#and it was one of those grainy ''comment YES if you agree!'' in front of a character who i'm not positive actually said that but--

[ranger-kellyn]

made a spreadsheet to better help me visualize how i'm managing my time and u g h i'm so sick of work being the primary activity.

[barnesandco]

Eat the Rich: Chapter 2

Eat the Rich Masterlist

The Avengers are tasked with tracking down an elusive thief, and retrieving the grand amounts of money she has stolen. Even after capture, she turns out to be impossible to break, save for a mystifying interest in Bucky.

Written for @mermaidxatxheart​ ‘s #jamiesmadwritingbash, under the Robin Hood AU prompt.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: mentions of Bucky’s Hydra days, and a short mention of dissociation. Disaster Avengers having breakfast.

A/N: I really really really love that people are saying they like the reader bc that’s the character people envision themselves as when they insert themselves into this kind of fanfic. I hope you enjoy what more we get to see of the reader here. So enjoy, and please continue to reblog and comment -- it makes this so much fun!

I’m not doing taglists, but you can follow and turn on notifications for @ayeshaupdates​​ to be notified when I post.

Divider by the fantastically talented @whimsicalrogers​​!

The dispute that had ensued after Bucky had voiced his wish to Steve had turned to resigned acceptance by the time the first slivers of dawn had started to creep across pristine floors, and Bucky found himself victorious. It's a grim glory that accompanies him down the hall and into the cell you had been moved into for the night. There's no mode of observation for this room, save for the presently closed viewing panel in the door. It's really early, and even though he doubts that you're asleep, given the stressful circumstances, his hand pauses where it's about to knock on the door.

With Steve having left for his run with Sam, and the others asleep or inactive in some way, shape or form, he's alone in the silver hallways of this portion of the Compound. Hand still in the air, tight fist, white knuckles and lip bitten red, and then he composes himself. Stepping away, he sits down on the floor, back against the wall and knees pulled up. 

While he waits, he listens, even if all he can hear is his own heartbeat and the faint, collective chorus of the birds chirping. The sturdy walls and doors between your bed and his floor prevent any speculation on your activities, since the only monitoring permitted is that of vital signs so an alert can be raised if there is danger. He could open the panel, but that might wake you and he doesn't want that. Whether this disruption, and how it is sure to initiate the crucial dialogue he’s here for, is undesired for his sake or yours is unclear. 

His head meets the metal behind him, and the cold stings at his scalp, but Bucky stays that way. Likes the cold bite of it, on occasions such as these, when he needs the ice-crystal clarity of mind, and he knows it'll warm up soon, under his touch. Likes knowing that Hydra doesn't control him all the time, that he can feel the prickle of freezing skin without having a debilitating flashback to cryostasis is indicative of how far he's come. He's no longer the man Steve flew to New Zealand for a month after he had a hellish dissociative episode courtesy of New York's first snowfall.

The metal thaws behind him, sunlight through the thin sliver of window at the top of the wall slides higher on the door. Opalescent solar glare on silver steel, half a rainbow in his exhausted eyes, and the weight of evaporating dew in the air is what precedes a conversation that has his stomach in knots and crosses.

The digital, holographic clock strikes nine above the cell door. 

Rising to his feet, Bucky can feel every single one of his 103 years in his back, the avoirdupois of a century's lamentable events on his weary shoulders. So he does a breathing exercise before he tries the door again.

Allowing his lungs to expand to their full capacity, and then holding that breath there until his alveoli scream, before exhaling in a rush of sweet-cereal scented breath, makes him feel less stone-like. More muscle than metal, soft and pliable and open. Steve would argue that that's perilous, here, in front of a woman who's so touch-and-go, all breakneck smiles, but he's not an Avenger when he enters that room -- he's Bucky Barnes, looking for more pieces of himself, pieces that he'll never find if his eyes are shut tight against the impact.

You answer upon the second knock. "Come in." Your voice lilts to a light taunt, but it’s effect is minimized by the drowsy scratch of your voice. Opening the door after letting it recognize his irises, Bucky thinks that the same can be said about the Christmas-just-came-early spark in your eyes, when they're underlined by dark bags. You're still wearing the green hoodie.

" 'Morning," he says softly, pausing in the doorway. The cell contains a metal chair of the same style as those in the interrogation rooms, and the cot you're sitting up in, back against the wall behind you. There's a small door in one corner that he knows leads to a toilet cubicle.

"To what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure, Mr. Barnes?"

"Bucky," he blurts unthinkingly, and your eyes widen in surprise and amusement. His guard is down, and he needs to be cautious. "And you can thank yourself for being so goddamn persistent and getting on everybody’s nerves."

The smirk brought to your face is aimed at your hands, bound loosely in front of you. A more tender expression than most seen before. The long, fretful night seems to be taking its toll on you. Perhaps you’re slipping. Or perhaps you’re pretending to, his instincts warn. He sighs, clenches his hands into fists, lets his nails dig into his palm. Metal whirs, purrs, and he releases when you move both bound hands towards the chair in front of you. 

Bucky sits down, rubs his palms back and forth over his thighs, lets the grainy feel of the denim under scratch at his hands. "You know me,” he begins.

"Not nearly as well as I'd like,” you say with a grin, looking up from your hands. He glowers. 

"I'm serious."

Your smile widens. "So am I. Come a little closer. I don't bite,” you tease, and he decides to take you up on it. Gets up and sits on the cot a couple of feet away from you, folding one leg up so his foot is under his thigh and keeping the other on the floor. You’re unfazed at having your bluff called. "...Unless you want me to,” you finish, and he ignores it. 

"You kept asking for me while you were being questioned.”

“You were watching? Did you like what you see?”

The temptation to roll his eyes is strong, but he manages to hold it in check, and fixes a strong focus on you. This is important. It’s about his life. “You wanted to talk to me, so here I am. Now let’s talk.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“How about your name?”

“Oh, you’ll have to get to know me a little better if you want me to give up that secret. Try again," you urge, and he huffs. Like drawing blood from a rock. 

Every question he could ask, every query he needs an answer to is being whirled around in the chaotic storm in his head, and it's so difficult to pick out just one. “Have we met?” He decides upon, momentarily forgoing the alternatives: Who are you? Why do I feel like I know you? Why do I feel like you're important? What part of me do you hold in those bound hands of yours?

Head tilted upwards, you consider the ceiling while searching for an answer. “Briefly.” And then you pause. Bite your lip, look down, make a so-so motion with your head. “Well, I wouldn’t say met, exactly. I wreaked some havoc and you watched.” That tells me jack-shit, sweetheart.

“When?”

“February of 2013," you respond instantaneously. Good memory. That's useful. 

“So I was with Hydra," he assumes, instantly going down all the roads he might know you by. A mission, a murder, more violence, another apology. Were you partners in crime, or his target? Or were you just in the way?

“I don’t agree with that phrasing, but yes, I suppose so."

“Did we work together?” He dares to question. 

There's a change: a tangible shift in the atmosphere, like the scent of ozone in the air before a thunderstorm. The stiffening of your posture, how you sit up straighter but hunch your shoulders against some invisible attack tells him he's touching a nerve, nearing cyclone waters. It takes a moment for the mask to fall back into place over your face, before you're able to answer, with venom, repulsed. “God, no. I would never work for them.” It's the most sincere emotion he's heard from you, this disgust. It eases him to know how strongly you feel about Hydra, but he’s wary of your raw response to it.

So, he treads more kindly. Softly. On eggshells sharp and off-white, feeling his way around the balance of your temper. “Then how did we meet?”

“I was on a heist,” you say, matter-of-factly. In your tone of voice, now even and professional, it sounds like the most natural thing in the world. As though stealing from megalomaniac neo-Nazis is just another day at work.

“What kind of heist? Who sent you?” Bucky observes the way you're pulling the edges of your sleeves over your hands as much as you can with your restraints. At this question, your smile returns, and he relaxes. Can now feel his leg falling asleep under him now that he's not so tense.

“Nobody sent me. I’m a free agent. I work for myself,” you announce, chin up. 

“What were you going to steal from Hydra?” He asks, and your head turns slowly towards him, firework sparkle meeting level, cool, sky-blue, a hurricane simmering behind his irises.

“You.”

“We did not sign up for this,” Barton grumbles from his second cup of coffee -- addicts, the lot of them -- adjusting his hearing aid with a frown on his face at the turn of events. 

Sam clears his throat, setting down a half-empty glass of orange juice next to Natasha’s espresso on the table and speaks next, “That’s messed up, man, that’s really, really messed up.” This is said with a shake of his head, and Bucky, having no response to either Barton or Sam, addresses Steve.

“There’s something she’s not telling me, Rogers.” He uses the last name to revert to the days of talking shop in green tents with the gravity of impending shelling in the air. Life or death, and though the circumstances aren’t quite so acute right now, this is a grave matter, too. Steve's standing hunched over the kitchen island, arms outstretched and hands flat on the granite surface, studying the pattern like it holds all the answers. 

Bucky watches him think, but Stark, in Spider-Man PJs and the bed-head of the century, strolls into the kitchen at a leisurely pace and interrupts. “There are a lot of things she’s not telling you. Who she is, where the money is, wh--”

“She’s not telling me why," Bucky interrupts a tirade that he knows could continue forever, given the chance. “People don’t go around stealing super soldier assassins for the hell of it.”

“Maybe she’s working for someone who wanted you to work for them instead of Hydra," Peter suggests over a ridiculously large bowl of ridiculously colorful cereal at the breakfast nook.

