anywhere other than her face.

“It’s not that interesting, but um - I need help with medical terms and illnesses. You’re the best at that!”

“I can’t,” she said roughly. “Can't you see? You have to stop bothering me when I’m busy.” And then she left again, leaving her alone. Y/N would’ve been more bothered had she not been so focused on her studies.

There was a pattern.

In the Herbology textbook, in the werewolf section, there were a few ingredients used to help alleviate symptoms of Lycanthropy.

Dittany, Powered silver, Powdered Moonstone, Aconite…

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August 26th, 1976

“Do you want to —” “Work.”

“But you always have work… can’t you take some time off?”

“You know it’s important to me. Why do you keep trying to limit that?”

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August 29th, 1976

She was partially through her Potions and Charms textbook. It was all she could fixate on.

Deciding to take a break, Y/N went to stretch, getting up to talk to her mom who again, was getting ready to leave. She opened the honey-coloured wood draw close to the door. She pulled out a set of keys, fixing her appearance in a nearby mirror.

She had already opened the door.

“Hey mom, I was thinking of getting lunch… Will you be back soon?”

But, there was faint muffling outside the door.

“Ready for our date?”

Y/N, desperate, seized hold of her wrist, pleading. “Please, I leave in a day.”

“I'll make it up to you,” mom replied, “I promise.” And then, the door clicked shut.

Again.

She stared at the door, trying to regulate what she was thinking.

What made them worthy of her time when their’s were limited.

Robotically, Y/N turned to walk to her room, her hip bumped into the drawer which hadn’t been fully closed. Her eyes flew to it, about to push it in as she caught a flash of white.

Yanking it open, she swore her heart could’ve shattered. White envelopes filled the draw; her familiar handwriting scribbled on top of each letter. She picked one up, twisting it over to the flap.

It was unopened.

She picked up another. Unopened.

Then another. Unopened.

Unopened.

All of them were unopened, sealed. Hardly tampered with and there was hardly a wrinkle.

Was there something wrong with her? Something so disgraceful that made her so disgusting that people kept forgetting - pushing her away? Like an insidious disease.

Was she truly that unloveable? That much of a nuisance? What made someone else so much more important than her?

It was too much to process but if she had to describe the feeling, it was like drowning on dry land.

Whatever home was, it shouldn’t feel like this: cold, lonely, sad.

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【 Next Chapter 】

Slang dictionary (+ a bit of history bc i didn’t realize how many ppl didn’t actually understand what I was talking about in other chaps):

Coffee Crisp = a very popular chocolate bar sold in Canada. It was a variation of a treat made by a company from the UK. It was briefly introduced to the UK in the 60s but was pulled back because people thought it was too similar to Kit Kat. From what I know, Coffee Crisp is not commonly found in England (I've never seen it in stores) but it’s sold in Scotland.

Candy bar = US term for chocolate bar / chocolate

Grass = during the 60s - 70s, the term 'grass' was very popular slang for weed in New York bc it featured in vogue.

And yes, the British do drink that much tea.

© gotkindabored 2021. Do not repost or modify

[bluejayblueskies]

pragma

n. a mature, enduring love; focused on common interests, commitment, and dedication; a love that knows no bounds

Words: 3.5k Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood Tags: Scottish Safehouse Period, Domestic Fluff, Dancing, Kissing, Tenderness, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan Sims, Sex-Repulsed Martin Blackwood Warnings: none

|| Ao3 ||

.

They’ve been at the safehouse for a week and a half when Jon discovers the vinyl records, tucked away between the back of the couch and the wall and with a thick layer of dust coating the top of the box that makes Jon cough as he extracts it. There’s a record player in the spare bedroom, his mind supplies, and he hesitates only a moment before retrieving it.

 To say that Daisy’s selection of records is eclectic would be putting it mildly. Jon picks up Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue and reveals underneath it Prince’s Purple Rain. There are two separate Beethoven records, Abbey Road sandwiched in between them, and Jon can’t hold back a surprised laugh when he unearths three Britney Spears albums in quick succession. He wonders how many times, when Daisy would start humming something while they worked or would tap her fingers against his desk to the rhythm of a song only she could hear, she was thinking of one of these records.

 Maybe never. According to Basira, Daisy hasn’t been here for a very, very long time. A small voice in the back of Jon’s mind that he recognizes as not-quite-his whispers that it’s been exactly three years, eleven months, and twenty-two days since Daisy’s forgotten about the records in Jon’s hands.

 He puts one on all the same, lining up the needle with careful precision and setting the record spinning before dropping it. The sound is warbled and raspy, little pops and clicks in the music highlighting the age and wear of the records. Jon leans back against the side of the couch, tucks his knees into his chest, and listens.

He’s still there when Martin gets back from the shop, having worked his way through Earth, Wind & Fire and The Rolling Stones. The sounds of warm piano, brassy trumpets, and vocals that push and pull like the tide cover the shuffling of Martin’s feet as he kicks off his shoes and the rustling of bags as they’re set on the counter and emptied. Then, the couch dips near where Jon’s sat on the floor, and Martin says softly, “What are those?”

 Most of the records are out of the box now, spread out in front of Jon in an array of technicolor images. Jon picks one at random—Red Hot Chili Peppers—and holds it out to Martin. “Daisy’s record collection,” he says, feeling the gentle bump of Martin’s knee against his shoulder as Martin takes the record from him. “It’s… quite varied.”

 “I can see that,” Martin says, amused. He sets the album down next to him and inclines his head toward the record player. “What’s playing now?”

 “Our Love Is Here To Stay,” Jon says with a certainty that surprises him given that he’s fairly certain the record had been in a blank sleeve. “Er, it’s a- a compilation album of various Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong recordings, released in 1998—though the individual tracks were recorded before that. It’s funny, really, the- the pianist on track four was meant to be Bill Evans, but he—”

 There’s a small chuckle, and Jon cuts off mid-sentence, twisting slightly so he can see Martin’s face; it’s split nearly in half by an amused smile. “What?” Jon says, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound so fond, but he supposes that’s rather par for the course lately.

 “Sorry, sorry,” Martin says, waving a hand at him. Then: “It- it’s just, jazz? The Eye can’t tell us whether or not it’s going to rain tomorrow or- or what’s happening back in London, but it can help you recite the Wikipedia page about a jazz album from the 1990s?” Another giggle escapes Martin, and he clamps his hand over his mouth as if to pull it back in. “God, sorry, I- I don’t know why I think it’s so funny.”

 Jon watches Martin for a moment more before the bubble of affection within him bursts and he laughs—a small, breathy sound. “Yes, I- I suppose it is a bit amusing,” he says, leaning his head gently against the side of Martin’s knee. “The music is nice, though. It’s lovely, the quiet we have here, but sometimes the silence can get a bit…”

 He waves his hand absently. “Oppressive.”

 Martin lets out a small exhalation. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

 They sit for a moment, what would have been silence filled instead with the gentle hum of a jazz ballad. Then, the couch dips again as Martin stands and says, quietly, “Dance with me?”

 It really shouldn’t be this easy to make Jon flustered, but he feels his face grow warmer as he takes the hand Martin’s extended toward him and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. Jon hadn’t danced much with Georgie when they’d dated; she’d always said that he had two left feet, and their few attempts had resulted in crushed toes or helpless giggles when Jon inevitably tripped over a piece of furniture or his own feet (or, on one rather memorable occasion, the Admiral). He worries, for a brief moment, that he won’t remember how—that the right steps have been lost to the years, replaced with records of terror. Then, one of Martin’s hands closes around his, his other resting gently on Jon’s hip and guiding him closer until their bodies are almost flush, and Jon’s lost in the soft sounds of jazz and the feeling of Martin’s breath across his cheek as they begin to sway.

 When they’d first gotten to the safehouse, Martin’s hand had been clasped firmly in Jon’s, a grounding presence that had begun in cold, choking fog and that Jon was quietly terrified to relinquish lest that fog seep back into the gaps between Martin’s fingers without anything there to chase it away. Standing in the entryway and staring at dust-covered couches and hazy yellow light filtering in through the windows, Jon suddenly became very aware of the feeling of Martin’s hand in his, of the shattering of the space between them that had been carefully cultivated over the span of so many months.

 The thought came to him unbidden, insistent, and anxious: how much of that space was he allowed to occupy? How much of Martin would he be allowed to touch?

 The answer had come during their fourth night in the safehouse, when Jon had awoken sometime in the early morning hours to find himself pressed into Martin’s side, one arm slung over Martin’s chest and his head tucked in the space between Martin’s shoulder and jaw.

 Jon felt a flush begin to crawl up the back of his neck, and he made to move away.

 “Jon,” Martin said, voice soft and husky from sleep. “You- you don’t have to go.”

 And so Jon stayed. His hand tentatively curled in the loose fabric of Martin’s shirt, his nose brushing against the line of Martin’s jaw. He felt more than he heard Martin’s sharp intake of breath, the way that Martin shifted ever so slightly so that Jon fit more comfortably against his side. Hesitantly, like a child dipping their toes into the ocean to see how sharp the cold would be, Jon let his hand wander further up, tracing the lines of Martin’s chest, shoulder blade, and collarbone. His palm came to rest feather-light against Martin’s cheek, his fingers brushing against the whisps of ginger hair (now streaked with white) that curled just past the shell of Martin’s ear. Martin stiffened under his touch, but before Jon could pull his hand away, Martin said, in a voice cracked through with something aching and tender, “Jon.”

 Then, Martin’s hand was on Jon’s jaw, tilting his head up with the gentleness one would use when handling a priceless, fragile thing, and Martin’s eyes were so close that Jon nearly drowned in the blue of them, a blue that once might have reminded Jon of swirling fog and stolen moments but that now seemed like wide-open sky and the ocean just before dawn. Jon could barely breathe; he’d spent so long not giving those eyes any consideration at all and had then spent what seemed like an eternity wanting nothing more than for those eyes to look at him with something other than remorse and regret. Now, they were inches away and Jon found himself lost in them, consumed by an endless expanse of blue yet anchored to the man who was now brushing his thumb against the line of Jon’s cheek, leaving a burning heat in its wake that elicited a shiver from Jon.

 He almost didn’t hear it when Martin said, softly, like a prayer, “Can… can I kiss you?”

 Jon couldn’t find the words within him to answer. So, he slid his hand back into the mess of curls at the nape of Martin’s neck, leaned forward, and kissed him.

 Jon could touch Martin’s lips, he found, and so he did. He could touch Martin’s jaw and cheek and neck, and so he did, peppering feather-light kisses along the line of Martin’s jaw and down his collarbone, smiling into the hollow of Martin’s neck when Martin let out a keening laugh and said, “Hey, th- that tickles!” He could touch Martin’s fingers and palm and knuckles, and so he found Martin’s hand with his and held it tightly, finding that his fingers fit in the gaps between Martin’s with ease. He could run his fingers through Martin’s hair and along the inside of Martin’s arms and down the gentle swell of Martin’s stomach, trying to learn in a moment what he’d been wanting to know for what felt like decades.

 His hand met the hem of Martin’s shirt, and he hesitated. His eyes found Martin’s again, briefly lost in swirling blue before he came back to himself enough to say, “Is this… can I…?”

 Martin nodded, so small it was almost imperceptible. Then, he worried his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before saying, haltingly, “I… just- just the shirt, though?” He paused, clearly considering his next words, before continuing, “I- I don’t know if, um. I don’t want to imply that… that you, er, were…”

 “Martin,” Jon said, kind but firm. “Please, just—whatever you want to say, you can say it. I promise, I… I want to listen.” A pause, then: “I want to know you. The- the old-fashioned way, that is.”

 Martin drew in a shaky breath; Jon wasn’t sure if it was born of nerves or of something else. “Right.” There was another pause, and Jon waited, letting his hand rest lightly against Martin’s hip and taking the time to begin the process of memorizing every single inch of Martin’s face. There was a trio of moles under his left eye, almost hidden by the spattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones, and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes were not quite so deeply etched as the horizontal lines of worry across his brow. Jon was considering closing the distance and pressing a kiss to those lines in an effort to smooth them when Martin said quietly, “I don’t… I don’t really like anything that involves…”

 He made a vague gesture with his hand, and Jon was starting to think that he understood. Still, he said, meaningfully, “Martin.”

 “Sex, Jon,” Martin said, all in a rush, like the words had been expelled from his lungs by force. “I don’t like sex.” A pink flush was spreading over his cheeks, a color that Jon found rather lovely on Martin. “I’ve never really been comfortable being touched, er. Below the waist? So, the- the shirt is fine—more than fine, actually, but just… not… you know.”

 “Your genitals,” Jon said helpfully.

 Martin made a sputtering, choking noise, looking at Jon like he’d just told a lewd joke. “Jon!”

 Jon let out a small, breathy laugh. “It’s what they’re called, Martin.”

 “Yes, but you don’t need to—”

 Martin cut off with an aborted noise, something akin to frustration but with infinitely more fondness. “Eugh, I just hate that word. It sounds so- so clinical.”

 “I mean, I can use other words if you’d like—”

 “No, no,” Martin said quickly, pink quickly overtaking the rest of his face. Jon found that he quite liked making Martin blush, and he tucked that information away for later. “That’s quite all right. Let’s just- just go back to the kissing. The kissing was nice.”

 Jon hummed in agreement, leaning forward and pressing a soft, closed-mouth kiss against Martin’s lips. Then, almost like an afterthought, he pulled back slightly and said, “While we’re on the subject, I… I also would prefer to keep all touching… above the waist.”

 Martin’s breath was soft against Jon’s lips when he said, “Oh.” Then, after a small exhalation that might have been a laugh or might have been a sigh of relief: “G- good. Great. That makes it easy then, I suppose.”

 Jon made a noise of agreement. Then, with a small smirk: “We’ll keep genitals out of the equation entirely, then.”

 “Jon!”

 “Sorry, sorry.”

 Jon pressed another soft kiss to Martin’s mouth, feeling Martin’s lips fold into a smile against his after a moment, and all was forgiven.  

 It’s been nearly a week since then. Now, Martin’s touch is almost second nature as he presses his hand against Jon’s hip and guides him into an imitation of a waltz, the music having shifted without Jon noticing into a lilting three pattern. Jon’s long-since memorized the details of Martin’s face and has moved on to his hands; he catalogs the way that Martin’s right hand feels folded around his in this way, fingers slightly rough from a childhood spent doing household chores and, for the span of a few years, working as a house painter between semesters. Martin’s left hand fits neatly against the bone of Jon’s hip, his fingers creating gentle points of pressure against Jon’s skin that Jon recognizes from the dozens of times Martin’s placed his hand against Jon’s back, only the tips of his fingers touching Jon’s spine as he looks over his shoulder at the pot he’s stirring on the hob or the book he’s reading at the kitchen table, hunched over it in a way that can’t be good for his spine. Jon tucks both sensations neatly away in his mind in the folder labeled Martin’s hands and focuses on the music, on the way that Martin seems to know all the right steps, the way he carries Jon through them effortlessly and doesn’t flinch when Jon inevitably misses a step and lands, instead, on Martin’s left foot.

 The up-tempo swing track that comes on after the waltz is a different story. Jon pulls back slightly, suddenly unsure. He’d tried swing dancing exactly once with Georgie—had gone through the trouble of watching videos to learn the steps and practicing awkwardly by himself before hesitantly bringing the idea up to Georgie. It had gone predictably terribly, with the added downside of knocking a vase of flowers off Georgie’s kitchen table where it had shattered against the tile floor into a million tiny shards that took ages to clean up. Needless to say, they’d stuck to slower songs after that.

 Jon looks warily at the record player, then back at Martin. He’s about to apologize, to reluctantly put an end to the feeling of Martin’s hand on his waist and Martin’s body flush against his, when his mind strays idly back to the music, to the motions that should accompany it, and he realizes with a start that he Knows. It’s as clear in his mind as the name of the bass player for the track (Ray Brown) and the exact tempo of the music (100 beats per minute to the half note, a song more easily felt in two than in four).

 It might be the one and only time the Beholding has ever given him knowledge that’s been useful. He decides not to look too closely at it and simply pulls Martin in close once again.

 Soon, they’re spinning around the living room, having several near-misses with the couch and various tables but never quite losing their balance. Martin’s steps are a bit clumsy—”I took a class back when I worked in the Library,” Martin had said with a sheepish smile, “but between not knowing anybody there and it being a good thirty minutes from my flat, I ended up dropping it”—so they keep it simple, just the basic steps with an added turn. Occasionally, they’ll break out of closed position and Martin will spin Jon, sending Jon’s skirt haloing around him in a whirlwind of yellows and blacks and whites. Once, Jon’s heel hits the edge of the couch and it’s only the quick press of Martin’s hand against the small of his back that keeps him upright. The smile Martin gives him at that is breathtaking, and the rest of the room blurs around him until all he can see is Martin’s face as they dance, smile lines prominent around his eyes and cheeks flushed red with exertion.

 Jon’s told Martin that he loves him, in words but also in a million different ways as they’ve lived their lives in the safehouse, through feather-light brushes of fingers and sleepy morning kisses and quiet moments shared over tea and toast. Now, as he holds Martin’s hand tightly and steps in time with him around and around and around, he can’t help but feel that same love in the brassy singing of trumpets and in the way that Martin anchors him as they spin, his hand in Jon’s like a lifeline.

 The song ends—as all things do—and as the last few lingering piano notes die down into clicking static, Jon finds himself quite literally swept off his feet. He makes a noise of surprise as Martin spins him once more and uses the momentum to guide Jon into a low dip, a steadying hand on Jon’s lower back keeping him from falling to the floor. Martin’s eyes, endless oceans of blue, are inches from Jon’s, and his breath ghosts across Jon’s lips as he says, softly, “And you said you were a terrible dancer.”

 Jon blinks for a moment before saying stiffly, “Yes, well, I can’t always have the eldritch equivalent of YouTube in my mind showing me the correct steps.”

 Martin hums. “Perhaps we should learn the old-fashioned way, then?”

 Jon’s heart, already thrumming from exertion, stutters a bit in his chest. A bit more breathlessly than he’d like, he says, “Yes, I- I think that would do just fine.”

 Martin hums again. Then, he closes the distance, capturing Jon’s lips in a kiss as sweet as honey and just as dizzying as Jon had felt when they’d been dancing. Jon lets his arms wind around Martin’s neck, fingers tangling in the coppery curls there and keeping him steady as Martin uses the gravity of the dip to deepen the kiss in a way that Jon very, very much likes.

 When Martin finally pulls back, Jon feels like all the breath has been drawn out of his lungs, leaving him light-headed and dizzy. Still, he finds enough air within him to say, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “I love you.”

 Martin smiles like starlight and presses another closed-mouth kiss to Jon’s lips. “I love you too,” he murmurs against Jon’s mouth. Then, just as suddenly as he’d been dipped, Jon finds himself swept up entirely off the ground, one of Martin’s arms slotting underneath his knees and the other behind his shoulder blades.

 “Martin!” Jon exclaims, face flushed red-hot with embarrassment and affection in equal measure, as Martin begins to carry him bridal-style into the bedroom, pausing only briefly on the way to lift the needle off the record. “Martin, what are you—”

 He cuts off with a surprised noise that, if asked, he will maintain was certainly not a giggle as Martin deposits him onto the bed, his skirt bunching up under his knees. The sound he makes when Martin clambers onto the bed after him, straddles his waist, and kisses him soundly is embarrassingly close to a moan.

 “Martin,” Jon says breathlessly when Martin finally pulls back, the need to breathe overtaking them both. He searches for the right words, and finding none, he simply says, “What?”

 Martin brushes his fingers across the curve of Jon’s cheek reverently. “While dancing has been lovely,” Martin says, “my legs are quite tired, and I’d very much like to keep kissing you if that’s all right.”

 Jon’s cheeks are fully overtaken by flame; the warmth spreads to his chest, where it curls around his heart and heats Jon from the inside out with a love so potent he can barely breathe around it. “Yes,” Jon says, his voice cracking around the word. “That- that would be quite all right indeed.”

 And when Martin dips down to meet Jon’s lips once again, it’s piano chords and spinning skirts and eyes the color of the sky, calling him home.

[hearmeouteliza]

So here’s the scene that’s come so far from this post where I’ve been thinking out loud about Pepper’s origins and the Phantom Blot bonding with her and wanting to help her.  For once, I actually do know where I’m going with this (LOL, instead of getting started with an idea and then just winging it), but I want to catch up with some other stories I have out there before taking the full tale on...

Though he’d worked his way into the upper echelon of the organization, Phantom Blot had no real love for F.O.W.L.  They were a means to an end; they gave him the most accurate intelligence regarding significant sources of magic and the resources to track them down. Plus, they weren’t fond of Magica DeSpell either, so they wouldn’t stop him from eliminating the threat she posed once he had the chance.  His working for the organization was an arrangement of mutual benefit and nothing more.  Frankly, after he captured Magica and destroyed all magic to avenge his village – and, more importantly, his family – he didn’t care what F.O.W.L. did or didn’t do.

Over the years, however, Blot had learned a number of the agency’s secrets.  The Eggheads, F.O.W.L.’s grunts and resident fashion disasters, had mostly been the products of one of F.O.W.L.’s earlier projects.  They had taken in a number of orphaned and abandoned children, raising them to become loyal to the organization and join its workforce.  Whether it was truly rescuing them was debatable; many of them might have been adopted by actual families had they not been claimed by F.O.W.L. And the ethics of raising a child for the express purpose of filling a job were questionable.  But, on the other hand, though they had been raised in a very institutional environment, the children had never been abused and the Egghead’s wages were reasonably competitive when compared to similar positions in the outside world.  Blot had decided he had no real opinion on the program one way or another.  Was it ideal?  No.  But the children had been safe and secure, something their so-called families certainly hadn’t worried about when abandoning them.  The orphans were a different situation, and he felt for them, but they hadn’t had any family step up to claim them either.  As someone whose own children had been stolen from him, their lives snuffed out before he could stop it, he had absolutely no tolerance for anyone who would abandon a child to the whims of an often-cruel world.

Something else he’d learned and didn’t particularly care about was that ducks and other species with a predisposition to imprint upon their initial caregivers had something known as an “imprint memory.”  It was a vague memory of their early moments after hatching, involving the caregiver they’d imprinted upon.  There were rarely specifics, just general feelings and a sense of what had been going on around them at the time.  If the initial bond with their caregiver was broken, another could be formed with a different caregiver, provided the child was given the time and support needed to do so.  Those who suffered from what psychologists termed “fractured imprinting” that had never built a subsequent bond in their formative years tended to have significant adjustment and mental health issues in adulthood.  That certainly explained why majority of the Eggheads were so…well, cracked, as the slang went.  They would have probably had those issues anywhere else, especially if they hadn’t been lucky enough to be adopted, but while their physical needs had been met, they hadn’t been particularly coddled.

All of that had been in a mental file Blot had labeled “Not My Problem” previously; it was a broad category that encompassed most things that had little to do with his primary mission.  However, one particular Egghead had wormed her way into his life with her boundless enthusiasm.  She also happened to be a “graduate” of the program.  Despite himself, Blot had become fond of Pepper, even beginning to consider her a friend.  He certainly hadn’t had many of those since his village had been destroyed so long ago. He had insisted to F.O.W.L. she become his permanent mission partner, something Bradford Buzzard had immediately agreed to since there was literally no one else volunteering.  (Why did that bother him?  He’d never cared who liked him or not before.)  And now, between tasks, they’d begun to talk about topics that had previously been off-limits, such as his family.  Pepper’s eyes were wide and sympathetic as he told her of the joy they’d brought him, his beloved wife and their two little girls.

“They sound pretty great,” she said quietly.

“They were,” Blot agreed.  He watched, mildly amused as she toyed with her blonde curls that refused to be contained once she took her helmet off.  With a name (or was it a nickname?) like Pepper, he’d expected her hair to be red the first time he saw it, but that only went to show how far assumptions got anyone.  It occurred to him he knew little about Pepper, other than that she’d been one of F.O.W.L.’s foundlings.  Before she’d snuck her way into his heart, he wouldn’t have cared.  “Do you know anything about your life before you came here?” He wasn’t sure how else to pose the question.  The odds were that her story wasn’t a happy one and he didn’t want to push her to share it if she wasn’t ready.  However, given the way she opened up to him like a flower at the least little bit of affection (or even attention), he suspected she’d tell him.

Pepper shrugged.  “F.O.W.L.’s the only family I’ve ever known…you know, like most of us.  I guess there are a few Eggheads who answered a want ad – bet they had no idea what they were signing up for – but the rest of us were rescued.”

“I don’t know that my opinion will count for much,” Blot told her, “but I find it despicable that anyone would abandon their own offspring.”  He was still trying to figure out this whole “friendship” thing, but sympathizing with her situation was a start.

Pepper grinned.  “Oh, it does count.  And thank you.  It’s…well, it does help, at least a little.”  She sighed, her gaze trailing off to gaze at nothing in particular.  “It’s just…”

Blot frowned, even if Pepper might not have been able to see it beneath his cloak.  One thing Pepper had never been was at a loss for words, so whatever she had on her mind had to be significant.  “It’s just what?”

“Well, we’ve talked about our imprint memories before, me and the others.”  Pepper twisted her fingers together as she talked.  “Most of the others, they’re what I’d guess you’d expect – lonely, sometimes cold…just sad, really sad.  And I feel a little bad that mine…isn’t?”

“You shouldn’t feel bad for that,” Blot insisted, but he wasn’t surprised that she did.  She was the most empathetic of all the Eggheads he’d spent any significant amount of time around; perhaps that had to do with the fact that she might not have had as rough a start as her peers.  Had she been one of the orphans?  “Did you want to…talk about it?”

