#and the several walls he pinches on the way too the roof

[dark-elf-writes]

Hayato looks at Bakugou and sees a twisted fucked up reflection of himself. A world where he was praised for his fancy Quirk (Spark, able to create sparks he uses for dynamite.) where his parents spoiled him instead of hurt him. Where he was told he deserved it because he is the best. Not because he worked for it. Not because he bled for it.

They aren’t the same and he nearly murders Kirishima who says it, laying it out how they’re different. But god are they the same to.

(Bakugou isn’t happy being told he’s spoiled but once it gets pointed out suddenly his actions stop being so forgivable by the class)

THIS

This is pretty much the entire Hayato basis of their mutual hate relationship, because Hayato doesn’t care that much about Bakugou but he hates the pieces of him that are too similar. It’s like the worst kind of funhouse mirror. The horrible reality of what might have been. The realization that just for a second he wanted it.

(It would have been so much easier if his parents had spoiled him. Had treasured him. The life of a spoiled mafia prince would have been so much better than the half feral street rat he was at eight or leaving the only place he had ever known to cross the world in the hopes someone might actually want him.

He would never regret meeting Tsuna. Never regret everything he had done to get him there standing at the tenth’s side.

He only wished he hadn’t needed to suffer so much.)

It’s loathing for that piece of him that made him hiss the words at Kirishima. Made him spit them between clenched teeth like he couldn’t wait to be rid of their taste.

“I am nothing like him.”

He isn’t. He can’t be. Tsuna wouldn’t want him if he was. He wouldn’t be worthy to stand at Tsuna’s side if he was.

Kirishima’s eyes widen, realizing perhaps he had lit a fuse he couldn’t put out, but Hayato wasn’t done.

“That little fuck who has never been told no in his life? That has never once been told that he was anything but the best? I’d die before i let myself be like him.”

He turns on his heel, shoving through the door and past Baseball Freak’s reaching hand. Fuck all of them. He needs a god damn cigarette before he blows something up.

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 13)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (12) | Next (14)

Word Count: 2.6k

------ Chapter 13: Insignificance ------

Tanya continued to struggle against the giant fingers holding her, even as they retaliated with brutal force. “L-l-let me go,” she stammered in defiance of the unpleasant constriction to her ribcage. 

Ronny marched forward in silence, brows furrowed in a scowl. He considered ignoring her, but her incessant wriggling was beginning to wear on his nerves. “If I let you go now, you’ll fall to your death,” he grumbled, squeezing his fingers in a warning. 

Tanya sucked in a sharp breath as she peered over the side of his fist, to the precipitous decline far below. She imagined plummeting, tumbling down the impossible distance, where those gigantic polished shoes that strode forward would stomp her into jelly without the slightest hint of remorse. She wilted in defeat. There was no escape from his clutches. She couldn’t fathom the grisly tortures that awaited her. What if he was cruel, and loved to tease and torment his prey? What if he was violent and bloodthirsty and derived gratification from slicing her to ribbons? What if he was some sick pervert and made her perform for him? She felt ill as her thoughts ran wild. 

The giant prince carried her into his room. His servant was present, tidying up his mess. When the servant saw him, he bowed and hastened to get out, lest Ronny find a reason to scream at him or beat him. Ronny glared at his inferior but let him go without any verbal abuse. He narrowed his gaze at the new miniature house set up on his bedside table. He didn’t like it, not at all. The structure was a blight upon his personal space, unsightly and unnecessary. He didn’t want a pet human, and he was angry at his father for foisting another unwelcome burden on his shoulders. 

He didn’t bother to examine the young woman in his hand. He opened the roof of the enclosure and carelessly dropped her inside. She fell on her rear with a small cry and gazed up at him with wide eyes. For a brief moment, he paused as his dark irises locked onto her tawny ones, which were full of emotion. He stared down at her coldly. He had to admit she was beautiful, but his heart was unmoved. He didn’t care about humans, and he didn’t care about her. He slammed the lid, making her recoil, and stomped out of the room. 

Tanya was too frightened to move as Ronny left, shutting the door in his wake hard enough to make the walls rattle. Her eyes darted around the human enclosure, drinking in the details. She was surprised to see a bed, a couch, and other conveniences that she didn’t have access to while in prison. The furniture was of admirable quality, worthy of a royal—or at least, of a royal’s pet or doll. She didn’t like the lack of privacy, with the clear walls: The idea of the prince staring at her like some exotic little oddity, or watching her while she slept or bathed, made her shudder. 

By now, with her sentencing, Tanya was used to being locked up. If anything, her material condition had improved significantly. However, she would’ve traded anything to be back in her dank, uncomfortable, subterranean cell as an uncertain fate loomed over her. She was terrified. Her skin prickled with unease at every sound, every vibration. She feared the prince would return at any moment, pluck her out of her little house, and do unspeakable horrors. She settled in, waiting for his inevitable return with a pit of dread gnawing at her core. 

She was left alone, to stew in her anxiety, for several hours. As the sunlight streaming in from the window faded, the prince came back. Tanya’s heart jumped into her throat when he opened the door and clomped in. She fully expected him to open the roof again and snatch her up, but instead he ignored her again. He didn’t even glance her way as his manservant undressed him and prepared him for bed. He lit an oil lamp, laid down in bed, and read a book for a while, with his face still pinched into a perpetual glower.  

Tanya’s heart hammered against her ribs, yet the prince acted as if nobody else was in the room—as if she didn’t exist. She realized that, to him, she was nothing, as insignificant as an inanimate object, not worthy of his attention or even a passing thought. She supposed she should be relieved by this revelation, since he didn’t bother to touch or tease her, but it disturbed her deeply. She felt small—not merely in a physical sense, when everything around her was on such a massive scale, but in a spiritual sense, as if she had been reduced from the status of a person down to a speck of dust. 

The giant marked his spot in his book, extinguished his lamp, and fell asleep. Tanya was too on edge to rest. She hugged her knees with her arms and rocked in place, in an effort to calm down her racing thoughts. The moon was bright, and filtered in through the window with a soft otherworldly glow. The giant prince’s profile was illuminated in the pale light, emphasizing the appealing outline of his nose and lips and the elegant curve of his forehead. His noble features in slumber remained serious, yet less severe than when he was awake. His chest rose and fell with slow, rhythmic breaths. The sound of his breathing was deep and full and seemed to fill the room, since he was so large and close. 

As Tanya absorbed the details of his haughty countenance, observing him sleep, she wondered what kind of man he was. He seemed forbidding and cold, as frosty as the depths of winter. Yet, there was volatile emotion smoldering just beneath that icy exterior, that threatened to break through and burn with hot wrath anyone or anything that angered him to ash. Tanya sensed that he was dangerous, and she was frightened of what would happen if she awakened that monstrous rage inside him. She would need to placate his inner beast if she hoped to survive, with how fragile she would be in his giant hands. 

She turned away from the sight and curled into a ball on the unfamiliar, yet comfortable, bed, pulling the sheets around her like a protective cocoon. She eventually nodded off, until she was awakened by the vibrations of a giant servant entering the prince’s bedroom in the early morning. He was carrying a fancy breakfast tray lavishly adorned with a sumptuous feast, including a stack of pancakes, sweet berries and cream, powdered scones, eggs, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. As Tanya beheld the wide variety of foods, her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since she’d been in her prison cell, which was only yesterday but felt so far away, like eons had passed. Her life had changed drastically in only a day. 

Her blood chilled when she saw the servant was accompanied by Chester, the royal food tester. He sniffed the air, caught sight of her, and grinned with a slavering maw full of white teeth. Her heart jumped and she fled to hide under the bed. She never wanted to come in contact with that man-eating monster again. Her stomach flipped at the thought that the prince might want to eat her with his breakfast. Was that the reason she was here, and the prince was indifferent to her presence? Was she just a snack for him when his belly pined for living meat? She broke into a cold sweat as she observed Chester sample each breakfast entrée, smelling and tasting for poison. Ronny seemed bored as he waited for clearance to eat his meal. 

Chester approved the breakfast and left, along with the servant. Tanya stayed under the bed, too afraid to crawl out, as the prince scarfed down his meal. Fortunately, he didn’t appear to have any interest in eating her, and just like the previous day, he acted as if she didn’t exist. Tanya sighed with relief, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead. Just when she thought she was in the clear, however, Ronny’s father walked in. King Richard had a dreadful, sinister aura that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. Ronny stiffened; Tanya noticed his hand nearby to her on the bed clench into a tight fist.  

“How’s your morning going, Ronny? Did you sleep well last night?” the king rumbled. Even though his words were ostensibly innocuous, his tone concealed a sharp barb, as if he had a point to drive home. 

“Fine,” Ronny replied through gritted teeth. 

“Just fine? Nothing more?” Tanya shivered. Though his verbalization wasn’t directed at her, the air around her nevertheless developed an insidious chill. The king’s pale, cold eyes narrowed as he regarded his son. “Ronny, do you understand the purpose of this exercise? Why I decided to bestow upon you a human, in my illustrious wisdom? What I’m trying to inculcate in you?” 

Ronny averted his gaze, his lips settling into a thin line. “N-no,” he mumbled noncommittally. 

The king frowned, accentuating the wrinkles in his weathered skin. “You need to learn to be cruel, Ronny. To harden your heart to the suffering of the weak and vulnerable, and take what is rightfully yours. You will be the king someday, and you cannot allow yourself to be swayed by flighty sentiments of sympathy. Do you get it now?” 

“Y-yes... Father...” Ronny slumped down, as if he wanted to shrink into the bed and disappear. 

“You can’t be like your brother was, Ronny. He was weak. I won’t tolerate having a weak son, especially as a direct heir.” 

“Right.” The prince’s voice was flimsy, almost a whisper. 

The king lingered for an uncomfortably long moment, before his severe expression lightened up and he switched gears. “I brought something for you. A little gift, if you will.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a leather cord, like a necklace, but instead of displaying a charm or gem for decoration, it had a peculiar cylindrical clasp with small buckled straps hanging from the metal ring.  

He tossed it to Ronny, who squinted at the odd object with skepticism. “What is this?” 

The king peeled back his tunic to reveal that he was wearing the same necklace. He extracted it from under his shirt to reveal its true purpose, and Tanya clamped her hands over her mouth to repress a shriek of horror. The clasp and straps formed a harness for a human, which was currently occupied by a big-breasted blonde woman whom Tanya recognized as one of her fellow tributes. Only a glimpse was necessary to fathom the depths of her misery: She was stark naked, with watery eyes and a flushed face streaked with tears. The metal clasp cinched around her waist, and the straps gripped her shoulders so that she was suspended in place from the cord, unable to escape. She was clearly frightened, embarrassed, and bewildered to be yanked out and dangled so high up in the air. 

“It’s a human carrier.” King Richard smiled down at Candy as he shook the cord playfully. She let out a soft cry as she spun in a circle. He pressed her to his lips in a kiss, eliciting a grimace from her, before tucking her back into his clothes to be against his bare chest again. “I have one for your sister as well, and I have a busy day planned, so I’ll be on my way. I bid you adieu.” Without waiting for a reply from his sullen son, he left the room. 

Ronny curled his lip with disgust at the trinket. He didn’t like the idea of one of those vile little vermin writhing on his chest all day like a worm on a hook. He tossed the necklace aside and stared into the void, fuming. He despised his father. He hated him for his efforts to shape him in his own image. He resented the disappearance of his beloved older brother. He was disgusted by his sick perversions and his weird sadistic fascination with abusing tiny people. He felt overwhelmed by the burden of expectations weighing him down, warping him into the grotesque likeness of his father. 

The rage flowing through him reached a crescendo and needed an immediate outlet. Ronny, without the guidance of good parents or a trusted mentor to confide in, didn’t know how to deal constructively with his unbridled emotions. All he knew was violence, praised by his father, especially when he unloaded his wrath on the servants or humans. Thus, he was encouraged to let out his excess feelings through a show of physical force. He lifted up the breakfast tray, heaped up with half-eaten food, and smashed it against the wall with a feral scream. He took the hand-painted porcelain plates and bowls and shattered them to pieces. He stomped on the food, squashing it into a pulp and staining the carpet. He howled again and punched the wall for good measure, though he only managed to bruise his knuckles on the stone bricks. 

There was something uniquely horrifying about watching a full-grown adult man throw a tantrum like a toddler. Tanya may have even found the display comedic, if not for the inconvenient fact that the man was a giant over two hundred feet tall, and she was now his prisoner or pet. If that unrestrained fury was directed at her, she wouldn’t stand a chance. He could tear her in half, throw her against a wall or out a window, rip off her limbs, cut her open, snap her spine, chomp her into chunks with his teeth. There was no limit to the potential depravity. Tanya retreated further under the bed, until she couldn’t see the prince any longer, and huddled into a fetal position, covering her head under her arms. 

The vibrations of the giant’s footsteps traveled through the floor beneath her as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Tanya didn’t feel like coming out. Yet again, she was frightened, and she had too much from the events of the morning to process. While she was at least spared the humiliation of being stripped naked, dangled from a necklace, and other mistreatments she couldn’t envision without melting into a puddle, she nevertheless feared for her life. The giant prince might kill her with his hot temper. 

She heard a giant come into the room, and bristled, bracing herself for anything. However, the giant revealed himself to be one of the servants as he muttered to himself under his breath, “spoiled brat, always raising a fuss.” Tanya listened to his continued cursing, shards of porcelain clinking together, soapy water sloshing in a bucket, and scrubbing as the servant cleaned up the prince’s mess.  

Her stomach felt empty as she was reminded of all that glorious food, wasted. For the time being, she had lost her appetite in the turbulent soup of emotions, but she knew she’d have to eat eventually. The thought of a giant opening her enclosure to feed her terrified her, though. She didn’t want those huge hands anywhere near her; she didn’t want to imagine something so terrifying. She needed to get out of here. She crunched up tighter, like a wad of discarded garbage, and sobbed into her hands, too afraid to make a sound. 

Chapter 14

[profoundbondfanfic]

Obey His Word

Obey His Word by K_K_TiBal (@thebloggerbloggerfun) Rating: Teen Word count: 33k

When Castiel was ten years old, he was cursed to always be obedient. Now he’s a hunter—not the best one at his job, admittedly, since he’s always forced to comply with the monsters that beg for their life. Everything changes on one such hunt, when an angel named Dean saves his life, and tells Castiel that he’s searching for his missing brother, Sam. His naive callousness about humans and give-em-Hell attitude is off-putting, but Dean ends up being exactly what Castiel didn’t know he needed. As he grows closer to Dean, he tries to keep the secret of the curse close to his chest—but the past always has a way of exposing the truth. Curses are hard—but trust is harder.

An Ella Enchanted AU combined with a reverse!verse? Sign me up!! And you should sign up, too, because this fic is wonderful!

Cursed to always follow orders, Castiel finds himself in a pinch during a hunt, when the monster accidentally figures out his weakness. Thankfully - or not so thankfully, depending on how Cas sees this - an angel steps in and saves him. But there's a catch. The angel, Dean, needs Castiel's help, and he's gonna be damn annoying until he gets it.

The characterization in this is on point! Every single interaction between Cas and Dean is just magical. Their chemistry is through the roof, and the author has done a brilliant job highlighting each of their best (and their worst) traits, even with their roles reversed. Dean is of course our favorite charming asshole, while Castiel is grumpy and yet soft, withdrawn and still desperate for someone to break through his walls. This fic is not an easy read, and it's definitely intense at several points but there are plenty of sweet moments in between (small spoilers, but we get some very cute non-dates-totally-dates that are pure perfection). Plus, demi!Cas? *chef's kiss*

Honestly, this fic has everything you could ever ask for. It will keep you up way past your bed time, and it'll be totally worth it.

[notjustjavierpena]

Six Weeks

A/N: Hiya! I hope you enjoy the first chapter of my very self-indulgent Javier fic. I'm still wrapping my head around his characterization, but I hope you will love him as much as me.

Summary: Steve gets injured in the field. You end up as his 6-week-replacement.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: EVENTUALLY +18 Smut (minors DNI), cute banter, casework, office games, flirting, kidnapping/abductions

Word count: 3.6k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47206690/chapters/118942645

Chapter 1: Week One

“Six weeks? Fuck, Murphy,” Javier sounded exhausted already. He leaned against the desk as if needing some kind of support to process what he had just been told. The phone rested between his shoulder and ear as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“What do you want me to say?” Steve said from the other end of the line, “That I’m a victim of poor construction work? Connie’s already on my ass for getting up from the couch. She won’t let me go to work which, to be fair, is pretty reasonable since I can’t walk.”

Despite how frustrated Javier was, Steve was right. They had been so close to a win that both of them could practically taste the satisfaction of catching some bastard with a connection to the kidnappings that they were currently investigating, when Steve had taken one wrong step on a roof in the barrio. It had collapsed under him, and he had landed on the floor of some poor stranger’s living room. It had resulted in compensation for said stranger and a severely sprained ankle. 

“This will set us back weeks. Messina’s already calling me into her office for a meeting later,” Javier sighed and let the hand run over his hair instead.

“Just talk to her, I’ll still be working from home.”

“You know it won’t do shit to sit on your ass with a pile of outdated files,” there was a pause, “I swear, if she sends me a replacement with no clue what he is doing, I’ll drag you into the office in a wheelchair if I have to.”

“You’re funny. Just— I’m not important. The case is,” Javier could hear Steve shuffle around, then he continued, “I have to go. Talk to the boss and try to be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

*

The meeting started five minutes ago, and Javier Peña was nowhere to be seen. You eyed the clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick along as the silence between you and Claudia Messina dragged on. It felt awkward by now. 

“I’m sure he’ll be here in a minute,” she said to you when it became too much to listen to nothing else but each other’s breaths. You weren’t sure if you believed her.

“I don’t have to be anywhere else right now. He can take all the time he needs,” you said through a polite but very fake smile. You were being transferred from your own unit to the DEA against your will. Messina had specifically asked for you due to your (successful) work on similar abduction cases, but you suspected that it was also due to a need for not being the only woman in the room anymore. 

The fact that she was forcing you to be working with Javier Peña, woman to woman, didn’t seem to bother her. Javier fucking Peña, who was known for being a selfish, overly aggressive and ambitious man who treated women like notches on his bedpost. Despite his charming character and handsome looks, you were certain that this would be six weeks in hell, trapped with an arrogant man with a shitty attitude towards you and all you wanted was an equal.

You would have to put up a brave face as well as a fight for being taken seriously. It wouldn’t have been the first time in your career that you had to prove your worth to a mediocre male agent. The problem was just that Peña wasn’t exactly the definition of mediocrity; he was ruthless and, for the most part, got the result he needed. Word got around.

Seven minutes past, agent Peña walked into the office looking like he was too important to be here. He most likely felt that way too with the way he didn’t apologize for being late.

“Agent Peña,” Messina said, tone anything but kind, “Thank you for taking the time to join us.”

She then introduced you to him, and Javier looked bored with the conversation. You crossed your arms over your chest, refraining from rolling your eyes. He did give you a glance as she said your name but that was it. 

“Look,” Javier said the first chance he got. You prepared yourself for what he was about to monologue about, “Murphy and I got this under control. I don’t need or want a new person on the team and in on the case, it’ll just slow everything down with how much I have to work just to brief them— her.”

“I’m from the Kidnappings and Missing Persons unit, jackass,” you made yourself a little taller. Javier scoffed.

Messina raised her voice, standing up from behind her desk, “I don’t care if you both end up killing each other as long as you finish this job first. Agent Peña, this isn’t a pick and choose situation. The parliament is in deep distress, and it needs you two to fix it. Lives are at stake, children.”

Ouch. She was right. Javier mirrored your stance as he was scolded but unlike you, he looked at the ground as it happened. 

“I’ll brief her right now,” he eventually said, leaving the room in an instant and you guessed that you were supposed to follow.

As the two of you walked down the hallway, none of you said a word to each other. You walked a few steps behind him, noticing how you could tell that he was fuming just from looking at the back of his head. He took long footsteps back to his desk, like when one would skip steps on a staircase, and his hand flexed by his side. 