“She doesn’t work for anyone. Says she’s a free agent."

“And you believe her?” Sam wonders. It's a genuine question, curious but not dismissive or doubtful. 

“Barnes has quite the built-in lie detector," Nat tells Sam from next to him, her yoga-pant clad legs splayed across another chair. Yeah, he’s good at telling when people are being dishonest, but there’s also the fact this woman is way too fearless, fucking crazy to be made to do anyone's bidding. No chance in Hell does she takes orders. 

Tony slumps in an orange loveseat. “Must be a Russian thing," he quips, and then breaks out into a yawn.

Bucky puts his hands on his hips and glares at all of them, by turn, sharply. "Would you let me finish?" He demands. "She couldn't tell me why she was going to steal me from Hydra, but she said she'd show me." One could hear a pin drop in this room, now, the bustle of Avengers replaced by the obviously preposterous proposition Bucky's relaying. "Just me," he adds.

"Me?" He asks, voice rising in pitch and volume, and he fights to control both, rising to his feet. "Why would you steal me?"

"Have you seen you?" You ask back, eyes scintillating, glowing with mirth. "Gorgeous hair, those eyes, and hands that I'm sure know how to treat a girl right.”

Bucky looks daggers at you, and you look back. "I'm serious."

"I thought you were Bucky,” you say innocently, and he thinks he could scream in frustration, but he drops down, kneels just beside where you sit, and holds onto the edge of the cot like it’s the end of the world he’s falling off of.

"I don't think you understand how important this is to me. You know something about me you won't say. I've been trying to put together my past so I can understand myself better and you have a piece of my history. I need to know,” he enunciates each word as if it’s his last. Needs to convey the severity of the situation, how he has been trying to rebuild himself into a new life from the scraps of the old ones. He’s aware that he’s complete as he is but he also makes choices for himself now, and he chooses to know.

You look down, and although it’s your hands that are bound, you offer a golden prayer. "Let me show you." A lifeline, something he doesn’t want to believe and doesn’t know if he can trust. Hence, the question:

"What?"

A sad shrug of your shoulders is the first answer, and it all starts to unravel from there. "I can't tell you, I really can't. It's complicated and a really long story--"

Bucky elevates himself on his knees, his fingers dig in a little tighter, and the metal of the bed begins to creak ever so slightly. "The way I see it, we have all the time in the world, darlin'," he says in a thick voice, emotion simmering at the corners of his lips.

"Darlin'?" You can’t help but ask, without any flirt this time, any teasing, just a question in a tone as surprised as he is at the slip of tongue.

Bucky decides to ignore the interruption. "So let's start at the beginning.”

Fervently, you shake your head. "I can't." At his wide-eyed disbelief, "I mean it, I can't."

"No, you can, you just won't,” he insists.

"We could have a grammar lesson if you want, or I could show you why I was going to steal the Winter Soldier."

"What do you mean show me?" Bucky asks, moving to sit on the chair again. Leaning forward, he places his hands on his thighs, looks into your eyes to pull forth the words you won’t give him.

You blink, unbudgingly. "I have to take you somewhere. It's the only way to explain."

A sharp bark of a laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head as it recedes into chuckles. Your face is now blank and expressionless, gauging how to handle this, and he gives you the first response that comes to mind. "You're full of shit."

"What happened to darlin' ?"

Meeting your eyes, he says, “You want me to let you out so you can escape. A five-year-old could see through that.” Then, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses one ankle over the other as well his arms. His hooded gaze is at a stalemate with yours, and it’s a hopeless tug of war. So this is how it ends. A night spent sleepless in vain, a few battle bruises and the tug of disappointment in his belly.

A dismal, and last-ditch sigh ripples through the air, from lips dark and worried bloody. Your eyes look overcast and you open and close your mouth repeatedly to say something, but do not voice your thoughts. Giving you the time to formulate whatever perfect sentence you’re trying to utter is torturous, but he waits. Until you stop, speechless, and he gets to his feet. Turns to the door, and then you speak from behind him, while his hand hovers over the handle.

"Let me take you, and only you, to the place you need to see, and I'll cooperate. I'll give you what I have left of the money, and I'll plead guilty in court and serve my time.” Bucky freezes. "Just come with me,” and you’re the one making requests, making pleas now. It’s inexplicable, he knows he should be looking this particular gift horse in the mouth, and he convinces himself that he will, in time, but right now, he accepts.

"Was that an innuendo?" He asks, still facing away, the question indicating a truce.

"If you want it to be," you say, and he turns around to look at you. "What do you say, Barnes, are we going on a road trip?

Hope swells somewhere in him he thought had been long abandoned for darker days and arduous nights. The same intuition that taught him to ask for this piece of himself tells him something is coming. Something that’s going to make a difference.

"Bucky. It's Bucky. And yeah, I guess we are.”

[queerchoicesblog]

Epilogue: Underwater (SC Titanic, Zetta x Adele Series)

As promised, here the epilogue of the Zetta x Adele Series, folks. 

This is the very end of a project that meant me quite a lot to me and got me through the last terrible year. Thanks to all those who supported it: hope you enjoyed it and will enjoy this ending.

In case you were wondering, this song inspired the whole series, particularly the last chapters:

I will skip the tag list for once since it’s pointless anyway. 

➡️ Ch. 1, Ch. 2/1, Ch. 2/2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6, Ch. 7, Ch. 8/1, Ch. 8/2, Ch. 9, Ch. 10/1, Ch. 10/2, Ch. 11/1, Ch. 11/2, Ch. 12, Ch. 13, Ch. 14, Ch. 15 , Ch. 16, Ch. 17

_________________________

Almost a century after the sinking of the RMS Titanic and to celebrate Canada becoming the first country outside Europe to legalise same-sex marriage, the Canadian Film Institute decided to work side by side with several LGBTQ+ organisations across the world to put together an exhibition focused on the early queer cinema and the many queer stars who were forced to hide their true selves in the Golden Age of cinematography, spanning from 1890s till the aftermath of Second World War. "A testament to the role the LGBTQ+ community played in the history of cinema and that we have always been here, even if people hardly saw us" as a journalist wrote on a queer magazine. After the recent discovery of some private documents, the curators were overjoyed to include an icon of the 1900s - 1910s cinema like Zetta Serda into the retrospective and cast a new light on her extraordinary career sadly soon forgotten after the advent of the sound era. Yet, the silent picture star was mentioned as a model and 'endless source of inspiration" by many queer movie stars like Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Greta Garbo all part of the retrospective. Rumor has it that as soon as she landed in America, Marlene Dietrich demanded his agent a meeting with Mrs King.

