#laughing in all capital letters

[kaplooie]

Received my first borderline harassment email at work!! Now I’m really a part of the team 💪😁

[inkskinned]

no, actually, where is the whimsy?

my ex had a best friend named larry who asked me once: what do you think comes after irony?

we were at the bar where larry worked. it was a quiet night, and he'd hopped over to sit with us on the patron side. i swirled the lemon around my limoncello martini.

earnest positivity, i said, while my ex said, art self-destructs.

i stared at my ex. he stared at me.

his argument was the cinemasins argument: look how bad media is becoming! look at the loopholes and the dumb shit!

it was roughly 2011. galaxy print was still in. at the time, i had a favorite shirt that was a wolf howling at the moon. it got ripped in half in the wash and i honestly still mourn it. i dressed like effie stonem, because everyone did. and irony was the name of the thing. men liked MLP "ironically." the internet liked the kind of crass, "anti-mainstream" vibes of things like fuck romance, touch my butt and buy me pizza. we put cats in sunglasses everywhere, which was because we only liked things in irony.

and media had the same vibe in it: anti-hero white men would be "hard to love" and then storm off the scene. nobody was just earnestly trying to save the world: they were jaded, angry, unoriginal. mad you even asked them to try to help.

my ex ends up not being wrong. cinemasins becomes super popular. a lot of people start viewing media with this lens that is the cruelest, most jaded depiction. it's wrong for your character to have unexplained powers, even if the entire movie is about how strange it is she has unexplained powers - that is still considered a "loophole." characters make thoughtless, panicked choices? loophole. characters are actually kind people, despite hardship? loophole. features a woman doing literally anything without assistance? loophole. movies become hyper-aware of scrutiny, and now irony rules the media.

which means you go to a movie, and the character has to turn to the screen and say "beats me!!" or one of the side characters has to have some kind of quip like "are you seriously telling me that you think this is normal?" because nothing can happen in earnest. like a sitcom laugh track, we now anticipate the fourth-wall break: the moment that the media acknowledges it is telling a story. the media has to apologize for itself, or else someone like my ex rolls their eyes.

but here's the thing: i wasn't wrong either.

the difference might be that i am (and always have been) so soft-hearted that any crack in the light of this world will spear me into the ground. and i was the poet in the relationship. (he thought that was the same thing as being naïve and stupid). i was making things daily. i knew how all of us artists are driven by some strange desire to evolve. he notably liked to critique art, not to create it.

so yes, i've made things that are bitter and angry and even ironic. i've made long, sharp poems with all capital letters, and i've made poems about how the silence stretches out like a song. someone wrote once that we will spend our whole lives just circling the place we grew up. i think it's more that we spend our whole lives trying to remake a home. i think it's that as we age, it becomes less exciting to build the castle on the beach - we become aware of erosion, of windforce. we realize what we really want is to come home to our dog, castle or not.

and while art in the foreground is mired in white male violence and irony, and aggression, and not taking anything seriously - i don't think that's true of all art. i think more and more artists are leaning in to the things we love. the world has changed so much. they have taken so many things from us. the only thing we have left is love. at the bottom of the moving box - all we get is the faint sense that we have to appreciate what little we've got. i can't enjoy this stuff ironically anymore: what room do i have for irony? if it makes me happy, that is an amazing thing. there are so few happy places left for me. i want to be happy because of how leaves shiver beside each other like nestling birds. i want to be happy because of the color pink, and how magenta doesn't exist. i have spent so much of this life suffering, i have earned my right to a gentle ending. if nothing matters, i get to assign meaning to the nothing. i get to create meaning. i am an artist first and foremost, which means creation is my thing.

where is the whimsy? wherever i fucking put it. because if this is my last fucking chance to do any good in this world - i want to do it earnestly. i want to write things that make you happy. that make people feel heard and seen. what comes after irony has to be positivity.

it was close to my 21st birthday. in 7 years, i would end up writing a book about this relationship, which is hopefully coming out somewhere around May 2024. i come back to this bar scene in my memories a lot. i keep thinking of how pale my ex was. the look that crossed his face. how i looked back at him. how for a moment, both of us couldn't recognize the other person. like the gulf between us was a suddenly wide and cavernous thing. like we were alien to each other. he never took my opinion seriously, and he always seemed surprised whenever his manic-pixie-dream-girl ever broke free of the plot. like in the whole time we were together, i wasn't human enough.

this knowledge: where he said nothing comes after, my only instinct was what comes after is love.

[shushmal]

Steve who is kind of pissy and put-out that, after finally figuring out that liking boys is okay, he has no one to talk about cute boys to.

Robin will talk about girls all day long, but as soon as boys are brought up it’s all gagging and eye rolling and judgement.

Dustin settles with a slightly disturbed look, turning a magazine around every angle before giving Steve a hesitant, “I guess?”

Max just fights with him. On purpose, probably.

Steve would literally rather talk about wet paint before even trying with Nancy or Jonathan.

And it feels wrong and mean to talk about it with Eddie, who Steve loves very much and is absolutely his number one forever. But still, Steve is missing out on the opportunity to gossip and it’s horrible.

That is, until the night of The Gay bar. Steve’s first night at a gay bar. It deserves capital letters. He’s gotten to dance and kiss and hold on to Eddie all night and it’s been amazing. And then it happens.

A guy walks by, tall and golden, his black hair falling in a straight waterfall down his back. He’s wearing more glitter than clothes, and he looks almost alien, he’s so beautiful. Steve’s jaw drops.

He catches himself instantly, mouth closing with a click, and he whips his head around just in time to meet Eddie’s expression—shocked, panicked, and embarrassed—a perfect mirror to Steve’s.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then break into nervous giggles.

“Jesus,” Eddie says. “That guy was—”

“Insanely hot?” Steve laughs. They turn together, just in time to see the guy disappear into the crowd. “I didn’t know guys could be that pretty!”

“You saying I’m not pretty, Harrington?”

“You gave me shit last week that you’re actually handsome and rugged.”

“You called me cute!”

“And you are, dork!”

“… You think I could pull off a harness like that?”

Steve grins at him. “Oh, absolutely.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Just Like Dad (4 of 4)

Content & Warnings: referenced military career, domestic fluff

Word Count: 957

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Checking through his daughter’s backpack strikes up a difficult conversation.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // just like dad masterlist

Price has no idea where his daughter’s disorganization from, but it certainly isn’t him.

Opening her backpack, Price cringes at the mess. It’s all crushed papers, broken pencils, scattered crayons, and food wrappers. Sighing, Price turns the backpack zipper-side down, the contents crashing to the dining room table.

She is going to sit down tonight and organize this. No exceptions.

Frowning down at the wreckage, Price begins sorting through the papers, glancing at a few just to find some order in the chaos. He picks up a piece of paper and pauses, his gaze landing on the title.

All About Me reads the top of the page.

Price smiles as he starts to read over his daughter’s answers.

Favorite color? Blue.

Favorite animal? Dragon—all capital letters with lots of exclamation points.

Happiest memory? That one just says “ghostie tree.” Her teacher will have no idea what that means, but Price knows, and he laughs so hard he almost chokes.

Price’s daughter adores Simon, and whenever he’s around, she turns into a koala, hanging off every limb. It doesn’t matter if Simon is standing or sitting down. And how does Simon feel about it? He’ll act bored, like it hardly bothers him, but then he’ll strike, tickling her until she runs away screaming only for her to return minutes later to do it all over again.

Flipping it over, Price continues to read, pausing when he reaches information about parents and guardians. This is where he slows and observers her writing. She already filled stuff out about mom, and Price knows you’d get a laugh out of her answers, but the sections about him cool his amusement.

Her answers are idyllic versions of himself, nearly whimsical in the way she describes what he does and how proud she is that he is her father. That makes him ache, brings a tightness to his chest that pushes out all other feeling. Price is proud of his work, and of his career, but it is not a beautiful thing.

It is not sweet or kind or tender.

It is rough. It is hard.

It is heartbreaking.

He has lost so many people. So many good men and women. He’s done horrible things. Stained his palms with blood. These are difficult truths he faces every day.

But there are softer moments in his career of watching those he’s mentored be promoted, of victories and celebrations, of marriages and births, and of all those he’s worked with who have gone on to lead fulfilling, happy lives.

All of that, and this isn’t what stops him.

It’s her answer to the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I want to be like my dad.

Price sighs and sets the paper down on the table.

How does he respond to that? Should he even take the initiative? Should he approach the topic at all?

Price isn’t certain.

“Daddy.”

Price starts at his daughter’s voice. He turns. She’s standing just inside the archway to the living room. She has a perplexed look on her face as she glances between him and the mess on the kitchen.

“What’ve you done with my backpack?”

Price blinks, and then chuckles. “It’s a mess, love. We’ve taught you better.” Her face flushes slightly as she slowly walks up to the table. “You’re sitting down and going through this. No exceptions.”

She nods sheepishly.

Price picks up the questionnaire. “Want to talk about this? I have to sign off on it.”

Her flush grows deeper. “Did you read it?”

“I did.”

She looks up at him expectantly and Price waits a moment to see if she’ll say anything. She doesn’t.

“You said some nice things about me,” he says softly, and she beams. It reminds him of your smile, and that melts his heart down to his toes.

“It’s true,” she says brightly, happy that he’s mentioned anything at all.

“You want to be like me?” She nods. “And what do I do?”

She blinks. “Didn’t you read what I wrote?”

Price barks a laugh. “Yes, love. I did. But I want to hear it from you.”

She squares her shoulders and looks up at him with fierce determination. “You protect people. I want to protect people.”

True. But not entirely.

“How do you think I protect people?” He can see her brain processing the question and attempting to formulate an answer. She chews on her bottom lip, shoulders sagging slightly.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “But I know that you do. You protect me and mom.”

“That’s because you and your mother are mine to protect.”

Protect is not the right word. While his actions and the things that he does might prevent horrible things happening at a global level, doing so often results in pain and suffering. It’s just what happens even when he tries to prevent that.

“Can I not do that?” she asks.

“You can do whatever you want when you’re older.”

But military life? No. He doesn’t wish that for her, and it’s not because she’s a girl. He’d feel the same if she has been born a son. No parent wants to see their child in potential danger. Doesn’t matter what age.

“So I can be just like you?”

He wants to say “no,” but instead diverts the question elsewhere. “You can’t be anything if you don’t organize this backpack.”

She groans and starts rummaging around in the mess.

Price kisses the top of her head. When he glances up, you’re standing in the archway, a soft smile on your face. Did you hear the whole conversation? Or just the end?

You stride forward and reach out. Price meets your outstretched hand, threading his fingers with yours.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @kittytiddywinks @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @nelladowney @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair

[youryanderedaddy]

Dark Is The Night

Summary: A late night encounter with a patroling soldier changes the trajectory of his life - and, unfortunately, yours too.

tw: female reader, obsessive behavior, non - consensual touching, threats, thoughts of non - con, mention of war, patronizing behavior, slight misogyny, hinted kidnapping

All he could think about was you.

It was a damp linden night, one of the very few old fashioned ones - as if time itself had stopped. The old colonel was laughing in short sharp breathes, skin spotting in red along with his sweaty neck, tearing into a letter he had received this very morning. The young soldiers were all over the tavern - some crying, some cheering over a beer and calling each glass their last, losing themselves in the rich foam that covered their fresh military mustaches. Christoph was alone, though.

He had no wife to write back to - no home to call his own, no friends or family to celebrate his final battle with. He also wasn't a rookie - so he couldn't drink himself blind in the pursuit of ideals, of empty promises of greatness to come. Truth was, his troops had won their fair share of battles, and today they had signed a treaty that would certainly benefit the district - the one he had lost his youth fighting for. He knew the capital would attempt at invasion, those greedy fucks wanted to bite more than they could chew - but that was no longer his problem. Today his contract ended. Today he was a free man.

And yet.

And yet all he could think about was you.

It was funny - he had spent more nights than he could remember wishing he could burn this half - dead village to the ground, all together with the maidens and the elderly still stick fending for themselves after the war. He presumed he'd be doing everyone a favor - he'd rid himself of the memories that haunted his dreams, and they wouldn't have to suffer any longer, not when all that winter would bring once again was even more hunger and decay.

After all, the victory changed nothing. The starving populace wouldn't starve anymore - it would simply die, having lost fathers, sons, daughters, farmers, merchants, healers. Nothing less than the very foundation of society. So maybe it would be far less cruel, far more humane, to burn everything and let them die with dignity.

But then you too would burn with the miserable souls of the damned. The man pictured it all - your beautiful skin still damp from the rain blistering in red and orange, and eventually black, those gems of yours trembling beneath your long eyelashes as the smoke swallowed your last breath.

The thought made Christoph irrationally angry - jealous even. Not only because he just imagined you dying, but because it was someone, something else stealing your final moment from him. Something else bruising your skin and forcing your lips to swell, something else causing you pain and suffering. No, he couldn't let you die. Not like this.

He couldn't help but recall your first meeting two years ago. Unbeknownst to you he had memorized it, citing each line by heart - envisioning it in his memory over and over each time he needed an escape, an outlet. The soldier wasn't one for softness, never one to dream and hope - but deep down he knew that this simple encounter had swayed the bullets. It had made him grip his rifle just a bit closer, made the biting wind just a bit warmer. He was a killing machine undeserving of humanity - yet you had saved him without even realizing it.

It was a cold winter night - quite opposite to this one, in the middle of Hell. The county your village was part of had been surrounded for a few weeks. Food was running low, and even clean water was scarce. All the men had been displaced a long time ago, sent off to fight in the eastern territories. Christoph was stuck at the Iron hills, a region so poor they didn't even bother to send additional armies to. If it lost, it lost. It held no special resources, no cultural or economic significance, no sea or forest roads to profit off of. All in all, no one wanted to serve here. No one but him.

Not that Christoph was too fond of the hills - it was more so that he didn't care where he was going to die. Whether it was on the eastern front, the western or even on the other side of the ocean, it didn't matter. And he had made peace with that fact - but before death took a toll on him, he was going to earn enough buck to buy good cigarettes for once in his miserable life. With real tobacco, none of that cheap imported trash they sold in his hometown.

And that's exactly how fate let him meet you. He was patrolling the border bridge late into the night - a thick cigar in hand (a parting gift from the general Murphy), humming to an old melody he couldn't quite remember the name of. He was alone that night - his friend had been injured so he needed to rest. The man was trying to stay alert, although the fatigue had long settled in between his tired bones and it refused to let go. The lack of sleep and the sheer paranoia was making him jumpy, ready to point his gun at the slightest of sound. He almost shot you that night.

"Colonel." You had whispered through gritted teeth, slowly raising your hands up as you approached him with a hesitant step. He blinked twice, unsure if he was still awake. Surely there was no way a young woman was out alone so late during wartime. "Colonel!" You repeated, putting a bit more force into your otherwise soft, calm voice. This seemed to snap him out of his trance and he finally raised his head to look at you, his sharp, intense gaze measuring you up from top to bottom. Just like a predator seizing his pray, like a soldier trained to keep his eyes on the target, he knew no other way to introduce himself other than with a silent, unspoken threat.

"A bit young to be calling me that, no?" The man snapped back, voice coming out more raspy than he intended - but it was hardly his fault. He rarely had visitors nowadays - no one wanted to expose themselves to the front lines, to risk becoming smoked meat, which meant he had little opportunity for chatter. So his voice had become rough - almost unnecessary cruel.

"I'm sorry." You mumbled, blurry eyes focused on the weapon resting oh - so snuggly against the soldier's heart as if guarding it. "I'm not familiar with your many titles, sir." You explained with a certain bite. Christoph squinted, growing amused at your little jab, yet the black mask covering his mouth hid it from you. The man knew exactly what you meant. You were not used to so much surveillance on your step - on everyone's step, so many eyes set on you as if you had a massive red target on your back. You were not used to armed forces ghosting around your small homely village with a gun resting at an arm's length just waiting to be loaded.

He wondered if it was your first time running into a soldier since the beginning of the occupation. He wondered if you were scared - if your heart was beating against your chest like it was trying to break through the skin. After all he was indeed intimidating - with heavy combat boots and a black uniform that did little to hide his rough figure, the lineage of lean muscle and battered blistered skin that undoubtedly belonged to a man. A man whose hands were still covered in dirt and blood. He could kill you. He could push you around - get some entertainment out of you. He could shove you down and use you like a cheap village whore - and no one would care because that's just how war is. He was serving his country, he needed an outlet, and you just happened to be there. No one would blame him.

He couldn't bring himself to come closer to you. He didn't trust himself to hold back when faced with something so fragile after months of letting his fists and his teeth do the speaking.

"That's lieutenant to you, miss." He barked in a tone that felt familiar - a tone that used to wake him up every morning at 5 for weeks on end. A tone that he could still hear every time he loaded his rifle and let go of the trigger with shaking fingers.

He couldn't be nice to you. He couldn't be nice to anyone in this bloodshed. And yet he heard himself asking you for your name. It hadn't meant anything - it was a long night and he was bored. Lonely, maybe, he couldn't tell his feelings apart very well. You hesitated for a second too long before you finally gave him a clear answer. It was the most beautiful sound he had heard - not just now, but ever.

"Would you mind explaining why you're here so late, miss?" The man tilted his head, trying to understand your unreadable expression - somehow you looked lost in time, striken by fear and grievance. "I believe the general gave direct orders this morning. No one should be out after ten." He paused to take a long, dramatic puff off his cigar. "It's too dangerous. Especially for a pretty little thing like you to be roaming at night." He knew his boldness was making you uneasy, and that he shouldn't derive such obvious pleasure from your discomfort, but he just couldn't help it. He was lonely. He was sick. And most of all, he was a bastard who had already given up on life. He had nothing to lose.

"Truth be told, if you were mine I wouldn't let you out of sight, miss." He grinned, feeling just a bit disgusted with himself. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted to scare you. To creep you out so bad you'd never go out alone again. Why he had got so invested so quickly, he also couldn't tell.

"I... I needed a breath of f-fresh air, l-leutenant." You responded quickly, eager to leave this conversation as soon as possible - completely ignoring anything he said. Your initial confidence had evaporated as the wet cold crept into your thin coat. It didn't fit your frame - it was too big on you and it reeked of a man's first proper cologne. The thought of it filled the soldier with unreasonable, hot -red fury, imagining you next to some nameless brat with his hands wrapped around you.

"That's all?" The corners of his lips stretched mockingly as he let his smoke blow into your face - and you had to fight the urge to immediately wave it off.

"Are you, are you implying something, sir?" You fiddled with your fingers nervously, looking anywhere but at Christoph. He found it pathetically adorable. "Just curious." He took another long puff - his breath coming out frozen - white as it hit the icy air. "You don't seem like the brave type to me." His eyes narrowed to two pitch black slits. He must have looked terrifying to you in that moment, and he loved it. "So just what-" He pulled you in by the collar. "Are you doing here, huh?"

You froze in place as if he had pointed his gun to you yet again. You swallowed loudly, trying to come up with an explanation - but nothing came to mind when you were so obviously scared. The soldier could feel your heartbeat - he could hear the blood pumping to your ears as you looked around hopelessly for help that wouldn't come. And just like that the wolf had the rabbit dancing in its own trap.

"Are you just looking for trouble, hmm?" The man reached in to curl his finger around one of your loose locks. He didn't want to make you feel so awfully small - but everything about this situation, from the tremble of your lips to the sheer panic in your eyes was going straight to his cock. "I'm sure that with a face like that you never lacked attention, no?" He tilted his head with predatory malice. "But now all the men bending over backwards for you are off somewhere, dying as we speak. Poor little you - I can imagine just how lonely you are." He pressed his body closer to yours. "The thing is, I am more than willing to play with you in their pl-"

"Please, lieutenant." You couldn't stand to listen to him any longer, a thousand warm pleas already falling off your desperate lips. "Please let me go." Your eyes softened, trying to hide the first sign of hot wet tears. "I need to go home to my siblings. I need to bring them fo-"

"Why should that matter to me, dollface?" It was his turn to interrupt you - voice full of childish glee as he kept up with his petty torment.

"Because - because," You started off, hands shaking into little fists that you knew, realistically, could do the soldiers no damage were you to push against his chest. "Because you're a good man." You mumbled after a while, looking for the right words to say. "And I know that deep down you're kind and brave. That's why you're here now, fighting for all our lives."

You were such a pretty liar, Christoph thought. He could listen to your sugary sweet fairytales all night long, silently praying that they'd become true if he was only able to capture his own little fairy - his own miracle.

"What if I am not the hero, doll?" The man whispered darkly in response, leaning against you until your back hit the tree behind you, trapping you between his stiff body and the pillar. "What if I am here for all the wrong reasons, huh? Just think about it." He lowered his head so it would match your eye level - you were so quiet he wondered if you had forgotten how to breath.

"We're in the middle of nowhere. I have a weapon and a direct permission to shoot at will. I can do whatever the fuck I want." He made sure you could hear every single word clearly. He wouldn't let you faint before he was through with you. "I can fuck you right here in the open - or I can drag you to the barracks and keep you there for as long as I need to. Do you really think anyone would care about some insignificant girl going missin-"

"Please." You repeated, suddenly getting stirn with your pleading, as if you too had nothing to lose. "Let me go - I'd do anything."

