In the past, an invite to a weekend of conferences at the International Potions Convention in Germany would not have posed any form of problem for him.
But that was the in the past. Not now.
Now, he had an entirely new set of considerations when it came to such travel.
Namely, Harry.
Glancing up from his desk, he glanced across at the almost-seven-year-old boy, who was content to lay in front of the fireplace in his office and draw.
Yes, there was the small matter of his adopted son and whom might take responsibility for the boy in his absence.
Severus’ brow furrowed. Since Harry had come into his care over a year ago, the child had, seemingly, grown very attached to him. And though Severus was loathe to admit it, the feeling was fast becoming mutual.
He and Harry had not spent a night apart in that time. Let alone two.
Yet Severus could go, he knew. It was simply a matter of choosing the most appropriate caregiver.
And therein lay the problem.
Dipping the tip of his quill into the inkwell, the potions master began to write a list of possible contenders.
Albus Dumbledore.
No sooner had he written the name down, he immediately struck a line through it. The old man would talk in nonsensical riddles to the child all weekend and fill him full of sugary treats which would no doubt ruin his teeth.
No.
Severus did not wish to return to find his son had become an unstoppable ball of energy. Or worse, a raving lunatic.
Albus Dumbledore was definitely not an option.
Minerva McGonagall.
Severus sighed. A perfect solution under normal circumstances, but he quickly remembered that the deputy headmistress had left the castle that weekend, to visit family.
Filius Flitwick.
He pondered it for a moment but rapidly ruled it out – Harry was already taller than the charms professor, and knowing the boy’s penchant for finding trouble, it was likely a recipe for disaster.
He didn’t even bother to add Pomona Sprout’s name to the list. Last time he had entrusted Harry to her for less than half a day, the boy had ended up alone in the Forbidden Forrest.
Setting down his quill, he sighed. Perhaps he should ask the boy where he’d like to go?
With a shake of his head, Severus swiftly dismissed the idea. He would only end up having to make not one but two trips to The Burrow, where copious amounts of tea and rock-hard cakes would be forced upon him as he sat surrounded by those snot-nosed Weasley brats. He simply did not have time for such atrocities.
It really was a conundrum – at this rate, the Dark Lord might be a serious contender for the title of babysitter, Severus thought bitterly.
There had to be another choice. Somebody he hadn’t yet thought of.
Who would Harry be happy to stay with? And most importantly, who could he trust?
And then, it dawned on him.
He left early the following morning. He would, of course, travel by floo to the convention, but Severus Snape had never been one for tardiness.
And as he walked back across the ground of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he cast a glance over his shoulder at the caretaker’s hut.
Albus Dumbledore may have been an eccentric old fool who talked in nonsensical riddles most of the time, but there was one thing he often said which Severus found himself agreeing with.
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This one took me a bit to get together but I had an idea and it's HERE
@pyro-sea, two of three down!
Prompt - "Why didn't you say something? Come here."
[In Sickness And In Health] on Ao3
‘No matter the gamble’, his father always said, ‘no matter the challenge, you always win if you maintain your dignity’.
Now however, the young Pegasus J. Crawford struggles to find even a shred of dignity, having lost every bit in front of Cyndia, alongside his lunch.
Her eyes are wide, in equal shock to the rest of the room. Though they’ve all turned away to ignore and ingest the un-ingested splattered acorss her. His pocket kerchief wouldn’t do much to help that - the remnants on his hands would sully it before it even reached her.
“I’m-” he says with his hoarse and half-cracked voice. “I’m s-” He swallows, further irritating his sore throat. So does the sharp, too cold air he sucks in when no more words come out.
Her slack mouth twitches - if it’s to speak, he won’t hear it.
He moves quickly. Heels clack and glasses jostle as group by group parts for his unsteady escape, too quickly to be simple politeness. His heart and head thud and hurt as he weaves unsteadily between other attendees and smears the door with his filthy hands.
Pegasus ignores someone’s grunt and pushes through into the hallway, letting the doors swing recklessly behind him. The long corridor is illuminated by the outdoor lights shining through the windows. The serene snowfall outside climbs higher and higher, blankets the hedges.
He skims the walls as he walks, searching for egress with intensifying need. He’s burning and his breathing deepens the faster he walks and his lungs are burning as a result and his throat is burning-
Pegasus pushes the doors open, bursting to the back area, the only place close enough before risking further shame.
