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mournings-stars · 4 months

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Hello hello! I’d like to request some platonic into romantic headcannons on an Alastor x fallen ex-exorcist/exterminator reader please :>

Small background: Reader fell for whatever reason and maybe a few days to a week (or even months-) afterward they end up striking a deal with Alastor, where they’ll be under his protection (because as skilled as they are it wouldn’t matter much with the entirety of hell on their ass) but he gets a pretty good portion of their power in return or maybe something else that you think Alastor would take.

Gender neutral reader pls

I’ve only read one fic or two with this concept and I am on my hands and knees for more lol

If you prefer a different writing format or feel this is too specific or OC-ish please please please feel free to change anything! I’m not very picky ^^

Thank you for your time and have a good day/night!

okay i LOVE this concept — i think it be the slowest fucking burn in the world tho like

you were never one of adam’s favorites, as you had the tendency to spare demons who seem harmless, but covered it nearly everytime

during this last extermination, however, he was trying to catch you fucking up the plan, so the minute you skipped over someone, he had lute launch her weapon at you

i doubt he’d let her kill you or anything, but he definitely just left you there for the demons to finish off, probably pinned to the ground with lute’s spear in your wing or something before he called all the other exorcists back (and he made sure to leave your halo so even if you did change clothes people knew what you were)

luckily (not really) you’d be in cannibal town, so before anyone could get to you, alastor’s probably just walking around like nothings happening (LMAO) and sees you

i doubt he’d make it known he saw you, like he’d definitely keep humming merrily down the street until he saw you struggling to get away from him as quickly as possible and tearing your wing even more

“my, my, let’s calm down, shall we?” he’d laugh and take the spear out of your wing. “isn’t that better, little bird?” but he’d say that while literally pointing the spear at you so don’t feel too safe

you’d definitely get defensive and shoot into the air with your weapon, ready to kill, and i think after seeing you still attempting to fly with that damaged of a wing (like its fucked up), he’d be impressed enough to drop the spear he had with a very big grin

“you’d better hide, little bird”

and you’d take his warning to fly off, quickly snatching lute’s weapon with yours in case you needed to defend yourself

he would literally just smile and watch you leave before continuing to hum and walk down the street

it’d probably be like a solid three days of hiding and having to fight for your life before the damage to your wing really messed with you and you had to force yourself to find a good hiding place

maybe you see charlie on the news and notice that no one seems to want to go to her hotel, so you force yourself to fly all the way there like a week after her horrible interview (ep 1) and practically collapse at the front door

of course you recognize vaggie and of course you practically run over and hug her despite the spear pointed at you… and of course that means vaggie either may or may not have to confess depending on if you pick up that no one knows or not (off the concept but im sparing chaggie heartbreak)

“who the fuck is this?” would be the first thing you hear from a spider demon and you’d have to explain what you were and hope they didn’t kill you — which, duh, charlie wouldn’t that let happen

“hello again, little bird,” would make everyone shut up because… how does alastor know you??? of course, he doesn’t answer their questions, just says hello and moves on like it’s all normal

your first day would totally be catching up with vaggie, probably breaking down because you needed to get back to heaven and had no way there

i think exorcists probably have a little bit of angelic power, but they probably can’t create portals without that power being given to them or something which means you have no way home and no where to go

vaggie and charlie of course tell you to stay, but once anyone shows up they’ll know you’re here and all of hell would be coming to the hotel to try and get to you — and you didn’t want to ruin what they had going (even if it was small you thought it was a great idea) so they probably give you a change of clothes, something more hellish, and tell you to stay until you have somewhere else to go

that would probably give alastor the perfect opportunity to talk to you privately and offer his protection

you wouldn’t take his offer at first, but once pentious shows up and the overlords somehow find out that charlie is hiding an angel in her hotel (vox and his stupid drones) you dont really have a choice

i dont think he’d ask for any power in return, but i do think you’d owe him a favor each time he has to protect you

vox would probably give subtle hints in all the programs he runs, so alastor would have to protect you very often

that meant if he ordered you to get rid of someone, you did it — whether that meant by the snap of your fingers with holy light (which they could potentially survive or respawn from) or killing them with your exorcist weapon was totally up to him sometimes, he just asked that you create a bouquet of flowers for his room

usually the people he had you “take care of” were repulsive enough, and you never minded creating things with your abilities, so you agreed to what he asked with ease

it’d be a little time before who he instructed you to “take care of” slowly shifted to anyone who wronged you

of course, he’d still protect you, but if he didn’t own their soul and he didnt have an angelic weapon, he couldn’t ensure that they wouldn’t come back, so he asked you, “do you think they’ll come back for you, little bird?” if you were unsure, or knew it was likely they’d come back for the person that ended up being the reason they had to go through the painful process of respawning, he’d tell you to just kill them

it’d probably come to a point where he stopped asking for favors, made sure you were alright, and told you to focus on what you needed to do while he “did his job”

i think eventually you’d find a place you think could be safe and once your wing is totally healed up and alright you’d say your goodbyes even though you weren’t that close with anyone but vaggie (also i feel like niffty would be down to talk to u about her bug battles or some shit)

anyway, when you go to say bye to alastor, he definitely cashes in his favor with a simple “hmm, no” cus he sees no reason for you to leave??? like so what everyone else’s lives are in danger by you being here… you’re safer here

so you’d stay, and it’d definitely make charlie happy because if she can get an angel back to heaven that’d prove she could actually do this

you’d be pissed at alastor for a while, but slowly, it seemed like demons understood that by coming for you, they were fucking with the radio demon (and we all know how that goes) so after a few months you were finally left alone

in that time you’d totally help spruce up the hotel while slowly forgetting why you wanted to go back

but every once in a while you’d have a very prolonged sadness about the situation… heaven was your home after all, and even if you liked the hotel, you could never leave because the minute you stepped outside, there was a line for your head — you were trapped there (like a bird in a cage — hence the nickname)

i think even though everyone likes having you there, vaggie would eventually bring up lucifer (like he can literally open a portal…)

but immediately alastor is not fucking having it and he cashes in another one of his pent up favors, saying that getting back to heaven through a fallen angel was the dumbest thing you could do if you wanted it to look like you were the one wronged in this situation (he has a point i fear)

i think this is where you kind of accept that you’re not going home and maybe just give up because 1. you can’t go to the heaven embassy since you’d just be met with adam and 2. the only person that could get you contact wasn’t a good option

i think now would be when alastor recognizes how much you want to go home and finds himself feeling bad?? for keeping you, but he just wants you to get home safely and surely

still, once he sees that you literally wont leave your room and have contemplated taking your own halo he compromises to let you try going to the heaven embassy to see if you could get a meeting with anyone but adam

you said it wasn’t possible, but he insisted “i can’t have you looking so upset all the time, birdie” he’d say while using his hand to squish your cheeks into a smile just to make you laugh

so you’d go — i think you’d totally get there safely but once demons see an exorcist angel coming out of the heaven embassy, you have to fight the minute you step out of the building

you can 100% see holy light from the hotel, so the minute alastor sees a golden beam he’s out the door

you can handle your own, so you fought them off, but i’d imagine you get injured and that’s what really makes alastor realize he’s falling for you cus he’s seething

even just a minuscule amount of golden blood on you had him tearing apart any demon who even looked like they’d been near you

i hate to say it but i don’t think this would be a happy ending — reader loves heaven even though they hate being an exorcist and alastor knows that so he’d definitely keep his feelings hidden and if you showed any signs of feelings for him he’d be terrified because an angel falling, literally falling because thats what would happen to you, for someone like him would never get you back home

obviously it’d come to a point where he doesn’t want you to leave, but at the same time, he’d never keep you

if i did end up writing an actual fic of this it’d probably end on a bit of a cliffhanger ex. reader getting accepted back and being hesitant with alastor’s last favor just him saying, “if you want to stay for anyone, don’t,” and letting you decide whether or not to go back

OR reader being accepted back but still having to be an exorcist, so the next time they see alastor is the finale where adam would 100% put them against him

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin vaggie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin x you #charlie hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel heaven #hazbin lute

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lovebugism · 8 months

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shy reader you say???

i’m obsessed with eddie and shy reader 🥹🥹maybe like her being afraid to present during class and him pumping her up and mouthing words of encouragement during a presentation at school😭😭sounds stupid but i’d love this

this is a wee bit different but i hope you like it anon :D — eddie helps calm your nerves before a presentation (shy!reader, hurt/comfort, tw for mentions of panic attacks, 1.2k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Study hall turns into an impromptu panicking session.

You break down on the rotted park bench outside the football field, surrounded by textbooks and falling leaves. The only thing keeping you halfway tethered to reality is the crisp autumn air filling your burning lungs. Everything smells like rain and very distinctly of Eddie.

He’d been a good enough sport to help you prepare for your history presentation, but he certainly hadn’t signed up to coax you through a nervous breakdown because of it.

Your boy’s a good enough sport even now, though, sitting beside you at the creaking wooden table — chin on the crown of your head, ringed hand over your heart.

You tend to dig at your chest whenever your anxiety attacks get real bad. You’re not sure why. Maybe to soothe your palpitating heart or to pull it out entirely.

“What were you trying to do, babe?” Eddie laughed into your hair as you came down from your panic, lightening the grey mood and smoothing a warm palm over your tight chest. “Pull your damn heart out?”

You can breathe halfway normally now. The hurt in your chest has lessened to a very distant one. Now you’re just left with the post-panic shame. You feel like a little kid again, making monsters out of the clothes on your desk chair.

“I don’t know why I got so scared,” you confess, as quiet as the autumn breeze, rubbing your cheek against the soft lapel of Eddie’s leather jacket. “It’s not even that big a deal.”

The boy shrugs, jostling you accidentally. “Well, your brain thinks it’s a big deal. And your brain’s just telling your body that it needs to protect you.”

You don’t know much about your own anxiety and maybe that’s a fault in itself. It’s not the sort of thing you wanna poke with a stick, lest you wake something up that should’ve stayed sleeping. You just ignore it as best you can — let it fester until it explodes into moments like these.

Normally, Eddie isn’t around for them but you’re grateful he is now. ‘Cause he loves you and because he cares enough to learn all the things about you that you don’t even want to know about yourself.

He didn’t know much about anxiety before you. He just knew that his mom had it when he was real little, and that social anxiety is scared of him and not the other way around. But then he fell in love with you and learned everything he could if it meant he could treat you better.

Now, it’s practically in his nature to be as gentle with the rest of the world as he is with you — which is totally not one brand for him.

“But you don’t need protecting, right? ‘Cause you’re safe.”

You nod wordlessly.

Your throat tightens again like you might cry, but it’s not because you’re scared. It’s because you love him so damn much you think you could explode. He fills your chest with sunshine, banishing the swirling shadows completely.

You could probably light up a whole galaxy with how happy he makes you feel.

How adored.

How safe.

“And it’s okay to be scared about this stuff, you know?” Eddie continues when you stay silent. His chin grazes your hair when he pulls back to look at you. “Everyone’s scared of something. Like Steve— I’m pretty sure he’s, like, deathly afraid of quicksand.”

He keeps his arm around your back when you lean away from him, keeping you warm when the crisp breeze brushes between you. You sniffle and blink at him with wide, wet eyes. A hint of a smile quirks the edge of your bitten mouth.

“Quicksand?” you repeat incredulously.

Eddie grins back at you, happy to see you smiling again. It’s pink and lopsided and terribly unkissed. “Yeah,” he affirms through a sputtered laugh. “And I’m pretty sure quicksand isn’t even real, so— at least you’re afraid of something that actually exists.”