His eyes darkened - then lit up with sick, perverse desire. He wanted to echo your words back to you just like a classical villain would - to really drive the point across that he was out for blood. Anything, you say? Anything at all? But he couldn't contain his excitement enough to voice those sadistically banal thoughts. Besides, he could already feel the adrenaline running through his whole body. His heart was beating rhythmically, pumping and alive for the first time in days, weeks, months. He wanted you more than anything. It was that moment he knew he was going to live - he was going to fight and win, and then come back for you as a hero. As your hero, even if in your eyes he would be more of a villain.

A nightmare you'd try to forget - and just when you think you have erased his fingertips off your waist, your face, your neck, he'd come back to steal you away forever.

"Kiss me." Christoph all but snarled, some unfamiliar, needy - greedy ball of emotion settling into his loins as your delicate face twisted into a petrified grimace. You began trembling in his arms, looking around yet again. It was pitch black, no soul in sight. You inhaled deeply, trying to steady your movement to no avail. "A-alright. I-I..." You whispered with difficulty as if simply saying the words was causing you a great deal of pain. And maybe it was, but the soldier could care less. He already knew you were made for him - made to serve him, made to make him happy. "I'll d-do it."

The man growled in satisfaction, taking a small step back. You looked at him, puzzled - your confused face was just as cute as your scared one. He couldn't wait to explore all your reactions - the way you'd squirm and writhe underneath him as he fucked into you restlessly, filling you up with his love over and over again until you were crying for mercy. But that had to wait, he had a war to fight. For now he could settle for a little taste of you to keep him warm during the cold nights. And just like that he tapped his lips, guiding you silently. You felt your cheeks heat up once you finally understood what he meant by that. He wasn't going to kiss you. He wanted you to put in the work.

Your eyes filled up with tears, and you felt silly for becoming so upset over a little kiss - but this was your first kiss, and you had to give it to a monster. It was certainly better than the alternative, with the alternative being rape in a filthy military cottage, but it still made you feel dirty all over. Yet, you had no choice. You took a step towards the man - you could feel the suffocating warmth radiating off his body towards yours, and if the situation wasn't so grim, you might have been grateful for another human's heat in the freezing cold. But now all you could feel was dread.

You stood on your tip toes, a shaky hand reaching out to cup the stranger's face. Cristoph smirked, complecent at your obedience. You licked your lips and slowly, hesitantly pressed them against his, just barely touching at all.

He groaned, unable to keep his hands to himself any longer. He grabbed you and pulled you in roughly, squeezing you like a plush toy. He deepened the kiss, forcing his tongue deep into your mouth, finding heaven between your soft, sweet lips and broken whimpers. You were so innocent. So lost. He wanted to take you into his arms and never let go. He wanted to keep kissing you until your lips turned blue, until it hurt to speak.

And then you pushed him off just like that, using your own body as a distraction. He tripped backwards, too shocked and lost in sensation to stop you. He smiled at your final act of defiance. It was, of course, adorable and so painfully you, yet it didn't really matter - not in the long run. You had only suceeded in making him want you more.

But that was two years ago. Now the war was finally over. Now he had enough to start a new life. Now he was a free man.

And he was coming back for you.

[greg-montgomery]

Aaron going through boxes of old stuff and finding a journal of yours from a long time ago. He opens it out of curiosity and reads about how your younger self always wanted to be called princess from a significant other so he tries it out along with buying a nice bouquet of flowers 🤭

Aaron’s cheeks were almost hurting by smiling all day, because he was surrounded by boxes of your belongings that would soon be all over his house. Your house.

One certain box with the word “memories” in capital letters written on it though, drew his attention. Opening it, he was met with a few books, magazines, cards, and concert tickets.

At the bottom of the box, there was a pink journal with your name decorating its cover.

It looked personal, but it also looked like it was from a long time ago. He couldn’t help it, and with his curiosity getting the better of him, he opened it.

The pages were filled with pink glittery letters, little drawings, and stickers of Disney princesses and Barbie characters.

He smiled with affection while turning the pages and seeing what your younger self used to fill her journal with. He almost skipped a page when his eyes fell on the title written on top of it.

“My dream boy!”

Oh, this is gonna be interesting, he thought.

Aaron found himself competing with the ideal version of a boyfriend your teenage self had. He went through every single point you had written down, and mentally checked it.

That version of you, was still part of who you were today, and the last thing he wanted was to disappoint you or not be enough.

Tall – check.

Dark hair – check.

Sweet – check, well to you at least.

Brings me flowers – check.

Calls me princess – not check.

Princess, huh? That was new.

He knew that you were big on pet names, but princess had never occurred to him before.

A smirk grew on his face. It was time to see if your tastes had changed.

--

Just the day after, Aaron made sure to visit a flower shop after work and buy your favorite flowers. If he was gonna try something, he was going to do it right.

He found you sitting on the couch, eating a bag of chips and scrolling on your phone, some show on the TV playing in the background. You left it open for company when he wasn’t there and something inside him stung a little.

“Baby?”

You threw your head back on the couch and looked up at him as he moved closer. “You’re home,” you sighed with a smile. “Missed you.”

“I did too.” He leaned down to kiss you on the lips and brought the flowers he was hiding behind his back in front of you. “That’s why I decided to get some flowers to my princess.”

Your face lightened up at the sight of the beautiful bouquet and the sound of the pet name. “Aaron!”

You stood up on the couch and threw yourself at him, hugging him with a force that could bring down a bear. “Thank you!”

“You like them, honey?”

“I love them.”

Aaron sighed at the feeling of your lips on his neck, as you left little kisses on the curve of it. “Anything for my princess.”

Your face was still hidden in the crook of his neck but Aaron could feel you laughing.

“What are the giggles for?”

“Nothing…”

He pulled back just enough so he could look at your face, and grabbed your chin softly. You averted your eyes from him as if you had something to hide.

“Y/N?”

“It’s nothing!” you insisted. “I just like to be called that,” you added quietly, playing with a button from Aaron’s shirt. You still wouldn’t look at him.

“To be called what?” he asked.

“Princess…”

“I know.” He smirked.

“What do you mean?”

“I read it in your diary.”

“What?” you raised your voice and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“I found it through your old stuff.”

“Aaron, I’m gonna kill you!”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not. You’re laughing.”

“Oh come on, it got you what you wanted.”

“Shut up,” you said , furrowing your brows.

The two of you sat on the couch and he tried to pull you into his arms. After showing resistance for a few seconds, you let him hold you.

“What else did you read?”

“I saw the whole list. About your dream guy.”

“I don’t remember adding ‘he reads my journal without permission’,” you said.

“I do have all the rest though,” he said with a cocky smile.

“You do, I guess,” you admitted, rolling your eyes. “I was manifesting.”

“I hope you’re happy with the guy the universe sent you then, princess.”

“Ah…” you threw your head back with a lovesick smile. “And it's only getting better.”

[elliebarker]

yessss cc fic plz there’s not nearly enough

fuɔk me. ( c. clark )

category: caitlin clark x girlfriend!reader (angst, fluff)

summary: after seeing you talking to another after one of her games, caitlin goes into an obsessive spiral of jealousy, unknowingly sending you down your own rabbit hole.

warnings: way sadder than i intended 

word count: 1.2k

author’s note: i tried capital letters, y’all fw it?

_________________________________________

“I mean, it was electric, truly.”

Caitlin’s voice echoed into the microphone of a random media reporter who was interviewing her. She tried her best to stay focused on the questions whilst the camera clicked and pump-up music blared. Iowa had just won a home game and she knew you were in the crowd. She regained consciousness with the present and began answering the interview questions with basic textbook answers about ‘the Iowa culture’ and how great her shots felt, whilst scouring the stadium for you. You interlocked eyes and waved to her. She waved back and politely wrapped things up with the media girl (hehe) and headed your way. 

In the minutes she had spent with her eyes off of you, an umich girl from the opposing team had walked up to you. She was, in Caitlin’s eyes, getting a little too friendly. Smirking, and smiling too wide. Caitlin backed away, choosing to head to her teammates instead and pose in photos with fans. See… people love me she thought. And we literally bet them and that fucking umich girl had the nerv-

“Caitlin!” you ran, hugging her from behind. “You do so good, omg!” 

“Thanks, babe.” She slipped away from you, cold and isolated. Caitlin spent the night with the girls on her team, which wasn’t irregular for away games, but you were looking forward to getting to spend time with her when she was actually in town. You were slumped in your apartment, staring at yourself in the mirror, picking a pulling at your skin, hair, and hair. Meanwhile, Caitlin was glued to her phone in the corner of the room her teammates were in. Staring at that umich girl’s stats and Instagram. Caitlin knew she was a good player, she knew she was a good girlfriend, she knew you. She knew you wouldn’t do her wrong but she couldn’t stop thinking about it. About finding someone different. She knew she wasn’t there for you all the time, on account of her schedule with basketball that seemed never-ending. She felt like a bad girlfriend. You deserved the world, more than she could ever give you.

Sounds of shoes squeaking and balls dribbling filled her ears as Caitlin entered Iowa’s gym. After nights of stressing, overthinking, and flashes of your interaction with the umich girl appearing in her head, Caitlin was ready to clear her head with some practice. She stretched, dripped the ball a bit, and began shooting. First shot, miss. She went and grabbed the ball. Second shot, miss. Everyone has bad days. The third shot, she could barely focus, overwhelmed with this stinging feeling of inferiority as she missed that basket. “Fuɔk me,” she muttered under her breath. She suddenly turned around when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Kate was standing, now facing her. “Hey Caitlin, can we talk?” 

“Yeah of course, what’s up?”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of off…down, you okay?”

“Um yeah,” she tried to hold her guard up, “yeah, I’m fine.” She smiled, “Need to lock in.” Kate laughed, agreed, and went on with her practice.

Later that day you, being friendly with the Iowa team, reached out to Kate. You texted her, 

You: hi kate!

i haven’t seen caitlin in a bit and just wanted to check in and make sure she’s doing okay

Kate: Hey! Thanks for reaching out, she has been acting a little weird. 

I was going to ask you but I guess you don’t know what’s up either.

You: no, i don’t know

has she talked about me?

at all?

Kate: No, not really. Is everything okay?

You: (…)

You stared at your phone for a solid five minutes attempting to keep your emotions under control.

You: yep! everything's good

just been a hot minute since ive seen her

but thats prob just cause shes so busy lol

Kate: Fair. But if anything does you can always talk to me.’

You: awww thanks kate! that's so sweet.

Days passed and you finally got a day to spend with Caitlin. You had invited her over to your apartment. You had excitedly and worriedly done up your hair and makeup, cleaned and refreshed every inch of your apartment: fresh sheets and fresh flowers, and made sure to wear an outfit you knew she liked. You felt it in your bones that your behavior was suspicious and 100% fueled by insecurity but you told yourself that you were doing this to make Caitlin feel comfortable, let her relax from working so hard. Totally not convincing her to want to stay with you. 

You and Caitlin were in your bed watching a tv-show and you could sense something was off. “Hey baby, can I get you anything?” you ask, trying to make yourself useful. 

“Um, yeah sure,” she replied, “water works.” You scoot yourself off the bed and head to the kitchen. Caitlin watches as you walk away, thinking about how you’re perfect in every way. She pulls out her phone, and her most recent search on instagram, umich bitch, is controlling her thoughts again. 

You come back with a glass of water for Caitlin and see she’s engulfed in her phone. Goddamnit you’ve bored her.

“I’m sorry,” you muster out. The stress of the possible end of your relationship that you conquered up in your head makes you almost fold into tears.

Caitlin sprung up, “Sorry, babe, sorry about what?” she went to hold you. You slithered yourself out of her arms,

“You’re probably sick of me, I need to stop holding onto you.” 

“What?” Caitlin asked, “Okay, first of all, I would never be sick of you. You are the most gorgeous, fearless, kindest, perfect girl I’ve ever seen. I would be crazy to ever let you go. But I know you deserve, you need better than me.” your tears turned to happy ones as you exclaimed,

“Caitlin what? You are the best girlfriend in the whole wide world.” You grabbed her face in your hands as hers found their natural place around your hips.

“I love you,” she whispered before moving her face close to yours and kissing you passionately. Your arms wrapped themselves around her neck as you leaned into the kiss. You slightly pulled away, whispering back, 

“I love you too.” Caitlin then pulled open her phone, to delete the umich player from her search history, but not without catching your nosy eye. “Wait. This was about her?” 

“What?” Caitlin said, trying to sound clueless.

“I spoke to her for five seconds? Wait…you were jealous?” you inquired. 

“No- I- who-” she stuttered, trying to deny it. “Also, I don’t get jealous.”

“You goofball,” you said, pulling her into a deeper kiss, to which Caitlin picked you up and plopped you back onto your bed, pulling you into her chest, and kissing your forehead.

“I don’t get jealous” she re-enstated.

“Mhmmmmm…” you replied, nodding your head, in a non-believeing tone. “Got it. Not jealous.”

“I’m being serious,” she said. You, too lazy to lift your head, nodded and closed your eyes falling into a deep sleep, to which Caitlin would follow you.

[nenoname]

Parallels and contrasts between Stan and Bill in the new book and website

Aka miscellaneous thoughts that I'm too lazy to condense into something comprehensible– what you see is what you get folks! (Book stuff, DVD commentaries! The website that came out when I was trying to write this out and is now making me pull my hair out! But in like a good way? That god damn poem!)

not necessarily same coin stuff but I sure am thinking about it.

It’s been said that a large part of Ford’s relationships with Bill, Fiddleford and Dipper was him trying to fill a hole that his estrangement with Stan had left, with none of them clicking in that same way. Dipper was directly compared to Fiddleford as someone who was completely charmed by Ford but is ultimately too anxious of a person to properly deal with the life he's offering nor pull him back when he starts going too far. Meanwhile, Bill is more analogous to Stan but to the extreme with all the doubts that Ford had been fed about Stan (that he was using him, he never grew up, he betrayed him, sabotaged the machine on purpose) turning out to be exactly true with Bill.

The book has Bill saying flat out that Ford wanted the charisma Bill had and then shows that at the peak of Ford's loneliness he was being envious of Stan's charisma, social skills and hands.

[STANLEY COULD HAVE MADE HER LAUGH]

(There’s an irony that Stan always thought that Ford was the popular twin even after doing embarrassing stuff like the kissing machine – if you haven’t seen the Swine Before Time Stan commentary get going, it’s great)

Then Bill swoops in with jokes and endless encouragement and the nickname only Stan used for him, all this in a way tailored for Ford to immediately like him while also reminding him of Stan but "better."

(The show rarely used it but Bill’s use of Sixer is extremely frequent in Journal 3 alone but the comics solidify it as being a pretty personal childhood nickname that kid!Stan used as his default way to call Ford.)

And then you see all of this working because Ford straight up writes Bill’s words using Stan's handwriting (and it turns out that Ford’s capital letter ‘for emphasis/angry’ font in general is the same as Stan’s handwriting too)

(It’s important to note that this is different from all the fonts that Bill uses for himself!)

All of this leads to the deja vu of Ford getting stabbed in the back by someone he was codependent on over a machine he thought was going to change his life for the better

Other things in the book that I’ve seen others point out and noticed myself:

Bill trying to reinforce that Ford would be alone without him, and threatening to tell Stan that Ford never loved him but the first thing Stan does in his letter is tell Ford that he loves him with their childhood code

Stan also only uses ‘Sixer’ in his letter when he normally tends to use a mix of nicknames post-Weirdmaggedon (sure it’s only twice but idk I find it noticeable)

Stan ripped a dollar in half when Bill taunted the reader earlier about how they wouldn’t do that

The promo photo vs the one in the book, Ford’s face being untouched vs Stan’s. While I initially interpreted this as “Bill’s book being a way to torment Ford” and then “him ending up having a meltdown at the thought of Stan”, the new poem kinda gives off an ominous vibe of "him moving on to focus on Stan instead whether he wants to or not"

Ford writing “miss you” in the bro code soon after arriving at Backupsmore which is shown in the Fiddleford photo, then Bill taunting Ford that he misses him

Bill and Stan now have another parallel of losing everything because of a genuine mistake but only Stan was willing to work to make up for it while Bill doubled down and became far far worse

The utter hatred Bill has for Stan being able to win in the end and get back his family

Both of them being institutionalized, with Stan’s mentioned in Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun (which has references to Bill liking Mabel for her chaos, silly straws, etc. Also Dipper basically came up with the Author theory but slightly wrong from theorising about the ink blot like a year before the Ford reveal)

(saturn devouring his son perfectly depicts my emotions when reaching this part of the book)

(EDIT: I was thinking about how Bill giving Ford three days to open the portal striked me as odd for some reason... and then I remembered;

Stan gave Mabel 3 days for their bet as well. Both of them specifically say 72 hours too.)

And now for the stuff we know from the website:

Bill having severe family issues with daddy issues implied since only his mum is mentioned directly with her trying to comfort him as a kid vs Stan having severe family issues with a definite focus on his dad while his mum was the only one to ask about Stan during that meeting with the principal and her being the only one to show up to his funeral

Both of them wear their dad’s hat despite of all of this

Bill starting a billion cults and has a lawyer called Multilevel Mark, Stan having his Scientology-esque cult being shot down by irl Disney and as a kid having his “technically a pyramid scheme” comic being shot down by a publisher

(I doubt that Stanentology would’ve gotten far but also you can see that a trend that the main way Bill gathers followers is by reading minds and revealing secrets only the victim would know, so let's hope that Disney-let-him-start-a-cult AU Stan never gets mind reading abilities)

Despite how we know how Stan is traumatised as hell from losing Ford, it’s noticeably isn’t referred directly in the Wheel of Shame (like you can’t tell me that the time between pushing Ford into the portal and starting the Shack isn’t as rock bottom as it gets, Bill literally recognises Stan in the first place by thinking about his brand). This probably is because Bill knows that they managed to repair their relationship and he’s fucking pissed about it.

There's further parallels between Stanley and Bill in poem; with lies and redemption and home, and further association with fire for the both of them

“Saw his own dimension burn.

Misses home and can't return.”

“Always dragged his family down.

One mistake, disowned, denied,

Only thing to do was hide.”

“One way out: the open road.

Reinvent, retry, reload.

A girdle, eyepatch, fathers fez,

"I'm a new man!" so he says”

“One way to absolve his crime.

A different form, a different time”

“His big break, it finally came,

Redemption from a life of shame.”

“Says he's happy. He's a liar.”

“Truth is just whatever sells.

When you've lost track of your lies,”

“Lie until you aren’t lying anymore”

Bill in a rotting corpse of a snake oil salesman

This triangle can fit so much self-loathing projection while being a hater

(Also it's funny that Bill is so insistent that Ford had to be the one who came up with the plan

Like look at this

See ‘em cogs turning in Stan’s head while Ford has clearly given up hope)

“How dare he dress up fancy when his jokes suck!!”

There's a parallel of Ford projecting onto Dipper in a way that makes him feel like kindred spirits with his nephew but Stan projects on Dipper in a way that causes him to be more harsh even if he has good intentions. Meanwhile Bill projects onto Ford in a more positive light in comparison to Stan, who in this case Bill wants to rip him and himself into shreds whenever he thinks of the guy. Bill’s shared love for fun/chaos with Mabel (despite them being so different at their core) is why he likes her the most out of all the Pines but that doesn’t stop him from trying to murder her (although I think most folks don’t know about that interview where Alex was like “yeah, I think Bill would’ve burnt Ford alive the moment he got the equation, he’s done playing with his toys at that point”)

Other tidbits:

I find it interesting that the full version of the Wheel of Shame has blue sparks and fades to grey scale (which automatically reminded me of his mindscape)

Stan signing off as Stanley in the book – this ain’t anything huge to chew on I'm just very over emotional about this… but also there’s Bill being called Billy by his family/in the codes

Ford thinking of Stan as childish/someone who never grew up and then we get hit by “yeah Ford always had some part of himself stuck at 18” oof

Ford underestimating Stan’s control over the mindscape, not knowing that he’s able to hide memories in Dreamscaperers, manipulate the layout of his mindscape enough to trick Bill and memory!Stan telling Dipper how to use the mindscape which Bill was genuinely surprised by

I'm headcanoning that Stan doing so bad at that history test is due to some latent bs from what Bill knows which is all crazy conspiracy level stuff

I think it's also intensely funny that all of the Pines promise that they'll murder Bill if they ever see him again and then they immediately turn to Stan and go “now it's your turn to write a letter! :D!!”

(I feel like the main requirement that the Theraprism has for Bill before he can reincarnate is mainly acknowledging his family idk which honestly would fit even better if his soul becomes Stan’s)

EDIT: I FORGOT TO MENTION THE OUROBOROS PASSWORD (or... uh oroborous which is a typo when theres a suspicious amount on the site which may mean somethng but i digress) anyway that leads to the Shack Axolotl lore where it bluntly states that Ford released it despite it showing up 30 years later anyway

and theres....

[milksnake-tea]

✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : Sunday (unwillingly) engages in his first acts of crime on the Planet of Indulgence.

✩ SERIES SYNOPSIS : Following the catastrophe of the Charmony Festival, rather than in one of Penacony's hospitals or prisons, Sunday awakens right in the base of one of the most notorious criminals in the galaxies. With nowhere else to go, he's left to follow you, the Stellaron Hunters' medic, in his attempts to become accustomed to his new life.