He’s cold. He’s hot. He’s clammy and sweaty and can’t breathe. His throat is scalded by acid, his lungs are frozen and raw and his head hurts as another spasm forces through him, staining the white mound in front of him. body again, and out his locked jaw. He slumps to his knees, his exhausted, filthy hands staining his pants further when resting his palms on his legs. He pants, tears running onto his tongue as he stares down at the respectless sight, until they’re forced closed from the clouding wetness.
He’s a casino owner's son and to even mention Nevada brought on questions he had to deflect like the knight of a tax-hungry crown. It’s not old money like his Cyndia, or half the people in the hall. The legal things his father is pushing through are paltry comforts - the problem they have isn’t with the Crawfords money. It’s having money that ever belonged to anyone else.
And now he’s done this. In front of those very people. One of which is the father of the girl he loves, who he can’t fathom being comfortable with him ever again after-
“Here you are.”
Her voice. Soft and somber and shuddering with effort.
He looks up, her embroidered handkerchief in her hand extended down towards him.
“You used yours,” she says, breathlessly. “Here’s mine.”She kneels beside him, the hem of her dress bunches against the ground, too close to the specks and chunks.
“Wait,” he puts a hand out to stop her, “you’ll get-”
“I’m already dirty.” Cyndia says. He winces guiltily. Once more, her hand jostles towards him, offering again.
“I don’t want to ruin it.” He sounds weak and raspy.
“It’s better than wiping yourself on the snow,” she says. He takes the swatch and their fingers brush - her hand is soft, his hand is clammy. They’re both cold already. “Did you drink the tap water?”
Pegasus nods, speaking through the cloth. “Should I not have?”
“It’s a basic mistake,” Cyndia says. “It’s your first time here, right? A lot of people don’t know not to.”
He nods. Pulling back once his face is dry (enough), he catches the embroidery at the corner - her initials. A rose. The simple patterns skillfully, lovingly stitched, The kind done with careful hands, purposeful and unique to her. And now the cloth reeks with oily stains.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?” Cyndia starts - he flinches at the softness in her voice.
“I should’ve stayed home.” He grunts. “I should’ve-”
“You didn’t know you were going to be-”
“I did - I didn’t feel well, but I didn’t care.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?!”
“I wanted to see you and I didn’t care about what could happen and that ruined everything-”
“Stop it!” She smacks at him, too lightly to do anything but bring attention to the hard grate in her voice. “It’s not a burden to be sick, I’m not-”
She stops mid-word. Her gaze drops to the floor. Her arms fold tightly over her chest - weak heart, weak lungs, weak to the cold and dust and filth and…
“I’m always going to be sick.” She murmurs, pulling herself into a ball with an angry pout. “I can’t choose to be healthy. Neither can you.” She hugs herself tightly, thin fingers pushing into thin arms. “And I wanted to see you too…. so don’t push yourself again, okay?” She asks. His head bobs, accepting. “Good.” Cyndia closes her eyes, head ducking down. “I was worried about you.”
He sucks on his sour tongue, his burning throat tightening as he looks at her, tightly tucked within herself. As though her words were a....
His dizziness is exaserbated by her sudden shyness. She’s trembling lightly, her knees knocking where she’s knelt. Her dress isn’t meant for the snow. Her body isn’t meant for it either, most likely. Her shoes are scuffed from running - she doesn’t run well, he wonders how often she may have stumbled or tripped. And she hadn’t, in her pursuit of him, grabbed a coat.
“Aren’t you cold?” Pegasus asks.
A pause. Her lips purse and she avoids looking at him. “Maybe.”
Pegasus unbuttons his blazer, shrugs it off his shoulders and across hers. Cyndia’s head comes up, her face stiff and unsure. Her big blue eyes are brighter from her reddening cheeks - a different red dusts her nose and ears - but her small hand quietly tucks it closer to her body.
He smiles, offering his clean(ish) hand. With a blush, she slowly takes it - her hand is soft, his hand is clammy. She’s freezing, he’s overheated. And he’s rather certain that his hand has a smell. If it does, she doesn’t turn away.
He takes her arm in hand to steady her, but weak knees are difficult, and she topples into him again. A sheer stroke of luck gives him the grounding to steady them both.
“Sorry,” Cyndia says quietly. She’s pressed to his terribly filthy shirt, and him to her terribly filthy dress. If either of them weren’t a mess before, they both were now.
“For what?” Pegasus asks, feeling a warmth rise to his throat.
She smiles when he says that, content and fond. And as they steady each other and walk back (“You should probably change your clothes, though.” “My nanny has a change for me, do you need one?” “No, I think Dad and I’ll be leaving soon.”), he falls a little more in love with her than he was before.
