#i have this ugly ass button nose and they got the big nose gene

[romeoandromeo]

.

[heli0s-writes]

Good Enough

Summary: From this ask:  i read your deadcrush miniseries and ig i got caught in the feels and love the way you write 💛 i was wondering if you could write something bucky x y/n where she’s younger but they’re in a stable relationship and she becomes pregnant? like she‘s happy and excited but bucky is kinda worried bc of his genes, past, etc.

A/N: So sorry this took like five months! 2.5k words. Fluff with a little cussing involved.

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

“How do you feel about the color orange?”

It’s a Friday night in the tower, almost bedtime when you embark of a journey of questions, carefully placed breadcrumbs for Bucky.

“I feel… fine?”

“Light orange or dark orange?”

“What’s dark orange look like? A dirty penny?”

“Light orange it is.” You scrunch your nose at the thought of painting a room the shade he’s imagining.

“What for?”

You shrug.

When you both brush your teeth, you take glance at him in the mirror, eyes trailing from his brow to his chin, attentive to the way his nose slopes and his jaw cuts. Jesus, you’d be lucky if--

Bucky mutters from behind a mouthful of toothpaste suds, “What is it?”

After four years it makes sense that he would be able to figure out when you’re keeping thoughts to yourself. He’s in your head, Bucky Barnes. Even when he’s not there, you’re thinking of him. Every second of the day, really. It’s Bucky breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all other hours, too. It makes you a little bewildered with joy that you can feel so much for a single person.

Even before he kissed you at the end of that horrid mission--- when you nearly drowned in some lake in Scotland. He had plunged into the murky depths, arm gushing blood, yanked you up onto shore and performed CPR. Your ribs nearly broke and Sam was by his side, head in his hands. Get up, get up, get up, goddamn it!

With a final two-handed press into your chest where the slightest bit of crunching could be heard, you spat. Two mouthfuls of foggy blue-green right into his face.

FUCK!

Sam sighed in relief, leaning back with his hands on his waist because if you hadn’t woken up, he thought, Bucky would have burned down the entire country.

I think--- another sputter as you attempted to catch your breath—the fucking Loch Ness monster--- fuck. I think I saw that shit.

Blinking the prickling from your eyes, you struggled to see clearly from the swelling of your lids. Your sternum felt bruised, and in front of you, Bucky looked about ready to burst into tears.

You got a little—haha—my spit—on your face.

He snarled and you reeled back in response. He snarled and shoved you back into the mud and kissed you until you coughed again into his mouth, a final splash dowsing a blazing moment.

Sam looked away with a grin and spoke into his earpiece, updating the rest of the team of your status. She’s up. Well—sort of. Barnes is kind of all over her.

Even before that moment, your head had been swimming with all thoughts of him along with desperate attempts to drive them away—make them small and unseen so you don’t trail behind him like a lovesick idiot.

He was the damn Winter Soldier. He was a legend and you were just a loud-mouthed kid, only twenty.

You had been rough around the edges, needing a lot of preparation and training before you could run any missions. There was a lot of difficulty at first, especially when it came to Steve. You were always too clumsy, too brash, not enough pirouettes and cartwheels. Whatever.

So, after days of doing nothing but getting scolded and running simulations alone with FRIDAY, Steve dragged Bucky into the weight room where you were throwing a seventy-pound medicine ball around like it was a can of soup.

Punch her. Steve had commanded with a smirk, a little irritated that earlier in the day you kicked his legs out underneath his shield. Punch her with your arm.

You almost shit yourself. And Bucky looked like he could have, too. It took a lot of yelling from Steve, yelling back from Bucky, and incomprehensible yelling from you before Bucky was so overwhelmed with the noise that he just did it.

That powerful arm pulled back, whirred, launched itself forward and you had bat it away like a ping pong ball, feet grounded assertively. Wide blue eyes pierced you, made your heart leap into your mouth, and when he did it again you were so struck by him it hit square in your chest.

Steve clapped his hands together. Great. Meet your new training buddy. You two rough each other up—Buck, you get her right because she’s inconsistent and I’ve got her signed up for a patrol three weeks out.

As Steve promised, three weeks later, you were crammed into a tiny car next to Bucky. The second his shoulder rubbed against yours, you found yourself thinking that you were either going to have his baby, or you were going to die alone.

It was a joke, to start, but you really had it bad, finding yourself more anxious and fearful, and covering it up with smart quips and comments in hopes of throwing him off.

Barnes, you get The Avengers Ass Award from me, Cap be damned.

Absurd bantering during jogs together when he would stop to pull his hair back and you were struggling to keep up. Your spine tingled when a strand of hair fell forward and hung over his face. Bucky are you from Tennessee ‘cause you’re the only ten-I-see.

He would laugh and wink, call you baby, and egg you on because kids are inexplicable, and Peter Parker’s twitter feed had opened his eyes to all sorts of compliments used in the modern age between friends.

Yeah, you would grin, totally, friends. Me and you, totally, definitely, friends.

Eight months later, Scotland turned the whole thing sideways.

Yeah. We all knew. Y’all are stupid-cute. Sam had snickered. In your ear through the comm link were cheers and whooping. Bucky turned red like the cut on his arm.

-

“What about green? How do you feel about green?”

“You’re doin’ the thing again.” His comment borders on annoyed as he gives you a sideways glance, throwing his toothbrush back in the cup with a tinny clink.

“What thing?”

“Pretending you’re deaf.”

“Okay...” You smirk, “but what about green? You like green?”

He scoffs, moves so that he’s behind you and swings both arms around to lock over your middle. His chin rests on your shoulder, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your cheek. Once again, you’re reminded of just how much you adore him. Your tummy flutters with nerves as his eyes find yours in the glass, big and curious.

“What’s goin on with you? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

-

Tell me what you’re thinking.

The fallout of Scotland lingered awkwardly after the plane ride when he rushed back to his room taking long strides and not giving you another glance. He didn’t even have the courage to look at you—only facing the side wall, tucked himself behind the button panel.

Two weeks passed before you cornered him in his own room and spoke those words that would eventually become an integral part of your relationship.

Tell me what you’re thinking, Bucky. If it was a mistake, tell me. If it wasn’t, tell me. You’ve been avoiding me and look—Barnes, I want your goddamn babies, but c’mon. You gotta throw me a bone, I’m shit at reading signs.

There was a strange look in his eye, an overcast sweep staring at his hands clenched together tightly, and for the first time in a long time he didn’t laugh at your jokes. The plates whirred to his left, the knuckles turned bone white on his right. You opened your mouth silently. Three breaths passed before you pushed him up against the wall, using all your strength to peel his hands away.

Then, a kiss. The softest of kisses you could give another human being. Because he was made of memories and regret—pieced back together in the form of Bucky Barnes as fragile as a glass menagerie. You didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking again—it was all over his face: He wasn’t good enough. He was a broken thing. You deserved better. Someone your age, maybe someone who could give you a different life.

So, as you had always done, you bat it away and grabbed him by the face. The second kiss had bruised you both. Sam didn’t let either of you live down matching cut lips for a month.

-

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask quietly, ignoring Bucky’s question as you snuggle up next to him in bed.

“Darlin’… I’m tired. Either tell me what it is, or lemme go to sleep.”

You pout and ram your forehead into his arm childishly, “Just tell me!” Usually he thinks it’s cute when you act like this, but tonight he’s had enough of it. He calls your name in a low tone, the same kind of voice Steve uses when you’ve been too nonchalant with mission orders.

In the dark, you grip onto his hand and press your cheek against his arm, commanding your throbbing heart to still just for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to Clint’s place last year?”

“For Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. And he—he had some of Laura’s family over?”

“And that wretched green bean casserole?”

You laugh a little, swallow thickly, “Remember after dessert when I asked to hold the baby?”

Bucky pauses, digs around in his brain for the moment, “Yeah—you said it was ugly and…”

The lamp on the end-table floods the room orange as Bucky sits up and peers down at you still attached to his elbow. There is recognition in his eyes and suddenly he looks his age—pallid, gaunt, and so deeply afraid. You can only manage a tiny lopsided tug of your lips.

“Are you?” He asks, voice shaking.

You wring your hands nervously, shut your eyes, and hope that when they open Bucky’s expression would change from pained to elated.

“Shit, baby. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Okay, guess you’re not taking it well.” Your face burns with embarrassment before the heat falls into your stomach like stones. It should have been a moment of bliss—when the man you love would scoop you up into his arms and spin you around while confetti flakes sprinkles from the sky. Then, fireworks, shot by Iron Man would spell Baby Barnes! in the background.

Instead, Bucky looks like he might die on the spot.

He can’t help but feel so worthless, because he hardly feels like he deserves you most days, much less face the thought of bringing an entire person into the world. A child. An innocent. And him—unworthy of goodness.

He chokes, “Baby, I—the, fuck. I can’t give this kid—” He sputters and groans, throws his head back against the wall and you think you might hear the plaster cracking behind his skull. Your face twists into a look of irritation.

“You better not say what I think you’re going to say.”

He looks up, shocked, then quickly ashamed.

-

I can’t give you the life that you deserve. You’re… you’ve got better options than me. You deserve to be with someone your age.

Four months after the near-drowning and the most perfect, sweetest, kiss. Four months after telling you he would love you, Bucky pulled away in the middle of the night and shut himself out of his own future. You had laughed, and then cried, and then let him have his way. Okay. Yeah, if you really think so.

The next week, Tony threw a party for the new SHIELD recruits and you had gotten extremely drunk off eight mouthfuls of whiskey. Across the room was one very expensive Japanese vase, standing five feet tall and gaping at the ceiling.

