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smileyjily · 4 years ago

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A Series of (In)Decent Proposals

Chapter 12: The One with the Strawberry Cake

Summary: Throughout the course of their lives, James would ask Lily to marry him many times. A 14-part series, consisting of 13 no’s and 1 very jubilant yes.

Set in The Bet universe, but works as a canon piece as well.

Word count: 1,515

ao3/ffnet

May 1, 1979

There was nothing extraordinary about the safehouse in Ipswich. Having sought safety in seven since the start of her career as an anti-revolutionary, Lily could attest that there was nothing remarkable in regards to its size – a three bedroom structure with an unfinished basement that let in the brisk night air – or its history – a pre-war structure that had survived the air raids unscathed. Nothing at all to distinguish it from the three dozen refuges the Order employed.

Except the inoffensive, even unassuming house remained Lily’s least favorite safehouse by far.

Conveniently located between London and Thetford Forest, where the North Suffolk werewolves collected, the Ipswich safehouse saw more traffic, and frantic, often screaming traffic at that, than any other. In the six days since Lily and James had taken up residence in the East-facing bedroom, Lily had not known a moment’s peace.

For the dozenth time that night, Lily rolled over in a bid to get comfortable. She deliberately mashed her ear into a pillow in the hopes to lessen the impact of the next, inevitable disruption. Beside her, James snored. Years of rooming with Sirius and his screaming nightmares had inoculated James against noise in the night. He would spring up in the morning, put on his glasses, and face the day as energetic as a kindergartner returning to school after Christmas Hols. Meanwhile, Lily wondered if there was a point at which dark circles became permanent.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

That would be an owl with no doubt urgent correspondence. Lily guessed it was outside the kitchen window. No need for her to react.

Eliza Clarke was on call that night, the only other semi-permanent resident of the safehouse. In the Order, it was common to stay at a safehouse for only a matter of nights before moving on, always some new emergency to circumvent. Jones had been settled in the house for a practically unheard of three months. Clarke was one of the best healers in the Order, and the third bedroom was essentially a sickroom for whoever had been cursed most recently. Lily and James would need to leave soon to make room for the next felled soldier. The full moon was around the corner, and Lily suspected it would be Remus.

Lily heard the creak of a bedroom door. As she expected, Clarke crept to the kitchen to answer the persistent owl. Slippers cloaked most of her footfalls, but there was no stopping the squeal of the bottom step.

Almost silence lingered in the room. Nothing to hear but James’ little breathy snores. Lily and James had shared a bed nearly a thousand times, so James’ sleep sounds made up the melody of Lily’s favorite lullaby. She drifted into a dose, no thought staying long enough at the front of her brain to fully formulate. It all just slipped away, and Lily was happy to follow.

Woosh!

“Anyone there? Present yourself?”

The floo. Mad-Eye.

Lily’s brain supplied the answers before her mind had finished asking the question. They were expecting Mad-Eye in the morning. He was to deliver their next assignment. If history served, it would be either to take advantage of Lily’s potioneering or James’ reckless disregard for his own life and limb. He made an unsettlingly good soldier.

With her sleep already out of reach, Lily sat up. Better to get it out of the way. With any luck, Mad-Eye’s orders would take her and James far from Ipswich.

Lily deftly ignored the bright panic that always accompanied new orders. They hadn’t separated James from her yet.

As suddenly as the voices downstairs had started up, they stopped. The floo roared and fell silent. If Lily strained, she could make out the familiar crackle of a hearth fire, nothing magical about it.

Lily flopped back onto her stack of pillows. Maybe Mad-Eye had stopped by to relay something unrelated to them, for Clarke’s ears only. Maybe he’d been pulled away by something innocent but pressing…a drunken colleague or a scandalous love confession. Alright, most likely someone was dead or maimed or cursed or about to be dead or maimed or cursed. Wasn’t that always the case?

Lily hadn’t heard word from Marlene in two months.

Any downstairs disturbance would have been preferable to where Lily’s mind went then. Staring up at the ceiling, Lily couldn’t see anything to distract her in the dark. The war had her yearning for a nightlight, those childhood promises of protection from monsters that turned out to be very very real.

“Soon. Soon.”

The words were spoken into her shoulder, half-slurred with sleep.

“What’s soon, James?”

Lily rolled onto her side to look at him. His eyes stayed shut, breathing even.

“I’ll take you home soon.”

“Where is home?”

Whispering the words broke her heart. She’d called Cokeworth home for eleven years, Hogwarts for another seven. The Potter Estate had been a home the first time she visited, but since the funeral, it had become a museum to the dead, a container for all of James’ grief that he couldn’t carry with him into the war if he didn’t want to end up joining his parents in death. Truthfully, when the parade of safehouses came to an end, Lily didn’t know where they would go.

“Home is…with you,” James murmured.

He then snored so loudly that he choked on it.

Honestly, the whole Order could have apparated into the room and James would have kept on dreaming. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken in his sleep. At times, James was capable of complex conversation, like coaching a pretend Quidditch match or firing off one of his prized puns. Normally, he just mumbled about the symbols that made up his dreamscape, something to the tune of, “Fish on bicycles grooming the manticores,” followed by more snoring.

Lily thought it was somehow sweeter that James was dreaming of a home with her, rather than actively trying to deliver reassurances. Her anxiety didn’t soften, but her heart did.

“My home is with you, too,” Lily said, even if he wouldn’t process the words in his sleep.

James smiled like maybe he did.

Lily took a moment to trace the lines of his face with her eyes. The shadows couldn’t conceal from her what she could recall so well from memory: the scar at his temple from a nasty fall down a moving staircase, the encroaching laugh lines earned early from a lifetime of hilarity, the supple lower lip that swelled when she sucked on it.

That very lip quivered as James started speaking again, “Going to marry you. Marry you in a wedding. There will be cake.”

Lily’s face broke into a smile. “Cake, huh? Let’s reach for the stars and have ice cream, too.”

“Yummy.”

He wouldn’t remember a minute of it come morning, one nondescript night of good sleep fading into the next. But she would. Most days, Lily felt like she had nothing left to give. But, like she was a wet rag, James could always wring just one last drop out of her. With a smile, a joke, a word of encouragement, somehow James would make her feel like the girl she once was, and that was all she needed to keep fighting. He was her safehouse.

“James, next time you ask me to marry you, I’m going to say yes. I’ll say yes and kiss you until we both can’t breathe. Until we both forget everything about this year from hell. Until it’s just me and you. Because it will always be me and you,” Lily murmured. “I honestly can’t wait.”

“Hmm, sounds nice,” James agreed.

Lily placed a kiss on the smooth skin of his brow, marveling at how little tension lay there when he slept. Where did he keep his worries? He was the most beautiful man she’d ever known.

“Lily?”

“Yes, love?”

“Can it be a strawberry cake?”

A bang from downstairs – the front door – was followed by a cacophony of shouting voices. From the din, Lily caught something about a raid on a Death Eater hold out in Colchester. Lily immediately flung off the duvet and prepared to race downstairs. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, but she wouldn’t have time to hunt down a pair of slippers. She always slept in something decent now, too afraid of nighttime interruptions, so no need to throw on a robe.

Wondrously, a smatter of laughter rose from their new guests. That meant there’d be wounded – there were always wounded – but no dead. A good day.

Hand on the doorknob, Lily turned back to James, still sleeping on his side like nothing had changed. Lily wanted to give him every comfort that had been denied them the last year, including a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“Yes, James. You’ll feast on strawberry cake,” Lily promised before slipping out the door.

And the next day, even though Lily had stayed up all night helping Clarke tend to the wounded, she still found time to bake one perfect strawberry cake.

She was James’ refuge, too.

#james potter #lily evans #jily #jily fanfiction #mine #it has been a minute since i wrote something #please be kind 🙏

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deanstop13billyjoeltraxx · 4 years ago

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Superposition

a deancas college roommate AU :)

Chapter 12 is up on AO3! Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here.

yes i updated twice this week my foot is broken i can’t do anything else

The Beginning (of the End)

Three Years Earlier

“You ready?”

Dean was standing by the door with a full backpack. Cas’s own was leaning against his closet. He was sitting at his computer, manically finishing a paragraph, only half-stalling.

“One second…” Cas trailed off as he ensured his document had saved properly. “Done. Yes,” he said. Dean rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile on his face.

Dean had just taken his last final that morning. It was nearly noon before they hit the road in the Impala, Dean’s twenty-minute tape-selection process doing nothing to hasten their departure. Eventually, he settled on Moving Pictures, and he pulled out of the parking lot with “Tom Sawyer” blaring through the speakers.

Cas learned many things on the two-and-a-half hour drive to Lawrence — that Dean knew every word to every song in his tape collection, and he was not afraid to demonstrate it; that Dean had driven through almost every town on I-35; and that he had a story for each. He learned that Dean could begrudgingly appreciate 80s pop when Cas flipped on the radio and allowed the entirety of “Heat of the Moment” to play, uninterrupted. He learned that Dean would often turn to sing his favorite lyric right at Cas, or to tell him music trivia, or just to give him a smile.

When they arrived at Bobby’s house in Lawrence, a gangly teen who Cas assumed to be Sam was waiting for them at the door. Dean had barely made it out of the car before Sam was running to him, pulling him into a hug. Dean was grumbling “I wasn’t gone that long,” but he was smiling and sniffling and hugging Sam just as hard. Cas hid his smile.

Sam introduced himself to Cas, all smiles and raw excitement. His openness was contagious. Sam insisted on hauling Cas’s backpack inside for him, to which Dean threw an apologetic look at Cas. Cas just grinned back at him.

Bobby Singer was gruff-voiced and stoic, but there were tears in his eyes as he gave Dean a quick hug. He shook Cas’s hand firmly and said it was real good to meet him, after everything he’s heard. Dean went beet-red when Cas cast him a glance.

Bobby brought beers and a coke for Sam. The four of them sat in Bobby’s living room, Dean and Cas replaying the semester’s highlights for a rapt audience. When Bobby left the room to order a pizza, he clapped Dean on the shoulder and said, in a low voice, “Real proud of you, kid.” Cas thought it might have been the happiest he’d ever seen Dean.

“Dean told me you’re a writer,” Sam said when it was just the three of them. “He said you were writing a book.”

Dean made an indignant sound. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Sam retorted. “You said he —”

“I said he was majoring in creative writing,” Dean interrupted, giving Sam a look.

“I am… working on something,” Cas said to Sam. “Although, I’m not quite sure it’s a book. I’ve never tried my hand at writing novels.”

“Dean says your stories are really good,” Sam said, and Dean shot him a death glare. Cas could barely contain his laughter. “What do you usually write?”

“Before this semester, I typically wrote about my own life,” Cas said, feeling slightly self-conscious. “But one of my classes challenged me to write about other things.”

“What’s your book about?” Sam asked.

“Can you contain your nerd for, like, ten minutes?” Dean grumbled. “Dude just got here, you don’t need to scare him off.”

Sam flipped him off, and Dean muttered, “Real mature.”

Cas was considering Sam’s question, trying to come up with an answer that was both vague and satisfying. “It’s about free will,” he said finally.

“Can I read it? When you’re done, I mean,” Sam said. “I love reading. I just finished Lord of the Rings last month.”

Cas smiled. “If I ever finish it, of course,” he said. “Lord of the Rings is a fantastic book series,” he added, and Sam’s face lit up.

Dean let out a long-suffering sigh when Sam started Cas on a conversation about Tolkien, and he excused himself to get another beer. When he returned, Bobby close behind him, he threw a pillow at Sam’s head, which led to Sam throwing it back, knocking Dean’s beer to the floor, and then it was war. Bobby shot Cas an eye-roll, which only made him laugh harder.

The rest of the week passed much the same. Castiel went to bed each night with sore cheeks from smiling. On Saturday, Sam roped him into pouring toothpaste into Dean’s shampoo bottle. The roar they heard from the shower that night had them nearly on the floor laughing. Dean got his revenge on Sam moments later, barreling out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel to give his brother a large, wet hug. Unbeknownst to Dean, his retaliation involved Cas as well; it took great effort to keep his eyes focused on anything but Dean’s bare midsection.

Dean dragged him to all of his favorite spots in Lawrence, places he remembered from early childhood and past Christmases with Bobby. Watching Dean in his element, Cas gave up. Resistance was futile. Cas didn’t fall in love with Dean in Lawrence, but he stopped trying to open a parachute against it. And while that observably changed nothing, for Cas, it changed everything. He’d already lost the game — what was the point in denying himself the consolation prize?

He leaned into the ache that came with the brilliance of Dean’s smiles. He relished the knot in his stomach when Dean spoke to everyone, but looked at Cas like it was just for him. He stole glances. He hid smiles. Dean permeated his thoughts and invaded his dreams. It hurt like hell, sleeping alone on an air mattress, wanting nothing more than to be laying next to the man in the other room. But the highs were addicting, made greater by the pain that followed them. Though he’d been down this road before, hopelessly in love with someone who would never, could never love him back, Dean felt different. Dean felt all-consuming.

Castiel had fallen, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever rise again.

Christmas with the Winchesters made every holiday celebration Cas had attended look boring. Ellen Harvelle and her daughter, Jo, arrived in the morning, each giving him a hug like they’d known him for years. The moment she walked in, Ellen was yelling at Dean to “get his ass in the kitchen.” He grabbed Cas by the arm and pulled him along.

Cas spent the rest of the day watching Dean and Ellen cook, helping when he could, then having a raucous meal on the floor of the living room, A Christmas Story playing on the old TV. Bobby popped open two bottles of cheap champagne, much to the chagrin of Jo and Sam, who were provided sparkling grape juice instead. They exchanged gifts, and Dean looked at Cas like he’d just won the lottery after opening Cas’s gift to him, a limited edition copy of Houses of the Holy. When Bobby and Ellen moved to the kitchen to clean up, Dean led Cas outside to the Impala.

“It was too big to hide in there, and I’m shit at wrapping, so I just left it in the car,” Dean said, a little sheepish. He opened the trunk, and Cas gasped.

Inside sat a vintage black typewriter, an Underwood Champion. The paint was chipped everywhere, the letters on the keys nearly worn-off.

“It’s not in great shape,” Dean said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “But it was the coolest one they had at the antique shop. It’s kind of useless, since you have a laptop and all, but —”

Cas interrupted him by pulling him into a tight hug. Dean made a surprised sound, but wrapped his arms around Cas’s back.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said into his shoulder. He pulled away. “It’s perfect.”

Dean shrugged, but looked pleased all the same.

“I have something else for you, too,” Cas said before he could change his mind. Dean crossed his arms.

“Dude, you already went way too hard with the vinyl,” Dean said.

Cas rolled his eyes and started his way back to the house. Dean shut the trunk and followed.

Cas grabbed his backpack and pulled out the stack of paper, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. He all but shoved it into Dean’s chest, who gave him a confused look as he took hold of the gift.

“It’s the first part of my first draft,” Cas explained as Dean read the cover page. Dean’s eyes were wide when he looked back at Cas. “It’s a selfish gift, really,” Cas said. “I want to know what you think.”

Dean broke into a slow grin. “This is awesome, Cas,” he said. “I can’t wait to read it. Thank you.”

They were supposed to leave Lawrence on New Year’s Day, but Dean and Cas were both too hungover to even think about making the trip. They stayed an extra night, much to the delight of Sam. The three of them spent New Year’s marathoning the Harry Potter movies. As usual, Dean spent most of the time reciting lines and pointing out his favorite scenes to Cas. Eventually, Sam became irritated enough that he told Dean to shove it, to which Dean responded that Cas liked hearing his thoughts, thank you very much. Dean kicked him in the ribs when Sam rolled his eyes and mumbled something like “Sorry for messing up your game.” Cas pretended not to hear that, pretended not to see Dean give Sam a glare that said, bring that up again, and I’ll kill you. All the same, he couldn’t help but wonder…

But, no. Dean wasn’t flirting with him, Cas knew that much. Sam just said the first thing he could think of to get a rise out of Dean.

They didn’t end up leaving until after dinner the next day, Sam and even Bobby pulling both of them in for hugs. Dean turned on the radio for the first half of the drive, but kept the volume low. He was quiet, and although Cas wanted to ask, he allowed Dean to sit in whatever he was feeling, watching the flat landscape pass outside the passenger window.

Dean had forgotten to tank up in Lawrence, so they stopped for gas in Emporia. It was dark by then, the unnatural white fluorescents shining starkly against the night sky. Cas stayed in the passenger seat as Dean pumped the gas. Cas watched him intently from the safety of the cab, another stolen moment wherein he allowed the full depth of his feelings to overcome him. It hurt, as it always did, but he thought the pain of wanting what he could never have was becoming softer, more bearable, like he might be able to live with it.

Dean opened the car door, and a rush of cold air assaulted the cab. “It’s nice out tonight,” Dean said. Cas hummed in agreement, contemplating Dean’s languid movements as he pulled his hoodie over his head. It was torturous, the way his shirt rode up to reveal a torso chiseled like marble, dusted with freckles. It was impossible not to stare. He looked away just before Dean looked at him again.

