#and frank just smush into the wall

[myheadphonesareneverloudenough]

hi hello how’s your day? allow me to share one of my favorite my chem photos with you

gee and ray are feeling themselves honey.

[ashsd3ad]

# t. fushiguro — eighth world wonder.

word count: 0.8 k

tooth rotting fluff; thoughts about having a kid (toji); reader is referred to as sweet girl and it’s implied she’s mamagumi <3; this is so fucking sappy.

he thought he let it go

he was sure he had left it, everything, behind.

his pride, his feelings, they had been left to die in that wretched childhood house of his.

so why?

why was his heart racing in his chest as he laid beside her, unable to sleep?

—

lay beside me

let’s share the gloominess

hand in hand in the darkness

i feel like i’m holding my life in my fist

her face was smushed in his chest, limbs tangled in an endless knot, skin to skin. disheveled hair framed those angelic features of hers he had grown accustomed to staring at, long eyelashes gently laid on her cheeks in her apparently dreamless slumber.

her chest rose and fell steadily, soft breaths hitting his pecs, penetrating his skin and flesh, going straight to warm his battered heart.

these devils around my bed

are waiting for me to fall asleep

the room was swallowed by darkness, thoughts swirling around his tired mind. toji was never the one to ponder much about his feelings; he acted, he didn’t waste time thinking.

during some particularly silent nights though, he allowed his brain to wander, he allowed his heart to be ripped out of his chest by his own consciousness.

the reality of my nightmares scares me

a knife rips my chest apart

it’s an open heart surgery

he had promised himself to never let the muscle between his ribcage feel again, the mere thought too painful to handle. yet, here he was, cradling her body like it was made of the most precious and fragile porcelain, expertly crafted to look flawless. just for him.

with the door and windows closed

the light can’t get through

but if your caress me i can reopen my eyes

tears dry

every wound stitches itself back together

he had honestly forgotten what comfort felt like for a long time, his body and mind getting accostumed to constant stress, anxiety and loneliness, all self inflicted. but then.. she stepped into his life.

with her soft giggles, lighthearted jokes and sunny smile, and she messed everything up. every wall he’d worked so hard to put up crumbling helplessly under the weight of her gentle voice.

i promise you, i’ll learn

to not hate everything i have

both in good and bad

wether it’s rain or snow

for your name, i’ll kill.

his merciless hands had ended many lives, cold and heartless in the process, but it never came from something personal, at least that’s what he liked telling himself. he was the one who left it all behind, the small satisfaction that came with eliminating a gifted one was just a small figment of his imagination.

so why did his entire body shake in pure fury only imagining someone bringing harm to the little slice of heaven he held in his strong arms?

lay down beside me

let’s share the sun

me and you, hand in hand in the desert

but when you smile, suddenly it pours.

i know who you are

you’re splendid, like your name

such a sweet girl she was, and that’s what he always called her. his sweet girl. if toji had to be frank, it was only fitting.

saccharine voice pulling him out from far more nightmares than he liked to admit, dainty hands pulling him back to slumber, running through his unruly locks.

she was so sweet, the sweetest.

suddenly, he felt her stir in his arms, his eyes quickly darting to the digital clock on her nightstand. 3:45 am. fuck, did he wake her? were his thoughts that fucking loud?

“mhmm.. ‘ji, why aren’t you sleeping?” she said, nuzzling her face into his chest, voice still heavy with sleep.

us, a monster and a little girl

hand in hand, navigating the world

towards a new life, i’m ready

this is the ascent from rock bottom

“don’t worry your pretty lil’ head ‘bout that, sweet girl, go back to sleep” he replied, voice gruff and husky, while caressing her back in an attempt to lull her back to sleep.

“why don’t you join me, mh?” she readjusted her body, face now in the crook of his neck, trailing chaste kisses all the way up to his jawline.

“don’t wanna you bein’ all grumpy in the morning" she chuckled in a whisper.

my god, what are you?

the eighth world wonder

the gods’ daughter

you who made the impossible happen

gave me my will to live back.

god she was just so fucking perfect.

his hands trailed from her back down to her waist, pulling her into him more. he needed her impossibly close, bodies melting together, never wanting to let go.

that night toji realized he’d marry her, even give her a kid. maybe he could be selfish for once, and make another little blessing for them to share.

and if the world is too small for us

we’ll redefine space and time,

us.

“yeah.. sorry for wakin’ ya doll, let’s go back to sleep, ‘aight?” he squeezed her hips gently.

i love you.

☆

this was inspired by one of my favourite songs!

listen to it here !!

| @ASHSD3AD ‘S WORD, DO NOT COPY OR TRANSLATE |

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 102: The Ministry of Magic

Lily was fortunate enough to land on a chair, but it wasn't neat. The chair rocked back as she landed in it, she lost even that small bit of leisure as she fell even farther forward and her foot got stuck in the armrest, and the rest of her messily fell to the floor with her foot still stuck. Lily tried to extract herself, but the chair wouldn't budge to give her room to get out from under the desk, something blocking it was the only explanation for why it wouldn't roll farther. So she craned her head around to see that Lupin was wedged between the chair and the wall, someone's shoe was dangling over the side of the desk, and pieces of parchment were fluttering everywhere. And that's just what she could see.

"Everyone alright?" she called, her voice oddly strangled-sounding because of her awkward position.

"Yep!" Potter replied with chipper. "You, Evans?"

Lily groaned and let her head fall against the back of the inside of the desk as the others all replied they were okay.

"Where are we?" Alice asked, squirming uncomfortably as she was literally wedged between the two desks, but unable to move forward with Regulus directly in front of her smushed against the wall, or Potter jammed against the door.

"A very, very tiny office," the older Black pointed out dryly, sitting the most comfortably on what must be Arthur's desk judging by the photo of his family adorning it.

"At least it's better than Harry's or Aragog's cupboard," Pettigrew groaned, sitting on the other desk like it was a saddle and not looking happy for it, but as unable to readjust as anyone else with another on either side of him. "Where's the book?"

There was some shifting and shuffling, but not much, before Frank's voice rang out from the opposite side of Arthur's desk, it must have fallen to the floor, it was a miracle he'd even been able to stretch enough to reach it. "I've got it." He cleared his throat for a moment before beginning, "The Ministry of Magic."

"Who wants to bet the door won't open?" Lupin grumbled, he'd been squashed before now, but the chair felt like a new insult digging into his stomach. No matter which way he moved, he couldn't budge an inch though with Regulus just as stuck, leaving Lily in her current predicament. "Who has an office this small, anyway? For two?" If even just James could get out they could all find a way to move an inch...

"Erm... Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, of course," the younger Black mumbled in near-exasperation. He must be somewhere that he can see something. Lily was slightly surprised not to hear a note of smug condescending in his voice at the mention of Muggles; instead, he sounded rather shocked and bewildered.

