#Brass Mug

[hate5sixofficial]

War Hungry 2023-01-08 Brass Mug Tampa, FL

[tuckneverlasting]

Tampa metalheads! Come out this Saturday!!

[jessajaguar]

TOMORROW NIGHT!!! Come see me and the rest of the Ybor City Sirens on Fri, Jan 13th at The Brass Mug in Tampa, FL. Use code JESSA on Eventbrite to save 13% 😍

[apples-of-apples]

My brain is wandering sooooo

Tell any kind of weapon ideas for stories you’ve had on your mind in the tags!

[wishlisted]

“Rise & Sigh” pedestal mug from Brass Monkey

[weaselle]

i want to talk about real life villains

Not someone who mugs you, or kills someone while driving drunk, those are just criminals. I mean VILLAINS.

Not like trump or musk, who are... cartoonishly evil. And not sexy villains, not grandiose villains, not even satisfyingly two dimensional villains it is easy to hate unconditionally. The real villains.

I had a client who was a retired executive for one of the big oil companies, i think it was Shell or Chevron. Had a home just outside of San Francisco that was wall to wall floor to ceiling full of expensive art. Literally. I once accidentally knocked a painting off the wall because it was hanging at knee height at the corner of the stairs, and it had a little brass plaque on it, and i looked up the name of the artist and it was Monet's apprentice and son-in-law, who was apparently also a famous painter. He had an original Andy Warhol, which should have been a prize piece for anyone to showcase -- it was hanging in the bathroom. I swear to god this guy was using a Chihuly (famous glass sculptor) as a fruit bowl. And he was like, "idk my wife was the one who liked art"

I was intrigued by this guy, because in the circles i run this dude is The Enemy. right? Wealthy oil executive? But as my client, he was... like a sweet grandpa. A poor widower, a nice old man, anyone who knew him would have called him a sweetheart. He had a slightly bewildered air, a sort of gentle bumbling nature.

And the fact that he was both of these things, a Sweet Little Old Man and The Enemy, at the same time, seemed important and fascinating to me.

He reminded me of some antagonist from fiction, but i couldn't put my finger on who. And when i did it all made sense.

John Hammond.

probably one of the most realistic bad guys ever written.

If you've only ever seen the movie, this will need some explaining.

Michael Crichton wrote Jurassic Park in 1990, and i read it shortly thereafter. In the movie, the dinosaurs are the antagonists, which imo erases 50% of the point of the story.

book spoilers below.

In the book, John Hammond is the villain but it takes the reader like half the book to figure that out. Just like my client, John is a sweet old man who wants lovely things for people. He's a very sympathetic character. But as the book progresses, you start to see something about him.

He has an idea, and he's sure it's a good one. When someone else dies in pursuit of his dream, he doesn't think anything of it. When other people turn out to care about that, he brings in experts to evaluate the safety of his idea, and when they quickly tell him his idea is dangerous and needs to be put on hold, he ignores his own experts that he himself hired, because they are telling him that he is wrong, and he is sure he is right.

In his mind, he's a visionary, and nobody understands his vision. He is surrounded by naysayers. Several things have proven too difficult to do the best and safest way, so he has cut corners and taken shortcuts so he can keep moving forward with his plans, but he's sure it's fine. He refuses to hear any word of caution, because he believes he is being cautious enough, and he knows best, even though he has no background in any of the sciences or professions involved. He sends his own grandchildren out into a life-threatening situation because he is willfully ignorant of the danger he is creating.

THIS is like the real villains of the world. He doesn't want anyone to die. Far from it, he only wants good things for people! He's a sweet old man who loves his grandchildren. But he has money and power and refuses to hear that what he is doing is dangerous for everyone, even his own family.

I think he's possibly one of the most important villains ever written in popular fiction.

In the book, he is killed by a pack of the smallest, cutest, "least dangerous" dinosaurs, because a big part of why we read fiction is to see the villains face thematic justice. But like a cigarette CEO dying of lung cancer, his death does not stop his creation from spreading out into the world to continue to endanger everyone else.

I think it is really important to see and understand this kind of villainy in fiction, so you can recognize it in real life.

Sweetheart of a grandfather. Wanted the best for everyone. Right up until what was best for everyone inconvenienced the pursuit of his own interests.

And my client was like that too. His wife had died, and his dog was now the love of his life, and she was this little old dog with silky hair in a hair cut that left long wispy bits on her lower legs. Certain plant materials were easily entangled in this hair and impossible to get out without pulling her hair which clearly hurt her. When i suggested he ask his groomer to trim her lower leg hair short to avoid this, he refused, saying he really liked her usual hair cut.

I emphasized that she was in pain after every walk due to the plant debris getting caught in her leg hair, and a simple trim could put an end to her daily painful removal of it, and he just frowned like i'd recommended he take a bath in pig shit and said "But she'll be ugly" and refused to talk about it anymore.

Sweet old man though. Everyone loved him.

[unlacqueredbrassfaucet]

unlacquered brass faucet

Enhance your bathroom organization with our handcrafted unlacquered brass bathroom towel ring. This stylish accessory not only serves a functional purpose but also adds a decorative touch to your hand towels. The delightful shape introduces a modern elegance that complements traditional bathroom styles.

Enjoy express shipping worldwide.

PS: If you have any questions, need additional information, or are unsure about the size, please feel free to ask. We are here to assist you.

You're welcome! If you have any more questions or need further assistance, feel free to ask. Happy shopping!

[chimerical-creations]

Did some more sandblasting over the weekend.

(Still impatiently waiting for sand to arrive for the makerspace sandblaster.)

[charliemwrites]

Part 3 of angst with SpecGru (former 141) reader.

Who’s ready for Simon to face the consequences of his actions?!

(No content warnings)

The reunion is dry. Simon almost doesn’t recognize you. There’s a new scar on your right cheek, and a tattoo sneaking beneath the sleeve of your compression shirt. You don’t look at him once, eyes either forward or on your own captain while he talks to Price.

“Good to see you again,” Price says to you.

It’s only then that your eyes shift to him, something distinctly unimpressed about the set of your eyebrows. “Good?”

“Yes. Good.”

You don’t answer, instead flick a look to the man on your right. Russ, Simon remembers from the files Laswell distributed. Wears a mask almost always as well. Something passes between you two in that glance, something Simon would dare say is mocking. Can all but see you rolling your eyes like you used to when the brass was blowing smoke.

“We’re not here for small talk,” your new captain interrupts. “Where are we bunking?”

The SpecGru team sweeps you away with them to their side of the barracks. The man on your other side, covered head-to-toe (Nikto, Simon’s mind supplies) casts a lingering glance over his shoulder at the rest of the 141.

“Brr,” Soap says when you’re all out of sight. “That was chilly.”

“No kidding,” Gaz says, grimacing.

Price sighs, runs a hand down his face. There’s a beat where it seems like he might speak, might comment on the ice radiating across the tarmac. Instead, he just shakes his head and waves them off.

Simon doesn’t let himself make a beeline for the barracks. For you. He made you leave for a reason. Two years doesn’t change anything.

He sees you at the mess later, with the rest of SpecGru. Russ’s hand arm around the back of your chair and your knee against your captain’s.

The seat you used to occupy with the 141 remains empty to this day. Not once during that meal do you glance at it, or them. Simon knows; he watches you the entire time.

You pad into the rec room kitchenette the next morning one feet quieter than they used to be. Your eyes register him, a little puff of air coming from your nose. Don’t say good morning — though neither does Simon.

“Tea’s in the right now,” he says when you reach for the left cabinet.

You don’t even twitch to acknowledge that you’ve heard him, pulling out the coffee grounds and busying yourself at the machine. When did you start drinking coffee? You used to make tea for everyone on the team first thing in the morning.

He’s about to say something when Russ swaggers into the room, still adjusting his mask.

“Mornin’ sweets,” he says.

You shoot him a smile, tilt your head as he kisses your cheek loudly through the mask. Simon freezes.

“Don’t feel like talking yet?” Russ asks.

You shake your head, offer him a sip from your mug. He accepts, winking as he hands it back.

(That’s new too. Used to be you couldn’t shut up in the mornings, chattering to whoever was nearby.)

“This is a public space, you know that right?” Simon rumbles.

“No shit?” Russ asks, eyebrows obviously arched.

You snort and lean up against the counter, cupping your mug in both hands. At least that’s a mannerism Simon recognizes.

He doesn’t rise to the bait, stands from his chair. He’s done with his tea anyway and he’s got shit to do before the team exercises later.

When he passes just within arm’s reach to rinse his cup out in the sink, you don’t tense. Or even move at all, except to take another measured sip of bitter coffee. (Didn’t you have a sweet tooth?)

He leaves just as Nova is stepping in, singing a honey-sweet good morning to you and Russ that makes Simon’s teeth ache.

The exercises are brutally efficient. Not a single member of the SpecGru team speaks to the 141 more than necessary to complete the objective. There are no words of praise or attempts at camaraderie between drills.

Which is not to say there isn’t any at all. Simon sees you scoop Nova up when she bests Soap at a tricky maneuver, laughing bright and bell-like while the rest of your team looks on. Nikto touches your shoulder after you disarm Price of his knife and you beam at him like the fucking sun.

