#anyway good morning happy friday let's get this bread! (work on fic all day probably)

[cyclogenesis]

Antibes, France 5/23/24

[jovialyouthmusic]

Go Shorty!

(It's my birthday!)

In a kind of weird reverse universe, this is my gift to anyone who enjoys my Bastien Lykel fics, queued to be posted on my birthday. I've noted Fabricio's recent image change and it inspired the following - what would Bastien's family think if he shaved off his iconic goatee? Enjoy, its all fluff xx

Word Count 2035

Double Trouble

The last lecture of the week completed, Sophia was in her university office just putting her papers together when the faculty secretary put her head round the door.

‘Sophia, your home help has been in touch, she said it’s urgent’

‘Thanks Lizzy, I’ll be leaving soon anyway. It’s been a long week, I’m glad I’ve nothing on this afternoon.’ Sophia turned her mobile phone back on to see that Morag had left her a voice mail. She held the phone at arm’s length as she played back the sound of a harassed young woman and a squealing toddler in full meltdown.

‘Mrs Lykel, I’m sorry tae bother ye, but yer wee lassie’s upset, and her father cannae soothe her. Please call back when ye can. Or just come hame.’ Sophia frowned. It wasn’t like Bastien to fail to settle Beatrice. Little princess that she was, she was Daddy’s girl while Sophia was out at work through the week and welded to Sophia’s side at the weekend. She dialled the landline of their top floor regency apartment in the centre of Edinburgh that the University had allocated them. It was Bastien who answered, and all was quiet beyond his voice.

‘Sophia!’ he sounded flustered ‘Morag’s just got her to settle, did you get the message?’

‘It’s an odd time of day for a nap, is she running a temperature?’

‘Errm no, she’s hot, but she’s not ill. She’s just been crying...’

‘How do you know she’s not ill if she’s hot?’ Sophia demanded, making her way along the corridor to the car park to their SUV. Her mind span with possibilities.

‘I uh – you’ll understand when you get here, I can’t explain right now.’ Sophia decided not to stop off at the shops on the way, hoping Morag could go and get what was needed before she clocked off for the weekend. She wished she’d had the foresight to order a supermarket delivery, but she preferred to shop herself. With or without the children, she loved browsing the aisles of Waitrose when it wasn’t busy. Bastien was a surprisingly poor shopper and stuck religiously to the list, whereas she’d discover little treats and bargains that wouldn’t stretch her salary. Living in the city was expensive, although not nearly as much as if they’d moved to London, and having Morag to help was a slight strain on resources. Setting up Bastien’s security consultancy was taking longer than expected thanks to the complexity of looking after twins, and the retainer from King Liam in Cordonia was only just enough for small luxuries.

As soon as she opened the door to the apartment, Morag was there pulling her coat on and shouldering her bag.

‘Morag, I was hoping you’d be able to get some supp…’ Sophia started, but she was already pushing past her to the landing outside.

‘Ah’ll be back the Monday.’ she said shortly, and Sophia was left peering over the banister to the stairwell after her rapidly retreating figure, wondering what had happened. She turned back inside to meet Bastien holding Theo.

‘Mama.’ he crowed in jubilant greeting. Bastien stepped out of the shadowed hall, and all became clear.

‘Bas, you shaved!’ she gasped. She’d never seen her husband without facial hair in the few years she’d known him. He still had a neat ‘tache, but his trimmed goatee was gone, his chin and jawline bare. He looked sheepish, and she knew she shouldn’t have teased him about the streak of white in his beard. He handed over Theo, who pointed at Bastien.

‘Dada face.’ he proclaimed.

‘Yes, I thought perhaps…’ his voice trailed off ‘Well, that is, I mean...’

‘Beatrice didn’t like it, did she? Honestly Bas, you should have thought – why didn’t you say something?’ He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

‘I thought perhaps a younger image might drum up some more business.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, age means experience, people are more likely to trust a distinguished looking gent.’ she scoffed. He sighed in exasperation.

‘Well the damage is done. Beatrice took one look at me and bawled her eyes out. Morag tried to calm her down, but every time she saw me again she’d set off crying.’

‘Well no wonder, you look completely different. How about Theo?’ she asked.

