#but I figured we could at least put a cap on this thread until we think of a new scenario for Emelia and Totentanzer

[slime-quest]

You take a moment to look around the space. There are soft clouds everywhere, and piles of objects scattered about. Mirrow is lounging in a small mound of mushroom shaped pillows, and a ways off you can see several plush purple pillows nestled among some crystals, presumably where Humphrey hangs out.

You look back at your own space. Several small bookcases encircle a single large pillow. The shelves are filled with books of varying sizes and colors. Small crystals are sprouting from the clouds around the space, and there are several candles littering the area, some of which are lit.

"The books are hard to read because a lot of pages are missing from them, but there's a lotta stuff in there. Old journals and letters, stuff like that. Some of them are mine, some are yours. Humphrey seems to have the cleanest selection of books, but it's mostly about slime culture. Kinda boring, honestly."

You pull one of Mirrow's books off the shelf and open it up. It looks like gibberish. "Why can't I read it?"

"Cuz I don't want you to, nerd. I can't read most of yours either. What do you want to know?"

"Oh, just.. I guess I thought we'd be able to read each other's minds since we're the same person?"

"Yeah, well, I don't think that's how it is."

A pulse of grief ripples through you, but you try to ignore it for now.

You look at the cover of the book. The hand shaped symbol is embossed on the front. "We learned this when we found you, do you remember anything about it?"

"Not really. It's not a spell. Or, it's not exactly a spell. I think there's something specific about it, like it's a symbol, but I don't remember what it means. Maybe we used to be really into high fives." She shrugs nonchalantly. "If you figure it out, let me know."

You put the book back on the shelf and turn your gaze to the broken sword floating some distance above your space. There are thin tendrils growing over the crystal, with small mushroom caps flowering near the top. A gentle melodic beeping resonates from the sword, easy to miss until you paid attention to it.

"Do you know what the hand means?" you ask it.

The sword continues to beep softly, a quiet pulsing rhythm.

"Can you say anything at all?"

It doesn't respond, just gently beeping and booping.

"It's actually been more chatty since the crystal smith opened the locket," Mirrow says, "I think it recognized the song and has been trying to answer it back."

"Hmm.. Hey, Humphrey, can we open that locket for a second?"

Humphrey ## Oh, sure, I'll try. ##

Humphrey pulls out the locket and tries to open it. There's a seam and a hinge, but they can't seem to figure out a way to pry it open. Tricky watches you struggle with it.

"I've seen one of those before, traveling voidkin carry them. How'd you get one?"

"It belonged to uhh... a friend. They disappeared, and this was one of the things they left behind." Humphrey puts the locket away.

"Gosh, I'm sorry about your friend. At least you have something to remember them by."

Humphrey ## sorry guys, I don't think we can open it ##

You look back up at the sword. It isn't making noise anymore.

"Oh, one more thing, uh, Tricky! Do you know if there's a way to turn this stuff into rope?" Humphrey tugs at your cloak.

"Well, I guess if it's thread, you could maybe tell it to be a rope? I'm not sure how that works tho, I think only voidkin can control the shape of it, but I don't know a lot about magic."

You arrive at the lake. The water stretches out a great distance, almost further than you can see, tho you're just able to make out the shape of trees and houses on the far bank.

"Oh gosh..."

The houses closer to you are destroyed, splintered and torn apart. Trees with deep gashes, deep dents in the earth, and the shallows are littered with debris from the destruction.

In the middle of the lake, balanced on the surface of the water stands a trio of voidkin. They look thin and frail, all three are staring directly upwards, their brilliant red single eyes shining brightly even in the full might of the sun. They don't seem aware of your approach just yet.

Humphrey slides back into their space, putting you back in front.

[phantomrose96]

Old Wounds

Danny’s secret is not a secret anymore.

The lines between Fenton and Phantom have long since blurred. And it’s a common occurrence for news reporters to trip over their tongue when flagging him down, mid-transformation, for a post-fight interview. “Phanton.” “Fentom.” So often that, to most now, he is just Danny.