“I’m gonna go grab a snack,” he said. “You want anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cas said.

Dean returned momentarily with an already-half empty package of powdered donuts, grinning widely. Cas rolled his eyes as Dean reentered the cab.

“Prudent,” he deadpanned.

“These things are fucking magic,” Dean said before making a completely inappropriate noise as he popped another into his mouth. Cas averted his eyes.

“Do you eat the most unhealthy foods in existence on purpose?” Cas asked.

Dean looked at him with mock affront. “I just eat what tastes good,” he said.

The Impala roared to life. Dean opened the window to toss the empty package into a nearby trash can, dusting his fingers off in the air. He turned back to Cas, the right side of his mouth covered in powdered sugar.

“Ready to go?”

Cas frowned. “You look like a small child in a donut shop,” he said.

“What?” Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, then raised his eyebrows at Cas. “Better?”

“Barely,” Cas said, his frown deepening. And then his hand was moving without his permission, reaching up to dust the remaining white from the side of Dean’s mouth. It might have been nothing, were it not for the fact that his thumb lingered just a moment too long. Cas was staring at Dean’s lips, the breath stolen from his lungs. Shit.

“Cas?” Dean said, an eyebrow cocked.

Cas pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. “What?” He croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper.

Dean was looking at him with a mix of curiosity and melancholy, and Cas was done for. After all this time, every trip to the dining hall, every movie watched on a shared beanbag, every midnight trip to Taco Bell, it was here that Cas put the final nail in the coffin. It was at a shitty gas station in the middle-of-nowhere, Kansas, that Dean discovered his secret.

“Nothing,” Dean said slowly. As they pulled out of the gas station parking lot, Dean didn’t even bother to turn on the radio. Cas only dared a single glance in Dean’s direction, but when he did, he found Dean’s eyebrows knit in concentration, his jaw set, like this drive was the most important thing he’d ever done.

The air felt like it was about to condense with the weight of the silence. That final hour of the drive had Cas fidgeting, turning his phone over and over in his hands. Dean was perfectly still, hardly moving his eyes from the road. Dean, the definition of nervous energy, wholly devoted to a single task. Cas could have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t been silently begging for immediate reorganization into an inanimate object.

Because nothing in the history of unrequited love confessions could beat this. Cas didn’t have a prayer. And maybe Dean would pretend he hadn’t seen it, maybe they’d never talk about it. But everything would be different. Dean would find excuses to miss dinner, Cas would pretend to be exhausted every Tuesday night. Dean would break the news that he’d found a different roommate for the following school year. Cas would remark that they should keep in touch at the year’s end, and Dean would agree with a clap on the back, and they would never speak to each other again.

Finally, mercifully, Dean pulled into the dorm parking lot. Cas exhaled hard, as if he’d been holding his breath. Dean gave him a quizzical glance, which Castiel promptly ignored. When Dean shifted into park, Cas had his hand on the door handle immediately. He was about to open it, to take a breath of frigid, fresh air, when Dean grabbed his other wrist.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice was barely above a whisper, gravelly and sincere in a way that sent a shock through Cas’s spine.

Cas turned to face him. “What?” Cas said, trying to ignore the flames creeping up his arm.

“Thanks for, uh,” Dean started, but he cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming. To Lawrence.”

“Of course,” Cas said, and his voice sounded dead, even to him. He tried to infuse it with some vitality as he finished. “Thank you for inviting me. I had a great time.”

Dean nodded. His hand was still wrapped around Cas’s wrist, and he was looking out of the windshield.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t we… Go inside?” It came out like a question.

Dean’s eyes flicked to his. “Yeah,” he said, but he still wasn’t letting go. And Cas thought he should look away, should open the door, but then the inaction lasted too long. Something about the way Dean was looking at him burned, and he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, like there was something he was trying to convince himself to say.

Cas wasn’t sure if he really whispered Dean’s name, or if he imagined it. All he knew was, one moment Dean was staring at Cas, lips parted. The next, there was a hand on the back of Cas’s neck and stubble against his cheek and a pair of lips rough against his. Dean was kissing him, and Cas had imagined it so many times he could do nothing but freeze and hope he never woke up from this dream.

Dean pulled away abruptly, too soon, and the give-or-take two feet between them might have ripped a hole in the space-time continuum, it was so cosmically wrong.

“Shit, that was — I’m so sorry, Cas I didn’t —” Dean was holding his head in his hands, but his words were taking eons to reach Cas’s ears. He just sat, staring in disbelief. Every place Dean had touched was scorched with the absence of him. “I’ll email someone — I’ll try to move out for this semester — fuck, I’m such an idiot,” Dean was saying, and those words shocked Cas back to his plane of existence.

“Move out?” He croaked, and his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “Why?”

Dean looked at him in anguish. “I shouldn’t have — I’m an idiot.” His voice sounded broken and raspy. “I fucked up on Thanksgiving, and now, shit, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You remember Thanksgiving?” Cas blurted.

Dean tilted his head. “How could I forget that?”

Cas furrowed his brow. “What exactly was your mistake on Thanksgiving?”

Dean stared at him. “The whole damn thing, Cas,” he sputtered. “And now this, and, goddammit, you’re my best friend and I can’t control myself long enough to…” Dean trailed off, and Cas finally understood. Dean had misinterpreted his shock, felt Cas’s stiff and tardy reply and taken it to mean he wasn’t interested. A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped him at the irony.

Dean’s expression darkened. “Yeah, this is fucking hilarious, Cas —”

Cas cut him off. He closed the distance between them, and he could have laughed at the woeful inadequacy of his fantasies when compared to this. It was stilted and desperate, and the center console was digging into Cas’s knee, and an uncomfortable cold was seeping into the cab. But Dean’s fingers were tangled in his hair and he tasted like Diet Coke and cigarettes and he was muttering Cas with every breath and Cas thought he might die in that parking lot because he simply would not allow this to end.

The world had shifted when they finally parted. Dean was looking at him with wonder and confusion. Cas knew he was putting on a similar display. It was dark. Dean’s face was only half-illuminated in the parking lot, but everything about him was brilliant. It was almost too much, like maybe if Cas looked away he’d find himself blind. Cas felt the near-overwhelming urge to kiss him again, to rediscover every plane of Dean’s face he’d already committed to memory.

But he remained in his place, half twisted in the passenger’s seat, because this demanded all manner of explanation. Cas swallowed hard.

“You…” Dean’s voice was a gravelly whisper. “What?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Cas replied, breathless.

“You’re not — You’re not pissed?”

“That depends,” Cas said, his heart hammering against his chest. “What was that?”

“I —” Dean started, but stopped himself. His leg was bouncing rapidly, and he reached into the pocket of his jeans, presumably for a cigarette. Cas grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Dean,” he said in a stern voice.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Dammit, Cas,” he said. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” Cas said, a little taken aback.

“The truth,” Dean repeated, his eyes remaining resolutely shut. Another deep breath. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” he said finally.

And, whatever Cas had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “What?”

“I was gonna — I dunno, I was gonna do it right. I’ve been meaning to do it right, ask you to fucking dinner or something, but then I thought you hated me after Thanksgiving, and you were busy all the time, and then we were in Lawrence, and —”

“We go to dinner every night,” Cas said. Dean wasn’t making sense.

Dean finally opened his eyes, only to give Cas a death-stare. “No, dumbass, something a little nicer than the friggin’ dining hall.” He sighed. “But, of course, in my car. What am I, sixteen?”

“A date,” Cas said, finally catching up. “You were going to ask me on a date.”

Dean winced a little. “Yeah.”

“But you didn’t —”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“— Because you thought I hated you.”

“A little bit.”

Cas smiled incredulously. “If this is a joke, it’s a terrible one.”

Dean glared at him. “Not a joke, Cas.”

“But you’re not — Dean, I thought you were straight.”

Cas felt bad about the statement immediately as Dean winced, but it was true. Nothing was adding up. Dean had never shown an interest in men before, at least not around Cas, and Cas didn’t think he could stand to be Dean’s experimental phase. But he reeled his insecurity back in as he added, “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m just… Confused.”

Dean let out a hard breath. “No, I know, I know,” Dean said. “I dunno. Guess I never really thought about it before.” He paused. “I was too scared to think about it.”

Cas felt his heart break at that. There was a story there, a million things to unpack, but it was obviously a feat for Dean to say as much as he already had. Cas left it alone.

Dean cleared his throat. “Point is,” he said, “this was a long time coming, but I’m an idiot and couldn’t work up the balls.” He was staring hard at his hands, the admission taking enormous effort.

A little nervous without the excuse of the heat of the moment, Cas put a hand on Dean’s neck and kissed him, again, short and tender. “You’re not an idiot,” Cas said.

“Guess not,” Dean said through a breathless laugh.

Cas cocked his head. “You really thought I hated you?” He asked, his eyes searching Dean’s.

“What else was I supposed to think?” Dean asked. “I thought that was it, you were done with me.” Dean furrowed his brow. “Why’d you do that?”

“Avoid you?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you didn’t — if you weren’t mad.”

Cas stared at him. “Dean, I can barely remember anything we did on Thanksgiving, much less anything I might have said.” He paused. “And then we were… I didn’t know what to think. Not to mention, up until about five minutes ago, I thought you were — that you weren’t interested.” Cas ran a hand through his hair. “I was worried I might ruin our friendship.”

Something like realization dawned on Dean’s face. He let out another laugh. “Guess we’re a couple of dumbasses.”

“Maybe,” Cas said with a small smile. “Let’s go inside.”

Dean nodded, and they exited the car and made their way upstairs. And it might have been any other night, save their shoulders touching, fingers brushing, silence charged with something new. Cas unlocked their door, letting Dean in. When he turned after shutting the door behind him, Dean was there, and Cas didn’t even have time to turn on the light before he was shoved hard against the door. Dean’s mouth was hot and his hands were desperate. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cas thought they should probably talk about this, about them, but then Dean’s breathing hitched as Cas caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and the thoughts stopped coming.

Cas’s bare back was cold against the linoleum floor, but Dean was warm against his chest. He stared at the ceiling in the dark, his mind scrambled from pleasure and the shock of being wanted.

“Cas,” Dean said against his chest. Cas threaded his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“Yes?”

Dean shifted, perching on his arm, looking down at Cas. “You — you want this?” He said.

Cas stretched his arms up and rested his head on top of his hands. “This?” He asked. Dean was being intentionally vague, but Cas couldn’t exist in limbo. He had to hear the words, as clear as Dean could make them.

Dean gave him a look for a moment, but relented. “Yeah, I know. Okay. This,” he said, gesturing between the two of them. “You and me. Us. Like this.”

“Oh,” Cas said lightly. “That’s what you meant?” Dean rolled his eyes and shoved him. Cas laughed. “The answer is yes.”

A small smile, but it faltered as Dean spoke again. “Are you sure?” He said. “I don’t — I might be really shit at this, you know.”

And Cas did know. There were a million little complications, things they would have to figure out, problems he hadn’t even begun to consider. That might have been terrifying, but the prospect of never having Dean, that was worse.

“I’m sure,” he said quietly. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, no hesitation.

Cas sighed as Dean traced circles on his chest. “It’s worth it to try.”

Cas was in between sleep and consciousness when something warm shifted around his back. Whatever dream he’d been having, it felt remarkably real.

“Wake up, dumbass,” he heard Dean say affectionately. Cas didn’t want this dream to end; he could steal a few more minutes of sleep. He burrowed his head deeper into the pillow, willing the dream to continue.

But then there was a pair of lips against his ear, and they were entirely real. “C’mon,” Dean said in a low voice. “First day of class.”

For a moment, Cas was confused. Dean was in his bed. Why was Dean in his bed? But as he rubbed his eyes, the events of the night before came crashing into him.

Oh.

Nerves pooled in the pit of his stomach. He half expected Dean to rush out some kind of apology, to tell him that everything had been a big mistake. But when Cas turned to face him, Dean was beaming.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“Good morning,” Cas said, awestruck. Dean needed a shave, and his hair was flat on one side from sleep, but Cas still felt his breathing hitch as he stared at Dean, unfettered for the first time. Beautiful.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Cas said with a nod. Dean moved to climb out of the bed, but he paused. He turned back toward Cas and kissed him, slow and deep. When he finally broke away, Dean was smiling even wider.

“Awesome,” he said, earning a snort from Cas.

If Cas had worried about Dean’s intentions, it was unfounded. At lunch, as Dean talked to Cas like he was the only person at the table, Meg rolled her eyes and told them to “get a room.” Dean responded by throwing an arm around Cas and saying, “Maybe later.” Meg gaped at the two of them for about ten seconds before regaining composure, shifting to more general conversation. Cas received a text from her immediately after they parted ways.

MM (1:12 p.m.)

holy shit!!!!

MM (1:13 p.m.)

ur going to tell me everything tmrw

At first, Cas wasn’t sure how to respond, because he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to say. That is, until Dean answered a call from Benny, saying, “Sorry, man, I’m not going tonight, I have a date. Yeah, with Cas. Shut up.” Cas smiled to himself as he replied to Meg.

CN (2:32 p.m.)

Absolutely.

The three weeks that followed were easily the best of Cas’s life. The rituals remained unchanged; Tuesday was movie night, dinner was at seven-p.m. in the dining hall, late nights doing homework demanded a fast food run. But little things shifted; Dean made it to his birthday without going to a single party, and his bed remained perpetually made. Cas amassed a greater collection of t-shirts that weren’t his, and he only ran when he knew Dean was in class.

Cas woke up to Dean shifting around him as he attempted to get out of bed for an early class. Cas slung an arm tightly around his midsection in protest.

“Too early,” he mumbled.

He heard Dean chuckle. “I thought class was important,” he said, but he shifted closer to Cas nonetheless.

Cas grumbled something incomprehensible as he pulled out his phone. When he saw the date, however, he shot up, suddenly wide awake.

At Dean’s look of confusion, he said, “It’s your birthday.”

“Yeah.”

Cas leaned down and kissed Dean deeply. He pulled away to mutter, “Happy birthday, Dean,” against his lips. Dean closed the small distance as soon as Cas had said the words, and this time it was decidedly heavier, hot breaths mixing and hands pulling each other closer.

They were interrupted by Dean’s second alarm. Dean scowled as he turned it off. He looked at Cas expectantly, but Cas had his arms folded against his chest.

“Class is important,” he reminded Dean.

“But it’s my birthday.”

“And?”

“Asshole,” Dean grumbled, but he kissed Cas on the jaw as he climbed down from the bed. He put on a pot of coffee as Cas followed him off the bed, wrapping his arms around Dean from the back.

“I got you something,” Cas said into Dean’s shoulder. Dean twisted around to face him.

“Cas, you didn’t have to do that. I told you, birthday’s are dumb anyway.”

Cas made a face. “I happen to be endlessly thankful for your birth.”

Dean shook his head, but he was smiling. “What is it?”

“You’ll find out on Friday when we go to Benny’s.”

“We’re going to Benny’s?”

Cas bit the inside of his cheek. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he said, “Benny and Charlie both insisted. But you once told me you have a strong aversion to surprise parties.”

“Y’all are throwing me a surprise party?”

“No,” Cas rushed. “No, that’s why I’m telling you right now.”

“But it’s a party.”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t have told me yesterday? How long have y’all been planning this?”

“Only a week.”

“A week?” Dean paused, his eyes narrowed. “Who all’s gonna be there?” Dean grumbled, already trying to assess the threat of too much attention on him at once.

“Just Benny, Charlie, and Charlie’s girlfriend,” Cas placated.

Dean relaxed at that. “And you, right?”

“I’ll come if you want me there,” Cas said, a little sheepish. He hadn’t really planned on going, wanting to give Dean some time alone to spend with his friends. Cas felt like he’d accidentally achieved a monopoly on Dean’s attention.

Dean gaped at him. “Dude, of course I want you there.”

Cas gave him a soft smile. “Then I’ll be there.”

Dean almost convinced Cas to let him skip class — almost — but with great effort, he resolutely pushed Dean out the door.

“Damn, all right, if you want to get rid of me that bad,” Dean griped, smirking. “See you later.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas said with a smile.

They didn’t make it to the party.

Friday afternoon, after spending far too long in bed, Cas was sitting on the beanbag, Dean’s head resting on his lap. They’d taped Dean’s comforter over the window, leaving the room completely dark, save for the film playing on Dean’s television.

“Fucking asshole,” Dean was saying as Neil’s father came on screen. Cas hummed in agreement, paying more attention to his fingers threading their way through Dean’s hair. Suddenly, Dean’s phone began to ring. He shifted to check the caller ID, then stood up quickly.

“Wait, pause it, I gotta take this,” he said. Cas obliged. “Hey, Bobby! How’s it goin’?”

Cas reached above his head to stretch, but he faltered when he heard Dean say, “Dad? What’s wrong?”

Cas stood abruptly as Dean’s phone slipped out of his hand, shattering upon impact with the linoleum. He was standing, his jaw clenched, staring at absolutely nothing.