Your own giggle tumbles suddenly from your mouth. Both because quicksand is obviously real and because Steve is one of the bravest guys you know.

As usual, Eddie’s totally oblivious to how much of a dumbass he is, but he beams anyway. He’s just happy to be a distraction for you when the rest of the world gets too much — a life vest when you’re drowning.

Your smile ebbs into a quieter one. Your glassy gaze flits to the clammy hands you wring feverishly in your lap. “I just… I know it’s dumb and everything, but— speaking in front of everyone like that— it makes me feel… I don’t know. It makes me feel way more scared than a person should ever be, like… ever.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s scary. But you can handle it,” Eddie shrugs with all his practiced nonchalance. The absentminded confidence he has — that he has in you — makes you feel all warm. “You’re the smartest person I know, and you know this shit like the back of your hand.”

He waves a pale hand to the cluttered picnic table you sit in front of. Flashcards, clumsily written notes, and open textbooks scatter the top of it.

You know all of it forwards and backwards now — so well you could probably do the presentation in your sleep. If only you weren’t so dreadfully frightened of opening your mouth in front of people you don’t know.

Eddie gives you a warm, reassuring squeeze on your arm with one hand. He smoothes a rouge wisp of hair from your forehead with the other. He could see you getting distant again. It’s important to keep you grounded when you get like that — he read that in a magazine once.

“And by the end of the day, it’ll just be you and me and an empty trailer, and you will have much better things to worry about than this,” he continues. A mischievous smirk blossoms on his rosy lips. His chocolate eyes sparkle with it, too. “I’ll have you so damn distracted, you won’t even think about this stupid presentation again.”

You meet his boyish grin with a challenging squint. Smiling despite yourself, you knock your shoulder into his side at his teasing.

The sentiment is still there, though. Presentations are stupid and fleeting. Eddie’s here and forever.

“Yeah,” you murmur under your breath. “I guess you’re right.”

He scoffs. “Of course I am.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare that he meets with a more sincere beam.

“You’re gonna be the bravest scared person the world’s ever seen,” Eddie tells you, more serious now.

He isn’t telling you not to be scared or distracting you from the fact that you are. He’s affirming your fear, reminding you that you can be brave in the face of it.

“And you’re gonna show every single one of those losers what a super genius looks like.”

You roll your eyes at that last bit, pretending you’re not as comforted by his presence or the words he says partly in jest as you really are.

Because he’s right. It’s not about forcing yourself not to be scared. It’s about being scared and doing the shit anyway — being brave and giving a stupid presentation even if your voice trembles and your hands shake.

And god, nothing makes you feel braver than Eddie.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: fictober!

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munsonfamilyband · 1 year

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I’ve had a Different Meeting AU stuck in my head for ages and I’ve decided to share it

After Starcourt Steve can’t sleep. The nightmares and panic keeps him from getting sleep; if he’s lucky he gets an hour. After a week he’s falling apart and he suddenly remembers a piece of his past - he remembers smoking weed with Tommy H and sleeping like a baby. So he starts digging, ends up having to talk to people he never wanted to speak to again, but he finds out who to call.

Eddie Munson. The name is familiar, but the number isn’t. Steve calls Eddie and sets up a meeting the next day to buy some weed. When he drives to the meeting spot he walks through how he’s going to apologize for who he was. Steve is pretty sure he never did anything to Eddie but he wants to be safe rather than sorry. He gets out of his car and ambles through the woods to meet Eddie at a picnic table. Eddie Munson is sitting on the table, legs kicked out in front of him and leaning back on his elbows. Steve quickly averts his eyes from the tattoo he can see on Eddie’s stomach where his shirt has ridden up. He’s aware that he finds men attractive, has been since Jonathan beat him up in ‘83, but now is not the time. Eddie looks up when Steve steps into the clearing and smirks.

“You’re late, I was starting to think you were going to stand me up.”

“Uh, sorry, I got a little side tracked. But um, before we do this I wanted to say sorry…I guess? I’m not sure if I ever did anything to you in school, I’m pretty sure I didn’t but I wanted to apologize for being a dick anyway.” Eddie just blinks at him, grin gone, as he sits up fully while still sitting on the table.

“You’re….. sorry?”

“Yeah, man. I’m trying to be a better person, throw the whole ‘King Steve’ shit out, and I figured that apologizing to the guy I’m hoping will sell me weed is a good place to start, y’know?” Steve knows that there’s a flush crawling up his neck from the embarrassment, can feel it heating up his ears, but he can’t focus on that with Eddie Munson staring at him with his big eyes and wild, curly hair- nope, stopping that right now.

“Oh. Well, you didn’t do anything, I mean, your buddy, Tommy H, used to fuck with me until he started buying my shit. The guy’s almost feral but he isn’t stupid enough to piss off his dealer. So, I guess we’re good then?” Steve breathes out a sigh of relief, moving closer to the table to sit while Eddie climbs down to sit on the opposite side. “So, how do you want to do this?”

Steve clears his throat, glancing around a bit. Eddie probably assumes it’s from nerves around the deal, which is fine with Steve. He doesn’t need to know that Steve is still looking over his shoulder for Russians and flesh monsters. “Uh, look, man. I know you’re wondering about my face, and it has to do with why I’m looking to buy. I was at the mall when it…burned down.” Steve hears Eddie mumble something like ‘holy shit’ under his breath. “I got knocked over during the panic and got trampled,” Steve easily lies. The cover story had been repeated to him until he knew it just as well as the real events. “Ever since, I’ve been having a hard time sleeping and I know weed can help so I was looking to get some to help.” He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, studying his face in a way that reminds him eerily of Nancy.

“I can totally get why you would need weed after that. But, no offense or anything, you seem way more nervous about this than normal.” Steve can’t help but sigh, of course the drug dealer can read him like a book.

“Yeah, I uh, I got drugged when I was at a club a little while ago. I guess I’m nervous about being high again, even though I need to sleep.” Steve meets Eddie’s eyes and watches a complicated series of emotions flash across the other man’s face before seeming to decide on something.

“Okay, I normally wouldn’t do this, but you really do seem to be trying to be better, and you’ve clearly been through a lot lately, so I’m going to make an offer and you can decline if you want, but I figured I would try.” Eddie takes a deep breath, Steve narrowly avoiding watching his cheat expand with it. “Because you’re nervous about this, I can waive the fee this time and bring the pot to smoke with you. So that you don’t have a bad trip, or whatever.” Steve freezes, thrown aback by the offer. After a moment he is able to voice a response.

“You would do that for me?”

“I mean, just because I deal drugs doesn’t mean I have no morals. It feels weird to sell you shit and then let you go off on your own knowing you had a traumatic experience.”

Steve, despite being stunned, manages a smile. “That- thank you, Eddie. That is- I appreciate it a lot.”

The quickly make a plan to meet up the next day at Steve’s house, and Steve offers to get food as payment.

This pattern continues for a month before Eddie’s friends convince him to try a move on Steve - who has been maybe flirting since they met - and the night ends with them making out on Eddie’s couch. They date happily for 6 months, laughing as they pretend to not know each other in front of the kids, until the first day of Spring Break Steve sees a trailer he spends more time at than his own house on the news. As soon of Dustin and Max show up, Steve is grabbing his keys and running to his car, knowing exactly where Eddie is hiding.

Steve never wanted his boyfriend to get involved with this part of his life, but there is no way he will leave him alone now that he is.

#stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #steve harrington #is this okay?#i don’t know #i’m pretty tipsy and this has been in my head all day #Different Meeting AU

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recklesssturniolo · 5 months

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How do you think the triplets would react to their bsf/gf getting her period?? Like would they find it an uncomfortable topic and think its gross or would they not mind it?

Also I dont want any unrealistic shit like “he’d totally do this and that for you 🥺🥺” I want the answer to be realistic, like smth normal and not stuff you’d see in wattpad

Matt - Don’t think he’d care at all, think he’d be gentler/calmer during your period (you’d get some princess treatment from him fs) would get you meds/water, etc. if you asked, “Matt could you grab me meds?” “Yup, cramps?” “Unfortunately yes”, would go get you tampons/pads if you needed any, “it’s the pink box right? That says regular on it?” “Yes that’s it”, I think he’d literally just not think anything of it and understands it’s normal and wouldn’t get uncomfortable or whatnot but would not make it some weird thing, would literally just treat your period days the exact same he would with regular days

Chris - I think Chris would lowkey not fully understand periods so if you told him you were on yours he’d instantly go get you meds, water, heating pad, etc. think he’d just bring you anything he thinks can help because he himself has little to no idea of what will help, feel like he’d ask if you need anything a bunch throughout it and you’d have to remind him multiple times that you’re fine and that it isn’t a big deal like it makes it out to be, “Chris my god, I don’t need anything this isn’t a big deal”, for him to reply with “Okay okay but if you do need something tell me right away”, if he went to get you tampons/pad I’m positive he’d be beyond confused and calling you complaining about how many options there are and how is he supposed to know which to get “Babe how the fuck am I supposed to find that brand? Why is there different sizes what the fuck”, he also wouldn’t be grossed out by it, just feel like he’d be I guess OVER caring to you during it from a lack of understanding and some confusion with periods if that makes sense like he’s quite dramatic about it even though he doesn’t need to be

Nick - He’d just have literally no idea of how to help or whatever, would however keep extra tampons/pads for you in his bathrooms for your sleepovers, if you asked him for meds he’d ask why and you’d have to be like “CRAMPS NICK” only for him to go “Oh they’ll help the cramps?”, he’d let your complaining slide and would contribute to your rants about how stupid periods are, if you had cravings he’d immediately order it, isn’t grossed out by it but has zero experience with them in any way so would almost be oblivious to most things

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #allyrambles🫠#nicholas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo

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wiserodin032402 · 1 year

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Kobeni from Chainsaw Man is a D&D Fighter

Okay yeah crazy people make dumb shit in D&D all the fuckin’ time, you can just say what the fuck on the internet. Some idiot made an article on how to play Cyberpunk Edgerunners characters in D&D what’s the big deal?

The big deal is that the D&D Fighter isn’t really...well represented in actual fiction. Controversial take, I know, but most uh...most mundane characters in fiction don’t really fit the bill of ‘Only good at combat but in a mostly superficial way that’s completely outclassed by the real shit of the setting’.

They’re not this:

This unique blend of...hell on earth that just isn’t present in actual fiction. One could say completely fucking unplayable. For those not in the know, this is D&D 3.5′s iteration of Fighter. For those who play 5e, this is basically the widely-mocked Champion Fighter subclass.

They’re proficient with all simple weapons, all martial weapons, all armor, and all shields including tower shields. They also have the following class skills: Climb (Str), Craft (Int), Handle Animal (Cha), Intimidate (Cha), Jump (Str), Ride (Dex), and Swim (Str)...with a grand total of 2 + Intelligence bonus skill points per level. That’s right, if you’re a Fighter of Average intelligence, you get to be okay in...2 skills.

And their saves are atrocious. If something even slightly scary shows up, the average Fighter is shitting themselves and running for the fucking hills.

This is obviously wildly fucking unrepresentative of any character in fantasy fiction. Too many demonstrate the ability to do more than just fight, and the characters who are famous for focusing on fighting are in series where being good at fighting means you can cut mountains in half or blow up the moon. And they’re all so...brave. Immune to fear even.

Enter God’s Chosen Failwoman

She’s a Public Safety Devil Hunter from the hit manga Chainsaw Man. She does this because her family made her, and it was either killing devils or prostitution.

