#when will they take her driving license away 🙏 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

themareverine · 6 days ago

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HI!! its the old man logan asker and im in love wt the way you wrote my previous ask, you are a godsent 🙏 i was wondering if its okay wt you, to write more of him.. i dont know sitting on old man logans lap and dressing up nice and pretty for him??!?!!?? please take it how you will, the way you write him makes me want to stupidly giggle

of course! here we go, i could write this man forever.

A King & His Castle | I Dream of You | oldman!Logan x fem!wife!reader drabble

series summary: Breadwinner. Bring-Home-the-Bacon. King of the Castle. He's heard it all before, but it's never been true of the Wolverine. Until her. Coming home to her is the only thing to live for, the only thing keeping the heart behind his ribs spinning.

warnings: drabble series, day-in-the-life, dad!Logan, mutantwife!reader, angst, domesticity, pregnancy, babies, children, Logan is a boy dad because I said so, reader has curls, slight ⚠︎, breastfeeding, lactation, breastfeeding kink

a/n: i'm dedicating this to @bpmiranda, this is the spiciest it gets, honeychild!

navigation | series masterlist | previous let me know if you want added to my tags! ♡！

There’s very little like a south-of-the-border sunset.

It’s that something that rises up from the earth to meet the air, a cool that seems, almost, to simmer in the soil until that perfect time of day—the time between the sun sinking low and starlight. It sits in the atmosphere like a dance, spinning and twirling, lifting skirts—hopeful. Innocent. Skips along the bluebonnets and desert roses scattered among the mesa, reverent, almost like the pretty prayers of a virginal bride, awaiting consummation with night.

Perhaps his favorite fucking time of the day is this hour, after dinner. When the sky begins to transition in a way that kills the heat of the day, buries business hours. Rarely over the week can he toss his phone aside and forget the block of microchips and Big Brother that tethers him here, to his castle—to his bride, his home. Flesh and blood that cries out in the night and, five days a week, searches for him.

Fifty hours a fucking week he lives here, at home, through the screen of a cellular phone — something unthinkable even forty years behind him.

When he isn’t ignoring passengers in that fucking Chrysler and trying to act his perceived age and be all professional and shit, he’s dreaming about the right here—the small creek that’s a mile to the east. The cactus and bluebonnets that paint the desert mesa like a Monet, the open sky that shows him God every time he rises with the day’s colors.

Away more often than not, by the time the headlights of the limo splash along the perimeter fence, swathing this small slice of his in milky light, he’s borderline forgotten what the four walls and a floor looks like. How it lathes open his heart like a knife in hot butter.

By the time he takes a few deep breaths of the place, adamantium in his chest kicking out more poison that, somehow, hasn’t put him six feet under yet, he remembers. He longs, curses the days he’s away and silently vows to, in some way, never leave his fortress of solitude, this sanitarium of bliss. It’s bad enough working for the man and punching Uncle Sam’s fucking clock, logging driving hours under a license tethering him to the government like a honing beacon—worse yet, abandoning the so there of her arm draped along his chest as she crashes hard in bed, snoring slightly.

Prying himself away from warmth of fresh sheets, thick blankets that drive back the world. Slipping into the rig with the scent of her, the only true thing in his life the last four decades, clinging to his clothes like the lover he’ll never let her not be.

Kings were never meant to leave their castles, and he’s away too damn often.

Thick cigar smoke kicks into his chest as he takes a pull of the thing, sweet tobacco calming the hot edge of his blood as Logan drops his weight, fully, into a patio chair. Kisses of sunlight still linger in the cement apron beneath his feet, and the Wolverine stretches his toes fully against the concrete’s texture, relishing in the bite of it.

His chest all but collapses off a weighted sigh, tension from the cab of that fucking Chrysler bleeding off him like a shed skin, lost in the dwindling light of the day that quickly speeds towards evening—and he can’t not notice the sky.

She’s beautiful, the canopies of God. Looking down on him with a wink, a teasing that he anticipates with great relief to be finally home.

Tossing his lighter on the patio table beside him, which is rusting and cockeyed from a missing foot, he massages the bridge of his nose. Entirely ignores the rustling movement spilling through the propped-open door leading inside to the makeshift kitchen their thrown-together living conditions allows. He doesn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know it’s her, milling about the kitchen—putting things away, tidying spaces that activities of the day with children doesn’t allow.