✩ WORD COUNT : 5.76k

✩ TAGLIST : @vynicity , @vxnuslogy , @https-mika @greyrain23 , @red-ninja15, @arienic , @immahuman , @sund4ykisser , @mysteriaqueen , @kiopanxp , @isa-l0v3r , @hesper-houkai-kat , @gamekillera , @nayukiyukihira , @randomidk-123 , @universetrash , @forevernyeong , @thedepartedcryptid , @heyhazelnut101 , @1000-leaves , @lowkeyren , @zhayur , @jellofishuu , @kascar-chronicle , @azaleaflowerr , @neigee , @fallintothechasm , @veritusratio , @astolary , @xphantasmagoriax , @semi-orangeapple , @ezra1yn , @xynthevoid , @apinu , @crysangria , @shenwi (send me an ask off anon if you want to be added !! please specify that it’s for this series)

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : do you know how long i wanted to use this chapter title. it was supposed to be for chapter two but GRGGRRGGR anyways it's here now !!! this is definitely my favorite chapter to write so far, it is JUICY so have fun guys !!!

<< previous || series masterlist || next chapter >>

Euphrosyne is a planet bathed in violet. 

The second you step into one of the many overcrowded streets, the color invades your vision. Just about everything is bathed in this vivid purple-pinkish haze like a filter. Conversation flows almost as quickly as money does, and the sky and the stars are replaced with billboards and advertisements displaying the next big thing.

What you like about economic metropolises like these is that no one bats you an eye. They’re all too busy running to snatch the latest trending product before anyone else does. Here, it’s everyone for themselves, and being a second too late could be the difference between life and death.

“Keep up, princess,” you call over your shoulder. “Would be a shame to lose you so soon.”

You adjust your baseball cap onto your head to make sure it doesn’t get swept away by the crowd. Behind you, you hear Sunday maneuvering his way through dozens before he’s able to break free and catch up to you. He shakes his head, his wing feathers ruffled in irritation.

“I never thought I’d see a planet worse than Penacony,” Sunday mutters distastefully. He swiftly pats down his shoulder where someone had bumped into him. “No one here seems to know what basic manners are.”

“That’s high-end capitalism for you,” you laughed. “Everyone thinks they’re the center of the universe.”

You keep your eyes on the sky; looking forward will get you nowhere. But up there, that’s where you can find direction. There, there are the neon lights, the flashing signs of luxury cars, the skyscrapers that are only accompanied by the monorail that stretches throughout the planet.

It doesn’t take long before you find your target. Among the neon buildings and flashing billboards, an ivory tower shines like a diamond in the rough, a refined royal in the midst of puffed-up nobles. Its crown is made up of large, golden letters with a glow that can rival suns.

Many, many years ago, when you’d first joined the Hunters, Kafka had taken you to a similar store - same company, different branch, different star system. You weren’t like Sunday, who was starting anew, but she had insisted you at least get a new coat. That new coat ended up turning into three, with an add-on of five pairs of shoes and the entire sunglasses section.

A small smile slips onto your face at the memory. It’s been a while since you’d last hung out with Kafka. You should invite her out again sometime.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Sunday’s sharp intake of breath. His eye twitches as he’s once again pushed by some upper-class passerby.

Smiling sympathetically, you offer your wrist to him. “Here, hold onto me.”

He contemplates your offer for a total of five seconds before someone barrels past him again. Irritation flashes over his face like lightning and his halo begins to glow threateningly.

Before Sunday can commit his first murder in broad daylight, you reach out and grab his wrist so you can tug him behind you.

“Why isn’t anyone bumping against you?” Sunday complains, although relief from no longer being tossed around like a ragdoll bleeds through.

“No idea,” you reply, checking to make sure his halo has cooled down, which it has. “Maybe they just know their place.”

“Of course.” 

You feel Sunday’s hand flex under your hold on him, but he makes no move to shove you off him. Apparently, he finds you to be more bearable than the crowd - although that isn’t exactly a difficult feat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll only have to bear with this for a little longer. We’re almost there.” As you finish speaking, you pick up the pace, skillfully slipping through the sea of people with Sunday following close behind.

Windows upon windows of mannequins adorned in designer clothing greet you when you finally arrive at the twelve-floor mall. Despite the brand’s renown, there’s no line to get in; instead, there are bouncers who scan you up and down to make sure you’re a customer, not a thief.

They scrutinize you and Sunday as you stroll in, but one look at your attire and Sunday’s perfect posture and they nod approvingly, stepping aside. You smirk a little at how easily they let you pass - prejudice’s a bitch, but when it works in your favor, you certainly don’t complain.

The doors open like gates to heaven with a whoosh. Workers dressed in suits and ties bow and greet you as you enter. Their smiles are almost as fake as Sunday’s; it’s actually impressive.

“Welcome,” they speak in one, pleasant chorus that oozes with customer service training. “How may we help you today?”

You speed past them, heading straight for the elevators. The workers’ smiles didn’t move at your behavior, in fact, you’d wager they were relieved you didn’t start yapping away at them. You hear the chorus bid you farewell as you tug Sunday into one of the many glass elevators, joining other well-dressed clients.

In some planets, the wealthy were as powerful as gods, and the tower made sure to emphasize that. Ascending the floors, watching the workers shrink and shrink until they were nothing more than insignificant ants, you wonder if this is how the Aeons felt upon ascending. 

But then you remember that Aeons were unfeeling, neutral entities who probably regarded mortal lives as having even less value than insects.

“Say,” Sunday says suddenly. You shuffle closer to him in order to hear him over the other patrons. “Weren’t you supposed to be getting breakfast?”

You blink. Oh, right. That completely slipped your mind.

“I’ll get it later,” you shrug it off.

“It isn’t good to work on an empty stomach,” Sunday chides you exasperatingly. A grin slides onto your face.

“Aw, are you worried about me?” you coo, batting your eyelashes teasingly. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on drinking anytime soon.”

“That’s not-” Sunday sighs and shakes his head, pointedly turning away from you. You chuckle, sneaking a peek at the displayed floor number at the top of the elevator. Two more floors to go.

When you finally leave the elevator, you’re greeted with what is essentially a palace. Much like its exterior, the interior is layered with marble floors, chandeliers, and reeks of wealth. 

Suits and tuxedos of various colors line one side of the room, ranging from a distinguished black to a bold neon pink for those who like to stand out. The other side presents more casual wear, with comfortable shirts and pants that look simple but cost more than an average IPC member’s salary.

But what made all of them special, other than their superior quality and outrageous prices, were the open backs and windows that allowed for wings, claws, or any other limbs that may need freedom to move.

“You asked about your wings,” you explained to a befuddled Sunday, “and like I said, it’ll be tough to get them back to how they used to be. But it isn’t impossible.”

You stride over to the fancier side of the floor and pluck out a backless high-collared blouse.

“First step is letting them breathe.”

You hold the blouse out in front of Sunday in order to picture how it’d look on him. The darker colors highlight his feather-like hair and golden eyes, and the style fits. Nodding in approval, you turn it around to show Sunday.

“What do you think?”

Sunday’s ichor-filled eyes take on a more calculating gleam as he takes the blouse in his hands. 

“It isn’t terrible,” he admits begrudgingly. “Although the color is different to what I’m used to wearing.”

You stare at the navy dress shirt he has on. “Is that right?”

Sunday rolls his eyes, his wings flapping a few times in annoyance. “Blade’s color palette doesn’t exactly match my personal preferences, I’ll have you know.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Well, we have an entire floor to choose from. Pick out what you like, and I’ll go see if I can find anything for you.”

You move to put the blouse back, only to stop when Sunday drapes the blouse over his arm. He raises a brow at you as if daring you to question him. Raising your hands in surrender, you head off to find him an oversized hoodie because everyone needs an oversized hoodie - and you were not about to let Sunday be the exception.

You find said hoodie in no time - it’s relatively plain, as all fancy clothes tend to be, but the material lives up to its price. After picking out a few more items, your arms are pretty much covered in what will soon be Sunday’s wardrobe. Hopefully. If they pass the test, that is.

Taking a step back, you scan the shop for Sunday. There aren’t a lot of other customers outside of the two of you, although that’s to be expected, considering the target audience of this floor. 

Your search proves unsuccessful, leaving you to assume that the Halovian had set off to the changing rooms.

“Princess, you in there?” you call out once you arrive, earning a few weird looks from nearby staff. Sure enough, a tired sigh responds from one of the stalls, giving away Sunday’s location. You don’t have to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I’ll be out in a moment,” he replies. You hear the shuffling of cloth before he opens the door.

A low whistle leaves you at the sight of his new outfit. A black turtleneck sweater snugly hugs his body from under a chestnut wool coat that reaches just below his knees, with dress pants that match his sweater outlining his long legs.

“I’m starting to think you could wear a trash bag and still look good,” you joke. Like a baby bird, Sunday tilts his head at the compliment.

“Thank you?” he says, the tilt in his voice making it sound more like a question. His gaze falls onto the bundle of clothes that hang off your arm.

“I’m being serious!” You step into the rather spacious fitting room (perks of being in a high-end store) and set the clothes you’d picked out down. “If I’m ever in a situation where I need pretty privilege, I’m stealing you.”

Sunday closes the door behind you, taking great care not to accidentally shut it on his coat. His collection of clothes are fewer, which made sense considering that he was on the formal side and the fact that he was pickier than you when it came to fashion.

“I thought you didn’t like darker colors,” you comment, reaching into your back pocket and bringing out a pocket knife.

Before Sunday can question why you’re bringing out a knife in the middle of a clothing store, you sit down on a nearby stool and begin cutting off tags from the clothes you picked out for him. Alarmed, Sunday’s wings flare up.

“What-” Thankfully, he has the sense to lower his voice to a startled whisper. “What are you doing?”

Your fingers are fast as you rid each article of clothing from its tag. It’s evident that you’ve been doing this for years - and you have. Out of all of the Stellaron Hunters, you hate spending money the most, and stealing is fun.

“You didn’t think we were actually paying for all of this, did you?” you tease. “This place is crazy expensive.”

“...Somehow, I’m no longer surprised,” Sunday mutters, a layer of resignation and defeat in his tone. “But there are employees everywhere here. How do you plan to deal with them?”

“That,” you sing, “is a secret.”

Sunday furrows his brows, but doesn’t push. Cutting through the last of the tags, you stand up and motion for Sunday to give you the tags on the clothes he’s currently wearing.

The coat is easy; all Sunday has to do is slide it off and give it to you. It’s the turtleneck and the pants that are a bit tougher to work with.

You hear Sunday’s throat constrict as you reach behind him, your finger hooking at the high collar to find the tag. His wings bristle, and his muscles tense. You can practically hear the thump of his heart with how close you are.

“Relax,” you murmur, Sunday flinching at how close you are to his ear. “I’m not going to cut you.”

“I’m aware,” he replies, despite the nervousness wavering in his voice. You don’t miss the way his wings stiffen as the blade of your knife ghosts his neck.

Unable to help a glance down, you catch sight of his larger set of wings protruding from the back window in the sweater. Just like when Kafka had brought him in, they’re cramped and stiff, leaving you to wonder how long it had been since he’d last fully extended them. But the feathers seem to be doing better, at least.

“Mx. [Name]?” Sunday breathes out. You blink out of your thoughts.

“Ah, sorry,” you apologize. “I was just thinking.”

Deciding to take pity on the poor thing, you quickly find the tag and pull it up. A swift pull of your knife, a small snap, and it’s over. The tag joins the soon-to-be-burned pile in the corner of the stall, and Sunday heaves a sigh of relief as you step away.

“May I-” he winces at the warble in his voice- “I can do the last one.”

“You sure?” you question, handing it over anyway. “Do you even know how to use a knife?”

“I am not as sheltered as you think,” Sunday says defensively and unconvincingly. You raise your hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright. Just don’t cut yourself.” You stretch, glancing at the stall’s door. “When you’re done with that, take a look at the stuff I got you. Pick out what you like, what you don’t like I’ll either keep or give to Elio.”

Scooping up the fallen tags in your hands, you contemplate setting them on fire right then and there, but decide against it. If you were going to set off the fire alarm, it’d be better to do it after you’d already left the building.

“I’ll be heading out now,” you inform Sunday, crumpling the tags and shoving them away into your inventory. “When you hear the signal, meet me at the elevator and we’ll get out of here.”

Hesitantly, Sunday nods as he hands you back your knife. “And… what is this signal I’m supposed to look out for?”

A mischievous grin creeps onto your face.

“You’ll know.”

—

“I can’t believe you.”

You wave cheerfully to the staff as you leave, and they bow to you, none the wiser that twelve floors above lie their unconscious colleagues. Surprisingly, Sunday keeps up the farce flawlessly as he bids them farewell with a gentle smile before returning to you with an exasperated expression.

“Yes, as you’ve said about five times now,” you say casually, stepping back into the busy streets. Silently, the doors of the store slide closed behind you, the bouncers not sparing you another glance.

“When people say ‘wait for a signal’,” Sunday begins his lecture again, “they usually mean a light or a sound.”

“There was a sound, though?” you point out. Sunday deadpanned.

“The sound of twelve innocent employees knocking their heads on the floor doesn’t count.” He rubs his temple, still trying to process what just happened. “Just what did you do to them anyway?”

“Gas bomb,” you say, eyeing a man who comes dangerously close to hitting you. “Smelled nice, didn’t it?”

“Vanilla, if I recall,” Sunday affirms. “Although I do wonder why I wasn’t affected.”

You hum. “Did you cover your nose in time? The bomb I used was one of the weaker ones.”

Only the roar of the street replies to you. At Sunday’s abrupt silence, you halt in your tracks.

“Princess?” you start, only to falter once your sight falls in line with his.

Displayed proudly on an electronic billboard, snuggled amongst the various advertisements, is a picture of Sunday before the fall. There, his smile is still bright and joyful as he advertises the release of his little sister’s album to the world. He is still the Oak Family Head, still Robin’s beloved older brother, still beloved by the universe.

But all of that is crushed by the big, bold words that underline his photo.

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

2,540,000,000

“Well, I’ll be damned,” you whistle appreciatively. “You’re just a few billion under Silver Wolf, and you haven’t even made your official debut yet. She is not going to be happy when she finds out.”

Sunday still doesn’t respond. When you look to check on him, you expect horror or maybe even despair, but instead, he gazes at the wanted poster with some sort of detachment, and even a little pride.

“Of all the pictures to use, they choose that…” he comments offhandedly, almost offended. You lean over his shoulder to get a better look.

“It’s cute.” You’re already fishing out your phone to take a picture. “The others are gonna love this - come on come on, we have to take a picture.”

A bemused smile slips onto Sunday’s face at your excitement. Playing along, he indulges you and poses beside his wanted poster with a peace sign. Like a mother at her child’s highschool graduation, you snap photos from all angles with the skill of a professional photographer.

“They grow up so fast,” you fake-sob, snorting when Sunday rolls his eyes despite his smile. Once you’ve finished with your impromptu photoshoot, he comes to your side to look over your shoulder as you swiftly text the group chat.

“The Stellaron Hunter… Family?” Sunday raises a brow as he reads aloud the name of your group chat.

“Yeah,” you chuckle fondly. “Silver Wolf found out that the Express’s group chat is called the Astral Express Family, so we’re parodying them.”

“Is that so?” muses Sunday, intrigued. The corners of his eyes crinkle at your antics in the chat. “For the longest time, I’ve thought of the Express and the Hunters as natural enemies, but you’re much closer than I expected. Even on Penacony, you joined forces in order to defeat me.”

“Well, Sparky has always said that we’re like two sides of the same coin,” you recall. 

“Sparky?” Sunday repeats.

“Firefly,” you clarify. “Or Sam, if that’s more familiar.”

“Do you give nicknames to everyone you meet?” Sunday asks, the question more curious rather than demeaning.

You smile. “Only to people I like.”

Your phone pings again before Sunday can fully process the meaning of your words. Checking it, you see Blade - well, it was actually Kafka, since Blade would apparently rather drown than use his phone - sending a photo in the group chat.

Clicking on the attachment reveals a design for presumably Sunday’s official uniform. Midnight black fabric flows in a striking coat with blazing azure and gold accents. Put together, elegant, yet hinting at danger, the outfit bears both a resemblance to Sunday’s previous one and a bold nod to his new life.

“Hey, look,” you beckon, eager to escape Silver Wolf’s vengeful clutches. “Kafka sent over blueprints for your uniform.”

Passing your phone to him, you look back to the billboard. Other than Sunday’s wanted poster, there’s a number of other advertisements and newspapers plastered on it. One such newspaper - or rather, a holographic video of a news reporting - catches your eye.

A Halovian girl sings on the glitchy screen, a swirling glass in one hand and the other raised to the crowd. City lines border on the night sky in a gorgeous horizon behind her, her emerald eyes reflecting the fireworks that burst in little burning lights around her.

You’d be a fool if you didn’t know who this girl was.

“Your sister is beautiful,” you say, watching as she is bathed in the limelight and adoration of the people.

Sunday glances up from your phone, his eyes softening once he catches sight of the advertisement.

“She is, isn’t she?” he says, his voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. Wistfulness and pure adoration fills him, melting the gems in his eyes and relaxing the stiffness in his shoulders. His gloved hand raises, almost hesitantly, before he lays his fingers on the billboard. “She doesn’t look hurt from the fall… Thank goodness.”

A heavy breath of relief leaves him, shouldering the burden of worry that must’ve plagued him since he’d left Penacony. Suddenly, a memory of when he’d been brought in by Kafka flashes in your mind.

His back had been bruised badly, the backs of his wings nearly crushed from the fall. He’d probably hit his head, considering how long it took for him to wake up, and you had no doubt the pain he was in when he did awaken - it had taken one of your stronger medicines to fix him back up.

“You took the brunt of the fall for your sister,” you realize. “No wonder you were in such bad shape when you came in.”

Sunday chuckles hollowly. “Of course I did. It wasn’t her who nearly imprisoned the entirety of Asdana. What older brother would I be if I allowed my kid sister to get hurt from my mistakes?”

“I’m not condemning you,” you say gently. “I would’ve done the same.”

Sunday nods, although he appears unconvinced. Eager to change the subject, he glanced back at your phone screen and the chat.

“Firefly is taking my presence much better than I anticipated,” he notes. You hum.

“Well, she doesn’t have much of a choice, does she?” You lean over to see the conversation - currently, it’s just Sunday and Kafka trading ideas for his new outfit. Surprisingly, he hasn’t made any comment about the black theme. 

“We all have pasts we want to leave behind. Being able to start anew and become more than what you were before - that’s what being a Stellaron Hunter is all about. In that sense, we’re no different from the Express.”

You elbow Sunday playfully, making sure not to hit his wings. The Halovian grunts in response, clearly not used to such gestures.

“Sparky was once in your shoes - we all were,” you say, chuckling as Sunday rubs his side (you didn’t even hit him that hard). “So there’s not too many hard feelings… Unless you stabbed her. Did you stab her? She doesn’t like getting stabbed.”

“I’m fairly certain I did not stab Firefly,” Sunday replies, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Snatching back your phone from Sunday, you begin to move away from the billboard, having caught sight of something far more interesting - a pharmacy. “Come on, let’s go. I just remembered, I have to pick up some groceries.”

“Groceries?” Sunday scans the surrounding streets for any sign of a grocery store or marketplace, which given Euphrosyne’s nature, obviously aren’t there.

“Uh… not those kinds of groceries.” 

—

“Why are we here."

“Why do you keep questioning me.”

“Have you perhaps considered that you do a lot of questionable things?”

“Not at all. Now be quiet, the adult is speaking.”

“You-” You kick him in the shin, a traditional method of shutting people up. The employee at the pharmacy’s desk eyes the two of you tiredly - given how late it is, you’re sure they’re nearing the end of their tortuously long shift.

“Sorry about him,” you step in front of Sunday to talk friendly with the clerk. “Long day today?”

They snorted. “You can tell?”

“Yeah,” you laugh softly, already rummaging around in your pocket. Feeling a light, paper stick, you quickly close your fingers around it. “I’d know that look anywhere. Used to see it every time I looked in the mirror.”

That brought a smile to the clerk’s face - a cynical one, yes, but a smile nevertheless. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Tell you what,” you snap your fingers. “I was saving this for later, but you look like you need it a lot more than I do.”

From your pocket you withdraw a small lollipop, wrapped in colorful paper with some company name plastered all over it. At the sight of the small treat, a small light shines in their eyes.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“No no no,” you shush them and push the lollipop into their hands. “It’s my treat. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you so much,” the clerk sighs gratefully, unaware of your snake-like eyes watching their every move.

“Of course,” you coo sympathetically (Sunday shudders, evidently disturbed. His face almost makes you break character). “I know just how grueling work is for you all.”

The clerk nods, unwrapping the lollipop and popping it into their mouth. “I can’t thank you enou-”

Their eyes roll, and they collapse unceremoniously onto the register with an unappealing thunk (both you and Sunday wince. That must’ve hurt). Muffled snores soon begin to roll from their lips. A few seconds pass before you prod them with your finger, but they continue to sleep unbothered.

You step back and turn to Sunday with a blank expression. “I did not know that would happen.”

Sunday crosses his arms disapprovingly. Clearly he is not convinced by your impeccable acting.

“You drugged an innocent worker.” He enunciates every word clearly, sharply, and without a shred of emotion. “Again.”

“I didn’t use gas this time though?” you point out, as if that will make it better.

Sunday sighs as you leap over the counter and start stocking up. “You could just pay like a normal, law abiding citizen.”

You pause, raising a brow pointedly. Sunday blinks, before inevitably realizing the irony of telling a Stellaron Hunter with a considerable bounty on their head to follow the law. 

“I stand corrected.”

You grin toothily. “Now you’re getting it.” 

As you grab bottles of painkillers, allergy medicines, and a plethora of other medications, you hear shuffling behind you. When you glance back, you catch a glimpse of Sunday, taking one of the jackets that you’d stolen from the bag and folding it neatly into a makeshift pillow for the clerk.