The recruit next to you watched in awe as you tossed all empty shot-glasses clear over the heads of seventy people and they crashed into the chasm of the urn, hand up dramatically as if you were making a 3-pointer. Steph Curry with the shot, boy!

Tony sent Bucky a contemptuous look and mouthed fix this the same time the young man’s arm snaked around your waist. Then, you clasped your hand over his with a wolfish grin and waltzed with him out of the room.

Bucky stormed after, snatching you off the recruit who was happily kissing you against the wall. Bucky scowled, squared his shoulders and demanded to know what you were thinking.

With a wide and slow sweep of your outstretched hand, you bowed, teetering just a little.

Buck, you said I deserved better. Here it is. Its name is Henderson.

Bucky pointed at the agent, suddenly caught in the middle of a quarrel he never intended on seeing. The Winter Soldier, looking like he could level the floor, and you, just as strong, glaring back matching his ferocity. You think this … boy –a condescending scoff sent Henderson shrinking down-- could give you better?

He’s my age! Wasn’t that your suggestion? Hey! Henderson, you can give me ‘better’, right? Go grind on each other at a club like us kids do? Make-out in public and dry-hump in the car before fucking all night at your place? Or hey--- let’s fuck all night right here! Do you know—Henderson, do you know whose room is two doors away from mine?

Henderson had been smart enough to sneak away before he could see Bucky press you up against the wall and latch his mouth onto yours. Tears were streaming down your face, way before your tirade had finished. It poured and dripped and wet the front of both your shirts. Bucky Barnes, you’re full of--  

He didn’t let you finish. He held your face and wiped your tears. He kissed you again for the last first time, rekindling the fire he had been trying to extinguish.

It would burn, Bucky thought then, until you chose to leave him, because he wasn’t going to leave you again.

-

“Say it to me again.” You hiss, “Try me.”

“Baby…”

You crawl on top, grab his face with one hand and squeeze until his cheeks mush up and his mouth hangs open. “Don’t be so fucking self-deprecating! I don’t like it! You’re being mean to my Bucky and I’m gonna beat you up because I love him!”

“Un--- o—okay- hon, leggo—” the words escape him pinched together, but you are stubborn. You hold on longer, glare at him harder until he lets out a long-suffering sigh, relenting with a smile—still crushed by your thumb.

Happily, you give him a kiss on the cheek and let go. Bucky rubs his jaw where your fingerprints feel like they might bruise more than just his ego.

A tentative look at your belly, still smooth and firm. His hand finds the plane of it, fingers brushing the skin and over newly forming goosebumps. A surprising amount of excitement flutters in his own at the thought. It’d be good. A good baby. Made up of him and you, and the love you’ve fostered in him, too.

“Mmm, so… green?” You mutter, leaning down to kiss him once more. “How do you feel about green?”

Bucky laughs into your mouth. Defeated. Elated.

“Yeah. Green’s good, honey. Green’s good.”

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523

[starkerforlife6969]

Secretary Peter, Boss Tony. With a twist ;)

Tony’s the best goddamn salesman in the office. Hell, in Wallstreet. He can move stocks, he can sell stocks, he can throw a life raft to the drowning man or sink the ship himself. 

He’s charismatic, handsome, and about as in style as his tailored three piece suits, which is to say- very and always in style. He’d graduated from desk jockey to cubicle drone to glass corner office in three short years and he has a floor full of people desperately in awe of him, vying for scraps of attention or pieces of wisdom. 

And Tony loves his job. He loves talking to people, he loves working his charm, he loves winning and he loves money and he loves not having to answer to anyone. 

And he doesn’t answer to anyone, except from- aside from that one pesky exception- in Nick Fury. 

He owns the whole company, so technically Tony reports to him, but Nick’s practically never here so Tony’s the one in charge. 

Apart from this week, apparently, because when he walks in on Monday morning it’s to see Nick in his office, that trademark furious glare that’s really poorly concealed behind what Tony supposes is meant to be a welcoming smile. He doesn’t break stride though, just saunters into his desk and grins. “I see you helped yourself into my office.” He says cheerily. 

“It’s not your office, Tony.” Nick growls, closing the door and standing in front of it like he thinks Tony might run out. “They’re all my offices. Every thing in this building is mine, do you understand that? Even those ugly ass lion statues in the lobby, they’re mine.” 

Tony sighs and eases into his leather desk chair. “That’s unfortunate. Maybe give ‘em to charity or something.” 

“Stark.” Nick’s tone is flat, unamused, and Tony looks up at him with his best ‘I’m listening’ face. “I was able to just waltz into your office because I notice- you don’t have a PA.” 

Tony’s eyes flicker to the desk just outside his office. Sure enough, it’s empty. “I wondered why I wasn’t getting any messages.” 

Nick is, again, unimpressed. 

“Pepper’s off on maternity leave,” Tony shrugs, tossing his stress ball into the air and catching it again. “I can go without a PA for a year, Nicky.” 

“Don’t you ever call me that again, and no, you can’t. Do you know why I’m here-” 

“-I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me-”

“I’m here because none of your sales have been recorded and stored, none of your hours, none of your billables. I haven’t had a hard copy receipt of any of your transactions and that makes you liable, Tony. And you may be one of my best workers, but I do not give a shit about you. But you being liable, makes me liable, which makes my company liable. And we wanna work as a team, don’t we?” 

“That seems like a rhetorical question.” 

“You are so backed up and you don’t even have a clue.” Nick growls, massaging his temples like he’d very much like to annihilate Tony right on the spot. 

Tony feels a little bit bad. He may have forgotten about those pesky little paper trails. “It’s not like I’m breaking the law, Fury, c’mon-”

“Oh, I’ll just tell the bank that you’re not breaking the law and send them on their merry fucking way, shall i? Or, should you get a secretary?” 

“Hire me one, then,” Tony rolls his eyes, bored with the conversation and reaching forward to grab a random sheet of paper off his desk. He peruses it idly. It’s a shopping list, and scanning the items, he’s not entirely sure what for. A baby shower? There’s too much alcohol for that- someone’s birthday? Whose list even is this? Is it in here by mistake?

“Do you know how many secretaries you went through before Pepper, Tony? Over a hundred. You have to hire one yourself. I do not want to be sued for abusive language again-”

Tony looks up sharply. “She was being an imbecile, Fury, and I stand by what I said-”

Nick lifts a hand to cut him off. “Hire a secretary before the week is out, Stark, or it won’t be such a friendly visit next time.” 

He leaves in a whirlwind of leather and disapproval and Tony stares bemusedly. 

He doesn’t even have to touch his phone before it buzzes and he sees the text from Pepper. Heard someone got a nasty visit. I’ll have someone for you before Friday. 

Tony smiles softly. He misses her, he should buy her something- 

suddenly, he remembers what the shopping list is for.  

When Tony gets into the office on Friday morning, he’s riding on a bit of a high. Everything’s been going so well recently. He’s signed more clients than ever in a three day span, one of his biggest competitors missed a big meeting and Fury hasn’t left any menacing phone calls. Pepper had liked her presents, people still stare after him, and- life all around is good. 

He’s in his office, just taking a moment to savour how triumphant and successful he is, when he reaches out for a sip of his coffee. 

It’s a fucking delicious blend. Expensive and Italian and the stuff that you can only get from a very pretentious cafe on the other side of New York and-

He pauses in his drinking. 

He never got himself coffee. 

He looks at the cup in his hand and lowers it marginally. It’s hot and just the way he likes it. He looks around his office then too, and suddenly all the differences appear and slap him in the face. His desk is clear- not just clear, clean, and his laptop keys are shiny and polished like new. His papers are organised and there are highlights and annotations and his certificates are hanging on the wall and not crammed into a box in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet where he left them. In fact, his whole fucking office looks professional and goddamn nice. 

His dry cleaning is hanging neatly in the corner too. He gets up, and looks at the desk outside his office. 

Sure enough, there’s someone sitting there. 

A male from what Tony can see, with short brown hair and a headset on. He's typing into the computer and diligently scribbling onto a notepad. He looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

Who the hell is he?

Tony’s laptop pings and he looks down to see a new email from Fury. 

Well done, Stark. Everything looks to be in order. I knew you could be reasonable. 

He clicks on the attachments, already knowing what he’s going to see. All his backlogs, all his logged hours, all his receipts, ordered and neatly filed and chronologically placed and there are even little notes underneath each one with extra details and- how the fuck does his new secretary know that yes, actually, the Milton case had required an extra emergency meeting when they’d discovered a conflict- Tony hadn’t made a note of it anywhere. 

Curiosity truly peaked now, he takes his perfect coffee and saunters out, walking around the front of the desk. 

His new secretary looks up and Tony’s penis twitches a little. Okay, yes, Tony Jr approves. He’s young, maybe twenty, with brown hair and big brown eyes, cream skin and a delicate nose. He’s slender, but in shape, in a white shirt with the top few buttons undone, giving a lovely view of those sharp collarbones. He’s wearing black trousers and the the microphone wire against his cheek and in his hair contrasts nicely with his pale skin. 

He looks up at Tony and smiles pleasantly. “Mr Stark, is there something I can help you with?”

Tony spots a calendar on the corner of the desk. He picks it up and flips through it. His meetings and deadlines for the next six months are all neatly pencilled in. The most important ones are starred with a red pen. He sets it down carelessly and watches as the young man straightens it without a word. “So, how long have you been here, Mr...” 

“Peter Potts, Sir.” Peter says, and ah, this makes sense. The only way Peter could be so clever was if he had the Potts gene. “I started on Tuesday.” 