“Listen,” your name sounded cruel coming from his mouth. He stopped at his desk, resting a hand possessively on top of a pile of papers, “I don’t like this as much as you do but if we’re going to have any chance of winning this, we have to work together and you have to swallow your pride. I’ll brief you once, show you how I work around here and then we’ll get to work. Whatever I say goes.”

“Easy there, tiger,” you rolled your eyes. Did he seriously just tell you to swallow your pride? Your words came with an unfriendly smile, “I don’t think anyone would question your authority with how much you just pissed all over your work station.” 

“Coffee,” he interrupted.

“What?” You replied.

“I need coffee for this.”

The break room was a sad excuse for one. It wasn’t much different than the one you usually spent time in though, rocking the aesthetic of something that was paid for by the state. The same yellowish wood cabinets of the mini kitchen, cheap chairs around a cheap table and not a plant in sight. The only wall decorations were a clock and a sign that told you to clean up after yourself. 

Javier strode past the vending machine by the door, which you longingly stared at as you passed it too. You wouldn’t mind something sweet right now when there was so much venom in the air.

Javier started up the coffee machine. He reached for the cabinet doors to search for a mug, skipping several that were staring him in the face. You assumed that he had a favorite. 

When he finally did find the right mug, you noticed him only grabbing one for himself. This sort of powerplay seemed childish, but you weren’t going to point it out and ruin your day even more. Instead, you just got a mug out for yourself. 

“Did Messina say anything at all?” Javier finally broke the silence as the coffee maker made a gurgling noise in the background.

“Not much,” you told him, leaning your hip against the counter, “But I watch the news. I know you’ve been gathering resources from my unit too. Maybe this’ll work out in the end.”

Javier let out a humorless laugh but for the first time, he was actually looking at you. You tried not to shrink yourself under his brown, scrutinizing eyes. 

“I know this isn’t ideal, Peña,” you continued with a little sigh, “But I promise you that I’m good at what I do, so tell me what you got. I’m professional. I’m hardworking like you, I assume.”

Javier’s eyes gave you a once over, the agent sucking his teeth. He looked like he was contemplating what would happen if he said no.

“It has been going on for a while. Way before it hit the news,” Javier finally let out. He turned to the coffee machine which had made a fresh pot, filling the room with the distinct smell that soothed any office worker’s mind. He poured himself a cup, hesitating for a moment before turning to you and filling your mug as well. 

“Thanks,” you said genuinely.

He clicked the pot into its place, “It started small enough for the media to be indifferent, but the president’s spin doctor? Fuck, they won’t let that go that easily, they’re all doing spin themselves. Guess it becomes interesting when it hits too close to home.”

“I heard that he was taken out in the open,” you took a sip of the scalding coffee. 

“Poor bastard was on his way home to his wife, dragged into a car and shot out in the outskirts of town, but with everything going on? Stripping the president of his way to good PR isn’t stupid.”

“So this isn’t actually abduction?” You raised a brow. Why were you here exactly? 

“Steve and I are thinking things are getting worse,” Javier started walking back to his work desk. You followed him silently, “Those other people weren’t even considered as DEA-cases before this last one.”

“So they're moving up through the hierarchy,” you placed the mug on what you assumed was agent Murphy’s desk. There was a framed picture of two blonde-haired individuals on the desk, a man and a woman who were both smiling. The man looked too American to not be called Steve Murphy.

“Yeah…” Javier was underestimating you, because he trailed off for a moment when he realized you were catching on perfectly, “Yeah, exactly that. Fuck knows who is next.”

“But why DEA? This doesn’t sound like anything drug-related. Surely, Escobar isn’t repeating himself,” you slumped down into Murphy’s chair.

“That’s what we thought,” he replied after a sip of coffee, “We’re assuming that someone is keeping up operations outside La Catedral. Escobar will need reassurance that the extradition bill ban stays.”

“Have you looked into this?” You wished that you’d had some sugar for your own coffee as you drank it. A part of you didn’t want to ask for it, because Peña didn’t need a reason to bully you about not being a real adult.

“Here’s the kicker,” Javier looked proud of himself. He gave you a little smirk, drawing out the anticipation, “The abductions and killings are all of people related to the politicians who are against the ban of extradition. I bet they’re going to ensure that the ban stays a ban.”

You grimaced. 

“He’s an evil motherfucker,” he added, “It won’t be pretty, cariño, the next coming weeks.”

“I work with cases of missing persons, cariño,” you bit back at the condescending name, “Trust me. I do ugly for a living.”

Javier held up his hands in surrender. 

“So what’s our plan moving forward?” You asked instead of commenting.

The DEA agent walked to a long filing cabinet which was placed against the wall and had seen better days. Organization was a foreign concept to these two men, you figured, because stacks of papers were scattered on top and notes with scribbles of hurried handwriting were sticking out from its drawers. You made a mental note to attempt to create some kind of system, most likely when Peña wasn't around.

He returned to your desk with a tower of beige folders, some stamped with classified information. The stack landed on the table with a thump, almost knocking over your coffee if you hadn't been quick to rescue it.

“Start reading,” he ordered, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, “I’ll be back later.”

“Where are you going?” You called out, already undoing the rubberband on the front of the first folder.

“Out.”

*

A few days of this dynamic passed. You read as many files through as your brain could handle, occasionally writing something down on a notepad, whilst listening to the sound of Javier tapping away on his typewriter. 

None of you said much to each other. You had short conversations about who was getting coffee, and you volunteered more than a few times to get a break from having your eyes glued to paper. 

In the middle of your pushed-together desks, an ashtray slowly filled with half-smoked cigarettes and the hours dragged on with nothing ever really happening. It felt a little ridiculous to think that Javier had been angry that you had no time to catch up on him and Steve’s work, when you had had nothing but time these last few days. Despite this, you knew it was only a matter of when before something new would happen.

You blamed it on the boredom, but you would also sometimes find yourself looking at agent Peña over the top of your reading material. He had a crease in his forehead whenever he concentrated, which made him look slightly older than what your initial guess of his age had been. 

“Eyes on the file, cariño,” he had said at one time with a smug look upon his face, and you had muttered something about having wanted to ask him if he’d like a refill of his mug. Then you had left the room with red cheeks, and completely forgotten to scold him about the nickname.

Now, it was Thursday afternoon. The two of you were in your usual spots, time going by as slowly as ever. You were alone in the bullpen, but there was the faint sound of people buzzing about in the building. 

You threw the latest folder onto your desk with an exasperated sigh, then leaned back into the office chair and scratched along your scalp. It made Javier look up with an unreadable expression.

“What?” You asked simply, flattening your hair again. 

“You done?” He nodded towards your pile of papers.

“You know, I’m beginning to think that you just wanted to keep me busy, so we didn’t have to talk.”

Javier made a sound at that. You smirked back at him. 

“Not the case,” he eventually replied.

“Right, but word goes that it could’ve been the case,” you rested your hands in your lap, watching him not react at all to the revelation that people spoke about him behind his back. He knew. 

“There’s words?” He didn’t even try to sound surprised. 

“Plenty,” you weren’t going to tell him that you were specifically referring to him being an asshole serial romancer.

“I thought you said that you were professional, meaning you wouldn’t believe gossip about your colleagues,” there was something teasing about his tone. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you couldn’t help but laugh, “How am I supposed to know what to believe when you don’t want to speak to me?” 

Javier removed his hands from the keys on the typewriter, “Fine. What do you want to talk about?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him, not sure what he was playing at. Then you sat up a little straighter, “Where are you from? It’s not Colombia.”

“Laredo, Texas. Next question.”

“Age?” 

“Old enough,” he went on before you could continue your rapid fire questions, “Unmarried, no kids, and I like long walks on the beach.” 

“You’re funny,” you said.

“You sound like Murphy,” he noted but you weren’t sure if that was a good thing. You weren’t even sure if Javier actually liked his partner but you hoped he did; if agent Peña compared you to him, there was no reason why he couldn’t like you too. It would make everything easier.

“Easier on the eyes though,” he added when you hadn’t replied as quickly as before.

“No mustache either,” you said with a slight grin, not about to show that you were taking his flirty attitude seriously.

That made him laugh. It felt like such a victory, a step closer to acceptance. You laughed too.

When the giggles died down again, a comfortable silence came over the both of you. You busied yourself with stacking the files that you had finished reading and Javier lit a cigarette as you both went back to work. 

*

That conversation had seemed to loosen up some of the tension between the two of you, and by Friday afternoon, you had continuous conversations that lasted more than three words. Your chest felt a little lighter than just days earlier, and whilst you had been so certain of Javier Peña’s nature before, you were starting to doubt if the rumors were true.

You found out that Javier did indeed like agent Murphy, because he frequently mentioned him in passing comments about previous missions. It seemed like he often visited Murphy and his wife Connie to eat dinner with them at their home (mostly on Connie’s demand but it might have had to do with him eating nothing but takeout). 

Additionally, you found that despite Javier’s efforts to stay hard-working and productive during these long days of waiting for something new to happen, even he experienced a certain amount of cabin fever. The cigarettes were piling up. 

Personally, you had finished Javier’s assignment of catching up on what he had called light reading. This meant that you had moved on to the neglected filing cabinet instead, working with your back towards Peña as you sorted through notes and documents without having the authority to look at any of them. It made it that much harder, so you simply settled on arranging everything into alphabetical order.

When you had reached H in the alphabet, you felt Javier’s eyes in the back of your head. You decided not to say anything, quietly swapping out the old tag on the front of the drawer with your new one, until a crumpled up piece of paper hit your shoulder.

You turned around, “Seriously?”

“I’m going fucking crazy here,” he told you.

You bent down to pick up the ball of paper then threw it back at him, but unlike you, he had every chance of catching it in his hands and he did. 

“You know, you could help me,” you noted but it only earned you the paper ball thrown back at you. You didn’t catch it.

“You’re terrible,” he snorted as the paper hit the floor in front of you.

“I’m not terrible, I’m just not ten years old,” you once again got it from the floor, weighing it in your hand for a moment before tossing it towards him in an overhand throw. He caught it again.

“I bet I can throw and aim better than you,” he was challenging you, clearly not accepting your reluctance to throw things around the office building. Unfortunately, you could never say no to proving an overly confident man wrong.

“No way,” you crossed your arms over your chest, “Pick a target.”

Javier reached for the wastebasket next to his desk, dragging it to the middle of the room. It wasn’t too far from where the two of you were sitting, but still far enough to be a challenge. 

“Ladies first,” he said after tearing off a piece of paper from his own notepad. He crumpled it in his hand, handing you the newly made paper ball after. 

“Don’t go easy on me,” you said before tossing the ball effortlessly into the wastebasket. 

Javier whistled, then nodded towards the basket, “Damn. Well, that needs to be moved further away.”

It seemed that the DEA agent wasn’t just competitive in his field but also when it came to office games because soon you were writing down scores. You would never admit that it was a relief to do something drastically different, especially not when you earned a nudge to your shoulder from him as a way of showing respect, but seeing him not be so serious was fun.

“Alright last one,” you said as you balanced on one leg on a wooden chair that you had gotten from the break room. There was a desk between you and the wastebasket, the both of you having had to add to the challenge with each throw since you were desperate to outshine each other. 

“Go on then,” Javier was standing on his own chair to get a better view. 

“A pro cannot be rushed,” you teased and you didn’t have to look at Javier’s face, but only listen to the sound he made to know that he was rolling his eyes. You raised your arm over your head to take aim, lifted your chin slightly. 

Behind you, someone cleared their throat. You froze.

“Agents, I see you’re getting along after all,” it was Messina. Javier was already off his chair, and you followed suit a few seconds after. Messina didn’t look very impressed, “There’s been another incident, but don’t let me stop you from your important work here.”

“Sorry, it won’t happen again, Ms.,” you blurted out, earning a glare from agent Peña. He was probably not one to admit to his mistakes.

“Come on, both of you, we’re going to the conference room,” she turned on her heel. 

“Suck-up,” you heard Javier say as he passed you on the way down the hall. You decided it was his way of telling you to stand up for yourself more.

[astranite]

Stargazing

Sky and star!! Scott and John!!! Stargazing, honest talks on rooftops, some tears, and many hugs.

The tags copied from ao3 because Im pretty much too tired to see straight but I just finished this and Ive been working on it for a while now and here it is!!! Im very proud of it :)--Hurt/Comfort Angst Fluff its got all of them Stargazing which you just may have guessed given the title Hugs Crying Panic Attacks Self-Esteem Issues Scott's having a bit of a time of it and so is John but they've got each other there is much hugging and hot chocolate too and definitely some ADHD Scott and autistic John

Comes in at a scraping under 6000 words, so a nice long one!!

@idontknowreallywhy Thank you for all of your encouragement along the way. I doubt this would be what it is without you. Hugs :)

A headcanon in it, which you shall see, I believe originated from a fic by @edutainer2022 Sometime in 2023. The depths of tumblr. (cites sources)

-----

A thump followed by multilingual cussing out of the very concept of gravity were not uncommon sounds when John was earth side. Scott still looked up from his paper work in concern. 

John was juggling a telescope, a blanket over his shoulder and his satchel while attempting to pick up several books. Massive, heavy astronomy books splayed out on the floor around his feet. 

He swayed, nearly losing his balance and dropping the telescope at the same time. Scott leapt up to help. He crossed the comms room from dad’s desk to where John was in quick strides to get to his brother, worry blooming. 

John straightened up when Scott reached his side, his brows pinched and face pale. 

“Johnny, are you okay?” Scott questioned. He needed to know whether this was just a momentary thing or he needed to call Grandma and/or Virgil. He’d rather not have John fainting on him. 

“I’m fine, just a bit dizzy.” John said, “Probably my blood pressure from leaning down too fast.“ 

Scott let out a relieved breath. John’s space-related health issues weren’t uncommon to be dealing with but Scott hated to see any of his brothers potentially sick or hurting. At least without a mission in the way, Scott could trust John was being truthful and not pushing past his limits.

“And don’t call me Johnny,” John added in disgust. 

So John was just fine, with that level of vitriol. Just as it should be.

“Good to hear.” Scott put on a shit eating grin. “Johnny.” 

It was his big brotherly duty to be infuriating, at least now his concerns had been allayed.

“Fuck you,” John said good naturedly.

Scott gathered the books up. John paused, hesitated, then stepped back to let him.

With both hands still full, John leant against the wall for support, eyes half closed and head tipped back.

On the biggest book, ‘ Dr J. G. Tracy’ was written across the planet pictured on the purple cover, followed by the extensive list of letters standing in for qualifications after John’s name. Scott smiled proudly to himself.

When he had them all, and they were heavy, how had John managed them with everything else, Scott reached out to take the blanket too, which was slowly but surely sliding from John’s grip. 

“Thanks Scott. I thought I had it but—“ John gave floor where the former pile had been a glare. 

“Gravity?” Scott smiled.

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

Scott shifted the books up in his arms. “Now where do you want this all?”

Since he was carrying them already, he may as well help John the rest of the way. It was easier, honestly, he wasn’t just being a smotherhen.

“Uh. I was planning to go to the roof,” John admitted sheepishly.

Scott nudged him gently. “I should’ve guessed.”

Long ago, Scott had gotten used to how John took every possible opportunity to see the stars. He’d thought the constant fixtures of their childhood would disappear when John made his dream of living in space, but they’d stayed. The telescopes from John’s bedroom window, the expeditions to every nearby and not so nearby observatory, lying outside on picnic blankets waiting for meteor showers. 

Turns out stargazing, even on earth, was just a part of who John was. The stars were constant in his universe and Scott loved how his brother loved them so much.

At night, out on the roof was always the first place Scott looked for John. In the day, so many times Scott had found John in his room, staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. Scott had helped him put up the first set, way back in Kansas when John was shorter than him because he hadn't been to space yet, and couldn’t reach even standing on a chair. When they moved to the island, the first thing John decorated his room with were more stars here too. Sometimes, when John was up on Five for long stretches, Scott would go sit beneath them, surrounded by John’s shelves of paper books and looking upwards.

They made their way out now, Scott matching John’s cautious footsteps, slow and unsteady. The balance issues from constantly being in space were worse when John was fresh down for orbit, though they never truly went away. It worried Scott, when he thought too much about it, but Thunderbird Five was never something he could take from John without breaking his heart. So Scott was always happy to slow down, to let John take his time to feel his way along, whenever he needed to. For his brother, Scott could take it slow.

The door to the roof and the wide, flat expanse were both very deliberate in their design. Having their own observatory wasn't going to stop one space brother or two from sitting up there.

Passing from the warmly lit villa into the night was sudden and jarring. Scott realised he hadn’t been outside of a building or a cockpit for too long. He took a breath, filling his lungs with cool ocean air. The clear view and barely there breeze would make landing a dream if he was flying. 

Stars covered the sky, spread horizon to horizon. John stared up at them with open delight. He placed his telescope and bag down on the roof, then stretched out his arms as if to touch the inky purple expanse above them. When John glanced back at him, Scott repeated the gesture because this was something he understood. On a perfect blue day, as the sun shone, burning away the last whisps of white clouds, the skies pulled him in with the urge to be amongst it all. That was why he flew and John launched into space. 

Scott spread the blanket out next to where the roof slanted sharply upwards, so they’d have shelter and were far away from the edge. He put the books down on a corner, preoccupying himself with neatly stacking them. John dropped to sit cross legged, immediately beginning to set up his telescope.

Scott lingered watching him as he attached it to its stand, screwing it securely in place. Long minutes passed while John fiddled with various knobs and dials. Scott knew he had a million other things he should be doing, the paperwork lurking at his desk to name one example, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

John wouldn’t want him here. He’d enjoy his evening far more without his older brother breathing down his neck. Scott should go. He made an awkward gesture at the door back off the roof, but made no movement towards it. He was probably driving John crazy just by being here, distracting him from his stars with his indecisiveness. 

Shuffling the books around had already been a thin excuse once and messing with them more would be pushing it too far, no matter how the volume second from the bottom was botheringly skewed. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms to resist straightening it. He was already pushing it too far.

Scott forced himself up, made it halfway to his feet when John pulled himself away from his telescope. His breath caught when John opened his mouth to speak.

Scott knew he was overly clingy.

The times people had called him suffocating stung. They still stung, even when he knew they were words hurled in anger and not truly meant. He couldn’t stand to hear more, because surely that’s what John was going to say. Maybe more diplomatically, more politely, but he braced himself anyway.

“Do you want to look at the stars with me?” John asked.

Scott’s mouth was glued shut. He just stared at John.

“It’s fine if you don’t.” John glanced down at his hands, now in his lap instead of on the telescope, fidgeting with his sleeves. “I just… We haven’t spent time together for ages.”

“What— what about last week?” Scott managed. John had been down last week, they’d seen each other last week.

“That was with everyone,” John said softly. “I meant just us.”

Oh. So John wanted— John wanted him to stay? 

Scott tentatively settled to sit on the blanket, next to John. He couldn’t not. If there was the slightest chance John wanted him here, he couldn’t not take and take and take. But he had to believe John, in John’s words and soft, unsure tone of voice. That John knew what he was asking for and was saying it because he wanted this too. 

After so many rescues and times in his life where John’s voice was his anchor at the end of a comm line, it was second nature to believe John. Maybe the waver in his voice was because he had trouble asking for this too.

Their knees bumped and John gave him a small smile.

Slowly, Scott unwound, letting out a breath and relaxing every muscle he’d tensed up. He leant back, bracing his hands behind him to look once more to the sky. The stars and moon seemed brighter now. What John was searching for up there, Scott didn't know, but he’d be here as he did, with John’s calm presence by his side. 

He listened to the brushing of the breeze through the trees and the rushing whisper of sea against the shores, interspersed with the fluttering of paper as John turned the pages of his books. 