Kobeni is a massive coward and in the first arc she’s introduced in with The Eternity Devil, she’s all too willing to simply kill Denji and give his heart up. When something scary is happening, Kobeni is the first to coward out.

Kobeni also isn’t very skilled. She quits public safety to go work fast food, and she can barely do that. Fast Food, considered entry-level work in this hellish economy due to how easy it is to teach someone to do it.

And yet, something curious.

When it comes to completely normal, completely mundane, completely comprehensible violence, Kobeni is unphased, and is insanely good at it. Sure, her partner got shot, but her reaction was to simply kill the shooter

and then go find the perpetrators

And when confronted by a frankly mundane demon attack, it doesn’t even touch her:

She’s also good enough with that knife, which for all intents and purposes is a completely mundane kitchen knife to slice clean through bone:

It’s groundbreaking. I’ve searched far and wide, but I’ve never found a character in fiction who perfectly lines up with everything that D&D 3.5 and even core Pathfinder 1e Fighter sets out to emulate. Someone who’s only good at violence, who’s insanely good with only one weapon, but can never break out of being completely mundane with their violence. Who, no matter how strong they get, how hard they work, is only human, with entirely human limits.

Here’s how you build Kobeni.

You need a high Strength and Dex. You need to be a Human. You need Weapon Finesse. You need to take Weapon Focus and Weapon Specialization, the full featline, with whatever knife of your choice (Weapon Focus, Weapon Specialization, Greater Weapon Focus, Greater Weapon Specialization, Melee Weapon Mastery). Take Lighting Reflexes. Take Light Armor Specialization.

Hell, if you want to more closely emulate how Kobeni functions, take the Combat Focus featline, which puts you into a sort of battle trance once you make a successful attack that lasts for about 10 rounds, which gives a bonus to will saves and other effects. Effects you can only get in Combat.

And guess what? You’ll be getting the genuine Kobeni experience. Being only good at completely mundane violence in a world that dramatically ramps up in stakes and moves past you.

#my ramblings #D&D #fun meta and analysis #chainsaw man #kobeni

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autismtrek · 1 year

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I love Deanna Troi because she’s representative of an autistic experience you don’t see on TV a lot which is “I learned all about human interaction the same way that one might learn about cool bugs so I know what makes people tick and in THEORY I know the right things to say in social situations but socializing like that is not the least bit natural to me and I don’t know what to do if the situation doesn’t match up with what I studied.” Except for her instead of having JUST learned about human interaction she is also psychic and so she partially relies on that too.

The episode where she loses her powers and suddenly cannot read people at all, not even to the level humans usually can, totally screws up trying to give therapy, and becomes so distraught she tries to resign from her job as a therapist, is so real. Like listen if she wasn’t autistic that wouldn’t have been such a big deal. Deanna Troi is an empath with low empathy, she’s using her psychic powers to compensate for her symptoms.

Also the episode where she hears some annoying music and completely loses her mind about it and screams and sobs and must be put into a medically induced coma because she’s so upset by the music and the alien that made her hear the annoying music seems genuinely confused about why it bothered her so much (meaning that like, that wasn’t the intended or normal effect of his annoying music ability).

Even outside those episodes where it’s so obvious though, everything she says to people tends to read as extremely scripted, like she knows it’s what she ought to say but it isn’t what she would say if she was just being herself. Queen of masking. What is the real you like, if you even still have one? She’s just like me for real

#also we can pretend that shes wearing those stupid outfits bc she had some kind of sensory issue w the uniform and got accommodations #even though of course in real life the reason she was in those outfits was just sexism being prioritized over uniform regulations =(#oh AND her thing about chocolate. thats her safe food and there is no WAY everyone else is so bothered by replicator versions of food #star trek #star trek tng #deanna troi

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bucky-fricking-barnes · 19 days

Text

Someplace Like Home

Title: Someplace Like Home

Pairing: Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Canonical violence, minor injuries, minor blood, non-descriptive mentions of hospitals, mild language

Summary: Y/N owns a hostel in Croatia. When the very handsome Grant comes to work for her, she falls hard and fast for the new handyman.

A/N: This story takes place between Civil War and Infinity War, when Steve is on the run. There are a handful Croatian phrases/words used, which are translated at the end of this fic. Don’t ask me why all my Steve stories suddenly have foreign languages in them. As always, thanks for reading and supporting my writing in all the ways you do. Enjoy!

Dividers are by @firefly-graphics

Your morning starts off slow, like it always does, and after the handful of guests have finished breakfast and left to spend the rest of the day at the beach or in the mountains, you settle yourself behind the front counter and pull out your laptop. The dirty dishes can wait until later—Ana will be here in an hour, and she prefers doing the dishes over going over the books, so you have an unspoken deal that you’ll do the bookkeeping if she cleans up after meals.

You’re just opening up the software on your laptop when the front door opens. The bell above it jingles as a man steps in, bringing with him a warm gust of air. June has been unseasonably cool, but today is the warmest it’s been in weeks. You’ve kept most of the windows open all morning, even though it was still a bit chilly.

“Dobro jutro,” you greet. You carefully shift the laptop off to the side a few inches, being careful not to mess up the carefully arranged papers you’ve sorted out on the counter.

“Kako vam mogu pomoći?”

The man has a gray hiking backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s tall and blond, a dark blond that looks golden in the light from the outside but brown in the shadows. His thick beard and mustache are well-trimmed. You automatically open up the leatherbound reservation book and reach underneath the counter for a key.

“Dobro jutro. Uh, govorite li engleski?” asks the man. He smiles politely, and you smile back, nodding.

“Of course,” you answer. “How can I help you?”

His eyes move to the pen in your hand, already poised over the next open spot in the reservation book. “I’m not here for a room. I’m here about the opening for a handyman.”

Surprised, you close the book again and tuck it back under the counter where it belongs, along with the key you’d grabbed. No one has come about the open position since you’d posted it months ago in the local cafe. Not even a sign outside the hostel has helped.

“In that case, my name’s Y/N. I’m the owner here.”

“Grant,” he replies, his hand already held out for you to shake.

You oblige with another smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Grant. Can I ask how you found out about the position? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around town.”

He nods once. “I just moved here from Italy, and from Switzerland before that.”

“So you’re making your way through Europe, then?” you ask. You’re not entirely surprised—he looks rugged enough that he could handle a long backpacking trip or several months of solo travel, unlike some of the college students you normally have traipsing through your village.

“In a way,” he answers. “Truthfully, I’d like to settle down someplace, but it’s been a rough few years. I haven’t quite found the place that feels like home yet.”

Secretly, as you listen to him explain the various European cities in which he’s lived, you wish that he’ll come to feel at home here. Brdonik isn’t large enough to be on any maps, but it’s been your home for almost a decade now, and you can’t imagine a better place. The whole community bands together, and people look out for each other. There’s enough tourism from backpackers and small cruises that you’re not totally isolated, but you’re still far enough removed that your daily life isn’t saturated with commercialism and the big city nonsense you often hear about through your guests. You’d experienced it enough before coming to Croatia, and you don’t ever plan on going back to the life you’d had before you moved.

“To answer your question,”—Grant’s gentle continuation pulls you from your thoughts—“I saw a flier posted in the cafe down the street. I stopped there for lunch.”

“What did you order?” you ask. You prop an elbow up on the counter and level him with your gaze.

“Is that important?

“If you want this job it is. You can tell a lot about a person based on what they order at a restaurant.”

He smiles a little. “I got the turkey sandwich.”

You consider his choice for a moment before giving him a nod. “Simple, but respectable. A clear tourist choice, but I like it.”

“You can’t go wrong with a turkey sandwich,” he adds.

“It’s a classic!” You smile back at him and then come around the counter into the main part of the lobby. You grab your clipboard from its hook on the wall.

“Let me give you a tour,” you tell him. “I’ll point out some of the things that need fixing, and then you can tell me if you still think you’re a good fit.”

Grant agrees, and he walks beside you as you lead him through the hostel. You show him the currently unoccupied rooms, as well as the common areas, and you give him plenty of time to inspect the stalled projects and major fixes that he’d been in charge of. While he looks around, you watch him carefully. There’s something familiar about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but he doesn’t set off any alarm bells in your head like some of the previous candidates had. He’s respectful of the property and the few lingering guests you come across, and Grant is polite enough to open doors for you as you approach them. He speaks softly and clearly, and his sense of humor is well-timed. Somehow, despite his hulking frame and obvious strength, you feel safe around him.

Eventually, you lead him to your office. Grant takes the seat in front of your desk and you close the door behind him, then sit behind your desk and pull a pad of paper from the drawer. He’s almost too big for the chair you normally reserve for college-age backpackers looking for a few days of housekeeping work. He’s relaxed, though, and he rests both arms on the thin wooden armrests as you get out what you need. You sneak a glance at him as you sit upright again. His eyes move slowly and carefully over the framed photos and documents on the wall, taking in each one of them individually before he moves onto the next—your college diploma from NYU, a photo of you with your family the last time they came to visit, a certificate of operation from the local government. His backpack is leaning up against the front leg of the chair and his left leg, and you briefly wonder how he’s afforded to travel so much. The bag looks brand new, and high-tech, too. Is he a tech mogul of some kind? A grown-up trust fund kid? Did he steal it, or is he just really good with money?

“You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t have any questions prepared for you,” you tell him as you reach for a pen.

He nods and looks back at you. “You weren’t expecting me to walk in today, I understand.”

“Either way, I have to say that so far, I’m very impressed with you.” You glance up again and give him a polite smile, then look back down as you write his name and the date at the top of the page. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Carter,” he says.

Nodding, you add that at the top and make your first bullet point.

“Grant Carter. Are you named after someone? That seems a pretty traditional name for a guy your age.” You immediately cringe at the question. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. You don’t have to answer that.”

Chuckling, Grant shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. My mother was a big fan of Ulysses S. Grant.”

“The 18th president?” you ask, grinning wide.

He nods and lets out another small laugh. “That’s the one.”

“He’s not normally up there on peoples’ lists of favorite presidents.”

“She had her reasons, I guess,” Grant shrugs.

You hum a little with a smile and look back down at your almost empty legal pad. You have a million questions that you want to ask, and more that you know you should, but you allow yourself to think for a moment before you look up again. Whatever you ask has to be the right mix of the two.

“You’ve lived in a lot of really impressive places,” you begin, and Grant nods in confirmation. “Why come here? There are plenty of larger cities with more job openings. Better paying job openings,” you add.

“You sell yourself short,” Grant easily replies. He sits forward a little, his elbows sliding closer to the ends of the armrests. “Your town is beautiful. It’s comfortable, and a bit secluded. I’m looking for something quieter.”

“A lot of people are, but we’re not often what they want in the long run. How long are you planning on staying?”

Grant stares at you for a long moment before he replies, “Until I’m needed elsewhere.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a bit cryptic, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask for a clearer answer.”

“I plan on staying indefinitely, but if it changes, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

Not quite satisfied with his answer, you still scribble down the response and make a second point on the next line down.

“Do you have handyman experience?”

Grant shakes his head. “But I’m a quick learner and I’m stronger than I look. Whatever I don’t already know how to do, I’ll pick it up quickly if I can get the information from someone or somewhere.”

I highly doubt you’re stronger than you look, you think, forcing yourself to look down at the paper and write, rather than at him. You already look pretty damn strong.

“Do you have a previous employer I can contact? Or references?”

“I can have that information to you by the end of the day.”