‘You know him – a bomb would go off and he wouldn’t flinch.’ In response Theo wriggled to get down, bored at the adult conversation. He toddled off to the toybox in the lounge to rummage for his current favourite, a shape sorting puzzle.

‘Well, I’d better go and take a look at her.’ Sophia sighed. ‘If she’s been crying all morning she’ll probably not wake up for a while.’ She feared that the disruption to her sleep schedule meant they’d be in for a rocky night at the very least, if not a couple of days. She opened the door to their bedroom a crack but could see little, as the curtains were drawn tight. Normally they let a little light in for daytime naps so the children would know night from day. She crept in and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Beatrice lay on her back in her day clothes, one arm flung back over her head and her other thumb in her mouth. That wasn’t a good sign – she’d not used that form of self soothing for a couple of months. Her hair was damp and face flushed, but her breathing was steady and peaceful.

Sophia carefully held her palm over her forehead, feeling the slight heat coming off it. Bastien joined her, gazing down at the toddler, but she motioned him out of the room and followed quietly.

‘Well, she’s okay for now. I’d better be here for when she wakes up, so you can go shopping for the weekend.’ Bastien’s face dropped.

‘On a Friday? The traffic’s mayhem – can’t we order in?’

‘I couldn’t stop on the way back, and there won’t be any free delivery slots until at least Monday, you know that.’ She sighed. ‘If you take Theo with you it’ll be easier for when Bea wakes up, and you can play the ‘Dad doing the chores’ role, that’ll get you to the front of the checkout queue. Give him a banana, that will keep him happy.’

‘Narners?’ Theo called from the lounge, and came toddling to find Sophia, clinging to her leg and pulling at her clothes.

‘Lunch first, Theo, then Daddy will take you shopping. Won’t that be lovely? All boys together.’

‘Sopping’ Theo cried happily, then looked over at Bastien. ‘Mummy sopping?’ he asked hopefully. He knew Sophia was more likely to treat him than his father, although he did like pointing out the things Daddy couldn’t find. Perhaps he’d treat him more without his sister there to steal the limelight.

‘No darling, Mummy has to look after Bea.’

‘Bee cwy. Dada face.’

‘Yes, silly Daddy took his beard off. He’s funny isn’t he?’

‘Dada silly!’ Theo cried triumphantly and pointed at him. Bastien scowled.

‘Yes well okay, let’s all laugh at Daddy.’ he grumbled as Sophia picked Theo up and balanced him on her hip.

‘Well it’s better than crying’ she said acidly. ‘Now, do you want to make lunch, or shall I?’

-------

Lunchtime was much simpler than normal with just Theo to feed. The couple could eat their own food while the toddler busied himself with cheese sandwiches made with wholemeal bread. He left the crusts, but Sophia had discovered it pointless cutting them off, as he left some bread around the edge just as if the crust were still there. She often saved them to feed the ducks at the park with the twins. Bastien had literally just closed the door to take Theo out to the supermarket when she heard Beatrice stirring. She went into her quickly, to find her standing at the bars to the cot, hair curling round her face and cheeks blotchy.

‘Mummy.’ Her voice was croaky and she looked miserable. ‘Dada face!’ she told her. She stretched her arms up and Sophia scooped her up as she rubbed her eyes sleepily. Perhaps she’d think it was a dream.

‘Well hello my little Bea, you’ve had a difficult morning. Are you hungry?’ She nodded sleepily.

‘Sippy sippy, Mummy.’ The little girl was obviously thirsty too.

‘Of course darling, you can have juice. Do you want sandwiches?’

‘Widges, Mummy.’ She looked across to Theo’s cot. ‘Where Feeo?’ Sophia sucked in her breath. It was very rare that the children were separated and she braced herself for trouble.

‘He’s gone out to the shops to get more narners, darling.’ The little girl clung on to her and rested her head on her chest, seemingly pleased to have Sophia to herself. She carried her through to the kitchen and filled her sippy cup with juice. Gratefully Bea grabbed at it and drank greedily, eyes rolling back in bliss.

‘All gone’ she shook it upside down, sprinkling the last dregs on the floor. Luckily the sandwiches were ready from earlier so Sophia put them on the tray of the high chair. Bea shook her head and clung on tight as she tried to put her down.