A curator drove all the way to Montreal to meet the last known heir, a certain Mrs. Julia Nowak, who greeted him on the threshold of a cosy downtown apartment. She offered him a coffee and a slice of a Polish sweet bread: the recipe was a family heirloom, she explained, beaming. She was in her late fifties, a therapist, she said. Her hazel eyes gleamed when she added, in a pleasantly soothing voice that betrayed a hint of excitement: "I must confess I am so incredibly happy that you contacted me about the retrospective. I adore the idea and I will make sure to attend it. Also" she nodded to a wedding picture hung to the wall "did you know that my wife is in politics? She campaigned for the legalisation...yes, Madeleine Fournier: see, you know her! We got married right after the law passed. If anything, your call and project made me twice as happy". She took a pause, smiling over her coffee in remembrance. "Anyway, back to the matter of your visit...yes, as far as I know, I am Zetta's last heir. As you probably know, my family wasn't officially related to her but she stated otherwise in her will". She moved to the couch and gestured the curator to follow her as she opened up one of the boxes and chests piled into the living room and picked out an old album, the leather cover worn at the edges. Dust waltzed in the air as she opened it with caution and gentle care. She showed him a slightly discoloured black and white picture of a young couple kissing for the camera in front of a church. Another wedding picture, from a different era. "Nana Hileni and Papa Maciej's wedding picture. I still remember them even if they both died when I was barely a teen...as if one couldn't bear to live without the other. Or so I like to think. She would help me with the homework, mathematics particularly, and he baked this bread for me till he was too weak to do so. He always claimed that he won Nana's heart with his pastries but she always denied it laughing". She passed another picture of the same couple proudly standing in front of the Nowak family bakery in Hoboken. "Frankly, I believe that Papa's broad shoulders and Marlon Brando smile are more likely to blame for this coup de foudre" she laughed. "And he knew how to deal with her no-nonsense attitude and vice versa. They...balanced each other, if you wish". She picked another picture and handed it to him. A woman was looking down in tender adoration and awe to a baby nestled in her arms looking up at her, outstretching a tiny arm in an attempt to touch her face. "There! This is Dad" she pointed at the baby before turning the picture where someone wrote 'Alex meets Auntie Adele'. Turning it again, she pointed at the woman. "This is Adele Carrem. Or Auntie Adele as I've always heard calling her. Nana's sister and Zetta's publicist and companion" Putting it back into the album, she carefully picked a bunch of other old pictures. "You surely know who this one is" she smiled, handing out the one on top. The photo was rather grainy but you could still recognise the same kid, slightly older, around two, sucking his thumb, cuddled up in Zetta's lap. The actress had aged a little but her features were unmistakable and it was endearing to see her sitting by the fireplace to read that kid with the sleepy face a bedtime story. "Sadly, I have never met them. I wish I did, oh you have no idea...but stories of them lived through in our family" Julia continued. "My Dad loved his Aunties - as he called them - dearly and by what I've heard and read, they loved him in manner as if he was their own. He knew little of them or Zetta's career back then...to him they were just the sweet ladies who would buy him ice-cream in Central Park or take him to see his favourite pictures over and over again at the movie theater. He said he will never forget the afternoons he used to spend with them in a Manhattan cafe that no longer exists around Christmas: Nana and Papa worked like crazy as the festive season approached and the glorious cup of hot chocolate with an elegant puff of cream on top with the Aunties became a tradition to him. He kept it alive somehow as he did the same with me". She handed the curator a bunch of other pictures: Zetta cleaning up Alex's face smeared with jam, the both of them laughing; Zetta posing with Maciej and her Dad at a table in the Hoboken bakery. He eventually mirrored her smile seeing a five years old Alex at the beach all engrossed in building a sandcastle with Hileni and Adele, and he standing at the water edge hand in hand with Miss Carrem, looking out into the distance. "These are family pictures. I'll show you the Zetta's private memorabilia we cherished". Julia searched a little, opening an old chest and handling every item inside with tender care. When she found what she was looking for, she showed the curator an elegant set of smaller boxes containing letters, dried flowers and photos. "I have already received an offer to get these published. I'm still pondering it. Before agreeing, I want to consider throughly if this is a thing they would have wanted, even if they're no longer here" The curator nodded as she kept searching. He skimmed a few letters and smiled as his eyes fall on the photos hidden away in those boxes: the two women sitting together and chatting at Hileni's wedding, Zetta's reading a script, lazily sprawled on a chaise long in her apartment. Some had short lines handwritten on the back, like a promotional picture with "Missing you" written by Zetta herself. The curator showed another to Mrs Nowak: a visibly excited Miss Carrem proudly showing to the camera a document announcing her voter registration. On the back, in Zetta's penmanship: "On the way to vote...my sweet Adele won!". "Oh you didn't know? Auntie Adele was a suffragette! I couldn't believe it when I first heard it! Nana told me that she was in and out jail when they lived in London because of protests. You know, like those suffragettes you read about in history books but less famous. Yet she fought for women's rights and kept fighting for them even in America. She was quite disappointed though by some major decisions of some feminist movements and eventually joined a socialist Union 'more rightfully welcoming working class individuals, immigrants and black brothers and sisters'. It's all in those letters but yeah, you couldn't possibly know. So little is known about her outside family". A little smile drew on her face as she put back the photo. "That photo was taken the day of the first election open to women. I checked the date. I suppose Zetta wanted to immortalise the moment...it was sweet of her, huh? Auntie Adele must have been so proud and overjoyed that day! You know, my Dad was born in 1920 when women's right to vote was legalised nationally and Nana once told me that Auntie commented the lucky coincidence saying she was incredibly happy her nephew would get to live in a fairer world. She was a true force of nature...she never talked much of the sinking of the Titanic just like Zetta and Nana actually but when one day Dad asked...he was barely a child and probably found an old article about the tragedy...Auntie Adele minimised but Nana assured him that her sister saved her life that night, risking her own to go down to the belly of the sinking ship to bring her to safety. Auntie simply shrugged, saying that it was what sisters do and that they made it to the lifeboats only thanks to Zetta, who shouted protests to stubborn officers and eventually found them a spot on a boat. I cannot even bring myself to imagine how scary that must have been: I cried so much when Madeleine took me to see Leo and Kate...to think they were there and it was all real!" She picked a few other objects out the box: a Shakespeare Sonnets book in a leather cover with golden engravings, with a little handwritten dedication 'To Adele, my sonnet 116. Happy birthday! With all my love, Zetta'; old scripts with annotations, a framed photograph of Adele and Zetta slow dancing barefoot in the living room of a gorgeous Long Island mansion. "These have a sentimental value" Mrs Nowak noted, her voice betraying the flicker of emotions as she picked it up. She took a deep sigh and continued. "I remember the day I told Dad I was gay as it was yesterday. We had always been quite close so it came natural to tell him first. We were in his car, he had come straight from college to pick me up at ice-skating practice. I..I dropped it in the middle of a conversation, bracing myself for the worst. I heard so many bad stories about coming out to your parents I was terrified of the consequences but I couldn't hide it anymore. I mean, yes, in public: bullies get even nastier if they know and I didn't want people shouting me "dyke" at school. But I needed to get it out of my chest...with someone at least. He kept quiet for a moment and I felt like drowning in shame. But then he spoke". A nostalgic tender smile formed Julia's lips. "He said he had two amazing Aunties that contributed to make his life a wondrous adventure. It was thanks to them that he, the son of a baker, could attend a prestigious college, for instance: they offered to pay for it without asking a penny back. They also helped him write his first romantic letter to his childhood sweetheart and consoled him when the little girl turned him down. But his Aunties had a secret, he added. He said: to my kid eyes they were no less a couple than Mom and Dad and at home we all treated them in manner but one day Mom made me promise to behave differently when we were in public. In public I would refer to her sister as 'Auntie Adele' but call Zetta by her name. He didn't get it and it took some getting used to. He soon noticed that even the Aunties behaved a bit differently out in the sun: they wouldn't hold hands or use endearing words in the street or when other people were around. They simply behaved like good friends did. He understood it later when he, as stubborn as a mule, asked them directly". Julia gently grazed her fingers on the glass of the framed photograph, caressing it. "And they told me everything, he said. That they were in love, just like mom and dad were, but people out there could be uncomfortable and extremely rude to women loving other women and men loving other men. That they kept their companionship a secret in public because those people had no problems with women being friends and they didn't want to have bad words or worse happening to them. I remember asking him what he thought about it. He smiled. 'I cried. Since Auntie Zetta mentioned people claiming that women like them were sick and would burn in hell, I actually started crying. I sobbed desperately in her arms, crying that I didn't want them to burn in hell, I loved my Aunties and I was happy they loved each other. Eventually they explained me it was just a vile lie spread my malignant people. But I got quite a scare and kept staring at them with puffy red eyes and my face wet with tears for a while. It required lots of cuddling to bring a smile back on my face'. He shook his head, laughing of his endearing naivety. Then he pulled over and looked at me. He continued: 'I still don't get why people keep spreading those mean lies but I know for sure that my Aunties weren't sick and didn't end up in hell and so won't you. Don't believe bullshits like that for a split second, okay? And I also want you to remember that it doesn't change a thing for me and mom too. You will always be my little girl, our little girl and we love you'. We shared a long hug before driving back home. On the way back he insisted to buy my favourite chicken and waffles for dinner, saying mom's veggie soup could wait. For my birthday, a month later or so, he asked me to follow him to the attic and showed me this chest. To meet the Aunties that 'would have surely been there for me'". She tipped away a tear. "I told you I married Madeleine right after the legalisation of same-sex marriages. My wedding was also the last public event Mom and Dad attended together before his health worsened irremediably. He passed away last year". For a moment she looked on the verge of tears but she recovered quickly. "Sorry...anyway, that day Dad insisted on walking me down the aisle even if he was getting weak. He beamed with pride when a friend fixed a rainbow ribbon to his jacket. Later at the lunch he read a speech he had written for the day, his hand shaking. He shared the story of his Aunties. He said that despite the hardships their situation forced upon them, they had quite a happy life together, a happiness carefully hidden from the world. He wished us to find something similar to what they shared without needing to hide anymore. He said Adele and Zetta would have been so happy and proud to celebrate with all of us that day" Mrs. Nowak picked the Shakespeare Sonnet book and gave him a fond look. "He brought this to the wedding. And he read for us the sonnet 116, the one Zetta mentioned in her dedication. You know, the one that starts with 'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments..." ----------------------- A few months later the exhibition on old Hollywood queer cinema and artists opened. Each artist had a room that soon filled with a crowd of enthusiastic visitors. In the first half, in a room arranged as a turn of the century nickelodeon with velvet chairs, all the memorabilia of Zetta Serda's public life: panels explaining the various stages of her career and the birth of her myth, promotional pictures of her performances, articles about her and a copy of a gazette announcing her wedding with the director Richard King. On the wall, on a screen her entire filmography rolled up in loop, bewitching spectators after a century. In display cases: the gorgeous sapphire necklace she wore on her last night on the Ship of Dreams and at the movie party of Surviving the Titanic, and a replica of her Cleopatra costume. The aging Queen of Egypt with a tragic love and destiny immortalised by Shakespeare was her last role back on the theater stage before retiring from the scenes. Old scripts with her personal annotation were displayed with photographs taken on sets and mundane events. The wall hosting the motion-picture screen cut the room in half. On the other side, the hidden half of her life. Her life with Adele no one suspected back then. A life kept secret that now unveiled in front of the eyes of the visitors. The curators discovered that finding public pictures of Miss Carrem was nearly impossible, true to the nickname she acquired as time went by: The Shadow. She stayed at Zetta's side until and even after she stopped acting, showing rare loyalty and devotion, but ever surrounded by this mystery allure. No one, even the most stubborn reporters managed to know anything about her and she was soon dismissed as a Titanic survivor, possibly a fan, who worked as Zetta's secretary and somehow gained her respect. Little they knew about the depth of their relationship and what stacks of secret letters and family memories revealed of the life of Miss Carrem. A panel finally told her story and her secret achievements: Adele, or better Adal, kept fighting for a fairer world and society her whole life and marched for women's right to vote on the famous parade in 1915. She also passed the teaching of Edith Garrud to her American sisters. The only pictures of her came from the Nowak family, except for one. The only photograph of a public appearance of Miss Carrem as well as the only known public appearance of Zetta and Adele. An old grainy photo accurately framed showed Adele shaking hands with The Unsinkable Molly Brown on a podium. In her free hand a shiny medal and a few steps behind the mayor of New York. According to the panel, the survivors' committee founded by Mrs. Brown decided to award Miss Carrem a medal for bravery and a generous check "to help her and her sister starting a new life in America". With great surprise, Miss Carrem received the medal and the check, thanked the board but refused the honors. Instead, she asked to deliver them both to the family of a certain Charlie Stoke, a stewart that lost his life in the sinking to save her life and those of many passengers. She added that her friend expressed the desire to study naval engineering one day and she wished that the money kindly offered to her would be enough to establish a scholarship for boys like him across the ocean. In another picture, Miss Carrem and her sister chatted with Moll Brown in company of Zetta. Eventually, other philanthropists and wealthy socialites signed checks for her cause so that the Stoke family received a generous contribution too. And today, as another picture confirmed, the faculty of naval engineering of the University of Newcastle hosts a marble engraving of Charlie Stoke: to his memory a scholarship had been instituted one year after on the anniversary of the sinking. Since 1913 it has been helping students of poor background to get an education and improve their life. Zetta herself became a philanthropist during her Renaissance and ever since. The first act of her new phase of her life was joining the Moll Brown survivors committee to provide help to the second and third class passengers families and survivors. Some said that the tragedy she witnessed touched her heart, other claimed that it was to be attributed to the influence of her publicist. Jokingly, she used to say that after all, she had too much money yet all she could have wished for in her life, so why not doing some good with it? A considerable donation under her and Mr King was received by the main hospital during the Spanish flu pandemic; she was particularly active in providing financial help to struggling neighbourhoods and female education institutions. In the middle of the room, a long glass display hosted the Shakespeare Sonnets opened at sonnet 116 and a selection of the private correspondence between Zetta and Adele. My darling, You will receive this letter tomorrow morning when I'll be already off to Chicago. The suitcases are ready and packed, this is a goodnight note scribbled the night before leaving you to remind you how much I love you and care about you. How much I'm going to miss you even if - thank God! - we won't be parted for long... Do not forget you promised me to write every day! Write to me, Adele, write to me whatever thought crosses that gorgeous mind of you: you know I could you rambling for hours without getting tired of the sound of your voice, of your sparkling wisdom. I wanna know everything. So don't be shy: I'll be waiting your letters with tender impatience. Can't wait to be in your arms once more. Adoringly yours, Zetta - Dear, dearest Zetta, I went to Central Park today with Hileni. It was a gorgeous spring day, sunny, a gentle breeze blowing: 'simply too beautiful to be wasted inside' as my sister put it. Did I tell you that she's still exchanging letters with the delivery boy from the hat shop? I thought they were over but apparently he invited her to the nickelodeon next week. Anyway, walking in the park with her I suddenly realised how I wanted to share that spring wonder with you. When are you coming back to New York? Tell me soon, please. And even 'soon' won't be soon enough: you're always on my mind since you left. But yes, tell me soon so I can make you promise we will go for a walk before the weather becomes too hot. Do you think I can wrap my arm with yours? Is it professional enough for a publicist? Even just for a few steps: oh you have no idea how I would love that! Or maybe you have? I hope so: it'd mean you miss me as much as I miss you when we are apart. Oh, I almost forgot: all settled with that magazine you mentioned before your departure! I negotiated a two pages long interview, plus pictures. And a cover mention. Hope I did well: you have already fired me as your secretary, I must prove you I am just what you're looking for in a publicist... Can't wait to see you again! Loving you always, Adele Only one letter was copied on a panel of its own on the main wall side by side with a blow-up of the picture of Adele and Zetta slow-dancing barefoot and free, for a blessed moment immortalised in a discreet shot. Adele pressing a tender kiss on Zetta's forehead, drawing a soft smile on the acrtress' lips. Many visitors commented it was heartwarming to see such a photograph that conveyed the intimacy and the warmth of affection radiating from the dancing couple. Some said that Zetta was even more beautiful like that: free, hair slightly askew and genuinely happy, loved. What stole their hearts away though was the letter attached to it. It was no surprise that the curators decided to name the retrospective Underwater. Dearest Adele, Forgive me for the tone of this letter. I am writing it down in bed while I cannot sleep and my mind runs back to you as if we could meet halfway between the miles separating us, in a world of fantasy of our own. It's ridiculous how much I miss you! I want you near, I need you near all the time. Take tonight: if you were here with me, I would be heavenly sleeping in your loving embrace. Most unfortunately, you are not and I'm lying here, insomniac, thinking of you. And about my life. No, don't frown. I am not getting all sad again. It's...bittersweet. And - I'll spoil you the ending so you will stop worrying, hopefully - it gets better the more you proceed. Have you ever felt trapped underwater? I did, my whole life. Always hiding, always measuring words, gestures, gazes not to let them see, not to let them know...so little time to go up and break the surface. Drop the mask and breathe. In, out. Once, twice. In my lowest moments I repeated to my myself: how are you gonna survive? One day an acquaintance with a remarkable passion for the sea explained me and the other bored commensals that you can keep someone alive by breathing oxygen into their mouth underwater. Pretty much like mouth-to-mouth resuscitation helps an unconscious person to regain consciousness. I found it interesting but doubted his words. Then I met you, Adele. My dearest, wondrous Adele. And I learnt that yes, you can't breathe if you're constantly underwater...but you won't drown if you have the right person swimming by your side in those deep waters. Put your lips on me, Adele. Touch me, hold me in your arms. And I can live underwater. With your love, I can live underwater. We can live underwater. I love you. I want to cover a full page of these three simple words: I love you. I want to cry them out and entrust them to the winds, to the night. But what for? Who cares if the world knows or not? I'll whisper them over your lips when we will be reunited. So you can breathe underwater. Counting down the hours separating us, my love. Eternally yours, Zetta