“I think they’re bruising,” Sunday mutters, barely concealing panic as he slides the pillow under the clerk’s head.

“What?” You shove the last of the medication into your inventory before turning around to check on the employee. 

You may be a criminal, but you aren’t a monster. If you could do anything about it, you’d prefer not to hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. That’s why the concoctions you use with civilians are gentler, only instilling a small nap and short-term memory loss to whoever came in contact with them.

Lightly, you tilt the clerk’s head up to make sure the lollipop was still in their mouth. Thankfully, it was, and predictably, it was almost entirely disintegrated. 

“It should kick in in a sec.”

“Sorry?” Worry overtakes Sunday’s voice for a moment.

“Hold on…” you narrow your eyes, closely monitoring the clerk’s state. If you’d made a miscalculation, you’d have to heal them the normal way.

But it seems that the Aeons are looking down on you, for a pale-colored light soon begins to flutter from the clerk. A relieved smile breaks out, and you gently let the clerk’s head rest back on the jacket.

“There we go.”

The light glows briefly, centering around the clerk’s head, and the bruise begins to fade - slowly but surely ebbing away until it’s completely gone. Hopping back over the counter, you pat Sunday on the shoulder.

“They’ll be fine,” you reassure him. “Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

Wordlessly, he follows, glimpsing back at the clerk one last time before following you out of the pharmacy. For a moment, pure, yet serene silence hangs between the two of you as you walk down the crowded streets.

After what seems like a tranquil eternity, Sunday finally breaks the silence.

“What was that?”

You shift the clothes bags from one hand to the other. “Didn’t you see it back at the clothing store?”

He shakes his head wordlessly, which you can only tell he did because of the slight rustle of feathers against hair.

“When it comes to civilians, my creations are laced with a tiny bit of my power.” Euphrosyne has three moons, and all of them in the violet sky, you notice. “That way, there’s no lasting damage. I mean, it’s not their fault that their company is a good robbery target.”

Sunday ignores the last sentence. “You fed me something similar when we met, if I recall. One second I was in excruciating pain, and the next there was no pain at all. Was that candy also imbued with your abilities?”

“Yep,” you confirm. “Although you got the variant that’s for allies.”

“I figured, considering I didn’t immediately pass out,” Sunday hums out a laugh. “Although… I will say it puts me at ease, knowing that none of those workers were hurt during our escapades.”

You smile teasingly. “Aw, were you having a guilty conscience?”

“Of course,” he huffs.

“Well, you don’t have to anymore,” you say lightheartedly. “Rest assured knowing that out of all the crimes I’ve committed, assaulting someone who didn’t start the fight isn’t one of them.”

“You certainly have a way with words,” sighs Sunday, but he’s smiling. “But thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re very welcome, princess.”

For once, Sunday doesn’t give you a dirty or unimpressed look at the nickname. Rather, he keeps walking by your side. In the dim light of Euphrosyne’s moons, you can barely make out his face, and so you miss the bemused smile that slips onto his face.

“You know,” he says, “you still haven’t eaten yet.”

You stare at him. “Oh. Right.”

Sunday snorts knowingly. “Of course. There’s a food cart near that building over there. You don’t plan on drugging the chef now, do you?”

“Nah,” you wave your hand dismissively. “I respect food cart workers.”

“So you do have morals.”

“How could you say that after I healed someone?”

“You mean, after you did the bare minimum?”

You punch him in the arm. “I’m not liking your attitude, young man.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sunday says cheekily. You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to respond.

But then something wet hits your cheek, and then another joins it. Panicked screams and stomps erupt around you as people rush for shelter. You gingerly touch your cheek. The drop on your cheek doesn’t sting, thankfully.

“These people… quite like to overact, don’t they,” Sunday observes, as everyone stampedes for cover. “It isn’t even raining that much.”

“Eh, you know how rich people are,” you giggle, wiping your cheek. “But this is a surprise. Rain rarely appears on Euphrosyne, at least from what I’ve heard.”

“Agreed-” A man crashes into Sunday, the Halovian barely able to hold the two of them from falling on the pavement. 

The man’s things clatter to the floor, one of which being an umbrella that he… apparently didn’t know how to use. Curses spew from the man’s lips, his face turning red as he glares daggers at Sunday. The Halovian’s smile is tight as he straightens the man.

“Please be careful, sir,” he says passive-aggressively, customer service mode activated in full force to hold him back from committing murder. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

The man doesn’t bother to listen. He shakes an angry finger in Sunday’s face, grabbing what he can off the floor before running off. You stare awkwardly at his trail of dust before turning back to Sunday.

“You handled that better than I would’ve,” you say after a few minutes. Sunday exhales heavily, massaging his temple.

“Naturally. I worked with buffoons like that on the daily,” he mutters. “But it seems experience doesn’t make it any more bearable.”

You pat his shoulder. “Well, it’s over now.”

“Yes,” Sunday hums, bending down to pick something up. When he straightens, you see the man’s umbrella in Sunday’s hands. “I suppose it is.”

You blink. “When did you get that?”

“Just now,” he says sarcastically. “But I did kick it out of the way while he was cursing me out, if that clarifies things.”

You stare dumbfoundedly as he opens up the umbrella, acting as if he hasn’t done anything wrong in his life. Holding it above both of your heads, he offers it to you with a smug smirk you aren’t sure you like.

“Well? Shall we?”

You break out of your daze. Pride swells in your chest and you join him, snickering.

“They really do grow fast, huh?”

—

Somewhere near, in Penacony, Firefly stares at her phone nervously. Her body still singes from the burst of fireworks in which she’d experienced her third and final death on the Planet of Festivities, but it’s the least of her worries right now.

She rereads the chat just to confirm her suspicions. She’d already been skeptical when you suddenly asked Silver Wolf to get Sunday’s things, but this just outright confirms it.

Sunday, the man she’d just helped run over with a train at least eight times, the convicted criminal by both the Family and the IPC, the former Oak Family Head who’d tried to imprison her in an eternal dream, is now her coworker.

It isn’t like she wishes anything bad upon him; in essence, she understands that what he did was out of noble intentions and a wish to help the weak. But it had only been a few days at most since she’d last seen the Halovian, and here he was again.

She glances up at the fake sky of the dreamscape. The Radiant Feldspar soars overhead, and on board is Robin, Sunday’s sister who never stopped looking for him.

Firefly’s feet shift uncomfortably. It’s getting hard to breathe. With the Order’s protection lifted, the effects of her Entropy Loss Syndrome return, although not as bad as in reality.

Should she tell Robin? The songstress has been going mad with worry over her missing brother, and it probably hasn’t helped that the Family Heads’ lips are sealed regarding his fate. But Robin is singing right now, and Firefly doesn’t want to ruin that.

She shakes her head. No, she can’t say that. This is Robin’s brother, for Aeons’ sake. And she knows that Robin must be suffering right now, despite the smile she wears for the crowd.

Firefly exhales deeply. She pulls out her phone.

Here goes nothing.

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reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[mcondance]

lovely

“You say things with your mouth, cobwebs and flies come out / I hear a second voice behind your tongue somehow / Luckily, I can read your mind, flies and cobwebs unwind / They will not take you down, They will not cast you out”

Or, you’re fine. And whatever other words hide behind those four letters. Spencer sees what a piece of you wants to hide from him.

notes fluff (mcondance writes fluff??) but still MDNI, reader is neurodivergent this is for my baby girls (audhd spencer reid kissers), inspired by those lyrics from lovely by twenty øne piløts, do not listen while you read. this is what having a dual tøp-spencer reid era does to a writer. gif from pinterest. also guys please i’ve been experimenting with layouts for my works for like… months now if this layout is ugly just ignore it please please. mcondance capitalizes ?!

word count 1.1k+ (closer to 1.2k hello i am proud)

You lie still on your back in the middle of the bed as you watch Spencer close the door and set his cardigan down on the chair by the dresser. He floats through the dim room, momentarily lit up by the interludes of soft moonlight wafting through the windows. He takes his place beside the bed. Your music pauses.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

“I’m fine.”

You’re lying. Spencer knows you’re lying; it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce that. It’s in your voice, most obviously. But it’s in the other details that only Spencer would notice, too. Not because he’s a genius, but because he’s your Spencer. 

The room is dark. Which wouldn’t be much of a problem, if you didn’t sound so bleak and tired when you spoke. You have your big headphones on, which, again, wouldn’t be so bad if you’d have pulled one back when he walked in, or even just told him that the song’s almost at the good part, and then after it hits you’ll take them off.

The room is bathed in moonlight. The moon, and your Spencer. Two shoulders for you to lean on. Three, actually, with the music you were just listening to. 

But all of the shoulders just aren’t enough to block out the bad feelings you’re having right now.

Overwhelmed. Sad. A little depressed. Whatever. 

“I don't think so, honey,” Spencer speaks softly from where he stands in a split of moonlight, hands in his pockets as he shrugs.

He glows in a silver streak. You sniffle. Fuck.

He allows silence to ensue, obviously giving you time to get your thoughts together. The bed dips to the left as he sits down beside you and props his leg up. A part of you wants to laugh at the common knowledge that if you had the will to look down you’d see an interesting sock and a Converse, but you don’t have the energy to do anything but what you’ve been doing since you let your playlist roll into its fifth run— lay down and alternate between staring out into the blackness of your room and the backs of your eyelids.

“It’s nothing,” you obfuscate. But it’s obviously not nothing.

Again, he lets his silence give you comfort instead of pushing you to talk. You take it gratefully, as it gives you the time you need to collect yourself and try to put words to what’s going on in your head and all under your skin.

You breathe in.

“I'm just… irritated.”

You breathe out.

A bit of weight lifts off of your chest at your short admission, but the elephant in the room continues to perch tall and proud on you, crushing you and leaving very little room for you to exist.

Still, Spencer is silent. The quiet puffs of his breath and the dip in the mattress are enough. Anything else would be too much, and he knows that. So he lets you lead him into the dark with you, he stays still and lets you guide him into the cavernous deep of all that you feel right now.

The fan whirs and cars pass outside the window. The stillness of the night almost laughs at the chaos ensuing in you.

Another breath, deeper this time as you gather the courage to try to express what it is you’re feeling.

“I don't know,” you blurt. “Everything's just too loud and my friends are all annoying and nothing on YouTube is interesting and I feel like I'm gonna explode and crumble all at the same time.” Those tears are bubbling up under the surface of your skin again and threatening to spill out of your eyes. 

And now that you’ve spoken and some of the tension in the air has dissipated, Spencer feels it’s appropriate for him to talk.

“It’s okay, baby. You’ve been working a lot lately without many breaks and now you’ve run out of steam, and that’s okay. It happens. You’re just burnt out.”

Horribly, his sweet words inflame a mean, hot part of you. You scoff, finding the strength to wipe a stray tear as it falls. Spencer knows you don’t mean it, that something up in your brain has just had enough and is now denying you of any feeling but solitary petrification.

Burnout. You hate that word. You wish it didn’t happen to you. You wish that you were normal and being stressed didn’t mean paralysis and staring at the ceiling like it’ll change and morph into an answer or a semblance of comfort. 

In the dark, you strain your eyes at his form. You can just barely make out the wisps of hair flying in all directions away from his face. His posture is terrible. You can tell he’s looking off to the side of you so you won’t feel overwhelmed under his eyes. Perhaps he was made for you.

The air softens, and you do too. The facade of anger slips away as quickly as it reared its ugly head. You take a shuddering breath and let your head fall towards him.

He moves closer and a beam of moonlight illuminates him as he takes you in with warmth etched onto the comfort of his face.

Something up in your brain has just had enough and is now denying you of any feeling but solitary petrification. 

Fortunately, Spencer won’t let that happen. 

How grateful you are for this man who won’t let you get the aloneness that some tired part of you craves. He’ll stick beside you and sit in silence for hours upon hours if it meant you wouldn’t feel alone. He has done that before. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

With him smiling softly at you even in your cocoon of darkness, that sweet quirk of his lips that is ever-present when he’s looking at you, you feel a little better. Now, he can touch you. Before that thought even registers, he reaches out for your knee and rests his hand there, rubbing his thumb up and down over your skin.

It doesn’t cross the line of overstimulation, and it doesn’t feel like not enough. It’s just enough. Spencer can read you as well as the surplus of books he reads daily. There’s no push to get up, to take your headphones off or turn the light on.

Spencer wants only for you to breathe, and to know that he is here. When he hears your breathing become easy again, and he feels just a bit more of the discord you’re swathed in slip off of you, he knows you know.

His hand on your knee won’t nurse you back to your functioning form. And it’s not what he’s striving to do. 

And as you look through the darkness into his moon-bathed eyes, you know you’ll have him here with you every step of the way, by some divine power that put him in your life. And that’s okay. You won’t be okay for a while, but you have him to lean on. You’ll always have him to lean on. You feel the love he has for you radiating off of him, pushing into your skin as he caresses it slowly.

Getting out of bed sometime later sounds a little easier, now.

[luveline]

𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

part one | part two | part three | part four

summary you’re a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue the movies, nachos, cherry cough syrup, and a couple of moments of clarity. [10k]

warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie’s birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, idiots in love!!! tw sick fic

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie has the most peculiar curl tucked up by his neck. Where most are frizzy and loose, this one falls in a perfect shiny ringlet below his ear. He shifts and it's out of view, a curtain of dark hair falling forward and hiding his face as he puts your car in park. 

"Remind me why you had to drive?" you ask, ducking down to look at the glaring white lights of the movie theatre across the street. 

"You were gonna fall asleep behind the wheel." 

For once, Eddie might not be exaggerating. He grins at your lack of rebuttal and throws an arm behind your shoulders, twisting in the driver's seat to set his sights on Junie. 

"Are you ready?" he asks her. 

She wiggles. It's an ecstatic movement. Her clothes are prim and sweet if you do say so yourself, a long sleeved shirt under a pair of the world's cutest dungarees. They crinkle as she moves, pressed to perfection. 

You and Eddie open opposite doors in tandem and step out into the brisk, early night. The sidewalk shines with rain, a black slickness stretching in every direction. You shiver and pull your thin jacket tighter to your torso as you turn back to the car, intending to retrieve Junie and rush into the theatre before you can freeze on the spot. 

Eddie's already swung open the door and rescued your daughter from the confines of her car seat, neatening up the hem of one of her socks with her face pushed over his shoulder. 

She giggles about something and Eddie says, "Sorry, June. 'M tickling you, am I?" so fondly you have to avert your eyes. 

He locks the car and hands over your keys with a smile. You smile back, heart flipping like a spinning coin. Head over tails, over and over. 

The big, ring-heavy hand he holds to Junie's back reaches for you suddenly enough that you flinch.

"I'm sorry," he apologises, suppressing a laugh, "your necklace is twisted." 

He moves in a second time and you raise your chin, chest aflame as his fingers glance off of your bare skin. He slips the chain over his index and pulls, encouraging the links around until the clasp is hidden again. 

"Thank you." You huff an awkward, sheepish laugh.

"You owe me," he says, mock-severe. 

Your laugh is much more genuine as you follow him across the road. 

You're squinting as you approach The Hawk movie theatre. The title cards are hard to look at, aggressively white with black capital letters that read, 'The Great Mouse Detective 7'. 

There's a small line of families waiting by the front. You realise it like a shock, that the three of you must look like a family too. 

Eddie carries Junie with the surety of a dad that's carried his child a hundred times before; he strokes the back of her head with the affection of one, soothing the mess of flyaways she'd acquired by squirming in her car seat. Junie responds with familiarity, hands tucked into his hair and tugging. She's trying to be nice but his hair won't allow it, all his long curls tangled at the ends from a day at work. 

Still, he says, "Thanks, baby. Make sure you get the back, okay?" 

"Okay," she echoes. 

You look down at your wringing hands. There's ink smudged up the side of your writing hand. You scratch at it half-heartedly, blinking against your fatigue. 

You're exhausted tonight and it's only Wednesday. You can't imagine how you'll fare tomorrow considering how little sleep you're expecting tonight — there are a thousand things to do when you get home. Laundry to wash and press, cleaning to do, dinner to make. 

You'd been writing cheques for due bills when Eddie had come knocking, well-dressed, stupid-handsome, and announced that tonight you would be accompanying him to the movies. He'd actually said 'accompanying'. 

Despite a full agenda, you'd said yes. You're not very good at saying no. At least, not to him. 

It takes you a moment to realise you're at the front of the line. You pay for the tickets before Eddie can try it, and with his hands full he can't really stop you. He whines about it all the way to the concession stand. 

"You can buy the snacks," you say. His face lights up, and you amend, "If you're reasonable." 

"I'm always reasonable…ly over the top," he says, chided by your hard stare. 

"Yes, you are." 

He follows you down the two steps to the concession and cuts in front of you. "How did you do that? What face was that? I felt my soul leave my body." 

"That's my disapproving mom look. I'm disapproving." 

"Ah." He pats Junie's side sympathetically. 

She pulls her head from over his shoulder and smiles at you. Her arms vy for your hold. You steal her from Eddie and kiss her all over her tiny face, uplifted by how much she loves you, how happy she is to be in your arms. 

"What snacks do you want? Do you eat popcorn with butter? Without?" Eddie asks, his newly emptied arms already posed thoughtfully, a hand under his chin as he thinks over his options. 

The theatre has a huge array of jellies, an even bigger array of candy bars. There are more brands of soda than there are glasses in your kitchen cabinet. 

You're daunted. 

"Whatever you want," you say.

Eddie groans and tips his head back. "Don't play with me like this. Butter or no butter? It's an easy question." 

"I don't know. Without?" 

"You are so weird," he says happily. 

You pout and pull Junie closer. 

Standing at the side while he gathers concessions, too many things, you watch in awe as Eddie stacks it all against his chest with the sure confidence of someone who's done it before.

He grins at you from between two huge cups. "Are we ready?"

If you could, you'd leave him here in the foyer with his jumbo deluxe popcorn. As it stands, you like him too much to leave him behind. You juggle Junie and your bag to push open the doors for him outside of screen two. 

"Thanks, babe," he says outside of screen two. You bite your lip, surprised by his easy tone. 

You climb up the stairs and into your seats. You're high enough for Junie to sit in her own chair between you and Eddie and see the screen comfortably but she adamantly refuses, stretching out in your lap like an alley cat hungry for affection. 

Eddie moves into the ragtag velvet seat beside you, a million things in his lap and at your feet. He's pretty enough under the theatre lights to dull the panging ache at the back of your head. "If she won't sit here, I will. I got you a lemonade, is that cool?" 

If it weren't you'd hardly tell him. 

"She's being extremely well-behaved," Eddie notes, an inkling of pride in his tone. 

You could sucker punch him. Why does he do this to you? 

"I know," you say with a shy smile, "it's suspicious, isn't it?" 

"I don't know. If I were in your lap I might be well-behaved too." He raises his eyebrows, an over-exaggerated show of flirtatiousness. 

You reach over the arm to take a handful of popcorn. Eyes on Junie, you offer her your stolen goods and say, "I've got two thighs." 

"Don't tempt me." 

Junie all but snatches the popcorn and tilts her head back. A kernel falls from her hand and disappears between the seats. You make a mental note to pick it up afterward, ears full of her chomping. 

You'd worried she might be a little loud for the movies but there's a bunch of kids and none seem keen on keeping quiet, a cacophony of childish complaints to hide your conversation. 

"Are babies supposed to eat popcorn?" 

You freeze up. "Oh- I don't know," you say, turning Junie toward you so you can watch her swallow. 

"I thought I read that somewhere, but-" 

"No, I think you're right. Um…" Junie looks at you with obvious confusion. "Was that yummy?" you ask. You hide your concern with a strained bubbly attentiveness. 

"I guess she's old enough." 

Eddie's being very casual – it is casual. He's just thinking out loud. You know he's not criticising you. He never has, though sometimes you think he should. 

It must show on your face anyhow that you're having a 'I'm a bad mom' crisis. A mean stroke of insecurity.

"Sweetheart," Eddie says suddenly, brows pinched, "it's alright. It was just a thought. And she had no problem eating it, I'm sure she's gonna be aces. Better than aces." 

Junie climbs out of your lap and into his. He sets the popcorn on the floor to take her, and when her hands reach for his drink he holds the straw to her mouth. All the while his eyes move between her and you. 

"Okay," you say, because you're being silly. 

Junie is fine. Eddie was only saying something that's very well true. Babies aren't supposed to have popcorn, but June's not a baby, really. She knows how to chew properly. It's unlikely she'll choke. 

Eddie has to keep his focus on her to avoid getting soaked – she barely knows how to use a straw and keeps trying to turn the cup upside down. 

"Not like that, trouble. Right way up. You got it." 

You pick at the loose stitching at the end of your shirt and have to change the subject before the embarrassment of it all swallows you. Such a small thing. 

"Can I try one of these?" you ask, grabbing the first bag of candy you can find. They're a bag of Super Sour Suckers. 

He looks at you over Junie's head, startled and hiding it poorly. Then, a smile so bright it increases the embarrassment you're feeling tenfold.

"You have to! Robin said they're even worse than the normal ones, I don't wanna go through that alone," he says urgently. 

Robin is one of his friends. You're not jealous that he has friends (though you are, because you want your own, but not jealous that he has friends that aren't you). He's mentioned her in passing before. When you'd asked as bravely as you dared if they were anything more than friends he'd laughed maniacally.

"We're definitely just friends," he'd said.