‘Okay darling, you can sit on my knee this time’ she said gently, and sat at the table, the little girl firmly nestled on her lap. She reached out to take a sandwich and squeezed it in her fist before stuffing half of it in her mouth, crumbs falling everywhere. She was hungry, and Sophia wondered if she’d had anything to eat before her father’s transformation. She waited until she’d slowed down.

‘Morag told me you were upset this morning.’ she said gently. The little girl took a shuddering breath.

‘Dada face bad.’ she said, putting her hand to her chin. Sophia stepped in before the cycle of crying could restart.

‘I know, Bea. He shaved his beard off. He looks funny now, doesn’t he? Theo was laughing at Daddy.’ Beatrice burrowed into her side again, hiding her face. ‘It’s okay darling, he just looks different. He still loves you – and me, and Theo. Silly Daddy, he’ll grow it back.’

‘Where Daddy?’ she asked, voice muffled.

‘He took Theo out to get more narners.’

‘Sopping?’ Beatrice relaxed and looked up at her enquiringly.

‘That’s right. Is there anything you want from the shops? I can call Daddy on his phone and tell him.’ The tot looked thoughtful.

‘Ice kweem?’

‘Okay, if Daddy brings you ice cream will you give him a kiss? His face is all smooth now, like Mummy’s.’ Beatrice giggled at the thought.

‘Like Mummy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Daddymummy!’

‘You can talk to him on the phone if you like, tell him what you want.’ Sophia got out her phone and texted Bastien.

Call when you can, Bea wants to ask you for ice cream

It was a few minutes before her phone rang, during which time she had changed the little girl’s nappy and was dressing her in clean clothes.

‘Oh that will be Daddy, just wait a minute darling.’ Beatrice opened and closed her hands, demanding it for herself, but Sophia put it on speakerphone.

‘Beatrice is here, Bas. She wants to ask you something.’

‘Daddymummy!’ Beatrice burbled. ‘Ice kweem, Daddy.’

‘Come on now, say please.’ Sophia prompted. Beatrice put on her cutest expression, unaware that her father couldn’t see it.

‘Pweese Daddy, stawby.’

‘Okay Bea, I’ll get strawberry ice cream. I love you, my little Bea. I’m sorry I scared you.’

‘Silly Daddy. Kisses!’ There was a short pause before Bastien obliged, blowing kisses to his daughter. Sophia tried not to laugh, wondering where he was and who could see him.

‘Okay now Bea, Daddy has to get the rest of the shopping. He’ll be back soon.’

‘Bye Daddy.’

‘Bye, my sweeting. Be good for Mummy.’ Beatrice slid off Sophia’s lap and went off to the toybox, obviously happy with life, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘If it’s any help, I told her your face is like Mummy’s now, so be prepared to be called Daddymummy until she’s forgotten. You’d better grow that beard back fast, mister.’ she said in a low tone. 'and be prepared for a rough bedtime, she'll be full of beans after that nap.'

@sirbeepsalot @katedrakeohd @fluffyfirewhiskey @bascmve01 @rainbowsinthestorm @nomadics-stuff @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30​ @stopforamoment

[shesasurvivor]

17 + 39 + Everlark

Anon, I’m so sorry I didn’t get to this last night, as I promised! But here we go. Everlark with Secret Admirer and Last Dance, as promised. :)

Rated PG, canon divergent ‘would have happened anyways’ type fic. 

---

The letter arrived the morning after my last Reaping. It was stuffed in the corner of our front stoop. I might have missed it, except the tip of the folded parchment just caught my eye as I was returning from hunting.

“What’s that?” Prim’s question pierces my thoughts as I wander into our small house. Startled, I glance up, not really sure I want to answer.

“Umm… just a letter,” I mumble. It’s not convincing, but it’s all I can come up with.

Neither Prim or my mother say anything, but I can see by the looks on their faces that they don’t believe me. But they don’t push the matter, and I don’t offer any more details.

But the letter eats away at me for the rest of the day. So when we’ve all done to bed that night, and I can tell by the sound of my mother’s breathing that she’s drifted off to sleep, I decide to tell Prim about it after all. I turn on my side to face her, hoping she’s still awake. She must hear me, know I want to talk, because a split second later, she’s on her side facing me as well.

“Prim,” I tell her, “The letter I got today… “I trail off, too embarrassed to admit what it was about.