(Y/N) is pregnant. It’s Thor’s. The only thing is, they’ve never talked about having kids.
Yo, it’s your girl. Big surprise, I’m still alive. And have written something. Shoutout to the person that requested this aeons ago
“Shit. Shit. What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”
(Y/N) looked down at the two pink lines in front of her. Positive. Fuck. She clenched her phone like a lifeline, the timer buzzing as tears pooled in her eyes.
“Nat?” The other woman cradled the mess on the floor.
“It’ll all be okay. (Y/N)! It’s Thor’s right?” (Y/N) hummed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Then it’ll be fine. He loves you more than anything.”
“We’ve just never talked about kids.”
“So?”
“So? What if he doesn’t want it!”
“(Y/N). As soon as you tell him, everything will be okay.”
The other woman sighed, carding her fingers through her (Y/H/C) hair. “Yeah, you’re right.”
_______________________________
Telling him. That seemed to be an issue.
________________________________
(Y/N) had been avoiding Thor. That was a fact.
Whenever he entered a room, she would leave. She had been ignoring his calls and rooming with Nat instead of him. It wasn’t very mature, she could admit. But she was just scared.
“What am I doing?” (Y/N) stared at Nat’s pale ceiling, her hands delicately on her stomach. There’s another human in there. There’s a demigod in there.
“What you think is best, right?” Natasha answered from the window.
“Is it right? To hide from the man I love? To avoid and lie to him? To deny my child a parent, a society.” She sighed. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”
____________________________________
Despite her grievances, (Y/N) still refrained from telling Thor anything, but she attempted to remain in his presence when he appeared, repressing her urge to scamper away.
She had, however, noticed that Thor had become a lot more stoic and reserved around her and a part of her yearned for his wide smile or infectious laugh.
You’re driving him away. Perfect. Ruin him and your baby.
Her relationship was stale and her baby was growing.
It couldn’t get worse.
___________________________________
Apparently, it could.
___________________________________
“ (Y/N)!” Sam burst into the library, the woman in question curled up in a chair.
“Sam? What is it?”
“Thor’s leaving for Asgard. Like right now.” His tone was breathless like he had sprinted to her.
She felt her blood go cold.
“What?”
_______________________________________
“Thor? You’re leaving?”
“My beloved no longer wants me. What more am I to do?”
Tears fell down her (Y/C) face. “I knew you would leave,” she whispered. “If you knew the truth, you’d run faster.”
“What? That you slept with another man! That you have lost all love for me! That you’ve moved on from me!” Thor cried, his body taught and tone hard.
(Y/N) avoided his eye, her body shaking.
Thor stumbled back. “What could be worse?”
The beautiful (Y/C) woman sighed. “I’m pregnant.”
Thor’s head snapped up, her words swept away on the wind.
“Is it mine?” The norse god crept close to his girlfriend, hope twinkling in his eye.
(Y/N) laughed weakly. “Of course she is Thor!”
“She?”
“We have a daughter.”
A splitting grin appeared on Thor’s face.
(Okay so I know that realistically there is no way for them to know the gender of their baby as (Y/N) is only 5 weeks pregnant. But I wrote it. And I like it. So it stays.
Also, anyone who thinks Thor wouldn’t be adorable with a daughter you can fight me).
Illustration based on Home of the brave, a fic by MonocerosRex on AO3 (happens after CA:TWS) [ It was Bucky, standing in a pool of his own blood, one shoulder propped against the doorframe as if he could barely stand, face deathly pale. A little girl covered in dirt and blood clutched his right arm, leaves caught in her mane of springy black curls. A tiny baby was carefully cradled in his left, black streaks of grime standing out against its china-pale skin
“I need your help.” ]
Quoting the writer: "Please ignore the fact that I am four (FIVE) years late to this particular party and enjoy my bullshit."
Bucky and Steve running away and starting a new life, fucking up Hydra in the process? Yes please.
Shiro had always loved to come with his uncle to visit his friend. Those two weeks were probably best of the summer break and he looked forward to them the whole year. He had been asked to tag along when he was eight. His mother had been terrified to leave him alone with her brother. “What will you do if he says he wants to go home the next day? Just fly him back?”
But Shiro never did. Of course, the beginning had been scary, as the arrival in a different country with different culture could be for an eight years old. But it was also exciting and fascinating. Helping out at his uncle’s friends beach bar, Shiro got accustomed to the life there in a blink.
During his sixth visit, when he was returning from the store with a full bag early in the morning, he was run over by a boy. A little child, who was much younger than him.
