#i'm not sure if angry scribbles count as drawing

[calciumdreams]

apple twins!

(:oD got the color palettes with this)

og colors (i just wanted it to be more colorful jsjs)

[hobipaint]

Graffiti and Chalk - one.

summary: You thought you knew him. You thought him gone. Kim Taehyung was part of you that you had carefully suppressed, keeping his memories to one box near the wall of your mind. That was your fault, though - empty walls demand for art. And who other than your own neighbourhood vandal?

↳ pairing: ex police student turned vandal! taehyung x officer! female reader

↳ genres: angst, eventual fluff?

↳ word count: 4.7K

↳ disclaimers: pg15!, vandalism, police officers, criminal past and heavy discussion of it, mentions of attempted murder.

one | two

a/n: this was supposed to be a one shot, but i decided to make it a two shot because inspiration struck at the twelfth hour. This is based on stigma tae, and has massive massive references to hyyh tae as well!! I'm warning you all. Written for the @bangtanwritingbingo prompt: chalk drawings. Beta read by @vaekth and @kookiestarlight who are possibly the most supportive and appreciative people I could have asked for, thank you so much!!

You'd thought that being an officer would mean solving cases for people who genuinely needed help. Not hunting around for a missing pumpkin. 

"It's round, large, and I think it was slightly squishy, Y/N," the kid who had run up to you exclaimed again, while making gestures for round, large and squishy. 

If the kid weren't this adorable, you'd squish him for being too loud at 8 in the morning. 

You unlocked the door to your office, taking in the sight of the homey little cubicle that you maintained alone. Being the sole officer in a neighbourhood should be hard work, but in a neighbourhood where practically everybody is asleep? Not as much. 

You sighed as you pulled the kid in - who by now had told you that his name was Sungwoo, and he was eight years old. His mother told him that if he ever lost anything precious he should head to the police, so here he was. 

"Can you find my pumpkin?" He peered up at you as you tried to get the coffee machine started- well, as well as you can with a kid in the way. "It's round, large and squishy." 

"Round, large, squishy. Got it." You smiled wearily at him, seeing how his eyes lit up at the sight of your notebook- the one he obviously thought you wrote your cases in. You took your espresso in a mug, running over to him before he damaged it. He ran over to it, picking it up, dropping it because of its weight and picking it up again. 

"Can you write a message for Peter here?" He asked you, eyes wide and round as he stared at the brown leather bound book. 

"Peter? I thought we were talking about your pumpkin?" 

He nodded vigorously- strong enough to make you worry if his head would fall over. Flopping his hair to the side messily, he scampered to you as you settled in your chair, opening the last page of your book - where you had kept your post-its. "Peter is pumpkin! It's made of something- mom told me-" he put a hand to his head, trying to force his small head to think of big words, "Is it pushy?" 

"Do you mean it is a plushie, Sungwoo?" You said, sighing and writing it down on a post-it note and sticking it on your desk. 

"Yeah!" His eyes sparkled, and he bent his head down to the paper you gave him to scribble a hasty note for Peter. Once satisfied, he raised his head, giving the chit two pats before turning to you. "It's missing, Y/N. Can you find it?"

"Of course I can," you reassured him the best you could while half-asleep. The boy suddenly pulled you into a hug, happy tears spilling out of his eyes as he murmured thank you's over and over. 

You held him for a few more seconds, understanding the worry that the kid would have over his plushie. You didn't understand why he had to bring it to you, though. 

You felt a soft yet insistent buzz in your pant pockets all of a sudden, realizing it was your phone. You pulled yourself away from the crying child, and caressed his head while picking up the call. 

"Good morning, Officer L/N." The coarse voice of your chief barked at you. 

You sighed, not wanting to deal with any of his tantrums right after you dealt with the case of Peter the Pumpkin. "Good morning, Chief." 

"I'm arriving at your office in about ten minutes. We have to discuss something important." 

You sighed again, hand grabbing Sungwoo's as you led him outside the office. Time to clean up. "Of course, Sir."

"Why is this place so messy?" was the first thing you had to hear in the form of a greeting. When your chief said ten minutes, he clearly meant half an hour.

You'd spent some time clearing up cookie crumbs from your table, dusting any evidence of your multiple ramen packets, arranging the tables in proper order, lining the chairs up, and stuffing all the stuff you couldn't clear into a closet. It seemed clean enough to you.

"I shall clean it, Sir." You bowed your head once, carefully maintaining your expression so that the chief doesn't think of you as any more insolent than he already does. 

"It doesn't reflect well upon the force to have a messy office, Y/N. I'm sure you were taught that," he said, pressing his finger to a certain spot on a table, and raising it up to show you. "Dust in our offices speaks of nonchalance. That is the last thing we'd want anyone to think of us is that we're nonchalant."

"I apologise, sir. I shall rectify it." 

"I expect you to. Anyways," he said, dusting his hands and moving to another corner of the office, "that is not what I came here for." He settled into the chair-  your chair, with the note for Peter the Pumpkin intact.

You prayed for him to ignore it. 

"There's been growing signs of vandalism in the neighbourhood you're patrolling, Y/N," The chief said to you in a gruff tone, looking like an angry cat with his whiskers trembling. He wore a scowl to match the whole look. Luckily, his pondering eyes missed out on the missing pumpkin report. "I want you to catch that person. Why isn't it done yet?"

"They were untraceable, Sir. All we could capture was a navy blue hoodie and jeans. Nothing else. There's only graffiti and chalk all over the places he's been at, Sir. I tried looking for clues-" 

"Keep looking, then."

"I'm trying, sir. I have asked the owners of all the shops on the street to hand over any CCTV footage they have of the person so that I can analyze it and try to nab him. It is a futile task till now, though." 

The chief rubbed his hand hard on his thigh, the sound of his palm scratching against the coarse trouser fabric reaching you. "They are being a menace, Y/N. A nuisance to those who want peace in this neighbourhood. You are supposed to bring that peace for them, not complain about not being able to get that person. That is your job." He looked you directly in the eye, anger clearly visible. "Or would you wish to leave?"

You twitched in anger, forcing yourself to remain calm. The chief had a penchant for transferring those who were unsuccessful in their cases to different stations- the more transfers, the more incompetent you seemed. You had already begun at a relatively low level, and you couldn't afford going lower. You nodded stiffly. 

"Any more complaints, and I'd be forced to transfer you somewhere else and hand this case over to someone competent. And you know it wouldn't be safe for your career, Y/N." He rose up from the chair, heading towards the door. "I want it resolved. Soon." 

You bowed your head, in a sense of respect for your senior you'd actually never felt. It was annoying, honestly, and your hatred for this man just grew more and more. You had requested since the day of your graduation from the academy to be put in the forensics department - something that actually was your specialty. But no, here you were, patrolling a neighbourhood where the only problem was a kid scribbling on walls and leaving an alphabet behind. 

V.

Taehyung kicked a pebble aside, letting it roll aimlessly along the half-paved, half-broken road. "I'm out of green paint, again." 

He glanced at the aluminium shutters he had decided to vandalize- no, beautify- today, deciding that the subtle decor of the florist's shop and the grim outside of the tattoo shop - both needed redecorations. He didn't care who was the owner. He didn't care how many reports they filed about the eerie similarities of the vandal to Mrs. Kim's son - they never cared about him before, so they'd never care about him now. That, he was sure of. 

His red paint had been used to make the outer petals of a rose that he had dedicatedly been drawing the previous day, until the owner had yelled from his house above for him to stop. That was early, though. 11 AM was a predictable time for a vandal to walk through the streets, spraying graffiti and dusting chalk over every nook and corner until he was satisfied by the art he had created. 

His wristwatch ticked three as he picked up his blue paint can. Just a few hours later, but effective enough for the owner to have fallen asleep - Taehyung could definitely justify that by the snores that echoed behind the shutters. 

"Reporting. Reporting. Vandal. Street 13. I repeat. Vandal. Street 13." 

The cuckoo clock that your mom had gifted you to decorate the less than neat office struck three just when the report came through. Just when you were about to settle for the night.

You pushed your papers aside, leaving the missing car complaint on your table. Holding your baton, slipping your ID into the pocket of your jeans and dusting crumbs off your chiffon blouse, you picked up the radio. 

"Street 13. Officer Y/N reporting." 

The gruff voice of your chief growled back at you. "The vandal has been found on camera, finally. The florist's CCTV; he sent a complaint. In fact, he's been wandering the streets for half an hour now, Y/N. Where have you been?" 

You were about to form a legible enough response, say that the paperwork he had set for you was what consumed your time, but he beat you to it. Sighing into the phone, he said, "Nevermind that. Get to his location immediately, and capture him." His voice stumbled for a second. "Take the taser, just in case." 

"Yes sir," you responded meekly, and disconnected the radio. 

You looked around for your keys, going past a board full of cases that were never relevant enough to be solved - especially the one of the missing pumpkin. The types of cases you received here made you shudder, this wasn't why you had spent so much time training at the university. You tucked your radio into your jacket as you pushed it on your shoulders, grabbing onto a half-eaten sandwich to satisfy your hunger along the way.

"I have to get that person before he robs me of a chance at the forensics department forever," you thought while speeding towards the location told to you - while maintaining the speed limit, of course. No space for nonchalance. 

You'd wanted to finish all your paperwork today and get back to an analysis you were working on - preferably get a nap too. Capturing a neighbourhood graffiti artist- this isn't what you had wanted to do.

This wasn't what Taehyung had wanted to do. 

The paint dried off slowly on the metal surface, a small drop of ink trickling down where Taehyung had stopped. The design wasn't matching what he had thought at all, he thought as he stared at it. Time to switch it up. 

He picked up the painting from right where he had stopped it - merging blue into the red petals as he was on his way to the centre of the flower. Painstakingly, he traced lines that would capture the delicate curves of the outlines, serving to further merge into the picture. 

His vandalism wasn't ugly drawings, nudity, or someone just spraying 'SUCKAZ!' all over a wall. That is for amateurs. His was nuanced art. Art that he couldn't do in the day. The ones he could never showcase in the galleries. The ones he buried in the deepest recesses of his mind, burning a hole into the boxes he stuffed them into. This was his freedom. 