You fight to stay smiling and pull open the bag of candies. Ironically, the jellies inside are shaped like pacifiers. Covered in sugar packed densely and looking almost wet with what you suspect to be citric acid, you shake the packet wearily and search for a candy that won't ruin your tongue.

Eddie holds out his hand. You drop a green one into his palm. Your fingertips ride up the curve of his thumb. 

He's unflinching as he eats it. After a few seconds his eyes screw up and he clutches June tight to his chest, raising an unhelpful hand to his jaw. 

"Holy sugar," he says, wincing. 

You bite into a pink pacifier unfortunately layered in sugar and wait nervously for the sourness to kick in. Sure enough, it comes quick and torturous. It's a knife cutting through fog. 

It's hard to feel tired when there's something this sour in your mouth.

"You can't spit it out!" Eddie says.

You stop with your hand halfway to your mouth. "What?" you ask incredulously, trying not to dribble. 

"You gotta eat it! Chew and swallow!" 

You chew miserably. He laughs at your expression – a warm and hyper sound, practically giggling. Junie joins in as she always does. His joy can't be overstated. 

The lights go down while you're still fighting for your life. Your eyes water and you have to smother the taste with a quick drink and a gasping breath. 

"You're sick. I can't believe you let me eat that," you whisper. 

"You saw me eat mine! You knew what you were getting into… Think June wants one?" 

Your outrage has him laughing again. It's a magnetic sound. Every time he does it you want to touch him, his arm one pole and your hand another. 

Junie gets comfortable on his right leg, head tipped expectantly against his chest and eyes drawn to the screen as the trailers begin. You don't bother with jealousy; in ten minutes she'll be climbing over the arm to sit with you again, or want to sit in her own seat. She may even try to walk around. Toddlers are indecisive and easily distracted. 

Even if she weren't. Even if she sat there in his lap for the next hour and a half and didn't look your way, you're not sure you could harbour any envy against him. His hand spreads over the front of her torso with fingers splayed against her ribs, stroking thoughtlessly through the fabric of her thick clothes.  

He tips his head toward your chair. "There's nachos." 

"I saw." 

"Wanna eat some before they get cold?" 

"Subtle." 

He snorts. "Yep. That's what they call me. Eddie Subtle Munson." 

You reach over the dark floor for the tray of nachos and balance them carefully on the armrest between your two seats. Eddie digs in without fuss, you fret over which ones have jalapeños on them, and Junie gets mad that nobody's sharing with her. She puts her hands straight in a mound of orange cheese. Her face is a picture when she brings it to her mouth. She's discovered molten gold. 

"Junie," Eddie says lightly, carding hair away from her ear so she can hear him properly. "Don't get cheese on your pretty clothes. It took your mom a week to get the rocky road out of your strawberry jammies, you know?" 

He doesn't care that she's mauled the food. He's worried she might stain her dungarees. Your heart goes crazy, another sudden surge of clarity.  

Junie climbs back into your own lap as the movie begins. You whisper to her about proper theatre etiquette in your mommy voice and she doesn't do too bad a job at listening. She finds the appearance of the Great Mouse Detective himself quite funny, and laughs at his grave features and expressions every now and then. It's a golden sound. 

Try as you might, you can't keep your eyes open. Junie's having such a good time and Eddie whispers funny commentary beside you, but eventually your eyelids creep shut and Eddie squeezes your arm, skin braceleted by his thick, warm fingers. 

-

"C'mere," Eddie prompts, hands vying for your daughter where she's perched in your lap. 

"Why?" Junie asks. 

He's surprised at her inquisition. "You don't want a hug?" 

She nods voraciously. Eddie lifts her off of your lap before she can use you as a climbing frame and into his own.

"I think mommy's sleeping," he tells her. 

Junie looks at you curiously. You've got a wet wipe in your limp hand, which he takes and discards, and your head's fallen to one side. You'll have an awesome crick in your neck when you wake up.

Junie gives him a hug. He loves her hugs. They're so small and sweet, she's genuinely an extremely loving little girl. Her smile when she hugs people is beautiful as yours is, though her affection is less hesitant. 

Everything's going well until she catches a look at the huge, scary bad guy Professor Ratigan somewhere in the middle. 

Eddie's crunching through a greedy mouthful of popcorn and almost chokes as she turns around and hides in his chest. He brings a hand up to her back protectively though he doesn't know what happened, eyes moving between her and the screen at lightning speed. 

"Aw, June," he murmurs sympathetically. He really is a scary looking guy. 

"Eddie," she says, dangerously close to tears. 

"Sweetheart, it's okay! He's only on TV." 

She says something that might be, "Don't want." It's not quite there but Eddie thinks she's doing a great job lately with her talking, patting her back in a silent well done as he attempts to reassure her. "Basil's gonna outsmart him, Junie. The Great Mouse Detective is gonna save the day, scout's honour." 

"No," she whines softly. 

He covers her unhappy face with his hand. 

"It's okay," he murmurs, melted and bemused. "It's okay, junebug. I swear." 

Despite his best efforts, she starts to cry. Eddie freezes up because she doesn't cry often, not with him. When she does you're always there to find a solution. He supposes the novelty of being a new person has long worn off, and that he's going to have to make more of an effort than just tickling her or petting her hair to make it better. 

Her volume increases. He shushes her, clumsy and awkward but earnest, trying the best that he can to make it up. He offers candies and drinks, he rummages through your baby bag for Mr. Bear. She takes it all but none of it lasts.

Someone in the chair behind him coughs pointedly. 

Eddie turns to wake you up. He gets one good look at your face and can't follow through. 

You're sleeping deeply, at the movie theatre of all places. How tired are you, and why hadn't you said? He'd known to some extent — it's why he'd offered to drive — but with the movie blaring and all the kids and noise and now Junie's crying, he realises you must be exhausted to sleep through it. Why hadn't he noticed? He kicks himself.

He lifts her up with his head angled down, giving your shoulder a swift squeeze and then bumping down the steps with Junie until he's out into the lights of the hallway. The door swings closed. 

It's oddly quiet and extremely bright. Junie stops crying to blink, and starts to cry again once she's adjusted. 

Eddie does not know what to do. It's a kick to his ego that he quickly accepts, though he does murmur a rueful, "Babe, I thought you liked me." 

Lost on deaf ears, his comment hangs in the air. 

He pats her back some more, wracking his brain for how you take care of her when she gets like this. Mostly, you're patient. You hum and you wait. Eddie tries to emulate you and your kind heart, walking her up and down the hall as he taps the bottom of her spine. 

"It's okay," he repeats. The more he says it the easier it feels. It is okay. He has to find a way to help June understand that, is all.

She grizzles. It's a long process. A couple of times he wonders if he's in over his head, if it's even his place, if he should wake you up and admit defeat. 

But Eddie Munson is trying to prove something. 

He works Mr. Bear out of Junie's iron grip and pinches his back taut so that his face and arms wiggle when he wants them to. 

"Baby June," he begins, in as gruff a voice as he can manage. He tries to channel his uncle's sternness, and his fondness. "Won't you quit crying? You're getting tears on the neck of your t-shirt and all over your cheeks." 

Junie quietens. She still cries, but the severity of the situation noticeably shifts. 

Eddie keeps on. "I got just the thing," he says, pushing Mr. Bear forward and making smacking sounds as he kisses both of her cheeks. "Gotta kiss these tears right off a'you." 

She laughs as Mr. Bear kisses her face dry and laughs some more when Eddie kisses the top of her head.

Eddie loves Junie. 

He knows it for a fact. 

She's very easy to love. She's beautiful as you are, she's loving, she's sweet. Her laugh is adorable and her smile is more. When she cries, Eddie finds he's never annoyed. Grated by the repetitive sound, maybe, but he can't find it in himself to be mad with her ever. He wants to help her work through it. To get you both through it. Eddie wants to be good at this.

He has Mr. Bear kiss Junie all over her face. 

"See?" Mr. Bear asks. "Isn't that better? No more tears, little girl, or we'll never see the end of the movie!" 

As Eddie says it, he wonders if taking her back into the theatre is a good idea. 

"Hey, junebug?" he says, all drama set aside. 

Junie lifts her flushed face. 

He smiles gratefully. "Do you wanna go back inside? Go check on mommy?" Leaving you by yourself doesn't exactly sit right with him.

Ah, there's the face he was expecting. Puzzlement, surprise. Junie frowns at him and looks over his shoulder, her own, searching the empty hallway for you and finding only reflective floor lights and patterned carpet. 

Eddie starts back into the screen room before she can cry over your being missing, chatting quietly but in a way that commands her attention. He's effective in the art of distraction if nothing else.  

The mouse detective and his friends have defeated Professor Ratigan, though Eddie shields Junie's head from the screen in case he's thinking about making a comeback, finding his way back to you in the dark. He picks over other people's snacks and then the abundance of your own, finding you still sound asleep. The sight doesn't spell good tidings. 

"Here she is," Eddie tells Junie, "here's mom. You wanna give her a kiss?" 

He sits down in his seat and squishes a bag of gummy worms under his boot. Junie immediately bends over the armrest and grabs at your front. You'd worried to him once that she had separation anxiety, and Eddie didn't know anything about it to agree or not. This display makes him think she might. She's clinging to you, desperately wanting your attention. 

Eddie winces as she grabs your face. She's obviously not trying to be cruel, hand stroking over your cheek as you'd stroke hers. 

"Mom," she whispers, the action itself enough to get Eddie laughing. Her version of whispering is almost like a character in a pantomime. 

He doesn't laugh for very long. You're not easy to wake up. Junie squishes your cheek and tries again. "Mommy," she says.

You groan in your sleep and your eyes scrunch together. "What?" you murmur finally, voice scratchy. 

"You're missing the movie," Eddie says, patting your thigh. 

Your arms come to life before you do. You wrap them around Junie's short torso and encourage her up your chest until you can nose at the top of her head. You rub slow lines, a steady back and forth. Eddie would bet money you don't have a clue in the world where you are. 

"S'loud," you complain. Your voice is weak with sleep. 

Junie looks at Eddie weirdly. He suspects it's her way of asking him to help out without asking. 

He tenses his hand where it rests at your thigh. "Do you wanna go home?" 

You don't answer. You go limp under his touch and Junie's weight, nose and lips set in a frown but otherwise near languid. 

Eddie's small (and alarmingly ever-present) worry for you multiplies by a hundred. 

He grabs up a bag of chips and entices your daughter back onto his thigh. She digs through half the bag as the movie draws to a finish, distracted if not happy, her face and fingers swiftly flaked in corn dust. The lights are thrown up and the noise is immense, a hundred pairs of shoes over tipped popcorn, babies and young kids unsettled, their parents eager to head home and watch their own movies no doubt. 

Eddie can't say he'd really watched the film besides precursory glances, his focus on you and your fidgety offspring. He'd been excited to tell you about his Junie success, but now he just wants to get you home.

He says your name as clearly as he can, his hand finding its way to your thigh for the third time. He rubs down toward your knee and gives your leg a shake. 

Junie climbs off of his own. Now the lights are on she can see the grand assortment of snacks laid out before her, and she seems eager to try them all. 

You eventually, thankfully rouse, you drag a palm over your eyes and cross your legs, squishing his hand in the process. He steals it back.

"Babe, you gotta get up. The attendants are looking at us funny. I think they think I've run you ragged, and while the dad tag doesn't bother me, 'cruel husband' doesn't suit me." 

"What?" you ask. 

He shrugs. "Junie pissed her pants." 

Your eyes open, lashes parting clumsily. You move like the air around you has turned to glue and moan in a quiet display of agony as your neck clicks. "She leaked through?"

"Nah, I'm messing with you. Movie's done. Getting some weird stares." 

You're quiet, but you shrug on your jacket and Eddie packs what he can of the leftover candy into your bag. He swings it over his shoulder. 

"You wanna come up?" he asks Junie. 

She raises both arms. 

You stand on shaky legs. Eddie stations Junie on one hip with one arm wrapped around her and holds out the other. You let him fold you up into his side.

"You okay?" he asks. 

Your face drops into his shoulder. "I'm so tired." 

"You're alright to walk out to the car?" 

His worry is like a rubber band. You snap to attention, disengage from his hold. It's a foreign and really uncomfortable feeling to see you out of sorts. 

Eddie walks behind you with a hand nearly but not touching your back. If you topple, he's not sure how he's gonna save you. Determined anyways, he guards you down the hollow stairs and through the hallway, one step behind you. 

It's a cool, crisp night outside. 

The smell of rain sticks around. You lift your chin. It's much colder now that night's fallen. The breeze kisses your damp skin. When did you start sweating? 

He presses his hand to your shoulders and guides you across the road. 

Junie starts her lovely babbling in his ear. "Mouse 'tective," she says at one point. You don't react, affirming his theory: you're more than tired. You're sick. 

"Mouse detective," he agrees, arm around your shoulder to assuage his own worries as he gives Junie the best of his attention. "You liked that one, huh?" Besides the evil Professor. "Better than the Muppets in New York? Junebug, you little traitor. How easily your favour changes." 

"Are you surprised? She took to you like," — you yawn wide enough that Eddie feels it under his arm, a full body thing — "a duck to water." 

He beams, relieved to hear your voice. "Yeah, well, I'm special." 

"That's true."

Eddie walks you around to the passenger side and opens your door. 

"Flirting! Awesome. You're not too sick to forget how much of a catch I am. Watch your head." 

"I gotta do Junie's straps," you say. 

"I think I can do it by now."

He's only sort of bluffing. It takes him much longer than it would've taken you. He celebrates his win by pinching her cheek lightly and then whacking his head hard on the roof of your car. 

"Fuck," he mutters as he jogs around the hood, scrubbing at the back of his head. 

You're staring at him as he opens the door. 

He puts the baby bag in your lap and shoves the key in the ignition, trying not to buckle under the weight of your gaze. He cracks quicker than he should, hand paused in its action.

"What?" 

"You tryna give yourself a concussion?" 

"Kiss it better?" 

You kiss the tip of your finger and touch it to his head. It's an instant healing potion. 

Getting you both home is easy enough, it's the trying to leave that's hard. You collapse heavily into the couch, Junie drapes herself over your lap and begs for her clothes to be taken off. Your second wind has worn away to nothing, leaving you plainly exhausted. 

Eddie can't go home, not until he knows you're alright. 

He slinks into your bedroom and tries not to look around too much. It feels like an invasion of privacy despite having made it in here a couple of times, always with his hip to the door as you search for something. He fails spectacularly and straight away, always hungry to know more about you. These days especially. 

Your bed looks like you shook out the duvet but never tucked the corners. Your pillow's on the floor, your thin throw blanket is screwed up in a ball. There's a bunch of Junie's stuffies against the headboard. He grins at their straight backs.

He makes for your wardrobe, a cheap bit of cherry wood with one sagging door. As much as he wants to outfit Junie in her goodwill band t-shirt, he pulls a soft pair of cotton pyjamas out from a neatly folded stack, thumbing the blue fabric fondly. There's a noticeable disparity between her clothes and yours. One work skirt and one work shirt hang from two lonely hangers, accompanied only by your infamous 'best jeans'. He frowns at a small stain at the knee and scratches it fruitlessly. Not her best jeans, he thinks in horror, picturing your unhappy face. He can see it so clearly, the pinching of your brows.

Junie squeals happily from the living room. Eddie remembers himself and follows the sound, finding you both on the ground. You're kneeling, blowing raspberries into Junie's naked stomach where she lays on her changing mat, a discarded diaper and her dirty clothes to the side. 

There's a big break between raspberries where your eyes drift shut sluggishly. Junie whines for another.

Eddie sits next to you. Stupidly close, his crossed leg kisses your thigh. He could wrap you up in a hug easily right here, and he wants to. Your tired face has his stomach aching with guilt. 

"Sweetheart," he says to you firmly, "get back on the couch. You look like you're gonna fall asleep right here." 

You don't argue, leaving Eddie the impossible duty of dressing your baby. Junie hates the shirt more than he can describe, loathes the fabric as it covers her face. He has to pick her up to get her into her pants, another fury. She forgives him easily once he's done, lingering by his side with Mr. Bear in hand. She pinches his back and imitates Eddie's low growl, laughing at herself as she does. She finds it very funny. Eddie can't help giggling with her. 

"Eddie?" you ask. 

He turns. You look miserable. 

"What?" he asks softly, startled by your intense expression. 

"Thank you." 

"Oh, baby," he says, loud and brash as he twists where he is to grab both of your knees. He practically throws himself at you, at your feet, ducking his cheek to your leg. "You really are sick as a dog." 

You look visibly embarrassed.

"Listen," he says, insistent, "If we start saying thank you to each other, we won't stop. We'll be a loop of thank yous." 

"I think I have more to say than you do," you murmur. 

He shakes his head, exasperated at your inability to see him for what he is even now. It's funny. Eddie thinks you've a better view of him than anybody else, that you see him more generously than anyone has ever seen him, and you still haven't noticed he's a boy in love. 

You must feel his grin as he kisses your knee, his thumb stroking over the ridge of the cap. 

"If I started to say thanks for all the things you've given me I wouldn't stop. I'd talk myself hoarse," Eddie argues. 

You laugh at his dungeon master dramatics, but reaffirm, "I haven't given you anything." 

"You don't know what you've given me," he says into your leg. 

Eddie lifts his head, weary of his chin digging into your leg. 

Now isn't the best time to declare devotion, or drop kisses into you when you can't offer any in return. Not that he's expecting you to. Not that he wouldn't receive them gratefully. 

"I should go home." 

You reach for him. Your hand moves slowly like you've a weight around your wrist, but your fingertips curve over his cheek; you move from the corner of his lip, under his eye, and then finish your circle at the skin beneath his ear. 

"Can you hug me?" you ask. 

"Yeah," Eddie says. He doesn't waste any time.

He gets up, slides a knee between your knees and rests his full weight on the couch between them as his arms curve around you and his hands feel for the dip of your lower back. He clutches without any hesitation. 

"Can I? Did you mean it like that? My arms work fine." 

You curl your arms around him and groan. "You're gonna crush me." 

"Really?" He pulls you closer. "How 'bout now?" 

"Ow," you whine. 

He laughs and pushes his face toward your ear. "Liar," he whispers. "No way that hurts." 

"Why's everybody always on top of me?" 

"That's your issue?" He pulls back. "You want to sit in my lap?" 

"No!" 

"Aw, my poor girl. You totally wanna sit in my lap. Alright, get in it." 

He sits down beside you and waits, one arm still behind your back. He gives you an encouraging tug. 

"I'm not sitting in your lap." 

"I didn't think you would, just- Just c'mere," he prompts, pulling your face into his chest. 

Your arms slide around his waist. He can feel the scratchy skin on your left index finger, a scar of a recent kitchen accident, against his hip where his shirt has ridden. 

"You're really handsy. Has anyone told you that before?" Eddie asks, trying to cover the entirety of your back with his arms alone. 

You push your face as far as it'll go into his chest. Eddie keeps you there, and soon a little body has found its way onto the couch next to you both, demanding to be included. Eddie quickly drags her in. 

Long minutes of quiet hugs. 

"Wish we could stay like this forever," you murmur.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere. If you were worried." 

He massages over the slope of your shoulder, a tight looking muscle. You sigh inaudibly, a hot patch over his heart. 

"I wasn't," you say. 

Eddie thinks you might finally be on the same page. 

-

You get really, really sick. 

"On my days off!" you croak, the injustice too much to handle. 

Eddie laughs from the end of your bed, a bandana tied around his face like a doctor from one of his awful horror movies, though the bandana is far from a clinical white. "That's exactly why you're still sick. Your body sensed the weekend." 

Hadn't it? You'd been achy and awful on Friday and Benny had sent you home at lunch, citing a need to keep his patrons from infection. Which sucked, because you'd really wanted to stick around for the very beginning of the Friday night rush and get some payday tips. People are generous when they're high on the buzz of a forthcoming weekend, especially to over obsequious waitresses.

It had sucked worse when Junie came out of daycare in the best mood ever and demanded kisses. You'd had a headache the size of a tennis ball behind your eyes and didn't want to pass anything over, and the crushed look on her face had made you cry in the car on the way home. 

Eddie dropped in particularly early that night with soup. "I had a feeling," he'd said. 

And now here he is again the day after. 

"At least one of us is enjoying this," you say. 

"You think I'm enjoying this?" Eddie asks. 

You give his precautionary outfit a once over. "Yes." 

"This is just something I had lying around." 

"Shut up! Shut up, no it wasn't!" You're voice cracks, giggly and giddy even with the spikes of pain to your tender head. 

"It was. We did a campaign, I was a plague doctor-" 

"That is in terrible taste." 

"It was perfectly appropriate, thank you very much. You're determined to vilify me. Need to slow down with the cold medicine, I think." 

You shriek as he tries to take the bottle. "No! No, please, my throat hurts." 

He takes the bottle. It is a hurtful defeat. You curl your fingers around nothing and sulk, slouching down into a sanctuary of pillows and blankets to hide from him. Extra pillows provided by Eddie. With fresh covers, duh. They smell like him anyway. You turn your nose into it indulgently. 

"You've had too much to safely be responsible for any further consumption." 

"Further consumption," you echo, eyes closing in defeat as he leaves. 

"You okay, June?" you hear him ask, voice occluded partially by the sound of the TV. 

"Okay, Eddie?" she asks. 

You grin to yourself. 

"I'm great. This looks very fun. I'm gonna make mom a cold pack for her head and then you can help me make dinner, okay? Does that sound fun? Tell me, June." 