It’s sets Simon’s teeth on edge. How well you fit with them — better than you even did when things were good with the 141. When one of you moves, the other four compensate, no one left unprotected, room left for stumbles or mishaps.

Your captain tugs your belt when you pass him, and you grin as you peck his jaw, before trotting off to a soft-eyed Russ.

Simon can feel Johnny’s eyes bouncing between you and him, waiting for… something. Fuck’s sake. Simon tamps down the agitation crawling beneath his skin and sets up for the next drill.

“Oi, we need to start mixing. We can guarantee that our teams will stay separate,” Price calls to your captain.

He grunts, but jerks his head at the rest of the SpecGru folks. You stay separate, adjusting your gloves as if nothing in the world is wrong.

“Wait, she needs to—”

“She needs to follow my orders,” your captain interrupts. “And her orders are to operate solo for this drill.”

You nod and dart off without another glance.

Simon’s fingers twitch.

“Something wrong, Ghost?” Keegan leers, thumbs hooked in his belt. “You don’t wanna work with me?”

“Fuckin’ Yanks,” he mutters.

Keegan laughs like SImon’s told a hilarious joke. Thankfully, he shuts the fuck up for the rest of the drill.

Your voice is back in Simon’s ear for the first time in two years, working as overwatch. You direct the teams like a master conductor, covering with perfect sniper shots where necessary. Earn a constant stream of praise and admiration from your teammates. In the real thing, you would have saved Simon and Keegan twice over.

Eventually, though, you’re expected to run drills paired with the 141 again.

Your expression doesn’t so much as shift when your captain says so. The rest of your team tenses though, Nova even opening her mouth like she wants to argue.

You cross the small but firm divide between the teams to stand by Gaz’s side.

“Jus’ like old times, yeah?” He asks, offering you a fist bump.

You glance at it briefly, then turn forward.

“Sure,” you answer, flat and toneless.

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[songsofadelaide]

"Hey, Platoon Leader, are you guys trying to be the next Shinomiyas?"

You looked up from your plate of food and gave Kafka an incredulous look from across your shared table. "...What?"

The older officer raised his hands in defence when he caught the strange look on your face. "O-Oh, you know! The Director General and his wife, the former Captain of the Second Division. They were a power couple. I just thought you guys were similar is all..."

"Kafka-san, you better clarify whatever it is you're saying," you chuckled at his statement. "Though I definitely do not mind being compared to the Second Division Captain Shinomiya Hikari, the gods rest her soul. She was brilliant, after all! A shining example to so many young women, myself included. We could have stood to learn a thing or two from her..."

It was a tragedy, you thought. The Director General had always been a serious man, but the unexpected death of his wife made him all the more. And now that Kafka mentioned it, the weight of the idea rested even heavier on your mind. The higher you two rise in the ranks, the more will be expected of you. The more numbered Kaiju appear, the more you will have to set out in their field.

The higher the danger risk, the more skilled personnel will have to be deployed. And seeing how the top brass acknowledged your fiancé's most recent accomplishment— subduing and neutralising Kaiju No. 10— the likelihood of him being assigned even more dangerous missions will only increase—

"You think the Vice Captain would consider growing out a beard too when he becomes Director General? Like Director General Shinomiya. I mean you did mention once that his old man was grizzled and all..." Kafka asked aloud as he helped himself to his lunch.

???

His question was so left-field that you couldn't help the laughter that escaped your stomach. "Pfft— What?! Kafka-san, wh— Hahaha!"

"I-I'm serious, though, Platoon Leader?! A beard would make him even more menacing!"

"Haha! N-No, okay, okay! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for bursting out laughing like that! I-It's just— Soshiro grows stubbles at an alarming rate and he always shaves because he hates being told he'd look like his father with a beard," you said, nearly breathless and tears prickling your eyes. You continued to speak as you calmed down, the seriousness of your expression prompting your lunchmate to pause his meal. "I might not be able to achieve Captain Shinomiya's legendary level of coolness or renown, but I think as long as I continue accomplishing orders, that's good enough for me."

Arriving at your table not long after your fit of laughter were the Vice Captain and another recruit— one who happened to hear your conversation right from the start.

"I—" Kikoru started, her plate slightly trembling in her hands as you met her earnest gaze. "I think you're just as cool as Captain Shinomiya, Platoon Leader! More importantly, I'd like f-for you and Vice Captain Hoshina to always be safe while in the battlefield so you can both live long and fulfilling lives! Th..."

The kind her mother never got to live.

Soshiro took his place next to you as Kafka gestured for them to sit at your shared table.

"Thank you, Kikoru-chan. I am honoured you think so highly of me. If there's anyone feels the loss our amazing Captain Shinomiya the most, that would be you," you said as you reached for the younger girl's shaking fist from across the table, giving her a gentle yet reassuring squeeze. "If Soshiro and I ever do become the Defense Force's next power couple, I can only hope we have a child as talented and dedicated as you are."

"That's assumin' we're actually still a couple," Soshiro quipped. "I could hear you laughin' at Kafka's joke from across the building. Whatever did he tell you that was so funny, sweetness?"

"Kafka-san here was just saying how cool you would look grizzled with a beard all over your handsome, handsome mug," you shot back at him as you gently gripped his chin to force him to face you. "But don't worry, sweetness, I like you just the way you are now."

Kikoru's hands flew to her mouth as her face suddenly flushed. H-How lovey-dovey of them!

"You're already plenty menacing with that sly look of yours," you continued, before slapping the table so hard that it surprised both Kafka and Kikoru, who were staring in awe at just how affectionate their superiors were being. "Now eat, eat, eat up, our little fledgelings! Eating right, getting enough sleep, and exercising are key to living long! Let's not miss out on even one of those!"

Soshiro smiled as you ate your fill along with your favourite new recruits, though he'd never hear you say that out loud. Being a power couple never appealed to him because all that mattered to him were saving lives and staying alive— to be able to live in the future you were all so earnestly fighting for.

I suppose having someone to proudly stand next to isn't such a bad idea.

[hate5sixofficial]

Drain 2023-01-07 Brass Mug Tampa, FL

[sidewalk-cracks]

pls consider the hilarity of: BATFAMILY EDITION OF CLUE. Who killed Bruce Wayne in Wayne Manor?

Was it Alfred, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Steph, or Cass?

Did they use Alfred's feather duster, a crowbar, Damian's longsword, brass knuckles, Bruce's "World's Okayest Dad" mug, or a shotgun?

Was it in the garden, the abandoned ballroom, the pool, Bruce's study, the roof, the Batcave, or in front of Jason's suit memorial?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Open Door 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: silverfox!Thor, side of silverfox!Loki

Summary: you're neighbour needs a little extra help after an injury but starts to expect too much of you.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Thank you again for all your help,” Thor says as he shifts on the couch. His weight draws a creak from the frame as he grips the back cushion and tries to reposition himself. “I must admit, I have a hard time accepting any.” 

Your neighbour is always friendly enough. He waves or says hello or good morning, but you never really stop to chat. Not until you witnessed his avalanche of groceries as he attempted to balance his bag between his crutches. It was too heart-rending a scene to ignore. 

Despite his size, you got him inside. He grunts and you rush over to help prop his leg up on a pillow. He grits as you gently lay the cast on the fluffy bundle. He groans and leans back against the armrest. 

“Ah, the shame,” he decries dramatically. 

“I don’t mind,” you insist. “Really. I couldn’t just watch you struggle.” 

“Too sweet,” he praises, his silver hair glinting in the low lamp light. “I didn’t know there were still neighbourly neighbours.” 

“Well, I’m not that nice,” you assure him. “I got all your groceries away and you have your tea. I gotta get back to my desk. Work.” 

“Ah yes, of course, of course,” he waves you off, “I could not infringe further on your day.” 

“It’s no trouble. You can text me,” you assure him. The soft smell of chickory wafts in the dim air. 

Your eyes wander as you make your retreat. The decor is a blend of brass and walnut. Warm in a visual way. It’s a space that has been long lived in. 

“Before I go, you’re good?” You ask as you stop in the doorway. 

“I’m wonderful,” he assures you. “You’ve already done too much. Once I’m back on my feet, I promise I will be certain to repay you.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” you assure. 

“Says you,” he counters. 

You chuckle and leave him. You can’t be too bothered by the interruption. Your work is tedious and most of it solitary. Working from home is flexible and freeing, but it can just as often be constraining. 

After smelling the spicy strain of tea you brewed for Thor, you’re in the mind for a cup of your own. Apple chamomile. Calming but not tiring. 

You sit and go back to work. It’s a fair bit of excitement in the usually dulcet neighbourhood. You sink back into the monotonous tasks. Check, check, check. Done, done, done. But why is that doing that? Ugh, it’s not supposed to look that way. 

Your alarm goes off, notifying you that your day is fifteen minutes from over. It’s a necessary reminder otherwise you’ll work three hours over and not realise. You wrap up your work and leave yourself notes for what needs to be done the next day. 

You yawn and grab your empty mug and phone and go back to the kitchen. Your phone vibes once. A missed message. You unlock it and check the waiting text. It’s your neighbour. Sent thirty minutes ago. 