Taehyung picked up the black can. Fixing the nozzle in the proper direction, he shook the bottle- once, twice. The paint came out in spurts at first, before settling into a steady spray. Black always enhances everything, doesn't it? Enhancement that never seemed beautiful - it was just there to make it stand out. Be noticed. Be shamed. Be suspected. Look deadly, or even look dead. Even the most innocent faces look devious with black. What's to say his flower would still look alive? 

The black slowly spiralled across the expanse of the shutter, coiling over and over in what Taehyung thought could be the leaves. The thorns that held the flower back from reaching the epitome of beauty- at least, outwardly beauty. He detested how overhyped a rose was- just as destructible as all other flowers. Where's the beauty in something temporary? 

The green paint can had been used up last time when he had sprayed ivy all over the fashion boutique's doors- all of which had been washed away. A shame, Taehyung thought, and picked up his airbrush. Filling a little green into the small holder, he tested it a few times on the footpath - he'd scrub chalk all over it later on, he still needed to add more to beautify the shops. He carefully painted leaves all over the black he had sprayed, letting them flatten out against the metal at the back and form a protective layer around the rose. Unnecessary by all means. 

He then switched to a darker green, picking up the airbrush once again to add some subtlety in the leaves. He watched the spray slowly settle right where he wanted it - paint, unlike his life, was something he had full control of. It was liberating. 

Standing back and twirling the can over and over in his hand, Taehyung was somewhat satisfied with what he made. A rose. Simple, overrated. Just like flowers. The leaves stood out more to him, along with the thorns; their prickly points being the focus of the picture. Perfect. 

He picked up his personal favorite - a small can of black paint who's nozzle had been crafted by him. Stooping down to the corner of the shutter, he slowly sprayed across it. Black settling on silver gray, one single alphabet. V. 

That's it. He was done. Just an hour's work. 

He turned to the tattoo artist's shop, the shutter a colourful mess littered with messy black stains and drawings the owner probably thought was hip. Taehyung cringed. How was it possible for an artist to be that bad at decorating their own shop? He walked a few steps back, admiring the size of it and thinking of what he could fill there. Something that would really annoy a tattoo artist- he deserved it after having ruined the shutter like that. Picking up a blade, Taehyung set to scrape away the skulls- which, he found, were stickers. Gross. Peeling them off, he set to chip away at the paint- the soft thunk, thunk of the blade slapping against the metal echoed around him. Hopefully, not too loud. 

The metal loudly protested as Taehyung pressed his blade against what seemed to be an outline of a body, done with black, and some random inscriptions that he could notice were wearing away. This had to be really old. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch. The blade kept pushing at the layers of colour, forcing them off the metal. He could see glints of silver shining underneath it, dim under the streetlight.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. He kept pushing at the paint, tongue poking out as his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He had to do it now. There was no other time for him to do this. Now. Now. Now. 

The silver suddenly glinted more brightly- a shade impossible under the dull, flickering yellow of the streetlights. White lights created a halo of sorts around him, and Taehyung knew his time was up. He smiled. At least one place got the beauty they deserved. 

"Hands up!" A voice yelled behind him, and he could hear a click that definitely sounded like a taser gun. 

Looking up, he cursed loudly at everyone and anyone. He could have finished it tonight. His work would have been done, and he would have been on his way. He turned around, annoyance sparking in his eyes with sarcastic acceptance lining his lips in the way they curled. "You found me," he murmured, before letting himself get slammed against the very shutters he was painting.

Fate played wonderful games, and for now, you were its newest loser. 

"Name." You spoke, your voice monotone yet clear. 

"You know me, Y/N. Don't pretend you don't." Taehyung crooned, smirking while he rotated the glass that rested atop the table. 

Your annoyance only grew. When you were told that there was a vandal in the streets, you didn't expect it to be a familiar face. 

Kim Taehyung was known to you. Someone who had lived right next door. Someone who had been known as a lovable, obedient boy by the neighbours- you still remembered how your mother would gush about him. Someone you knew, and once, cared for. 

Someone who was later only known as the kid who flung a bottle on his stepfather's face and was sentenced for five years - which, in fact, was a misjudgement. He was innocent, and the video of him attacking the man was manipulated. Fake. Edited. Whatever you chose wouldn't be enough to change anything in the past. 

Taehyung had come out of jail a changed man, weeping openly in the streets when he heard of his family's fate- what he had heard, though, was something you were unaware of. Two years had since passed, and you no longer heard your mother talking about the Kim's boy. He had simply vanished, for you. No traces anywhere. 

But here he was. Kim Taehyung. Alive, breathing. Smirking. And spinning a glass over and over. 

"Give that to me." You said, snatching the glass away from him and keeping it aside. Settling into your chair, you pulled your laptop closer once again, mustering the most serious look you can. "I'm not playing around, Taehyung. Talk properly. Behave. You're already in a rough spot." 

Taehyung laughed; a mirthless, almost painful laughter. "I can't see how anything can be bad here, officer. With all due respect, of course." He straightened up, still keeping that smirk on his face.

You exhaled your breath slowly, holding back all the words you wanted to hurl at him. "Name?"

"Kim Taehyung."

You typed it in, feeling the way each letter pad was pushed down before you moved over it- momentary, but fulfilling. "Age."

"As of today, 25." 

"Job."

"Nothing. Add the official vandal of Street 13 if you want." 

You raised an eyebrow, fingers abruptly coming to a stop. "Behave." 

"No job, officer." Taehyung said, settling further ahead in his seat and pausing, before speaking again. "Why do you need this though? I already have a criminal record, don't I?" 

You turned your face to him, the sudden change in light exposure hurting your eyes. The hurt they felt couldn't possibly fathom the depths of pain you saw churning in Taehyung's eyes, like pits of fire. They were seemingly blank,  but you had known him. Known him long enough to know that this wasn't who he used to be. This wasn't him. 

"Once you were proven innocent, your record was wiped clean. The manipulators were given the charges that you had." You looked at him while saying this, trying to notice any emotions that would make way to his face. None. No twitching lips, no annoyance in his eyebrows. Just his eyes that seethed anger. "Family?" 

"None." 

You raised an eyebrow. "None?"

Taehyung groaned, getting up from the chair and turning around, hands on his waist. "Don't make me repeat all that shit again. You know it, Y/N." 

"Sit back down, Taehyung." You said, irritated by his tantrums. It was four in the morning, for God's sake. You didn't have the energy to deal with him. "I need details if you want to get out of this without any charges." 

"Dead. Most of them. Those who aren't, disowned me as soon as I got into jail. Something about not wanting to be related to a criminal." He said lowly, a gruff tone to his voice as he spoke the last words. 

You hummed lowly, not knowing what to say. How do you possibly respond to something like this? You weren't trained for interrogation at university. You specialized in forensics. This wasn't supposed to be your job. 

"I'm sorry that happened, Taehyung." You managed after a few moments of silence. 

"Don't be." He shrugged, then looked up. "You don't mean it." 

"I still need a reason as to why you are destroying the places around here with your graffiti and chalk drawings, Taehyung." You ignored him and continued, rising from your chair to let your sore limbs relax. "Unfortunately, I can't let you leave till you give me a reason." 

Taehyung stayed mum, much to your annoyance. 

You slammed your hand on the table, a loud slap that stung your hand, but also Taehyung's ears, it seemed. "Reasons. Now."

"I just wanted to." 

"Wanted to? So you were voluntarily damaging someone else's property?" 

He raised his head to look at you; once, twice. Then with a resigned sigh, he responded. "Yeah. But I was beautifying it." 

"A beautification they never asked for?" You said, as Taehyung groaned behind you. 

"No one gives a damn, Y/N-" 

"The police do." You say, preparing to send a message to your chief over the radio. "Got him." 

"The police didn't care when I was innocent in that case, Y/N. Stop pretending like they'll care for me when I'm actually guilty of something." 

"That case was mishandled."

"Yeah, Y/N. It was mishandled. But only for you." You turned to him, shocked at the venom that suddenly laced his voice. 

In the few seconds that you had turned away from him, his eyes had turned bloodshot. Red rimmed the remaining white of his eyes. "You wouldn't know what it is to be locked up for harming people you loved, Y/N. You wouldn't understand that pain," he murmured, loud enough for you to hear him in the echoes of the office. 

You wanted to scream at him. Tell him how he had hurt you. Remind him of all the things you had forced yourself to forget over seven years. The way your heart still hurt for him. 

"You're right. I won't understand. So sit here, and explain yourself." You pulled your chair back, seating yourself in it and gazing up at him expectantly. 

He was just staring at you- you couldn't say whether his gaze held expectations or disdain. Then, shaking his head, "You're still just as stubborn, aren't you," he said, softly smiling as he slipped into his chair. "Adamant, and so, so confusing."

"You don't know me anymore, Taehyung. Don't pretend. Anyways," you said, turning to your laptop again. "I need-"

"No." He stood up once again- why was he standing? "Answer me, now." 

He rested his arms on the table, chest leaning forward to balance himself- and now, you could see the changes he had brought in himself. In place of lean muscle there were defined biceps you could see being flexed. In place of short hair was curly locks that fell until his crown, now hanging over. In place of a cheeky grin that sent your blood rushing to your cheeks was a pair of lips, set tight in one line that sent chills down your spine. There was warmth to him, yes, but it was different. This wasn't the Taehyung you knew. 

"You knew that I was back." Your eyes moved back to look into his. And you noticed more changes. Instead of a carefree twinkle, there was dark, brooding black filling his pupils. "You knew. I'd seen you that night." 

The night when you had seen him falling to his knees, soaking himself in the rain as he gave his tears as a tribute to the gushing skies. The night he returned. The night you thought he didn't know you. 

"I'd seen you after that as well. That day at the convenience store, I'd seen you buying candies. You still buy the same kind, don't you? Lemon flavoured." 

The night you gave up on your dreams to become an analyst in the forensic lab for the police. The night where you stared up to question everything you did as your feet soaked in the snow. Two years ago. The night he thought he knew you. 