Tuesday, fuck. No wonder things have been going so well. “Pepper’s little brother?” 

“Half brother,” Peter corrects, “and soon to be uncle.” 

Tony can see the resemblance. The soft skin, the sweet eyes. “Well, Peter and Pepper. That’s cute.” 

Peter doesn’t say anything to that, but his pretty pink lips twitch in amusement. 

But Tony doesn’t have any qualms. Peter is quite clearly capable, he’s related to Pepper, he’s eye-candy, and he’s gotten Tony his favourite coffee. So, the older man simply tips his head and goes back into his office. But as soon as he’s sitting down, his curiosity flares up again. He presses the button on his intercom and clears his throat. “You go to college, Peter?” 

He watches through the glass as Peter’s chair swivels around, and the boy talks into the microphone with an intrigued smile. “Yes, Mr Stark. Top of my class at Harvard.” 

“What did you study?” 

“I majored in Engineering with a minor in Journalism. Graduated last year.” 

An early bird then, Tony can relate. That Potts gene really is something else. “And what have you been doing for the past year?” 

“Odd jobs,” Peter says evasively. “But when Pepper said she needed my help, I was all too happy to oblige. I’m a very big fan of yours, Mr Stark. There’s no bigger name in Wallstreet.” The phone rings and Peter shoots Tony an apologetic, but polite smile, as he picks up the phone. “Tony Stark’s office.” He nods, turning to the computer as the person talks. “Yes, I can see that here. No problem. Thank you. Yes, yes, Mr Butler, I will let him know.” Peter chuckles and Tony stares: amazed. “Alright. Thank you, goodbye.” 

“Mr Butler?” Tony shakes his head, “That was Jerry on the phone?” 

“Yes, Mr Stark. Would you like me to get him back on the line for you?” 

Jerry Butler is the coldest man in the world. He doesn’t laugh with secretaries. He’s no reason for any smile ever. But Peter had chuckled like he was talking to an old friend. Not even Pepper had achieved that. “No, no.” Tony frowns, “you carry on.” He clicks off the intercom and strums his fingers against his desk thoughtfully. Something doesn’t feel quite right- if something seems too good to be true...his mind warns. 

Maybe the catch is that he can’t sleep with Peter and the more he talks to the boy, the more he wants to. 

He does his best to ignore it for now. 

Things continue to go brilliantly. Life is even more effortlessly amazing than it was before. Nick even drops the hints of a promotion in the future if things keep going like this. When Tony gets to work, his favourite coffee is waiting, sometimes even a bagel or a croissant like Peter magically knows when Tony hasn’t had breakfast. He eats or drinks in his office as he checks emails, before Peter comes in with a notebook and a rundown of the days events, and then Tony gets to work. Peter comes in throughout the day, silent and unobtrusive and sets down water or coffee or occasionally- an apple- and sets it by Tony’s elbow and leaves again. 

When Tony steps out to meet a client for lunch, he sees Peter taking his lunch break at his desk- his headset is still on, and he’s still scribbling away, but it’s into an old worn science textbook. In his other hand is a sandwich he’s nibbling on. 

Tony prods at the book as he pulls on his coat. Peter had it dry cleaned specially and waiting in his office before Tony even knew he'd be out for lunch. There’s probably already a cab waiting downstairs. “What’s this?” Tony asks, trying to peek at the cover. 

Peter lets him easily. “It’s a bio-chemistry textbook. I’m thinking about taking some night classes. Work towards a masters, or if I don’t qualify- a second degree.” 

Tony may not have much pull in the science world, but his father sure did. He knows that name and money can go a long way, and Peter’s been exceptional. “I can get you in for a Masters anywhere you wanna go.” He assures, and Peter looks up at him with wide eyes. 

“Mr Stark-”

“It’s not a problem. Now, who am I meeting?” 

“Mrs Aberelle. She loves shrimp and it was her granddaughter’s birthday last week.” 

Tony’s not sure whether he wants to ruffle Peter’s hair or give him a filthy kiss on the mouth. He settles for neither. 

Mrs Aberelle practically gushes and swoons in her seat when Tony orders her the shrimp platter and asks how her granddaughter’s birthday was. She makes a higher bid than Tony even asked for. Peter’s a godsend. 

The next day, the CEO of of another major competitor comes down with the flu, and Tony’s pitch goes down brilliantly. 

He’s on cloud nine. 

Careful, a voice warns, when you’re this high, there’s only one way to go. 

It sounds suspiciously like his father, but he listens to it. “Hey, Peter,” he greets one morning as he strolls in. Peter’s in his office, just setting down his coffee and a- fuck, a danish pastry. He might be in love. “I got you a little something.” 

Peter blinks in surprise, but smiles sweetly, and crosses his hands in front of him as he waits. Tony sets his briefcase down and clips open the gold clasps and lifts out a brand new, just released bio-chemistry textbook. Peter takes it with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Mr Stark...” he whispers, shaking his head, “this was- I know for a fact that this was over a $100. I can’t accept this-”

“Kid,” Tony chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s pocket change. Besides, I’m not giving it to you for nothing.” 

Peter’s eyes flash to his and Tony’s a little surprised by what he sees. Peter looks almost-fuck, almost dangerous- but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with that sweetness and hardworking, subtle smugness that’s usually there. 

“I want you to attend the meeting with Lawson tomorrow. As a sit in, alright?” 

Peter nods immediately, but frowns. “Is there any particular reason why, Mr Stark?” He’s clutching the book to his chest almost reverently. 

“Not really,” Tony admits, rubbing his chin, “just wary. You up for it?” 

“Always.” Peter murmurs, and Tony thinks he must be imagining the demure little almost-wink he gets. 

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it again that night. 

He shakes Lawson’s hand in the morning as the man and his associates sit opposite him at the large oakwood table. Tony and Peter on one side, Lawson and his men on the other. Peter has his notebook out and is writing away- he always seems to be writing, Tony has no idea what- and then they start talking. 

Tony’s not sure what he was worried about. The contract is brilliant, more lenient than expected and has nothing but benefits for both sides. He’s giving Lawson a hard time, but that’s just part of the game, and he’s about to seal the deal when-

Peter slides a piece of paper over to him without looking up. Tony frowns at him, but Peter doesn’t make eye-contact, continuing to write, and Tony looks down. 

He’s lying. Don’t sign. 

Well fuck, that’s a fucking thing to write. What is Tony supposed to do with that? He sets it down and tries to look unaffected as they keep talking but when Lawson’s side slide over the contract, Tony pauses with the pen in his hand. Peter isn’t making a sound. 

“Let me just talk to my secretary real quick,” Tony grins, wearing his best winning smile, “why don’t you fine gentlemen wait outside, take five, catch a breather, and then we can come back and sort this out.” 

They look a little confused, but they leave and then Peter and Tony are alone. 

“What the hell is this, Peter?” 

Peter looks up bravely, his jaw locked. “I don’t trust him, Mr Stark. There’s something not right-”

“I’m gonna need a little more than your hunch, kid. No offence, but I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you. You don’t know the contract, it’s a good deal-”

“It’s too good a deal,” Peter insists, lifting the thick contract up. “I’ve read through it, Mr Stark. I read through all the contracts you’re about to sign and there’s something about this that doesn’t add up. Why would they offer such a beneficial claim with us? Why not one of your competitors?” 

Tony shrugs a little smugly. “My competitors haven’t been stepping up to bat, lately.” 

Peter shakes his head. “I’m serious, Mr Stark. When things or people are too good to be true, they usually are.”

There’s something in his tone. Something...something Tony’s unsure of. 

“Did you see anything in the small print that can back up- what is at the moment- just a feeling?” 

Peter’s shoulders slump in defeat, and he shakes his head. “No, Sir.” He whispers. 

The older man sighs, rubbing at his eyes. Only Pepper or Peter could ever make him feel like this- torn between the rational, sensible option, and listening to their fucking hunches-

“He knows!” A voice outside the door hisses, and both Peter and Tony look up sharply. 

“He doesn’t know, Lawson-”

“He must know! Why would he tell us to leave like that? He knows about our deal with Oscorp! I knew Norman couldn’t make this go away, the dirty son-of-a-bitch-”

“There’s no way Stark knows, just calm down-”

The voices disappear again, down the hall, and Tony stares in amazement. Peter just looks earnest. “Do you believe me now, Mr Stark?”

“How the hell did you know?” He whispers, collapsing into one of the chairs.

Peter bites his bottom lip. “Sometimes i just get these feelings,” he says, as he scribbles on the paper in front of him. 

Unfortunately, knowing that Lawson has a back door deal with Oscorp is not something that can be easily proven, and when Fury finds out that Tony blew would could be one of the biggest contracts of the year, he reacts with, what is understandably, a lot of anger. 

Tony does his best to get Peter to screen all his calls as the two of them work all night to try and find a way to prove what they heard. Tony wants to think that maybe his word will be enough, but Nick’s always been a stickler for the rules and Tony...has not. 

Even as absorbed in papers and numbers as he is, Tony can still appreciate Peter here beside him. The kid’s saved him a huge one here. And he’s still here, when he should probably be at home sleeping or watching Netflix, helping Tony try to prove the unprovable. He’s smart and quick and for someone who’s never worked with stocks like this before, he sure knows his way around it. 

“Hey,” Peter whispers when it hits three am. “I bet they keep a hard copy of all their emails in a data storage room.” 

Tony looks up and rubs the bleariness from his eyes. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Peter breaths, getting to his feet, more energetic now, “a lot of stock companies do it. It’s an automatically backlog, it can stop you getting into a lot of trouble. All we have to go is get in.” 