Even from here, her bare feet on the oil-stained, once-refinery floors are unmissable—he’d been listening to her for timeframes he can’t recall, but every time, most of the time, feels like a new discovery. Rattle of pans and the soft hum of her voice carrying a tune floods him with a sense of domestic pride Logan has never felt—like a lion, basking in the sun of his lands, of his pride.

His.

Excitement jumps through his frame when her movements near the door. Her energy in the atmosphere cracks like a whip, bites at him in a way that ravines down his spine with molten, balmy good. Heat bottoms him out in the base of his gut, like it always does whenever he can smell her — and he can, body be damned, smell her.

Fresh out of the shower, Logan is a breath away from demanding her come, forcing her compliance in him licking the dew from her skin, feasting on the beads of water that fall from the ends of her curls. Practically able to taste eucalyptus and whatever else shit she works into her skin overrides the tobacco smoke hanging out under his nose, renders him a little dumb in his cock.

Taken aback to the first time Logan committed the scent of her to memory, the first time it became a core part of him, his jaw tenses a little with the effort not to groan.

It had been raining, the scent of earth so strongly that for seconds, it was all he could taste and think — until she’d brushed up against him, wet hair and saturated clothes accentuating every cut and line of her like an Aphrodite. He’d been so gobsmacked with her coming up under the arm he offered around her shoulders, Logan had transfigured. He’d never been the same.

A core part of his biology changed, smelling the sharp mints of her shampoo, the musk of rain and sweat on her skin—it’s all he wanted. He changed, she changed him—and moments like this, remembering, unlock parts of him Charles Xavier, Weapon X, the world had tried to chain like a creature.

Every damn time.

Takes reasonable amounts of willpower to keep his dick from twitching between his legs, but that’s never new. Skeptics waxed not-so poetic about honeymoon phases, sex—all shot out of a marriage union after the first five years.

Laughable fucking insanity.

Whoever they were, well—they were fucking insane. They’d been together four decades — he was 200 years old. She was pushing 70 but regen lied about it – she hadn’t stopped looking like the day he’d met her, young and stupid and pretty, and parts of him suspect she never will reach the same haggard and graveside appearance he does.

Hopes not, anyway — a twisted, sick part of him liked people watching them, pointing questionable fingers.

What the hell is a pretty thing like that doing with an old fuck like him?

It unlocked primal, animalistic tendencies he’d only ever feared, but kept him satiated. Their sex life was fantastic. Damn near pornographic.

You’re a sick fuck, Logan.

Familiar honey-thick heat drips from his core, down to his cock. Lazy fingers brush at the buckle of his belt, toying with the idea of jacking off to imaginations, to fantasies — to live they’ve lived, love already signed and sealed. Logan doesn’t bother, there’s a full world of the unexplored to discover with her underneath him, chanting out his name—he need only ask.

She never denied.

“You want a beer?”

Her voice snaps him from his consideration of his feet, propped up on the edge of the patio table. Of course he wants booze, she knows that — but finds the need, the will to ask anyway.

Before he can properly respond, a chilled bottle taps his shoulder, cool glass managing to cut through the layers of suit jacket and shirt as it dangles between her near-boneless, lithe fingers.

“Here, enjoy,” from behind his shoulder she dips low, angles her head to kiss his cheek sweetly. “I’ll be right back, gonna check on little man.”

It’s the sweetest sound in the world, truly.

And if mention of his son doesn’t ever manage to stop making his chest swell with pride, his bones ache, it will be too soon — it’s never really anything he’d ever envisioned for his life, fatherhood.

Two centuries alive did things to a man. A good woman, religion — the first cry of his son ripping apart the air around their room had devastated him. Ripped away the old shell of a man and stitched together a new man of dust and heart in a way Weapon X could never explain.

The day-to-day of her growing with his seed, glowing with innocent, new life in her womb had been transformative—unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

Religion didn’t even properly describe it—poetry, song, story. Nothing compared, he was sure. Logan, for one of the maybe-handfuls of time in his existence this side of the grave, had cried the day he’d held his child—his son.

He could weep again, replaying the memory of her nuzzling his baby against her breast, drawing him to the place beside her, “Get over here, Logan—be here with us,” it still visits him in the night, when he dreams. In the quiet of a mute limousine cabin area, when the night is still.

