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seoafin · 3 years

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tbh,, i havent read the raws of the interview yet, only the translated ver from fan-translator and b4 i start, i think that this will be just me talking in circle and in no particular order AND a real mess (my brain does weird things after exams) but uhh here we go

gojou collects talented people, and by doing so he finds the people he can most probably relate to, except that he can't, not really, because something in the universe shifted when he was born. and it makes me think of how he's always known it, that he is special, and he's proven it, time and time again— he wants to take in talented ppl and he does, but there rly isn't much he can do for them. for they are talented, more talented than the world can understand,,

but they aren't gojou satoru

gojou took in megumi, bc he knew megumi was strong, and would grow up to be someone even stronger, but gojou can't facilitate or encourage his growth, bc for all they're similar, they are so fundamentally different. ALSO,, while geto was in his life, gojou rly judged everything according to his understanding of geto’s moral compass. gojou wears a human suit and geto is how he learnt to wear it well 🏃

the dragonfly analogy regarding to geto’s response to gojo, who was shown wearing a dragonfly patterned yukata in HI arc,, i’m trying to not think abt the fact that dragonfly symbolized victory in jpn....pain. i quoted from a web here for more explanation : In Japan the dragonfly is known as the "victory insect", or kachimushi, because of its hunting prowess and also because it is known to never retreat. Dragonflies are agile and fast fliers and can even hover, but never fly backwards

and bringing this up again, matricide and patricide are 2 of the 5 worst act to commit in buddhism, and it was said that if u commit one of those act u’re going to spend a real long time in the deepest pit of hell before continuing the samsaric cycle (higher chances to be born as an animal after that probs)— this might be geto’s divine retribution. held no power over his own body and could be considered that he’s the same as those “monkeys” 💀

ALSO the fact that sukuna's interest is "eating" rly drives home his hedonistic philosophy of seeking pleasure for himself. and he’s a cannibal...makes me think if he’ll just chomp on ppl with the mouth on his stomach

randomly, to date i think he hasn't really called himself a human, shaman, or a curse, and has held himself apart from all 3, and we've also the intro of the cursed wombs so i wonder if he’s trying to become, or is, a different entity altogether

so onmyoji got mentioned in the interview and what they practice is called onmyodo and abe no seimei and kano no yasunori were the notable practitioners,, and the kamo in jjk is the same as irl who served the imperial court back then

maybe i was right when i said that the relation between the govt. and jujutsu elders are similar to how the shogunate and imperial court work (ie, the former holds the actual power) but... lets see later,,

and i cant believe that i actually nailed it on the analogy of jujutsu practices by religion,,, so mahayana buddhism, shintoism, and taoism is present in jjk along with their respective jujutsu practices...but between the 3, it shld (?) be taoism > shintoism > mahayana buddhism (which could took a path to pure land buddhism)

it’s weird that the number of curses are supposedly higher in jpn comparable to other countries when taoism was brought from china....tengen sus

so the zenin family tree is sth like :

brothers: [toji's dad] ; naobito ; ougi

so toji, naoya, and maki & mai are cousins of the same generation

[toji's dad] → jinichi (probs) ; toji → megumi

naobito → other brothers, naoya

ougi → maki, mai

but yea i’d call anyone who’s within/close or below my age range as cousins and others above 30 as uncles/ aunts LMFAO,, i dont rly memorize my own family tree 😭😭 especially since most call the other by honorifics instead of names : aunt, uncles etc or attaching said honorifics at the end of a name for an older sibling figure/ older cousins [but like ppl in my country also call the other who are older with sibling honorific even if we’re strangers,,, rly similar to korea’s hyung/oppa—eonnie(unnie)/noona but some uses more genderless honorific] (1)

tw // topic of incest, mentions of abuse

if anyone got the wrong idea when reading this : i am not glorifying/ romanticising incest(uous themes),, i’m looking at this with absolutely no lenses of bias even tho im rly against it

初恋 = literally : first love, or puppy love

恋 = romantic love/ deep longing

i literally don't know how else to put this...🧍and with language barrier...using a western interpretation of the eng word "love" to explain a jpnese term is not quite that simple, unfortunately

that thread omg,, i rly do understand how exactly someone could associated kindness with love bc of my upbringing, it was when i was slightly older that i was just...oh so its not like that orz,,, so the most plausible explanation would be that

but the problem is that,, akutami never specify when exactly she had a crush on them,, and when megumi answered todo’s question she had a “♡” reaction 😶,, uhmmm there’s rly no way to look past this if its this way or be in denial

i’ve seen some of "why wouldn't mai react that way after hearing megumi say he'd like someone who's compassionate when she's surrounded by men like naoya",, well I MEAN,,, that, but also mai probs admires that megumi grew up so well out of the clan, regardless of the fact that he had the foundation (10 shadows) to do so. imo she seems happy for him the way she can't be for maki, bc maki ultimately had to leave her behind