She gives me an encouraging look. This isn’t the first secret I’ve shared with my sister like this, and there probably isn’t anywhere else in the world that I feel safer to talk about something like this.

“It… it said it was from a secret admirer,” I push through the confession.

Prim’s face lights up immediately. “Really?”

I nod, feeling how warm my cheeks are.

“Who do you think it’s from?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her.

“It has to be from Gale.”

“Gale?” I ask, thrown for a loop. “Why would it be from him?”

“Come on, Katniss,” she laughs. “Surely, you’ve seen how he looks at you?”

“What? No, there’s nothing like that between us,” I say immediately. “Besides, he was out hunting with me all morning. When would he have put it there?”

“Before you came outside this morning,” she says.

“No. We meet outside the fence,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure she already knows this and has only conveniently forgotten.

“He delivered it on his way up then, or maybe last night. Or maybe he got one of his brothers to do it for him,” she says.

I shake my head, feeling adamant. “I really don’t think it’s him. It isn’t like him.”

“True,” she admits. “Well, who else is a possibility?”

“No one,” I say. “I don’t know anyone else.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “You really don’t know anyone else outside our family and Gale’s?”

“Not like that,” I say defensively, feeling flustered.

“Well, it’s a secret admirer. It’s not someone who’s comfortable telling you how they feel. It makes sense if you don’t know who it is.”

“Well whoever it is, we’re not going to figure it out tonight,” I say, effectively ending the conversation. I roll over and fall asleep.

Over the week, several more letters arrive, each confessing they’ve admired me for ages, and have been trying to work up the courage to talk to me for years. Soon, they’ll reveal who they are.

“I guess that rules Gale out,” Prim says. “If it’s someone who’s been too afraid to talk to you.”

“And Darius,” I murmur. Prim looks at me, shocked, and immediately I blush, realizing what I’ve said.

“You think…?”

“He flirts with everyone,” I say quickly. And it’s the truth. But as he tugged at my braid while I was trading at the Hob earlier this week, the thought did cross my mind.

“Well, who could it be, then?” Prim wonders out loud.

I don’t answer. There is one person, but… no, it couldn’t be. Not him.

“It’s probably just a joke. We should forget about it,” I say curtly. I crumple the latest letter in my hands and throw it away as I leave the house.

Friday night is the Graduation Ball, a special dance they throw for students who have finished their last year of school. It’s also unofficially a celebration for those of us who have survived all of our Reapings.

It’s also the day that the last letter arrives.

Prim reads it over my shoulder just as I’m reading it myself. She practically lets out a squeal of excitement over its words.

“You’re going to find out tonight! Katniss, it’s so romantic!”

“I guess,” I say, feeling uncomfortable.

“You aren’t excited?” She looks disappointed.

“It’s probably just a joke,” I say, shifting in my seat.

“No, it won’t be,” she insists.

I can’t help smiling at my little sister’s optimism. But who would be sending me secret love letters in earnest? I’ve never been particularly friendly to anyone at school. No one there would think anything more of me except to think that I’m odd.

It makes me feel uneasy, but I decide to shove the whole thing out of mind as my mother pours a bath for me and lays out one of her dresses for me from her old days in the apothecary shop. The same blue dress I wore to my Reaping when I was 16 years old. She does my hair in the same elaborate braids, and then Prim walks with me to town.

“Are you nervous?” She asks.

“About what?” I ask, knowing full well what she’s referring to.

“You know,” she says.

I’m quiet for a moment. “Maybe a little,” I admit.

“Don’t be. Besides, if it is a joke -- and I don’t think it is -- the letter said it would be during the last dance. You can leave if you aren’t happy.”

That’s a good point and one that does make me feel a little better. I give my sister a hug goodbye because we’ve reached the school, take a deep breath, and go inside.

Music plays in the gym. Everyone from my grade is there, looking just like they do on Reaping days. Only this time, there’s a sense of relief over the whole thing. I soak it in, letting it put me at ease. Maybe I don’t have many friends here, but at least I can relax that I’ve survived. I find Madge, my only friend here, and sit with her for the duration of the dance.

“You look nervous,” she says to me half-way through the night. “Is something wrong?”

“N- no.” It’s unconvincing.