A perfect cocktail of them together, of mutation and humanity not yet touched by the outside world—their innocence, born again. Breathing.

His son. His own son.

Logan kept the picture of her nursing for the first time, post-delivery sweat and gall, as the background of that fucking cell phone, and he wouldn’t deny that he looked at it often. Thought about knocking her up again, just to have another — to have a series of photos that never outgrew that post-delivery quiet, the reverence of that moment.

They hadn’t talked about another kid, not since his birth—Laura and Eli kept the house alive, were handfuls Logan couldn’t even imagine in five years from now. Laura was just beginning to enjoy schoolwork, to approach the new baby.

Their “whoops” pregnancy had complicated enough, another would be chaos on a level he couldn’t fathom.

But damn, if he didn’t enjoy the thought. Logan was not too big to admit that he was proud, another new trait he found himself admonishing. A photo of the three of them tucked into the ventilation slots of the dash often triggered break-the-ice conversations with his passengers — your wife and kids? They’re beautiful.

And fuck him if he wasn’t the proud husband and father who didn’t stop talking about them like a babbling idiot, which so wasn’t him in any universe he could understand or imagine.

Mhm, sure is. Laura, she’s almost twelve. And Eli—little man is just learning to hold ‘is head up, little tank of a thing — growin’ fast, faster than I want, the both of ‘em, and Mare—there ain’t words for what kind’a momma she is—

And truly, there never, will never be, enough words to adjective this feeling.

Basically, he'd turned into a regular Mr. fuckin’ Brady.

Attention triggered over his shoulder by the creak of the door’s hinges, Logan cracks open the beer, tosses aside the cap to the table like it’s nothing. Pulling long on the bottle, the tick of plastic knocking against itself draws up his brow, only making sense when she steps into his peripheral — a sight that drops his feet off the table with gusto.

Snaps him to attention like a fucking soldier.

Fiddling with the all-too familiar breastpump gizmo that’s basically attached at her hip with how often of a presence it maintains, all moisture evaporates from the back of his mouth as she stands there, hip cocked, in little more than that tiny stupid satin robe that makes him lose his fucking mind.

Curls of hair frame her face from where they’ve fallen from the lazy clip she’s thrown into her hair, her skin fresh and adew, still, from that moisturizer she has him bring home. Even untied, the robe hides more of her than he wants, barely able to clock the neon fucking thong clinging to every curve of her hips for dear life.

Very quickly Logan recalls that he’s been away from home for five days, every one of them pistoning hot blood that laps for revenge in his cock. He’s hard in a way that aches, in seconds, and she doesn’t even bother to notice, too busy with that damn machine that gets far more VIP access to her tits than he could ever dream.

She’s close enough to reach, and he does, thick fingers tugging at the front of her robe with purpose.

“Havin’ a time with that, sweetheart?”

Cigar hanging low against his bottom lip, his other hand waves her to come hither, her eyes lifting from her handiwork to oblige him, “Give it ‘ere.”

Taking it from her, he sets it aside on the table, beckoning her forward to stand between his knees. The look on her face is defeated, almost disinterested. Tired pulls at the corner of her eyes, though there’s still a trace of sparkle in the depth of her ocean blues.

His hand brushes open the robe, fingertips skimming over the expanse of her abdomen, bare and pale in the fade of the sun.

Entertaining the idea whether or not he’s going to choke on the smoke of his cigar at the mere sight of her, his fingers brush the material of the thong flossing the meat of her hip, eyes cutting to consider her breasts, now, bared before him at eye–level.

Fuck fuck fuck—

Swollen and full, visceral fingers of pleasurable ache grip his low spine, toying with his blood like it’s a plaything. It is, it’s her toy, her to do with what she pleases — and she knows that, most days. When she needs to.

And Logan knows there isn’t anything innately sexy about what needs to happen, here — she actively hates this, this required thing of her. Has told him so, on multiple fronts, despite his best attempts to change her mind.

Logan, there isn’t anything sexy about this — it hurts, it’s time consuming, I feel vulnerable—

Which, he concluded, was exactly why it was the single most beautiful thing that lapped his mind at all hours of the day, when he was off his game.