"You're hurting me by not remembering us, Y/N." 

"We were nothing to begin with." You cleared your throat, settling further back into your chair. "You asked me on a date, and stood me up. We're nothing. Absolutely nothing." 

Taehyung opened his mouth to speak again, but leaned back, standing tall, straight. You almost missed his warmth - no. This wasn't the warmth of a person you had cared for. 

"It's so cold outside, Y/N, why haven't you turned on the heater?" Your chief's voice filled the room after a few minutes of absolute silence. Taehyung had taken to leaning on the wall, now, maintaining an anxious distance. "Did you get the man?"

You simply pointed towards Taehyung, watching the chief's face flash with recognition, brows hastily furrowing as a frown formed on his face.

"Kim Taehyung?" Your chief asked, coming up to the two of you. "Is it really you? Are you the vandal?"

Taehyung remained silent, head hung. 

The chief inhaled, then exhaled; loud enough for you to hear him - "It is you, isn't it. What happened after the attempted murder case?" 

"Proven false, Sir." You informed your superior. For some odd reason, you felt like you had to come to Taehyung's defense. 

"I am aware of that, Y/N." The chief said, looking Taehyung up and down. As reported, he was in the navy blue sweatshirt and ripped jeans- and you could see in the clear light of your office that he had ripped the holes into them himself. Something he did before to look fashionable, he used to say. 

"I don't really want to put any charges on you, Taehyung. Why did you do it?"

Taehyung spoke, voice gravelly. "It was liberating, Sir." 

"You broke the law, though." 

"The law broke me, Sir." 

The chief took another deep breath and settled onto the chair where Taehyung was sitting just a few moments ago. His wrinkled skin seemed to age even more. Taehyung was close with the chief as a student, that you knew- you had seen him going multiple times to his office to get clarifications after class. You wondered how the chief felt - did he feel the same sting of recognition you had felt? 

"I don't want you to get any charges, Taehyung," he said, before laughing and adding, "all these years, and I still have my student in my head." 

He stood up and turned to face Taehyung again, worry reflecting in his eyes as he held him by the shoulders. "You're still the Taehyung I know, right?" 

Taehyung looked away, down, his face coming in your line of vision - you could see the small rivulets that flowed from the pool of emotions in his eye, down the lines that worry, anger and disbelief had formed on his face. Sniffing softly, he turned back to the chief. "Yes, Sir." 

The chief visibly relaxed, his arms coming down to his sleeves, gripping Taehyung. "Good. I hope it remains that way." 

He returned to his stern stance, and faced you. "I suggest you keep him here for the night, Y/N." he looked outside, the sky just turning sapphire. "I shall return in the morning to talk. Get some rest while you're at it. And Taehyung? Eat something." 

The chief swiftly departed the office, and Taehyung slumped into the chair. "Seven years, and the old man still remembers me," he laughed mirthlessly, lips twisting in an amused smile. "Always appreciated him." 

"And so did he," you mentioned. Taehyung was always brought up as a comparison for your batch of officers to emulate. Even when he was in jail, he was remembered among you as a diligent student and worker. "'Remember his good', he used to say. He always remembered you."

"And you?" He suddenly looked at you. His eyes were no longer bloodshot - there were small remnants of anger, but all you could see was wistfulness. "Did you remember me, Y/N?" 

a/n: yup, I stopped there. Do leave some feedback if you liked it- in the comments, or as an ask! Also, if you wish to be tagged for the next part, you can ask for that too! Thank you for giving your time to this fic,, and I hope you enjoyed reading it! love, hazel💞

masterlist

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Steve Rogers, The Man On Fire

Hey y'all, as Pride month draws to a close I would like to post this fic. It's been in my drafts for a month and I finally today found the motivation to finish it. This is special to me for many reasons, one of which being that I'm proudly a part of this community. Some of the anger written in is my own. I think a lot of people will resonate with it. I really hope you all enjoy this and happy Pride Month <3

This was based loosely off a headcannon and once I re-find it I will credit!

Synopsis: Steve is freshly thawed, queer, and pissed | A.k.a. Steve's experience in 21st Century America

Characters: Steve Rogers, Mentions of Bucky Barnes, (loosely a Stucky fic but Steve thinks he's dead here)

Warnings: Angst but not bad, Steve Rogers being volatile and chaotic (we love), poorly written accents (I literally read this with an accent in my head), literally a 2k monologue

Word count: 5.1k

Steve Rogers came out of the ice angry.

No— not angry— Steve Rogers came out of the ice fuckin’ furious.

He came out of the ice with his hands curled into two fists, with his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were liable to snap, and with a bone to pick with every damn reporter and historian and too loud opinion on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He came out simmering— no, erupting— like the serum in his blood couldn’t keep his body from hibernation all those years ago but it sure as hell won’t keep him from setting the entirety of New York on fire now. He’ll burn it all down if he has to and rebuild it the way he remembers it— the way Bucky would have remembered it— and at the end of it all no one— not the bigots or deniers or the homophobes that seem to be the only thing that came with him from the forties— will be able to say that Captain America can’t love whoever he wants.

No one will be able to say that Steve Rogers didn’t love James “Bucky” “the man I’ve loved since twelve years old” Barnes with everything he had and then some.

No one.

So he starts with the museums in Washington— because sure it isn’t New York but where else would a relic like himself belong more?

He still has hope when he enters the building. They didn’t make them like this when he was a kid— they had science fairs in the town hall and culture fairs in the backstreets near the docks but never anything this grand. No tall marble pillars or enough stairs to make him wonder if he would have been able to climb to the top when he was half the size he is now. It’s strange. It’s kind of wonderful. Yeah, the Smithsonian museums make Steve Rogers feel small for the first time in a very long time and that gives him hope.

That hope doesn’t last long, though, because soon he’s wandering through the halls, following the signs that say Captain America: The First Avenger— what the hell is an Avenger? Is that what they’re calling soldiers these days? Now he feels small and old.

Turning the corner is like landing on another planet, one devoted entirely to him. His picture is everywhere he looks, his name is in lights, even his damn uniform has been replicated and presented on a little stage and he hates it. The rage is back, sparking at his fingers— he’s a match and lucky for everyone this building is made of stone because if it wasn’t he’s sure it would be reduced to nothing but ash by now.

It only worsens as he begins reading through the plaques and the paragraphs flashing across screens on the walls— he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. The more he reads, though, the more he wonders if the stone is really, truly safe from the fire in his blood. He doesn’t think it is.

He surely isn’t at least— he feels like he’s going to explode. This isn’t him— none of this is him. War hero. Martyr. Golden boy. He has to stop reading that plaque— clearly no one did their research. Clearly no one dug up his medical files— or his police records. Brawls at the pub, disorderly conduct behind Mr. De Luca’s sandwich shop, public nudity at the beach that one time— thank you Bucky for the best night of his god damn life. Golden boy— ha.

Golden nobody with the black eye and broken hand is more like it.

For a moment he thinks he’s fine— he thinks it can’t get worse than this. Then he gets to the early life section and for an even longer moment his tongue tastes like gunpowder.

Steven Grant Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his friend James Buchanan Barnes—

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence— not when they already got the most important part wrong. Friend. Friend? No, no, no. No! There are a million words in the english language that Steve could use to describe Bucky and ‘friend’ will never be the first one.

How about best friend?

How about partner in crime?

How about soulmate who loved Steve so much that every night for the past forty-eight days since he woke up in an era that Bucky doesn’t exist in he’s cried himself to sleep with the same cherry cola taste of his ‘friend’ on his tongue.

It’s the final straw— Steve loses it.

“Anyone got a marker?”

The museum is quiet before he speaks but when his voice— steadily rising and taking on that New York headiness that his troops used to jazz him about— cuts through the exhibit— his fuckin’ exhibit— it’s silent. It’s dead, almost as dead as Buck— Nobody dares move a muscle as he rips his ball cap off his head and throws it at the statue of himself. Everyone knows who he is— everyone is going to know who he is so help him god.

“I said—” he tries again— “does anyone have a marker?”

It takes a moment for the people around him to pick their jaws up off the floor and he allows them that moment with a smug grin starting to tug on the corners of his lips. Finally— they’re starting to get it.

He’s not a hero; he’s a supernova of every scrawny, queer kid who’s ever gotten beaten to a pulp for kissing who they want.

Maybe then it’s fitting that the marker— when it’s finally produced and placed in his waiting palm— comes from a teenage girl with a shaved head and a blue, pink, and purple denim jacket and a busted lip. She doesn’t say much— only a mumbled here you go— but her eyes say everything that her words don’t. Give em’ hell, Cap. For the first time since waking up he flashes a genuine grin back— yeah, this one’s for you kid.

Steve wastes no time uncapping the sharpie— he’ll look that one up later— and scratching out the error. The blasphemy to his unholy name. It takes him a little longer to decide what to write in its place. There are a million words, sure, but somehow none of them feel right at this moment. None of them are enough. That’s something he’ll have to come to terms with later, though— how much nothing feels like enough anymore without Bucky.

Finally Steve settles on a word and he scribbles it as neatly as he can given the fact that he hasn’t had to write anything in eighty years. When he takes a step back, feeling alive for the first time since waking up, he beckons over the girl with the shaved head and points to the place where he’s taken it upon himself to correct history.

“Hey kid, why don’t you go ahead and read that outloud for everyone here.”

He allows another moment— this time because she deserves the time it takes for her eyes to light up and the smile to stretch across her bruised mouth.

Steve laughs— a rusted, croaky laugh; another first in forever— when her head whips around, facing him as she loudly proclaims: “It says boyfriend. Steve Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his boyfriend Bucky Barnes!”

“Damn right I did—” he mutters to the kid before taking a step towards the crowd of gaping mouths. “Did you all hear that? Don’t worry if ya’ didn’t— I’ll say it one more time. Boyfriend. Bucky was my boyfriend and if he was here today he would be my husband. If any of you have a problem with that then feel free to take it up with me. I took on half of Brooklyn for that man and I’ll do it again.”