“Lance! You can’t run around like that. Now come here and apologize.” A girl, apparently his older sister, yelled at him, when she stopped next to Shiro, who sat on the ground with confusion bubbling in his eyes. “I’m really sorry about my brother.” The girl grabbed Shiro’s bag and stuffed the spilled things back inside.
“Sowwy!” The bright voice next to him startled Shiro to a yelp. He looked at the little boy, whose equally bright smile revealed a missing front tooth.
Veronica and Lance were also headed to the beach, as Shiro found out. They had moved here just this year and really, really loved the beach. Especially Lance. He always begged his parents or siblings to go with him and Veronica usually succumbed first. There was just something about seeing Lance’s smile and his shining eyes, which reflected the ocean, that made one’s day happier as well.
After the initial incident, Shiro saw them almost every day. Since they knew, where to find him, they always stopped by to say hello. And Shiro was always happy to come out with them to play. Of course Shiro had befriended local children, but with spending here only two weeks out of the year, he felt more like an outsider the older he got. It was a common ground he shared with Veronica, which made them get along so easily. And Lance? Lance got strangely attached to Shiro. He always demanded to go swim with Taka. Build a sand castle with Taka. Play tag with Taka. Or have Taka tell him a story. Veronica even teased Shiro he got himself an eternal admirer, judging by how often Lance talked about him at home as well.
When Shiro’s last day of vacation came, their goodbyes were heartfelt. Veronica hugged him so tight and so long, Shiro’s uncle joked about preparing a wedding for next year.
“No! No!” Little hands clawed at Shiro’s thigh and shirt at that, trying to pull him down.
“What is it Lance?” Shiro laughed as he squatted to be at Lance’s level. Only to have his hair grabbed and be pulled in for a little kiss directly on his lips.
“I’m gonna mawwy Taka!” Lance proclaimed loud, with a big, proud grin as he jumped at Shiro. He wound his arms around Shiro’s neck and held on tight, so Shiro had to lift him up.
“Oh, are you now?” Veronica pinched his little leg and all of them laughed at Lance’s promises that were full of a young child’s sincerity.
They took photos with Shiro’s uncle’s Polaroid before they said their final goodbye.
With a fond smile Shiro runs his thumb over the wooden photo frame.
He had returned for three more year, before his studies at the Garrison became too heavy. Veronica and Lance were always waiting for him.
After their last goodbye, Shiro, knowing he wouldn’t be returning next year, expected to meet them again maybe year later. But they reunited sooner that he imagined at the Garrison. Even then, Shiro would have never thought that Lance’s childhood promise would ever come true.
“What are you looking at, Taka?” A warm weight leans against his side. Lance presses his cheek against Shiro’s shoulder and glances down at the photo as well.
“Just getting lost in memories, I guess.” Shiro smiles as he puts the frame back. There are two identical photos of thirteen years old him holding a clingy, five years old Lance in his arms. They sit as a reminder on each side of their wedding photo, that things could have gone completely different, if Lance’s love for the ocean had been any less and didn’t cause him to run Shiro over that day.
“What do you say we go out for a dinner tonight?” Shiro gazes at Lance with the intensity of all their married years, feeling like celebrating the simple fact of them being where they were today.
“I would love that.” Lance answers with a smile and stretches his neck to press a loving kiss on his husband’s lips.
Check out the others as well!
Day 01 | Day 02 | Day 03 | Day 04 | Day 05 | Day 06 | Day 07 | Day 08 | Day 09 | Day 10 | Day 11 | Day 12 | Day 13 | Day 14 | Day 15 | Day 16 | Day 17 | Day 18 | Day 19 | Day 20 | Day 21 | Day 22 | Day 23 | Day 24 | Day 25 | Day 26 | Day 27 | Day 28 | Day 29 | Day 30 | Day 31 |
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark
Additional Tags: Kid Peter Parker, childfic, Precious Peter Parker, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Ficlet, Empathy, Vegetables, Parent-Child Relationship, Baby Peter Parker, kind of he’s like three or four idk, I’m bad with kids, but do read my childfic, Irondad, Innocent Peter Parker
Series: Part 6 of Art’s Unrelated Irondad & Spiderson One-Shots
Summary:
“Peter,” Tony began, far more patient than most parents would be at this point, “you need to eat your vegetables, or else how do you expect to grow up and be a strong superhero?”
***
Children can be little monsters when it comes to eating their veggies, even precious Peter Stark isn’t immune to this fight response.