Tony shakes his head, but gets to his feet, knees groaning. “How? I’m the most recognisable face in Wallstreet.”

“But I’m not.” Peter insists, already heading for the door. Tony’s hot on his heels. “I can talk my way in.” 

“Not that I doubt your ability, because you’re a Potts, but do you really think you can just waltz in and-”

Yes, as it turns out. Tony just stares in awe as Peter plays the apologetic, desperate intern who just has to get this work done for his brutal boss Norman Osborn. Tony’s hiding behind a potted plant as he watches Peter’s performance. “I’m so sorry,” Peter weeps, eyes shining with tears as the large, female security guard clutches at her heart through her shirt. “I’m such an idiot, and it’s only my first week and I forgot my keycard and- I’m gonna get fired and I deserve it and-”

“Oh, no, honey,” the security guard croons, already unlocking the barrier for him. “No, baby, it is not your fault, okay?” 

Peter sniffles, eyes red and smile grateful. “Thank you so much, I-you have no idea what this means to me and-”

She blows him a kiss. “Go, honey. Go.” Peter waves at her, and jogs around the corner. 

They have to wait about fifteen minutes till she goes to the bathroom, before Tony runs out and Peter lets him through. “How did you- wait- how did you even unlock the door-”

“I pickpocketed her,” Peter whispers, as they get into the elevator. Tony stares at Peter in shock. 

“Shit, kid. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Peter gives him a look. “We’re breaking into one of the most famous companies in the world, Mr Stark. I don’t think now’s the time.”

“Sure- I guess-” Peter grabs his hand and tugs him out of the metal doors as soon as they get to the right floor and shit- how did Peter even know what floor- before Tony knows it, Peter is picking the lock of a storage room and- seriously, what the hell-

and then he’s hacking into a computer and downloading a memory stick onto it. 

Tony is staring in slack-jawed awe. “Seriously, Peter.” He whispers, as Peter scans through emails. “What the fuck?” 

“Tony,” Peter murmurs, a little irritated, as his eyes flicker across the screen as he scrolls rapidly. “Not the time.” 

“Not the time? You- you cried on cue. You knew all this stuff about me, you pick-pocketed her- you got into that locked room, you just hacked into a computer and a memory stick, are you- were you a criminal or something? Like a tech-whiz kid? You can tell me, I won’t judge-”

“I know you won’t,” Peter says softly, and suddenly there’s that doe-eyed, cocky secretary who smirks whenever Tony ends up liking whatever weird type of sushi Peter brings him when he’d insisted he wouldn’t. “But not right now. Later, I promise- ah! Look!” 

There’s the email. It’s not explicit, but it’s interaction between Norman and Lawson which can’t easily be dismissed. Peter sends it to the printer and the two of them are waiting for the damn thing to connect, when footsteps sound along the carpeted floor around the corner. 

Peter shoves Tony into a stationary closet and Tony watches through the crack as a middle-aged man comes around with a stack of papers to photocopy. The man blinks at the sight of Peter, surprised, and Peter half smiles. “Hey,” he greets casually, and Tony is seriously in awe of this kid’s acting. “All nighter for you too, huh? Osborn’s a real dick.”

The man chuckles, nodding, and comes to join Peter by the printer. “Yeah, I know. I’m Barney,” 

Peter takes his hand. “Lucas,” he says easily, “It’s nice to meet you. You couldn’t help, could you? The damn thing’s not working.”

Lucas peers at the printer, and smiles good-naturedly. “You have to enter your user access code.”

Tony pales and if Peter panics at all, he doesn’t show it. “Fuck,” he sighs, smacking his forehead, “I forgot mine. I keep it written down on this post it- shit, I’ll have to run downstairs, unless-” he looks up at Barney hopefully, “I could use yours? Save me the run.” 

Barney looks torn. “We’re not supposed to...”

For a second, Tony thinks Peter might pull the same crying act he used with the security guard, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, Peter steps forward, lifts his chin and catches his plush bottom lip between his teeth. 

Shit. Shit. Tony and Barney are both hypnotised. “Maybe we could forget the printer altogether,” Peter murmurs, his hands drifting to Barney’s belt as he fiddles with the loop. “Working for Norman gets me so stressed, you know? Sometimes you just want some-” he sighs a little, and the sound goes straight to Tony’s dick. “-some stress relief. You ever feel like that, Barney?” 

Barney looks utterly besotted, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. 

Peter pushes impossibly closer, tilting his head up more. “You can touch me, if you want,” he says, barely above a whisper, “I want you to. Right here.” He grabs one of Barney’s hands and places it on his perfect ass. 

Tony’s leaking in his pants. 

Barney grunts with desire, grabbing at Peter’s ass gracelessly, his other hand coming to do the same as Peter presses their groins together. “What’s your access code?” He whispers into Barney’s ear, palming at his crotch. 

Barney looks like he might cum any second. He’s probably a virgin, Tony thinks. Or maybe Peter is just that hot. Either one is plausible. “A-ah, it-it’s 4598-”

Tony lets out a cry of surprise when Barney falls heavily to the floor. 

Peter turns and taps in the code to the printer as Tony bursts out of the closet. “Holy shit,” he whispers, staring at the man. There’s no blood which is...a relief? “Is he dead?”

Peter rolls his eyes as the printer starts chugging out paper. He grins victoriously. “No, Tony, he’s not dead. I don’t kill people. He’s just unconscious.” He gives Tony a look like the older man is acting a bit slow. 

There’s a wet spot on Barney’s pants, Tony feels for the guy, but there’s more pressing matters. “Peter, what the fuck, seriously-”

“Oh, come on, Tony.” Peter snaps, whirling on him with righteous indignation. His pupils are blown wide and Tony wants him so bad it hurts, but he’s also- he’s also confused out of his mind. “You’ve known this whole time. What- you think it’s coincidence that all your competitors have been missing meetings? Falling sick? You think these new clients are just falling into your lap? I’ve been doing all of this for you. You know that.” 

Jesus Christ. Tony stares. “I-I don’t- how-”

“I like seeing you succeed. It gets me even hotter for you than I already am.” 

Tony can’t form words. 

“I know you like me too. I’d have to be blind not to- aha!” He lifts the papers happily, all printed and sorted. “As much as I’d love to have you fuck me right here on this printer, we need to leave.” 

Tony’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to form words, but fucking Peter is something he’d very much like to do. 

“We’re gonna go back to your office, and you can do me right up against the glass, okay?” 

Tony has to pinch his arm to not cum right then and there. Peter notices, and smirks, tiptoeing to kiss him lightly. 

“Come on, Mr Stark,” he grins, his eyes twinkling with a satisfying mixture of innocence and mischief, as he guides them towards the door. “You have work to do.” 

[smartalker]

Magpie Bridge [6/10 - Papissa Joanna]

ENTITLED: Magpie Bridge FANDOM: Mass Effect Andromeda - Reyes/Ryder RATING: M LENGTH: 50k via 10 chapters GENRE: Romance/Sci-Fi/Drama/Humor, in that order SUMMARY: With the Kett subdued and Andromeda’s terraforming system running at full power, Kadara Port swiftly establishes itself as the trade capital of the galaxy. The city’s unique combination of affluence, corruption, and growing power inevitably earns the ire of both the Nexus, and Aya. Under tremendous pressure to disavow a known criminal’s legitimacy, Ryder once again returns to Kadara hoping to broker peace, but the Charlatan wants something very different from her… ALT SUMMARY: Two people fall in love, galaxy breaks. 

No reception.

Ryder poked at her omni-tool again, hopefully. No reception. Damn.

Pathfinder, it seems likely that the canyon walls are interfering with our communications.

Brilliant. Ryder glanced back and around. Reyes had wandered back into the ship, likely doing something nefarious, but his pilots remained busy at the bridge. She cleared her throat. “Hey. Do you know when the signal will be back up?”

One pilot glanced back. She had neat, aqua dreadlocks. “You mean for private calls? We’re cloaked until arrival. Security concerns. We should arrive in about half an hour.”

“Oh. Bummer. Okay, thanks—” Ryder paused suddenly. Reyes had definitely been messaging someone earlier. “What about Reyes?”

The pilot shrugged. “Him? He’s always got some new tech. Loves his gadgets. Not sure where he gets it. Told me he built it himself when I asked once…don’t really buy it. Probably keeps a gang of Salarians locked in a basement somewhere.” She grinned. Her teeth were shiny, bolted with silver. She glanced at her screens, then nodded politely at Ryder before returning to her work.

Ryder scowled. Her omni-tool was top of the market caliber, the best money could buy. She hadn’t paid much attention to tech before, but she had a hunch that if the Collective had better tech than the Initiative, her engineers seriously needed to get their asses in gear.

She marched back into the ship, searching the rooms randomly.

“Need something?”

Ryder spun, grabbing his wrist. “Let me scan your omni-tool.”

“Why, jealous?” He lifted his arm away from her, catching her around the waist and pulling her forwards. “It’s pretty good, one of its kind. But I could make you a copy if you asked me nicely.”

Ryder narrowed her eyes. “Oh, can you?” She tried sneakily scanning his device and was easily blocked.

Reyes shrugged, now pinning her arms. “I like building things. Just a hobby.” He grinned into her seething face. “You’re cute. Very fiery. I like this.”

All Initiative engineers were officially fired. Ryder wriggled around, trying to look fierce. “Is this how you became so successful? This whole time, you’ve secretly been a gadget nerd?”

“Did you think it was all good looks and ruthless deception?”

