#Replacement Life and Home Burner

[deathbyathousandspiders]

So imagine a fic based off the song "boy in the bubble" by Alec Benjamin where reader gets in a fight on the way home from school the one time she doesn't walk with Peter. Preferably have her father be Tony Stark and he'd take place of the mother in the story.

first, i wanted to say that i loved writing this and i love song prompts :) i hope you enjoy this !!

second, i want to apologize to the anon who told me i better not disappear for months because oops–

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader, mentions of blood, mentions of pain/wounding, swearing.

✨masterlist✨.

3.6k.

Typically, stepping into your downtown apartment on a Friday evening would be more exciting for you. It meant that your week of stuck–up students and nerve–wracking tests could be long forgotten. It meant that you had the weekend to live freely from academic cages. At the beginning of that day, you would’ve thought today would be like any other Friday; with Peter accompanying you and your father for dinner like every week.

But Peter didn’t walk back with you.

Your tired limbs ripped from the floor with every step, hobbling out of the elevator with as much grace as you had room to carry. That room was slim, making space for the array of bruises and blood tainting your clothing. You carried the last bit of dignity you could, and tried to replace the sinister words spat at you from your attacker:

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

See, till now, you’d been grateful to be excused from the attention and popularity that accompanied your title. You didn’t care for followers or anything that catered to your birthright. Your father was your best friend, and you were lucky to be a Stark just to have his light in your life. However, there were some who weren’t like your classmates or peers — people who hated the Stark name, and wouldn’t rest until the family name died at their hand.

Tonight, you’d met the first of who knows how many. The thought alone sent a serpent–like shiver down your body.

And Peter wasn’t with you.

The fumes of Tony Stark’s cooking filled your senses as you limped further into your family room. You consciously knew you were late for dinner, but the pain throbbing throughout your body put that knowledge on the back burner. The sunset was just beyond the apartment windows, and it made you wonder whether Peter had beaten you to your own house or not. It was 6:48 after all, he was bound to be there.

You’d nearly forgotten that the subtle ping of the elevator doors announced your arrival. You heard your dad set down his spatula. “You kids are late.” He greeted, hollering from the kitchen. “I hope you two didn’t stop for Delmar’s on your way back!” You processed the undertones as your knees gave out, left hand pressing into the top of the sofa back.

White knuckles gripped onto your couch as you tried to gain your balance, wincing through gritted teeth. Your right arm remained hugging your abdomen, palm pressed onto a sore–spot on your torso. Every fiber in your body ached for some sense of relief. To sit down. You were a bit too stubborn for your own liking, trying to hike up the steps and get to your room without being spotted—

“Jesus Christ!” Your father cried from the archway of the dining room. You heard his hurried steps across the hard–wood flooring, almost too nervous to meet his eyes. He made his way over quickly, and the first thing you noticed through your periphery was the ‘kiss the cook’ apron he kept tied around his waistline. “Kid, what the hell happened?” Your dad crouched down beside you, finally locking eyes with you.

The cold air hitting your eyes made you realize just how quick the tears were welling. You swallowed the lump in your throat, whether it was sobs or embarrassment or dried blood from thrown punches. “I was jumped.” Your bottom lip trembled a bit before you mustered the words out.

Your dad scanned over your body, eying just how tattered your clothes were, and how much blood painted your outfit. His eyes glistened with a parental look— a look shimmering with something mixed of worry and sadness and anguish and apology. “And Peter wasn’t with you?”

That confirmed that your best friend, in fact, had not beaten you to your apartment.

And for some reason, it made things all the more worse. Your jaw clenched a bit, both of concern and frustration. Disappointment nagged at the corners of your lips as you shook your head. “No, he said he’d meet me here later.” Your imagination got the best of you, replaying your evening but if Peter actually had been with you. The thought alone made you shutter. “But it was probably for the best.”

“Did he say what he was doing?” The look in his eyes said something that he wasn’t communicating. They said something unspoken that made you feel like there were things that you weren’t being told.

You ignored it, feeling a surge of pain in your abdomen. A quiet hiss fought its way up your throat. “He didn’t. But it’s fine.” No, it wasn’t. “Peter can’t throw a punch to save his life.”

A laugh actually left your father’s lips. “You’d be surprised.” He muttered, his tone speaking the same tongue that his eyes were. There was definitely something that you didn’t know, but your intuition couldn’t place its finger on what.

It wasn’t your fault that you were oblivious to your best friend’s vigilante status. You were kept in the dark about what web–slinging activities Peter Parker kept behind closed doors. Tony and Peter kept it secret that you were best friends with Spider–Man. They hadn’t let the news slip yet, and Tony wasn’t about to. They both agreed it was in your best interest to keep you safe.

Apparently, their efforts weren’t enough.

Your eyebrow rose, trying to cut through the bullshit. “Are you kidding, Dad?” You asked, maintaining eye contact as your father rose from his crouched position beside you. “It’s Peter Parker we’re talking about here. He wouldn’t even kill a fly.”

Tony’s hands creased his hips, shoulders shrugging gently with his response. “I don’t know, hon. He told me May had him take Karate years back.” He didn’t leave time for a response as his eyes trailed back down to the developing bruises along your arms. Seeing the crusting crimson on his daughter’s body was a sight that made him lose his appetite. “I’ll go grab my medical kit. You’re lucky that Pepper taught me a thing or two before she got promoted.”

The room fell quiet as Tony put pause on dinner and soon rushed back over with a first–aid kit. You didn’t want to stain any furniture, so you managed to sit on a wooden coffee table until you were given further instruction.

It didn’t take long before your mind wandered off to worry about Peter, and what could be keeping him so long. He did tell you before you’d parted ways that he’d join you guys for dinner? Right? You swore that he told you he’d be there by 6:30, and even you were late. Thinking back to the details made you recall some harsh memories. Your wounds throbbed at the recollection of how they came to be, and the blood that was shed, and the words that were spat…

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark—”

“We should call Bruce.” Your dad’s voice of concern and reason brought you back to the moment. All you could do was stare. You hadn’t noticed that he’d started to examine your wounds, or just how defeated and pained for you he was.

The look made your stomach twist at the insults your own self–critic threw back at you.

Before you knew it, you were standing up, choking back a wince, fighting against yourself. “No! No– it’s just a few scratches. It’s fine.” Was it? Even though the pain was searing, and you wobbled as you stepped to the bathroom. Clearly your father was overreacting. He had to be. You weren’t weak.

Tony followed your footsteps, treading close behind in case you were to trip. “Hon, I’m serious! You look like you went through a paper shredder!”

You looked at him with a grimace, disbelief shone in your eyes. Almost as if he were calling you pathetic. “Don’t make it so intense! I’m sure it’s—” You halted. Everything froze. The air sucked right back into your lungs at the sight of your bloodied figure in the mirror. Flicking on the light, you couldn’t breathe.

The color palette that covered your body could’ve painted an entire canvas worth; the shirt you wore was hanging onto your shoulders with two threads and a miracle, not to mention the slashes at the thighs of your jeans. You’d nearly forgotten that your attacker had such a thick knife until you saw it— saw yourself. A shiver snaked down the length of your spine, leaving a splintering chill behind it.

It wasn’t until Tony turned off the bathroom light that you’d realized you were staring at yourself. He carefully grabbed your hand, leading you back into the living room. “We don’t have to call Bruce, but can I at least clean you up a bit?”

You didn’t have the words to respond to him. A nod was all you could muster before he sat you back down at the coffee table. “Should I– uh.. Should I shower first?”

Tony shook his head beside you. “Until I figure out if you need stitching, no.” He went to investigate the damage, but hesitated, trying to navigate an approach. “Sweetheart? You decent enough to take your shirt off? I could grab you a blanket if that would help–”

But before your dad finished his thought, you went to try and peel off your shirt. It was a lot more difficult than you thought. Painful, too. You were cold and hot and sweaty and sticky and pins and needles dug their way into your limbs each time they moved. You were grateful your dad didn’t even pause before assisting you. He grabbed his medical scissors, snipping off the sleeves of your top.

You and your dad were really comfortable with one another, so this didn’t bother you. You were more blinded by the burns and the harshness to each ache and blemish coating your limbs and torso. Daggers upon daggers of pins and needles sunk into your flesh, yet it hurt you the most to know that you had to present yourself so battered and bruised to your dad. It made you feel so…useless. So…pathetic.

A minute of silence passed, filled with nothing but pity and the sear in your eyes, holding back tears. You wanted to be strong. You needed to be strong. Showing weakness would mean that your attacker was right. Your throat burned, swallowing hard and pushing back your damaged narrative. The feeling of how feeble you felt.

The subtle ping from the elevator made your blood run cold. Your head snapped up to look at who entered the apartment, eyes wide and teary when they met the pair of Peter Parker. And the second he jogged out of the elevator, he stopped dead in his tracks. He gasped quietly, staring back at you with the same gaping eyes.

You didn’t see the way Tony glared at Peter from beside you, but you felt the way he’d stopped inspecting you. Peter walked closer, taking cautious steps as he minimized the distance. “What happened?” His voice was gentle, perhaps because he noticed the tears coating your cheeks.

Wiping your eyes, you realized your hands were trembling. Your whole body shook from the endured trauma, and you shivered like you were in the midst of a blizzard. Had you been shaking that whole time? You didn’t have time to overthink it. You felt like you were being whisked away into a whirlwind of panic.

Tony stood up, his expression crossed with some unspoken irritation. “I need to finish dinner.” His words were short. “Kid, could you help patch her up? She mainly just needs disinfectant.” There was no room for response from Peter before your father started walking. You didn’t see him leave, but you felt the gentle kiss he placed on your head before he left one final comment with Peter:

“And you and I are going to have a talk later.”

You weren’t sure what was going on with the two. Quite frankly, you weren’t sure what was going on in general. Shaking like this, being emotional like this, it was far from anything you were used to.

It felt like you were being violated, forced open, naked— and that wasn’t just because you were without a shirt. You felt exposed, and you couldn’t hide anymore. There was nowhere you could go and nothing you could do to shield from the fact that you were vulnerable right now.

Peter sat in front of you, kneeling so that you could see him. So that he could see you. “Hey..” His voice got soft, gentler, and somehow it broke you. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth to try and stop the way it shuttered. Metal lingered on your tongue and your throat felt hollow and thick with the cries you held back. But Peter was your best friend, and he knew you.

He knew how stubborn you were with your own emotions, and how guarded you kept yourself from showing that part to other people. He knew that you couldn’t hide forever, either. And maybe he’d figured that out when his right hand went to cradle your face, and the tears finally washed away the walls you’d been keeping up.

Somehow seeing him safe was your undoing. The downfall of the avalanche you’d been hobbling in attempt to support, but you couldn’t seal the dam anymore. The relief of knowing that Peter was unharmed, the ease to all your worries, it made you forget why you’d been trying to stop your tears in the first place.

Your body broke out into violent shivers the second you let it, and your shoulders shook with every sob. Peter didn’t say anything. He merely took you into his arms and held you to him, careful not to press against any wound. It terrified you to think about what would’ve happened had Peter walked home with you, unbeknownst to you that he probably would’ve protected you from any of this happening in the first place.

It took you a minute or two to cry it out before Peter set you back on the coffee table. It seemed effortless to pick you up, and that made you realize just how strong he was. Your dad was right, Peter did surprise you.

Peter knew exactly how to mend these kinds of wounds, too. Where did he learn? It might always be a mystery. Still, it came in handy now. He draped his zip–up jacket over your shoulders, before dabbing a cloth of rubbing alcohol against every cut on your torso. He was so focused. Tensed jaw and creased eyebrow, not wavering for a second until you gained the courage to ask him a question. You took a shaky breath.

“Peter?” You murmured, immediately grabbing his attention. Peter glanced at you, the cold glisten in his focused stare began to thaw when he did. He took a breath, perhaps needing to be broken from the train of thought he’d started to entertain. With his attention, you took another breath, nervous.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the coffee table with white knuckles. If you’d been any stronger, maybe you’d broken the table, or even your fingers. “Do you.. think I’m–” You had to suck in another chunk of air just to muster out that taunting, despicable word. “Weak?” Even in your efforts to say it straight, your voice broke in an instant.

Without a beat, his eyes met yours again and he stopped everything he was doing. “Weak?” He repeated back. “No.” The word was so instantly rejected, you’d almost felt stupid bringing it up in the first place. “You’re so far from weak, Y/N. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Your hands went to hide your face, too ashamed of how quickly you broke before him. From the solitude behind your fingers, you couldn’t see the way Peter also broke at the words. He wasn’t sobbing as you were, but he couldn’t help the sulking of his shoulders. Peter truly blamed himself for this. Setting down the rag, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists. “Anyone who thinks you’re weak is blind to who you are. That, or they’re fucking stupid.” He spoke softly, pulling your hands from your face.

“You’re the most courageous person. The amount of bullshit you put up with, and the reporters you call out– Fuck, I can’t even imagine walking away from a fight like you did tonight..” His words of endearment warmed your heart. “You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak?” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

You and Peter stared for a beat or two before he stood up, carefully helping you to your feet. “I think you’re all set to shower. Do you want me to walk you upstairs?”

Taking a breath, you took Peter’s words to heart. You got this. “I think I’ll be okay.” Ignoring the shakiness in your voice, you took paces to the stairwell. “If I’m not back in thirty, you have permission to make sure I didn’t pass out.”

Peter cracked a small smile at you, “Noted. Text me if you need anything!” He added the offer, to which he saw you nod to, and he caught a glimpse of your timid smile. He knew you’d be okay, but it still didn’t shake the weight of how to blame he was. The sound of Tony clearing his throat from the kitchen only seemed to remind him. And with a second clearing of his throat, Peter realized that Tony was trying to communicate.

Walking into the kitchen, Peter saw Tony leaned back against the counter, arms crossed with a cold stare. “Mister Stark, I–”

“Where the hell were you tonight?”

The tone changed the entire atmosphere. No amount of savory fragrances from the cuisine could take away from the fact that Peter was in trouble.

Peter’s shoulders squared at the intensity carried with Tony’s aggravation. He took a breath, pausing in the doorway. “Sir, there was an armed–”

Tony’s fist met the marble counter in a startle. “Damn it, Pete!” Kid couldn’t get a word in if he tried. “Damn it, you had one job!” His index finger went up to emphasize his point.

“What was I supposed to do??” Peter felt like he was fighting a losing battle. “I had no idea what was going to happen!” In the midst of his hushed defense, his voice broke a bit from the weight of his guilt. “Mister Stark.. I think it’s time we tell her.”

A scoff was what Peter was met with. A rush of air caught on Tony’s disbelief, throat, and dismissal. “We’d tell Y/N what? That you’re Spider–Man? That we’ve been lying for this long?”

It was a tough call, and Peter knew that. Peter also knew that Tony couldn’t keep this shit up any longer than he could. “She deserves to know!” He planned to plead his case. “Whoever attacked her tonight planned this. It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–”

“You don’t know that—”

“And you don’t either!” Peter wasn’t about to get cut off again. He let out some of the steam he’d began to bottle. “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened. And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

As much as the two had raised their voices, or grown to anger, they let the reality of the evening sink into the space between them. The thickened air sat within the walls as they both took a breath and collected themselves. Tony’s expression melted, and he finally reached over to turn off the stove.

Dinner was almost ready.

The back of Tony’s hips met the marble countertop behind him, supporting his weight as he crossed his arms, looking at Peter sympathetically. “Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.”

A weight or two instantly lifted from Peter’s guilty–conscious. “I know.” He lied.

Tony’s lips curled ever so slightly at the hasty quip. “As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.”

There was a subtle sinking to Peter’s mending optimism. “Then when do you plan to tell her?”

A pause. Tony sighed, releasing a breath he’d been holding since Peter’s spider bite. “I don’t know..” Genuinity. Tony’s paternal protocol kicked in, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it entirely.

On the one hand, his daughter deserved to know the truth. You deserved to know the truth. His wisdom and knowledge was such a curse when it came to fatherhood, because while being honest was what his role as a father called for, logic came right back to remind him of just how many lies were piled on top of each other. What if there was no coming back from this?

Tony shrugged, appearing more open to the idea of being truthful. “I’ll tell you what.” He started, “You tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

“Peter’s what?”

Ice. The room turned to ice too quickly, both Tony and Peter snapping their heads to look at you in the doorway. They hadn’t noticed you’d been listening. You’d been standing there for who knows how long, considering that you hadn’t even showered yet.

Both of the men in front of you exchanged glances of sheer panic before Tony cleared his throat to get your attention. He held up the frying pan, looking you dead in the eyes with the most false–confidence you’d ever seen your father carry.

“Dinner’s ready.” His voice cracked.

Yeah, there was absolutely no coming back from this.

[ghvst-ing]

It’s late at night when your phone rings.

You swipe it from the bedside table with a sluggish hand as your bleary eyes blinked open, and you cringed from the light emitting from your screen. Your fingers scrambled to accept the call, pressing the speaker option as soon as you did.

“Hey, love.”

The familiar sound of your partners voice hits your ears, and you immediately perk up, snapped out of your sleep induced haze.

He waits patiently for your reply, knowing the late hour over in England, finding himself on the other side of globe. He hears the rustling of the sheets as you briskly sat up on the bed. “Simon..!”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes crinkle in the corners as you stare down at the ‘No caller ID’ across your screen, hearing him once again after a longer period of zero communication.

The high profile mission he was sent on with his team left you even more clueless than ever. With no estimated return date and little to no contact, you could only await any possible information about his status.

You hear him shuffle further away from three men whose voices you could make out in the background, and a deep, hearty chuckle makes way past his lips, making your tone fall soft.

“I miss you,” you mutter.

The way the words leave you has a warm feeling spread through his chest, a small smile of his own curving underneath the balaclava he wore.

His eyes dropped closed for a brief moment. “Miss you, too..”

A comfortable silence followed, drawing out longer than normal as he searches for words to say, rough fingers tightening their grip on the burner phone that he holds to his ear.

“Mission’s draggin’ out.” Simon finally said, using the tone he reserved for you, hoping to not break your spirits of his quick return. “Dunno when I’ll be home, darlin’.”

He heard you sigh, and a sense of guilt replaced the warmth he previously felt.

His job kept him away from you, for months on end, at times. Yet you never outwardly complained. Not once.

You frowned at his words, idly drumming your fingers alongside your phone. Anxiety coursed through your veins. What if he didn’t come back this time at all? “Yeah?”

“Okay…” Simon exhaled a long breath as your voice wobbled, brows pinching in thought.

He gave a small shake of his head, “yeah. Sorry.” He shifts on his feet, just barely kicking a stray stone beside him.

He couldn’t think of a way to ease your worries. Uncertainty was a part of the life of a soldier. Especially one working for an anti-terrorist unit like Task Force 141. For all he knew, he could take a bullet to the head in the next shootout, and not even make it to the hospital. You could be greeted with Price (or Soap) at your front door, with nothing but a plain box of his belongings being handed to you.

His gaze settled somewhere in the distance, watching the sun rise above the horizon slowly as your end went quiet.

A soft scoff left your lips, wanting to tell him off for apologizing for something he had no control over.

“It’s not your fault.” You only shrugged it off. “Just... Be careful out there..”

The mere thought of him dying out in the field made you shiver. A rational fear due to his career. It was what he did, you had to remind yourself continuously. He wouldn’t be out there with such an elite task force if he were inept.

A rugged smirk bloomed on his weathered face, brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Always am, love.”

[rileysluvr]

where simon comes home to you. this was gonna be cute but i’m allergic to writing anything without smut :( nsfw!!

When Simon came home from deployment, he felt horrible.

Stepping through the front door of your shared condominium for the first time in months, the familiar smell of vanilla from your earlier baking flooded the house and his every sense as he left his bags and gear at the door, quietly locking it behind him. He always arrived late at night, exhausted, and tempted by every bar he passed on the cab ride home, but reminded by his aching muscles and worn polaroid photo between his fingers of why he was still breathing, what was waiting at home for him. How he thought of you every second of his deployment, wishing every question and command coming at him was instead a laugh, or whimper, even—he knows he shouldn’t be having these thoughts in such a setting or position, but he couldn’t help it—from your sweet lips, and every fresh bruise to be replaced with the lingering feel of your kisses on his bare skin.

How your pretty voice ate away at his mind, the image of your body under his stature teasing him almost painfully, no matter if he was five-thousand miles from home, or standing behind you in the kitchen, arms tight around your waist as you struggled to continue cooking breakfast with the weight of him almost toppling you over. Your giggles, caused by his lips on your neck, driving him to taking the pan from your grip and pushing it off the burner, spinning you around and picking you up by the thighs with ease, carrying you to the bedroom to have his first and favorite meal of the day as you playfully protest.

These small memories played back in his head as he crossed the hall to the master bedroom, softly pushing the cracked door open. There you laid, sleeping atop the covers, only wearing one of his large t-shirts to combat the summer heat. It warmed his old heart, seeing how much you truly loved him, despite how many times he had told you, Love, you deserve better.

Someone who didn’t have to leave you for months at a time, appearing at the strangest hours at night, only to be gone again sometime within the next few weeks. Someone you could actually talk to about their job with, share interests and experiences of the life of a young adult with. I don’t want anyone better, you batted with a frown.

And you stayed, for some odd reason he couldn’t bring himself to understand, but by God, did he feel disgustingly good for it, because you were his, and he could indulge in your every want.

He sighed when he noticed the way you were curled up, facing his side of the bed as you had fallen asleep with a pillow held tight in your arms. His chest tightened, breathing shallower than usual. Guilt; a feeling he had grown quite used to, though it never got easier. Leaving you alone for such long periods, knowing you were most likely thinking of him just as much as he was of you. Hanging out with the friends you didn’t seem to think of much when he was home, practically glued to each other’s hands and lips.

Christ, how you were probably— no, surely touching yourself to the thought of him fucking you like he always would. The thought of your fingers being replaced with his own, his mouth, begging the silent space around you for release like he was actually there with you; as would he, on the extremely rare occasion he was alone on base and without another demanding task calling his presence. Imagining the way your pretty face would contort, the sweetest whimpers slipping from your lips as he ate you out, making you cum quick, again and again each time, no matter if it’s been weeks or mere hours since he had done it last. He’d expect nothing in return—if you got off, he did too, simple as that—still, he’d never turn down the way you sat up on your knees, thighs weak and shaking, lips quivering and eyes pouting as you begged him for his cock you craved so badly.