When Danny wants upgrades to his gear, he comes to his mother. When Danny learns a quirky new element of Ghost Zone lore, he brings it to his father. When the Amity Park Ghost Alarm is raised, he’s first on the scene with the Fenton RV right on his non-corporeal heels.

When he’s injured, Danny comes only to his friends and sister.

Jazz notices the pattern. How it is only her, or only Sam, or only Tucker who receives the late-night knock at the window glass, with her brother on the other side, corny sheepish smile on display and arm or leg or shoulder held up in explanation.

Jazz notices how hushed Danny remains, day or night, when he comes to her for first aid. How he speaks in that same hesitant muted tone as he did when all of this was still a secret. How he quiets himself in the way injured prey animals do.

Jazz doesn’t feel it’s her place to ask. Not yet, at least. Eventually. But not yet.

The window is open. Honeysuckle-sweet gusts of late-spring air swirl through Jazz’s room and tease away the sheen of sweat that has collected on her brow. She cannot wipe it away herself, not with both hands meticulously occupied in tweezering out the singed fabric from her brother’s arm.

Danny winces, and hisses, and Jazz frees another thread from its embedded hold in Danny’s burn wound.

“It’s kind of like… summer vacation when we were kids and we’d get splinters visiting Aunt Alicia’s lake house,” Jazz remarks with another careful tug. “…If we can call it a lake house.”

“Lake shed,” Danny replies, grinning through the sweat shining on his pale face. “And I think every part of that dock was an OSHA violation.” He laughs through another wince.

“Dad was the king of tweezers. I think he got out every splinter that dock ever gave me.” Jazz pauses. “I wonder why that was. Think it’s the needlepoint?”

“It’s definitely the needlepoint,” Danny agrees.

Jazz hesitates on the question lingering behind her tongue. Just a little too long. Just a little too obviously.

“What?” Danny asks.

Jazz’s hand falters. She puts the tweezers down. “Danny, I will always always be happy to help you like this. Same goes for Sam, same goes for Tucker, I know. I’m positive. But I wonder why… not Mom or Dad?” Jazz eyes the tweezers, glinting in the moonlight. “I’m just… I’m thinking how much cleaner this might be if you got Dad to do it. And Mom’s got like, wilderness survival level first aid expertise. I can’t help thinking I’m hurting you more by it being… me, you know?”

Danny looks at her, and looks past her a moment. His grin slips a fraction into discomfort as his eyes leave hers. “Maybe I just like the excuse to invade your room.”

“Danny…” Jazz waits until he looks at her again. “Are you afraid they’ll make you stop if they realize you’re getting injured?”

Danny lets out a puff of air from behind his lips. “No, never. I mean, maybe if I got really really injured they’d say something. But just getting a little roughed up? I think it’s about on par with a kid coming home from football practice with a few scrapes, at least, in their eyes. They get more banged up than me these days. I’m not worried.”

Jazz reaches for the bottle of disinfectant. She unscrews the cap to a biting alcohol smell. “…So will you tell me why?”

“Why what?”

“Why you won’t ever go to them with injuries? Ever?”

Cotton swab, pure silver under the moonlight. Jazz douses it gently, a muted glug-glug from the bottle.

“…I’m that obvious about it, huh?”

“You’re obvious about most things. This’ll be cold.” Jazz applies the swab to the open wound, and Danny hisses in turn.

“Yeah. Cold. And stingy. Cold and stingy.” After a few seconds, the tension eases out of Danny’s body. He droops a little, shoulders slumped, and Jazz pulls the cotton swab away.

“Are you ashamed of your injuries?”

“No.”

“Are you worried Mom and Dad’ll make them worse?”

“Nah. You said it yourself, those two are weird, unconventional medical experts.”

“Then why not?”

A beat of silence follows. A moment of trepidation. Awash in moonlight, Danny looks up at her, and the glow in his green eyes has a life of its own. “I don’t want them to see the injuries that have already healed.”