You tap on the convo and frown. There’s only the picture of a ceiling and the edge of the wall. Oh, that can’t be good. 

You hurry to the front door and step into your shoes. You shuffle down the steps, slightly off-kilter, and cross the street. You get to Thor’s porch and knock, breathless as you wait for an answer. 

“Brother, is that you?” He calls from within. 

“No, uh, it’s me,” you say back through the door. 

“Yes, I figured you were hard at work.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“Please,” he hollers back. 

You turn the handle and find him in the entryway, lodged in the alcove beside the stairs awkwardly. You want to ask what happened but you’re sure he wouldn’t want to recount that story. You come forward and tuck your phone away. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I got restless. Tried to do a bit of dusting,” he looks at the feather duster on the other side of the hallway. “I didn’t realise it was such tight squeeze and...” he wiggles his shoulders between the wall and the cub shelf that houses various shoes, boots, and accessories. “I anchored the thing you see. It’s not giving.” 

“Oh,” your brows ripple. It’s a strange situation and you’re not sure you’re strong enough to help. “Right...” 

“You could get a screwdriver. I can reach to undo the anchors, at least enough to get free, I think,” he says. 

“Right, a screwdriver,” you nod. 

“In the utility cupboard. Right by the back door,” he instructs. 

You give him one last look. He can’t be comfortable. He’s a big man and his shoulders are cramped between the small space. His leg is also jutted out in the cast as his other is bent to take pressure off. 

You go to the backdoor and find the dark wooden cabinet mounted on the wall. You open it and take out the small toolbox. You bring it back to Thor as he groans again. 

“Star,” he says, “please.” 

“Sure,” you shuffle through and hand him the star driver. 

“Great,” he grunts and raises his arm up awkwardly. He twists as best he can and angles his hand toward the shelf. He fumbles and knocks against the screw. He growls in frustration. “Too tight.” 

Before you can response, a voice drifts through the open door. “First, I must come and fetch you off the basement floor, and I’ve come again to save you from yourself.” The dark-haired man with streaks of silver in his long locks proclaims, unimpressed. “Oh, and I see someone has beaten me to it. What a wonderful detour this has been.” 

“Brother, wait,” Thor says. “You can help. I’m... stuck. I’m afraid it might be a two-person job, as it were.” 

“Certainly, would be,” the man drones as he comes closer. “You hired a nurse?” 

“Neighbour,” Thor supplies and reaches up. “Please, I’m losing feeling in my tailbone.” 

“Perhaps in your brain too,” the man quips. 

“Right,” Thor wiggles his hands impatiently. 

You take his right and the man takes his other. Thor counts and you haul him up onto one foot. He’s so big, he nearly falls into you but the other man catches him by his shoulder. They are almost of a height but the man with the black in his hair is much thinner. 

“You should consider hired help,” his brother reprimands. 

“I am not helpless.” 

“Sure not.” 

“Um, thanks,” you say to the man. He looks down his nose at you. 

“Loki,” he offers his hand formerly, “the brother. I should apologise on his behalf. He can be overly needy.” 

“I’m just glad he’s fine,” you say. 

“Mm,” the man hums and his eyes slit skeptically, “well, then, brother, do I need to stay and chaperone or can I be on my way?” 

“Go,” Thor huffs in agitation, “thank you both for your help.” He faces you in particular, “I owe you.” 

“As ever,” Loki agrees and spins on his heel. 

You smile at Thor, “you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’ve spent enough of your time and effort,” he gently squeezes your shoulder, “I will be sure to use my crutch next time.” 

[unholyhelbig]

Part three of loan shark natty

Title: The Oversight [Part 3/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 3465

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, guns, blood, death, sort of dark nat if you squint, horrible grammar

[A/n: If you guys haven't picked up on it yet, this will be slow-burn. Also, thank you so much for the positive response to this story, it means so much!]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

It had been two weeks since the incident that you had deemed ‘the business proposal’, though, if you were being honest, you knew exactly what it was. The bruising against the side of your face, fading from a deep dark purple to an ugly muddy brown reminded you of the encounter. The faster you healed, the more your nerves started to prickle dangerously.

Each time the brass bell above the diner’s door would ring, your eyes would flick to the entrance. With bated breath, you’d study the tired businessman, the English major running on nothing but burnt coffee, or the single mother just looking for some reprieve. Much like yourself.

Clint Barton was the last person you expected and wanted to see. He was certainly the last person you wanted to see, despite the sheepish smile on his face. There was shame etched into his features and a strange softness to his eyes that starkly contrasted the man who had nearly broken your jaw.

His hair was sprinkled with droplets of water, a sweatshirt dotted from the persistent drizzle that seemed to plague the city. He dutifully wiped his feet on the mat and made his way over to you. Instead of his usual booth, Clint sat on the last stool and scratched the stubble on his chin.

He glanced at the menu as if he were going to order something different than his usual. Maybe he wouldn’t order anything at all. But, you had a feeling you weren’t going to escape the conversation at the tip of his tongue, nor the obscenities at the tip of yours.

You poured him a cup of coffee and set it in front of him without being asked. Clint could swallow down a whole pot of extra caffeinated without a second thought. For now, you urged him to pace himself silently.

“You got a couple of minutes?” He asked behind the rim of his cup.

The diner was mostly empty. It was the middle of the workday and had been a slow four hours thus far. There was only so many times you could wiped down the same table and replace the salt in the shakers.

The cook made eye contact with you as he poured alcohol from his flask into off-brand orange soda. You got a short shrug in response. Otherwise, the place was empty. Clint had timed his arrival perfectly.

“Sure. You’re not going to beat the shit out of me again, are you? Those cameras aren’t hooked up, but this is still a public place.”

“Look, I wanted to apologize for that. Bad information breeds bad reactions. I was doing what I was told. You’ll learn that that’s the only way to get anywhere in this practice.”

He stated it plainly as if you weren’t silently inducted into a criminal ring. You weren’t exactly sure what they did but if it was half as bad as what they’d done to you, it was trouble. Clint could sense your unease. He placed his mug down and lifted a bandaged eyebrow.

“Hold your grudge, y/n. I sure would. Natasha simply told me to collect you after your shift. So, you can sit here and glower at me like a grumpy little monster or you can make conversation and we can become friends.”

You hated how good the second suggestion sounded. He was charming in an annoying type of way. You’d never clicked with anyone in the diner before, certainly not the only other employee that stood behind the grill.

Clint was staring at you like he knew you’d already folded. He covered his smirk with another sip of coffee. You wanted to wipe the cocky grin off his face. He had effectively taken a shot at you, that much was true, but you had crumbled just as easily under Natasha’s wishes.

“Friends is a stretch.” You sounded out.

“Acquaintances, then.”

You conceded with a small nod and Clint smiled in a way that could only be genuine. He swallowed off the rest of his coffee and made small talk with you as you hustled around the restaurant. There was a small rush after classes at the community college let out. But you were able to carry on a conversation, learning a little more about him.

He’d been friends with Natasha for a long time. That much was clear by the way his eyes crinkled along the edges when he’d recall memories that stretched past their current affairs and into childhood.  

“We met when we were twelve. I’d just moved to town and was this scrawny, awkward mess of puberty and acne. An easy target is what I’m saying. A lot of neighborhood boys would target me, but I was faster than them. It usually worked in my favor, but there was one day when it had just snowed and it was impossible for me to get any headway.”

Clint regaled you as you filled up his mug for the third time. You lingered behind the counter, chin on your hand as you listened intently.  

“Six of them cornered me at a construction site. I didn’t even know how to begin to fight back. I was beaten close to death and then I heard Nat. She ran head-first into danger, tried to take on every single one of them. Of course, she got the shit kicked out of her too, she was just a kid there was no way for her to win. But that didn’t’ matter because she got back up every single time. Eventually they got cold, or bored, probably both.”

You didn’t want to admit that you were impressed. “Shit, that’s quite the meeting.”

“She’s tough, y/n. Not someone you want to fuck with.”

“So, this is a warning, then?” You smiled.

He shrugged his shoulders “A cautionary tale.”

He drove a 1970 Dodge challenger that smelled like cherry leather polish. It was the nicest car you had ever seen, that is, until he pulled up the iron-gated mansion on the outskirts of the city. There was a brilliant view of the harbor, the water a deep and dark blue that seemed endless, an orange sun casting delicious shadows against the docks.

The house was brick, built in a southern style with a large wrap around porch and a stone fountain in the center of a circular gravel drive. It was three stories of decadence, surrounded by large oak trees and the deepest green grass. This was the home of a Politian, or of someone who had one under their thumb.

Three black SUVs were parked in tandem outside. An equally pitch Corvette Stingray was parked directly in front of the steps. You struggled to muffle the thoughts of Natasha in the front seat. The vehicle suited her, and while you most certainly were not a car person, you knew the value of a ride like that.

Clint squirmed with pride, that same smile on his face. It was one that often accompanied him, you’d learn. He took the steps two at a time and waited to open the doors until you’d caught up. He removed his jacket and draped it over the coat rack just by entryway. You, however, were preoccupied by the elegance of the home.