[shih-coulda-had-it]

Just i m a g i n e ; Nana and Gran Torino know the friends / almost boyfriends of Toshi and Torino was like; "go away of that blond idiot or I'm going to hit them without mercy" while Nana is; "Sora, let them, are childrens. But if they hurt m’lil Toshi, I'll also hit them without mercy :) ". The boys, (Dave, Sir, Tsukauchi and Aizawa), are scared of the threats of Toshi's parents and he does not realize that his parents have threatened his almost boyfriends. I think that would happen 👀.

Oh, I like where your head’s at. This is technically the beginning of either a recurring arc/a long one-shot in the NanaLives!AU that’s been building as tumblr snippets.

*Note: Sorahiko did not join Nana and Toshinori in the States for several months. He was cleaning up their tracks/records. On a last-second impulse, he asks the Commission to retrieve Kotarou. Kotarou’s reunion is a whole drama of its own, but the end-result is that Kotarou (1) gets therapy (2) gets a whole year off school! (3) gets a whole family!!!

//

Neither Nana nor Sorahiko are blindsided by the first boy Toshinori brings home. They’re trying not to invalidate All Might’s work by playing chaperone, but they do pay attention to the news. And the news is captivated by the presence of an exceptionally handsome young foreigner popping up to take care of problems.

Problems like the explosion at the local college laboratory.

“Okaa-san,” says Kotarou, enraptured by disaster, “Toshi-nii’s shirt got burned off.”

“He doesn’t know he’s got a camera trained on him,” observes Nana.

“Figures,” Sorahiko says darkly. He’s sitting at the couch, financial paperwork spread out on the coffee table. Kotarou is cross-legged, ostensibly keeping Sorahiko company and doing his English handwriting exercises. Nana had been busy with laundry, but she poked her head in at the first excited cry. “All this work to stay under the radar, and the brat immediately gets trapped in the spotlight.”

“No one will recognize him.” Goodness knows Nana hadn’t, the first time Toshinori tapped into One for All and puffed up.

“Who’s he talking to?”

“He’s talking to somebody?” Sorahiko’s head snaps up at Kotarou’s innocent inquiry, and Nana doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s studying the grainy screen, eyes narrowed in calculation.

“He looks nice,” she tries. The two boys on-screen are laughing together, bright-eyed and grinning. Toshinori’s new friend is totally staring at Toshinori’s chest.

“Looks like a sycophant,” he growls.

She rolls her eyes. “Toshinori just saved him from a burning building. Gratitude and admiration, along with some heart-eyes, aren’t out of the norm.”

“Hn.”

“What’s a sycophant,” Kotarou says, twisting around when the camera finally cuts away to a pair of commentators. He peers at Sorahiko’s papers like he can understand not only English, but also Sorahiko’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

Long-sufferingly, Sorahiko answers, “A sycophant is a person who always says yes to another person.”

“Oh.” Kotarou dwells on this. “Like you with okaa-san.”

There’s a beat of silence. The first giggle escapes Nana’s valiant grasp, and then she’s leaning on the wall, overtaken by them. Kotarou looks pleased; Sorahiko starts to sputter and defend himself.

Several hours later, Toshinori’s boisterous voice announces, “I’m home!”

“Welcome back,” Nana calls out from the kitchen. Over the course of a few months, her cooking repertoire has expanded to include boxed yellow curry. It bubbles ominously in the deep pan, set over a low heat. “Watch out in the living room, I think Sorahiko’s still napping with Kotarou.”