“Why would that be a problem?” Jazz looks again. Danny’s suit covers most everything, save now for the one sleeve that’s been rolled back. She sees what she already knew was there – what isn’t obvious to the eye not searching – threads of white ridges, puckers of skin, a faded rashy texture of what had once been an ectoblast burn. Old injuries. Long healed. Faded and fading further. “Those are all healed now. Just some scars, right…?”

Danny hesitates.

“I don’t want them to figure out how many of those scars they caused.”

A gust of wind steals the antiseptic smell from the room. Jazz sits with the silence. She thinks, and she processes.

“Oh…”

Danny straightens. “They kind of… live in this world where hunting ghosts is all fun and games, you know? Like it’s a sport, like they can just get into go-mode and jump into the fun. I don’t think they’ve figured out yet that they can—could—did …cause damage.”

Danny adjusts himself on Jazz’s bed, one leg pulled up, body angled to face her directly. He doesn’t let his eye contact wander now. “They both apologized. Definitely. Like that definitely happened, back at the start of this. But it was kind of like ‘We must’ve given you so much trouble Danny! How’d you come home every day and not bite our heads off over that?’ Like. Again. Like it’s a game. Like they’d been knocking my chess pieces over for a year and not—”

Danny falters. He raises his uninjured arm and tucks the hair away from his face. “And I don’t… want it to click for them. What I have right now with Mom and Dad is so nice… It’s so much better than I even imagined. I want it to stay like this. Forever, if possible.”

“Danny…”

“And even that actually—maybe I’m actually wrong about that. Completely wrong. About their reaction, I mean. It’s possible maybe they’d see everything and just go,” Danny deepens his voice, “‘Wow! We did a number on you, huh? Man Danny I don’t know how you didn’t just smack us over the breakfast table every morning.’ you know? Like that. Like this was all just always a game. And they—and I-- …I like how relaxed ghost hunting is with them. I actually like that it feels like a game. I don’t ever want to go back to feeling how scared and afraid and unsafe and hurt I was that first year. ...But I’m afraid of how it would feel to know that maybe they’d see that, look at it all, everything they did and the scars like the actual proof and it—if it wouldn't ever be real to them. If they'd never get that it was like that. If they still wouldn’t realize—you know? That they—if they—I don’t uh…” Danny drops his eyes, and he shrinks in on himself. “I don’t know how to explain it…”

“No I—Danny I know what you’re saying. Don’t worry. Danny, I—”

“Either answer. Any answer. I don’t want to know… I don’t actually want to know.” Danny angles himself away again, feet dropped over the side of Jazz’s bed, staring down at the hands in his lap. “If it would horrify them, then I’d be ruining all the good things I have with them right now. And if it wouldn’t horrify them—” Danny falls quiet. The breeze has stilled. The room is colder now. “…then I think I just don’t ever want to know.”

Jazz nods, and nods harder.

“I get it. I get it. That’s a good enough answer for me, Danny, I promise. I’m your first aid person, okay? I won’t ask again. Thanks for… thanks for telling me, Danny.”

"Can always trust you to bring up the difficult conversations huh? Of course that's always been your thing. Talking to you is--well I'd say it's like pulling teeth, but maybe it's more like pulling ecto-demolished hazmat suit fabric out of a burn wound."

Danny offers a sheepish grin - it's an olive branch, a request to lighten the mood. Jazz meets it with her own small grin that does not touch her eyes.

"Yeah yeah, I'm your older sister. It's my job to be a pain. Now sit still, I need to be more of a pain if we're gonna de-hazmat suit your injury."