When no one says anything Steve nods, turning to hand the girl back her marker and to thank her— he may be angry but he hasn’t lost all his manners— but when he looks at her she doesn’t look back. Instead she takes the same step forward that he had, one of her hands balled into a tiny, shaking fist at her side and the other wrapped around a cell phone that’s pointed towards the crowd. He doesn’t understand the mechanics but he thinks she’s recording.

“You hear that?” She parrots the super soldier with a wavering but fierce voice. “Captain America likes men! And none of you can deny it!”

This time it’s his mouth that drops, watching as she shakily turns the camera off and spins back around. Before Steve can say anything, though, she’s talking again, this time hastier, and he can’t help but think that she sounds so much like him. All flushed and scrawny and pissed.

“I’m sorry, I’ll delete the recording if you want but, I jus’ know these bigots are gonna’ try and cover everything up and that would be a fuckin’ shame. I don’t know if you know how many kids need to hear this. I did— and I think they should too. Only if you want, of course.”

He doesn’t answer right away�� he can’t. It’s like looking at himself at fifteen. Suddenly he’s back again, his feet hanging in the water as his boyfriend paces behind him, asking if he’s ready to have him look at his knuckles yet. He didn’t get that many good punches in— the scrapes are mostly from the pavement— but Buck always worries too much so it doesn’t matter. The protective idiot.

Steve shakes his head, blinking away the sunset lingering behind his eyes. “Bucky woulda’ loved you, kid.”

The next time he loses it— the next time he turns into more flame than man— is after he saves the city he’s been trying to burn down for three months.

It isn’t long after that day in the museum when Nick Fury decides it would be best for everyone if Steve goes back into the field. Of course, no one really asks him what he wants— they pretty much just shove a new suit into his hands and tell him to get training, Captain— but what else is new?

No one really comments on his outburst besides that either. Can you really call it an outburst when you’re just trying to reclaim the parts of you that have been stolen? Sure, the press gets a hold of the story and, true to what the kid had said, tries to twist it into something more digestible, but no one actually addresses it up with Steve. Apparently when someone saves the world as good as he does no one cares that they kiss men.

Or that they don’t wanna’ to actually save the world anymore.

See, in those three months— between the training and training and even more training that Steve Rogers begrudgingly obliges— he has time to catch up on the world. More importantly, he has time to catch up on what the world thinks of him. He scours a plethora of documentaries, scholarly essays, and whole books of information about his time as Captain America. Well— his time as Captain America when it mattered. In all his scouring he learns one thing: everything written about him is wrong.

It’s all so fuckin’ wrong.

Just why the hell would he want to save a world so bent on destroying who he is?

The Smithsonian exhibition was nothing compared to what’s been written in the eighty years he spent in the ice. Better yet, nothing compared to what hasn’t been written about him. They’ve taken an eraser to every part of his life that doesn’t fit with the golden image that they constructed for him. A.k.a. every part that matters. His relationship, his past, every little thing that made him supposedly perfect for the role he was given. Gone. Erskine told him he was a good man— apparently he was the only one who thought so.

Apparently being a good man isn’t good enough.

They only wanted the perfect soldier. Yeah, well, they had one and they fucked him over too. Don’t even get him started on what they did to Bucky— Steve doesn’t want to think about what Winnifred— Winnie for short— Barnes would do if she saw the history books erasing her baby’s Jewish roots. Or his relationship. It wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure. If ever there was someone more protective than Bucky it would have been his mother. Not that there’s a damn note about her in anything either though.

Maybe that’s the final straw that does him in this time— watching the place that Mrs. Barnes loved more than almost anything else in the world crumble, while also knowing that the world no longer gives a shit about the two people she loved more.

“Mr. Rogers, this is where you grew up, is it not? Is there anything you would like to say about what took place here in your home city today?”

Maybe he pretends not to hear the last part— maybe he really does only hear up until where the reporter asks him if there is anything he wants to say. He’s been around quite his fair share of explosions; it would make sense that his hearing is a little off. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, though.

Scratch that— he definitely doesn’t care anymore.

And why the fuck should he? He does have something to say and propriety be damned he’s going to say it.

Steve stares into the crowd of faceless reporters and flashing cameras with a scowl on his grimey face. Around him stand the other Avengers— his ‘team’. The last time he had a team the historians screwed up the history for every single member. Dugan, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, Sawyer, Juniper, Pinkerton. Barnes. All of them were brave men with families and sacrifices and all of them were treated like jokes by ‘reporters’ just like the ones in front of him now. He really doubts there’s a difference between old and new journalism.

The only difference is that now he’s here and this time he’s not going to let them write anything but the damn truth.

“It is—” Steve muses, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead— “I’m surprised you know that though.”

The reporter cocks his head, clearly confused, and it makes the super soldier’s blood boil. “Come again, sir?”

“I said I’m surprised you know where I was born, kid.” This time when he says the word— kid— it’s derogatory. “Ya’ know, considering how you all seem to know nothing about me otherwise.”

Steve almost smiles at the way the crowd tenses. He actually would if it weren’t for the white hot rage coursing through his veins, mingling with the last of the adrenaline leftover in his system. It gives him an extra kick— not that he needs it. Even when he was just a runt from the wrong side of the tracks he needed nothing more than an offhand comment to raise his fists. Fighting to Steve Rogers has always been intoxicating— the aftershocks of winning the battle just makes it more thrilling now.

Who knew, right?

“Sir I asked—” The reporter sputters and Steve simply holds a hand up, silencing him before he can start again.

“Yeah I know what you asked, alright. You want me to talk about the battle here in New York today and how I am more than happy to have risked my life to save it. But I can’t do that, kid. Because I didn’t save it for you. I didn’t save it for any of you.”

Steve feels his team tense— maybe were it any other time he would stop talking. He would just leave it, let the issue go, because Bucky would tell him too. They aren’t worth it, bruiser, he would say, they aren’t worth your blood. Maybe he would listen to his boyfriend because usually he was right. Bucky was always right. So yeah, maybe he would list—

Who is he kidding; he knows he wouldn’t.

Not then and certainly not now— not when Bucky isn’t here to defend himself against everything Steve has been reading about. That’s exactly why he doesn’t stop talking. Someone has to defend him and who better of a person than him? So, yeah, he keeps going, even when he hears footsteps behind him.

“You wanna’ know who I did save it for? James Barnes, that’s who I saved it for! You see, just around that corner there is a bookstore. Rickley Books. That was my boyfriend's favourite bookstore. You know, the man who gave his life to stop a train in Austria from reaching the enemies? Yeah that was him. That train was filled with supplies. Had it reached their headquarters, who knows if we’d be standing here today. If there would be a New York at all. Not that you would know that. But who cares about that dead sergeant from the 107th, right? There’s plenty just like him.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly— a move he picked up from the very man he’s speaking about— but he spits his words at the reporters with enough venom to cancel out any peace that the action brings. That’s his own move.

He keeps going. “You know who else I saved it for? His mother. Yeah, his mother Winnie Barnes. Wonderful lady. She used to run a soup kitchen a couple blocks from here. Kept the rift raft like myself from going hungry most nights— I was a brawler, you know.”

A couple of reporters in the crowd laugh at that and Steve flinches, his vision tinting red as he cranes his neck, seeking them out.

“Oh you think that’s funny, do you? You think I’m joking? I’m not. You ever been backed into a corner, son? Had people hurl slurs at you that I can’t even repeat today? Ever been beaten up for loving your best friend? No, I bet you haven’t. You weren’t a queer kid in the thirties. That’s hard— that’s borderline impossible actually. I only made it because of people like Winnie Barnes. That woman was a saint but nobody talks about her either.”

Steve has to take a deep breath, clearing the rasp in his voice that rises as he dwells on the woman he called his second mother for so long. She wasn’t just a saint, she was an angel. He can’t cry here though, not now. Not even as his throat begins to tighten.

“Winnie was the type of lady who didn’t let anyone walk over the little people. She used to sit me down and say Stevie you gotta’ fight for what you want because ain’t nobody gonna’ give it to you. She told me that I shouldn’t have to but that there were going to be people who would try to tear me down just for being me. And she was right— just like her son— because that was the era, you know? But now, here in the twenty-first century, you’re all still trying to tear us down.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, small fingers tugging at where his suit has begun to tear. Natasha Romanoff. He meets her gaze quickly, neck craning to stare down the red head, and in the few seconds their eyes meet it’s like Bucky is next to him. Somehow the blue in her irises catches the falling sun just like his used to. Steve can hear the gruff of his voice in the depths of his mind. Back down, bruiser. The sentiment is echoed across Nat’s face.

Steve shakes her hand off him, turning back to the reporters— don’t they know that he can’t?

“You all say you care about me, huh? That I’m a hero? You know nothing about me— you don’t want to. Before I was a soldier I was a kid. A queer kid. I said that already but let me repeat it. Queer. Did you write that down? None of you certainly did before. That’s how I know that you don’t care— because in an age where being queer is infinitely more accepted you still don’t bother to write it down.”

He pauses for another breath, shutting his eyes against the blinking red lights of the cameras. They’re like little demons, always watching his every move. Recording. Everything’s always recorded these days. Will he ever be used to that? Bucky was the technology guy, not him. Not then and not now.

When Steve picks up again— eyes open and shoulders freshly straight— it’s on a new note— a clear note.

“You don’t care about me— you certainly don’t care about the real heroes of the war because if you did you wouldn’t erase our history. Do you know how much it would have meant to Bucky to see our relationship accepted? The man who died for you? How much it would’ve meant to his mother? You can’t just pick which of our stories and our sacrifices are worthy and which aren't.”

He hasn’t spoken this much since he’s woken up, not all at once at least. Maybe he should have, though— maybe if he had then he wouldn’t feel like ripping the heads off everyone in front of him right now. Call it fight or flight. Call it revenge. Hell, call it whatever you’d like because it doesn’t really matter. Either way he feels like a kid again— again— backed into a corner behind the deli with his fists up and his teeth bared.

He feels feral again.