“Ah.” Nana hears a murmur. Then the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Involuntarily, she tenses and activates Float, her world narrowing down to the question: who is that. Her hands curl into fists, scarred and white-knuckled. She navigates the hallway to the front door and checks the mirror--oh.

Float deactivates. Nana briskly re-ties her hair, shakes out the adrenaline still thrumming in her hands, and steps out into the open with a smile.

“Who’s this?” she asks pleasantly.

Toshinori hasn’t stopped using One for All, but he’s picked up a white “I <3 LA” shirt. While he can stay puffed up for as long as he wants, there’s an unspoken rule to leave All Might in the streets. Thankfully, Nana thinks, Kotarou understands the secrecy regarding Toshinori’s Quirk.

The reason why Toshinori is still All Might finishes toeing off his sneakers. He’s tall, slender, and perceptibly nervous. When he executes a short bow, his shoulder-length hair moves with him.

“Hello,” Toshinori’s friend (boyfriend? Nana wonders, a little alarmed at the thought, because Toshinori can only have known him for four hours, max, and now Toshinori has brought him here, perhaps to meet the family) says in awkward Japanese. “I am David Shield. It is nice to meet you.”

“I understand English,” she says, not unkindly. “Your accent is very good, though.”

Shield exhales in relief. “I wanted to try,” he says, sheepish. “I’ve taken classes, but it’s just--difficult.”

“You need a willing language partner,” Nana agrees. “Call me Shimura-san, David. Are you here for dinner?”

“If it’s no problem.”

“Oshishou,” says Toshinori happily, “Dave’s offered to build me a sturdier suit! I thought the least we could do is dinner, right?”

Then, Kotarou comes barreling down the hallway, only to come to a reeling halt at the sight of someone new. He ducks back behind Nana’s legs, wary of strangers. She reaches back to ruffle his hair, and notes that David looks similarly taken aback.

Dave, however, is apparently going to tailor a new suit for Toshinori. Nana studies the young man and his fine-boned hands--an engineer? a researcher?--and decides that she needs Sorahiko to take a second look.

“This is Kotarou, my son.” Nana smiles reassuringly. “And of course. A friend of Toshinori’s is always welcome. Take your time, boys. It’s chicken curry tonight.”

She retreats back to the kitchen, Kotarou in tow.

“Are you fixing my cooking?” she gasps, catching Sorahiko in the midst of seasoning the pan’s contents. He doesn’t even flinch, and tosses in another pinch of black pepper.

“Little bland. Overall, tastes like the box promised. Good job on not burning it.”

Nana scowls. “This is because we teased him this afternoon,” she tells Kotarou, and Kotarou finally unclenches his fingers from her sweatpants and laughs. She bops his nose with her finger, and informs Sorahiko, “Remember the boy Toshinori saved? He’s here for dinner, and his name is David Shield.”

“What,” says Sorahiko.

“He’s, hmm, offered to make Toshinori a suit, and Toshinori thought he should pay the favor back with dinner.”

“I don’t understand English yet,” Kotarou complains.

“There’s that too,” she adds, but comforts Kotarou with, “I’m sure he’ll understand Japanese if you speak slowly, Kota.”

Footsteps on the staircase. They’re both heavy-footed, Nana distantly registers, and they’re headed for Toshinori’s bedroom. Which is normal for friends to do. Heck, she and Sorahiko used to have sleepovers together. This is fine.

Toshinori has known Dave for, at most, four hours.

Sorahiko sets the ladle to the side. He appears to be tracking a similar line of thought, because he says, slowly, “You know, when Toshinori came out to us as bisexual last week, I didn’t think…”

“He didn’t have anyone in high school,” Nana points out. “If there’s any place to explore romance without consequence, it’s halfway across the world.” She grimaces. “Also, let’s not jump to conclusions. We shouldn’t assume everyone Toshinori brings home is a potential partner.”

“He doesn’t bring people home,” Sorahiko stresses.

“Before, Toshinori wasn’t able to.”

Kotarou’s eyes flick back and forth between them. Incredulously, he asks, “Toshi-nii has no friends?”

They wince. Toshinori has friends the way someone builds a rolodex; many people extend their friendship, and Toshinori accepts, stores their information (name; Quirk; details about family, likes, dislikes) away in his encyclopedic brain, and never pursues a follow-up. It isn’t something they taught him, but it’s not a habit they’ve tried breaking either.

“He has friends,” says Nana. “So, best behavior, okay?”

Sorahiko grimaces. He bobs his head, but Nana assumes he’ll ask pointed questions during dinner anyway. Depending on how good a mood Toshinori is in, maybe their charge will let the interrogation slide. If not, well, Toshinori knows how grouchy Sorahiko can be.

“Okay,” Kotarou replies, oblivious to the byplay. “When’s dinner?”

“Soon,” Sorahiko promises.

(There is a long stretch of time between David Shield and Sasaki Mirai. In the span of this time, Kotarou has grown up and gotten married and had two children. Nana and Sorahiko have officially tied the knot, and they are in the midst of renovating a small apartment complex in Yamanashi Prefecture. Following Sasaki is Tsukauchi Naomasa. Then Toshinori brings home Aizawa Shouta.

“He’s like you,” Nana mourns to Sorahiko, after cheerfully seeing Aizawa off. Toshinori is walking with him to the train station; it’s fifty-fifty on whether Toshinori will spend the night in his own apartment, or in Aizawa’s bed.

“How’s that,” Sorahiko grunts, locking the front door. They trail their way to bed.

“His kids will be his students.”

He glances at her. “Kotarou wasn’t my student.”

“He learned a lot from you anyway,” Nana promptly responds, and he snorts. She’s undeterred. “Anyway, I can only assume he’ll bond with every class, and act as their collective dad. Tons and tons of encouragement, complete with rigorous physical training.” She sighs as she pushes their bedroom door open. “All those extended grandchildren we may never get to meet…”

“Be glad,” Sorahiko suggests. “I can only imagine Toshinori fathering a child with even crazier dreams, and we’ve finally reached a point in our lives where we don’t have to deal with that shit.”

“You’ve jinxed it.”

“I’ve jinxed nothing.”

Four months later, when they are watching the Sports Festival live on television, staring at a fluffy green-haired boy shout ‘Smash’ battle-cries and perform therapy so bad (so well? The result may have been the goal), he’s knocked clear out of the tournament--

“I jinxed it,” says Sorahiko in disbelief, as Nana cackles and starts texting Toshinori to bring home Midoriya Izuku.)

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 99

Chapter Summary -  Tom and Danielle continue their holiday. When they are spotted at a tourist attraction, Tom is slightly surprised at Danielle's reaction.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​​​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​​​ @nonsensicalobsessions​​​ @damalseer​​​ @hiddlesbitch1​​​ @winterisakiller​​​ @fairlightswiftly​​​ @salempoe​​​​ @wolfsmom1​​​​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

The Burren

Tom stared at the landscape in front of him and inhaled deeply, taking in the sight in front of him, when he turned to look at Danielle, he smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She smiled back, looking over at an island a mere few kilometres from the shore.

“It’s incredible.” He agreed. “I had no idea there was something this beautiful over here.” “Why do you think people make Ireland their ‘Holiday of a lifetime’ spot? Wait until I show you the rest.” “The rest?” He asked, worriedly.

“Yes, this is only a part of it.” She explained with a smile. “Do you want to head back to the car?” “I can drive if you want?” He offered, noting how much he had been slacking on driving on their trip. “No, I know the roads better and you get to look and see the scenery.” “Speaking of driving, you’re really at ease driving a big car.” Danielle looked at him with a raised brow. “I thought you were uneasy with it, and that is why you would not drive mine.”

“No, I won’t drive that because it’s a sixty-thousand-pound car.”

“It’s a car and you are a safe driver.” Tom pointed out. “You will need to drive it sometime.” “What possible reason could I have to drive it?” “In the case of an emergency,” Tom suggested light-heartedly.

Danielle laughed as she got back into the car. “What sort of emergency requires me driving the Jag? If we go to some fancy event at a Polo Club and it’s either that or a Bentley?” Tom laughed at her as he sat back into the car. “No, seriously, ‘it’s an emergency, someone get this old rich dude to the hospital, preferably a private one, he is having an allergic reaction, a peasant touched him, he’s in anaphylactic shock, we have an ex-paramedic, she can take him, but we only have Hiddleston’s Jag or Montague’s Bentley Continental’.”

Tom just laughed as she put on a ridiculous upper-class British accent. “Very funny.” Danielle grinned at him. “I thought so.” “You never plan on driving it?” “Nope.”

“This is a BMW and you are driving it.” He indicated to the car they were in, one that Danielle was less than impressed to see waiting for them in the airport after Tom had stated that he would arrange the hire car.

“Yes, well, I was unaware of your idea of a rental, seriously, a Kia Cee’d would have sufficed.” “They have terrible legroom.” Tom pointed out. “The last visit gave me cramp.” “Okay, I’ll give you that.” Danielle conceded. “By the way, tell me when you see the sign for the perfumery, I want to get some more perfume for your mum.” “How will we get it home, you can’t bring liquids through customs.” “I’ll do what I always do, post it over.” Danielle shrugged. “How do you think I always got you that fancy Jameson for Christmas?” “I knew it was not available over home, I could never find it anywhere,” he declared.

“Yeah, we keep the best for ourselves,” Danielle smirked.

“It’s ten kilometres ahead.” Tom pointed out as he noted the sign for the small perfume place that Danielle had asked him to keep an eye out for.