She picks the tweezers back up. The silence rings with an echo in her head now. Jazz focuses her attention back on her task, and she finds something she was wrong about before:

There is nothing faded about the scars that web up and down her little brother’s arm. They are stark streaks of lightning, glowing silver under the moonlight. And Jazz wonders how many others—how many that flaked away and melded back with healthy skin—how many of those might still be living, lingering, a permanent part of her little brother, buried well beneath the surface…

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: epilogue (reader)

Summary: An early morning, a doctor’s appointment, a new beginning.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: pregnancy (including like… probably incorrect math and science but my degree was in English and this is fanfiction okay)

Word count: 2.7k

a/n: I’m actually so emotional don’t look at me thanks ♥️

Series Masterlist

———

The sound of Spencer’s ringtone pierced through the early morning quiet, shrill and disconsolate. Y/N hummed against his chest, shifting as he clumsily reached across to the bedside table to answer it. 

“Hey,” he croaked, voice still smothered in sleep. “Mm... When?” He paused, and she could almost make out the answer on the other end. “Got it. Yeah.” 

He carefully set the phone back on the bedside table, and then his arms came around her shoulders. He let out a long sigh, the one she’d gotten quite used to over the last year and a half— the one that meant he had to go. She squeezed him around the middle and let out her own sigh. “Case?”

“Yeah.” He ran light fingers down her arm. “Jet’s taking off in ninety minutes.”

She glanced at the bedside table to the alarm clock that read 4:57am. They both knew he needed to leave within the next half hour if he was going to make it on time, but neither one made any effort to move. Instead, they breathed together in the pre-dawn stillness— a single moment of peace before the world and all its ugliness could crash through the fortress they’d constructed around their space and around each other.

“I don’t wanna go,” he whispered. 

“I know.” She pressed a kiss over his heart through his t-shirt. “I know.”

“I’m gonna miss everything,” he lamented. “Appointments, and milestones, and firsts, and I— I’m gonna miss all of it.”

She lifted her head at the tears in his voice. “Hey.” She shifted in the circle of his arms to prop herself up on his chest. “You’re not gonna miss all of it. You’ll miss this one appointment. And it’s— it’s not even an important one,” she assured, gentle fingers swiping away the lone tear that had managed to escape over his lash line. 

“Yes, it is.” He shook his head. “They're all important.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips before sitting up and deciding to reassure him in the only way she knew how. “Okay, doctor. Eleven weeks. Tell me what we’re gonna find out today.” 

She pulled him up out of bed, interlacing their fingers and pressing their shoulders together. As she led him to the bathroom, he explained, “Dr. Layton will do the first ultrasound, and Baby will look more like a baby now. At around ten weeks they made the transition from embryo to fetus. They’ll be about two inches long.” 

She handed him his toothbrush and turned to grab his toiletry go-back from the linen closet, stifling a yawn. “Mmhm. What else?”

“Did you know they’re breathing now?” he asked, and she smiled at the way the excitement crept into his voice. “Between weeks ten and eleven, the fetus starts to inhale and exhale small amounts of amniotic fluid, which aids in the development of their lungs. It’s kind of like they’re breathing underwater.” 

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted, turning back to set the bag on the counter. “That’s pretty amazing. What about the heartbeat?”

He nodded vigorously as he applied toothpaste to the bristles of his brush. “We should be able to hear it, although sometimes it’s too early— depending on the accuracy of the estimated date of conception.”

He ran the water over the toothbrush before popping it into his mouth. She kissed his shoulder and then moved back into the bedroom, shuffling into their closet for his go bag. She checked it over on her way back to the bathroom, ensuring it had been fully repacked after the last case. She set it on the counter and placed his toiletry bag inside, leaving it open for him to pack his toothbrush and then sitting on the closed toilet lid. 

He rinsed his mouth and put his travel cap over the head of his toothbrush, gesturing with it and then dropping it into the bag. “They’ll do some routine lab work to test for things like gestational diabetes, and we can also choose to do additional screeners for chromosomal abnormalities and possible complications.” He looked at her then, and she saw the despondence creeping back in. “I should really be there, just— just in case.”

