#shoutout to the boy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

riality-check · 8 months

Text

The eagerly awaited part 2 of the DILF!Steve concert saga is here!! Part 1, in case you missed it.

"You're not going."

"Come on! I haven't thrown up in an hour!"

"The drive to the venue is an hour and a half."

"Steve-"

"And if you throw up in my car-"

"Oh my God-"

"I'll kill you."

Steve doesn't need to see Dustin's eye roll in order to feel the full force of it through the phone.

"I'll just kill you. You'll have a headstone within the week that says Here Lies Dustin Henderson: Rightfully Murdered for Puking in Steve Harrington's Car," he continues as he packs Capri-Suns into the cooler for the car ride.

He doesn't remember ever being that thirsty as a kid, but if Anna wants strawberry kiwi, Anna gets strawberry kiwi. It helps that it's Steve's favorite flavor, too.

"I'd need a big ass headstone to fit all of that," Dustin snaps.

"Your big-ass ego would demand no less, shithead," Steve shoots back.

"Swear jar, Daddy!" Anna calls from her room, across the house because while she doesn't listen to Steve when he's right in front of her, she can hear him break the swear jar rule from halfway across the world.

He zips up the cooler, fishes a quarter out of his pocket, and throws it into the half-full soup can next to the stove.

(A quarter doesn't mean much, but Anna doesn't know that. The day Steve teaches that kid about inflation is the day his pockets become permanently empty.)

"Did she just swear jar you?" Dustin asks from over the phone.

"You baited me into it."

"I did no such thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're not coming, though, are you?"

Dustin sighs, and, for all his teasing, Steve does genuinely feel bad. "I still feel like if I breathe wrong, I'll hurl, so, no. I don't think I'll manage the car ride, nevermind the actual show."

"Sorry dude."

"Don't be. Some dickhead will live stream the whole thing on Instagram, anyway. I'll live vicariously through them."

Steve snorts and picks up the cooler. He got Anna dressed beforehand, so it's just a matter of getting her to stop playing with whatever toy she dug up - Play-Doh has been the fixation of the week - in her room so they can go.

"Besides," Dustin continues, and Steve hates where this is going. "Anna loved the show, and you've got a reason-"

"Nope," Steve says, knocking on Anna's door. "Don't finish that sentence."

"All I'm saying-"

"I know what you're gong to say, which means you know my answer. I don't date."

Anna opens her door. From the little Steve can see inside, there are at least three containers of Play-Doh open and strewn across the floor. He thinks her Barbies are involved in it somehow.

"Time to go," Steve says, and he thinks, Please don't let there be Play-Doh in the Barbie hair.

"Five more minutes," Anna tries.

"Nope. Clean up and roll out."

"Hi, Anna," Dustin says through the phone.

"Uncle Dusty!" Anna shrieks, and she starts jumping up and down. "Are you comin', too?"

Dustin sighs, and Steve can't tell if it's at the nickname or if he's still cursing the universe. "No, but you and your dad have a great time, okay?"

"Can you, can you tell Daddy I should get five more minutes?"

Steve raises his eyebrows at her. Anna, to her credit, ignores him wonderfully.

"If you clean up," Dustin says, because he's actually Steve's favorite person right now, "you get to do more headbanging at the concert."

Anna gasps like Steve didn't already tell her that earlier today, and she gets to work on putting her toys away. Steve helps, of course, and he finds that there is, in fact, Play-Doh in two of her Barbies' hair.

Fun. They're going to turn into Buzzcut Barbies when Anna goes to sleep because he can already tell that they are the furthest thing from salvageable.

But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting Anna in the car, deploying the first two of many strawberry kiwi Capri Suns from the cooler, and making the drive to the venue, which Steve does with minimal road rage and accompanied by the Disney radio station.

Success by all metrics, really.

Dinner might as well be now, so Steve shells out a truly disgusting amount of money for overpriced chicken nuggets and fries at the venue. Anna will only eat half her portion but say she's hungry later, but that's what the snacks and water Steve smuggled in via his jacket are for.

They get to their seats, dinner finished up, just as the lights go down for the first opener. Steve looks to his left, half-expecting Eddie and his friends to be there before remembering that they won't be.

He tries not to feel too disappointed. He fails miserably.

The seat next to him, however, isn't empty. There's a note taped to the back of it, one addressed to Steve and Miss Anna, so Steve feels alright taking and opening it.

At the top, there's a messily scrawled phone number. Underneath, it says:

Here's my number. Probably a bad idea to call with all the noise. Texting works, though you should do that after the show. I'll be a little busy until then.

-Eddie

Steve puts the note in his pocket, puts Anna's ear defenders on, puts his own earplugs in, and looks at the stage, where-

Hang on.