“So now you just want me to save the world like I did— like Bucky did— all those years ago— or maybe jus’ New York— as if that’s any better— and you don’t even bother to write a proper article about me? Hell, I never even asked for an article, let alone a whole exhibit! I’m just a soldier— and before that I was just a kid. If there’s never another article written about me I’ll be grateful. But now that I’m here, standing in front of you, I’ll say this—”

Just as Steve’s voice is cresting into a shout that would no doubt be heard regardless of whether or not the microphones were in front of him, Natasha tries one more time, her fingers slipping between his.

Her voice is a dull buzz compared to his, only reaching his ears by sheer will. “C’mon Stevie— we gotta’ go now.”

Like before he’s stunned but this time instead of seeing Buck— instead of hearing him in his head— he hears Winnie.

You fought good, honey. You fought good for us. You can rest now.

It’s jarring and it’s not lost on him the handful of awkward seconds that it takes for him to respond. That’s just the effect Winnie had on people though— still has, apparently. Steve shakes his head— I know, mama. But I gotta’ finish this fight.

“No, Nat— I’ve got to say this.” Steve mumbles— voice just beginning to waver despite how hard he clenches his jaw— before sneering at the crowd one last time.

“If I ever read an article from any of you that discredits Bucky Barnes, our relationship, or myself just know that I’ll come for you. I’ll come for this city. Don’t you ever forget who I saved it for. James Barnes, Winnie Barnes, and every queer kid who’s ever felt erased because of people like you. The bigots in the forties couldn’t stop me. The Nazis couldn’t stop me. Not even the Atlantic Ocean could stop me. So don’t think for a second that any of you could either. Have a good day.”

With that Captain America turns, marching off the impromptu stage and beginning the trek back to his apartment. He doesn’t bother looking at his team as he passes them— he can imagine their stunned faces well enough on his own. No doubt he’ll be getting another assignment from Fury soon enough to make up for this ‘outburst’ too. Still, he feels a little bit better. There’s an ache in his shoulder, and one under his ribs too, but he still smiles as he passes Rickman and Sons Books. That must mean something good.

The last time Steve Rogers burns he doesn’t burn the way he’s expecting to— he doesn’t vandalize his own name or blow up at a reporter. No, the third time— the final time— that Steve Rogers burns it’s with nostalgia— and with a damn good cup of coffee in his hand.

“I had no idea this place was even here.” The girl across from Steve muses, tiny hands shifting the steaming cup back and forth.

Her name is Ellie, he learned that back at the museum after asking for a copy of the video she took. He barely knew how to use his phone back then, let alone his email— hell, both still confuse him more often than not— but she had been patient. A little awestruck and a little riled up too but he took it in stride— easily. It’s not hard being nice to the spitting image of him.

“I’m glad I’m good for something other than making the news.” Steve chuckles and this time he means it— there’s no malice or ill intent, only humor. “O’Malley’s ‘s been here longer than I have. Looked a little different then—” he takes a moment to let his eyes wander the old coffee shop and it’s new appliances— a moment to feel his age catch up to him— “but I guess I did too.”

Ellie’s laughter joins in there and it’s strange— strange that he hasn’t laughed with another person in seven, almost eight, months; strange that her laughs sound so much like Bucky’s when they were younger; strange that Bucky isn’t here to hear. Here to laugh, too. Because he would have.

He would have called Steve an old man, would have wrapped his arm around his shoulders, would have asked— no, demanded— that Ellie try the plum cobbler. They always made the best cobbler. Bucky always had the best laugh. All grit and breath and him. Steve feels warm just thinking about it.

“Well thanks for letting me in on the secret, I’ll make sure to guard it carefully.” She even has Bucky’s warm sarcasm.

Maybe it’s not so much like looking in a mirror as it is looking at what he wishes he and his boyfriend could have been back then.

“And thanks for letting me interview you—” Ellie continues, setting the cup down but not before nodding at it, her eyes wide— “wow. You weren’t kidding about the joe, huh? Anyway— thanks for scheduling this. I know you’re probably super busy— and that there are more well established people you could have gone to.”

Steve sets his own mug down too— if he hadn’t there’s a possibility it would be more puddle than porcelain. “Well established means nothin’, kid. Not when you don’t have heart. They’re parasites, all of ‘em. The press couldn’t care less about me.”

Ellie nods, lifting the lid of her laptop. It’s a little bit dented and slathered in stickers, not quite the newest model— he would know, he has the newest one and it’s still sitting in his apartment in the box. Yet another testament to how little the people around him truly know him.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, can I get you a side of classism with that commercialism?”

Now she sounds like Winnie too.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you’re funny?”

She shrugs, tilting her head, a lopsided grin glued to her face. “Once or twice— I never know if they mean it or if they just want me to shut up. I never do so I guess we’ll never know.”

Steve sputters out another laugh because; “I guess we’re the same then— never give them a moment, kid. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He pauses— again— he supposes it’s going to be a day of pausing— he supposes it’s about time he pauses— before adding, “Bucky would’ve scolded me for saying that.”

Ellie’s fingers, swift and deft over the machine— Steve hadn’t even seen her begin to type— pause too as her smile softens. “What would he have said instead?”

Her question shouldn’t catch off guard— this is why he asked her to meet him; to finally, properly write his story— their story. Still he pauses— Steve’s empty hands feel hot, his shoulders warm; bare— what would he have said? It doesn’t take long to hear his boyfriend’s voice, not there but somehow loud in his ear all the same.

Just relax— they aren’t worth it. It’s too nice out to care about anything but the water— are you coming in or not? Summer doesn’t last forever, you know?

It’s impossible but Steve can feel the sun on his back and on his ears again, like he’s there— like he’s back, sixteen and on fire. Those were the days where everything made him cold. The days where his skin burned no matter the season but especially in August which was when the ocean was warm enough to swim in. It never stopped him from joining Buck— nothing could have stopped him. His cheeks warm, too, at the thought.

Steve blinks, his own smile— perhaps a little lopsided in it’s own right— shaping over his mouth. “He would have told you to relax— and to try the plum cobbler. It’s fantastic.”

With another giggle— and a reiterated comment— has anyone ever told you you’re funny, Steve?— they fall into a conversation, just a kid and a relic, about life. It’s not an easy conversation— but then again those kinds never are. It’s real, though, and unedited. Unfiltered. Just the way Erskine and Winnie and Bucky would have liked it— the only way Steve wants it. It’s not perfect but, hell, Steve has never been perfect.

He’s never wanted to be.

Maybe Steve doesn’t know everything his boyfriend would say— and maybe he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t blow up once or twice after today— but he can confidently say that he gave Brooklyn a run for her money— twice— and lived to tell the tale. He can say then when it mattered, he burned. That he still burns. That he will until he doesn’t— until he’s extinguished.

But, hey, though Summer doesn’t last forever, not even the Atlantic could extinguish the flame that is Steve Rogers.

That’s what he writes— in Sharpie— on the card he writes to Ellie— the one attached to the computer he knows he’ll never use.

[romeulusroy]

Presume (Shelby!Reader × Thomas Shelby Oneshot)

Character/s: Thomas, Arthur, John, Finn mention

Word Count: 1,202

Requested: Tommy decides to throw a masquerade party (maybe to gain allies?) And little shelby, not knowing who the other person is, due to masks and such, begins to dance with the son of one of the other feuding families ~ anon

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @brithedemonspawn @trentstonesobrienhoechlin @death-of-a-mermaid @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @captivatedbycillianmurphy @theshelbyclan @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87 @babylooneytoonz @peakyxtommy @locke-writes @lucillethings

A/N: I LOVE HOW THIS TURNED OUT!!!!! I really hope I could do your request justice my love, and that it's exactly what you wanted!!! I hope the wait wasn't too long either!!! I did make this entirely gender neutral btw! Is it obvious ya gurl had never danced with anyone besides friends? :P Ngl, I am proud of the storytelling!!! I always feel awful with fic requests because I worry I can never write them well, but I'm so happy with this!!!! Hope you like it my loves!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Gif Credit: @nofckingfighting :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

((FIC REQUESTS ARE CLOSED))

The watchful eyes burning into your back, through your skin, wishing they could set your insides on fire. Anything to stop you without forcibly dragging you from the room. Had to look good, play nice, be on their best best behaviors. Be professional. Instead, they stare, locked in by an image, a facade. No better time to push til they break. The glass already out of your hand, cheeks burning hot, tongue and teeth growing slow, sleepy. A drink, or three. Enough to give you courage. Teetering empty on the silver platter, calling your name as you slip through crowd, your shoes tapping the dance floor, picking at random. So many choices. One by one, lined up by their own kind. Blood had a funny way of tricking people, believing there is safety in packs, in numbers. There isn't. There never was, but they don't know. They will. Holding out your hand, waiting, and they take it, as if it were always meant to be there.

Do what you do because you can, because you're the only one who can get under their skin without the repercussions of a bullet between the eyes. They could try. Lock your bedroom door shut. Gloat and mock, the music, the crowds, all of the noise burning through the air all the way up. Too young. Just a child. Not ready yet. As if this business hadn't been your life since you were a kid, as if you weren't playing with guns and God the way other kids played with dolls, with soldiers. Toying with life and death before you could fucking spell it. It wasn't just a job, but the very thing that ran through your veins. That impulse, that thought, the rationalizing. It was all you, and you were going to show them, despite what they thought, you were as much a Shelby as the rest.

Their hands on your waist, close, closer than you inow any of them like. Your arms around their neck, the gentle sway you have so soothing amongst the chaos. Behind the mask there is someone unrecognizable, a stranger, the perfect distraction. A mask stolen, plucked from your brothers room, your door left open, broken, the lock heavy on the floor. A child may scream, cry, throw themselves on to their bed, thrash until they're red in the face and the festivities have all ended. You were not a goddamn child. Quickly, you dressed. Something itchy, uncomfortable, unwearable on any other occasion, but perfect for tonight. Grown up. Showing off every piece of you that made you look older, sharper, more jaded. Knife-like, a single touch a very dangerous thing. Down the stairs, scanning the first floor. Too many to count. Potential allies, and enemies, alike, all wanting a piece of power. Three familiar bodies, covered faces, but too easy, falling into their own imperfect habits.