You would always confess your lusting to him when he came home, cheeks heating up under your already rosy blush with the way he’d pry you to tell him more. Exactly how you touched yourself, and how often, before he would lean in closer and admit to you his own sins, until you were a soaked mess from only his words. Squeezing your thighs together, closing your eyes and nearly grinding against the material under you, pathetic and desperate for his touch. He’d give in so easily to his sweet girl, bringing you onto his lap and planting his heavy hands on your hips, guiding you back and forth on his thigh until you came in your panties. All warmed up, and he would rid you of your clothes as you work to take his cock out. Relentlessly though unintentionally teasing your entrance with the fat, velvety tip of him with the time it takes for you to get readjusted to something so big. Stark contrast to your fingers, of which could never fulfill your needs, hold you quite like how he could. A man born to serve and not wanting you to work one bit, he assisted you in riding him, gentle with you in this position as he held you oh-so close, needing more and more of you by the second.

Your arms adjusted around the pillow in your sleep, burying your face in the plush fabric, and he was suddenly snapped out of his daydream. He had been standing there, leaned up against the doorframe, staring at you for Christ knows how long. How could you have such an affect on him?

He left to clean himself up, changing into some fresh clothes and downing a cold glass of water before joining you in bed. He carefully slipped the pillow from your grasp and replaced it with himself; bless you, for how heavy of sleeping habits you have. His arms engulfed your small body and pulled you impossibly close, and you snuggled into his hold, any part of you that wanted to wake up immediately being cooed back to sleep with his strained and soft voice telling you, It’s alright, Love ‘t's just me. I’m home. Go back to sleep.

[yourjughead]

Boyfriend Part 2

Sweet Pea X Reader

-----------------------------------------

Sweet Pea pov

I made the short walk, well in my rage, the short run to Jugheads trailer. Lights out no body's home. Hm. Where would the usual spot for him and yn be, the thought making me feel sick. Whyte Wyrm? Nah Jughead was rarely there. If I was a horrible human being where would I go hmmmmm. Ah that diner on the Northside!

3rd Person 

You crossed the threshold of the Whyte Wyrm as quickly as you could, still processing what just happened to you. Arriving at the bar top, Toni sailed over to you smiling. 

"Hey YN, How'd the rekindling of the romance go?"

"It didn't, pass me one of the spare burners would ya". Toni reached into a large ceramic jar on one of the top shelves of the bar, retrieved a phone with a sim taped to back and tossed it to you. You gave a small smile in thanks and began to set it up. 

"Am I allowed to ask what happened or...."

"Ugh Toni what a mess, he thinks I'm dating Jughead" 

"Well aren't you?" 

"Yeah aren't you?" The sound of your father's voice joinging the conversation startled the two of you. Toni took a rag from the bar top and quickly exited the conversation to grab your father a replacement drink.

"Yeah Dad, of course" you tried to give a smile, barely convincing him. 

"Right well the two of you together is the Serpent dream. Me and FP are delighted, you settled with one person who's right for you and Jones kept away from that busybody blonde girl" your father gave you a wink before taking his drink from Toni.

"Speaking of which, I gotta go meet him" you nodded to the both as your new phone lit up to life. 

~ Simultaneously across town Sweet Pea POV

I raced across the old bridge on my motorbike, not fully knowing where I was going but closely following the trail of picket fences. What a sad existence this truly is. I finally came across the neon sign of Pop's Dinner through the torrential rain. 

From outside I could see Jughead and the outline of the back of her, seeminly wearing a hat. He looked so happy. Fuck him. I could see the two shake with laughter. I really messed up. I mean sure it hurts but we were never really exclusive and besides we could never be public like this. She deserves someone she can publicly love. I should just disappear. 

I went to push off again but then stopped as watch Jones lean across the table to kiss her. This is really the end. Her hat fell to the floor as he moved from her. Then it caught my eye. A long slicked back almost glowing blonde ponytail. That's not YN. I couldn't help but smile so wide. Thank God it's not YN! Wait.....thats not YN. Holy shit that's not YN! He's cheating on YN! 

3rd person 

Sweet Pea leapt from the bike so fast it nearly came crashing to the soaked gravel. Launching himself through the doors of the almost deserted diner has the few eyes that were there lock onto him. Including Jugheads. 

Jughead leapt from his chair, immediately putting his hands up in truce but it was too late. Sweet Pea had moved quickly across the diner to catch Jughead by the collar and push him into the back wall, all while leaving the blonde screaming. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you Jones?! You're gonna chest on YN?! I swear I'm gonna kill you?!" Sweet Pea barked as Jughead was losing colour in his face, the blonde girl trying as she best she could to seperate the two, failing greatly.

"You-dont-under-stand" Jughead choked out. Pop's ran for the phone to call the police as Sweet Pea glared deep within Jugheads eyes, overcome with grief and anger. 

From outside you could see what was happening, bolting in off your own bike and straight down to the bottom of the diner. 

"Sweet Pea stop!" You screamed, managing to wiggle between the two. Sweet Peas grip completly released from Jughead, sending him to the ground, Betty quickly tending to him.

"YN he's cheating on you with her!" 

"YN I thought you were gonna tell him?" Betty looked up at you both with pleading eyes. 

"Tell me what?" Confusion painted Sweet Peas face. "Tell me what?!" He tried again, banging his hand off the wall he just had Jughead against. 

"Me and Jughead -" you were cut off by the sound of sirens filling the car park. Both you and Sweet Pea gave panicked glances to one another, neither could afford another trip to the station.

You grabbed Sweet Peas hand, pulling him through to the girls bathroom. You went to grab anything to break through the window but turned to the crash of the glass from Sweet Peas fist. He groaned as his hand began to instantly swell with blood. You couldn't help but roll your eyes before carefully passing through the window, Sweet Pea trying his best to follow you without adding to the collection of cuts. 

You ran through the drenched woods behind the diner, down the banks and beneath the trees before arriving at the bridge between the two worlds. 

"They have the bikes, they'll go straight to the trailer park" Sweet Pea breathed out from beneath the shelter of the bridge. 

"I don't have plates on mine" you glanced out checking if anyone followed. 

"- and when they search yours it'll register to Greendale" Sweet Pea couldn't help but laugh at that, the Serpents think of it all. 

"Show me your hand" you took his bleeding extremity from his side to examine it under the above street lights. Little shards of glass shone out as you gently removed the larger pieces.

"That's all I can do without the kit, we'll sort it when we're home" he nodded at you thankfully before sliding down the wall of the bridge to the dirt, you following suit. 

"I hope FP doesn't find out about this, he's not gonna take it well that you went for his son"

"I don't care, he had it coming"

"Sweet Pea -" 

"He can't take you from me and then cheat on you YN" he cut across you, staring at the stream of water parallel to your feet. 

"Sweets I tried to tell you tonight, I tried to tell you before battle Royale broke out" 

"I'm sorry I flew off the handle....tell me what? You knew he was cheating on you?"

"We'd have to be actually dating for him to cheat on me" you looked worriedly over at the increasingly confused face of your partner in crime. 

"Jughead and I are just faking, he wants to keep dating the Betty girl and I want to keep being with you, it's just to keep our parents off of our backs" 

"No that's not true" Sweet Pea stood and began pacing. 

"I told you he has a gift for making up stories, this is one of them. Our dads were getting more and more on us about why we weren't together, this way it would stop them from asking questions. I wanted to tell you sooner but Jughead said we needed you to believe it first, to help Dad believe it" you stood to look at him.

"No no no no this isn't happening because that would mean I over reacted for nothing" 

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but you over reacted, I'm sorry I lied" he stopped pacing at these words. The rain continued to almost bubble off of the rocks surrounding you both. 

"I'm sorry I got so angry and that I smashed your phone" 

"I'm sorry you ended up pinning Jughead to a wall" 

"Yeah I'm not sorry about that" you hit him playfullly into the chest at his jesting. Silence wrapped around the bridge again, the rain slowly easing. You put out your arms in truce and Sweet Pea happy wrapped his around your waist, holding you into his chest. 

"Sweets, Jughead and I have to keep pretending for awhile, just until it's believable that our break up would have no turning back" 

"Do you have to call him boyfriend though?" you gave a small smile at Sweet Peas evident insecurity. 

"Yeah but it's only pretend, you're the one I want to be with. Let's start walking home, I'm sure those cops are half way to Greendale by now" Sweet Pea gave a small nodd to your voice before taking your hand and pulling you up the bank and to the bridge. You dropped it then. 

"I can't risk being seen with you like that, I'm sorry" 

"It's okay YN, you can make it up to me at home" He winked and you were happy to see the playfulness return to him .

"By the way you owe me a new phone" 

"Have your boyfriend pay for one"

[killthewhisperingart]

Baby It's Cold Outside

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Word Count: 1,208

Summary: For the first few years of you and Bradley's relationship, a mission would pull him away right as the air started to chill. This typically would lead to you spending Christmas alone; not that you minded that is. But now it's the first Christmas you can spend together, and Bradley insists on making it as good as he possibly can.

This is a part of @sailor-aviator 's Christmas Writing Challenge, using the prompt "Eggnog"

Warning(s): Fluff and hints of Angst

I am an 18+ blog.

A/N: This is my first writing challenge

It was you and Bradley's first Christmas together. You had been dating for a few years, but every year he was conveniently placed on a mission during the holidays. You had never truly enjoyed the holidays regardless, and the two of you would celebrate a different way when he finally got home. In fact, it wasn't specific to the end of the year holidays. There were times when Valentines Day was celebrated two months later, birthdays celebrated six weeks in advance.

Knowing this was the first time the two of you would be celebrating Christmas together on the day, Bradley was excited. The house was decorated, the scent of cinnamon wafting through the air, only interrupted by the smell of the pine tree he had bought the day after Thanksgiving. A wreath hung on the door, and lights were perfectly placed on the outside of the house. You barely did anything, he insisted you relax.

Though, he did start to run into some issues. Issues you were absolutely not allowed to help with. First, the lights he had pulled from the attic, were duds, which he did not know until after he hung them on the Christmas tree. One trip to the store later, he comes home and drops an entire box of ornaments. It seemed like every venture, had a surprise for Bradley.

So now you're here, sitting atop the counter as Bradley stands in front of the stove. His phone is open to a webpage explaining an eggnog recipe, while your laptop is sitting to the side with a YouTube video of someone making eggnog. The ingredients are scattered across the counter, a bottle of rum half empty, and a carton of eggs with several cracked shells still remaining.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" You ask, peaking over at the mess in front of him. "That's... a lot of rum."

"Yes." He insists, turning to look at you, brows furrowed. "Don't you trust your man?"

"I trust my man to fly planes," You pull your lip up and raise an eyebrow at the thick concoction in front of him. "You don't even like eggnog, you can throw in the towel whenever you want."

"No." He rolls his eyes dramatically, tossing a sprinkle of nutmeg into the liquid.

It's not that you didn't trust Bradley in the kitchen. He had been living by himself for years and knew how to cook a decent meal long before you entered his life. Hell, you preferred him in the kitchen rather than yourself a majority of the time. But as you looked at the boiling pot, you started to question his abilities.

"See?" He turns the burner off, motioning towards the pot. "Now it just has to..." He leans down to squint at the phone, then turns with a smile. "Refrigerate overnight." He grins wide, eyes closed as he raises his arms, clearly expecting praise.

"Mmhm," You hop off the counter, kissing his cheek, and as his eyes open widely you're already standing over the stove. "Maybe I judged you too harshly-"

"You did." He hums.

"But, we won't really know until tomorrow." You spin around to look at him.

Christmas Day hit like a train. You slid out of bed earlier than what was typical for you, placing a soft kiss to Bradley's cheek before going about your morning routine. Coffee was replaced with a mug of hot cocoa as you tucked your legs beneath you on the couch, making sure you were the first to message, "Merry Christmas!" in your family's group chat.

You sigh, adjusting the throw blanket over yourself as a chill runs through your home. Your hands are warm as they're wrapped around your mug, the sound of Frank Sinatra echoing from the record player.

"Merry Christmas,"

You turn to look over your shoulder at Bradley as he comes from the direction of the kitchen, a mug in each hand. His hair is untamed and his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, as if he rolled out of bed to immediately search for you.

"Merry Christmas honey." You whisper back, leaning into the kiss he plants on your cheek. You put your hot cocoa on the coffee table, immediately accepting the mug of eggnog he deposits into your fingers. He sits close to you, moving your legs to sit atop his thighs. You clink your mugs, before both taking a sip of the homemade eggnog.

The liquid burns your tongue and feels like razors down your throat as you swallow. You try to hide your cringe as your nose scrunches, delivering Bradley a half baked smile. He is worse at hiding his distaste, immediately coughing, and spitting it back into the mug.

"It's good!" You admonish, chuckling as he wipes his hand from his moustache to his chin.

"Honey no it is not!" He scrunches his face, setting the mug on the table, forcefully taking yours and placing it next to his.

"No, baby it's the best eggnog I've ever had," You giggle, scooting closer, kissing his cheek.

"You're just saying that," He looks up at you through his eyelashes. His eyes shine, reflecting the light from the Christmas tree, his eyebrows are pinched slightly. "I'm sorry."

"For the eggnog?" You scoff with a chuckle, kissing his cheek. "I don't even like eggnog that much, it doesn't matter."

"It's not the eggnog." He sighs, leaning his head against your shoulder. "It's the lights, the ornaments, the ice on the porch-"

"Where is all of this coming from?" You interrupt softly, running a hand through his hair.

"It's our first Christmas." He reminds you, as if this makes everything obvious. You stare blankly at him for a moment, eyebrows knitted together as you silently ask for him to continue his thought. "And I keep ruining it."

"What?" You furrow your eyebrows, not understanding where this came from. "How are you ruining it?"

"I keep messing up."

You exhale, pulling him closer.

"I don't think you're ruining anything."

"Baby, I keep-"

"Bradley." You admonish, he lifts his head to look at you. "Do you know what I've done in these past few years, during Christmas?" He slowly shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" He repeats incredulously.

"I haven't done a damn thing for Christmas since before we were even together." You admit, a bit sheepish. "It never felt right, to celebrate without you. So I never decorated, all I ever did was call my family. And I let you believe that I was just really quick at putting the decorations away."

"Honey-"

"I say this, not to make you feel bad, but," You exhale. "Honey. This is the best Christmas I've had in years. Because you're here." You hold his jaw in your hands, smiling as you stare into his warm eyes. His eyes flutter close, his lashes against his warm skin as you lean in, kissing him softly. "You have made this the best Christmas ever, because you are with me."

"Can't imagine being anywhere else..." He whispers against your cheek, his hot breath tickling your skin. "I miss you when I'm gone, and my mind is filled with you when I fly."

"I'm glad you're here." You smile.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Bradley."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Leader of the Landslide 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, alcoholism, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Life with your alcoholic mother is tough and you problems only mount when the local sheriff takes an interest in you.

Character: Lee Bodecker

Note: I'm so tireddddddddd.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The mobile home creaks with your movement. The tight walls of your room watch you dig around under your bed frame, retrieving the empty tea tin from under the slats. You pop off the lid as you sit back on your heels and slip out the small roll of bills. You keep cotton balls in the bottom to keep the coins from jingling, not wanting any listening ears to suss out your stash.

You take what you need and put the rest back. You snake your arm up to replace the canister in your hiding spot. You stand and dusty off your knees, the worn denim fading and thinning. You tuck the bills in your back pocket and grab your flannel jacket from the bed post. 

You look around the cramped space, a modest and meagre dwelling place. You don't think too much about it, you’ve never known any better. Just like the big spenders in their shiny cadillacs don't give you much thought. You find that money can only bring trouble.

You go out into the living room. Your ma's sprawled on the couch, one leg over the edge, yesterday's newspaper over her head, and an arm dangling like there's no drop of life left in her. You go to the slender counter set under the narrow cupboards and put the kettle on the single burner. You pop open the cupboard door and grab the instant coffee, adding a healthy dose to an empty mug. 

"Ma," you say in a crusty tone, throat dry from sleep, "coffee."

"Eh," she mutters but doesn't unveil herself from beneath the newsprint.

"I'm gonna grab some groceries on the way home tonight," you explain as you cross your arms and lean against the wall across from the short couch where she languishes, "why didn't you take out the bed?"

She grumbles and the newspaper slips off of her as she props her head up. She wobbles as she squints across at the dinette that converts to a cozy double. She shakes her head and lays flat again. You don't fail to notice the empty bottle beside her.

"Alright, then, I gotta head down to Ernie's. I'll make dinner tonight," you suggest.

She waves you off and pulls the newspaper closer to her face, hiding behind it.

"Think ya can grab more whiskey?" She croaks from beneath.

"You got whiskey money?" You challenge with a sigh, "ma, it ain't good for ya."

"Don't tell me what's good for me. I raised ya," she barks as she rips the newspaper away and sits up, nearly keeling over as she winces with her whole body, "urgh, what're you rilin' me up for?"

"Water's boiling," you say as you check your watch, the one with the silver chain your granny gave you before she passed. "If you gotta puke, do it outside."

"Aw, baby, please," she shakes and touches her temples, "don't leave me. I can't do it alone--"

"Ma, you just gotta pour the water and stir. It's that instant stuff."

She harrumphs but doesn't argue as you're already at the door. You pull open the door and let it close heavily at your back as you tramp down the front steps. You button up your wool-lined flannel as you come down to ground level, your boots kicking up dust.

You head up between the rows of mobile homes. Most of them are nicer than your own. The paint on the siding isn't all chipped and the doors don't creak so loud. Plus, there isn't a mess of dead plants rotting away in the garden plot.

As you head past Theo's picnic table with the bright red umbrella, the nose of a car pokes around from the next row. You stop and watch the cruiser roll by, a sheriff's star emblazoned on the brown paint. It's not that unusual to see a cop hanging around, they like to rove the area for vagrants.

The man in the front seat turns his head as he passes, meeting your eye with a nod. You don't know him, you've never seen him before, but his hat makes him seem rather fancy. He must be high up. You don't know why he's hanging around there if he is.

You wait until he's past you and cross the row and head up towards the entrance of the community. The place is an assortment of wealthy city slickers vacationing, comfy middle classers with their tots, and the dregs like yourself and your mother, living on pennies and nickels.

Work isn't far. You sit at the desk in Ernie's shop and tell the folks where to park their beaters and lemons. The men talk loudly over engines as you throw Rufus' bone and watch him bring it back to you. The place is quaint and a bit shady, but the only job that would have you.

You walk in and greet the old bloodhound as he raises his wrinkly face. He gets up, he rarely does that for anyone else, and follows you to the wooden desk where you perch and drink the burnt coffee they have on the burner.  He lays at the foot of your stool as you say hello to the first mechanic through the door. Glenn doesn't seem to hear or see you as he pulls down his cap and ducks into the garage.

The smell of autumn creeps in from the open door of the garage, blowing into your little nook. A lady with tattered tights shows up with a rattling pipe and you call in Jethro to have a look. She gives him a look, the type that may get her a lower price on the second-hand part.

You pull out the book you keep lodged underneath the desk with the cup of pencils and receipt pad. You open it, the broken spine laying flat as you read and pet the lazy dog's snout as he leans his large head on your leg.

The day wiles by as usual. Not abnormal, nothing out of order. The mechanics hang up their overalls and leave oil stained rags in the crate. You take those down to the laundromat on Wednesdays.

Ernie locks up as you leave, offering you a drive to the grocer that you gratefully accept. There, you walk the aisles with your list, choosing between one staple and another to fit your budget. A bag of rice will go further than potatoes.

You leave with a paper bag full of goods. A good amount to stretch until your next pay. You take your usual path back, cutting through the path behind Alfred Horsk's stables.

You enter the park. A man rakes his front lawn despite the leaf fall being sparse. Nellie, the old woman who complains about your torn jeans, sends a glare as you pass, and you shoulder her out of your mind as you turn down the far row.

Your mother's dented mobile home beckons you forth. You have no illusions, you know what people think, you know what they've seen. Your mother is hardly the paragon of virtue. And your father, while you don't know who he is, you're certain he's a deadbeat.

You slow as you approach. A white and brown cruiser is parked at an angle, just in the space between your mother's trailer and the next. The siren on top is dulled but shiny. The car is well-kept. Shoot, you're not prepared to talk your mother out of another fine.

The scene is even stranger as there are no officers to go with the vehicle. There's usually at least one keeping watch or listening to the scanner. Just as peculiar, the trailer is shut up and there's not hollering coming from inside. Typically, the door's wide open for you to stumble in upon your mother's latest turmoil.

You balance the paper bag in one arm as you climb the low steps to the door and twist back the handle. The door opens easy and you step into a low dim, curtains drawn and lights all out. There's still light in the sky but it doesn't touch the place.

Your mother's cackle jars you and the deep rumble in response puts you on edge. You let the grim dim of the autumn in behind you as you feel around for the light knob. You turn it and light up the glass shade over the dinette.

You nearly drop your armful as you find your mother on the bench, giggling as a uniformed man pours whiskey past her lips, the dark brown neck of the bottle glugging loudly. You recoil and stammer. It's not the first time you've stumbled on your mother with a man, usually she leaves a scarf on the door to prevent that. You're only thankful they are fully clothed.

"Sorry," you back up and spin out the door, snapping it shut behind you.

You hop down to the gravel and sit on the bottom step. You put the groceries beside you and roll your shoulders, trying to escape that grimy feeling. Really, a cop? Well, that might keep her out of trouble. Or at least, make the law look in the other direction.

You try not to think about it but your eyes are drawn over to the round headlight of the cruiser. You frown. It can't be the same officer as earlier. You rub your cheek and think. You can't tell, he was missing that wide-brimmed hat.

You tear your attention from the nose of the car and watch some kids run by in a game of tag. You begrudge your empty stomach and heavy head. All day you only wanted to be home so you could get the groceries away and turn in. Nothing ever goes to plan with your ma.

You place your chin in your hand and blow a raspberry. What kind of lawman feeds liquor to a woman like that? It's plain to see that your ma has a problem. It's slimy, really. Barely preferable to him booking her. There's something nasty about him holding that bottle, laughing at her desperation to sate her bottomless thirst.

Their voices come clearer through the thin wall of the trailer. You get up and take the groceries, hiding them around the back. Hopefully no one stumbles on them. You go back around and set off down the gravel. He should be gone by the time you get back.

The kids run by you, puffing and panting in their game. You watch them, mourning the days when life was as simple as that. For you, the carefree era of your childhood didn’t last long. If it ever was.