“Yes.” She perked onto her toes, so their noses were tip-to-tip. His gaze faltered for a moment, surprised by her, and she let her weight sag forward so he was forced to catch her more tightly. She kissed him quickly. “Got you.”

He laughed a little breathlessly. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You. You like me. I make you nervous,” she told him, with glee. Reyes blinked.

“Did I forget to tell you?”

“You told me. I just didn’t really believe you.” She snuggled into him. “Don’t look at me.”

His hand found her ponytail, and tugged. She stayed resolutely hidden, as the pressure increased, as his voice began coaxing her, “Hey. Don’t get all shy now—”

The intercom buzzed suddenly to life, and the pilot from earlier announced over speaker, “Docking at Kadara Port, everyone hold on—”

They were too tangled together. Upon the abrupt docking, they both lurched into the wall, hips banging painfully against the hand rail. Ryder’s eyes smarted, her wrist and hand had both been smashed beneath his shoulder. “Ugh. Ryder down.”

“Sorry,” Reyes laughed, already helping to steady her. “Sorry,” he said again. “Dezzie likes a quick landing. I should have warned you. Where were we?” He reached for her face, and Ryder ducked away, her shyness returning.

“Disembarking.”

He clicked his tongue, following her back towards the bridge. “You’re lucky I’m patient.”

She hit the outer door’s access button. “Are you?” She glanced back at him, and he wrapped an arm over and around her shoulders, catching her jaw so she remained angled towards him. He kissed her deeply, confidently, until she was leaning back into him and dizzy. And then he let her go.

“Not really,” he said. He wasn’t smiling. “Actually, I’m not patient at all.”

Ryder’s lips parted just as the doors slid back, and she was ready for him this time, she was going to answer—

“Hey,” said Scott, and Ryder’s stomach iced over. She swiveled, staring. Her twin waited at the end of the ramp, his arms crossed. She thought she felt Reyes’ arm clench a little. As discreetly as she was able, Ryder slid his arm off of her.

“Hey,” she returned. Casually. “Scott, have you met—? Okay, okay, nevermind, great.” Scott had already stalked away. Ryder glanced apologetically at Reyes.

“He’s very dramatic.” She whispered. “Of my immediate family, I would like to say that you really lucked out with me. Compared to the rest of them, I am extremely low maintenance.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Reyes said, rather pointedly. It wouldn’t have stung if he hadn’t spent the last week saving her ass, a pattern Ryder strongly disapproved of and would be re-evaluating, as opportunities arose.

Ryder suppressed her urge to reveal all the shit her brother had pulled over the course of their lives together. Suffice to say, there was a lot of shit. “I should probably go talk to him.” As though Scott hadn’t made that clear by stopping less than fifty feet away, sulking around some crates. Reyes looked as though he were trying not to laugh.

“I’ll wait for you. Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Ryder nodded. “Right. Because we’re doing things together now.”

“Don’t forget,” Reyes called after her, as she jogged down the ramp. Scott pulled a nasty face as she approached, one she couldn’t help but return. They’d been running this routine for about twenty years now. It was hard to break old habits.

“Hey ugly,” Scott greeted.

“Moron,” Ryder returned. “You found me quick.”

“SAM let me know you were headed back to Port before coms were cut.” Scott shrugged. “I guess our link’s still open. Anyway, I’m here to collect you. You’re welcome. You look like shit, by the way.”

Absently, Ryder’s hand drifted up to her face. “Yeah. I kicked some ass.”

“Doesn’t look that way.” Scott glared at her. “SAM also told me you ran your dump of an astrology program again.”

What a fucking snitch. Words would be exchanged about this later. Ryder rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and did he also tell you that his combat program turns me into a God of War? Quit harping.”

“There’s literally like no part of you that isn’t beat to shit.” Scott sniped, before whispering, “God of War,” in an unnecessarily scathing tone. Ryder crossed her arms.

“Well fuck, Scott, sorry not all of us get to be born with perfect reflexes, must be my recessive genes or something.” She was laying on the sarcasm a little thicker than she had planned, but Scott was matching her, step for step. Why did they always fight?

“We have the same genes. We’re twins.”

“Right. Thanks for the biology lesson,” Ryder muttered. She glanced back at the ship. Reyes was turned away from her, discussing something with his crew. She hoped he hadn’t been able to hear her conversation and its exhausting pettiness. Even she was embarrassed. She turned back to Scott, his familiar features. Maybe her only family, if her mother never woke up.

They didn’t look that alike. It didn’t matter. Ryder smiled. “This is dumb. Dad would tell us we were being dumb.”

After a moment, Scott smiled awkwardly back at her. “That was about the extent of his emotional interventions, yeah.”

Ryder wrinkled her nose. “Whatever, you had it way better. You didn’t ever fuck up.”

Scott just stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ryder waved an arm, trying to flap away the emotional baggage she’d just dumped into their conversation. “Nothing. You know. You and dad.”

“What about me and dad?”

“Just.” Was he glaring at her? Ryder looked away. Unexpectedly, her throat had begun to close up. She squeaked a little when she said. “You know. You and dad. You were close. And you were, you know, you were a better soldier than I was. Am. If you’d woken up from your coma on schedule, if—maybe if you’d been on the mission—”

“What, dad would still be alive?” Scott snorted. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t think there was anything you could have done differently. Don’t think like that, you’ll go crazy.”

“No, I meant—I meant, I think he’d have chosen you as Pathfinder. I think you’d have done a better job. I don’t know. I don’t want to make this a big thing. You’re right, what happened, happened.”

She tried to walk away, to just get some distance from a conversation she hadn’t meant to make so emotional, but Scott checked her path, and jabbed an angry finger against her collar. “What kind of stupid shit is that? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and I used to read your diary.”

Ryder bared her teeth, her face flaming. “Okay, I get it! I’ll quit whining!” She took it all back. Brothers were seriously the worst.

Scott was making an extremely unattractive face, in her opinion. “You’re so fucking annoying. I actually, intensely, wish I could just beat you up right now, except you’re already injured everywhere. Pathfinder my ass. You seriously think dad would have picked me? Because I can fight better?”

“Shut up.” She side-stepped him. Note to self: never confide in blood relatives. “Good to see your emotional illiteracy has lived to fight another day.”

“That’s what dad said too,” Scott yelled behind her. “And you’re an idiot for not figuring that one out, Sara! Pathfinders don’t need to shoot guns, they need to find a way forward when everything else is fucked.”

“I hate you!” she screamed back, which was maybe not that mature but also: fuck Scott. Her shriek did not go un-noticed. From across the clearing, Reyes and his crew were watching, with some concern, as she forced her appearance back to calmness. Sibling squabbles should be checked at the door. She took a deep breath, and then about four more. “Okay. I don’t hate you. You’re my brother and I love you. Sorry.”

Scott snorted. “Are you telling me or yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Ryder snapped. Scott grinned. This was officially the worst conversation to have in front of a romantic interest. Ryder squeezed her eyes closed. “Ugh. Ugh. Ignoring you. Tell me my extremely capable and talented crew has made headway. I’m betting at least two new couples?”

“What?” Scott looked taken aback. “New couples?”

Oblivious idiot. “Never mind. Crime scenes, drugs. Our investigation. Did you find anything?” she asked, hoping for at least vindication.

Scott grimaced. “Yes.”

She swung around him, trying to corner his expression into telling her more. “Yeah? And?”

Scott gave a disgusted sigh. “Look. Your drug base.”

“Sure?”

“There’s a lot of them. A lot. It’s not surprising you found one so easily.”

Ryder, now having flashbacks of her very inelegant cliff scramble, wanted to object to his use of the word ‘easily.’ Perhaps later. “And—they’re all on PX9…uh.”

“PX92230. And yes, they are, with some expected variations across strains. Which implies that there’s no branding or organization across sellers which, once we looked into it, turned out to be true.” Scott was rubbing at the early wrinkle developing between his brows. “They’re all small, independent sellers. Like people growing pot in their basements.”

Shit. Ryder strongly preferred the scenario where there was one bad guy. Extra points for clear DNA trails. She watched as Scott continued ironing his face, now wondering if she was growing some wrinkles of her own. “Okay. So. The drugs are a dead end.”

Scott growled a little. “Ugh. Do you get headaches?”

“Like all the time.”

“Me too. We should go to a doctor.”

Ryder huffed a little. “Scott, we don’t have a pre-existing condition. We have annoyingly high-achieving parents who died and dumped all their shit on us.” She winced as Scott punched her viciously in the shoulder. “Ow, alright! I’m an insensitive shrew!”

Scott glared for another moment, sternness emanating from every pore. Nursing her shoulder, Ryder privately thought that Scott might be more accustomed to her way of thinking if he saw how old he looked just then. “The drugs are more than a dead end.” Scott revealed. “This whole thing is bullshit. Unmanageable. It’s like the old war on drugs all over again.”

Ryder blinked. “Fine, so let them have their drugs. I just want to stop whoever’s landscaping with body parts.”

“No,” Scott said, sounding annoyed, “You don’t get it. That won’t solve anything.”

“I seriously beg to differ.”

“Sara, it’s not just one group.” Scott rolled up to his feet. “Listen. The exiles came out of stasis early, right? And then there was a meltdown within command, people didn’t get the psych treatment they needed. So they revolted, came out to Kadara with their manic depression and bi-polar disorder and anxiety and fuck knows what else—things they didn’t even have before stasis, things that happened because it turns out freezing someone for six hundred years isn’t great for their health, who knew. So now we have a bunch of people with mental health stuff that they don’t know how to deal with.”