Harry's morning routine was uninterrupted until Black let out a snort at Tonks's exhaustion. "I stayed up for almost a whole week once, one night is nothing!"

"You'll do anything for a bad grade," Frank marveled, then read on quickly before more comments could be made.

Harry was given various pieces of good advice from the adults in his life, and Molly tried to mother him, despite his unvoiced wishes. Lily did not need anyone to tell her that Potter was likely ruffling up his hair again with an eternally smug look on his face as Molly tried to do the opposite to Harry.

Rather quickly, Mr. Weasley took Harry off to the Ministry with his endless fascination for Muggles and their things.

"Wait," Lily yelped, "this isn't his office, is it?" She felt slightly stupid for not realizing this earlier.

A moment of silence, and then Alice murmured, "oh, that poor man," and Sirius Black muttered, "so what nutter works with him?"

Lily would have thrown him a nasty look for that, but he seemed to guess at this anyway and quickly rectified, "not that that's a bad thing, but you do have to be kind of unusual to want to work with him."

"What're you implying about yourself, Padfoot?" Lupin demanded.

"Was just wondering that myself," Black's brother mumbled.

Harry was escorted inside the ministry by Mr. Weasley, who seemed to know everybody's names. Everything was going normally enough, until they entered the lifts-

Black gasped in horror, and Lupin, at least, from what Lily could see, slammed his head into the wall as the dramatic Black continued, "what nightmare is this future! They have laws about Sirius Breeding?!"

Lily gave a little snort of laughter, realizing too late the place was too small to go unnoticed when Potter yelped in true fright, "don't encourage him!"

The younger Black grumbled, "I've always said my greatest contribution to wizarding society would be a selective version of Silencio, so you can hear everything else he says but not that. Oh wait, what am I thinking, I should just silence all of him!"

Pettigrew snickered from the desk above her.

"I should be offended, but you just made a joke, so I'll pass," Sirius sighed. "The things you people do to me."

Frank finally snapped, "can you all let me read? I want to get out of here, you know!" His tone left Lily in less doubt than before that the rest of them are as cramped as she is.

So they all fell silent as Harry's experience of going up the Ministry lift was detailed. At one point, Frank paused just long enough to mutter about owls being used for only indoor flying, and if by 'used to' Mr. Weasley meant recently or not, and whether that was a thing in their own timeline, but kept going loudly before anyone could pick up on what he'd said.

Harry traveled through the Ministry, gawking at all the magical sights, which only Lily could appreciate, being the only Muggle-born in the group. It was noteworthy at one point Lupin shrank so far against the wall with a miserable look on his face the chair almost could have moved, and it took her repeating the level that Frank passed over so casually to remind herself why the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical creatures would cause a reaction in anyone. Lupin wasn't just anyone anymore though, but technically, well, a beast. The moment passed so quickly though, if she hadn't been watching him from her janky position, she never would have seen such a thing, and it did not feel her place at all to even bring it up. What was there to say?

The others were interested as well, of course, but more so when Kingsley Shacklebolt showed up again, acting as if he'd barely spoken to Mr. Weasley in his life.

Sirius again stalled the proceedings by loudly exclaiming over Kingsley's Sirius-plastered cubicle. "What a lovely thought, me on all sides! Why couldn't we have landed there?"

"Padfoot, he's hunting you!" Potter groaned in exasperation.

"Eh, he's only faking it, remember?" Sirius retorted, and fell into a smug silence that Lily could sense even from under the desk as the conversation continued to be stuck on Sirius with only whispered asides about the Order.

Then, Mr. Weasley led Harry to his office, which was slightly smaller than the broom cupboard, and Lily finally had her answer about the size of the space. "I can't believe they put him in here!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I can see Percy's point about his position in the Ministry, this is an absurd amount of disrespect to the man just because he works with Muggles!" She took a moment to wonder if it's Perkins's desk she was stuck under, and if so, then if Harry had been here, his feet would have been in her face. She grimaced.

Mr. Weasley babbled on about his work and regurgitating toilets, until his partner showed up with news about the trial.

Lupin tried to sit up from between the chair and the wall, and despite failing, his scowl was at nothing in here with a foul temper. "I can't believe them! They changed it on purpose!"

Mr. Weasley seems equally angry as he hurries Harry back to the lift and mutters about it the whole time. Finally, they arrive at the courtroom, and, of all things, Mr. Weasley sends Harry in alone.

Frank barely had the presence of mind to warn them of the end of the chapter before they were whisked away.

[baevillier]

Safe | Tyler seguin

Summary: A woman running from her past, finds sanctuary in a small town. Looking for a fresh start, she finds Tyler, a widowed store owner with two kids. Although Y/N just wanted to keep to herself, Tyler finds a way into her heart. 

*based on the movie safe haven* 

Part 1

It was loud.

The sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears as her hands shook, body trembling violently while she forced air into her lungs. An array of black dots and scattered stars clouded her vision as she staggered through the house, bumping into the walls and knocking picture frames down.

She had to get out. There was no possible way she could stay after what she had just done. Passing through the hallways- the woman’s body was illuminated by moonlight coming through an open window, bruises and scratches lined her arms and legs. Tracks of mascara streamed down her cheeks and the tears became mixed with her nervous sweat.

Her body was going into overdrive; adrenaline carrying her through the motions as her mind was on auto-pilot. Pushing herself into the bedroom, the woman grabbed a pillow case, stuffing it with the bare necessities, cash, clothes and feminine products. As her hands frantically tore things from the dresser, she knocked over a small picture frame which was silver in colour and had been engraved.

“Y/N and Michael Hanson, newly weds 2018” The photo was of the couple on their wedding day. Y/N was wearing a Lacey white dress and he blonde hair was curled perfectly- one of her hands smushing into her husbands face with a piece of cake as he wore a navy blue suit. They looked happy. The photo once brought a smile to the woman’s face, but as it crumbled to the floor and shattered, Y/N was leaving behind nothing but desperation and terror.

Her footsteps slapped against the wooden floors as she ran out the back door, hoping over the white picket fence and taking off into the night. The house was left in her dust as she prayed she would never have to come back.

As the late night sky hung overhead, Y/N pushed herself towards her neighbour’s house. Running past the driveway, she remembered the elderly couple that had welcomed her to the neighbourhood when she first moved in, deloris and frank. Arriving at the back door, Y/N prayed that they were still home and hadn’t headed out to their kid’s house yet for the weekend.

Her fists knocked against the door repeatedly, Y/N’s knuckles turning red to match the bruises marked up her arms. Within a few moments the porch light had turned on and Frank was opening the door- worry and caution masking his face. “Y/N?” He asked nervously, opening the door and letting the young woman in.

The old man’s wife stood at the top of the stairs and as soon as she saw what rough shape her neighbour was in, she gasped. They welcomed the girl with open arms, taking her in and helping her get situated. She explained to them what had happened and how she was leaving town. Within an hour, they had covered Y/N’s hair with a messy brown box dye, gotten some food into her and given her fresh clothes.