hate to say it but yea,, the 3 clans most likely still practice inbreeding in order to preserve their power and presumably their wealth too 😀

i had an idle thought abt it at first but i filed it deep in the back of my mind asap,, bc i ont wanna jump to conclusion abt this out of all things too early. it’s probably not even in jjk, but all those elite clans in other ani/mangas that produce powerful heirs and whatnot also do the same,,, but this way of (my personal) thinking was influenced when i first got into tsukihime (type-moon),,, i read abt the nanaya family background and found out that they practice that in order to keep their bloodline “pure” (to keep it short : they have an optical power),, and i had this kind of assumption ever since so there’s that

i’m,, convinced the zenins' inbreeding made it more difficult for them to get powerful shamans bc they got 2 jujutsu technique-less children with heavenly restrictions in the same generation: toji & maki

even more convinced that maki might be a bit stronger than toji bc toji could see curses without aid while maki can't so the pay-off must be higher,,, SJJASN IDK ,,, plus naoya sort of implies his older brothers are nothing compared to him, and idk if we should take that as his arrogance or that his older brothers rly are weak/powerless. it would make sense as to why naobito had a lot of sons, ig, as head of clan

i feel so bad that if one of the factors that can caused heavenly restriction is inbreeding,, toji and maki and mai had no say in how they wanted to be born but are scorned for it,, typical asian families projecting their traumas and ideals onto their kids but get mad when they realize that those ideals are ugly...😁😁😁

since the zenin are conservative,, i wonder if they still hold onto old jpnese dining traditions. where in ancient jpn, hierarchical relationships were made readily apparent even within families. a dining table where everybody sat down and ate as equals would be unheard of. rather, each individual is given their own table that indicates their status,,, someone who is not considered “strong” according to the zenin’s views most likely have no place at the table, and probs eat when those who are “strong” finished/ serve them when they are eating

if toji was tossed into a swarm of curses,, i dont think abuse during said time is below them,,,

the zenin clan was already great, but they further amassed power and strength by, what i assume to be, marrying and adopting powerful individuals into the clan 🤔 ,,, i imagine they're like the hiiragi but without doing what they did to shinya (ons reference)

BUT after all that, i like to think that since akutami’s a big horror fan, jjk might be an outlet to explore said topics or even darker ones, so i wouldnt be that surpised abt it. given that there’s more than enough “red flags” before this was dropped : a reference to “tale of hikaru genji” when a grown woman asked for gojou’s number in HI arc (out of all things); granny who transformed into the man’s daughter, sat on his lap and man just touched her waist; mei mei and ui ui ; and...this (incestous theme is in the novel btw)

lets not start with whatever the fuck in kubo’s head in the interview otherwise i’m writing paragraphs with every curse words possible,, those big 3 mangakas are so— UGH,, a planet w out (cis) men like him sounds real good rn 😌 if one of yall out there decide to do it,, pls hmu rly cant do this shit anymore

akutami said i like my men pretty and i like women who will step on my neck and spit in my face (I REMEMBERED TATSUKI FUJIMOTO’S INTERVIEW WHEN HE WAS ASKED ABT MAKIMA AND IT WAS SO 😭😭😭😭) but ykw,, love that for both of them <3

when i said 3 : one piece, bleach, naruto. aside from the blatant depiction/ characterize of women in those 3,, idk if some ppl arent aware yet but oda is friends with two (2) convicted pedos,, man...the major disappointment and disgust when i first find out abt it

anyways this is just my 2 cents (which i think rightfully belong to the trash can) so pls just take this w a lil to no grain of salt - 🐱

YEAH THE ♡ LMFAO I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST A “good answer ♡“ heart BUT NOW IM RE-EXAMINING?????

honestly i wouldn’t be surprised if the three clans practiced inbreeding. but ik people are going to be 😡😡😡😡😡 about it when the queen of fucking england is literally married to her (something) cousin. i’m not justifying it but like....love the double standards, just as always with the west 😍

DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THAT FUCKING PED* LIST THEY SHOULD ALL BE IN JAIL. JAILLLLL. it’s all so gross. that’s why i fucking hate when people look towards manga for positive representation because the chances of that are super slim to zero, especially since the industry is saturated with misogyny and ped******* and a lot of other gross stuff.

i think ppl forget jjk is a horror manga LOL so obviously it’s going to confront darker themes. the question is whether it’s going to be done tastefully or not......