The 'Tell me, June,' isn't a command so much as a gentle reminder that she can answer the question if she wants to. 

"Fun," she says.  

"Hey, great. Oh, thank you. Thank you." 

They better not be cuddling without me, you think bitterly, grin swiftly replaced by a self-pitying frown. 

You cough into your hand, roil in your own misery for a second and then grab the big glass of water Eddie had insisted on from the night stand. You tip it down yourself in your hurry. 

"Missed your mouth," Eddie says, appearing at exactly the wrong moment. 

"Don't baby me." 

He pads into the room with a cold pack wrapped in a hand towel. "For your head." 

"This is silly. I don't need to be in bed."

"Obviously you do. You're sick, did you notice? Stupid question," he adds regretfully, gesturing for you to lie back. He sets the pack to your forehead. "You wouldn't notice a hole in your stomach. You'd be dripping entrails in the freezer aisle wondering if Junie wants corn on the cob or mashed potato with dinner tonight." 

"What does she want for dinner tonight?" 

"Boo! Exactly my point." 

"I'm gonna go ask her-" 

Eddie puts an unapologetic hand in the middle of your chest and pushes down. "You will do no such thing." He lowers his face to yours. "I'm willing to get physical. So behave." 

You flush with heat because you're sick and not because he says it a certain way, dropping back down into your fluffed pillows without another word. 

Eddie's hand climbs up to your collar, your neck. His fingers slide one after another behind it. It's a blessed cold. You can't find a comfortable temperature today, moving between chills and hot flashes at the drop of a hat.

Or a bandana. Eddie unties the dark fabric from his neck and leaves it where it lands, staring at you without saying anything. 

His thumb presses into your sore throat carefully, the barest hint of pressure, and his lips part. He doesn't say anything for a while. It looks like he wants to. 

"Do me a favour?" he asks finally.

"Of course." Anything to feel useful right now. 

"Take it easy." He again lowers his head, talking to you with a private smile. "The sooner you chill out, the sooner you'll beat this thing." 

"Don't say that. Like I have something serious." 

"The sooner you'll beat this moderate-" 

"Mild-" 

"-affliction." He strokes quarter-circles into your neck.

"I don't need to lie down. There's things I have to do." 

"On a Saturday?" 

"Yes. There's things I need to do everyday." You clear your throat. It's useless, the lump remains and your voice stays scratchy. "I have- I always have laundry. So that first. Gotta wash it and put it out and bring it in and press it. I gotta make sure Junie has lunch for daycare this week 'n if she doesn't I have to go get it, I gotta," — you cover his hand with your own thoughtlessly — "make sure her rash is getting better. And I promised we'd do a tea party tomorrow, I have to make sandwiches!" 

"We both know she doesn't remember the tea party." 

"I promised." 

"And if I… If I tried to get all those things done, would you stay in bed?" 

"You can't." 

"But if I tried it? I can do laundry. I'm good at it. Get oil stains out of Wayne's coveralls every Sunday." 

You slump into a lump of sadness and achy arms. "Don't do my laundry. Don't do any of that stuff. I'll punch you if you do." 

Eddie bursts into laughter. "You'll punch me? You horrible woman." 

"I will," you promise, fingers curling around his arm to hold him in place. 

"Why don't I believe you?" 

"I don't know. 'Cos you're a know-it-all who dislikes me." 

"I far from dislike you." He grins at you, all dimpled and pretty. "I don't believe you'd hit me because I know you, idiot." 

"Name-calling." 

"Uh-huh. Are you sleeping or am I helping you out onto the couch?" 

While you're happy for the compromise, you have one problem. "I don't think I can move." 

Eddie lets his face fall amicably to your collar. "No, I bet you can't. More reason for me to get you on the couch. I think you've genuinely had too much cough syrup," he worries, warm breath fanning over your skin. 

You bring your spare hand to his head. He has so many curls. 

He lifts his head and you're close enough to kiss. There's no other reason anyone has ever been this close. 

"I can see your beauty mark," you say, hushed. You don't wanna breathe on him too much. 

"Freckle." 

"Your freckle." You lift and drop his curls, fingers toying through the softness towards his roots, the frizz at the ends. 

"You- You smell like fucking cherry syrup."

You abandon his hair to clap a hand over your mouth. "I'm sorry." 

He covers his own mouth. "It's okay," he says, similarly muffled. "I like the sweet stuff." 

What the fuck does that mean? Your stomach doesn't flip — it leaps right up into your throat. "You're an idiot," you breathe, caught off guard. 

"What was that?" he asks, taking away his hand. "Didn't catch it." 

"I said, 'You're an-" 

"Amazing friend and confidante?" 

You try to talk and he says, "A real stand-up guy?" 

You try again and he says, "A total rockstar? Baby, if you really think all this you should've said." 

You flop completely onto your back, away from his hands, his jokes and his lovely brown eyes where they bore into your own. Eddie hums and rubs brashly over the top of your arm until the skin glows with heat. 

"Please stay in bed," Eddie says as he stands. 

Medicine or his touch, you're feeling pretty tired. You pull up your blankets and sink like a stone, head disappearing into a mess of pillows and throws. 

-

It's much later when you wake. You move into the land of the living abrupt as whiplash. 

Eddie seems very sorry. "Sweetheart, June's past due for a new diaper, and I-" 

"Oh, right," you say, sounding much more alert than you feel. You're a girl made of sandpaper. 

"I would've, I mean. If it wouldn't make you uncomfortable, I would've tried. But I've never changed a diaper in my life." 

You scratch your flaky eyes, disorientated and head like a boiling saucepan with the lid glued on. 

"That's okay," you say. Your voice refuses to cooperate with you, gruff and too quiet. "It wouldn't bother me, but it's also not your job, so… Um." You yawn wide and cover your entire face. 

You spend a minute rubbing your eyes. 

"Fuck, what time's it?" you ask, squinting at him and bringing your hands to either side of your face.

"Like, seven. Ish." 

"Eddie…" 

"I know. I thought you could use the rest. I knew you could. And it's not urgent, you know? Come around, first. Everything's stellar." 

You peel back the sheets. You're a clammy, too-hot mess with weak legs. 

Eddie sees you wobble and rushes to wrap an arm around your waist. Completely unnecessarily, heart-achingly kind. You wince at the dampness of your shirt under his touch.

Junie sits on the couch in her jammies with a yellow-green soup stain down the front. She's propped up like a princess, a pillow behind her head between the armrest and her blanket covering her legs, cheek pressed to the cushions. Eyes trained on the TV and her bottle propped in a slackening grip, your baby is peaceful, near luxurious. 

Only a little wiggle might suggest she's uncomfortable.

You part from Eddie's side and sit down beside her, the seat warm. She doesn't even look up. 

"What, no hi for mom?" you ask tenderly, hand falling to the top of her head. She's lovely. 

She gasps, little lungs fit to burst. It's pure excitement, her bottle dislodged and the blanket pushed away immediately. She doesn't bother getting to her feet, throwing herself into your lap and assuming you'll do the rest. Of course you will. You pull her up and kiss the top of her head, though you quickly hold her at arm's length. 

"Sorry, mommy's still sick," you tell her, sympathetic at her crushed expression. 

"Mis'd," she says. 

"Yeah? You missed me?" you ask hopefully. 

Her lips part in comprehension. "Missed you," she confirms. 

You throw your gaze over your shoulder to Eddie. He stands by Junie's changing station with a smug smile. "What?" 

"You're not very convincing." 

"I'm not trying to convince you, thanks," he says, holding up two hands in surrender. 

"She didn't learn that herself," you argue. 

"She might've. You tell her enough." 

You go back to your girl, pleased at her own smug smile. "I missed you, too, I missed you so much. Missed you millions. Sorry I've been sleeping all day, you've been such a good girl. She has, hasn't she?"

Eddie sorts through a nearly empty bag of diapers and brandishes one with fish printed on the back. "Oh, yeah. Junebug's been amazing. She came in with me to see you earlier, took your temperature." You frown. "From a distance. Kind of. I held her above you. It was… acrobatic." 

You close your eyes at his absurdity, your laugh prompting another spike of pain. 

Junie forces herself closer and gets both arms around your neck. 

You sag into the contact, defeated. "Aw, June," you mumble ruefully. "M'trying to make sure you don't get sick too. Wasting my time." 

"Mommy," she says into your neck. 

"That's me." 

You know she has something she wants to say. You can't wait for the days where she can. Exciting, to think that one day she'll be able to share all of her thoughts. 

Right now, she's probably thinking, Woah, mom, you smell weird. And you look weirder.

You feel her back with your hand and cringe. Definitely time to get her changed.

Afterward, you sit with your back to the open front door on one of the porch steps. Physical exertion of any kind seems to be inadvisable; you're sweating up a storm. Junie sits beside you at her own insistence, her hand clasped in your hand and her head on your arm. You look down at her thighs next to your own and marvel at their small size. The evening breeze is a blessing. 

Eddie stands in front of you with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a checklist. 

"Tea party sandwiches are badly made and saran wrapped in the fridge. Junie doesn't have lunch for Monday but I can go tomorrow if you want me to. Her clothes are folded in the hamper. Uh, some stuff got left out, you might need to press them. Not tonight though, please." 

"Thank you." 

He talks around a smile. "Soup's on the stove. I'll come back later, if-" 

"You don't have to." 

"I want to. I wouldn't actually leave, but-" 

"Eddie-" You cough into your shoulder. He waits for you to finish. "You- You didn't have to take care of me." 

"What does that mean? Of course I did." 

He hikes his backpack higher up his shoulder and pads back up the steps, not all of them but enough for him to lean down and stare at Junie. 

"Thanks for the best day ever," he says seriously, looking out of the corner of his eye at you. "Almost. See you later?" 

Junie nods voraciously and reaches up with her empty hand. Eddie takes it and kisses her temple. He does the same to you, lips brushing soft as downy-feather over your skin. 

"I'll come back around ten? Is that cool?" 

"Don't knock too loudly," you mumble, very aware of his proximity. 

He backs up and bows like an idiot, hand moving in circles. 

You and Junie wave him off. 

"To work?" Junie asks.  

Your eyebrows jump as you pull your gaze from his retreating figure. "Huh?" 

"To work?" 

You play with her fingers. "No, he's not going to work. He's going to take care of someone else, now." 

Wayne, Eddie said, in a fondly exasperated tone that explained everything you needed to know. His uncle's self-preservation must come in similar disinterest to himself as yours does to you. 

"We'll see him tomorrow," you say. It's not even a lie, you will both see him tomorrow. 

But apparently he's coming back tonight. 

-

True to his word, Eddie Munson knocks your door carefully at nearing ten o'clock. 

Wayne's dismissal chases his heels. He'd spent an hour worrying about you at the dinner table with his uncle, fingers curling anxiously in his hair. 

Wayne had been talking about some gab the boys in the shop had heard about killer mice or killer lice or something when he'd suddenly cleared his throat and snapped Eddie to attention. 

"You're a good kid. Notice how I said good, and not smart," Wayne had said. 

"Gee, thanks. You always did know how to make a guy feel loved, Wayne." 

"You don't wanna be here." 

Eddie had frowned. "Obviously I do." 

"Kid, what I mean is, you gotta," — he'd nodded his head hard to one side and raised his eyebrows — "you know." 

"Haven't brushed up on my mysterious gestures lately. Translate that one for me?" 

Wayne had flicked up his newspaper and sighed. "Don't be dumb." 

"You keep saying that." 

"You keep being dumb, boy." 

"I don't know what you want me to do." 

"Think you better go look after your girl, don't you?" Wayne had asked finally, clearing his throat. 

So here he is to look after you. A tad early, worried you'll be sleeping on the couch with a misbehaving baby in your lap or passed out in the bathroom after an impromptu cleaning. 

Thankfully, you open the door in different clothes than he'd left you in, the neckline dark with run-off and face damp under your eyes and by your ears. You dab at your tacky skin with your index knuckle. 

"You look better," he says. He wishes he could take it back instantly, though you don't take any offence. 

"Hot shower," you explain. 

You step back to let him in. Eddie closes the door behind him without turning, eyes glued to your fresh face. He's depressed by the lingering fatigue he finds lining your darling features. 

"You okay?" you ask him, perturbed by his silence. 

Eddie's better than okay. 

He steps close. You look like you might step back, make room for him he doesn't want, so he reaches out for your face and holds it in one hand, the other landing in tandem on your arm.

Your cheek lists into his hand as he wipes away what's left of the dampness on your face. He's not sure you know you're doing it. 

"Did you take any more medicine?" he asks quietly, rubbing under your eye carefully with the tip of his thumb.

"No, I- I think you fixed me, Munson. Me and Junie had your soup, and after a shower I felt way better. It was really nice. She slept easy." 

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. "You don't feel too hot." 

"Like I said. Fixed me. My hero." 

He looks over your shoulder at your life — at his life, or at least where a majority of it seems to take place. All his favourite parts these days happen right there on your couch, or at that table, or knee to knee with a baby that isn't his but- but-

"You said that to me the first time we met," Eddie recalls, shaking his head. It's like there's water in his ears. A few strands of hair drift into his eyes. 

You catch his elbows in both hands. "It feels like a really long time ago now." 

Months. Only months. "I feel like I've known you for years."

He strokes over your face, chin to cheek, the tip of his thumb pressed to the corner of your mouth. 

"That's how I feel, too," you whisper. Utter. Hushed, your words ring loud anyway. "You're my best friend." 

Eddie doesn't take it for a door closing because it isn't. It's a door kicked wide open. Split on its hinges. You and Eddie stand on equal ground, and, for once, the same page.

"You know I don't mind taking care of you?" he asks, hand passing over your ear to hide behind it. He wants to see all of your face. 

Predictably, you drop your eyes to his neck, pupils wobbling as you search for somewhere to plant yourself. "I know. I'm not sure I deserve it." 

"Why wouldn't you deserve it? Everyone deserves taking care of." 

"Even murderers?" 

"Maybe not murderers-" 

"The evil guys from your game? Necromancers?" 

"They're not all evil." His left palm skirts up the curve of your neck, encouraging your face back to his. "Don't change the subject." 

You press your lips together, caught.

"I actually…" — he gathers as much bravery as he has — "want to take care of you." 

"You do." 

He holds your face in both hands. "You know you- You know you started it, right? You know it's- that without your-" He cringes internally at his stammering, but he has to get this part right. "You have gold where your heart should be." 

"Y/N The Golden Hearted. Doesn't have the best ring to it," you muse, hands clinging to the crooks of his elbows like twin pooled teardrops waiting to fall. 

Eddie stares at you, floored.

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" he asks. 

"What's your name?" you demand, grinning. 

"Eddie the Subtle. Munson the Mad."  

You huff a laugh. "That's a cop-out."

"Maybe." 

"How about…" The air feels thick as jelly. Light from under the bedroom door stops short of your legs, your toes almost touching. His rubber soles, your socks. "Eddie the Indomitable?" 

He crinkles his nose. "I'd almost think you were trying to flirt with me, that's how bad that is." 

Your blinks are slow. Your eyes soften. 

"What if I was?" you ask. 

A stock-still silence pervades, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the droning of the bathroom light, left on. He could tell you the contents of this room by its sounds alone. 

His hand moves of its own accord, up and down the slope of your neck. "I'd say you needed a better pick up line."

"Like what?" you ask, chest rising too fast. 

Eddie takes a step and feels his jacket zipper cut into the cotton of your shirt. It's your matching band t-shirt. 

Eddie drags his gaze slowly to your widened eyes, your lashes as they move almost imperceptibly upward. Taking him in as he inches closer. 

"You're so fucking pretty," he says. 

He leans in. He closes the gap. Eddie Munson takes the leap. 

Your hand comes quickly to his upper arm and you turn your face just enough to force his lips, his kiss landing a centimetre shy of your nose. 

He struggles to keep his eyes closed. His heart thrums like a blown amp. 

"You can't kiss me," you say. Eddie struggles to discern your tone. 

His nose presses to yours. Not desperately, but almost. "I can't?" he asks, throat thick with emotion, a stickying, cloying taffy. 

"I'll make you sick." 

He turns your face with his palm, lips hovering above yours, a hair's width. Close enough to feel their heat. 

"Can I trust you'll nurse me back to health, in the event that that happens?" Would you take care of me? His hands tremble where they're touching you. He's too scared to open his eyes. 

You don't answer. 

You cover his hands and the seconds stretch endlessly, a thousand moments of terror and pining and want suddenly flattened into one as you kiss him.

He exhales against you. His relief is a palpable, viscous thing as he pulls you in and his nose digs into yours. Lips soft as he'd imagined, as he'd known they'd be, you kiss back tentatively. Sweetly.

You're kissing him like he's something that needs a careful touch. 

Eddie screws his eyes shut tight enough to see stars, firecrackers, a shattering bouquet of colours as you move beneath him. He can't believe he's kissing you. He can't believe there was a time where he wasn't.

He yields, leaning back just enough to see your face. You keep your eyes shut, your eyelashes kissing the delicate skin beneath. They move like blades of grass in the breeze as Eddie tries to catch his breath, regaining some of his composure. It's hard while he's here, this close. 

You make a small sound, a breath like a barb. The shaky demarcation of tears. 

"Okay?" he asks, more movement than sound. His lips skip over your own. 

You have to feel it. 

A laugh bubbles up through your parted lips like a hiccup. "I'm definitely gonna make you sick," you mumble regretfully. 

"Make me sick, sweetheart," he says, begs. Whatever. 

Whatever word you want to use. He doesn't care if he pays for it afterwards, he wants to be close to you now, unapologetically close. And kissing you — kissing you like this, your reciprocation, it's everything because it means you feel the same as he does. 

Or a fraction the same. He's reassured either way. If you felt a fraction of what he felt, that's enough. 

It's a lot. To be touching you, finally. He grabs at the nape of your neck and kisses, kisses, kisses. He goes slowly, not quite sweetly. He's never been as sweet as you have, never as soft or patient.

It doesn't feel like it matters. 

You pull his hands from your face, press his and your own, all four hands to the collar of your shirt. 

"It wasn't just a, uh, pick up line, was it?" you ask breathlessly. 

"Wh- No." Eddie massages the back of your hands. "No, you're the fucking prettiest girl ever. I think you're aces. Killer. Everything." 

"Everything," you say, an almost indecipherable glassiness to your eyes. 

"Everything," he says. He spreads his hand over your heart. 

You don't throw yourself at him, but you move alarmingly quickly. Arms over his shoulders, hands crossed and buried in his hair. Your laugh is magic, a bright and exuberant sound loud in his ear and then the skin underneath. He's barely got an arm around the small of your back when you start to kiss him, repetitive, chaste pecks over his pulse. It capers under your lips. 

"I don't know what kind of girl you think I am-" He begins deadpan and breaks abruptly, your second wave of laughter impossible to ignore. 

Your arms tighten at his laughing, palm cupping the back of his head. 

"You're my best friend, too," he says. "But you knew that." 

"Maybe," you murmur, your smile wide against his skin. You're uncharacteristically mischievous. 

He lets his back bend under your weight until your heels lift and you're scrabbling to stay on your own two feet and is rewarded by your shrieking laughter. 

Oh, god, he thinks, ecstatic. 

"Wait," you say, bargaining for freedom as he squeezes you hard enough to make you laugh again, and again, "wait, wait! Wait, let go. I have something to tell you." 

Eddie sets you down. He's reluctant to let you go, almost desperate to hug you now that he knows he can, but his curiosity gets the better of him. What could you have to tell him now that isn't confessional? It's like being promised something good. 

You stand sure and sweet in front of him.

"It's…" You look shyly at his lips. 

"What?" 

"I…" 

He shakes his head gently from side to side. "What? Tell me." 

"Nothing," you say, beaming. Act dropped, you take his face into both hands and kiss him soundly. 

Eddie's barely got his hands on you before you're pulling back. 