“We’ve made it through,” she says. “Isn’t that enough to make you want to celebrate?”

“It’s not that,” I say, and then I give in and tell her about the letters. When I’m done, she actually looks impressed.

“Do you have any idea who it is?” She asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

She looks around the room. “I guess time will tell.”

The night goes on. The dance winds down. The last dance will be coming next. “Maybe we should get out of here,” I tell Madge.

“Don’t be afraid,” she tells me, trying to hide a grin.

“But what if it’s… “I stop, not wanting to voice my suspicion to her.

“What?” She asks, her voice kind.

“A joke,” I say. “What if it’s just someone playing a prank?”

Madge looks across the room. I follow her gaze and land on a group of blonde kids from town. “I don’t think it is,” she tells me.

“Why? Do you know something?” The way she’s looking at that group makes me sure she does.

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “I’m as curious as you are.”

At last, they announce that it’s time for the final song. Couples holding hands head to the dance floor for one of the slower songs. Madge nudges me with her elbow.

“Now’s the time. Aren’t you going?”

My mouth has gone dry. I’m nervous. “Uh-uh.”

Madge is on her feet and pulling me up to mine. “Don’t be afraid. Get out there.” She practically shoves me towards the floor.

I gape at the sight of the couples slowly swaying together in front of me. I’m frozen to the spot. Behind me is safety. But if I turn back now, I’ll never hear the end of it. Everyone will think I’m afraid, and I can’t let them believe that. So with small, slow steps, I head forward.

As if in a dream, I take in the sight of the dancers only a few feet away from my elbows. I can feel their body heat, smell the musky cologne some of the wealthier kids are wearing. But everyone is taken. There are no secret admirers here. Just as I suspected.

I awaken from the dream. What am I even doing here? It’s a joke. Of course, it’s a joke, the last prank on the weird Seam girl that no one likes. I turn to head back to Madge, but I’m stopped in my tracks.

The baker’s son stands only a couple feet away from me. He startles when I turn, and his eyes widen. I’m frozen to the spot, and so, it seems, is he.

“Excuse me,” I mutter after what seems like an eternity, and push past him. But as I do, I hear him call after me.

“Katniss, wait!”

It’s the fact that he even knows my name that makes me stop. We’ve only had one interaction before, many years ago, but we never even spoke to each other when it happened. I didn’t think he even knew who I was, besides a poor girl from the Seam to take pity on. I turn to face him.

He looks lost. “Um… my name’s Peeta.”

“I know.”

Surprise registers in his blue eyes. Maybe he didn’t realize that I knew his name, either.

“Oh… “Am I imagining things? Or do his cheeks look pink? Probably because it’s so warm in this room all of a sudden. “Um. Would- would you like to dance?”

I scowl. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not- it’s not pity.” Now panic registers in those eyes. “I… I mean it. I’d like to dance with you. Of course, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly.

It would be rude for me to refuse. I may have grown up in the Seam, but my mother still taught me manners. “Okay,” I say quietly.

He still looks surprised, but now it’s a pleasant sort. We walk to each other, and Peeta Mellark takes me in his arms as we begin the dance. He’s so steady, just like a rock.

“Thank you for the bread.” It’s out before I even know what I’m saying. He looks just as surprised as I feel.

“What?”

“From when we were kids,” I drop my gaze. “Look, if this is because I never thanked you- “

“What? No, not at all. I don’t care about that,” he rushes to tell me.

“Then what do you want to dance for?”

Peeta Mellark truly looks lost now. “Because I wanted to. Didn’t you get the… “He doesn’t finish. I feel his arms stiffen around me. And suddenly it all clicks in place.

“You?” I gasp.

He stops dancing. Drops his arms from around me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You clearly don’t feel the same way.” He turns to leave, but I grab his arm before he’s entirely out of reach. To do what, exactly? I’ve never wanted this. I don’t want to get married or have children. It’s never been my plan.

But I also don’t want to lose the Boy with the Bread.

“I- don’t know- how I feel,” I say haltingly, and realize it’s not entirely untrue. Peeta looks at me like he’s trying to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but he must decide it’s at least promising because he turns back to me.

“Do you still want to dance?” He asks.

“Why not?” I say and feel the corners of my mouth quirk up in a smile. He cradles me in his steady arms, and we learn to dance as one.