#honestly I don't have high hopes unfortunately 😭#but who knows I might be...pleasantly surprised #idk I don't have high hopes in manga nowadays so hmmm #anyway as always I enjoy ur thoughts <3 ❤️❤️#hope ur doing well!!!#and getting all those genshin impact goodies #🐱 anon #long post

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consumedkings-archive · 3 years

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“ i thought you only had eyes for me. ” serve us some unholy trinity queen xoxo

oh!!! hello dove!!! thank u for gracing my inbox i am SO unworthy but so happy to try and provide you some content!! i hope you don’t mind that i combined yours and @shallow-gravy’s requests.... they just felt like they fit so well together, i couldn’t resist (ಥ﹏ಥ)

iii. vicious traditions ✤ the unholy trinity

john/elliot/diana + “i thought you only had eyes for me” and “i can’t stop picturing you with her” or: a dissertation on “Mine is a noun if you capitalize it” john seed struggling to reconcile sharing his wife and also having more of what he Wants. taken from this prompt list!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: language, sexual themes, but nothing explicit. as always, herald!elliot and john deserve their own warning. ✧･ﾟ also i only sort of proof read this so APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE

The first time Elliot kisses Diana, John thinks about it for three days after.

He’s known. Of course, he’s always known, because Elliot made it perfectly clear why she wanted the deputy from the get-go. I like her, she’d said, a phrase normally reserved for the most puzzling of obstacles. It’s not a game, isn’t fun if she doesn’t have to work for it, and on that front he and Elliot differ entirely—he would prefer Diana Baker’s complete and utter submission, in written and verbal form, handed over in a glass frame so that he can hang it on the wall in the bedroom to admire as he pleases.

In a way, he does. Each time there is a violent collision, each time their mouths and teeth meet, he holds onto it for a while—keeps it for himself, even though his wife is pacing herself, even though she reprimands him for rushing, for pushing Diana too far too fast.

Conversely, Elliot wants to work for it. She wants to get her hands dirty, elbows deep in the gore of Diana, the filthy fucking carnivore that she is, and normally John would love it; normally, it’s one of his favorite things about his wife, that she’s so willing to get the blood up to her elbows, no gloves required. Normally, he likes watching her sink her teeth in—but it’s different, now.

Diana is different.

She has always been different. She is the exception to every one of their rules. They had taken lovers, before, to share—this was not new—but they had never taken someone permanently, not the way that Elliot wants Diana (and the way that John wants the deputy, too). They would have never tolerated this kind of blatant disrespect from anyone, not even a pretty little viper skittering through their garden.

But they do; whenever she takes something, Elliot will just go out and take it back. She’ll go out and build a new silo—it doesn’t replace the product, but what can you do—or she’ll pay the viciousness back, in turn, another way. Hit them somewhere else. They’re incapable, nearly, without Diana—so if she’s all the way in the Henbane, who’s going to pay attention to poor Fall’s End?

It goes like this, on and on, vicious cycles before Diana eventually finds herself back there. This evening, John expects no change of pace, but when Diana enters the room, Elliot’s eyes fix on her; he feels like the outside party, the interloper, because the blonde clicks her tongue and brings Diana, bloodied and bruised, to her with delicate fingers.

“Let me see,” Elliot says, the pads of her fingers tilting Diana’s chin up, smoothing along the pillar of her throat. John can only watch—memorizing the way Elliot touches her, different than the way Elliot touches him, both because he wants to covet the image in his mind for as long as possible and because, like watching a car crash in motion, he cannot look away.

And he cannot look away when his wife guides the deputy’s face to hers and kisses her, either.

It’s not even a particularly enticing looking kiss, really. It’s nothing more than a chaste brush of lips, with all of the desexing of a kiss from the Pope, but the intent and the message behind it is clear, because Elliot’s eyes look to him pointedly.

See? The kiss says, his wife’s thumb coming up to drag on Diana’s lower lip, making the brunette’s breath hitch in her throat. See how good she is for us?

So yes, he can’t stop thinking about it. Not that night, and not the morning after, when Diana has left in their sleep—a shorter visit than usual, perhaps spooked by the physical intimacy, strange and alien in comparison to the way that John and her have locked lips before—and there is a whole conflict of emotions occurring in him for another two days after that.

I do like that she’s good for us, he thinks, watching Elliot at the vanity, pulling her hair back from her face. He does like it, he does like that Diana Baker comes back to them time and time again, but Elliot is their bridge—she’s the go-between, and this slow progress means that John has become the interloper.

“What is it?” Elliot asks, watching him through the mirror. She’s given up trying to put her hair up in a ponytail and instead now sits, cinched in a silk robe, chin in her hand as she gazes at him.

His mouth twists. He shifts back against the pillows. “I can’t stop picturing you with her.”

The blonde’s eyes don’t flicker, not even a little bit. Not a sliver of softness in her expression. She doesn’t move to comfort him—and she wouldn’t, but he wishes, sometimes, that she would come to him more readily; but any emotion, any feeling, makes her feel deranged, makes her feel seen, and one of those is worse than the other—but rather watches him.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Elliot smooths a strand of hair from her face. “For you to think about your girls? Together?”

John’s mouth plants itself in a frown. “I’m not being funny, hellcat.”

“What’s so different?” she says at last.

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” It’s her turn to shift carefully moving some items on the vanity out of the way—trinkets, kept from her childhood. “What’s so different this time?”

“It’s—she’s yours,” John posits.

“Noelle was mine,” Elliot says plainly. “You loved Noelle. You called us your little wolves.”