Frank drove the woman to the bus station, reassuring her that whatever she needed, him and deloris would look after. She promised to call once she had gotten somewhere safe before saying her goodbyes.

The bus station was rather busy, everyone hoping on their transit lines and heading out. Pulling her hood up over her freshly dyed hair, Y/N kept to herself- avoiding the gazes of anyone that could possibly identify her later. Scanning the board of places that the company was offering transit towards, she picked Atlanta.

She knew a couple of people there and they would protect her.

Grabbing her ticket, Y/N started walking towards the terminal, the bus was leaving in ten minutes and she had to hurry. As the woman passed through the hub- she noticed the flashing red and blue lights outside, matched with a police siren. A familiar face climbed out of one of the cars and made Y/N’s skin pale.

Picking up her pace, she made it out of the station and onto the bus- just as the police had started searching people. Tucking herself into one of the middle seats, she pulled her hood over her face and curled into herself. Pressing her head against the glass window and closing her eyes. Exhaustion captured her rather quickly as the previous events of the night finally caught up to her, the adrenaline fading away into blackness.

She made it.

[bxngthedoldrums]

9 from the soulmates part for some reason gave me eNORmous pete blabbing to mikey at 3 am as they’re both sleep deprived and smushed into a bunk in july on warped

god i Love this 

9. "please take my soul and never let go." 

mikey wishes he was as verbally gifted as pete was. it was so easy for pete to speak, eloquent sentences that flowed so perfectly together. mikey guessed that's why he was a songwriter for a living and a bass player on the side, when mikey was barely the latter. 

they're on the fall out boy bus, partially because it was less crowded, but mostly because mikey's nosy ass band didn't live there. truthfully, the fall out boy guys were all fairly respectful of boundaries, and mikey just had to pretend he didn't see joe giving patrick and andy a Look every time he came by. if they were on the mcr bus, frank would've already ripped the bunk curtain open just to be a jackass. 

mikey's back is against the bus wall and pete's on his side so they can face each other, sharing space and air. pete has an arm slung over mikey's waist, and mikey's arms are folded against his chest, which are starting to cramp a bit. pete's speaking quietly and mikey's glasses are askew, peering at pete who's a little bit blurry. it's getting harder to keep his eyes open as the minutes tick by. 

"am i boring you?" pete asks, smiling, and mikey wakes back up fully. 

"sorry, i'm just tired." mikey whispers back, blinking to try and get pete's face back in focus. he closes one eye so he can look through the lens in the right place, and pete laughs softly. 

"shit, i'm so whipped for you, mikey way. i'm like a fuckin' violin string tuned too tight, you know? wrapped taut and ready to snap." he pauses, and mikey's processing. it seemed sweet, but mikey knew better by now. there's always a flip side. "i just want you to take my soul and never let go." he adds. 

mikey opens his mouth to answer but can't find the words, and pete doesn't even expect a reply but mikey feels obligated to give him one. instead, pete whispers "goodnight" and mikey says it back, pete's words swimming in his head. 

[writersmacchiato]

push & pull | ponyboy curtis x reader |

summary: a series of snapshots of your relationship with Ponyboy

———

7:29pm

It was quiet, save for the music that played over the radio. A Frank Sinatra melody that you hum along to, swaying back and forth, tapping a beat on your notebook. Your glasses slip down your nose, scrunching your nose to fix them.

Books are spread out, a hasty attempt to review before the exam tomorrow morning.

“You’ll be okay,” he speaks up, smiling to himself when you look up over your glasses and squint ever-so-slightly, “these chapters have been a breeze for you.”

You sigh, “I know...but I just want to do well on this. I can’t have any room for a bad grade, it could bring my GPA down and I need to maintain it.”

The words of comfort he wants to say would only be false, doing little to appease you. He did the next best thing.

“I’ll test over the questions, okay? Then we’re taking a break.”

“Perfect,” you smile at him, handing over the flash cards.

2:20am

It was near-silent in the house, only the hum of the refrigerator and a dog barking down the street. The fluorescent lights from the stove wash over your face, lighting it up as you sit crossed-leg on the floor. While it would have been more romantic to be outside, it was also winter. Even then, he felt a chill through his pants.

The ice cream held in his hands wasn’t helping. Chocolate swirled on his tongue as he sat across from you, leaning against the counter.

“Pony, I have literally never been so in love with you than I have in this very moment.”

Despite how hushed the words were spoken, he hears them perfectly, and can feel the blush creeping up his neck.

“Like, if you had texted me at two am and said ‘hey baby i am really craving some rocky road right now’, I would have left you on read and gone back to sleep.”

Your voice had raised, laughter curling into your tone, and he shushes you over his own laugh.

“I must love you a lot.”

7:26am

He always wakes up early, from the moment the sun creeps over the horizon, he seems to be awake. It had always annoyed him, especially when Sodapop would continue to snore by his ear.

Mornings when he woke up next to you weren’t so bad.

Seeing your face smush against the pillow, mouth open in a silent snore, was enough to make him smile.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he whispers upon seeing your eyes flutter open.

You squint at him, curling up under the blanket. “It’s too early...”

He doesn’t argue with that, opening his arms for you. The smell of your shampoo fills his nose and he can’t help but take note of how content he is in that moment.

3:30pm

Your face is pinched with anger, hands curled at your side. There had been a time when he had thought you looked beautiful like that - a storm brewing. The sight only ignited his annoyance like dry brush.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” your face falls slightly, but hardens at his attempts to come closer.

“You wouldn’t, would you.”

“And, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You never listen to anything I say.”

“I don’t listen?” The incredulity wrenches from you, “that is just rich coming from you! At least I care, you can’t say the same.”

“You care?”

“More than I should,” you deflat at those words, letting out a small huff. You turn away, casting him a look of annoyance that is tinged with sadness.

8:09pm

It’s a dumb, high school party, and for some reason he’s there.

Songs full of explicit lyrics are amplified through the bumping bass, almost shaking the walls.

Alcohol that makes his throat burn is passed around freely, stinging in a way that almost pushes him to go home. If the flashing neon lights weren’t the cause of the headache forming at the base of his skull, then it was definitely whatever the hell was in the red solo cup.

His senses were being assaulted, digging under his skin like a needle. He almost left, thinking about how he would be with you, then he thinks of the argument.

It’s still on his mind, filled with anger at the petty spat, when he spots her among the crowded room.

9:43am

Hope it was worth it.

His eyes peer at the single text from you, the gears in his brain turning slowly, as he tries to move without worsening his searing headache.

Was what?

He types back, thinking back to the night beforehand and having a strange gap in memory. The “...” pops up in his screen, and then stops, before re-typing. He waits for a response that never comes.

12:30pm

Two-Bit comes over, teeth chewing at his bottom lip.