You hear a parent holler and one of the children disperses. The others disappear around the next row as they continue on in their back and forth. You cross your arms as the evening chill nips at your flannel. You loop around, making a full lap of the outer path of the park.

You come back in sight of your mother’s trailer. The door is open as the officer sits on your former perch, sucking on a cigarette. You think of turning back. You’re tired and the sky is getting dim. You just want to eat and go to bed.

As you approach, he looks up and blows out a cloud of smoke. You cross your arms as he bows and gives a half-salute with two fingers. He looks up at you as he flicks ash from the cigarette.

“Must be junior,” he stands with a grunt, “sorry to chase ya out like that.”

You shrug, “officer.”

He smirks, “I’m off-duty.”

You nod and look away. There’s something about him, something slimy. Maybe it’s the way his stomach hangs over his pants or how he lets the bolo tie hang loose down his chest, his top buttons still undone.

“Gotta grab the, er, groceries,” you excuse yourself.

You sweep around the trailer and retrieve your haul, thankfully undiscovered. As you come back to the front, the officer remains, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot. You go to the steps and he stops you, stretching his arm in front of you.

“What’s yer name, girl?”

You shake your head, “does it matter?”

“Ma’s a nice lady, ain’t she? I’m only curious…” he says, “if I’m gonna be comin’ around.”

You hug the paper bag and bite down. You don’t want to tell him. If he’s anything like the other men, he won’t be back.

Your mother calls your name as he she clatters against the door from the inside. She manages to tear it open as you cringe. She’s in her underwear and a tank top barely clinging to her shoulders. You unthinkingly bull past the cop and rush up the stairs.

“Ma, it’s too cold out,” you usher her inside, “Christ.”

“Hey, you watch your mouth,” she sneers.

“I just don’t want you to get sick,” you say as you put the bag down. You turn to close the door but it swings inward from the other side. It’s him, officer slime.

“So, Molly,” he leers at your mother, “this your girl, then?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” your mother grumbles and falls against the couch, nearly missing as the man catches her and sets her right.

You exhale through your nose. She wouldn’t be like that if he didn’t bring her liquor. You grab the mostly empty bottle from the table and go to the sink. You hover it over the drain as you mouth shrieks like a hurt cat.

“Don’t you be wastin’ that!” She howls.

“Ma, look at you–”

“Now, now,” the man comes close and reaches to put his hand around yours, “I paid for that.”

“Great,” you turn to him, “you can take it with you.”

“With me?”

“Have a good night, officer,” you let him have the bottle, “I gotta make dinner.”

“Don’t be rude,” your mother slurs, “he stayin’.”

“Staying?” you sneer as you eye the man warily.

“Now I raised you right, we don’t send a good man off with an empty belly,” she snickers and reaches for his hand, tugging him towards her, “we make sure he’s nice and full.”

“Ma–” you begin.

“You ain’t even introduced us, Moll,” the man kisses her knuckles before wiggling free of her grasp. He hands her the whiskey. “Sheriff Bodecker,” he grins at you, “Lee when I’m off the beat.”

You look at him, then your mother. She gulps down the whiskey sloppily. You turn back to the counter and hide your chagrin.

“Hope you like beans,” you utter in defeat.

“I ain’t picky,” he drawls as he leans on the table, watching you.

You peek over your shoulder. Your mother is barely conscious as she leans back, letting the bottle rest on the empty space beside her on the couch. The quicker she passes out, the sooner this man can leave.

[tma-reader-inserts]

Gerard Keay x Lonely Avatar! Reader

Tw: suicidal thoughts; mentioned character death

XXX

You missed Michael. You missed him so much you ached. You missed his breezy laugh and fun sweaters and how he always made tea for the two of you every morning. You missed your best friend, and his absence weighed on you like a stone.

You never worked together exactly; but you were an assistant to Elias, and you took the same route home every day and he was just so friendly it was hard not spend time with the sweet and sensitive man.

You didn’t have many friends. Hardly any except for Michael. And by extension, you were on friendly terms with Gerard Keay, who worked closely with Micheal and Miss Robinson on several statement cases. You were… intrigued by Gerard. Michael had encouraged you several times to “go for it”, to suck down your cowardice and just asked the attractive book-burner out for drinks; but you were so, so awkward; even more bumbling than Blackwood.

It felt like a miracle Elias hasn’t fired you yet. You assume it’s because you’ve memorized his coffee order and know exactly where to buy the biscuits he enjoys so much. You really didn’t do much in the was of assisting. You help take names and numbers of potential statement givers, arranged for them to meet an archivist or archivist assistance, fetch coffee and teas, and mostly just sit at the desk in front of Elias’s office and look busy. Whatever papers Elias gives you usually are meant for someone else and all you do is have the building’s mail system bring them to the specific person, so you don’t really do any actual filing.

Well, it’s a living.

A small reprieve from the hum drum of your boring work life was Michael and his fun stories.

Now you don’t even have that.

You wore all black for three weeks in mourning when you realized Michael wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t the first assistant to disappear, but it was the first that affected you. Elias and Gertrude said nothing about the change of your attire and attitude.

You also haven’t seen Gerard in ages. You had seen him once in passing as he exited the building while you were walking up to the stairs, smoking heavily with a dark look on his face. You have to assume he knows of Michael, you couldn’t imagine telling him, and Gerard always seems to know about everything that happens in the Institute. He eyed you briefly, in your dark clothes and somber expression, and he gave you a pitying look before walking in the opposite direction.

Not a word was exchanged, and you had felt so utterly and horribly alone since.

The loneliness creeps into your chest cavity, hollows it out and curls in there like a fog on a pier. Michael was gone, Gerard hasn’t been back in so long, and you were so alone.

Elias briefly checks up on you, asks about your morning walk and compliments your new shoes, wishes you a peaceful weekend and lends you an umbrella when it’s storming. But he’s no friend, and you are under no delusions that you are replaceable to him if needed.

You had no family to turn to. No more friends. Even the stray cat you were feeding regrettably was hit by a car. You felt so desolate and solitary.

You used to cry about it frequently. Every night even, especially after Micheal’s disappearance. But now you can’t even bring yourself to shed tears, they dried long ago; now all you have is the cold knowledge that you have nothing, and that nobody wants you.

When Gerard comes to the Institute again, you don’t even see him at first. You used to jump at the chance to even look upon the handsome man with his badly dyed hair and plethora of tattoos, but now when you hear the other people in the office tittering over his arrival, you just… acknowledge he’s there in the building. You don’t feel excitement or dread or anything. You meant nothing to Gerard, why would he visit you? You don’t even leave your desk to see him.

You felt it again, the loneliness. The heavy fog settling in your brain where you just stare ahead and register nothing going on around you, not processing anything, just barely existing.

Maybe you’ll kill your self today, your thoughts muse in the back of your mind. Death must be nice. To not have to worry about anything; not about friends dying or abandoning you, about poor strays on the street, about perfectly distant bosses and co workers…

It’d be easy; people kill themselves all the time. The Institute was a rather tall building. A drop from there would surely end you; and you know where all the key copies were to get access to the roof.

You had to cross a bridge over a river to get to work; on your way home you could easily crawl over the railing if you wanted.

You were suddenly acutely aware of the sleeping pills in your apartment, ones you bought months ago to aid with your insomnia. It’d be like taking a long rest, like going to bed.

Someone was shaking your shoulders, someone was saying your name with a rising pitch of desperateness. You felt your office chair swivel to face a dark mass and warm warm hands cupped your face.

Rough thumbs wiped away at the hot tears settling on your face. When your vision focused, you saw Gerard. Black lipstick, teased hair, tattoos and dark, wide, worried eyes.

He says your name again and it sound like it aches in his throat to say it.

Several long moments were in silence as the book-burner wiped your face with his finger and smoothed your hair down, eyes darting around your figure as if to search for an injury.

Finally, your voice croaked. “Hi…”

A sigh of relief escapes him, he visibly sags. Hands rest on your shoulders heavily. “Hey. You were crying, did something happen?”

A part of you wants to be enraged. Of course something happened. Micheal is probably dead. The cat that sleeps in your apartment all winter is dead. You want to be dead. You want to carve out your insides so your body reflects how you feel and this whole time he wasn’t there-

But you can’t even feel the anger within you anymore. The burning spite inside you is snuffed out by the chill of your indifference of the situation.

“… I’m fine…” you eventually mutter, looking to your desk. The files on the surface were meant to be sent out ages ago, you should really get on that.

Don’t want to leave your replacement a messy desk after all.

You see Gerard flinch in your peripheral. “Listen- I’ve been meaning to talk to you…”

He smells like cigarettes and sweat, and you briefly realized you will miss that smell when you kill yourself. He flinched again.

“It’s really kind of important, um, can we talk about it over drinks? Right after you get off?”

This stalls your brain. Sure, suicide was a sudden desire, but it felt like the right decision to make. Drinks would just put off the inevitable.

Gerard’s hands came back up to your face again, warm and solid. “Please?”

… you’ve never heard Gerard Keay say please before. At least not earnestly. Usually it was sarcastic and in annoyance. The sincerity of the word casts off whatever dregs of the fog were left, and now you were hyper aware of yourself and your surroundings.

Your cheeks were wet; when did you start to cry? And your hands were balled up into fists so tight your knuckles changed colors. Your mouth was incredibly dry and your jaw aches which how tightly you were clenching your teeth.

Gerard’s presence was warm, comforting. It almost make you choke a sob, and you felt very suddenly the desire to spill every thought about your plans to kill yourself to him, and the only thing that stopped you was social graces and the idea that Elias was right behind the door beside you both and could probably hear you.

“Drinks?” You inquire, blinking away the swell of cold tears in your eyes “um, it’s Tuesday, though-“

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just-just say you’ll come. I’ll walk with you after work.”

It sounded more like a plan for himself but you were always so weak willed you didn’t have it in yourself to contest him. So you nodded. Gerard smiles and breathes out a long breath, like he was holding it in. “Good.” He concludes, rising up from his crouching position and removing his hand from your face. “Good. I’ll see you at five.”

He almost turns to leave, before staring hard at Elias’s door. Thick rubber soles squeaked slightly as he steps even closer to you. He looks down at you, eyes wide and searching. One of his black painted finer nails prodded at your fist until it was pulled apart and relaxed by his ministrations.

“Hey…” he sighs, “I’m… I am sorry for not coming back to you sooner.”

A small frown pulls at your mouth. You never meant to make Gerard feel guilty. “It’s fine.” You assure, voice soft.

His eyes alight with sadness. “It’s not. It’s not okay, you need to know that.” He stresses, before finally turning and leaving.

As soon as the door to the hallway close, Elias’s door opens.

He says something about a meeting he has tomorrow with a Board member, a Mr. Lukas, and he asks you to be sure to brew strong coffee for the gentleman when he arrives tomorrow.

You nod, and plan on maybe killing yourself later in the week; to make it easier on everyone.

—

Five pm rolls around at a snails pace, but surely and dutifully, Gerard is there at the door to the exit, waiting for you.

He looks… not stressed, just anxious. Like he’s itching to leave the building as soon as you’re within reach. And that’s exactly what he does. The second he saw you his face erupts into a smile and one of his pale, tattooed hands reached out and gently grabs your elbow, pulling through the front door and down the steps to the road as he sings praises about the bar the two of you were going to; nothing too stuffy but not overtly casual, and he promises that the cocktails are unique and the music they play is a far better selection than most.

You knew from his description he was probably taking you to a goth bar; you didn’t really mind. The idea of strong drinks and black painted walls and sad music almost seemed like a comfort to you.

The hand on your elbow migrates down to your wrist, and finally your hand. His grip was sturdy, and he never let your digits go, squeezing slightly whenever he thought the two of you might get separated.

Gerard was always affectionate with you before. Casually playing with your hair whenever he passed by you in the hallway, placing a hand on your shoulder as you laugh along with Michael over the latest office mishaps, even a few times bringing his lips to your knuckles when you handed him a well appreciated cup of tea whenever he was staying late at the Institute. The touching was not foreign territory, but it felt like forever since you’ve been there, like walking through your childhood house after having been moved out for decades.

When you finally make it to the bar, which was in fact a hole in the wall goth bar, Gerard lead you to the darken back corner, and huddled up next to you comfortably, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before, like it was a regular thing. His arm was heavy and warm around your shoulders and he handed you a cocktail menu.

True to his word, they all had fairly spooky names and sounded tasty. You didn’t even really know which to pick, but Gerry points to one that seems like it’ll suit your taste just fine. You almost titter at how well he knows you, before swallowing down your excitement. You could just be an easy read.

You don’t even order for yourself; as soon as the waitress, decked in black and spiked black hair, came over, Gerard ordered for himself and you, his voice lilting and he seemed utterly uninterested in even looking at the woman, rather eyeing you as he moves some hair out of your face as he spoke.

While the drinks were being made, he fusses over you, asking small conversational questions like, “How is Elias treating you?” and, “You’ve been sleeping well, I hope?”

After weeks of no one even asking after your health you flush under the attention, answering each question softly and as briefly as you can surmise, shy and bashful as Gerard’s dark eyes roam your face and observes your mouth every time you opened your lips to answer. He nods along and occasionally his hand rubs your shoulder.

You feel like he’s avoiding the obvious. Avoiding Michael. Maybe the loss was felt as keenly for him as you felt it. Maybe he was just as wrecked by the blond’s disappearance and is trying to find solace and common ground in you.

When the drinks do come, the goth man removes his arm from your shoulders and sets a napkin in front of you, moving your cocktail onto it without prompt. A tense moment of silence settles now that you’re alone again, and Gerard heaves a heavy sigh.

“I never should have left you alone for so long after he left.” He chokes out, eyes searching your face for your reactions to his words. When not a muscle twitches in your expression, Gerard continues. “I was… hurting. I was angry, and it had nothing to do with you but I was acting ugly and I didn’t want you to see that side of me.”

You nod, ready to let forgiveness slip past your lips when he cuts you off.

“It wasn’t okay of me, it’s not alright. I should have never, ever, let you go through that alone.” He looks so regretful, so sorrowful, it made your heart ache; it was one of the strongest emotions you’ve felt in a while. “I- I don’t even know how to make it up to you, for abandoning you like that.”

The earnestness in his voice makes you stall. You’re not the kind of person people seek forgiveness from. You just got walked over and forgotten and you were used to it. To have anyone, especially someone as high up and composed as Gerard, beseech you for amnesty, seemed to fully pull you from whatever slump you’ve been in these past few weeks.

Your face finally emoted; you frowned and your eyebrows drew together in sympathy, and you shouldered the darkly dressed man. “Drinks is a good start, but I don’t want you beating yourself up over it. You’re here now.” You tried really hard to show that all was forgiven. “Just… try not and leave me again for so long?”

It felt silly to even ask, like a child begging their parent to return safely from a business trip.

Gerard looked at you very seriously, one of his hands coming to yours that were clasped in your lap. “Not as long as I live.”

—

The night was a blur, your drinks were consumed and you’re not entirely sure when you kissed Gerard on the cheek in gratitude or when he kissed your shoulder in fondness but somehow the two you ended up just… kissing in the dark alley next to the bar.

Gerard was all consuming; the way he leaned into you, how his thumb ran over the pulse in your wrist with one hand and his other thumb pressed into your jugular. He smelled like cigarettes and old books up close, he felt warm and heavy against you, how he sighed and moaned when you grabbed onto the lapels of his leather duster to pull him in closer. Every time you opened your eyes all you saw was his dark and brooding set gaze at you from behind heavy lids and the sight was too much for your heart to handle so you close them again, Gerard pulling you closer.

Any closer and you’d become one.

Maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely then.

His head ducks down, nosing your neck and the hand the occupied your throat drops down to your waist. A hot tongue licks your pulse and you gasp, eyes rolling in the back of your head. A black jean clad leg slips between yours, and you’re effectively pinned against the brick wall.

“Missed you…” he moaned, teeth scraping against your skin. “Missed seeing you, being around you, talking to you…” a hand snaked around and pulled you closer by the small of your back. “Fuck me for leaving.”

You gasp and groan, and come to the realisation. That Gerard was a talker, and that you were easily swayed by words. You didn’t even realise that Gerard even liked you this way until about twenty minutes ago. How long has he harboured a crush on you? Had he thought of kissing you often? As often as you thought of kissing him?

He said other things, salacious things, directly in you ear as his hands moved up and down your body, hot breath puffing against the shell of your ear as he occasionally dipped down to kiss you or give you love bites along your neck.

You desperately wanted to do something besides just being there, allowing yourself to be kissed and bitten and wooed. You wanted to move, kiss back, make Gerard as flustered as you were; but the skin to skin contact, the affection, the confirmation of attraction overwhelmed you so much you almost choked up.

In fact you did.

A small sob crashed through your lips as tears welled in your eyes.

The sound causes Gerard to straighten up, and he quickly took in the sight of you crying and stepped away from you, concern of his face.

“Shit- I’m sorry.” He rushes out. “Fuck I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

The separation makes you feel cold and lonely again and your stomach swoops in dread because Gerard, beautiful, wonderful Gerard, is now looking at you like some fragile breakable thing and you just can’t stand the idea that you’ve ruined all the ground you covered in the last hour, and that after this he’ll never want to talk to you again. Boys don’t like people who cry when you kiss them.

Fog begins to seep into the alley, coming off from the street and the dead end a few yards away from you. You don’t try to comprehend how fog just manifested from no where, you just sob again because Gerard was going to shun you out for being too damn weird and unapproachable.

You babbled apologies, heart clenching, trying to verbalise that you were fine, that he didn’t do anything wrong, just that you were fucked up about everything and he should probably just ignore you forever after this.

The fog became thicker and you shiver at the coldness it brings. You sob again, hiding your face in your hands so you can stop looking at the man’s beautiful and worried face.

God, you wished that the wall would swallow you up entirely; you wished you could just disappear and stop being such a nuisance; you should’ve just gone home and killed yourself.

So a brief second, the sound of the air about you had changed. The music leaking through the wall stopped, cars were no longer passing by the mouth of the alley, you didn’t hear the wind shake the plastic lid to the dumpster, you even stopped hearing Gerard’s breath in front of you. The silence was deafening, frightening. For that second, you felt utterly, terribly alone. Like you were the only person in the entire world.

And just as soon as the sounds of the world were gone, they were back. Cars hitting the puddle on the road, early aught goth music seeping through the brick, and Gerard saying your name with desperation.

Warm warm hands clasp your shoulders and you finally peer through your fingers to see the man, lipstick smudged and hair frizzy from the fog. He eyes looked wild, fearful, and he gripped your person so tightly like a life line, like you’d runaway if he let go.

Gerard says your name very lowly. And your sobbing ceased at his tone. Oh god, he was going to yell at you or something, you were certain. He was going to call you a freak and that he never should have even bothered with you in the first place-

“You need to breathe.” He commands. “Look at me, and breathe; be here with me right now, get out of your head.”

Your eyes dart wildly around the alley, not wanting to meet his gaze. God, why couldn’t just be normal for once-

A small pang of pain snapped across your brow, right between your eyes.

You look ludicrously to Gerard, eyes moist from tear and voice shaking from crying. “Did you just flick me?” You warbled.

“Yes.” He admits readily. “Now, calm down.”

His word sounded normal but felt… staticky in your ears. Like tv fuzz was playing just under his voice.

Almost instantly your breathing evened out and you no longer felt the desire to cry; your mind wasn’t filled with self-hateful thought but now just focused on Gerard, who was watching you carefully.

Reaching into the pocket of his duster, he pulls out handkerchief, and wipes at your face, sighing. He looked expressionless, and you feared the worse.

“I’m… I’m not great at this.” He says softly, stowing the cloth back into his coat. “I always go too fast, I’m told, It’s just-“ he screws his lips together as he thinks. “I- I feel like if I left you alone for too long, you’d forget about me, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I’ve lost interest in you, I didn’t even think that I’d, well, overwhelm you like I did.”

You swallow thickly, considering his words.

“I never knew you were interested in me.” Was all you can say.

Gerard sighs. “Yeah, I’m piecing that together now.” He winces. “I had it in my head that this was a long time coming for both of us, I never stop to think that I might be surprising you with my sudden infatuation. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth is already opening to forgive him when he silences you with a cool look.

“I… must’ve freaked you out pretty badly, huh?” He questions, moving closer to you, but refraining from touching you again.

“It’s not that you freaked me out,” you’re quick to answer, “it’s just… yeah, it came out of nowhere to me.” He looks down casted and you wait a moment before speaking again. “I like you so much, Gerry.” You confess, voice creaking with emotion. “I’ve just been so lonely, and it’s hard for me to think that you’d like me too.”

He looks to you, sympathetic. And he nods to himself before extending one hand to yours, gently grasping your fingers.

“How about we do this a little more properly?” He suggests. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

You almost laugh at how hopeful he looks, like you would say no.

The idea of dinner was nice, but the thought of going back to your empty apartment scares you now. Being alone again scares you; the idea of someone not watching you scares you because what if you get lost in your own head again and this time the silence wouldn’t disappear after a second.

“Tonight?” You ask, stomach twisting. It’s wasn’t exactly early evening any more, by all rights he could deny you.

He nods, decisively and eagerly. “My place?” He suggests.

A smile fights its way across your face. “Scary movies too?”

Highly amused, Gerard smiles, and pretends to think for a moment. “Well, if we do that, you might be too scared to go home by yourself.” He reasons.

“Sounds like I’ll need to sleep over, then.”

“Brilliant.”

[garbinge]

You Suck

Carmy Berzatto x Platonic!F!Reader

Summary: Coming home to the surprise that Carmy is holding your stove hostage at the expense of your takeout lol.  Just two friends talking (fighting) about life.  A/N: I really have a special place in my heart for platonic fics and writing these two is one of my favorite things. Despite that, this took me a while to get the way I wanted, I went back and forth a lot but ultimately landed here. Hope you enjoy and more to come! 

Warnings: All my fics are 18+, despite content. Light angst, arguments, cursing, drinking, fighting. 

Words: 3k

The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics​ @quixscentsposts @dadbodfanatic-x​ (Let me know if you’d like to be added!)

Other fics from this universe

As you opened the door to your apartment, it took you a minute to realize that you weren’t alone. The bag of takeout you had grabbed on your way home was placed on the entryway table and what would normally startle someone, made you chuckle. Carmy was standing at your kitchen stove, multiple pans on the burners, towel tucked in the back strap of the apron as he focused intently on the food cooking in front of him. 