There wasn’t anything like it in the world, a woman’s body. Never had understood until she’d given a son, until he’d been privy to watching the design of a woman’s anatomy actually at work. How it could receive, how it could multiply — how it could sustain a life, produce lifeblood. Nutrients not found naturally anywhere else, intimacy of its own kind.

Such vulnerable beauty stirred a desire to protect, to defend, he hadn’t experienced before — and it was sexy as all hell. Robbed him of sensible thought, of sanity. When he was alone, when he wasn’t, he starved thinking about it—hard and lusting.

Enough to drive a man to his knees in worship.

A low, hungry moan rolls around the adamantium in his chest, hands moving to gently take the weight of her tits in his palms. Electricity may as well rip through him like a current, because every time is like the first when he touches her —it’s never the same. It’s always new and unique, always leaves him starving and curious.

But her hiss is sharp, features twisting in a hot writhe as her hand finds his shoulder. Strong fingers biting into his muscle tells him that this is familiar pain — that this is anything but what he’s experiencing, anything but what he’d give his right arm for it to be.

It crucifies him, nearly.

A crying shame. “You’re full, darlin’,” and if that doesn’t ignite something in the pit of him, he doesn’t know what, “didn’t do this today, did ya?”

Lack of reaction says more than words ever will, no. Overseeing Laura’s schoolwork and tending to their son, while also managing what shambles of a home this shelter actually provides keeps her busy — he works, and she maintains life here, this refinery, this shell of a life he’s managed to provide. While she'd never complain, it is far from the white-picket fence American dream he’s supposed to strive for, provide. It’s a slippery slope into hell, trying to keep them all safe. Alive. Well.

Mutants living the shell of a mutated life—fucking ironic.

Gently and with care his hands form around the curve of her breast. It takes everything he’s got not to touch, to feel, to play, but the look on her face—the way she nearly cries, gives him pause. Hesitance.

“Easy,” she brushes at his hand, thumb gently grazing over one of her sensitive nipples, “please,” her murmur has grit, but isn’t viscous—like a dog whimpering from receiving care, she squirms a little beneath his touch, “that hurts.”

“I can see that, sugar,” leaning forward, he pulls the cigar from the corner of his mouth and outs it on the arm of the steel patio furniture, slips the remainder in the front pocket of his jacket.

Logan gently brushes his nose against her breastbone, able to scent the sweetness beneath her skin. He tries to forget what it tastes like, hands instead slipping around her middle to gently knead the burning muscle of her shoulders, knots that are hot to touch, “You need somethin’ from me?”

It means everything and nothing, stirs his dick like a fucking ocean.

Her voice is resigned, small. “Not that, not right now," fingers card through his hair, a small smile teasing the corner of her pretty mouth, “can I just talk about some things, for the weekend? V’missed you.” Her hands move to gently skip her nails through his beard, Logan’s fingers tracing the line of her thong, temptingly.

“Sit back, honey. You’re crowding my seat, Wolverine.” Wolverine. Always her Wolverine, she’s always his. Two Wolverines.

Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine the idea would be so good.

Logan doesn’t need to be told again.

Shifting his hips forward, making room on the spread of his thighs, she swings a leg over him and gently seats herself on the plush of his thighs. Reaching past him for the pump, Logan relishes in her weight, how it straddles the cradle of his hips something beautiful, how it manages to constrict his chest to barely breathing levels of oxygen deprivation.

Keening, head spinning, she begins to hand express, the soft whir whir whir of the pump beneath her hand taking up more space in his ears than should be considered righteous.

Staying busy on her body is never a problem—his hands grab at the meat of her opened thighs, fabric of the thong at the juncture of her legs pulled so tight he’s liable to snap in half.

Dizzy on the cocktail of scent—of her core, her skin, the saccahrine sweet of milk, eucalyptus in her hair—he can’t even manage a drink of his now-lukewarm beer. Sweat seeps through the layers of his clothes, riling up his skin — he’s hot to the point of overdrive. Redline and it’s stupid.

Fairly certain that he’ll bite the inside of his cheek until it’s shredded to nothing, Logan is all but a little dizzy when she takes his chin between her fingers.

God, please — don’t ever let it not be like this. “Logan? You listenin’ to me?”

Her brow peaks, his hand lifting of its own will to her opposite breast. Mostly ignoring his touch, she bites the corner of her bottom lip—he feels her bristle under the attention. Pull of muscle in her legs is unmistakable, God Himself could see it.