“You look better than I expected,” he says, “you were trashed last night. Barely got you home in one piece.”

“I barely remember anything...”

The wince that Two-Bit does is subtle, but he notices.

“Did something happen?”

“Christ, kid, you really don’t remember?”

He thinks back to the text you sent him, a sense of foreboding flooding him. “What happened, Two-Bit?”

“Jesus...you made out with Cathy.”

“My ex Cathy?”

“You know any other Cathy’s?”

Shit.

3:01pm

13 Missed Calls: Ponyboy

10:33pm

His face said it all, the words he refused to say, hands clenched as he looked away. Avoided looking at the tears gathered in your eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry...”

Despite it all, it was the apology, soaked with sympathy, that made the tears fall. His eyes glimmered, like he might cry, and it made you angry. It was like he threw your heart into a fire, then decided to splash water on the flames.

“Don’t.” The word is wrenched out, laden with the despair that is beginning to grip your heart.

His throat bobs as he tries to get closer, “really, I didn’t mean to...it - just, I thought, when you left...”

It’s a mess. His words are a mess. Your heart is a mess.

You regret the day you ever fell in love with Ponyboy Curtis.

4:37pm

Sunsets don’t look the same, he decides, one night.

When he had seen the beauty behind each one, they seemed dull now.

Everything was gray around the edges, like looking through a filtered photo. Nothing made sense. Not since he broke up with you.

It was his own fault, but it didn’t hurt any less.

Knowing that it was him - his actions, words, feelings - that pushed you away hurt him than anything.

Nothing felt gold anymore.

————

tagging people who liked the post: @steve-slut @savethehoneeybees @that-one-problamatic-fangirl @ponyboyvhs @staygoldponebone @quarternotecrisis @scvenheavens @farrahfawcettt @naiadbookworm @kaypuffle101 @alyssanicholls @bobo-bush

[spidergwenstefani]

Take Another Shot

@aw-hawkeye-no you did this to me. This was a single ship blog and then you did THIS to me.

anyways here’s a 5 +1 Castlehawk fic. 5 times Frank proposes to Clint and 1 time Clint says yes.

1.

California’s not usually Frank’s scene. There’s too many gleaming white smiles plastered onto plastic faces. He prefers the east coast where everyone’s depressed and honest about it.

“You gonna keep checking your guns until these terrorists just give up and go home, or are we ready to go?” Clint flashes him a bright smile, although it’s a shade too genuine for Frank to really resent it.

“I like to be prepared. Just one of my rules,” he says, finally sliding his Glock back into place and giving Clint a short nod. “We all got rules, right? Helps us do what we do.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint says, suddenly mock serious. He shoulders his bow to take Frank’s face between his hands, archery gloves pressing hard enough to smush his cheeks together. “My rule is no falling in love, got it? I know I make it hard, but I got no time for romance. I have a tight schedule of kicking ass and taking names to stick to.” He gives Frank’s head a little shake as if he’s gotta rattle some sense loose. As if Frank’s the type to go and fall for someone that easy. It’s classic Clint Barton humor. The kind of jokes that you have to keep reminding yourself to hate. The kind of funny that rubs you the wrong way until you blink and it doesn’t. Greater men than Frank have fallen to the charms of Clint Barton, but Frank’s specialty is putting up walls, so he counts himself safe.

“Agreed.”

“Great.” Clint’s smile is slow and mischievous. “Then let’s go catch some terrorists.”

“You know how much cooler you would sound if you said ‘Let’s go kill some terrorists?’” Frank says, but he follows Clint down the dark hallway anyways. He doesn’t look back, just sparing a half-assed handwave over his shoulder.

“There’s nothing cool about murder, Castle. That’s my other rule.”

>>==========>

There’s gunfire all around him, pinging off of exposed metal and concrete and generally raining down hell. Frank sinks his knife through flesh and his fourth guy goes down with a scream, clutching at his shoulder. Frank takes a second to tell himself that wasn’t quite murder while he kicks another guy hard enough to feel bone snap under his boot. If he gets medical help in the next few hours he’ll be alright. If he doesn’t, that’s someone else’s problem.

He pulls his Glock out of its holster to put a few rounds into goon number six, and wonders about Clint’s stance on permanently maiming. He’s not just gonna leave terrorists with perfectly good hands lying around during a firefight, ready to drag themselves over to a discarded weapon and take his team out from the sidelines.

Frank hears the seventh guy coming up behind him almost too late. Almost not enough time to sidestep the swipe of his knife, grab him by the arm, and wrench his shoulder out of his socket. Almost. The guy goes down like a screaming pile of bricks, and Frank can tell by the shouts behind him that Clint’s preoccupied, so he shoots him maybe a little closer to some essential organs than is strictly nonlethal. Whatever. There’s bullets flying around the place like confetti. The guy could’ve got hit by friendly fire. Frank’s got plausible deniability.

He turns toward Clint then, finger already tightening on the trigger, but freezes as soon as he takes in the scene.

There’s six guys already on the floor and only one of them is still moving enough to try and pull an arrow free from his thigh. Four more are swarming Clint and he takes down two in a motion so smooth Frank actually can’t tell if he drew a breath or not. He nocks two arrows and takes the other two out in one shot. Frank must’ve made some kinda noise because Clint spares him a glance, shooting him a blinding smile and fuck Frank and his walls because that’s an armor piercing round right there.

“Marry me,” he chokes out, realizing he’s standing there gaping like an idiot in the middle of a firefight and not quite caring. Clint’s face does a funny little show, going from surprised to disappointed to an eye roll in moments. He settles on scrunching up his nose just a bit, shooting another goon without looking so he can fix Frank with a critical stare.

“No. Jesus, Castle. We talked about this.”

“I changed my mind,” Frank says. A spray of bullets gets annoyingly close to his face, so he lobs a knife at the source. “C’mon. Right after this. You, me, city hall.”

“I told you, my schedule’s booked.” One of the last few guys tries for a kamikaze charge at Clint, and Frank hasn’t even taken aim before there’s an arrow sprouting from his chest.

“We could do it now,” Frank tries. “I bet one of these guys is ordained.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, turning back to finish off the last few with laser focus. “I hear that’s the number one fallback plan for ministers. Terrorists, all of ‘em.” The last goon goes down and Clint steps back to survey the damage. “Alright, Castle. How many of these guys did you kill?”

“Uh,” Frank says. The floor is slick with blood, and he offers Clint an apologetic shrug. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

2.

Frank’s boots thud against tile as he races down the hallway after Clint, ducking as bullets and goddamn lasers go flying past.

“Remind me why I agreed to help you with Avengers business again?”

“Because you like watching my ass while we run for our lives?” Clint tries, taking a sharp right and not bothering to check if Frank follows. He does. He’s not letting that ass out of his sight. “Because deep down you’re a good person?”