“We’ve seen that before—Lexi was able to treat them—”

“No. Listen. They already treated themselves.” Scott was growing more agitated as he explained, beginning to pace. “They’ve been treating themselves with PX92230 except, which works fine in theory, expect that it’s got the potential to be crazy addictive, and loses its effect over time. We thought they were inducing a manic state, but actually, they were just trying to get out of bed in the morning.”

Ryder groaned. “Oh. Awesome. So I need a massive rehab program—”

“No. Because this isn’t your issue. I mean it is, but not in the way you think.” Scott abruptly stopped moving. He sort of hung in space, swaying on the point of taking another step, but not committing. Ryder wasn’t sure about the expression he was making – the odd, restrained sadness of it. “Look,” Scott said, finally. “It’s the kids.”

Ryder stared at him. “The dead kids?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Scott sighed. “Lexi and Suvi went over the coroner’s notes. The victims all have traces of the drug, but…it’s not enough. So Suvi had an idea. When we factor in the chemical imbalances that were already present, the treatment becomes ineffective. For adults, their addictions are just a big secret no one wants to talk about. For kids—well, no one wants to drug up their kids. In fact, the drugs in their system wouldn’t have been nearly enough, if they’d reached a true psychotic state.”

Ryder stared at her brother. She had heard him, the words he was saying, but none of it—none of it made sense to her—

SAM flickered, at the back of her mind, whirling composites and threads and lost tangents into place. The Green Man, the god Dionysus, the circles and the rituals and the savagery, the blood, the missing element she kept returning to, wondering how does sex fit in, where’s the pervert doing this for a release?—and finding none, over and over again. But of course a child wouldn’t kill for a sexual motive, a child had no concept of such things, only a pure and surreal brutality, a fever dream brought about by fairy tales and stories and adventure, a chemical scrambling in a developing mind. Parents too stressed or too distracted or too dead to help them.

Myths were simple. The same story, the same patterns. A thousand Gods of Death. The things that children learned in grade school.

“No.” Ryder said.

“You know it makes sense,” Scott said. He looked almost sorry. “We’ve seen them. All this time. Gangs of kids. It’s likely not all of them need treatment—the Angara children, for one, they never even went through cryo—but they’re impressionable. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine them sucked into a group hallucination.”

She felt like she was having a panic attack. Ryder swallowed, once, then twice—she couldn’t think. She couldn’t shoot children.

“Do we have a plan?”

“Verify it.” Scott shrugged. “I’ve already authorized it. Figured there was no harm in checking. Lexi’s going to start doing diagnostics this afternoon, check blood work against brain scans. We’ll know soon.”

Ryder nodded. She felt worse than useless. She inhaled, held it. “Okay,” she managed, air squeaking against full lungs. She blew out. “Okay. Sorry. It’s just, you now. Jesus.”

“I know.���

“Yeah.” She slapped her hands absently against her thighs. Battery, battery. “Okay. I’ll head back with you. We need to regroup. Let me tell Reyes.”

Scott made a face, ready to argue, and so Ryder walked away a little faster than she might have done otherwise. Fuck. Fuck. Reyes had already seen her return, was motioning for his pilots to take a walk. He smiled at her.

“Bad news?”

“Yeah. Uh, yeah.” Ryder combed her fingers back through her bangs, held them there, yanking against her own scalp. “The worst possible news.” She told him, wrapping up with, “I need to get back to the Tempest. If this turns out to be true—I need to do something. Take emergency measures.” She hesitated. “I’m—I’m sorry. I know you wanted us to stay together. I did, too.”

He was still, arms crossed, gaze lowered. “No worries. We work on different sides of the law.” His gaze shifted for a second. “Your brother and you. You’re similar. Same nasty glare.”

“I don’t glare.”

“Hm,” was his comment. He was still watching Scott, absently rubbing his chin. “Be careful, Sara.”

She flushed a little. He didn’t call her by name often. “I’m always careful.”

“I don’t buy it.” Reyes shrugged. “Okay, sure. Everyone’s getting high on Kadara. We knew that. Cryo messes people up – also knew that. Your entire scenario sounds plausible enough, but I still think there’s something missing. I should have known about this. The fact that I didn’t means someone’s working pretty hard to keep me in the dark.” His gaze shifted back to her, a delicate frown pinching the edges of his eyes, narrowing his focus.

“What?” She’d meant to leave. There was something ugly lurking just beneath the surface now, something that twisted inward and away from her. In an effort to reach it, she flattened one hand against his chest. “What?”

And in less than a second he’d shaken it away. “Nothing. You should get back to your brother before he actually shoots me.”

“Don’t do that,” she protested. “Whatever it is, I can handle it. Please trust me.”

He looked down at her hand. Slowly, his own came to rest over hers. “You know what?” he laughed a little. “I actually do. See you soon.” Before she could say anything else, his face bent towards her and he kissed her again, longer than she’d anticipated.

And then he turned, and walked back on his ship.

She watched him leave, an uneasy clench still kicking nervously though her stomach. A feeling, a fear, as though maybe she wouldn’t see him again. She held herself still, her body poised as though tied to thousands of invisible strings, uncertain what reaction would occur by her hand lifting, her feet moving to take their next step.

And then Scott’s hand fell on her shoulder. And she turned back.

“Come on,” Scott insisted. “We gotta move.”

“Right,” Ryder agreed. The engines engaged on the cargo ship behind her, as Reyes and his crew pushed off. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to watch him leave.

Keema had left the Collective’s Base at Kadara Port behind her for a more secure, less obvious facility. She still had an overly dramatic chair to sit in, there were still steps that separated her from the rabble that would kneel in attendance. Reyes climbed the stairs, while she waved her bodyguards out of the room. He briefed her on the Pathfinder’s suspicions, the Initiative’s likely next moves. She listened well, interrupting only once or twice to clarify a detail. When he’d finished, she sat for a long while in contemplative silence.

Finally, she looked at him. “Tell me honestly,” Keema began. “Your best judgment. How many number among those who would use this distraction as a pretext to seize power? You and I both know that curing this sickness won’t be enough. It’s been too elegantly leveraged.”

Reyes paced, tallying the cartels, the murder sites, the supply lines and the guards and the children and the—

“At least a hundred.”

“Not a lot.”

“Up to thousands,” he admitted. He made himself face her. Funny, how much Keema’s approval had begun to matter, at some point. Her bright, gleaming eyes stared back at him, only listening.

“The problem, you realize, is not that they may number in the thousands. The problem is that you have no idea.”

“It’s—catching.” Reyes struggled to explain. “The idea that anyone could be the Charlatan. That no one is the Charlatan. I don’t know, it’s gone past just anarchy, more towards something like madness.” He laughed shortly. “I should have come down on them harder. I should have made an example.”

“It’s done,” Keema cut in. “You aren’t that person. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” She was looking through him, her eyes glassy. Slowly, her head began to shake, to deny. Somewhere, a gear was turning, a wheel spun. Somewhere, the beast woke up, the star ended. Keema drew in a breath, her body braced, her hand tracing the fresh scar tissue her body had worked so hard to produce, the hole it had closed in her shoulder. “I see,” Keema said, and nothing more. There was something there, some new wall between them. Reyes had never gone so far as to trust Keema with his life, but he’d trusted in her gambling spirit, her flair for opulence, posturing.

Now, she flinched.

“What?” he demanded. “Or are you waiting for me to leave the room before you divulge it all to the cameras?”

Keema’s fingers—her nails—traced light, careful patterns over her injury. “We’re over,” Keema said simply. She faced him. “The Charlatan. It’s over. We need to get out, now.”

“Before it’s too late?” Reyes mocked. He laughed tightly. “I didn’t know you were scared of ghosts.”

“Nothing kills a ghost,” Keema said, flat. “Did you know, the Angara have ghosts too? Human, Asari, Turian…it doesn’t matter. Everyone has a ghost. I think it’s because everyone knows they should be afraid, because there is nothing better at scaring children than something that doesn’t quite exist.” Her dreamy reflection broke, she faced him. “I was your face. The people know me as the Charlatan. Many assume I know who he actually is.”

“Not to sound glib, but you’ve never fled because of an assassination attempt before—”

Keema interrupted him, now rising from her seat, turning, turning. She spun out of orbit, dislodged. “Death is a fact. Fine, I accept death. A ghost doesn’t.”

Reyes frowned, following her from her audience hall, down the narrow passage. She lived and ruled Kadara as a queen might. “You’re getting in the way of your own metaphors.”

“I’m saying we’ve lost.” Keema snapped. “We went about it all wrong. Authority cannot be faceless while remaining illegitimate. We were wrong. We were strong as usurpers, not as rulers. It’s done. This isn’t a scenario where two Charlatans duke it out for the title—that’s over. Now there are three, thirty, a thousand Charlatans. It will never end. Not until the Initiative blows through us, until we’re all dust.” She was stripping off her jewelry, her beautiful clothes. He watched as she pulled on a set of dark, dusty fatigues. Her face seemed to shift, becoming something wary and old. She faced him, a shadow of Keema. “I’m not afraid of dying. But I’m not going out for no reason. When something’s over, you change or you get left behind to die with it.”

He walked her to the door. “So that’s it?”

Keema glanced at him, smiling wryly. Her face became her own again. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not the type to stay quiet for long.” She clasped his hand. “Be well, my friend. Let go of your anger, and your Pathfinder. Both of them will kill you.” She turned to leave, her carriage graceful in spite of her ragged attire.

“That’s funny,” Reyes said mildly. “It seems more likely that you will.”

Keema stopped.

“You lied to me,” Reyes said. “You knew the rituals were performed by children. In fact—it’s too much. Theatrical. Someone planted the seed. Someone put the idea in their heads. Someone wanted to make such a spectacle of things that there would be no choice but to investigate it. The only thing I can’t figure out, is why?”