“Dean?”

Dean remained silent, no indication that he had heard Cas. Cas placed a hand on his left shoulder, prompting Dean into movement.

Still saying nothing, Dean dumped the contents of his backpack onto the floor, filling it with things from his wardrobe. Cas followed him, frantic.

“What are you doing? Dean, talk to me,” he said. But Dean was on a mission, it seemed. After stuffing his feet into unlaced boots, he threw the door open and stalked out.

At a complete loss, Cas pulled on his own shoes and followed, making sure to grab his key as he shut the door to their room behind him. Dean was already halfway to the stairs, and Castiel ran to catch up with him. Dean let the door to the stairs shut in Cas’s face.

“Dean!” Cas called. Dean was fleeing down the stairs like his life depended on it. Cas only barely caught up to him as they reached the ground floor and exited to the parking lot.

Finally within reach, Cas grabbed Dean’s shoulder, hard. Dean slowed, but didn’t stop.

“Dean,” Cas started. Still no response. “Dean! What happened?”

They had reached the Impala. Dean unlocked the car and threw his bag haphazardly in the front seat. He stared resolutely at the ground.

“I gotta go, Cas. I’ll explain everything later.” The first words Dean had spoken to Cas in nearly ten minutes. His voice was thick.

“Dean, where are you going?” Cas asked, desperate. “The party — there’s class on Monday!”

Dean looked up at him then, and Cas was struck by the mixture of fury and sadness in his eyes. “Screw the party and screw class. Family emergency.”

Cas watched helplessly as Dean sped out of the parking lot, taking the turn so fast the back end of the Impala swayed a little. He stood in the middle of the parking lot for what felt like an eternity, the cold January air seeping into his bones. Eventually, he made his way back to the dorms, sighing in relief as the warm air of the hallway hit him.

When Cas reentered the room, he stared at Dean’s shattered cell phone. He didn’t even bother to clean up the mess, just let out a choked sigh. Cas fell into the beanbag, his head in his hands.

——

tag list! let me know if you want to be added/removed :)

@nguyenxtrang @castielsbeeslippers @fortiusnitius

#supernatural #destiel #deancas #destiel fic

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ooops-i-arted · 4 years ago

Note

Din having to take an hour to say goodbye to all the Yoditos whenever he leaves for a job. As he can’t just say “I’ll be back.” And “be good while I’m gone” and leave it at that

Din Djarin’s Easy 17-Step Guide To Leaving Your 101 Womp Rats

The day before you leave, remind your babysitting brigade about how to care for the kids. They know, but you gotta tell them anyway because reasons. Ignore Cara’s eye-rolling.

Reminders for the kids. Yoditos 3, 45, 67, 82, and 99 are not allowed to get back in the food line to take their brothers’ meals. Yodito 14 needs to go to the potty BEFORE anything comes out, and if he forgets, tell an adult right away. No going in the ponds without an adult and your floaties, even for frogs. No one is to take the shifter knob, Dad needs that for work. The toys are for EVERYONE. No hitting and NO UNSUPERVISED FORCE USE. Remind OG Yodito that as the oldest, it is his responsibility to set a good example and not encourage them all to hide from Kuiil and IG-11 at bedtime like you did last time. Reassure everyone that you will come back.

Extra bedtime story. Everyone gets a turn to sit in Dad’s lap, an extra good night hug, and personally tucked in.

Try and sleep in between the kids waking you up for a bad dream, glass of water, more snuggles, potty help, etc.

Get up early. Feed anyone who’s awake and make sure they’ve gone potty.

Continue feeding and pottying the Yoditos as they wake up. The ones who have already been fed need to help or else go play.

Wake any stragglers up, feed them, send the kids outside to “check” the ship so you can safely check the armory and your supplies and definitely the shifter knob.

Retrieve the shifter knob from whoever took it this time.

Remind your babysitting brigade about your holofrequency and when you’ll be back and all your expectations for the kids and where your supplies are. Do not be stopped by them claiming “We know.” You know they know. Telling them again is for you. Ignore Omera’s knowing look.

Remind your 101 Yoditos again that you expect them to listen to their caretakers. No running away, Force shenanigans, or any other nonsense. Double-check the shifter knob.

Give every single womp rat a big hug and a keldabe kiss and remind them you’ll be back soon. No wavering no matter how cute they are or how many times you get asked “But do you have to leave?” or “Can I go with you?”

A few of them will sneak a second turn so just give everyone another hug.

Retrieve the shifter knob from whoever snuck back on the ship and took it.

Say one last good-bye to everyone. Start up the ship and do a last sweep. Remove anyone who snuck on board and hand them over to one of the babysitting brigade. (Kuiil and Omera are the best at soothing, Winta and IG-11 are best for providing a distraction.)

Check the shifter knob one more time.

Take off. Set course for wherever you’re going.

HOLY SHIT YOU GET TO SLEEP FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS UNINTERRUPTED!!!!! (If anyone asks, you spent the whole time preparing weapons and planning. But you deserved that 12-hour nap.)

#just the thought of managing 101 kids makes me want to take a 12-hour nap lmao #101 yoditos au #the mandalorian #asks #anon

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hashtagartistlife · 5 years ago

Text

Maybe fate was called fate because some things weren’t choices; some things were simply written into his DNA, woven into the very fabric of the universe. World orders. The sky is blue. The sun is hot. He is in love with Kuchiki Rukia.

Kuchiki Rukia is dying.

Ten years after the defeat of Yhwach, it’s time Ichigo and Rukia started facing some truths— about the world, about themselves, and about each other.

so, i haven’t written anything decent in over a year, but i AM sitting on literal tens of thousands of words of unfinished fic, and i figure, what the hell, there’s some good writing in here that deserves to see the light of day. so in that vein, here’s a couple chapters of my absolute favourite unfinished fic, the one i’m almost too scared to work on because i just want it to be that good. god give me the perseverance and skill to finish this one day because if i leave any legacy behind in the bleach fandom i want it to be this fic.

the premise for this fic can be found here | this is chapter 1 | chapter 2

________________________________________________________________

F r a y

by hashtagartistlife

________________________________________________________________

It’s rotating

Rotating

Every time the sun and the moon touch each other

Constantly changing its appearance to something new

If there’s something that doesn’t change

It is my impotence

It’s rotating

If destiny is made of gears

And we are the sand in between that is torn apart

There’s nothing left to do but be powerless

If I cannot protect by just extending my hand

I want a blade so I can reach in front of her

The power to crush destiny

—looks like a blade that has been swung down

One

12 years ago

Karakura Town

Rukia sleeps like the dead. The irony of this isn’t lost on Ichigo, as he glances out the corner of his eyes to see her out like a light against his covers, her homework splayed everywhere like she isn’t just going to make him do it for her at the last minute again. Her eyes are closed and she looks peaceful, even as her arms are twisted under her at an awkward angle. She was going to get cramps if she kept sleeping like that. He calls her name, softly and then a little louder, but she doesn’t budge an inch.

He sighs and gathers her up in his arms; she stirs a little, murmuring a sleepy protest that he ignores. He settles her in the closet and arranges the blankets, taking a moment to study the lines of her face.

“Idiot,” he mutters, “stop falling asleep on my bed. I’ll just push you onto the floor next time.”

It’s a lie. Rukia’s only reaction to this is to shift a little in her sleep, to curve her body in his direction like a plant tending towards the sun. He smiles a little at that, despite himself, and fights an inane urge to sweep her hair off her forehead and place a kiss there.

“Sleep well, Rukia,” he whispers instead, and slides the closet door shut.

She does.

Present Day

Soul Society

Rukia never sleeps.

She wanders through the halls of Kuchiki Manor like a ghost, weaving in and out of lucidity; she’s never slept particularly well, even as a Rukon street rat, but this… this sleepwalking is new. Renji himself tended to be a light sleeper, a product of their shared childhood when uninterrupted sleep had been a luxury they couldn’t afford, but not to this extent. He silently watches the dark circles under her eyes grow bigger and deeper with every passing day, and worries.

In the beginning, the smallest things had woken her up. She often stirred beside him, restless and alert, till well into the small hours of the morning. When he’d brought it up, she’d brushed it off; she’s always had trouble sleeping, she said. He should know this by now, and it isn’t anything to worry about—she can take care of herself, Renji, didn’t he trust her? It had sounded an awful lot like a dismissal, a warning to drop it, so he had.

But then she’d had Ichika, and things changed.

The first time he catches her slipping out of bed, he assumes that she is going for a walk in the garden. It was a habit she was slipping into more nights than most, and he doesn’t think twice. But when he wakes up again in the pre-dawn, and discovers the futon beside him still empty, he panics. He finds her at the gate, a cold hand on the latch, as if to walk out; god knows how long she’s been there for. When he touches her on the shoulder, turns her around, she blinks like she’s surfacing from a trance. Her eyes haze, then refocus.

“Renji…?” she asks, in a voice so thready it’s barely audible, “What are you doing here?”

He swallows the same question rising in his throat and mutters something hasty about how she’s been too tired lately; she should take the day off. She looks surprised at that, and quietly follows him back to the manor. She does as he advises and stays home that day.

It doesn’t help. The very next night Renji catches her slipping out of bed again. He grabs her by a wrist, but then she turns to him and whispers, eyes clear—

“Ichigo?”

He freezes, and when she pulls her arm from his grip, he lets her slip through his fingers once more.

Ichigo?

His hands fist in the sheets of their shared bed; he hasn’t seen an expression like that on her in over a decade. Hopeful, young, happy—

A boy with bright orange hair, and a sword as long as his height.

Renji finds, once again, that he is at a loss for what to do next.

He thinks that maybe he didn’t have a clue from the start.

Present day

10:05 am

Karakura Town

A beat of silence, then—

“Yo.”

“Hey!”

His face is familiar, but the carefully mild expression on it is not. Rukia finds that she dislikes it, but it isn’t her place to say anymore. She shoulders her way into the clinic, and ignores the way the heat of his body still radiates like it did ten years ago. She scoffs a little, wracks her mind for an appropriate jab that might recapture their easy banter from once upon a time; but what leaves her lips makes little sense, considering the fact that this is her first time seeing him in ten years (let alone setting foot in the clinic). Thankfully, he rises to the bait.

“I see this little place is as empty as ever. And is that—yup, I think I even hear some crickets!”

“Shut up. This is an emergency clinic, so it’s a good thing it’s empty, isn’t it?”

He hasn’t lost his habit of grumbling under his breath about her insults. Rukia allows a small smile to touch her lips as she makes her way to the living room, confident with the layout of the place; she doubts renovation is a thought that crosses his mind with any frequency. She encounters the old Karakura gang, and the twins; they’d all grown so much. The twins, especially; she would have gathered them both into hugs and pat them on their heads, had they not both been grown women and far taller than her now. Orihime comes down to greet her, beaming, in an apron—there’s an edge of surrealism to all of this, almost. She looks well, and for that, Rukia is glad. Everyone looks well. Peacetime suits them.

There’s a small kerfuffle as Ichigo rejoins them, and he points out that her daughter is missing. Rukia starts, and finds it to be true. She and Renji split up to find her; Ichigo accompanies her, nagging all the while.

“—nbelievable, how do you lose your own daughter—“

“Hey, I don’t see your child hanging around the premises! Don’t you have a son, too?”

“Kazui’s—Kazui’s fine, Orihime’s keeping a watch on him—“

“Yeah, well, I’m telling you Ichika’s fine too, there’s nothing in the human world that could possibly hurt her—“

She stumbles; a wave of vertigo hits her and she loses her balance, careening towards the asphalt in front of his house. He’s there in an instant, arms strong around her waist; he pulls her back upright and doesn’t let her go. “Easy—“

She pulls away, only to sway again and grip onto his arm for support. Shit, not this today. She thought it had been getting better lately—Ichigo didn’t need to deal with this.

His brow furrows, and he almost looks fifteen again. “Hey, Rukia, are you—“

“—I’m fine,” she cuts him off, struggling to sound nonchalant, but the hand fisted in his shirt is trembling. She’ll let go soon, when the world around her stops spinning. “I’m just a little tired—“

“Rukia,” he says quietly, and she ignores him, focusing on channelling strength back into her legs. For the love of everything holy, why couldn’t she stop shaking—

“Rukia,” he repeats, louder, and grips her shoulders. “Rukia, stop—“

“Stop what?” she asks weakly, then: “Oh.”

His hair and clothes are dusted white with snow; the tips of his fingers, where he’s touching her, are frosted over blue. Ice creeps over the street and telephone poles in tendrils. Rukia heaves an unsteady breath and closes her eyes, pulling the fraying edges of her reiatsu back within herself.

When she opens them again, he’s inches from her face.

“Kami—“ she jerks back, snatching her arm from his grasp. “Have you ever heard of personal space, Ichigo—“

“Like you ever respected mine?” he retorts, but straightens up; his hands rub the nape of his neck. “What was that, Rukia?”

“Nothing,” she snaps. She draws her arms around herself to still the trembling. “Like I said, I’m tired—“

“To this extent? How hard are they working you over at the Seireitei—“

“I can take care of myself!” the words come out too loud, echoing in the empty street. “Need I remind you, I’m centuries older than you are—“

“Well maybe if you weren’t such a midget I’d remember that once in a while—“

“Hey, Ichigo, Rukia! We found her!” Renji’s call interrupts their bickering, and they draw away from each other hastily; they’d been leaning in towards each other again. Rukia deliberately turns away from Ichigo.

“You found her? Where was she?”

“In Ichigo’s room. Well, Yuzu’s room, now, I suppose. She was with Kazui. I think we were worried for nothing, Rukia, they get along like a house on fire.”

“Oh—good. Good.” She’s still a little disoriented, so Renji’s words are taking some time to sink in; he eyes her face, paler than usual, and steps up to put an arm around her. Ordinarily, she would have been annoyed at him for that, but today she appreciates the support. She tries not to visibly sag as she leans against him.

Ichigo’s eyes burn holes into her all the way back to the clinic.

9:46 pm

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Rukia disguises the fatigue that has settled over her like a shroud by staying close to Renji and surreptitiously leaning against him whenever things get too hard. She puts on a bright façade for everyone else; she thinks she does a convincing job, too, but Ichigo’s eyes linger on her all the same. Orihime prattles on about how they hadn’t seen each other in ages and she’s so happy for the two of them and isn’t Ichika just a darling? They must be so proud—

She nods weakly, glad that Orihime is the kind of person who can hold up entire conversations on her own. She has missed them too, she has, how could she not—but the circumstances of their reunion are less than ideal, and she knows that she won’t be able to see them again for a long time after this. Even after ten years of stability, opening a doorway into the gensei is precarious business; missions in the world of the living are now all long-term, to minimise the number of passages being opened. Their own trip had been a very, very special extenuation, granted only because the reason the universe still stood as it did today was Ichigo.

A week was all they’d been given. After that, who knew when they could return? So, she is trying, she is trying—but her body is so, so heavy, and the pressure of keeping her wildly fluctuating reiatsu under wraps is taking its toll. She participates less and less in the conversation, hoping people won’t take notice.

Ichigo puts his foot down when she nods off for the fifth time in as many minutes; he cuts the party short and ushers everyone out, with the promise that they could all return tomorrow. She tries to protest when he directs them to the guest bedroom – ‘Urahara has a place for us, we shouldn’t intrude’—but it’s Orihime who tells them don’t be silly, Kazui and Ichika are such fast friends, it’d be a shame to split them up already. The children are excitedly building a pillow fort under the dining room table, and, too tired to argue, Rukia acquiesces.

As soon as Renji hits the bed, he falls straight asleep. He’s had a rough few nights, what with her tossing and turning keeping him awake, too, and Rukia feels a wave of guilt wash over her. She hopes tonight will be a little more restful for him. She stretches out gingerly on the double bed next to him, tucking the covers around her and closing her eyes.

The last thing she is conscious of before the suffocating embrace of sleep is the deep low hum of Ichigo’s reiatsu through the house.

2:57 am

Ichigo wakes to the sound of the clinic door opening.

Beside him, Orihime is still sound asleep; his wife had always been a deep sleeper, capable of ignoring storms, earthquakes, and anything else the Karakura night cared to throw at them. Ichigo, on the other hand, woke often; a holdover from nights spent hunting hollows, from sleep frequently interrupted by a hiss in his ear and a small hand slamming into his forehead. He sits up and shakes the last vestiges of his dreams –curiously unsettled tonight—from his mind, and shuffles outside to investigate.

It’s not the kids. They’re both fast asleep, holed up in their pillow fort; he tiptoes past them, careful not to wake either. He steps out onto the street, and his breath catches in his throat.

Rukia’s there. She’s ethereal in the moonlight, white skin almost glowing, that true-black hair swaying behind her with the wind. She’s looking up, up, up, to something he can’t see, and the curve of her neck and the delicate line of her wrists and ankles captivate him. Had she always been this fragile-looking?

“Rukia,” he rasps, voice still scratchy with sleep, “what are you doing?”