You nod and keep writing, and you don’t look up as you say, “We don’t typically provide housing for employees, as we’re a small enough village that commute isn’t an issue, but given that you’re new to town, I’m going to assume that you don’t have a place to stay yet.”

“No ma’am, I don’t.”

“I can get you set up in a room here, if that’s alright with you. I won’t expect you to work outside of normal business hours, except in an emergency, but that’s the same even if you lived off-property,” you tell him, looking up. You don’t lift your pen, and it’s a little satisfying to see that Grant looks mildly surprised. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could be surprised by anything.

“You’re hiring me?” he asks.

“Should I not?”

He quickly recovers and shakes his head, giving you a small smile. “I was just surprised that you’re not waiting until after you’ve seen my references.”

“Are you a horrible person?”

“I don’t think so, no.

“Are you a terrible employee?” you ask, putting your pen down on the desk.

“I’m loyal to a fault.”

“Should I be concerned about criminal activity?”

Grant laughs. “I’m a model citizen, though I did steal a piece of cake when I was a kid.”

“I’ll be sure to inform the local authorities,” you tease, grinning. You slide the notepad onto your desk and stand, holding out your hand for him to shake. Grant obliges. “You’re hired, Mr. Carter. If you’re ready, I’ll show you to your room so you can get settled in before your first day tomorrow.”

“I’d like that, thank you,” he replies.

“I won’t take the room out of your salary unless it prevents us from taking guests, but I don’t see that becoming an issue, except maybe in mid-July,” you tell him as you move around the desk to the door. “The handyman position pays 800 euros a month. You’ll be paid bi-weekly in check or cash, whichever your preference. We don’t have direct deposit here. If you need an account in town, there’s a bank down the road.”

“Cash is fine,” he says. He picks up his bag and swings it over his shoulder before following you back out into the hallway, then out to the lobby. You make a pit stop at the front desk to grab a key before heading up the main staircase.

The private, single person rooms on the third floor are a little older, and you briefly worry as you climb the stairs if the beds will be able to hold Grant’s weight. You don’t use them as often now that you’ve finished transforming the old hotel into a hostel. There’s a thin coating of dust on the handrail and you make a mental note to give this floor a thorough cleaning tomorrow while he’s occupied, that way you won’t be intruding.

You lead Grant to the end of the hall, where the rooms are slightly larger and the windows overlook the ocean. While the view is great, most of your summer guests only fill the dorm-style rooms, so you’re fairly certain you won’t be missing out on any profit by giving him this room.

“Here we are,” you say, and you open the door before stepping aside so he can enter first.

Grant ducks through the doorway and flips the light switch, then looks around in silence. You wait in the hallway, holding your breath as he makes his inspection.

“This is nice,” he finally says, looking back at you. He drops his bag at the foot of the bed. “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay here?”

You wave one hand dismissively. “It’s fine.”

Your phone chimes in your back pocket and you pull it out, quickly reading the notification. It’s only mildly urgent, but you can feel Grant trying to look occupied as he waits for you to leave, so you look up and gesture back towards the stairs with your phone.

“I’ve gotta take care of something, but you’re in luck. Every Thursday night we host a group dinner for the guests. The food is all cooked by a chef from a local restaurant in an attempt to promote the local cuisine, so you’re welcome to join us, or I can recommend some other restaurants in the area, if you want to explore a little bit more. We eat at seven.”

Nodding, Grant smiles and crosses the room to pull the key from where you’d left it in the lock. “I’ll see you at seven. It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“You too, Grant. Welcome aboard!” You smile once more, then turn and head back down the hall. His door closes as you reach the top of the stairs, and suddenly, you can’t wait for dinnertime.

You occupy yourself for the majority of the day by compiling a list of projects for Grant, as well as contacting the references he sends you using the email address on the hostel’s website. He gets glowing reviews from each and every person on the list, though they all seem a little confused when you first ask about him.

Grant comes down to the first floor at five minutes to seven, and you’re just greeting the first small group of guests to arrive back from their excursions when he steps down from the bottom step. You glance over and give him a quick, acknowledging smile before turning back to the guests.

“Dobor dan! How was your time at the beach?” you ask. They reply politely in a mix of English and their own native language. You vaguely recognize it as French. You’re about to tell them in English about the dinner schedule, hoping that they’ll understand at least partially, but Grant begins talking in rapid-fire French before you even open your mouth.

It takes everything in you to keep your jaw from dropping straight through the floor. None of Grant’s references had mentioned he was bilingual, and neither did he. It feels like it should’ve been obvious, however, given that every single person he’d talked to had mentioned his incredible intelligence and ability to pick up skills quicker than anybody they knew.

Still, you watch in stunned silence from behind the front desk and Grant chatters with the guests. He leads them from the lobby and into the adjoining sitting area, where you hear them sit down and continue to talk. Someone laughs, and then Grant does, too. It’s a deep, mellow baritone, and you catch yourself grinning before you manage to stifle it.

When the next group of guests walk in, you guide them into the sitting room with the others. Grant catches your eye as you turn the corner, and when he smiles, you swear that your heart stutters in your chest.

He’s your employee, you chide yourself, and you turn your back on the group on the premise of prepping a plate of cookies for the coffee table.

“Dinner should be ready soon,” you say as you set the plate in the center of the group. Grant translates for you, first in French, and then in a language that sounds almost Spanish, but you know enough of that to know that it’s something different. All the guests nod in agreement.

You settle against one of the heavy wood bookshelves and watch quietly as Grant chats with the guests, switching fluidly between languages whenever he turns to a new person. It’s amazing, so you simply stay silent as you listen to the flurry of foreign words in the sitting room. You’ve never heard the pre-dinner conversation so lively. It brings a new warmth to the hostel, and you can’t help but smile as you watch the guests come alive, even though they’re exhausted.

“Dinner is ready!” Ana calls. She pokes her head in the door, and she smiles wide when she sees the guests talking excitedly. Every seat is taken. When she turns to look at you, you only grin.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stepping closer so she can lower her voice. “Who is that?”

You lean in, whispering, “His name is Grant. He’s the new handyman, and apparently, he speaks multiple languages.”

“Apparently?”

“I didn’t know when I hired him! This,” you gesture with one hand towards the circle of guests, who have started to rise now that Grant has passed along the message about dinner, “was a surprise to me, too. He just started talking to them on his own. I didn’t ask him to do anything.”

Ana raises her eyebrows, giving you a meaningful look. Before you can scold her for trying to meddle in your love life, she slips away and Grant appears at your side.

“Who is that?” he asks.

Goosebumps erupt on your arms at the sound of his deep voice so close to your ear. He’s leaned down so you can hear him clearly, and though he’s not quite in your space, he’s still close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. It should feel stifling in the early summer heat, but it’s comforting, and you turn towards him with a bright smile.

“Ana. She’s the manager when I’m not here. I’ll introduce you later. How come you never told me you spoke all those languages?” you ask.

Grant just smiles back at you. “You never asked.”

“I’ll make sure to add that to my list of questions for the next time I have to hire someone.” You gesture at the line of guests filtering through the doorway to the hostel’s dining room. “We should eat. Most of the guests have spent all day hiking or at the beach, and they’ll be hungry. Our local chefs are all amazing, so the food always goes quickly.”

“What’s on the menu?” Grant asks. He starts to walk and you fall into step beside him, noting how he angles himself sideways and stoops through the doorway so that you’re not squashed into the doorframe. It’s a miracle he doesn’t hit his head on any of the lowered ceilings or hanging decor in the building.

I’ll have to warn him about the lights in the rooms on the second floor, you note.

“Punjene paprike. Stuffed peppers,” you translate. You pause and watch as the guests choose their seats, silently making sure there are enough chairs. When it’s clear you’ve done the math correctly, you look over at Grant. “How many languages do you speak?”

He shrugs and surveys the long table filled with food. People are already piling their plates high and chattering with their friends and family, and the room is filled with amicable noise. The sun coming in from the windows is golden. The windows face south, which is one of the many reasons why you’d first purchased the building. It needs a lot of work, and it always has, but the view of the ocean from the dining room windows, along with the way the sun illuminates the whole room, helps make all the work worth it.

“This place is beautiful,” says Grant, quietly. “You’ve done well.”

You look over at him, surprised at the praise. It warms you from the inside out, and you smile when he meets your eyes. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard.”

He nods, and after a moment, he gestures towards the table. There are two empty seats beside each other, near the far end of the room. Ana has taken the seat across from them and she’s already begun to eat.

You follow Grant across the dining room, and you try not to act surprised when he pulls out the chair and helps you sit before taking the spot beside yours. Ana catches your eye as you reach for a dish, but you look away. You can’t risk having her embarrass you in front of the guests.

Or Grant, the cheeky little voice in your brain adds, but you quickly push the thought to the far reaches of your brain. Showing your hand—and your burgeoning feelings for Grant—right now is something you need even less.

“So, you’re from New York?” he asks.

You look up from where you’re pulling a napkin into your lap. “What?”

“Your degree. It’s from NYU, so I’m assuming that you’re from the States.”

Nodding, you allow him to serve one of the peppers onto your plate, and you heap an extra serving of rice onto the side of your plate before handing him the bowl. You don’t want to assume he likes anything, especially since he ordered one of the most American things on the menu at the cafe.

“I am. I grew up in Manhattan, and I decided to stay there for college. Once I got my degree in hospitality, I decided it was time I see more of the world,” you tell him.

“Why Croatia?” Grant asks.

You shrug and pick up your fork. “Honestly? I don’t know why. I didn’t even mean to come here. I ended up on the wrong train and decided to stick it out. I figured it would be a fun experience either way, but I fell in love with it here. On my second day here, I saw that this building was up for sale and I had just enough money in my savings to buy it. It was a big risk, but I think that it was worth it.”

He looks around the room, listening to the conversations for a few moments before he smiles. “I think so, too.”

“Where are you from?” you ask. “You’re clearly American.”

Grant laughs at that, nodding. “I grew up in Brooklyn. When I was old enough, I served in the army for a few years, and since then I’ve just been… traveling.”

The army thing makes sense, and you file that information away for later. The two of you start to eat, exchanging a few more words throughout the meal. Grant offers to help Ana with the dishes. She’s giddy at the proposal, so you let them head into the kitchen as you help guests arrange their plans for the next day. You find yourself straining to listen for the sound of his voice during the quiet moments, however, but by the time the dishes are finished, Grant tells you that he’s exhausted and he wants to get a good night’s rest before his first day on the job. You wish him goodnight from the front desk, then wait for Ana to appear and barrage you with a million questions about the new handyman.

You learn quickly that there’s even more to Grant than meets the eye. He’d been telling the truth in his interview—he’s deceptively strong, and he really does learn quicker than anyone you’ve ever met. His Croatian improves leaps and bounds in the first few months at the hostel. By the end of the summer, he’s practically fluent, even if he does bumble through some of the more complicated phrases with a faint blush on his cheeks.

The longstanding projects for the hostel are all completed by the end of August, leaving you scrambling to keep Grant busy. When you can’t find anything to do, however, he busies himself by exploring the far reaches of the island, speaking with the guests in a myriad of languages, and keeping you company in the lobby or in your office. His presence, which had once seemed much too large for the old brick building, has settled. He seems at home in the armchair you buy for the corner of your office, and he’s become a fixture in the doorway of the lobby, where he likes to stand and watch traffic pass by.

It’s on one of the hottest days of the year that you first get a glimpse behind Grant’s ever-friendly facade. You’re behind the desk, going through the reservations for the upcoming week, when there’s a shout from outside. The front door to the hostel is propped open in an attempt to let in a breeze, and Grant has taken up residence in his normal spot. You’ve only just processed the shout when there’s an explosion. The floor beneath you shakes and shudders, and you grip the edge of the desk in an attempt to keep upright.