He squints at the stage, where four guys have started playing a song that, frankly, sounds too much like literally all the music Steve listened to yesterday for him to care about all that much. The drummer is pretty small, with wild, curly hair. The bassist looks familiar. The lead singer, who is very talented but not to Steve's personal taste, also looks familiar. And the guitarist-

No way. No way in hell.

It's a total coincidence. Lots of guys have long, curly hair and heavy jewelry and big eyes and are wearing formal wear, for some reason, and catch Steve's eye, and-

"Thank you for such a great welcome!" the guitarist says, and his smile totally isn't doing anything to Steve, thanks very much.

Anna stops moving, where she's standing next to Steve, and climbs up into his lap to get a better look at the stage. She looks out, then back at Steve, then out, then back at Steve, making a face as confused as Steve feels.

Some days, he thinks he ended up with a clone, not a kid.

"I'll get off the mic in a second. I only do the talking because Jeff," the guitarist points at the lead singer, who ducks his head, "is really shy."

Jeff. That name is definitely relevant, but Steve is a permanent resident of denial.

"We fought about what song we were going to include next in our set list, so much so that we didn't decide until yesterday and had to consult a tiebreaker."

Okay, maybe Steve is a less permanent resident of denial than he thought.

"So, thank you to Miss Anna, who did great at headbanging for her first time-"

Anna whips around so fast, her forehead nearly collides with Steve's jaw.

"And to Steve, who's a big fan of American Psycho."

At the song name, the crowd loses their minds, and if Anna wasn't sitting right in front of him, Steve would join them.

Because what the fuck is happening right now?

His question isn't answered. In fact, about five more questions pop up in its stead when, during the bridge of the song, Jeff puts on a clear rain jacket and picks up a prop axe.

Please, God, don't let this traumatize my kid, Steve thinks.

Anna, thankfully, doesn't get scared. When Jeff brings the axe down, again and again, Steve's weirdo daughter fucking smiles. And giggles. It's kind of cute, actually.

When the song ends, she turns back to Steve.

"That's Eddie onstage," Steve says, and saying it, somehow, makes it real.

"I thought so!" Anna says, and she turns back to watch the show. Steve puts an arm around her waist so she doesn't fall off his lap when she bangs her head to the music.

The rest of the songs, in Steve's opinion, are better than the opening song. They're more melodic, which Steve can definitely get behind, and each of them has a gimmick onstage, all based off of various horror movies. It's ridiculous, but also really, really cool.

And Eddie, onstage, because it is the same guy who flirted with him and was so sweet to Anna yesterday, is really, really hot.

Steve has never had a thing for guitarists before. He's never had a thing for musicians before. Hell, until a year ago, he didn't realize he had a thing for men.

Eddie is. Uh. Yeah. Really doing it for him.

Steve doesn't know whether it's his enthusiasm, or the way he moves, or seeing his hair tied up, or the fucking dress pants and suspenders, or just his hands, but he does know he has to get himself in check because this is an all ages show and he's here with his daughter.

He already knows he can't add these songs to his grading playlist, not when they're accompanied by visuals of Eddie playing his guitar.

Sweet Jesus.

"Alright, that's our set!" Eddie says. "Thanks, y'all, for sticking around for us, and let's give it up for the next act!"

The crowd, including Anna and Steve, cheer as they exit and the lights go up.

Steve fishes his phone out of his pocket, fully intending to add Eddie's number to his contacts, and is greeted by not one, not two, but sixteen missed calls from Dustin Henderson.

Naturally, Steve calls him back. "Who died?"

"What the fuck?" Dustin yells, and Steve just puts the phone on speaker to save the rest of his hearing. "Did Eddie fucking Munson just personally thank you from the stage?"

"Swear jar, Uncle Dusty!" Anna says.

"Sorry," Dustin says. "But Steve. Answers. Now."

"How do you even-"

"Instagram live. Is Eddie the guy you were telling me about yesterday?"

Steve takes his phone off speaker. Prior experience tells him that this conversation has a less than zero chance of staying PG, nevermind PG-13.

"Yeah," Steve says. "He is."

"The one who flirted with you, and you forgot to ask for his number."

"Well, I have it now."

"What?" Dustin shrieks, and Steve is incredibly thankful that he didn't take his earplugs out.

"He left me his number on the seat."

"Text him."

"I was going to, until I saw that you called me sixteen times."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie Munson was flirting with you."

Steve rolls his eyes and hands a pack of gummy bears to Anna when she taps his arm. "He could have just been nice. I don't even know if he's into guys."

"Have you looked at him?"

"Wow, Dustybuns, I didn't know you were homophobic."

"I think it's the complete opposite of homophobic to try to get you laid."

"Hanging up!" Steve shouts because a part of him will never see Dustin as any older than thirteen, and no thirteen year old should ever say that.