She turns her head to face him; her eyes are huge and dark like bruises in the pale moon of her face. Something about her gaze is both clear and dreamy; Ichigo has the feeling that she’s seeing right through him to something beyond, but also focusing on him with the kind of relentless intensity he only half-remembers from dreams of the past. She takes a tentative step in his direction.

“Ichigo?” she asks, in a voice as intransient as smoke, and he does not back away.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

She reaches for him and, instinctively, automatically, he mirrors her; he is expecting her to need support, to meet his hands with hers, but instead she goes straight past his open arms to place her hands on either side of his face.

Before he has time to react, she leans up and kisses him.

Everything in him short-circuits; the world slows and all he is aware of is the softness of her lips on his. They part slightly, and the breathy sigh she lets out electrifies all of his senses. Faster than his thoughts can catch up, his hands are gripping her shoulders and he thinks that maybe he meant to push her away, but finds he’s only clutching her closer, closer. His eyelids fall shut with a groan as her mouth opens under his — and then the kiss changes, dangerous and hot and wanting.

He presses his face blindly into hers, and walks her backwards into the stone wall that surrounds his house. She lets out a tiny gasp as her back hits the rough surface, and he uses the distraction to sweep his tongue across hers. Her fingers curl viciously into his neck and he revels in the sensation; there’s nothing but her her her in this world, her taste in his mouth and her scent in his nose and the feel of her skin, fever-hot, against his own. His fingers move to tangle in her hair and she makes a noise at the back of her throat that destroys what little rationality he has left; he hitches her up against the wall and kisses her as though she’s about to dissolve into thin air.

They both draw back for air at the same time; their eyes meet across the infinitesimal space and then Rukia blinks, once, twice, before Ichigo sees something click back into those bruised-violet depths.

“Ichigo…?”

A realisation of his own slams into place; his eyes widen and he disentangles himself from her, stepping back frantically as though that will erase what has just transpired between them. He only barely resists the childish urge to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Rukia slides down the wall without his weight holding her up; the dreamy glaze is gone completely from her eyes, and it’s replaced instead with a bone-deep weariness that sets Ichigo’s instincts on edge. Half of him wants to run far, far away from her, the other half wants to gather her into his arms and—

“Ichigo, what are you doing here?”

The tone of her voice, slightly irritated, so ridiculously normal, brings him back down to earth. He casts about in his jumbled mind for a suitable response and flings the first one he finds at her.

“Y—I could ask you the same thing—“

She seems to notice her surroundings then, looking side to side at the deserted street. An expression somewhere between horror and resignation crosses her face. “I—was I sleepwalking—?“

“Was that what it was?” he retorts, the memory of the kiss burning in his mind. His face feels uncomfortably hot. “Rukia, what’s going on with you—“

“Nothing!” she snaps, but then she sways on the spot; in a flare of panic, Ichigo flash-steps beside her, and she falls into his chest. The spike of reiatsu through his body after not having called upon it for years makes his head spin, but he braces them both against a telephone pole and they manage to stay upright. Her jasmine-scented hair tickles his nose.

“Rukia—“ his voice is thick, choked, but she pushes him aside; impatient, indignant.

“I’m fine, Ichigo, you don’t have to treat me like a child—sleepwalking is hardly a medical emergency.”

She takes a deep breath, before standing on her own; her knees are a little wobbly, but she turns her back on him once more, just as she did that morning. “I’m going back to bed. You should, too.”

A pause. Then, softer; “Goodnight, Ichigo.”

The door to his clinic swings shut after her, and Ichigo slides down the telephone pole slowly.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears in a way that it hasn’t in ten years.

#bleach #ichiruki #kurosaki ichigo #kuchiki rukia #writer life #bleach fanfic #686 compliant but we ignore the hell out of the novels babey #f r a y

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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 4 years ago

Note

17 with domestic starker

Don’t Shadow the Light

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Mature (M) Word Count: ~4k Notes: Mm, domestic Starker immediately made me think of the Counting Airplanes verse - so I hope you don’t mind that I went in that direction. Warnings: Tony has PTSD, so that’s mentioned. A bit of none descriptive phone sex. Summary:

Uncle Ben’s is doing great, so Peter signs up to attend a conference in hopes of networking and expanding the coffee shop. Tony, the anxious little bean, struggles with the separation.

do the thing, send in all the prompts

For the first time in 3 years of marriage, Tony had to survive a couple nights without Peter. Uncle Ben’s was doing insanely well and, in an effort to expand a little bit, Peter signed up to attend a business conference. If it weren’t for the huge Boeing deal they were trying to close up, Tony would have gone with him – but duty called for the both of them.

A part of him felt irrational – he was a very grown, very mature man that lived on his own for a long time before Peter came around. He went through basic training without anyone to write to and survived the confines of a cell with nothing on the horizon other than the sweet release of freedom. Self-sufficiency was a thing for such a long time, yet – he still felt anxious about the whole thing; Peter’s presence brought him peace.

Forcing himself to get over it, Tony made the most of the night before Peter left – they had a good dinner and spent a little bit of time talking about Peter’s adventure over the next couple of days. His husband could sense his hesitation and anxiety about the whole thing and promised to FaceTime and call as often as he could. Tony loved him for it but expected the smarty pants he loved more than anything to take advantage of the resources available to him while he was there.

They finished off the night with a couple of fantastic rounds of sex – Tony always appreciated when he could get his old, beat-up body to cooperate and perform like he was Peter’s age again. Satisfaction lulled him to sleep with Peter in his arms and the thought of his husband leaving early the next morning far from his mind – at least for a little while.

True to form, Tony’s nightmares dragged him under that night – they’d been getting better, but the build-up of feelings he’d been trying to hold back was too much. Like most things that fed off a victim, his fears ate up the negativity and weighed him down, the struggle to get back to the surface a little harder than normal. When he did come back around, Peter was looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Tony didn’t have the brain bytes to think too deeply about what it meant, he simply dug his face into the crook of Peter’s neck and clung to him. It felt like no time at all passed before Peter’s alarm was going off and both men were stumbling out of bed. Still a little shaken from his episode, Tony sat on the toilet seat while Peter got in the shower, the warmth of the bathroom grounding – the severe need for the closeness to his husband he got sitting there something he wouldn’t admit, no matter how obvious it was.

Peter didn’t say anything when Tony followed him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom – until he walked out of the house, he knew that he’d have a Tony sized shadow following him around; that coping mechanisms one of the harder ones for Peter to adjust to. No one was prepared to have a person follow them around, but Peter took it in stride. Instead of shunning him away, Peter accepted Tony’s need and embraced it. Tony figured Peter had no idea how much that truly meant to him.

The inevitability of saying goodbye came before Tony could stop it – Peter pulled him into a tight hug and held him close for what felt like several long minutes, his hand moving rhythmically up and down Tony’s back. It was reassuring and torturous all at the same time; Tony never wanted the gentle caress to ever stop. Giving Peter a tight squeeze, Tony pulled back just enough to let his lips linger against his husband’s – the kiss on the verge of becoming desperate quickly.

“I have to go. I know you don’t want me to, but it’ll be okay. I’ll call you when I get in, okay? I’ll call you,” Peter mumbled, the man pulling away out of necessity. His hands framed Tony’s face, the grip not letting him do much other than look right into Peter’s eyes. “I’ll miss you just as much, Tony.”

Pressing forward, Tony slotted their lips together, his eyes clenching tightly together. “I know. It’s just a couple of days. I’ll be fine, Pete. I’m just going to miss your wet towels on the floor of the bathroom, that’s all.” Tony wiped at his eye and took a step back. “I love you,” he whispered, the words finishing with a watery smile.

A soft look moved across Peter’s face, his own wet eyes widening with affection. “I love you, too.” Peter replied without hesitation. He shot Tony a smile, then quickly turned and got into his car. Any hesitation would’ve dragged the already excruciating situation out more than necessary – Peter was leaving for 3 days, not a lifetime.

Though Tony knew that, it felt like one. The dream from the night before clung to him in a way that made it hard to want to do anything, let alone go to work. He called Steve and didn’t even have to explain the situation, his friend reassured him things were taken care of for the afternoon and let Tony get off the phone. With that done, he walked back into the bedroom and crawled into Peter’s side of the bed.

Sleep didn’t claim him again for a while – Tony laid in the sheets that smelled so much like his person and attempted to relax but couldn’t find the way. He rolled around for a while, then flipped the covers back and climbed out of his cocoon just long enough to get the TV on and playing some show he wasn’t going to pay attention to, anyway. He just needed some background noise – anything to drown out the weirdly desolate hollowness in the recesses of his mind.

Thankfully, exhaustion overtook him and allowed for a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep – his eyes blinked open for the first time when he heard the familiar ringtone sounding from his phone. His heart rate picked up, the flash of “Husband” on the front of his screen an easy way to wake him up as quickly as possible. Clearing his throat, Tony answered the call, a smile slipping across his lips as he did.

“Petey,” Tony said in greeting. The remark pulled a laugh from Peter across the line, the sound of it making his chest warm with happiness for the first time all day.

“Hey Tones. From the sounds of it, I woke you up. I hope you were able to get some rest,” Peter replied, his voice soft, the tone of it meant to be tender and reassuring. Each word worked magic on him and made him feel calm – any type of presence from Peter at all a proven magical remedy.

Rolling a bit, Tony shifted until he was sitting up. Laying the way he was made him want to fall back to sleep, the heaviness of it trying to cling to him. “I’ve been sacked out for a couple of hours,” Tony admitted, a yawn overtaking him. “Did you get in okay? Is New York everything you remembered it to be?”

“I did – I got through the airport, into a cap, and checked into the conference, then spent a little time at the welcome banquet. New York is exactly how I remember it – busy and a little gray. Can’t touch Colorado,” Peter remarked wistfully. “I miss you.”

The simplicity of the words rang in Tony’s ears, the way they made him feel still so intense – like every time Peter said them was the first time. He gripped the phone in his hands a little tighter, his traitorous eyes watering. “There’s not a lot that can touch Colorado, Pete.” He let the cookie cutter remark come from his mouth first and then – “I miss you. A lot. More than 12 hours of separation should call for.” He laughed at himself, the absurdity of his words not lost on him.

Peter was quick to negate him, however. “It’s okay that we miss each other, Tony. I’ve spent every day falling asleep next to you for the past 4 years. The idea of not doing it tonight is crippling.” He adjusted then; the movement apparent in the rustle on the line. “You’re my husband, Tones. I’m obsessed with you and don’t want to fathom that I don’t have your warm chest to cling to.”

Blushing, Tony forced himself to take in a long breath – he knew Peter’s words were the truth, he heard them often enough. The vulnerability of them, however, never ceased to stop him in his tracks. “You are kind of obsessed with me.”

The two of them talked for another hour before the call of fatigue was too much for Tony – he fell asleep with the sound of Peter’s voice in his ear.

----

The next couple of days went by at a snail’s pace. Knowing that Steve and Rhodey couldn’t take on all of the work sitting in the garage, Tony got up and went in the next day. Waking up to a dead phone and a 5 hour long call on his log when he got it powered again, Tony felt a little bit better. Peter’s words from the night before stuck with him – his husband missed him just as much and it was okay to feel the clingy feeling of discomfort and irritation.

For a second, Tony let himself remember the reason why he never connected with someone else – the exact feeling bubbling within him. That thought was short lived, however, his brain supplied him with every reason Peter meant what he did to him; their connection was the only exception.

Getting through the workday provided a good distraction – the hours in the shop were packed with enough engine replacements and upgrades that thinking about anything other than the science wasn’t viable. The second he walked into the empty house, however, Tony felt loneliness creep over him. It took him a while to get further than the kitchen and then even longer to get out of his clothes and in the shower to clean off the day’s grime.

Not in the least bit hungry, Tony turned the TV on in the bedroom and let his body drop into Peter’s normal space again – the sheets smelt a little less like him than the day before, but the scent lingered regardless. Digging his nose into Peter’s pillow, Tony took comfort in the familiarity of it. The memory of their shopping trip to buy the fluffy thing flashed across his mind and eased the vice grip on his anxiety.

Like the previous night, Tony fell asleep with Peter on the other side of the phone. He opted out on the FaceTime calls – seeing Peter’s face might make the whole situation harder. Instead, he let Peter talk about his day and all of the different things he learned and wanted to apply to Uncle Ben’s. The passionate way he spoke made Tony’s heart ache and relaxed him further. Falling asleep mid-sentence, Tony missed the softly muttered ‘I love you’ and affectionate sigh that followed.

Steve and Rhodey took pity on him the next day, the two of them forcing Tony to sit in the small hangar kitchen and eat the admittedly delicious pizza from the parlor down the road. Apart from necessary stuff around the shop the last couple of days, Tony hadn’t talked to either of his closest friends – shutting down was the easiest and still took a lot of effort to not let that be his default reaction.

After spending a couple of hours trading stories and actually getting his head out of his ass, Tony went home feeling okay – he only needed to make it through 20 more hours before Peter came home. Between the effort of his friends and that knowledge, he felt determined to not fall into a lump of nothing the second he walked into the door.

Tony managed to get a few things around the house done before getting into the shower and settling down for the night. Still a little wired, he wondered if Peter was alone and in his room getting ready for bed, too. It felt like too long of a time since he heard his husband in the throes of passion – in that moment, Tony felt desperate to change that.

As if he were reading his mind, Peter called him, the sight of his name sending a rush through him. They didn’t partake in phone sex often, there wasn’t ever much distance between them – yet, he craved it; the need for that connection more important than the usual nerves he felt about talking, let alone saying anything about the way he felt.

“Hey, baby,” Tony mumbled, the nickname he reserved for times just like this one tumbling from his mouth. Clenching his eyes shut, he shifted a little and waited for Peter’s reply.

“Baby, huh?” Peter started; a chuckle apparent in his tone.

The echo Tony could hear next made him realized he’d been put on speaker – his nervousness lessened a little. Hands-free meant having the ability to use said hands that were free. Keeping his eyes closed, Tony let Peter continue.

“I like that. Hey yourself. What are you doing right now, Tony?” Peter asked, the tone of his voice dropping a little. Without much of an exchange, Peter understood him immediately.

Switching his own phone to speaker, Tony shifted a bit and got himself comfortable in the middle of the bed. His skin was still a little damp from the shower, so he was only covered in a pair of grey boxer briefs and nothing else. The rush of heat he couldn’t help danced across his limbs, gooseflesh following in its wake.

“I just got out of the shower. I had a little energy when I got home, so I finally moved the stuff in the garage and changed all the air conditioning filters.” Tony tried to sound casual, though he’d already given himself away. It felt good just to hear Peter’s voice – he wanted his husband to know that first and foremost.

Yet, Peter was his other half for a reason – where Tony wanted to beat around the bush, Peter stepped right through it and took Tony by the back of the neck. “Thanks for doing that. Now why don’t you tell me about what you’re wearing.”

The mix of praise and command didn’t foster anything but compliance, that thought making Tony answer without thinking. “I’m wearing those Calvin Klein’s you got me for Christmas last year,” Tony muttered, his fingers moving to the waistband to trace the letters. He remembered the nervous look on Peter’s face – they were a different brand than Tony’s usual; change didn’t always go over well. When he saw them however, he immediately felt sexy – if Peter wanted to see him in the expensive underwear, he’d gladly do it.

A drawn out ‘mmm’ brought him out of the memory’s haze, the noise shooting a direct line of heat right to his groin. Peter hadn’t said to yet, but Tony couldn’t help it – he reached down and cupped himself, the feelings coursing through him on the cusp of overwhelming.

“You look great in those. Especially the gray ones. Are you wearing the gray ones, Tony?”

For a while, Peter asked him questions that progressively got more sexual. ‘Do you think your underwear would look better on the floor?’, ‘Are you thinking about my hands on you or your hands on me?’, or the best one – ‘How bad do you want to cum?’ Tony answered each of them truthfully, his coherency diminishing, but need to please Peter in the forefront of his mind the entire time.

Peter’s ability to pull him out of his own head and actually enjoy the things he liked became more apparent over the phone. He catered his responses to the things Tony said and when he finally let him cum, Peter was right there with him. Coming down, Tony listened to Peter’s breaths across the line like he would if they were tangled up with each other in person. The only thing that was missing was the thump of Peter’s heart against his ear, but he’d have that back soon enough.

“Are you feeling better now?” Peter asked after a while, his voice light and sleepy, the ultimate post-orgasmic tone. There wouldn’t be too much more conversation for either of them.

“Much. I miss you, Pete. I’m ready to touch you again – you calling every night has been nice, but I’m so ready for a hug,” Tony admitted, his own sleepiness making his lips a little looser than usual.

The light laugh he heard pulled his lips up into a smile, his spirit still high from the admittedly good day and the even better ending to it. Peter’s melty tones and chest deep noises were just icing on the cake.