“Honey.” She stood and held out her hand to him, smiling a little when he accepted it with a squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

He let out a breath and pulled her into his arms, and they held each other in the silence, the soft light from the vanity washing over them. His phone buzzed with an incoming message, and she knew he needed to get on the road. Still, she held him for a second longer, and then they shuffled through the door and into the bedroom together. 

Y/N made her way back to bed, scooting down under the duvet to preserve the last remaining notes of his body warmth. She watched as he dressed silently, pulling on trousers, socks, a button up and cardigan. He skipped the tie in favor of coming to sit on the bed, bringing his hand to rest lightly over top of her belly over the covers. 

She covered his hand with her own and laced their fingers together. “Maybe you could ask Luke if you can FaceTime with his phone. You can probably take twenty minutes, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Maybe I should just upgrade my own phone.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Couldn’t upgrade for me, but once a baby comes along you’re ready for an iPhone.” 

“That’s not— you— you shouldn’t have to do all of this alone,” he huffed, and she realized her joke didn’t land when his voice cracked at the end. 

“Spence, I’m— I’m just teasing.” She lifted her hands to his face, pulling him closer and meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry; you’re upset, and that wasn’t nice.” 

She leaned up to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger and breathing him in. “But I’m not alone. With you, I feel— the opposite of alone.”

“Irritated?” he offered. 

“No,” she laughed. “Supported, and cared for, and loved,” she corrected with a smile. “You’ve been all of that since day one. And I know that’s not going to change, whether you’re physically present in that doctor's office or not. Right?” 

When he nodded, she continued, “I love you. The most. And you are easily the best baby daddy on planet earth. Okay?”

The term of endearment dragged a smile from him, as it always did. “Okay.”

She leaned forward to press her lips to his, both sets upturned and a little dry from sleep. “Now, you need to go, or you’re gonna be late.”

“I know.” He kissed her again, long and slow, and then pulled back to lean their foreheads together. He hesitated for another ten seconds before standing to grab his bag from the bathroom. 

When he re-emerged, she reminded him, “Ask Luke about the FaceTime thing. I’m sure he won’t mind, and we can trust him to keep the secret. The appointment technically starts at 1:00, but I probably won’t be seen until at least 1:30.”

He crossed to give her another kiss. “I love you.” He crouched to press a kiss to her tummy. “And you.”

“We love you, too,” she smiled, fingers tangling in his curls. “And we’ll talk to you in a few hours.”

She kissed him one more time— couldn’t help herself. And then his warmth was gone from the bed, and the house was suddenly much too quiet. She snuggled back down under the duvet, her head on his pillow and the scent of his shampoo shrouding her senses and easing her mind.

Spencer really was supportive— endlessly so. Not overbearing, but interested and involved in every moment: reading all the newest research, bringing home her favorite treats, writing out a color-coded timeline of all the appointments and milestones. She wasn’t lying when she called him the best baby daddy. He was always there for her. So much so that the apprehension she’d had at the beginning of this surprise journey was nowhere to be found. 

As she drifted back into sleep, there he was again— she could almost hear the jangling of his keys in the bowl in the entryway, his feet on the stairs, the rustling of his pants and sweater being discarded onto the floor of their bedroom. 

And then she felt the warmth of his palm low over her tummy, coming to rest over the barely-there bump. She felt his lips on her shoulder and his chest pressed against her back. When she went to cover his hand with her own, her exhausted brain registered that it wasn’t a dream at all.

She turned her head, blinking her eyes open to see him smiling at her and drew her brows together. “What’s going on?”

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, snuggling even closer and rubbing his thumb along her belly. “I’m, um— I told Emily I’m gonna consult from home on this one.”

…

“Okay, Mom, this’ll just be a little bit cold.”

Dr. Layton smoothed the gel over Y/N’s lower abdomen, and Spencer moved to thread their fingers together, shifting to stand even closer to the examination table. The ultrasound machine gave off a low hum as the doctor adjusted the wand over her tummy. She felt Spencer press a kiss to her temple and turned to smile brightly at him before turning back to the black and white screen. 