Grant whirls around and fixes his eyes on you. He’s scanning you, up and down, searching for any sign of injury.

“Are you okay?” he asks. You nod, swallowing thickly, and peer over his shoulder. There’s no sign of what’s happened outside, but you can hear screaming and shouting. There’s a gunshot and you flinch.

“Stay here, and stay hidden,” says Grant, and you know in an instant that it’s an order. “Stay quiet and don’t let anyone in. Okay?”

Nodding again, you drop to a crouch, then curl up on the floor with your back against the desk. You clutch your phone in one hand and listen as Grant closes, then locks the door. When he doesn’t appear behind the desk, you crawl over to the side and look out into the small lobby. He’s gone.

Your arms shake beneath you and you have to fall back against the desk for support before you fall flat on your face. Squeezing your eyes shut, you listen to the commotion outside. There are no more explosions, but you hear more screams and shouts, followed by a crash and gunshots. Your heart pounds in your chest as the noise gets closer and closer. You know that Grant was in the army, so he must have military training, but the thought of him outside—the thought of him in danger—makes you want to puke.

There’s a thud against the front door and you flinch. Your body tenses and you curl up in the fetal position, trying to maintain your breathing. It doesn’t work, however, and when there’s another bang, you scream.

“Molim! Molim, let me in!”

You look around the edge of the desk again. It’s a woman on the other side, and the desperation in her voice propels you to your feet and into the lobby without a second thought. You twist the lock and yank open the door.

A slim woman dressed entirely in black grins at you. Her eyes are a shocking shade of electric blue and her teeth are bright white—a stark contrast against the mask that hides the rest of her features.

“Sorry, dragi,” she says, and you gasp when she reveals the gun in her left hand. With the other, she reaches out and grabs you. “You’re coming with me.”

“No!” You fight against the woman’s grip, and when you lift your eyes to search for help from someone else, you can’t believe what you’re seeing.

Grant is lifting a car off someone. He lifts the car and tosses it aside with a heave and a grunt, and then he’s fighting someone hand-to-hand. The man in black is clearly trained because he gets in a few hits, but Grant never stays down for long. He’s slowly forcing the man back down the street, towards the beach, instead of towards the line of shops that’s on the other side of the hostel.

There’s a blast as another explosive goes off, this time in a restaurant diagonal from your front door. Stone and rubble flies in every direction. The street is empty of people, thankfully, except for the people Grant is fighting. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm is going off, and the light from the harsh midday sun is almost blinding. Your ears are ringing from the blast and the alarm. You think you scream at some point, but you’re not sure.

The man that Grant has been fighting has been thrown back by the blast, but Grant is still standing, as if he’s anchored onto the pavement. There’s a metal car door in his hand. He’s gripping onto a piece of the leather interior, and the red painted finish on the outside has been battered by the flying debris. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath.

The woman drags you out of the hostel and onto the street. She wraps her arm around your shoulders and places the gun against the side of your head. You stop struggling then, and your breath catches in your throat as your heart begins to pound even harder. Your vision is going blurry along the edges, but not enough to miss the way Grant’s jaw clenches when he catches sight of you.

“Captain Rogers!” the woman shouts.

He throws a second man off of him and turns fully towards you and the woman. “Let her go!”

In your ear, the woman chuckles. It’s low and dark, and full of malice, and you shiver. You close your eyes and pray that it’s all just a bad dream.

“Not until you come with us,” the woman replies.

“Leave her and the others out of this.”

When you open your eyes, Grant is looking past you at the woman. The light reflects in his deep blue eyes, and it’s then that you realize what he’s been hiding from you.

How did I miss it before?

“Steve Rogers,” you choke.

He looks at you again. “Y/N…”

“You’re Steve Rogers.”

There’s a pause as he watches you with clear regret, and then the woman laughs, shocking you out of your revelation.

“How precious!” she exclaims. “Your little boss had no clue who you were?”

“Let. Her. Go.” Steve takes a step forward and the woman’s grip on you tightens. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes you when she pushes the gun harder against your head, making you crane your neck to one side.

Two new men in black come up behind Steve. He turns his head slightly, listening to their approach, but he doesn’t move. You can tell that he’s calculating what to do next.

There’s a moment of clarity as you watch them launch themselves at him. Steve fights like he was born for it—and maybe he was, you rationalize—and as he easily overcomes them both, you have a revelation that’s nothing short of a rock at the pit of your stomach.

Steve has to get out of this alive. So many people count on him, and they always have. Though you know that there are a lot of people all over the world who consider him a criminal, you also know that there are a lot of people just like you that think Steve deserves a place of honor for all that he’s done and all the sacrifices he’s made.

The safety on the woman’s gun clicks off and Steve freezes. The two men take advantage of that, and they grab his arms, pulling them tightly behind his back and pushing him to his knees. He falls with a grunt. One of the men grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back until he’s looking at you and the woman from his place on the ground. He doesn’t fight back.

“Steve,” you plead. “You have to fight. You can’t let them take you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he replies. He shifts his gaze to the woman without moving his head. “If I go with you, you’ll let her go?”

“You have my word.”

Heat swells in your eyes and you know that you’re about to cry. “No! Don’t trust her, Steve! You can’t believe her!”

The woman jostles you and you close your eyes on instinct. A tear slips down your cheek.

“Shut up,” she growls.

You swallow thickly. At your sides, your hands and fingers have gone numb, and your legs are barely holding you upright.

“Alright,” Steve agrees. “I’ll go with you.”

A sob bursts through and the woman releases you. She practically throws you to the ground, and you have just enough time to get your arms out in front of you before you hit the road. Pain shoots up both limbs and the pavement digs into your forearms. From where you lay, you watch the men pull Steve to his feet. He moves with them and doesn’t fight back as they drag him to a black cargo van on the perimeter of the blast zone.

“Steve!” you scream. Your voice breaks and your throat feels raw as you push yourself up and stumble in their direction. The movement sends pins and needles into your hands and feet, but you do it anyway. Your limbs feel completely out of your control as you attempt to go after them.

Steve looks back at you. He’s too far now for you to make out his expression, but you can see that he’s trying to tell you something. The man on his right shoves his shoulder and he’s forced into the van.

“Let him go! Steve!” You start to sprint, running after the van as the back door slides shut and the woman, who climbed into the driver’s seat while you were getting to your feet, begins to navigate it through the rubble from the explosions. The tinted windows keep you from seeing Steve inside and your mind immediately goes to the worst.

“Someone help me! Stop that van!”

You run until you physically can’t. The van is long gone, and when you collapse onto the street, a crowd gathers around you. People are murmuring and asking you questions. There are too many hands, too many faces, even if many of them are familiar. Your vision swims as you’re rolled onto your back. The summer sun beats down on you harder, and you try to focus, but all you can manage is a mumble of Steve’s name before you lose consciousness on the pavement.

When you wake, the soft beeping noise is enough to tell you that you’re in a hospital. You open your eyes, expecting to be greeted by white walls and bedding, and maybe a wall of cabinets with a sink. Instead, there’s a slanted wall of glass windows, each separated by a pillar of concrete. Thin, almost invisible computer screens with golden text are scattered around your room, each displaying charts, figures, and data in a language you can’t read. Some are embedded into the walls on either side of the bed, while others float above white counters that look more like control panels for a spaceship. There are scans of someone’s body and brain—your brain, you realize after a long moment—that spin in circles on the floating screens.

A hiss makes you flinch, and you quickly look away from the brain scan to where a young, dark-skinned girl is walking in through a set of sliding glass doors you hadn’t seen before. Her white, high-necked sheath dress looks nothing like hospital attire, especially since it’s sleeveless and only has mesh to cover her shoulders and a few inches below her knees, but she’s holding a tablet and looks so serious that you wonder if maybe she’s not a regular doctor. After all, this doesn’t seem like a normal hospital. Where are you? Did the men in black come back to get you, too?

“Y/N, it’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” she asks.

Her accent is jarring, and you blink. When you go to speak, you have to lick your lips a few times. They’re dry, and your mouth feels so much like sandpaper that for a moment you don’t think you’ll actually be able to say anything at all.

“Where am I?” you finally ask in return. “Who are you?”

She smiles briefly and checks something on her tablet, then glances over at one of the floating screens off to the side. Seemingly satisfied, she locks the device and sets it aside.

“My name is Shuri. You’re in Wakanda. You will be safe here.”

You frown. “Wakanda?” None of the hospitals even remotely close to the hostel hold that name, not even in passing, but it sounds familiar.

“Yes. We’re friends of Captain Rogers. When we heard about his capture, and how you were involved, we brought you here.”

Tears burn hot in your eyes as the memories from the street outside the hostel come flooding back all at once. How long have you been in the hospital? Who’s looking for Steve?

“We have located him already,” she continues, and you inhale sharply, shifting in the bed as you reach up to wipe your face. “And the Dora Milaje has been sent to retrieve him.”

“The what?” you ask. Your voice shakes and you swallow hard in an attempt to steady yourself.

Shuri smiles again. “The Dora Milaje. They are our special forces here in Wakanda. Let me ask again, how are you feeling?”

You move in the bed a little bit more, testing your limbs for stiffness or pain. Surprisingly, there’s very little. “I’m… I’m okay, I think. Confused, mostly. Thirsty.” Your stomach growls, so you quickly add, “Hungry.”

She laughs and nods, then picks up her tablet. Shuri taps a few times before glancing down at something through the slanted windows.

“Someone will bring you food shortly. I’ll also have someone come change the bandages on your hands and wrists. Your injuries are healing nicely. You should still rest a while longer, but I will make sure you’re notified when Captain Rogers has been safely returned.”

Nodding, you sit back against the pillows, but you quickly sit up again with a gasp. “The hostel! Ana!”

“We’ve sent someone to assist Miss Mitrovich in your absence,” Shuri soothes. She steps closer to the bed and you lie back as she approaches. “There were very few repairs that needed to be done to your building, but they are taken care of, and all your guests are safe. I have already dispatched a team of Wakandan specialists to help with the rebuild of Brdonik. We are also installing a security system in your building.”

You sigh in relief and close your eyes, swallowing against the dryness again. You lay in silence, listening to Shuri as she moves around the room and mutters to herself. When you finally open your eyes again, it’s because she’s greeting someone as the sliding glass doors hiss open for a second time.

“Grant,” you murmur, and he gives you a weak smile from just inside the doorway. You correct yourself, shaking your head. “Steve.”

“Grant is my middle name,” he quietly explains. “And Carter…”

“Agent Carter,” you finish. “I see the connection now.”

While waiting for your food, you’ve slowly been piecing together the different parts of Steve’s life that you knew, trying to get the full picture. You’ve known him personally as Grant, the quiet man from Brooklyn that is good with his hands, always knows exactly what to say when you’re in a bad mood, and is a hit with every guest that crosses your threshold. On the other hand, you also know him as Steve, the All-American super-soldier that’s plastered across every history textbook you’ve ever been given. He’s also the super-soldier that you’ve watched on the news, listening to reporter after reporter praise him like he’s a god, then publicly curse and shame him on their next breath.

Shuri quietly excuses herself. You stare at Steve as she leaves through the sliding doors behind him. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, and blood caked in his beard, right below a nasty split in his lower lip. He’s standing lopsided, like he’s keeping the weight off his right foot, and he looks like he could use a shower and a long nap.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He nods again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For dragging you into this,” Steve answers. He sighs. “For getting you hurt. For putting you in danger.”