Pepper nodded enthusiastically.  “It’s really…nice, actually.  I remember a woman – she must have been my mother – holding me and singing to me.  Just…safe and warm.”  Her smile quickly morphed into a frown, however, the rest of her face falling with it. Blot had never seen her look so dejected and he found he hated it.  “I don’t know why she left me.  They said they found me in a box, just a few days old.  Was I a difficult baby?  Did something happen where she couldn’t take care of me?  Or was she even my mother?”

“I’m sure it had nothing to do with you.”  That, Blot could promise her, even if he had no information to answer her other questions.  “You were an infant.  There was nothing you could have done to deserve being abandoned like that.”

Slowly, Pepper’s smile returned, tentative though it may have been. “Thanks.  That’s…really nice of you to say.”  She shrugged, her expression a little sheepish.  “Sometimes when I got lonely, when I was little, I used to pretend she realized she made a huge mistake and was looking for me.  Or…I was really a princess of some country somewhere and she had to hide me away to protect me from an evil sorceress.”

Given that Blot had dealt with more than one evil sorceress in his time and was currently in pursuit of the most menacing one of all, he couldn’t exactly call her fantasies ridiculous.  “Perhaps she did.  Or…perhaps you’re an orphan after all and she never meant to leave you behind.”  It was still an unhappy ending, true, but maybe it would sting less for Pepper to consider.

“Yeah, maybe!”  Pepper perked up.  “You know, you try to be all tough and menacing, but I think you’re a real softie underneath it all.”

Blot glared at her, but it lacked the heat he usually summoned for those who had irritated him.  “I am not.”

“I think you are,” Pepper teased, her voice becoming more singsong.

“Am not,” Blot insisted.  Childish as it may have been, she had goaded him into playing along.  He couldn’t help but be reminded of similar arguments his girls had…and the memory was a balm instead of a dagger to his heart.  This ridiculous little duck just seemed to bring out that sort of thing in him.  Privately, he resolved to do some additional research into Pepper’s origins.  Surely there would be files that could help him put together the pieces and give her some answers.  

It was nice to have someone to care about again.

[spartanguard]

babyfaced

Summary: A bet gone awry forces Killian to get rid of his beard for a month. going beardless makes him look significantly younger; but the clock turns back on more than just his face. | rated T; 2.2k words

dedicated to @xpumpkindumplingx​ who told me to “do the thing” and @thesschesthair​ because this is either up her alley or the exact opposite of it.

A/N: just a bit of a crack fic inspired by this post (and the fact that Colin O’Donoghue is a freaking baby face when he shaves), but plus magic—because it’s Storybrooke and we can. header image taken by @lillpon.

Killian sighed heavily and stared at himself in the mirror, committing his face to memory. He ran a hand over his well-maintained scruff, relishing the feel of it against his palm for the last time for the foreseeable future.

“C’mon, Killian—it’s just a shave,” David shouted from outside the restroom at Granny’s.

It was a stupid bet, which of course Killian, in all his cocky arrogance, had taken Dave up on. And it was just his dumb luck that David would have the best darts game of his life and Killian his worst.

So now Killian had to shave off his beard and remain bare-faced for a month. (A month that was typically biting cold and he was always grateful for the bit of a barrier his beard provided.) He hadn’t gone without a beard since...well, not since he was capable of growing one. And there was a reason for that.

But he was nothing if not a man of his word, so with one last caress of his beloved stubble, he picked up the shaving implements he’d been provided with and set to work.

Although he had to send a disparaging glare at the can of shaving foam, labeled as Baby Face Shaving Cream. It was already mocking him. But at least Granny kept straight blades on hand, so he was able to complete the task at hand with some familiarity—even if it meant the result staring back at him was anything but.

Head hung down, he finally emerged from the lavatory to his waiting father-in-law. He could already hear David snickering.

“What, trying to hide? Come on—give me the full view.”

Killian gripped the can of shaving cream so hard he thought it might burst as he huffed and shifted his weight between his feet. “Must I?”

“Unless you plan on looking at the ground for the next month, then yeah.”

Best just get it over with. “Fine.” And he lifted his head to look David straight in the eyes.

It was simultaneously amusing and embarrassing the way Dave’s eyes grew wide at the sight. “Wow, you weren’t kidding—you really do look 10 years younger. Or a hundred and ten, or whatever.”

“No, I wasn’t. So please get all your infant jokes out now.”

David gave all he could in that department on the short walk back to the dining area, and had wrapped them up by the time Killian slumped into the booth next to Emma. He was back to trying to hide his chin and keenly felt the sensation of all eyes being on him, which just made him want to melt into the vinyl cushions even more.

As much as could be said for his leather jackets and kohl, that beard was part of the armor he used against the world, in addition to helping give him a commanding appearance. Without it, he felt much like a lost youth again, and oddly naked.

But then Emma’s hand was on his (very smooth) cheek, turning his face towards her. He heard her hitch her breath and that drew his attention, finally forcing him to look back up. She was studying him intently, and brushing the back of her fingers across his bare skin. Her brow was furrowed and to his surprise, he couldn’t tell why.

“Is it alright, love?” he asked quietly; if she hated it, then the deal with Dave was off.

But then a smirk took over her features. “It’s adorable,” she gushed, much to his consternation; he hung his head yet again. “No, Killian—come on,” she protested, and pulled his chin back up. “It’s different, but a good kind—it’s like seeing you in high school or something.”

“See? I look like a teenager. This is ridiculous.”

“I think you look very sweet, Killian,” Snow said from the other side of the booth, but that didn’t help much.

“Exactly,” Emma agreed. “You are a softie, Killian Jones, and for once, you look like it.”

He did have to admit: the way Emma couldn’t keep her hands off his face did have a perk, and she seemed to enjoy peppering his smooth cheeks with kisses (he also conceded that it felt nice to have her lips right against his skin). But the stares and smirks from everyone else meant it was going to be a long, long month.

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

With the way his facial hair grew, he had to shave at least twice a week to maintain a satisfactory level of clean shaven-ness. Granny had let him keep the shaving cream they’d found at the bed & breakfast, even though she herself wasn’t sure how long it’d been there. At least it had a nice, clean scent, and seemed to take decent care of his skin, if the way Emma continued to caress his face each morning was anything to go by.

Although one day, a week or so later, she did narrow her gaze on him. “Have you been using my eye cream?” she asked.

“No; just the normal facial moisturizer,” he answered.

“Huh; must be something in that shaving cream, then, because your crows’ feet aren’t as deep.”

He shrugged; he knew there were plenty of ways of reducing the appearance of age in this realm with proper skin care, so it was to be assumed that once he started doing the same, it might have some affect. “I’m sure it’s only temporary, then, as you give me abundant reasons to smile every day.”

She just grinned and kissed him.

He did notice, though, that as time went on, his beard didn’t seem to fill in as much as it used to. It was mildly concerning, but he figured it just had to do with the fact that he was starting over from square one every time it began to regrow; once the month was up, it would return to its normal level of thickness.

A couple weeks in, he wondered if he might even be shaving too often, when red bumps began to appear on his chin; it reminded him of the zits he would get in his adolescence. God, he would probably blend in with the high schoolers, between the lack of beard and appearance of acne. At least he had his chest hair to rely on.

But—was it just him, or was that looking a little thin, too?

Perhaps he was just seeing things. Perhaps he was just tired, too—he found himself feeling rather...vigorous lately, which had led to some late nights with Emma. (Several.) Usually, she was the insatiable one, calling him “old man” and other teasing endearments, but for once, he had more stamina than her. 

“You’re not taking Viagra or anything, are you?” she asked, breathless, one night.

“Taking what?”

“Never mind.” (Even if she didn’t have another round in her, she still couldn’t keep her hands from his chin. Maybe this wasn’t so bad.)

With the extra energy in his system, he started to spend more time on his ship, and even took up running. It was giving him a leanness he hadn’t had since he was a lanky lad, and did lead to some oddly timed naps, but mostly just left him hungry.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Emma asked after he polished off far more of a pizza than he normally did.

“Aye, love—perfectly fine,” he assured her, though her worry was causing the same in him. “Why?”

“I don’t know; it’s like...with your face looking so much younger, all of you seems to be a little younger.”

His brow furrowed at that—but at the same time, he knew it was fairly impossible. 

Still, the idea lingered, as well as the sense that he’d somehow disappointed Emma. He found his mood changing on a dime during the last week of the terms of the bet, at times feeling depressed and lonely, and daring and joyous at others. It nearly gave him whiplash.

He sought once to calm his nerves in a glass of rum but, oddly, couldn’t stomach it like he used to.

It was while having a conversation with Emma and David at the station and his voice cracked that he finally realized something was amiss.

“God, you even sound like a pubescent teenager,” Dave teased, but Emma immediately became concerned.

“Okay, something weird is definitely going on,” she said, then came over to assess him. “Do you feel different anywhere? Did someone hit you with a spell or something?”

Suddenly feeling annoyed, he shrugged her off and stepped away. “Bloody hell, no! I don’t know what’s happening. I just know I’m emotional and have too much energy and it feels like everyone hates me and—”

He was cut off when Emma pulled him into a hug—quite possibly one of the best feeling hugs he’d ever had, and he immediately sank into it. “That better?”

“Aye,” he said into her shoulder.

“Sometimes, you just need a hug. It helps Henry.”

He rolled his eyes, but was glad she couldn’t see it. “Yeah, but you’re not my mum.”

“No; it still helps though.” She pulled away. “Can you stay here while I go check something? Make yourself a cocoa, okay?”

“Okay,” he muttered. She placed a peck on his cheek, gave her father an oddly angry look, then headed out.

“What was that about?” Dave wondered aloud.

Killian just shrugged. “I dunno. Want cocoa?”

“Sure.”

They shared a mug (Killian may have doubled up on cocoa packets in his) and were chilling on the couch when Emma returned, holding a vial. “What’s that?” he asked, standing, as she came in.

“Stand right there and don’t move,” she commanded. “Dad, come over by me.”

Both guys did as asked, and Emma popped the cork on the vial. Carefully, she put a tiny amount of the powder inside in her palm.

“Okay, brace yourself, Killian.”

“For what?” he complained, but it was too late: she’d blown the powder his way.

He winced when it hit him, then a tingling sensation took over his body, leaving him a bit sore—but somehow also feeling more normal than he had in weeks.

He blinked when the prickling feeling dissipated and looked back at his companions; Emma was smiling and David, for some reason, looked upset. 

“Hey, it hasn’t been a full month yet!” he protested. Killian reached up to brush his hand along his jaw; his beard was back.

“What did you do, love?” he had to ask; he thought she liked him cleanshaven?

“I was right; you were literally aging backwards,” she said. “That shaving cream? Turns out it had some magic in it that turned back the clock. If you’d used it any more, you probably would have started to get shorter.” 

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “So I really was a teenager?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn.”

David was looking very sheepish off to the side, especially when Emma leveled her gaze at him. “So thanks for putting my husband in high school, Dad.”

“Sorry!” he said quickly. “I had no idea; I just wanted to see what he’d look like.”

“Well, maybe next time, don’t put such a ridiculous time limit on your bets, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he agreed, though the way he was curling in on himself let them know he was genuinely sorry.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have my way with the MAN I married—not the BOY,” she said pointedly, grabbing Killian’s hand and leading him from the station. They didn’t pause to see David’s reaction, but it was easy to imagine.

“I’d say that was fair punishment, Swan,” Killian quipped as Emma led them down the street toward their house. 

“Oh, definitely,” she giggled. “But I wasn’t kidding. I need to have you when we’re both on the same level.”

“I think I can handle that.”

(He couldn’t. Apparently, aging nearly 20 years in one day was draining.)

The next morning, he shuffled down to the kitchen to the smell of pancakes and bacon, and the sight of Emma cooking. He sidled up behind her, like he usually did, and buried his scruffy chin in the crook of her shoulder, tickling her and making her laugh.

“Still feeling okay?” she asked as she flipped the pancakes on the griddle.

“Aye; back to my old self. A fact that I don’t think I’ll ever take for granted.”

“Good.” She moved the pancakes off the pan and onto the plate, then turned off the stove. She turned in his embrace and quickly placed her hands on his cheeks, scratching through his scruff. “Mm, I missed that,” she hummed.

“Yeah? You seemed to have a thing for a clean face, too,” he replied.

She shrugged. “It had its novelty, definitely, and it was kind of nice to see what you looked like before life happened.” He swallowed; he hadn’t thought of that. He’d definitely seen pictures of Emma as a youth, but obviously, there weren’t any of him. “But now you look like the man I fell in love with again, so please don’t let any stupid bet or spell change that, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, love, as long as you do the same.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Actually, might I propose something else?” he added.

“What’s that?”

“I’d quite like to see what it’s like to grow old with you.”

Emma grinned, crinkling the skin by her eyes and around her mouth. “I would love that.” 

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

thanks for reading! tagging some friends: @kat2609​ @optomisticgirl​ @shipsxahoy​ @amortentia-on-the-rocks​ @mryddinwilt​ @cocohook38​ @annytecture​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @distant-rose​ @wellhellotragic​ @welllpthisishappening​ @let-it-raines​ @pirateherokillian​ @its-imperator-furiosa​ @fergus80​ @killianmesmalls​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @effulgentcolors​ @laschatzi​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate​ @nfbagelperson​ @stubble-sandwich​​ @killian-whump​​ @lenfaz​ @phiralovesloki​ @athenascarlet​ @kmomof4​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot​

[paganinpurple]

A Feline’s Family - MariChat May 2019

This is literally the longest it’s ever taken me to do MariChat May before. Sorry. I had a slipped disc in my back which caused me severe sciatica and I was just in so much pain for such a long, long time that writing was just never going to be feasible to focus on. I slowly tried to start writing again when my disc issue resolved and it reduced to my normal levels of pain again about a month ago, but it’s still slow going because I’m out of practise now. I’m not abandoning this story though.

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AO3

Chapters (If there’s no link, it’s not written yet)

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10

11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20

21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31

Day 19 – Flowers 

Sabine would not have been surprised if her daughter had actually flown through the bakery, considering the speed she was moving at. She watched with barely concealed amusement as the girl dashed straight past her to the door at the back of the bakery before deciding to speak, “He’s not here, dear.”

Marinette froze, one hand still resting upon the handle and turned to face her mother with a confused and mildly irritated expression. “He hasn’t come back yet?” she asked, moving back to the counter to join Sabine.

“Oh, he came back,” she said as she finished serving one of the regular customers, who –to Marinette’s increasing annoyance– seemed far too interested in her conversation with her mother to go anywhere yet, “But he had to leave again right away. His first appointment with the new doctor is today, remember?”

“Oh.” She had remembered, honest, but Marinette’s brain was feeling a little burnt out and it must have slipped her mind momentarily. “Did…did he say how things went?”

“He mentioned some things,” Sabine continued, maintaining uncomfortable eye contact with the woman in front of her while a menacing, yet somehow sweet smile challenged her nosey nature. Marinette knew the look well and remained silent until the woman left, unnerved by the opposition to her earned eavesdropping rights as a daily visitor to the bakery.

Although Adrien had always been pulled out of classes for as long as he had gone to school, it had always been for photoshoots and other business relating to Gabriel’s brand. Things he was no longer required or expected to do, given the man’s lack of control over his life these days.

So, when the Principal had knocked on the classroom door and asked that Adrien be excused for the afternoon, her attention had immediately switched to the people standing behind him.

Police officers.

Clearly, they had questions that couldn’t wait and had managed to clear it with her parents and his advocacy worker. That didn’t mean she couldn’t worry about him and the fifteen unanswered text messages she had sent.

Sabine waited until the solitary echo of the bell above the door had died out before she turned to face her daughter. “They asked him a lot of questions about Nathalie,” she said, softly “and he’s quite shaken. He almost cancelled his appointment because he didn’t feel up to it.”

“But you made him go anyway, didn’t you?” Marinette asked with a sad smile.

Her mother mirrored her, and her eyes betrayed the sympathy she felt. “He needs to talk to someone who isn’t as close to all of this as we are. I didn’t make him do anything, but I did suggest he go, even if it’s just to get to know the woman. And he’s a good boy; he listens.”

Marinette frowned a little, biting her bottom lip as she glanced back towards the door that led to their apartment. “I guess I’ll have to wait till he gets home to see how he’s doing.”

Sabine’s expression morphed from compassionate worry to something much more mischievous and Marinette couldn’t help but feel that the look would be better suited to a much younger person than her mother. Or maybe Plagg. She regarded her suspiciously.

“It didn’t look like he came straight home though, honey. He brought something in and left it for you upstairs before he headed back out.”

Marinette tried to enquire further, she really did, but Sabine was determined not to give away anything that might cushion the reaction her daughter would have to finding her gift herself.

Shooing the girl away as a couple entered the bakery to steal her attention once again, she watched as a pair of pigtails swept through the door, catching sight of the girl taking the stairs two at a time in her hurry to find out what waited for her upstairs.

***

Marinette burst into the main room of the apartment upstairs, giving it a cursory glance to ensure her present -whatever it was- wasn’t there before she exploded into the room above. She was barely in the room when she found she was irresistibly drawn to the large pot sitting by the computer on her desk.

She found herself gently touching the large leafy plant before she was even aware that she had moved towards the desk. Her fingertips electrified where they brushed the soft, fuzzy texture of the long catkin flowers, warmth spreading along her hand as she was reminded of little Trash Bag and his cosy, soft fur.

The long and thin downy flowers were so oddly shaped and stained such a bright shade of red, that Marinette immediately compared them to chilli peppers in her mind. Of course, their resemblance to spicy food brought with it an accompanying heat, which drew forward a blush to her cheeks. Or, at least, that’s what Marinette told herself as she stroked the plant with a fond smile adorning her expression.

Tucked in amongst the leaves she spotted a small plastic stake, the kind with the name of the plant and the care instructions printed on it. She reached for it and for the folded slip of paper secured to it with an elastic band, a frown marring her features.

The stake informed her the plant was known as an Acalypha hispida, a fact she quickly forgot as she flattened out the creases of the note Adrien appeared to have left her.

“Hey Buginette.”

It started innocently, Marinette’s guard slipping down a little, leaving her heart vulnerable to the impact of his following words.

“I felt my phone buzz about a million times this afternoon and I haven’t had time to read all my texts yet, because I’m kind of on a time limit here. But from what I skimmed on route home, you've been worried about me.

I probably shouldn’t like that, because I don’t want to worry you. But it makes me feel warm and happy when you do. Almost like you’re still right there with me when I’m trying to deal with some of this crazy stuff without you.

You’re amazing.

So, here's some Cat's Tail for the hero of this cat's tale.”

Marinette’s next breath froze and lodged in her throat, icy shock hitting before the inside of her chest burst into flame at the way he had signed the note.

“Love,

Your partner, in every and any way you’ll have me.”

Marinette reread the last line several times. The words, ‘every' and ‘any' had been written over several times with the dark pen, the ink leaving smudges and dirty marks where his hand had rubbed over them in his repetition. It was an odd thing to see on a note from him, considering his usual stance that the appearance of what he had to say was important. She sniffed, biting her lip in an attempt to stifle the dampness gathering on her lower lashes.

“Marinette? Are you okay?” Tikki asked, flying up to her young charge's shoulder, simultaneously watching her expression for a sign of what was wrong and avoiding the sudden teardrops falling down her face. Drawing a blank, the kwami turned to read the note in Marinette's hand for herself.

Reading Adrien's casual words, she sighed heavily, rolling her eyes in fondness for both children. Only her current Ladybug could forget how little thought it required for her Chat Noir to speak of how much she meant to him and how highly he held her opinion of him. Given that Adrien was fully aware of his feelings for both sides of the girl before they were shown to be one and the same, it made sense for him to be so open with her in a less pressured way.

And since this was written and he wasn’t present, there was literally no pressure on Marinette to acknowledge it at all if she chose not to. So Tikki would have to be more encouraging in the next hour or so to try and convince her not to ignore it out of her utter fear of the unknown.

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[starker-stories]

The Cold, Chapter 9 - The Messages Series

This chapter on AO3

By @thestarkerisobvious​ and @starker-stories​​

New chapters in the series post every Thursday.

All links are to AO3. You don’t need to be a creator to have an AO3 account. You can have one solely as a reader. But to read anything at all in this series, you can just be an anonymous reader and/or commenter.

The best way to keep up with The Cold is to subscribe to the story on AO3. And the best way to keep up with the Messages Series is also to subscribe to it as well as the individual stories. That way you’ll know when the next book is added.

Tags: Tony Stark Feels, Peter Parker Feels, College Student Peter Parker, Established Relationship, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Arc Reactor Kink, Peter Parker is a Mess, Spider-Man powers, Communication, They Finally Communicate!, And Fuck Of Course Look at Who It’s Written By Of Course They Fuck, Avengers Compound

The entire Messages Series.  All links are to AO3.

Messages Unsent  (complete & posted)

Nothing More Than A Machine  (complete & posted)

Tomorrow  (complete & posted)

My Virgin (Revisited)  (completely & posted)

The Cold  (completely written) Posts Every Thursday

There’s been a change.

The Cold is the final book in the main line of the Messages series. There will be 11 chapters in total (I miscounted last week.) Today is chapter 9, so today and 2 more Thursdays until the book and the series are finished!!!

What were formerly the last two chapters will be written as Messages Interludes and won’t be posted to the same schedule that Messages has been because there are time jumps between them and Messages that will take them out of the Messages series. 

Interludes exists because neither of us can let go of this version of Peter and Tony and want to write much more with them. The best way to follow any future stories with this Peter and Tony in them is to subscribe to the Interludes series link. 

The Opposite of Cold  ( in progress )

Untitled  ( in progress )

More? Very likely! 

Chapter 9: Running the Fuck

Peter found himself standing with Tony Stark at his feet, and he found he enjoyed it very much.

Looking down at the man at his feet, he began to unbutton his own shirt.

He took his time, holding Tony’s eyes in his all the while. Finally he pulled it off and, holding it in one hand over Tony’s body for a moment, dropped it onto the man’s chest.

Clothes landing on top of him did absolutely nothing to help Tony’s attempt to get his laughter under control. Peter peeled his undershirt off in one smooth motion and dropped it playfully onto his face. That was too much of a challenge! Tony pulled the undershirt off of his face and tossed it back in the direction of Peter’s head. Unfortunately his position of flat-on-your-back, aiming up at a looming young man meant that he missed. Spectacularly.

Peter began to undo his belt, watching Tony carefully. He loved watching Tony relax (he hadn’t heard the man giggle in far too long) and hoped it meant he’d be allowed to do what he planned to do next.

With belt and flies undone Peter let his trousers fall below his knees, which meant he could lose them as he knelt in one smooth motion (god, he loved being graceful) until he was clad only in his boxers as he began to nuzzle Tony’s erection. He toed his socks off in that position, then began unfastening Tony’s belt, opening up his flies and nuzzling in. He teased Tony’s cock with his teeth through the fabric, but only for a moment, never knowing when Tony was going to end this and take control.

And then it occurred to him… what if Tony didn’t?

He took his time working Tony’s shaft through the fabric, making no move to undress him further. And when Tony’s hands did come down he pushed them away.

And he kept pushing them away. He said nothing as he worked Tony out of his trousers (gently, the same way Tony liked to undress him) but left the boxers on.

He would loved to have tossed the trousers on the floor, but they were the expensive kind, so he had to break for a moment, sit up, and lay them aside.

Tony got the hint. No hands. That could make it… fun. He started reaching down, but before Peter could push his hands away, he pulled them back, very deliberately, himself, taking control of where they went. He wouldn’t touch. He’d let the kid do all the work. No hands. And no reactions. Make him work for it. Let’s see what the kid does with that. Tony gave a small little smug smile.

Peter lay himself on top of Tony’s legs, rather than between them, wrapping one arm around both and hugging them to himself, acting out yet another very old fantasy. He used his other hand to stroke the man’s calf and ankle as he busied himself with the challenge of giving head without using his own hands.

“Might just let you get me off like that. If you can,” Tony said, hovering his hands above the waistband of his boxers. “But… you threw me on the bed and I can’t get what you promised me with these on.” Tony stretched himself out and casually put his hands behind his head. He looked down and watched Peter mouthing him. Almost teasing himself. Drawing it out. Letting himself enjoy every part of the process. And it was fun to watch him doing that. Sure, his hands kinda itched to go down to Peter’s head and tangle in his hair like they usually did. But this… just watching and waiting? Oh yes, that was good.

Peter made a hungry noise and began licking any flesh he could get to as soon as it was exposed. He nudged Tony’s boxers down with his chin as he started mouthing and teasing Tony’s cock at the base, pressing his tongue against the skin and enjoying the texture, the scent. God, Tony never let him spend this much time down here! He’d have to use his hands soon, of course (Tony had asked for EPIC after all) but for now he thrilled at the feel of Tony’s legs in his embrace. Oh, this was good. This was very very good. Peter licked lower, teasing his lover’s scrotum, before finding a vein and tracing it upward with the tip of his tongue.

The boxers were down far enough. Tony was too distracted to worry about them anymore. But they were in the way dammit. Tony squirmed more to try to get them lower, but not too much because he didn’t want to accidentally move away from what Peter was doing. That was too good. The kid must’ve been going on that porn site again.

Peter thrilled at the sensation of Tony wriggling beneath him, although he wondered at the silence. Tony was reacting, certainly (although he was trying not to — those moans and caught breaths that he didn’t want Peter to hear were everything) but otherwise speechless. That was a good sign. The less Tony spoke, the more Peter got to play.

Peter wrapped his other arm around Tony’s legs and held tight. He would need his hands to get Tony into his mouth and he wondered, could he tease Tony long enough that the man would reach down and do it himself? Would he ask permission first? Ah god, Tony feeding Peter his cock was an old fantasy indeed. He smiled at the thought, placing wet kisses up the shaft stopping just short of the head, then worked his way back down to the base. Then he slowly worked his way back up to the top. When he arrived he stretched up to work his mouth over the tip, trying to catch what he found there on the very center of his tongue. He moaned at the taste.