John didn't need to reference his books to point his telescope at the right bit of sky, but he always brought them anyway. It was part of the routine, the ritual, a familiar comfort too weighty to bring to space. Flicking through pages of calculations, hands on the well worn covers, opening them where they fell, because they’d been read so many times before. It was another night, like this one but a long while ago, shared together when John had told him that was why he had them, connected all the way back to memories of John as a kid with mum’s astronomy textbooks, reading them by torchlight. For Scott, there was something reassuring about John surrounded by his books and his stars, his brother as he always was and was meant to be. It wasn't silly, he’d told John, that he brought old fashioned print books instead of even just a tablet, when they made John happy. 

Tonight, without the usual jets coming and going, and people hustling to emergency alarms, the island was quiet. Calm, even. 

Alan and Gordon were up on Thunderbird Five. Alan because he needed more training before he was prepared to run the station solo, and Gordon, who’d good naturedly volunteered to partner up, given John had long exceed his space hours this month. How it was going was anyone’s guess, particularly for Gordon’s mood, when Alan was likely using his temporary commanding status to full extent in bossing around his big brother. Scott snorted.

John turned to him at the sound. “What’s up? What is it?”

“Thinking of how Allie and Gordo are doing,” Scott replied. He relayed his thoughts about their younger brothers.

The corners of John’s lips turned up. “Eos is likely more trouble, even with the talking to I gave her.”

John’s code baby slash evil AI was thankfully now into causing the inconvenient type of mischief instead of the life threatening. She could be almost sweet when she’d gotten over the murderous tendencies and Scott got to know her better. He could definitely see the John in her. 

“They’ll be just fine. Might even learn a few things.” Scott had faith in his brothers’ abilities, and in the restorative properties of the celery crunch bars he’d put in the care package for Gordon.

The conversation lulled for a moment as John refocused on his telescope, before John chipped in, “Do you reckon Virgil’s figured out his masterpiece yet?”

A paint covered Virgil had been briefly coaxed out of his studio earlier in the evening with the promise of dinner. He’d made distracted conversation with Scott and John, mind clearly still elsewhere, before shovelling the last mouthfuls of food in his mouth and running off. 

Virgil hadn’t noticed the streak of violet across his forehead, emphasised by the expression he made, all raised eyebrows and gleeful realisation, when the new idea struck. To be fair, neither Scott nor John had chosen to point it out to him. He’d either see it eventually or he wouldn’t, and time would tell how many other colours joined it. 

But a Virgil in his art zone, with music coming from beneath his door, was a happy one. Reassuring for Scott too, after the weeks and months and rescues they’d all had. 

“He’s all good,” Scott said fondly. 

John echoed it with a wider smile, both of their minds on their artsy brother in the house below. 

“So, what are you searching for tonight?” Scott gestured to the sky and the telescope in a sweeping movement. 

John startled. He paused to consider then asked, “Does that mean you actually want the whole version or just the five second summary?” 

“Hit me with all of it,” Scott said. He was rewarded by John’s face lighting up. 

John’s excitement as he explained his star stuff was contagious. Scott found himself grinning. The way John flickered his hands through the air, sketching out astronomical diagrams, was mesmerising, and the way he pulled facts and figures off the top of his head was astounding.

When he showed Scott the contents of his books, Scott barely knew where to start with the calculations, because this was John’s area, not his own field of mathematics. Half the concepts went over his head until John explained them, bit by bit. 

Scott asked questions, because it had been a while since he’d looked to the stars and he was rusty on most of the finer points other than those used for emergency navigation. John was more than happy to answer them. 

They bounced questions and answers back and forth; John got to talk about his stars and Scott got to listen to his brother’s joyous excitement which he hadn’t heard for far too long. He reminded himself to call John up more often, even if it was just on the holo, to listen to him ramble about his latest research.

“You wanna see?” John asked. “The telescope is set up and tonight’s has the best conditions there will be.”

Handling any of John’s telescopes was usually a privilege reserved for a very careful Alan. Several childhood instances of toppled stands leading to cracked lenses had instituted the rule of no brothers allowed anywhere near touching range. Or, Scott cringed to think about, amateur soccer range.

When Scott agreed, John flashed a rare grin, delighted to share the stars with him.

The stars weren’t Scott’s domain the way they were for John. Both of them loved the sky but the difference was the distance. Scott much preferred to remain within the atmosphere, outside of it wasn't for him. But the sky was for them both. Him and John, who were the first ones to love it, before any of the others came along. 

Scott looked through telescope to see what John sees. 

It was… he could only describe it as beautiful. Bright pinpricks of light forming their constellations against navy sky. The planets and the stars seen from their own tiny planet in the galaxy. All brought closer by the telescope than he could see with his eyes, brought closer by sharing this moment with John.

When Scott pulled himself away from the telescope, John was watching him in nervous anticipation, twisting his hands in his lap. 

“So, what did you think?”

“They’re amazing John, thank you for showing me.” Scott poured all his honest wonder into the words.

John looked up. “They really are.”

“I missed you,” Scott blurted out. 

Immediately, he wanted to take the words back. What made him admit it, even on the solitary rooftop where no one could overhear them? Not because they weren’t true, it was always going to be true that he missed John when he was away. But usually that was something he kept close to his chest, an ache curled around his heart. His family spent plenty of time with him, even John, they just… hadn’t lately, that was all. He was being needy, asking for too much and wanting more, more, more after people already gave.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat. The stars were blurry as he looked away.

Scott flinched when John gently took his hands in his own. 

John squeezed his hands, slender fingers wrapping around Scott’s as he automatically squeezed back. 

Gripping John’s hands, holding onto him, was a lifeline built up over years and years. So deeply ingrained in who they were that it could pierce through Scott’s racing, sharp edged thoughts. 

Looking back, him and John holding hands had started when they were kids. The first time he remembered was on a trip to an aeronautical museum, with Mum telling them they had to stick together, to hold hands and not let go. Because as a kid, John would wander off out of curiosity and get left behind when he slowed down to read all of the informational signs. It had happened many times before. In hindsight, Mum was probably trying to keep Scott from running around and climbing everything too, by recruiting him for big brother duty. 

Later the gesture was an anchor for John, to lead him out of overwhelming situations, where Scott could see him shrinking in on himself at every sound that made him want to press his hands over his ears but he couldn't for appearances sake. 

For Scott, when he’s falling apart too. For John to pull him aside with a polite excuse, then away from old guard board members at Tracy Industries meetings, and out of the surveillance of crowds and reporters alike at the awful high society galas PR made it necessary to attend. Away from where people wanted, no expected, Jeff Tracy and all they got was his son, and the cordial smiles of how much he resembled his father tore Scott as deeply as the thinly veiled whispers of how much he didn’t, and he couldn't keep it up any longer.

And right now, he was falling apart, in a different place for different reasons but the chunks of his careful facade of fine fine fine are breaking off and clattering to the ground. John bears witness to it, within touching distance, within the blast radius, instead of a million miles away. 

Scott could blame his emotionalness on exhaustion. On too many caffeine fuelled late nights bleeding into early mornings this week. On hard rescues in poor conditions. Anything instead of this boiling hurt that builds and builds.

He blinked quickly, his tears stuck to his eyelashes, hot and stinging as they welled up. He tipped his head back in hopes he could keep them from running down his face. 

If he let go of John’s hands, he could wipe them away, and he and John could both pretend they were never there. But he couldn’t let go of John. 

There was no way to hide his tears from John.

Scott hunched his shoulders. He closed his eyes. He still didn’t want to know what John really thought of him. 

John’s hands gripping his own were the only point of reference he had. Scott was failure after failure, drowning in them, and John was too clever not to realise it soon enough. 

“I missed you too.” John entwined his fingers with Scott’s before he could pull away. 

The urge to tug his hands back, to take them away from John, whether in shock, or surprise or disbelief because the voice inside his head screamed he’s lying, he’s lying. Or so John couldn't pull away first, because he would, it was only a matter of time. It was always just a matter of time until everyone found out how messed up he was. Then—

Scott didn’t know anymore. He shuddered, curling in on himself, making himself smaller, making himself less of, of everything that he was.

But John was still there. Gently holding his hands. Not letting go. 

Even as Scott felt tears dripping from his chin, the tracks burning down his face. Even as he shook, heart pounding, breaths catching loud and raspy, shattering the quiet of the night.

But why, but why but why would John miss him? The thoughts whirled, as cutting as blizzard ice, through his head. And mumbled aloud, falling unbidden from his lips, they were just as awful, the same slicing edges, now out where they could harm.

John’s voice washed over him, quiet, soft words he couldn't make out. They were buried beneath the howling thoughts.

But why?

There was no reason.

No reason at all.

Nothing was left in the dark, but Scott’s worst fears, tearing him apart with no up or down or direction, his own avalanche eating him alive.

Then something broke through. Reached out into the dark to rescue him. John squeezed his hands, pulling him out of the snow, never letting him go.

And John’s voice was gentle, filtering back in like a lost radio connection.

“Because there are as many reasons we all love you as there are stars in the sky.”

“As many reasons as stars I have yet to discover.”

“More reasons than all the stars, in all the universe, that ever were or ever will be.”

John paused for a moment, taking in a breath. “Because you’re Scott.”

Slowly, Scott opened his eyes. John was close, a blur of pale face and red hair that swam into focus as he blinked. Wide, earnest turquoise eyes that saw right through him.

Heartbroken was far too easy an expression to recognise on John, not when you knew him. But so was love. His expression was a mixture of both Scott wasn’t sure what to do with.

He stared until something jagged lodged in his chest and he forced himself to look away. 

To the stars. Then down at their interlocked hands, where his own still trembled. 

He watched as John’s fingers tightened briefly. His vision blurred.

“You back with me?” John asked. The same tone he’d heard him use over comms on scared rescuees and brothers alike, but now without the static.

Scott nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure he could make his voice work.

Somehow, John understood. Somehow John understood him and that hadn’t sent him running.

“You want to take a few deeps breaths, and then we can talk?”

He nodded again, listening for John’s count. He pushed his thoughts towards the back of his mind as hard as he could.

He tried, to time his inhales and exhales to John’s voice, he really did. 

But his chest hitched, sobs tearing from his throat on every breath.

He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it. 

He couldn't even breathe calmly, not even with John counting for him, John was wasting his time.

Except John said, “Scott, Scotty. Listen to me. However long it takes, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Scott was still crying, and this wasn't how the evening was supposed to go. John was meant to be watching his stars, not having to hold Scott’s broken mess together. 

Scott probably wasn't meant to be here at all. He was meant to be doing mission reports, he should have stayed doing mission reports. Reliving awful memories of wrenching metal and screams to put lives saved and lost into official sounding sentences, at least would’ve only hurt him.

It took far too long for his sobs to lose their edge.

Too long to get his breathing back to shaky hiccups instead of hyperventilating.

For him to be left exhausted, with tears still flowing that nothing he could do would stop.

Over and over, John repeated, “You’re okay, we’re okay,” and, “I’m here.” 

Because he was still here, with Scott, and he wasn't leaving.

And maybe that meant something.

Scott couldn’t hide his tears from John, but maybe he didn't have to. Not when John was so close, not when he cared. Because John still had his hands in his own. Because John showed him the stars that were his entire world. Everything said he cared about Scott, no matter what he did.

“Would you like a hug?” John asked. 

The contact would be nice. But whether John wanted a hug, when he so often kept himself far apart. Scott shook his head then nodded. He didn’t know. He could barely think in the come down from his emotions. 

But he didn’t have to figure it out as John pulled him close.

Their hands were pinned awkwardly between them because Scott still couldn’t let go, but he leant into John, tucking his face into John’s neck, hidden from sight. 

John was wearing a navy blue hoodie which had gone through several brothers and might once have been Scott’s own, given the peeling aeroplane decal, but it was difficult to tell beneath the paint stains. 

The soft fabric soaked up his tears. Eventually he let one hand go, carefully, bit by bit and John wrapped his arm securely around him. 

Okay, he was okay. John was here. He just had to keep telling himself that. 

John didn’t pull away to ask, “Do you want to tell me what happened there?” He just spoke quietly, chin still resting on top of Scott’s head where he was curled around him. 

Scott swallowed. “Not particularly.”

“Is that because you actually don’t want to or because you think you’re fine.”

Scott shook his head. Even he had enough awareness to know he wasn’t entirely fine right now. Not with tear tracks barely dry on his cheeks.  Or clutching John like his world would fall apart otherwise because something inside him told him it would. 

“It’s I don’t know what you’ll think of me,” he mumbled into John’s hoodie. 

John’s arm tightened around him. He whispered, “Oh, Scott.”

Scott tensed up. 

“I’m not going to be upset with you, no matter what you’re feeling,” John added, quickly, tripping over his words to reassure Scott. 

“Promise?” Scott asked, stupidly, childishly, because he couldn't help it even though it wasn't something John could promise. 

“I promise,” John said solemnly. 

The words, their words, went all the way back to their childhood, of Scott gripping John’s hands, making him promise not to tell mum and dad where Scott’s super secret fort was built in the backyard. John had never broken one of their promises. Not even as they got older and it was a teenaged Scott crying his heart out in the far too tiny tree house, because he didn't want dad to see him getting upset over little things like trying hold their family together and looking after his siblings.

Their exchange soldified something between them. Their bond that had always been there and maybe he could believe always would be there. It let Scott lower his walls inch by inch, until he found the courage to speak, even if it was barely audible and he still wasn't looking at John.

“It’s fine. It’s just… You never seem to want to spend time with me anymore,” he admitted.

“Of course I want to spent time with you,” John stated gently, “Why would I not?” 

Scott choked on bitter laughter. “Why would you want to?”

He felt the moment John’s breath caught. How John hugged him close, pressing Scott to his chest. 

“Scotty,” John asked apprehensively, the childhood nickname coming out for the second time tonight, “Is this really how you think of yourself?”

Scott shrugged against John. “What does it matter.” 

John’s voice was thick, “It matters because somehow you’ve got it in your head that there’s no reason I’d miss you, and that’s not true and never will be true. It’s so, so not true.”

“When you’re earthside, you still spend all your time with the others,” he muttered in ugly, hurt words.

The sharp intake of breath from John was another regret. 

Scott was torn between running where he’d never hurt John again and holding him closer. 

As he pulled away, John’s hand still in his own brought him back. John always brought him back. So he clung on to John too, and starlight glinted from both their tears. 

He held on, and they were both shaking now. 

John’s “I’m sorry—I’msorrysosorry—’msosorryScotty,” was distressed and near silent. 

“But why?” Butwhybutwhybutwhy?

“I thought you wouldn't want to star gaze with me!” John burst out.

It was Scott’s turn to squeeze John’s hand. To have John’s trembling fingers gripping back. 

Scott swallowed hard. This was on him. He’d upset John. His own fresh tears cooled on his face, the sea breeze picking up to give them freezing bite. Scott had failed. Like he always did. But this was at the one thing that mattered above all others, of keeping his brothers safe and happy. 

Guilt laced John’s voice, heavy and suffocating. “Alan loves space nearly as much as I do, so I try to take him out whenever I can. Virgil will draw anything whether or not it sits still for long enough and he wanted to try painting the sky with watercolours.”

Scott almost didn't want to ask, “What what about Gordon?” Because why was it just not him?

He heard John sniffle. “We usually sit near the beach. Gordy watches the waves and I watch the stars. Then he wanted to know about the stars because apparently they look kinda like the constellations of bioluminescence in the deep sea.” John’s words got stuck and he choked out, “I’m so sorry Scott.”

“It’s— it’s fine,” Scott said, effect ruined by the break in his voice. By how he couldn’t let go of John’s hand, even as he felt more tears trickling down his cheeks. “You don’t need to worry, just spend your time with the others, I know you don’t get much.”

He wouldn't want to hang out with himself if he had a choice about it. 

John pulled his face away from where it was tucked in the crook of Scott’s neck. He still didn't look at Scott.

“I know you don’t want to spend time with me,” John said in a small, wet voice, “I’m boring. All I can talk about is astronomy and most normal people don’t care about it. I’m just weird and wobbly and awkward.”

“John—” Scott tried. 

“When I’m not in space, I only slow you down,” John continued.

“Johnny!”

That got John’s attention. “What,” he snapped.

“I do want to spent time with you,” Scott said, “Of course I do, I always do.” 

“But I didn’t really know. Most people don’t like me,” John stated, far too matter of fact. 

That hit Scott like a punch to the gut. “You’re just like me,” he whispered. 

Something he didn't want for any of his brothers.

“You feel like this too,” John whispered back, low so not even the stars could hear them. 

Like they were both back in that tree house, amongst their old promises. Tangled together because that was the only way they would both fit now they weren’t children anymore. All lanky limbs, knees and elbows and sharp edges digging into each other. 

At the same time, in the same motion, he and John hugged each other tighter. They were still the same jagged edges that fitted as closely as puzzle pieces, if they lined it up right. 

“It’s why— why I thought you wouldn’t want to spent time with me,” Scott said, unsure now. “Because why would you.” 

Scott took a deep breath and quoted, “Scott’s too clingy. Too needy. Too much, going too fast.” He kept his voice soft, pouring out old hurts, recent hurts, for only John to hear.

“And here I was trying not to drag you down when I could’ve held you close instead,” John murmured.

“Yeah,” Scott said thickly, “I could’ve been there for you.” 

“For you too.” John’s voice gained an edge, “That you can’t think of a single reason I’d miss you means I must be doing something wrong.”

“It’s not your fault.” If there was something Scott was adamant about, it was this.

John raised his head to look Scott in the eyes, brief, burning turquoise. “Then it can’t be yours either.”  

“But for everything…” Scott trailed off.

“I’m not going to love you less. None of us are. Not for being you.”

“I failed.” He had to say it, had to make sure John knew.

“No,” John said vehemently, “You were hurting too.”

Scott could feel John’s thundering heart pressed against his chest.

“Neither of us knew and we’re both trying, that matters,” John continued, “There’s also what we do now.” 

John was Thunderbird Five, but he was also John Tracy. He knew. He knew Scott. Scott had to trust him.

“We make each other stronger. And we hold each other up,” Scott said quietly. Because of who they were, not just in spite of it.

For John, with John, maybe it was just one day possible. 

They stayed like that, fused together in a hug, surrounded by John’s stars and Scott’s sky, for a long time. Scott couldn't remember when he’d last hugged John like this. To keep each other close, like they’d promised they would. He needed to do it more often. 

When they finally moved, because sitting in one place on a rooftop for so long wasn't exactly comfortable, neither of them went far. 

John dragged his satchel nearer and pulled out a thermos flask. 

“I’ve got hot chocolate,” he smiled, opening it to take a sip then holding it out for Scott. 

Scott took it, wrapping his hands around the warm thermos before raising it to his lips. 

Closing his eyes, he savoured it. No one made hot chocolate like John. No one except mum did.

He pressed his shoulder against John’s in silent appreciation. 

They passed the thermos back and forth, no words needed. 

When it was empty and they were both full of hot chocolate, the night was late, the stars turning overhead. They perhaps should have gone in, would’ve on another evening without all the everything that had occurred tonight, but Scott had worked up the courage to ask John to stay, just for a little while longer, and John wanted to.

John returned to his telescope and Scott settled close, with John happily leaning back on his chest, Scott’s arms wrapped around John’s middle and chin on his shoulder. John could still look at his stars and Scott got to hug him so it was a win for them both. 

The ocean breeze was picking up, becoming chilly in shirtsleeves when Scott hadn't brought a jumper because he didn't think he’d get to be out here so long. But John was warm and his hoodie soft, plus Scott could stick his hands in the front pocket, partially to annoy John ever so slightly, but also because his fingers were cold. 

He got a close up of that characteristic irritated but fond expression, caught in a John half smile, when John tipped his head to look at Scott. Scott couldn't help but smile back. 

Then John also stuck his absolutely freezing hands in the hoodie pocket with Scott’s finally warm fingers, vibrating with laughter because he did that on purpose. 

They both settled back, hanging onto each others hands again, staring upwards at their sky and stars.

[wood-row]

thinking about the medic again. he laughs and lives and breathes, but is he really?

somewhere, deep within the base, locked inside a private office, a little boy sits criss cross with his back against a wall.