“Yes, well—” He sits up, swallowing. “It’s different.”

Elliot turns in her seat so that she’s looking at him now, and he can see it—the brows furrowing, the defiant tilt of her chin in his direction. “So I’ve gathered.”

“Elliot—”

“But I’m asking what makes it different.”

“It’s different because you picked her!” John snaps, finally, the hot spike of emotion flaring in his chest. “You singled her out. She’s your—”

“Our.”

“She’s not mine,” he manages out, voice bridging on strained. “She’s not, and you know that. And you want her for longer. It’s always just been a little while, and you want to keep her, don’t you?”

Elliot stares at him. “Don’t you?”

Yes, John thinks, furious, mouth dry. Yes, I do. I want her for-fucking-ever, the same way I want you, until the cold black fucking end. I want her forever, just like you, and she won’t fucking have me.

“I thought you only had eyes for me,” he says instead.

The blonde sighs, coming to a stand finally—at last—coming to him, crawling onto his lap.

“I have eyes,” she murmurs, draping her arms around his shoulders, “for us.”

John exhales through his nose. It’s more complicated than that. It’s more complicated because Elliot so easily fits with Diana—even in the beginning. Elliot’s strange juxtaposition between Diana and John afforded her a comfortable advantage on both playing fields, as it does now; and maybe he’s jealous of that, too, that his wife, beautiful and charming and deadly in equal parts, is somehow reeling Diana in better than he could. With less carnage.

It should be him. He should be the one winning Diana over, drawing her to them, presenting her to Elliot as his conquest, his gift, for them to both enjoy. And no matter which way, she always bucks against him.

“Honey,” Elliot says, her voice soft. “I’m your wife. And she’ll be our wife. Don’t you want that?”

Dropping his head against her shoulder, he lets her card her fingers through his hair. “Yes,” he manages out. “I do.”

“Then let me get her for us, baby.” The blonde’s words are light. “What’s mine is yours, so if I get what I want, then we get what we want.” Her lips brush against his temple as his arms wind around her. “You’re always doing everything for me. Trust me to do this for you.” Another pause, and then: “For us.”

His chest feels tight. He thinks, no, I have to do it, you asked me, and he thinks, I don’t like sharing my wife, and he thinks, I want her too, I want Diana too.

And he thinks, yes, please, do this for me.

“I do,” he says, into the crook of her neck. “I trust you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s late; the sky is speckled with stars and dark clouds, promising a storm on the way even amidst the humid summer heat, and John is exceptionally tired.

This isn’t the first time he’s stayed late at the compound, listening to Joseph’s furious whispers, and it certainly won’t be the last. But now he’s home, and his shoulders ache and burn with the tension of having driven himself home, and the last thing that he wants to do is think about anything.

However, as he enters the bedroom, he’s surprised to find not one viper in his bed, but two.

“You’re home,” Elliot says, her voice sweet; thick and syrupy and laden with what he can only assume are the remnants of red wine from the empty glass on the bedside table. “We missed you.”

He looks at Diana. She seems less pleased at his presence, but there is a tenuous curiosity; Elliot’s said something to her, done something, but there’s no reeking floral scent of Bliss, and there’s clarity in both of their eyes. No games here, he thinks, even as he tentatively crosses the distance between the doorway and the foot of the bed.

“Did you, now?” John asks, shrugging out of his jacket.

“One of us, anyway,” Diana says, the bite in her voice not at all lessened by the humidity of the room.

His wife smiles at him, and she tilts Diana’s face towards hers and kisses her—long and languid and open-mouthed, and he watches her pearly teeth dig into the deputy’s lower lip. A rebuke. She’s done it to him plenty of times; seeing her do it to Diana spikes something wretched and desirous in him.

Against the brunette’s mouth, Elliot says, “Don’t be cruel, honey. John’s been working hard.”

She beckons John with a crook of her fingers, and of course, he obeys, slides onto the bed and lets Elliot hook her fingers into the front of his shirt so that she can undo the first few buttons.

“Diana’s been working hard, too,” Elliot murmurs. “But we’re going to take care of her, aren’t we?” She looks at Diana, lips kiss-reddened and gaze hungry—and he can tell that the deputy’s in a mood, like maybe she can’t quite get the taste of blood out of her mouth, and he likes it. “Do you want that, baby?”

The brunette’s eyes flutter. She swallows thickly, hesitating. “I—” Diana begins, and she looks like she wants to say yes but that stubborn, obstinate nature of hers, purposefully obtuse for the sake of raking up his ire, is rearing its head.

“John.” His wife’s voice is saccharine. She moves lithely, sitting behind Diana, letting the brunette lean back against her a little. “Are you going to show the deputy how nice we can be?”

His chest is pleasantly tight, at the vision of them—his vipers, perfectly entangled, eyes fixed on him. Not so much an interloper, anymore.