Tony’s hands seemed to still be obediently under his head, a thought which amused Peter to no end, and with a bit of wiggling Peter found he could coax the head of Tony’s cock into his mouth, and soon he found himself vigorously sucking on the tip and holding the man’s legs tightly, enjoying the results.

Still, Tony said nothing.

And that felt odd. Certainly some words should be said at this point, wasn’t that how sex was done? Of course, Tony was always in charge of the talking, and if Peter was ‘running the fuck…’

He glanced up at his lover’s face. (He had been assured many times that it wasn’t rude and he always tried to remember that.) He looked into Tony’s eyes as he wet the tip of his tongue and ran it up the shaft again. Tony was looking down at him, aroused, but also looking… mildly amused?

Oh that would not do.

More teasing was in order. He shifted position and, with his left arm still firmly around Tony’s legs, he brought up his right hand and began stroking the man’s stomach. (He always lost control when Tony touched him this way.)

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Tony,” he murmured, exactly the way Tony would have done to him. “You never let me enjoy this… touch you like this. You never let me play with you. I spent so much damn time trying to deal with your ridiculously large cock I never really…”

He couldn’t resist anymore.

Using his hand, he lifted Tony’s shaft. First he began tracing veins again, sometimes with kisses and sometimes with his tongue.

“It’s stupid-big but it’s… it’s like a work of art. It’s just beautiful. SI could make a model of it and sell it on Geeky Sex Toys and make another fortune. They already sell an ‘arse reactor’ butt plug, so they’d love it. And you never let me suck you off. I can count on one hand how many times you’ve come in my mouth. It’s criminal.”

“So I should put that in next quarter’s business proposals?” Tony asked seriously. “I’m gonna, you know. You know I will do it.” He smiled. “Just to see the look on Pepper’s face if nothing else.”

Peter made an appreciative noise, his mouth full.

Now he had to let go of Tony’s legs, which he did, reluctantly. Using his other arm to position himself he wrapped his entire hand around the base automatically, taking the rest into his mouth and began to work.

“You get at least fifty percent of the earnings from that. We can measure the difference between how hard I get on my own versus how hard with you helping.” Tony fought to keep the groan from breaking his lighthearted banter. There was no way he was giving the kid what he wanted. Not yet.

But as soon as Peter let go of Tony’s legs, the old Peter Problem immediately began.

The old fantasy (Peter reveled in it now) was that he could hold the man down and blow him whether he liked it or not. But this was not the fantasy, this was the reality, and in reality all oral sex had this same problem.

Once his teasing ended, and the actual blow job began? Then Peter was faced with the same problem he’d had for a year — he was blowing THE Tony Stark, a man with more years of experience than he had years of life. And while Peter enjoyed the taste of Tony’s cock immensely, enjoyed it especially because it was such a rare treat, he would always become aware, eventually, that he really didn’t have much idea what he was doing. Not compared to Tony who took him all the way down, on the first time, every time, with ease. (But how could Peter be as good as Tony, when Peter got so little practice? This was Tony’s fault, he groused internally, as the old familiar doubt crept in.)

One hand snaked up to Tony’s chest to finger the arc reactor, but then he pulled it back. No dammit, that was cheating. Tonight he wanted something else.

He pulled away and licked around the head again, trying to think, searching the memory banks of all his Damn-I-Miss-Tony He’s-Been-Gone-Too-Long fantasies. He had dozens upon dozens that he had used to keep himself warm on many, many nights. He chose one. Then, with a deep breath, he tried something daring.

He was different now, he had complained to Tony. Had bragged to Tony. Had made a point of shrugging it off when Tony had spoken in awe of his new strength. If he really was different, it was time to prove it.

Laying the side of his face on top of Tony’s stomach (which had the added bonus of hiding his face AND keeping from looking at Tony’s face) Peter went down on Tony again. This time he only used his fingers to maneuver, but not to cover. Rather than move his mouth to touch his fingers he concentrated on moving himself down on Tony’s shaft further than he had before. He chickened out immediately, but closed his mouth down firmly as he pulled all the way up the shaft and went down again. And again. Each time daring himself to go lower.

It didn’t work, of course. As soon as he felt Tony in the back of his throat it happened — he didn’t gag but immediately pulled away, mortified. (Because what if he did? What if he gagged? He couldn’t stand the thought.)

Tony moaned, then caught himself doing it and stopped. But then Peter took him further into his mouth the next time and he held his breath to keep the groan out of his voice. When he saw Peter’s hand head upwards… if the kid touched him there while sucking him off? He didn’t want to come, but if Peter kept going down on him as good as he was and touched the arc? There’d be no self-restraint. Tony was used to making Peter gone. He was definitely not used to the reverse.

Thankfully Peter stopped his reach about halfway up and moved his hand down again. But then Peter started to try to take him down further. He was hitting the back of the kid’s mouth each time he went down. But then he felt Peter stop himself from going further. He still hadn’t learned how, or didn’t want to, take Tony into his throat. Tony’s hips slid on the bed in a slow writhe as he thought about what it would feel like if Peter did.

Tony loved it when Peter went down on him, but he was, despite protesting otherwise, inexperienced. His experience ended with the skill of getting him hard enough that they could fuck. And if his mouth was combined with his hand on his cock, or if his hand reached up to the center of his chest and what was there, he could make Tony come. Never with his mouth alone. And never in the way that Tony used to really like from other people. But other people weren’t an option. He was in a committed relationship and he didn’t cheat, no matter what people might think because of his image. Because it was Peter, he didn’t even have to fight the temptation. There was no temptation. But there were certain things he missed in bed. The feel of his cock sliding in past the tightness, feeling the swallow around him, the wet heat all the way along his shaft instead of fingers… that was one of them.

It might be missed, but Tony didn’t ever want to push things with Peter. He waited patiently for Peter to learn. Okay, maybe it was patiently and frustratedly. But it seemed like his frustration days were nearing an end. His hips kept seeking more even if his hands stayed behind his head. And maybe when he hit the back of the kid’s mouth… nope… Tony didn’t moan at all. That wasn’t him. Much.

Tony was moving beneath him, from pleasure or impatience? Either way, Peter felt a rush of determination. He had bragged about how strong he was, he had made them come all the way to the compound so he could show it off. It was time to put up or shut up. He let go of Tony’s legs completely and, using both arms to alter his position, he wrapped his lips tight around Tony’s shaft and went down until he felt Tony pressing into his throat.

[therainroguefanfiction]

❉ 139 Dreams (Jaemin Na) Along the Way

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Mafia, Angst, Romance, Crossover ☁

Word Count: 2,583 ☁

Pairing: Reader x Jaemin ☁

World: Kpop, NCT & Anime, Katekyo Hitman Reborn! ☁

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

Jaemin sat at the kitchen table with his parents. A man sat on the other side of the table, casually drinking an espresso. He was wearing a black suit and a matching fedora. The air was thick and uncomfortable.

The front door creaked open, boots stomping on the wooden floor of the entryway. You stepped around the corner with a scowl on your face. “This better be important, Reborn. Today was supposed to be my day off.”

Reborn sipped his espresso. “I have a job for you.”

“Obviously,” you rolled your eyes, catching sight of the young boy. As one of Got7’s bodyguards, you had come across several other kpop groups in the past few years. One of the recent ones was NCT, the group that this boy belonged to. The question was, why was he sitting across from Reborn?

“You’re going to marry this boy,”

“…excuse me?”

“His parents took out a loan with some questionable people when he was injured. They were then referred to me for help. The deal is quite simple,” he smirked at you over his shoulder, black eyes shining with amusement. “Until their debt is repaid to me, their son will be married to you.”

Your eye twitched in annoyance, “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“Jaemin, you really don’t have to do this…” his mother patted his arm with a sad look.

He smiled softly, resting his hand over hers. “It’s okay. You did everything you could for me when I was injured. This is the least I can do to repay you.”

Reborn’s smirk grew as he stood up, his fedora covering his eyes. “Now that that’s settled, go pack your bags. You’ll be living with Y/N from now on.”

You stood in the doorway awkwardly after Reborn left, receiving a glare from Jaemin’s father and a worried glance from his mother. ‘Don’t blame me, I’m just as much a victim here as your kid is,’

Clearing your throat, you pushed away from the door frame. “Come on,”

Jaemin hugged his parents before following you out to your car. “I have to get my things from the dorm.” He spoke softly, not sparing you a glance.

“Right,” you sighed, starting the car. ‘This is gonna be hell,’

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

“You got married?!”

“I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Did hell freeze over?”

You scowled at the younger members of Got7, throwing a pillow at them. “It’s not by choice, idiots.”

“Couldn’t you just say no?” Jaebum questioned.

“I could, and then Reborn would make my life an even bigger hell than it already is.” You huffed, sliding down in the chair. “That bastard is a sadist through and through that gets off on pushing people to their absolute limit.”

“Until the debt is paid…” Jinyoung murmured thoughtfully. “How much do they owe?”

“100k, I think.”

“Daammmnn,” Jackson covered his mouth, eyes wide. “Do you know how many pairs of shoes I can buy with that kind of cash?”

“Or how much Dr Pepper…” You mumbled.

“It may take a few weeks, but with the high-paying clients you get, you could pay it off.”

“See, Reborn thought of that,” you met Jinyoung’s gaze. “The money has to come from Jaemin himself or his family. I’m not allowed to contribute to the pot because of how easily I can make money.”

“Is it really that bad being married, noona?” Bambam inquired curiously.

“Having someone you don’t know living in your space is pretty frustrating, yeah.”

“Why don’t you try to get to know him?” Youngjae suggested.

“No thanks,”

“Stop being anti-social, Y/N.” Jinyoung scolded. “You’re obviously going to be together for a while, the least you can do is try to make the best out of the situation. Think about how stressed he must be right now.”

Your nose wrinkled at the thought. All these years, you only had to look out for number one, but now you had another human being in your life that you had to think about, keep safe, and consider their feelings. You were not happy.

“I’d like to start a pot about how long it’ll take before Y/N cracks and kills someone.” Jackson flipped his hat upside down, holding it out to the other members.

“Five days,” Bambam wagered.

“A week,” Youngjae grinned.

“I think she can last a month,” Yugyeom commented.

“Thanks for the confidence, assholes.”

“Twenty bucks says Y/N ends up in love with him.”

“Really, Mark.”

He shrugged in response, sending you a grin.

“I hate you guys.”

Jinyoung chuckled, “We love you too.”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

“I’m home,” you muttered, kicking off your boots by the front door. It was late, nearing one in the morning, so you didn’t figure Jaemin would be awake.

The apartment was dark and silent, just the way you liked it.

You stretched your arms above your head, feeling your shoulder pop. You grunted in pain, cursing the bastard that had kicked you into a filing cabinet. Who came up with the bright idea to give those things such sharp edges? If they were still alive, you’d kill em.

You plopped onto the couch, stretching out across it. The apartment only had one bedroom, and since you were away most nights anyway, you let Jaemin sleep there. When you were home, you had the luxury of sleeping on the couch. At least it was mildly comfortable.

You were almost asleep when you heard the bedroom door creak open, setting your body on alert. After spending most of your life in the mafia, your body had learned to be hyper-aware of your surroundings at all times, even in a state of half unconsciousness.

“You’re home late,” Jaemin’s voice cut through the darkness, gruff from sleep.

“Job ran late,” you muttered, not bothering to open your eyes. You could hear him shift, but he remained silent. With a sigh, you opened your eyes. The balcony doors behind you were made of straight glass and were not covered, allowing moonlight to shine on him. “What is it?”

He remained silent for a moment more before finally speaking. “Dream is doing a photoshoot tomorrow, but Haechan hyung and Mark hyung will be doing an interview with 127… can you come?”

You raised a brow, noticing the way he held himself uncomfortably. There was something he wasn’t telling you. “You do realize all hell is gonna break loose if an SM employee sees me, right?”

“Right…” he took a deep breath, looking away.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows with a smirk. “Sounds like fun. You don’t mind if I bring a friend, yeah?”

His body language changed to a more comfortable stance as he quickly shook his head. “I don’t mind,”

With a chuckle, you fell back onto the couch, folding your hands behind your head. “Get some sleep, it’s gonna be a wild ride tomorrow.”

The words should have worried him, but they brought him comfort as he returned to the bedroom. Crawling under the sheets, he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading on his face.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

To say Jaemin was nervous was a vast understatement. As the Dreamies entered the photographer’s studio, his nervousness grew, eyes darting around. You had told him that you would be there, but that morning you had gotten an emergency call for a job. He was beginning to think that you weren’t going to show, and that didn’t bode well for him.

“Hello, boys.” The photographer purred, her small eyes sweeping up and down their bodies.

Feeling her eyeing him like a piece of meat made him shiver in disgust, but she smiled at this. How did the other boys not realize how inappropriate she was being? He glanced at the others, but they were chatting animatedly amongst each other, all of them smiling and relaxed.

“Come along, boys. We’ll do the group shots first!” She clapped her hands as she turned, the boys following her like little ducklings.

Like the professional he is, Jaemin bit his tongue and gritted his teeth, putting on his best smile as he followed her instructions. After the group photos were complete, she moved onto individual photos. Oh, how he wished she would do his first so he could get it over with, but he knew better. His would be done last so she could take her time with him.

“Jaemin~ it’s your turn,” She smirked, her eyes glinting.

He suppressed a shiver as he moved to stand in front of the camera. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and it felt as if his heart had stopped. Their manager was following the other boys out of the room. It had been a long afternoon and none of them had eaten anything, so they thought it would be a good idea to go down the hall to the vending machines, per her suggestion. That left Jaemin alone with her, aside from a couple others who were too preoccupied with their own work to notice anything amiss.

Jaemin swallowed when she stepped closer. “The fear in your eyes is so… lovely~ So raw, so pure!”

He took a step back, falling onto the wooden bench behind him. What was he meant to do? What were the chances that his manager would believe him over her? She was one of the best photographers in the business, having worked with thousands of idols, models and various of the world’s most powerful companies. Her word meant more, and he would be forced to apologize for lying and attempting to smear her reputation.

“Oi, aren’t you a bit too close to be taking a picture?”

Both of their heads snapped to the side at the voice. You were dressed in a suit and fedora, your go-to outfit whenever you had to go undercover for a job. That isn’t what startled Jaemin, though. No, it was the look of pure rage burning within the depths of your eyes. He was sure if Jackson hadn’t been there to hold you back, you would have attacked her.

“Who are you?” She snapped, eyes narrowing at you. “We’re in the middle of a shoot, which you are disturbing. Leave now or I will call security.”

“Shove it up your ass, hag.” You spat, pulling your arm from Jackson’s grip so hard that he nearly lost his balance. Your eyes never left her as you approached Jaemin, roughly pulling him to his feet.

The woman recovered from her shock after a moment. “How dare you – Do you have any idea who I am?!”

Jackson scoffed. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, lady. Just let it go before Y/N kills you.” He nodded his head towards you and the woman’s eyes followed, widening. Your hand was on your hip, barely pulling a thick blade from its sheath under your shirt.

“Y-You’re crazy… You w-wouldn’t -”

“Try Me,” your tone sent a shiver down her spine, the murderous look in your eyes sending her stepping backward. Satisfied at her fear, you put your arm around Jaemin before pushing him out of the room. He walked between the two of you in silence as you exited the building.

“What about -”

“I took care of you,” you cut him off, not sparing him a glance as you approached your car.

Jaemin knew you were steaming, and he couldn’t help but feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault that she acted that way towards him, but maybe he should have been honest about why he wanted you there to begin with.

Jackson bumped his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much, it takes little to piss Y/N off.”

“Jackson,”

“What’s up, Y/N?”

“You can walk home.”

“Oh, come on, it’s like fifty blocks away and it’s freezing!”

“Then I suggest you start running,” you sent him a sharp look. “Get in the car, Jaemin.”

He didn’t hesitate, sliding into the passenger seat. He sent his hyung a sorry look through the window, but he just grinned in response.

The drive back to the apartment was silent and tense. He tried to stay as still as possible, worried that the smallest of movements would interrupt the silence and bring your anger to an explosive point. Your hand was gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white. Your face bore no expression, but you couldn’t hide the fire lighting up your eyes. You just wanted to punch something, and it didn’t help that you kept seeing that woman’s face in your mind. Jackson shouldn’t have held you back. Then again, you really didn’t want to commit murder in front of Jaemin, he didn’t deserve to see something so grisly.

You stepped inside the apartment, throwing your keys onto the small table near the door. Your suit jacket and boots soon followed. The tension was driving him nuts.

“Where the hell are you going?”

He paused, not turning to face you. “I was going to take a shower.”

“A shower,” you muttered under your breath in disbelief. “You had no intention of telling me, did you?”

He grabbed his elbow, still refusing to turn around. “No, I didn’t.”

“I should beat your ass, you know that?” You started to pace, needing to move in order to release the energy building within. “How long?”

“Since debut…”

“Debut – are you kidding me right now?” He winced at your loud voice. “I thought you were smarter than that, Na Jaemin!”

Jaemin finally turned, eyes showing his displeasure. “What I did was the smart thing. No one would have believed me if I told them.”

“I would have!” You sighed in frustration, resting your head against the back of the couch. “I care about you, dumbass.”

He felt his heart pick up speed at the words. It felt taboo like he wasn’t meant to hear that part and despite himself, he had to question it. “Since when?”

You lifted your head to scowl at him. The anger was mostly gone, replaced by a mild annoyance and exhaustion. “I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, I started to… to care.” Your nose wrinkled at the thought. “Jackson said you were a witch jokingly, but I’m starting to believe it.”

“I’m not a witch,”

“Really? That is what you have to say? Motherfu – I need a drink.”

As you passed by him, he reached out, his slim fingers wrapping around your wrist. For a solid minute, you just stared at each other, no sound other than each other’s breathing and the air conditioner whirring in the background.

“I think… I care about you, too.”

“I’d ask you out on a date, but I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to come before marriage.”

Jaemin smiled, lightly smacking your shoulder. “Idiot, married couples go on dates, too.”

“How should I know? I don’t date.” You grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer. “You know, you’re pretty lucky.”

“And why is that?”

“If anyone else hit me like that, I’d kill them.”

“And me?”

You hummed, leaning closer until your lips ghosted over his. You could feel the warmth radiating off his cheeks and you smirked. “You can sleep on the couch tonight.”

Jaemin blinked at you dumbly as you walked away, his heart racing in his chest.

You peeked your head around the corner, grinning. “What, did you want me to kiss you?”

“Shut up!” He cried, grabbing a small pillow from the couch and throwing it at you. Despite the embarrassment flooding his system, he couldn’t help but smile.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

[katsens-writing]

And Life Goes On

A/N: This was written originally as an epilogue to See You Again but it was too long so I turned it into a mini-sequel/connected one-shot, whatever you want to call it. It takes place the day after the story ends. You should read See You Again first or else this wouldn’t make much sense. As always my asks and messages are open. If you want to be added to my Marvel taglist or any of my other ones, just let me know, it’s no trouble at all! Thanks again to @itsallavengers and @wisemanwhodoesntknow for the inspiration! (Sorry it took so long to get this part up guys!)

Summary: Tony makes amends and Peter puts his foot down.

Content: A little sadness, a tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff. Some mildly bad language? Let me know if I need to add anything. *This story contains a few references to Far From Home but they are not in themselves spoilery. If you have not seen it, read at your own discretion.*

Word Count: About 5.8k

See You Again, Part 1   Masterlist   Buy me a coffee?

---

     Tony yawned and stretched before getting out of bed. The sun hadn’t even started to rise yet but he had a busy day ahead of him and he needed to be up bright and early if he wanted to get anything done, or at least for the first part. He quietly got dressed before slipping out of the room, sneaking down the hall without a sound.

     “Boss, is something wrong?” FRIDAY’s sudden voice made Tony start.

     “Shh!” Tony winced. He’d manually set an alarm himself instead of having FRIDAY wake him up for a reason. He should’ve known that wouldn’t work. “Everything’s fine, Fri. Keep an eye on Pepper, let me know the second she wakes up, ok?”

     “Okay...” the AI’s response was drawn out in suspicion but she didn’t say anything. Her boss was acting strange but if he said nothing was wrong...

     Tony quickly snuck down to the kitchen and got to work gathering ingredients. “Flour, milk, eggs...” Tony muttered quietly to himself. “Chocolate chips... chocolate chips? Yeah, chocolate chips... bacon, fruit, granola...”

     45 minutes later FRIDAY chimed overhead. “Boss? Pepper just finished getting dressed. She’ll be down here any minute.”

     “Perfect!” Tony grinned, balancing two plates. He turned at a shuffling sound in the doorway.

     “Tony? What--” Pepper blinked tiredly. She stopped mid-sentence and mid-step. “What’s all this?” she asked, her eyes slightly wide.

     “Well, I felt bad about yesterday,” Tony began as he sat the two plates down on a marble top island. “And I wanted to apologize.” He straightened with a sigh and wiped his hands on a towel. He slowly walked around the island to Pepper.

     “I haven’t been the husband you deserve in quite some time and I’m sorry. You’ve stayed by me this whole time when everyone else in your place would’ve left, hell, even times I would’ve left,” he shrugged. Pepper looked at him with a small frown, her brow furrowing a little. He looked at her guiltily as he continued. “I don’t deserve you. I never have, and I don’t even hope that I ever will, because I know that it’s just not going to happen. I-” Tony sighed. “I have a lot to make up for, I know, and believe me, this is just the start.” Tony took Pepper’s forearms in his hands. “I love you, Pepper. I love you more than I can ever even hope to show you and I’m so, so sorry for how I’ve been. You deserve so much more.”

     Pepper placed a hand on Tony’s cheek and looked at him with concern in her eyes, tears brimming them. His hands fell to her waist where they rested comfortably, just like he remembered. “Tony,” her voice cracked as her eyes filled with tears. “Tony, what’s going on?”

     “I promise I’ll tell you everything later,” Tony smiled, lifting a hand to her cheek and sliding an arm around her waist. “But first...” Tony lifted his chin and gently rested his lips on Pepper’s. Pepper closed her eyes, the fear and worry vanishing from her body. She wrapped her arms around Tony’s neck, and Tony tightened his arm around her waist, each pulling the other closer. Tear’s glinted along Pepper’s eyelashes. She didn’t know what was going on, but she had her husband back.

     After breakfast and a promise to Pepper to answer all her questions later, Tony excused himself. As he was heading down the hall to the elevator, he called out to FRIDAY.

     “Hey Fri, what’s on the schedule today?”

     “Your schedule today is clear boss,” the AI replied.”It's Saturday.”

     “Excellent! I’ve got some errands to run--” Tony stopped short just as the elevator door opened. “Actually... would you like to come with me, FRIDAY?”

     “Boss?” FRIDAY’s tone held more emotions in it than Tony had felt in the past five years... well before last night anyway.

     “Well?” Tony pressed, trying to suppress a smile.

     “Of course!” The AI replied excitedly.

     “Great! I have some stuff I have to do in the office first. I’ll meet you in the lab in 10,” Tony grinned. He stepped into the elevator and headed to the office floor. He stepped out into the reception area and was just a little surprised to see his receptionist there. She turned at the sound of the elevator.

     “Oh, Mr. Stark!” She started, clearly caught by surprise. “Sir! I- I didn’t know you were--”

     “What are you doing here?” he asked, his brow furrowed a little, not in anger but confusion.

     Her face flushed. “Well, I was a little behind yesterday and--”

     Tony lifted a hand and cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. You work so hard to keep this chaotic place running, definitely way harder than I have been the past couple of years. I want to apologize for that, I haven’t been a good boss in quite some time and I want to make it up to you. I’m giving you the next two weeks off with pay. If you decide to go anywhere, let me know and I’ll take care of the arrangements, ok?”

     Tony entered his office and closed the door, leaving behind his dazed receptionist standing in the hallway. He began leafing through some papers on his desk, putting some aside until he found what he was looking for. He picked up the business card and dialed the number. As the phone rang, he looked over the brochure. An amused huff escaped him as he listened to the energetic recording when the voicemail picked up. He left a message for the young entrepreneur saying he liked her presentation and that he would love to set up a meeting to get to know more about her business ideas. He left out the part about how she had already been approved for funding. He figured he’d tell her that in person.

     He sent a quick email to the board of directors about setting up a foundation for the firefighters and victims of the fire. He wanted to make sure that the little girl and her sister had a place to stay, as well as the others. He’d already called the hospitals and told them not to bill anyone connected to the fire; he’d see to those himself.

     He left his office and smiled to see his receptionist already gone. She probably figured she should leave quickly before her boss came to his senses. He hurried to the elevator and down to the lab. When the elevator doors slid open, he walked past the work tables and to the wall where his suits were held.

     Tony walked over to a small panel on the wall separate from the other and lifted his hand to it. Once it scanned his hand it beeped, and then he leaned forward for the retinal scan. The panel emitted a little chorus of musical beeps as the wall beside it split open to reveal a suit. Tony let out a low whistle as the lights around the new suit came on. It was sleek and low profile in his classic red and gold color scheme with black accents.

     “Boss?” FRIDAY spoke up questioningly.

     Tony grinned. “Perfect timing, Fri. It would seem Harley never got around to testing the new suit and I for one think that’s unacceptable.”

     “Well boss, Mr. Keener was--”

     “But you know what they say, if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself,” Tony continued as he powered up the suit. “What do ya say, Fri? Think you’re up for it?”

     “Yes, boss!” Tony’s grin widened at the excitement in the AI’s voice. He stepped into the suit and flexed his fingers as he adjusted to the fit and examined the controls. He heard a very faint hum as the computer systems came online.