“It was the first one,” Frank grunts. Another laser blast goes past, mere centimeters from his face. Goddamn lasers. They leave the air behind them crackling in a way bullets never do. It’s putting him on edge.

“Backup should be here soon,” Clint says as he skids around another corner. “Then we won’t have to keep retreating.”

“If you hadn’t lost your bow, we wouldn’t have had to run in the first place.” Frank swears they should be going in circles by now. Fucking AIM bases. Fucking AIM bases and their goddamn lasers and Clint. Motherfucking. Barton.

“Not my fault,” Clint shouts, diving out of the way of a laser that somehow ricochets off the wall. “Dunno how I was supposed to know a putty arrow would react with a vat of acid like that. And I took down half the base, didn’t I?”

“Stealth mission,” Frank grunts. Their next turn is even tighter, and he hits the wall with his shoulder before bouncing back. The AIM agents are falling further and further behind, their shots getting sloppier, but they’re still too close to lose in their labyrinth of a base and Frank and Clint can’t keep this up forever. “You said this was a stealth mission.” The hallway they’ve turned down is slightly wider than the others, and Clint falls back slightly to run at Frank’s side.

“Carry me,” he says, and Frank glares at him. Clint’s panting and his face is flushed, but he’s a far cry from out of breath.

“I always fucking carry you,” Frank says, but he scoops Clint up anyways, somehow wrangling him into a bridal carry without falling ass over teakettle.

“Rude,” Clint says, immediately squirming out of Frank’s grip and throwing himself over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. “We’ve worked together like twice.”

“And yet,” Frank says, not bothering to finish his sentence. He’s going slower now under Clint’s weight. They have a decent head start on the AIM agents, but whatever Clint’s trying to do better get done soon. He feels Clint fumble with the holsters on his back, and then he’s drawing out the rifle Frank keeps strapped to him.

“Keep running,” Clint says, like Frank’s about to stop.

“Start shooting,” he gripes back. He feels Clint go still, digging his elbow into Frank’s shoulder to steady himself. The sound of bullets and lasers gets closer, and Frank can practically feel the shrapnel nipping at his heels.

There’s one shot, then four more in quick succession. Clint pauses to take a deep breath, and then five more shots ring out. He hears a strangled shout of pain, and then they’re not under fire anymore.

“Woah there, Castle,” Clint says, giving Frank a pat on the ass like he’s some kinda horse. He skids to a stop too fast just to be an asshole, and Clint goes tumbling over his shoulder.

“Don’t ever make me do Avengers shit again,” Frank says, bending over to catch his breath. Clint just beams up at him from the floor, practically hugging Frank’s sniper rifle. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon, and his cheeks are flushed bright red.

“That was hot though, right?” Clint says. “I feel like that looked totally hot.” Frank’s too busy clutching at the stitch in his side to agree. Clint closes his eyes, letting go of Frank’s rifle to let his arms flop out at his sides. “You think you could do the princess carry again? That was definitely hot.”

“I’m saving it for the honeymoon. You gotta say ‘I do’ before I bust that move out again,” Frank says, and Clint opens his eyes just so he can roll them.

“Nuh uh. Figures. I always end up going for the good Catholic boys.”

“Really?” Frank knocks the toe of his boot against Clint’s shoulder and he snickers.

“No.”

3.

There’s a dog barking somewhere in a far off alley. Police sirens are blaring, but they’re always blaring in Brooklyn. Frank’s boots skid against wet asphalt as he stumbles, falling back into the shadows and clutching at the wound in his side. He’s lost a fair amount of blood. He can’t tell exactly how deep the wound is in the dark like this, but he can tell it’s more than a scratch. He’s walked away from worse, but Frank’s not stupid enough to think this isn’t bad.

He grits his teeth and stumbles again, careening into a trash can that falls over with an ear-splitting crash. Somewhere out there, the dog starts barking louder.

“Fuck,” Frank spits out, letting his head fall against cool brick. He’s not sure exactly what part of Brooklyn he’s even in. He lost Kingpin’s men a while back, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to risk being seen while he looks for some kind of street sign.

The brick of the brownstone Frank’s collapsed against is kind of soothing. The cold against his face edges into his brain slowly and makes a nice contrast to the pain pulsing in his side. He lets his boots skid out from under him, sliding down to sit in the shadows. All things considered, Brooklyn isn’t the worst place to die. Frank lets his eyes slide shut and listens to the barking dog draw closer.

>>==========>

There’s a wet tongue slobbering all over Frank’s face, and the smell of dog breath pulls him back into reality. He groans, lifting his hand to bat the dog’s face away, but somebody’s already pulling his snout back, scolding him gently. Frank cracks his eyes open to see a familiar face, blond hair as unkempt as usual and blue eyes darkened with worry.

“Clint?”

“Jesus, Frank. Warn a guy before you show up in his neighborhood with a stab wound, alright?”

“Didn’t mean to end up in your neighborhood,” Frank says, and Clint’s face shifts just a little, a cloud of hurt falling over all the worry.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s- that’s kind of worse. You just planned on bleeding out in a back alley without giving me a heads up?”

“I thought you were in California.” Frank’s mouth feels like sandpaper. He pulls himself up enough to take in his surroundings and realizes he’s in a bedroom. He’s in Clint’s bed.

“I’ve been in town for about a week,” Clint says. He passes Frank a glass of water that was waiting on the side table. Frank takes it gratefully, almost draining the cup before he speaks again.

“You didn’t call.”

“Neither did you,” Clint says. He finally lets go of the dog he’s been holding back by the collar. A one-eyed mutt that seems to blend in seamlessly with the soft disarray of Clint’s place.

“I thought you were in California,” Frank repeats. “Otherwise I would’ve.” He puts the glass back on the nightstand, not bothering to smother his groan of pain. He can feel stitches in his side. Clint knows the damage.

“How’d you get stabbed?” Clint asks, pushing aside a purple t-shirt that Frank definitely doesn’t remember putting on to examine his well-bandaged side. Most of the light in the room is the warm glow of a lamp, but sharp white light is spilling out from an open bathroom door where Frank can see the contents of a first aid kit strewn around the sink.

“I was a thorn in Kingpin’s side.”

“So he put a knife in yours,” Clint says, still so close. He runs his thumb over the top of the bandages, and Frank feels himself shiver. Clint sits up a little more, his face a few inches from Frank’s. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Clint this serious. “I ordered pizza. Before you showed up, I mean. I saved some for you.”

Frank groans, loud and shameless, and grabs Clint’s arm to pull him just a little closer.

“Marry me,” he says.

“No,” Clint answers, but he still leans in and presses their lips together.

4.

“You- really? You have intel on MODOK and you won’t tell me? What the hell, Frank?” Clint’s on the genuinely-pissed side of joking, but he’s sitting on Frank’s couch, wearing Frank’s t-shirt, and patching himself up with Frank’s bandages, so he can’t find it in him to do much more than smile.