The floor was a checkered black and white, stretching all the way down a corridor to open storm doors, letting in a crisp spring warmth. Light danced against art that cost more than your entire apartment building. White stairs clung to the wall and curved to the second floor. To your left, a dining room. To your right, a living area that had the softest white carpet, and a cream grand piano that your fingers twitched to run over.

There was a sour scent of bleach that reached your nose, and it was only then, did you realize the blood. It was distilled, a quiet pink color, that had been diluted by diligent scrubbing. The girl, the one that was often at Clint’s side herself, was on her knees a few feet away.

She held a scrub brush that looked like the ones used to clean the grout at the diner. Her forehead was damp with sweat, a few stray strands of dark hair falling into stormy gray eyes. The front of her shirt was stained in the majority of the blood. You failed to see how she would have much to clean from the floor. Yet, the bucket of water next to her was a frothy mess of red.

“An hour,” Clint tsked, shaking his head “I left you alone for an hour. I specifically said that I was coming back with a guest, and it was imperative not to freak her out.”

“I’m not freaked out.”

You were absolutely freaked out. But you were quick to realize whose home you were in. The scrubbing of a crime scene was startling, and you wanted to turn tail and run. However, you had seen worse before and your life had been spared once. You weren’t going to get squeamish now.

“You sound freaked out.” Clint turned his attention back to the girl “And its bad manners. If I were the police?”

“You wouldn’t have gotten through the gate.” She stood, dropping the brush into the bucket with a defiant splash. She was taller than you thought, the deep red of her collar harsh against her skin. There was a smile on her lips, and she reached out a hand to you. “I’m Kate.”

“This is y/n and she’s not going to shake that.” Clint batted Kate’s hand away “Who was this?”

Kate rolled her eyes. It was an action that you yourself would never do. Clint may be a bit aloof, but you had seen him in action. Namely when he was three seconds from snapping the bones in your face. She had no fear of him, though. There was a cockiness, a charming attention, to her stance. He didn’t’ seem to mind, or he had gotten so used to her attitude that seeped into him instead.

“I don’t know. Yelena brought them in. If you’re so concerned about the mess, maybe you should take it up with her.” There was a grin that mirrored Clints. She knew she’d won. “I can go get her if you want.”

“No need. Where’s Nat?”

“Out back by the pool. It’s a lovely day.” She leaned close to you, smelling of cleaner, of tin and of the slightest bit of chewed mint. “It’s great to meet you, y/n.”

You were careful not to lose your footing on the slick floors. Clint nudged the bucket with his toe as he walked by, sloshing about the soiled water. Kate cut him a look that only you saw, but it was one that was almost playful. She shook her head and went back to her task.

There were two things you had picked up from the conversation; Clint was afraid of Yelena, and there was somewhere soundproof in this house that she had taken someone that had lost a lot of blood. You shoved both thoughts to the back of your mind when you exited onto the back porch.

Natasha was stretched out like a cat in the sun. She wore a black bikini that left very little to the imagination. You could feel the blush against your cheeks as you averted your eyes to anywhere else, though, you swore she arched her back from the chair at the sound of your footsteps.

Her hair, still slightly damp, was cascading down her shoulders. She wore a pair of sunglasses, a book that was marked halfway through rested on the table next to her. She had clearly given up on reading, instead fully devoting herself to the sun.

Clint didn’t acknowledge her current state, nor did he have an adverse reaction to it. Your mouth was dry, and you shoved your hands into your jeans to keep them from trembling. It was a mix of fear and attraction that caught you off guard on a mostly empty stomach.

She moved her glasses down the expanse of her nose as you approached. Her stare was a startling green, raking across your form. She quirked an eyebrow. The specter of a smile on her face. Clint had noticed something you didn’t, his body language changing into something unreadable.

“y/n,” Natasha purred your name. You fought back a shiver. “You’ve healed nicely.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“ma’am? What manners you have. That’s severely lacking around here.”

Clint rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. You did the same, partly out of fear. But mostly, you were distracted by the scars against her stomach, on her arms and down her back. It wasn’t something you had noticed at first, nor did you permit yourself to stare. Whatever had been done to you when they’d first taken you was nothing compared to what Natasha had been through. Her body told a story, one that you longed to learn.

“Hey sharpshooter,” She turned her attention to Clint “I think Yelena might need your help downstairs. Y/n. Stay.”

It was a clear dismissal, and one that he didn’t’ take lightly. He patted you on the shoulder before entering the house once more. You listened to his footfalls for a few moments, holding your breath until you started to feel your vision falter.

You’d been alone with Natasha before. But this felt different. Heavier. The questions that you’d had these last two weeks were meant to be answered. She gestured for you to sit on the opposite chair, which you did carefully, body tightened to make yourself as small as possible. She removed her glasses entirely, a strand of russet hair falling into her gaze.

“You’re going to quit your job at the diner.” She said.

“I can’t do that,” Your response was automatic.

Natasha sat up, placing her bare feet adjacent to yours. Her knees were pressed against your own. She easily could have pushed your own open and she stared at you as if she contemplated the fact herself. Instead, she lilted her head and peered at you.

“What I mean, ma’am, is that’s my livelihood.”

“Oh, I understand. I wasn’t perfectly clear. You work for me, now. You’re on my payroll. I’m sure it’ll be quite an upgrade.” She leaned closer. “Do you know what I do, y/n?”

You swallowed hard and shook your head. There was an inkling. But it was just speculation. Someone with a home like this had a good handle on business. Natasha certainly conveyed fear, and commanded respect. So did the people who worked for her, willing to take a bullet in moment’s notice.

You weren’t there yet, but you were sure with a little persuasion, you would be. Part of you had felt slighted. They’d pulled you from your life, from your daughter, and threw you into this without any type of explanation.

“The harbor behind you is a center of trade. Whoever controls the harbor controls the city, and for generations my family has had a monopoly when it comes to what comes in and out. There is not a single freight that can dock here without getting past me. Recently, that’s been threatened.”

She sighed and worked a hand through her hair. Her stare flicked past your shoulder, focused on the expanse of water that had been a staple in your life. You’d walk along the docks, chat with the vendors on the way to work. It seemed like a friendly place.

“There are two prominent families in this city, Y/n. The Romanov’s and Danver’s. For the past three years they’ve been pushing back against the real leadership, getting creative. Looking for change. But we simply can’t allow that to happen. Things work as they are.”

You had a feeling that this was the core of her beliefs. Things how they were weren’t so bad. Each person had their own struggles but when it came to integral crime on the streets, in the boroughs, you hadn’t noticed anything and that was the way you liked it. Ignorant, maybe. But it was none of your concern. Not until now.

“A lot of people work for me, but my numbers are dwindling. It’s hard to find good help anymore. You know how it is.”

You didn’t.

“There’s something… in you that I admire. A perseverance to live and protect and you’re going to do exactly that for me.” Natasha stated this plainly. “The Winter Soldier will be predisposed. Not permanently. But I would like you to replace him.” 

There must have been disbelief written across your features because Natasha laughed, actually laughed, as your jaw fell open. It was a lovely sound; you must admit. Bucky was well known in the neighborhood. Even without being knee deep in mafia sludge, you had heard of him. You feared him. And the thought of stirring the same reaction seemed unattainable.

“I… what about Clint?” You asked dumbly. He seemed like the natural choice.

“He’s got his hands full with an heiress who, I’m sure you can tell, is a bit aloof. But extremely valuable. Much like yourself.” She quirked an eyebrow “if it’s experience, you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ll train you myself.”

She stood and tapped your leg with her fingers, arousal shooting straight to your core at the slight contact. Your body almost refused to move, but you were quick to snap out of it when she smiled wolfishly down at you. “Now, have you ever killed anyone?”

Your voice was pinched. “No.”

“We’ll have to change that, darling.” She started to saunter away, grabbing her silk cover-up from the back of a nearby chair. She slid it over her shoulders, and it hugged her form with just enough ferocity as the bathing suit. “Come, dear. I have just the person in mind.”

The basement was significantly cooler than the rest of the house, bathed by the sun. As you descended the stone steps, you fought the urge to smooth your fingers over your skin to quell the frigid air.

Natasha seemed unbothered. She led you into a large room that you assumed was soundproof. It was a fairly empty room, lit with artificial bulbs that reminded you much of the warehouse they’d kept you in for the weekend. This seemed more malicious though. Not something to extract information exactly. A form of punishment.

A man was strung up from a low hanging rafter, his feet barely touching the ground. Rope was tied around his wrists, his hands above his head. Blood dripped like syrup from his lips, from a wound against his side. His left knee looked unnatural and broken.

You fought back a groan at the sight, at the smell of him. One eye was swollen shut, his fingers curling when he noticed Natasha’s presence.

Clint’s back was to you, his fingers dancing over an array of tools. He hummed a Metallica song, stopping at a pair of pliers. Yelena had her arms crossed over her chest, walking a slow, predatory circle around the man.

“No,” Yelena took the pliers from Clint “He will need his teeth to talk.”

Your throat tightened. This was the same woman who had sat next to your daughter in the diner. The one who had complimented her art and your job at raising her. She was easy to have conversations with, charming in the purest sense.

She turned towards both of you. “Natasha, you shouldn’t wear open toed shoes here. It is unsanitary.”