“Hey, focus, will you? I’m asking you something, here.”

He hasn’t, not truthfully. She said something about the lady's group at the little church down the way inviting her somewhere, probably for the weekend. He’s too selfish to let her go but could deny her nothing — something about Laura swims through the back of his head, but he isn’t sure.

How she expects him to think straight, dressed so pretty in hardly anything, he’ll never understand.

His lifted brow and cocksure smile gives her pause, she pushes at his shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Good God, Logan, you’re impossible,” and she goes to swing off his thighs, but his hands at her hips hold her fast, drags her down to his lap. A little harder, until her full weight drops.

He groans, but tries not to growl —it’s a sad attempt, really.

“Baby, please, this is important t’me —”

Oh, and he knows. “Mhm, I know that,” his chuckle is breathless, airy—turns into a twisting, dark growl when he pulls at the line of her thong, snaps it against her little rolls that he’s been dreaming about for days, “mmm—nrgh—but darlin’ —”

“I’ll suck you off later, Logan – but I’m talking to you about Eli. You know, our son? Would you concentrate just a little, please?”

Aw, hell—Nothing about her tone is serious, but mention of her tight mouth on him severs his last bit of composure.

God only designed a man for so much, he was within Biblical grounds for fucking her within an inch of her precious, regenerative life.

His head snaps up at attention from the back of the chair, and with a dark glint of a smile, he drives her hips down hard on his thigh, her gasp a little too strong to be that surprised.

And he holds her there, knuckles white with the effort to drive her weight fully against the line of his muscle.

“Talk like that is li’ble to get you fucked out of your mind, darlin’,” sitting forward, he presses a hot kiss to the curve of her unoccupied tit, fighting her hand away from the pump to manage it himself, harsher than necessary, “I am this close to losin’ my fuckin’ composure, baby, so be nice.”

Mean, he rips her robe down off her shoulder to suck a hard, dark mark onto the top of her breast, and she all but collapses against his chest, the taste of her pearling sweat almost savory against his tongue.

“You’re so mean, Lo,” breathless, her lips skip over the throbbing pulse in his neck. “Just want you to distract me,” sing-song, feigning innocent sobriety, his pretty wife’s tongue lathes at the pool of his collarbone, tongue dragging at the sheen of sweat drawing up on his skin at her touch, low against his Adonis belt.

“It hurts, you know,” now it’s quiet, an admission. It should whip him into shape, but instead, it takes him apart.

“Just wanna talk.”

Logan’s mocking chortle is dismissive, if not a little cold.

“Fuck me,” breathless, his hand finds her hair and pulls her up, into a hard kiss that’s wet, hungry. Her breathy moan is shallow, and Logan forgets all about the busyness of his hand at her tit.

“You wanna talk. Fuck, darlin’— it’s been five days.”

“You’re such a kid,” matching his meanness is one of his favorite ploys, it’s enough to driving him over the edge of sanity. “Can’t live five days without me — whatever did you do before me, Logan?”

Taking her face in his hands, he pulls back, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“Dreamed of you,” the corner of his mouth ticks up in a quicksilver little smirk, “I still dream’a you, darlin’, whenever I ain’t here.” Kissing her slowly, unhurried, her taste is like honey. Her body like home, an extension of him he can’t even begin daydreaming of without wanting to weep.

Giggling, awwwws him like a child. “I suppose I should give you somethin’ to dream about, huh, Lo?”

And his dreams have never been so alive.

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fatandnerdy30 · 1 year ago

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please write a protective Scott Lang one as him as the giant 🥺🙏

Ask and you shall recieve!!

Scott was driving along when suddenly he got a call and on his radio the name 'PEANUT' blared at him in bold capital letters. Quickly he answered, his voice ringing with worry. "Cassie? Are you okay? What happened?"

"Dad....I need your help..." Cassie's voice was quiet and he could hear suppressed sobs on the other end of the phone. In an instant, he turned the whole car around, other vehicles blowing their horns at him, but Scott simply waved and began speeding the other way towards Cassie's school. She had just gotten into college and for her to call her dad for help meant it must be a big deal.

He drove as fast as he could before noticing there were lights in his rearview mirror and he groaned as he was pulled over by the police.