*

Poulnabrone Dolmen

“So, there were people buried under this?” “Yep, thirty-three adults and children.” “That’s incredible,” Tom looked at the dolmen in front of him, “Do we have any?”

“I think there is literally a handful, this was sort of an Irish clan thing.” “Amazing.” He smiled enthusiastically as he walked cautiously around the structure, not wanting to fall and injure himself on the peculiar ground. “How do you know all about this?” “My dad brought me around here more times than I can count, we spent every other year in Lahinch for a week.” “Lahinch?” “A surfing town not far from here.”

“Surfing, you can surf?”

“I did lessons as a teenager, only for something to do, never really liked it though.” “I was not aware of that,” Tom confessed. “I did it when I was in Hawaii for Thanksgiving since of course, such a holiday was wasted on me, I felt somewhat similar, it did not really entice me to want to continue.” *

Incoming call – Luke

Tom pressed the answer button on his phone, frowning slightly at what his friend could want. “Luke?” “So, how is Ireland, it looks as though it could rain.” The publicist spoke as though it was a simple conversation.

“We’ve been noticed I take it?” “Well, I have Googled the top attractions in that entire country and it is arguably the winner as to most visited slash the greatest must-see, so it is no surprise you were spotted,” Luke commented.

“What are they saying?” “That you chose to let the public know beforehand to be hoping for some privacy. That it is the Swift and Rome thing all over again,” Tom’s jaw clenched at that, “But the general consensus is that you are the cutest pairing since, well, whatever is deemed cute these days.” There was no response for a moment. “Tom?” “So you are telling me that people are not attacking Elle?” “Of course there are people attacking her Tom, she is your girlfriend, there are people saying they want to push her off the fucking Cliff, but to say they are the minutest of minorities and that people are rounding on them or ignoring them is an understatement.” Tom swallowed at Luke’s words that some people would willingly say such a terrible thing about Danielle. “Jesus.” “Tom, you knew that these people were out there, so does Danielle, they are keyboard warrior’s, the most they ever do is spit venom online, you know to ignore them.” “I know, but Danielle…” “Is a big girl and stronger willed than most any other woman you have ever looked at.” Luke pointed out. “Can she hear us?” “No, she is gone to the bathroom.” “Are you going to tell her?” “I am not sure.” Tom felt wrong for considering telling Danielle, but at the same time, he was certain no one ever wanted to hear that other people who did not know them would want to be pushed off a huge Cliff. “What is the person who wrote it, to begin with, saying?” “Just that they saw you and your new girlfriend at the Cliffs of Moher, I am not sure I pronounced that correctly, and that you look like a normal couple, that Danielle is shorter than they expected and that you are wearing those grey shoes.” “Really?” “Yes, I have read more comments on those shoes in the past year than your acting.” Luke sounded bemused on the phone. Tom chuckled. “There was no malice and no threatening words in their comment, just that they saw you.” “No pictures?” “Just one, sort of a ‘proof’ one, it is grainy and taken with zoom yet still far enough away, there are people around you both and you are looking at Danielle while she is speaking, nothing odd.” Luke rambled off, though it was clear he was focusing on the picture in front of him for details as he spoke.

“Okay, they won’t go accosting her so.” “If someone says something to Danielle, she will not be the victim, she will tear them asunder. I had the guys go through the page, the person seems harmless, a big Marvel fan, they met Evans before, got an autograph, nothing creepy.” “Good.” Tom saw Danielle coming back to him. “Thanks for the call, Luke.” “Enjoy your holiday, I will keep you posted on everything that comes up.” “Please do.” Tom smiled as Danielle looked at him as though contemplating giving him the space to finish his phone call. “Take care, Luke.” He hung up. “Sorry.” “What is it?” Tom looked at her, feigning ignorance. “You said it was Luke, is everything okay?” “We were spotted, just someone noticed us and put it online.” “Okay.” She shrugged and walked on.

Tom stared at her in disbelief, “Are you okay with that?” “I have to be, it’s done and nothing I say or do will change that,” Danielle stated as though it was obvious. “What do you expect me to say?” “Nothing, I just…” Tom kept in step with her as they walked a little further along the path. “I thought you would be more upset, I know you said you wanted to keep away from that.” “Well, we did come to the largest attraction in Ireland, so it is not like we can say we are shocked someone spotted us.” Danielle laughed. “As long as no one gets in my face with a camera, I am okay with it, because there is nothing I can do about it.” She pointed out as she looked out across the water, the wind blowing the free strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail off her face as she did so.

* Tom had to agree, the B&B was a lovely spot, quiet and tranquil as they placed their bags on the ground next to their bed. As soon as Danielle placed her phone on the bedside locker, he brushed up against her. “What are your plans for the next half hour?” he gently kissed her neck as his hands snaked around her waist. “Get a shower and throw a cold bucket of water on you apparently.” She jested, but she leant into his touch. “Why?” “I am craving you.” He gently tugged at the hem of her hoodie.

“We need to get dinner.” Danielle scolded. “I am hungry.” Tom gave a slight growl. “Behave.” “Or what?” “I’ll have to spank you.” Tom looked at her, slightly aghast. “What do you think of that?” she grinned. “I know you love me digging my heels into that incredible ass when you are pounding into me, I think you actually make the sexiest sounds if I smack it slightly as you…” She giggled as Tom pushed her onto the bed, she turned with a wicked grin on her face as she noted the wild glint in his eyes, telling her that her teasing had the desired effect. “Or maybe we should test how good the walls really are.”

Lahinch

Leminagh Castle

Dungaire Castle

The Burren is an odd landscape unique to County Clare Ireland. Lahinch is a holiday village in Ireland, renowned for its surfing. Poulnabrone is an Iron Age burial site. The Cliffs of Moher is Ireland's premier attraction and almost made the list for the Seven Wonders of the World, I think it is number 8/9.

I do not own any of the images, but I am lucky enough to have lived a mere 1-1.5 hours away from the furthest one of them. These would all of been places Tom and Danielle would have seen on their drive from Galway down through Clare.

[nln4]

close

Pairing: M!Ortega/NB Sidestep Word Count: 2735 Rating: T for Terrible Acting Warnings: Depiction of Anxiety, Panic Attacks

close /klōs/ adjective 1.  a short distance away or apart in space or time.

close /klōz/ verb 1.  move or cause to move so as to cover an opening. 2.  bring or come to an end.

Ortega has become a part of your routine lately. Increasingly so.

Worryingly so.

You wake up to good morning texts and bury your smile under a pillow. You eat breakfast while thumbing through the morning paper for more news about The Rangers and even in the grainy-print of the black and white photo, it’s still the same face that lingers on your mind, just with a few more lines. He should maybe start paying rent with how much time he spends in your head.

Or haunts you, really. You have plenty of room for ghosts up there. 

Since being a villain has sort-of become the way you pay your bills, your “day job” consists of sitting in your little apartment and trawling through online message boards, gathering information on potential targets. 

In the end, it all comes back to him. 

You wish it didn’t.

Hours pass and before you know it, the sunlight streaming through the crooked blinds has gone from pale yellows of daytime to the orange-gold tones of dusk. 

Your phone buzzes and you already know it’s him. 

[Dinner?] the gray-green screen reads. He’s been getting awfully bold lately.

But you figure it wouldn’t hurt and you take some small comfort in being absolutely stupid so you text him ‘[yes]’, put on the leather jacket slung over the wooden chair (a step up from the old worn hoodie you used to wear) and head the ten or so blocks to the station crosswalk that’s nearest to the Rangers’ HQ.

Neon signs bloom to life as you walk to your destination and Los Diablos just feels right, like you’ve always belonged here. When you reach the corner of the crosswalk and wait for the light to turn green, you cross, just as everyone else does and he’s already there waiting for you. 

His eyes crinkle when he spots you. They do every time he sees you. His eyes search your face endlessly. They say so many things, but most of all they say “Welcome home.”

(You fear the day that they don’t.)

“Hi,” he says, still smiling. His hand automatically goes to yours, holds it close. The metal Mod embedded in his palm press into the back of your hand and it’s warm, so warm. The pressure feels familiar and yet foreign somehow, in a way that you can’t explain but you don’t pull away. You can’t pull away.

“Hey.”

“So? Dinner?” he goes on, still keeping a hold on your hand. “Where do you want to go? Hoots? Or maybe - there’s this diner, not a lot people. Kinda reminds me of where we first met. Danny also told me about this place he goes to. What do you think?”

“Anything is fine.” 

He turns back to look at you and you’ve realized you’ve been lagging a half-step behind, lost in the blur of colors of the city. His eyes ask ‘what’s wrong?’ but he doesn’t speak it out loud. Does he fear the question or the answer? you wonder.

“We,” he begins, thumbing circles against your wrist. “We can just go to my place. Order some food. Maybe watch that awful movie.”

“How many times has it been? Twenty?”

“Maybe twenty-first time’s the charm.” 

So you nod and let him lead the way.

You have been to Ortega’s apartment since that night of the gala, more and more - but by more, you mean that the visits have increased from zero to perhaps two. Two too many. Any more visits and you risk someone remembering you, connecting you to him. So far no one has, but your powers aren’t infallible, despite how strong they’ve gotten.

He ushers you inside and it still appears to be the same apartment. Perhaps some changes here and there but the same minimal low-tech place, bookshelf-lined walls. It’s still very him, you think.

“Make yourself at home,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads into his bedroom, presumably to change into more comfortable clothing. “Decide on what to eat.”