The woman next to you was not admonished in the slightest. Not by the cold or the harsh words of Yelena. Instead, she studied the man in front of you. He was in rough shape. If he hadn’t talked yet, he wasn’t going to. That much was clear.

This felt like the first time you served without following around an older, more experienced waitress. Your fingers were trembling and there was a wild nervousness that was in the pit of your stomach. Eventually, you learned, and it was second nature. You wondered if that’s what Natasha wanted. For you to learn not to cringe away from things like this. Just like the Winter Soldier.

As if to prove your thought process, Natasha said “Which one of you has your gun?”

They both pulled them out of various places at the same time, without hesitation, to the question. It made sense that Natasha didn’t have a weapon on her, not with the outfit that she walked around in. The cover-up was too tight against her skin, too revealing.

Yelena was closer, so Natasha grabbed the weapon from her. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

“I have.”

Your second foster father was a deputy sheriff in Minnesota. On half-frozen nights, he’d return home from the local bar reeking of sour alcohol and sweat. The door to your bedroom would creak open and he’d drag you from bed, barefoot and in your pajamas.

Most of the time, he had cans set up on an old picnic table that had rotted through. At first, it was your job to set the cans back up and fight off hypothermia. But after three or four sleepless nights, he taught you how to shoot. His body was warm against your back and the first time the gun kicked you had nearly broken your nose.

You considered yourself a good shot when it came to cans, wild turkeys, and even the occasional buck. This was different. This was a human being that was taking in heaving breathes and fighting to pull himself up to give his bad knee a break.

“Do you know how to aim?” Natasha asked.

“It’s been years.”

“Okay,” She breathed.

You flinched when she moved behind you. Her warmth was all encapsulating. She smelled of sunscreen, and vaguely of the salt of the ocean. Natasha’s fingers pressed against your hip, giving you a small squeeze, signaling for you to take a step back.

Her other hand dropped the pistol into yours, heavy and warm. Her hand trailed up your arms, giving you goosebumps, fingers tightening around your own until you held the gun towards the man. The stranger.

Natasha’s chin was on your shoulder, her breathe hot against your cheek. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Right there. When you’re ready.”

She’d aimed the tip of the gun directly between his eyes. You could hear your heartbeat in both ears, vibrating through your body. It wasn’t hesitation, exactly. In this moment, it was his life or yours. Clint and Yelena watched you carefully, with intent.

You took a deep, shaking, breath and clenched your eyes before pulling the trigger. You expected some sort of blow-back. The same throbbing pain that you recalled from shooting at the cans. The scent of gunpowder mixing with cold.

None of those came.

Instead, there was a small click. The safety was on, and though you had squeezed the trigger with the intention to kill, it simply did not fire. You inadvertently slumped back into Natasha and the hand on your hip snaked around your middle, holding you close.

“You won’t have to kill often,” Natasha explained “But it’s good to know you’d do it without question if I tell you to.”

“Oh, Natasha, do not play with her. It is not nice.”

Smoothly, Natasha worked the gun from your hand and switched the safety off before you could blink. She fired two shots in succession, not releasing her hold on you. Your ear was ringing and the man in front of you slumped in his bindings.

“Okay. Very effective. You owe me bullets.” Yelena took her weapon back. “You are cleaning this up.”

“That means I’m cleaning this up.” Clint said.

Natasha hummed in agreement, finally pulling herself away from you. “I think this a job for two, don’t you, y/n?”

There wasn’t room to disagree with her. Not when you could only hear out of one ear, your skin still buzzing from her lingering touch. You could have sworn you felt her own heartbeat against your shoulder blade.

 But you’d never bring that up.

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toocreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos]

[shakespeareanwannabe]

As You Wish, Chapter 15

Summary: When arriving at Camp Silver Star, Abby Floyd was anticipating a summer of adventure with an ocean separating her from the three people she loved most: her mom, her Uncle Bob and her Aunt Natasha. But after a run in with Charlie Seresin, an extremely familiar looking and irritating camper in a different cabin, her summer plans take a turn that neither girl ever could have expected.

Trigger Warnings: reader's children are described as being blond with green eyes because genetics are wild and Jake's genes are strong, reader is canonically Bob's sister (but biological relation is never discussed), reader goes by Buttercup and is tattooed, angst, panic attack, drinking, sadness, reference to divorce, references to babies, swearing, references to body image issues, swimming and water games

Top Gun, almost 12 years ago

Jake yawned as he sat in front of his locker, his flightsuit half unzipped and his travel mug of coffee cooling on the bench beside him.

He was so. Damn. Tired. Of everything. He was doing the nightshift with the twins so that Buttercup could get some rest, but the top brass wanted him in at 6 a.m. on the dot to run low-light training simulations with the rest of the squad. His parents were constantly on him about taking Buttercup and the twins for a visit and, for a military family, they were having a real tough time understanding that Jake literally didn’t have enough hours in the day as it was. And on top of that…

His head drooped as he remembered what had gone down that morning in the cute little bungalow that he had finally been able to move his family into a mere month before Buttercup had given birth. He had busted his ass for that house, and she wanted to what? Move away for a job she could do from anywhere? When she was barely healed from giving birth and he could deploy again at the drop of a hat?

Jake shook his head. He had to get his head in the game. If he kept replaying the fight in his mind, he’d be useless up in the air. He’d already fucked up the last three simulations they’d flown, and Cyclone had really been up his ass about it. Even Mav had looked at him with disappointment in his eyes.

Jake pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and his fingers gripped his hair, tugging the blond locks tightly. What the fuck was wrong with him? This wasn’t who he was. Star quarterback, homecoming king, only aviator with two confirmed air to air kills of his generation. He’d married the perfect woman and had two perfect daughters, so why was everything so. Fucking. Hard?

“Hey man, are you…what the hell’s wrong with you?” Rooster’s voice came from the doorway but Jake couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He couldn’t move his head or his hands. Hell, he couldn’t even control his lungs, which were starting to burn with the speed of his breathing.

“Nothing” is what he tried to say, but all that came out was a garbled groan.

“Whoa, hey…” he felt Rooster take a seat across from him. “Dude, you’ve gotta breathe. Dude? Fuck…” The bench rattled beneath them as Jake flinched away from the gentle hand on his back. “Dude, fucking relax.” Rooster snatched one of his hands and tugged it to his chest, not noticing the blond hairs that ended up tangled in Jake’s clenched fist. Jake would’ve pulled his hand back but didn’t have the energy. He felt like he didn’t have the energy for anything anymore. “Just…try to breathe with me, okay?” Rooster took an exaggerated breath and Jake struggled to follow. “Dude, c’mon. You like to say you’re better at me than everything, but you’re gonna let me be better at breathing? No way. Try again.”

The next breath that Jake took was a little stronger. And so was the one after that. And the one after that, until he stopped shaking and he was able to release his fists and raise his head.

Rooster was staring off to the side and it took Jake a moment too long to realize it was because the older man didn’t want to see him cry. Jake hadn’t even realized he had been crying. Fuck, he hadn’t cried in years. Not even when the girls had been born. He’d wanted to, but he kept the tears at bay until he was in the privacy of his own shower, and everyone knew that shower tears didn’t count.

Jake used the scratchy sleeve of his flightsuit to wipe away the remaining tears before he sniffled, grunted, and sat up. “Thanks, man.” Rooster grunted and shifted on the bench, the wood groaning beneath his weight. “We, uh…we’ve been fighting,” he admitted quietly. “She wants to get a job and she needs more help with the twins, but I’m always needed here, so I don’t know what she wants me to fucking do, y’know?”

Rooster nodded once, eyes firmly on his boots. “You two will figure it out.”

“Yeah…yeah, I’m sure we will. Thanks, Rooster.”

The older man slapped the wood bench beneath him and stood. “Don’t mention it. Now, c’mon. Cyclone wants us on the flight field.”

“I’ll be right there.” His fingers still slightly trembling, Jake zipped up his flightsuit and downed his now cold coffee. “Hey Bradshaw? You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right?”

“Tell anyone about what?” With that, Rooster pushed open the door to the locker room and disappeared, leaving Jake alone again.

Clifton, Texas, Now

The cold steel of the bleachers bit into Buttercup’s thighs as she chuckled around the mouthful of buttery popcorn she had just shoveled into her mouth, the crowd roaring around her.

Though she was not a football fan, the atmosphere of the high school football game was intoxicating. It seemed like everyone in Clifton had shown up to support the Clifton Cougars in their first pre-season friendly match. And while the keyword was supposed to be friendly, Jake and Javy were both coaching as though it was the last quarter of the Super Bowl and they were down by like 20.

“Let’s go, Cougars!” Abby cheered next to her, her face painted with blue and gold stars to match the school’s official colours.

“Get ‘em, Uncle Javy!” Charlie roared, her own bag of popcorn flying everywhere.

Her daughters’ enthusiasm increased Buttercup’s enjoyment of the game exponentially. While she had watched the Dallas Cowboys play while she and Jake had lived together and supported him when they won or lost, she had always found herself drifting during the televised games. Perhaps what she had needed was her daughters explaining the game to her. Or, she bit her lip, perhaps it was the sight of Jake in the tight white T-shirt and grey joggers that had her eyes hardly straying from the game in front of her.