You shake your head and sit up a little more in the bed, allowing the pillows to prop you upright. “None of this is your fault.”

“It is, and—”

“And nothing,” you interrupt. You give him a stern look and he presses his lips together with a wince. “You didn’t know that there was any danger. If you had, wouldn’t you have left?”

After a second, Steve nods, and you continue,

“And if you’d been able to stop it from happening, you would’ve, right?”

Another nod and you smooth the surprisingly soft hospital blanket over your legs.

“Then it’s not really your fault, Grant. Steve,” you correct again, more firmly this time. You’re still coming to terms with the fact that he’s not 100% who he said he was.

“But you still got hurt. I still put you in danger just by being there. I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. I got too comfortable, and too close, and I was careless.”

You purse your lips and watch him for several moments. Steve stays still under your inspection, waiting for you to say something.

Finally, you tell him, “I don’t regret what happened, and if I had the chance to go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t. I’m not in mortal danger, and you’re safe again. The hostel is being taken care of. None of the guests got hurt. Tourism might be down for a couple months but…” You shrug. “It’s the end of the busiest season anyway, and I have enough savings that I’m not going to worry.”

Steve shakes his head at you, then turns to look at the screens. He doesn’t seem to be actually reading them, but he puts his hands on his hips as he stares at a spinning scan of your hand and wrist.

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

He turns back. He’s silent for a few seconds as he watches you fidget with the hem of the blanket in your lap. “No,” Steve finally replies. “I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

When he doesn’t move, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You’re not dressed in a normal hospital gown—someone has put you in leggings and a tunic of some kind—but you still shiver when your bare feet touch the floor.

“Y/N—” Steve limps towards you, holding both hands out to steady you if you lose your balance. You don’t, and he stops a few feet away.

“I don’t regret any of it, Steve,” you say. You start to close the distance between the two of you even more. “Not a single minute.”

“Volim te,” Steve murmurs.

You freeze, now within arm’s reach. “What?”

“Volim te.”

Your brain is working a mile a minute to catch up with what he’s said. Steve shifts in place, wincing as he transfers the weight to his injured leg.

“You should get that checked out,” you quietly tell him, glancing down at his leg.

He stares at you, as if he was expecting a different response. You know he was, but you’re suddenly so overwhelmed by everything that it’s the first thing out of your mouth.

“I—” You close your eyes and shake your head, letting out a small self-conscious chuckle. “I’m sorry. I love you too, Steve. I do. I love you. I don’t— I don’t know why I said that. I guess I’m just worried—”

He cuts you off by stepping into your space and cupping your face with one hand. His fingers thread up into your hair and he tilts your head back so he can press his lips to yours. Your arms fall limp at your sides for a second, but then your brain catches up. You close your eyes and reach up to put one hand on the back of his neck. The other slides around his waist, pulling him closer as he kisses you.

Steve’s body is warm and though he winces with pain, then pulls away slightly to touch his fingers to his busted lip, neither one of you actually moves away from the other. You stay close enough to feel the heat from his breath on your skin.

“You need to eat,” he murmurs.

“And you need a doctor,” you reply.

He smiles a little, more just pressing his lips together than anything, and kisses your forehead. You close your eyes again when he lingers.

“Don’t go,” he says as you step away.

You frown and crowd close again, and you place both hands on his chest. “Steve?”

“No. I mean, you should go now, but…” He struggles for a second, trying to find the words he wants to say, and you wait patiently. “What I meant was: Don’t go back to Croatia. Stay with me.”

“What about the hostel? What about Ana and the guests?”

“I’ve heard you say a thousand times that she could probably run the place on her own. Plus, it’s the end of the busiest season, and after everything that’s happened, tourism will probably be low. You said it yourself.”

Steve reaches up to pull your hands off of him, but he holds them and rubs little circles over your knuckles with his thumbs. He watches you carefully, giving you his full attention. His eyes are deep and blue, and the crinkle between his eyebrows has disappeared completely now that he’s sure you’re okay.

“So, what? I’d stay here in Wakanda? What would I do?” you ask, frowning. “They don’t really have tourists here, do they? It’s not like they need a hostel.”

“No, but I need a partner.”

“Don’t you already have partners, Steve? What about the Falcon? Or Black Widow? Or even your friend that you told me about—James? Isn’t he a superhero, too?”

Shaking his head, he answers, “That’s not the kind of partner I need, Y/N. I don’t need a partner to fight with. I need a partner that I can live with. Someone to make a home with.”

You stare at him for a second, allowing your brain to process what he’s just said, and then you give him a slow, sly smile. Inside, you’re giddy and jumping up and down, but all you do is pull your hands in a little more so he has to step closer to you.

“Steven Grant Rogers, are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I guess I am.” His ears are starting to turn a bright shade of pink, and it’s beginning to creep along his cheekbones as well, just above his beard.

Steve’s still holding your hands captive, so you simply raise an eyebrow. “Do you have a place to live here in Wakanda? Or are we going to be staying here in my hospital room until you find one?”

He shrugs and grins back at you. “King T’Challa gave me an apartment.”

“The king gave you an apartment?” You pull your hands away and step back. You can’t hide your disbelief, though deep down, you figure it’s very likely that the king tried to give Steve more. He’s a hero, even if most of the world doesn’t believe it.

“The princess was just in here going over your medical information, and you’re shocked that he gave me an apartment?” Steve asks, a smirk on his face.

You gape at him even more. “You’re kidding. Steve, that was not—”

“Princess Shuri. She’s made most of the technology around here, and she oversees the recovery of important patients. Like you,” he adds.

“If I’d known—”

He leans in and kisses your forehead again. “You don’t need to bow or anything. They don’t do that here, though I’m sure she’d appreciate a thank you the next time you see her. Maybe compliment one of her inventions. T’Challa says she likes that.”

“The next time?” you hiss. “Steve—”

This time, he laughs at you. It’s a full-bodied laugh, unlike the sparse chuckles you’ve gotten out of him since his return, and you relax. You smile, too, a real smile that makes your cheeks ache as you press your burning face against his chest. Steve wraps his arms around you. His body shakes as he laughs, but he quickly settles down and kisses the top of your head.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you tell him, not letting go. In fact, you hug him tighter around the waist with both arms.

“Me too. Come on, ljubavi. Let’s go home.”

Dobro jutro = Good morning

Kako vam mogu pomoći? = How can I help you?

Govorite li engleski? = Do you speak English?

Dobor dan = Good afternoon

Molim = Please

Dragi = Darling

Volim te = I love you

Ljubavi = Love/my love

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

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Forever: @aya-fay

Steve Rogers: @lipstickandvibranium @delicatecapnerd

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avatar-anna · 1 year

Note

can we get a cute little something between yn and simone maybe current. maybe they do a little girls day and harry isn’t jealous but finds it hard to handle because yn has a special relationship with her since she spent so much time with simone. but harry would be the sweetest and be supportive and when they get back ask all about it.

you can totally change that i just rambled with what I thought apparently lol

summary: three times young mom!reader and simone went on their mommy-daughter dates

word count: 3k

mostly y/n and not harry which y'all might not like, but i thought it was cute

Young dad!Harry x Young mom!Reader universe

The first time Y/n took Simone out on a Mommy-daughter date, she was seven months pregnant. She was alone in Holmes Chapel, a town she was relatively new to, with nothing to do. Harry was across the globe on tour because his management wouldn’t let him come home until the last possible moment, his mother was at work, and she was in her boyfriend’s childhood home, balancing a bowl of chocolate covered almonds on her baby bump and flipping through British reality television, which was decidedly not as good as the American programs.

“What should we do today, little melon?” she asked, rubbing her belly. Laughing to herself, she added, “Not so little anymore.”

Not that there was anything to do. Holmes Chapel was fairly sleepy, with a small strip of stores on the main road and farmland. Lots and lots of farmland. It was nothing like Y/n was used to growing up, and while Anne was nice, she didn’t know the woman all that well and didn’t really know how to talk to her. It felt like there was a big elephant in the room every time they sat down to eat.

But Y/n was so bored. She was used to going out with friends, talking to people, feeling the sun on her skin. Holmes Chapel was not home, but it was too late to go back now, though the house she grew up in currently wasn’t all that inviting either.

She eventually decided on getting her nails done. Y/n had seen one salon when she went with Anne to the grocery store, and it was the first thing she thought of now. Struggling to an upright position, she put on some comfortable clothes, slid into her shoes, and set off.

Y/n ignored the stares as she passed people on the street. She got a lot of stares now that she couldn’t hide her bump anymore. Friends of Anne asked who Y/n was with wide eyes the first time they’d gone out together, and Anne calmly explained that Y/n was a cousin’s friend who needed a place to stay. Not the truth, but they weren’t allowed to tell the truth. And since Y/n had a young face, people stared, showed their visible disdain or disapproval of her being pregnant at such a young age. She was sick of the looks, which was why she mostly kept to the confines of Anne’s home, but she was feeling particularly restless today and decided to just deal with everyone’s judgment.

Anne never judged her, though. Not once, which Y/n appreciated.

The nail salon was small with a tinny bell attached to the door, announcing her arrival to the establishment. The woman manning the front desk widened her eyes at the sight of Y/n’s belly, but thankfully recovered quickly. “Can I help you?”

“A manicure and a pedicure, please?” she asked, hating how heads turned at the sound of her accent. Another thing that made her stick out around here.

“Of course, right this way,” the woman said, pointing to one of the cushiony chairs with a tub attached.

Y/n knew she didn’t really have much money to be spending on something like getting her nails done, but she just felt so gross some days. Her ankles were swelling, she had acne, got hot flashes, got nauseous around certain smells. This was a small thing to make her feel just a little more normal again.

She heaved herself into the chair, resting her head with her eyes closed once she got her feet up. The walk had made her tired, made her feet hurt, but it was worth it.

“Miss?”

Y/n opened her eyes to find a different woman standing next to her. “Hi, sorry. Just a little tired.”

“Did you walk here?” she asked Y/n, eyes widening for a completely different reason than talking to a teen mom.

“Yeah, I—I don’t have a car,” Y/n said lamely. Not that she’d be able to drive in a completely different country anyway. “But it’s fine, I—Oh shoot. I forgot to pick out a color.”

She began to get out of her seat when the woman rested a hand on her shoulder. “No need. What color were you thinking?”

“Light yellow? Pastel?” she said, the color of one of the onesies she bought online the other day coming to mind. It felt silly to think about matching with her baby that hadn’t even been born yet, but it was out before Y/n could take it back.

“I know just the thing. Toes too?”

Y/n nodded before resting her head again. She picked up her phone. To play a game or scroll through Instagram, she wasn’t sure. Y/n didn’t like going on social media all that much these days. It was a reminder of her life back home, of all her friends moving on and doing normal eighteen year old things. She didn’t regret her decision in having the baby or moving, but some days were better than others.

She decided on a message to Harry instead. He probably wouldn’t see it for a few hours, but she knew he would appreciate waking up to or coming off the stage to an update.

Y/n: on my first official mommy daughter date!

Before she hit send, she quickly erased the message and closed her phone.

I’m a mom, she thought. Y/n was seven months pregnant, and she would be having a baby soon, but she’d never called herself a mom before, didn’t believe it until right this second. But she was a mom. A good, bad, or average one time would only tell, but it scared her none the less.

“How far along are you?”

Y/n looked to her right at the woman who was sitting in the chair beside hers. Middle aged, clear skin, kind brown eyes. She didn’t look at Y/n the way other people did. There was no judgment, no preconceived notions about what kind of girl Y/n was, just plain curiosity.