"Text-"

Steve hangs up the call. "Can I have a gummy bear?"

"No," Anna says, mouth full, in her seat, legs swinging.

"I bought them."

She shrugs. "You gave them to me. Mine now."

Steve stares. She stares right back.

He sighs and opens a new pack of gummy bears.

With his mouth full of sweet Haribo corpses, Steve takes out the note and adds Eddie to his contacts. Before he can overthink it, he sends him a message:

I guess I don't have to ask you what you do for a living. Just so we're even on that front, I'm a teacher, and Anna's full time job is preschool.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and focuses on making this a good experience for Anna, who somehow wormed her way into a conversation with the intimidating-looking couple sitting next to her.

Because it's totally not like a literal rockstar is going to text him back. Right?

Part 3!!

4K notes · View notes

greenglowinspooks · 6 months

Text

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (pt. 2)

—

Tw: N/A

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) - (Pt. 3 here)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It was a beautiful morning. Somehow, against all odds, the sun was shining through the thick smog perpetually covering Gotham.

And Danny hated it.

He was in pain, he was exhausted, he was grieving, and all he wanted to do was sleep for at least a week.

In an act of celestial mockery, the sun shone regardless.

After around twenty minutes of tossing and turning in bed, trying to get back to sleep, Danny gave up and pried himself out of bed.

He stumbled through the hallway and into the living room, staring openly at every splash of color he saw in the small apartment. He hadn’t forgotten what color looked like in the time he was in the lab, but it was comforting to see.

Someone cleared their throat. Danny whipped his head around, eyes falling on a scrawny, gangly man sitting down in a worn armchair, hunched over a laptop. He was looking at him with a dull, bored expression.

Right. Scarecrow.

His escape.

The chase.

His mom.

“You look a lot less terrifying without the mask,” Danny blurted out, slapping his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call my normal appearance frightening,” Scarecrow hummed, focusing his attention back onto the laptop, “that’s what the costume is for, after all.”

“Oh.”

After a brief moment of excruciating silence, Scarecrow spoke.

“You any good with computers, Danny? Hacking, and all that?”

Danny jolted. Scarecrow needed his help with something! This was great! Now, he’d have more of a reason not to get rid of him!

“Oh, uh, yeah! Not as good as my friend Tucker, but I think I’m pretty good.”

“And you’re familiar with the GiW’s systems specifically,” Scarecrow continued, beckoning him over. Danny complied, shuffling over awkwardly. “Right?”

“Well, I guess? My friends and I got into their stuff a couple of times before they…”

“Wonderful,” Scarecrow said, standing up with a stretch. He shoved the laptop into Danny’s hands and gestured for him to sit down on the couch. “Then you can hack into their system and extract whatever files you can find.”

Danny stared at the man like he’d lost his mind. He looked back at him expectantly.

Danny sat down.

“Yeah, I-I can do that. Tuck and I built a back door into their system ages ago,” he said, checking the screen. It was clear that for all the skills that Scarecrow had, hacking was definitely not one of them. “But, uh, don’t you have someone else that usually does this sort of thing for you? Not that I’m complaining!”

Scarecrow scowled, and Danny felt his heart fall into his ass.

“Usually, I do,” Scarecrow huffed, “but I chose to leave my most recent job with the Penguin early, so now there’s no way that he or Eddie will help me with anything until I make it up to them somehow.”

“Oh,” Danny said.

He had no clue whatsoever who Eddie was.

Danny got to work quickly, hoping that if he ignored the gangly man, he would leave him be. Luckily, he did just that, leaving to go work on something in another room.

Danny checked the laptop’s security before continuing Scarecrow’s progress, making sure that the GiW wouldn’t be able to grab their location.

It was…threateningly good. Whoever Eddie was, he had somehow crammed the functionality of a top-of-the-line PC into a tiny, beat-up old laptop. It almost reminded Danny of Tucker and his terrifying competence with his PDA.

Tucker.

Amity park.

Home.

Danny snapped himself out of his thoughts, tabbing back into the application Scarecrow had up and began to work his magic.

He had near full access to the entire GiW database within half an hour.

Mumbling out a quick thank-you to Tucker, he called Scarecrow over to appraise his work.

“Fixed up some food for you while you worked,” the rogue said, handing him a bowl of oatmeal, taking the laptop into his lap as he did so, “didn’t know how well you could eat, considering you’re recovering from… surgery, so I decided to stay on the safe side.”

Danny had no clue what this guy’s deal was.

He definitely did not tear up at the first genuine thoughtfulness he encountered in weeks, and he did not look away as he ate so that Scarecrow couldn’t see his face.

At least Scarecrow was too focused on the laptop to notice or care.