     “You ready to go, Fri?” Tony inquired as he headed for the balcony and the launch platform.

     “All ready, boss!” The AI chirped.

     Tony chuckled at the AI’s voice. She sounded borderline giddy and he just couldn’t help it. “Then let’s go!”

     As Tony went above the city he noticed how smoothly the suit flew and how quiet it was. The controls responded like a dream and it was so comfortable and light he could almost forget he was even wearing it.

     “Harley really outdid himself,” Tony commented to FRIDAY. “How’s everything running on your end?”

     “I couldn’t agree more, boss,” FRIDAY agreed, sounding impressed. “The systems are all running great. I have to say, it’s one of the best suits I’ve seen... not better than yours though, boss, of course.” She added quickly.

     “Oh, of course,” Tony smirked, suppressing a snort. “Call Harley up, would ya Fri?” A soft dial tone filled the suit as the phone rang before a young man answered.

     “What the hell, Stark?” Harley started in way of greeting, immediately launching into his tirade. Tony rolled his eyes affectionately with a light smile. The background behind Harley moved quickly back and forth and Tony could only guess he was jogging somewhere.

     “You haven’t answered my texts in nearly two weeks, I reach out to you by actually calling you for once and you don’t answer, and then, then you call the next day in the middle of a--” Harley’s words were cut off as he dropped to the floor behind a desk. He ducked his head down and closed his eyes tight. When he opened them, he opened his mouth to continue delivering his riot act when he saw Tony’s bemused smirk that instantly stunned him into silence. He blinked his eyes rapidly and shook his head, thinking he was imagining things. Tony looked like himself again, just like he had five years ago. As the shock wore off, he realized Tony wasn’t calling from his office.

     “Where are you?” Harley scowled, his brow furrowing as he recovered.

     “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Tony grinned.

     Harley scoffed and rolled his eyes at the smug look on Tony’s face before he gave a sharp cry and jumped to the side, dropping his phone. He quickly grabbed it and when he did, Tony could see he was now flat-out running.

     “Harley, what’s going on?” Tony’s grin disappeared and his voice grew serious. If the kid was in trouble, he wanted to know. He’d give him a riot act of his own later for not calling him sooner if he was.

     “Uh, nothing,” Harley quickly, instinctively replied. He immediately closed his eyes and mentally kicked himself for his reaction. He really is back to his old self, Harley thought. Tony was the only one who ever managed to get Harley to panic like that when he was in over his head. “I just, uh, had some kids over from the shelter and the group home for a tour of the compound lab.” His eyes widened as he dodged something. Tony saw an orange and yellow blur fly by the phone’s camera.

     “And how’s that going for you?” Tony smirked as he raised an eyebrow.

     “Shut up,” Harley growled much to Tony’s delight.

     “We can talk about it tomorrow at lunch. I’ll see you at 1 at Haab’s.”

     Harley opened his mouth to protest before his eyes widened in panic. “No, no, no! I said stay away from the muriatic--” he was cut off by a shattering crash. Harley swore. “I gotta go.”

     Tony chuckled after Harley hung up. Oh, he couldn’t wait to hear about this tomorrow. He’d send Harley a text later to remind him. “Hey Fri, is the Fire Safety Foundation headquarters still over on 58th?” he asked.

     “Yes boss, 27th floor,” the AI replied.

     Tony turned and headed for the building. As he got closer he saw the person he was looking for sitting at a table on the patio of what looked like a little outdoor break area for the employees of the building. As he flew lower, people below pointed up at him. He heard several surprised gasps and excited chatter following him as he went by. He landed on the patio a few feet from the woman’s table, much to her surprise, and disengaged the mask.

     “M-Mr. Stark!” The woman greeted as she wiped her hands on a napkin. She recovered rather quickly in spite of the shock still on her face. The woman she was sitting with remained quiet but her expression spoke volumes.

     “Ms. Kanick,” Tony grinned as he shook her hand. “It’s good to see you again. Sorry to interrupt your lunch ladies, I promise I won’t be long...” Tony nodded to the woman sitting across from Ms. Kanick.”

     “Oh, it’s fine, really, we’re, uh, just surprised to see you,” she replied, still a little stunned. “And please, call me Marissa.” She turned to the woman sitting across from her. “This is Angela Meyers, the assistant director.”

     “It’s an honor to meet you,” Tony smiled as he shook the woman’s hand.

     “It’s nice to meet you too,” Angela shook Tony’s hand uncertainly, shifting her eyes to Marissa in confusion.

     “Speaking of honor, that’s what I’m here to talk about,” he turned back to Marissa. “Since you took the time out of your very busy schedule to come and invite me in person, I thought it would only be fair to let you know in person that it would be my pleasure to be the guest of honor at the charity banquet.”

     “What- why that’s- that’s great, Mr. Stark, thank you!” Marissa stammered. Tony didn’t think it was possible but she looked even more surprised than when he landed by her lunch table.

     “No, thank you,” Tony looked at her meaningfully. “Your work has helped so many people, saved so many lives, more than you will ever know.” The woman smiled and lowered her eyes awkwardly, her cheeks flushing a little.

     Tony cleared his throat. “Sorry again about interrupting. It was wonderful to meet you, Ms. Meyers,” Tony smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few more stops to make.”

     Tony activated his thrusters and headed for the neighborhood he had visited the night before. As he flew over the familiar streets and alleys below, he spotted a little floral stand on one of the street corners. He landed several feet away from the stand, making sure not to mess up the flowers with the wind kicked up by the thrusters as he landed. He walked over to the stand and greeted the florist.

     “Hi, I’m looking for two of your best bouquets. Nothing too fancy or extravagant though, just something nice and simple.” Tony told the confused man before he started looking around at the flowers.

     “Uh, right...” the man slowly turned without taking his eyes off of Tony. “Well, I have some fresh roses in, the old fashioned ones. Or if you prefer something without a scent--”

     “Oh, these are nice,” Tony tilted his head and picked up some carnations.

     The florist glanced over with a raised eyebrow. “Sure, if they’re for your mom.”

     Tony looked at the man in confusion. “Huh?”

     The florist smirked as he took the bouquet from Tony. “Women like carnations but they don’t like to get carnations.”

     “Ah,” Tony replied. “Uh, you said something about roses?”

-

     After Tony paid for the roses he left, deciding to walk the rest of the way to his destination because it wasn’t far. He walked up to the familiar building and knocked on the front door.

     “Just a minute!” Came a warm voice. There was a light clattering noise and the sound of footsteps softly approaching and a brief pause before the door slowly opened.

     “Oh, Mr. Stark,” the woman gave a tight smile, her demeanor changing immediately.

     “Hi May,” Tony smiled back weakly. He felt a guilty pang in his chest at the change and the impersonal way she addressed him. It had been a while since he had seen Peter’s aunt. One of the many people he had forgotten about in his depression. May’s expression was unreadable but that in itself was enough. She was usually such a warm person, always smiling.

     Tony lowered his eyes guiltily. “I am so sorry about yesterday. I- I-” his voice cracked and he swallowed. May’s face softened, tears brimming her own eyes. Before Tony could recover, she had her arms around him and had pulled him into a gentle hug.

     “I know, Tony,” May hugged him tighter. “Losing him was hard on you too.”

     Tony closed his eyes tight against the tears forming and returned the hug. When they pulled apart he looked at May. “I know, but that’s no excuse. He was your nephew, practically your son...”

     May smiled at Tony sadly. “He was your son too,” she spoke softly.

     At that, the tears Tony had been fighting slipped down his cheeks and a small sob escaped him. May pulled Tony into another hug and they stood there on her front porch consoling each other. After a few minutes, May ushered Tony inside. He gave her one of the bouquets of rose. When she saw them, she accepted them, smiling through her tears. After putting them in a vase, they sat down and talked for a bit.

     “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you yesterday... or lately. I... I haven’t really been there for anyone since...” Tony’s voice trailed off. May put a comforting hand on his. He cleared his throat. “I thought- I thought maybe we could...” Tony looked down at the other bouquet of roses in his lap.

     “I would love that,” May smiled softly, her eyes moist. Within a few minutes, Happy had arrived at the house. When Tony and May walked down the steps, he greeted them with a smile.

    “Mrs. Parker, it’s lovely to see you again,” he opened the door for the two.

     “Hello, Happy,” May smiled.

     The three chatted about things as they drove. The neighborhood had changed so much since Tony had last seen it, even though it all looked the same from above. May pointed out the center she volunteered at on the weekends, saying they had expanded and just opened a new location in Brooklyn. Tony smiled. I’ll have to be sure to tell Steve and Peggy, I’m sure they’d love it. The pair may have retired long ago, but they still loved to stay active in the community, always volunteering their time.

     When the car pulled up to the gate, Happy got out and opened the door for them. “I’ll wait here for you guys. Take as long as you want.”

     “Nonsense,” May shook her head. “You should come. I mean, you’re welcome to, if you want... he loved you too, you know.”

     Happy smiled. “I would, thank you,” he spoke softly.

     Tony smiled warmly at Happy before turning to offer May his arm. The three of them walked arm in arm with May in the middle. It had been close to five years, but Tony knew the way. They wove their way among the graves and statues until they came to a stop at one underneath a large, beautiful oak tree, right beside Benjamin Parker’s. It was simple and understated, just the way he would’ve wanted it. The headstone read ‘Peter Benjamin Parker August 10, 2001- May 8, 2024. Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.’

     Tony knelt down and laid the roses on Peter’s grave. “Hey kid, it’s me. You won’t believe who I saw last night,” he chuckled weakly, his vision blurry. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I really let you down these past few years but... I promise, I’m going to do better from now on.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Thanks, Peter. For everything. I miss you, kid.”

     May’s eyes watered again at Tony’s words. When he straightened she gave him a sad smile. He gently put his arm around her shoulders. They stood there and looked over Peter’s grave. At the Avengers’ request on May’s behalf, fans of Spider-Man mostly left his grave alone, however, a small red and blue Spider-Man plushie had been left propped against the headstone. Tony’s brow furrowed as he noticed the blackened, dirty fabric. It almost looked charred in spots and it reminded him of his next stop.

     He turned to May and took her hands in his. “I’m really sorry to leave you May, but I have a few more places and people I have to visit. I’ll come by later this week and we can catch up, ok?”

     May nodded understandingly. “Thank you, Tony. I’ll see you then.”

     Tony turned to Happy. “Take her wherever she wants to go, Happy. I’ll meet you later.”

     Tony took off from the cemetery and headed for the hospital. On his way he had FRIDAY set a few reminders. “Hey, Fri? Remind me when I get back to the tower that I need to email Ms. Kanick to set up a meeting to discuss a yearly donation. Oh, and I need to text Harley about lunch tomorrow at 1. And don’t let me forget to call the Rogers! I haven’t seen them in forever and that worries me. They may be old but I swear, they need as much supervision as Harley does.”

     “Right, boss,” FRIDAY chuckled.

     “Here we are,” Tony spoke a little hesitantly as he landed outside the hospital. He stood outside staring at the building for a moment. He hadn’t been to the hospital since that night. He never really liked hospitals, even before that. Now he tended to avoid them like the plague.

     “Boss?” FRIDAY spoke up, breaking him from his reverie.

     “Hey, Fri, when is the board going to decide on the foundation?” he asked as he walked through the sliding doors.

     “Next week. They asked if you’d like to be there.” The AI replied.

     “Tell them I wouldn’t miss it,” Tony answered. He disengaged his mask as he approached the reception desk.

     “Hello. I’m here to see Carson?” Tony winced. He didn’t think it was going to work but he had to try.

     The person sitting behind the desk didn’t look up. They had dark skin, close-cropped hair and thick, black glasses frames with a navy blue top and a wide, red tie. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, hon,” they replied flatly, the clicking of their typing never even pausing.

     Tony sighed. “Yeah, I know. He’s a firefighter, he would’ve come in late last night, early this morning with his partner, Reyes...”

     “We had a lot of firefighters come in last night,” they interrupted, unimpressed. “There was a huge blaze over on Madison, the whole building came down.”

     “I know, I was there,” Tony replied, trying not to get frustrated.

     The person looked up at him before raising an eyebrow, the clacking on the keyboard finally stopping. “You’re Tony Stark.”

     “Yes,” Tony sighed exasperatedly. “I just want to see him, see how he’s doing.”

     The person’s face softened so slightly it was barely noticeable. “Your boy saved my kid brother in that fire five years ago.”

     Tony nodded. “Yeah, he probably did.” Tony didn’t mean to sound rude but he was tired.

     The person’s face softened a little more. “You saved that little girl last night too?” they asked.

     Tony’s eyes widened. “She’s here too?”

     They nodded, looking back to the computer in front of them and resuming their typing. “Her and her sister just left about an hour ago. She had the cutest little Spider-Man dress on. She was talking non-stop to all the nurses about how Iron Man saved her.” Tony thought he saw a faint smile on the person’s face.

     Tony smiled slightly to himself. He had hoped to see the little girl and her sister too, but if him missing her meant she was out of the hospital, he didn’t mind.

     Without looking up the person spoke. “Their chief came by not too long ago. If you take the south elevator up to the fourth floor, you still might catch him. Hard to miss.”

     “Oh, right, right,” Tony replied quickly, snapping out of his thoughts. “Thanks.” He turned and made his way for the south elevators. “South elevator, fourth floor...”  he muttered to himself as he pressed the button for the floor. “And then... wait. Which way?”

     The doors slid open and Tony looked to the right and left. He couldn’t see any sign of the fire chief but he heard a familiar voice followed by some laughter. He followed the sound to the right down the hall. The door was open and through it, he could see the firefighters he had met the night before. The men laughed at something and Reyes scoffed, shaking her head. Tony smirked and knocked on the door.

     “Hey, sorry for interrupting,” he spoke up as they turned, surprised. “I just wanted to stop by and say hi.”

     “Of course, come in!” Reyes stood up and waved him in. Carson looked a little confused.

     “Thank you,” Tony replied as he pulled up a chair next to Reyes’ chair. “So how are you feeling?” he addressed Carson as he settled in.

     “Fine, all things considered,” he shrugged weakly. “I inhaled a lot of smoke. The docs said it will take time for my lungs to clear. They’re keeping an eye out for signs of anything worse because it was an old building.”

     “They also said he’s not supposed to talk a lot,” Reyes glanced at Carson, crossing her arms. “And he’s supposed to keep that on as much as possible,” she added, indicating the oxygen mask.

     “C’mon, Reyes,” Carson turned and smiled tiredly at her. “You know how well I listen.”

     “Yeah, about as well as Rook,” she scoffed, putting the mask over his face. He began protesting but she glared at him and silenced him, swatting his hand away from the mask. he leaned back against the pillows reluctantly. He crossed his arms and sulked before wincing. His right arm was in a sling and his left shoulder was bandaged.

     “Speaking of Rook,” Tony turned to the bed next to Carson’s. He was filled with relief at the name and his shoulders eased but he didn’t let it show. He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the young man in the bed. “Things got a little too toasty for you, huh?”

     “Maybe a little...” the young firefighter mumbled, lowering his eyes sheepishly. “Thanks for saving me.”

     Tony waved it off. “That was brave of you, finding that little girl and giving her your mask. Real stupid though. Brave but stupid. Why didn’t you stay out like your chief said?” he asked.

     The young firefighter shrugged. “I heard a woman calling for a little girl. She stopped an officer and asked if everyone had gotten out from the fifth floor and...” his voice trailed off. He looked up at Tony with a wince. “I just couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t stand there and do nothing, not when I knew. Not when I could help.”

     Tony’s heart skipped at the young man’s words, but he hid it with a firm look. Oh my God, he sounds just like Peter, Tony thought. Terrifying. “Well, you’re definitely doing better than the last time I saw you,” he looked Rook up and down, remembering the young man lying in the ambulance, the paramedics fighting to save his life.

     He shook his head inwardly. “But next time, promise me you’ll keep the mask on, huh? It works better that way when you do.” Tony arched his eyebrows and Rook smiled sheepishly again, like a chastised kid. “Speaking of, you should probably have an oxygen mask on right now, yeah?”

     “He has tubes for his nose,” Reyes glared at the kid. “You keep taking ‘em out, they’re gonna put a full mask on you like Carson.” Reyes quickly glanced over at Carson, jerking his thumb in his direction, then looked back to Rook before doing a double-take. Carson gave her a sheepish grin which could be seen clear as day without his mask on.

     “I swear to God, Carson, I will duct tape that thing to your face, you pain in the ass!” Reyes practically climbed on top of Carson reaching for the mask but he pulled it out of her reach.

     “Aw, see Rook? She does care,” Carson grinned over at the young man who just shook his head as he dutifully put his oxygen tubes back in.

     Reyes glared at Carson and gripped his left shoulder firmly. “Ow ow ow! Ok, I give!” He protested painfully as he handed her the mask back.

     With intent focus, Reyes put it back over Carson’s mouth and nose. “Now keep it on!”

     “Yes ma’am,” Carson mumbled reluctantly, a hint of a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his lips. Reyes narrowed her eyes at him before shaking her head. Tony lowered his gaze to the floor to hide a smile. His eyes came to a rest on Carson’s left hand as he subtly entwined it with Reyes’ right hand. Tony glanced up at them, unnoticed as they continued to bicker. He smiled knowingly but didn’t say anything. He made a mental note to call their chief later and ask him a few questions.

     “I’m glad to see you’re all doing good. I’ll check in again with you guys later,” as Tony turned to leave, his gaze softened as it fell on Rook. The young firefighter had fallen fast asleep. Tony huffed softly. Peter could sleep through anything too. He quietly walked up to the young man and made sure the oxygen tube wasn’t pinched closed. The other firefighters noticed and paused their arguing, watching him closely. He looked over his shoulder at them as he stopped in the doorway. “Look after the kid, huh?” he jerked his head toward Rook, speaking to Carson. Cason nodded solemnly. Tony turned and looked at Reyes with a smirk. “And look after both of them.”

     Carson opened his mouth in protest and Reyes snorted. “Someone has to.” Tony chuckled with a nod. As he left the hospital, he flew back toward the tower.

     “Hey Fri? You up for one more task?” he asked.

     “Always, boss,” the AI’s Irish voice sounded eager.

     “I want you to find the best firefighting gear there is out there, everything from the trucks and equipment to their socks and underwear,” Tony ordered. “Find me the best there is and send me whatever you can get on it. Schematics, blueprints, patents, whatever. If you can get me samples, that’d be great. Have it all sent to the lab.”

     “Everything boss?” The AI asked incredulously.

     “Everything,” Tony replied firmly. “Don’t bother telling the board, this isn’t coming from the foundation.”

     “Well boss, you already have some of it. The fire extinguishers we keep in the lab are top of the line,” the AI informed him as he landed.

     Tony frowned and picked one up as he walked by it. “That’s not gonna fly.” He walked over to his table and sat the extinguisher down on it. His eyes widened a little as an idea came to him. With a tap on his chest, the suit opened and he stepped out. The suit automatically returned to its charging station but Tony didn’t even notice. He was too busy examining the extinguisher under a magnifying glass.

     “Fri? Find me whatever reports you can on this model. I want to know everything you can get on it,” he spoke before frowning. “Five-year shelf life? Please, I can double that at least.”

     “Boss?” The AI spoke up softly after a few minutes of silence.

     “Yeah, Fri?” Tony replied instinctively without even looking up, already lost in his work.

     “Wecome back.”

- -

     Peter stepped through the portal and was immediately greeted by Quentin and Fury.

     “Welcome back,” Fury leaned forward as Peter emerged, just like he always did when he returned from another dimension. “Anything new to report?”

     “How safe are these monitors?” Peter quickly crossed the room to Quentin, ignoring Fury’s question.

     Quentin raised an eyebrow indignantly. “They’re fully cloaked with built-in defense mechanisms. If they are ever discovered--”

     “No, how safe are they to be around?” Peter scowled angrily.

     Quentin crossed his arms and frowned. “Why?”

     “Because the apartment building the one on Madison was located at burnt down in a suspicious fire!” Peter exploded. Fury’s eyes narrowed at his words.

     Quentin’s frown deepened. “The devices are completely self-contained and self-powered. If you think--” Quentin stopped and his eyes widened. “Please tell me you didn’t interfere.” He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

     “Like hell I did!” Peter shouted, throwing his arms up. “What was I supposed to do, just stand there and let everyone?!”

     “I’m sure the locals could’ve handled it just fine,” Fury spoke up coolly, getting to his feet. “The fire department or the heroes.”

     “Yeah, about the heroes,” Peter turned on Fury, seething. He crossed the room until he was standing right in front of him. Maria tensed at Fury’s side, her hand twitching. “You didn’t tell me Spider-Man was dead.” Maria turned and looked at Fury, her eyebrows arching slightly.

     Fury looked down at Peter, unflinching. “We suspected but we weren’t sure. Either way, it had no bearing on your mission.”

     “Not anymore,” Peter’s chest heaved angrily. He took off the suit and dropped it to the floor, leaving only his tank top and shorts. “I’m done with both of you.” Peter turned to Quentin, pointing at him. “I don’t trust you,” he turned back to Fury. “And I’m sick of your secrets and lies. Call me when you’re ready to be honest. You know where to find me.” He turned and stormed out of the warehouse, slamming the door behind him.

     Maria turned to Fury with a sigh, arching her eyebrows. “Sound familiar?”

     Fury leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands thoughtfully. “Too familiar.” He turned to Quentin with a sigh. “Well, I’m sorry Mr. Beck, but it looks like you’re on your own now.”

     Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious.”

     Fury arched his eyebrows and motioned to the door Peter had stormed out of. “Did he look like he was joking to you?”

     “Surely there must be somebody else Stark trusted?” Quentin protested.

     Fury leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “Like I told the kid, they’re all busy.”

     “The Fury in my universe would never have stood for this,” Quentin scowled.

     “Probably not,” Fury agreed. “But then again, he probably trusted you. Maybe that was his mistake.” He narrowed his eye at Quentin.

     Quentin’s face darkened. “You’ll regret this,” he vowed, taking a step toward Fury. Immediately Maria had her gun drawn and leveled at the man’s chest. He narrowed his eyes and growled. “When they come, you’ll regret this.” He turned on his heel and left.

     As soon as he was gone, Fury sighed. “See? This is why I have trust issues.” He turned and looked up at Maria. “Follow Peter but don’t let him see you. Make sure he makes it back to his room safely.”

     Fury turned to the scientists that had been operating the portals under Quentin’s direction. “You got it?”

     One of the scientists nodded, holding up Peter’s discarded suit. “It’s all here. We’ve got footage of New York from every universe he visited.”

     “And the portals?” Fury asked.

     Another scientist sitting at a computer turned. “With Stark’s tech and Quentin’s notes, we should be able to recreate them.”

     Fury nodded. “Good. Stark was right. Even dead, he’s still the hero.”

--- Tags: (If you want to be added to my Marvel taglist, let me know!) @xmarveled @parkerspicedlatte @myworstdays @bla-369 ---

[unlockthelore]

Regardless

It wasn’t the first time that Hiei had been left alone in the presence of Minamino Shiori and he doubted that it would be the last. At his own request, he wanted to learn how to use most of the appliances in the kitchen and Shiori was the only one that could aid him in his task. Under the guise of staying home for the day and with Shiori’s day off, the two retired to the kitchen where she instructed him on everything from the rice cooker to the toaster. If she was put off by his lack of knowledge on what might’ve been commonplace for someone his “age”, she didn’t say, happily speaking to him in that teacherly tone that Kurama took when he was instructing someone.

There were a few things that Hiei could infer on but he listened to the gentle lull of Shiori’s voice as she explained it to him. Over the last few weeks, she seemed tired and had been sleeping more than usual. He wasn’t sure what to make of it but the change in her routine and lack of energy worried Kurama endlessly. He fussed over chores and maintaining the household to keep his mother as stress-free as possible. However, from an outsider’s point of view, both were fraying at the edges.

Kurama ran himself ragged with maintaining his human guise and Shiori worked hard enough to support herself and her son, despite Kurama’s insistence that he could help her. Hiei wondered just how much of his persona as Minamino Shuuichi was an act when he flitted to his mother’s side, careful to help her up from the couch when she was dazed, or making her breakfast before he set off for school so that she wouldn’t have the added task to her already hectic mornings.

Shiori insisted that he didn’t have to. That all she wanted was for him to have a good day and despite her low energy, she made the effort to see him off every morning. The weekends were the hardest as Kurama’s energy grew restless the longer he kept himself indoors and Shiori woke well past noon, missing most meals and dismissing offers for food citing a lack of hunger. Hiei felt trapped at Kurama’s wide-eyed look, helpless and confused, unsure of what to do.

The nights spent waiting for the youko to come to bed as he poured over his books and the remedies available to him, trying to find one that wouldn’t be poisonous to humans, and could cure his mother of her ailment. Hiei willed himself not to fall asleep before Kurama after a few nights left to his own devices became mornings where the fox would have a crick in his neck and an irritable mood.

The lack of a way forward was taking its toll on Kurama and Hiei wasn’t sure whether it was him or Shiori that would collapse first.

“I’m guessing that you didn’t want to learn just so you didn’t have to wait for dinner,” Shiori voices, rousing Hiei from his thoughts, a teasing smile and a glimmer of amusement in her eyes betraying the weariness as she leant against the counter for support. “Is this about Shuuichi?”

Hiei huffed, mildly impressed with her perception. “He’s terrible at remembering to eat,” he said, picking up the wok left on the counter and turning it over in his hands. “And irritable when he’s hungry.”

In the reflection of the wok, he caught Shiori eyeing him.

“… Did I say something?”

Shiori shook her head, resting her chin on her fist. “I’m happy,” she murmured softly, casting her eyes to the sink. “It’s good that Shuuichi has someone that he can depend on.”