“Fuck – I miss you, too. Especially when you’re being all soft like this. I can’t wait to have you in my arms again, Tony. Just a few more hours – I’ll be home before you get off of work tomorrow afternoon,” Peter replied, the obvious attempt to reassure not missed. The way Peter loved him, with so much incredible depth, made his heart race.

“Don’t tell me that. I’ll be watching the clock the whole day,” Tony joked, his lips still taut in a grin. “In all seriousness, though – I’m ready to see you. Please make time speed up a little.”

Like the last few nights, Tony let himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of Peter on the other side of the line. He got up out of bed to clean himself off and get into a clean pair of shorts, then got comfortable. Peter told him a little more about the conference and the stupid keynote speaker who didn’t bring the right presentation to an auditorium filled to capacity.

After a little while of Tony not replying, Peter stopped talking, his breathing getting heavier with each passing minute. Right before Tony passed out for real, he blinked awake to hear the soft snuffle of Peter’s kind-of snore. Grinning, he nuzzled back into the pillow and promptly fell asleep – the nightmares finally far, far away.

----

Knowing that Peter was going to be home when he got through the door the next day gave him a motivation he hadn’t had since the man left. If he immersed himself in the work, the time between him and getting to see Peter wouldn’t feel so long. It wasn’t sound science, but it seemed to work – he got lost in the remainder of the Boeing customization and didn’t look up until 10 minutes before quitting time.

He went about getting out of his coveralls and his hands clean – the process taking the remainder of the open hours for the garage. Both Rhodey and Steve knew that Peter was back, so they didn’t bat an eye when he raced out without saying much of anything. He turned and opened the door with his back, a soft smile on his lips – Tony sending them a wink. Feeling good wasn’t overrated – he appreciated all the moments that made his blood course through his veins like it was right that second.

His impatience made the drive home seem twenty minutes longer than it actually was – Tony tapped on the steering wheel irritably the entire time. Seeing Peter’s car in the driveway made his eyes light up, he hadn’t even seen the man yet and he already felt a billion times better just knowing Peter was there, waiting for him.

Fine motor skills took way more focus than usual – his excitement making it hard to think about anything other than getting out of his car and into the house where his beautiful husband was. He left his workbag on the front seat and made his way hastily across the grass and into the house; the door blessedly unlocked.

Peter peeked his head out of the kitchen door at the sound of footsteps, his eyes widening when he noticed Tony. The peanut butter sandwich that was about a quarter of the way to Peter’s mouth dropped on the plate Peter was holding that went to the corner of the counter, his hands dropping to his sides to wipe the crumbs off on his pants before taking quick strides and closing the distance between them.

Tony let out a long sigh as Peter’s arms wrapped around him. His husband smelt like recycled air and sweat – a lovely traveler’s concoction that shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was. Ducking his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, Tony clung to him, his body completely relaxing for the first time since he heard about the trip. “I’m so glad you’re home,” he said, the desperation disguised by the glorious muffle of words against skin.

Lips on his seemed like a good enough response, Tony leaned into the kiss and let himself melt a little further – words weren’t ever his forte, anyway. Peter put a lot into the kiss, his hands clenching first at Tony’s shoulders, then down his flank to settle at the edge of his shirt. So lost in the kiss, he didn’t notice fingers starting to creep under the thin t-shirt he threw on before walking out of the hangar’s locker room.

Gasping, Tony pulled back from the deep kiss, his skin prickled from the cold hands that were now flat against the planes of his back. “Holy shit, Pete,” Tony exclaimed, his hands batting Peter’s out of his shirt to stop the overabundance of cascading stimulus. They shared a smile, his husband’s eyes glazed over and overtaken by rogue pupils – the sight beautiful.

Those same cold hands cupped his cheeks, Peter’s fingertips running around the line of his lips to trace the shape of them – the touch was still tingly cold, but he got used to it as the seconds passed. Glad to simply be back in his presence, Tony soaked up as much as he could.

Peter had a lot of good things coming for him – this wouldn’t be the only time he left to better himself. Loving him meant being there to support him, which meant not falling apart at the seams. In all the bogged down feeling he experienced while Peter was gone, Tony realized that it was worth it – finding a way to enjoy life together from afar.

There wasn’t anything quite like that ‘good to see you’ feeling.

#starker #ironspider #bobbie writes #counting airplanes #nonnie #anonymous #don't shadow the light

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teaandatale · 5 years ago

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forgotten first meeting and either space au or roommate au for steggy?

57. forgotten first meeting & 22. Space AU or 12. Roommate AU

Well… How about all three???

Sorry this took so long! Given my last two, I wanted to makesure this one was a decent ficlet length, and I realized I’ve had a sci-fi/spacedrought in the last year so it took a bit to get myself into the zone. This ismore of a collection of scenes, but I hope it gives you the gist of this ficmash up! Um… It’s quite long for a meme thing… So there’s a cut.

He’s not sure what he had exactly expected out of the Servicewhen he first joined up, but Steve sure hadn’t been expected to be halfway tothe outer belt aboard the most protected, secretive ship in the known galaxy, the U.S.S. SHIELD. He hadn’t expected an Earther like him would be tapped for a highly classified secret mission with the SSR. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was working his standard circuit between Earth, Moon Colony II & Mars Colony, patrolling for the usual contraband when the call came. A prepped mission just lost one of their crew members, and he was requested at behalf of the Service’s highly elite trained SSR squad to report for duty. Steve made his last stop, brought his second-in-command and best friend Bucky up to speed, and boarded the first transport ship out towards the Service base on Ganymede.

He also sure as hell hadn’t expected to be paired up with the woman that he had been half in love when they were just recruits nine years ago.

Peggy Carter hasn’t changed much in his eyes, at least not in her stature and attitude. Her hair was longer than it had been back then, worn loose unlike the pulled back regulations of recruit days. But those eyes, the quirk of her brow and the perfect red lips, he remembered them just like yesterday, when his breath hitched and he never quite recovered it.

The moment he locked eyes with her, he gets a giddy feeling in his stomach, both excitement and something like nostalgia.

“Agent Peggy Carter, Agent Steve Rogers, welcome aboard,” CommanderPhillips, an old familiar face, greeted them on the Command Deck. “You’ll be getting to know each other very well over the course of this mission, but we’ll start with the high-level objectives and schematics.”

There doesn’t seem to be any recognition in Peggy’s eyes, and she quickly turns away to focus on Phillips.

“The target of course is Hydra, as you’ve both crossed paths with them in the System.”

He tries not to dwell on it as Phillips pulls up the relevant mission documents. They’re joined by Howard Stark who Peggy does seem to recognize.

An hour later, preliminary brief under way, they are giving initial prep assignments aboard the ship.

“I look forward to working with you Agent Rogers,” Peggy says without any ounce of familiarity as she sticks her hand out to him. He tries not to take it personally, after all, why would she remember him from that night they properly met all those years ago.

Steve swallows his disappointment and shakes her hand back. “I look forward to it also, Agent Carter.”

“Now if someone could point me to my quarters, it’s been a long journey here,” she says.

Howard taps several times on his command screen then clicks his tongue. “We’re running a full crew right now given the situation. The mission team was paired in the same bunk room before you two got assigned to this in their stead. Looks like you’ll have to make due with bunking together. It’s at least private quarters, unlike all the juniors manning Comm stations. They’restill in the general barrack bunks.” He shrugs. “Good time as any to get toknow each other real well before you two go off on your own.”

He notices Peggy make a face for a moment, but she doesn’t comment. Bunking with a girl. Bunking with Peggy. Maybe he should offer to take a spot in the bunks.

“Fine,” she responds in a clipped tone. “Now if you please Howard, point us to our quarters.”

The quarters are small, as to be expected, though he supposes he’d been a bit spoiled having decent quarters on his usual circuit ship. The two bunks are built into opposite walls, with a small workstation under each. The privacy away from the crowded bunkrooms was a privilege. And Stark was right. He and Peggy were really going to need to get to know each other if they were going to make the covert mission work.

“Do you have a preference?” he asks her of the bunks.

“I’ll take the right wall if you don’t mind.”

He nods. “Of course,” he replies and they both get to work unpacking their personal effects in silence.

Steve contemplated saying something to break the silence, but he wasn’t sure if that would be more awkward than just saying nothing. He’d shared bunkrooms with women before, but he’d never shared private quarters withone, and definitely not one he had a crush on.

He decides not to make the situation anymore awkward for Peggy, who he is sure is not thrilled about sharing with him, and decides to give her as much privacy as one can in a tiny space.

“I apologize if I’m a bit short,” he hears from across the room. He turns and sees Peggy holding her blanket. “It’s been a long and wild journey here for me, so I’m on hour 34 without sleep.”

“You’re kidding!”

She shrugs. “Duty calls, but we hit an uncharted asteroid field which had been a pleasure to map out until we discovered it was one of the forgotten mine fields from the War.”

He’s impressed. Not surprised. But still… Impressed. “Wow,” ends up as his response.

“I just mean that the last few days have been particularly stressful.”

“Of course,” he agrees quickly. “That is one hell of a voyage to manage on a good day. Well you should probably get some shut-eye while you can. I was gonna scope the ship out. I can bring some food back in a couple of hours.”

He’s rewarded with a sleepy smile from her, and he can feel his heart thump against his ribcage. “That would be lovely. Perhaps some coffee if you can find it?”

He smiles back. “You got it.”

That first night, alone in their quarters together is awkward, even though Peggy seemed to warm to him when he had delivered on his promise of coffee and food. She asked him about his work on the patrol route, and he gets to hear about the more lengthy intense covert ops that had led her to stints on pretty much every occupied planet and various lunar colonies. He asks her a lot of questions about undercover work, having only done a few of his, and mostly out of necessity than direct order from above. He keeps waiting for an organic moment where their shared past will come up, but it doesn’t. They have a stilted conversation about turning the lights off, and then in the darkness, hyper aware that she is only several feet away, Steve can’t sleep. He stares up blankly, listening to the sounds of Peggy tossing and turning to get comfortable. He wonders if she slept well during her nap, or if like him, found that so much space travel made his brain so dizzy it wouldn’t easily relax.

He thinks about Bucky, and considers sending him a message just to check up on him. He thinks about how he spent the long voyage her missing his mother. It had been a long time since he had so many uninterrupted hours to just think. He misses her every day, but he had missed her so intensely the farther he got away from Earth, in a way he hadn’t felt since her funeral.

The morning alarm comes to early, but he’s out of bed and doing his usual routine or stretches and warm-up before he remembers that he has a roommate. He had so easily pulled off his t-shirt as he normally would have for exercise, but he feels so suddenly naked without it.

A sleepy Peggy Carter is a sight to behold, her features so soft. But even sleepy, her eyes roam his chest and he flushes. He grabs for the shirt on the floor and pulls it on, not daring to look in Peggy’s direction until he’s done his pull-ups. She joins in his stretches, and when she lifts her arms high up, he has to look away from her as a sliver of skin at her stomach becomes visible, before he says or does something embarrassing.

It’s been a long time since he’d been on a long voyage like this. He was used to his shorter cycles, never in the same place for more than a week, not going longer than three or four days without a docking. They’re still a while out before their passenger ship is outfitted and ready to go. It gives them plenty of time to strategize and to catch the other up on their knowledge and run-ins with Hydra.

They spend most of their days together. Compiling notes on known Hydra assets. Visiting Stark to confer about the specs needed for their mission. They run flight simulations together, Peggy as the lead pilot, the role she will be taking, and Steve as both navigator and lead engineer. They work on their cover, and keep up physical exercise, and weapons training, all together. By the end of their third week in transit, they’ve developed a genuinefriendship. Steve still listens carefully every night as she gets comfortablein her bed, listening for the sound of her breathing evening out before hefalls to sleep.

Two weeks after the success of their first covert trip, the test run Stark insisted upon before they flew off toward the Outer Belt alone, as goes to hell onboard the U.S.S SHIELD. They backtracked to Jupiter as the upheaval at Mars Colony played out. Phillips was apparently concerned about the powers at play, and was called back in the event a true skirmish arose. Which was perfect time for their main comm system to go down. As the Command Deck scrambled to boot up secondary and tertiary systems without compromising their position, Steve jumped below deck with Stark to try to recover the main system.

“Steve? Any progress?” he hears Peggy ask on their local two-way.

“Slow going Peggy,” he says with a sigh.

He hears her sigh too. “It’s not looking good. Phillips’ is navigating blind and the Mars situation seems to be getting worse.”

“Riots?”

She hums. “We’re picking up gun ships on the long-range. No accurate reading though with the system so intermittent.”

“Shit.”

He and Stark exchange a look. They have Peggy confirm output levels as they work, hearing as the situation gets more and more tense, with a three-gunship fleet sent out ahead to make better assessment. She gives them updates as she assists the crew upstairs. The repair takes hours, but they get it done.

“Peg we got it! Should be live any second!” He doesn’t wait for her response before rushing back over to her.

There’s a cacophony of noise on the Command Deck when Stevefirst reaches it, followed up a sudden eerie silence as the newsfeeds come back up, and the screens report the live images. He gasps along with the rest of them with the fiery images of ships under fire. The distress calls of one ofthe fleet’s gunships comes too late. He feels Peggy’s hand on his arm, but hecan’t even focus on it when he sees another disturbing image. A patrol ship, with an emblem of a star encased in concentric circles. Destroyed. His patrol ship. Bucky. Destroyed. The Honorary First Avenger patrol ship destroyed as it made a play to intercept fire at civilian passenger ship bound for Earth. Bucky…

“Steve.”

He doesn’t recognize that he’s the one hyperventilating until she calls his name. He looks at Peggy but sees nothing. Her hand is still onhis arm.

“Steve.”

“That’s my…” He can’t breathe. He wants to scream. “Bucky.”

The look she gives him is too painful to look at.

“No! No!”

Something squeezes his arm. “Steve, please! Please. Stay with me here. Breathe please. Please.”

He tries to follow her breaths, but between the chaos in his head and the tears streaming across his face, he can’t be here. He should have been there. It should have been him not Bucky. He pulls away and runs. He runs all the back to their quarters. He starts to scream into the void of the empty room, pounding his fist into the wall. He’s never so wished he had private quarters until this very moment. How can he have a breakdown and scream and cry and mourn and hate when he has to share a room with someone? How is he supposed to keep this all in check? How is his best friend dead?

Steve’s lost track of everything. Time. Space. His own body. Everything hurts so much that at this point his muscles feel numb. He jumps when the door opens. Peggy looks at him mournfully. He wipes his hand roughly across his face, clenches his jaw and wills himself not to show further emotion. She comes and sits down next to him on the floor. He doesn’t remember getting there. Was he not in his bunk?

Peggy puts her hand in his and pulls him close to her. He feels like she’s waiting for something, but Steve doesn’t move or say anything. Neither does she. After a while, he feels her hands slide up his arms. He blinks away more tears that have formed and watches her look at him. His shoulders are still heaving when her hands come up to touch them. He tries to still his uncontrollable body.

She comes close and without warning, her lips are on high on his cheekbone. The next moment she’s ushering him into his bunk. He feels like a scolded puppy sent to its cage. He turns over towards the wall with a frown. But then he feels something warm behind him.

“I’m so sorry Steve,” Peggy murmurs into his ear, pressing her lips again his jaw. She curls into him, her arm around his waist, her head resting against his shoulder. The rest of his defenses fall and he lets her hold him, turning so that they’re facing each other. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats as he sobs again, this time against her chest. “I’m here for you. I’m right here with you Steve.”

They spoon all night. She doesn’t leave in the morning. Peggy continues to weaver her fingers through his hair, and rub her hands down his back. But she doesn’t leave. They get up to clean themselves up, to force food into him, and for Peggy, a brief check-in up at Command where things have cooled significantly. Steve worries he’s all alone again.

But then Peggy comes back and climbs into bed with him. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. He presses his fingers into her hips and pulls her against him. When she curls her hand around his neck, he shudders and buries his face against her shoulder. Their bodies twist close together in the tiny bunk, warmth pooling between them. She lets him grip her close like his life depends on it. He thinks it might.

He dreams of the night they met.

It was at the canteen late one night after a long day of training simulations and ship duties. She’s one of three women on the ship. She’s been there for two weeks longer than the rest of them. So when Hodge, a brick head of a bully at the best of times, makes a pass at her and then tells her she can serve under him once he’s Captain of his own ship real soon because trust him, his dad’s got money so he’s sure of a promotion in a hurry, she gives him a calm request of an apology. He snorts and reaches for her ass. He’s barely made contact when she grabs his wrist, twists and then lands a punch to his jaw so quick and clean Steve’s mouth drops in wonder and quite honestly adoration. Hodge stumbles with the force of the hit and falls flat on his ass. A couple of his friends try to help him out, while the rest mostly look away not wanting to get involved. Hodge pushes his friends hands away, and red-faced marches towards her. She doesn’t look fazed but Steve finds himself there blocking his way before he can realize what’s happening.

“Easy there Hodge you don’t want to embarrass yourself a second time huh?”

“You stay out of it you pipsqueak Earther.”

It stings, like those comments always have, but he’s used to it. Had nineteen years of the like.