"Just wanted to do that," you say. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you for reading! | my masterlist | this fic is multi-chapter 

if you enjoyed (i I really hope you did), please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

[inkskinned]

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

[gummyfang]

♡♡♡ |   ˗ˏˋ FULL GEAR WORKOUT  ´ˎ˗

➳　【 K ö n i g　ｘ　Ｒｅａｄｅｒ 】

❧ Warnings: 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰, 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛 / 𝐠𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯, 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: man idk what this is i needed to get my gear kink out of my system lmao. konig fucks u in full gear that’s all. this is a mess. sorry no capital letters in this one my wrist hurts and pressing shift hurts womp womp :(

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ♡

“fuck, oooh scheiße, i can’t...” könig’s guttural babbling slowly died down in his throat as he groaned loudly, hips smacking against your pelvis with a noisy squelch. your back arches off the freshly cleaned bedsheets as his cock pistoned into your spongy cunt deliciously, but his gloved hands kept you from twisting away from him. this had all started as a joke. an offhand remark. as you’d dropped by könig’s barracks only to find him suited up in full combat gear, earning a look from you. he just explained it was for training purposes. his body had to stay used to the gear, as he had no time to grow comfortably accustomed to the weight and heat out in the field every time.  clearly, he’d taken your joke about him fucking you raw in it for practice very seriously. your legs wrapped around his hips clumsily as könig continued to pound into you, the fabric of his combat cargo trousers causing your legs to slip down a little. although you were convinced könig was completely lost in the feeling of being enveloped by the feeling of your warmth sucking in his dick further with each thrust, you felt his gaze move down to look at you. his gray eyes were sultry and pooling with lust from beneath his sniper hood, his gaze just barely meeting yours through the holes in the cloth. “you need some help?” he laughed breathily. before you could groan out a response, könig moved his leathery grip from your wrists. you whined as the comforting pressure of his tactical vest left your abdomen. however, your whines quickly turned to loud moans as könig hoists your leg over his shoulder and starts thrusting his cock into you at a heightened angle. ohhh fuck. your head twisted itself back into the pillow, mouth agape as you watched your boyfriend fuck you. the glinster in his eyes told you he was thoroughly enjoying seeing you like this. “i should fuck you like this more often, engel. you look gorgeous.” könig growled. while his muscular right arm locked your leg in place over his shoulder, his other hand started exploring your body, fingers grazing over your clit. könig groaned deeply, his hips stuttering a little as his finger traced your bare skin. his cock twitched inside you, the sight of your naked body at the mercy of his fully clothed one seemed to do something to him he had never realized he loved. he pulled out of your cunt suddenly, a string of slick still attaching you to his erect cock. without any effort, he grabbed your hips and rolled you over onto your stomach, before reentering you from behind. you cried out as he picked up his pace brutally. könig’s eyes flashed with caution as he instinctively leaned over, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pushing your face into the pillow. “careful, now, engel. someone might hear us.” he growled, followed by a soft whimper. he wasn’t going to last much longer. your eyes rolled back into your skull as you felt the hard, icy metal of the canisters and tubes of his vest press into your back. it was painful, but it hurt so good. something about that sensation sent you over the edge. “könig!” you cried his name into the pillow as your body spasmed, your puffy walls tightening around his cock deliciously as you came. könig groaned loudly as his body lurched forward at the sensation, feeling his gear press you into the bed even further. his hips stuttered as he moaned into your ear deliciously, before his cock spurted hot ropes of cum deep inside you. slowly, könig fucked himself out into you, before his hips finally came to a halt. you felt the draping fabric of his sniper hood brush against the back of your neck, damp with his sweat and breath. you felt his hand gently pat your hip twice before he pulled out, chuckling softly. “i think i just found my new favorite workout routine.”

[enwoso]

if you still need inspo, grumpy when the lionesses won the euros?

WINNER, WINNER! — alessia russo x child!reader

was gonna post this on monday to get over sunday nights hurt but for some reason i didn’t? dunno if i really like this but one but it’s cute ig.

also im getting through my requests slowly but surely just as a heads up for anyone who may have requested something and it hasn’t been posted yet, i promise its in the works🙃

grumpy masterlist

"look tiny! there's mummy!" gio pointed out to the sideline where sure enough alessia was warming up, just about to be subbed into the match with her best friend ella around 55 minutes into the match.

you waving to her very enthusiastically, a wide grin on your face as alessia waved back as she had a similar smile on her face, blowing you a quick kiss before taking off her sub bib and taking her coat off readying herself to take the pitch.

you were sat just a little behind the dugout, it was the first time you were this close to the pitch, usually being up in a box where the players on the pitch would look incredibly small from up where you'd usually sit in wembley.

but nevertheless you were sitting proudly with your england shirt on russo on the back in big capital letters with of course non other than the number 23 splayed on your back. ear defenders sitting tightly on your head, keeping out the loud crowds which were chanting along.

allowing you to enjoy the match without getting upset that your ears were hurting from the loud screams. you didn't have the vaguest clue of what was going on, but you were happy to be surrounded by your family and especially watching your mummy play football. that was the most important thing and one of if not your favourite thing to watch.

the game carried on and you carried on chanting when you saw your uncles chant as well as cheering when you needed to.

until it happened.

the stadium erupted, the screams and cheers were so loud that some of the noise actually made its way through your ear defenders. all you could hear was your uncles and your grandparents screaming that they'd won.

you didn't know what they'd won, but you were happy nevertheless. maybe they'd won a chocolate bar, and then maybe mummy would be able to share some with you, in your mind that would be pretty cool if that was what happened cause whenever you did something good or won a small game at your football team mummy would get you a small chocolate bar for afterwards.

your mummy claiming it was a way to add some energy back into your body after running around for so long, you didn’t care the importance of it, you were getting a chocolate bar and that’s all that mattered.

but instead after the whistle blew, the girls didn't win a big chocolate bar as instead there was a stage being wheeled onto the middle of the pitch.

"what that for?" you asked pointing to the people who were bringing the stage up onto the pitch for the award ceremony.

"so that the girls and your mummy can get their medals!" luca beamed, as you sat confused now. "so they don't win any chocolate?" you asked innocently playing with the match program in your hand, a laugh coming from both luca and gio.

a frown appearing on your face, one for mummy not winning any chocolate but two for the fact your uncles were laughing and hadn't included you in the joke.

"tiny, they don't win chocolate. they'll get a shiny gold medal" gio says in between laughs at your cuteness, you pulling a face at the sound of a gold medal.

"dat sounds boring." you pulled an unamused look as gio and luca then try to explain to you the importance of the win today, but really it just flew in one ear and out the other as you caught the eye line of ella and georgia sending them a big wave and a grin, the two girls sending you an equally enthusiastic wave and grin.

"can i see mummy now?" you turned to your nonna who knew you were sitting on, the girls lining up to get their medals. waiting in the german team to finish up getting there's.

"she'll be over once they've done this part, i promise" carol smiled at you as you nodded, your nonna never broke a promise to you so your turned your attention back to the pitch. as you waited patiently, watching each girl go up onto the stage and shake the line of hands of people that apparently were very important before the medal was placed around their necks.

and your nonna stuck to her promise, as soon as the trophy was lifted and the fireworks and confetti came shooting into the air as well as the photos had been took with the trophy. alessia was jogging over, medal around her neck in your direction.

"mummy!" you cheered as she reached the barrier, hugging her brothers and parents before your basically jumped into her arms.

"look!" mummy showed you her medal and it was just like the one your uncles had just been describing to you, shiny and gold with a purple ribbon. you giggling at yourself and the funny faces which you could see of yourself in the medal.

"see it's not so boring is it!" gio pointed out as you shook you head still making funny faces which were all distorted in the shininess of the medal.

"do you want to wear it?" your mummy asked, one hand on the purple hand that was around her neck as you nodded, alessia quickly taking the medal off and placing the heavy medal around your neck.

a big smile appearing on your face as you were still surrounded by your family. "oh let me take a photo!" carol got out quickly, getting her phone from her pocket and taking a few photos of your mummy and you with the medal.

you sat in your mummy's arms as she spoke to carol, telling her that you would see them soon as mummy walked to into the center of the pitch where all the confetti was and the rest of the team.

"mummy?"

"yes baby" she smiled at you as you had a small look of confusion on your face, "is this what you won?" you asked holding up the medal in your hand, the gold plated medal already being bigger than your hand.

"yep, it's pretty cool isn't it" mummy said with the same smile that had not left her face all day, you nodding in agreement.

"but do you not win any chocolate cause gio said you wouldn't" you frowned a little, you thought that a big chocolate fountain would be cool, plus when you won a little tournament mummy would always buy you chocolate bar as a reward.

"oh lovie, we won a big trophy i'll show you it later. but if you want chocolate there'll be plenty at the after party i'm sure i can get you some" mummy explained as your frown turned into a small smile as you approached the other girls on the pitch.

you mood perking back up, you were getting your chocolate reward and you'd been given your mummy's cool medal so life right now was pretty cool.

"TINY!" ella yelled for you, as alessia placed you on the ground as you ran towards her.

"oo that's a cool medal you've got!" ella held up the medal inspecting it as if it wasn't the same gold medal that hung around her neck, you nodding "it's not mine, it's mummy's!" you cleared up as ella gasped in disbelief.

"your telling me that they didn't get our biggest player a medal?" ella asked her voice over exaggerated as you shook your head, the medal still hanging around your neck.

"no, but mummy said she'll get me some chocolate afterwards" you smiled, you weren't letting the chocolate be forgotten about by anyone.

"oh, well that's way better than a silly medal!" ella scoffed playfully as you nodded enthusiastically as you both began to list off your favourite chocolate.

alessia being left to do a small few interview with reporters on the pitch before going around and congratulating some of her teammates she hadn't seen after the final whistle due to running straight to where you were after the whistle.

you and ella found your own fun though, roping mary in to join as you began to have a confetti fight. ella trying to show your how to slide on your knees although you weren't the best at it as you wouldn't have the best run up and instead face plant the pitch, you confidently saying it didn't hurt - although the small red scuffs on your knees said differently.

"mummy look at me" you giggled as you were covered in silver and gold confetti. it sticking in your hair and on your cheeks.

a warm smile came from alessia as she crouched down to your height, "how has that happened?" she asked with a small laugh. she knowing exactly how it happened after watching you play with ella and mary in the confetti but never the less loved hearing your side of the story.

"me and mary were rolling around, like this!" you yelled over the loud noise that was still in the stadium, pulling your mummy over to the ground where the confetti was, you beginning to roll around just like you'd done with mary and ella a few minutes ago, the confetti sticking to your face and clothes.

"you do it mummy!" you sat up for a minute begging mummy to join you as she watched on, mummy looking unsure.

"go on less have some fun with the little one!" mary urged as she joined you in the fun of throwing and rolling around in the confetti. alessia huffing playfully before joining the two of you.

a moment alessia would cherish for the rest of her life, a moment where the camera didn't matter, a moment where she was in her own little bubble making memories with you and her friends.

a moment that would never and could never be forgotten.

[fairene]

do it for you / ln4 sneak peek

established r. lando norris x f!reader

warning ⋯ language, 18++ mentioning,minors dni.

a/n ⋯ do it for you is a recent ask that i got that absolutely transitions into the lando!dad series that i've been wanting to create. of course, all of these 'oneshots' can be read separately, but can also fall into a canonical storyline. also--- holy shit!! grace isn't dead!! yes, i know!!! i'm just as shocked as you guys are. but i can feel some groove coming back, but this probably won't be posted fully until the following week. hoping to get it to about 5-6k words before posting!

wc ⋯ 720

the morning of the dutch grand prix had you biting at the corners of your fingernails with anticipation. the summer break you had spent with lando was more than you could imagine— filled with delicious foods, sunny weather, morning swims, and of course, the sex. with more free time that lando had, he was utterly obsessed with you. he worshiped the ground you walked on, and it made you feel like more than the queen you deserved to be. 

in the paddock you stood, shifting on your feet, anxiously fiddling with your purse once your fingernails sufficed. lily joined at your side, ethereal with her effortless beauty, and she nudged you with her elbow. “you look nervous,” she gave a short laugh.

you scoffed but joined in on her antics. “do i?” you certainly did. lily raised her brows to inquire further of your apparent distress. 

relenting, you couldn’t resist her. there was no reason to— you were both practically attached at the hip. ever since oscar had been signed to mclaren, the two of you were inseparable. the famous mclaren WAGs. 

your relationship with lando had been going on for two years now. sure, you’d had some rocky slopes to climb with the schedule of his career and the development of your own; that’s the thing about relationships though, isn’t it? that no matter what hill you’d have to climb, you’d find one another on the other side. the two of you wanted to make it work, so there was no obsolete universe in which you’d never find each other. 

“he needs this, lils.” you practically sighed, finally gaining the courage to look her in the eye. she looked at you with the same softness that a mother would, or a best friend that you could count on. 

“you know he’ll do well.” oh, don’t you know it. lando, whilst on vacation, never took a moment’s worth of rest. he wanted this just as much as you did for him, a second career win. it was all that you could think about the moment you stepped off the plane before him in zandvoort. it was going to happen. you had a feeling. 

and a good one at that. 

qualifying swept by in a flash. the saturday afternoon was a clean sweep for your boyfriend in the front row. you couldn’t be more proud of him. when he was finished with his interviews and taking his leave with his half removed fireguard, you launched at him.

flinging your arms around his neck, he gripped onto your waist and thighs like his life depended on it. it did. your nose found the sweat against the column of his neck, inhaling deeply. you melted into him.

lando felt the same. with his forehead burrowing into the hair on your scalp, he let out a deep breath that he’d been holding since he got out of the car. 

“missed my sweet girl,” he breathed, the sweat and perspiration heating the hairs on your head. you sighed softly, relaxing into him as he held you tighter. 

you broke away from him, setting yourself on the ground. you stood happily in front of him, rocking on your heels and playing with the hem of the black, sponser-ridden firesuit. 

“‘m so fucking proud, lan. pole? pole on the first race back?” you were in shellshock, overjoyed disbelief. 

he raised a hand to cup your face before he’d be whisked away. the bracelet on his wrist caught your eye, one that he must’ve put on once he stepped out of the car. the friendship letter bracelet read loudly to you, it letters all capitalized. 

‘daddy’

you gripped his hand, observing the ornament. you raised a brow. 

lando let out a short laugh. “like it?” 

you flushed, staring down at the small, dainty thing. it had you shifting on your feet, ideas and fantasies running wild through your pillage of a mind. “maybe.” you hummed, stroking the beads with your index finger. 

“wore it for you.” 

the statement had you standing up straight. “really now?” lando nodded. 

and before he was whisked away, he whispered into your ear, “don’t get any ideas, baby. i know that look.” 

you were rendered speechless, and by the time you managed to open your mouth, he had already left through the door.

taglist ⋯

@landoslutmeout@basicallyric@mybluesoul1@toriiez@customsbyjcg-blog@sofs16@strengthandstay@mybluesoul1@f1fantasys@cmleitora @idgasb @amalialeclerc @laneyspaulding19 @staurdvst @oreosareara @sideboobrry11 @mortallyblueninja @fionamiller123 @2pagenumb @marvelfangirl04 @brune77e @allabouthappiness @tellybearryyyy @ringdingdingdingx @tillyt04 @danywonderland @rosebud224 @simpfortoomanymen @nataliambc @forcesensitivesoulmate @sweate-r-weathe-r @norlestappen @madszoca @milkandcookhot @fionamiller123 @16f1lc @jwiltsz @plotpal @inevesgf @theonottsbxtch

comment to be added!

[waitimcomingtoo]

Kept Me Like a Secret When I Kept You Like An Oath

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Synopsis: Tony has a strict rule against you dating, so when he finds out you and Peter have been dating behind his back, he comes up with a lie to keep you apart

Masterlist

“Hey love bug, do you know the Hulu password?” Tony asked you once you opened your door for him.

“Oh, yeah. It’s flower power boo boo foot. No spaces.” You quickly answered and tried to shut the door on your dad.

“I thought so too. But I tried that and it didn’t work.” Tony sighed and pushed your door right back open.

“Did you capitalize every first letter?”

“Yep. No dice.”

“Try “smithereens”. I think that’s the new one.” You told him and tried to shut the door again.

“I tried that too. That’s the Netflix password.” Tony shook his head, oblivious to the fact you were trying to get rid of him.

“Oh darn. I guess I don’t know it then.” You faked a laugh and tried to close your door.

“Didn’t we change it at some point to America’s ass? No spaces?” Tony asked and pushed your door back open.

“We did. But then Steve got mad so we made it “Steve’s a Virgin” for a couple weeks. Then he got more mad so we made it “smithereens”. If it’s not that anymore, then I don’t know it.”

“Huh. Then I’ll just change it to “buckysucks” and write it down.” Tony decided.

“Good plan.” You nodded quickly and prayed he’d leave.

“All right. Thanks, kiddo.”

“Bye, daddy.” You smiled sweetly and shut your door with your free hand.

Your other hand, which had been out of sight that whole conversation, was covering Peters mouth as he hid from Tony. His back was pressed against the wall beside your door and he was holding his breath to be as quiet as possible. He placed his hand over yours to keep quiet, his hand that was still covered by his Spiderman suit.

“That was a close one.” You said as you took your hand off his mouth.

“I know. But how exciting was it?” Peter grinned as he scooped you up. You shrieked in excitement before pulling Peter into a kiss. He never broke the kiss as he walked you over to your bed and laid you down on it. Just when you were getting into a groove, you heard a knock at the door. Peter flew to the ceiling and stuck to it as you sat up and smoothed your hair.

“Honey, one more thing.” Tony said as he opened your door.

“Yes daddy?” You smiled sweetly and tried to discreetly catch your breath.

“Can you send me that chicken recipe again? I want to make it for dinner tonight.”

“You mean you want our chef to make it for dinner tonight?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Precisely.”

“I’ll send it to you.” You told him and immediately sent it to get rid of him quicker.

“Are you feeling okay, pumpkin? You look a little sweaty.” Tony asked, making you gulp. Your eyes flicked to your ceiling, where Peter was hanging upside down and holding his breath.

“I’m good. Probably just coming down with something.” You laughed nervously and wiped your forehead.

“Oh no. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Thanks daddy.” You blew him a kiss as he shut the door. Once he was gone, Peter dropped down from the ceiling and landed on your bed.

“You really need to get a lock on your door.” Peter chuckled and leaned in again.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You scoffed and cupped his face to kiss him. As much as you hated hiding your relationship from your dad, the thrill of having a secret made it all that much more exciting. It had been three months of you and Peter sneaking around now and you were starting to get less careful.

A couple days later, Tony went into Peters room to talk to him about upgrading his suit. He wandered around and looked at the various things on Peters desk as he spoke until something caught his eye.

“Now this is interesting.” Tony said as he leaned over Peters desk.

“Tell me about it. That’s not even the first flock of birds to drop out of the sky this year.” Peter answered, thinking Tony was looking at the science magazine he had open on his desk.

“Actually, I meant these.” Tony said and held up a lavender pair of your underwear.

“Oh my God.” Peter gasped as all the color drained from his face.

“You know, Parker, I had you pegged for more of a boxer briefs kinda guy.” Tony chuckled and dropped the underwear back onto the desk.

“Those aren’t mine.” Peter quickly explained.

“Really? I thought Victoria Secret No Show panties would be perfect for you in your skin tight suit.” Tony teased.

“Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

“Well don’t stop doing what you’re doing on account of me. I am many things but I am not one to blicken anyones chicken.”

“Blicken - oh. Cock block. I get it.” Peter sighed in disappointment.

“So who’s the lucky lady?” Tony asked and took a seat on Peters bed.

“Oh, uh, we don’t have to talk about this. Don’t worry. May already had “the talk” with me.” Peter laughed nervously and hoped Tony would get the hint to drop it.

“I don’t mind it. You’re the closest thing I have to a son and I always thought I’d be really good at giving the sex talk.”

“You’ve always thought that?” Peter scrunched his nose.

“Let’s just talk basics so I can get out of your hair. Are you guys being safe?”

“Yes. Totally safe.” Peter assured him.

“Good. Because we don’t know how radioactive your web fluid is, if you catch my drift.”

“I wish I didn’t but I do.” Peter grimaced.

“So is it just one girl or are you running some kind of brothel in here?” Tony questioned.

“Just one girl. My girlfriend.” Peter said with a shy smile.

“Well I’ll be. You’ve taken a lover.” Tony smiled proudly and patted Peters knee.

“Yeah, I guess I have.” Peter laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh, I get it. I recognize the blush of a smitten man. I get the same blush every time I catch my reflection in a building when I pass by it. How long have you been seeing this girl?”

“Three months. But the…other stuff only started recently.”

“Good for you for waiting. I’ll have you know that Pepper and I waited. I’ll also have you know that Pepper couldn’t stand me for the first few years she knew me.”

“Yeah. She’s mentioned that.” Peter chuckled.

“Do you love her? And follow up, have you told her if you have?”

“I haven’t told her yet. But I do. I love her with all my heart.”

“Then why haven’t you told her?”

“I’m scared too. I’m scared she doesn’t love me back yet.” Peter admitted for the first time out loud.

“Peter, she’s been dating you for three months and is willing to sneak into the highly secluded Avengers tower just to bust it open for you. I think it’s safe to assume she loves you.”

“Maybe.” Peter laughed shyly and started to feel a twinge of guilt for lying to Tony about who he was dating.

“How does she get in here anyway? I’ve never seen a girl around here.” Tony realized, making Peter gulp.

“I swing her up to my window.” Peter quickly lied.

“Aw. Like Rapunzel.”

“Yeah. Exactly like Rapunzel.” Peter nodded in agreement.

“Well I’m happy for you, kid. I really am. Any girl would be lucky to be dating a man like you. And I know if my daughter ever brought home a guy like you, I’d be damn proud of her for picking a good one.” Tony said and patted Peters shoulder. Peter looked at Tony’s hand on his shoulder and felt like he could cry. It was one of the most sincere and heartfelt things Tony had ever said to Peter and it killed Peter that it happened because of a lie.

“Do you really mean that?” Peter asked quietly.

“I do. I saw greatness in you the day I met you, kiddo. And I’ve seen in everyday since.” Tony said with a fond smile.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark. That means a lot to me.” Peter answered and put his hand over Tony’s. Inside, it was absolutely killing Peter to lie to Tony’s face in that moment. His guilt doubled and he knew he had to come clean as soon as possible.

“Well now I’ve made myself uncomfortable by expressing my feelings. I’m gonna leave now before an awkward silence settles in. See you at dinner?” Tony cleared his throat awkwardly and stood up from Peter’s bed.

“See you at dinner.” Peter nodded and felt relived that Tony was leaving.

“K. Love you.” Tony said as he walked towards the door.

“I love you too.” Peter said sincerely.

“Gross.” Tony grimaced. He then winked at Peter before leaving his room. Once he was gone, Peter felt himself get emotional as tears slipped down his face. He couldn’t believe he just lied to a man who had given him so much. Peter quickly wiped his face and went to your room to settle this before it went any further.

“Hey.” You smiled when you opened your door and saw him.

“Hey. Can we talk?” Peter asked as he came in and shut the door behind him.