Hiei wasn’t sure what to say to that and from the lingering silence, he doubted that it was the only thought on her mind. Despite not being human, the similarities between her and Kurama were startling. They both had wealths of thoughts to share but chose to hold them back. Whether for their own comfort or someone else’s, he wasn’t sure.

But the idea of either of them crumbling beneath the weight of their own selflessness made his chest ache. Setting the wok down, he set to work with pulling out everything they would need.

“Garden Curry,” Hiei said offhandedly, remembering the name of the dish as Shiori told it to him. “Isn’t that just regular curry?”

Shiori chuckled warmly, her shuffling footsteps approaching from behind him and off to the side as she opened one of the cupboards to pull out the sauce mix. “With a few added things,” she says with a nod. “I used to call it Garden Curry because most of the vegetables in it came from our garden.”

Hiei tilts his head, glancing up at her.

“Shuuichi loved gardening more than anything, he always seemed to prefer the company of his plants and the outdoors over anyone or anything else.”  Shiori set the sauce mix beside the potatoes, beginning to wash the peppers and onions in the sink. The wistful tone to her voice makes Hiei want to frown but he suppresses it when she glances his way. “He was always a shy boy, a bit ahead of everyone else his age. I always wondered if it was lonely for him…”

Hiei set the washed vegetables aside, going to find the cutting board. He could imagine how it must have been for Kurama after watching him during their trek to Maya’s. With their speed, they could’ve been there in a matter of minutes but the youko seemed intent on dragging it out.

Whether it was to avoid suspicion or to cling to this fleeting sense of normalcy, Hiei was sure that it was a bit of both. He didn’t understand it at the time but seeing Kurama look after his classmates as they interacted, turning down invitations, dismissing gossiping comments ad putting on a smile — it became apparent to him what was happening.

And Shiori was no fool either.

“I was glad when he introduced you to me,” Shiori says, startling Hiei into almost dropping the knife he picked up. “I was worried about him making friends but you both were so good to one another, and you had such kind eyes.”

Hiei felt his face warming from the compliment. He still didn’t understand what she meant by that. The memory of those words haunted him that night and he spent a considerable amount of time staring at his reflection, tryin to see what she saw in him.

“Hiei, do you mind cutting up the potatoes and chicken while I start boiling the water?”

Not trusting himself enough to speak, he let the light thwack of the knife connecting to the cutting board as he cut the chicken into chunks, be his answer. Shiori set to boiling the water in the wok, waiting patiently with her eyes focused on the liquid’s surface. Stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye, Hiei’s curiosity was overwhelmingly potent.

“What did you mean by that?” He asks, looking away when Shiori looked at him with a questioning hum. “My eyes…”

For a moment, she said nothing and he worried that he might have asked a dull question. It was possible that she meant nothing by it and he was simply worrying over something that wasn’t there. Or she might have meant it at face value. Cautiously, Hiei dragged the knife over a towel to clean it once the meat was finished then started on the potatoes.

“Mm, you have the eyes of a person who has been in pain,” she says quietly, sounding thoughtful and wistful. A brief hesitation following that left Hiei on edge before she continued. “Yet despite that, your eyes are kind.”

Hiei wanted to say that it didn’t make any sense but he didn’t want to prove her right either. Pain. Dismally or perhaps bitterly, he wondered what she would know about pain. Though as she supported herself with a hand on the counter and the other braced on the wok’s handle, he dismissed the thought.

“Are you alright?” He asked, nearly nicking his finger with the knife.

Shiori’s energy was lessening as the days passed, like an ember flickering in and out, it was as if she was withering away slowly. Her gaze lifted and for a second the tiredness showed in her eyes but it was replaced with a reassuring warmth that might have fooled him if he hadn’t seen what lied beyond it.

“I am,” she says, too quickly to be genuine. “I was just thinking…”

Hiei hands the bowl of potatoes to her as she breaks up the bar of curry, turning the heat beneath the wok down to a simmer as she put the curry chunks in.

“It’s not fair of me to ask this but…” Shiori’s voice trails off, softer than before, barely above a whisper. “Would you continue to look after Shuuichi for as long as you can?”

While he couldn’t tell her the nature of how his arrangement with Kurama began, there was something about her voice that told him that it wasn’t what she meant. The exhaustion sept through her serene tone, a somber edge to her words lost in the boiling water and the subtle movements as she prepared the meal.

“Shuuichi is everything that a mother would want in a son; capable, reliable, intelligent, well-mannered, kind-hearted,” she breathes in deeply then sighs shakily, and the smell of salt hits Hiei’s nose. “There was a time where I wished he would be selfish, behave as a child would, and I forget who is the parent and who is the child.”

Though he smelt the tears before he saw them, the translucent trail running down Shiori’s cheek steals Hiei’s breath and he clutches the knife tighter.

“Over the last few weeks, he’s been more of a child than he has in the last fifteen years. Worrying, fretting, I worry what will happen to him if he keeps it all inside.” Her voice cracked and wavered as she spoke, hand trembling as she held the wok’s handle.

“It doesn’t matter to me if he has excellent grades, I just want him well and happy…” A bitter laugh parted her lips and she lifted her free hand, wiping away the tears. “Sorry, I must sound selfish.”

Hiei wasn’t sure what to say when she looked at him, dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears and a worn smile too practiced to be genuine on her lips.

“All I ask is that you stay by my son’s side, for as long as you can… please.”

It wasn’t the first time that Hiei had been left alone in the presence of Minamino Shiori and he doubted that it would be the last. He hoped and he prayed to whichever deity was listening that it wouldn’t be the last.

[jojotier]

By Lanternlight

The Tanigaki family grave was dead silent.

On an unusually hot late-summer evening, when the cicadas were still flitting on the road behind where Tanigaki stood, it almost seemed out of place. It was as if the humidity outside the cover of wisteria trees that had long since lost their budding should have dripped between the spaces of the air, infecting the silence with heat and noise of Obon.

Tanigaki stood just on the edge of the lot, one foot into the silent shade of the trees, while the other rested just outside. In his hands was a single lantern, still burning with a soft flame.

He didn’t know why he was hesitating. It wasn’t for fear of being caught out; on the first night of Obon, it’d make sense to find people lighting their way to graveyards with lanterns. It wasn’t inclement weather either; it’d been one of the clearest nights in weeks.

Maybe it was because there was a new gravestone there.

It wasn’t that Tanigaki was afraid. There was nothing frightening on a night as clear as this, when the moon was full and visible overhead, hanging thickly above the center of the site where the trees didn’t cover. Moonlight illuminated the newest gravestone, making the glossy black surface shine. The characters on each side were illuminated in silver. Tanigaki didn’t need to be able to read them to know the pair of names on the stone.

He had changed the incense the day before, had swept and cleaned every inch of his house; had even painted his family’s old crest on the paper lantern in his hands. He’d done everything, and now, he just had to walk in. That was all he had to do.

He’d cleaned their graves before. He’d left incense. He’d said his prayers in the light of day, even managing to drag Ogata along once or twice, much to his lover’s annoyance. So what was different about tonight? What was really different enough to make Tanigaki’s throat seize up so tightly that he might as well have started crying?

“Hey, Genjirou,” There was a voice coming from behind him. “Are you going in?”

Heart skipping a beat in his chest, Tanigaki slowly turned to look behind him, eyes widening a bit in his shock. Behind him, she stood, slightly out of breath and with a few strands of hair falling from her elaborate style. “... Fumi.” Tanigaki breathed, slowly exhaling.

“Did I scare you, big brother?” Fumi gave a little smile, eyes shining with quiet amusement. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear us coming- it wasn’t exactly quiet, you know…”

“How are you here?” Tanigaki asked, turning around to face her. Fumi was already fussing with herself, trying to smooth the loose strands of hair back into place, hands mostly covered by the long sleeves of her white kimono. “I… you’ve been-”

“Well, we rode in on horseback, obviously.” Fumi huffed out a fond breath, gesturing behind her. In the dim lights along the dirt road, right in plain sight, Kenkichi waved from where he was resting against the mare’s speckled flank, looking far more out of breath than Fumi. Seeing Tanigaki finally notice him, Kenkichi grinned goodnaturedly, giving a thumbs up. Fumi continued, “We’re close enough to walk, you know, but Kenki insisted- said it’d make a bigger impression when we made it to the house.”

“Don’t forget- it was faster!” Kenkichi said lightly, finally walking over. He’d even had the time to tie that mare to a nearby signpost, in the time that Tanigaki had been preoccupied with his thoughts. “We don’t have much time, and well… we figured we’d come to you. Save the travel time and expenses.”

Fumi caught herself on a laugh, coughing politely to cover it. “Expenses… as if it would have cost more than six-”

“Why are you here?” Tanigaki finally got out, voice cracking a little on the last word.

The two in front of him paused. Fumi glanced back at Kenkichi and bit her lip briefly before turning back to Tanigaki, looking at his with sympathetic eyes. “Ah… I’m sorry. It would be a shock…”

“A shock- it’s. It’s a little… more than a shock.” Tanigaki swallowed thickly, touching the hand not preoccupied with holding his lantern in an iron grip to his mouth. “You’re not- you’re not supposed to be here. You’re…”

“Dead,” Kenkichi said, damnable pity in his voice.

Fumi moved forward and pulled Tanigaki’s right hand down from his face, squeezing it between both of hers. The spirit’s hands were ethereal- so much so that Tanigaki didn’t feel anything more than the lightest brush of wind gently pressing against his hand. Phantom weight and phantom comfort from phantom hands- it only made sense.

Kenkichi let out a gentle sigh and moved beside her, putting a hand on Tanigaki’s shoulder. “Hey. It’s alright- there’s no need to act so forlorn about it! It’s about time for the festival, isn’t it?” Kenkichi gave a wide smile, squeezing Tanigaki’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me we got the date wrong!”

Tanigaki was at a total loss for words. While he wasn’t usually a man of many words in the first place, this seemed like a time- possibly the only real time- to say the thousands of things he wanted to. Apologies, regrets, even filling them in on what was missed over the past eight months- something. Something important. He needed, more than anything, to step back, close his eyes, think-

Tanigaki couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Lips parting, he took a shaky breath and was about to speak when another voice came from beyond the trees. “Hey, Tanigaki. Are you just going to stand there or what?”

Tanigaki’s head quickly turned towards the voice, blinking in bewilderment. He recognized the voice- and knew that it belonged to someone very much alive. “Ogata?” He asked, catching sight of the two ghosts’ heads turning towards the voice as well.

Ogata emerged from the dim road, looking wholly unimpressed and wearing leather motorcycle gloves. Tanigaki vehemently hoped that he hadn’t actually been riding his motorcycle this late at night- not only because the visibility, while clearer than most nights, wasn’t optimal, but also because if he was then that meant that Tanigaki hadn’t heard him coming in. That likely didn’t mean anything good for his hearing. Though maybe this time, it could be excused by the blood still rushing through them.

“Don’t see who else it could be,” Ogata said, slicking his hair back as if he didn’t already have a metric ton of gel in it. He smirked, lazy and antagonistic. “Unless you were expecting someone else, Tanigaki? Didn’t pin you for the type to have illicit activities planned this time of year-”

“Because I’m not,” Tanigaki said, glancing at Fumi and Kenkichi, still standing nearby. Kenkichi looked intrigued, while Fumi watched the newcomer with a look that was less than impressed.

“I didn’t realize you were expecting anyone, big brother,” Fumi said, looking over Ogata with a scrutinizing eye.

Tanigaki was about to open his mouth and politely answer her when Ogata said, “Well then. The hell are you doing here? Or are you just going to stand there looking half dead.” He couldn’t see the two standing beside Tanigaki, dressed in burial clothes and looking as nice as the day they were buried. And if he didn’t see them, that meant that Tanigaki may or may not have been having a grief fueled hallucination; and it certainly meant that he couldn’t just address them.

“I just didn’t expect you to actually show up around here,” Tanigaki said, leveling a look at Ogata and, honestly, wishing he would just go for once. Usually, Tanigaki might have welcomed the intrusion, since it wasn’t often that Ogata sought him out- but right then was… probably the worst time Ogata had ever managed to intrude.

“Well, I was in the area,” Ogata shrugged, “The store by your place is the only place around here that sells yuzu-pepper base. I figure I’d drop in and see if you were still obsessing over the cleaning.”

“No, I’m done,” Tanigaki said curtly.

“Then I saw you here,” Ogata tried to look past Tanigaki, into the entrance to the gravesite. “so I figured I’d come to say hi.”

“Funny little friend you got there,” Kenkichi said lightheartedly.

“Funny is a bit of an understatement…” Fumi said, touching her chin lightly with a hand.

“That’s kind of you.” Tanigaki got out. “I’ll be heading out soon, though. I just came in to visit for a few minutes- then I’m going home.”

“Is that so?” Ogata hummed as he stepped forward, eyes raking over Tanigaki’s face. Tanigaki shifted uncomfortably under the look, taking a step back. Fumi took his previous place, staring at Ogata as Ogata, unaware, stared straight over her. “That was all you came to do, hm… Are you sure that’s it?”

“Of course it is,” Tanigaki said, the corner of his lips twitching. “Why do you ask.”

“Oh, no reason, really,” Ogata waved his hand in a mildly dismissive manner, gaze sliding off of Tanigaki’s face and over his shoulder. He tried to crane his neck around Tanigaki for a moment more before he grinned. “I just thought I heard you talking to someone here.”

Tanigaki tensed. “Is that so? Sorry… I was talking to myself.”

“Well now that just hurts my heart,” Fumi mildly said, lightly touching her chest with her fingertips. “or it would have, I think.”

“I guess it is kinda true, though,” Kenkichi said, wrapping an arm around Ogata’s shoulders without even a second thought. Ogata, who hated random people touching him, didn’t even begin to react. He looked at Tanigaki sheepishly. “If he doesn’t realize we’re here, then you must have looked a little batty, talking to us here…”

Ogata watched Tanigaki for a long moment, unaware of the ghosts still lingering. Tanigaki was worrying that he was legitimately starting to lose it- after all, if they were just hallucinations, they should’ve gone, right? Why were they lingering and- perhaps this was the true horror of the situation- passing commentary on Ogata?

A stray leaf fell on Ogata’s shoulder and Kenkichi easily brushed it off as he took his arm back. Tanigaki started thinking… thinking that perhaps…

“So you’re not hiding anyone,” Ogata said, deadpan and, perhaps, slightly disappointed.

“No. Not at all.” Tanigaki said. “I’m not even sure where someone would hide, here.” That was true- the trees around the grave, while planted close together, didn’t provide wide enough coverage for a crouching body with their trunks. The gravestones were a tad smaller than usual- anyone would have to curl in on itself to hide completely.

“Ah! Got it.” Kenkichi snapped his fingers, “He’s your boyfriend, right?”

Tanigaki sucked down a quick breath and coughed, choking down a rebuttal.

“Him?” Fumi said, frowning as she walked around Ogata in a half-circle. “You finally have someone… but it’s him.”

“You’re acting weird as hell,” Ogata said, eyeing Tanigaki. “What are you, sick? From what, the cold?”

“No, no,” Tanigaki said, voice a tone too high before he cleared his throat. “It’s not. Illness. I’m just… tired.” He paused, glancing in the direction of the two spirits, still very much standing on either side of Ogata. “Very tired.”

“...” Tanigaki should have figured that Ogata wouldn’t have been satisfied by that answer; but he wasn’t expecting Ogata to step closer, pulling Tanigaki’s face down by his chin and resting their foreheads together. “... You’re warm.”

“... It’s a hot night.” Tanigaki shrugged helplessly, pulling away and turning his head to the side. “It’s probably just that. We’ve been out here for a while.”

“Maybe,” Ogata said with mild disdain. “Either way, you should go home.”

“No… no, I still have some work here.” Tanigaki let out a low breath, eyes flitting over towards Fumi and Kenkichi. Fumi looked at him with understanding eyes, nodding thoughtfully.

“Suit yourself. It’s your stupor.” Ogata said carelessly, turning around and taking a few steps away. Tanigaki figured this would be the end of it. Their talks tended to end fairly abruptly, after all- which, for once, was a relief. But instead, Ogata paused and looked over his shoulder. “... There was something I wanted to show you.”

“Hm? Is that right?” Tanigaki asked, blinking in bewilderment.

“Yea. You said I should get a lantern for all this festival crap,” Ogata said, peeking his head around one of the trees and reaching out, picking something up. “I saw this one for a couple of yen and thought, what the hell. May as well.” He held up the paper lantern, flickering dimly.

“Oh,” Tanigaki said, surprised. It wasn’t often that Ogata went out of his way to take other peoples’ suggestions- much less Tanigaki’s. “That’s nice.”

Ogata was quiet for a moment. “Is that all?”

“Well, yes?” Tanigaki’s eyebrow raised.

Ogata scoffed. “It has a crest in it- it’ll look good when we release these damned things out.” He paused, looking down at the dim lantern. “In a few days, I mean. At the fireworks show? Or did you completely forget.”

“I didn’t forget.” Tanigaki blinked, tilting his head. “You want to go together?”

“Obviously,” Ogata said, fishing in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a lighter. “You’re the one who made me buy this damned thing- hold on…”

Tanigaki was about to say that he didn’t actually make Ogata buy anything- and besides, hadn’t Ogata been the one who claimed he just got it on sale?- when he caught sight of something moving in the dark, just beyond the hand Ogata used to hold the lantern. Squinting to try and catch a better look, Tanigaki could swear… that there was another hand, mimicking the motion of Ogata lighting the lantern.

Ogata held the brightly illuminated lantern up, depicting several camellias curled along the bottom and metal edges of the lantern frame. The flame illuminated his face, shining bright against the black void of his eyes.

The lantern also illuminated the ghastly face of the woman standing behind him.

It wasn’t ghastly because it was the figure of a woman, nor was it ghastly because she was dead- and she so obviously must have been dead, in that tattered white kimono and hair braided into an elaborate bun- but it was ghastly for the woman’s teeth. Her lower jaw distended unnaturally from her face, the tip of her chin resting on unsuspecting Ogata’s shoulder, and filled with dozens of teeth. All were long, thin, sharp, opaque- good for cutting through flesh. The five lures growing out from her forehead, glowing soft blue, then orange in the lantern light, fell out from where they had been tied in her hair.

“Ogata,” Tanigaki asked, a mite faintly, “you don’t have anyone in your family who’s died recently… do you?”

Ogata was silent for just a beat too long. “Nah. My Granny’s old but she’s not that old, y’know- she’s still got something in her.”

“I see,” Tanigaki said, eyes fixed on the spirit that slowly, carefully, raised her hands to either side of Ogata’s head. Her nails were gone, and the webbing between her fingers looked as if they’d be slimy to the touch. Ogata wouldn’t even have known if this spirit touched him- so should Tanigaki have said something? Should he have pulled Ogata away? But Ogata was already catching onto Tanigaki acting strangely-

He glanced toward Fumi and Kenkichi for help, but they’d disappeared.

“You sure you’re not sick or something?” Ogata intoned, unaware of the fingers slowly brushing against his face. “You’re sweating bullets.”

“Hyaku… no… suke…” The spirit whispered, voice hoarse and seafoam filling the gaps between her sharpened teeth.

“Oi, Tanigaki?” Ogata waved a hand in front of his face. “... Genjirou?”

Tanigaki moved forward quickly and knocked the lantern out of Ogata’s hand, losing his footing somewhat in the process and falling into him. The lantern bounced once, then twice, then settled near one of the tree trunks and burned softly there. Ogata stumbled back a few steps and held onto Tanigaki’s arms, steadying them both. Somehow, Tanigaki managed to keep his death grip on his own lantern.

Tanigaki’s gaze flitted from Ogata’s blank face and over to the lantern, watching the spirit slowly leave him, padding along the grassy ground.

“Hyakuno… suke…” The woman softly cried out, bending over the fallen lantern. The water dripping from her neck and mouth slowly dampened the thin paper and the flame trapped inside. As is slowly dimmed to nothing, Tanigaki could see the woman’s far-too-human eyes, black and glittering with grief. Through the tears, the water and mumbling, Tanigaki thought he could hear her saying something else… saying something like...

“-rou!” Ogata snapped in his face, bringing him back to the present. “Stop spacing out on me, you damned oaf.”

“... Sorry.” Tanigaki said after a moment. “I suppose… I wasn’t feeling as well as I thought after all.”

Ogata opened his mouth to say something, paused, and just sighed. “Then you should get to bed. I don’t want to babysit you.” He gave a wry smirk. “You can buy me a new lantern tomorrow since you ruined that one.”

“No!” Tanigaki said. Ogata looked at him incredulously. The anglerfish woman was still bent over, weeping. “... I mean. You don’t really need a lantern. It’s not like you’ve had anyone die.”

“No, but… the send-off-”

“We can still make a date of it,” Tanigaki said quickly, giving the best smile that he could.

Ogata balked, suddenly taking his hands away and fiddling with the hem of one of his gloves. “You wish it were a date- I just figured I’d go with you since I doubt you have anyone else. Being antisocial.”

“Funny,” Tanigaki deadpanned, taking Ogata’s hand again and starting to walk down the road. The sooner they were away from that spirit and the snuffed out lantern, the better. “I don’t see you taking any friends anywhere either.”

“Fuck off,” Ogata said, and for some reason, he still allowed Tanigaki to hold his hand.

They lapsed into silence as they walked down the road, away from the Tanigaki gravesite. Tanigaki would have to come back later on after Ogata had gone home for the night- he still had to clean that grave.

“Sorry for disappearing on you, Genjirou.” He heard Fumi’s voice beside him. On Ogata’s other side, Kenkichi walked, looking to Ogata with a knowing look.

“...” Tanigaki squeezed Ogata’s hand, head tilting towards him.

“Oh, right- your boyfriend,” Kenkichi smiled, and Tanigaki was annoyed to find that he couldn’t say otherwise, lest he start ‘talking to himself’ again. “He can’t see us… and he couldn’t see that spirit, either.”

“That’s… for the best.” Fumi shifted uncomfortably beside him, holding onto her other arm. “Those kinds are some of the most dangerous… not born of anger or hatred- but born of regret and love…”

“Love can sure drive people to some scary stuff,” Kenkichi agreed, nodding sagely.

“She had been saying ‘sorry’... poor woman.”

Tanigaki silently squeezed Ogata’s hand. There was a story to that- to the spirit who had come to Ogata. But it wasn’t his place to ask. Maybe one day, Ogata would tell him voluntarily who it was who had died.

“Hey, big brother,” Fumi said, resting her hand over Tanigaki’s where it held his lantern. “Promise you won’t be like that… and promise you’ll be careful with this one.”

“Hm?” Tanigaki hummed despite himself, tilting his head closer to hear.

“That wasn’t the only one clinging to this one,” Fumi said. The words crawled up Tanigaki’s spine in a shiver. “There are others… they’re harmless, surely… but be careful.”

“You don’t think he’ll end up like them…?” Kenkichi suddenly asked, alarmed.

Fumi thought for a moment, glancing at Ogata. “... No. I don’t think so.”

It was dead silent. The only sound was the soft breaths of the living, puffing into the humid summer air. Then, Fumi squeezed his hand with phantom pressure and smiled. “Hey, Genjirou… We’ll meet you back at the house, alright?”

“What?” Tanigaki muttered in his shock, gaining a sidelong glance from Ogata.

“You know, there are certain rules to this kind of thing…” Fumi said apologetically, smiling sadly even still. “We’re only here for three days… and usually, we’re not seen.”

“The fact that you were able to see us, and talk to us- it’s pretty amazing!” Kenkichi said wistfully. “But… There are others we have to meet, too.”

“I think Mama misses me,” Fumi said, smiling a little wider as her eyes dampened at the corners. “And Kentarou, and Papa… They have lanterns for us too.”

Tanigaki nodded. He understood- and it would have been selfish to keep others from seeing them. If they could see them. It would have been selfish to deprive his family of Fumi… especially after she’d been gone for what felt like ages already.

Fumi and Kenkichi stopped walking. Tanigaki and Ogata moved on ahead.

“We’ll see you soon, Genjirou,” Kenkichi said affectionately.

“We’ll see you again… we promise.” Fumi said, holding onto her late husband’s hand.

Tanigaki paused, looking over his shoulder. They were already gone.

“... Goodbye, then.” Tanigaki whispered, hoping the late-night breeze would carry his words.

Ogata waited for a moment and then tugged on Tanigaki’s hand, sighing. “Hurry it up. We don’t have all night- and I still want to get to the store for that soup stuff.”

“Right,” Tanigaki said, beginning to move once again.

The farther they walked from the grave and from where the ghosts had stood, the more his chest ached. It ached heavily, the heat and cicada song of the night settling thick in his lungs as he glanced up at the sky, full of thousands of stars. Hanging up there, light years away, they looked like lanterns.

He didn’t know he’d started crying until Ogata said, “You look like hell.”

The tears streaking down his cheeks weren’t foreign- but they felt odd, now, months after everything had passed. They were cold and relieving in the night. “I feel the opposite, actually.”

“Is that so…” Ogata said, slowing down. Tanigaki nodded, gasping on a stuttering breath and taking his hand from Ogata’s to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. It wasn’t surprising to hear Ogata sigh heavily, muttering, “Oh, come on… it’s not the time for all that, is it.” But he was still reaching up and rubbing Tanigaki’s back with such gentleness that Tanigaki almost froze up at the touch. “Figures you’d be sentimental about this stuff.”

“How else am I supposed to be?” Tanigaki managed through a wry, watery smile.

“... Eh, I wouldn’t know.” Ogata said, slowly, hesitantly, leaning his body against Tanigaki’s side. They stopped walking, allowing Tanigaki to take the awkwardly offered comfort. “It’s fine that you’re like this, though. Probably. Still annoying as shit.”