“That’s really original. No wonder they haven’t promoted you yet. Or is that just because your dad doesn’t have connections to Commander Phillips so your stuck proving your worth the same as they rest of us? Now if you’ll excuse me, now that your seat is vacated I wanted to get a drink.”

Hodge’s buddies talk him out of causing trouble and he walks out. Beating Steve up in front of plenty of witnesses at the canteen won’t earn him any favors. Everyone knows Phillips is a hard ass with no humor for nonsense. And Steve bets if Hodge did get in trouble, Steve would be right there with him for instigating it. It would have been worth it for the amused look Peggy Carter gives him alone.

“He’s a fun one isn’t he?” He finds himself commenting. It’s odd for him because he’s never really been able to talk to girls before. And here’s the most gorgeous one he’s ever met and he can’t stop his mouth.

She arches her brow, the amused look still present. He feels heat at the back of his neck and to avoid further making awkward motions, hefiddles with the drink he didn’t really want but felt compelled to get.

They sit there side by side in silence.

“Don’t listen to him,” he hears her say after a moment. He’s not sure what this advice is in reference to. To his harassment of her? “Not all of us come from the high life of Mars Colony.”

He’s surprised, pleasantly so, feeling a tug of connection with her already.

“You’re an Earther?” he asks excitedly. She’s the only other Earth-born that he’s met in his almost year with the service.

She nods. “Yes. I was born in London. Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn,” he tells her.

“That’s lovely. I’ve only been to Brooklyn proper once myself but visited New York frequently as a young child. My father was based there for a while.”

He dreams of how they talked for hours before they had to get shut-eye before morning duty. He dreams of how he had been so excited to talk with her again.

When he wakes up, after their third night of sleeping together, Steve kisses her once. Soft, gentle, quick. He feels too raw for anything more. Her closeness and her caring of him is a gift. They turn until they face each other, Peggy playing with his hair.

“We’ve met before,” he tells her, his voice rough with disuse. Her eyebrow quirks but she lets him continue. “On the U.S.S. Valkyrie. We were both recruits. At the canteen. You punched Gilmore Hodge. Remember him?”

She bites her lip as she thinks. “Yes, though it’s a little hazy. There have been a lot of assholes in my path.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I understand. It was almost ten years ago.”

She bites her lip as she thinks some more. “Wait. The canteen. We talked about Earth. I told you about my brother Michael.”

He nods, and the first small smile in days forms on his lips. “Yeah, your fighter pilot brother Michael.”

“You told me about your Mum. A nurse making ends meet. Why didn’t you come find me again?”

He sighs. “Two days later I got a call from the hospital Maworked at. She was dying. The Service granted me a leave of absence. She died three months later. I came straight back to the Valkyrie. You were already gone.”

Peggy kisses him, so gentle, so full of warmth it makes him cry again. She doesn’t seem off put by the tears. “The stars are not always inour favor. But I’m so glad they found us here together despite all things.” Henods numbly in response. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you Steve Rogers.”

He shrugs. “We’re here now.”

Peggy laces their fingers together. “We are here together. And I won’t leave you alone for anything. Not for all the galaxies inthe universe.”

#thesokovianaccords #steggy au mashup #my fic #maybe this will become a real fic one day #thanks for sending me these guys #they've really sparked my inspiration to write!!#steggy

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sawyersick · 5 years ago

Note

all the questions for that ask game!!! (or as many as you want lol)

holy fuck bee............................. ok get red E its a Lot

1. You woke up naked next to the last person you texted, what would you say?

Idk what I would say but I probably wouldn’t be that freaked out... the last person I texted is a good friend/coworker and I trust him

2. What’s going on between you and the last person you kissed?

I uhhh can’t remember who the last person I kissed was because it was years ago but let’s assume it was my ex..... he was a toxic pos who tore me down because he had low self esteem so yeah I don’t really like him

3. If your boyfriend or girlfriend was into drugs, would you care?

I would be upset if it was anything more than weed or the ocassional drink or if it was a full blown addiction and I would be mad if they didn’t tell me on principle...

Also I would not be very comfortable if they did it around me because I’m a weenie despite hanging out in hardcore punk groups...... also I can’t stomach the smell of cigarettes im sorry

4. Is your last name longer than six letters?

nope!

5. Was your last kiss drunk or sober?

sober, I don’t drink

6. Have you ever wanted to have someone but you messed it up?

like..... as a significant other? I guess. I’m pretty bad at telling my feelings to people and I’m kinda clingy when I like someone. idk if I’ve ever *explicitly* messed it up tho

7. What does your last received text say?

“sick” and then the sparkly heart emoji five times

8. How many times have you kissed the last person you kissed?

lots and lots and lots.... unfortunately. we were together for a year and a half

9. Where was your last kiss at?

fuck bitch I don’t remember.............. school? my house? his house? the pool??? man the last five months of that relationship were affection-less

10. When is the last time you saw your sister?

I don’t have one!

11. What do you drink in the morning?

water and sometimes tea

12. Where did you sleep last night?

the car and then my bed when I got home

13. Do you think relationships are hard?

I mean everything takes effort... I don’t find it hard to do things for people in my relationships but I get frustrated when it isn’t reciprocated and I burn out

14. If you could go back and change something in the past 5 months, would you?

nah

15. You’re locked in a room with the last person you kissed, any problems?

yes....................... many..........................

16. Would you rather it be sunny or rainy?

I TRIED to be a good emo and like the rain but tbh I get really reasonally depressive so I prefer the sun 100%

17. Do you know anyone with the same middle name as you?

nope!

18. Are you wearing jeans,sweatpants,or pajama pants?

jeans!

19. Do you think you will be in a relationship 3 years from now?

hopefully!! I met this real cute punk boy last night

20. Does anyone like you?

HA I doubt it......... I usually come off as the little sister type to most people

21. Have you ever kissed someone with a name that starts with an S?

nope!

22. Is the last person you kissed gay?

probably

I suspected that he had internalized homophobia but also he was weirdly transphobic to me so I dropped it and pretended to be a cis girl around him which is weird because I think he liked boys??????????????????

23. Is there a person you CANNOT stand?

YES this girl from high school who talked about tentacle porn to school admins for no reason and did lots of other weird shit

24. Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?

yes! I have a whale on my hip and I want to get tiny scissors on my arm soon

25. In the past week have you cried?

yes I watched queer eye and a disney movie lol

26. What breed was the last dog you saw?

I follow like 12 samoyeds on instagram but the last dog I saw irl was this ADORABLE black lab who was a service dog and he rested his head on his human’s lap when she sat down in the library and I wanted to cry

27. Do you dry off in the shower or out of the shower?

I have a towel hanging right out side the shower so I grab it, then step out of the shower

28. Have you ever kissed a football player?

hm idk I think so? I definitely kissed a guy who played tennis but he forced it on me so I don’t count it

29. Do you think you’re old?

yes because I hate tiktok

30. Do you like text messaging?

I don’t mind it!! The service at my house sucks tho so I prefer cloud based texting like instagram or facebook messenger

31. What type of day are you having?

A good but slow one! I had a really good night last night so I’m just resting now

32. Have you ever thought about getting your nose pierced?

I’d honestly rather get snake bites if I were to get a piercing but in general I’m afraid of facial piercings

33. Do you prefer warm or cold weather?

warm! then I can head down to the lake :)

34. Is there a person of the opposite sex who means a lot to you?

yes! he’s one of my best friends and I talk to him every day and he lives in scotland and I’d like to meet him one day

35. Would you prefer a relationship or a fling?

relationship! Flings personally make me feel icky and I’m over that

36. Are you a simple or complicated person?

I’d like to think I’m complicated but I’m a simple man..................... you show me whale, I like

37. What song are you listening to?

any song by Liily, all day every day

38. When you say you’re sorry do you mean it?

yes! I perpetually feel bad about everything!!!!!!39. Is there a girl that knows everything or almost everything about you?

there was! but not anymore because she ghosted me for no reason40. What made you start liking the person you like now?

This person is so cute and kind and creative and nice and sweet and fashionable!!!! and fun to mosh with!!!!!41. When did you last receive a text message?

half an hour ago ish???42. What is wrong with you right now?

I am constantly depressed and there’s nothing I can do about it exceot keep myself insanely busy but that means there’s no breather for me and also I probably have adhd but can’t afford a therapist43. How well do you know the last female you texted?

FeMaLe dude just say chick

pretty well! I like her favourite band and we talk like once a week at the very least44. Does anyone disgust you?

yes my ex was very nasty and tore people down to his level and also this one person from high school who fucked over my friends 45. Would you date someone right now if they asked?

depends on who.... eye emoji............. but probably yes I have low standards46. Are you in a good mood right now?

yes!47. Who was the last person you talked to in person?

my parents? but other than that it was thanking Nick from the band Unpopular Opinion for the lovely tabling opportunity last night48. What color shirt are you wearing?

white T shirt with a cat pink sweater with a cat49. Has someone recently told you something you didn’t want to hear?

yes one of my parents says nasty things when in a bad mood50. Anyone you’re giving up on?

yes my former best friend who ghosted me and this girl who keeps flaking on plans with me and also a boy who got mixed up in weird drama with me and his ex that I never wanted to be a part of51. Do you hate the person you fell hardest for?

I’ve never really falen hard for anyone, just periods of obsession. I guess I’m waiting for that one sPeCiAl sOmEoNe

52. Have you ever thought about giving up on someone but couldn’t?

yes, but I’ll settle for waiting53. Do you like rain?

a little of it!54. Do you care if your boyfriend/girlfriend drinks?

I’d rather they not be a alcholoic because I had a raging drunk coworker who scared the shit out of me once but I guess I’d be okay with the ocasional drink/drunk night as long as they’re safe55. Have you ever liked somebody and never told them?

So many times... I keep my mouth shut because it would never work for one reason or another...... also I’m so SICK of having to make the move all the time I just want to be fawned over I’ve never had anyone do ANYTHING romantic for me 56. Do you like to cuddle?

.......................yes57. Are you shy?

not normally! I LOVE being social but in relationships yeah because I’m insecure58. Do you get along with girls?

yes? girls who don’t get along with girls are lame...... lift each other up don’t tear yaselves down59. Have you dated the person you texted last?

nope! But I’ll admit I thought about it haha60. What do you carry with you at all times?

chapstick, money, and pepper spray

ya boy don’t mess around61. If you were paid 1 million dollars to spend the night in a supposed haunted house, would you?

depends on the haunted levels, as long as the “ghost” would only watch/appear and not scream or whatever or try to make contact I guess that would be fine? but if It tries to disturb me I’m yeeting mysef the fuck outta here because ya boy needs uninterrupted beauty rest62. Do you think you can last in a relationship for five months?

yep! I dragged one out for a year and a half when I really should have ended things much sooner than that63. Think back to October, were you in a relationship?

nope! Been single for around two years now64. The person you like kisses you on the forehead, do you find this cute?

YES HOLY SHIT65. Did anything “cute” happen in the last week?

I fired some pieces in my pottery class! my mugs and bowls came out so well

and I met the cutest punk boy last night!!!!!! he’s so cute and very my type and I got to dance with him in the mosh pit!!!!!!!!!! tell me that’s not the cutest punk thing ever

66. How old are the last three people you kissed?

19, 18(17???), and 21

67. Would you rather pay to get your nails done or do them yourself?

I’ve only gotten them done once! It was very enjoyable but I’m a cheapskate so I’d probably rather do them myself68. Which do you like better- Zebra print or leopard print?

leopard print I guess69. Do you have any stickers on your car?

one! A turtle from the Maui Ocean Center. I’d like to add a few more sea-related ones and maybe a totoro I bought at a con a few years back70. Would you rather listen to Luke Bryan or Lil Wayne?

literally who the fuck even are these people71. Blackberry, Android, or iPhone?

android 4 lyfe72. When’s the last time you had pizza from Pizza Hut?

never? my DnD group would get round table or little caesars73. Do you like diet soda?

I guess? I like it the same as diet soda74. What color are the walls in your room?

one purple wall and the other three are pastel mint75. Are you 16 or older?

yeah baybee76. Do you watch Pretty Little Liars?

nope 77. Do you have a job?

yep! I’m a windsurfing instructor 78. What are your initials?

ZSKMTS

but usually I go by SS79. Did you ever have braces?

nope! I’ve got near-perfect teeth :D80. Are you from the south?

nope!

81. What does your last status on facebook say?

I talked about meeting my favourite band again!82. Do you still talk to the first person you ever kissed?

no because he forced himself on me when we were young and I think he remembers and is ashamed and also doesn’t live near me anymore 83. Are you closer to your mom or your dad?

idk, I’m close but not in different ways with both of them84. Have you ever done cheerleading or gymnastics?

I was really good at the tumbling unit in 6th grade85. What’s the last movie you saw in theaters?

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood? I don’t go to the movies much 86. Do you smoke?

no the smell of cigarettes makes me want to vomit87. Would you rather wear heels or flip flops?

I love heels but I LIVE in flip flops bc california88. Is your phone touch screen?

yes???? damn when was this ask game made89. Do you normally wear your hair straight or curly?

straight.......... I’m too lazy to curl it 90. Have you ever snuck out of your house?

nope! I’m a weenie 91. Would you rather swim in a river, lake, or pool?

the ocean!!!!!!!! But I guess a pool bc I’m afraid of the flesh eating bacteria in freshwater lakes92. Have you ever made out in a car?

no but I HAVE made out on some random person’s lawn lmao93. …Had sex in a car?

no I’m a virgin 94. Are you single or in a relationship?

single pringle who loves to mingle 95. What were you doing last night at midnight?

selling my art and listening to cool bands and dancing with cute punk people!!!96. When’s the last time you saw fireworks?

the day after the fourth of July 97. Do you like the camera on your phone?

yes! I just got a new phone and the camera is way better than my old one

the low lighting setting is c r i s p 98. Have you ever had a friend with benefits?

I made out with this one friend of mine like twice and then I never did it again bc I felt icky 99. Have you ever passed out from drinking?

no I don’t drink100. Are you friends with people on facebook that you actually hate?

NAH BRO YOU GOTTA UNFRIEND THE FUCK OUTTA THEM NO RAGRETS 101. Have you ever had a pregnancy scare?

nope I’m a virgin102. Name your favorite Kesha song:

Liily? did you mean Liily???? my favourite Liily song is Wash, Toro, or The Weather103. Do you have any tan lines right now?

yeah one from the ring I wear every day and like a shorts tan from summer104. Would you ever wear cowboy boots with shorts?

hell yeah but ONLY if the cowboy boots are bright red or hot pink no exceptions

#long post #ask #bumbleberrybee

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matildainmotion · 5 years ago

Text

My New Recipe for Making Art – What’s Yours?

When I was fourteen I bought Annie Lennox’s Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves and danced to it in my bedroom, feeling radical:

Now there was a time when they used to say That behind every -great man. There had to be a -great woman. But in these times of change you know That it's no longer true. So we're comin' out of the kitchen 'Cause there's somethin' we forgot to say to you…

Thirty years on I remembered this song when I read a recent Guardian article by Brigit Schult, “A Woman’s greatest enemy? Lack of Time to Themselves,” which ends with Schult not coming out of the kitchen. Her daring act is rather to give herself time to sit down in the kitchen, at the table, to drink some tea and dream. Schulte argues that many women still struggle to give themselves time to do anything by, or for, themselves. She names a few of the famous great male artists and thinkers who have been looked after by their wives/ mothers/ housekeepers/ maids, whilst they made their great art or contribution to the world. She writes, “If what it takes to create are long stretches of time alone, that’s something women have never had the luxury to expect.”

I could claim this narrative as mine, a version of it. I am married to a man who is a performer and director. One reviewer recently called him “a genius.” He is making brilliant theatre, whilst I am looking after our children. However, for many reasons, I refuse to accept this story- the one in which he is the great man and I am the time-short woman behind him, not making art, enslaved to a life of care. It is not to deny the truth of this historically but it seems critical to write a different narrative for “these times of change.” At 45 I will not disappoint that radical 14 year old with middle-aged cynicism.

I am all the more stubborn on this point at present as I had a moment recently when I felt the tug of that great man/ hidden woman story. My husband is Phelim McDermott, one of the artistic directors of the company Improbable. He premiered a show two weeks ago: The Tao of Glass at The Royal Exchange Theatre as part of the Manchester International Festival. It was a collaboration with another great artist, the world-famous composer Philip Glass. It is a beautiful show about art, inspiration and loss. It is a show about things not going to plan, about how art can grow from grief, from the things that did not happen. In it Phelim describes how dreams and images are everywhere, running like a river through us and the world, day and night. The show is an invitation to stop and lie down in that river.

It was a huge success. Audience members came away in tears every night, saying it was the best thing they had ever seen. He received extraordinary five star reviews. I was immensely proud of him. But, I have to admit, I had flickers of vulnerability too, feeling how easy it could be to slide into being the woman behind the great man. The children and I were staying in a cool Mancunian flat, provided by the festival, 12 storeys up, with a wide view of the city and the theatre. In the evenings I would look out through the glass balcony doors at the roof of the Royal Exchange and imagine my husband on stage, as I ran the bath, returned to the kitchen to make the night time milk, lay down in bed with our son and daughter and waited, awake, until I heard the door at last – Phelim coming back.