She’d turned to face him now, her expression cool, noncommittal. Reyes breathed a soft laugh, his chest tightening. He felt the stirrings of the sort of fury that could make a person crush a wine glass with their bare hands, and feel nothing. “Was it you? It doesn’t matter, really. You collaborated, either way.”

Still, nothing. An almost beautiful emptiness. Slowly, Keema spoke. “It was never about you, darling. You must realize that.”

“Don’t.” Reyes whispered. He folded his rage, like a blanket. He packed it away. Keema only watched him, waiting.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

“Tell me why,” Reyes insisted instead. “Why you went behind my back. Why you destroyed us.” He wasn’t as perfect as he would have liked. He couldn’t stop himself from slamming the door she’d tried to walk through.

Finally, finally, Keema faced him fully, a sort of challenge growing, blossoming across her face. “Because you fell in love with the Pathfinder,” she said. “Because you won’t let her die. And the universe needs her to. She’s too powerful for the Initiative, for Aya, for us. She’s more powerful than all the other Pathfinders put together and nobody can figure out why, or how, but it doesn’t matter because her decisions have written the rules for the entire galaxy.” Keema’s face began to quiver as she spoke, her eyes widening, dilating. “Step back from this, Reyes! You know it’s true!”

The story was locking into place. The trap that Ryder couldn’t resist, the danger she would ignore every time. And he was the bait. And he hadn’t realized, because he’d been stupid enough to believe that the rest of the galaxy was in awe of her as he was. And time was running out. “The Kett are still out there,” Reyes argued, whether to Keema or the universe, he wasn’t sure. “And worse. And everything—we have no idea what’s coming next, but the Pathfinder is our best hope—”

“I could smack you!” Keema hissed. “The Pathfinder is a hero, Reyes. She presides over this galaxy like a God, her decisions become absolute. Eventually, the Initiative and its allies will turn against her. Every hero must die, or else their legends will crush the people who stand near them. This is why I couldn’t tell you. This is why! She has warped you with idealism, when you were never a good man. You lose all objectivity!”

In less than a second he had her against the wall with an automatic pistol jammed against her throat, the blood roaring in his ears, deafening him, adrenaline spiking his vision up to its maximum capacity, so that every nervous twitch or shudder that Keema’s face suffered became prolonged, almost indecently slowed. He could kill her. He should kill her, the viper, the—

“She’s going to die. And you made me the reason why,” he said. He was careful, enunciating each word. Almost calm.

“I did nothing,” Keema whispered. “The galaxy is the one who betrayed her. You were the one who made her fall for you. There was always going to be an explosion, one way or the other. All I did, was get out of the way.”

As the seconds ticked hollowly on, and Reyes stared into the face of the Angara he’d trusted, so implicitly, so stupidly—he realized, it was true. It was all true.

He let her go. Keema, massaging where he’d held her neck, took a wary step back. She reached for the door. “For what it’s worth,” she coughed, voice hoarse from abuse and emotion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Just get out.” Reyes said. He went on staring blankly ahead, as she closed the door behind her.

The results were conclusive.

“So,” Suvi began breathlessly, “We were lucky. That victim whose tissue samples you collected was human. My specialty.”

“Mine too,” Lexi chimed in, almost happily. Ryder couldn’t quite contain her puzzled stare. Lexi blushed. “I—that is, I rather like human anatomy.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Suvi said, with the decadent relish most people reserved for describing double chocolate cake. “I’m especially interested in natural mutations. Webbed feet. Very cute.”

God these people were weird. Ryder focused on the projection of an adolescent brain, pieced apart and cleanly labeled. “So? What can you tell me?”

“Oh, right.” Suvi zoomed on the frontal lobe. “Well. Based on our chemical analysis of the victim’s brain tissue, our theory holds ground. Her neurotransmitters were all over the place, highly saturated. Her symptoms were likely similar to someone living with a severe form of schizophrenia – likely with massive audio and visual hallucinations. So, yes, someone with these symptoms, who is young enough to have only a tenuous grasp of morality, and existing in an extremely malleable stage of development—frankly, it’s very hard to imagine another scenario, at this point.”

Ryder blew up her cheeks, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Lexi laid a hand on her arm. “Ryder. None of this is your fault. But we need to act, and we need to act quickly. There is a massive population here that desperately need psychological treatment – we must establish programs from those people struggling with addiction, I would also recommend—”

“Yes.” Ryder interrupted. “All of that. Yes. Write the report, I’ll submit it with my full support. We’re going to need Initiative resources.”

“If they’ll agree to part with them,” Kallo mumbled. He rose from his seat at the bridge and move back to join their conference. Suvi frowned.

“These are children. Children who were essentially dragged in and out of cryo by their families. They haven’t made any decisions that might harm the Initiative—”

“I hope Tann will see it that way,” Kallo murmured. “The political situation on Kadara has grown too unstable. If he agrees he’s going to want a full surrender of authority.”

Ryder’s teeth ground together. The ugly thought that had been lurking at the back of her head. “Maybe we could act as a mediator—”

Lexi’s hand slammed down on the table, and she bolted straight up from her seat. “You cannot possibly think that anything is more important than helping these people! Who cares about the ruler of a stupid little rock when there are lives on the line?”

Ryder cringed. “I know, I’m just—”

But now it was Suvi’s turn to lay a gentle hand across Ryder’s, as she huskily murmured, “Ryder, we cannot ignore this any longer. You know it’s true. The situation is too unstable on Kadara Port in the hands of its acting authorities. I’m not saying that Tann or the Initiative are perfect, but what our people need now is order. And that means an authority figure that can be held accountable.”

“Not some weasel doing whatever they want in the shadows,” Kallo muttered. He looked startled by his own rebellion.

Ryder swallowed again, “Look I hear you, I agree with you, I’m just wondering if this is really the best solution—”

“Probably not,” Scott spoke from the doorway, and Ryder spun around to face her brother. She wanted to order him out, to point out that this meeting was for officers only, but Scott had already taken a seat at their table. He glanced at Ryder, at all of them. “There’s a reason Tann was an accountant, not a leader. He’s not likeable. He inspires no one. But he isn’t evil, and he’s mostly fair, and he has the resources these people need. And realistically, now that we know the cause, it’s only a matter of time until knowledge spreads to the public. We risk appearing incompetent, or heartless. We can afford neither. Sara, you are holding a bomb.”

“Alright!” Ryder yelled. The room fell silent, staring at her. Her heart was pounding unnaturally fast, frighteningly fast. Pathfinder – find the way forward. No matter the cost. Forget everything else.

She grit her teeth. “Okay,” Ryder heard herself speaking, surprised at how calm she sounded. “You’re right. It’s out of my hands, out of control. We need more people. You’re right. You’re right. Get Tann on the line for me.”

Suvi glanced at Kallo, her chin shaking slightly. Kallo blinked, twice. “I—of course, Pathfinder. What are you going to say?”

Ryder sighed. “Don’t you get it? You’ve won. It’s over. I’m calling them in.”

Kallo opened his mouth to say more, but Suvi threw out a long arm, knocking him gently in the stomach. Her bridge crew nodded, their faces solemn, even sympathetic. Ryder allowed herself one long, aching sigh as she headed to the conference room, carefully avoiding thinking about any of the things she was about to admit to the Director.

The light was blinking, ready, screen prepped. Ryder huffed up her chest, squaring her shoulders. She could do this. She was ready. Her fingers, rather than accepting the computer’s prompt, squished into fists.

It was all just fucked.

She hit the call accept command, and Tann’s gaunt face assembled before her eyes. He wasn’t real. He was just a bunch of hyperactive pixels. Ryder cleared her throat. “Director Tann. I won’t waste your time. I need Nexus operatives.”

Tann was silent for a moment, watching her. “I see. Well, nothing’s solved by us blaming one another. I’ve been keeping an eye on reports submitted by Scott Ryder. I think I have a general idea of the situation, but I’ll need you to submit a formal summary of your own activity for my review. If you would include your recommendations for the placement and personnel dispatch you deem most prudent, I will take that into consideration while forming the task force.”

Ryder swallowed once, twice. “I understand. I’m hoping that the Initiative will see this as an opportunity to extend an invitation to our allies on Aya. Perhaps rather than a strict military occupation, we could instead work through trade embassies.”

Tann was silent, long finger steepling. “I understand your point. I will at the very least keep Aya briefed on current intelligence and operatives. But trade embassies…it will be difficult to make that happen, Ryder. I can’t say until I review the paperwork, but my initial answer is no.”

She swallowed her shame, her well-grown desire for punishment in the face of failure. This was about more than her, this was about innocent people. “There are thousands of civilians leading blameless lives here—”

Tann’s eyes suddenly glowed with an old, painful fury. “They are traitors and deserters, the utter antithesis of ‘blameless.’ If it weren’t for the Angara I would have blown up their operations cycles past—”

She ignored his venom, his uncharacteristic emotion. “You just said the Angara will be sympathetic to their own. How will it look if we abandon those deserters?”

“Justified.” Tann snapped. “The Angara are not idiots, for all their obsessive return to emotions. They approved the Roekarr’s executions without an ocean of tears. Don’t hide behind diplomacy when there is no need for it, Pathfinder. Submit your reports. Understand that this operation has been excused from your authority as Pathfinder—you will be expected to provide support to the Initiative as deemed appropriate and necessary. You do not act without my orders.”