Or, maybe, he was just mercifully ignoring him.

Either way, Danny ate slowly, not wanting to make himself sick. He allowed himself to absentmindedly look around the room for the first time, taking everything in.

It was strangely homey. The space was filled with warm browns and yellows, a few splashes of color on the wall in the form of (obviously gifted) paintings. There was a beat-up bookshelf against the wall, clearly second-hand, filled to the brim with psychology books. On every available surface there was a different colored candle, all at different stages of use, clearly collected over the course of years.

Danny knew that the man next to him was a crazed, murderous criminal, but his home was oddly reminiscent of Jazz.

He was not about to cry.

“Danny,” Scarecrow hummed, snapping him out of his spiraling, “can you explain this to me?”

He looked over. The rogue was pointing to a new report, seemingly posted only a few hours ago.

Nodding, he took the computer into his lap, pouring over the contents.

He read the report again.

And again.

Danny swore loudly, crumpling like a wet paper bag, head in his hands.

“What?”

“It’s…” he swore again, glancing back at the laptop, “they…since you became liminal from synthetic ectoplasm, when we’re within about 500 meters of one another, our ectoplasm signatures resonate, and they can’t track us with any of their technology.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“If we’re not that close to each other, they can track us down from anywhere in the world.”

Scarecrow went dead quiet. After what felt like the single longest minute of Danny’s life, he let out a truly exasperated sigh, slumping over in his seat.

“Yeah, me too,” Danny mumbled, utterly miserable.

“…I’ll have to move my plans back a little,” Scarecrow sighed, “I can’t drag an injured child with me when I attack the Gotham GiW base, you’ll just get in the way.”

“Oh come on,” Danny whined, “I can take care of myself just fine. Besides, Batman brings kids with him to do dangerous stuff all the time, and he’s fine!”

“Might I remind you that the second Robin died violently,” Scarecrow snapped, “and that Batman most likely has more traumatic brain injuries than all of the Gotham rogues combined. That really isn’t the winning argument you think it is.”

Danny paused, trying to think up some way to win the argument. Then, he realized what he had ignored before.

“Wait, Scarecrow, you’re gonna attack the GiW?”

“That’s the plan,” he nodded, “and call me Dr. Crane. I’m only Scarecrow when I’m in the mask.”

But,” Danny sputtered, “Sca—uh, Dr. Crane—that’s insane! The weapons they’ve got- they’ll rip you apart!”

“Not my first time,” Crane said, making Danny wince. “Besides, I have plenty of experience avoiding gunfire. I’ll live.”

“You…” Danny was silent for a while, trying to think of something to say, “fine, but you have to take me with you wherever you go. As soon as they see either of us on their radars, they’ll hunt us down.”

Dr. Crane sighed.

“…Fine. I need some time to plan anyways. Now, you’re going to help me download these files, properly format them, and send them out.”

“…Why?”

“Well, some of the other rogues might appreciate the heads up, and I’d quite like them to be indebted to me. Besides, I still need to pay back the Penguin for ditching him, and he loves knowing things that other people don’t.”

Danny paused.

“That’s an awful idea, no offense. If any of the rogues know our weaknesses, they—”

“Danny, we’re censoring everything. The only things they need to know about are the GiW specifically, and any sort of laws surrounding them.”

Danny snorted.

“You care about laws now?”

“Yes, because if we get taken to Arkham, they’ll hand us off to the GiW the moment they ask, and it’ll be completely legal.”

Oh. Danny had honestly forgotten that Arkham was an option.

“…Ok. I’ll help you. Who are we telling?”

“I don’t think you really need to know,” Dr. Crane said, the faintest shadow of an amused look on his face, “but I’ll humor you for now. We’re sending the files out to the Penguin, Riddler, Poison Ivy via Harley Quinn, Two-Face, and Red Hood.”

Danny nodded. He could live with that.

“Alright, then let’s get to work.”

—

#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc fic #liminal scarecrow #scaredad scaredad scaredad #not pictured: scarecrow frantically googling to see what he can feed Danny without killing him #and also going through everything in his kitchen to find something that isn’t spoiled #he lives like a 20 year old bachelor in terms of food. just takeout and moldy bread in there #maybe a can of soup if he’s feeling adventurous #scarecrow: ah yes I am feeding him soft foods to keep my lead on the GiW alive. No sentimental reason whatsoever #danny who is about to start bawling his eyes out:#the boy had to battle resurrected food for years. he is NOT used to being fed actual edible things #danny: scarecrow could kill me at any moment. that’s why he’s feeding me and worrying about my health and safety #btw HUGE shoutout to the riddler for cramming an entire gaming pc into a 2007 microsoft computer #or some shit like that #and just giving it to scarecrow. for free. just bestie things

1K notes · View notes