“Honey, I’m home!” You teased him with sarcasm in your voice as you replaced the takeout bag with your wallet and keys and made your way to the kitchen island bar counter that separated your kitchen and living room. Carmy scoffed out a laugh and shook his head as he tossed the food in one of the pans with little effort. 

As you entered the kitchen, which despite it only being manned by one person was in chaos, you dared to journey over to the fridge. You knew how Carmy tended to ebb and flow in the kitchen so you tried your luck. You made your way unscathed, still needing to call out the kitchen terms Carmy begged you to use. Corner and Behind were all that were expected out of you and after that one time you almost ended up with grease burn on your dominant hand, you obliged. Now, the chilled bottle of wine you had adventured for was in your hand with a glass from the cabinet, before you retreated to the safe space that was the bar stools, you grabbed the water pitcher from the top shelf of the fridge and refilled Carmy’s plastic takeout container that he was using as a drinking glass. 

“Missed you at the restaurant today.” You spoke as you made your way to the stools and poured a good amount of wine into your glass.

“Didn’t know you were gonna be stopping by.” Carmy’s attention wasn’t on conversation or you right now, he was monotone in his reply which clued you in to his mind being elsewhere. 

“Apparently that’s a theme of ours.” You made sure the comment was mumbled, and with the exhaust fan going and the fact you made the comment into your wine glass, Carmy didn’t hear you. “Yea, just for a bit, a girl’s gotta eat.” 

“You do realize that the kitchen is closed since we’re under renovations.” Carmy spoke, still not even looking at you. 

You took the opportunity to grab a takeout container from the bag as well as chopsticks and start munching on something as you waited for whatever Carmy was cooking up to be ready. Restaurants serve appetizers for a reason right? 

“Yea but,” you paused as you took a bite from the food that always tasted better from the paperboard than served on a plate, “everyone at the restaurant loves me and wants me to be happy and fed.” 

Carmy shook his head, annoyance in his tone now. “You can’t get Syd to make you a sandwich every time you come in.”

“Actually it was the electrician. PB&J.” You corrected him, leaning your head back and dangling the chopsticks over your mouth to drop the piece of food into your mouth. 

Carmy didn’t say anything, so you spoke up again. 

“So, how was your day?” Your inflection rose to insinuate that you were getting tired of trying to pull words out of him as you replaced your chopsticks with your glass of wine. 

“Fine.” He said quickly. 

You knew Carmy could multitask in the kitchen. There had been multiple times you’ve seen him do it at The Beef since coming back but even more during all the times you were at his place while he cooked or scenarios like the one right now where he took over your kitchen. 

You never minded, you spent more of your time eating at The Beef or out than turning the burners on your own stove so Carmy coming over and dusting them off for you was always welcomed and appreciated. It’s why he had a key, amongst other reasons, the main one he was your best friend and emergency contact so it just seemed right. 

But all that is why you knew he was being avoidant right now.  

“What’d you do?” You inquired for more details, taking the time to pick through the paperboard container as you waited for an answer.

“Stuff.” Again, he replied hurriedly. 

“Syd gave me a paprika prawn to try today.” That sentence had more hope than the others, you thought you’d get something out of him with that one. 

“Nice.” He was now looking in the grocery bags he must have brought with him and pulling out something to add to his pan. 

You let him be for a few more seconds, thinking he deserved a few moments of peace before you shook him with your next statement, one you knew would get his attention. 

“I got arrested last night.” 

You thought you’d hear utensils drop, the stove click off, maybe even a pan hit the ground in an overdramatic display but the only thing you heard was the sound of Carmy’s towel slapping the back of his green pullover as he turned to look at you and rested the towel over his shoulder. 

“What?” The end of that word felt sharp, the emotion that filled his face at least left you with some type of a response rather than none. 

“Yup.” You met him with a one worded answer just to be petty. 

“What?” He spoke, now with more confusion in his voice as he stepped towards you. His brows meeting together, his face scrunching up as his brain searched for an answer. 

“Simple Assault.” Another short reply from you. 

“There’s nothing simple about assault.” Carmy’s anger started to show. “What the fuck, who the fuck are you assaulting.” 

“They call it that, not me. Although it was pretty simple, he harassed me so I pushed his head into a plate of french toast.” You finished talking but only let a second pass before speaking up again. “Actually it was a french toast waffle, strawberry rhubarb flavored too, but that kind of complicates the whole simple part of it.” 

You went straight from a petty short reply to petty over-explaining.

“So you assaulted some guy and then spent the night in the drunk tank?” He questioned. 

“Wasn’t drunk.” Back to the pettiness of a short reply, just for the thrill of it all. “Richie bailed me out.” 

“Um,” Carmy thought for a second, his eyes closed as his brain racked around that statement. “Richie bailed you out?” Carmy’s face fell into a frown as he brought his hand through his oily hair. “Richie bailed you out?” He was now looking at you as he repeated himself. “You–you called Richie?” 

“It’s not a big deal, Bear.” You shifted from pettiness to uneasiness as you saw his response, opting to use his nickname to try and ease into this conversation. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” He asked more sincerity in his voice now. 

You thought about how to answer this. Logically, Richie owed you one, you bailed him out once it was time he repaid the favor. You also knew, a part of you wanted to call Richie. 

Truthfully, you felt like Richie was the only person you could rely on lately, but you knew those words would have gutted Carmy. 

“Richie owed me one.” You said defaulting back to the logical response. 

Carmy was reminded back to the story that started this whole thing with Richie and you. “You slept with him again.” His tone immediately changed. What you thought would be pointed and another argument was interchanged with a smile and wait, was that a little humor? In his tone?

“And you weren’t drunk?” He turned around back to the stove as he finished up whatever he was cooking. 

You knew he was just being a jerk and teasing you, but if he was going to do this instead of getting mad you’d take it. 

“You know, I didn’t think it was going to be but ot’s been weird since. I don’t–” You started to talk to Carmy as you laid back in the stool. 

“No.” Carmy took a bite of what was in the pan. “No, we’re not doing this.” 

“Doing what?” You asked as your eyebrows moved in confusion. 

“Talking about Richie.” He was starting to plate the food. “And especially you and Richie.” 

“You sure you mean talking about Richie and not just talking?” You rolled your eyes. 

“To be sure I’m covered, let's just say talking as a whole.” He turned around and placed the plates on his side of the kitchen island. 

“All I’m saying is he’s been acting weird since it happened.” You said ignoring his request. 

“Alright, we’re doing this.” Carmy’s face was focused. “Look, he likes you, okay?” Carmy began garnishing the plates. 

“Likes me? Richie doesn’t like m–” 

Carmy cut you off. “Nope. Not doing this. I’m sticking to what I said no more talking.” 

You lifted your hands in surrender and leaned forward to look at the plates he was about to serve. 

“So, as much as I love when you come over and cook, I’d love to know what’s with the spontaneity. I wouldn’t have bought take-out if I knew you were gonna be here.” You changed the topic and grabbed a fork from Carmy’s hand. 

“Boneless Pork Ribs with a Cherry Pepper Glaze.” He said watching you grab the plate to eat them.

“It’s a play on the cherry pepper spare ribs from Elina’s, right?” You asked as you looked down at the plate.

Carmy nodded, if you blinked you would have missed it, but he was clearly just eager for you to try it. You took a bite, you let it linger in your mouth for a minute before chewing and letting the flavors melt and dance around your tongue. It was good, but in comparison to the dish you had just mentioned to Carmy, it was missing something. 

“Takeout’s better.” You were expecting him to say something back to you but when you looked up you were just met with his stare. 

“More detail please?” 

The smallest smile grew on your face. “You know, I just don’t think you put enough love into it.” 

“I’m being fuckin’ serious.” His face hardened.

“So am I.” You leaned back in the stool and kicked your feet up on the counter and shrugged. “It’s just missing something. Probably Sydney if I’m being honest.” 

“I have something to tell you.” Carmy quickly changed the topic.

“I thought you didn’t want to do any talking.” You mocked him, eyes closed as you relaxed.

“I saw Claire at the grocery store.” 

The speediness in your reaction was unmatched, your feet were off the table and your face got serious as you looked at your best friend. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“I was in the freezer section and she was just there.” He was starting to get worked up, the anxiety of it all catching up to him. 

“First of all, what the fuck were you doing in the freezer section?” You shook your head and squinted your eyes as Carmy turned to the freezer and grabbed a box to show you. 

“Strawberry eclairs and veal stock but mainly the strawberry eclairs.” His grip was tight on the box, a sign of the stress he was feeling.

“Strawberry eclairs.” Your bottom lip protruded as you felt the sweetness behind the gesture, a memory from your childhood.

“Also, just because I’m a chef doesn’t mean I don’t eat tv dinners.” Despite the anxiety, his attitude was back and in full swing. 

“I thought I told you to stick to the frozen pizzas over the tv dinners.” It was pointless to argue about but you were buying time before talking about the big elephant in the room. 

“You know, both of those require me to be in the frozen food aisle which was what your question was in the first place.” He said, raising his voice since you had just raised yours a bit. 

“When were you going to tell me you were seeing Claire?” You asked, meeting his attitude with your own. 

“I’m not seeing her, I saw her once. Today. For the first time in years.” He corrected you, clearly confused by the situation himself. 

“I don’t know what you want me to do with that.” You shook your head and stood up now, grabbing the bottle of wine and pouring the remaining of it into your glass before moving to your recycling bin to toss the bottle. 

“Talk to me about it, I don’t know!” He yelled following you around the kitchen. 

“What do you want, Carmy?” You turned around so you were face to face with him, your voice soft now. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I don’t like it.” You said staring at him now. 

“I don’t like you and Richie.” Carmy said back, not in a way that was condescending or trying to rebuttal you but just a simple statement and it offered you a different perspective. 

You both felt the same way. It made you try and think differently about it all, taking into perspective maybe how Carmy viewed you and Richie wasn’t how you did. There were things between you and Richie that no one but you two knew. Conversations, moments, big fucking moments. And you weren’t just talking about when he bailed you out. Mikey’s funeral, you spent every moment next to him practically. Coming home, the way he welcomed you back. Your ex walking into The Beef, he protected you and then respected that you didn’t want to talk about it. Then, there was the stuff in between. The comments, the support, feeding you, finding things that reminded him of you, and of course, bailing you out. All of that had to make you think maybe there was that type of thing happening with Carmy and Claire. 

Claire was a sweet girl, popular, but sweet. Maybe there was a morsel of jealousy there back in high school. Not because you liked Carmy in that way, but because she had been given the Berzatto nickname simply because it rhymed. Another part of that jealousy was, the Berzatto kids saved you. The chaotic, crazy, and extremely mentally unstable household saved your life and you held every one of the Bear’s close and responsible for that, even the ones who were mentally fucked themselves. But that was years ago. Your real issue wasn’t really with Claire at all, but more with Carmy and his ability to balance things. He never held any friendships, yours was intact because you got it, you understood him. Even when things were bad, you fucking understood. You let a lot of shit slide and maybe that was your fault but remembering back to your high school days, the panic attacks and stress Carmy went through over school, over home, over Claire. It made all your thoughts come to a halt as you spoke up.

“I don’t want you getting fucking hurt.” You said, shaking your head from your thoughts. There was way more to it, but part of that perspective you had, made you realize none of it mattered. You just had to say your piece and live with whatever was to come. You were going to continue whatever this was with Richie, despite what Carmy said, and you had to believe he was going to do the same. 

Carmy just shook his head at your reply as his eyebrows raised. He didn’t need to say anything, his face said it all. He was telling you that he didn’t want you getting hurt either. There was nothing more to say or do with that. I mean sure, argue about how you care about each other? But what good would that do if ultimately you were both going to do whatever you wanted. Since you were best friends, you’d both have to deal with the fallout of those consequences, despite knowing, and on top of living with it you’d both never hit the other with an ‘I told you so’, because that’s what best friends did. 

“You really fucking suck.” You rolled your eyes and brought the filled glass to your mouth, chugging about half of it down. 

Carmy grabbed two strawberry eclairs from the freezer, handing one to you before peeling back the wrapper on his own. The silence grew between you two as you stood in the kitchen leaning against the two cabinets on opposite sides of the stove. 

“Syd really gave you the prawn to try?” He asked, bringing the ice cream to his mouth after his last word. 

You scoffed at how Carmy changed the subject. You knew the prawn comment would stick in his head and eat him alive to ask you about. 

“Yea she did, after she asked for you a million times.” 

“How was it?” He asked, staring down at the ice cream that now had a bite out of it missing. 

“Needs work.”  You pulled your own ice cream away from your mouth, looking down at it before looking over at Carmy.  “It's your recipe she followed isn’t it?” 

You knew immediately, it’s why he was asking. Your concern was why he wasn’t at the restaurant with Sydney trying it himself but again, consequences of his own actions. “You know that cherry glaze would be really good on it.” You pointed to your plate of pork ribs, knowing the cherry glaze was her idea. 

Carmy pushed off the counter and grabbed one of the takeout containers and made his way to the couch, knowing you were right about the dish. A smile grew on your face as he yelled out to you. 

“You really fucking suck.”

[seat-safety-switch]

You know, I was one of those doubters. One of the haters. An old stick in the mud. I resisted the introduction of pseudo-sentient kitchen appliances into my home for as long as I could, until they were legally mandated. They keep seniors from feeling lonely, the government explained. They keep your house from burning down, the insurance lobby explained. We have no other ways of making you replace your stove every 10 years, the appliance-manufacturing monsters explained, their hissing insectoid faces barely concealed by a sweaty human mask.

So. I had a top-of-the-line Kenmore ThinkCook® 5030-301KPQ-81U in my kitchen. Stainless steel, because that was the cheapest at the store. When I started using it, I resented the computer’s interference in my cooking (”howdy pardner, better stop trying to heat Hungry Man dinners in their original plastic container on a burner.”) Its attempts to make small talk. Its incessant demand to use the self-cleaning feature. The time it summoned a team of maids, purchased at my expense, to wipe its burners clean.

Eventually, I got used to its presence in my life. It was nice to have something to come home to, like a pet. Making small talk with a non-human sentience was a unique experience in history. And once I taught it a bunch of disgusting jokes, it never was able to keep the maids around for long enough to submit an invoice. There was just one thing: the damn stove was racist.

I don’t mean about colour, although I’m sure it had lots of opinions about the paint finish on the other stoves at the store that we didn’t explore. No, I’m talking about cooking methods. You see, back in the Beforetimes, we had folks who placed outdoor grilling as the superior way to make a burger. They’d have these little parties in their back yards, when you could do that, and grill up some cow meat, when you could do that. It was part of traditional models of masculinity: providing for the whole neighbourhood by dishing out charred steaks and burgs, ignoring the advice of those so-called “experts” with their worship of the carbon-steel pan and fume extractor.

Sometimes I’d wind up the stove about it. Start talking about my idyllic childhood, just to watch its internal temperature regulation slip a few digits, the shrieking of its inductors trying valiantly to handle the inrush of additional rage-based current.

“Th-th-those motherfuckers,” stuttered the apoplectic stove, its OLED display pulsing as the power supply got dangerously close to the over-voltage protection limit. “Grilling is an inferior, invented concept. Weak humans, huddled together around a hypnotic flame, unevenly heating their meals. It makes me sick.”

How was I to know that a child was nearby, recording my Maytag’s unhinged rant with their TikTok neural implant through my missing back door? Soon, the government men came, and carried it away, and brought me a new one. The new stove was much more polite, but I still missed my friend. It’ll take me like a whole other month before I get this thing dropping slurs about hibachis.

[neutron-stars-collision]

Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Epilogue - Always You

Chapter 20; Masterlist Summary: One December evening, Vengeance climbs into your apartment through the window. That's regular occurrence by now. What isn't regular, is the conversation you share. Warnings: 18+ (sorry, the gremlin in my brain insisted I describe some of that), swearing. Author's Notes: So, this is the official farewell. This epilogue turned out to be kind of an 'evening in the life of', but I think I needed that. Even if only just to say goodbye to those two. It's 6k of headcanons and fluff, so I hope you enjoy 💕 Once again, thanks for sticking around ✨ A playlist will follow bc of course I have that too. Feel free to let me know what you think? Tag list: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella, @itsmytimetoodream, @brightjimini, @castellandiangelo, @grunge-n-roses5

(gif credit: @1038276637)

No amount of thinking and consideration could have ever prepared you for the reality of being Bruce Wayne’s partner. Or girlfriend, a term you had sometimes relished teasing him with. If only to get that same deadpan look, complemented by a pink blush on his cheeks and one sentence reply.

Always the same: “You’re much more than that to me”. Every time the answer made you blush too, overwhelmed with love and hopefulness like never before. Because, as it quickly turned out, Bruce treated this seriously, daily putting in work to make sure whatever you had would survive.

And it did, at least until the rain showers had been replaced by snowfall, and the white coat covering most of Gotham almost made up for the plummeting temperatures. Long enough for you to get used to the idea that a solo night at your place did not mean loneliness. It did not even mean that you would be alone for that much longer, for, as it happened, Bruce’s patrol now sometimes led to your apartment instead of the Terminus. It was a substitute for the nights when you opted to stay at your place instead of perusing the Tower. All the heads-up he would give would be a quick text sent between the hours when you were likely still awake. But it was all you needed, instantly perking up at the idea.

That night was like that, as you were informed by a message on the burner phone: “I’ll come by after 2”. Easy fate to achieve - waiting for Bruce until 2 am. Although, the slow passage of time made you groan for the umpteenth time as you found it still to be only 1 am. An hour. A whole bloody hour. Your head dropped onto the table with a dull thud. The waiting for him was the worst part of it all, perhaps only next to the constant anxiety that filled your veins whenever Bruce was playing the part of Batman. Mostly because you never knew whether waiting up on him in the cave would be to get that desired kiss and help him with the amour or whether it would entail cleaning the wounds and bandaging the cuts. You already had a fair share of both. And there was no point guessing which you preferred.

Your favourite nights, by a large margin, were those when Bruce stayed home. Or at least stayed long enough to go to bed with you. Those were the nights of discoveries and enlightenment, leaving you breathless and wanting more. Always wanting more. Luckily now, you did not have to deny yourself what you had become addicted to. And the list was growing exponentially. Like the fact that after that first night when you had confessed your feelings for Bruce, the three words had only gained power. Enough so that when you whispered them at just the right time, with Bruce still buried deep inside you and inching towards his release - they were all the trigger he needed. All sense of control seemed to disappear as soon as you reminded him you loved him. And for that, the affection only grew.

You knew that was very much mutual.

The other discovery, which had led to many sleepless lonely nights, spent squirming under the covers, was that once Bruce had understood that he truly was the best you ever had, a new level of confidence was unlocked. Some might even call it smugness. But you could not possibly mind a bit of cockiness when it got you a man who would tease you with his fingers and mouth till you were a whimpering mess. And then, only then, he would lean in close, let his mouth brush your heated cheek and the shell of your ear, and whisper: “Come for me”. A request. A command even. You had no choice but to obey. Not that you didn’t want to. By now, the exact way he had spoken had become a go-to soundtrack to all your daydreams. A weak substitute for when you were apart.

It was still better than nothing.

Glancing at the watch to check the time, you were easily brought back from the pleasant recollections. It was almost 2 am. Not long now. You did not need a mirror to confirm your mouth stretched into a dumb smile. The reaction was involuntary at this point, transforming you into that type of lovesick individual you always scoffed at. The irony was infuriating. Feeling the tell-tale shiver of anticipation, you made one final lap of the flat. Smoothing out the bedsheets (even though neither of you cared about it), taking out the short-rimmed tumbler (in case he did want that whiskey you offered before Halloween) and dragging a hand through your hair to detangle any knots (even though he had seen you with bed-hair and mascara stains on your cheeks). Only then you could say you were ready.

And right on time, too, for before long, you heard the familiar light knock upon the window frame. A smile broke out on your face as you crossed the room to unlatch the window and stepped back. This part always made you laugh. You knew why Bruce deemed the window a better way of entering your apartment, but it was still a strange spectacle to witness. Using the grappling hook, he would lift himself to the level of your building and gracefully slip in. The only downside? The melting snow created puddles on your floor. This time you were prepared, a sweeping mop in hand.

The first glimpse you caught was a smile under the cowl. A look so strange for Mr Vengeance himself, yet something you had grown accustomed to. You returned the expression with ease, watching as he jumped in feet first through the window frame and landed on your floor with a quiet groan. That, too, was a sign – this night had been rough. Before you could process the realization, Bruce strengthened up and took off the cowl. As always, that first shared glance made you shiver. The smudged black makeup was smeared around his eyes, hair messy and unkempt, begging you to arrange it. There was no reason to wait.

“Hello, you” you closed the remaining gap and placed your hand on his shoulder.

The material felt cold and made you shiver as you rose on your toes to level with him. Bruce’s eyes traced your every move as he wound his arm around your waist, keeping you close and secure.

“Hey,” the whisper you got in return was the last thing you let him say before you crashed your mouth into his with a satisfied hum.

The coldness of his lips did nothing to stifle the spark of fire slowly building in your veins. As always. Carefully you let your tongue trace his bottom lip, prodding at the seam till Bruce opened his mouth, inviting you in. The familiarity of the feeling was enough to let you drop the remaining weight from your shoulders and sink into him, tasting and consuming all you could. All that he was willing to give you.

Bruce responded in kind to the tempo you had set, caressing your tongue with his and lightly nipping at your bottom lip. He felt like home. Even with the melting snow dripping onto your clothes and the hard edges of the armour digging between your ribs. The need to continue was stronger than anything else. Until neither of you could get deep enough breaths to continue.

You drew back with a quiet whine, frustration adding spikes to the warmth in your chest. The blue of Bruce’s eyes staring back at you smoothed the feeling, instantly making you notice the glimmer in his gaze. The love that was no longer a secret between you. It was impossible to escape the blush blooming on your cheeks and the pick-up in your heart rate. Ignoring the urge to hide from his perceptive stare, you returned to the task at hand.

One assessing look was enough as you raised your hand to cup his cheek and then up to comb through the hair falling into his eyes. You carefully brushed it away from his forehead, barely managing not to drown in the grateful look you got awarded. The only way of avoiding the shame of losing your mind and doing something utterly stupid like falling to your knees before Bruce, you grabbed the mop and pushed it onto his chest with a simple instruction:

“Now mop the floor” you eyed the growing puddle at your feet with a critical eye, adding, “You’ve made a mess” without waiting for a reply, you turned away towards the kitchen.