[avengerscompound]

Super Like - Chapter 4

Super Like: A Captain America Fanfic

Series Masterlist Previous | Next For Steve’s POV

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  1700ish

Warnings:  None for this chapter.

Synopsis:   Your date with Steve is canceled due to a mission. When he gets back he joins you shopping.

A/N:  Re-uploading from @emilyevanston.

THERE ARE IMAGES IN THIS FIC THAT ARE ESSENTIAL TO THE STORY.

Chapter 4

The plan had been to go see a movie and then grab some dinner after.  Somewhere casual.  Low pressure.  It wouldn’t be as good as the date at home you didn’t think but you couldn’t just stay in like a couple of hermits, as nice as it did sound.  You had picked out the movie with him.  Just a non-offensive romantic comedy that while maybe it would never be either of your most favorite movies ever, it was unlikely to be terrible.  You really just were looking forward to talking again.  Not to mention being able to snuggle up against him.  There was something very appealing about the way it felt to be tucked into his side with his large arm wrapped around you.

Unfortunately the Universe… or more specifically HYDRA didn’t seem to want that to happen.

You read the message and your heart dropped.  This had happened before of course.  You’d been talking for months now and he was Captain America.  Just in the past, you’d thought he was pretending to be Captain America, and while your conversation would be interrupted for a few days it had never directly taken something from you before.  It was obviously a selfish reaction and you hated yourself for it, but it was still there.

There was a pause and you worried you’d missed him.  That he’s got on the jet and it was airplane mode out into place.

That’s when the worry hit.  He was going on a mission.  More than likely people were going to try and kill him.  What if one of them was successful?  How do you grieve for a person who you have really only just met but at the same time have known for a long time?  Would they even let you near the funeral?

That didn’t really set your mind at ease but you decided not to press the issue.

Not really.  You weren’t really happy at all.  You felt upset and stressed but he didn’t need that added to his own things.

You chuckled and took a deep breath before typing one last thing.

The next few weeks was nothing short of terrible.  You felt like you were in limbo.  It was such a weird feeling to only have met someone a few times but to miss them as much as you did.  He was a daily part of your life.   It hadn’t been uncommon for him to have days he was quieter because of work back when you thought it was someone was roleplaying.   It was also not uncommon for him to have to go dead air.  In the past that had only been a few days.

The longer he was gone, the stronger that feeling of being lost was.  You would wake up in the morning and immediately check your phone, expecting to see that after run, good morning text, only for there to be nothing.  You would check your phone periodically through the day like it was muscle memory.  Yet your life didn’t change at all.  You still went to work.  You still spoke to the same people.  You still went to the supermarket and had drinks with your friends or went to the gym.  Nothing had changed except he wasn’t there to talk to you.

You did just continue on.  You made your usual plans.  Including the one where you went to the Union Square Greenmarket on Saturday mornings.   Friday night just as you were getting ready for bed your phone chimed.

Your hands were shaking as you picked up your phone.

You were worried you were coming off as too keen.  You couldn’t help it though.  You had missed him and the feeling of relief you were feeling now he was back was palpable.

You slept lightly, waking up several times.  You wished you had just said to call you after the third time.  It wasn’t like you were sleeping anyway.

You woke early and took a long shower before dressing for the market.  You grabbed your shopping bags and caught the subway in, stopping at the first Starbucks you saw and buying a coffee.   You had only been at the market for a few minutes when your phone chimed.

He didn’t reply and you scanned the crowd, assuming you’d see him coming.  He wasn’t exactly someone that blended in very well.  There was a tap on your shoulder and you spun around and lunged yourself into his arms.  “Oh my god!  Steve!”  You yelped hugging him tightly.  He seemed taken aback for a moment.  Holding his hands up and his stiffening.  Just as you thought you’d overstepped a line you hadn’t reached in the relationship he closed his arms around you and melted against you.   He took a deep breath in.  “I missed you.”  He said quietly.

“I missed you too.”  You agreed.  “I kept checking my phone every morning, expecting my good morning message.”

He chuckled and softly nuzzled against you.  “Mm… It felt very weird not saying goodnight to you when I got into bed.”

You let him go and he offered you his elbow.  You smiled and linked yours around his.  “Are we shopping for anything particularly?”  He asked.