Dr Ludwig pretends he doesnt hear the boy breathing, heavy, and continues filling the map with incoherent scrawls.

rain taps on the tin roof, thunders past his window. the little lamp buzzes inconsistently, illuminates only the desk, and the man hunched over it.

"We should rest." the boy says, his voice nearly lost to the spring storm. he stares at Günter. the doctor does not return his gaze, instead reaches a free hand to pinch his temples, soothing the headache that lays beyond. sweat dampens the page where his hand once rest.

its late. he considers the gurney just beyond the doors. shakes his head and looks back at the map. the letters swim.

Günter untangles his glasses from his hair. tosses them on the desk, broken, and runs a shaking hand through the fine strands that fall.

no. he resumes the stroke of the pen, working through the cramp. the boy speaks again, grating on the ears.

"we need rest."

"we dont," he hisses, turning his head to glare. blinks at the empty space.

a cigarette butt on the ground, fallen from the ashtray sat precariously on the tables edge. as he stands, he snuffs it out with the toe of his boot. looks too long at the string of smoke that rises.

the door gives way with a gentle hand. Günter stumbles into the lab, fumbles in the pitch for the overhead lights. they buzz to life, a whirring white that drives straight through the migrane.

there is a young man in the room. barely seventeen, covered in shit and ash. Günter contemplates his twin; the severed arm, the ugly scars.

"well?" Günter asks after a long silence.

the man says nothing, Günter wonders if he can still speak at this point.

this continues. the doctor moves from room to room; the hallway, he double checks the shadows, lest a glint of glasses catch his eyes from the lights.

the kitchen greets him alone, a pot of coffee still out. leftovers in the fridge.

meat on the table.

theres meat on the table.

engineer expected to be alone, trekking into the kitchen five past two, seeking the stale coffe no doubt uncleaned from the day previous. the sound of retching meets his ears, stops him in his tracks.

as he rounds the corner, medic kneels over the trash bin by the counter, grips its edge for dear life. Dell's half inclined to rub the mans back, he puts on another pot of coffee.

(cant be arsed to fix this good fucking luck)

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Good intentions

Bucky Barnes x reader

Had to divide the story into four parts, and I’m working as fast as I can to finish the rest.

Please don’t hesitate to tell me what you think :) Especially if you like it.

Everybody's alive.

When Natasha catches your reaction to seeing a soaking wet Bucky coming in from the rain, your life becomes unbearable. Nat considers herself a decent matchmaker, but what happens when both her subjects are resisting her attempts?

***

Part 1: Matchmaker

Word count: 4412

It had been raining for weeks. Racing streaks down the glass. Soft drumming against the umbrella. Big, fat drops of water splashing against the pavement, sending shivers through my body whenever they hit my skin. Two in rapid succession on my neck – don't know how, though, my coat collar was pulled up as high as it could go, and my umbrella was larger than average. Then one straight into my ear, which made me squeak in disgust. This had to be an omen.

I shook my umbrella before stepping through the door. No need to be a savage, though from the look of it, I was the only one who cared. A quick nod good morning to Nesta in the reception while making a mental note to call down the cleaning crew. The state of the floor was appalling. Mud and dirt and water – apparently not everyone remembered to wipe their feet before entering the building. And umbrellas all along the wall, dripping on the tiles, creating puddles so large a toddler would happily jump in them.

A long sigh escaped. Time for a stern talk with Nesta again. This was supposed to be a good first impression, not an impression of someone's mudroom. My stomach twisted, this was just the latest in a long string of minor complaints. If she didn't improve soon, I would have to make a note in her file and I hated being strict. Still, it was a part of my job, just like running errands before eight in the morning and longing for the coffee I left in my office. I didn't have to like it.

The elevator pinged. “Hey, Y/N.” Natasha walked out with a smile on her face. Her hair was red again, like flames cascading over her shoulders. Damn, that woman really could carry any hair colour. I nodded and smiled back. “Good morning, Agent Romanov. You're in early. What can I do for you? Love your hair, by the way."

"Thanks. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

I shook off my coat and adjusted the bag on my shoulder. "Of course. What do you need? Let me just –""

The door blew open, banging into the doorstopper before closing behind a sopping wet figure and an umbrella that definitely had seen better days. "Good morning, Y/N. Hey, Nat. Have you seen Clint?" Bucky shook himself, sending a glittering spray of water everywhere.

"No, but check the roof."

The air was knocked straight out of me. I couldn't stop the tiny squeak that tumbled over my lips.  The way his hair stuck to his face did things to me, not to mention how the water glistened on his metal arm. I hadn't felt heat on my face like that since I was seventeen and spilled juice all over my shirt in front of my neighbour Todd.

Swallowing the rest of the rude noises hovering in my throat, I forced a smile and nodded to the elevator. "Saw him by the coffee machine on the third floor earlier, Sargent Barnes." My voice was breathier that usual, and I cursed the weather for calling me out like that, while simultaneously praying to any deities listening that nobody noticed.

"Thanks." He marched to the elevator with a pace that would divide a crowd of people without a word.

Natasha looked between Bucky and me, a devilish smile spreading on her face. Once he was out of earshot, she bumped me with her elbow. “So, Bucky, huh?”

The heat crept up my ears and settled in my temples. Surely I was no more than two seconds from combusting? “What? I don’t… no, I mean –" I drew a big breath and steeled my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, what was it you needed my help with?”

Her eyes locked on mine. "Never mind that… You're a terrible liar."

A good point. I let out a small wheeze and scrunched my eyes shut. "Fine! Yes, Sargent Barnes is a tall drink of water. Is that what you want me to say? Well, yeah, okay. Maybe I do have a thing for him." The defeat was inevitable. Already my intestines were squirming. Nothing good could come from this.

Natasha looked like it was Christmas and her birthday all at once. "I knew it!"

I shrugged, ignoring the rising chill in my chest. How to best deescalate this before it got out of hand? "Well, you are a superspy after all. But please, PLEASE, don't say anything to him. I like my job. Besides, he's a fucking superhero. I'm just… me."

"Just you?" She shook her head lightly and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I mean, come on! Look at me!" Holding my arms out, I swayed from side to side. I never liked to draw attention to my body, but apparently she needed the extra visual.

Natasha arched her eyebrow. "I am looking."

She was good, but I couldn't to give up that easily. "Yes, and then you clearly see that I'm ordinary. People like him don't fall for people like me. He's too perfect for that."

"Perf… perfect?" She snorted. "Y/N, Bucky's a mess. He's basically a cucumber with anxiety. Damn, you really have it bad if –"

"I know he has issues. You all do. I'm the one booking everybody's therapy sessions, remember? I'm not talking about his trauma. I'm talking about the fact that he's sweet as a marshmallow and his smile could power a small European country if Stark only found a way to harness its brilliance –"

"And the fact that he's got those broad shoulders and could probably lift and throw a bus if he wanted…"

"And that," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck to stop that annoying heat from spreading even more. That was a delicious picture, alright. "But I'm nothing special."

"Y/N, sweetie, what are you talking about? You know everything, who's supposed to be where, what we're doing, when we come and go – that's practically a superpower right there. Don't downplay yourself."

The laughter came out dry and humourless. She had to be kidding. Being organised and good at puzzles wasn't exactly rocket science. And besides, I didn't even have a good memory. Without my trusty calendar and phone I'd be running around like Hei-Hei.

"Appreciate your confidence in me, but I don't think so, Nat," I countered and repeated: "Please don't tell him."

She sighed. "I won't."

I tilted my head and put on my best mom-voice. "Promise me."

Her shoulders slumped forward, and she lifted her hand in the air. "I promise I will never tell James Buchanan Barnes about your crush." There was a small pause. "Partypooper!"

"Who's a partypooper?"

I yelped and spun around, looking into Tony's smiling face. "Oh my god, Tony, I mean, Mr Stark." Why did he have to be so stealthy? A big, flashy guy like him ought to be required to announce his arrival with trumpets and drums. Through my galloping heartbeats I noted the glasses were new though, and wondered what kind of new tech they really were. They suited him.

He smirked. “Not the first time a lady has said that to me. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Exhaling, I closed my eyes, just barely resisting the urge to pinch my nose – or maybe kick him in the shin as a diversion. This was going to hell with the express train. “No one. No one's a partypooper.”

“Really?” He turned to Natasha. “Nat?”

I shook my head vigorously, bringing forth all malice I had to my eyes, which I have been told is substantial.

"Y/N has a crush and –"

"Ooh, is it me?" He winked and wiggled his eyebrows.

That made me laugh. "What? Oh, god no." Then I immediately felt bad for my reaction.

"Okay, a little bit insulted, but whatever…"

"She won't let me tell Bucky that she's in love with him," Natasha continued as if she had never been interrupted.

Tony gasped, a look of absolute delight in his eyes.

It was as if the ground disappeared beneath me. A rush of adrenaline almost knocked me off my feet. "Natasha! You promised."

She shrugged and pointed at Tony. "I promised not to tell Bucky. Last I checked, that is not him."

This time I did pinch the bridge of my nose and exhaled deeply, then groaned silently. “Nat!” Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. “Sargent Barnes is a friend. Well, uh, a colleague. Of sorts. I do not -“

“So you didn’t just squeak and burst into flames when he came through that door, huh?” She pointed to the glass door with a grin on her face.

Yeah, this was definitely a torture-the-handler day. Though Natasha was right about my crush, of course, and I wasn't even sure it was just a crush anymore; it had lasted for far too long to be called a crush, I had to keep a professional relationship with all of them.

Truth be told I had had a crush on Bucky since the day we were introduced, but I remembered the exact moment I had fallen in love: it was a chilly spring evening about a year ago. The team had decided to go out to eat, Wanda had discovered a new restaurant downtown, and the food supposedly was to die for. I couldn’t remember what I ate, or if I even liked it, but I remembered the knitted cardigan Bucky wore, the one with the colourful pattern on it. It looked really soft, and I found myself longing to touch it. That wasn’t the moment, though. The exact moment that made me go “Oh shit!” was when I cracked some stupid dad joke, and Bucky unleashed his full laughter on me. Who knew that "Singing in the shower is fun until you get soap in your mouth. Then it's a soap opera," would be my doom? But the sound had stunned me, made me lose my voice for several minutes. If someone had opened my skull at that moment, the only thing they would have found was an empty space and a dial tone - my brain frantically trying to reconnect with my body. If I concentrated I could still hear the ringing in my ears.

I avoided him for a week afterwards - well, tried and failed; my work meant contact with the entire Avengers team at all times - but the mental distance hurt too much to keep up with it. Since then, I allowed the realisation to wash over me, causing me both joy and suffering. And I thought I hid it well. Not well enough, apparently, since Natasha sniffed it out. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and sigh again. However, I couldn’t stop my intestines from curling into a tight ball. She had brought Tony into this after all.

Tony’s eyes shone. It had been a long time since any drama unfurled in the compound. He was practically starved, and this… This was delicious.

Looking between them, I knew this wouldn't end well. "You know what? I'm gonna go set up the briefing. Room 705. Thirty minutes. Don't be late." Fishing the phone out of my pocket, I sent a group text to everyone with time and location. In afterthought the wording in the text might have been a tad too harsh, threatening bodily harm if they were late, but the start of the day warranted some sort of reaction leaking from my brain. I locked eyes with Natasha. "Not. A. Word!"

She nodded, but the grin never left her face.

Tony watched me frantically push the elevator button, and I caught him whispering, not knowing I could still hear him. Or maybe he didn't care. "So what's your plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a plan? You're the resident match-maker here, aren't you?"

Nastasha let out a small laugh. "Do you know why she refuses to do anything about it?"

Tony nodded. “Because she’s professional and a bit afraid for what the people at the top are going to say?”

“No. Well, probably that too, but she thinks Bucky is way out of her league. Something about him being a superhero.” She snorted.

“What?” Tony let out a barking laugh. “Why? Bucky’s like the most timid ex-assassin you can find. I mean, he’s basically a cup of soft serve covered in salt and liquorice."

“I know. We gotta get them together. So, uh, are you in?”

“Uh, yeah! What’s your plan?”

The room finally sealed itself around me and I heard nothing else than the back of my head banging against the mirror wall and F.R.I.D.A.Y. cheerfully announcing what floor I was going to.

Half an hour later I had to step out for a bit to fetch a new cable to the projector, and when I got back, almost everyone were seated. My chest hollowed when I spotted Tony and Natasha sitting together, looking very conspiring indeed.

The urge to either run from the room or break them up rose in my throat, but instead I pulled up a chair next to Sam and focused on my breathing. He was one of the most calming people on the team, and I shamelessly used him as a shield.

Other than the small scare in the beginning, the morning briefing went without hitch. Agent Hill presented the upcoming missions, and I marked my calendar accordingly. Apparently SHIELD had detected a new terrorist group forming in northern Europe, and needed eyes.

Natasha was a given, she could go undetected for longer periods of time, and could take care of herself if necessary. Of course, Clint would come with her. They were an amazing team together, and he would probably go anyway, even if he was assigned to another task. It was better just to let him.

Steve and Sam would step in if it came to that, but would have to keep under the radar until they were needed. Bucky would travel to Europe with the others, but I knew he would set off alone the minute they touched ground in Stockholm. He worked best alone, or so he claimed, and anyway it would be an advantage to spread out. Still, I made a note on my pad to make sure he had everything he needed, and then some. Who knew where his road might lead him.

Bruce and Tony would work together to develop a better algorithm for the surveillance. So far, the terrorist group had evaded SHIELD's best efforts to pin them down. I was actually surprised to learn they didn't even know their name, which made me suspect something big was coming.

The rest of the team was assigned to other, smaller missions, scattered across the States. That way they could easily be reassigned if the situation escalated in Europe.

During the meeting, I kept an extra eye on Natasha and Tony. They sat next to each other, and though I thought I saw them passing notes a couple of times, I didn't want to bring any attention to it. The rest of the group looked oblivious. A sigh of relief escaped me, and Natasha looked up. She nodded imperceptibly towards Bucky, who sat with a bored look on his face and a discarded towel by his feet.

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head, trying my best to stop my ears from buzzing. Suddenly aware of every molecule in the air and trying desperately to ignore the intense weight, I focused all my attention back on Agent Hill’s presentation. Still, Bucky’s presence lingered in the back of my head, and together with the imminent threat from Natasha and Tony, I felt like I was sitting on explosives.

When Maria finally closed her laptop and turned to Director Fury, everybody got up, chatting as if the meeting had been a regular parent-teacher meeting and not a brief on a possible terrorist organisation on the rise.

“Can you believe that people will do things like this?” an agent asked as we all filed out of the room.

“Well, faith is a strong persuader,” I replied with a shrug. “Some are willing to go far for what they believe in.”

“Yeah, but they’re wrong,” the agent continued.

“They’d probably say the same about us,” Sam said, and I nodded.

“There are always two sides to the coin. If not more.”

“But -“

“And then it’s up to us to figure out what to do. We have to look at the big picture. Not everyone is capable of that.” Sam tilted his head with a look of disappointment in his eyes.

The agent huffed and hurried off with a look on his face that either said that he was constipated, or that being schooled by a member of the Avengers was too much for a Wednesday morning.

“Not sure he saw the big picture, Sam.” I shook my head and smiled.

“Don’t think he could. Better hope he doesn’t get promoted soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. He’ll be on desk duty for years still. And I guess you have a little desk duty yourself right now?”

“Well, actually… I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

Uh-oh. That sounded ominous. “Of course. What can I do, what do you need?” My voice rose to mimic the retail job I had before I got lucky enough to join SHIELD's training and ultimately land my dream job.

Sam grimaced. "I gotta go to Louisiana. Just a short trip, couple of days maybe."

"Shit, don't think Director Fury would be too happy about that right now, not to mention the rest of upstairs. You're supposed to be on silent duty until you leave for Sweden."

"Yeah, I know that, it's just… Cass and AJ has been asking me to come visit. And Sarah's getting sick of their nagging. Also, I sorta promised on the phone yesterday. Didn't know there would be a world crisis today."

Smiling softly, I hid the urge to smack my face into the wall. This was going to take a lot of explaining and string-pulling. He was supposed to go no-contact for the duration of the mission, but I hated disappointing the boys. And Sarah was a good woman. She didn't deserve being let down, even though it technically wasn't Sam's fault this time.

"Sam, you're such a softie," I said after some consideration. "Go. I'll figure something out. Just be back before the weekend, okay? And –"

"Yeah yeah, and I'll come in at once if the situation escalates before we're scheduled to head out."

I gave him a crooked smile to disguise the trouble he had just handed me. "Sure. But I was gonna say bring back some of that pecan pie. I've been dreaming about that since last summer."

Sam let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of my head, melting my nervous soul to a gooey puddle. "You're the best. Thanks."

"Fly safe."

"I always do."

"Really now?"

"Oh so that's how it is, huh?"

"That's how it is. Say 'hi' to Sarah for me."

With a short wave, he took off down the corridor, leaving me quietly screaming and already doing the mental gymnastics to find a solution.

***

Departure time was in two days. Everyone was on edge, trying their best to prepare for any eventualities, both inconceivable and expected. After a short meeting with the departure crew to share the last pieces of intel, I felt empty and tired. Missions always affected me more than they should. These people were my friends; if anything were to happen to them, my world would collapse.

Apparently I wasn't the only one feeling a bit drained. No one was in a hurry to leave, and the conversation was hushed and weary.

"You know what we need?" Tony said loudly, slicing through the silence and winking to Natasha. He thought I wouldn't notice, but I did, and the suspicion grew in my chest. What now?

"Pizza!" they said in unison. "We should gather everyone, before we all go."

Tony nudged my arm. "My treat. What do you say?"

Narrowing my eyes, I tilted my head. "…sure."

"Oh, don't be like that. We all need good pizza. Especially today, what with all this rain. Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y., you know that pizza bakery up the street, the one with the chicken one. Order pizza for everyone. Remember the one with pear, brie, and white sauce. Have it delivered to the lounge."

That did it for me. If he ordered my favourite, I'd be damn sure to eat my part. "When?"

"Uh…" He looked at his watch. "Noon. I'll send out a ping. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks. I do have a ton of things to do to make sure you guys don't die on this trip." I tried to keep it light, but now that the thought had settled in my mind, I had to fight off the tears. It was a miracle I managed to keep the tremble from my voice.

An hour later I tripped over the doorstep to the lounge, surprised to see it was empty except for Tony and Natasha and a huge stack of pizzas. "Where is everybody?" The door clicked behind me, sealing the silence in.

Natasha shrugged. "Late?"

At that moment the door opened again and Bucky sauntered in with a mischievous smile on his face. "Gimme the pizza and nobody gets hurt."

"Jeez, Buck. Remember your manners. There are ladies present." Tony grinned, but opened the top box and helped himself to a slice.

Bucky snickered and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, Y/N," he said with an over-the-top flourish. "I hope you can forgive my insolence." He gestured towards the pizzas. "Ladies first."

My heart did a somersault, but I managed to keep it cool on the outside. "Insolence forgiven," I replied, swallowing a hiccough that lodged itself in my throat, before taking a plate and sifting through the boxes until I found the right one. Loading my plate, I sat down, sinking into the soft cushions. Only thing missing now was some candles and a drink, and I'd be set for the day.

Natasha gave Tony a pointed look. Two minutes later he picked up his phone and half jogged out the door. That was odd. Tony never jogged.

I looked between Natasha and the door, the pizza forgotten halfway between the plate and my mouth. She looked anywhere but at me, but was saved from a confrontation by her phone ringing. "Gotta take this," she muttered. "Can't prepare enough for the trip." She smiled apologetically and left the room. That was a lie, of course. She had full control; all intel was already read and destroyed. And if something new had come up, I would have been notified too.

Suddenly the plate felt heavy in my hand. Maybe it was naïve, but I had expected Natasha and Tony to respect my wishes; after all I had made it absolutely clear that they should leave it, hadn't I? Their amusement and entertainment wasn't worth being an inconvenience to Bucky.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked when the door clicked behind Natasha.

"I… I don't know," I lied haltingly.