“C’mon, Hawkeye. Don’t be dumb. You’ve worked for SHIELD. You know information ain’t free.” Clint huffs, throwing a pad of gauze Frank’s way. He just grins and lets it bounce off his chest.

“See, I thought we just shared things with each other. I thought this was a relationship, not just some kind of exchange of services.”

“Sure,” Frank hums, sitting forward so he can run his hand up Clint’s ankle. Clint kicks him away half-heartedly. “But my source went through hell to get this particular intel, so it’s going to cost you.”

“Fine,” Clint says, sinking back into the couch and glaring at the TV. “What do you want for it?”

“Marry me?” Frank asks, sliding his hand up to rest on Clint’s thigh. Clint just crosses his arms, keeping his glare on the screen like he gives a shit about Mythbusters.

“No, fuck you, Castle. Settle for a blow job like a normal boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Frank says, grinning even wider. Clint’s cheeks turn pink and Frank can see him struggle to keep his eyes on the TV.

“I said what I said.” Clint’s voice is a little softer. Still pissy, though. “So? You really gonna withhold intel from your boyfriend?”

“You play a dirty game, Barton,” Frank says, sliding his hand up to play with the hem of Clint’s t-shirt. His t-shirt. Clint finally looks back at him, something genuinely affectionate undercutting his glare.

“Yeah, I play a dirty game. Sure. ‘Marry me,’ Jesus Christ.”

5.

“Marry me,” Frank pants, breathing his words against the sweat-damp skin behind Clint’s ear. He rolls his hips and Clint gasps, arching up into him and scraping blunt nails across his back.

“No,” Clint says, biting his lip hard as Frank presses him further into the mattress. “Fuck. No- Oh god. Do that again.”

Frank obliges and counts Clint’s moan as a consolation prize. He presses his fingers harder into Clint’s hips and slides his lips down his jaw.

“Yes,” Clint groans, nails digging into Frank’s back. “Yes, yes. Frank, right there. Fuck, yes.” Frank bites a mark into Clint’s neck and does his best to reduce him to nothing but ‘yes.’

+1.

There’s still bullets whizzing by overhead, still bad guys with guns searching the complex, trying to track down Frank and Clint. They’re holed up pretty good for now, out of sight of any cameras and sheltered enough from gunfire behind layers of steel and concrete. They’re nowhere near free, but Frank watched Clint take out four guys with one arrow and get a fifth on the rebound not twenty minutes ago, so he’s not sure he can keep going without getting the question out of his system and the damn box out of his pocket.

“Hey,” Frank says, tugging Clint back from where he’s peering around their barricade. “Hey, is this a bad time?”

“For what?” Clint asks, and he searches Frank’s face for a moment before he looks down at the ring box sitting open in his hands.

“Marry me?” Frank asks. “While I’m down on my knees and all that.” Clint’s staring at the little red box, and Frank can’t tell if the paleness in his face is from surprise or just blood loss.

He blinks and then looks back up at Frank, fury glinting in his eyes.

“Fucking what?” Clint hisses, just barely quiet enough not to give away their location through the cacophony of gunfire. “Are you kidding me? ‘Is this a bad time?’ Yeah, Frank. It’s a bad fucking time.”

“Is that a ‘no,’” Frank asks, still too high on adrenaline and the thrill of a good fight to do anything but smile.

“Are you serious? Fuck you, ‘marry me,’ I got shot!” Clint gestures emphatically at the gash in his leg.

“You got shot a little,” Frank corrects. “I’m not hearing a ‘no.’” Clint’s jaw clenches and then he grabs the box out of Frank’s hands.

“You’re the worst,” Clint says, pulling the ring out and tossing the box to the side. “Some fucking husband you’ll make. Yes, okay? Yes. Come on, put it on me.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Castle,” Frank says, sliding the ring onto Clint’s left hand. It’s subtle, just brushed steel with a short message etched into the inside. It fits perfectly, and Frank feels a surge of happiness no adrenaline rush could match. He leans forward, trying to catch Clint’s mouth in a kiss but only managing to plant one on his cheek as he turns his head away.

“Nuh uh,” Clint says, biting his cheek like he’s holding back a smile. “If you think I’m gonna be Clint Castle ‘til death do us part you’ve got another thing coming. Our kids’ll get prime alphabetical rank with Barton and I’m not letting you take that away from them.”

“It’s one letter off,” Frank laughs, and Clint’s beaming anyways. He kisses him then, and Frank can feel the cold metal of the ring against his cheek when Clint pulls him closer.

[anonryder23]

Human

Heyyy, just wanna post this here, but you can also find it on ao3 (my user is mjoInir there), bc Frank deserves a little domestic bliss tbh. No warning for this chapter tbh.

Chapter One. Black Coffee

Cassandra Nash walked slowly behind the counter at the diner in Upper West Side Manhattan, right on the border of where Hell's Kitchen would begin. She looked clearly exhausted, her concealer barely doing any help to mask the bags under her eyes, with her dark blonde hair in a messy bun, several strands falling into her face.

She worked as a waitress to help cover the fees at Columbia, but she was in her last two years of the Robotics PhD program (she was young for a student who was almost done with her PhD, only being twenty-eight, and would be three years younger then when the average PhD student would be done). She had a Masters in Mechanical and Electrical Engineering, and she knew as soon as she was done, she was potentially looking at working for Tony Stark — she clearly had the smarts and the ambition. It was really only a matter of time. To add to it, her mother was a retired S.H.I.E.L.D agent (living comfortably in Orlando), and perhaps Cassandra had a bit of a pull in that area too.

Ace's Diner was quiet, especially during that time of night, but the diner had certainly grown on her, as she had been working there since she was twenty-four (which might be a reason she was still there, patiently waiting to be done with school to leave). Cassandra was alone, other then the one busboy, and the chef, and no one would come to relieve her until the morning shift began. She was relatively used to this — working nights to pay for her books and off-campus apartment. She also tutored younger students and helped manage the on campus library in her off time (which also helped her focus on her projects/homework).

The bell over the door rang, catching Cassandra's attention, her eyes flickering from her Robotics textbook to the patron who had walked in. He was tall, with a dark blue sweatshirt zipped all the way up, along with the hood, but she could see the baseball cap on underneath it. She found him slightly suspicious, but shrugged it off. Her mother had trained her from an early age, briefly wanting her daughter to follow in her footsteps, plus self-defense would never be a bad thing (especially in New York City).

Cassandra walked slowly towards the man who had entered, who took a booth in the back. She barely got a word out when he told her that all he was interested in was black coffee. And a lot of it. She complied, bringing back the coffee pot that had freshly brewed coffee as its contents. She poured it slowly, eyes flickering over him, trying to catch any of his features that it seemed he was hiding under the cap.