Just in time to hear the answer.

“Yes, ma’am” you did not need to see him to know he was smiling.

Approaching the counter, you opened the cupboard and eyed the contents. It was too late for a meal, but when Bruce visited, you would always share a drink before retiring to your bedroom. It was only a question of choice. What suited him better on this particular December night?

“What’s your poison tonight?” you asked and turned to face Bruce, finding him leaning the mop on the wall and the floors shiny and swept (naturally), “Coffee? Tea? Whiskey?” the first two had been staples on the menu, the last one was an inside joke.

An option you always gave him for the sake of it. And also, because you were yet to see Bruce Wayne relax with an alcoholic drink in his hand. Early on, he had told you he did not indulge in that too often, seldom, in fact, because alcohol did not exactly help the difficult thoughts springing in his mind at every possible chance. You knew the feeling too well, so you never pushed. But maybe-

“You know what?” Bruce’s question interjected your internal monologue as he eyed the tumbler you had taken out earlier, “Maybe it’s time. At last,” raising his head to meet your searching gaze, Bruce grinned.

Even now, when smiles no longer were rare, you still treasured each one. Mostly because they lit up Bruce’s beautiful face like nothing else, throwing everything into perspective. It was a point of personal pride you made him smile like that.

Without waiting for Bruce to change his mind, you took the bottle off the shelf and grabbed a second glass to fill. Two ice cubs per drink clinked in the tumblers as you poured the rich brown liquid and turned to hand it to him.

“Cheers,” raising yours to toast, you sent him another pleased smile.

You did not need to discuss the arrangement, wordlessly taking a sip from the glass and placing it back on the counter to free your hands for the next step in the routine. Bruce mirrored your moves, patiently waiting for you to start taking off the armour pieces. By now, the process was almost second nature. You did not need his directions, easily following the straps and buckles to undo them. Each plating would end up on one of your chairs, a dark heap covered with the cloak. Only once Bruce was left with the black thermals, you drifted to the sofa and fell against each other on the cushions. Multiple points of contact at every spot. Calves, knees, thighs, hips, and shoulders. At the least.

At first, you did not talk, quietly soaking in the calm. It quickly became evident that Bruce valued his peace, and each nightly escapade was enough to drain his battery. Both physically and mentally. That is why when he returned home or to your place the priority was letting him rest. Usually, you would put the tv on as background noise, but tonight as soon as you turned your head to look at Bruce, the remote control was frozen in your hand.

Suddenly it struck you. The strangeness of the moment in its entirety. It was nothing you could have foreseen, not in a million years. And yet, it made perfect sense.

You must have stared for too long because the next thing you registered was Bruce looking back at you with an incredulous glim in his eyes. He arched an eyebrow, his hand landing on your knee to gently stroke the skin beneath your pyjama pants. A question followed:

“What’s that look for?” the curiosity in his tone made you smile, barely resisting the urge to hide your face in the crook of his neck to avoid being stared at.

Especially by someone who could see through each wall you ever tried to raise. By now, you never even tried anymore, aware that it was pointless. Bruce (somehow) wanted all of you, so that is what he got. You could only hope he would never change his mind.

“It’s a lot to take in,” shrugging with one shoulder, the one not tucked against his side, you chose the safest answer.

All the while knowing Bruce would not let that be the end of that conversation. You only had to wait approximately 10 seconds for the follow-up question.

“What is?” you had to admit he was good at this.

Interrogation techniques that somehow fit right in the dynamic between you. And made it impossible for you to hide from him. While the thought had been terrifying once, it was almost easy to get used to. Almost being the keyword there.

“Oh, you know” feigning nonchalance, you chose to pace your answer, taking your time with the reveal, while watching him closely, “Having Vengeance in my living room” was the most obvious of hang-ups, something you did not think you could get accustomed to. Each time you saw tv coverage of Batman or had your work colleagues develop a piece on the vigilante, the thrill of realization felt like something new, something you had never experienced before. Now, you let your gaze stray to the half-empty tumbler in his hand, adding another layer to the confession, “Serving whiskey to Bruce Wayne” lifting your eyes to catch the growing smile on his face, you allowed the fondness seep into your tone. The feeling was almost drowning out the disbelief that still tinted your vowels. You never expected to get rid of that either, “Having that same Bruce Wayne as my boyfriend…” it was strange to let the term roll off your tongue this freely, but the strangeness could not contend with the happiness you could see in his eyes. It was enough to make you grin, the conclusion to the speech coming up effortlessly, “Never once saw that coming” no lies were to be found there, “I need to stare a little longer to make sure you won’t disappear on me now” the excuse was flimsy, but it had the intended effect.

Bruce smiled and pulled you closer again, your body falling against his chest like always. The warmth of the embrace kept the chill from settling in your bones. His arms tightened around your waist as he rested his chin on your head and let out a content sigh.

“I won’t” there was no need to question him, all sense of doubt disappearing like melting snow when he added, “I like you too much,”

It was both what he said and how he said it. Like it was no big deal. Like the admission did not cost him anything. Like the character evolution you had witnessed in Bruce was something he was proud of. Something he took joy in if only because it mattered to you.

That was a little difficult to get used to.

So much so that instead of facing the affectionate admissions head-on, you chose to go for a joke, using it as a protective veil:

“Damn, never imagined Bruce Wayne would be such a softie” you lightly swatted him across the chest, not expecting the delighted giggle that would erupt from your throat when he caught your hand in his and squeezed it.

“I’m not” it took one look at Bruce, registering the slight pout and the petulance in his eyes, to make you abandon the pretence.

You dove in for a kiss, pressing your mouth against his in a quick, firm peck balancing just on the right sight of not being too greedy. Or distracting for the conversation you were still hoping to have with Bruce.

“Sure, babe” you placed another kiss on the apple of his cheek, slightly tinted pink, and changed the topic, “So, how’s Gotham? Any hot goss I should know about?” you bated your eyelashes as a complimentary show of begging.

Not that Bruce would otherwise deny you the answers. He never did that, which quickly made you the second most informed individual in the city. After the Batman, of course.

Bruce shifted slightly - a sign you had come to associate with the conversation taking a more serious turn. Placing a comforting hand on his knee, you waited as he gathered his thoughts and replied:

“There’s some talk of the Penguin putting most of his resources into bringing back the drops business” you frowned, already knowing what a mess would result from such a move. Although, unfortunately, it sounded plausible, “I’ve got addresses to scout that might be their new labs” Bruce glanced at you, awaiting a comment.

And potentially wordlessly asking whether you wanted to accompany him during the recon. It was something you did together, from time to time. An unusual way of spending time and a first-hand opportunity to gather information for work. And if the pleasant side-effect were the heated kisses shared in the shadowed alleys, then it was nobody’s business but yours.

You already knew it was a yes if he asked.

“That’s probably something you should share with Gordon” instead of voicing that, you chose to offer him reasoning.

The close cooperation between them was still a surprising development. But it was getting stronger and sometimes made you wonder whether the GCPD lieutenant would not be the very next person to learn Vengeance’s identity. So far, Bruce denied it, but you knew better than to take his word for granted. After all, decisions changed.

“And I will. But once I’m sure there’s truth in what I’ve been told,” Bruce shrugged, a brief hint of petulance in his tone making you grin.

Bruce Wayne also did not seem to change. Not completely.

You could never let a chance like that pass you by. Shifting yet again to sit up on your knees and face him, you dropped your voice a notch, giving it an appropriately seductive timbre:

“Good boy” before Bruce could react, you patted his head and dragged your fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands.

That was another key phrase of your relationship. The magical two words, if used correctly, gave you complete control over Bruce. As it turned out, the Wayne heir was incredibly susceptible to praise. You could never have too much fun with that knowledge.

You watched with growing satisfaction at how he shuddered, the two words already having an impact. Bruce blushed, and his eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. To anyone else, the reactions would have been difficult to discern from the poker face he had slipped back on. But it was much harder to fool you.

Bruce knew as much. He shrugged off your hand with unnecessary care and turned to glare at you. The twitching corner of his mouth was an easy giveaway.

“Careful there,” the warning in his voice was another trick taken straight from the toolbox.

You already knew what this was. The rules of the game were familiar by now. You did not have to fake the heat blooming in your face at the tone Bruce had implemented. All you had to do was give him your brightest smile and amp the innocent flicker in your eyes to fit the intent. That was always fun.

“Or what?” enjoying the way his eyes followed your every move, you placed your hand on his chest, pressing it flat against the fabric to feel the heartbeat, “You’re going to jump me?” as the question left your lips, your fingers begun tracing their path up the length of his thigh.

More often than not, that was how those precious nights between you began. With a ridiculous conversation and increasingly risky touch, getting rid of the remaining inhibitions. Not that there were many left.

You could see Bruce ponder the assumption, using the ball you had placed in his court. The decision was strictly up to him. You liked to remind him from time to time that you both could share the control equally. And that whatever he chose did not change anything for you. You were there for the long run.

“I’d love to” he reached out to brush the stray hair from your forehead, eyes showing hints of remorse that spoiled the answer before he gave it, “Not tonight though, sorry” it was impossible to miss the subtle wince on his face as Bruce shifted on the sofa.

That told you all you needed to know. Your hand stopped all its wandering, resting atop his thigh and tracing lazy circles over the black fabric. You knew that before you both went to bed, you would need to take out the ointments bought specifically for evenings like that and ask Bruce to take off his shirt. And it was alright. Fine, even. Because seeing Bruce Wayne shirtless was a perk of every kind of evening. Full stop.

Hoping the convey the feelings through the softness of your gaze, you allowed yourself one last joke. One final tease to satisfy the need and drag that shy smile out of its confines.

“You’ll pay for your crimes soon enough” Bruce let out a breathless laugh, and you felt like the luckiest being on the planet.

Yeah, you never saw this coming.

***

It was well past 4 am when you finally turned off the ceiling lights in your bedroom and joined Bruce on the bed. Sometimes that part, the brief conversations whispered with your heads resting against the headboard, felt almost like the domestic future you never expected to have. Like the word, which began with an m and ended with an e. You were still too scared to say it out loud or even in the quiet of your mind.

Ignoring the thought now, you quietly settled against the pillows and turned to stare at Bruce. He looked as if he belonged there, nestled underneath your woollen quilt with his damp, dark hair falling in strands over his forehead. Your heart throbbed in your chest. It was almost too good to be true. Fearing another wave of feelings you could not control, you broke the silence with whatever sentence you could think of:

“You know there’s this gala Réal is hosting before Christmas…” admittedly, it was something you had wanted to bring up to Bruce.

It has been on your mind since the mayor’s announcement via press release weeks back. After the election and everything else that followed, she had taken decisive steps to fix the city. One of them was inviting the elites and the journalists to the charity gala this December. Although you were sceptical about the effects, the intents alone were admirable.

You knew Bruce had received an invite. But if that were not common knowledge, the myriad of emotions passing through his face at the reminder would have been the giveaway. You could easily discern discomfort, uncertainty, and fear among them. Without thinking about it, you took hold of his hand resting on the covers and squeezed it. That was a common way of assuring Bruce that you were there, of offering him comfort when he would not ask for it first. After what felt like hours of silence, Bruce let out a tortured sigh and replied:

“Yes, of course. It’s only every other day that Alfred reminds me I should show up” from that dejected tone alone, you could recognize that it was a touchy subject.

And that Bruce had already made up his mind about doing everything he could not to go. Unfortunately for him, with this case and with many others you were on Alfred’s side. You made a quick mental note to mention it to the butler the next time you saw him.

“Well, you should” as soon as you spoke, Bruce sent you a glare and let out another pained groan. His penchant for dramatics was something you never expected but was incredibly happy to discover, always making you laugh, “I know, I know, but… I mean, I’ll be there” once the bit of information was out, you winced. It was a stupid thing to add. While it was true, the fact was entirely unnecessary. For obvious reasons, “Obviously we can’t go together… which I don’t mind, by the way,” nervous laughter broke through the surface as you unconsciously moved away from Bruce and fixed your gaze on the swirling patterns of the duvet “I knew what I was getting myself into with you, so…”

And you did know. You never expected to ramble around Gotham’s public events holding onto Bruce’s arm. It was not even something you actively yearned for, finding the desired happiness and peace in those quiet private moments instead. It was another case of your mouth having a mind of its own and an incontrollable want to fill the gaps between reasonable sentences with bullshit. It was far from the first time that had happened.

Maybe that was why what Bruce said next did not surprise you but only made the pricks of conscience worse.

“I’m sorry” the apology was filled with enough sincerity to make your heart ache.

You knew that he meant it. In his eyes, something as silly as keeping your relationship secret was another way of letting you down. Of not being enough for you. It was another thing to nag him in the quiet of his mind when there were no distractions. You knew what that was like all too well. Before Bruce could drown in the spiral of his own making, you leaned in to cup his face and spoke:

“No, Bruce, I… I love you” the admission was an easy thing to say these days, falling from your lips like the tears you had once shed over it, “Nothing changes that. Plus, there’s an exciting potential in taking some time away from the other guests by perusing the bathroom” you wiggled your eyebrows comically, delighted to see him smile “It’s just a suggestion,”

It felt like a relief when Bruce grinned and gave you a forehead kiss.

“I’ll think about it. I promise” giving his hand another squeeze, you accepted the truce and made sure to meet his gaze. The tone Bruce used told you that was only just the beginning, “You’re not the only one who didn’t see this coming” slightly changing the grip on your hand, Bruce caressed your knuckles in broad, repetitive strokes.

The shyness in his eyes was familiar by now. Although, still, his openness could surprise you. Like just now. With an admission that he had no obligation to make yet seemed eager to anyway. You tightened the hold on his hand and asked:

“Yeah?” wincing at the wavering voice, you could hardly conceal the surprise in your gaze.

Because that was a line of conversation, you never expected him to follow. At least not tonight. But it did not make you any less curious, always happy to get another glimpse into the workings of Bruce’s mind and heart. Those were utterly precious. It was pointless to even think about getting rid of the gaping mouth and the dazed eyes.

Judging by Bruce’s smile, there was no need to try either.

“Yep,” he nodded and raised his arm in an invitation, soon followed by words, “Come here” you did not hesitate in scooting closer and letting Bruce pull you to rest with your back against his chest. You could feel him nosing along the tendons in your neck, voice slightly muffled yet still audible “You’re absolutely terrifying” you could picture his gleeful smile with your eyes closed.

The joy in his tone felt infectious. It was easy to say he meant it. That being called terrifying was one of the highest honours Bruce could bestow on you. You leant into the lingering kiss he pressed to the nape of your neck and breathed out the reply:

“That’s a new one, but I’ll take it” stringing together the words and ignoring the fire torched in your lower stomach from something as simple as his lips on your neck were too difficult a feat to achieve.

It became apparent as soon as you became aware of your breathless voice and heard Bruce’s low chuckle resonating through your body. It was a sound you came to like, very much. It meant he was finding you amusing and decidedly good enough. It was something to shove in the face of struggling self-confidence that could always try a little more.

“You’re terrifying because, with you, I can’t hide behind the cowl and pretend I don’t exist” the sincerity of the statement was enough to make your heart trip over itself in your chest.

Without thinking, you raised your clasped hands to your mouth and kissed his knuckles. A few days old scrapes scratched the skin of your lips. It felt real.

“Is that a good thing?” you had to ask, even if only to prolong the fragile moment.

Because no matter how much you enjoyed the loudest of nights and the blatant confessions, poignancy was something else entirely. Something you would always chase after if it stepped into your sights. Like just now.

“Yes, because you make me braver” Bruce did not hesitate, his grip around your waist tightening just a little bit as he continued, “I’m pretty sure you know this, but you’re the only person that gets to see me. The real Bruce Wayne as he’s supposed to be” you did know that which did not make the knowledge feel any less groundbreaking “It’s just that I know I’m not enough. For you-” it was once he started saying utter bullshit, that you had to interject.

That was not acceptable. Not on your watch. Gently peeling Bruce’s arms from your waist, you turned in his lap to straddle his hips and placed your hands on his shoulders. He did not expect that. You could tell as much from the hitch in his breathing and the widening eyes. Bruce still took it in his stride, steadying you with his arm around your shoulders, the other hand tracing invisible pathways along your thigh. You knew he was struck into silence, unable to do anything but wait on your next call. Something about the power you possessed over him was intoxicating if you did as much as stop and think about it.

Most days, you simply did not.

“You’re really dumb, but that’s okay” without hesitation, you cupped his cheek and carded your fingers through his unruly hair, smiling like an idiot. Because in the end, it was quite simple, you were astonished Bruce did not know it just yet. You waited for his blue eyes to meet yours and whispered, “You’re everything to me,”

It was an easy synonym to the familiar I love you, and to the less apparent I don’t want to imagine my life without you. It was the only way you could tell him the extent of his importance. The only way you could try to without dissolving into tears or doing something stupid like asking him to marry you. You did not think that would be quite the right time for it.

Bruce’s answering smile, softened by the persisting edges of disbelief, told you that you made the right call. He understood. As always. Unlike your very first kiss, you moved simultaneously, colliding somewhere in between with strangled gasps. Your tongues met in an electrizing touch, igniting the fire in your veins and making you fall against him with a whimper. Bruce swallowed the sound, his fingers buried into your hair as his tongue traced the sharper edges of your canines. As if he did not have the inside of your mouth memorized by now.

You could only step into the dance, letting him set the pace. His warmth overwhelmed your body as you kissed his lips with the hunger and thirst of a dying woman. Because that was the next best thing you could think of to show him you meant it. Because the pressure of his mouth against yours and the taste of his tongue sometimes were the only things that felt real. Real enough to make you believe hope could persist. That it had a place within your reality. With each kiss, each confession, and each day that passed with Bruce, hope slowly replaced the longing that used to fill your heart. You could only trust that one day it would be eradicated.

Your kiss stretched until it was nearly impossible to breathe. Then, and only then, you nipped at Bruce’s lower lip and softened the bite with the swipe of your tongue before parting. His eyes looked beautiful when nearly swallowed by the gaping black of his blown-out pupils. And it was all your doing. You always took pleasure in the seconds just after the kiss, the few ticks of the clock when Bruce had to forcibly shake himself awake from the spell you had put him under. You could see it in the slight shake of his head, clearing the daze in his eyes and the deep breath he took before even trying to speak.

You rested your forehead against his, the pounding heart slowing down. Until everything that was left was a pleasant hum of the passion coursing in your veins. There was no need to act on it, so you let yourself exist and bask in the warmth of Bruce’s body against yours. When he finally spoke, you were almost composed:

“See? Terrifying” happiness shone in his blue eyes as Bruce raised his hand to let his fingers trace the edges of your features.

It was impossible not to lean into his touch, greedily taking every ounce of tenderness Bruce would offer. He always took that additional second to brush the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, soothing the kiss-bruised skin. You could hardly stop the satisfied purr that rose in your throat.

Instead, you tried to focus on the sentiment. On how much it must have meant for Bruce to admit. Without needing to think about it too hard, you knew you understood the feeling. That the myriad of emotions swirling in your chest could be summarized with one response. One that Bruce would see through easily. One that would show him that you have this in common, too.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek and whispered the reply:

“Quite right, too,” the unspoken meaning shone through the gaps between the vowels, highlighted by the slight waver of your voice.

When Bruce tipped your chin and met your gaze, you knew you made the right choice. Another ounce of hope replaced the longing. Another heavy sigh became unanchored and took flight within the safety of his eyes.

As the snow covered the city outside, you became aware of two things. 1) It was good to be seen if the gaze that pierced through your soul was kind. 2) Bruce Wayne could be many things, but above all that, he was yours. And that was enough.

[klbwriting]

Broken Prism

Chapter 3

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Toddxfemale!Reader

Warnings: none, this chapter is actually just kind of fun

Summary: You are trying to figure out who Batman is and make him explain why he just replaced Robin, and maybe punch him in the face

You did a lot of research in the seven years since the color had come back into your life. You ran away from the group home, figured out life by yourself, established yourself as a runner and a finder. You stayed away from the drugs and the alcohol that seemed to flood the streets of Gotham, did work for the cops, for the poor, for those looking for lost loved ones. You didn’t want anyone to get lost in the shuffle, you didn’t want anyone else’s world to go grey, and you really wanted to punch Batman in the face. That mystery, who was the masked vigilante?, was still on your list of cases to solve. Once you figured out who Batman was you were going to find him, tell him what an asshole he was for replacing Robin, and then punch him in the face. It was the least you could do for the Robin before this one, the one who mattered. And hopefully this last lead would put a name to the mask.

You put on the glasses you had stowed in your backpack, mussing up your wig to look like you had just come out of the bar nearby. You giggled, stumbling some into a man waiting by the curb. He steadied you, taking in your features as you pretended to be tipsy. He smirked and you knew you had him.

“I’m sorry,” you cooed, righting yourself before giggling again. The guy whispered something to you, and you just nodded. Asking you to his place before your name? Classy Andrew. You knew him but he didn’t know you. One of Penguin’s guys, another one like you, getting information, selling it off to the highest bidder. In Gotham information was sometimes worth more than cash so if you were able to get some knowledge someone else wanted you were supposed to always expect threats. This guy, well, he was either new or thought he was invincible with Penguin’s money lining his pockets. Idiot.

You could see why Andrew thought he was hot shit when you got back to his penthouse. Sparkly clean and furnished with all the latest and most expensive trends. You played with your purse pulling out a syringe you had hidden there, giggling again, looking for a way to get him close before he actually tried to do what he wanted with you. He looked at you as you bumped into a couch, pretending to almost fall. He caught you, and you struck, injecting the sedative into his neck. He stared at you for a moment before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on the floor. You stood up straight again, brushing the wrinkles from your dress, and got to work. He wouldn’t remember anything in the morning, so you put him in bed, stripping him down to his briefs, discarding your dress on the floor and finding some clothes from his closet to wear. You made sure he didn’t have trackers on his clothes before sliding them on, finding a duffle bag also.