Bucky shrugged. "Oh well. Might as well catch up on some paperwork before the flight too. See you later." With one slice between his teeth and another in his hand, he left the room with a friendly wave.

"Sure. See you." I spoke to his back; the glass door had already closed behind him. The lump in my throat grew. Even though Tony had ordered my favourite pizza, I no longer had any appetite. My mouth was dry, and it was a struggle to swallow. In a fit of frustration, I kicked the table, smacking my toe in the process. The pizza slice slid from the plate and landed on my thigh. "Fuck!"

"Ooh, pizza!"

I spun in my seat. Steve had just arrived, and that made me feel a little bit better at least. He was always a laugh.

"Where is everybody?" He looked around and spotted my moping figure, holding an equally sad slice of pizza. "You okay?"

"I guess," I replied, trying to smile and failing miserably. "Everybody else left. The mission, yeah?"

"Right. I thought everything was planned and okayed."

I couldn't bring myself to fill him in on the situation. If he didn't already know, it was nice to have someone neutral by my side. "Yeah, I don't know."

Their scheme was becoming clear; making Bucky spend time with me alone. But it was a failure. Even he thought it was awkward, and he obviously didn't want to be alone with me. Not that I blamed him. If I was him, I'd do the same.

I glanced at my watch. 12.30. Just then Sam, Bruce, Wanda, and Vision spilled into the room, heading towards the pizza like a herd of hungry goats. Slowly my appetite returned too, and half an hour later the blow to my heart was a painful memory pushed to the back of my mind by excellent pizza and wonderful friends.

Later that day I ran into Tony on the way to the garage. He tried to slip past me, but had to stop when I blocked the door, arms crossed over my chest and puffing myself up as much as I could. "Seriously, Tony! What did you expect to happen, huh? That I'd just throw myself in his arms because we were alone? Because newsflash: I've got both self-control and decency. Do you really think I've never been alone with him before?"

At least he had the decency to look thoroughly chastised, and he mumbled something inaudible I thought maybe sounded like an apology.

No way he was getting away with a tiny one. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"It was Nat's idea," he said, trying a smirk that didn't work at all.

"I very much doubt that," I replied, dragging a hand over my eyes. "Do I have to call Pepper? I didn't think so," I added when he shook his head. "Do better! Now excuse me. I have a lot of work to do to ensure you actually don't die on this mission." With a final, exaggerated frown, I turned and marched out of the room, ignoring the samba in my chest.

Part 2: Eel infested waters

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part IV

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao. 

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings. 

 The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow. 

 The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway. 

 "Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!" 

 A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough. 

 "Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

 He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy." 

 "My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please." 

 "Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

 "'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice. 

 Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you." 

 You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it. 

 "Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

 "Didn't even notice," he reassures you. 

 Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen. 

 Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

 She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

 "Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later. 

 "You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

 "Uh, yeah. I could eat." 

 Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything. 

 "Sandwiches okay?" 

 Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth. 

 "Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich. 

 You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

 He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask. 

 He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days. 

 Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow. 

 After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

 It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer. 

 "It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free." 

 Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better. 

 You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie. 

 He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow. 

 "I can pick something else," he tells you quietly. 

 You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften. 

 "'S'fine."

 "Are you sure?" 

 "Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

 He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be. 

 He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies. 

 "You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

 "You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

 You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress. 

 Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep. 

 That's good. You could use a nap. 

 He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours. 

 But first. 

 As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf. 

 It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before. 

 The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses. 

 Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward. 

 They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother. 

 Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

 He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book. 

 Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

 He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole? 

 Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible. 

 It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on. 

 Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

 Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left. 

 The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album. 

 He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

 "Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album." 

 Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes. 

 "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

 You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

 But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length. 

 "Why didn't you ever tell me?" 

 "What's there to tell?" 

 Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth. 

 "It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

 Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books. 

 "Is it, though? Is it really?" 

 "I..." 

 Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language. 

 Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you. 

 It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

 At least it makes sense now. 

 "I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it. 

 You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch. 

 Then, you flop back down on your pillows. 

 "So. Any questions, Zacharias?" 

 He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

 A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

 "Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease. 

 "Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

 Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up. 

 "Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous. 

 "He left." 

 "Yeah."

 And then he gets the full story. 

 Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

 "Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

 The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom. 

 "He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick." 

 He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since. 

 "I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

 "Were you ever close with him?"

 You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

 It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

 At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him. 

 He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk. 

 "Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

 Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice. 

 Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him. 

 "I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

 Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies. 

 "Have you seen him since?" 

 You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

 Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction. 

 You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

 "Anyway," he mimics. 

 "I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

 "Is this why?" 

 "Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

 "Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know. 

 Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months. 

 "So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

 "For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

 "Mm. I guess."

 The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better. 

 Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster. 

 Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark. 

 When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest. 

 It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate. 

 You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth. 

 He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

 Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer. 

 He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth. 

 Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

 Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

 He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

 So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you. 

 After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other. 

 He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now. 

 If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back. 

 He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself: 

 I love you. I love you, I love you.  

 You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day. 

 You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

 Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

 Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear. 

 Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it. 

 And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

 You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

 It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

 He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening. 

 The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

 You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail. 

 Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence. 

 Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can. 

 Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

 “Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

 He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

 “You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

 “Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

 “Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

 He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

 Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip. 

 “Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

 It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you. 

 “I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

 After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way. 

 You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done. 

 Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it. 

 Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock. 

 He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

 It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying. 

 Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

 Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger. 

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books. 

 It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice. 

 Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town. 

 It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway. 

 Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder. 

 The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!" 

 Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

 A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles. 

 "It's fine. You can calm down."

 You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused. 

 The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him. 

 "You're Zeke Jaeger."

 He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

 Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players. 

 You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face. 

 "Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

 He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

 You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself. 

 "Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

 Your stomach flips at the mention of him. 

 "We're not dating."

 Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

 "No. Just friends."

 He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain. 

 "Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try. 

 He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

 "I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

 "Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

 You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

 "I'll walk with you," he states more than offers. 

 Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.  

 But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. 

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does. 

 Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

 These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip. 

 Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

 You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

 He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

 You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

 It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

 “You listening, sweetheart?”

 Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

 “No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

 “That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

 “It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

 Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

 You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor. 

 Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

 The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

 “Yeah, okay.”

 He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

 No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said. 

 What a fucking joke. 

*

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside. 

 “You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

 “Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

 “Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

 You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

 “Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

 He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.” 

 He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

 Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day. 

 And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

 Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

 Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece. 

 If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

 But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

 What is happening to you?

 “So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

 But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

 You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

 Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

 His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

 You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car. 

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

 Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

 You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys. 

 “I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

 “Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

 Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

 “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

 “I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

 You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes. 

 “Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

 You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

 Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

 “Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

 “You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

 “I—”

 “It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

 Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him. 

 But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

 He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

 Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

 Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that. 

 “What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

 You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

 “Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

 “Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

 “Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.” 

 God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

 Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

 “Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

 Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

 “What?”

 “Come here.”

 Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

 More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

 “Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem. 

 “I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

 “For some reason I don’t believe that.”

 You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

 That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his. 

 He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth. 

 You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

 “Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

 The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more. 

  And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

[ next ]

[hanazou]

Hi, could I request headcanons for chuuya with a s/o who loves giving genuine compliments whenever they see him, they just can't keep it inside for example whenever they see chuuya they go like"you are so beautiful" and some cheesy shit like that😩✋🏻

𝘾𝙝𝙪𝙪𝙮𝙖 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝘼 𝙑𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝘼𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧

Word Count : 1.4K

Shelf : Hardback

Genre : Fluff, romance

Note : of course u can darling. smooches xx 💗 he needs it to help with his abandonment issues anyways <3 i hope u enjoy this one ! I still need to practice for Chuuya, I'm not fluent with him as I am with Dazai and Fyodor

There are three approaches to observe how Chuuya reacts and behaves around you; his initial feelings, his first physical reflex, and how he adapts with your behaviour.

Chuuya doesn’t fare well with verbal affection before you start doing this with him. Your frequent compliments will soon stretch his heart’s capacity to be more flexible in both accepting and giving heartfelt compliments, but of course, it has to start slowly.

At first, Chuuya is definitely perplexed and transparently flustered.

If your affections with him start with something subtle, like “I like today’s cologne” or “That was manly of you” Chuuya is still able to afford to mutter a tangled “Huh, thank you” albeit not looking at you in the eyes.

But when it gets more intimate like “Your presence is always so comforting” or “I can always trust you to have my back” and cheesy things like that…

The first thing Chuuya thinks of is why the hell you’re so intent on killing him with embarrassment.

“Why did you say that out of the blue?!”

But should there be a reason? Can’t you just be affectionate with your own boyfriend?

When you say that to him, he stops working.

If your compliments are really, super, cheesy, the type that sends shivers down the bone, Chuuya’s face is a mix of confusion, bewilderment, embarrassment, and slight repulse.

Don’t be offended though, he’s simply not good at taking compliments.

Chuuya wraps his upper arms as if he’s chilly while he stares at you, shocked and dumbfounded, with a face that’s the physical manifestation of “what the f*ck?”.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

If it keeps going on and on for days, he just hisses and clicks his tongue while hiding his red face

There's going to be a stage when he doesn't know what he's supposed to feel, so he’ll resort to convincing himself that he's angry.

It’s ineffective and he becomes more turbulent than ever

All it does is make his temperament easier to poke at, and that doesn’t help with his embarrassment every time you compliment him.

Chuuya raises his voice more often, especially at you, but it doesn't last for long because of how wrong it feels whenever he tells you to shut up.

And on the contrary, the more he thinks about it, your compliments actually make him feel… good?

Yeah, good

His physical reflex is pretty transparent and hysterical. It’s really easy to see right through him and it’s not like he tries to deceive you by faking his reactions either.

After flaring his nostrils and widening his eyes, Chuuya backs off to gather himself together and to get some space--are his ears tricking him or did you actually say his shouts sound nice? Who even thinks of things like that?

He shouts things like “Stop joking around!”

But despite sounding frustrated, the way his eyes crease with embarrassment betrays his ‘anger’.

The way he bites his lips, his blue eyes bulging out, while laboriously breathing loudly, makes you want to tease him more to get more dramatic reactions.

There’s that tiny look in his eyes that pierces into you as if he’s asking you to say more.

When he's at his Angry Stage, his voice is louder than usual and sounds just as fierce and he can never strike a casual conversation, let alone look at you in the eyes.

Best he can do is stare at the top of your head.

While blurting shorter sentences “angrily”

That's the sure sign that he's just embarrassed, in case you're afraid you offend him.

When Chuuya loosens up, which happens by itself without your intervention, you can tease him more and he hides his face under his hat. He growls away from you after snarling at you to stop.

No more pretending to be angry since all it does is confuse himself more.

What if you still shout “You look cute when you’re grumpy!” when he walks away?

He literally walks up a random building to get to the roof to escape.

This is a perfect game of hide and seek.

Nothing childish or straightforward like chasing each other, but Chuuya actively avoids you whenever he can.

He finds refuge in his personal office but alas, you have a spare key.

So he goes to Mori’s office without any prior summoning and tries to strike a conversation with him there, a not-so-smooth one, but discussing future deals with importers does keep Mori’s interest.

Since Mori doesn't like being interrupted, whenever Chuuya migrates to Mori, you're barricaded from seeing him. Not for long though. Just an hour at the most.

When he sees Kouyou, he pretends as if nothing is wrong although there’s no way she fails to notice his embarrassment.

Each time you find him and give more (cheesy) compliments, Chuuyal runs away, and you’ll find him again to tease him. A full circle

If you drive Chuuya to his absolute limit, he pins you against the wall, his gloved hand shutting your mouth. Nothing suggestive, just pure embarrassment and stress boiling out of his ears.

“Will you ever stop!? What do you want?!”

Being partnered with Dazai for several years makes him think that you’re being tricky with him even after you told him you mean nothing bad

When you confess that you really are being genuine, his mouth gapes and he backs off with an obviously embarrassed “Are you kidding me?!”

Eventually, little by little, he gets used to it.

His eyes won’t widen as dramatically anymore and he doesn’t jump away in embarrassment. The grumpiness is still there but it’s cuter than it is hostile.

He responds to your “Good morning, handsome!” by muttering “Yeah, yeah, whatever,”

Chuuya actually likes the attention but he realizes this only after he’s exposed to enough of your affections to get used to them a little, letting the overwhelming embarrassment recede slowly to leave enough space in his head (It happens after he covered your mouth).

He’s not the person to be most familiar with spoken affection after living a life full of uncertainties.

Exposure therapy vibes.

It actually feels nice to have you transparently tell him that you love him. Not that he’ll admit it straightforwardly though.

He gets used to your lovey-dovey treatment for him little by little. His reaction will be the same except it’s much more controlled and less out of reflex.

He previously 'ran' away, but this time, he simply puts a small distance between you both and covers his mouth, looking away.

He previously protested loudly, now he just softly snarls, embarrassment straining his voice.

“Geez, don’t you ever run out of those cheesy words? Where did you learn all that crap?”

When his skin has grown thicker, Chuuya sees each of your compliments as an invitation to a competition on who can make each other more flustered.

He keeps your compliments and affection, recycles them, and throws them back at you.

For example, if you say that he looks dashing under the sunlight today, he’ll double the intensity of the sweetness back at you.

(That is, after thinking carefully about what to say. He's not the best natural flirt)

“Because you’re the sun shining on me, babe. I won’t shine without you glamouring first.”

If you gape with your eyes bulging out and face reddened, Chuuya smirks in triumph.

“Huh, you’re not that bulletproof yourself, babe, think about that before shooting at me,”

If you have a high tolerance for verbal sweetness like this, even for super cheesy lines, he’s determined to kick it up a notch to earn a reaction out of you.

He’s going to be a sweet talker in training.

He does all of those out of the petty reason to get back at you, but sometimes he doesn’t realize what he says until it’s too late in which he flusters himself.

If even that doesn’t work, Chuuya gets physical.

He pulls your cheeks, pinches your nose, squeezes your face, flicks your forehead (and is serious about it), or pokes on your ticklish sides.

If he finds your weak spot, there’s no mercy.

You can laugh until you’re about to faint and he won’t stop messing with you

"How does it feel to be on the receiving end, huh?" He asks so casually cocky while tackling you down.

You don’t realize it, but even though Chuuya’s self esteem isn’t the lowest, it’s not the highest either. He’s just avoiding that topic. So your compliments, no matter how silly or random, makes him feel slightly better under his own skin.

One day, Chuuya will ask how you come up with those praises so easily

If he understands how you do it, maybe he can do the same for you in the future.

📜 ; like what you read? visit my bookshop!

[raviotherabbit]

Reunion Tour - Chapter 1

note: this is an extended version of these two posts, with an ending added on.

[first] - [next] read it on ao3!

Chapter 1: Familiar Circumstances Wild and Warriors meet each other again.

- - - 

There were quite a few things Wild wanted to do this weekend. Like maybe sleep in for a bit, maybe cooking a special breakfast. They’d even been planning on visiting little Zelly, a promise that her mother was sure to scold them for not keeping.

Instead, they were rudely awoken by a rough collision with the dirt, and they quickly realized they weren’t in their soft waterbed in Zora’s Domain anymore. Blearily blinking their eyes open, Wild feels like they’ve been hit by Ruta’s Cryonis again.

They’re in the castle courtyard of Warriors’ time. Which, as they seem to recall, is tens of thousands of years removed from their own era.

“Oh great,” Wild scowls as the golden light fades behind them. Ten years since their tearful goodbyes with their fellow heroes, and all of a sudden, Hylia’s playing games again.

Wild pushes themself off the ground, dusting whatever they can off with their one arm. It’s only then, when several halberds are pointed right at their face, that they realize they have an audience.

“Stop right there!” one of the soldiers, presumably a higher ranking officer, shouts. “Put your hands in the air!”

Wild frowns, but some part of their mind still remembers Warriors’ lectures to respect authority in his era. It was always so annoying, especially since he was the only one who cared so much about how they were perceived by the guards, but the anger in his eyes after Wild’s third infraction for trespassing (it’s not like those people were USING their roofs!) was enough to convince them to behave. So, after a moment of hesitation, they raise their arm above their head.

“Both hands!” The guard juts his halberd closer to Wild’s face.

“This is all I’ve got, man.”

A lower ranking guard lifts the side of Wild’s poncho. “They’re telling the truth, sir,” they announce, gesturing to their missing right arm.

“W-well!” the officer stammers, and Wild can’t help but smirk. “Take them to a cell! Trespassing on castle grounds is no laughing matter!”

Wild rolls their eyes as one of the soldiers forcefully grabs their left arm. “You’re gonna regret this, you know.”

“Quiet you!” the senior officer snaps at them. “I’ll have no disrespect from magicians who infiltrate our defenses against the crown!”

“Fine,” Wild scoffs. “Hey, while you’re processing my intake paperwork or whatever, could you tell my brother where I am? He’ll be sooooo worried about me.”

The senior officer’s eye twitches. One of the lower ranking guards whispers, “It is protocol to inform citizens of incarcerated family members.”

“Alright! Alright!” the senior officer throws his hands up in frustration. “Just tell me and get out of here!”

“He’s the hero, Link. Ever heard of him?” Wild forces down a laugh as the officer’s face turns red. “Tell him Wild’s in prison again, and it’s not their fault this time!”

“Take them away!” the senior officer points the guard holding them towards the dungeon. “Now!”

And even though they’re being dragged into the dreaded dungeons of Hyrule Castle, Wild can’t help but laugh the entire time.

- - -

“You’re going to be in big trouble,” Wild lightly scratches at the rusty bars of their jail cell. They’re sitting on the nasty dungeon floor, legs crossed. “Seriously, it’s not too late to let me go.”

The guard stationed outside their cell sighs. “I’m not in charge of that.”

Wild huffs, pouting to themself. A little recognition wouldn’t hurt, would it? They were here all the time a decade ago! And even then, everyone knew they were with Wars. These kinds of theatrics and blunders are just rude!

“So, is Commander Link really your brother?”

Wild’s ear twitches when the guard speaks up. “Commander, huh? Wars got a promotion?”

“Uh, I-” the guard stammers. “I don’t-”

“Yeah, he’s pretty much my brother,” Wild answers. “It’s been a bit since I was in town, though.”

“YOU WHAT?!”

The shout rings through the dungeons, a shrill entitlement that Wild would know anywhere.

Wild clicks their tongue. “That’d be him,” they point their thumb towards the entrance to the dungeon. “You know, it’s been nice hanging out with you.”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m going to die.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Wild promises, standing up and gripping onto one of the bars just as Warriors rounds the corner, flanked by the senior officer, who now looks flustered.

And that’s Wild’s confirmation that it’s been some time for their brother, as well. He’s sporting some well-manicured stubble, obviously, because everything about Wars is well-manicured. His hair is longer, tied back in a ponytail that reminds Wild of themself. Of course, they didn’t have a chance to do their hair before landing in the past, so it’s all loose and tangled.

“Wild?!” Warriors shouts, mostly in shock. “You’re really here?!”

“Oh thank goodness!” Wild feels like they could cry. “Wars get me out of here!”

“What are you doing here?” Wars ruffles their hair through the bars, a warm smile on both of their faces. “I thought we agreed, no more trespassing.”

“It’s not my fault, it was the portals!” Wild explains quickly. “They wouldn’t listen to me. I just woke up here!”

Hearing Wild’s poor circumstances, Wars snaps back towards the senior officer. “You ARRESTED my brother!”

“Your one-armed brother!” Wild pipes up from behind him.

“My ONE-ARMED- wait,” Warriors turns back to Wild, his tone suddenly soft as he looks at them with concern. “You lost your arm?”

Wild stares at Warriors blankly. “Don’t tell Twilight.”

“I’m not-!” Wars sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How would I even tell him?”

Wild simply shrugs.

“We’re talking about this later,” Warriors asserts, before turning to address the officer once again. His glare is cold, and his fury is burning. “I can’t BELIEVE that you saw a clearly disoriented individual in your courtyard and decided to ARREST THEM, of all things! Who is your superior, I’ll have to inform him-!”