She returned to her textbook, pouring herself a cup of coffee. There was no was she was going to last the night without it. She was leaning over the counter, her back to the chef's window, and facing the entrance — the mysterious patron was down to her right, and she could see him watching her briefly through the corner of her eye. She paid him no-nevermind, reading through the chapter she was pretty sure she knew by heart at this point. But she has never earned anything less then a B+ during her time at Columbia, and she intended to keep it that way — always aiming for top marks.

The man cleared his throat and her honey colored eyes flickered over to him. He had his coffee cup on the edge of his table, and she can only guess that it was empty. She sauntered back over to him, and that was when she caught sight of the bruising around his left eye socket. Cassandra was only briefly caught off guard, and instead of reacting to it, she only offered a small smile.

She placed the coffee pot down onto the table after pouring him a cup, not even saying a word as she left it at his table. He smirked before she walked back to the counter, turning the page, taking a sip of her coffee (after adding both cream and sugar). She did not really notice what the man was doing, or that he is simply staring out the window, lost in his own head. Nor did she notice that the busboy had fallen asleep in the kitchen, while the chef watched Netflix on his laptop. Weeknights were usually always this dead, weekend nights were where it really depended; sometimes there was a bunch of drunk/hungover civilians coming in for late-night snacks and coffee, or they were as dead as weeknights. Either way, Cassandra went with the flow — even though she did prefer the nights she could study and get paid for it.

A cop car pulled up on the opposite side of the road, both officers needing a caffeine boost. Cassandra smiled as they entered, not even noticing as the mysterious man kept his head down, but with all his focus on the two officers. Both were general regulars during the night, but Cassandra barely remembered their names.

They were both female officers, which had Cassandra's respect the first time she met them. Ortiz was the older of the two, having two children and a husband in accounting, while Blake was newly married to a ballet dancer.

Cassandra was quick to pour them each a cup of coffee from the only remaining pot behind the counter. She did not falter, even if the authority would be intimidating to just about anyone. She supposed it was because she grew up with a mother who was in a similar boat that she reacted easily to the women, trading boring small talk to pass the time.

Ortiz and Blake were discussing the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, which had Cassandra's interest. Vigilante types had always fascinated her; she practically begged her mother to tell her anything and everything she knew about the Avengers. Opinions differ widely when it came to the issue of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen — you either thought he was a vigilante, borderline hero, or you thought he was a criminal. And while the thought of having someone currently roaming the streets, protecting civilians, puts Cassandra's mind at ease, even a little. Not many care too much about the "little guys" or your everyday New Yorker. She, however, does not disclose her opinion to either of the officers, walking the line between both opinions, a tactic she had learned from her mother.

        They paid and left, each only having a cup, and she took both mugs back to the kitchen, looking slightly annoyed at D.J., the sleeping busboy. When she returned to the counter, she noticed that the man left, the coffee pot completely empty (she did not see him pour the remaining contents into a thermos), but there was a twenty on the counter beside his cup. Coffee was not nearly that expensive, so she had gotten a decent sized tip.

        Cassandra returned the coffee pot to behind the counter, discarding the used cup into the sink, before returning to her textbook. Her cellphone buzzed in her apron, and she placed it on the counter, seeing a text message from her friend Eliza.

        Study session tomorrow? it read. Eliza was on the path to a Chemical Engineering PhD, and even though the women would not be studying the same material, it was still nice to have company.

        Bring pizza? Cassandra sent back.

        Her phone buzzed moments later, Of course!

        Cassandra smiled, beginning to filter through her social media. Just another brief distraction from the slow night, and there was nothing of particular interest.

       By the time Vera came to relieve Cassandra, along with Nathan, she was just about to pass out. Her trip home was relatively short, a quick subway ride and a few blocks to walk. Her apartment was tiny, her dining room and living room smashed together, the couch barely fitting into the space (she did not even own a dining table for this reason, instead eating at her coffee table). Her kitchen was small, but it was really all she needed, as she did not cook often. The bathroom was tiny, but it had the necessities, and that was really all Cassandra required. Her bedroom barely fit her full sized bed (it's smushed into the back, stretching to be touching both walls) and her dresser. It had a tiny closet however, which was nice enough for her.

       Cassandra set the alarm on her phone for class and climbed into her bed, falling asleep moments after closing her eyes.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Flood my Mornings: Little things far beneath us

Anon said: Was reading FMM again () and had forgotten how mean and judgy Claire’s old neighbors were to her back before Jamie came. I would LOVE to see a scene where sassynach gives her a peace of her mind!!!

@themusicsweetly suggested (many moons ago): Jamie going into his first skyscraper and looking out over the city. 

This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

See all past installments via Bonnie’s Master List

Previous installment: Winky (Claire’s nickname for Ian has some unexpectedly poignant tie-ins to their lives) 

Special Flashback installment! 

Yes, the date is March! No, you’re not going crazy! 

As noted on a previous post, I intentionally fastforwarded through the Ian pregnancy, with the intention to occasionally flash back and show some of the scenes I had already written, but chose to skip over. As always, feel free to request scenes from any point in the timeline  :) - Mod Bonnie

March, 1951

It was amazing to see the exact same expression on their faces as they looked out at the city below; to hear the awed delight in both voices, battle-hardened man and tiny girl in his arms somehow one in the novelty and wonder.

“Da?” Bree’s hands and nose were smushed right up against the glass. “Everyfin’s all LITTLE down-there.”

“Aye, you’re right, Bree.” His hands were occupied holding her up, but his own nose would have been eagerly flattened too, if it weren’t for the brim of his hat. “All the Cars and people are like wee bugs crawling about.”

“….They’re…. BUGS?”

“Nay,” he laughed, kissing her cheek before peering out again himself. “Only from up so high, they seem bitty and small, aye?”

“Uh-huh….Will they stay small all ever?”

“They’ll go right back to their proper sizes when we go back down,”  I promised, slipping my arm around Jamie’s back.

“M’okay, that’s-good!” 

“So, what do you think?” I asked Jamie, rubbing my belly gently and already knowing the answer. 

“’Tis a grand sight, Claire. Thanks for winning me over to the idea, for ‘tis well worth it.”

It was an unseasonably warm, blue day for March, and from the top of the skyscraper’s observation deck—even at only 25-or-so stories—the view was little short of spectacular.

“What’s the highest up you’ve been, previously?”

“When I voyaged on the Aeroplane, I suppose,” he said after considering a moment. “Though, I’ll confess, I didna once hazard looking out the wee portholes to inspect the view.” 

“Oh, you absolutely must next time! It’s breathtaking to see the world from up there.” 

“Aye, took my breath and my breakfast both, repeatedly.” He gave a playful shudder. “Why d’ye think I was so reluctant to let ye drag me up here? I’ve been atop mountains that were higher still than this, certainly, but a view so high of a city….” He shook his head, kissing the top of Bree’s before turning his gaze back to the horizon, “I canna recall ever seeing such a thing.”