John, Thomas, Arthur.

They hold you, their touch light, but intentional. Their hands nor their gaze ever travel, deserving a slap, a huff, a razor. No, they are shy. That much you can tell. Shy, even bashful, taking you in with every breath.A smile, that of innocence, of embarassment, and then, four simple words, whispered in your ear, barely above the violin, a voice that is far sweeter than you expected, honeyed with youth, hiccuped with wit. "I think they're staring." You don't dare look. You already know. Recognizing you soon enough. Good. You only shake your head, a head full of bubbles, and continue dancing. A stunt. That's what they named her, as if she were thoughtless. You'd never thought more about anything in your life. Not just the outfit, the picked lock, the alcohol, but your partner, the one you shared song after song with. You had your pick. Could have moved on, chose another, and another after that, but they stuck out, even behind the mask. They weren't afraid of you, or your brothers.

A party of class, wealth, legitimacy, all of these new things recently acquired by your family. One to gain attention, political allies, in search of anyone who wouldn't stab you in the back and leave you for dead. Far more people than you ever expected. All day, you watched Thomas' grand manor turn into that of a castle, one with a ballroom, rid of furniture, pictures, any evidence this place was a home, your home, at all. Other doors, places unused, unseen, locked. Careful, but not too careful. Your brother, always wary. One by one your aunt, sister, brothers, and their families come dressed for the occasion. Even Finn had been allowed to join in all the fun. You were geting ready, your hair undone, your clothes strewn across the floor. Tommy promised you there was no need to worry about any of that. The door slammed behind you before you had the chance to catch it. Your fists pounced on the door, pulling at the handle, your fury building. Of age, and still just a baby.

Alone now, you had time to think, to plan, to invade.

You weren't sure what was more careless: the fact they thought a locked door could keep you in, or that an event for allies could keep enemies out. The whole night you spent with them, your sweet stranger, one nameless, laughing at your jokes, your quips, unfazed by the cruelty, the hostility your words. Your mother tongue. They spoke the same language, one of cynicism, jabs at other guests as they kissed your brothers feet. In the end, they left you with nothing more than a kiss to your hand and solemn goodbye, never taking off their mask. The music dulled, the crowd thinning. Your punishment imminent, impending, cold hands tugging at your wrist, angry words quiet, hushed, threatening you with a lifetime of imprisonment.

A wonderful night come to an end.

It wouldn't be for a week or two until you saw that face again. Left out of another family meeting, a locked door becoming an old friend, left to wander the shop. You'd interrogate Finn later. For now, it was only you and the empty rooms. One by one you explored. A swesting glass of brown, the ice melting, on Arthurs desk, that of an early celebration. A drawing on Johns desk, illustrated from one of his young ones, colors scribbled and squiggled over his smiling face. And on Thomas' sat a pile of photos. All of them, thick black X's, drawn by his own hand, over their faces. A hit list. That of enemies, people out to kill. Get rid of them before they get rid of him. On the bottom, the dead rest. Towards the top were those he was hunting, the job not yet finished. One struck you, a slap across the face, one that left your nerves thin. At first, just another stranger. And then, a closer look. That smile, those eyes, you could almost hear their laugh, those words. Not a quip at the expense of your brothers, but their own watching your every move. Calculated, calloused, hungry. You hadn't even noticed. These days, enemies and allies walked a very thin line.

"I think they're staring."

You had to tell Tommy.

[hawksugarbaby]

Bakudeku- tongue tied

Lime + Tattoo/piercer Au

A/N: TO BE CLEAR. I don't ship toxic bakugo who told Deku to kill himself with baby deku who can't stand up for himself. I ship emotionally mature, developed, redeemed bakugo who is helping deku become a hero (more evidence in the manga than anime right now) with a strong independent deku who can stand on his own feet now.

It was a slower day for the parlour today than typical but this early in the year less people were interested in getting tattoos or piercings since it was cold and people would be wearing fleecy layer over layer and covering every stretch of skin on their bones to keep warm. What was the point in permanently altering a part of you if most of you was covered up?

Of course the tattoo side of the department had it harder than the piercing side as the piercers had enough options on the face and ears to keep them going. And that was where the great Katsuki Bakugo came into play. Hovering around the parlour like a moth waiting for the lights to flicker on, the annoying buzz of his angry voice that never shut up infiltrating Izuku's ears without of a choice making him unwillingly blush whenever he said anything that caught the freckled boy off guard.

The blonde barged into the shop like he owned the place and tapped his foot at the front desk ringing the bell for service continuously until someone paid attention to him. Izuku looked at his colleagues who all turned around and pretended to work, drawing scribbles on their page for new designs which looked like toddlers artwork until it was refined and then, if they felt like it, coloured.

The green haired boy stood begrudgingly from his desk and sauntered over to the front desk to greet his most common customer. "Afternoon Kacchan" he faked a smile and ran his hand through his curly emerald locks grabbing a pen from the pot, flicking the cap off so forcefully it flew across the room like a rocket for someone else to deal with. "It's evening deku" he argued and leaned his bulging arms on the counter smiling irritatingly at izuku. "Sure whatever. What are you here for" he asked, chewing the end of his pencil and glancing from the blonde's face to his muscular arms without a second thought.

Bakugo stuck his tongue out laying it flat against his chin and stared seductively into Izuku's green eyes. His face lit up red and he closed his eyes ignoring the taller man's angry flirtations. "A t-tongue piercing then?" he stuttered, turning around to face the wall and scribble on the clipboard. "Date of birth" he asked, not looking back at the angry customer being ignored by the reason he was there in the first place. "20th of april 2037" "making you 22" Izuku muttered filling in the information on the sheet. He knew Bakugo's phone number and email by heart by now, in case the courage ever took over to message him.

"Sign here" izuku said, turning and handing the clipboard to bakugo who was cracking his fingers as if it was a time killer and pointed to the line for bakugo to sign his loopy name on. For such an aggressive personality his handwriting was saccharine, it felt ungenuine watching the way his wrist flicked so smoothly with each curve connecting every consonant and vowel. "Can I get a hole in my tongue now or?" he asked placing the board on the desk and leaving the question open ended.

"Is everyone else busy!?" izuku shouted to his coworkers who all shouted yes back not wanting to deal with bakugo's attitude when he wasn't being pierced or tattoo'd by izuku. Izuku didn't have a problem around Bakugo, the problem arose when he couldn't focus on the work because his customer was seemingly attempting to seduce the poor artist. His insistence to be with Izuku was also an issue because god forbid he be with another customer when he came in, the indistinguishable groan when he was told to wait was enough to make the customers waiting to book flee the establishment.

"I guess it'll have to be me then" he sighed and walked to the back of the shop expecting bakugo to just follow behind (which he did). Izuku spun a wide leather seat towards the blonde and slapped the seat making a loud thump and he rolled his neck cracking the bones like loud enough you'd assume they broke. "Y'know for someone who's done this too me a bunch of time's i thought i'd know you better" bakugo sighed slumping into the seat while Izuku stretched a pair of latex gloves over his thick fingers, pinging the band against his wrist then pulling the other one on fiddling with the blue rubber.

Izuku his his blooming cheeks unable to tell if bakugo meant for his words to have a double meaning or if Izuku's mind was just all the way in the gutter. "What could you possibly want to know?" he grumbled looking to bakugo from his peripherals. The red eyed male fiddled with his ash blond locks of hair trying to spike them back up but they were flopping down and plastering to his forehead. Izuku's mini studio was ludicrously warm for the beginning of the year when it's supposed to still be winter, but his box felt like a trip to hawaii! "I dunno, why'd you start tattooing and piercing and shit" he asked gulping nervously at the needles laying out on the metal counter.

Izuku turned with the clamp looped on his fingers, a sure way to shut him up and scooted his own chair forward. "Tongue out" he ordered and bakugo smirked leaning forward "very demanding of y-" Izuku rolled his eyes and caught bakugo's tongue while his mouth was open talking and pulled it out by the clamp. "Eenngg! he huuh?" ("heey! The fuck?") bakugo began to gripe incoherently and izuku pressed harder making bakugo gasp and wave his hand "eh ehh ohay ohay" ("eh ehh okay okay"). He stopped attempting to talk but rested his warm hand's just above izuku's knee's making the green haired boy burn pink.

He fiddled with the needle and held his hands in front of him until they stopped shaking and held the clamp firmly grasped on bakugo's tongue "I started tattooing because my mum was struggling with money and I wanted to help her so I found an apprenticeship. Piercing just came easy after tattooing" izuku explained thinking about his mothers partially impressed, mostly shocked when izuku came home with his first tattoo. But she never stopped him if it was what he enjoyed. "Then you became obsessed with me and now I can't leave" he chuckled.

Bakugo's eye's rounded at the sound of Izuku's sweet laugh he'd never heard before. He would have smiled if he could have but there was a needle encroaching slowly. The tip of the sharp metal balanced on his tongue and izuku checked the placement again and nodded to himself "okay i'm going to count to 3 and on three take a deep breath through your nose okay" he quirked an eyebrow and the blonde nodded hesitantly.

"Okay 1... 2... 3 deep breath" he instructed and katsuki inhaled sharply as the needle went through the pink flesh a tiny dribble of blood and izuku switched in the jewellry so quick bakugo hadn't even realised the needle went through. "And you're done. You can exhale now by the way," izuku said, keeping the clamp on his tongue for longer than he needed to just for the satisfaction of silence but of course he had to take it off sooner rather than later.

"Did' ethen hur. Fuck i hath a lithp" he rolled his eye's and wiped away the drool at the corner of his mouth. "Hard to be sexy with a lisp," Izuku threw him an icy bottle of water he barely caught before the words caught up to him. "You think i'm thexy?" "not right now I don't" he laughed and sat back in the chair leaning over the back and hanging his arms over the armrest. "In about 5 minutes when your not afraid of moving your tongue, probably" he glimpsed at the blushing blonde and sighed. "Not afraid" he mumbled "then why do you have a lisp?"