Wild leans over to the guard, who’s standing frozen with fear next to the cell. “I told you,” they whisper.

- - -

“I’m hungry,” Wild whines, tugging at Warriors’ sleeve. “Can we get breakfast somewhere? I didn’t get to eat before I got arrested.”

Wars, in turn, shoots them a look of annoyance. He shrugs them off, continuing down the street. “You aren’t even the slightest bit concerned that the portals are opening again?”

“Please Wars I’m starving,” Wild begs. “I got pulled out of bed.”

Warriors sighs. “Fine. If you’re so insistent on breakfast, you can have free reign of my kitchen-” A sly smile creeps onto his face. “It’s been a while since I’ve had your cooking.”

“Oh, Sir Link, how generous of you, making your guest work!” Wild elbows him with their one good arm. “You see your dear sweet baby brother again after all this time-”

“You’re almost thirty, for Hylia’s sake!”

“Your BABY BROTHER,” Wild continues, “And all you can think about is what they can do for you.”

Suddenly and swiftly, Warriors pulls Wild into a headlock. “Why is it that every hero I meet is such a brat, huh?” he wonders aloud. “First the old man, then the sailor, and now you?”

“Don’t count yourself out, Commander,” Wild retorts, wiggling their way out of Wars’ grasp. “By the way, congrats on that promotion.”

“That was ages ago, it’s like you don’t keep up with me,” Wars scoffs playfully. “But seriously, I need you to cook for me again. I haven’t been the same without your home-cooked breakfasts.”

“Well, if you insist,” Wild relents. “Though I’m going to need a certain sous chef to help me.”

“That’s only fair,” Wars nods in agreement.

Warriors’ home is a townhouse deep in the heart of Castle Town, surrounded by a tall iron fence with pointed tips. The lawn is perfectly manicured, evenly cut grass and freshly trimmed roses. He’s silent as he unlocks the gate, as he leads Wild inside. Wars quickly closes the door behind them both, the sunlight trickling through the windows the only thing illuminating the darkened foyer.

It’s grand inside, that’s for sure. The blue carpet is soft and plush, and the wooden walls are filled with paintings and pictures. But something about it is… empty. Warriors awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck at Wild’s gaze.

“Kinda quiet around here,” Wild comments, but their face goes red when they realize the harshness of their words. “Uh, I mean it’s a really nice place you’ve got, Wars! You must be doing-”

Warriors suddenly places a hand behind Wild’s back, ushering them forward. “Yes, well, Althai is with his mother this week. Come on, the kitchen is this way.”

“Althai?” Wild cocks their head. “Wars, do you have a kid?”

“Yes, but-”

Wild side steps away from Wars. “Wait, I want to meet him!”

“We can’t right now, Wild,” Warriors pinches the bridge of his nose, an irritated scowl on his face that reminds Wild of the old man. “Freya and I aren’t… together anymore, and I’d rather not face her wrath if I showed up unannounced.”

Wild blinks. “Oh, I see.”

“So!” Wars quickly snaps out of it. “How about we avoid all that, and instead, we can make your breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Wild smiles, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I was thinking crepes. You still like those, right?”

The tension fades away from Wars, and he grins back at his brother. “I’ve always loved your crepes.”

- - -

“You know, I never took you as the braiding type,” Wild remarks over a mouthful of honey crepe.

“Don’t talk while you’re eating,” Wars instinctively responds, one hand focused on Wild’s hair while he uses the other to take a bite of his own crepe.

“Aw, you sound like Zelda,” Wild pouts.

“How’s she doing, by the way?” Warriors asks. “You as well. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.”

“We’re both doing good,” Wild announces. “I mean, after the whole revival of Ganondorf business—which is long over, by the way, please don’t worry about that—things have been quiet.” They gasp. “I have a niece now!”

“You do, huh?” Warriors says. “We’re getting old.”

“Ick, don’t remind me,” Wild sticks their tongue out. “I’m planning on staying as young and childlike as possible.”

“Again, you’re almost thirty.”

“Shut up!”

Warriors laughs at Wild’s outburst. He finishes the end of Wild’s braid, securing it with a hair tie. “All done.”

“Thanks for that, Wars,” Wild says as Wars loops around to sit across from them. “I usually get Sidon to do it, but with the one arm-”

Warriors raises a hand to stop them. “I get it, don’t worry.” His face sours quickly. “We should address the moblin in the room.”

“Right,” Wild sighs. “I definitely should not be here.”

“You’re not an unwelcome guest, but…” Warriors crosses his hands in front of him. “I haven’t heard of any black-blooded monsters again, have you?”

Wild shakes their head. “Nothing of the sort.”

“So whatever issue this is, it’s new,” he reasons. “How likely do you think it is that the two of us will be dragged away to another time together?”

“Based on past experience?” Wild questions. “That will almost certainly happen.”

“Great,” Wars rubs at his temples in agitation.

“Honestly, I’m just glad to get in at the beginning this time,” Wild admits. “You guys already knew everything by the time I joined! That wasn’t fair.”

“Easy, soldier,” Wars pats their head, much to Wild’s chagrin. “Eat up, it seems like we have somewhere to be soon.”

Wild raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Congratulations, you’re going to meet your nephew,” Wars grimaces, crossing his arms together. “We’re going to my ex-wife’s house.”

- - -

"Just let me do the talking."

Wild shoots Wars a suspicious look. The two of them are standing in front of an ornate wooden door, leading into a nice stone house on the edge of the city. "She can't be that bad."

"Whatever you're thinking, Freya's worse," Warriors insists, practically sweating bullets.

Wild rolls their eyes, before reaching forward and slamming the iron knocker into the door repeatedly.

"Wild!" Warriors grabs their hand, yanking them back.

"You were taking too long!"

"I would have knocked eventually, now I have to rush through this," he hisses, pulling Wild up to eye level. "Don't annoy her, don't break anything. Don't be yourself."

"That's so rude!" Wild squirms in his grasp. "Let go, I've only got the one arm!"

“Link?”

Wars drops Wild onto the stone steps below them as he finally notices Freya at the door. She has long, dark, curled hair, pulled back into a bun. She worriedly looks down at Wild, who’s pouting on the floor at their aches.

“Freya!” Wars immediately has a wary smile on his face. “It’s so nice to see you!”

“Uh, yes…” she claps her hand together, suddenly gesturing inside. “Please, please, come in!” Freya turns over her shoulder and yells, “Althai! Your dad’s here!”

“Dad!” a small voice shouts from elsewhere, and suddenly, a child darts in and latches onto Wars’ leg. “Dad, I missed you!”

“Let me see you!” Wars lifts the kid, holding him up to his face. Aside from his tan complexion and curls, Althai is a little clone of his father, with freckled cheeks and shiny gold hair. “How are you bigger already, Alt? It’s only been a few days!”

Althai giggles, and much to Wild’s surprise, Freya laughs as well.

As Warriors turns to Wild, he balances his son on his hip. “Althai, this is your Uncle Wild.”

“Oh.” Noticing Wild for the first time, Althai almost turns smaller in his father’s grasp. “Hi,” he says, shyly offering a little hand for Wild.

“It’s nice to meet you, Althai,” Wild smiles warmly, shaking his hand.

“Uncle Wild, huh?” Freya abruptly speaks up, a scowl on her face. “Althai, how about you show our guest the garden?” Her gaze turns to Wars, who swallows nervously as he places his son back on the ground. “I need to talk to your father.”

“Um. Okay,” Althai takes Wild’s hand, guiding them past his parents. “This way.”

“Alright,” Wild agrees. Before Althai can drag them away completely, they wink at Wars. A viable alternative for a thumbs up, of course.

- - -

Freya keeps a nice garden, Wild decides. They’re sitting on the stone path, dividing the flowers from the herbs. It’s well-manicured, unlike Wild’s own attempt at a vegetable garden a few years back. Bees buzz by, which they idly watch fly along.

Althai’s got his nose buried in a book, but since he’s a kid, Wild’s willing to let such a faux pas slide. He hasn’t said a word since they left the house, though, and they’re starting to get a bit antsy.

“So…” Wild drums their fingers on their leg. “What’re you reading?”

“Uh, it’s a book,” Althai says.

Wild nods. “Sure, sure. Of course.”

Silence hangs over the two of them again. This kid is nothing like the little firecracker Zelly is, Wild realizes.

“Do you really have one arm?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Wild lifts their poncho, showing off their missing arm again. “See? Pretty cool, huh?”

“Woah.” Althai abandons his book, inspecting them closer. “How did it happen?”

“Ohhhh, what a story,” Wild recounts, putting on their best spooky voice. “I was journeying through some caves with my friend, when suddenly, we came upon this evil man, who was put down there for trying to hurt Hyrule. When we got close, he heard us and woke up! And then, he used his evil, corrosive magic to-”

“Eep!” Althai shouts, hiding his face in the green cloth of Wild’s poncho.

Fuck!

“No, no!” Wild tries to amend, pulling back the poncho to reveal Althai’s face. “I was just- I was kidding! The arm was sick, and we had to get rid of it so I could be healthy. No bad men! No evil magic!”

“Oh,” Althai sits on the ground next to Wild. “Okay.”

Wild ruffles his hair. “You like stories, don’t you, kid?”

“Yeah,” Althai picks at the grass.

“Well, has your dad ever told you the story about his journey with the other Heroes across time?”

Althai perks up, nodding. “Mhm! All the Links!”

“Well, did you know I’m one of those Links?” Wild gestures to themself. “It’s true! I’m from thousands of years in the future!”

Althai gasps. “Really?!”

“Yes, really,” Wild confirms. “You know, I’ve got a few stories about your dad from back then. Stories I’m sure he never told you.”

“Tell me!” Althai jumps up, tugging on Wild’s shoulder. “Tell me tell me tell me!”

“Alright, alright, settle down.” Wild pulls the kid into their lap. “How about… the time we lost him on the coldest mountain in Hyrule?”

- - -

“So,” Freya crosses her arms, looking out the window. Her ex-husband sits across from her at the kitchen table. “That’s the Hero of the Wild in my backyard, isn’t it?”

“Er, yes,” Wars awkwardly scratches the back of his head. “Yes it is.”

“Alright, Link,” she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “What happened?”

"Freya, please, it's none of your concern."

"None of my-?!" Freya is taken aback. "How about this, Link. Is it another journey?"

Warriors nods. "Most likely, yes."

"So then Althai needs to stay with me for who knows how long," she reasons. "Which means I need to get his things from your place, and I'll be making the trip to his school to pick him up for weeks. Not to mention the fact that I'll have to comfort my kid over his father's absence."

"I don't have a choice!" Wars reminds her. "Do you think I want to miss my time with Althai?"

"I'm not saying that, Link!" Freya corrects. "I'm saying that this very obviously affects me, whether you'll admit it or not." She covers his hand with her own. "Tell me what happened, alright? Just because we're not married doesn't mean we can't be friends."

Friends, huh?

"I know you're excited to see Wild, again," Freya smiles. "It's been so long, you're allowed to want to see your friends."

"Even if it means leaving Althai?" Warriors frowns. He flips his hand to hold hers.

"He'll be alright," Freya says. "He's tough, just like his dad. He'll be waiting here when you get back."

"When I get back," Wars echoes. "Yes, you're right! We'll visit when we can, and you and Althai can meet all of them!" Wars suddenly takes both her hands. "I'll be back before you know it, I promise."

"Thank you, Link," Freya sighs in relief. "How about we invite those two rascals back in? I'd love to get to know your brother."

"That's a great idea," Warriors grins. "I knew you were my best idea maker."

"Always have been."

- - -

“I’ll see you soon, Alty,” Wild kneels down to pat the kid’s head. “Remember, if your dad doesn’t let you do something, tell him that Uncle Legend would.”

“Wild, what are you telling my kid?” Wars crosses his arms and scowls. Once again, the image of Time and his disappointing glare comes right to Wild’s mind.

“Nothing!” Wild steps aside. “Just saying he should stay in school! Stuff like that!”

“Sure.” Wild can tell by his tone that Warriors doesn’t believe them, but he instead chooses to scoop Althai up in a hug. “Be good for your mother, my little bookworm. I’ll be back soon! Once this is all done, I’m taking you for ice cream.”

“Alright, Dad!” Althai giggles, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I’ll miss you.” With his free hand, Wars digs through his pockets, producing a key that he offers to Freya. “This is my spare key. Take it, it’s yours.”

“Why thank you, Sir Link,” Freya graciously takes the key. “I’ll be sure to keep all your plants watered.”

And so, Wild and Wars find themselves back on the road, walking side by side as the sun sets. Wild takes a deep breath and sighs, enjoying the fresh air.

This is it.

“You know, Freya was actually very nice,” Wild says, smirking.

Warriors scoffs. “Oh, quiet you.”

“You’re still so dramatic,” they remark. “I can’t believe a word you say.”

“Hush,” Wars wraps an arm around Wild’s shoulder, drawing them close. “I’m trying to enjoy having my brother back, and you’re ruining it.”

Wild laughs, but before they can respond with their own witty comeback, there’s a bright light. Blinking through the brightness, the heroes find a portal in front of them, its golden swirls welcoming and inviting.

“Well, I guess it’s time,” Wild says. “You ready, Commander?”

“I guess I am, Chef,” Wars smiles.

“Aw, it’s cute you think I’m professionally trained.”

And so, once again, two of Hylia’s heroes step through a portal again, with neither an idea of where they’re going nor a care in the world.

[inviciousx]

nuclear winter of our discontent

Fractured strips of moonlight shone down from the caving ceiling as Ryat started mixing several ingredients into a metal bowl he'd stolen from an old diner he'd passed on the way out here. Locals in the wastes called this the Old North Church. He called it a resurrection ground. His mind drifted as he added a bit of purified water into the mixture and pulled out his blade. Slashing it across his hand, he let a few drops of blood fall before he could feel it start healing. The demon couldn't help but replay the last twenty-four hours in his head. It had been more excitement than the last two centuries combined. Latin fell from his lips as his gaze moved over the pile of old bones laid over the debris in the floor. God he hoped he'd dug the right grave. As flesh began to form over bone, he began to hold even the tiniest bit of hope that be wouldn't be alone anymore.

She was waking. Not from a dream, but from darkness. Like Jesus saw daylight again on the third day, light was pouring in from behind her closed eyelids. She remembered, before her eyes ever opened: that awful flash, heat searing her skin, only time enough left to drop to her knees and cling to the soft grass one last time. She stirred, grunting softly, and blinked up into the sky. She inhaled softly. What she was was nothing like the fiery destruction that had knocked her out. It was silver and peaceful, quiet.

Caroline pushed an elbow under herself and began to rise, beginning to look around. The darkness surrounding her seemed to pop as her eyes adjusted from the moonlight pooling around her. There were shapes an figures, perhaps, but she could make out nothing specific. She sat up completely, wincing loudly and clutching her side in pain. Had she been knocked back into something in the blast? "Hello?" she called hoarsely. 

  Red eyes watched her from where Ryat sat in a dilapidating pew. It was one of few that was still being held together, probably by all the dirt and grime that covered it. Her resurrection had taken longer than most, but he supposed that had something to do with the fact that she'd been dead for 200 years. He really wasn't sure how he was going to explain that yet, but he knew he had to. She was going to be punished into a brand new world, a terrifying world... Just like he had been. It seemed like he had just traded one hell for another. At least now he had something other than his own thoughts, even before he had brought her back. Sitting there frozen, a captive to the body he had once enslaved hadn't done him any favors. "Morning sunshine. It's about time you woke the hell up," he muttered, finally getting back to his feet to move closer to her, stepping into the moonlight. "You're very.... Very late to the party." 

The light in the hunter’s eyes brightened with confused realization as the demon’s voice purred through the darkness and echoed subtly off the walls. A sharp creak of wood made her head swivel, and, through the light of the moon, she found two red eyes peered back at her. Her heart slammed in her chest. “Ryat. .” she breathed, but offered nothing else, shifting slightly in the pile of rubble. She watched dumb-struck as he emerged into the circle of light. There should have been a million thoughts running through her mind, but it was empty, save for watching his face looking down at hers. She could barely read his expression, but what else was new? His eyes were shadowed but the irises glowed. He looked different, somehow, but still very much the same. Her face winced as she tried to process what he meant. It all. . . felt like a dream. “What’s going on?” she asked softly

Stooping down next to her, he sat with her in the rubble. He was already dirty, grime and filth covering his clothes. Not to mention blood.... "What do you remember?" He questioned, choosing his words uncharacteristically carefully. "I mean the very last thing you remember, because I need to know where to start explaining, and I don't have much time." Being what he was, he was able to see through the veil of death. He knew the difference between when he was dead and when he was alive, and he knew what happened in between, but he doubted that she had that luxury. Or maybe it was a curse.... He wasn't sure. A while caused crimson hues to look back at the black dog that laid guarding the door. Another whimper had him getting to his feet. "Come on. We need to move. I'll explain, but we need to get to higher ground. He wouldn't take her all the way up to the steeple yet, but he would at least hide them in the stairwell for now. Sitting here felt like being a sitting duck. 

The hunter's eyes searched his face wildly for a hint of why he was asking such questions. The last thing she remembered? The last thing she remembered was everything, everything exploding and vanishing and then the sudden lack of everything. The emptiest nothing that she could conceive, and could still feel in her bones, as if she was hollow. Her hand seized on his arm like a snake."Ryat..." Caroline repeated, anxiety growing in her voice and heat swelling to her face. The urgency in his voice and the measured tone was making every hair on her body stick up like a pin prick. Ryat used her grip on him to hoist her up, but she collapsed to her knee, finding the legs underneath her shaking and uncoordinated. "Help me. Please." she asked of him, and braced herself around his middle. The black dog circled around them, but always stayed behind, unnaturally bright eyes glaring at the back of the building--if it could be called that. Half up the stairs, encased in near-darkness, and almost suffocating in dust, Caroline pushed against the demon and let herself sink to a stair. Her legs burned as if she'd been marooned in the desert. The hunter breathed heavily, dropping her hand from him to lean forward, taken by the vertigo in her brain. She looked up to what she could see in front of her face--shocking red eyes and a half-shadowed face looking down at her. "The last thing I remember. . ." Her face contorted at the memory, too painful for even tears. Her gaze searched for the words in the dust particles floating around them. "The last thing I remember is the. . ." The hunter blinked faster, as if the emotions that had been stopped where her memories ended were picking up as she remembered ten seconds over and over again in her mind. The more she remembered, the more the monstrous sounds came back to her. "Oh, God. Oh, God." she whispered. She looked back at Ryat, pleading, reaching out to a hand she couldn't see in the dark. "What's happening? Why am I here?” 

The fear and fragility coming from the normally quick witted hunter only added to the gravity of the situation. Even with his superior hearing, Ryat wasn't sure what was waiting for them outside. There were things in this hellacious landscape that put the creatures of nightmares to shame. The large Shepherd Dog sat at the bottom of the stairs, ears twitching with each sound, though he wasn't sounding an alarm again yet. He knew she remembered the end. Her reaction told him at least that much. "What you remember.... That's what a lot of people called the end of the world. As you can see that isn't exactly accurate...." He still picked and chose his words, knowing that the smallest thing could be like a detonator, and right now he didn't have the luxury of having the time to help stitch her back together. At least mentally. "It was damn close though....and that was 200 years ago. The world you knew, hell the world we both knew, is gone. There are things even you can't imagine. Whole damn world went to hell in a hand basket." The air here was too thick with dust and the smell of mold from the nuclear storms that passed settling into the interior of the building. Reaching into his pack once he slipped it off his shoulder, he found a stimpack. "I don't know how much this is gonna help, but it should do something," he stated evenly before injecting her with the medicine inside. 