“I’m sure.” Tanigaki sniffed, and, unexpectedly, was pulled into a hug. Blinking, he looked down at Ogata. Then, he wrapped his free hand around the man clinging close to his side. “... Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Ogata said.

It was silent for a few moments. Tanigaki’s tears slowly stopped and dried, and his breathing became calm once again. Ogata stayed, comforting weight against Tanigaki’s side. Then, slowly, Ogata stepped back, looking up at him with an unreadable expression.

“Hey… Genjirou. I have to ask you something.”

Tanigaki’s eyebrows furrowed as Ogata glanced just beyond him. Tanigaki said, “... Ask away. It’s only fair.” Tanigaki turned his head to follow the shorter man’s line of sight.

“You can see them too,” Ogata said, eyes caught on the shape of a man with a bullet through his head. “can’t you?”

[cumberhoe]

Protection: Father!Tony and Peter

Summary: Peter accepts a dare from Flash and is injured. Tony picks him up from school.

Word count: 1,259

Peter frowned at the fence in front of him. This would be so much easier if he was wearing his suit. The fastest way out was forward and above that fence, but it wasn’t the most legal way out. On the other hand, he didn’t have that much time before class started. Peter rolled his eyes. So much for being nice, safe, and legal. Tony would kill him if he found out.

Fifteen minutes left until class started and Peter ran like hell. Everything was going to be fine. Peter would be done with this stupid dare. He was gonna make it to class on time like the A plus student he was. And he was gonna- oh shit.

Another fence loomed over Peter, larger and more menacing than the first. The barbed wire curled like the sinuous curve of a viper and seemed to taunt him. The spikes gleamed in the early morning sun.

‘No going back now, little spider,’ crooned the fence, ‘Are you going to wait here and get arrested or get caught in my web?’

Peter looked at the fence. He craned his neck back to see the top of the fence. It looked difficult, certainly impossible for the average person, but maybe doable for spiderman.

Peter took a deep breath and psyched himself up. Twelve minutes left until he needed to be at class. Peter launched himself at the fence, the barbed wire zooming at him far too fast for Peter’s comfort. Peter braced himself. He was going to make it!

Peter’s foot caught on the barbed wire and dug deep in it. A blinding pain hit Peter a couple seconds after, and Peter’s epic leap quickly became a tragic fall.

The trees swooped by and bloodied scratches appeared on Peter’s arms. It was lucky for Peter the trees broke his fall, since he would’ve surely broken an arm if he’d landed on it without the trees. As it was, his arm was merely bruised.

Ten minutes left. Peter resigned himself to being late.

----------

(Thirty minutes after class starts)

Peter quietly opened the door. Thankfully today wasn’t a test day. Even still, Ms. Russo, a middle-aged brunette, paused mid-lecture and turned to semi-glare at Peter who, cheeks flaming, handed her a tardy slip and crept to his desk.

“Now as I was saying, the current political climate makes things very interesting for Congress, and the House in particular . . . “

Peter tuned her out. He was more focused on making sure his scratched arms were covered by a baggy sweatshirt.

“Oh my god, is that blood?” the girl sitting next to Peter shrieked.

Peter glanced down. Of course his foot was bleeding.

“Mr. Parker, please escort yourself to the nurse.”

Followed by the stares of his classmates, Peter limped out of the room and flashed a thumbs up to Ned on the way out. Mr. Stark was going to kill him.

------

This was bad. This was very bad. Peter winced as the nurse cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide.

She glared at him, muttering something about stupid teenagers.

“Now, Mr. Parker, we have to call your parents.”

At least she was only calling Aunt May.

“Huh, your primary contact isn’t answering.”

Peter prayed for Mr. Stark not to answer, but knew the chances were slim. Mr. Stark always had some piece of technology on him and would doubtlessly be able to do something as simple as answer a phone. Peter couldn’t believe he’d agreed to the dare in the first place. He’d let Flash egg him on until his anger rose to the bait.

“Hello, this is Nurse Sandy calling from Midtown School of Science and Technology. You are listed as the secondary contact for Peter Parker. He’s gotten into an accident and needs to be picked up.” After a pause, she put the phone back.

“Well your secondary contact is very prompt, Mr. Parker.”

Peter groaned and rubbed his head with his hand. He was so screwed.

----------

Tony was not expecting a call from anyone in the middle of a conference, let alone Peter’s school. Tony liked to think of himself as a chill guy, but he was mildly panicking at the nurse’s information.

Tony abruptly stood up.

“Gotta go, kid issues. FRIDAY, represent me. Love you Pepper.”

He blew her a kiss.

The circle of greying men looked at Tony in bemusement while Pepper rolled her eyes. Tony hastily walked out of the room, unknowingly mirroring Peter’s actions. He broke into a sprint the second he slipped out of the door.

As Tony’s suit melted onto him, he called Happy to drive to Midtown School of Science and Technology.

-------

Tony stormed through the school, startling teens on break. Once they realized who he was, he was swarming with fans.

“Hey!” he raised his voice just above noise level, “Get out of my way. I am here to pick up my- my child, not sign autographs.”

Well, Peter was practically his child.

Miraculously, the crowd cleared and Tony was able to make his way through the blob of astonished high schoolers.

Tony reached the nurse’s office.

“Peter! You’re alright.”

He hugged Peter ferociously, because even though he knew Peter wasn’t mortally injured, there was still a niggling suggestion that he could be.

The nurse coughed. Tony grinned at her, a relieved, exhausted grin. A red flush bloomed on her cheeks.

“Mr. Stark. I wasn’t aware that you were Mr. Parker’s secondary contact.”

Peter groaned into Tony’s shoulder.

“I’m here to pick Peter up. Are there forms I need to sign, ‘cause Happy’s waiting outside . . .”

He trailed off and looked at her expectantly.

“Oh, of course. Go to the office and sign him out.”

“Oh no. It’s still break,” moaned Peter.

“Embarrassed to be seen with me?” Tony joked, “Don’t worry kid, we’ll be home soon.”

Peter cautiously opened the door. There were about fifty kids standing outside all waiting to get a peek of Ironman. Flash was one of them, Peter noted with amusement.

Tony shouldered his way past Peter, careful not to jostle him too much.

“Come on kid, Happy won’t wait forever.”

Peter chuckled a little and hesitantly followed behind Tony, who confidently strutted through the halls. It was like Peter was a celebrity. Voices began murmuring as the crowd parted for Tony and Peter. Peter saw glimpses of people he knew, all staring in amazement as Tony, the real celebrity here, took Peter home.

“Yo,” Tony snapped, “Stop staring. Are you people for real?”

Everyone hurriedly looked away. Before they did, Peter noticed a gaping Flash and inwardly giggled.

Tony and Peter carried on, striding (or in Peter’s case limping) through the school. The halls seemed far longer than usual and Peter couldn’t wait to get out.

At long last they reached Happy and the limo. As they settled in, Peter glanced at the school and saw more wide eyes and phones out, probably recording Peter getting in the limo.

“So, what happened kid?”

“I, uh, did something stupid and I really regret it. It doesn’t have anything to do with Spiderman though, don’t worry.”

Tony laughed.

“Okay, we’ll worry about it later.” Beat. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

Tony hugged Peter awkwardly to his side.

“At least you’re less of a trouble maker than I was, but I still have to tell your Aunt May,” Tony said, suddenly stern.

“That I can deal with,” said Peter. He knew he would be in trouble later, but for now, he leaned into his surrogate-father’s side and closed his eyes. Life was pretty good.

- The Little Doctor

[svtgivesmesvts]

A “Wipe Away Your Tears” kind of love

Seungcheol x Reader

Word count: 1166

Warnings: 

HUGE SPOILERS FOR AVENGERS: INFINITY WAR (seriously do not read if you haven’t seen it yet)

Massive amounts of yelling hopelessly at a TV screen (but if you’ve seen Inifinify War, will definitely understand.)

(A/N: This is a one shot inspired by this post I saw a couple of months ago and I’ve always wanted to do a series for this post! I just wrote this all in one go because I was kind of inspired by my own experiences. Honestly, this was probably an outcome of my own emotional scars from IW, so I’m not sure how much it is a Seungcheol one shot rather than an Infinity War reaction post, but I hope you guys enjoy it!)

You bounced slightly on the couch while you waited for Seungcheol to bring the popcorn so you could finally start the movie.

You were a big fan of Marvel but hadn’t gotten a chance to see Infinity War yet, due to school and work getting in the way, but after a solid four months of dodging spoilers - which by the way, is so much harder than you thought it’d be! As if avoiding social media the first month after release wasn’t bad enough, you accidentally saw a potential spoiler on a completed unrelated YouTube video!!! But you don’t know what it means and are too afraid to find out, so you immediately put it out of your head, like Spider-Man probably just got hurt and that’s why he doesn’t feel good, right? But anyways, you were beyond excited to see the newest Marvel movie.

Seungcheol sits down with a huge bowl of popcorn and two cans of cola, “Are you ready?” He asks, as he sits down.

He’s known you for a while now and is fairly certain that the box of tissues and small trash can he’s hidden next to the couch on his side will come in handy, but he promised you he wouldn’t say anything so he just has to keep his mouth shut for two hours.

You nod with determination, “I’m ready! Now remember that you promised just to sit here okay? You’re emotional support because I really think Cap is going to die, like I can just feel it and I think I’m probably going to cry so you just need to be here okay??”

He smiles and nods at you, “Of course, of course” he says as he presses play on the remote, thinking about the ice cream he has in the freezer to console you once the movie is over.

You smile as the familiar Marvel intro plays and you see all the characters you’ve grown to love flit across the screen.

But then, all hell breaks loose at the first scene, and you’re suddenly in tears because Thanos just killed Loki??? Like crushed his windpipe??? And you weren’t ready for this, like Marvel wasn’t playing this time - they just got right into it??

“Coups I don’t think he’s coming back”, you sniffle and reach for the tissue he hands you. “He might, he’s done this ‘dying’ thing before” he says, as he places a comforting arm around you.

You shake your head vehemently, “No, but his windpipe is crushed! Like look at him! He is dead!!”

“It’ll be okay,” he soothes you, as you sniffle into the next scene. “Look it’s Tony and Pepper!”

However, as the movie progresses, you get more and more anxious as the stones are taken by Thanos.

“SHOOT HER STARLORD, YOU PROMISED, OH MY GO-oh my god, bubbles.”

“GAMORA GIRL, YOU BETTER RUN, oh my goD RUN!!! HE LOVES YOU, DON’T LAUGH, JUST RUN!”

“I don’t think they’re gonna come out of this”, you say fretfully as you watch Dr. Strange give Thanos the Time stone to save Tony’s life, even though he promised he wouldn’t.

“It’ll all come together” Seungcheol says as he watches almost gleefully at your reactions.

As you sit through the battle at Wakanda’s barriers, getting fearful for your favorite characters’ lives, you grab Seungcheol’s arm for physical comfort through these dark times.

And then...

“WANDA KILL HIM, KILL HIM! OH MY GOD, I KNOW YOU LOVE HIM BUT JU-oh my god she killed him, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! Thanos jus- he just.”

You’re in tears as you turn to Seungcheol in disbelief, catching his amused smile. You shove him as you say “Shut up, this isn’t funny, why aren’t you distressed??”

“I’ve already watched it before, it’s really funny watching someone else go through it!” he laughs as you half sob/half laugh with him.

You turn back to the TV, just in time to see Thanos snap his fingers.

And then, all hell breaks loose. Again.

You slide to the ground and kneel at the coffee table as you watch the characters you love, slowly turn to dust.

Tears stream down your face as you sit there, shocked into silence as you watch what feels like everyone just die.

You watch as Bucky fades away, reaching out to Steve.

You watch as Spider-Man tells Tony the now infamous line, and a sob escapes your lips.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol is still on the couch, now mildly concerned at how you haven’t said anything but unwilling to spoil the mood by voicing his concerns.

As the movie ends with Thanos smiling, you suddenly turn to him and stare.

He stares back, and reaches his arms towards you for a hug when-

“EVERYONE JUST DIED” you wail, tears still flowing, seeming like they’d never end.

He slides to the floor with you as he brings the box of tissues. “It’s going to be okay” he tells you, handing you tissues as he tries not to laugh.

You refuse the tissues as you continue to wail, “THEY JUST ALL DIED! POOF! No one got a chance to say good bye!” You sob harder as the tears begin to soak your shirt, at which point Seungcheol begins to gently wipe at your face. 

He brings a new tissue to your nose, “Blow” he says and you obey, blubbering pathetically about how Rhodey was looking for Sam and he just disappeared.

You continue like this until the iconic Marvel after credits scene appears and you watch the destruction occur as HALF THE FUCKING PEOPLE IN THE WORLD DISAPPEAR. You sniffle as you watch Fury press the pager and ponder over what it means.

Tears are still running down your face as you turn to him “What does that mean?” He shakes his head, “We can discuss theories later.”

“Okay,” you nod, but then you scowl at him “You knew!” you groan as you push at him, “You knew everyone was dying and didn’t tell me. You let me worry about Captain America!” He draws you into his chest and hugs you as he chuckles, “You made me promise not to tell you! Made me swear on our friendship!”

You hiccup, “You never listen to me anyways, this of all things to finally listen to.”

He uses a tissue to gently wipe the remaining tears escaping from your eyes.

“Are you ready for ice cream now?” He almost laughs again as your eyes light up. “You have ice cream?” You say, spirits slightly lifting.

“Of course, you think I was going to let you go through that without preparing?” He says as he gets up, and reaches a hand down to help you up too.

“You’re the best,” you say as you give him a hug. “You suck because you didn’t warn me, but I still love you.”

He chuckles and makes his way into the kitchen.

“And because I love you, I got you a gallon instead of a pint.”

(A/N: Well, I hope you guys liked it! I saw IW a couple of months ago at this point, so details were a little hazy, but I think most things are correct. Let me know if you liked it!)

[a-splash-of-stucky]

I Know This Game | Eight

Pairings: Bucky x Foster!Reader 

Summary: In which you and Bucky sit down to have the conversation you’ve been needing to have for a while.

Warnings: Language, brief mention of vomiting, sad!Bucky, mentions of sex

Notes: FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS. It’s an angsty ride to the end, it is. Fic inspired by ‘Eyes Closed’ by Halsey.

IKTG Masterlist

You’re absolutely floored. Completely speechless. You’re half-tempted to pinch yourself, to check if this is another cruel dream concocted by your overworked mind. Of all the people to run into right now, the universe just had to give you James Bu-fucking-chanan Barnes. Whoop-de-doo, your good luck never ends.

The silence seems to drag on forever. In the end, it’s Bucky who makes the first move.

“Y/N?” Bucky asks tentatively, as if worried that you’re some sort of apparition, or something. He takes a step towards you, expression very much like a deer caught in the headlights, hands outstretched in a non-defensive gesture. “Wha—what’re you doing here?”

You cross your arms over your chest and arch one eyebrow. “I could ask you the same thing, Bucky,” you reply coolly.

Bucky winces at your tone, painfully aware of the fact that the two of you are probably not the best of friends, right now. He chooses his next words with caution, not wanting to aggravate you further, because he’s not exactly sure what kind of mood you’re in. 

“Well, I—I couldn’t sleep,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, “So I decided to go for a walk. And…I guess this is where I ended up,”. Bucky stretches out his arms and gestures around the park. He exhales nervously, “I hadn’t realised that I got so far from the compound,” Bucky admits, a timid smile playing on his lips.

You purse your lips, but otherwise don’t give him any indication of what you’re feeling. Truth be told, you’re still in shock — you cannot believe that Bucky Barnes is standing in front of you, in the flesh. Once you’ve got over most of your initial surprise, you force your jaw to work, your lips to shape the words. “I couldn’t sleep, either, actually,” you tell him, “I was—I kinda wanted to talk to you. Wanna go grab some coffee?”

Bucky looks at you like you’ve just spoken to him in Ancient Greek. If his eyes weren’t wide and filled with wonder before, they certainly are now. He blinks a couple of times, as if to shake himself out of his stupor. “I—y-yeah!” he stutters, “Yeah, yeah that’d be great! How—where d’you—I mean—,”.

“There’s a 24/7 diner around the corner,” you interrupt, gracefully swooping in to save him from making a fool of himself. Bucky flashes you another one of those timid smiles, and, though it is a mere ghost of what his really happy one looks like, it manages to melt your heart a little all the same.

“Yeah, doll,” Bucky murmurs, motioning for you to walk ahead, “That’ll be real nice. You lead the way,”.

The two of you walk side by side, in a surprisingly not awkward silence. You catch yourself sneaking glances at Bucky out of the corner of your eye when you think he isn’t looking. It’s still pretty dark out, so you can’t make out his features very well, but you manage to catch a brief glimpse every now and then, when the pair of you pass under a streetlight. You swear that his face looks more gaunt than it used to. The stubble on his jaw is scruffier and thicker, which actually tells you a lot about Bucky’s state of mind.

When you were dating him, you used to use the amount of facial hair he had as a sort of ‘mood gauge’. The longer he voluntarily went without shaving, the worse of a mental state he was in. Bucky had a tendency to neglect his self-care when he retreated from the world. Your makeshift meter had always proven to be pretty darn accurate.

When you arrive at the diner, Bucky — like the 40’s gentleman he is — holds the door open for you. It’s a cozy little place, if a little dingy looking. You know that the owner, Scott, is trying to save up some money to spruce the place up, but for now, customers have to put up with the faded tiles, suspiciously-stained seats and faintly musty odour. At least the food is decent enough to make up for the decor. The only other patron in the place tonight is a woman wearing neon pink earphones and reading a newspaper in the corner booth at the back, a mug of coffee in front of her.

Scott waves at you from behind the counter, where he is currently drying glasses with a tea towel. “Y/N!” he calls, “Nice of you to stop by!”

“Heya Scott,” you greet, shooting him a smile, “Business a little slow, tonight eh?”

He shrugs as if to say, nothing new there. “Not much I can do about it, can I?” Scott says, “Go ahead, sit wherever you want, I’ll get you some menus in a minute, yeah?”

Beside you, you can sense Bucky agitatedly shifting his weight from foot to foot as his eyes dart around the room. You know how antsy he gets when he goes to unfamiliar places, so you put your hand on his forearm to calm him down. Bucky startles at your touch, but his expression soon softens when he realises what you’re doing.

“Where d’you wanna sit?” you murmur, knowing it’ll give him a peace of mind if he gets to decide.

Bucky goes for the table you thought he might pick; near the front, so that the two of you have some distance between Scott and Newspaper Lady, and right next to a window, so he can keep a watch outside. He chooses to take the seat facing the door and you sink into the chair opposite him. Scott comes over and hands the two of you your menus.

Now that you’re inside the diner, you realise how famished you are. The hunger pains have been gnawing on your stomach for a while, now — ever since you threw up what little food you had inside you after that nightmare — but your body must have tuned out the signals, as your mind was preoccupied with other things. Nearly everything on the menu looks enticing. Your stomach lets out an impatient growl.

Bucky is flicking through the menu, a mildly alarmed look on his face. Extensive options can still make him feel anxious, as his brain gets easily overwhelmed by all the prospects. “If you want something filling, I’d go with the fluffy pancakes, maybe with sausages on the side,” you say gently.

He looks up at you through his lashes, a grateful smile lightening his features. “Yeah? What’re you getting, doll?” he asks.

“What I always get. Chocolate chip pancakes and a coffee,” you reply smoothly.

Bucky snorts in amusement. “You and the fucking chocolate chips,” he mutters.

You wag your index finger at him and narrow your eyes in mock anger. “Don’t you dare insult my chocolate chips, Barnes,” you growl quietly. Bucky’s eyes widen in terror and for a minute, he looks like he might actually fall for it, so you waggle eyebrows playfully to put him at ease and he actually chuckles.

“Okay, okay, chill out,” Bucky says, holding his hands up in surrender, “I know better than to get in the way of you and them,”.

“Good,”.

This is what you miss, you realise. The easy back-and-forth between you two, the amiable banter, the friendly insults, the ability to make a conversation about literally anything last for hours and hours. Despite having not talked to each other in over half a year, not to mention the fact that you parted on less than amiable terms, you fall back into your old routine with surprising ease, as if nothing had ever happened.

When Scott comes by to take your order, Bucky goes with your suggestion and gets the fluffy pancakes with a double helping of sausages. He takes his cap off after Scott leaves, setting it on the table beside him, before raking his gloved metal fingers through his hair.

“You been eating okay, Buck?” you ask softly.

He freezes and looks at you guiltily, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “No, guess I haven’t,” he mutters embarrassedly. A part of you wants to lean over and hug him, maybe shake him around and mother him incessantly, demand that he takes better care of himself. Instead, you settle on scowling in disapproval.

With an apologetic shrug, Bucky goes back to fixing his hat hair. He’s grown his dark locks out since you last saw him; they almost reach his shoulders now. Huffing impatiently, he pulls a simple black hair band from his wrist and pulls his uncooperative hair back into a low, messy bun. You have to smother down a smile at how frickin’ innocent it makes him look.

Under the bright yellow glow of the overhead fluorescent lights, you’re able to study him better. Bucky’s hair is not just longer, but also scragglier and somewhat…greasy? Like he hasn’t washed it properly in a while. Bucky’s face is indeed more haggard, the eyes sunken in and ringed in dark circles, those beautiful cheekbones now more prominent. His jaw, as you’d noted earlier, is left unkempt and covered in thick stubble, and even his skin looks more sallow, unhealthier than you’d like it to be. All the evidence of self-neglect leads you to draw two possible conclusions. He’s either a) just come back from a really long mission, during which he had no time to take care of himself or b) really been struggling to cope without you. 

The desperately love-struck fool inside you dearly hopes it’s the second reason.

“So how’re things at the compound?” you ask, hoping that it’s an innocent-enough question to break the ice.

Bucky’s left shoulder hitches in the way you’ve learnt — over countless therapy sessions — to interpret as nothing’s changed much. “Pepper’s brought in this guy, Dr Banner as our new on-site psychiatrist and — well, he’s great, but he ain’t you, y’know?”

You level an unamused glare at him. “Don’t, Bucky. Trying to guilt-trip me won’t make things any better,”.

He grimaces apologetically, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to,” he mutters.

A tense silence passes, the two of you just trying to assess the other person. Bucky is idly picking at the fingernails of his right hand, brow furrowed and jaw tensed. “Doll, I have so many things I gotta tell you,” he says slowly.

The moment he speaks, you feel like a lightbulb suddenly goes off in your head.

“Hold that thought,” you say sharply, holding a hand up to stop him in his tracks. Bucky’s mouth snaps shut and he levels you with a look of mild confusion. You reach into your back pocket and pull out your phone, bringing up the ‘letter’ that you’d written him earlier. You skim over a few of the paragraphs, chewing at your bottom lip as you mull over whether or not you actually want to give this to him. You haven’t even read it all, and it probably won’t make a hell of a lot of sense to him. Besides, there’s a lot for him to take in — what if he gets confused?

Then again, there’s a lot of things you want to say, and most of it’s already been written down.

“Doll?” Bucky asks, breaking you out of your reverie, “What is it?”.

You decide to bite the bullet. With a deep breath, you spin your phone around and hand it over to him. Bucky’s uncertainty only deepens as he accepts it. He frowns as he looks at the screen, “What is this, sugar?”

You swallow nervously and look down at your clasped hands. “So…I told you I couldn’t sleep, right? I—well, I had a lot of things on my mind. So, I decided writing some of it down might help,”. You laugh weakly, and jerk your chin towards your phone, “And that’s what came up, I guess,”.

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise — it seems that you’re giving him a lot of surprises tonight — and his thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating. “So—you want me to read it? All?” he asks, voice slightly incredulous.

“Yeah,” you shrug, “A lot of the things I wanna say is on there, so it’s a good start, right?”

He nods, chewing his bottom lip pensively. “I dunno if I can read it with you here, doll,” Bucky says shyly, a little blush colouring the tops of his cheekbones.

“Oh, right, uh…” you look around the room, wondering what you could do to disappear for a bit and give him some privacy. To be honest, you don’t want to watch him read it, either. “How ‘bout I go to the bathroom for a bit? And I’ll catch up with Scott, too?” you suggest.

Bucky smiles at you gratefully, “Yeah, that’d be great,”.

You get out of your chair and are about to slip past him when Bucky catches hold of your sleeve. “You’re coming back, right?” he asks, a note of desperation in his voice. “I got so much I need to say to you, please don’t leave before I say it all,” he pleads.

Your heart softens at his panicked look and, running completely on instinct, you caress his cheek with the tops of your fingers. “Of course I’m coming back, love,” you murmur, stroking your thumb over his cheekbone, “I won’t be a moment,”.

Almost unthinkingly, he nuzzles his cheek into your touch, eyes fluttering shut on instinct. He turns his face into your hand and presses a gentle kiss to your palm. Immediately though, he freezes and his eyes flash open. Bucky pulls back with a sheepish grin on his face, “Sorry,” he mumbles, “Don’t think we’re there yet,”.

Bucky looks somewhat appalled by his actions, so you give him a small smile to ease his nerves. “I’ll be back in a few,” you tell him, as you turn sharply on your heel and stride to the back of the diner.

You dawdle in the bathroom, trying to waste as much time in there as you possibly can. You’re not entirely sure how long it’ll take him to read everything you’ve written — mostly because you yourself don’t even know how much you wrote — but you imagine he’ll need some time alone to process everything. Once you’re done relieving yourself, you come out of the stall and wash your hands in the sink. When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you let out a soft groan.

To say that you look like shit is probably a euphemism.