John leans in, tilting Diana’s chin up; there’s a second of hesitation where he thinks maybe she’s going to balk, throw nails and teeth to get out from between them, but Elliot grazes her mouth along the brunette’s neck and purrs, “Let us take care of you,” and the brunette’s body relaxes, just a little, just that much where he can lean in and kiss her.

And kiss her, and kiss her, in a way that he’s never been able to before. Luxuriating in it. Tasting the ash and blood and red wine in her mouth, and liking it.

“So good,” he hears Elliot praise silkily, when their kiss breaks. “We have the loveliest little viper, baby.”

“Yes,” John agrees, and his voice is rough as it comes out of him, the electricity palpable. “We certainly do.”

Diana watches him for a moment, her fingers knotted in Elliot’s hair, before she leans forward and captures his mouth in a kiss more punishing than the last, with more teeth and heat; he can hear his wife sighing delightedly into the brunette’s skin, and for the first time, it feels most apt to say we have and not you have.

Ours, John thinks, mind fuzzing pleasantly in the static aftershock of Diana’s kiss.

Our little viper.

#my writing #tomexraider #otp: the unholy trinity #baaaaabies #i loooooooooooove them #they live rent free in my head 24/7 #working with their weird little dynamic is challenging but SO FUN #also #jess I WAS GONNA HAVE YOU PROOF THIS BUT I WENT WILD AND IMPULSIVELY POSTED #I HOPE IT'S OK #writing prompts #shallow-gravy

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stovetuna · 4 years

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Stony for 30 or 40? I LOVE U SO MUCH UR FICS GIVE ME LIFE 💛💛👏

AHHHH YAY LIFE!!! you and an anon both requested #30, so here’s some classic tony!angst and protective!steve :3 — I PROMISE THERE IS A VERY MUSHY, VERY HAPPY ENDING

#30: “You’re not worth it.” (TW: child abuse, references to alcoholism, Howard being a shitty human being [but what else is new])

***

It’s Wednesday, and Wednesday means movie night at the mansion. A time-honored tradition that goes all the way back to the Avengers’ inception, back when Steve was still finding his way out of the ice—literally and figuratively—and Iron Man and Tony Stark were two different people.

It’s been a long time since those early days, Tony thinks, watching the new team assemble on the couches, loveseats, beanbag chairs, and blankets strewn around the in-home movie theater. The screen isn’t excessively massive, per Steve’s wishes, but the sound is as good as it gets, per Clint’s; Tony updates the hardware year over year to keep up with the times, especially as film goes the way of digital (much to Steve’s chagrin).

But tonight is Steve’s pick for movie, and Tony wonders if it was planned that way the moment Luke Cage asks what they’re going to watch and Steve gets that glint in his eye. The one that Tony can recognize from a mile away now without even trying, the one that screams “Steve Rogers is a little shit” and that very few people seem to be able to hear.

Tony groans the moment Steve grins and says, “Home movies!” while revealing two armfuls of reels from behind his back, some of which are so dusty and small, Tony wonders if they’re Steve’s.

The team settles in with enough snacks to put a rhino in a coma while Tony and Steve head to the back of the room where the vintage projector Tony pulled out of storage for the occasion awaits.

“Next week, you can pick the movie,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, bumping Tony with a friendly elbow. Tony has to hold himself back from leaning into Steve in response, the way his body feels primed to do and has done for literal years, ever since—god, since always. But Tony knows his interest and affections are very much one-sided, and Tony doesn’t need to flagellate himself over it any more than he already does with everything else in his life. Plus, watching Steve with each of his girlfriends is more than taxing enough.

He’s had years of practice keeping his feelings for Steve from the man. He can handle an elbow and a wink. That shit’s practically child’s play.

“If footage from my sweet sixteen made it into this lineup, we’re watching all three Die Hards,” Tony replies with a saccharine smile that makes Steve blanch.

“Tony, no.”

“Tony, yes.”

“The last time we watched Die Hard, Clint wouldn’t stop talking with a fake German accent for a week.”

“I know! It was hilarious, and I want to get it on camera this time so I can send it to Alan Rickman. He’ll hate it.”

Tony giggles at Steve’s huff, which is really a laugh disguised as exasperation, another one of Steve’s tics Tony knows by heart. The pain and joy of knowing that secretly splits Tony right down the middle—the joy of knowing Steve is a much bigger troll than anyone realizes, the pain of wanting to grab him and kiss him for it—but he hides it all with an elbow to Steve’s ribs and a muttered “jerk” under his breath.

He’s spent the past ten years and change like this—halved by a love that makes him feel whole, which is an equation that shouldn’t work, but does, because Tony’s math is always right—so what’s one more night? In the grand scheme of things, not much, and every second of it is more than Tony could have ever hoped for.