“Just some fruit and veg.  There’s a place that does some really nice bread and I might get some cheese if it grabs my fancy.”  You say.  “It usually does.”

He chuckled.  “It is hard to resist.”

You walked slowly down the rows, stopping when you saw something you needed and putting it in one of your shopping bags.  Steve carried one for you and genuinely seemed to enjoy being in the markets.  Sampling almost everything that was offered to him.

“Can you talk about it?”  You asked.

“The mission?  Not really I’m afraid.  It went as expected.  There was a firefight.  Minimal casualties.  None on our side.”  He said.  It was very rehearsed and you got the feeling that was partly because these were words he had to repeat officially a lot.  Partly it was a wall he put up between him and work.

“You’re okay though?  I mean… you’re okay?”  You asked him, looking up into his eyes.

He smiled softly.  “Yeah.  I’m okay.  We do what we have to.”   He stopped and peered over a display of different kinds of chili.  “Look at all these peppers?  You think they’re hot?”

“Oh yeah.”  You said.  “That one will burn a hole through your poor Irish tongue.”  You added pointing to the basket of wrinkly red ghost peppers.

Steve laughed.  “Well, I don’t want that.”

“No.  How about instead we try all the different fruit butter in that stand there?”  You said taking a blueberry out of the punnet you’d bought and tossing it at him.

He tried to catch it but your aim was off and it hit him in the cheek and bounced away.  “Hawkeye, I am not.”  You said as you both laughed.

“No.  If you were Clint, I’d probably be dead right now.  Would have choked on it.”  He replied as you moved to the next stall.

You chuckled.   “Well, just as well I’m no Hawkeye then.”  You said and lifted a popsicle stick with a scrape of apple butter on it to his lips.  He parted them and sucked on the end as he gazed down at you, his eyes soft and inviting.  “What?”  You asked.

“I just… I really want to kiss you right now.”  He said.

“You should go with your gut.”  You replied.

He leaned down, hesitated for a moment and you bridged the distance.  He didn’t linger.  It was just a soft brush of his lips over yours as his large hand cupped your jaw.  Yet it felt like fireworks had gone off.  You could still taste the tart apple butter on his mouth.  He pulled back and you stumbled forward a little still lost in it.  “Mmm… that was nice.”  You hummed.

Steve smiled you.  “It was.  The next one will be less public.”

“I look forward to it.”  You said as he tucked you into his side.  “How about we get some breakfast?  There’s a place that does a good breakfast roll around here somewhere.”

“Sounds good.” Steve agreed.  You cuddled in against him as you walked and relaxed fully for the first time in two weeks.

[caravanslost]

28 - I miss you. I miss our conversations.

Verse: Part 3 of the Modern AU where Laurent is an overworked junior doctor, and Damen is the patron saint of doting husbands. 

Part 1 - from prompt 6, Power - is hither. 

Part 2 - from prompt 20, Rise - is thither.

Characters: Damen/Laurent.

Tags: Listen: I just really enjoy writing Laurent pining for Damen; Domestic fluff of the shamelessly soft variety. Written for @capri-month​.

“How long has it been?” Damen says, and the sound of his voice is milk and honey.

“Three whole days.” Laurent replies, his voice still thick with sleep. “Plus four hours. And a half.”

A note: Archive Of Our Own Link here.

A note #2: You guys are SO GOOD AT PROMPTING. I’ll keep taking them until I finish this challenge - which, after today, is three fics away holy shit.

Night shifts were always the worst. They lasted for seven days, from Friday night to Thursday night. During those weeks, Damen and Laurent would somehow both live in the same house and run into each other once or twice. Maybe. If they were lucky.

Laurent loved his job. Obviously, he also hated it, in the way that anyone who works harder than they’re paid for hates their job, but he never once doubted that he was meant for medicine. Night shifts, on the other hand, made him wonder whether it was worth the toll on his time, and his sleep cycle, and his relationship.

But he and Damen called each other every day, and if they couldn’t, they left each other voice messages (at Damen’s insistence—“I’d rather hear your voice”). They knew where the other was, and had a rough idea of what he was doing, and had done the best they could under the staggering pressure of Laurent’s shiftwork.