There was a long silence. Ryder said, felt, did—nothing. She endured until it was over. Tann, a million miles away, had screwed up his lips, now looking faintly uncomfortable. She could see him coaxing himself into speaking. “Pathfinder,” Tann eventually said. “I was unprofessional. I apologize. I will not minimize your achievements. There is no shame in admitting that you lack the resources to achieve something. I hope we will be able to work together.”

He stopped again. Hollowly, Ryder realized that she was supposed to say something—something obsequious, subservient. She lacked the energy. “Me too, Director,” she managed, and cut the feed.

In the silence that followed Tann’s call, Ryder emptied herself. She let me mind cloud over, filled only with the gentle hum from the Tempest’s distant engines. She bowed her head, and bent at the waist to slump her body over the conference table. There was a strange, almost sharp pain digging into the muscles behind her left shoulder.

She wasn’t going to cry. If she cried, it was because she was frustrated. But she wasn’t going to cry.

“Damn,” Ryder whispered, and forced herself back upright, keying in Reyes’ number. The call she wanted to make even less. The one she would gladly run from forever.

He didn’t turn on his video, but his voice patched in, surrounding her, “Yes?”

Good. She didn’t want to see him. Even more, she didn’t want him see her. Did he sound off? It was probably just her nerves. Ryder wiped at her cheeks. “Hey. I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

Ryder swallowed. Her hands were shaking. All of her, actually. She trembled. “I called the Nexus. I don’t have authority over this investigation anymore. I’ll make recommendations for a limited, discreet operation—maybe the establishment of some trade embassies—but, but I don’t know. I don’t have any confidence that it’s going to fly. Tann hates the deserters, I think he’ll try for a full military operation.” She bit her tongue. If she apologized, she’d cry. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t tell him.

He didn’t answer her for so long that she began to wonder if he’d hung up on her, if that was it. The end, without apology. “Why?” Reyes asked. He sounded genuinely puzzled, almost innocent. Ryder squeezed her eyes closed. He couldn’t see her. She slid to the floor, her back curling tightly around the conference table’s leg.

“Because—” her voice was shaking. Ryder stopped, swallowing. “Because I can’t do it anymore. I can’t live with myself, knowing how terrible this investigation is, how badly I’ve compromised things. I can’t—I can’t just let things fall apart. I can’t keep letting people be turned into victims. I needed to admit that I couldn’t fix things the day I landed on Kadara, and I didn’t. I tried, but things just got worse, and that’s on me. It’s because I let my feelings for you get in the way of everything else. Even now, I’m still calling you—” she broke off, her heart racing. The water ran from her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words slipping free from her. She loathed herself, her own contemptible weakness. She pressed a hand over her nose and mouth, and held her breath. In the silence, she shook.

She could hear Reyes sigh. His breathing. He listened. “I understand,” he said. His voice was gentle, too gentle. “Okay. I understand.”

She shook her head, not speaking.

He went on, now asking, “Are you leaving?”

“No. I’m supposed to stay on Kadara, support the Initiative’s efforts.”

“Does Tann know how dangerous it is? For you?” his voice got an edge, a lilt of accusation.

“What? I don’t know. Maybe. He said he was reading Scott’s reports.” Ryder wiped her eyes again. She pulled her knees up to her chest. “It doesn’t really matter. Dangerous or not, either way we have to deal with Kadara. Whether it’s dangerous for me or for someone else—well, it’s all the same, right?” A suspicious wiggle of a thought began to take form, then collapsed. She was too tired, too emotionally strained.

“It matters.” Reyes said, beginning to sound dangerously removed. Ryder closed her eyes. Her body sagged. She waited. He was requesting video feed—like hell. She denied, wiping the black smudges of her eye make-up, her stupid, shiny eye shadow turned to glittery muck. “I want to see you,” Reyes insisted.

“My connection stinks,” she lied.

“I mean in person. I want to talk. I have to tell you something.”

Ryder almost giggled. Her shoulders, at least, lurched up. “Are you going to shoot me? Like Sloane?”

“Don’t joke,” Reyes snapped. “Do you really think I’d shoot you?”

“I don’t know,” Ryder mumbled. She wasn’t sure she really cared either, right now. “Where? I’ll come alone. Bring your sniper if you want.”

There was a clicking, sort of snappy sound, teeth snapping together. “I mean it. Don’t joke about that.”

“Okay,” Ryder agreed, now with a wave of fresh despair. “I can do that.”

“I’m not angry,” he said, perhaps in response to her dulled voice. Ryder sniffled.

“You can be angry. I called the cops on your party.”

“It’s fine. It’s over anyway. I’ll explain later, I promise. Just let me see you.”

She was off the clock, anyway. Ryder hauled herself upright. “I can leave in half an hour. Send me the nav-point.” It was rude to break up over the phone, anyway. She at least owed him that. Or a chance on her life, which she also wouldn’t necessarily begrudge.

“Fly safe. And don't worry. It's going to be fine,” he said, and hung up.

[kihyunhatesheteros]

FREAK,I,N . B IAS TAG 🍒

instructions: go through your blog and the tag you use with all your posts of your ultimate bias. post ten of the tags on said posts. tag someone to do the same.

\\ uhhh so i was tagged i this in 2016 by [whomst??]  ,, any1 can do this if u want ;w; 

lots of kihyun `meta’ below !

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“ #I wanna see his fashionable (ersatz singer) hyung I mean if u imagine the genes in the Yoo family .. #I can’t say enough about a cool older sibling being an influence on the younger sibling like #obviously you won’t always cross interests like my ate is str8 and had a screamo phase but lykeee catch my gay ass listenin to Alexisonfire #my thoughts:kihyun”

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“#anyway can’t believe I stan the prettiest cherub of a man that will still rip your intestines out your ass if you mess with his team😢💗 #just smash a picture of Kihyun down my throat and dump me into a vat of lye #he ??? look I don’t believe I ever needed it to be put in words but he’s masculine right but on all these other angles he’s so? pretty #and not to mention he has these childlike proportions like his head is too big for his dsmn shoulders nd he got the tiniest waisthte IM#KILLING MYSELF and don’t get me started on his face structure it’s TOO PRETTY ): actually no please ask me abt my favourite facial features

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#fave:kihyun #arts:kihyun #in which i try to come up w technical critiques #that throat is an instrument with all the modulations and buttons and whatever you can imagine and maybe that’s smth you can teach but #i dont know #im always blown away by? how much? power he has? but also like? clarity and precision? #like one time i saw a post about zayn doing a raga while #performing live and i couldnt stop replaying thesong–that stuff is DIFFICULT and it SOUNDS like it really fucking is…. ……… ??? #like i just got chills looking up a cover of the selfsame song by zayn

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I love seeing him thoughtful but also so boldly in love with life?

#fave:kihyun #the colours!! #he looks so carefree but also u know these binches were trying hard to pose perfectly #remember the one photo shoot where hyungwons just showing off his lips and Wonho looked like a minion? #that’s the true Monsta X.. all bright colours and cartwheeling emotion and slight thoughtlessness #I think about how much thought went into going for his dream (ESP considering that Korean pop only gets popular in SK if ur a girl and/or #under the big three and even then it’s hard – take Got7) like he knew he was going to be invited specifically to be used by this fairly bi#g company and that even under the best circumstances it’s going to be tiring but here he is fastidiously singing and acting like a chi#ld simultaneously.. like I love seeing him thoughtful but also so boldly in love with life?

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#i been TELLING YOU this is an ugly job #he’s got moses parting the red sea on him skull #so like the other day’s fansign was a major upgrade from THIS .. WASN’T IT? #look how skeletal he looks his browbone just fuccin…. looks unnatural #not to say he’s not as beautiful as usual because i’m about to argue the opposite #the magic with kihyun is that sure from afar he just looks like he has a moon-face with small featuers but #look closer and he has these beautifully slanted (big) eyes–even tho i just saw an old vlive where he’s shocked that ljh’s eyes smaller– #and he has this amazing wide nose and just generally the best T zone (his PROFILE THOUGH) that makes his face so big bright & radiant!!! #don’t get me started on his lips and his little chin dimple and his jawline because i’ll just go on writing about n*t

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#do you see him in the bottom legft gif? show that to me to make me pass out at any given time #kihyun #he’s passionate and expressive like maybe I’m perceiving that as a response to the vocals being so disturbingly good but #he has that stage manner that matters more than #being classically trained when u dance ?? #like you can have a stiff hip and a hunchback but if ur smile can make viewers feel a rush of empathetic excitement ur good2go #kihyun can do that all the time. he’s precise too.

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#kihyun #honestly I’m not sure even he realizes how ??? got damn attractive he is both inside and out like he’s not a fool or soft but he is so warm #and you can see it in the skinship he shared with all his past and current friends at his company trying to make it in the Industry like he #Cares© you know … but I noticed in a Ch.Mx episode that on V App he always leaves space for others to speak up/earnestly talks to viewers #it’s endearing and I think as an idol you have to be constantly and openly communicative with fans to reach through without clowning around #which I do think some members do too much and others don’t do enough of at all–either way they’re not being them #maybe it’s just that there’s still some lack of sureness in their step or faith in their future as a group or what? just be your ow … (n self)

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”#me: busy with things like studying and mental recovery and healing  “#me: wait does yoo kihyun feel things more deeply than he allows people 2 see 🤔🤔🤔🤔”

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``#it’s crazy because fans internally scream about him like stepping on them but in reality??? he puts flowers in his hair? for ppl’s photos? #me (while thinking of the unfair stereotype put on him as a short angry nag): FUCK #i’m the arthur fist next to him ``

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and finally …

I mean i love him but I’m also his anti I run 10 anti blogs look at this fugly gerbil .. gross.