Together in the darkest part of the room he and Steve work in tandem to load the first reel onto the projector and let it run: it’s early footage of the first Avengers team, recorded off of a news broadcast. Down in front, the rest of the team throws popcorn and jeers, laughing themselves hoarse at the costumes, the villains, the dialogue—“‘He’s a real ball of fire!’” Clint wheezes from his beanbag before Natasha pelts him with Milk Duds—while Steve and Tony sit back behind the projector, shoulder to shoulder, running their own private commentary all the while:

“I miss that armor.”

“Shut up, no you don’t.”

“It’s true! Anyways, isn’t vintage all the rage these days? You should bring it back.”

“I’m not bringing back Pointy-Faced Iron Man and his Roller Skates of Doom, Cap.”

“Not even for me?”

Tony slides Steve a look out of the corner of his eye, face still directed toward the screen, a classic are you fucking kidding me? if there ever was one. Steve bats his eyelashes in response, because of course he does. Unfortunately for Steve, Tony is mostly immune to that tactic by now.

Mostly.

“Let us watch Die Hard next week and I’ll consider it.”

“Ugh, Tony…”

“Hey, heart-eyes! Next reel!” someone (see: Bucky) shouts. Not for the first time, Tony’s glad to be concealed in relative darkness back here—even Steve’s enhanced vision won’t be able to make out the blush Tony’s knows is all over his face right now. He also gets a reprieve from sitting so close to Steve, hyperfocused on his warmth and all of the sensory trappings of home that come with it, while he swaps out the old reel for a new one. New-er, rather. He doesn’t look at the case or look at any frames before feeding it through the projector.

“Alright, you rabble-rousers, pipe down,” he shouts as the image on screen flickers to life.

“‘Rabble-rousers’?” Steve quirks an eyebrow at him as he sits back down. Tony folds his arms over his chest and shushes him.

“Don’t start.”

“Ooh, is that you, Tony?” Wanda coos from her place on the loveseat next to Vision.

“Look at all of that hair! Danny Zuko’s got nothing on you, Stark,” Clint laughs. Tony nails him with a popcorn kernel right in the ear.

The footage unspools, harmless—albeit embarrassing—at first: it’s a home movie from when Tony was young, no more than eight or nine. He’s wearing what looks like the remains of what was once a nice suit, something his parents forced him into, probably, but devolved into undershirt and slacks and suspenders hanging down past his knees. He really was a gangly kid, wasn’t he?

Tony laughs along with everyone else, warmed by Jarvis’ voice offscreen telling “Young Master Anthony” to show off his latest invention for the camera. He feels Steve’s eyes flicker over to land on him whenever young Tony smiles at the camera or laughs at something Jarvis says, but Tony ignores it. Mostly.

“He reminds me of Steve,” Bucky tells the room when young Tony is shown with a replica of Cap’s shield, posing triumphantly to the sound of Jarvis’ delighted laughter. Jess aww’s.

“He does, kinda, doesn’t he?”

“How have I never seen these before?” Steve whispers, leaning closer as he does. Tony swallows hard against the shiver that ricochets down his spine hearing that low voice in his ear.

“A lot of things of mine you haven’t seen, Cap,” he replies, too late to stop the innuendo from slipping out. He looks at Steve after he says it and almost, almost lets out a gasp: when did Steve get so close? And why is he looking at Tony like that? All intense and considering?

“Oh, here’s someone else I remember,” Bucky laughs. Tony turns away from Steve, grateful for the excuse, and starts to release the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It gets caught in his chest the moment he sees himself filling up the screen, young Tony standing alone in Howard’s office, having perched the camcorder on the big oak desk to record himself with Cap’s shield—the real one this time, not a toy. On screen, Tony has his back to the camera, the vibranium shield clutched in his too-small hands. He has to perch it on the floor, its weight just enough to counterbalance Tony’s, but holding it…even now, he remembers the thrill of that first time. The cool touch of vibranium humming under his fingers, the knowledge that he was holding his hero’s greatest treasure…his adult fingers clench against his thighs at the memory.

But then, the image shifts into a sharper memory still, and Tony feels something old and awful claw its way from somewhere deep in his chest, remembering all too well what comes next. It tastes like bourbon and cigar smoke and the metallic taste blood leaves on the tongue after you’ve been smacked in the mouth. Tony’s hands fly out to clutch the sides of his chair and stick there; he can’t move them to stop the projector in time. It just keeps playing out, each frame worse than the one before.

Of course he remembers this moment. He remembers it perfectly, because it was the first time Howard really hurt him. Not with his hands, although the bruises did linger longer than usual, after.

This was the moment when Tony, so tender and impressionable even at that “advanced” age, learned what his father really thought of him.

That old, awful feeling feels a lot like drowning when he thinks of Steve seeing what’s about to happen, let alone the rest of the team.

“I’m Captain America and I’m here to save you!”

“You’re not saving shit, boy.” Howard stumbles into frame like a bad Vaudeville performer, slurring Tony’s name like an expletive. “Put that down, you fucking brat. You’re not worth it.”