Caroline lower lip trembled fiercely as he spoke, but he brows were set in desperate refusal. His words were gathering like a holy flood at the levies, and she bit her lip, shaking her head. The end of the world. The end of the world. The end of the world. Pictures flashed in her mind as rapidly as film ticking through a camera. Home. People. Friends. Life. Gone. . . “Please stop.” she said quietly, squeezing his hand as it released hers to shuffle inside some backpack. The pinch in her arm barely registered past the screaming her in own head. Voices, like a hundred-strong choir was screaming through their murder in her ears. “Stop!” she screamed through it, bracing her hands on the edge of the step and kicking out sharply at his leg. Something connected and she scrambled up and away, spilling onto the landing and throwing herself towards the next set of stairs. It only look another flight to reach the top, which spilled out into a windowed perch with half the wall broken out. Caroline gasped and looked around wildly. A thin layer of snow was coating the rooftops in her sights, but it all blurred together. Steps were right behind her as she made for the roof.

A hiss of pain left the demon's lips even if it wouldn't last long. "You God damn bitch!" He growled, moving after her with speed only a creature such as himself could possess. Maybe the stimpack had been a bad idea.... He'd thought it would do good to help her feel better and give her some mobility. The dog let out a bark at the sudden outburst and Ryat took off after her trying to ignore the pain in his shin. Snow glittered on the roof as it came into his view and his arm shot out, grabbing her ankle as she tried to scramble to the sloped, rotting roof. From his place on the stairs, he roughly tugged her back, not giving a single shit if he caused a few bruises on the way down. "What the fuck?" He grit, red eyes seeming to look through her as he appraised her. "I didn't spend the last twenty four hours gathering the shit to bring you back to let you toss yourself off a god damn steeple!" His grip on her ankle released only to grab her by the arm and pull her up to her feet, but this time he held her steady.

Caroline yelped and slammed to the ground hard as her feet were wrenched from beneath her. Her vision turned into a dropped snowglobe for a brief moment as he torso landed on the raised ledge were a wall should've been, half of body on the roof, half still inside the tower. All she could manage was a strangled grunt of resistance as she was pulled back over the threshold, icy flakes stinging her face. She lost herself in a flurry of kicks and palm-thrusts into Ryat's shoulders, but it was a charade for all the good it did. The young woman gasped as she was forced to stand, and, wrangled in his unquestionable grip, she looked at him wildly. His dark, hidden face from before now reflected so much silver light it was like he was glowing. His raven hair was tussled from the skirmish and blew slightly in the wind whistling through the broken windows around them. Caroline breathed hard, small fogs of hot breath crystalizing between them. Her eyes were stricken, but clearer, as if the truth was easier to see in the moonlight. "You brought me back?" She paused, forgetting to breathe. "I. . died?" The last word was barely a breath.

@a-beast-in-repose

[zmwrites]

Tag: Word Find CCCXXVIII

I was tagged by @spacetimewraithwrites​ and given the words keep, gold, goal, fire, and breathe. Thank you!

I’ll take these from Just Jane:

KEEP

The ground rumbled.

Jane’s hand fell from the witchlight as she struggled to keep her balance.

Percy ran the warlock through from behind with calculated efficiency.

Dust and pebbles fell.

Pavia surged to her feet and threw her hands towards the roof just as pebbles gave way to larger rocks. The cave was collapsing. Cracks webbed across the stone ceiling too fast to be tracked. Blood trickled from Pavia’s nose and ears as she fought to hold the weight of the mountain and the fort above. 

The realization hit Jane within milliseconds: they were too far away. She and Mr. Dyer were too deep into the cave. Pavia wouldn’t be able to hold the ceiling long enough for them to get back to the cellar.

GOLD

Jane sidestepped a person in a beautiful red and gold brocade coat, barely avoiding being knocked over, and instead collided with the chest of the person directly behind them. Hands landed on her shoulders to steady her as she stumbled back, but she batted them away.

“Excuse me, I—” She stopped, finding herself looking into brilliant green eyes for the second time in as many days. She frowned. “Oh. It’s you again.”

“Do you make a habit of not watching where you’re walking?” the man asked.

GOAL

“Are you expecting we’re going to run into trouble?” Jane asked Nic as he returned a small mountain of knives to sheaths hidden in his clothing.

“It’s always better to be prepared,” he replied. He had a sword strapped to his hip. 

She hummed her agreement. “Do you think Percy would get me a sword if I asked?”

“Do you know how to use a sword?”

“No, but I could learn.”

Nic laughed. “Always good to have goals.”

FIRE

She slowly turned the knob until the latch undid, then slipped inside. A small fire burned in the hearth and there was a teapot sitting on one edge of the central table. Diagrams of strange creatures were plastered over the walls, colourful claws and scales were displayed under glass domes, brilliant crystals and gems that seemed to glow from within sat on a shelf, and a brown sludge bubbled in an alchemist’s beaker over a candle. Every bit of the room was full of some fascinating thing that vied for dominance.

But the map—the map is what occupied her attention. There were several wooden charms pinned to it, with notations and arrows muddling the painstaking work of the mapmaker. A tiny leaf over the ruins of Nightwell Keep, a goblet over Calbridge, a smooth oval over Summerlight. A teardrop and a minuscule sword were pinned to the edge of the map. Sections of the writing were too messy to be legible, and the bits she could make out contained too much short-hand to make any sense.

BREATHE

The rumble faded and the shaking slowed to a stop. Jane exhaled, dropping to one knee and pulling her mask down around her neck so she could breathe better. Almost dying was not what she’d expected when she’d gotten out of bed.

“What the fuck?”

She startled, stumbled, and landed on her ass. The man who’d spoken was standing in the doorway in just knee-length trousers, his brown skin shiny with sweat and his black hair pushed back from his face. The earthquake must’ve interrupted his workout.

He noticed her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing!” she said, scrambling to her feet.

He gestured to her clothes, expression pinched with what Jane would call annoyed disbelief.

Jane has so much more chaotic energy than my other main characters, she’s very fun.

I tag @akindofmagictoo​, @sleepyowlwrites​, @talesofsorrowandofruin​, and anyone else who wants to play! Your words are start, smooth, learn, and rumble. As always, no pressure@

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Painted Windows 16

Masterlist

Warnings: violence, trauma, allusions to abuse, noncon, isolation, torture, suicide attempts and thoughts, further tags to be added.

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come face to face with the soldier.

Note: We’re in the endgame now, haha, you get it. I know it’s been a while but here we go again. <3 Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3 Let me know thoughts, excitement, theories, anything.

Bucky didn’t return that day. Or the next. 

After cleaning up your puke and trying to wash him away from your skin, you spent the hours face down on the bed. You could smell him on the sheets and taste him in your own tears. You could feel the violence of his touch still. The searing along the flesh of your thigh and the ache deep in your core. It was worse than any pain you’d known before; he wasn’t just another nameless man. He was a monster you couldn’t forget. Or escape.

When at last, you stopped sobbing, you succumbed to the pit deepening in your stomach. You ate unsalted crackers and the last of the grapes from the crisper. You opened your notebook, then closed it, opened it again, then tossed it against the wall with a shriek. 

Why write about what happened when it had never ended?

Another day passed. You weren’t lonely, but you weren’t relieved either. It didn’t matter when Bucky came, you knew he would, and you knew what would happen.

You stared out the window. It was dark again. You could see the spring peeking out through the mud. The snow that lingered was dirty and melting. The stars twinkled in the sky beyond the stretching branches of the trees that swayed in the night breeze. But all you could do was look; you couldn’t smell the damp or hear the birds as they returned from their winter sojourn or feel the subtle bite of the dwindling winter. You were like an animal in a cage, at the mercy of others pleasure but not to have your own.

You flinched as you heard the door beep. You turned slowly as it opened and pressed yourself to the tinted glass, your fingers curled around the sill. Bucky shut the door behind him, another shadow in the gloom. The lights flicked on and he planted his hand above the switch as he watched you. 

You stared back, dumbfounded. As much as you expected him, the visit was a surprise. As much you had prepared yourself for the inevitability, the dread drowned you and left you speechless and paralysed. As much as you’d been through, you couldn’t handle anymore.

He dropped his hand to his belt and the noise of the buckle made your skin crawl. He approached the bed slowly, letting his fly gape open as he pulled his shirt over his head. Hs bared his broad chest, that wall of muscle you couldn’t break through, and dropped his shirt without regard. He nodded to the bed.

“Go on.” He eyed the hem of your cotton night shirt. You changed once since he’d left you. You had no one to dress up for, so you dressed for bed. You hesitated as you blinked at the duvet. “Sugar…” he warned, “Don’t make this difficult.”

“Why?” Your voice crackled in the tension. He pushed his jeans down, his excitement was visible against his briefs.

“Don’t act like you had no part in this,” he pointed to the bed. “You’re so desperate to be a victim.”

Your heart hammered in your ears. You neared the bed and pressed your knee to the edge. His fingers lingered on the elastic of his briefs.

“Don’t be stupid.” He hissed. “Naked.”

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Don’t cry. That’s what he wanted and you’d done enough of that. You lifted your shirt slowly and let it fall. You rolled your panties down and ignored his movement as he stripped off his briefs. You got onto the bed and laid on your back, waiting for him.

He laughed darkly and snapped his fingers. “Over here,” he beckoned you with his index finger, “On your knees, turn around.”

You bit down and crawled to him. You spun so your back was to him and his hands gripped your shoulders. He squeezed and let out a long breath. He shoved you so you fell forward on your hands. He slapped your ass and you held in your yelp. You hung your head as his fingers danced at the top of your thighs.

He poked at your folds and you quivered. The cold metal pressed to your warmth and he forced his fingers roughly past your entrance, burying them to the knuckle. You clamped your lips shut as he pushed in and out of you several times. He growled in frustration and retracted his hand, lashing your ass once more.

“What’s wrong?” He snarled as he stepped closer and grabbed your hips. “Fucking dry as fuck.”

You closed your eyes as he angled his dick along your entrance and pulled you further back. His tip pressed against your entrance and you opened around him painfully as he forced your legs wider apart. You whimpered and arched your back to ease the intrusion but it still hurt. When he impaled you entirely, he held you there and wiggled his hips.

You hissed as he pulled back and thrust into you as hard as he could. His fingers sank into your flesh as he slammed you into him. The clap of flesh was deafening as he kept a steady motion, working your body against his. You clawed at the blankets and choked on the moans that threatened to rise.

Your body responded, slowly, though it was just as agonizing. You huffed as he sped up. His left hand slid up your back and he gripped the back of your neck. He shoved your head down to the mattress and hammered into you. The bed shook with you and his groans swirled around you.

You slapped at the bed as he ignored your murmured pleas. You bared your teeth and grunted through the pain until he stopped. Until those last, long, stuttered, sharp thrusts left you breathless and weak. He pushed you off of him and your legs went lip as you fell prone across the mattress. His cum trickled down your thigh and he pinched your ass cruelly.

You kicked at him and he caught your ankle. He took your other leg and flipped you over harshly. He squeezed and his raw strength threatened to snap a bone. You stared at him defiantly and pushed yourself up to look him in the eye.

“Do it.” You sneered. “You’ll have to break me before I’ll ever want you.”

His eyes glimmered dangerously and he dropped your legs. He turned and stomped to the door, still naked, and keyed in the code. The door slammed and he left you in silence. You stared, expecting him to return shortly, but he didn’t.

You sat until you were certain he wouldn’t, though really, you could be sure. His cum cooled and turned sticky as the chill seeped into the flesh. He would be back but not soon. You’d have enough time to wash away his touch but not enough to prepare for his next visit.

You watched through the window as Bucky carried the long rifle bag and a duffle to his car. He didn’t tell you he was leaving. He didn’t talk at all anymore; not outside of giving you orders. A week maybe since he’d carved his star into your flesh. A week of solace interrupted only by his startling invasions.

Still you were nervous. The mission could last weeks but you never truly felt safe from him. From that mean streak he called “the soldier”. You shivered as he pulled away from the house and you watched his bumper grimly.

You kept your eyes out the window as you watched the yard. The patches of grass turning green, the sun shining brighter, the birds flitting around collecting twigs, the squirrels scurrying and scrounging. Spring had arrived and yet, nothing had changed. You were still a prisoner. Looking on at the world from the outside.

As your nose tingled and you felt like crying, you turned away. You ignored the television, you were done watching others live a life you’d never have. You sat at the table with the box of patterned paper and began to fold. A sparrow, a swan, a deer; your own little forest of animals.

You wiled away the morning with the creased creatures and as the afternoon beamed through the tinted glass, you sat up and stretched. You yawned as the sun shifted. You stood and walked around as your legs cramped. You froze as you heard the beep. 

He was back already… that couldn’t be good.

You gulped and watched the door open as the pin pad flashed green. Your hands balled to fists but you were faced by a man you were wholly unprepared for. Steve’s brow wrinkled as he looked around the room. The signs of your isolation were clear. Clothes strewn in a pile, your notebook still overturned on the floor, a messy bed, and you; unkempt and confused.

“Dora,” he said carefully as he stepped inside.

“What are you doing here?” You clasped your hands together. “Where’s Bucky?”

“He’s… away. You didn’t know?” He asked.

“I watched him go but…” You glanced around. “You left me with him.”

“Dor, what could I… I shouldn’t have,” he came closer. He reached out and you cowered. He touched your cheek softly. “Look at you. I’m so sorry.”

“He’s your friend.” You drew away. “You can’t save me from him.”

“You asked why I was here,” he said, “Well, why do you think?”

You were too afraid to be hopeful but when you saw the way he looked at you, you couldn’t help the way your heart throbbed. You couldn’t help but think that he might just get you out.

“But… why would you do that?”

“Because he’s not the Bucky I knew. He’s not the Bucky I saved.” He sniffed. “He’s not the Bucky who can save Dora.”

You frowned and pressed your palms to your neck. “You’d really… save me?”

“I’m here. There’s no going back now.” He reached into his jacket pocket. He revealed the paper frog. “You asked for me to take you away, are you going to come with me?”

Your eyes blurred as tears rose. You couldn’t believe it. You just couldn’t but you had to. It was your only chance. Your only true chance. You couldn’t be afraid anymore. Fear had never done you any good.

“Yes, yes,” you said, “I will. Please--”

“Alright, then we better get going.” He interjected.

He went to the dresser and pulled open each drawer. He took out a shirt, jeans, socks, underwear. He handed them to you and searched for a bag to pack away a few more outfits. He turned to you as you crossed to the bathroom and he stopped you.

“Dora. Let me see your leg.” He said.

You looked down, embarrassed. You lifted the hem of your night shirt and turned your leg to reveal the blazing star mottled in your flesh. His face fell.

“Go, get dressed. Quickly.” He tightened the string on the rucksack and you hurried into the bathroom. 

You changed clumsily. The sense of frequency has your pulse thrumming in your ears. As you came out, Steve dropped a pair of shoes before you and searched the closet for a jacket. He helped you pull it on and handed you the bag of clothes.

He grabbed your arm and swept you to the door. He nudged you ahead of him and you stopped dead in the frame. Your eyes rounded and you poked your head out as you peered down the hallway. You were leaving, really leaving.

“Steve,” you gasped, “I--”

“Dor, go,” he said, “We have to go. Now.”

You nodded and stepped out into the hall. Your entire body buzzed and you felt like laughing. It was much too soon for that. You went to the stairs and rushed down onto the landing, barely catching yourself on the railing at the bottom. Steve edged past you and opened the front door.

The song of birds and the whisper of the wind blew through. You placed one foot in front of the other and turned to Steve as you felt the soft sunlight on you. You stood on your toes and grabbed his shoulders. You kissed his lips and he let you. His hand on the small of your back as he parted and urged you through the door.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you bounced down the steps. “Oh, thank you!”

You followed him to the car and opened your side as he did the same on the other. You hugged the bag to you and sat in the seat. You buckled up as he turned the engine as you shook uncontrollably.

“Steve,” you smiled as he reversed and steered the car around the long gravel drive.

“Dor,” he said evenly as he drove towards the highway.

“I love you,” you sang, “I love you so much!”

He was quiet. He kept his hands on the wheel and stared out the windshield. His long golden lashes caught the sunlight as he stopped at the end of the dirt path and looked onto the black road ahead. He looked at you, his blue eyes warm as the wrinkle left his forehead.

“I love you too,” he echoed and tore his gaze from you. He let out a sigh and stepped on the gas, “Just stick with me, Dor, and you’ll be okay. I promise.”

[w-h-4-t]

On today's episode of can't help myself

A friendship story with Cole and Cullen because I adore Cole and mans Cullen decided to knock on my brain and say AYE WHAT ABOUT ME HOE??? so there it is. It's been a HOT MIN since i last wrote but I caught the vibes. awww yeee. The story title is from a Gregory Alan Isakov song called Second Chances.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517498/chapters/83834260

A Ghost in the Garden, Scaring the Crows.

It wasn't a familiar song but at times it was fleeting, fully blossoming into haphazard singing or woeful humming. Cole tapped his feet against the walls, mimicking the beat of several bleeding hearts. 

And how they bled, all without voices. 

For the songs he heard -the singing and humming- was internal, never brought to light nor languished upon. 

Everyone's pain was brought to the surface of their mouths, like blood pooling at the top of a wound. Wanting to be free from their broken bodies and blistered bones. At times, Cole held a blade in his fingers -what he thought to be his hands- and flipped its honed edges over and over again. 

He wanted to free them.

But it was wrong, wrought with rules of reality he didn't quite grasp. 

Cole sat on top of the Garden roof, clicking his heels against the tiles, watching a world that remained blind to the form he filled. The knife was still in his half-gloved hands, giving thought to nothing in particular but the voices that swam around him in circular shapes. 

Hurt my hand...

Lost my brother...

Never saw it coming...

How do I...

Where will I...

What do I do?

The many whispers of Skyhold's residents floated past him like errant bubbles on a river's surface; some popped by his ear, letting him listen to their woes. 

The scarecrow boy looked off into the Garden, watching Chantry sisters and Elvhen herbalists sharing the land that stitched them together.

And still their turmoil boiled and dived, fluctuating in waves to keep their sanity, for the sky was patched but the world still hovered over their shoulders. A promise of destruction was forever clear, that much Cole noticed from the many minds that flocked to his ear.

Slowly, the Spirit stood, unseen by the people, unknown by the companions as he followed a thought as if reeled in; a faux human fish chasing a lure. 

The world blurred around him, passing by in watercolours as he quietly made his way past citizens more real than he could ever feel.

The grass crunched under his boots, the buckles of his tattered garb chuckled in metallic rasps. Everything came alive as he walked and Cole wondered if he'd ever become more than the shell he filled. It was Varric's hope for him and Solas' nightmare. 

The scrape of stone touched his shoes; a soft clacking to signal his arrival to the gazebo. Cole turned his head back for a moment, casting a half-moon shadow with his hat as his eyes scanned the garden. 

The voices chased him, he could see them coming in invisible waves, swirling past Embrium and Elfroot plants, coiling over stones and praying beetles in lofty trees.

The woes of others would be upon him soon and he would welcome them with compassion even if his blade was forcibly stilled.

Turning back, blue eyes stared at a small table; a Lion and his quiet kingdom, formulated from his mind and captured by his own hand. Cullen's game of chess with himself -a normal affair of solitary wits- carried on as usual. 

Castling...but that would leave the knight open.

The last piece of Cullen's thoughts sidled up to Cole and the boy watched with fascination as the Commander plotted a war against himself.

Even in his moments of reprieve, he fought, strategized, conquered. 

But there was a sluggishness to his face; a sheen of sweat pooling between the creases of his forehead. The grating nausea and cerulean pollution of a body purging lost Lyrium.

Distractions to keep the monsters at bay.

Cole watched as Cullen reached out a shaky hand to clutch a knight but his fingers betrayed him, knocking over the piece.

The sharp flare of irritation cut Cole's tongue and pierced his chest, bringing him forward; making him seen.

"Maker's Breath!" Cullen exclaimed, his hand flying to his sword hilt in reflex, "Cole...You need to stop doing that."

"I'm sorry." Cole spoke suddenly, stepping forward with his head lowered, "I...I heard the hollow, the craving calling for comfort, cradling broken bottles and digesting dust. I wanted to help."

For above every pain of Skyhold he could not assist, Cole trembled at every tremor the Commander's withdrawal summoned. It was an intensity he could not fathom, a pain that had become so commonplace that above the voices crying for help, Cullen's screamed.