The Tao of Glass was a long time in the making - the seeds of it began just weeks after our son was born, seven and a half years ago. Around the same time, a little sooner, when I was still pregnant, I wrote a short prose piece inspired by the Persephone and Demeter myth. Ever so slowly, as my son was growing up, as my daughter was born, and changed from a baby into a little girl, that piece has been growing into a novel. In spring last year I finished its fourth draft. In the autumn I realised I had to begin again. The fifth and, I hope, final draft of the novel has not yet happened. It has not premiered anywhere. It is now the summer holidays. I have six weeks before me in which I will have no stretches of time alone – the essential ingredient Schulte identifies for productive creativity. How am I going to make it out of the kitchen? To make any progress? What to do? Now, this summer, but also in the years ahead, while the children are still young? If I am ruling out the ‘kitchen-contained, oppressed wife’ scenario – what other ones are there? I have been reviewing the available options. I count four.

1) The traditional: Give up the making – just let it go - and do the caring. I mention this because if it is a genuine choice, it is a worthy and amazing one. To stay in the kitchen. Make wonderful loaves of bread for the man or woman or significant other whom you love. This was my mother’s choice. She did have her moment (she has written some brilliant history books about how women were not as oppressed in the middle ages as you might think!) but only after my father had died and her children had grown. For 20 years she made the meals and cared for the children, while my father did skilled scholarly work in his study, during long stretches of time alone. She did not resent this. If she had her time again, I think she would do the same. But it will not do for me. I could not do it without resentment, and then there would be nothing amazing about it.

2) The reversal: Get your man, or other partner, to do the caring.

This option is exactly the same as above but with the usual gender roles reversed: a great woman with a great man behind her. This was my sister’s way. She married a man who was happy to stay at home whilst she went out to work as a plant scientist, becoming increasingly well-known and respected. She is now a Dame. Her husband died tragically young, but not before he had cared for both of their children and seen them leave home. I have huge respect for my sister and her husband. However, I did not marry a man who wants to stay at home, and in truth this is not what I would wish either. I cannot emphasize it enough: I am not being saddled with the children – I wantto be their main carer.

3) The contemporary: Share the care. Share the work. Half and half.

This, for many, is the modern ideal. The goal of these liberated times. Show your man/ partner - if you have one- round the kitchen. Teach them how to change a nappy. Buy them a baby sling. Pump your breastmilk, or do bottle-feeding, so you can both feed the baby. Take it in turns who goes to work, who stays home. Or both go to work so that you can both contribute to the childcare costs of someone else having the children, be that a nursery or a nanny. Ensure you both get the same amount of time alone – an equal chance at making, and at making it.

Again, while I admire this scenario in other families, in ours it is important to me that ‘equal’ does not have to mean ‘the same as.’ It can also mean, ‘completely different but as good as.’ I think division of labour is a wonderful thing. I am not totally comfortable about the ways in which my choices reinforce gender stereotypes, but I am comfortable with my husband and I doing different jobs – he earns most of the money, I do most of the childcare. My husband has told me that he could not do what I do – be with the children from dawn to dusk, and often from dusk to dawn too. I could not do what he does – go away for weeks at a time to direct shows. Let me be clear: Daddy does take his turn. I also do some paid work. But I want to care for our children and I am seriously lucky to be able to do so, thanks to Phelim’s support. I also want to care for my mother as she ages (I’ll come back to the wonder of Granny later). Like making art, caring has a strange ambivalent status – it is both a privilege and a necessity. I can’t not do it. I am well aware that many people have no choice about this: our culture values care so little, we are economically rewarded for handing our children over to other people to look after them, and meanwhile those who care professionally are amongst some of the most poorly paid.

4) The superwoman: Do the whole lot.

Schulte’s article also refers to some of the extraordinary women that have done it all: George Sand, working late at night, Francine Prose, writing during the school hours, others getting up at 4am, so as to finish writing in time to make breakfast. For some – single mothers, for example – this may be almost the only option.

It is seven minutes past midnight as I write this. I am sitting at the end of my son’s bed. This way is, in part, what I have been practicing for the last seven years, but I am not sure if it is enough or is sustainable. I need more time. I need more sleep. And something troubles me in all of this: I want to find another scenario, a whole different story, besides these four that I have named…..

I think I need to ask some more radical questions. The above options are based on the assumption stated at the start of Schult’s article that to create requires stretches of focussed, uninterrupted time. Does it? This is undoubtedly one proven methodology for making, but is it the only way, or even the best? Could I create a new recipe for creativity?

At the moment, during the summer, I am being a ‘time magpie.’ I snatch whatever shreds of shiny time I can spy. Little silver wisps of it, when the children run ahead of me on the lane; a crinkly, twinkly scrap of it when I am breastfeeding my daughter and my son is reading; a whole twenty-minute-sized sparkling square when they are watching an episode of ‘My Little Pony’ together. This is not much but it is what I have, and it is the start of my new recipe. What can I grow from these snatched, glittering moments? What can I make slowly, whilst I am caring? Like slow cooking, I wonder whether there may even be a value in the length of time it takes and the fragmented way in which I work. I think again about Phelim’s show. It was not a show made by sitting for long hours uninterrupted. It is a show made from a story of a shattered glass coffee table and a man who died before Phelim could work with him. A show made from broken things.

Why do we do it anyway? This privilege/necessity called art? If I am writing a new recipe I need to touch back into what the motive is behind the making. Yes, of course I would love ‘success’, recognition, the things that great artists receive, but ultimately I am certainly not doing it for ‘greatness.’ I love and believe in what Elizabeth Gilbert says, that the success of a work is not in the number of stars the reviewers give you, it is in how it has changed you. You make the art, and as you do so it makes you. By the end of the process you are a different person because of what you have created. Ultimately your life’s work, your greatest art, is what you have made of your life.

A creative life is an amplified life. It’s a bigger life, a happier life, an expanded life, and a hell of a lot more interesting life. Living in this manner—continually and stubbornly bringing forth the jewels that are hidden within you—is a fine art, in and of itself. (Elizabeth Gilbert, from Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear)

And this in turn reminds me of another of my favourite quotes, from the poet Mary Oliver,

Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ With your one wild and precious life?

My new recipe is starting to take shape, one in which great work could come, not from 10 hours of uninterrupted time alone per day, but from a lifetime of company and care: 10,000 precious scraps of time, mixed in with 1000 wild days of care.

My problem with the old recipe for making art is that it necessarily positions creativity and care in opposition to one another. It splits them apart. It tells the story that the one excludes the other. If you are caring for a child, a parent, a home, then you have to get up and tend to the person or thing in your care. You cannot stay sitting, undisturbed, deep in thought at your desk. This polarisation of care and art is nowhere clearer than in the stories of great artists (most of them male) who made great work but were horrible people, or at least they did some horrible things to those close to them, often those caring for them. There we have it: the artist who did not care; the carer who made no art. Their lifeworks – their lives as works of art - were not all they could have been.

This segregation of art and care is still hugely powerful in how we think, talk and act in relation to creative practice. I believe that paradoxically part of why this split is so intense is that in fact the act of caring and the act of making share so many close connections. My five years running Mothers Who Make has only confirmed this belief. They both require dedication, patience, sensitivity, attentiveness. They both require time. Again and again I hear women who are doing both, sustaining their making and being mothers, describing themselves as feeling split. I am curious as to how far this has to be the case. If we could reframe the artist and the carer as collaborators rather than competitors would this sense of impossible division continue? Might it be possible to feel whole?

I am not trying to deny difficulty here or paint some fanciful picture of motherhood in which it is suddenly easy to engage in the rush of creativity, along with the rush to catch the child who is running out the door, in which the challenging logistics all magically melt away. It is undeniably hard, but I am convinced that everyone – and I mean everyone, regardless of gender - loses out when the care and the art are kept separate, in opposition to one another. The care becomes drudgery. The art becomes inaccessible.

So, how to integrate them? Another part of my new, radical, work-in-progress recipe involves my choice to live with my mother. This means I have both more support and more caring responsibilities. I know I am incredibly lucky that this is even an option. The most time I get to work is when my son is at school and my daughter (now 3) and my mother (now 78) play together in the kitchen, whilst I try to write a novel in the bedroom. I get this precious time but it is hardly ever uninterrupted (frequent visits from my daughter) or alone (except for the odd five minutes when my daughter and Granny walk down the lane to try to buy some eggs). What I like about this set up is that I am working within a web of care – there is nothing particularly ‘equal,’ as in measured out to be ‘the same as,’ about the caring transactions that are present. I am looking out for my mother. My mother, still my mother even though I am 45, is looking out for me. We are both looking out for my daughter and my daughter, in her own small but determined way makes gestures of care towards both of us. My son too. My husband too when he is around and in truth even when he is away – over the phone, the ether, the air. There is a river of care running through our days. It is not easy – there are many challenging moments – but this set up allows the flow of care and the flow of art to coexist as far as possible, and for me this is vital.

There is nothing about this work-in-progress recipe that is fixed. Not everyone has a granny, a husband, a wife, a partner, an income. Not everyone can work with their children in the room. For many the separation of work and care is important and often, depending on the context of their practice, essential. But, whatever your answer, whatever your particular recipe - and there is no right one- I think it is still useful to loosen our thinking, shake up the story that art and care must be at war with one another, rather than two reflective rivers running side by side, sometimes intersecting, always present in our lives.

Midweek, during my husband’s run at the Manchester International Festival, there was a matinee that was billed as a ‘relaxed performance.’ I did not stay in the tower block with the children. We walked down the road and entered the theatre. Care was allowed to turn up with a ticket. As Phelim said at the start of the show, “This afternoon is a relaxed performance. This means that everyone will be less uptight.” He got a laugh, but he was right. My daughter sat on my lap and was allowed to say, “That’s Daddy!” in a loud stage whisper and no one minded. My son was allowed to loll on the seat and ask me “How long is this bit going to go on?” when Daddy was lying on the stage pretending to be in a coma, whilst the ghost of Philip Glass played the piano. It was a lovely show.

I would love for ‘relaxed performances’ to be the rule rather than the exception. I would love for art and its makers to be more relaxed, ‘less uptight’ more of the time, to be able to welcome care into the room – care for all those that need it: children, parents, friends, partners i.e. everyone. I would love to stay in the kitchen, while the children grow, and write my novel at the table, able to trust that it is worth doing, however long it takes and whatever happens to it at the end. I want to be an artist who cares, and a carer who makes art out of millions of broken, shiny seconds. Like now, at 1.01am, with my daughter in the crook of my left arm, as I type this with my right, and nurse her back to sleep.

Before I lie down and try to sleep, here then are my questions for you – you can answer this moment, this month or it may take you many years:

What is your recipe for making art? Is it stretches of time alone? Or something else? What is your system of care? Is it the one for which you wish? What would it take for you to feel whole? What will your life’s work be?

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wordsbysra · 5 years ago

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page turner

*** hey! this is a project i did at college this semester! the prompt was to present on something that gave our lives meaning, so i wrote a letter to my dad. plus i’ve been itching to post, but i’ve been too busy to write something new... thanks for letting me be both corny and vulnerable :) sra ***

When given this project, I was torn on what gives my life meaning. There’s plenty of things that fill me up with joy. Music has always been healing to me, but you can hardly classify dubstep and techno as therapeutic. I really like Trader Joe’s but eating your weight in cookie butter has its consequences. Makeup has always been an amazing way to express myself, but I understand it’s hard for people to believe I can do some sharp ass winged eyeliner, considering I look like I’ve been forgetting to wash my hair for the last four years. Even amongst all these things that make my life sweeter, nothing compares to my family. My dad, in particular. My dad taught me the value of education. He spent weeks on my elementary school science fair projects, tutored half of my high school statistics class over Skype, and even made me a list of 100 books to read before I graduate college. I just started #38 “Ham on Rye” by Charles Bukowski last night, but we’ve got a long way to go. He introduced me to literature, one of my greatest passions. Obsessed with crafting lavish stories that will keep you perched so far on the edge of your seat that you’ll forget to breathe, my dad is the brightest mind I’ve ever known. His consistent encouragement helped me overcome the anxieties and doubt that clouded my potential. Not only did I want to share with the class how my dad brought purpose into my life, but I wanted him to hear it too. Or read it… I wrote this sappy letter, but when I need them most, words fail.

Hey Dad,

It’s strange to think that I’m over halfway done with my collegiate experience, when it feels like just yesterday, you were still helping me with my times tables. For the first time in a long time, I am excited about learning. I am engaged in my classes (after 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep), I look forward to doing homework, and I feel like I might actually have a shot at doing something great when I’m out of here. For months, I panicked about what I was going to study. The devil on my shoulder told me English was a waste of a degree (it’s not). The devil on my other shoulder told me I wasn’t creative or bold or funny enough to ever tell a good story. But you, my middle-aged angel, encouraged me to follow my instincts and tell my story. I’ll never forget when you told me, “It’s the only story you get, so make it a page turner.”

It started in my bedroom when I was maybe four years old. I couldn’t seem to sleep with my closet door wide open and you found yourself sitting at the edge of my bed while I spoke incoherently about the monster that was watching me from behind my shirts and dresses. This was when the joy of story-telling was brought into my life, as you configured a story about the monster. You told me that the monster was scared, just like me, and every time I couldn’t sleep, neither could he. In hindsight, this was probably the biggest parenting cop-out ever, but it cured my nightmares. However, you still found yourself at the foot of my bed nearly every night after since I wanted to know more about the closet monster. What was his name? How old was he? Did he have a little brother like I did? You had me immersed in a world that didn’t truly exist, something that only a true storyteller could do. I was an intuitive little girl, so I knew your stories couldn’t possibly be real, but sooner or later, your stories became ours.

The first true book I ever read cover to cover was “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone”. I sat in the cramped backseat with Alex as our overstuffed car inched forward in traffic towards the annual family reunion in quaint Idaho. I don’t know why we always had to reunite with Mom’s redneck survivalist side of the family, but you have very little say in family matters when you’re six years old. Between heaving fistfuls of Cheez-Its and those waxy fruit snacks that Mom always tried to pass off as real Gushers, I sat with a book gripped in my hands, its pages overflowing in my tiny lap. Every few minutes or so, a timid, “Dad, what does this word mean?” would escape from the backseat and be met with a simple definition, an example sentence, and so on and so forth. A grueling nine hour drive later and I had finished my first chapter book; I couldn’t stop gushing about how awesome Hermione was “because she’s smarter and tougher than all the boys”. The constant support I received to keep on reading led me to discover characters that inspired me. I found a sense of identity through intelligent young girls who stood firm in the face of danger. When it was time for us to begin the journey back to home sweet home Nevada, you surprised me with the second book of my new favorite series. I read out loud to the whole car for hours until my eyes got heavy and I fell asleep with another story whirling around my head.

Unfortunately, the older I became, the less I enjoyed reading. High school started to hinder my imagination and I was eventually diminished into just another statistic for the school district. It became less about telling a story and more about being able to analyze a story and condense my thoughts into a well-written, well-structured essay worth half of my grade. MLA style or bust! Reading books with you definitely wasn’t cool anymore (sorry) and we drifted apart. When I was seventeen, you were admitted into the hospital for a severe complication from one of several surgeries. Even with a bleak chance of survival looming over our heads, you still managed to give me a new story every time we came to visit, be it about a nurse you liked or a dumb commercial you had seen on television. Seeing someone so strong become so vulnerable really broke a part of me, but I ultimately became more appreciative of all the great experiences you had given me. I would run to the library before each visit, frantically searching the shelves for whatever request you had scrawled on a sticky note during my previous visit. Sitting by your side for hours, finishing off the pudding cup stash you were saving for me, each of us with a different book in our hands, pages turning every few moments. Even on your worst days, your sickest days, your weakest days, the powerful stories we read side by side outshined every moment of suffering. It was this point in my life that I realized the power of a really good book, and in an instant, my love for literature was reignited.

You made me realize that there is so little time to spend focusing on minute details and irrelevant characters. The only plot I should be worrying about is my own, since I am my own story, all by myself. I will always look back fondly on our weekly Saturday dates to the public library, and getting lost at the bookstore amongst the towering walls of bindings and pages, and staying up all night to finish a novel so you’d take me to the movie premiere, but I can’t wait to make the same memories with children of my own one day. Your love of books helped morph me into the most inquisitive version of myself, always eager to pick up something new to read, but always reminiscent of the texts I cherished when I was younger. “The Poisonwood Bible” (which was the first book I had recommended to you) has a quote that often makes me think of you: “I attempted briefly to consecrate myself in the public library, believing every crack in my soul could be chinked with a book.” You helped me discover parts of me that I didn’t know were there and encouraged me to be proud of all my cracks and dents. Don’t worry, I’ll make you sound totally awesome in my memoir one day. Thank you for introducing me to the whimsical worlds hidden between dusty pages and 12-point font. You helped excavate the purpose that had been buried inside of me all along. I am eternally grateful to be your daughter and I’m excited to see what crazy stories lie ahead for us. How’s this for a page turner?