The blood rushing in Tony’s ears drowns out the sound of voices past and present. All he can see is Howard filling the frame in that horrible tan suit, gripping a bottle of bourbon by the neck. The image catches on young Tony’s terrified expression, the way he hides behind the shield that’s almost as big as he is. He watches his own mouth move—Cap will save me, he’d cried, so confident, so certain that his hero would come and put Howard through the wall and carry Tony away to safety—and then down the bottle comes…

“Turn it off! I said turn it off!”

Something hits the projector hard enough to not only knock it off the table it was sitting on, but send both hurtling across the room. They smash to pieces against the far wall with a noisy clatter that almost stops Tony’s heart in his chest.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the thwap-thwap-thwap of film smacking the floor as the reel spins on and on until coming to a feeble stop. He can hear breathing, heavy and labored and sliding quickly toward panic, and he realizes with a shuddering gasp that it’s him making that sound.

Tony looks up and sees Steve standing where the projector once was, cradling his bleeding hand. The man looks stricken, pale and horrified, worse than if he’d seen a ghost; behind him, the team has inched closer, all of them wearing varying expressions of distress and pity and guilt and sadness, and suddenly Tony can’t bolt out of his chair fast enough. He can’t get away fast enough. He follows his feet out of the room into the corridor and down, down, down to the workshop where it’s safe, where he can’t get in, no one can, not unless Tony lets them.

Someone is calling his name, but Tony disappears down the stairs before he can figure out who. He bursts through doors he can’t see and staggers over to the closest workbench, sucking in deep, ragged breaths like he can’t catch up to them. Is that a screw loose in his chest cavity, he wonders, gasping, because that rattling sound seems to indicate something has come undone that shouldn’t have. Howard’s dead, Tony reminds himself, over and over again. It’s a fact as true as any algorithm, so why won’t it take?

JARVIS’s voice moves gently through the noise in Tony’s brain: “Sir, Captain Rogers is asking permission to enter.”

Steve.

Tony can’t decide if the thought of Steve seeing him like this helps or worsens the rattling in his chest. Either way he feels like shit, but only one of those ways ends up with Captain America pitying him, or worse.

He’s so caught up in thinking about all the ways this could backfire he doesn’t realize JARVIS has let Steve into the workshop, regardless of Tony’s feelings on the matter. The realization sets in when Steve’s voice appears close to his ear, soft and low with a frisson of urgency, like he too is slightly out of breath.

“Tony, it’s just me. It’s okay. I’m going to put my hand on your back.”

Warmth spreads from Steve’s fingers through Tony’s shirt and into the skin high up on his back between his shoulders. Steve can probably feel how fast Tony’s heart is racing, but spares him his overt concern and instead keeps telling Tony what he’s going to do before he does it: a hand on Tony’s forehead, an arm around his back, asking JARVIS to turn the lights down to thirty-five percent.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Tony sags into Steve’s touch, his large, warm hand cradling Tony’s head like something precious; the deeper dark quiets the room around them, makes it less overwhelming, less full of ghosts waiting to cast their own opaque shadows on the empty walls. Tony and Steve are left standing in a dim light Tony knows makes him look sallow; he wavers on his feet, left to borrow from Steve’s strength because he can’t find his own. Lucky for Tony, Steve is right there, braced and ready for anything. Like always.

The rattling has settled somewhat, but Tony still has to rely on Steve to tell him when to breathe and how deeply. He forgets, sometimes, that Steve has experience dealing with panic attacks, which so often came before an asthma attack. Steve once told him that even years removed from his sickly days, he still remembers what it’s like to lose that grip on reality, feeling the heart too acutely as it beats against too-brittle ribs.

While Steve draws on those memories often enough with others on the team, it’s a rare occasion for Tony to be on the receiving end of Steve’s nursing hand like this. Jokes or angry silence over cuts, breaks, and bruises, sure, but this? Tender hands and a voice pitched low and soothing, lullaby-soft, speaking words of gentle encouragement? Tony’s head feels light with it.

“Do you want to sit down?” Steve asks. Tony shakes his head against his palm. “Okay,” Steve whispers, his voice the only one in the room, which makes for a funny kind of one-sided conversation. Then, before he can think better of it, Tony turns toward Steve, wraps his arms around the man’s impossible waist, and hugs himself close to Steve’s radiating heat. He’s too gone for shame, and too weak; a soft, gentle Steve is hard to resist, even on good days. And this just became a no good, very bad day.

Fucking Howard.

Steve, for his part, takes the hug in stride like they do it every day. Tony likes to imagine it, touching Steve like this whenever he wants to, but that’s all it is—a fantasy. Just like being with Steve is a fantasy, one Tony has entertained for far too many years to count. He satisfies himself with Steve’s friendship, tells himself it’s enough, and if he happens to sleep with the occasional look-alike, that’s nobody’s business but Tony’s (and JARVIS’s, and in one deeply unfortunate instance, Pepper’s).