At her first appointment five weeks ago, she’d been by herself— alone and uncertain and terrified— and she’d declined the option of the ultrasound. It felt wrong to see the baby before Spencer even knew about them. Now, together with him, with her soon-to-be husband— she was more than ready to see their baby for the first time. And she could practically feel Spencer’s excitement next to her, his body nearly vibrating with it. 

“Ah, here they are. Hello, Baby Reid.” Dr. Layton pointed to a small, white figure on the screen. “Okay, right here, you can see their big ol’ head— perfectly normal size for this stage of development,” she assured, eyes deftly scanning the image in front of her. “Everything looks great! Now, I’m just trying to find…” 

She adjusted the wand over Y/N’s tummy, and suddenly a wub wub wub came over the tinny speaker of the machine. “There we are,” Dr. Layton smiled. “Very strong heartbeat.”

Spencer squeezed Y/N’s hand, and she felt the drop of a tear on her shoulder. She brought her other hand over to cover their tangled fingers, rubbing her thumb along the skin of his wrist and kissing his arm. 

Dr. Layton made a slightly perplexed humming sound, moving the wand again and losing the sound of the heartbeat, only to pick it up again— this time slightly faster. Y/N’s own heart stuttered a little as the doctor moved the wand again twice more, and then cleared her throat. “Is something— is everything okay?”

She turned to Y/N with a kind smile. “Yes, yes,” she confirmed, and then she raised her eyebrows. “Just— do you hear the difference?” 

Spencer tilted his head in consideration, drawing his brows together and straining to hear. The doctor shifted the wand once more, allowing them to hear the two distinct patterns. 

Two distinct patterns, Y/N realized. 

Dr. Layton pressed the wand a little more firmly into her abdomen, moved it just slightly. “Those are two different heartbeats.” She pointed to the screen. “And those are two different babies. There’s a matching set of Baby Reids in there.”

Y/N couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “Is there—” She turned to Spencer incredulously. “Do twins run in your family?”

He shook his head silently, eyes wide. “Yours?”

“Nope,” she squeaked. 

“This obviously changes things slightly,” Dr. Layton explained, cleaning up the residual gel. “I’d like to see you every three weeks rather than every four. Then at twenty eight weeks, we’ll see how we feel, okay?” 

She smiled gently as Y/N and Spencer nodded dumbly. She removed her gloves and stood. “I’m going to give you two a few minutes. I’ll be back with your photos in a bit, and we can talk about any questions you might have.”

The door closed behind her, and the room was bathed in silence. Y/N sat up carefully and swung her legs over the side of the examination table. She looked down at her tiny, unassuming bump and felt a tear slip over her lashes. 

“Are you— are you okay?” Spencer whispered. 

She brought her gaze to his, found them teeming with barely restrained joy and yet the ever-present worry. “Well,” she started. “I, um— I always imagined two kids.” She brought her hands up to her sweaty cheeks and held her own face between her palms. “I guess this is— you know— just a quicker way to get there.”

Spencer immediately wrapped her in a hug, pressing kisses over her hair, her forehead, her shocked mouth. “Two babies. We’re having two babies.”

“Twins, Spence,” she breathed. “Twins.”

He replaced her hands with his own, cradling her face and kissing her sweetly, sighing all of his joy and adoration into her mouth. “I love you. So much. The most.” He lowered himself to press his lips to her belly. “All of you.”

She used gentle hands in his hair to tilt his face up, meeting his smile with a watery one of her own. “We love you, too, baby daddy.”

She could see the gears turning as he stood, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “About that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Do you, um— how difficult do you think it would be to get everyone together this weekend?”

She paused. “You wanna get married this weekend?”

“Yeah, that’s probably too soon, huh?” He huffed out a sigh, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, what about next weekend?”

“That’s just as soon!” she laughed. 

He furrowed his brow. “No, it’s not. There's a seven day difference.”

“You’re really in a rush, huh?” she teased. 