Clearing her throat, Y/n said, “Twenty-nine weeks.”

“Almost to the end, then,” the woman said. “Have you thought of a name yet?”

“I think so. Have to run it by the dad first,” she said, resting her hands on her bump instinctively. “But I call her Simone.”

“That’s beautiful,” the woman said. “Can I offer a tip?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Lavender and chamomile,” she said. “Essential oils that help with relaxation and peaceful sleep.”

Y/n knew she probably looked exhausted, which was why the woman offered that particular piece of advice, but Y/n took it happily anyway. “That really helps?”

The woman smiled, and it wasn’t in a condescending way. “It does. The smells are supposed to relax you.”

Before Y/n could say anything else, her nail tech returned with two bottles of nail polish in slightly different shades of pastel yellow in her hand. “How do these look?”

For the next hour, Y/n didn’t worry about a thing. She let the nail tech take care of her, who encouraged Y/n to close her eyes and relax. And she did. For a whole hour, the baby didn’t kick, her back didn’t hurt, and she felt her shoulders slowly lose tension. She almost didn’t want it to be over. When it was, though, Y/n felt ten times better. She felt normal, a feeling that was hard to come by these days.

“Thank you,” Y/n said to her nail tech, handing cash over. “I…I really needed this.”

“Come back when your daughter is old enough,” the woman said. “You can get matching nails together.”

And when little Simone was old enough, Y/n did take her to the small nail salon. Her feet dangled in the cushiony chair, and she giggled when someone tried to touch her feet. She and Y/n got matching sparkly purple nails because that was what Simone wanted, and Y/n couldn’t help but comply. And everyone was just as nice and doting as the first time Y/n came in, and every time after that.

That was a favorite outing for Y/n and Simone when they did their mommy-daughter dates. They wouldn’t always go to the salon in Holmes Chapel, of course, but they got their nails done together frequently, from the first time with the sparkly nails and to Simone’s first dance and so on.

“Are you sure Daddy can’t come?”

“It’s for me and Mommy only! No Daddy allowed!”

Harry clutched his chest as if Simone had wounded him. He leaned back on the couch and slid down a little, making a real show of it. He peeked an eye open to see Simone’s reaction. Her hair, which was tied up in two little pigtails with bows on each one, swung back and forth as she shook her head, clearly exasperated by her father’s antics.

“We can play later, Daddy,” she said, skipping over to Harry. She jumped onto his stomach and squished his cheeks between her hands. “Stop being sad.”

“I can’t. Your mother is hogging you. She’s hogging my baby,” he joked. Kind of.

Harry knew all about Y/n and Simone’s mommy-daughter dates. Y/n often went out with Simone when they joined him on tour. She liked to get Simone out of the hotel rooms, find something fun for the two of them to do together. Harry was all for it, of course. He didn’t like that Y/n sometimes felt trapped when she traveled with him, and this was an opportunity to see the world in a way that some people didn’t get to. He sometimes felt left out, but he imagined that was how Y/n felt a lot of the time.

“You’d hate it. We’re going to the American Girl Doll store.”

Harry raised his eyes to see Y/n standing at the foot of the couch dressed for the day in a flowy sundress that covered her baby bump. Baby number two, Harry thought excitedly. He didn’t think that would be in their cards, but all it took was a few months of him being on hiatus and bam! Y/n was pregnant.

Putting an affronted hand on his chest, Harry said, “I love American Girl Dolls.”

Y/n bent down and kissed his forehead. “Then we can go again tomorrow. I’m sure our little melon won’t mind, will she?”

Simone nodded excitedly. “You can come with us tomorrow, Daddy!”

Tapping Simone on the nose with his knuckle, Harry said, “Promise?”

Simone nodded, showing off her biggest smile, which was now missing a tooth. “Promise.”

Y/n reached down and stretched her arms out to take Simone, and she happily leapt up into her arms. Behind his daughter’s back, Harry stuck his tongue out at Y/n, and once Simone was settled with her, Y/n stuck her tongue out back at him.

Simone was asleep when she and Y/n came back. “A long day of shopping,” Y/n said, passing the sleeping five year old over to him. Harry spent the afternoon reading and watching TV and doing a little bit of writing while they were gone, but he just wanted to be with his girls, all three of them. He knew Y/n and Simone’s days together were special, and he knew that he could just as easily have his own special day with his daughter, but sometimes he felt like there was an invisible wall with Y/n and Simone on one side and him on the other. He was doing all he could to get past or move around it, but they were so close having spent so much time together, just the two of them.

“You know,” Y/n said, settling onto the bed next to him. “All my little melon could talk about was showing you the doll she bought today.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm. She wanted to wait until tomorrow to pick out all of the clothes and accessories because you have the best clothes.”

Harry grinned, running a hand over one of Simone’s pigtails. “Really?”

Y/n leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek. “She loves you. Just as much as she loves me.”

“I know,” he said, a blush pinking his cheeks. “I know she does, but—”

“Simone idolizes you, baby,” Y/n said. “You, sir, are her hero. She asked me the other day if she could bring you to Career Day. And before that, she said she wanted to be you for Halloween.”

“I’d be the coolest dad at Career Day,” Harry said, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it.

“You would, and you’re the coolest dad here too. At home. So no more moping. No more pouting about mommy-daughter time, you hear me?”

“I hear you. No more pouting. Kiss?”

Y/n hummed, somewhat suspiciously. “Sometimes I think you pout just so I’ll kiss you.”

“I would never,” Harry said with a gasp, but he was grinning just the same as he leaned in. “Is it working?”

Narrowing her eyes, she said, “You’re lucky you’re cute. Come here.”

“So, who’s the boy?”

“Wha—What are you talking about? There’s no—How did you know?”

Y/n grinned and winked at Simone from her seat in the salon chair. “I’m your mother, Simone. I know everything.”

Simone huffed and sat back in her chair. “I thought that was just a line parents used to scare their kids.”

“Sometimes it is, most times it isn’t,” Y/n said. “So…?”

Y/n knew Simone would’ve fiddled with her hands if she could, but the nail tech was currently working on painting one of them a pale yellow. “He…hardly notices me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We sit next to each other in history class and sometimes we work on discussion questions together, but other than that it’s like—it’s like we live on two different planets. How do I get him to notice me?”

“How should I know? I don’t have much experience when it comes to guys,” Y/n said, joking with her daughter just a little.

Seeing right through it, Simone narrowed her eyes at Y/n and said, “You’ve been with Dad since you were seventeen. You know something.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Y/n said. “I’m not gonna tell you how I charmed your father because you’ll go, ‘Ew you’re my parents! Don’t talk about Dad like that!’ So I won’t. What I can tell you is be yourself and if there is a common interest between the two of you that doesn’t have to do with history homework, and start there. Shared interests is always a great place to start.”

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple.”

“Oh.”

Simone and Y/n were quiet for few minutes while the women in the small nail salon they’d been going to for years worked on their hands. Y/n didn’t live in Anne’s house in Holmes Chapel, and she was far from pregnant, but she still liked to come back and get her nails done with Simone whenever they came back to visit Harry’s family. Simone got harder and harder to pin down as she got older, but Y/n was always surprised when her oldest daughter cancelled her plans when she offered they go somewhere, just the two of them. Y/n loved all of her children dearly and had a special connection with each of them. But these moments, this one on one time with Simone was something she held close to her heart.

“Dad’s gonna freak when he finds out, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Not sure I can stop that, sorry.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Can’t you just not tell him?”

“He’s my husband, little melon. I tell him everything.”

“Well can you hold off until there’s actually something to say?”

Y/n took the free moment to lean over to Simone’s chair and kissed her forehead. “Course.”

After they finished getting their nails done, they took the familiar walk back to Anne’s house. Y/n looped her arm through Simone’s, enjoying the familiar press of her daughter against her side. “You know, when I was about your age—”

“You walked all the way from Nana’s house with me in your belly so you could get your nail’s done. I remember,” Simone said. Y/n told the story every time they went to the salon together.

“Are you going to let me finish?”

“Go ahead.”

So Y/n continued her story all the way until they reached the house. “And when I told your dad about it, he was so jealous. He was all, ‘I can get my nails done too, you know!’ But I said, ‘No. Get you’re own thing. This is ours,’” she said.

“Dad and I don’t have a thing,” Simone said.

“Sure you do. He’ll help you pick out your prom dress, pay for college, and walk you down the aisle. That’s three things right there.”

“Now I get to tell Dad something that’ll make him annoyed with you.”

Y/n playfully pinched Simone’s arm. “You listen here, my little melon, Harry Styles is a lot of things, and at the top of that list is an absolute pushover when it comes to his children. He would make traveling to the moon your ‘thing’ if you asked him.”

“I know. We go to the movies every two weeks. He and Julian go for drives to the grocery store when we’re all on our periods, and…I think he recently took up surfing with Maeve.”

Y/n knew all of this, of course. Harry was always looking to spend time with his kids, and now that they were all getting older and more independent, it was harder to get alone time with them. Except for Natalia and Geneva, who were still young and thought he was the coolest person on the planet. Y/n and Simone had their little dates, and now Y/n got to impart wisdom to her daughter from time to time, but for as long as Simone could speak she and Harry had their thing: she and Harry were terrible gossips.

“Hm. So, what do you think? Lunch before going home? Thrift store?” Y/n asked.

“Let’s just go back. I’m sure the house has descended into chaos without us,” Simone said, picking up her pace.

Y/n grinned and followed her daughter down the familiar sidewalk, each step bringing back memories of all the times she’d walked down it; from having a baby in her belly to holding her in her arms to walking side by side with her daughter who was now taller than her.

#harry styles #young dad! harry #young dadrry #young mom! reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic

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fairytsuk1 · 6 months

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hello!! I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you could do Izuku Midorya x gn!reader hcs where reader and izuku arent dating but izuku has a crush on them. Reader having like some kind of chemist or potions quirk (chemicals >:]) and have a very eccentric style (potion bottle earings, crystal necklaces, drawn on shoes, homemade bracelets etc . Whatever your cool with writing for)

Sorry if this is too much or hard to understand, I'm not the best with English 🥲

izuku who wants you so bad, and you have no idea

izuku who totally isn’t a stalker but knows everything to know about you like your favorite stones to carry with you or which potions work best with his powers when you fight together—knowing that’s all normal right? writing it all down and taking up pages upon pages in his notebook for you is normal, right…?

he can’t help the blush that creeps on his cheeks when you smile so softly, sweetly at him. your jewelry dangles and it’s the most wonderful sound.

definitely open to helping you study and practice; there’s something about sitting so close together (he can feel your body heat!) and watching you peer at him with soft eyes

“thank you so much midoriya! you’re so sweet to me.”

“it’s not a big deal!” it really isn’t, “I wanna help you.”

what he doesn’t say is that he wants to make you yours.

he thinks about confessing all the time. when your hands lightly touch in the hallway. when you fall asleep on his shoulder. when you hug him.

maybe he’ll work up the nerve someday.

#bnha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagines #izuku midoriya fluff #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku x reader

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hanniology · 1 year

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no one gets away with it | csc

synopsis: just seungcheol being sulk. genre: FLUFF, crack. warning: SULKY CHEOL, mention of alcohol, mention of poop. word count: 847. pairing: choi seungcheol x gn!reader. note: also I used mx which is a gender neutral term for miss/mr to keep this all gender neutral. Also this is a repost from that i deleted from my other blog

Stepping into the boys dorms, closing the door behind you. You just came back from grocery shopping with your wonderful boyfriend Seungcheol. That said boyfriend is now currently sulking on the couch on something that had happened early today at the store.