“We’ll have to pop down to New York, one of these days,” I said dreamily as I threaded my arm through his. “The Empire State building is over triple the height of this one.”

“Truly?” he breathed, staggered. “How far away is—”

“Oh my goodness! If it isn’t Mrs. Randall!”

We both jumped and whirled, and a dread I hadn’t felt in over a year suddenly drenched my entire body at sight of that perfect wave of blonde hair bobbing toward us.

“From the old house?” I was nearly as shocked by Jamie’s immediate comprehension as by the sight of Julianne Wirth herself, until I remembered. Lord, he must have encountered her as he went door to door, asking after me. I nodded once in answer and saw his jaw tighten. Knowing her—as I unfortunately did— she would have shut the door in his face immediately, unless she had called the police first.

To this very day, I couldn’t say what it was exactly that had made this woman take such a dislike to me. In those brief months, though, when Frank and I were—by all appearances, anyway— a normal, happily-expecting couple on Furey Street, Julianne had picked up on my detachment immediately and saw fit to make every encounter a living hell. She had a knack for bringing me down with a masterful array of half-veiled jibes, all while fawning and mooning over Frank, leaving me and her poor husband to stand awkwardly to the side. I was convinced it was all a game to her, not driven by any desire for Frank or anything at all, really, apart from fiendish cruelty. 

After the divorce, when I was alone as a new mother, encounters with her had been rarer (for I didn’t bloody go out of my way to invite the Wirths over for dinner parties, anymore, did I?), but no less nasty, and had sent me into fits of enraged tears behind closed doors on more than one occasion. Even then, though, I had kept my mouth shut and taken it, too vulnerable and uncertain in my place in the world to risk outright confrontation. 

“My word, what a pleasant surprise” the present incarnation of the spiteful bitch was simpering up into my face, her 5-foot-2-inch frame still infuriatingly perfect. “How are you, Mrs. Randall?”  

“Julianne,” I said with a warmth I that I’m sure did not extend to my eyes. “I’m quite well, thank you, and it’s Mrs. Fraser, now, in fact,” I said, turning to introduce Jamie. “This is my—”

“Oh, that’s right,” she was already saying, eyes alight as they moved between Jamie and me. “The divorce.” She said it with deepest pity and loud enough to be heard across half the observation deck. 

I could hear Jamie’s rage in every tightly-controlled breath as he very deliberately put his free hand on the small of my back. Reinforcement, it said. Ye need only say the word.  

“My, and look how much sweet little Barbara has grown.” 

“Brianna,” I corrected with a smile so forced it could have broken through a brick wall. “I trust Daniel and the children are well?” 

“Yes, wonderful, all,” she beamed over her shoulder, where her family stood at the opposite end of the observatory. Clearly, she didn’t want them personally witnessing this exchange, for she jumped right in with, “How is the job, going, these days, dear?” 

Out for blood, but damn me, if I would let this harpy get the better of me. “It’s splendid, thank you for asking!  It’s beyond compare, to be so useful in a context outside the home. Though, I’m working only part-time at present, as I’m soon to be studying to be a physician.”

“Goodness! What a devastating challenge that will be to your family; but you’ll keep at it no matter what, I’m sure,” she said with a sympathetic grimace before brightening and having the gall to pat my belly uninvited. “And you’re in the family way again, I see! How lucky that you found another husband so quickly.” She paused, distracted by Bree, who—oblivious to the drama—had pulled Jamie’s hat off to play with. For the first time, Julianne looked actually surprised, and I watched her expression go positively crazed with glee. “Ohhhh….Oh, I do think I see.”

“See?” It was Jamie that said it, sharp and wary. I myself knew precisely what she was piecing together. 

“Well, Mr. Randall was a lovely man, but there are limits to what even a saint can endure, of course, when he learns that his wife isn’t—well—Not all surprises are good ones, after all.” 

I wasn’t certain if it was peripheral vision or premonition, but I caught Jamie’s wrist behind my back before he could even budge. His fingertips were like a vise through my coat, perhaps the only thing preventing him from lunging forward and slapping the woman. Lord knew, I agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly, but I only gave him a squeeze. 

And then, I charged. 

“Oh!” I cried, blinking as though coming out of a daze. “Oh, Julianne, dear, I’m terribly sorry, have you finished?” She opened her mouth but I was already flashing her a dazzling fake smile to match every one of hers. “Didn’t think so. I’m sure you’ve got an endless list of faults to throw in the face of someone who, despite more than a year’s acquaintance, is an absolute stranger to you. That being true, of course, because no matter the many, many opportunities you had to extend kindness, you stood by and reveled in her struggles and made sure everyone called it shame.” 

My voice was as saccharine-sweet as my smile, but I took a step forward, letting every inch of my superior height and pregnant bulk work to my advantage. “I truly hate to disappoint you, but I’ve no room in my life whatsoever for shame, and what’s more, I’m precisely where I wish to be.” I placed a hand softly on her arm, still beaming. “Please don’t ever come near me or my family again, mm?” I leaned forward as though to kiss her cheek in farewell and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “Kindly go fuck yourself, Julianne.” 

Her gasp and splutter were sweet, sweet music.

“Have a good day, dear,” I said at normal volume, stepping back and linking arms with Jamie. “Lovely to see you.” 

Bree, uncharacteristically silent up to this point, piped up suddenly with, “Mummy, who’s ‘at?”

I maintained eye contact with the still-indignant Julianne and tilted my head to the side in challenge. Do you really want me to say aloud who (or what) you are?

She clamped her jaw shut and turned on her heel. Across the observatory, I watched her find her husband and children and begin herding them at once toward the stairs.

“Just a mean woman, lovey,” I said to Bree as I let the breath escape me in a whoosh. “No one we need worry about.”

“If we didn’t have an audience,” Jamie whispered, in French to evade little listening ears, “I would have you right there on that bench….RIGHT now.”

He was absolutely serious, of course. I laughed and patted his cheek. “We really need to work on finding a less base outlet for your appreciation of female assertion, my love.” 

“Tell me another way, and I’ll do it, gladly. That was—Damn, Claire, if that wasna the best thing I’ve ever bloody seen!” He leaned in and kissed me, still chuckling gleefully as he pulled away. “Can we go find someone else for ye to eviscerate next?” 

“Anyone in particular?” 

“Well, and surely we can think of a handful of other people at least that have wronged ye over the years.” He jostled Bree encouragingly. “Is there anyone else that’s been mean to Mummy?”

“Umm….” She gave it considerable thought. “Somm-atimes you bite her on’the neck?” 

Jamie’s grin was positively impish as he raised his eyebrows in my direction. “Never fear, Bree, Mummy likes that.” 

Bree scrunched her eyebrows sternly. “Da, isnot NICE, bite’n.” 

“It is the way I do it. Mummy’s verrrra ticklish, aye?”