He was so…passionate. The passion he had always shown for flying was now being shown as he conferred with Javy to call plays and helped bolster the offensive line. Even from her place halfway up the bleachers, she could see the bright stars shining in his eyes as he had a heart to heart with their rookie quarterback, and she could practically hear the warmth in his voice as he clapped the kid on the shoulder before he ran out onto the field.

There were only a few minutes left in the game and, while the Cougars were winning, and while it was only a friendly pre-season match, the hometown crowd was clearly loving the strength of their team. As the team lined up for one final play, Jake leaned in to whisper to Javy, who nodded enthusiastically before Jake turned and beckoned to them in the stands.

Charlie dumped her popcorn on her seat and turned to them eagerly. “C’mon, Mom!”

Buttercup shook her head. “He wants you two,” she smiled softly at her daughter. “You two go, I’ll hold the fort down here.”

Abby pouted at her. “Mum, please?”

“I’m sorry, babe, but there’s no reason your dad would want me down there,” she bit her lip against the sharp pang in her gut. “You two go.”

Abby’s shoulders slumped a bit before Charlie grabbed her arm. “It’s alright, Abs. You’re gonna love this.” Charlie tugged her sister down to the sidelines.

Jake bent down to talk to them briefly before turning back to the bleachers, beckoning to her again. Buttercup felt heat flood her cheeks but she shook her head. Perhaps there was a reason he wanted her down there with their daughters, but the memory of leaning against him on the dark path to the gazebo gave her pause. They had come so close…too close. And yeah, it had felt really good to be that close to him, but it was just nostalgia. They had been in close proximity for almost a week, their muscle memory from a decade ago was clearly kicking in.

From a distance, Buttercup could see Jake roll his eyes before he leaped the fence and started jogging up the steps to the bleachers.

“Buttercup, c’mon!” he called once he reached her row.

Her sigh barely masked her laugh. “Why? Jake, you know I’m not a huge football fan.”

“So? The Cowboys never lost a game when we watched together, so clearly you’re some sort of good luck charm. My boys could really use that luck right now.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been winning all game.”

“So?” He fixed her with those patented puppy dog eyes. “The girls want you down there and so do I. Please?”

She groaned as she stood. “You know it’s not fair when you use those eyes.”

He grinned back at her. “I know. That’s why I do it.” Tingles of electricity sparked as he took her hand and led her down to the sidelines. Abby and Charlie met her with a hug as she reached them and Javy grinned at her before turning back to the team to give them a pep talk for their final push with 30 seconds left on the clock. “Okay, now just stand there and be lucky,” he winked at her before turning to join the team again.

Before she could blink, the game was over and Javy was scooping Charlie up in his arms, placing her on his shoulders as the team surrounded him. She squealed as Jake wrapped her up in his arms, spinning her around. She grabbed his arm as her feet touched the ground again, using it to steady herself as he grinned down at her.

“See?” he murmured, as close to her as he had been the night of their dinner. “You’re my good luck charm.”

She felt the heat race to her cheeks as he released her, opting to scoop up Abby as he joined the team’s celebration. She watched as her girls bobbed high above the cheering teenagers and grinned. No matter what was going on in her personal life, seeing her daughters so happy was infinitely worth it.

After the game, she found herself tucked into a corner booth at the local diner, tradition dictating that the Seresin family and Company went out for dinner, whether the Cougars won or lost. Bob had picked up a flight from Dallas to London, stating he’d be back in plenty of time to help with the reunion party scheduled for Saturday night. Phoenix had flat out refused to go to the game, and Rooster had opted to spend the night with her, his wink and nod at Jake enough for the man to know that his friend would at best figure out what was going on between Nat and Javy, at worst keep her from burning the place down. But she found herself happy as she sunk down in the booth, laughing as Javy was immediately tugged away by members of the football team, who were holding court over a bunch of tables pushed together.

“Sorry, fellas,” Jake tilted his head towards his girls with a grin and the teenagers immediately bowed away.

“Huh,” Buttercup mused as the teenagers returned to their table.

“What?”

“Nothing. That was just pretty impressive.”

Jake grinned. “They know that when I’m with Charlie, I’m off limits.”

Something fluttered in Buttercup’s chest as the waitress came over to take their orders.

“Just the usual, Mags,” Jake smiled at her as he stretched his arms across the back of the booth, pausing only to ruffle Abby’s hair.

“Me too!” Charlie settled into her mother’s side.

“Me three!” Abby giggled.

Buttercup blinked. “Ummm…” She scrambled for the sticky plastic menu and winced when it stuck to the table.

Jake stilled her struggle with a light hand on her wrist. “How about the chicken Ceasar salad, a side of fries, and a sweet tea?”

Buttercup couldn’t tear her gaze away from his large hand encircling her wrist, heat radiating up her arm at the gentle touch. Her breath caught and her heart rattled around in her chest for a moment before she was able to compose herself. She was being stupid. It was a simple touch between co-parents, and it wasn’t too far out of the realm of ordinary to remember the food preferences of a former loved one. She always found herself remembering his order of a medium rare steak with fried okra and a loaded baked potato, after all.

“Y-yeah,” she attempted a grin and gently pulled the menu off the table as Jake slowly released her. “That sounds perfect.”

Jake smiled and winked at Mags. “How’s Frank doin’, Mags? All better after his surgery?”

Mags blushed under his grin. “Oh, yes, he is. And thank you again, Coach, for sending your boys over to help with the yard work. I don’t know what I would’ve done without all the extra hands.”

Jake waved an easy hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let Javy know they were helpful.” He winked at her again as she scurried off to the kitchen with her notepad.

“Hey girlie!” Javy hollered over from his spot with the team. “Davidson here thinks he can beat your score at Ms. Pacman!”

Charlie practically crawled over her mother and barely caught herself before she went headfirst into the floor from the bench seat. “Oh hell no! C’mon, Abs!” One quick look up at her father, and Abby dove after her sister, both girls giggling as they shouldered the senior running back out of the way.

“Don’t worry,” Jake murmured to her, watching her as she watched their daughters with the rowdy group of teens. “They’ve known her for years and see her as a little sister, and they accepted Abby right into the fold too. They’d be first on the attack if anything happened to either of them. And Javy is right there. He’ll keep things PG-13.”

Buttercup felt her cheeks warm under the weight of his stare. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I guess I’m not used to this small-town living thing. I feel like I can barely take my eyes off her in London. Everyone there is practically a stranger.”

Jake settled deeper into the booth, his long legs kicking out. “Yeah…everyone here either knows each other or knows of each other. Everyone looks out for everyone else. It’s a weird vibe to get used to, but once you do, there’s nothing like it.”

She quietly thanked Mags as she delivered their drinks and took a small sip of her sweet tea before grinning. “I guess I just never pegged you as the type of person to like the Leave It to Beaver lifestyle.”

Jake’s laughter poked at the small flame kindling in her chest, sending sparks flying. She’d missed that sound. Towards the end of them, there hadn’t been much laughter to go around, but his laugh had always been one of her favourite sounds, especially when they first got together. He’d still had so many walls up, preferring to keep his squad mates at an arm’s length, and that included anyone associated with them. He’d been all biting wit and sarcasm, but once he’d lowered his defences, she’d been a goner.

“I guess I didn’t really give off a Mayfield vibe, huh?” he chuckled. “And you’re not wrong. I spent a few summers here with my grandfather, but my head was always in the clouds or in my cockpit, so I never really enjoyed it. But, I don’t know…” he gazed around while sipping his beer. “My grandparents always said there was no better place to raise a kid than here. So, when I retired…I don’t know, I guess I figured here was as good a place as any. And I would have my grandfather to help me raise Charlie, so…it made sense.”

Buttercup nodded thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the old pictures and news articles that had been pinned to the walls. “It must be nice…growing up in a place with so much family history.”

Jake shrugged. “I grew up in Dallas, but I guess it was nice coming here. Everyone I met had some sort of story about my grandparents growing up, or my great-grandparents.”

“And now Charlie gets to hear about her dad growing up, and her great-grandparents, and her great-great-grandparents…” Buttercup sighed heavily. Her eyes jerked up to meet his as his hand landed on top of hers, squeezing lightly.

“What’s wrong, Buttercup?” The kindness and warmth in his eyes almost had her tearing up.

She shrugged, sniffling back those tears that were threatening to pool in her eyes. “I think you were right. Taking the job in London was the wrong decision. I cut us off from all the support we had, and—”

“Hey, now…none of that,” Jake squeezed her hand again and leaned in, so close to her that she could smell the spice of his cologne and the woodsy undertones that were pure Jake. “I was a stubborn, jealous asshole when I said that. You…you were drowning in Miramar, and I was too scared to be willing to see it. I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

Buttercup chewed on her bottom lip as she looked into those green eyes. “That’s the first time you’ve ever told me you were scared,” she whispered.

Jake hung his head and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah…I’m sorry about that too. I should’ve told you; I just didn’t want to add onto everything you were already dealing with. But maybe if I had…”

Buttercup flipped her hand and squeezed his gently, ignoring the shocks that went through her at the contact. “Communication was never our strong suit, was it?” she smiled sadly at him, and he chuckled in response, the sound sad and longing.