Silence.

"Exactly." izuku retorted quickly and pushed bakugo into the leather seat climbing onto it himself and sitting between bakugo's thighs and grabbing his face. "I hate you you know that" the green haired male pushed bakugo's hair out of his face giving him a clear view of his sparkling red eye's and leaned into him pressing his soft lips against bakugo's rough, cracked ones. Bakugo's hand's hovered around izuku but izuku's gloved hands pushed them down so they rested on his waist gently.

He kissed back softly trying to pull izuku back so neither were in danger of falling of the chair and nothing could be heard except the heavy breathing and their hearts hammering rapidly in their ears. Izuku pulled away resting his forehead against bakugo who was intoxicated by his lips. "I really hate you" the freckled boy muttered and put his hands on bakugo's chest separating them slightly. "Can I come back for a tattoo?" bakugo mumbled not sure what to say and Izuku snorted sliding off the chair and standing up putting his blue gloves in the bin. "Just a tattoo?" he flirted and bakugo, still trying to reboot his brain just blinked and nodded dumbfoundedly.

"Sure come back for a tattoo" izuku laughed and showed him to the door trying too brush his hair down so he wouldn't draw any attention from his coworkers. Bakugo finally formed coherent thoughts and at the door leaned next to izuku's ear "you know why I really got my tongue pierced?" izuku shook his head and bakugo dug his hand into his pocket pulling out a pill sized piece of metal and held it in front of izuku's eye's. Clicking a button on his phone it started to buzz lightly and izuku shoved him out the shop. "GO. NOW. HERE'S YOUR CARE PACKAGE" he shouted shoving a small poly-bag in his hands and slamming the door shut behind him, hard enough an earthquake line ran up the glass.

His brunette coworker bounced up to him, "SOOO" her sweet voice started and izuku shoved her away jokingly. "Get away!"

[starshinehemmo]

The One in Which Your Child Plays Cupid (Professor!Luke)

(mobile) masterlist

word count: 3,7k+

summary: in the end, it’s only thanks to your child that you manage to snatch up your charming professor.

+++

“What's a ‘derogation rule’?” asked a small voice. Everybody's attention diverted to the front of the class, where your little girl sat at the massive teacher's desk, colouring in her book. The professor smiled, turning to her to direct his answer.

“Well, little girl,” he began, “First of all, what do we do before we speak?”

Your daughter's eyes widened, as she blushed. “Oops,” she said. “We raise our hand.”

“That's correct. Another point for the princess!” His eyes twinkled almost as bright as hers as he added another star to her name in the list. Professor Hemmings had taught her how to write her name, so she could scribble it down in his list in order to have her own spot, and whenever she got something right, he'd add to the stars which already continued on to the next page. “Students,” he then said, turning back to the rest of his class, “You should really keep up. Adelaide here is way ahead of you!” The class chuckled while Adelaide looked smug at the professor's comment.

He faced her again. “And now to answer your question, Addy, a ‘derogation rule’ is a norm in which an annulment or invalidation regarding another law is described. Make any sense?”

Adelaide's face scrunched up as she ran his sentence in her mind over again, trying to break it into words and interpret them. After a while, during which no one interrupted her thought process, she nodded her head. “Yeah, I guess so.” For a four-year-old, your little girl already had a massive vocabulary stored in her brain, thanks to her frequently sitting in during your lectures. Her favourite was, of course, Professor Hemmings' one.

He smiled. “Great. Moving on.” He clapped his hands once, getting right back to where he left off, as Adelaide returned her focus to her colouring book.

And this was how it went most of his classes. The professor—well, he was actually just a teacher’s assistant—lectured, and every now and then, Adelaide would raise her hand—or like today, just blurt her question out loud. You'd been a stay-at-home mom for almost two years of her life, but then decided to come back to study as your daughter had grown old enough to either stay at day care or like today, visit your lectures.

///

“Hey, you,” said a voice, pulling you out of your slumber. Instantly, your eyes widened and you shot right up in your seat...and knocked your head into said person's chin. He groaned in pain, mumbling, “Fucking hell.” Professor Hemmings released another string of profanities. “How can a person as small as you hurt so much?”

“I'm—Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry!” you exclaimed, blood rushing into your cheeks. The top of your head throbbed and it took everything in you to keep from rubbing at it. You were embarrassed enough. You couldn't believe you had fallen asleep in the middle of a lecture. 

The professor chuckled. “Don't worry about it,” he said, raising his arm. Probably to rub at his chin, which must hurt much more than your head. 

Still, you couldn't raise your eyes to look at him. “I apologise for falling asleep,” you said quietly and in a rush, as you began to gather up all your papers and books and stuffing them into your bag as quickly as possible. “I know that was very disrespectful of me, and it won't happen again. Again, I am very sorry!” you blurted, standing on wobbly legs. Finally, you somehow managed to meet his gaze, though you were sure your face was as red as a tomato. 

Surprisingly, Hemmings wasn't looking at you in a pissed off kind of way. His eyes more held amusement as his mouth twitched. Clearing his throat, he let his fist fall from his chin. “Are you alright?” he asked, the amusement fading. 

“Uh...” He cocked an eyebrow. “Well, my head hurts obviously. Your chin isn't that soft either, you know.” With that being said, you couldn't help but raise your hand and softly rub at the throbbing area of your head. There will most definitely be a noticeable bump tomorrow. “I—Uh, are you alright?”

“Yeah, that?” he asked, pointing towards his chin and then making a swiping motion with his hand. “That's nothing.” You could tell from the angry redness that it was not nothing. Guilt coloured your already red cheeks even redder, all the way to the tips of your ears. 

“I'm so sorry,” you said again, holding your hand out as if in peace offering. 

Hemmings smiled at you again, his eyes flickering towards your hand before returning back to your eyes. “What's got you sleeping in my lecture anyway?” There was mischief hidden in his voice. So much blood was rushing towards your face that you were beginning to slightly worry about the rest of your body. 

“That's not appropriate, I think, Professor.” 

He shrugged. “Only, if you make it inappropriate. Which would be all by your own doing. Me? I'm simply demanding an explanation as to what was so interesting the night before that it got you this tired at a one p.m. lecture that the only way to surpass said tiredness, was to sleep it off.”

Raising a hand to your cheek in embarrassment, you couldn't help but blush even harder due to how hot it was. “Stop,” you mumbled softly, half a smile, half a cringe resting on your face. “It's not what you think,” you said. “I'm a single mother.” Gripping the handles of your bag tightly, you dared to raise your eyes. 

He wasn't looking at you like you had expected him to. With pity maybe—people tend to look at you like that, thinking you were stuck with a tiny person you didn't want, when in fact you loved her more than life itself. Or with newfound disdain—people tend to look at you like that as well, because of your young age. Professor Hemmings on the other hand was looking at you with ... happiness and there was this glimmer in his eyes. “You have a kid?” he asked, smiling widely. 

“Uh, yeah. She's almost two.”

When Hemmings made a move to put down the seat in front of you, you raised your eyebrows. “What?” he asked, “Why stand when we can sit?”

So you unfolded your seat as well and sat down again. He leaned forward in his seat which forced you to back up a little. He didn't seem to notice. “So if she's almost two, how come you're so tired? Don't toddlers sleep through the night?” There was a genuine interest in his voice, another aspect about this conversation that positively surprised you.

“Well, yeah,” you began. “But sometimes I have to take the night shift when a co-worker cancels last minute, so there's that.”

Hemmings leaned back again. “Hmm,” he hummed. “How about, next time you get called in, you stay home the next day—”

“That's not—”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted your interruption, laughing. “The professors here are all very understanding when it comes to children. Especially single parents. If you ask them, they'll forward you anything they touched on during the lecture you missed.”

“Really? I didn't know that.” You honestly had not. 

“Of course. And you know,” he said, raising from his seat again. “You can bring her to lectures as well. To mine that is. Other's too, but I think they'd like a heads up prior to it. I'd really love to meet your little one.” And with a final smile he went back to the front of the class and began gathering up his own stuff. 

///

“That's it for today,” Professor Hemmings said as knocks erupted around the room. You quickly stuffed everything back into your bag and walked to your daughter in the front.

“Momma, look at this picture I drew for you!” she shouted, scrambling to get off the high chair to show you her artwork.

“Aw, baby, that's so pretty,” you congratulated her, while taking in the scenery (it was a flower field) with the three stick figures in the front, though you had to do a double take as you saw she had drawn her father into the picture as well—something she hadn't ever done before. “You drew daddy?” you asked quietly, failing to keep the enthusiasm in your voice.

“No, silly momma. I drew Lukey!” she exclaimed excitedly, holding the picture even higher up as she grinned at you.

“Oh?” came your surprise, as you turned to look at Luke with slightly widened eyes. His matched yours. There was also a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks, as he—like the Luke you, and maybe only you from all of your classmates, knew—began fumbling with his hands. He always did this when he was nervous. Though, you could see a grin trying to fight its way on his lips.

“You like it, momma?”

Redirecting your stare from Luke to your daughter, you crouched down in front of her, grabbing her waist and squeezing. “I love it so much, baby girl. You did a very nice job,” you told her, tapping her little nose.

She grinned, a smug look settling on her face. “Thank you, momma.”

“You're very welcome, sunshine.” Looking up, you smiled at a still flustered Luke and then back at your daughter. “Come on, let's finish packing you up and then we can go out to have our ice cream with fries.”

“Yay!” she squealed instantly. Adelaide thrusted her drawing into your chest, suggesting you should take it, before she scrambled up on the big chair and began collecting all of her supplies.

Above you, Luke cleared his throat. Patting his messenger bag, he said, “Good night. I'll see you guys next week,” and with a polite smile turned on his feet.

Quickly, you jumped up from your crouch, calling after him. There was a rush of adrenaline flowing through your veins and it was fuelling a very irrational part of your brain. “Now come on. That's no way for family to act, is it?” Your heart thudded so loudly, you feared he could hear it.

Facing you again, Luke stared at you, his lips slightly apart. “Excuse me?”