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. I just talked to your dad.”

“Did you tell him about us?” You worried and sat on your bed.

“No. But he found your underwear in my room.” Peter sighed as sat beside you.

“Oh no. What did you tell him?” You laughed, still not understanding the gravity of the situation.

“That I have a girlfriend.”

“Okay. Maybe this will work in our favor. It’ll be easier to sneak around if he knows you’re dating someone.” You shrugged. Peter kept his eyes on his lap and you noticed that his leg was bouncing nervously.

“What’s wrong?” You asked and placed your hand on his knee to calm him down. Peter sucked in a sharp breath before getting emotional again.

“I don’t want to sneak around anymore. I can’t keep lying to your dad like this. I can’t do it.” Peter said with watery eyes.

“Peter, we talked about this. He can’t know about us. He made it very clear that I’m not allowed to date until I’m 21.” You sighed and withdrew your hand.

“I know we talked about it. But he and I had a great conversation and I really think things will be different. He just told me he’d be proud of you if you brought home a guy like me.”

“Peter, he says that now as a hypothetical but if he knew we were actually dating, he would feel differently.”

“I cannot keep breaking his trust like this. It’s killing me to lie to him. And I don’t know what’s gonna be worse. When he finds out I’m dating you or when he finds out I lied to his face about it.” Peter got off your bed and started to pace your room in a panic.

“If he finds out about us, he’s just gonna flip out and tell us we’re too young and too dumb to date. He’ll never be okay with this.” You reminded Peter as you got off your bed. You put your hands on his shoulders to calm him down and he stopped pacing.

“I know. But what’s he gonna do? It’s not like he can force us to break up.”

“Maybe not. But he can take your suit away and kick you out of the tower. Or make FRIDAY lock you out of my room permanently. Or make sure we are never alone together. He’s Tony Stark. He had infinite resources and time on his hands. If he wants us to break up, he will find a way.”

“Then we will just find a way to be together. No matter what he does.” Peter promised as he took your hands.

“But it will never be the same. Isn’t it better to lie to him so we can be together like this for as long as possible?”

“I’m not a liar. And he knows that.” Peter shook his head decidedly and let go of your hands. You folded your arms and stared at Peter for a minute, knowing he had already made up his mind. You hated lying to your dad just as much as Peter did, but you knew it was the only way for you to remain together.

“Can you just give me a little more time? Just in case he forces us apart?” You asked quietly and took Peter’s hands again. He looked at your hands and sighed before nodding his head.

“Okay. We’ll keep it a secret for a little longer.”

“Thank you.” You smiled and cupped his face to kiss him. When you pulled away, Peter got a look on his face that you didn’t recognize.

“Was there something else?” You asked him.

“Yeah. I…” Peter began but trailed off when he lost his nerve. He wanted to tell you he loved you, but his fear stopped him once again.

“Never mind. I’ll tell you later.” Peter faked a smile.

“Okay. Tell me later.”

The next day, you left to go on a recon mission with some of the other Avengers. Peter stayed back at the tower since his powers wouldn’t be useful and spent the week listlessly lounging around as he waited for you to come back. Finally, he got an alert that the quintet had landed on the rooftop. Peter excitedly jumped off his bed and ran into the foyer to see you. When he got there, he saw Tony and some other Avengers, but no you.

“Hey. Did the mission go okay?” Peter asked as he scanned the room for you.

“For the most part. Until Y/n got hit with a missile.” Tony said causally.

“What?!” Peter shrieked. “How did that happen?”

“She stood right in front of a middle launch pad.” Steve answered like it was the most simple thing in the world.

“Yeah. It was 100% her fault.” Tony chuckled. “She’ll be okay though. She’s recovering in the medical wing.”

“I have to see her.” Peter said and tried to push past Tony.

“Slow your roll there, Parker.” Tony stopped him. “She’s got open wounds so the doctor doesn’t want any outside germs in the room with her. You can see her when she’s out in a couple days.”

“No, no, no. I need to be in there with her.” Peter started to panic and tried to go towards your room again.

“No, you do not. You can see her after.” Tony pushed Peter back again with an annoyed laugh.

“You don’t understand. I need to see her now.” Peters eyes teared up as he tried one last time to get around Tony. By this point, Tony was more than suspicious and had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“What don’t I understand? Why exactly do you need to see her so badly?” Tony questioned as he folded his arms. From the desperation in Peters voice, Tony had figured out what was going on. And from the tone in Tony’s voice, Peter figured he knew exactly what Peter was about to say. Peter stared at Tony for a minute as he went over his options in his head. He knew you didn’t want your dad to know about your relationship yet, but it might be his only chance of getting to see you while you were hurt. With the knowledge of you being hurt clouding his judgment, he made a snap decision.

“Because I love her.” Peter said quietly. Tony’s jaw locked as his suspicions were confirmed.

“Excuse me?” Tony asked in a low voice.

“Mr. Stark, I am in love with your daughter. And I need be with her. Please.” Peter pleaded in a shaking voice.

“I thought you had a girlfriend?” Tony asked as he folded his arms.

“I do. It’s her.”

“You’ve been dating my daughter behind my back for three months?”

“Yes. I have. And I know you’re going to yell and scream and throw things at me but before you do, please understand that I never wanted to lie to you. She asked me to keep our relationship a secret so I did. Because I would do anything for her. Absolutely anything.”

Tony stared at him for a long time but said nothing. Peter didn’t know this, but Tony was tallying up in his head all the times you and Peter had lied to him to keep your relationship a secret.

“Okay. You can yell at me now.” Peter said and braced himself.

“I’m not going to yell at you.”

“You’re not?”

“You didn’t tell me for three months?” Tony asked again, sadness in his voice this time.

“No. I didn’t.” Peter admitted, making Tony nod his head.

“I expected more from you.” Tony said without looking into Peters eyes.

“I know, and I’m sorry, but-“

“You will move all your stuff out by tonight.” Tony cut him off. “You will go back to living with May. Happy will call you if -and that’s a big if- I need you for a mission. Other than that, you are not affiliated with the Avengers. You are not welcome in this tower. And you are never, ever, to speak to my daughter again. Do you understand?”

“Mr. Stark, I know you’re mad but-“

“Do you understand?” Tony cut him off again by yelling. Peter felt tears come to his eyes but he nodded his head.

“Yes sir.” Peter said quietly.

“Good. Now go.” Tony said and pointed to the door. Peter noticed Tony’s finger was shaking but said nothing. He reluctantly walked towards the door and before he could open it, he heard Tony’s voice again.

“I am so disappointed in you.” Tony said, delivering the final blow. Peter quickly left the room before Tony could see him cry.

By the time you woke up, Peter was long gone. You struggled to sit up and winced when you felt the wound on your side.

“Daddy? What happened?” You asked as you rubbed your eyes.

“Hey sweetheart. Welcome back. You got absolutely wasted by a missile.” Tony said in a soft voice.

“Typical.” You sighed. “Are there any major injuries?”

“Your ear is shot but the doctor said it’s only temporary.”

“Good thing Clint taught us all ASL.” You signed to Tony.

“Yeah. Good thing.” Tony signed back. You smiled and squeezed his hand before looking around the room.

“Has anyone come by to see me?” You asked, but meant someone in particular.

“Everybody has. This is the first time your room has been empty since you got here.”

“Aw. I can’t wait to see them all.” You smiled softly when you noticed the cards and flowers in your room that the team had left.

“They can’t wait to see you.”

“Did Peter come by?” You asked, making Tony’s smile drop.

“No. He hasn’t.” Tony said quietly.

“He hasn’t?” You frowned. “Does he know what happened?”

“Well he’s been a little busy so I’m not sure he heard the news.” Tony lied to you without even thinking about it.

“Busy? With what?” You laughed skeptically and looked around for your phone to text Peter.

“Well you know how he has a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. I heard about that.” You replied without looking your dad in his eyes.

“Well the security cameras caught Peter sneaking her into the tower while we were gone. I found that a little disrespectful so I told him that if he wanted overnight guests, he’d have to bring them to his own home. He agreed and said he’d be sleeping back at his apartment with May from now on.” Tony lied to you as he said the first thing that popped into his head.

“Wait, what? You saw Peter with a girl?”

“With his girlfriend, yes.” Tony continued to lie. He knew you were Peters girlfriend, but you didn’t know he knew, so he was taking advantage.

“That isn’t possible.” You laughed uncomfortably.

“Why not?” Tony played dumb.

“Because…” You began then trailed off. You didn’t know Tony already knew about you and Peter so you were still determined to keep the secret. So as much as you wanted to tell your dad that what he was saying meant Peter was cheating on you, you had to keep quiet.

“Nothing. No reason. I’m just surprised he brought a girl here. And now he’s moving out?”

“Yep. He moved all his stuff out already. He was being weird about the whole thing. He seemed super freaked out when I told him that I knew about the girl. He even begged me not to tell you. Isn’t that strange? I don’t know why he thought you would care.” Tony shrugged as he fed you more of the lie. He watched your face crumple and knew he was hurting you but decided it was for the best.

“Yeah. Me either.” You said quietly as you fought back tears.

“Well I’ll let you get some rest, kiddo. See you in the morning.” Tony kissed your forehead before leaving your room. As soon as he was gone, you pulled your comforter over your head and cried yourself to sleep.

Tony’s plan worked and you ended up blocking Peters number before he had a chance to reach out to you. And while kicking Peter out kept the two of you apart while you recovered from your injury, Tony didn’t account for the fact that you and Peter went to the same college. Peter finally saw you again on your first day back at school and pushed people out of the way to get to you.

“There you are. I’ve been texting and calling you like crazy for the past two weeks. Why haven’t you answered me?”

You ignored Peter and continued putting your books away in your locker. Peter blinked a few times in confusion before trying again.

“Are you okay? I never even got to see you after your accident. Is everything all right with you? I was so worried.” Peter asked and rubbed your arm. You pushed his hand away and slammed your locker before walking away. Peter shook his head in confusion before running after you.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” He asked and stepped in front of you.

“What do you want Peter?” You sighed.

“What do I want? To talk to my girlfriend, maybe. I’d like to start there.” He said sarcastically.

“Oh, your girlfriend? Which one?” You asked and folded your arms.

“Huh?”

“My dad told me about the other girl. I know that’s why you moved out. Did you really think you could cheat on me in my own house and I wouldn’t find out?” You asked before walking away again. Peter looked up at the ceiling to ask the sky what the hell you were talking about before running after you. He caught up to you and placed his hands on your shoulders to stop you.

“What the hell are you even talking about? Cheat on you? With who?” Peter exclaimed.

“I don’t know her name.” You rolled your eyes. “All I know is my dad said he saw you with another girl when I was gone on the mission.”

“What?!” Peter shrieked. “That never happened. All I did when you were gone was wait for you to come back.”

“Then why did you move out?”

“Because your dad kicked me out!” Peter exclaimed before looking around for who might be listening.

“Because your dad kicked me out.” He whispered, making you roll your eyes again.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because found out about us. Or, I told him about us. But only because you were hurt and I was scared so I panicked and blurted that I…”

“That you…” You urged him to finish his sentence once he trailed off. Peter looked at you for a minute and decided that the only way to get you to understand what happened was to tell you the whole truth.

“That I love you. I told him that I loved you. That’s how he found out.” Peter admitted. Your angry expression immediately melted to one of confusion as you dropped your guard.

“You told my dad you loved me before you told me?”

“It wasn’t exactly planned.” Peter said quietly. Your face lit up in a fond smile as peters face burned bright red.

“You love me?” You asked and took peters hands.

“A whole lot, unfortunately.”

“Peter.” You gushed and wrapped your arms around his neck. He immediately hugged your back and melted into your touch after weeks of silence from you.

“Wait, I’m mad at you.” You remembered and let go of him.

“Baby girl, do you think it’s possible that your dad lied about me cheating to get you to hate me?” Peter asked slowly.

“Why would he want me to hate you?”

“Because if you hate me, you’re not gonna beg him to let us be together. It was kind of a genius move if you think about it. You didn’t know that he knew about us so he made up a story to get you to hate me. That way, he didn’t have to break us up or hear about why we should be together.”

“Damn it. He is a genius.” You whispered when you realized Peter was probably right. Peter stepped forward and cupped your face in his hands so you’d look at him.

“I didn’t cheat on you, honey. I swear. I think we both know I’m not organized or coordinated enough to pull that off.”

“You’re right. I don’t know why I believed him so easily. Maybe because he told me while I was still high on morphine.” You sighed and wrapped your arms around Peter again.

“So we’re okay?” He asked hopefully. You broke into a smile and kissed him before pulling away.

“I love you too.” You told him before kissing him again.

“Now let’s go kill my dad.” You said sweetly once you pulled away.

“Aw.” Peter smiled. “Wait, what?”

~

“I don’t think this is a good idea. He’s gonna kill me.” Peter whispered to you as you walked hand in hand to the main room of the tower.

“Probably.” You whispered back, making Peter stop in his tracks.

“What?! So why are we doing this?”

“Because it’s what’s right. He can’t get mad at us for lying to him and then turn around and do the same thing to me by lying to my face. We are in love and there is no reason we shouldn’t be together. And that’s exactly what I’m gonna tell him.” You said as you grabbed his hand to continue pulling him. When you got to the main room, you saw most of the team sitting around.

“Oh good. Everybody’s here.” You said, getting everyone’s attention. Tony’s eyes went from Peters face to your intertwined hands before he stood up.

“What’s he doing here?” Tony asked angrily and pointed to Peter. Peter looked at you in fear but you squeezed his hand to let him know it was going to be okay.

“Everyone, Peter and I have something to tell you. We are in love and in a relationship.” You announced and waited for reactions. Everyone looked at each other but no one seemed particularly interested.

“Um, congrats? Is that really something that needed to be announced?” Natasha laughed awkwardly.

“Yeah, no offense guys, but I don’t think anyone cares that you two are together.” Steve said and everyone nodded in agreement.

“Oh. Damn. Anticlimactic.” You mumbled under your breath. Tony, on the other hand, was not as nonchalant.

“Like hell you are.” Tony scoffed. “This is not happening. Not under my roof or anywhere else that I own. Which is a lot of property, by the way.”

“Dad, you can’t keep Peter and I apart. Especially not by lying to me and saying he cheated on me.”

“Yeah, I kinda can’t believe you bought that. I came up with it on the spot.” Tony dropped his anger for a second to snort.

“Oh my God.” You face palmed.

“It wasn’t fair to me. I’ve been nothing but loyal, helpful, and respectful towards you. You had no reason to kick me out and lie about me.” Peter spoke up, getting everyone’s attention.

“Uh, here’s a reason.” Tony scoffed and held up a finger. “You had sexual intercourse with my off spring. I freaking found her panties in your room next to your Lego police station!”

“Your “off spring” is my girlfriend, okay? It’s not like Y/n and I are just hooking up. We are dating and in love and it is none of your business. So I’m sorry if you don’t like that we’re together, but I’m also not sorry. Because you need to get over it. She’s an adult and she can date whoever she wants. So you can kick me out of the tower and try to keep us apart, but you’ll never be able to break us up. We love each other and we don’t care how that makes you feel.”

“Yeah.” You chimed in. “If you kick him out, I’ll just go with him. And I don’t care if you emancipate me because of it. I’d rather be poor with him than rich without him.”

“Did you just stand up to me?” Tony asked with tight eyes.

“Did you just call me poor?” Peter asked you.

“Yes?” You answered both their questions with a question.

“Wow. Things are becoming clearer. Words are being processed. Previously held opinions are being changed. Gasp! I realizing that I was…wrong?” Tony gasped and sat back down on the couch with a dumbfounded expression.

“He is unbearable sometimes.” Steve groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah, wait a minute. Tony, did you really do that? Did you really kick Peter out and lie to your kid?” Natasha asked.

“I will admit that I lied to my beloved daughter about the loyalty of her boyfriend to split them up. And that I may have slightly overreacted when I heard Peter and Y/n were an item.” Tony confessed, making everyone groan.

“Is that it? You’re just admitting to something we already know you did?” You asked and folded your arms. Peter put an arm around you to show that he supported you and judging by the looks of everyone else’s faces, they supported you too. Tony looked around the room before letting out a sigh.

“I ran so hot when I was young. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to settle down and start a family. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t think anyone would want to with me. So when your mother got pregnant, I swore I would be the most devoted and loving father I possible could be. And once your mom and I split up, I worried that I’d be your father but I wouldn’t be your dad, you know? I was so excited that you chose to live with me. I thought it would always be the two of us. Plus the 10 adults who also live with us.”

“I think we’re up to 12 now.” Sam mumbled.

“I wasn’t expecting a boyfriend.” Tony continued. “You’re still 6 in my head. You’re still my little girl. And I just didn’t know how to handle finding my little girls drawers in Peters bedroom.”

“Little girls grow up eventually.” You told him.

“I know.” Tony sighed. “But eventually is a lot different from actually.”

“Well just because you didn’t want me to grow up doesn’t excuse what you did.” You stood your ground.

“I see that now. I’m sorry that I lied to you. I did it without thinking it through and it was wrong of me.” Tony apologized and you nodded in satisfaction.

“Okay. Now Peter.” You said and pushed Peter forward.

“Excuse me?” Tony raised an eyebrow.

“What’s that now?” Peter turned to you to ask.

“Apologize to Peter.” You told him. “I wasn’t the only one you wronged.”

“She’s right. How could you kick Peter out? He’s the only one who knows the HBO Max password.” Natasha pointed out.

“It’s “fuckyfarnes”.” Peter said quietly.

“Yeah. That wasn’t cool Tony. You better apologize to him.” Steve agreed. Tony rolled his eyes to the ceiling and swung his arms like a little kid before looking at Peter.

“I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’t have kicked you out like that. It didn’t bother me as much that Y/n lied. Daughters lie to their dads. It’s human nature. But when I realized you’d been lying to me…I don’t know. I felt betrayed. You weren’t my kid lying to me. You were my friend.”

“Well I’m sorry I lied. But we wouldn’t have had to lie to you if you didn’t have a crazy rule have against Y/n dating anybody until she’s 21.” Peter defended.

“Wait, you seriously made that a rule? Did you lock her in a tower too and tell her not to let her hair down for anybody?” Sam snorted.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time, okay?” Tony defended. “I didn’t want her to end up like Taylor Swift. Taylor’s heart was broken way too many times as a teenager and then again on her 21st birthday. I didn’t want the same fate for my daughter.”

“How do you know how many times Taylor Swift’s heart was broken?” Steve asked in confusion.

“Clearly you’ve never listened to her discography because she is very specific about the ages to weary of.” Tony said with a roll of his eyes.

“It’s true. She is. 7, 13, 15, 17, 18, 19.” You listed off.

“22.” Tony added.

“I thought 22 is the good age?” Steve asked.

“Not according to “Nothing New” it’s not.” Tony scoffed and you nodded in agreement.

“Can we circle back to the topic anytime soon?” Peter asked but everyone ignored him.

“Why are the years from 17 to 21 so perilous?” Bucky raised his hand to ask.

“Because at 17 you don’t know anyhting and nobody understands. 18 is actually good because you know everything but 19 is bad because you dance with the devil while you’re too young to be messed with. 20 is a year of neutral good but 21 is when Jake Gyllenhaal takes your virginity and your scarf and then doesn’t show up to your birthday party.” Tony explained.

“I gotta start listening to this girls music because what the actual fuck?” Steve blew out a breath of exhaustion.

“Who is Jake Gyllenhaal and does he take everyone’s virginity at 21 or does he pick and choose?” Bucky raised his hand to ask. Tony started to answer but Peter cut him off.

“SHUT UP ABOUT TAYLOR SWIFT.” Peter shouted and everyone went silent.

“Never.” Tony whispered after a beat of silence and then looked around as if to find who said that.

“Sorry Peter.” You said. “Daddy, you may proceed with your apology.”

“Look Peter, I’ll admit that what I did was wrong and an overreaction. But I’m also not totally comfortable with you living here knowing you and my daughter are fadoodling.”

“But dad.” You whined and stamped your foot a little.

“She makes a good point there.” Sam said and pointed to you.

“Nope. Absolutely not. You are way too young to be living with your boyfriend.”

“But Mr. Stark.” Peter whined. “May already turned my room into her crafting center.”

“I don’t care. That’s my compromise. You can date my daughter but you cannot live under my roof.”

“What if I don’t date your daughter and continue living under your roof?” Peter asked, making everyone go silent.

“Okay. That was a hilarious joke but fine. Don’t laugh. I don’t even care.” Peter mumbled under his breath.

“Final offer. Take it or leave it, kid.” Tony said and held out his hand.

“What if Peter moves back in but we set a curfew for when we can be in each others room until?” You suggested.

“What if I move out because living here is constant drama and I find you all unbearable?” Sam asked with a smile.

“Fine.” Tony reluctantly agreed. “Peter can move back in but there will be a strict curfew enforced. And I better never find my daughters underwear in your Legos ever again.”

“I can promise you that.” Peter said and eagerly shook Tonys hand.

“So we’re good? Everybody forgives everybody?” You asked hopefully.

“I think so.” Tony said and patted Peters shoulder.

“Me too. And hey, maybe this curfew will prevent us from having another pregnancy scare. Remember how scary that was?” Peter joked to lighten the mood. Tony’s smile immediately crumbled as his grip on Peters shoulder tightened. The rest of the team cringed and braced themselves for Tony’s reaction.

“What did you just say?” Tony asked through clenched teeth.

“Oh my God.” You whispered. “Peter, run. Run fast before he kills you.”

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