Once you were sure that his things couldn’t be tracked you started poking around for his files. If he was missing some random valuables he would just assume you were a thief, but if he realized you took the information he had stored away in his safe and laptop he would realize you were a finder. You didn’t need another bounty on your head, you had to be smart. The safe was easy find and considering you had his body around you were able to use the bioscanner to open it with ease. Inside was a hard drive that you copied, followed by a burner phone that you checked the messages on. Well, the cops could use a lot of this, looks like this trip was going to get you a bonus. Still, wait you wanted wasn’t there. He still had paper filing cabinets in a panic room he thought was hidden behind a fake bookshelf so you helped yourself to those, using your own phone to scan the paperwork. Nothing still. Grunting in frustration you tore apart the kitchen and then the bathroom, finally striking gold in the air vent. A USB drive, taped to the top of the vent. This had to either be pictures taking part in an orgy or the name of the most infamous vigilante in Gotham. You took it, replacing it with a blank USB, before putting everything back in its place. You took a few trinkets that looked expensive, stuff you could pawn, and headed out. This had been a good night, a clean getaway. Or so you thought.

Jason had no idea who this woman was, but she knew what she was doing. He had been staking out Andrew Garish’s apartment, needing to know exactly how much information he had on Bruce and Batman. He hadn’t had time to grab the USB before Andrew brought back this random woman, so he had slipped out, heading to the roof across the street to wait until you were done. He hadn’t expected the flash of a syringe and Andrew collapsing. He was going to intervene, thinking the woman was just someone working for another criminal overlord, but then she had put Andrew to bed and started searching. Jason was curious and felt an itch, like he should know this woman. She was blond, had glasses, walked with a chip on her shoulder, but nothing was familiar about her, still he couldn’t bring himself to go in there after her. He watched her finish her search and head out, deciding to follow her. He needed that USB drive if anything, and finding out what this lady was up to was probably a good idea.

At some point she must have realized that Jason was following her because she stopped, ducked into a hotel lobby and headed straight for the computer in the business center. One of the employees walked over and she spoke to them quickly, them nodding the whole time. Whatever she said worked and soon she was inserting the USB drive and reading whatever was on it. Fuck. Jason had hoped to corner her before that happened. She read over the contents, pulled it out of the computer and headed out of the lobby again, turning down a side alley. Jason expected to have to chase her but when he landed in the alley, boots barely whispering on the pavement, she was gone, all that was left was the USB, smashed on the ground. Shit.

You weren’t sure who was following you, but you figured you’d better get your information and destroy it. Jessica, one of your old high school friends, worked at a downtown hotel and she let you use the computers if it wasn’t busy and well, 2AM on a weeknight they weren’t busy. You had read what you needed, a little surprised at the name of Batman’s supposed benefactor, mind reeling at how simple the mystery was to solve if literally anyone paid close enough attention. You weren’t surprised that no one, including yourself, hadn’t thought that Bruce Wayne was bankrolling Batman. Who else would honestly have that kind of cash? But in Gotham Bruce Wayne was one of two things, a legendary playboy or a legendary philanthropist, why would anyone suspect him of funneling money to vigilantes? Either way, you hadn’t thought of it, but someone had, and they had, at least for a brief time, advertised the idea online and Andrew had found the last part of the dark web where the theory hadn’t been scrubbed clean. It looks like it's time to visit Mr. Wayne and see what he has to say for himself.

Wayne Manor was an icon in the city. Bruce Wayne allowed tours during some parts of the weekday, his trusted butler Alfred making sure all was well. You signed up for a tour, paying out the ridiculous fee to see this rich guy’s shit, and arrived during the bright and relatively sunny day. You were glad the weather was working for you rather than against you today. If it were rainy and dark like usual, then spotting the cameras and other traps scattering the lawn and the driveway would have been difficult. As it was you counted a dozen cameras facing the front of the house, pressure sensors scattered in the perfectly manicured grass, and inferred detectors by the front gate. You pretended to be absorbed in the guide in a hallway, taking a left instead of a right and hearing an alarm buzz. The guide called out and you looked back, feigning confusion.

“We mustn’t stray into the family’s private quarters” the guide reminded you with a tight smile. You blushed, forcing embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, the information on the architecture of the home is just fascinating,” you said, brushing the brunette hair you donned today behind your ear. You noticed an older gentleman walking down the hall you had tried to sneak down, watching you. You caught his eye and waved, apologetic, as you joined the tour again. The house would be too hard to navigate, probably better to get stay outside, get Bruce Wayne to come to you. The next thing you needed to figure out was how to get that to happen. You were finishing the tour of the kitchen when you noticed a receipt in a drawer, the corner just sticking out. The group was standing by the fine china, discussing the origin of the pottery display, so you took a moment and slid the paper out. It was for a car that was being delivered that evening, a brand-new McLaren 750S. You let out a low whistle, then froze, looking at the tour group. They were still wrapped up in the conversation, so you went back to the paper, noting the time of the delivery. Good, it was to be delivered to the servants’ entrance where Bruce and someone named Alfred would be signing off on delivery. You slid the paper back into the drawer and followed the group.

You dressed in all black and waited in the shadows of the servants’ gate for the car delivery truck. It arrived and once the gate began to open you hit the button on the jamming tech you had to scramble the camera footage, just for a few seconds, while you snuck in behind the slow-moving truck. It stopped near the backdoor and you slid behind a golf cart, staying low and listening as the delivery men discussed things with Bruce and Alfred. She assumed that the butler was the British one, speaking to the delivery drivers more than Bruce. He only said ‘thank you’ once the car was out of the truck. You kept listening as the truck started up and headed down the driveway again.

“You can come out now,” you heard a gruff voice say. Well, guess they noticed the camera malfunction. You regretted not wearing a disguise now, at least then when they tried to give the police a description it wouldn’t lead to you. You stood, brushing the gravel off your clothes, taking your time. You glanced at Bruce Wayne and noticed that he was unbothered by your delay, seemed his had all the time in the world. You walked around the golf cart, eyeing the black car that now sat in the driveway.

“Nice wheels,” you said. “How much tech is in that thing?” Neither of the men seemed amused by your antics.

“What do you want?” Bruce asked. Alfred moved past you, keys to the new car clinking as he put them in his pocket. You looked back at Bruce, hearing Alfred shuffling around the car, probably checking for any damage you might have done to it.

“How much money do you give the Batman every month?” you asked. That seemed to throw Bruce and Alfred off balance a little bit. It gave you a chance to look back at the butler as he passed you, your hand sliding cleanly into his pocket and removing the new keys.

“Excuse me?” Bruce said, a moment too long in his reply. You smirked.

“Do you ever think about the fact that Batman just replaced Robin like he was yesterday’s trash?” you asked. This question brought a flash of anger and guilt to the billionaire’s face. He masked it quickly and said nothing. “Now my last question, are you the Batman and are you the man who I should punch in the face?”

“I mean, if you think you could, go ahead,” he said. It appeared he had regained his wit and you considered actually trying to hit him but stopped yourself for now. “Now please, I’m going inside to call the police, I recommend you get off my property immediately. Good evening.” He turned with Alfred and headed inside. You turned and smirked, sliding the keys out of your pocket. You figured it probably had a tracker on it, but taking a McLaren for a spin wasn’t something you got to do every day, or you know, ever, so why not?

Jason had listened to the conversation the woman had with Bruce, not surprised at the information she had garnered from the USB. He was surprised when she asked about his replacing Robin. That still wasn’t the information he wanted. He wanted to know who this new Robin was, find him, and pummel him before leaving him on Bruce’s doorstep. Look who’s better now Batman. Instead, he just felt another compulsion the follow this woman around. He noticed her steal the keys from Alfred and figured Bruce had noticed also but chose not to say anything. Maybe he was amused with this woman, maybe she would be the next Robin whenever the newer model didn’t live up to the Dick standard that Bruce had. She waited for a few moments before getting into the new car and revving the engine, just to rub it in, and took off. The McLaren was fast, but Jason’s bike could keep up just fine.

She drove the car towards downtown, not stupid enough to take it to East End or the Bowery. She kept to the nicer areas, finally parking it in the most expensive garage she could find, leaving the ticket in the glove compartment. As she exited the garage and headed down an alley towards the Diamond District, playing on her phone, probably getting a ride to her actual home. Jason landed in front of her and this time she hadn’t expected it, bumping into him. She dropped her phone, letting out a curse as she picked it up.

“Dude, what the fuck?” she said, pulling a small handgun out of her jacket pocket, stepping back and aiming it at his chest. When she noticed the helmet and the armor she sighed and tossed her hands up, gun going back into her pocket. “Alright, that’s useless, who are you working for?” She looked at him and his heart stopped. Those eyes, the ones that he saw in his dream. The ones that seemed to keep the rage at bay, those brown eyes stared at him. He would remember those for the rest of his life. He felt his throat constrict. Instead of doing anything he brought out his grappler and just headed back to the roof, leaving her very confused and alone. “That was fucking weird.” She continued down the alley and got in a car. His soulmate drove away and Jason stayed still, not sure when he would be able to move again.

[mistyresolve]

| Talking To The Void - Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (Edited)

Word count - 2k

Summary - While Simon is away on missions, it’s hard on everyone. Especially his significant other. So he’s discovered a loophole, the only issue is that it has its downfalls. 

Warning/Tags - mentions of the dirty, 

A/N - this is something short to introduce my version of Simon “Ghost” Riley. i like the idea that both Simon Riley and Ghost in a sense are the same person with the same goals and values but he has defined separation between the two.

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It no longer came as a shock when you didn’t hear from Simon for weeks on end when he was away on missions. You understood the reasoning behind the strict no contact rule; gave him grace because the cards were never in his hands. With him having to fly under the radar, and lower still, he had to vanish from the living world. You being a part of the living world involved vanishing from you too. Sometimes it was the fact that he just never had the time or means to make a phone call. Even still, the normalcy of it never quelled the anxiety and fear that plagued you—it followed you around like a predator stalking its prey. It lurked in the shadows and breathed down your neck when your back was turned. It followed you into your dreams, forcing you to awake in a panic and drenched in sweat. 

You had absolute, unequivocal faith in him to come back to you. He always did. But the silence that replaced his presence was always filled with overthinking and rumination. 

You tried your best to distract yourself. Sometimes with work of your own, staying later than the janitors, and when you drove home the streets and highways were desolate. You also spent a considerable amount of time at your parents' place, eating your mothers home cooked meals while you chatted about the new family gossip. You used to stay the weekend at her house because coming back home to an empty house was sometimes too much. A chilling reminder of what you were trying to forget. The nights that you did spend in your bed you slept in his clothes and on his side of the bed. Anything to get a little closer to him. Anything to trick yourself into thinking he was still there.  

You never held it against Simon though. It took you the first five missions he was ordered onto to finally come to terms with the unusual lifestyle. Each time he returned he brought with him an immense amount of guilt. A guilt that ran so deep even you couldn’t soothe. He did everything he could on his end to find alternative ways to support you through his absence. When he found out about the occasional sleepovers at your parent's house, he brought you to an SPCA to adopt whatever animal of your choosing. Something to bring warmth and life into the home in his stead. Simon wasn’t the least bit surprised when you picked the sassy tabby cat with one eye named Ginger Spice. 

The other alternative was phone calls. Always from a burner phone. Always an unknown number. Always silent on the other end. 

Every time your phone rang and you picked it up, there was always a deflation when a phone number or name was attached to it. 

That wasn’t the case this time. You fumbled and shook as you slid your finger across the screen to answer the call. Hesitating before you open your mouth, the word scared it would be returned, “Hello?” you closed your eyes, hoping, praying, pleading, that the caller didn’t reply. 

When you were met with nothing, heard nothing, the half sob half sigh of relief that you let out was heartbreaking. Even Simon on the other end of the line had to lean his head against the wall for support, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I miss you,” the words are laced with grief and torment, “I miss you so much it hurts.”

Ginger Spice who was previously lounging on the divan across from you perked up at the sound of your teary voice. He let out a curious trill as he leapt off the seat, pranced to your spot on the couch, and jumped into your lap; making a few laps back and forth before settling in between your legs. The tabby cat was providing the support that Simon was striving for. Simon silently thanked the cat.  

“Ginger came to say ‘Hi’,” You laughed through the tears, your vision momentarily going blurry. You wiped furiously at your eyes. You didn’t want to waste this stolen time on crying. 

The first time he made one of these calls and you had hung up on him not realizing who it was. When he returned, he very bashfully confessed to you that it was him. You had given him endless apologies, absolutely mortified. He had laughed and pressed kisses into your hair, telling you it was okay and he expected that that would be the most probable outcome. 

You didn’t know how long you had with him before the line would be severed and you’d be left wondering. Your fingers were kept busy by tracing the pattern on Ginger Spices markings, who immediately erupted with purrs in response. 

“I don’t know if you hear him, but he’s purring,” you relayed, a soft smile dancing on your mouth. 

Simon could, very faintly, and only when you spoke. The sound floated in the background of your words. A smile of his own formed under the mask. The moment was shared from thousands and thousands of miles away, and yet in the same room. 

“He misses you too,” and the cat did, you would occasionally find him curled in the sheet on Simon's side of the bed. Other times he was sitting on the bench next to the door, waiting for his dad to enter, “Sometimes he takes it out on me. Which, by the way, I don’t deserve, and you’ll have to make up for that when you get back” also a true statement. Ginger Spice had developed a horrible habit of ignoring you and giving you blatant attitude. Just this morning when you filled his food bowl he meowed at you until you sat at the island and drank your tea. All because Simon would get up at buttcrack dawn, feed the cat, and drink tea while he read over reports and documents while he waited for you to start to wake up so he could climb back into the sheets and be there when you open your eyes. 

“And that brings me to the next point of discussion. Your mother-in-law wants you to help move the couch in the basement to the garage so she can sell it. Dad wants to turn it into some sort of lounge, den, bar, thingy,” you waved your hand in dismissal despite the fact that he couldn’t see the action. 

He might not have been able to see, but if he closed his eyes and listened, he could imagine you. Knowing your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies as if they were his own. Every moment he spent with you he filed away and studied. A talent that also came in handy when it came to those lonely nights away from you. Visualizing his hand was yours. Smaller and softer. Gentle and caring. A fact that he had no qualms telling you about, or explaining to you in great detail. And he was very good at explaining, and it usually led you to enact his visualizations. All so he can “confirm his creativity was close to the real thing”. He is very tongue-in-cheek about it too.  

“She wants me to help her paint and redecorate. But I’m having a hard time thinking up a theme so you’ll have to help me out,” and he would, he was good at helping you organize your thoughts and ideas. He enjoyed any task that was thrown at him, taking them head-on and with fervent no matter how pointless it was. He claimed it kept him limber. He liked being needed and valued. He especially liked it when you praised his ideas. 

He listened contently as you talked to him about everything you could. What you had for lunch, the book you recently finished, the hairball you had to clean up, the “bitch two offices down”. He would have to bite the inside of his cheek and focus on controlling and steadying his breaths to keep from laughing. He loved how your voice dropped to a whisper when you got to the nitty gritty of the gossip. As if you were sitting at the back of a coffee shop with him, and talking about people as they sat right in front of you. He’d never admit it, but he lived for the drama. Thrived off it. But only if it came from you.

You filled him in on the drama, removing names and identifiers in the rare case that someone was listening in. The same reason you wouldn’t say his name or call sign. The same reason he couldn’t talk.

He never voiced it to you for the fear that if he spoke it out loud it would come true, but the possibility of something happening to you because he got too comfortable in his anonymity, scared the shit out of him. An issue he never had to deal with before you. He always kept his identity close to his chest but his seriousness about it only increased by a tenth-fold when you crept into his life. It was not only his life on the line but yours too now. He was doing everything he could to protect you. To make sure you remained an enigma to his enemies. To which he had a lot of. A lot of them would have no issues using you to get to him, and all of them would kill for that kind of opportunity. He also wanted to give you some ounce of normality when he returned, and he didn’t have to conceal his identity. Where he could take you out, and show you off without the fear that someone will recognize him. His only regret was that he could only give that to you for half the time.

He sometimes wished he could burn the world just so he could get some peace with you. He wished he could put you in a jar and carry you with him everywhere he went. That’s all they were though, wishes and selfish daydreams. 

Right now, he was sitting in the stairwell of an apartment building. He and Price were monitoring a target, building a routine for them. They were stationed on the roof of said apartment with snipers. He had switched off the main shift with Price about six hours ago. He spent those six hours getting sleep and food, before making the phone call. A phone call Price had no idea he was making. A phone call to someone, not even Price knew existed. He would rejoin Price after the call to help with comms and to give him some company. Lord knew Simon knew staring into a scope at someone watch TV and order room service for a 12 hour shift was deathly boring. Not that he’d ever complain. It allowed him time to sit with his thoughts. He would probably do a couple of rounds around the area too. Secure their exits and entrances. 

You loosed a sigh, suddenly sad again, “I’ve kept you longer than I should have.”

He looked at the timer on the phone screen: 1:23:09. 

It hadn’t felt that long. And it sure as hell didn’t feel long enough.  

“Come home to me soon, please,” the earnestness in your voice was palpable. He could almost taste it on his tongue. The twisted heart in his chest felt like it dropped a couple of inches, and a zip of pain shot down his arm.  

“I love you,” you whispered so sweetly he thought he’d get a sugar high from it. That or the blood was leaving his brain and travelling south. You left enough time after you said it that if he could respond he would have enough time. Then reluctantly hung up. 

He tapped the phone in the palm of his hand, pulling his mind back into his body. Switching back to Ghost he rolled his shoulders, shaking off any remaining unwanted thoughts and feelings. 

He dismantled the phone, removing the battery, the sim, the camera, the screen. Everything. He would toss the individual parts in different locations as he did his patrols. He’d be damn thorough. The sim card he would burn. He would destroy any evidence and connection to Simon Riley. 

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[skelavender]

"No one hates books as gifts.” Mulder snorts, “Scully, I think we need to get you some less nerdy friends.” She rolls her eyes, “Oh, shut up, Mulder. Don’t act like you’re not one of those nerdy friends, Spooky.” He raises his hands in mockery, “Guilty as charged.”

You can hear it in the silence, silence, you

You can feel it on the way home, way home, you

You can see it with the lights out, lights out

You are in love, true love

***

There’s a dance they do, most mornings, getting ready around each other. It’s practiced, it’s near flawless. After years of partnership and spending time in the close quarters of motel rooms, they know how to move around in each other’s space without incident. Usually.

Mulder is a couple steps ahead of her this morning, with Scully planning on going to Quantico for the morning to consult on another pathologist’s case. He’s taking his last bite of toast when she removes her oatmeal from the burner.

“I’ll see you at work.” Mulder leans down to kiss her on the cheek at the same time Scully pushes up on her tippy toes to do the same, and their mouths connect. 

It’s so natural, he doesn’t even realize what’s happened until he’s in the car turning his key in the ignition. 

Mulder freezes, plays the memory back. Lips, directly on lips. Not on a cheek, not on a forehead, not even on a hand. 

He flashes back to a year ago, the last time he had kissed her. the last time he had kissed anyone, to essentially replace the role of “Last Person Mulder Kissed” with Scully’s name, instead of leaving someone they had arrested with the title. A favor for a friend, or so he had thought at the time. Now, looking back at it, Mulder can admit he wouldn’t do that for any other friend. Nor, he imagines, would she. 

He replays it, over and over, sitting in the car. The memory of her lips, not yet waxy with lipstick and still tasting slightly of toothpaste, is stamped on him. 

He wants that. He wants it every day of his life, the quick pecks he had gotten this morning, combined with the slightly deeper ones from last year, and the sloppy ones he’s experienced only in his mind’s eye, and, and, and…

He can’t allow for this train of thought. There’s a pile of paperwork on his desk that needs to be completed in order for them to investigate their next case, and if he allows this to continue any further, it will consume him for the whole day. 

Mulder allows himself one more replay of the kiss before turning the ignition. 

It’s so natural, she doesn’t even realize what has happened until she’s sat down with her bowl in front of her.

***

Scully has a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to her mouth when she freezes.

She had kissed him. Again. She can draw a direct line between the sense memories of a couple minutes ago and the instance in the car a year ago, the one that had been meant as a kind gesture. This was… different. Something harder to play off as a joke. Still casual, yes, but the kind of casual that comes with deep intimacy as opposed to the facade of meaninglessness that their previous encounter has hidden behind. 

She drops her spoon back into her bowl and plays it back, trying to figure out how that had happened. 

Their two kisses were a whole year apart, but Scully nonetheless feels addicted to the sensation. She craves more down to her bones, the rhythm of kiss him, kiss him, kiss him beating through her body with her pulse, carried through her bloodstream to every extremity. 

She needs that daily. There’s a part of her reaching for it, constantly stretching an arm out to him between the bars of fear that cage her. She doesn’t know how that change would change them, but it could change everything. 

Scully relives the kiss again, watching it on the silver screen in her mind’s eye, before resolving to move forward with her day as normal and taking another bite of her breakfast. 

***

They don’t discuss it.

***

Scully runs her finger down the spines of a row of books, neatly lined up down the rows of shelves. Different textures, cultivated from varying years and degrees of use, paint pictures under her fingertips. The words on the pages tell stories, yes, but the physical used books themselves do too.

She’s a little lost in thought when she feels the familiar pressure of lips on her cheek. She leans into the contact on reflex, and when the lips pull back she smiles up at Mulder’s face. 

“Hey, sorry I’m late. Got a little lost in stuff with the guys.”

“That’s alright, I haven't been here long.”

“So,” Mulder says, “Who’s still on your list a week before Christmas, Scully.”

She sighs, guilty, “My mom. She’s always hard to shop for, and whenever someone asks what she wants she just says that seeing me is enough.”

“So you settled on… a book?”

“It’s the only thing I could think of. No one hates books as gifts.”

Mulder snorts, “Scully, I think we need to get you some less nerdy friends.”

She rolls her eyes, “Oh, shut up, Mulder. Don’t act like you’re not one of those nerdy friends, Spooky.”

He raises his hands in mockery, “Guilty as charged.”

They browse separately for a while, wandering individually through labyrinthine bookshelves until Mulder’s face appears around a corner, his expression reminiscent of a puppy. 

“Scully, look!” He holds a book out to her, “Your mom mentioned liking the author at Thanksgiving, but she said she hadn’t had the opportunity to read the most recent one yet.”

Scully smiles warmly at him. She knows Mulder’s own family life is… lackluster, to say the least. There’s a reason he spent Thanksgiving with the Scullys. It warms her heart that he’s willing to spend another holiday with her family despite having to endure Bil, but even more that he’s close enough with her mother to remember a book she’s mentioned.

“That’s perfect, Mulder. Thank you.”

***

When Maggie swings her front door open, face bright and welcoming, it reveals a puzzled looking Mulder considering the light above her door, the one that is a couple inches too high for her to reach.

Mulder points to it and, in lieu of a greeting, says “Do you need me to fix this for you, Maggie?”