Taking a breath, you grinned, adjusting the strap of your bag. “According to my daughter, you're part of our little family. So, daddy—” he choked into a cough, causing your grin to turn into a rather mischievous one “—what do you say to ice cream and fries?”

His eyes fell on Adelaide for a second, who looked up at him in her sweet Adelaide-way. It made your heart swell—seeing both of them looking at each other like that. Though you'd never really paid attention to it, today you noticed just how much love Luke's gaze held when he looked at your daughter. And as him, Adelaide looked at him with so much wonder and amazement. It made you secretly wish that Luke really was her father. You knew, he'd have made a good one.

“Addy, sunshine—” There your heart went again, as he used the same nickname for your daughter. “—you okay with me joining your weekly ice cream date?”

She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up. “Yeah!” she said, and you couldn't help but notice how he said weekly, as in, he'd come with you every week? You were more than fine with that and chose to ignore the other possibility of him referring to the past weekly dates.

“Well,” Luke said, looking at you again. “I guess then it's settled.”

“I guess so,” you answered, grabbing for Adelaide's hand and pulling her off his chair. Together you left the auditorium, Luke walking on the other side of your daughter—her tiny hand clasped in his giant one, swinging.

///

The diner you went to was fairly in the middle of your route home. It had always been there but you hadn't actually walked in until you were pregnant with Adelaide and had major cravings for ice cream and fries. So basically, this tradition began even before she was born, making it that much more special.

Like every week, you walked. Adelaide tended to skip along the streets, drinking in every new thing she discovered with each step she took. You absolutely adored watching your daughter getting to know the world, loved the innocent questions she shot you with her big pure eyes that held an entire universe in them. It reminded you of your own childhood, as your mother loved telling you about what a smart child you had been. And your parents were the greatest tutors in your life, making sure to never leave a question unanswered. So you also paid attention to also give her an answer for whatever question she had, even if sometimes you didn't have the perfect one but rather only a weak "I don't know, baby”. Oftentimes she'd nod, run off and find the answer herself. And every time she shared it with you, amazement engulfed you, because how could such a little girl always manage to find an answer that satisfied her enough? Not even you had the pleasure to always find the right answer.

“Lukey, have you ever broken the law?” Adelaide asked, looking up at your professor, whose hand was still clasped around hers, contrary to yours, which was dangling lonely against your side. Somewhere along the walk she had let go and tugged Luke forward to show him her favourite flowers from a flower shop. With every other person, you would've been offended and maybe just a tiny bit hurt, but surprisingly, not with Luke. It was rather the opposite, as a giant smile had erupted on your face, watching them talk about their favourite animals and why they didn't like going to the zoo. (It was because they didn't like seeing them so sad and caged in.)

“Hm,” Luke said. “Let me think for a second.” After he'd decided on the most appropriate answer for a four-year-old, he said, “I've driven past the speed limit a couple of times before.” Adelaide gasped. “But nothing serious. I've never put anyone in danger by it,” he assured, watching her carefully, to see if she was satisfied with his answer.

“But Lukey, you're a teacher of the law!” Adelaide spoke, her eyes widened and clear horror written on her face. She stopped mid-stride, pushing their intertwined hands against his hips. “You should do better, Lukey.”

Both you and Luke snorted as you couldn't keep your laughter in. Glancing at each other, you saw the amusement in this situation. Your toddler kid was seriously scolding an almost uni-professor. Only your child would have the courage to do such a thing.

Adelaide's eyebrows scrunched up in annoyance at your laughing. “This isn't funny, mommy and Lukey. This is serious.” But upon seeing her adorable little face, you couldn't help but laugh even more, much to her anger. “Mommy! Don't laugh at me! Laws are here for a reason. You should all be ashamed of yourself,” she finished her speech, then freed her hand out of Luke's grasp, turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. Quickly, you silenced your laughter, even though you still found this moment to be quite funny, but didn't want your daughter to feel anymore ridiculed.

Looking at Luke, you saw that he held the same regretful expression. Shrugging, he exclaimed, “Yeah, don't laugh at Addy, mommy!” in a mock voice. You swallowed back a sound of surprise, as your heart forgot a beat in its rhythm.

But Adelaide only said, “You laughed, too, Lukey.”

Clearing his throat, he crouched down behind Adelaide—awkwardly, long limbs bent uncomfortably—and said, “We're sorry we laughed, Addy, sunshine.” But she simply took another step away from him. And you could've sworn, you saw Luke's shoulders drop a tiny bit as he witnessed her rejection to his apology—like he was seriously hurt by the distance she put between them. Tentatively, he reached his hand forward and sweetly swiped his forefinger across the back of her neck and then tickled her back, which, of course, caused her to giggle and pull away. “Don't be mad, little girl. We are very sorry and you're right. We should pay more attention to the laws since they were put in place for a reason. I promise I won't speed anymore. And your mommy. . .Well, I actually don't know what laws she likes to break, so mommy—” he looked up at you, the same clouded look in his eyes that he had before, when he had called you mommy “—what laws do you like breaking, huh?”

Glaring and blushing at him at the same time, you said, “Sometimes I walk even when it's still red. But like Luke promised, I will also try to never walk when it's red, because that is against the law,” before crouching down beside Luke to wait for your daughter's reaction.

With that being said, Adelaide spun back around, the biggest grin plastered on her face as she threw herself into you two and latched her arms around your necks. Both of you laughed, hugging her back and in result, each other. You must've looked funny to bystanders, crouched there in a heap—a triangular hug. Though as the seconds ticked by, all your mind seemed to focus on, was how much of a family you must've looked like as well.

Luke's arm was wound tightly around your waist, and the second he removed it, your skin tingled from the loss of contact.

“Now,” he said. “I think two very pretty girls promised me ice cream with fries, no?” He reached for your daughter’s hand again, smiling in content.

///

“Addy, sunshine, look at your face,” you exclaimed, giggling. “It’s full of ice cream.” Grabbing a napkin, you reached across the table to wipe it off, but were beat to it by Luke.

“I got it,” he said, taking the napkin from you and gently wiping Adelaide’s mouth. When he finished, Addy turned her head and grinned at him. This sight truly warmed your heart. Unsurprisingly, your daughter had chosen to sit next to Luke, leaving you all by yourself on the other side. It gave you a perfect view to watch them interact, though, and seeing them together made you forget all about the fact that Adelaide had chosen somebody else over you. The fact made you even strangely happy.

It reminded you of a father-daughter relationship.

///

Adelaide yawned. “I’m tired, momma.”

“We’re going home now. In just a few minutes you can go to sleep, all right?” you said, pulling her to her feet.

“But I don’t think I can make it home, momma.” She pouted. And for good measurement, she swayed a little, her eyes widening in innocence.

Biting your lip, you knew exactly what she was trying to achieve here. “Addy, you’re such a big girl now. Momma doesn’t have the strength to carry you.”

She grinned, the tired face she’d perfected slipping for a tiny moment, as she said “But Lukey can!”, before she went back to swaying.

“Oh no, baby, he can’t,” you told her, blushing. “That’s not—”

“Sure, I can,” Luke’s voice interrupted you.

You shot Adelaide an scolding look, before regarding Luke with an apologetic one. “You really don’t have to. She’s just being lazy, and if she really can’t carry on, I’ll carry her. Really, it’s no problem. Least of all yours.”

Luke solemnly shook his head, grinning. “I got this. Relax, momma bear.”

Dang, what the hell was up with this man today? If he kept calling you any more of these things, your heart might just jump straight out of your chest.

///

“It was a really nice day today. With you,” said Luke from behind you, as you fumbled with your keys to fit in the lock of your apartment.

Grinning to yourself, you threw him a smile across your shoulder. “I enjoyed your company as well, Professor.” Finally, the key disappeared into the lock and with a satisfying click, you nudged the door open.

Turning around, you could see Luke rolling his eyes at you. “I really don’t want to think of myself as your teacher.”

For a second, fear froze your body. But then you saw the blush in his cheeks and how his teeth were buried in his bottom lip. “And why’s that?” Slowly, your tongue ran across your own lip. “Professor?”

With your sleeping daughter in his arms, he took a tentative step closer to you. “Well,” he said, gaze wandering to his feet. “I don’t know about you, but I rather think a teacher-student-relationship is unethical. Don’t you agree?” His eyes met yours.

Slowly, you reached out to brush through Adelaide’s soft hair. “Who said anything about a relationship?” you tease, keeping your voice serious.

“I—I thought—” Luke began to stutter, his cheeks flaming red, but you wanted to toy with him just a little longer, just because he looked so darn adorable. “Okay, this is kind of awkward. . .” he said, as he tried to look anywhere, but at you. “I’m so sorry—”

His agony caused you agony as well and suddenly you couldn’t bear to see him this uncomfortable anymore. In a swift move, you placed your hands on either side of his face to pull him down to you and pressed your lips to his.

Luke stumbled into you, but quickly regained his balance so he wouldn’t smash Adelaide between your bodies. “Wha—” came his surprised voice, but you only kissed him harder. Luke relaxed, kissing you like he had all the time in the world and like he was in a rush all at once. His feet came closer to yours, pushing you back into your apartment.

Once you were all inside, he leaned back, whispering, “I really wish I had my hands free for this,” against your cheek, laughing quietly.

Pulling back, you took Adelaide from his arms and solemnly stood there, staring at him sheepishly. “Did this just seriously happen?” you asked, blushing.

Luke shook out his arms and then placed his hands in his pockets. He shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, I hope it did.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to sound like a creeper or anything,” he said, “but I’ve been dreaming of this. With you.” He blushed.

“You only sound like a creep a little tiny bit,” you assured him, laughing. “Let me just put her down, and then we can have a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee, but sure,” Luke called after you, as you were already walking towards Adelaide’s room.

Turning around, you said, “Tea then. Just stay for a second, please?”

He grinned again, giving you a thumbs up. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll stay.”

And that was more than enough.

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a/n i wrote this ages ago. seriously, i remember first writing this when i started uni, so 4 years ago almost? i hope it somehow brightened your quarantine :)