Stopping the car, he slammed his hands on the wheel and waited for wha felt like an eternity for the officer to get out of his car and make his way to Scott's window. "Do you realize how fast you were driving, sir?" The officer asked.

"Yeah, but there's an emergency and my daughter called, in tears I might add, so I'm on my way to get to her and I know I was going a little over the speed limit, but c'mon, it's my daughter." When the officer's face stayed the same, Scott sighed. "Do you have children, officer?"

"Yes I do, but I still don't speed and drive recklessly. Licence and registration."

Knowing he was getting nowhere, he pulled his backup card. "You know I'm an Avenger, right? Ant-man? Recognize me?" He circled his face with his hands.

"I know who you are, but Avenger or not, you need to follow the laws. What kind of example are you setting for the kids out there if they were to see you speeding? Now, license and registration. I won't ask again, Mr. Lang."

Scott sighed and reached into the glove compartment, pulling out the document he needed, and then produced his license with a swish of his hand, hoping to make the man smile at least once. "No? Nothing....all right, not everyone likes up close magic, I guess." He handed them over and watched the officer move on back to his car and get in.

After a few seconds, Scott began tapping his hands on the wheel. This was taking too long. His daughter was crying her eyes out at this very moment, over who knew what, and this officer was taking his time with his computer! Well, that was enough. He had to get to Cassie now!

Jumping out of the car, he began walking a safe distance away before he heard the cop yelling. "Return to your vehicle, Mr. Lang! Don't make me repeat myself!"

"Sorry, can't do that!" Scott yelled back, turning to face the officer. "Emergency!" With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled on the gloves, his helmet appearing from under his hoodie and clicked the button.

The world got smaller and smaller the more he grew, and he watched the police man and his vehicle become toys as he reached his full height. It took a minute for the vertigo to stop before he took his first steps, being careful of the cars under his feet. "Sorry, excuse me," he said to no one and yet everyone as he passed.

Once he was off the highway, he turned to where he knew Cassie's school was and walked as quickly as he could, waving to a few kids who jumped up and down at the sight of him, chuckling at their enthusiasm.

Cassie sniffled as she sat in the bathroom stall hugging herself. How could she be so stupid? SHe grabbed a peice of toilet paper and blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She was about to throw it into the trash when the ground started rumbling and immediately she knew it was her dad. Getting up, she ran out of the building, ignoring the students who were simply staring up in awe and shock at her father's large form.

He towered over the trees on the campus and made the ground quake with each step. His legs finally came to a halt out in the parking lot where car alarms were going off like crazy, but Cassie didn't notice any of that.

Instead she was focused on the large head that kept looking around before the face plate came down and her father's face was on full view. "Cassie?" He called, his voice echoind through the air like a living megaphone.

"Dad!" The girl called, coming to a stop just before his feet, panting with tears streaming down her face. Slowly the living building collapsed as Scott knelt down and made a soft noise in the back of his throat.

"Oh peanut. What's wrong? I came as quuick as I could." Slowly he brought a hand out and wrapped it around the girl and immediately she flung herslef into the fingers that were bigger than her by at least a foot.

"Thanks for coming, dad," Cassie sniffled as she nuzzled into one of the fingers, not caring about her hair. "I'm so stupid," she cried, her sobs coming out like hiccups. Suddenly the hand tightened and Cassie found herself being lifted to her dad's stern face.

"Never say that about yourself," Scott said not unkindly. "You're the smartest, bravest girl I know, peanut." He smiled and brought his other hand up to gently wipe the tears from her cheeks the best he could. "Now, tell me what this was all about."

"My geometry teacher...he....he said he would fail me if I didn't....do things for him,..." She blushed as she remembered the words that came from the man's mouth and looked down. "I can't afford to fail this class, but I can't do those things, dad..."

Anger filled Scott as he stared at his daughter's red face, seeing tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. "He WHAT?!" Yelled Scott, not even thinking about his size and winced when Cassie held her ears. "Sorry...but I'm glad you told me, sweetheart. You stay here, daddy will be right back."

"Dad what are you gonna do!?" The man was already lowering her to the ground, anger written all over his face as he stood. "DAD!" Cassied called, scared for the safety of the man who had verbally assaulted her. She tried to run after him, but her dad was too fast in his current size and she had to stop and catch her breath.