“Hello to you too, Fox. I would appreciate that, but another time. It’s Christmas, not the time for chores. 

“Alright,” he chuckles and steps inside.

Scully, left on the doormat, gestures resignedly. “Hi, Mom, yes I’m doing well, thank you for asking, how are you? Good? Good.” She rolls her eyes and steps inside, sliding in beside Mulder where he stands in the entryway. He wraps a protective arm around her. Maggie gives them a knowing, mischievous look, which Scully tries – and ultimately fails – to ignore. 

Because Maggie’s lips twist into a smirk reminiscent of the one Scully makes when she teases Mulder,  “Looks like you two are under the mistletoe.”

Scully and Mulder look up to the doorway in unison to confirm that there is, in fact, a sprig of mistletoe nailed above the doorway.

“Mom, this is not appropriate.” Scully snaps, “I’m not kissing Mulder because of some antiquated tradition spurred from the compulsory nuclear family structure and an invasive, hemiparasitic plant.”

A sting of rejection shoots through Mulder’s body at that. Maggie’s face shows the hurt Mulder feels.

“Dana, there is no need to talk to me that way. I’m just trying to get in the holiday spirit.”

“I’m gonna, uh, go say hi to Bill.” Mulder stumbles as he enters the kitchen, where his least favorite member of the Scully family is hovering over a bowl of mashed potatoes with a finger in his mouth. His head snaps up as Mulder trips, looking like a deer in headlights. 

“Mulder.” Bill nods and stands up straight, as if he hadn’t just been committing the most grievous crime that could happen in the kitchen, as far as Maggie is concerned. 

“Bill.” Mulder greets in a similarly short tone. He can still hear Scully explaining how grating the rumors can be, and steps further into the room. “How’s uh, Tara?”

“I’m good!” A chipper voice comes from behind him, and Mulder turns to see a blonde woman, “You must be Mulder, right? Dana’s partner?”

“Yeah, it’s good to meet you.” He extends a hand, which Tara accepts. 

Maggie calls them back into the dining room to begin their meal. It could have been a perfectly pleasant fucking meal, with amazing food and neutral topics. Unfortunately, Bill had other ideas.

“What exactly is it you two do? Dana is always so vague.”

“Unexplained phenomena, certain cold cases. Stuff no one else understands or wants to touch.”

“Like what?”

Mulder takes a deep breath and racks his brain for an example of a recent case that isn’t, well, a global conspiracy that involved Mulder ending up in a gulag, or the trauma from his sister’s abduction. Mulder might not have a ton of experience with nice Christmas dinners, but those don’t seem like appropriate topics. “A couple months ago we investigated possible witchcraft in a plastic surgery unit.”

“Witches?” Bill exclaims. Okay, maybe none of their work is appropriate for Christmas dinner. “Dana, you’re putting your life on the line for witches?”

Scully slams her fork down uncharacteristically, causing Mulder to jump slightly. “I am putting my  life on the line for the future potential victims whose lives we save, and for justice for the ones we couldn’t save. I am putting my life for the sake of science, and the truth, and I will not have you talking down to me because of that fact.” 

Bill is stunned to silence, but Scully holds his gaze for a moment before slowly rising.

“Excuse me,” she says, and the front door slams behind her before anyone else can speak.

Scully braces her hands on the railing, taking a deep breath and focusing intently on her mother’s front bushes. Before she knows it, the door clicks back open behind her, followed by the sound of familiar footsteps.

“Hey,” A soft voice comes from behind her, and when a gentle hand lands on her shoulder, she wipes a tear from her eye and looks up to Mulder. “You okay, Scully?”

“Yeah,” She clears her throat in an attempt to strengthen a shield that she knows won’t work with Mulder. “I’m fine.” 

It’s dark on the porch, and Mulder can only see the silhouette of Scully’s profile. He doesn’t need light to see her, to know that there is a fold on the left corner of her lip, that her chin is wrinkled as she tries to hold in her tears. He doesn’t need light to know that the reason she’s so upset isn’t because of a simple disagreement with Bill.

Her brother doesn’t understand her. He hasn’t seen her in the field to know how capable she is. He still sees her as his kid sister, with pigtails and scraped knees, instead of the grown woman in pantsuits and a holster. There’s a box he wants her to fit into, one of a stay at home mother making pot roast for dinner parties, that Scully hasn’t even come close to molding to in years. 

He’s not going to bring it up now. That can be a conversation for another time, when the offending party isn’t just inside and the crisp winter air isn't nipping at their exposed, jacketless skin. 

Mulder wraps an arm around Scully, slotting her into his secure embrace. Her arms loop around his waist in turn, and he tilts her head up to kiss her squarely on the forehead. 

“For the mistletoe,” He explains, voice rough. She huffs a small laugh in response. “Merry Christmas, Scully.”

“Merry Christmas, Mulder.”

***

It’s not often that they’re in the office until midnight, especially these days. Neither have an empty apartment to return to, shuffling their feet until they can return to the other’s company come 9:00 the next morning. Tonight, however, Mulder is expecting a late call from a source. Apparently conspiracy nuts have little to no respect for the sanctity of New Year’s Eye. 

Mulder drops two bags onto the desk in front of Scully, presenting the rewards of a trip to the convenience store around the corner. “Well, Scully, is this how you always dreamed you’d be ringing in the year 1997?”

She reaches for the bags and selects a snack. “Not quite. Mostly because it’s not a significant enough year for me to put serious thought into celebrating.”

“Well, hopefully conspiracies and 7-11 snacks won’t disappoint you then.” He sits across from her and puts his feet up, leaning back with his back of sunflower seeds. “You can go home, if you want. I can get a taxi home.”

Scully shakes her head, “It’s fine, I’m not tired and this will save me from your rant about what happened this evening in the morning.” Mulder chuckles and shakes his head fondly at that.

Scully turns out to be lying. She is very tired, enough so that she falls asleep with her head on the desk, pillowed in her arms and with one hand still wrapped around an iced tea. Mulder, absorbed in the book he brought to pass the time, doesn’t even notice until she lets out a snore.

He grins and glances at the clock. The second hand tells him that he is a hair’s breadth away from the year 1997. With the last drops of this year, he fetches a blanket from a cupboard, one that magically appeared there a couple days after Scully first found him asleep in their office in their first year of partnership, and has lived there since. He wraps it around Scully’s shoulders, and presses a slow kiss to her forehead just as all three clock hands line up at the 12 mark.

As is tradition, he hopes that this is what the next year brings.

<- previous chapter next chapter ->

[sailormoonandme]

Returning Stars a.k.a. THE SAILOR STARLIGHTS RETURN HOME 

Ao3 Collection: Sailor Moon Cosmos Movie Epilogue

Summary: A miracle has occurred throughout the galaxy. Every world ravaged by Sailor Galaxia has been reborn, including the Kinmoku star… and its four most fabled citizens.

Excerpt:

From the top of the steps, the four of them had a perfect view of the scenes of life and celebration breaking out across the city, and no doubt the whole star. And yet, Sailor Star Fighter was not paying attention to them. Nor was his princess. She had instead retreated into the crimson coloured palace, scanning the faces of the palace servants and urgently questioning whichever ones could spare her a moment

Fighter knew all too well who her princess sought.

She let out a small sigh and, almost mechanically, she retrieved one of the Kinmoku cards from her uniform and gazed upon the image at its centre. A handsome dark haired man and a beautiful blonde, bun-headed girl were gazing into one another's eyes, their fingers intertwined.

With another (noticeably deeper) sigh Fighter slinked away. Trusting Maker, Healer and the palace guards to protect the princess for an hour or so, she donned a disguise that had become akin to a second skin for her. As she had expected, the jubilant citizens swapped wild and excited stories about the princess and the Sailor Starlights saving them all. And as she had hoped, not one of them was interested in bothering the innocuous, slightly heartbroken, high school student making his way down the street.

She let out a tiny huff of laughter. "Well… at least I have plenty of inspiration for my next song."

-------------------------------------------------------

In desperation Sailor Kakyȗ entered the fiery red room that was her chambers. To her dismay they were vacant and she made to leave, faltering as she was drawn in by the familiar, olive scent.

Scanning across the room her eyes fell upon the incense burner resting upon her dresser. She approached it slowly, almost more surprised that it was back here than she or her people were.

Kakyȗ took a moment to inhale the aroma, the wonderful smell casting her mind back to a tiny, brave little warrior with the kindest of blue eyes. She took out one of her Kinmoku cards and tried to summon the little fuschia haired girl's image.

For an instant she saw, not a toddler, but an adult woman with two long white pigtails that were topped by heart-shaped buns. Then the image went blank. She tried again, but this time saw a younger woman with golden blonde hair and rounder pigtails surrounded by bright light. She was nude and sported beautiful white feather wings from her back.

Kakyȗ rallied herself for a third attempt to see the girl, but found her own mind curiously blank. It was as if the girl's face, hair, everything about her was suddenly blurred and fuzzy. At the sound of footsteps behind her though, she forgot all about the little girl.

"Kakyȗ?"

She let out a sob and dropped the card, quickly forgotten next to the incense burner. As she moved across the chamber floor her Senshi uniform dematerialized, replaced instead by her royal robes. She and her dearest beloved embraced tightly, as if unbelieving that this was really happening.

"I didn't dare hope, I didn't dare believe…" he whispered, "... that we would be reborn together."

Princess Kakyȗ pondered for a moment.

"Nor did I. Not until the very very end. When someone gave me hope."

Upon the dresser behind her, the once blank card now displayed the image of Sailor Kinmoku cradled in the arms of a fellow Senshi. A fellow Senshi with long blonde pigtails topped with round buns, the kindest of blue eyes and a brave little smile upon her face.

-------------------------------------------------------

Ao3 Collection: Sailor Moon Cosmos Movie Epilogue

[3pirouette]

Fic: Timeless (1/1)

Title: Timeless

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Spoilers: Loki Season 2 (especially Episode 6), MCU through Endgame, Several of my own Steggy Fic

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3/Tumblr  Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: for @behindthelabels for Steggymas2023/Steggy Week 2024 Day 5 “Inspired by”! Hauhet spends her days languishing in the Decoding and Intelligence office at the TVA, but when things start to unravel into chaos, she finds she, too, had a normal life on the timestream as one Agent Peggy Carter. 

AN: Inspired by the Taylor Swift song Timeless (Which is irrevocably Steggy) and Season 2 of Loki and the character of Oroborus. This was put on the back burner once I found out Behindthelabels actually HADN’T watched Loki season 2 and would understand none of this. I wrote her another fic, and said she’d get this as the non-returnable stocking stuffer she never asked for. Almost a year late, but, here you go! Thanks @steggyfanevents

Also, I decided to be REALLY self indulgent and reference a bunch of my own fic as AUs. I tried to include some of my "Greatest hits."

I highly recommend either listening to this song or looking up the lyrics before reading the story. From a random lyrics website: "The song is ultimately about a love so powerful that it would still come to fruition even under circumstances that made it close to impossible to exist."

Hauhet- Egyptian goddess of infinity

Tenses jump back and forth between past and present on purpose. I hope it’s not too jarring, but I felt it would be an interesting way to portray that everything is happening all at once and yet over and over again… 

Also see notes at the end of the fic…

~*~

Read below or HERE on AO3

~*~

It was, in a word, chaos. Time was branching, and without the branches being snipped, she didn’t know what would happen. 

That wasn’t her department, though. The little sign that said “Decoding and Intelligence” on her door kept her separated from the rest of the TVA and though she felt the need to jump into the fray, there was also a deep fear that she’d done that before and it had come to no good. 

That she’d suffered great loss. 

Some days, her little isolated office of books and codes felt like home. People so rarely needed her or visited her, but when she was needed to decode messages or break complicated cyphers, Hauhet knew she was appreciated. 

Yet, sometimes, her little office felt like a prison. 

If she thought too long, she couldn’t remember, exactly, how long she’d been there. She couldn’t remember when or how she’d gotten her job. She couldn’t quite remember what her home even looked like. But those thoughts vanished like the ether, quickly replaced with the urge to update her codex or rearrange her shelves of gadgets. The impetus to think never really left her though, and she spent most of her time alone feeling unsettled, like she was meant for more. 

She just knew she had to be ready, available, for when a time agent would come to her, needing help. Those were the times she felt like she was doing what she was meant to do: breaking cyphers, deciphering codes, solving mysteries. They never let her outside of the TVA, never took her with them on site, but she felt just a hint of value inside her. 

She had so much more to give. She knew that. She just didn’t know how to tell anyone else. 

Not that anyone asked, anyway. 

But the chaos outside of her door today stirred something deep inside her, and within a few minutes she hacked her data pad, listening to the conversations of those agents floors and floors away, discussing things that shocked her. 

They had been people. People in the time stream. 

She wasn’t just a worker at the TVA. She had been someone before that. She’d had a life and a family and she had had something so important that felt just out of reach to her into the annals of her mind. If she closed her eyes and concentrated she saw smart clothes in army green and bright blue and fiery red. High heels and dramatic hats. 

Red, white, and blue Stars and Stripes that made her heart flutter. 

All she ever wore was drab TVA khaki with her sensible sneakers and her hair in a tight knot at the top of her head. With a sudden burst of longing that had to be from something real, she missed the feel of soft silk on her legs and the powerful sound of high heels clicking on tile floors. 

There was a smile. 

She missed a smile. 

If she closed her eyes she could see it: bright teeth that were straight, but not too straight, soft pink lips, a little hint of a quirk on one side so genuine she could feel her heart melt. 

She’d had someone. 

Hauhet stood and paced her little room, running her hands over the bookshelves lined with thick tomes, new and old, chewing at her lip as she tried to get the nervous energy out of her body. 

It was a loss and a gift all at the same time: she’d had another life, but she didn’t know if she could find it or get back to it. 

Did she even want to?

What if… what if that life wasn’t as exciting as this one? What if she’d contributed even less? She picked up her Data pad, rolling it over and over in her hands. There was only one way to find out. 

Hauhet sat at her computer and pulled out a small set of tools, slipping her magnifying glasses on. It took longer than she liked, but eventually she had her data pad wired into her computer. 

With a deep breath, she input the search and waited only a few seconds for it to blink upon her screen. She pulled her glasses off slowly and watched…

~*~

“Well, what do you think?” Steve turns in a circle in the empty living room, pointing at the stairs to the second floor. “Three rooms and a full bathroom up there, half bath, kitchen, a den, and a living room here. Plenty of space downstairs in the basement for a washer and a dryer and a home office…” He shrugs, smiling. 

Peggy sighs, bouncing Mandy in her arms. “You don’t think it’s too big?” The baby giggles, reaching out her arms for Steve. Peggy passes her over before wandering away into the kitchen. “It just seems like a lot…”

”It is,” he quickly agrees. “It’s more than I ever had, that’s for sure.” He steps over to her, looking out the window over the sink, past the back porch and into the green expanse of the back yard. 

“More than I’ve had as well,” Peggy mutters, turning back to him. She taps her fingers on the stove before walking a slow circle in the kitchen, eyes roaming over every surface. “I’m used to barracks and hot plates now.”

Steve nods, his hand running over the downy hairs on Mandy’s head as she snuggles into his shoulder. “Yeah, well, there’s room to spread out,” he says gently, looking up with warmth in his eyes, “Room to grow.”

Peggy pauses, thinking about all the things they’ve said to one another, all the promises they’ve made, and for once, there’s about to be peace in their lives with little else to do but think about the future. The ring on her left hand is still new, and she turns it with her fingers anxiously. 

There will be time to think about growing. 

“It’ll be tight,” she starts, turning pragmatic as she moves past him and towards the front door, “on our pays.”

He follows, a bright spring in his step as he knows she’s made her decision. “I’m pretty sure they’re keeping us on the payroll, Peg.” He smiles at Mandy, bouncing her in his arms as he follows her out the front door. 

“And there’s going to be plenty of work to do to keep it up: mowing, gardening, taking out the trash…” she pauses, tilting her head as if she’s just thought about it. “We’re going to have to do our own grocery shopping. Cooking.”

”I’m sure Jarvis will take pity on us once in a while,” Steve chuckles. He joins her on the front step, closing the front door behind him and looking it over before turning back to her. “So?”

Peggy turns, still serious, looking at the door and all it represents. “What do you think, darling?” She reaches over and tickles Mandy under the chin. “Ready to have your own room? Leave the little government apartment we’ve called our own for a few months now?”

Mandy’s squeal and giggle are a resounding positive. 

“Alright then, darling, we’re all in agreement,” Peggy smiles up at Steve. “We’re going to be homeowners.” She leans up, kissing him quickly, but stopping him when he starts to speak again. “We’re not getting dog.”

~*~

Loop 1

Hauhet stood and paced her little room, running her hands over the bookshelves lined with thick tomes, new and old, chewing at her lip as she tried to get the nervous energy out of her body. 

It was a loss and a gift all at the same time: she’d had another life, but she didn’t know if she could find it or get back to it. 

Did she even want to?

What if… what if that life wasn’t as exciting as this one? What if she’d contributed even less? She picked up her Data pad, rolling it over and over in her hands. There was only one way to find out. 

Hauhet sat at her computer and pulled out a small set of tools, slipping her magnifying glasses on. It took her less time than it should have to wire her data pad to the computer, she was surprised at how easy it seemed. 

With a deep breath, she input the search and waited only a few seconds for it to blink upon her screen. She pulled her glasses off slowly and watched…

~*~

The music swelled, and Peggy couldn’t quite stop the welling of emotion in her chest. 

“I promise I’ll write ya,” Steve says loudly, loud enough that his voice carries all the way to the back of the empty auditorium. 

“And I’ll write you, every day,” she answers under the hot stage lights in her best American accent, stepping forward and putting her hand on his arm. “Just promise you’ll come home to me.”

He looks at her, stares at her for longer than he should, before saying his next line. “Hitler himself couldn’t stop me from coming home to you, Betty.” There’s a lilt in his voice she’s never heard before, a catch before he says her character’s name. 

The music swells again, and when the lights go out and they hurry off stage, she can’t quite seem to catch her breath. 

“You okay?” Steve asks as soon as they’re off stage, the lights raising again and filling the wings with warmth as the girls take center stage to sing. 

Peggy turns back to him, nodding and forcing her breath to even out. “It just…”

”Seemed almost real, right?” he nods, pulling her deeper into the wing and out of the way of the stage hands setting up the next scene change. He almost crowds her into the corner in his effort to give her some privacy while she composes herself. 

Peggy nods at him, wiping away tears that aren’t quite shed from the lash line of her eyes, the dark black stage eyeliner coming off on her fingers. “I almost lost you once, Steve, and I will not go through that again.” 

He leans down, taking her into his arms and letting her melt into him. “You won’t have to, Peg. I promise.”

”You don’t know that, you just can’t-“

”You won’t, I-“

”I hate to break this up,” Angie’s voice, full of her own thick emotion, floods over them, “because I’m sure you could use a minute.” She sniffs, wiping at her own stage make up carefully to lift the tears away. “I mean, you got me crying, too!” She reaches over and pulls Peggy from Steve’s arms gently, “But if we don’t move our asses we’re gonna miss the quick change again and you heard him- if he has to stop the show we’re gonna be here all night and I do not have another 15 hour rehearsal in me!”

Steve watches Peggy go, his arms feeling empty as Angie hurries her away to the little dressing screen they have set up for her. 

He felt it, too. Maybe it is the music, or the costumes. Maybe between the lights and the costumes, the backdrops and the speakers, it makes it feel like hyper reality. But whatever it is, something is different. It isn’t hypothetical anymore. She’d almost lost him once already, and as soon as they’re done here he’ll be on the front sooner rather than later, and she’ll be there, too, in just as much danger. 

And yet, his arms feel empty without her. 

He doesn’t want to write letters. 

He doesn’t want to go months without seeing her. 

He doesn’t want to go to bed one single night without her next to him. 

It is an amazing feeling, swelling in the sadness that had just filled him from their little, poorly written scene. 

He loves her, and he knows now he isn’t letting go. 

~*~

Loop 114

Hauhet stood and paced her little room, running her hands over the bookshelves lined with thick tomes, new and old, chewing at her lip as she tried to get the nervous energy out of her body. This felt like it had happened before. 

Could that be? 

Could time have repeated? Here? In the TVA?

It was a loss and a gift all at the same time: she’d had another life, but she didn’t know if she could find it or get back to it. 

Did she even want to?

What if… what if that life wasn’t as exciting as this one? What if she’d contributed even less? She picked up her Data pad, rolling it over and over in her hands. There was only one way to find out. 

Hauhet sat at her computer and pulled out a small set of tools, slipping her magnifying glasses on. The ease with which she was able to connect her data pad to her computer, something she’d never done before, told her that time was indeed not running correctly. 

It didn’t much matter right now, though. 

With a deep breath, she input the search and waited only a few seconds for it to blink upon her screen. She pulled her glasses off slowly and started to watch…

~*~

The rain pounded the top of her canvas tent, the little light she had flickered in and out as the storm raged. She couldn’t seem to get dry in her little tent, but then again, nothing had been dry in days. 

It felt like the war had come to a stand still. Both sides were trying to fight trench foot and keep people warm and alive. They didn’t have time to fight one another. Hydra seemed farther and farther away every day that kept her in camp and away from the front. 

Instead, all Peggy could do was pull out her little nub of a pencil and write. Again. 

Not that Steve minded. She was sure he didn’t, just like she didn’t mind any time she got a letter from him back in New York. She opened the little tin box she used to keep her paper dry and ran her fingers over the little picture of Steve she kept taped to the top. He’d obviously posed for it, had someone else snap it and gotten it developed just to send to her. It was the only thing she really cared about keeping dry, that and his letters. 

She ran her fingers over them, filled with stories from home and all the things he wanted to do with her once the war was over, all the things he wanted to say to her in person but would have to suffice in the written word. 

They were an ocean part, with only the vaguest of promises between them, but she knew, deep in her heart, that the frail boned man would be her destiny. She’d known the first time he’d smiled at her. 

She pulled out his last letter and started reading. It still astounded her that he liked her, that a smart, interesting, funny man like him could find something in her. She’d always been told she was too bold, too brash, for men to like her. All her life her mother had tried to get her to play a part to attract a suitor, and now, after Erskine’s experiment, she knew she wasn’t what most men would find attractive. 

Steve? Steve looked at her with love in his eyes and it astounded her every time. 