The two of you went out shopping for food because Minghao and Jun were coming back from their trip to China. So obviously because of that they were going to want to host some really big welcome back party, which meant a lot of food. And the thirteen boys weren’t going to survive with the amount of food they had in their fridge.

You decided to come along and help after hearing Seungcheol go on a rant about how he (unfairly) lost in a game of rock paper scissors, which was deciding who’s going to go out and buy all the food and ingredients. Apparently just in the first round he was the only one to be holding a pair of scissors and everybody was holding rock. Feeling bad you decided to join him on the trip to the grocery store.

Everything was completely normal, just like your typical trips to the store. Cheol pushing the cart, you trying to put in a bunch of unnecessary things, trying your best to convince him that you guys would need it, and a bunch of questionable stares from customers due to the large amount of soju in your cart.

So what exactly happens to have your boyfriend currently sitting on the living room couch all sulky.

Well, when the two of you finally agreed you have enough food, you head over to the cashier. Cheol was placing all the already scanned items into the cart again from the conveyor, while you had over Mingyu’s card (which Cheol totally didn’t steal when he wasn’t looking out of revenge from them cheating in the game).

The cashier man seemed nice and probably didn’t mean any harm when he told you, “You look good today, mx.”

Poor guy didn’t see the look on Seungcheol’s face when he said that, he was too busy printing out the receipt. About to give that said receipt to you, but instead got it grabbed from his hand by Seungcheol.

On the way back to the dorms he didn’t say anything, just grumply and sulkily walked next to you on the way there. You kept trying to tell him it wasn't that much of a big deal, but he didn’t listen.

So that should be enough explaining why your boyfriend is sitting on the couch with both elbows on his legs, with arched eyebrows, pouty lips and clicking a pen, right?

Chuckling softly at the scene, “Cheol,” picking up one of the bags on the floor and bringing them to the kitchen, “you look like you're trying very hard to push out a poop.”

He rolls his eyes at your comment and continues to click the pen in his hand.

Coming back from the kitchen to grab another bag, “You know if you are really having a hard time pushing it out, an easier way is to lift your legs.”

“Yn this is a serious matter- wait really?- that’s besides the point,”

You go through a giggling fit, almost dropping the bag when he changed the subject for a little, “Yes, it really does work.”

“Urg, why won’t you take this seriously?” He goes to write something on the paper on the coffee table.

When you finished putting all the stuff away, the front door unlocks, entering Mingyu, who’s here to cook the food for the welcome back party (or some excuse to get drunk idk).

“What’s up with coups?” He asks as he watches the older boy continue to write on the paper.

“Oh, someone told me I looked good whilst we were at the store and now he’s plotting their death.”

A confused look grows on Mingyu’s face. “Isn’t that a complement?”

“All they said was good,” Cheol says, “They forgot all the other words that perfectly describe them. Perfect… Gorgeous… and any other positive word in the dictionary.” He grabs the paper filled with more compliments and starts waving it in the air.

“No one gets away with that. No one.”

[ bonus]

A week later.

You were in the boys dorms once again, reading a book on the same couch, Cheol wrote that list of nice things to you.

“Does anyone know where my card is?” Mingyu walks in the living room asking you and the other members that are in as well.

Sinking deeper into the couch, lifting the book higher so it can hide the smug smile on your face. You almost exposed yourself with the giggles about to come out of your mouth.

But luckily saved by a Cheol running to you from the bathroom, “Yn, you were right, if you lift your legs while sitting on the toilet, it’s much easier to get it out.”

“I’m sorry-WHAT?!” Mingyu exclaims.

Which was a good thing so now you don’t have to hide your laughter that escaped your mouth.

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toriangeli · 2 months

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How Armand's AMC background might work with the changes

TW: Mentions of physical, sexual, and religious abuse. You know, Armand stuff.

Age

First off, it’s not that big a deal for Armand to be aged up for his turning.

I’ve said it before, but being turned, especially very young, can be considered analogous to arrested development caused by trauma. In the books, getting this across is helped by repeatedly describing a teenager doing/saying these immature things. In live action media, though, it can be conveyed in a performance. A bit like how The Umbrella Academy removed Klaus’ ability to float because it was a metaphor for him being constantly high, and Robert Sheehan’s performance conveyed his state of mind so well they didn’t need the visual aid.

Armand is still developmentally frozen in places at those times some new trauma came about—pre-adolescent with the sheer hardship of his childhood, thirteenish with the monks (or equivalent in the show if they keep that bit), also thirteenish getting sex trafficked, then again whenever the Children of Darkness/Satan overturn his life. Throughout this entire time, the only time he was safe enough to have normal-ish emotional development was during his relationship with Marius, and it didn’t happen because his need for safety meant him foreclosing on whatever identity he thought Marius would want him to have, and relying on Marius to regulate his emotions instead of learning to regulate them himself. No matter how safe Marius is compared with the rest of Armand’s life, Marius isn’t a psychotherapist and is too flattered by Armand’s total dependence on him to reliably break him of it. He’s too busy cuddling him and feeding him soup instead of teaching him how to self-soothe, having the same expectations of him as he would have with an adult: that he already knows how to do the things he needs to do in order to be a person.

All this to say Armand isn’t necessarily going to be significantly more mature just because he was turned older, especially since Marius was enabling his emotional dependence on him.

The only difference I could see miiiight be if he spends significantly more time under Marius’ tutelage. Marius is the only person in his entire life who actually tries to teach him right from wrong, and it’s pretty critical to his character that it didn’t take. Marius himself notes this at one point during the “banquet” scene, seeing Armand is trying to react how he thinks his master wants him to react, not being properly horrified by people dying. If Marius has time to actually correct this (which, who knows how long that would take, Armand has been stuck permanently in this state for a long time already), that could make a difference to his characterization. But the likelihood of Marius successfully teaching him right from wrong was always pretty damn low, given how his method is “Do something heinous, get mad if Amadeo doesn’t cry.”

Origins

This is a little tricky, but it ultimately boils down to one thing: religion.

He’s Turkic, and it’s plausible for him to be Crimean Tatar, but he couldn’t have been trafficked by them the way he was in the books.

Among Turkic people in Armand’s day, an extremely common language, both speaking and in literature, was Chagatai. This was spoken among Muslims in eastern Europe, as well as central Asia, the Caucasus, and the Ottoman Empire. Today, Chagatai is a dead language, and while there are experts, it’s entirely possible your dramaturg won’t be able to contact one. If that’s the case, what modern language is the most similar? Turns out, Uyghur and Uzbek.

What language does Armand end his prayer in in Dubai? Uzbek.

If Armand is indeed Muslim (which would be the most narratively satisfying option—for him to be forcibly converted in his early life and find his own religion again later), you did have a more diverse population among Crimean Tatars back then than we have today, especially since Stalin’s genocide. You had some who came from as far south as Iran, where you can get people as dark as Assad, even if it’s uncommon. But it being uncommon (aka “exotic”) would be all the more reason he’d get targeted for sex trafficking.

Speaking of. Islamic and Christian laws forbade enslaving someone of the same faith. So whoever kidnaps him in this version of events is almost certainly Christian. The Venetians had a slave trade that was leaving the area for Africa due to the conquest of Constantinople by the Ottomans, but with a little wiggling of decades, we can imagine there were still Venetian slavers raiding the Black Sea. Since Armand ends up in Venice, this would make particular sense.

One more thing remains: the monks of the Caves. An order which, as far as I’m aware, only existed in Kiev. Why would a little Muslim boy be tempted to join an order of Christian monks? I mean, Islam definitely has its own brands of asceticism, but if we’re trying to make as few changes as possible, I’d still buy it being these monks. Speaking as someone who was raised evangelical, children are often targeted in the hopes of converting the entire family. I have no idea how likely that would be for a bunch of Eastern Orthodox monks and a Muslim family way back when, but personally, I’d buy it.

Realistically, would he still live near Kiev (which was part of Lithuania at this time) if he’s from the Crimean Khanate? Probably not. But I wouldn’t sweat it. And I can’t find whether there were any other Muslim groups who lived in/near Kiev.

Timeline

Show!Armand was turned older, so there are years that must be accounted for. I think he must have been trafficked at a similar age as in the books, because it makes the most sense—he’s very young, but old enough that he doesn’t have to be “raised” anymore. So he either spent longer in the brothel, or with Marius, or the years are split between. If it’s at the brothel, they might kick him out once he gets older, and Marius rescues him off the streets instead of from the brothel. Instead, or in conjunction, he could spend more time with Marius. My concern is, if the underage aspect of their relationship is cut, it could sanitize Marius too much. Armand isn’t meant to have any models for healthy relationships in his history, and Marius expecting a kid to meet his emotional needs the way an adult would, in addition to the power discrepancies so typical of pederastic relationships in Marius’ time, explains a lot about both characters.

On the other hand, I don’t want too many flashbacks where a younger actor is playing Armand. I want to see Assad tackle as much as possible. He is so damn good.

Then there’s also the complication mentioned above of how vital it is that Armand never learned right from wrong. And they are still bound by what the network will permit (a reason I’m not sure Claudia’s “surgery” will take place).

It’s possible they could just leave the timeline vague. Assad is babyfaced enough for it to be ambiguous how old he is at any given time. I wouldn’t want it to be too vague, though, lest the effectiveness of either possible version of events be diminished.

Conclusion

I don’t have any conclusions about what they’ve chosen to do. These are all just possibilities. I think that’s valid in its own right.

All in all, I think they have a great opportunity to flip the stereotype of the brown person becoming more “civilized” because of white people and show Armand’s problems as being caused, in significant part, by losing his own identity and culture, and in total part by the imperialist ideals of the West.

Reading up on all of this history to figure out the possibilities has given me a greater appreciation for why they would make the choice to cast Armand as non-white. Armand may be white in the books, but he’s not Western, and even though I’m sure she didn't mean to, Anne did tap into that “the West is here to civilize everyone” narrative. It’s actually something Marius is (intentionally hypocritically) big on—“civilization.” He took this wild Eastern European kid from the shitty life that came to him because of non-white slavers (who were very much a big deal at the time, but they’ve been used to justify the beliefs of white supremacists since the time of Hitler) and gave him a happy, comfortable life, albeit via a deliberately creepy relationship. Here in the US, we don’t think of Eastern Europeans as “not white enough” the way they’ve been historically seen in Europe, so I doubt Anne realized she'd accidentally written a story about the “savage” child being victimized by a tribe of "evil" Mongols and rescued by an ”enlightened” white guy (though if you haven’t read the books, keep in mind that Marius is not nearly as enlightened as he believes and doesn’t spend all that much time in the “civilization” he supposedly treasures).

Flip that, make him Islamic, and his slavers must by necessity be Western, so the people who take apart his life are all coming from that angle of “we have the right to do this because we are better.” And it does not stop after he becomes a vampire. What’s harming Armand isn’t a series of unrelated catastrophes, but an entire culture of imperialism. The Golden Horde doesn’t exist today. Actual Crimean Tatars in the 21st century are oppressed minorities. But the imperialist mindset in Western culture remains, this idea that we are more “civilized” than others. And that’s something this show can actually speak to that will resonate.

#iwtv #amc iwtv #armand #the vampire armand #iwtv speculation #stuff nobody asked for #marius de romanus #please do not treat me like an expert #i tried #this is just a blitz of ideas #partly brought on by the frustration that i will be out of the country when the season premieres #and i'm curious as fuck

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