Strangers want Tony Stark, the celebrity; Steve wants Tony as a friend and teammate. That’s all. So Tony steals his nice, platonic hug as he trembles and breathes his way out of a panic attack, being careful to avoid nuzzling the soft notch at the base of Steve’s throat the way he wants to. Badly.

He’s so preoccupied with holding all the disparate parts of himself together and hiding them so Steve can’t see, he doesn’t notice Steve’s hands start to rub his back in long, soothing strokes until Tony is half-melted in his steady arms, weak-kneed at how comforted he feels. Steve doesn’t say anything—just keeps moving his hands, up and down Tony’s back, across his shoulders, along his arms, and over again. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this, without motive, ulterior or otherwise; his skin feels warm down to his toes.

“Better?” Steve murmurs. Tony nods against his chest. He doesn’t let go. Neither does Steve, who seems to fold himself over Tony until they’re more like one person than two, standing there breathing together in Tony’s darkened workshop.

Slowly, thoughts of Howard, of hurt, start to melt back into the shadows. In their place is Steve, filling up all of Tony’s empty spaces with light, even some of the ones he didn’t know he had. For such a strong man, Steve is unbearably gentle, handling Tony the way he might handle spun sugar or thin glass. Tony has never felt so genuinely cared for, and the fact that he can’t pull back and thank Steve with a kiss smarts a little in the face of it.

That is, it does, up until the moment he feels Steve brush a kiss against where Tony’s hairline meets his forehead, soft and uncomplicated, but lingering, like Steve wants to stay there. To do more. Tony knows that move because he’s imagined doing the exact same thing to Steve, god, thousands of times.

Tony wants so much. Too much. Asking Steve for this would tip things precariously toward the latter. But the question is taken out of Tony’s hands the moment one of Steve’s perches itself under his jaw and tilts his face up.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says.

“It’s ancient history,” Tony replies, maintaining eye contact through sheer willpower when all he wants to do is look at Steve’s mouth, now so close to his.

“Not to you, it isn’t,” Steve counters, and there’s not much Tony can say to that. “I’ll talk to the team. They might have questions, and you shouldn’t have to answer them. Not tonight, anyways.”

“I know you’ve got big shoulders, Steve, but you don’t have to take on my baggage on top of everything else.”

As they talk, their bodies never move an inch apart; chests pressed flush against each other, Steve’s fingers splayed along the side of Tony’s neck. All of it—the proximity, the tenderness, the intimacy—feels as natural as the breathing they just did together. Ten-plus years of friendship will do that. But then, the way Steve is looking at him doesn’t really scream friendship.

It kind of screams I love you.

Steve gives him that little smirk and says, “Maybe I want to.” Tony scoffs, flicking one of the shoulders in question for good measure.

“God, how are you still such a horrible liar, Cap? Is there something in the serum that makes it impossible for you to keep a good poker face?”

“This is my good poker face,” Steve replies, and there it is again, the same look Steve gave him earlier before the night spun out like a race car with its wheels blown off: intense, considering, and so, so close.

Tony swallows nothing but air. Steve, never breaking eye contact, cards his fingers through the hair on the back of Tony’s head and holds them there.

“If I kiss you right now, will you have another panic attack?” he asks quietly. Not even a blink. The part of Tony’s brain—a scant centimeter, at best—that isn’t currently blasting a hundred sirens at full volume is actually kind of impressed.

“I doubt it,” Tony replies evenly. “I’ll probably just pass out.”

The smirk becomes a full-blown grin. Steve squeezes his other arm around Tony’s lower back and hums, deep and resonant, in his chest as he leans down to brush his lips feather-softly against Tony’s.

“You fall, I’ll catch you,” he whispers before dipping in for a proper kiss that floods Tony’s head with incandescent light. It’s chaste and measured and burning with mutual restraint, tastes faintly of the buttered popcorn Steve ate earlier, and the only way it could be better is if it never ended.

Tony tightens his arms around Steve’s waist, and when Steve pulls away to speak, he doesn’t go far, seemingly content to stand there in Tony’s embrace in the middle of the dimly lit workshop.

“Still breathing?” he asks. Tony smiles; Steve smiles back.

“Takes a lot more than that to knock the wind out of me, Cap.”

The way Steve’s eyes darken at that little remark is definitely something Tony intends to investigate further, later. For now, he leans into the hand now resting on his cheek and sighs.

“We’ll test that theory another time,” Steve husks before leaning forward to press a kiss to each eyelid. Tony hums happily, sinking further into Steve’s arms. “Can I carry you to bed?”

Tony gives him a look. “I’m heavy,” he says.

Steve just smiles, kisses Tony like he’s been doing it forever, and replies: “You’re worth it.”

- - -

see? happy endings. fuck howard.

#I'm sorry it's been so long!!!#work has been bonkers and then travel happened and now I'm trying not to get sick #so here's fic #stevetony #stony fic #superhusbands #steve rogers #tony stark #avengers #616 fic #howard stark is an asshole #young tony stark #avengers movie night #prompt fic #responses #rachel writes fic

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