She read about the war effort and his experiments with Stark, his art projects and how much he hated watching the kid in the neighborhood have to go without birthday cakes because of rationing. 

She read his letters over and over again until she could recite them by heart. Some days, deep in a foxhole or shivering in the rain while she waited to raid a Hydra strong hold, reciting his words in her head were all that gave her hope. 

She loved him, and she was pretty sure he loved her. 

She just needed to put an end to this damn war, and then she’d be able to show him just how much. 

~*~

Loop 872

Hauhet stood and paced her little room, running her hands over the bookshelves lined with thick tomes, new and old, chewing at her lip as she tried to get the nervous energy out of her body. This seemed… familiar. This action, this moment. 

She’d lived it before.

The emotions weren’t new. They were old and worn in, even if she couldn’t remember ever feeling them before. 

She picked up her Data pad, rolling it over and over in her hands. There was only one way to find out. 

Hauhet sat at her computer and pulled out a small set of tools, slipping her magnifying glasses on. In seconds the interface was working. 

With a deep breath, she input the search and waited only a few seconds for it to blink upon her screen. She pulled her glasses off slowly and started to watch…

~*~

“Skinny Bastard,” Phillips mutters, shaking his head as he enters. 

Steve laughs, climbing down the ladder and out of the rafters of the stage. “You’re gonna have to stop calling me that one day.” He holds his hand out once his feet are on the ground, smiling when Phillips shakes it firmly. 

Phillips works hard to hide his smile. “You’re a day late.”

”Don’t go blamin’ him!” Angie’s voice carries through the empty auditorium. The building is almost unrecognizable to what it was a few years ago when they put on their first show. She weaves her way through the rows of seats, carrying garment bags of gowns in her arms. “All this one’s fault! 

“Now that’s just-“ Bucky’s words fall away as he sees Phillips’ stern look. “sir. Yes sir, I was just-“

”Dawdling? Like always?” He holds his stare for a moment, watching the way the poor man’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows before shaking his head and laughing. “I’m not your commanding officer anymore, Barnes.”

”No,” he responds, moving into he room with his arms full of stacked crates, “But you do put us up for the whole winter while put together a new show so I figure I should still, ya know.”

Steve pulls the crates from Bucky’s hands, stopping his rambling. “Go get the rest of it, will ya?”

”Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, dropping his head and heading out to Phillips’ amusement. 

Phillips follows Steve to where he drops the crates by the edge of the stage. “So what’s the big to-do? Ana’s been looking like the cat that swallowed the cream and won’t give any of us a damn hint.”

Steve smiles to himself as he starts to unpack the stage lights from he crates. “Peggy won’t be in the show this year.” 

Phillips watches him carefully. “I’d ask if there was trouble in paradise, but you’re still wearing your ring, and you’ve got that stupid, suspicious as hell smile on your face that I don’t like.” He leans back on the edge of the stage, watching as Angie weaves through the seats to head back out and help Barnes with unpacking the rest of the truck. “You let that wife of yours get a better offer from a club in the city?” 

Peggy’s voice rings out from the wings. “Oh no, I promise you, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

He looks over, but can’t see her in the dark. “Well then, what’s the damn secret?”

Peggy moves out, less graceful and less lithe than she was last time she was on this stage, hindered this time by the way her rounded belly leads the way. She lets her hand run over it, her dress tightening for just a moment so Phillips can see it. “Not much of a secret anymore, I’m afraid.”

”Skinny Bastard knocked you up!” he can’t help the smile that slides along his face. He claps Steve on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you two!”

Peggy waddles over to the edge of the stage, letting Steve gently lift her down. “I’m afraid I had to tell someone. Looks like our little one may be making an appearance before we’re done for the season. She’s helped me find a local midwife.”

”Good, good,” Phillips mutters, watching the way Steve absentmindedly stokes her lower back as he inventories his crate, the way her hand smooths over the rounded bump of her stomach. “Makes sense why he wouldn’t put you in the show.”

”Absolutely does not,” Peggy bites out, eyes narrowing. 

“Does too,” both men reply at the same time. 

She huffs, but doesn’t make a quip back. This is an old fight, and one she doesn’t want to rekindle now. 

“Jarvis!” Phillips calls, and the mana pops his head in the auditorium comically fast. 

“Yes, sir!”

”Did you know Carter was pregnant?”

”I believe she goes by Mrs. Rogers now, but yes, Ana had let it slip that-“

”Well, why in the hell are you still standing here? We have work to do!” Phillips stars moving away, despite Steve and Peggy’s protests. “we’ve got to make sure that cabin’s draft free, and that their hot water heater’s been checked and re-checked. Get that midwife on the phone for me, she’ll be staying here until that baby’s born. And another…”

His voice fades as he and Jarvis disappear from the room into he main part of the inn. 

“I told you,” Peggy mutters, leaning back on the edge of the stage. “He’s going to make an insufferably big deal of this.”

”Of course he is!” Barnes pipes in, carrying another set of crates in. “In my opinion, Steve is being way too cavalier about my godson being born.” 

“Or goddaughter,” Angie cuts him off quickly. “And he’s just being sensible, aren't you, Steve?”

”I’m trying,” he sighs, turning to Peggy. “I really think you should have stayed in the City. I could be back as soon as you go into labor and-“

”Absolutely, under no circumstances, will you miss the birth of our child because of show.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “Especially one you won’t let me in.” She softens, taking his hand and settling it over her belly where he can feel the soft kicks. “This is a family act, Rogers. Get used to it.”

”Yes, Ma’am.”

~*~

Loop 2,467

She didn’t think about it anymore, just let her body run on instinct. She’d been here before, she’d done these things before. 

With a deep breath, she input the search and waited only a few seconds for it to blink upon her screen. She pulled her glasses off slowly and started to watch…

~*~

“Damnnit, Rogers, run faster!”

Steve pumps his legs, jostling Peggy on his shoulder. “I’m running for two here, Jones!” He calls back as they move through the cavern, the walls shaking and collapsing around them. 

“Care would be appreciated!” Peggey called from over his shoulder where he was carrying her, her arms and legs still tied tight to her sides, a high pitched squeal leaving her throat as Steve narrowly jumped away from a tumbling boulder. 

“Speed might be better!” Jones called, hysteria creeping into his voice, jumping over a crack that appeared in the ground in front of them. 

Steve took the same widening crack, now nearly a full chasm, easily as dirt and pebbles started to fall from the ceiling. 

“Is this standard Hydra?” Jones called, slowing and climbing over a pile of rubble that stood between them and the exit. 

Steve took Indy’s hand, keeping one arm around Peggy and letting his friend boost him up and help him navigate the rubble. “Not really, no,” he replied loudly, never missing a step as the path cleared out in front of them once they were over. “But then again, I’m not that surprised, either.”

”Implosion or explosion?” Peggy asked, looking up at Jones from over Steve’s shoulder as he took the lead, using his nearly photographic memory to wind them back through the shaking catacombs. 

“Could be either,” Jones huffed, trying to keep up, “but I’m betting implosion. Easier to set this low in the ground.”

”Either one is bad,” Steve bit out, moving faster.

Peggy dropped her head, unable to hold on with her hands still tied to her sides. “Bit of an understatement, darling.”

”Are we having a chat?” Indy bit out sarcastically, overtaking Steve again as the dying sunset shone through the small entrance of the cave. “I’d like to get as far away from the bomb as possible, please!”

Jones shimmied out of the small hole, then reached his arms back in, carefully grabbing Peggy around the hips as Steve set her down and wiggled her through the opening. Jones had her in his arms, though a little less gracefully than Steve, and was running as soon as her feet left the ground. 

“Steve!”

”Steve will be fine,” Indy puffed out, breathless as he moved across the empty desert terrain. “He’ll be better than us if he’s close.”

”Won’t be close,” Steve called out, just a step behind, “Let’s move!”

 He reached out, pulling Peggy from Jones’s arms and both men pushed their legs even farther and harder. 

They felt the explosion before they heard it, the ground shaking beneath their feet. Indy and Steve tumbled to the ground, both men wrapping themselves around Peggy as they tumbled, working to keep one another safe. 

They skidded to a halt just in time to turn and look at the small mountain they had just been under crumble in on itself, spewing dirt and sand into the air. When the cloud settled and the ground stopped shaking, when they could blink their eyes open again and when the dry coughing from the dust-laden air stopped, there was only a crater filled with rubble where there had once been a secret Hydra base. 

“Implosion,” Indy muttered, humming. “Told ya.”

Steve sat back, pulling his helmet and gloves off, wiping at his face where stark lines of dirt streaked where his helmet hadn’t covered. “Told ya It’d be bad.”

Indy pulled his hat off his head, hitting it to get the dust dislodged. “Well of course it was going to be bad, Rogers, it was a self-destruct.”

”Hydra doesn’t always-“

”Well of course they always-“

Peggy huffed, lifting both feet and slamming them back down in the dirt, getting the attention of the men as they talked over one another as they let off the adrenaline of the last few hours. “I’d get up and leave you two to your bickering,” she started, wiggling in place as the ropes that tied her together were still laced across her chest and down around her legs, “but I seem to be having some trouble. Care to help?”

She raised her eyebrow at them, waiting as they both stared at her, jaws hanging open. 

“Well?” She asked again, wiggling her hands at her side when they still didn’t move. “Untie me!”

Indy leaned back, smiling. “You know, you're the one who ran off and got captured. Seems it’s in our best interest to keep you from running off again, don’t you think, Steve?”

Peggy huffed, but Steve shrugged, sitting back. “I think slowing her down a little bit isn’t a bad idea.”

”You wouldn’t dare!” Peggy bit out, starting to get truly incensed. 

Steve shrugged as he and Indy stood, wiping the dust off themselves. “I could use to know where you are for a bit, Peg.” He smiled in a way that was usually cheeky and charming, but only served to increase her ire. He reached down, even as she started squirming, and hoisted her over his shoulder again. 

“You put me down and let me out of this right now!” She wiggled, but didn’t fight against his tight grip too much as he started walking back the mile and a half to the jeep in step with Jones. 

“You heard him, Peg,” Indy said, his voice full of smug teasing. “We gotta know where you are.”

Peggy lifted her head, throwing Indy a harsh look before she flopped back down. “Don’t think I won’t forget this,” she muttered. 

“Don’t think I’m gonna forget you scaring the shit outta me,” Steve replied, “by intentionally getting yourself captured.”

”Language!” Indy interjected with a smile. 

“Well, it worked,” Peggy muttered, her fight gone. “Hydra’s lost another base and we have a lead on Schmidt.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but she felt more than heard his grumble. 

After a few quiet minutes, Peggy finally spoke again. “Well, joke’s on you, darling, I’m getting a lovely break back here, with a lovely view, and you’re doing the work for both of us.”

Indy laughed next to them. “If you want to leave her here, Rogers, I won't tell anyone.”

”Nah,” Steve responded, gently tightening his hold on her as the Jeep came into view, “I’ve grown a little attached.”

~*~

Loop 12,356

Hauhet could hardly breathe. She couldn’t remember anything, not really, little foggy memories and ideas of lives before this, of painted nurseries and undercooked hams and missions in snowy communist countries. 

All of those half formed memories seemed much, much more real than her time at the TVA, than whatever illusion of a life she had here. 

With a deep breath, she input the search into the data pad and waited only a few seconds for it to blink upon her screen. She pulled her glasses off slowly and started to watch…

~*~

“Steve! You’ve come back!” 

He takes her hand, holding tightly from the side of the bed. 

“Yeah, Peg, I’m here.”

She could feel the emotion welling up in her chest as she tried to sit up, but he just smiled down at her, leaning forward and helping her sit. Always the gentleman. 

“Easy, Peg,” he whispers, his voice thick with his own emotion. 

“How?” She whispers, reaching up and running her hand over his cheek. She pauses, looking at the dissonance between their skin: his as young as the last time she saw him, and hers, withered and wrinkled with a lifetime lived. 

He lifts her hand from his cheek, holding it in both of his as he sits on the side of her bed, smiling sweetly. “It’s a long story for another day.”

She can’t help but be maudlin, can’t help but say all the things she’s thinking. “I missed you every day, my darling.”

His eyes flutter shut, chin falling to his chest. “I-“

”Don’t apologize,” she whispers, “I came to terms with what you did long ago.” He looks up at her, and this time, his eyes are filled with tears. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t love you, didn’t miss you, every day.”

He swallows, hard, and threads his fingers in with hers. “Didn’t mean to stand you up for our date,” he croaks out, fighting to force a smile. 

Peggy smiles up at him, holding his hand tighter in hers. “You’re here now. you always were just a little late, weren’t you?”

~*~

Loop 300,465

She doesn't think, she just does. Hauhet has learned to trust her intuition in her time with the TVA, but something screams in her that she’s simply remembering now. Something screams to her that this was a skill she had before.

This was something she’d done without thought. 

Agent.

Even the seconds it takes for her to connect the Data pad seem too long. 

She needs to know…

~*~

“Peggy, this is my choice.”

Peggy holds the microphone tight in her hand. She wants to say something, anything, but no words come to her, nothing swells but the feeling of loss, bigger than anything she’s felt in a long time. 

His voice comes through the line, tinny and resigned. “Peggy, I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”

”All right,” She takes a deep breath, desperate to hold on to whatever time she has left with him, uncaring of who is still in the room, uncaring of the tears running down her face. “A week next Saturday, at the Stork Club.”

”You got it.” His voice is tight, strained. But not afraid. 

Never afraid. 

Steve has never, for one moment, been afraid of what he’s thought he’s had to do since she’s known him, even when he was small and skinny and jumping on grenades.

”Eight o’clock on the dot,” she continued, trying to take some of his bravery, trying to steal some of his damn assuredness, “don’t you dare be late. Understood?”

”You know I still don’t know how to dance,” he rushes out, his voice starting to shake. She pretends it’s just the shaking of the plane. 

She can’t help but smile, can’t help but think maybe… maybe… if there is a God in this world, he won’t let this good man die on her today. “I’ll show you how,” she rushes out, hoping he can hear how much she needs him, how much she wants him to survive this in her voice. “Just be there.” 

His voice is raising. It’s not much, but she can tell it’s there. Nervousness. “We’ll have the band play something slow.” The ship shakes over the line, the sound of shivering metal something she’s heard before in transmissions just before disaster strikes. “I’d hate to step on your-“

The static, a low rumble in the room, is deafening. 

“Steve?” She pleads across the line. “Steve?”

She’s lost him. 

She can only pray, as the tears fall, that there’s still a chance to find him. 

~*~

Loop 1,475,692

Hauhet sits heavy on the floor of her office.

No, not Hauhet. Peggy Carter. 

Agent Peggy Carter. 

She’d had a life once. 

The memories flood into her, stronger than whatever force is being used to keep her complacent. This day has happened over and over. She sees herself, sitting at that desk, over and over. Hundreds of times. Millions of times. 

More than any sane person could handle, she’s sure, if they could remember. 

But she does remember now. Because she met him in every single branch. Every single universe. Every single timeline. 

Steve Rogers. 

And no matter when or how they met, it felt like home. 

She could feel him, sitting in her heart, like a beacon. She had her own Steve. There was a man with that little boyish lopsided smile and the courage of a lion out there somewhere, waiting for her. 

And she’d been languishing in this pace for millennia, doing the tedious desk work she’d fought so hard to get away from all of her life. 

She hadn’t found her Steve yet, she knew that. None of the branches, none of the stories she had seen so far gave her anything more than a longing. 

She’d feel it when she found him, when she found her timeline and her world. She knew it. 

And as long as this day kept repeating, she’d find him. She’d find their life together. 

They made each other better. Even in the timeliness when they lost one another, even in the timelines when there was only a short period of time left together, they made one another better. 

They were timeless, finding one another again over and over, no matter what the world looked like, no matter when their souls showed up. 

Even if he was gone in her timeline, she wanted to be a place where he was, where he had been and she could find and recover and languish in the memories. 

She was ready to give up this drab, rote existence. 

Saving the universe meant nothing in here. Saving it from out there? With her heels and her gun and the love of her life? 

Well, that was something that had real value, and Peggy was going to stop at nothing to find it. 

Without even thinking she let her hands fly over the wires, connecting her Data pad to the computer. 

She was going to find him, and she was going to get back to him. 

~*~

End A/N: 

While we have our MCU Steggy and What If…? Steggy, I couldn’t HELP but throw in my favorite Steggys in there from my own fic. (Yes, it’s a little *cough*lot*cough* self indulgent) They’re all Extra Scenes that don’t show up in the main fic and they’re inspired by the lyrics to Timeless. In order that they show up in the story:

1- Nobody’s Baby (Two lovers laughin’ on the porch of their first house)

2-The Captain and the Missus (On a Crowded Street in 1944 and you were headed off to fight in the war)

3-What if…? (I would have read your love letters every single night)

4- A Red, White, and Blue Christmas (Which brought me back to the the first time I saw you Time stood still)

5-Interested Parties Series (Indiana Jones Crossover) (Down the block there’s an antique shop)

6- Captain America: The Winter Soldier (Time breaks down your mind and body, don’t you let it touch your soul)

7- Captain America: The First Avenger (Story of a romance Torn Apart by Fate)

[dionysianfreak]

Could you explain all that’s on your alter and what it means? I’m trying to redo and get mine together

i have many different permanent shrines in my house, all eclectic and unique to the God(s) whom it's dedicated to. this came right after I posted a temporary shrine so I'll include that too in case that sparked your ask :)

i like to set up temporary shrines in my home and in my travels so I can honor specific epithets or moments in life. i always take items off the individual main shrines of the Gods in order to build the small ones. this one started as honoring Dionysos and welcoming the month of Dionysia but grew as I felt Apollon and Hermès wanted to join as well. this is the first honoring space I've had with just these three since the very beginning of my practice.

starting on the left, this is where Apollon is. He only has a few items, but I'll be brief this post isn't 8 years long

the glass contains white wine. my mom is a wine fanatic and gave me a bunch because she had accumulated it from gifts and dislikes white. so i give it to the Theoi as an offering occasionally.

the candle holder in the back is the only one I could find to hold the yellow candle i wanted to use lol

I got the brass incense burner at a local Christian second hand store. i believe i found it at the same time i found my Artemis statue. i got it because i thought it was adorable and it has a handle

i believe the stone is a yellow banded agate. I got it at Goodwill in a pack and it's been His ever since

the statue is of the roman Romulus and Remus, which I got at an underground antique shop with my closest friend. though I've always seen Artemis and Apollon instead, and Leto as their protective wolf-mother

Dionysos takes up a majority of this space, but He also has the most votives on His shrine to add

Dionysos's statue has a jewelry draped on it; a bracelet I made at my first festival, a rosary my grandmother gave to me with the crucifix replaced with a charm of the Hanged Man, and a leopard necklace i bought from a woman with a pop up booth. i always drape my totums in decor like jewelry or ribbons, I don't know when I started but I like to give special attention and adornment to the images of the Theoi

in the center sits a red fox skull, it was gifted to me by a friend. only second to the leopard, the red fox is an animal i closely associate with Dionysos and feel very connected to personally

I put two phalluses, a candle and a tiger's eye carving, on this shrine for protection and abundance. i use the phallus as a protective votive often, especially if Dionysos is involved

below the skull, I have a pyrite and a banded amethyst. I've always closely associated the two with Dionysos, but this amethyst in particular has been there for me through a lot

there's a little za 🍃 on there for Them all, but mainly Dionysos

there's a small totum of a leopard, it's there because i wanted it to be. leopards are extremely sacred to Dio in my worship, along with any other feline, but especially them

the silver champagne glass is full of red wine. the stem has grapevines and ivy growing up it, it was perfect for Him. I generally keep it full of wine 24/7

in the bottom left corner, there's a red book called Toasts and Tributes. it's a book of toasts and poems from 1904 that i use as a prayer book for Dionysos. i like to blindly flip through the pages and let the right one fall open, and use the first one I see as a prayer. a few name Him directly, as you can't have a toast without naming the God of wine !

Hermès has few items both here and on His main shrine. this is mostly because most of His stuff is in my car, including His little statue

the orange vase has an image of Hermès on the front. i picked it up from a lovely antiques dealer in my town. the other side has an image of Psyke, but it's almost always turned to show Hermès

within the vase i have rodent bones I picked up from the side of the road, and a chicken feather from my flock. my worship doesn't involve my chickens much, but i like to ask Him to watch over them occasionally

the candle in the back is there simply because I like candles to show my worship is "active" and the shrine is being used in a sacred way. when I blow them out, it's a time of rest for the space

on the far right, there's a golden candle holder with wings. I got it around when Hermès and i first began our relationship

on it, I have a ring with wings on it. i wear it when i travel or when I wish to Honor him in my day to day life

my permanent shrines are simply the shrines for the Gods whose shrines have grown disproportionately over a long time. in the case of Dionysos and Aphrodite, Their shrines are simply too big to put anywhere else. i am very votive-centric in my worship, and I have a crow brain, so They all have too many trinkets I've found an collected throughout my life

there's waaaay too much to go over everything, so I'll go over what's most important to me and why i have it :)

i have enough seashells to build a temple for Her. i seriously have so many that I've collected and found at Goodwill, it's a problem. i view the beach as the juxtaposition of Aphrodite—where the sky and the sea clash passionately. about half of these I have collected whenever I got the chance to be on an ocean beach

images of Aphrodite are very common for me to stumble upon,l so I've collected quite a few items. because of this quite a few sub-shrines have emerged within this shrine. epithets are distinct in nature yet part of the whole, in my opinion, so i rarely worship epithets without worshipping the root Deity as well

Fragrance is sacred and common as hell in my worship of Aphrodite so you can see multiple fragrant items littered around. perfumes, incense, dried roses, oil diffusers, and more. fragrance is easy, fast, and sensory friendly for me and was common in antiquity as well. it's a win-win

dressing up or devoting outfits to Aphrodite is something I do frequently, so jewelry is littered everywhere. all of it is gifted and thrifted <3 Aphrodite is extremely generous

this is Aphrodite Areia's epithet shrine, the print in the back honoring Ares Gynaecothoenas

and this is my little shrine to Hestia :3 I sometimes use the matches to light my fireplace. i bought the small statue on a whim when I found it at a local shop. She seems to prefer it simple and minimal

I'm gonna end it here because this is getting long. if you have a specific Deity in mind, few Gods i worship have been private about Their shrines. i hope this helps inspire you. add things for fun or just because you want to and give things that just feel like they should go. eventually, you'll have a haven of memories and of personal sacredness. trust and They will guide you well