Scott made his way to the school, his brow furrowed with anger as he took every step it seemed to rise. How dare that man confront his sweet little girl with those disgusting words! He would have a little chat with the man.

Making his way to where he knew the math department building was, he stopped and looked down at the terrified faces of both teacher and students alike. "Excuse me, where can I find Mr. Phillip's geometry classroom?"

One teacher pointed to the side of the building and Scott nodded. "Thank you." He took a step and lowered himself to kneel and look into the windows. Screams of fright could be heard from each classroom he peeked into, but it soon became an awed hush as they recognized his face.

Finally he spotted the classroom and raised his head to the top floor, where he found the culprit talking to a female student. The girl looked terrified but had yet to see Scott's face. In fact, both people in the room seemed to not even notice him until he took a finger and tapped on the glass, making the both jump and turn around. "You," Scott called, angrily looking at the man. "I wanna have a word with you." The teacher's face paled and he turned to run from the room.

Not caring about the damage, he broke the windows, Scott smashed his hand through the glass and quickly reached in, careful not to hit the woman in the room, and grabbed the teacher just as he was about to leave the room.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked the man, dragging him out into the light of day by the collar of his shirt. The man was dangling at least fifty feet from the ground as Scott glared at him, his legs kicking and tears streaming down his face.

"Put me down, please!"

"Not until we've had a good chat. I heard you said some pretty nasty things to my daughter, Mr. Phillips. And I think you were saying those things to the girl in there as well." Scott turned his attention to the girl who was staring at them both.

"Am I right, miss?" The girl nodded fast. "See? You're a piece of filth that I can't stand being around my daughter."

Speaking of Cassie, she came around the side of the building, panting. "DAD! What are you doing?!"

"I'm simply making sure that this creep doesn't get away with what he's been doing. In fact, why don't you alert the media what this scumbag has been doing?"

"I don't need to.." Cassie pointed to where a news van was parked, the camera pointed right at him and the teacher.

"Perfect." Scott got up and took a step towards the van, the newscaster shaking as he stooped. "Good afternoon. I have something for you." Scott lowered his hand and put the teacher in front of the camera. "Now, tell the world what you did." The man was silent for a moment, and Scott pushed him forward with a finger, almost making him fall.

"I...I told my female students that if they didn't do....certain favors for me...that I would fail them and make sure that they were kicked out of the school." Mr. Phillips hung his head, knowing that his career was over the moment he was put in front of the camera.

"That's a good molester," Scott said high above their heads. "And the window I'll take care of, by the way," he told the press, the camera then zooming in on the destroyed classroom. "Sorry about that." He then lifted the man into the air again paying no attention to his screams. "Now, I would like a written apology to each and every girl you threatened from your jail cell because that's where you're going."

Mr. Phillips felt something warm running down his pantleg and was too ashamed to bring it up to the giant man as he hung by his collar until he was put into a fist.

"Cassie, let's go get some ice cream," Scott told his daughter, stooping to let his daughter climb up on his palm. He then stood and started walking back to his car.

Officer Phelps was trying to radio in what had happened when suddenly the road started shaking again and he looked up to see Scott Lang coming his way, this time with a girl seated in the palm of his hand, talking and smiling at him like this was completely normal.

"Sorry about running off like that, officer," Scott said. He stopped and knelt down, letting his daughter off his hand and bringing his fist over to the police car. "This is a little present to make up for it." He opened his hand and let the teacher fall out into the road, the man tumbling a little bit. "A little jailbird in the making. Ask him and he'll sing you a little tune of every wrong he's ever done. Isn't that right, Mr. Phillips?"

The man nodded, not even covering his soaked pants. "I did, officer, I did it to all those girls, I swear. Just please don't let him pick me up again!"

Scott then nodded at the officer and hit the button on his right hand, his size starting to decrease until he stood a little taller than his daughter. "C'mon, ice cream is on me. We'll go to where I used to work, they love me there." He wrapped his hand around Cassie's shoulder. "Oh, and you can send my stuff to the FBI, officer. There's an agent there who'll know what to do with it."

With that, he and Cassie got into the car and drove off like nothing had happened.

#giantman #scott lang #cassie lang #Protectivefather #g/t #giant tiny #marvel g/t #Mentions of abuse #marvel+gt #marvel g t #marvel fanfiction

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