Removing his hand from his sword hilt, Cullen watched Cole with creased brows; his eyes were tired, reddened at the borders and bloodshot at the seams. Soon his brow lifted, resuming his natural stance at the table, focusing back on the fallen knight. 

There were no words but a soft whisper of wind to assail the leaves and dance with the bugs. Cole heard it all, even above the bassy thrum of blood in Cullen's ears. 

He heard peace at that moment, a small cluster of laughter from nearby, the sound of running, movement and life.

Though Varric was elsewhere, Cole could hear his voice, not his thoughts, but a memory of what he may say in a moment like this.

People are tricky, kid, but get to know them and they become a little less strange. You start to figure out that everyone's pretty weird, it's just a matter of befriending the type of crazy shit they bring to the table.

The Commander brought his hand to cover his mouth in deep thought, already beginning to forget the boy's presence. 

Already beginning to have him fade away. 

Cole stared back, his drawn face moping further as he found himself disappearing again, and though he normally encouraged it, he enjoyed being around.

He wanted to be seen.

For maybe if he was seen, he could help.

"C-Commander." Cole said suddenly, pulling the fog away from Cullen's eyes, "Can...I sit with you."

The words were odd, then again, the entire rogue boy was odd. Cullen blinked a few times before looking at Cole, gauging his intent and whether he wanted to be bothered. 

And thankfully, he did.

"Alright." Cullen finally spoke, carelessly gesturing at the opposite chair, "But keep out of my head. Please."

Hearing the agreement, Cole nodded slowly, his mouth slightly agape even though he wished to smile. He would soon learn to tug his lips upward in time, not now, but in time.

Baby steps. 

The many leather and cloth patches of Cole's clothes gave a soft whine as he sat in the chair, and funnily enough, it was the only sound he heard at that moment.

The world was strangely quiet, the river of voices all pleading for help lay idyllic amongst the shaded garden. Cole heard his thoughts rebounding in his skull and questioned each one of them, unknowing it was his own voice, his own words.

That is until he recognized his voice and the body he inhabited.

Reaching out to the board, Cole passed his fingers along the knight piece, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger to right its place.

"I can teach you a simple set of moves, if you wish," Cullen said softly, catching Cole's eyes which reflected the world back at the Commander, "Nothing too difficult, of course."

There was still clear pain in Cullen's face but it was buried as he spoke to Cole, distracted and muted under their conversation.

He was helping, in his own small way and with that realization, came a slight smile on the scarecrow spirit's face.

"Thank you. I want to learn." Cole replied, sitting upright in the chair as the one-man war melted into a mock battle for two. 

He saw Cullen smile back at him, before resetting the board. It was the first time he felt like himself in a long while.

As for Cole. 

He felt human.

[fidothefinch]

maybe it's enough (to know that we were here together)

For Dick & Damian Week 2021, day 2: "He's my son!"

I wrote this over the last two hours. Fair warning, it is not proofread. Title from Kina Grannis's "For Now," for fake-deep reasons.

(More warnings: this story strongly features hospitals and difficulty breathing (and poison). Please take care of yourselves and skip it if it will hurt you, especially because of the last year we've all shared <3)

Nightwing woke up with a gasp like it was the first breath he had taken in a long time. He floundered for a moment, instinctively worried he had just surfaced from Gotham’s harbor (it wouldn’t be the first time), but it only took one hard smack of his wrist to recognize the very solid ground beneath himself.

Panting, he leveraged himself to his side to empty his stomach onto the concrete.

Something was wrong. He tried to check his surroundings, but he was only able to make out grey blobs that may have been buildings and wildly swinging lights.

No, they weren’t swinging. That was just his vision.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just will vertigo away. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to; growing up swinging from a trapeze conditioned him to enjoy the swoop in his stomach. But right now, he was either on a boat or drugged.

Sirens doppler-ed towards and away from him, somewhere down below. Definitely drugged, then.

He lifted one hand to his pounding head and was happy to find his domino was still in place. So were his gloves. But when he checked, he was missing an Escrima stick and a handful of wingdings. He grappled with his memory, trying to pull up some idea of what could have happened. A fight, obviously. But was he in Gotham? Blüdhaven? Somewhere overseas?

He flipped to his back and stared at the sky, still breathing like he had just run a marathon. Drawing in air was like drinking through a silly straw. Above him, the sky was a mottled green-black, the wind rolling the clouds inland. The motion threatened to make him sick again. He considered the merits of rolling to his side, just in case, when his eyes caught the flicker of a familiar shape against the clouds.

The Batsignal.

So, he was in Gotham. Now that he thought about it, that felt right. He could recall riding in earlier on his bike, the wind whipping through his hair, weaving through wild traffic. But traffic had been going the wrong way? Everybody had been leaving the island. . .

He sat up suddenly. “Robin!”

Sitting up was a bad idea. He pushed through his temporary blindness to wobble to his feet, anyway. “Robin!” he called again.

Damian didn’t answer. He was nowhere to be found.

More sirens rang down below him, passing in the same direction the last set had. Dick scrambled to the edge of the roof to watch the ambulance pass. What he found took his breath away. Cars lined both sides of the road, all headed toward the bridge that led off the island. All empty, abandoned. There didn’t seem to be a soul in sight, except the emergency response vehicles speeding down the clear sidewalks.

Everything snapped into focus, and Dick’s memory returned. Somebody had called the Gotham PD with a thirty-minute warning before releasing an aerosolized drug into the sewer system. Nightwing had sped into town as quickly as he could, and Batman teamed him up with Robin to cover the south quarter, and they had gotten separated—where was Damian?

Dick leapt off the building, shooting his grapnel as he fell to swing into a perfect arc to the ground. His bike wasn’t within eyesight, so it was too far. He took off, running after the ambulance.

Toward the hospital.

-

“Sir, you can’t be here.”

Dick had never seen the hospital so busy. Patients were lined up along the walls and hallways, crammed into the rooms like sardines. The staff actually ran between beds, looking haggard and exhausted already. Dick stood out like a sore thumb in his Nightwing gear, but nobody had the time or energy to move him.

Except the head nurse, behind the desk. “You have to leave,” she said. “We don’t have room.”

“Is Robin here?” Dick asked. He had scanned the pinched faces of the patients he passed on the way back into the ER, but nobody was familiar. He was almost thankful; the victims of the poison were sweating profusely and gagged on their own breath.

“I can’t tell you that,” the nurse said.

“I need to know that he’s okay,” he pleaded, leaning into his palms. They had been planted on the desk for stability, but now they were the only thing grounding him in his panic. “Please.”

All of Gotham was supposed to be evacuated, but there were still so many people too slow, too many people without a way off the island. When the threatened poison hit the city, there were too many people left behind. Nightwing had rushed over from Blüdhaven as fast as he could, but by the time he had joined the rest of the Bats it was too late. Half of Gotham was sick. Dying.

And somewhere in the panic, as noxious steam shot from the sewers and spilled from the vents, he had lost Robin.

The nurse studied his face, her lips pursed. “Robin was admitted two hours ago.”

Dick’s knees nearly buckled with relief (it had nothing to do with his legs feeling like jelly). “Where is he?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?” Maybe the words were clipped, but he didn’t have time for this.

“No visitors. Hospital rules.”

“He’s just a kid!”

“Then maybe you should have helped him evacuate,” she said, levelling a glare at him that could melt glass. “Instead of encouraging him to run straight into the line of danger.”

Now Dick growled. “You don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I think he’s better off here than with you.”

“He’s my son!” Dick slammed his fist on the counter between them, making the nurse jump. He would have time to feel guilty about it later. “If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll find him myself.”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, not getting any words out.

“Nightwing!” somebody else called. Dick spun around (too quickly), and another nurse was gesturing quickly behind herself. “I’ll take you to him.”

“Moira—” the head nurse started. But she wasn’t fast enough to catch Dick as he weaved through the maze of gurneys.

The nurse had dark circles under her eyes, and her bun was frayed. “Pediatric wing,” she huffed, already jogging down a wide white hallway. Dick followed, heart racing. “His oxygen was too low. He must have gotten a face-full of the stuff.”

“What does that mean?” Dick asked.

Her face screwed up. “He’s on a ventilator.”

Dick’s heart squeezed in panic at the words. He began to mentally prepare himself for what he would find.

The nurse he was following stopped abruptly, almost making him run into her. She flipped a hand at a set of double doors. “Stairs,” she explained. “You’ll have to go up to the third floor. Room 329.”

Dick didn’t question why she wasn’t coming; she had work to do. He nodded as he pushed through one of the doors. “Thanks.”

By the time he reached the third floor, he could tell that he had been dosed. Maybe not as badly as the other patients there, but three flights of stairs should have been child’s play for him. He arrived to patient hallway sweating and panting too hard, jelly legs making their displeasure felt.

There were doctors and nurses in this wing, too, but they were also scrambling too quickly to give him more than a passing glance. The crammed hallways on this floor were even more disconcerting, because the flushed, moaning faces were those of children.

None of them were the one he was looking for.

He forced himself to slow down, not able to bear the idea of passing Damian’s room and missing him accidentally. When he found room 329, he steeled himself before barreling through the door.

There were two beds crammed inside the small space, made possible only because the beds were child-sized. The smiling clouds painted on the ceiling were a harsh contrast to the dark, noisy machines wound around the beds.

Damian was in one of them.

Dick rushed to his side, sparing barely a glace toward the other child. Damian looked tiny, dwarfed by the size of the gurney and the mouth of the ventilator. His domino was in place, but somebody had flipped the screen over the eyes back, so Dick could see that Damian was asleep. The IV in his elbow connected to several bags, and Dick had no doubt at least one of them was a sedative. They would have to, to put him on the ventilator.

Dick snaked his gloved fingers into Damian’s bare ones and squeezed lightly. Even through the gloves, he could feel the smallest pulse.

He legs threatened to give out beneath him again.

And, well. Then they did.

A passing doctor saw him just as he had sprawled on the floor like a starfish. “Nightwing? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Dick shook his head, gesturing to his chest about the tightness still persisting htere. “Just dizzy.”

The doctor clucked his tongue, reaching out to the chair wedged into the corner. “Think you can get in this chair?”

Dick nodded (a mistake), and with the doctor’s help he was able to slide into the seat. The doctor flit out of the room and returned less than a minute later with a nasal cannula and oxygen tank.

Dick waved it away. “I’m fine.”

The doctor rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh, and I am, too.”

Dick didn’t fight it when she applied it. The steady stream of dry oxygen through his nose was a relief, and his head began to clear again almost immediately. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” the doctor waved.

Dick stopped her on her way out the door again. “Wait.”

She paused, obviously a little irritated at being interrupted.

Dick blushed in apology. “When will he be taken off the ventilator?” he asked, gesturing toward Damian, in the bed.

The doctor only shrugged. “When he’s ready.” And she left, hustling toward her next patient.

Dick pulled his glove off and ran his free hand through Damian’s hair, brushing back the strays. It was still damp with sweat.

However long Damian was asleep, Dick would be there when he woke up.

[giorno-plays-piano]

hey!! i love your writing sm💕 idk if you’re still taking requests or if you’re comfortable w a like platonic or father figure yandere. But how about yan! Steve Rogers where he kidnaps a teenage girl to be his daughter then shields her from the world to “protect” her kinda like rapunzel. if you don’t want to that’s no problem at all tho💕

Hi, sweetie! This is a very peculiar request, and I really, really like it! I guess I’ve made Steve a little softer than I expected, but here he is. Hope you’re going to enjoy this!

The one he cares about

Pairing: adoptive dad!Steve & Reader, Peter Parker x Reader (if you squint)

Warnings: yandere, obsession (non-romantic!), stalking, kidnapping, death of minor characters (but nothing too scary).

Words: 1870.

P.S. Just to clarify this is NOT an incest story, Steve does not harbor any romantic feelings for the reader, he loves her like a parent does.

__________________

Pacing up and down nervously like a caged tiger, Steve threw a glance at the clock on the kitchen wall, ready to take out his cellphone and give you a call. It was just 10 pm, but he felt something wasn't going quite right. Was everything ok at that party? Were you enjoying yourself? Did you finally confess to that silly guy Steve didn't like at all? What if he had already got you, Steve's precious little daughter, into bed?

Breathing in deeply, the man tried calming himself down. You were an adult. At one point you would start dating people, and it was perfectly alright, Sam reminded him the other day. You weren't some princess locked in a tower with Steve guarding you like an angry dragon. You had the right to love and be loved, create your own family, for God's sake. When he thought of you leaving him Steve was ready to break that kitchen wall.

No, no, no, it was alright. You loved him with all your heart, and no stupid guy could take it away from Steve. He was your father. Adoptive father, of course, but he did everything he could to make you trust and love him as much as you true family. You were calling him dad, after all. And even if you eventually married someone, Steve would always stay close to help and support you - and your kids, if you ever decide to have any. At the thought of him kissing the cheeks of his cute little grandchildren Steve had finally relaxed.

Oh, was it the sound of the front door opening? As much as he wanted to rush to meet you, the man quickly put on his apron he ironed this morning and turned to the heated stove to put a meat pie in it. Alright, alright, you were already home, it was perfect.

But why so early? Steve was really generous this time and gave you till 1 am - of course, if you took a taxi, not go walking the streets in the night. Did something go wrong? Did the guy reject you? Did he take advantage of you? Did he... do something he shouldn't have?

Steve felt his blood boiling. In a second he was ready to storm out of the kitchen to beat the shit out of that bastard who was stupid enough to hurt his child.

"Hi dad! I'm home!"

As you walked in, carrying your beaded clutch in your arms and yawning tiredly, Steve put a smile on his face momentarily, assessing whether you were hurt within a couple of seconds. No, apparently, you were alright: you moved just like before; your hair wasn't ruffled, and your makeup wasn't smeared eather. He had overreacted again.

"Welcome back, sweet pea." Steve moved closer to you, giving you a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead as you giggled softly, throwing your arms around his broad back. "How did it go?"

As your face turned gloomy for a fleeting second, he knew his sixth sense wasn't lying to him: something didn't go well.

"Nah." You brushed it off as you sat on the chair, carelessly leaving your clutch on the table and stretching your legs with a loud sigh.

"What is it, sweetie?"

Furrowing his brows, Steve sat across from you, his hands folded as he stared at you with worry. Shit, did this guy try doing something funny? Did he offend you? Oh, Steve was going to have a nice talk with him, a moron who thought he could do this to his little girl and it would never come back at him. Should he call Natasha? Maybe Bucky? He knew they were still in town. No, no, he would take this matter in his own hands and go have a nice talk with that stupid ungrateful ba-

"It's alright, I swear." You muttered and forced a smile, drawing his attention back to you. "He just... well, just didn't return my feelings."

"Did he reject you?"

For a second Steve felt both relieved and ready to go murder that kid in a cold blood. Rejected you? The prettiest and smartest girl in the town with a heart of gold? Who did that little shit think he was, rejecting Steve's precious daughter?

But it was better than him forcing you to do something you didn't want. At least that asshole didn't do anything inappropriate to you, probably too scared to face your angry dad who could crack his skull with one hand.

"Not like reject in the full sense of the word, but... um, I feel like he was a little scared of me." Your smile turned bitter, and you leaned onto Steve, pressing your forehead into his chest as you exhaled loudly.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time it happened. Everybody around knew you were the daughter of retired Captain America, and people were treating you with such caution as if you were some time bomb, clearly unwilling to make the world's first Avenger angry. Partly, it was a good thing since no one tried messing with you. However, you were also left pretty much alone, ignored by the majority for the sake of their own well-being. Although you had found several friends, dating someone was a completely different thing: guys were running away from before you even spoke to them.

"I'm so sorry." The man said quietly, rubbing your back and gently caressing your head with his other hand. "This is my fault."

You sighed, lifting your head and looking at Steve so tenderly he suddenly felt like he was the happiest man in the world. What, weren't you upset?

"Come on, dad." His heart sped up when you called him that, and he was ready to lift you up in the air, kissing his little girl's nose. "I thought he's different, but he's just a chicken like all other guys. I'll get over him soon."

"Hard to live up to our standards, I guess." Steve smiled and pinched your nose a little, making you laugh again. "But you need to know I am really sorry, sweat pea. I swear I wouldn't stand in your way if you decided he was the right guy for you."

Actually, Steve pretty much would, but you wouldn't know about it. Happiness of his only child was the only thing that mattered to him now: what was the point of being a parent if you couldn't make your kid happy?

"It's okay, really, dad. I wouldn't change the things as they are now. When I think what could happen if you didn't see me on the street that night... uh-huh." You didn't finish the sentence, not that you needed to.

If Steve didn't find you that night desperately searching for food on the streets of New York, you'd probably be dead now.

You were born to a good family, and you spent the first 11 years of your life in a nice place, having loving parents, the roof above your head and food on the table. You were just one more happy kid among thousands of others, neither better nor worse than all of them. It all changed when your parents were killed by two robbers who had broken into your house, and soon you ended up in an orphanage - you still had nightmares about this place. You spent a year there before you escaped, choosing the streets over an orphanage. Silly you, thinking it would be better.

When Steve found you, you were 13. Dirty, always hungry, acting like a little wild animal, you were no more pitiful than any other homeless child, ignored by the majority of people, but Steve saw you. He took you with him - forcefully, of course, because you fought him like a little angry cat, frightened to the core he was going to take advantage of you like all those people pretending to help you. But he didn’t. He was the one who had truly cared.

It took him months to get you accustomed to living in a house again with someone close to you. Steve spent even more time trying to make you trust him, make you believe he was your friend, somebody you could rely on, trust, see as a parental figure. You couldn’t even name all those people he hired to help you: countless psychologists and psychiatrists; doctors and nurses of all kinds; visiting teachers and tutors. Despite liking to live alone, Steve brought so many strangers to his house it felt like living in a royal palace with tons of court attendants. All of this was for you, the only person he cared about, his little child.

When you were 15, you started calling him dad, and that was the day neither Steve nor you would ever forget: he scooped you up and kept swinging you around till your head was spinning while he laughed and shouted how much he loved you, the best daughter he could ever had. 

You never knew the extent to which Steve cared about you, following you secretly when you finally agreed to leave the house - he needed to know you were safe and sound. Of course, he was always there when he supposed someone wasn’t treating you right, and he did everything he could to keep his only child happy. Unfortunately, you were lonely until Steve found a couple of good friends for you, but it was alright. You were perfectly okay now.

“I love you too, sweet pea.” He smiled, caressing your head gently. “But you know what? Don’t worry about that guy. I actually have someone who I want you to meet, and he’s a really sweet kid.”

“Whoa, what? What kid?”

“Well, you know. Kid from work.”

“Dad, what work? What kid?” You rolled your eyes at him, giggling. “How old is he, at least?”

“A little older than you, but he’s alright. He’s been wanting to meet you for some time.” But before Steve wasn’t sure kid was the right guy for you, considering that he was still very much an Avenger and was involved in all kinds of dangerous situations. 

“Dad, what kid? Are you talking about your superhero colleagues or something?” 

“... yeah? I promise, you’ll like him. Peter’s a good kid.”

“Peter? Peter goddamn Parker?!” You exclaimed loudly, realizing he was talking about Spider-Man. “Are you joking?!”

“What did I tell you about swearing, sweetheart?” Furrowing his brows, Steve shook his head in disapproval, but laughed in the very next second, watching your guilty expression. “Alright, alright. I’m not joking. If you’d like to meet him, I’ll ask him to come tomorrow for dinner, ok?”

“Yes, please!”

As he took the pie out of the oven with you waiting at the dinner table, Steve thought about giving the kid a big lecture about what he was and wasn’t supposed to do to you, but he was more or less sure Peter knew what was right and wrong. Steve could spot that familiar glint in kid’s eyes when he was looking at your photo that Steve had been showing him proudly. 

It would turn out alright. Your father was ready to do anything it takes to make you happy.

___________________________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @iheartsebastianstan @lovelydarkdaydream @sarge-barnes-sir