“Mm.” You decide that you’d rather leave the decision making to him. You’re not terribly picky with food. He, however, is. 

In a few minutes, he returns in a white t-shirt and sweats, phone and a flat case in hand. He tosses the case to you, dialing on his phone with a roll of his eyes, probably knowing that you didn’t choose anything while you were waiting. 

You catch the case, already knowing what movie it is. You will never be over how terribly photoshopped the cover is or that the actor they chose for Chen looks way too young, even taking into consideration the time the movie came out. 

He’s talking on the phone, placing his usual go-to order of pizza while you turn on the television and fiddle with the disc player. Waiting for disc to load, you look at Marshal Charge, front and center on the case. Perfectly styled hair despite the artistic wear and tear of his Rangers uniform, the painted on bleeding scratch on his cheek - there to show he takes some damage but nothing even remotely resembling the absolute mess that looked like the actual aftermath of the nanovore incident. 

And there you are. A figure in shadow, turned away from the others. Edited in like an afterthought.

Over by the counter, Ortega drums his fingers on the marble countertop, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rolls his neck and pops his shoulder, anything to keep from staying still. When he catches you watching, he grins and mouths “fifteen minutes” to you. 

You both settle onto the couch, waiting for the food to arrive and you’re aware of just how much closer he is. You remember old nights like these - finding bad movies to make fun of, curled up onto a couch big enough for three. You miss Anathema’s infectious laughter and your heart twists. 

He still runs warmer than average and you can feel the heat of his arm through the fabric of your shirt. Fingers trail across the couch cushion, then onto your knee where you hand rests.

On screen, The Rangers argue on how best to approach the nanovore strike. You and he both laugh because you know what scene is coming up next. An extra announces that the nanovores have been sighted inland and winks at the camera all too conspicuously.

“You make a terrible actor,” you comment. 

“Hey, maybe I was being bad on purpose,” he says. “It’s called acting.” 

“Nope.”

“At least my mustache is real now,” he replies. 

“I’d hate to think that ‘Rangers: The Final Stand’ was your inspiration for growing that out.”

“It might have.”

You’re now fixated on his mustache and the stubble growing along his chin. And you’ve definitely noticed that he’s been letting it grow out more after you made that comment about during your hospital visit. You’re close enough that can see the faint scar left from where his lip was stitched up all those months ago. You don’t know how he managed to convince PR to let him keep it but then again, he probably didn’t - and wouldn’t - care what they told him anyways.

It does make him look older. 

You suppose that that’s what happens as time passes. People grow older.

(He should have just grown old, the vicious voice in your head thinks. Old and happy, with someone else.)

You hate that it looks good. That years have passed and he looks better, after all this time. 

That after all this time, he might still feel the same way. 

He traces a thumb against your jaw, presses his forehead to yours, and you hate that you still feel the same way because it just makes everything so much worse.

Save yourself, you think. Run away. Don’t get hurt. 

You don’t know if you’re thinking this to him or if you should take your own advice. Probably both. 

Your noses touch and you flinch, standing up so abruptly it makes you dizzy. Your head might have clocked his nose because he’s clutching it, brows furrowed, tears starting to leak from his eyes. Only the dullest pain throbs at the top of your skull.

“Ow, hey-”

He blindly reaches out with one one hand, the other still pressed to his nose. You do what you do best and sidestep away into the bathroom. In your haste, the door slams a little too loudly and you flinch at that sound too. 

Fuck.

Why did you think you could do this? Why did you come here at all?

Your reflection glares back at you accusingly, red-rimmed, dark shadowed eyes and all. 

Why did you come back after so long?

Just why?

Months ago, when he asked if you would tell him if anything was wrong, you readily agreed, despite it being a lie.

What could you even tell him now? 

“Is everything okay?” His voice is quiet, muffled by the door. 

You don’t answer. You can barely breathe. At least, that’s what it feels like. The throbbing pain from headbutting him is finally hitting you too and you massage your temples. Try your best to calm down.

Your silence must have him worried, if the sound of him shuffling his feet and the pop of his knuckles from clenching-unclenching his fists are anything to go by. 

“If you don’t answer, I’m knocking down this door.” An empty threat, when it comes to you at least.

“I’m fine,” you croak out. Your voice sounds quite the opposite of ‘fine’ though.

“Did I-” and he’s fighting to find words. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“You sure?” You imagine that he’s having a hard time trying to process “if nothing’s wrong then why did you run away?” You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe - god, I don’t know.” 

“Please open the door.” It isn’t a command. He’s always been good at that. At giving you choices. 

“I can’t.” You’ve never been good at choosing though.

“Okay,” he says, although it’s more of an agreement than acceptance. You know him too well. He’d stand there for hours if he knew there was a chance. 

He did for seven years. Maybe even ten.

The throbbing of your head doesn’t hurt nearly as much as that thought.

A distant knocking comes from the other side and you hear him curse; must be the pizza. His footsteps shuffle off and there’s a brief muffled exchange before the door shuts once more. 

It takes about a minute.

(Save yourself.)

Another twenty seconds.

(Run away.)

Another inhale. 

(Don’t get hurt.)

You reach for the doorknob, turn until the lock clicks and open the door - or you try to, at least. There’s some resistance when you pull and you find that he’s standing there and the shock that’s on his face probably mirrors your own because you weren’t expecting him to be standing there. So much that you hurriedly close the door until it’s only barely open, until you can only see his half of his face peering back at you. He doesn’t fight it.

“Uh. Pizza’s here.” His voice is quiet. The sort you would adopt when speaking to a spooked, cornered animal.

You can see every line on his face, half cast in the shadows of the dark hallway, half illuminated by the old light of the bathroom that does nothing for him. He looks old and tired and there’s a crease between his eyebrows that did not used to be there ten or so odd years ago. The mustache makes him look stern. Maybe he should have grown one out when he was still Marshal. Maybe you would have taken him more seriously. His hair is mussed, even more unruly than usual, from his habit of carding his fingers through his hair in frustration.

And then there are his eyes. Warm, brown, still brimming with hope, with all the things you can’t read in his thoughts. 

“We can always eat here, in the bathroom,” he offers and you laugh, despite the buzzing panic in your throat that threatens to spill over. His eyes crinkle at the sound, the relief washing over his face. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I would.” Your voice is low and, despite your wishes, quavery.

“Can I come in?” 

You nod wordlessly and release the doorknob, the dull ache making you realize you were clutching onto it like a lifeline, then sit yourself onto the lip of the bathtub. The door creaks as he pushes it open.

You can’t look at him, even when he sets the toilet seat cover down and sits. He’s close enough to speak quietly but still giving you a respectable distance, should you decide to get up and leave again, if just to keep his nose safe from any more collisions. Instead, you look at the red welt indented into your palm, and you start to rub the ache away.

“I think I get it,” he says. “Maybe. Not totally. But you need things to be slow. Right?”

You’re grateful that he at least gets part of it. You doubt you could fully untangle the jumbled mess of thoughts in your head. Your eyes flicker to him and in the clear light, his nose is definitely red. A little swollen. Nothing broken though, to your relief. You don’t want to hurt him anymore than you already have.

“I’m sorry for headbutting you in the face.”

He chuckles. “Not the first time you’ve done it. But apology accepted.”

“You deserved it that time though.”

“I probably did,” he says, laced with rueful laughter.  “Even though I don’t remember what happened.”

“You and I were arguing on how to take out Iconique’s laser ray and you wouldn’t listen when I told you more electricity would have blown the whole thing up.”

“Oh yeah,” he recalls and suddenly annoyance crosses his face. “Well, we were trying to take it out, of course blowing it up would be an option.”

“Blowing it up would have left a crater the size of a city block in the garden district,” you counter dryly.

“You don’t know that.” He repeats the same thing, the same words he said so many years ago when you were having the exact argument. You don’t know what will happen. No one does.

You shoot him a look, the are-you-really-arguing-with-me-about-this look. He grins crookedly at you and you slowly return it. 

This is good, you think. The banter is good. Whatever pressure weighing down on your chest has lifted just a bit and you can breathe again. You don’t know how long it will last but for now, it is enough.

He gets up and holds out a hand and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. The pizza’s gone cold by the time you settle once more on the couch and you force yourself to take bites and swallow, despite not tasting it at all. The movie’s been left running and it’s almost at the end now.

“Are you okay?” actor Charge asks, arms bracing the shoulders of his longtime partner. The voice sounds tinny, even through the state-of-the-art sound system speakers.

“No, not really,” you quip, echoing the actor’s lines.

“It’s fine, I’ve got you,” Ortega quotes, mimicking his actor perfectly. “You’re my best partner after all.”

You’ve forgotten how just how corny this movie was and you frown at him in disgust. If you remember anything from that day, there was a lot of screaming. He was out cold from the pain, almost going into shock. And there certainly was no touching dramatic speech about friendship.

“You are okay, right?” he asks tentatively, eyes searching your face for answers, hints.

“I won’t be if you keep asking.” 

He exhales sharply in amusement. “All right. I’m just checking.”

He keeps watching you though, as though you might fall apart any second, as though if he’s fast enough, he might be able to catch up the pieces. 

Because the last time, he wasn’t able to but he would gladly spend seven years, ten years, a hundred years, picking up little shards of you and putting you back together. And that you might not be totally whole again but that’s enough for him.

That it’s okay to not be okay.

At least that’s what his eyes are telling you.

“I know,” you say. 

On screen the credits start to roll.