And yet—

—when Laurent comes home every morning after a night shift, he nurses a quiet fear that is only allayed when he sees Damen’s mug still in the sink, his toothbrush still next to the basin, his clothes still occupying three quarters of their closet.

Only after Laurent has confirmed these things can he shower, and draw the curtains, and climb into Damen’s side of the bed. He sleeps on Damen’s pillow because it still carries the scent of him. He’ll wake up before Damen gets home and tidy the bed, and won’t tell him where he’s slept.

On Friday, after the last evening of his night shift, Laurent doesn’t finish till midday. His head pounds with the kind of violence that only ever accompanies 16 straight hours at work. He gets into his car and tries to put the key into the ignition seven or eight times before he thinks to himself, maybe I shouldn’t drive today.

He falls asleep in the taxi home, almost walks out of it without paying, and makes it inside as far as the lounge before collapsing on the couch. By this point, it’s one in the afternoon. He doesn’t even bother reaching for a blanket, and falls asleep halfway before his body lands on the cushions.

When Laurent’s stomach wakes him up almost eight hours later, he realizes that he’s no longer on the couch, but in bed. His memory draws a blank as to how he got there.

He stands up and stretches, feels every bone in his back and shoulders click pleasingly into place. It feels kind of good. He feels kind of good. His head isn’t quite clear of the fog, but its ache is as dull and low as it’s been in a week.

But goddamn—he looks like hell. The bathroom mirror is unforgiving in its assessment, offering him lank hair and sallow skin and hollows under his eyes, without a shred of flattery. He quickly gets into the shower to escape his reflection, more than anything else. When he’s clean, and warm, and when his skin is pink from the heat of the water, he throws on one of Damen’s t-shirt ovee boxers and goes to rejoin the living.

Damen’s in the kitchen, the knife in his hand flying over a bouquet of parsley. He smiles at Laurent, swiping bits of green off the side of the blade and onto the chopping board. Laurent’s heart twists at the sight of him, and the loose bun of his hair, and his natty red flannel pyjamas that wouldn’t serve for rags.

“How long has it been?” Damen says, instead of hello, and the sound of his voice is milk and honey.

“Three whole days.” Laurent replies, his voice still thick with sleep. “Plus four hours. And a half.”

“So—we have a new record.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just missed you. The house felt like a ghost.”

Instead of responding, Laurent goes behind him and presses his chest against Damen’s back, his cheek into the corner where shoulder curves into neck. He snakes his hands into Damen’s pockets and leans all his weight against Damen’s frame. It probably isn’t helpful for handling a knife, but goddamn it, the food can wait.

Damen picks up a slice of cucumber and offers it to Laurent over his shoulder, who bites it out of his hand. It’s the first thing Laurent’s eaten since an improvised breakfast of leftover cake from the staffroom, and half a slice of bread. It’s meager sustenance, and his stomach lets out an almighty rumble in anticipation of being fed. At the sound, he mashes his face deeper into Damen’s shirt.

Damen gives a singular laugh, his shoulders rising against Laurent’s weight. He says, “Christ.”

“Shut up, and keep feeding me.”

“You’re such a bitch when you’re hungry.” Damen grins. “I always forget.”

“How did you get me to bed, anyway?” Laurent says, though most of the words are lost in Damen’s collar.

“Hauled you there over my shoulder.”

“Really?” He asks, and it isn’t a rhetorical question. Damen has the brute strength to pull it off, and Laurent likes the mental image enough to file it away.

’No. I spent ten minutes convincing you up, and another ten trying to walk you over to bed. You’re less pliant than you used to be.”

Laurent knees him gently between the legs. “Keep talking shit,” he threatens, “and I won’t be pliant with you for a week.”

Damen laughs. He opens his mouth to respond, but Laurent noses the sharp line of his jaw before it forms around any words. That shuts him up well enough, and pulls a happy sigh out of him instead. Laurent closes his eyes and empties his mind, allowing himself to feel nothing but the warmth of Damen’s body like an evening fire, and the scratch of his stubble, and the simple pleasure of being close to him after a week without.

He feels Damen tilt his head back, exposing his neck for more of Laurent’s ministration. Laurent obliges him. His lips seek out Damen’s pulse and suck on the skin hard enough to break blood beneath it. After he’s done, he lands a kiss over his handiwork.

“I missed you.” He says. “I missed our conversations.”