“No, I guess it wasn’t. But hey, we’re both older now, right?”

Her smile brightened a bit, even as her heart began to thud overtime. Was he suggesting…? But he couldn’t be. He was fresh off a breakup, and they lived on opposite sides of the world, and their daughters needed a solid unified front if they were going to adapt healthily into this new dynamic. Buttercup schooled her features before grinning at him.

“Yeah. We’re both older now,” her heart did a funny little flip at his smile, and she schooled that too. “We should be able to communicate way better for the girls. We did promise them a better custody arrangement, after all.”

It may have been a flicker of the old fluorescent bulbs overhead, or the shadow of Mags passing out their food falling over his face, but she could have sworn that a frown tugged at the edges of Jake’s mouth at her words. But in a blink, it was gone, and he was whistling for the girls to return to their table to eat.

“As you wish, Buttercup,” he murmured softly as their daughters raced over. “If a better custody arrangement is what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Saturday morning was a rush of activity and preparation for the Dagger’s reunion party. Jake, Javy, Bob, and Rooster had reached out to all their contacts and invited all the Daggers they had managed to contact. By Friday, they had received RSVPs from almost everyone. Penny and Amelia had immediately launched into planning mode, and Payback and Fanboy had enthusiastically agreed, the pair having stuck together since the Daggers had been disbanded. Omaha, Fritz, Halo and Harvard had all emailed back with their disappointed declines, seeing as they were all stationed in classified locations and weren’t due to be back in a few months.Yale said that he would come if he could, but it depended on his girlfriend’s work schedule. Even Cyclone and Hondo said that they would make an appearance if they were able, but Warlock wouldn’t be able to make it.

With such a large crowd, they had all been put on prep duty. Natasha and Bob had cleaned out a few of the empty dude ranch cabins to make space for their guests. Rooster had planned a huge menu of comfort food that they hadn’t really been allowed to eat while they were in the Navy. Jake and Javy had raided the local liquor store and brought back a veritable treasure trove of potent potables. Buttercup, Abby and Charlie had gone decoration shopping and brought back an embarrassing amount of cliche summer decorations, including flamingo floaties, sun-shaped sunglasses, and plastic pineapple cocktail cups. However, nothing truly got done until Penny rolled in with Amelia on Friday night, taking one look at the party supplies that had been strewn around the ranch house and sighing fondly, directing them with military precision.

Finally, after what felt like hours of hanging bunting, blowing up balloons, and cleaning the pool, Buttercup was lounging on a chaise by said pool next to Natasha, the Texan sun beating down on their skin as they laughed at the boys, all crammed in the pool playing an aquatic version of Dogfight Football.

Buttercup sighed contentedly as she sipped her margarita and watched her girls play with Payback’s kids, her eyes catching occasionally on Jake as he tackled Javy into the water.

“...are you even listening to me?” Natasha sighed, pulling her hat further down on her head to shield her scar from the sun.

“Hmm?” Buttercup’s eyes followed Jake as he threw the red foam football down the length of the pool, his muscles rippling as the water lapped at his waist.

“Damn, girl,” Natasha sighed as Payback’s wife, Maryanne, settled into the lounge beside them. “You’ve still got it bad.”

“Fuck off,” Buttercup muttered as she dragged her eyes away from the game. “Charlie, no tackling!” she shouted, as she noticed Charlie sneaking up on Payback’s son, Richard.

Amelia sighed and stood from where she was dangling her feet in the water. “I’ve got ‘em.”

“Amelia, you don’t have to do that…”

Amelia smiled at her and headed over to the grassy hill. “It’ll be good experience, don’t worry.”

Buttercup watched Amelia join the kids, immediately launching into whatever game they were playing with gusto. Shaking her head, she turned her head and noticed both women staring at her. “What?”

“Don’t what me,” Natasha grumbled. “Everyone can see how you two look at each other.”

“There’s no look,” Buttercup sighed.

“Honey, there’s definitely a look,” Maryanne sighed, watching her husband as he dunked Fanboy into the water. “He stares at you like he’ll never get enough.”

“It’s true,” Penny piped up from her spot under the umbrella. “He looks at you the same way he looked at you when you two first started dating. Like the sun rises and sets with you, like you hold the key to all of life’s happiness. Those kinds of looks don’t come around every day, sweetheart.”

Buttercup rolled her eyes and snuggled further down into her chair, determined to ignore her friends. There was no look. She and Jake looked at each other in a completely platonic, non-romantic way. If there was a look, it was the long-suffering look that parents shared with each other when their kids did something ridiculous. She opened her mouth to tell them that, but something smoky and slightly acrid filled her lungs instead.

“Hey, Rooster? Why does it smell like something is burning?”

In an instant, all the heads in the pool snapped to her. Except, it wasn’t Rooster who moved, but Jake. In one smooth move, he heaved himself out of the pool, his biceps flexing and contracting against his body weight as he swung his legs over the side of the pool.

Buttercup’s mouth turned to the Sahara as she blatantly stared at him, her eyes tracing the droplets of water that skimmed down his pecs and abs, blinking as he grabbed a white towel and quickly tousled his hair with it before picking up his tan baseball cap and slinging it over his head backwards, keeping his damp hair out of his eyes. He slung his towel over his shoulders as he strode for the grill, grabbing the tongs and flipping the burgers with practised ease.

“No look, my ass,” Natasha whispered as he passed, snorting at the dazed look on her friend’s face.

“Fuck off…” she murmured, her eyes tracing the rippling lines of his back.

“I thought Rooster was the chef here, Hangman?” Maryanne teased, her eyes watching Buttercup closely.

“Hey, everything else was done by me!” Rooster called, throwing off Fanboy’s overly enthusiastic tackle with ease. “Hangman’s just overly protective of his grill.”

“A man and his grill have a special relationship that nobody else can understand, Bradshaw,” Jake’s grin was filled with light and ease, clearly having no clue the effect he was having on his ex-wife.

“Seems like you have a lot of relationships that nobody else can understand, dude,” Javy waggled his eyebrows at him

“Did you really almost marry a former beauty queen that’s almost half your age, Hangman?” Payback asked, climbing out of the pool and catching the towel his wife threw to him.

“And can I have her number?” Fanboy smirked as he climbed onto one of the pool floaties.

“No,” Jake grimaced as he rolled the hot dogs. “Mickey, you don’t want her number.”

Javy cackled, flipping Fanboy’s floatie before he could flip Jake off. “Isn’t that the exact same thing I told you when we met her and her dad on the golf course?”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Maybe. But y’all are acting like I came to my senses at the altar or something. We were barely engaged.”

“You were touring venues, Dad,” Charlie groaned as she flopped onto her towel by her mother’s feet.

“She had the Save the Date cards printed too,” Abby pointed out, sitting on the edge of Natasha’s chair.

Buttercup giggled at Jake’s expression. “They’re not wrong, Jake. You were going to marry that girl.”

Jake turned his eyes to her, and her breath caught at the anything but teasing look in them. If anything, those green eyes were heavy with guilt. Guilt and longing and a look that she recognized but didn’t want to name. Naming it made it real. Naming it made it breakable, and if it broke again, she didn’t know what she would do.

Suddenly, she was desperate to cover herself. What had she been thinking, wearing a bikini in her ex-husband’s backyard? She was too exposed, too much of her left revealed for him to see. Her hand blindly searched for a blanket or a towel or her wrap, anything to keep the heat of his gaze off her before it burned her again.

“Is this any way for a distinguished unit to greet their superior officer?”

Fanboy and Payback jumped to attention, whirling to salute Cyclone and Hondo as they strolled through the open back gate. Phoenix rolled her eyes while Javy and Rooster bestowed him with a one finger salute, and the spell that had hung between Buttercup and Jake broke. He blinked and turned back to his grill, and Buttercup ceased her senseless search for her wrap. She was being stupid. There was nothing between them, so there was no reason to cover herself up. Besides, it had taken her a long time to be proud of her body again, and she would flaunt it if she wanted to.

“Knock it off, Beau,” Penny cooed as she greeted the Admiral with a warm hug. “Everyone should be at ease today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiled softly down at her before reaching out to shake Jake’s hand. “Seresin! Thank you for the invite.”

“Glad you could make it, sir,” Jake responded warmly. “I hope you brought your appetite. We’ve cooked up enough food to feed an army.”

“We’re both starving,” Hondo shook Jake’s hand. “We appreciate the invitation. I know we didn’t part ways on the best of terms.”

Jake shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It’s all water under the bridge.” Jake turned his attention to the grill for a moment before calling out, “Food’s almost ready everyone!”

Bob popped up from his seat under the cabana. “I’ll go get the stuff from inside and bring it out.”

“I’ll come with,” Natasha called, avoided Cyclone’s gaze with a fierce determination.

Jake’s eyes followed Bob as he put out a hand to stop her. “Actually, Phoenix, can you do me a favour and put all the meat in the trays? I’ll give Bob a hand.”

Natasha eyed him skeptically but nodded. “Sure…but if you do anything to piss him off, I’ll break your face.”