P.S. I spent that $50 you gave me over Thanksgiving break at Barnes and Noble. I’ll let you borrow the books I picked up. Please send more money.

#writing #my writing #quotes

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phanbliss · 6 years ago

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ahh I missed that you were taking numbered prompts because the post is blacklisted for me! 9, 32, 35, 42, or 48 please? (I couldn't choose)

thank you

9.“You can’t banish me! This is my bed too”

35.“Take your medicine.”

words: 1.7k

rating: t

the formatting is messed up on mobile, so i recommend reading on ao3

Inbetween episodes of the anime they’re binge watching, Dan hears a miserable attempt ata question.

“Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“Couldyou make me some tea,” Phil croaks out, then adds, “Please.”

SoDan gets up and makes some tea. The raspberry one with loads of sugar that Philalways says is good for his throat.

Whilebrushing his teeth, he gets a text.

Phil, 10:12 PM

Couldyou please fetch the remote?

Thetv will turn itself off in 5 minutes

“I’mbrushing my teeth!” Dan calls out from the en suite, hoping Phil canunderstand him despite his mouth being filled with toothpaste.

Phil, 10:13 PM

Afterthen? Please

“Yes!” he shouts back impatiently.

Sohe rinses his mouth, and goes to fetch the bloody remote. Which lies on the tvstand in the bedroom. Which is a few steps from the bed. That very bed that Philis suffering in right now.

“Takeyour medicine,” Dan demands, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“It’snot helping,” Phil whines, like the five year old that he is at heart.

“Itis helping. It’s helping you stopsnoring for ten minutes, so it’s helping meat the very least.” Dan pushes the pills into Phil’s hand. Phil takes themreluctantly. “Take them, you big baby.”

Sinceit’s day six of Phil being sick with the flu, Dan is not surprised to see himcontinue feeling sorry for himself.

“Butit hurts to swallow.” Phil’s voice is little more than a pathetic croak.He actually pouts, which is rathercute, but not cute enough at three in the morning after six days of this.

Dancounts to ten in his head, then manages a soft smile.

“It’llmake you feel better. Go on.”

Philtakes all of the pills with a pained expression, then falls back onto the bed.Dan then proceeds to tuck him in underneath all three blankets, and at lastgets into bed next to Phil.

“Sleep,”Dan whispers, already nodding off the moment his head hits the pillow.“Sleep.”

Notmuch sleep is had, not for Dan. Phil continues to snore throughout the night.

Dealingwith a sick Phil. That’s one of the few things that always test the limits ofDan’s love for the guy.

Andsure, on most days Dan will say that his love is limitless. But after sevendays of Phil being poorly, Dan is sort of starting to see that mental fence,the border where the I Love Phil LesterWith My Whole Heart Land meets CanSomeone Take This Man Away From Me Land.

Philhad done nothing but whine, complain, moan (and not in a fun way), and requireall sorts of assistance for the entire day. Again. And Dan loves him, loves him more thananything, but he just can’t understand why having the flu means that Phil’slegs don’t work too.

Whichapparently, they don’t.

They’resat on the sofa – Phil in a gigantic bundle of blankets, Dan next to him, slightlysweaty in just a shirt and sweatpants. It’s thanks to the heating, whichthey’ve turned all the way up. Despite that, he can feel Phil shiveringslightly as they watch the telly together in relative silence.

Philalmost can’t speak, and Dan is just tiredafter the past few days filled with fetching tea, medicine, the remote, pickingup takeout, and giving Phil massages. It’s been an exhausting time - soexhausting that now, when they’re sat down and Phil doesn’t want anything, Danis almost falling asleep.

Heactually does manage to shut his eyes for a bit, when he is woken up by Phil’shand on his, combined with Phil’s voice, barely audible, calling Dan’s name.

“Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“Willyou please get me more tissues?”

Sevendays of this. Seven days. Dan is usedto somewhere around five, but seven? Seven days of Dan being a weird crossbetween a maid and a babysitter?

“Areboth your legs broken too?” Dan counters, but he does move to get up fromthe sofa and fetch the tissues. From the upstairs bathroom, which is… a fewsteps away.

Philfrowns slightly, despite the lack of malice in Dan’s voice. Dan immediatelyregrets the remark.

“Sorry,I know you’re feeling poorly. I’ll get them.”

Philstarts trying to untangle himself from the three or four blankets he’s wrappedup in, attempting to stand up. “No, I'm—”

“—you’restaying here,” Dan interjects, pushing him back onto the sofa. “Sit,you spoon. Who’s going to look after you if I’m ever gone?”

Phil’sexpression is nothing short of thankful as he whispers back, “Don’t begone.”

Bythe end of the night, Dan’s patience is running thin again. He’s had yetanother day of doing things that Phil could do for himself, all the whilehaving to listen to him moan about how sick he is. And he feels sorry for Phil,he does. He just wants someone to feel sorry for him too. He needs some sleep. Some good, uninterrupted sleep.

Hekisses Phil good night, because he’s already caught all the germs from him bynow, so it hardly matters if he catches a little more.

Philsnuggles up to him, praising his body heat. Dan’s brief annoyance fades away ashe drifts off to sleep.

Heonly gets about an hour before Phil, still very sick and congested, startssnoring. Loudly.

Dantries to ignore it. He tries to pretend it’s not there. He burrows his headinto the pillow. But Phil is loud.Dan thanks the universe for the fact that this doesn’t normally happen, butthat doesn’t make his current lack of sleep any easier to bear.

Heneeds some sleep, or he will go insane.

“Phil.Phil?”

Thesnoring stops. Perhaps Phil just needs to not sleep for the next few days.

Or…

“What?”Phil mumbles weakly, his back still turned to Dan.

“Youneed to go sleep in the spare bedroom. I can’t take this.”

Thereis a long pause - long enough for Dan to wonder if Phil has managed to fallasleep again.

“What?”Phil repeats, this time with disbelief.

“Gosleep in your fake bedroom, you snoring machine. I bet people in Singapore canhear you.”

Despitethe illness, Phil is surprisingly quick to turn around and shoot Dan anaccusing look that then dissolves into a pout upon seeing Dan’s seriousexpression.

“ButI’m really poorly, Dan,” Phil whines.

“Iknow you’re really poorly. I knowbetter than anyone.”

“Idon’t want to go there. The heating isn’t on and—and it’s cold—and it’s faraway—and—and you’re not sick! You go sleep in there if you hate me somuch. Yeah.”

Philwas probably aiming for indignation withthis little speech, but due to his voice being so weak, it all sounds a bitlaughable. Dan suppresses a smile.

“It’syour filming room! And I’ve beenbabying you for a bloody week, think I deserve that, don’t I? A good night ofsleep? That bed is fifty shades of messed up. I’m not sleeping in there.”

“Youcan’t banish me! This is my bed too!”

Danrolls his eyes. He can’t keep serious anymore, not with Phil looking so… so adorable, really. With his hair stickingout everywhere, his nose red, his eyes swollen. Poor Phil.

Dancontinues to argue, but only for the sake of it.

“Ican banish you! You had me sleepapart the last time I was sick!”

“Wewere on tour! If you’d gotten me sick I’d have—” Phil pauses and sneezes,luckily missing Dan. “I’d have—I’d have been sick. Too.”

“Oh,really? If I’d gotten you sick, you’d be sick. That’s some top level thinking,Phil.”

Philkicks him in the shin somewhere underneath the covers.

“You’rethe worst person. Have some empathy, I’m practically dying.”

Danstarts laughing while Phil continues to be cross.

“Yes,Phil. Dying of the common cold. We’re back in the… in the… in the Dark Ages,I dunno.” Dan shoves Phil slightly. “Shoo. Out of bed. Go loudly breatheyour germs elsewhere.”

Philreleases a long-suffering sigh, flips onto his back and attempts to sit up,muttering an I hate you.

Danlooks up, not moving, head still on the pillow. Poor Phil looks propermiserable, and while it’s just bickering, Dan starts feeling guilty for evenmaking Phil sit up in the first place. He watches Phil blindly feel around forhis glasses, and can’t help but find it endearing when Phil first tries to putthem on the wrong way around.

Philcan be such a big baby, but he’s Dan’s baby.However weird that may sound.

Danreaches out, takes Phil’s glasses off for him, and begins to tuck him back in.

“Iwas just trolling you, you idiot,” he says, perfectly aware that his voicemust practically be oozing affection right now. “Get in bed andsleep.”

“What?”Phil exclaims, or at least tries to. “I thought you were beingserious!”

“Iwas halfway serious. I mean, yousnore like a fucking elephant.” Dan tugs on Phil’s arm until Phil slidesback down into bed. “And you make me fetch things all day long. I’m tired. My legs hurt, Phil.”

They’renow laid side by side, facing each other. Phil pouts again, this timesincerely.

“I’msorry,” Phil whispers. “I’ve just been so—”

“—poorly,yeah, I know. Whatever. Sorry for being grumpy.”

Philgives Dan a small smile, the one that says thanksfor putting up with me, and Dan kisses his forehead lightly. It would allbe quite romantic if Phil didn’t start having a coughing fit.

Dandoesn’t wait for the can you fetch me.Not this time.

“I’llget you some of your syrup. Plague bearer.”

He’llget back at Phil the next time he has a cold. Definitely.

#my fic #phan #phanfic #ask game #phil has a cold #it's nothing major #don't worry #no angst in this fic

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gameimagines · 6 years ago

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@weronissa aw, glad you like my prompts. love you too!! anyway, here’s the whole list for good ol undertale sans! hope you like it!

☆彡

‼️ how jealous are they normally? how do they express it?

sans isn’t really the jealous type, he’s a pretty laid back guy and he trusts you to remain faithful. when he does get jealous though, it’ll manifest as sans interrupting the conversation or in the absolute worst case scenario - teleporting you two away (that’s typically reserved for if someone cat calls you, or is flirting with you in a way that makes you uncomfortable)

⛺️ where they would take their s/o on a trip?

answered this in a previous post so i’ll just copy and paste it here. ut! sans can take you just about anywhere you wanna go because of his teleport ability. sans isn’t picky on where he wants to go, but he prefers peaceful places. a cabin not too far away from a small town where he can get some good grub (namely, ketchup) is ideal. above ground think a mountain area where he can explore with you and take uninterrupted naps.

💤 big spoon or little spoon? how do they sleep regularly and with their s/o in the bed?

little spoon! he likes the feeling of your arms wrapped around his rip cage. plus it’s kinda uncomfortable for him to hold you to him when he’s the big spoon (you’ll be laying on his arm which is just jagged bones). regularly, he sleeps on his back with his arms and legs sprawled out on the bed. sans tries to keep his appendages to himself when y’all are trying to sleep, but he may unconsciously throw a leg over you while you doze.

🚼 do they want kids? how many?

can sans biologically have kids? he’s not sure. he doesn’t really have the organs necessary to coproduce a child after all. but he’d love to adopt a child. it doesn’t matter to sans whether the kid is biologically related to him or not. he doesn’t really have an ideal number on how man kids he’d want to father. no more than 5? i can also see sans as the type to welcome people into his home temporarily if they need a place to stay (parents kicked them out, having a fight with the household members, in a new city and need a place to crash).

🤝 do they like to hold hands? interlocked fingers or not? how do their hands feel?

heck yeah sans likes to hold your hand. it’s soft, squishy, and attached to you so of course he likes to hold it. interlocked fingers since grasping hands (like you’re shaking hands) is a bit weird for you since his bones push together.

🍽 how good of a cook are they? do they like to cook for their s/o?

sans is actually a pretty solid cook. does he like to? eh, not really. he’d much rather just go to grillby’s but he knows a thing or too. he makes great mac n cheese.

💙 who’s more likely to say “I love you” first, them or their s/o?

probably sans. whenever he realizes it he’ll be relatively quick to tell you (like swap! pap he may tell you in the form of a joke but it’ll still be endearing).

❌ what can’t they stand in a s/o? what is a deal breaker?

also like swap! pap, if you can’t get along with his little brother - he’ll have a hard time getting along with you. sans also can’t stand people who go back on their word. if it’s unavoidable he gets that, but if you make a decision to break a promise it’ll damage his faith in you.

☀️ early bird or night owl? do they wake their s/o up with them?

night owl. you won’t catch sans sleeping before 12 am. well, you’ll catch him napping throughout the day but actually resting for the night no. he sleeps in when he can so nah, i don’t think he’d wake you up with him unless you had something to do.

💐 how romantic are they?

he’s a huge nerd but he can be fairly romantic. sans’ memory is impeccable, he’ll remember all the foods you like to eat, places you’ve wanted to go, and things you’ve mentioned you like. so when a special occasion happens, he knows what you’ll like. sans isn’t usual romantic though, he saves it for special occasions so date nights are still pretty casual things like going to grillby’s or binge watching a new series together.

💍 how would they propose? how long would they take?

sans will take you somewhere you said you wanted to visit and propose while you’re there. how long he takes to do it depends on the person. if he’s loved you for a long time and he’s certain you feel the same (even if you’ve only been dating for a year), he‘ll decide to propose pretty quickly. key word: decide. he’ll still procrastinate on actually doing it for a hot minute.

👄 favorite place to kiss their s/o? favorite place to receive kisses?

he likes kissing your palms, lips, and forehead. sans likes receiving kisses on the same corresponding body parts (bones more accurately).

💊 how needy are they when they’re sick? how do they take care of their s/o when they’re sick?

he’s not needy, but i feel like he’s pretended to be sick more than a few times when he’s wanted extra sleep. despite his record of pretending to be sick, sans hates actually being sick. if he can, sans will want to sleep his sickness off so he won’t really want company. he may need you to wake him up to take his antibiotics if he’s been prescribed them. sans will be there to bring you some soup and be sure you remember to take your medication every couple of hours, he isn’t exactly proactive about telling you what to do when you’re sick - but he will get you whatever you say you need.

🗣 how do they comfort their s/o? how do they like to be comforted?

sans will either try to distract you from whatever is upsetting you or sit there and listen while you vent to him. if someone specific is the issue, expect him to crack some jokes and make fun of whoever is bothering you. he’s also pretty encouraging, sans will remind you that you can get through it. sans wants someone to encourage him when he’s feeling down. he wants someone to tell him that he isn’t stuck in his situation and push him forward. listen to what’s bothering him and gently cheer him on and tell him he can overcome it.

🗯 how protective are they? do they worry about their s/o often? what makes them nervous?

sans isn’t super protective, but he is the type to remind you to be safe. ‘txt me when u get home ok?’ is a message you’ll often receive. if there’s something he’s worried about you doing alone, he’ll go with you. he may be a passive guy but he’ll won’t show much mercy to someone who tries to hurt you. driving during storms and you going to parties with irresponsible or fairly unknown friends makes him nervous.

📖 how trusting are they? are they an open book? does it take their s/o a while to crack them open?

sans isn’t secretive but there are things he’d rather not talk about. the resets, gaster, and past mistakes are things he’ll avoid thinking about. if you ask about it he may not tell you at first, or he may point you in the direction to find out yourself. sans doesn’t like getting emotional and will avoid topics that will force him to dig up the past.

💓 what’s their love language (words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service, physical touch)?

words of affirmation is san’s love language. tell him what you appreciate about him and encourage him when he needs it. it’ll mean a lot to him.

💢 what is a fight with their s/o like? how do they apologize?

sans is very non-confrontational. he’s good at changing the subject if he knows the current topic will end in a fight. when he does get in an argument, he’s passive aggressive and evasive. he’ll try to shut this discussion down and he may outright ignore you if you yell at him. sans is quick to apologize though, often accompanied by him doing something to make it up to you.

👠 how good is their sense of fashion? do they have a favorite thing to see their s/o in?

HE WEARS ONE OUTFIT. AND IT INCLUDES SLIPPERS. HE HAS NO FASHION SENSE AND DOESNT HAVE ANY PREFERENCE ON WHAT HIS S/O WEARS AS LONG AS THEY WEAR SOMETHING.

🎁 what kind of gifts do they give their s/o? what kind of gifts do they like receiving?

he’ll give you little things he knows you’d like. a blanket with from a fandom you like, a scarf that’s your favorite color, or just your favorite flavor of coffee because you have a midterm coming up. homemade things. give him a batch of cookies, a drawing, or a poem and his cheeks will glow a faint blue as he rubs the back of his neck. he loves when you make things for him.

❓one random headcanon i have about this character

sans put the dog in the kitchen (the one that ate papyrus’ secret attack). sans hoped it would discourage papyrus from facing frisk, knowing frisk had killed his brother in the last reset.

#fanfic #imagines #reader insert #scenarios #headcanon #undertale sans #undertale #undertale imagines #ut #sans #sans imagine #sans x reader #ut sans

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