It’s very apparent that you’ve had one hell of a day. There are dark bags under your bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, your hair is a ratty mess and your skin has a sickly pallor to it. You look like you could do with about a thousand years of sleep. With a resigned sigh, you turn on the tap and scoop some water in your hands to wash your face with. The cold water instantly makes you feel more alert. There’s not much you can do about your hair, so you settle on raking your fingers through your locks, trying to tame the stray strands as best as possible.

Scott is busy mopping behind the counter when you go back outside. You glance over at Bucky and try to gauge how he’s doing. His shoulders are hunched over and his head is bowed, both elbows on the table. Apart from that, there’s no aspect of his body language that suggests that something is wrong, so you just leave him to it. You prop an elbow on top of the counter, chin resting in your palm.

“So Scott,” you drawl. He glances up from his cleaning and flashes you a tired smile.

“‘’Sup, Y/N?” he returns, straightening up and wiping the sweat from his brow. Scott balances his mop in the bucket, then comes over to talk to you.

“You’re not cooking tonight?”

Scott grins at you, like he’s got some sort of secret. “I got me a new cook,” he says proudly.

“Really? That’s great!”. You hold your hand up for him to high-five. The search for a new cook for his diner has been going on for several months now, and you knew that Scott had just about lost all hope. “So who’s the lucky person?” you ask excitedly.

Scott glances over his shoulder, as if to make sure that no one’s listening in and gestures for you to lean in closer. “Between you and me, it’s nobody,” he whispers.

You frown in confusion. “Scott, what the hell are you on about?” you ask.

“Shh! Keep it down,” he hisses, glaring at you pointedly. “Okay, so I’m not technically allowed to hire him, ‘cause he’s got a criminal record, alright?”.

You raise an eyebrow in surprise. “What for?”

“Guy won’t tell me. Decided not to push it,” Scott grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. You nod, figuring that he must have his reasons to trust the guy. You understand his sympathy towards this man, as Scott had been in a similar situation himself. Once upon a time, he’d found himself wrongly accused of breaking and entering, leaving him with a criminal record that made finding a job, and more importantly, keeping said job nigh impossible. Luckily, he only had to suffer for two years, before new evidence was found to prove his innocence.

“So who is he?” you ask.

“His name’s Vision,” Scott replies. At your amused look, he elaborates, “That’s what he told me to call him, anyway. I’m assuming it’s a nickname, though. Swanky British dude, wears a mask on the lower half of his face. Guess that’s kinda sketch, but he’s a good man. Decent cook, willing to put up with the long hours and god-awful pay, so…” he trails off with an indifferent shrug. “Can’t complain, can I?”

“Guess not,” you agree, eyes travelling once again to Bucky. His shoulders seem more tense now, so you can only assume that he’s gotten to a part that’s particularly gritty.

Scott follows your line of sight and makes a small noise of interest. “Who’s your friend?” he asks quietly, crouching down to arrange some boxes behind the counter.

“He’s…well, actually, he and I have a lot of talking to do,” you say slowly, “Lots of things we need to say to clear the air, things to figure out, all that lovely stuff,”.

Scott nods wisely. “So it’s that kind of night, huh? Or—I guess, morning?”

“Yeah, I guess,”, you murmur absentmindedly.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone then,” Scott declares, clapping his hands decisively, “Give you a whole pot of coffee too, you guys look like you could use some,”.

You whirl to face him, “Oh no, you don’t have to—,”

“Please,” he says, a tiny smile gracing his lips. Scott holds his hands up, “It’s on the house,”. He doesn’t look like he’s going to take no for an answer, no matter how much of a protest you might put up, so you just give him a smile in thanks.

“I’d best get back to him,” you say, pushing off from the counter, “Lots to talk about,”.

Scott gives you a look of encouragement. “Good luck. I think you might need it,”.

“Thanks,”.

As you draw nearer to your table, you realise that, what at a distance had looked like tense shoulders are in fact, shoulders that are minutely shaking. Hesitatingly, you slide back into your chair. “Oh, love,” you breathe, taking in the sight. There are wet trails on his cheeks and Bucky’s eyes shine with yet more tears. His luscious bottom lip is quivering so much, you have to fight the urge to press your thumb — hell, press your lips — to it. Barely-audible sobs wrench their way out of his throat every now and then, and they’re doing a number on your heart. Bucky’s gloved metal hand is clenched into a tight fist, whilst he uses the flesh one to scroll. You note that there is an almost imperceptible tremble to his fingers.

With a heaving breath, Bucky switches your phone off and slides it back towards you. You push it to the side of the table, out of the way. He’s watching you intently whilst trying to reign himself in, gain some control over his breathing.

“Buck?” you ask softly.

“Just—gimme a minute,” he whispers, clasping his hands together and resting his forehead on top of them. Bucky takes a few deep breaths and with each one, his breathing evens out, becomes less shaky on the exhale. “Okay,” he breathes, flicking his eyes up to look at you. The sorrow and heartbreak evident in his gaze makes you want to wrap him up in your arms and never let go.

Scott dashes over just then, both your plates balanced precariously on one arm, a tray with the coffee held in his other had. Without a word, he swiftly sets everything on the table, and offers you a quick wink of solace before he goes back to the counter.

Bucky swallows nervously and uses his sleeve to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks. “Doll,” he begins, cutting himself off immediately when his voice cracks. He laughs wetly, “Y/N, that was—wow,” he sighs, looking at you with an unplaceable expression on his face. “I still love you too, you know?” he says urgently, “I’ve never stopped loving you, either,”.

You school your face to remain neutral as you shove a forkful of pancake into your mouth.

Bucky nods in understanding and continues, “Okay, well. I—I have no idea what to say now, really, I mean—,” he makes a vague gesture to your phone with his hand, “How am I supposed to top that? If you ever get sick of being a psychiatrist, I think you could be a fucking writer, doll,”.

You chuckle despite yourself, shaking your head in amusement. “Of course you’d say that,” you mutter fondly. You tilt your head to the side, “I guess I just got one more question to ask before I let you talk, Buck,”.

He nods, taking a bite out of one of his sausages. “Shoot,” he says, the word coming out garbled because of the food in his mouth.

You scrunch you nose up in mock disgust and stick your tongue out at him. Bucky chortles, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably as he laughs. You shake your head and focus on putting on your serious face, because, goddammit, the two of you are supposed to be having an adult conversation, right now.

When you’ve pulled yourself together, you stare pointedly at your fork, unwilling to face him as you ask the question that has been plaguing you for the better part of the year. “Bucky…why’d you do it?”, your voice coming out barely louder than a whisper.

My lover, my liar

Bucky sighs tiredly, takes an enormous mouthful of pancake and sausage — seriously, you wonder how the hell he can open his mouth so wide — then sets his cutlery down. He chews with a thoughtful look on his face, so you allow him time to think, knowing that he’ll tell you when he’s got things phrased right in his head. You wistfully remember how Bucky had been very particular about that during his therapy sessions.

“I guess I owe you the full story, huh?” he says, after a drawn-out moment of silence, “After all the shit I’ve put you through, you deserve it,”.

You don’t say anything, just focus on chewing your pancakes with as much of a stoic expression as you can.

Bucky scratches his jaw pensively. “Okay, what I’m gonna say probably won’t make sense, at first, but you gotta hear me out, alright? No interruptions. You’ll get things once I’ve told you the full story,” he says. You want to scream at him for being so cryptic. Bucky leans in closer and lowers his volume, as if he’s about to tell you state secrets. “I’m probably breaking about a dozen different rules telling you all this, but hell, if there’s anyone worth breaking rules for, it’s you, doll,”. He winks mischievously, then sits back in his chair and tips his head back to look at the ceiling. Bucky blows out a long breath through his mouth.

“Right, well, the most important thing for you to know is that things between Natasha and I were never serious,” he begins slowly. You can tell by the slight furrow in his brow that he’s treading with utmost caution, picking his words carefully. “I guess it makes sense to start at the beginning, right?” Bucky continues, “Natalia and I have history, this is true. I don’t just mean that in the sense that I was one of her trainers in the Red Room, but also that when she started working in the field, we went on a couple of covert missions together,”.

Your eyebrows quirk up in surprise. As the Avengers’ private therapist, you had of course picked up on the unusually companionable relationship between Bucky and Nat. You’d found this surprising, as Bucky didn’t seem to be very trusting of very many people at the time, least of all ex-spies. You suspected that they had had some kind of contact with each other during his time as the Soldier, your theories further bolstered when Nat had hinted at having a personal connection with HYDRA’s greatest weapon.

Bucky assesses your reaction, before continuing tentatively. “We crossed paths a few times, actually. I don’t know how it happened…but I think she fell for me. Sweetheart, she saw me as the Soldier, a cold-blooded, brainwashed killer, and somehow, she managed to find the capacity to love me,”.

Your stomach churns at his words, and Bucky seems to pick up on this, so he hastily adds, “It was brief, and I can wholly assure you that it was one-sided, doll. HYDRA pumped me full of all sorts of chemicals to suppress those urges in me,”. He gives you a wry smile, “I think her feelings might have changed when I tried to kill her that one time, though,”.

“What?” you gasp, fork poised in mid-air. Bucky chuckles at your astonishment.

“Well, it was just after she’d switched allegiances, from the KGB to SHIELD,” he explains, “My handlers sent me after her, to sort her out,”.

“So…what, she’s forgiven you? Like, the two of you are okay with that? I don’t see how…” your voice trails off as you frown in confusion. Their relationship — or supposed relationship, if you’re going to believe Bucky’s words and accept that they were never actually together — doesn’t make sense. If Bucky tried to kill her, why would Nat allow him to get that close again?

Bucky shrugs his metal shoulder. “I think we’ve just agreed to let the past be the past,” he muses, “But then again, she is Natalia, and a completely different creature altogether. I don’t pretend to understand her. I mean, she had feelings for the Soldier, of all people, so maybe…”, he leaves the sentence unfinished and makes circular gestures with his hands as if to say well, you know what she’s like.

“Okay, so…that was before, what now?” you ask.

He hesitates, pushing a scrap of pancake around his plate as he thinks. “Well, when I went away, after…after DC,” Bucky’s face contorts into a grimace at the unpleasant memory, “A lot of my memories started to come back. And her face was in there. So when I came to the compound, and saw her in person, I kinda knew who she was,”.

Bucky’s next exhale comes out in a quick whoosh. “I—she was drunk, one night, after one of Tony’s parties, and came to my room. Mind you, this was well before anything happened between you and I, doll; this must’ve been…three months? After I came back, that is,”. The words trip over themselves in his haste to get them out. He’s obviously uncomfortable, like it’s a struggle trying to get the words out.

“What happened?” you ask quietly, almost unsure if you want to hear the answer yourseld.

“She was drunk,” he repeats, “And…threw herself at me. She showed up at my door and literally launched herself at me. I didn’t particularly want to be with her, but I…wanted to remember what it was to feel human again,”. A sad little smile flickers across his mouth. When he looks into your eyes, Bucky’s gaze is so mournful, you have to fight down your irrational urge to kiss him. “I felt horrible, just using her like that, but—I hadn’t had sex in 70 years, doll!”. He laughs dejectedly.

“That’s no excuse, of course, but can you imagine what hell my body was going through, trying to remember what it was to be human again? To have urges, and needs, and desires? I hadn’t been allowed to do things like that with HYDRA, and here was a warm body presenting herself to me, and I took the opportunity! I’m not proud of it,” Bucky adds defensively, the vein in his neck twitching from annoyance.

“You never mentioned any of this to me,” you murmur, “During our sessions, that is,”.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours for a split second. “I…I was ashamed, doll. I thought, there were so many problems about me that you had to deal with, I didn’t want to add to the list. And besides, I didn’t really want to jeopardise her position on the team, or anything like that,”.

You have a million things to say to that, but decide to drop the issue, because there’s nothing you can do to rectify the situation. Besides, there are more important things to be discussing. “Was that the only time things got—,” you hesitate, wanting to choose the right word, “Intimate, between you two?”

Bucky shakes his head morosely, and your heart sinks. “Well, depends what you mean by ‘intimate’, doll,” he sighs, “‘Cause in a way, yes, because that’s the only time we ever had sex—,”

“Really?”, you interrupt, your eyebrows nearly disappearing into your hairline.

“��Yes, really, but I’ll—okay,” he huffs frustratedly at the disbelieving look on your face, “If you don’t believe me, remember what I said? You gotta hear the full story. But yes, it was the only time we slept together,”.

“…So how else were you intimate?” you ask timidly, deathly afraid of what he might say.

“There were a few times where we kissed or…went a little further,” says Bucky hesitatingly, “Six, at most. After a mission, usually,”.

“Did she force herself on you again, or…”.

Bucky grimaces again. “Don’t get the wrong picture, doll. We—I wasn’t in the right headspace for a relationship, and Nat thought she was helping. I wanted to make it work, but at the same time, I didn’t. I was so messed up. And—and sometimes, yes, she would initiate, but sometimes I would,”. He laughs softly, but there’s no joy behind it, “I was always the one to put a stop to it, though. Whatever was going on between us couldn’t go on anymore. My conscience kicked in,”.

“Did you put a stop to things when we got together, or before…or after?”

Bucky holds up one finger as if to say wait. He takes a sip of his coffee, another bite of his — now cold — pancakes and chews thoughtfully, for a little. “We’re not there yet, doll,” he says, “First, I need to talk about how I fell in love with you,”.

You can’t ignore the way your cheeks flush hotly, or the way your heart flutters excitedly at the thought.

--------------------------------- Condensed tags: @feelmyroarrrr​ @valkyeries​ @hollycornish​ @buckingoffthebed​ @moonbeambucky​ @sanjariti​ @in-winchester-we-trust​ @badassbaker​ @retroasgardian​ @lostinspace33​ @waywardpumpkin​ @jurassicbarnes​ @buchonians​ @katielu-blog​ @alohabucky​ @sarahmatthews7​ @i-should-probably-be-asleep-rn​ @toongtii  @barnesdeservestheworld​ @amrita31199​ @amour-quinn​ @ugh-supersoldiers​

[dictionarywrites]

Brought To Justice: Chapter 4

Odin gives Loki a choice when he is brought back to Asgard: imprisonment, or execution. When Loki chooses the latter, Odin increases his punishment twofold, and Loki is sent back to Midgard in order to repay his debt. Bound by his own magic and forced to obey whatever order Steve Rogers lays out for him, Loki is forced to attempt a redemption he neither wants nor deserves.

Ao3 link. Steve Rogers/Loki. Slowburn. 25k. Rated M. WIP.

Send requests. Tip jar.

June 3rd, 2012

“C’mere,” Tony murmurs, and Pepper leans in, smiling as she leans her hands against the table between them, her breath warm and scented with coffee where she puts her mouth over his. Pepper kisses him, and Tony tastes the caramel shot she took in her drink, cupping her cheek and smiling at her with all the warmth in the world. It’s a great morning, the sun shining brightly in through the window, and in front of him Tony has a spread of folders, all focused on the Avengers Initiative.

SHIELD has been into him today, with Fury talking to him about taking over the Initiative from SHIELD… Fury had been more than reluctant to let Tony just take up the Initiative for the team, but with Steve pushing it through, it’s down to him, now.

And Coulson…

He’d sent flowers to the cellist, offered to fly her in, but she’d said no. Poor girl.

“How’s business?” Tony asks, his hands on Pepper’s hips, and she smiles at him, her lips plump and glossy. She’s using some kind of new stuff – gloss, lipstick, Tony doesn’t know – and it makes her even more beautiful than usual.

“How’s heroism?” she replies, and Tony groans, gesturing to the folders.

“It’s a lot like business.” Pepper laughs, patting his cheek and taking up her own spread of folders, her coffee in her hand. “You got meetings?”

“Until four. How about you?”

“I’m driving out to X-Mansion today, probably gonna take the wunderkind with me. And I think Clint and Nat are coming, too,” Tony murmurs, running his palm over his beard as he thinks about it. Pepper frowns, tilting her head slightly.

“Clint and Nat? Why?”

“I think ‘cause there’s space in the car,” Tony says, and Pepper lets out a short, huffed laugh before he continues, “I dunno. They’re kinda up in the air at the moment – they don’t want to take their normal jobs ‘cause they’re both into the routine of the Avengers thing, I think. Neither of ‘em has ever been part of a team like this one before, and they’re excited to get into it.”

“That’s good,” Pepper says, and Tony nods his head, slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it is. I’m just worried about two hours in a car with Loki on one side and them on the other.”

“He’s not going to say anything,” Pepper murmurs, and Tony sighs.

“It’s the silence I’m dreading.” Pepper pats his shoulder, leans and presses a kiss to his head, and then she walks away, running to catch her eight o’clock. Tony sighs, pushing his meeting notes together, and he glances at his phone.

Henry McCoy, 07:25 Mr Stark, you’re new to running a heroes team. Please, don’t worry about the meeting at all – we’ll talk you through it and get you up to speed, and we even have some resources from older iterations of the Avengers. None of us is expecting you to have the whole world planned to the letter.

They’re not expecting to see Loki exactly either, Tony thinks, but hey. Coming from a guy who’s worked on and off with Magneto, Loki almost seems like a walk in the park.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“So you can speak any language, pretty much ever, and read any language, but you can’t sign?” Barton demands, and Loki stares at him from the other side of the limousine. Why, precisely, Stark insisted on this method of travel, Loki is uncertain – it strikes him as mildly obscene, particularly when they’re going to a boarding school of all places, but then, Loki doubts Stark has spent much time in a normal automobile.

“Why would I be able to speak any Midgardian sign languages?” Loki asks, arching his eyebrows. “It’s called the Allspeak, Mr Barton, not the Allsign.” All of them are rather dressed up for this occasion: Romanov wears a black dress that clings to the lines of her waist and chest, accentuating an easy hourglass figure; Stark wears a pressed suit, and Barton wears a purple shirt that has a collar and everything. Loki hadn’t known the man had it in him. Loki himself wears a lilac shirt tucked into white trousers, a floral tie around his neck, and Stark had groaned when he had seen the outfit, but then complimented Loki thrice, so he would guess it’s fine enough.

“Yeah, but if it’s magic—”

“What about languages with clicks and whistles?” Romanov breaks in.

“They translate just fine. Some words don’t, of course – words for specific fruits or vegetables, materials, et cetera. But the Allspeak… It translates the meaning more so than it rewrites the words as I’m hearing them. When I hear any of you speak, I hear English, but the meaning is translated in my own head, I suppose. Which means I can still be aware of connotations, names, et cetera – it’s a sort of telepathic magic. If someone talks about, say, finar in the Fon System, even though I’m not familiar with finar itself, I would get the impression of the scent, the sight, of the grain.”

“If that’s the case, then you should be able to understand sign languages just fine,” Romanov says, slowly. “Loads of languages include gestures as part of them, and if it’s a telepathic element, an impression, then sign language should be no different.”

Loki brings his index finger up to his chin, then brings it outward: True.

Barton nearly yells, burying his face in his hands and letting out a garbled sound of frustration, and when Loki grins, he shows all of his teeth, laughing. Romanov is shaking her head, letting out short chuckles, and Loki glances to Stark. Stark is looking between the three of him, his lips quirked into a smile between his obscene patches of sculpted facial hair.

“You spoke ASL this whole time, huh?”

“It’s called the Allspeak,” Loki says, not unreasonably, and Barton groans incoherently in his direction. Loki had been worried the journey would be much more uncomfortable than it is, but Romanov has been making polite, measured conversation with Loki, and it is Barton that has brought the levity in the situation with his humorous over-reactions.

“Why do you lie?” Barton demands. “There’s no reason to! We don’t speak sign language in front of you anyway, so we wouldn’t risk it – there was nothing to gain! You just, you just lied, for no reason!”

“I didn’t lie for no reason,” Loki replies. “I lied so you could enjoy unravelling my deception. Through logic alone.”

“But that’s— Why that? We could just play a game!” Loki clucks his tongue, disapproving, and Barton looks askance to Romanov, now speechless, but Romanov just smiles, shoving the archer in the side.

“I don’t play games.” Loki leans back in his seat, turning to look at Stark once more, and Stark leans in toward him.

“Here,” he says, holding something out, and Loki takes it, staring down at it. It’s a mobile telephone, much like Stark’s own, and Loki stares down at his reflection in the polished, black glass. “So your cell number is on the card stuck to the back, and this is yours now. It’s charged, and I’ll give you the charger when you’re back at the building – it’s a pretty standard smartphone, texting, calls, internet, camera. I think you should start an Instagram or something.”

“Instagram?” Loki repeats, and he frowns, staring at the screen. “Mr Stark, that hardly seems very secretive.”

“Well, we’re ironing out your paperwork now. Soon, SWORD is gonna give you your alien-on-earth papers, and you’re gonna be a real, fake citizen of the US of A. Besides, Loki,” Stark murmurs quietly, “It’ll look better if you’re… You know. Integrating. It’s great to do like, Wikipedia stuff—”

“So many of the articles are so badly written—”

“It’s a community encyclopaedia, your highness, I don’t know what you expect,” Stark says, shaking his hand for Loki to close his mouth, and Loki does, feeling the weight of the phone in his hand. “But you know, even just Facebook, or Twitter… Shit, even if you made some kinda weird blogging site or something.”

“If there’s some sort of injunction,” Loki murmurs, holding the phone in his hand, “You want there to be tangible, documentable proof that I’m accepting my place on Earth.” It makes complete sense to Loki, and yet the social media of Earth… It is not something he is entirely comfortable focusing upon, not something he thinks he would be naturally inclined to. Perhaps merely something private – that is an option, isn’t it?

“Exactly. It’s not an order – me and Steve talked about it, and we’re not gonna like, make you do social media or anything. Hell, Cap won’t even let me give him a phone yet. But you need to make some kinda presence. Loki, there’s a reason we’re taking you with us to the Mansion – people are gonna find out eventually that you’re one of us now, and we can’t really risk trying to keep it a secret.” Loki draws his thumb over the phone’s smooth, cool touch screen, and he looks at the screen that comes up.

“I’m going to have to take this apart,” Loki murmurs. “Make some improvements.”

“I slaved over that phone for you, Loki—”

“Interesting choice of words.” Stark’s eyes widen, his lips parting for a second, and Loki smiles before pointing out, “I did it to the laptop.” Something changes in Stark’s expression, some sort of irritation bubbling to the top – he doesn’t like the implication that he may not be the most competent engineer in the room, Loki thinks, and it might amuse him were it not so patronising.

“You took my laptop apart?” Stark asks, lowly, and Loki raises his eyebrows.

“You said it was my laptop,” he says mildly, and Stark presses his lips together, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning away from him.

“Look, Loki, no offence, but you’re not exactly an engineer. You can’t—” Loki turns away from Stark, looking to Romanov and Barton. He meets Romanov’s gaze, looking into her deep eyes.

“Is this mansplaining?” Loki asks. Beside him, Stark splutters, irritated and indignant, but Romanov just slowly nods her head. The limousine comes to a stop, revealing the open grounds of the manor, and Loki reaches for the door, sliding out. “Read my file, Stark,” Loki advises, and he holds the door open for Barton and Romanov.

It is a beautiful summer’s day, shining down upon the green grasses and the gravel road, and when Loki looks up to the windows of the mansion, he can see that the children who are meant to be in their classes are all pressed up, looking down to see what the visitors might possibly be here for.

When Stark exits the vehicle, many of them get very excited indeed, hopping up and down, and Loki smiles slightly, pushing the limousine closed. There are a group of people gathered before the doors of the house: Charles Xavier, Ororo Munroe, Henry McCoy and Scott Summers. Loki recognizes them all, at a glance.

“Professor Xavier,” Stark says, taking a few steps toward the house’s doors, and Xavier, an older gentleman in a wheelchair, shakes Stark’s hand. Loki has read about him and these marvellous X-Men, of course, and he looks at Xavier where he sits in his wheelchair, looking anything but infirm. His eyes are alight with intelligence, and Loki is almost wary to come forward and shake the man’s hand himself, so he hangs back as Romanov and Barton step up, with Stark introducing them. “What, you shy?”

“No,” Loki says, and he steps forward, coming away from the car and coming closer. As he does, he can see the beast-like blue figure’s yellow eyes widen, see Munroe’s expression turn cold, but Xavier’s remains quietly paternal, a slight smile on his face.

“Loki, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Professor Xavier,” Loki says politely, putting out his hand to shake: the others make no movement to reach for his hand as they did for the others, but Loki says nothing.

“How are you settling in?” Loki can feel the impact of his telepathic energy against his magic. I wouldn’t advise that, Loki presses onto the air itself, and Xavier’s lips quirk into a deeper smile, his old face a map of wrinkles, showing the years that have passed him by. The depths of Loki’s mind are not easy for telepaths to grasp at, as a rule, so full to the brim are the banks of Loki’s memories, so strongly felt are his emotions, and he feels Xavier draw back.

Wouldn’t you? he replies.

“Quite well, thank you,” Loki says aloud. “Of course, I have a debt to repay.”

“You’re damned right,” says Summers, and Loki looks at him. The sun shines off the plastic-rimmed glasses he wears over his dangerous gaze, as Medusa with her bloodied blindfold, and Loki smiles, wanly, before giving a polite bow.

The others begin to make their way inside, Xavier moving up the ramp at the side of the trio of steps as the others move up into the house, but McCoy remains. He steps forward, and he puts out his right hand to shake: the hand is brightly blue, the palm rubbery and soft, and the back of his hand is thick with fur. Loki takes it, surprised, and shakes it well. McCoy’s hand is warm, surprisingly so, but Loki’s impassive expression as he surveys McCoy’s waistcoat and patterned trousers must unsettle him somewhat.

“What? Never seen a man like me before?” Loki looks at him for a long few moments, then allows the glamour over his skin to fall. Of course, he keeps the eternal masking over the scars on his mouth, his eyes, and around his neck, but he feels the tingle over his flesh as his skin turns as blue as McCoy’s own, showing the rough indentations on his skin, the redness of his eyes.