[hockeylvr59]

Not the Only Option part 2 || Tyson Barrie

Requested: [ ] yes [x] no

Authors Note: The idea for this chapter and the reveal came from a wonderful anon, so thank you. I really loved the idea but I’m not sure that I did it the justice I wanted to. Let me know whether you love or hate this because I’m not sure how I feel. I’ve rewritten it way more than I normally like to.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2119

Four months, you had been waiting for this moment for four months.

Despite your hopes of conceiving on your first attempt, finding out that you hadn’t really didn’t surprise you. Of course, you were disappointed but this was all a part of the process. Tyson had certainly given it his all and each time the two of you had sex it was better than the last. While you were consciously trying to conceive, sex mainly served as a way for you and Tyson to become closer than ever. Neither one of you wanted to lose sight of just enjoying each other, after all, the more relaxed you were about all of it, the better it would be for your body in order to get pregnant.

Four months later, after a week and a half of planning, you could finally let Tyson in on the secret you were hiding. You’d gotten the assistance of Gabe, the rest of the team, as well as the equipment staff and now it was just a waiting game.

You’d flown to Anaheim to meet up with the team on the road and Gabe had managed to get you a seat on the team plane as they continued onto Dallas so that you could spend some time with Tyson after delivering the news. The boys had crushed the Ducks, moods were already high, and so it was definitely a good night for all of this to go down.

Tyson had no idea you were here as you waited at the exit to the bus after the game. You thought you’d come up with a pretty cute plan and you couldn’t wait to see his reaction. Josty was currently just hanging out in the locker room, with orders to face time you silently so that you could see it firsthand.

As the guys finished showering and dressing in their suits, Gabe called out to make sure that they grabbed their bags from their stalls to help the equipment crew out so that they could get on the road faster. Tyson’s real bag had already been brought to the bus and in its place was your surprise.

Your anxiety was building as you waited and when Josty’s face time request came through you answered it immediately, smiling as you saw your man walking out of the bathroom area of the locker room dressed in his suit so that he could gather his things.

You could see the puzzled look appear on his face as he saw that the bag in his stall was tiny, no bigger than a backpack. There was no way his gear would fit inside and it made you giggle wondering what was going through his head.

“Yo. Where’s my bag?” You heard him whine and immediately a sarcastic ‘right in front of you’ came from somewhere on Josty’s left.

“That’s not my bag.” He declared as he stood, hands on his hips, surveying the room. You hoped that Josty was making it look like he was just scanning social media or something because you didn’t want Tyson to know he was being filmed.

After a moment Gabe approached and rested a hand on Tyson’s shoulder.

“It’s your bag if you don’t believe us open it.” You were certain Tyson believed that this was part of a prank and that he was skeptical, one of the reasons that this idea had seemed like so much fun when you’d come up with it.

As he started to open the bag, your stomach flipped and you gently rested a palm over it, mentally telling the baby growing inside of you to calm down. Thinking about the things you’d placed inside the bag you couldn’t help but smile. You’d gotten the bag which matched the Avs actual gear bags from the equipment staff after Gabe put in the request.

Inside you’d placed baby bottles filled with Tyson’s favorite candies, a few diapers, wipes, and a “Dude you’re gonna be a dad” book. On top of those, the first things visible when the bag was completely unzipped were a baby Barrie jersey, knit skate baby booties, and knit gloves shaped to look like hockey gloves. Layered between all of that, in case the top layer didn’t give it all away, was a framed ultrasound photo with ‘NHL Draft Class 2038?’ written below on the glass.

You knew that Tyson wouldn’t even think anything of seeing the jersey until he actually processed its size and you were thankful when Josty moved a bit so that you could actually catch some of Tyson’s expressions. Gabe was leaning against the locker next to him, and you could see the rest of the guys watching while trying not to make it obvious that they were.

Seconds later, Tyson’s eyes started to water as he took in the baby jersey and knit items. “This is sweet guys but she’s not pregnant yet…” He trailed off and you had to struggle to not laugh at Tyson for thinking that the bag was from his teammates. There was no other reaction for a moment as he folded and set aside the jersey, booties, and gloves.

It was only when he realized that there was more, that you watched him freeze. You watched as he picked up the framed picture, as he took in the words you’d written and his brain processed the grainy 8-week ultrasound picture you’d had done just the day before. Suddenly he was squatting low in front of his stall and you could hear his shaky laugh/sob through the phone.

“Is this real?” He questioned softly, his voice cracking with emotion as he started to full on cry. “Shit I need to call her.” He added, fumbling for his phone. Not wanting to ruin the second part of the surprise right this moment, Gabe reached out to stop him.

“You can call from the bus...we need to get going.” He instructed, but the smile on his face showed just how happy he was for one of his best friends. He’d pulled you into the biggest hug when you’d met him for lunch to plan this and he was genuinely overjoyed for the two of you despite how crazy the whole situation may seem.

You watched as Tyson nodded, carefully placing everything back in the bag before zipping it back up and hiking it over his shoulder. Wiping his tears away he tried to pull himself back together.

“But for real, where’s my actual bag?” He asked, voice still moist with overflowing emotion.

“It’s already on the bus,” Gabe assured him before grabbing his own bag so that the team could finally leave the arena. Quickly, Josty flipped the camera back to face him so he could wink at you before ending the call.

Based on the last glimpse you’d had of the boys, Gabe and Tyson were going to be the last out of the room and so as the rest of the team filed by you to the bus, they bumped your shoulder gently or fist bumped you in acknowledgment, not wanting to say anything in case Tyson would hear them.

As he walked down the hall you could see Tyson fiddling with his phone anxious to call you as soon as he got settled onto the bus. In fact, he was so lost in it he was almost past you without noticing you. Thankfully, once again Gabe saved the day.

“Hey there mama.” He spoke loudly, wrapping an arm around you in a hug while you whispered your thanks to him because you’d never be able to forget seeing Tyson’s reaction. Gabe had made this happen and you definitely owed him. Hearing the word mama made Tyson freeze and he backpedaled two steps before looking up.

“Holy shit.” He murmured upon seeing you and then his arms were wrapped around you tightly as he picked you up off the ground. “What are you doing here?” He added as you pulled him toward the bus once he’d put you down because you’d already delayed them long enough.

“Did you really think I’d do something like this and then not be able to see you for a week?” You asked. “I’m coming with you. Your captain already took care of it, I’m flying with you to Dallas and you have a new roommate assignment for the rest of the trip; I hear they’re a bit high maintenance with the vomiting in the morning though so I hope you can handle it.”

Tyson was clearly excited but at the same time, you could tell that he was overwhelmed by everything. As you climbed onto the bus, you looked to Tyson to point out where to sit.

“You’ve been sick?” He asked, concern on his face as he responded to your comment about vomiting.

“It’s completely normal. Morning sickness is a very real thing but I can handle it.” You assured him.

“How long have you known?” He whispered his free hand gently reaching to brush against your stomach.

“About a week and a half, this all took some time to plan…” You trailed off watching all the emotions flicker through his eyes as he looked at you. “Your teammates were a big help. I wanted to make this special for you because you’ve done so much for me.”

“I...I can’t believe this is real. Finally. And you deserve all of it.” He declared. “You made me cry. Thanks for that.”

“I know.” You teased. “And it’s very real. We’re having a baby.”

“We are.” He agreed, leaning over to kiss you gently before pulling back. “Wait...what do you mean you know?” He inquired. “Are the boys spilling locker room secrets?”

“Tyson really...do you think I’d plan something like this and not want to be able to see your reaction. Josty was face timing me.” Reaching over you laced your fingers with his. “Your reaction was everything I wanted. Everything I needed.” You assured him.

All you wanted was for him to be as happy about this as you were. Because up until now it hadn’t really felt real and maybe it still didn’t for him but with the changes your body was already going through and his reaction tonight it was now all so very real for you that in 7 months you were going to be holding the baby that you had been waiting on for so long.

“This was not how I expected you to tell me you were pregnant…” Tyson murmured just staring at you softly as you snuggled in next to him on the bus. Hopefully, you would be at the airport soon because you could already feel the energy draining out of you.

“Well just saying it wouldn’t be any fun…” You explained. “I had to do something different.”

“I’m not complaining, it was perfect and I love you.” He spoke softly, his lips brushing against your hair. “Tired love?” He breathed seeing you yawn and when you nodded he wrapped an arm around you.

“We’re almost to the airport and you can sleep on the plane.”

“I know.” You assured him.

To and from the plane, Tyson insisted on carrying the single bag you’d brought in addition to his own suitcase and the hockey bag on his shoulder. Though you’d napped on the plane, the minute you entered the hotel room you collapsed onto the bed completely exhausted.

Needless to say, you had a new admiration for Tyson and all players for coping with the travel and crazy schedule because you’d been in three cities in two days and maybe it was because you were pregnant but you were exhausted.

Setting all your things down, Tyson gently tugged your shoes off your feet before gently and carefully helping you to undress, slipping one of his own t-shirts over your head. It wasn’t that you couldn’t do it yourself but Tyson had always been great at taking care of you and this was just further proof to you that he was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with and who was going to be an absolutely amazing father to any children the two of you had, including the one currently inside you.

By the time he crawled into bed with you, you were already half asleep but hearing him whisper goodnight to both you and the baby made you smile and you snuggled back into him as he wrapped his arm around your torso, his hand caressing your belly.

Tomorrow was the first day the two of you would awake knowing that you’re going to be parents. Tomorrow was the start to the rest of your lives together.