“Bold of you to assume that Charlie and Abby wouldn’t beat you to it,” Jake grinned as he followed the former WSO into the kitchen.

His former brother-in-law was standing with his back to him, his strategic mind undoubtedly figuring out the best way to get all the salads, sides, buns, and veggies out without spilling anything.

“You know, if we flip the lids so that they’re flat, we could stack the salads and I could bring them out and you—”

“Whoa, slow down there, Bobby,” Jake chuckled as he moved to stand beside him. “I want to talk to you for a second first.”

Bob’s eyes remained on the table. “What about? You and I don’t really have much of anything to discuss, do we?”

Jake flinched but nodded. “Yeah, alright, I deserve that.”

“You deserve a lot more than that,” Bob huffed. “I told her to stay away from you, and—”

“And I fucked it up,” Jake bit out. “Just like you always knew I would.”

Bob’s eyes finally raised to meet his, and there was a fire in them that Jake hadn’t seen since Natasha had been brought to the medbay, bleeding from her eye and nonresponsive.

“She was sick, Seresin,” Bob hissed under his breath. “She was so sick and you…”

Jake’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he worked to dislodge the words he had been struggling with for years. “I wasn’t around to notice.” Jake sighed even as his heart panged. “I know. I missed half of her pregnancy and then I deployed again when the twins were like three months old. I agreed to deploy again even though I knew she was struggling. And the one thing that seemed to spark her…” Jake shook his head. “I’m not trying to make excuses, Bob, but I was scared. My wife wasn’t herself, I was running on next to no sleep, the brass kept wanting me for training exercises, and the girls were so young and helpless. Everybody needed a piece of me and I couldn’t deal. That’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, ever since you got here.” Jake took a deep breath and held out his hand. “I wanted to thank you…for taking care of my family when I couldn’t. I know they’re your family too, but since I wasn’t capable…I’m damn glad you were.”

Bob considered his hand for a moment. “I don’t think you weren’t capable,” he muttered after what felt like hours, and he shook Jake’s hand. “I can’t imagine what was going through your mind. You always felt the need to be perfect…you put too much pressure on yourself to be perfect in every aspect of your life, and when home wasn’t perfect…” Bob shrugged and released his hand. “You both cracked under the pressure. I’m not saying it was all her fault, because she was really sick, but it takes two to get married. It takes two to get divorced too.”

Jake blinked at him. “Jesus, Bob, you’re like Dr. Phil without the accent.”

Bob scoffed and started flipping the lids on the salad bowls. “And you’re still a dick, just without the flightsuit to justify it.”

Jake laughed and started loading the condiments into a metal tray, feeling lighter than he had in a while.

“They ate everything,” Rooster muttered, gazing down at the empty metal trays and all the empty bowls. “I’m pretty sure Fanboy even ate part of the watermelon rind.”

Jake laughed loudly, clapping his friend on the back. “Why do you sound so surprised? You do remember who we’re dealing with, right?” At that, a loud crash and a screaming chorus of “We’re alright!” rang out from the backyard.

Rooster sighed, hanging his head. “I’m too old to deal with this shit anymore…”

Jake grinned and tossed his head. “Why don’t you go make sure nothing valuable got broken out there? I’ll handle a bit of the clean up in here.” Rooster shot him a look and he rolled his eyes. “Dude, it’s my house. My kitchen. Don’t worry, I’m not going to mess up your precious system.”

“Yeah, you’d better not,” Rooster muttered as he strode out the double French doors to the backyard, scooting out of the way to let Buttercup go by with the empty dessert tray.

“They’re a bunch of animals,” she sighed, taking in the mess.

Jake chuckled. “Careful, or you’re going to start sounding like Rooster.”

He started gathering up the metal trays and stuffing them into a recycling bag.

“You’re not cleaning up now, are you? Everyone wants you out there.”

Jake shrugged. “Just a bit. Rooster will have my head on a spike if any bugs get in here because we left the mess for too long.”

“Oh…” Buttercup bit her lip as she looked around, then back to him. She seemed to be steeling herself before she nodded and said, “Let me help you then.”

Jake smiled softly and murmured his thanks before the two of them fell into a bittersweet rhythm together, dodging and weaving around each other as they stacked plates, snagged garbage, and rinsed cups.

“Now, this takes me back,” Jake’s voice was wistful as he began scrubbing down the serving utensils.

Buttercup smiled as she grabbed a ladle from him to dry. “Christmas…New Years…St. Patrick’s Day…”

Jake snorted. “You were the cutest little elf I’ve ever seen.”

Buttercup gasped in mock outrage. “I was a leprechaun, thank you very much.”

“Still adorable,” Jake shrugged.

“Yeah, well, I can’t say the same for you and Santa Claus.”

Jake turned to her, letting the tongs fall into the sink with a dull thud. “What was wrong with my Santa Claus?”

“Other than that you wouldn’t let anybody but me sit on your knee, and you told Rooster and Javy to fuck off when they tried to ask you where the presents were?” Buttercup grinned at him.

“Hey, I was a very jolly old Saint Nick!”

“If by jolly, you mean horny…” Buttercup bit her lip, wincing internally. She hadn’t meant to say that. She really shouldn’t have said that. But there was something about the normalcy of being in his kitchen, cleaning up after a Daggers party. It was warm, it was calming, it was familiar.

A gush of wetness against her bare belly tore her from her thoughts and left her gasping at Jake’s cocky face.

“What?” he smirked. “You’ve been in your bathing suit all day and didn’t get wet. Thought I would help you out with that.”

Buttercup put down the dish she was drying and started winding up her towel. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Hangman,” she glared playfully at him, brandishing the wound towel in his direction before snapping it in the direction of his bare thigh.

“Hey!” he yelped, rounding the island to escape the towel’s sting. Safe behind the island, he grabbed the sink sprayer and aimed it at her, laughing at her squeals as the water rained down on her.

“Get back here, Seresin,” she cried, winding up her fabric weapon again as they began to chase each other around the kitchen. Around and around they went, water from the sprayer and the sink splashing up and towels whipping back and forth until Buttercup’s foot hit a damp patch of tile and slid out from under her.

Wincing, she braced herself for a fall…that never came.

“Easy, darlin’,” a thick arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, steadying her against a sturdy chest. A sturdy bare chest. “You alright?” Green eyes gazed down at her, worry and that touch of something that would remain nameless filling them.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she murmured, one palm braced against his pec.

“I don’t know, I kinda like it,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning over her cool bare skin.

“Because you get to play hero?” she murmured, feeling his heart begin to beat harder and faster as she leaned against the counter, and he caged her in between his arms. They both knew she could easily escape, and just as easily tell him to back up, but she didn’t.

“Because I get to hold you again,” he admitted softly, his nose grazing hers for all of a nanosecond.

Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the heat of him press closer to her. “Jake…”

A low groan vibrated in his chest. “Tell me to stop…tell me we can’t…”

“I…” her breath shook. She knew they shouldn’t. Their situation was messy enough as it was. Not to mention he was fresh off a broken engagement. And, if this fell apart again, the girls would be devastated. She would be devastated. She couldn’t open herself up to him again…and yet, she also didn’t have the strength to say no to him. “I—”

“Hey, Seresin, I—oh!” Cyclone hesitated in the doorway. “Sorry, I’ll just…”

“It’s fine, Admiral,” Jake sighed, knowing the mood had been shattered. “What can I do for you?” His skin felt cold as Buttercup slipped under his arm and went back to drying the dishes.

“Well, there were rumours floating around that you were planning on joining us again, putting those skills of yours to good use in a few years. I was wondering if there was any merit to that?” Jake gulped as he sensed Buttercup going taut behind him, but Cyclone continued. “I was playing golf a few weeks ago with General Beaumont and he mentioned that you might want back in. Tell me the old man wasn’t just pulling my leg, Seresin. We need an Ace like you back on duty.” The clatter of metal against metal caught Cyclone’s attention, and he stopped, seeming to finally realize the tension that had clogged the air. “I should go see what Hondo got up to,” he bowed out with a slight frown in Jake’s direction before clicking the doors closed behind him.

“Buttercup…” Jake turned to see her tense back and bowed shoulders leaning against the sink.

“You want to go back?”

Jake’s eyelids fluttered closed. Shit.

Tags List: @jessicab1991

@waltermis

@buckysteveloki-me

@allepaula

@yuckosworld

@bradshawssugarbaby

@ahopelessromanticwritersworld

@kim-stark

@high-speed-r

@starsrfun

@tomanyfandomstrash

@averyhotchner

@the-blueatlas

@dashes-dizzydisaster

@a-girl-who-loves-disney

@boiolay

@djs8891

@tgmreader

@kmc1989

@landpiranha-blog

@sydthekid1518

@lynnevanss

@mackenzieblair

@minejungwoo

@starset21

@tgmavericklover

@dempy

@lovemarvelousfics

@starkleila

@magical-spit

@whatislovevavy

@simplyreading96

@vivalas-vega

@itsdesiree86

@inky-sun

@books-are-escapes

@abaker74

@devil-angel-winchester

@mrs-perfectly-fine

@inthestars-underthesun

@smoothdogsgirl

@rintheemolion

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.