“I’ve seen something like him,” Loki replies, aware that his Jötunn voice has a breathier, raspier element to it, as the tongue itself is longer than that of the Æsir, and thicker. McCoy’s yellow eyes flit downward, taking Loki in from head to foot, and then he smiles, genuinely. He has sharp teeth, Loki can see, feline in their make-up.

“Welcome,” McCoy murmurs, nodding toward the steps, and Loki falls into step beside him. McCoy does not wear shoes, instead leaving his fur-covered, hand-like feet to tread upon the ground. As feline as McCoy’s face is, his hands and feet resemble – in shape – the chimpanzee, and Loki notes this with curiosity, resisting the natural urge to reach out with his magic and feel for McCoy’s biology. “Stark didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“This is something of a trial run, if my information is correct,” Loki murmurs, walking alongside McCoy into the house. “My… Service to the Avengers is not yet public knowledge.” A few children pass them by, peering up at Loki and McCoy with evident curiosity, but none of them stop to speak, and of course, none of them recognizes Loki.

“The people are going to hate it,” McCoy says outright, turning left and coming down a corridor, and Loki nods his head, slowly. “What was it? Mind control? Debt? Villainy?” Loki inhales, slowly, and then says,

“Desperation.” McCoy hums.

“Yes, that’ll about do it,” he says. The man has a pleasant voice, sounding like a kindly, American academic, and Loki doesn’t say anything when he realises they are going down corridors they oughtn’t – when he realises the others are on the other side of mansion, some way away. McCoy leads him down a set of stairs, then opens the door inward, revealing… Quarters.

Loki glances about the humble living room, and when McCoy gestures for him to take a seat at the dining table, Loki does. There are windows allowing in bright light despite the fact that this level of the mansion is subterranean, and when McCoy holds up a kettle, Loki nods his head to the offer of coffee.

“You know why you’re here?” McCoy asks, lowly, as he presses the mug toward Loki’s hands. He knows, instinctively perhaps, that Loki doesn’t take sugar or milk, or perhaps he simply doesn’t care.

“You don’t want me near the children,” Loki murmurs. “I understand. I didn’t realize Stark hadn’t told you until I exited his ridiculous limousine.” He brings the steaming brew up to his lips, and he feels it settle on his tongue, bitter and dark. It’s a rich blend, Moroccan in its origin, and he lets out a quiet sigh. He doesn’t often drink coffee, unwilling to allow himself the treat every day as many of the Avengers seem to – the caffeine content is simply not something Loki is used to, and he prefers to stay away from even the mildest of chemical imbalances.

(“I didn’t realise you were gonna be so… Fastidious,” Rogers had said, paging through the list Barton had compiled of things Loki refused to eat, and Loki had stood there, embarrassed, until he realised every refusal was being taken into account, and added to a file to keep him from being served that which he wouldn’t eat.

“So you’ve said before,” Loki had replied. He had known not what else to say.)

“You have children?” McCoy asks, and Loki inclines his head. It is strange, to look down at his hands and see that his fingers are blue, his fingernails hard and silver-tipped, circular markings coming down even to his wrists and the backs of his hands.

“I used to,” he says. “You’ve read the mythology, I take it, Doctor McCoy?”

“We read all sorts to the children here,” McCoy answers, finally settling down at the table himself, and he puts a set of biscuits upon the table, but all of them are sugary-sweet, and Loki politely keeps his hands to himself. “I’ve read a few versions of most of the world’s myths at this point.”

“Some of it is more correct, some of it is less so,” Loki says. “Six children. All mine. I wouldn’t hurt them, Doctor McCoy – but then, my assurances don’t mean much.”

“You know the death toll for New York, Loki?” McCoy asks.

“Thousands,” Loki murmurs.

“You feel guilty?” Loki smiles, looking at McCoy and examining him, his head tilting to the side. McCoy is a kindly gentleman, from what Loki has learned in reading about him – kind, and warm, and firm, when needs be.

“The blame is upon me, Doctor McCoy,” Loki says delicately. The coffee is hot in his throat, so strange in this skin he is ill-used to, and he feels it bubbling in his belly, at odds with the natural homeostasis of the Jötunn form. “The deaths that occurred, occurred. The horrors I caused, I have caused. This link with the Avengers… I believe Captain Rogers has called it a rehabilitation. I will do what I can.”

“You think people will forgive you?” McCoy asks.

“No,” Loki replies. “Not unless the peoples of this planet are more foolish than once I thought.” McCoy opens his mouth to go on, but there is a knock at his door, and McCoy moves to open it, standing in the doorway.

“Professor Xavier said to come get you,” says a quiet voice. “And the other guy. Who is he?”

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins,” McCoy replies mildly.

“Yeah but—”

“Goodbye, Harry,” McCoy murmurs, and he turns to look to Loki. “We should—” Loki stands, and the light bleeds from his body all at once, leaving him entirely invisible. “Oh. That is convenient.”

“I do try,” Loki replies, and he sets his mug down on the ground. McCoy touches his shoulder as he comes closer, rather surprising Loki with how comfortable he is navigating invisibility. “You believe in redemption, Doctor McCoy?”

“I’m afraid I do,” he replies quietly, and allows Loki to follow him out into the hallway.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

Tony taps his nail against the desk. He sits with Clint on his right, Natasha to his left: across the table, Scott Summers stares him down. “You wanna tell me where my guy is?”

“Henry has taken him aside,” Xavier says, quietly. “I thought we’d discuss a few things without him in the room. For example – why is he here?”

“He’s one of us now,” Tony says breezily. “What, you got a problem?”

“With someone who killed a thousand people in three days? Yeah,” Munroe says, smacking her palm against the table. “We have a problem.”

“Isn’t your guys’ whole thing about rehabilitating super villains?” Clint asks, arching his eyebrows and looking smoothly between Summers, Munroe and Xavier. “’Cause no offence, I know he doesn’t live here, but Magneto—”

“That’s complicated, and you know it,” Summers says, bitingly. Tony knows without knowing that he says it just to protect Xavier, whose lips are quirked into an infuriatingly knowing smile.

“This is complicated too,” Tony replies. Xavier looks at him for a long few moments, and Tony wonders if this, this is what telepathy feels like, if Xavier is reading his mind right now and it doesn’t feel like anything at all. “He won’t hurt anybody – he can’t. There’s, uh, a Harry Potter life debt situation kinda going on. Magic, shmagic, whatever. But Loki isn’t why we’re here: we’re here to talk about sharing resources, and mobilising teams. And I want him here, at this table, or we’re leaving right now.”

“Have one of the students collect Hank, Scott,” Xavier says mildly. “He’s in his quarters.”

“You can send a message, Prof, just—”

“Scott,” Xavier says delicately, and Summers turns on his heel, stalking from the room and out into the corridor, the door slamming behind him. Xavier wheels over to the table, leaning back in his chair to look at Tony from across the table, and he says, “We’re more than willing to share resources with you. It’s useful for there to be a network between teams. Is this new initiative still headed by SHIELD?” Tony frowns, looking between Xavier and Munroe, but both of their expressions are completely impassive, and he slowly shakes his head.

“No,” Tony says. “No, they’re not. The initiative is under my management now, and Captain Rogers is gonna lead the team in the field.” Xavier and Munroe share a small glance, and then Xavier nods, setting out a few files upon the table.

“Very well,” he says. “Let us negotiate, then.” Tony frowns, trying to put the SHIELD thing into context in his head, but it doesn’t come.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“Jesus Christ,” Clint says beside him, and Tony turns to look at Clint at first, then follows his gaze. Beside Henry McCoy, there’s a tall man with shining black hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, and his skin is soft blue, his eyes thick with a protective, red lens. There are even horns growing from beneath his hair, just beginning, and it isn’t until Tony’s gaze drops lower, taking in the white pants, the tie decorated with flowers, that he realises what he’s looking at – who he’s looking at.

“My apologies,” Loki says, his skin already turning back to pale white as he takes his seat beside Natasha, his hands neatly folded in his lap. “Doctor McCoy and I were bonding over our shared aesthetics.”

“Colour schemes,” Xavier says warmly, seeming full of humour. “What a thing to bond over.”

They return to negotiations, discussions. Loki remains in place, utterly silent, and doesn’t say a word for the rest of the time they’re there.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“Best that I take on the Jötunn form, whilst I am here,” Loki murmurs in Stark’s ear, and Stark turns to glance at him. Is it fear on his face, Loki wonders? Is it disgust? Throughout the discussions, Loki had remained quiet, and despite Stark’s words – that the word must get out somehow, that Loki’s status cannot remain secret, he feels vulnerable, and uncomfortable, with showing his face about children who might know to be frightened of him. It is weak of him, perhaps. Certainly, it is.

“That— That’s real?” Stark asks.

“That’s what I look like, yes,” Loki murmurs. “For a shapeshifter, Mr Stark, the reality of one’s true form is ever debatable, but that is my base form, if you will. It unnerves you… You thought the Jötnar were as the Æsir and Vanir, outwardly resembling humanity.” Loki’s illusion bleeds away once again, leaving him as what he is, with some small adjustments. “I hate to disappoint you.”

“It’s not that,” Stark murmurs. “It’s not that you look like an alien, just— You said you didn’t know you were a Jotunn, not until a few years ago. So, what, you didn’t know you looked like that?”

“Odin’s magic sealed it from my knowledge,” Loki murmurs. “I knew so much as suspected.” There is disgust on Stark’s face, now, curling his lip and twisting his nose, and he puts his hand on Loki’s shoulder: his hand is warm.

“You take whatever form you want,” he murmurs, tone firm. “And Odin— God, what a fucking monster.” He spits out the words, astounding venom crossing over his lips, and Loki finds himself staring at him for the longest few moments, astonished. Never has someone criticized Odin so freely to him, so easily – and with such language…

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and he follows Stark as they make their way into the main part of the building, taking the seats in the living room. Stark takes a seat in a winged armchair, ever needing to put across control, and Loki settles on the lefthand arm, his back straight, one ankle crossed over the other. Romanov is speaking with two younger mutants Loki recognizes not – an extremely tall man, seemingly crafted of steel, and a smaller, dark haired girl that leans against him as they speak – and Barton is speaking in rapid, easy sign with Xavier, who is nodding and speaking occasionally. Even Stark looks at home in the strange room, lazily sending a few texts before engaging McCoy in conversation, and Loki stands, quietly excusing himself before moving outside.

His hands in his pockets, Loki takes a slow, easy walk down the path of the Westchester grounds, reaching up and drawing the ribbon out of his hair, so that it settles loosely on his shoulders, brushing against his upper arms.

(“You don’t braid it,” Rogers had said. “Isn’t that a big thing, for vikings?” Loki had considered correcting him, but Rogers had a little smirk on his face, and it was plain he was jesting.

“I never liked braiding my hair,” Loki had replied. “The Jötnar don’t, you know. It is considered bad for the growth and shine of one’s hair to tie it up in knots, and they hate the idea of looking like the Æsir in any way.”

“Huh,” Rogers had murmured, and then nodded his head.)

Loki rolls the shirt sleeves up to his elbow, feeling the heat of the waning sun on his skin. They had arrived some time past one o’clock, and it is now late in the day – the traffic had been rather bad today, and he supposes it will be somewhat better on the way back… He hopes, at least. He walks at least a mile over the lightly sloping fields of green, green grass, and it feels… Freeing.

When he reaches the treeline, Loki stops, glancing over the grounds the X-Mansion is settled on, farther up the hill. Paths run off in each direction, and Loki knows there are miles upon miles of grounds for the young children to play on, and for X-Men to train upon, but he hardly wishes to explore. He had merely wished to be outside.

There is something cathartic about being out in the dying sun, feeling the evening breeze upon his skin: Loki smells summer blooms and wild fruits on the air, and the scent of freshly mowed grass is thick in his nose and upon his tongue. Being here, amongst nature, is so much more comfortable than the bustling cities of New York, and for a second – a bare second, that is all he will allow himself – Loki  lets himself imagine he is back in Asgard, out at the edge of the great wood in which he and Thor had played as children.

There is a vibration in his pocket, and Loki removes the phone.

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:16 its tony. u okay?

LOKI, 19:16 Yes. I am out upon the grounds – my apologies, I merely needed the air.

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:18 dw abt it. We r heading out in like, t-10

LOKI, 19:18 Very well. I’ll begin my return.

Out here, in Westchester County, there is hardly any worry about being seen, and so to speed his promenade he takes upon the air, his footsteps touching upon it as easily as they might ground or stair. Loki has Skywalked since he was a child, and it is his most basic, intrinsic magic, even before his illusions and his shapeshifting – strange, that this should equally be the magic he finds the most exciting.

He climbs the invisible stairway up into the air, until he is surveying the X-Mansion’s sprawling grounds from far above, taking the bird’s eye view. The grounds are beautiful, and Loki even sees a lake on the other side—

(“Skywalking, huh? What’s that?”

“Like flight, but more controlled. I walk upon the air, as it were.”

“Huh.” Rogers had murmured, and made a note on the page.)

He begins his descent, and when he comes into sight of the entrance hall, everyone is gathered on the steps once more.

“You can fly?” Summers barks out.

“As well as you can see, I should wager,” Loki replies. “I might not see your eyes, Mr Summers, but that does not mean I disbelieve their existence.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr Summers,” Loki says, taking Summers by the left shoulder and forcing his hand into his, shaking it firmly. Summers seems surprised at having someone come so easily into his space, leaning back, but loosely shaking Loki’s hand nonetheless. Munroe is watching him, her dark eyes focused on him, and Loki gives a low and princely bow, his posture perfect – isn’t it always? To think, that there is so much royalty to be found in this strange city, and yet—

Perhaps she embraces her blood. Perhaps not. Who is to say?

“A pleasure to meet you, your highness,” he murmurs, and Munroe’s lip twitches before she offers him her hand. He takes it, feeling the warmth of it, and most of all, feeling the storm within her – her energy is not dissimilar to Thor’s, and for a second, Loki’s very heart leaps in his chest.

“Good to meet you too,” Munroe murmurs. “You going to be good?”

“I’m going to try,” Loki says.

“Tony tells me you’re going to make a Facebook,” McCoy murmurs, taking Loki’s hand in each of his own, and he says, “You should add me.”

“Should I?” Loki asks, surprised by how so insignificant a gesture should mean to him, and he inclines his head. “I will, Doctor McCoy.”

“Call me Hank.”

“Henry,” Loki assents, and McCoy’s laugh is low and resonant. His hands are so warm on Loki’s own, and yet it is nothing to the genuine warmth the other man radiates, wave by wave, easily. “Thank you,” he says, surprised by the genuine feeling in his own words, and Henry pats him on the shoulder before turning and making his way into the house.

We should have a talk, says a voice at the edge of Loki’s mind, and he turns to Xavier, meeting his gaze. You sure you don’t wish to stay the night?

Is that a proposition? Loki replies, and he moves, snakelike, toward Xavier’s chair, leaning and putting one hand over each of Xavier’s, his head tilting.

“Hey!” Summers says, but Xavier laughs, and he reaches up, patting Loki’s cheek. Henry is already drawing Summers away, clucking his tongue and shaking his head: for an old man, growing infirm in his age, Xavier doesn’t seem upset by Loki’s mockery.

“You know very well what it was,” Xavier replies, and Loki chuckles himself, leaning back and standing properly before Xavier.

“I do,” Loki says. “You are hungry for knowledge, Professor, that you do not have. You have touched the minds of ancients and immortals alike, and yet you crave more. Easily might I comprehend a feeling I have long-since nursed within me. You know as well as I do what would happen if I gave you what you wanted – your mind would turn to slurry, and bleed from those ears as liquid.”

We should have a talk regardless, Xavier says, his lips smiling, and unmoving. You’ll give Henry your phone number? Loki nods his head, slowly, and he reaches out, taking Xavier’s hand once more.

You and Henry share a fatal flaw, Loki thinks, even as he turns away from Xavier and holds the door open for Barton, Romanov and Stark, allowing each of them to get in before himself. Xavier’s gaze remains on Loki, his intelligent eyes unblinking.

Oh?

You know the truth, and yet you choose to hope instead. Why is that? Loki slips into the limousine, closing the door shut behind him, and yet he feels Xavier’s presence there beside him nonetheless, feels his energy, hears his voice.

Because we’re human, Loki. Will you join us in that, I wonder? Loki closes off his mind, the energy at the edge of it clouding over, and he looks out of the frosted glass of the window as the Westchester countryside passes them by.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asks, looking at Stark, and Stark nods his head.

“Did you?” The question confuses him, annoys him, and so he ignores it. Stark lets him.

-----✪-✪-✪-Ⓐ -✪-✪-✪-----

“May I?”

The words play in Steve’s head like a litany, and he feels the heat in his arms as he brings himself down to the ground again and again, pushing up and away from it. Jesus Christ, it’s been two fucking months of being alive again, and his girl is dying in a hospital bed, stuck with IVs, dying of old age; all of Steve’s friends are dead, and the city itself is different around him, and he says May I?

He’s in the same boat as you, you know, says a low voice in the back of his head, a voice of reason: it sounds like Abraham Erskine, accent and everything, and Steve feels a burning nausea settle in the belly. No? You don’t think so? Alone in a foreign city, deaths behind him, regrets?

Our situations aren’t the same.

No, they aren’t. You can choose to leave: he can’t. Steve jumps up from the ground, and he begins to rail punches down on the steel-reinforced punching bag Nick Fury had sent over: he’s replaced the chain twice today already, and soon, he’ll need to replace it again. Steve punches it again and again and again, feeling the sick burn in his knuckles, feeling the bile in the back of his throat.

Loki’s lips, freezing cold against Steve’s own, and Steve remembering the cold again, the ice! He punches the bag so hard that the casement bursts, and bent steel cuts the back of his fingers to the bone, making him hiss out a sound and come away from the punching bag, reaching for some kitchen towel to stem the bleeding.

He shakes his head, walking up the stairs toward the main halls, and it’s just as Tony’s returning from Westchester.

“What’d you do to your hand?” Tony asks, and Steve just groans, shaking his head.

“Got a bit aggressive with that punching bag. Punched straight through the steel. Loki!” he calls down the hall, gripping his torn fingers a little tighter and ignoring the pain. “How were the X-Men?”

“They were great,” Tony admits, shrugging his shoulders. “A little, uh, apprehensive about him at first, but— You haven’t met Henry McCoy, but the guy’s got a soft spot for people like Loki. And Xavier…”

“I know Xavier,” Steve says lowly, and he turns to Loki, who is looking at him with uncertainty on his marble features. “Can you heal this?” Loki looks down at Steve’s hand, and for a second Steve thinks he’s going to try to refuse, say something like I can, and try to walk away, but he takes Steve’s hand in his palm, magic tingling over his flesh and repairing the cuts.

“You should let me make a punching bag,” Loki says softly. “One you can use – one I could use. It would take me some time, but I��”

“Do it,” Steve says, nodding his head. “That everything?” A shadow passes over Loki’s face. Turning on his heel, he walks away without another word, and Steve watches him go, his lips pressed together. Tony is staring at him like he just kicked a damn puppy, and Steve says, “What?”

“Steve,” Tony says, “You can’t just do that. You didn’t even thank the guy.”

“I’m not gonna have this conversation right now,” Steve says, crumpling up the towel and throwing it into the trashcan at the side of the kitchen. “Tell me about the meeting.” Tony seems hesitant, as if he wants to chew Steve out for not wanting Loki near him right now, but he backs down, and he talks shop.

It’s great stuff, all of it, even if Steve doesn’t trust Charles Xavier, but Tony seems unwilling to ask about that either, and Steve wonders if he’s really that much more perceptive than his father, or if he trusts Steve that little. They talk for an hour or so, and Steve knows there’s a lot more to go over, but for now…

The X-Men are gonna give them resources, government contacts, links to other superhero teams, even trade-offs when teams don’t work out. It’s all good, and yet… It doesn’t feel like enough. As Steve walks away, he thinks about the punching bag downstairs, thinks of the blood on the leather.

He’s knocking on Loki’s door before he knows it, and the door opens. Loki looks at him, his expression completely impassive, expectantly. After a long pause, he says, “No orders, Captain?”

“What happened to Steve?” he asks, and Loki moves to shut the door in his face, but Steve’s hand catches it before he can close it shut. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know,” Loki says archly. “It’s hardly my decision, is it? Mr Stark owns what paltry possessions I might foolishly lay claim to, and you possess me. Why should you ask me such a question as can you when you know that you can?” Loki walks away from Steve, moving into his rooms, and Steve shuts the door behind him as he follows Loki in.

“That’s what it was about, huh?” Steve asks, “What, you try to mount a seduction so that I’ll order you around less? That what you want?”

“No,” Loki says. He says it emphatically, singularly, and says nothing else.

“Did you think I wanted it? Was your magic trying to get you to anticipate some—”

“No.” Loki is holding his hands in front of him, and his thumb and forefinger rub into the muscle packed onto his slim hands, the anxious movement serving to send blood flush into the pale skin.

“Did—”

“Please,” Loki says. “Stop it. I was wrong to make such an advance: you soundly rejected it. Let us move on.” He looks like an animal, trapped in a cage, and Steve takes a slow, careful step forward: Loki steps away from him. Steve takes another step forward, and another, until Loki is backed right against the fake window of his bedroom, and he is trying to keep his gaze on the ground, trying to ignore Steve’s stare, until Steve pushes him in the chest and Loki has to look up.

“You can’t do that,” Steve says, very quietly, and then says, “Do you know why? Do you need me to tell you why?” Steve doesn’t wait for Loki to reply, and he says, “Because you can’t really say yes, or no, to me. Because if you don’t want something, you couldn’t say no.”

“So?”

“What the Hell do you mean, so? You want me to make you do things you don’t wanna do?”

“You already do,” Loki says. “What’s the difference?” Steve stares at him, stares at him, and he sees only genuine confusion, bafflement, hurt in Loki’s face, and Christ, that’s just not normal. He turns away, putting his hand on his head, and he swallows the bile that rises all the faster in his throat.

“They’re different, Loki,” Steve murmurs. “Me making you save lives, be an Avenger – that’s for a greater good. I’m not ordering you around because I like it, or because I want it: I’m doing it because it’s what I have to do. “I don’t want to order you to…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“I believe the point is that you’re not ordering me,” Loki murmurs. “Others in your position would jump at the chance to—”

“Yeah, well others aren’t in my position,” Steve snaps, and Loki stares at him. His fingernails are digging the meat of his hand, now, so deeply they leave crescent marks in the skin, and Steve reaches out to pull his hands apart before he can draw blood. Loki lets him, his wrists limp in Steve’s hands. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Steve murmurs. “Don’t do that, Loki.”

“Captain Rogers—”

“Loki,” Steve interrupts him, emphatically. “You can call me Steve, if you want.” Loki’s Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.

“Captain Rogers,” Loki continues in the smallest of voices. “They’re all just so young. But you—”

“What?” Loki’s lips part, his eyes shining for the barest second, and then the illusion comes right back, and Loki pulls his arms protectively over his chest. “What?”

“I don’t belong here,” Loki murmurs. “Much as you are unwilling to admit it, Captain Rogers, nor do you. They waited until they needed you, and they broke you out of that ice, to use you as a tool – as much as me.” Steve sets his jaw, staring down at Loki. It’s surprisingly perceptive, some of the shit he says, and especially given that it’s coming out now, when Steve knows he isn’t saying it to manipulate him. “How does it feel?”

“Shitty,” Steve replies. “How about yourself?”

“Much the same.”

“I can walk away, Loki,” Steve murmurs. “You can’t.” Loki laughs, shaking his head.

“Of course you can’t. Just because there isn’t magic binding you doesn’t mean you truly have a choice. You are in the debt of a Cold War operative who has yet to realise his war is over; you are in the lap of a new century. You are a soldier for a country that no longer exists, not as it once did. If you think you have any more choice than I do, you are a fool as much as you are a patriot.” It should piss Steve off, to hear Loki talk like this, to hear him take him to pieces just to lay him out with labels on the page, like a diagram in Loki’s stupid notebook, and yet… “And even if you had a choice before, you don’t any more. Here I am: your final shackle.” Loki reaches up, and his hand touches Steve’s cheek. His hand is freezing cold, as if a statue has touched him, but before Steve can say anything, Loki draws his hand away, and Steve’s face is cool on one side, flushed with heat on the other.

“It’s different, Loki,” he repeats.

“I believe you,” Loki says, and he begins to undo his tie. “Good night— Steven.”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“I do,” Loki replies evenly, and Steve stares at him for a second, then smiles, grimly. “Mr Stark says I’ll get my papers this week.”

“So?”

“I don’t know what name to write on the form.”

“Loki?”

“They want a surname. I have two to choose from: Odinson, Laufeyson. Which brush do I tar myself with?” Steve frowns, pressing his lips together, then takes a few steps back, moving toward the door.

“Pick something new. It’s your name, after all.”

“Really? I believe someone informed me my name belonged to him.” He’s asking me permission, Steve realizes, all at once, and he feels guilt churn in his chest – hasn’t he got enough guilt to deal with? Does he really need more?

“Sounds like he was just pissed he’d been backed into a corner,” Steve replies. “Real dick, that guy.”

“Oh, I agree,” Loki says, carefully undoing the cuffs of his shirt. “Good night, Steven.”

“Good night, Loki,” Steve replies, and he pulls the door shut behind him – and promptly presses his face against the cool wood, smelling the varnish, smelling the new paint, now dried against the door. He takes out the phone he’d taken from Pepper that morning, and he types in a text.

Steve Rogers, 21:43 You wanna go for a drink?

Sam, 21:43 Thought you’d never ask.