“Well. I just— I figure you should really be on my insurance anyway,” he reasoned. “Especially now that it’s— now that it’s twins.”

“Mm, yes, I’m sure that’s the reason,” she grinned.

He let out a long breath, and she watched his eyes journey over her face— memorizing every curve and angle, every new wrinkle, every last inch of her. And she knew the reason. 

“I know it’s just a piece of paper,” he murmured. “It doesn’t really change anything, but…” He used gentle fingers to brush her hair back from her face. “I just… really want to be your husband.”

She took her own minute to memorize the way he looked in this moment: her fiancé, the father of her children, the best man she’d ever known, the absolute love of her life. And she knew her own reason. 

“The paper might not change anything,” she agreed. “But— you’ve changed everything.”

He squeezed her hips. “In a good way I hope.”

“The best way.” She brought her hands to his face, rubbing her thumbs along his cheeks. “The best way.”

He closed the distance between them to kiss her with all the honey and magic and reverence he always did. He broke away to lean his forehead against hers with all the warmth and devotion and love he always did. She sighed, and it was all joy and vulnerability and contentment like it always was. And she knew their reasons. 

She kissed him again, and then murmured against his lips, “You know I’m still gonna refer to you as baby daddy, right?”

The laugh erupted from his chest and wrapped itself around her heart, tying tight and secure— a shield, and a haven, and a refuge— keeping her safe from every terrible thing. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

…

O no! Love is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

———

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[themaribatpit]

Hanging by a Thread: Chapter 3

Rated M: DC canon-typical violence, suggestive threats

Author’s Note: Neither of us are actually American, and DC Fanboy has some gripes with certain American habits.  Please feel free to tell us how uncultured we are in the comments, and try and explain yourselves to non-Americans.

Ships: Jason Todd/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Dick Grayson/Barbara Gordon (side ship).

Taglist:

@aespades​, @neakco, @ladybug-182, @seraphichana, @zalladane, @luminous-carrot, @jayjayspixiepop, @cap-noodles, @livelifeauthorstyle, @thepaceperson, @moongoddesskiana, @vroomtaka, @laurcad123,  @prettylittlebutterflie

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4​

Chapter 3

Dick slumped down on a chair when they returned to the Belfry.  He ripped off his domino mask and let out a sigh. “Damn he’s good, then again he was taught by the best.” 

“Dick!” Barbara gave him a dirty look. They both looked towards their French guest to see her still lost in thought. 

Ladybug transformed back to Marinette, and then slowly walked over to get herself another cup of hot chocolate to cheer herself up. As she operated the multi hot drinks machine in the Belfry, she thought about how incredibly convenient the device was. Barbara and Dick mentioned that unless it was winter, no one else used it for hot chocolate. 

Hot chocolate dispensed from the machine, and as she picked up the paper cup, a shadow loomed over her. She was able to make out the silhouette of an imposing figure with demonic pointed ears. She squealed in shock, spilling her hot chocolate on the figure. 

Dick rolled off the chair laughing, “Oh, better fly away home Ladybug.” “How long have you been waiting to use that joke?” Barbara said without looking away from the screen.

“Since the moment I met her, Babs,” Dick retorted.

After the initial shock, Marinette was able to see the figure clearly and realised she just spilled hot chocolate on Batman. The Batman. Marinette paled at what she had done, she fumbled around looking for tissues. All the while apologising profusely as she tried to find anything to wipe the Caped Crusader clean from this chocolatey mess. Her mind ran at a mile a minute, thinking of what Batman would do to her for spilling hot chocolate on him. She thought of how Batman would squish her like a bug, or perhaps he would break all of her limbs, and send her on the first flight back to Paris while tied to the cargo hold. Her mind was catastrophizing and going into a full panic as she stumbled around the kitchenette. 

Marinette found a damp cloth and began wiping Batman vigorously from head to toe and hoping it would somehow lessen her punishment. She looked up to see that Batman continued to stare at her with his infamous glare. Seeing that her attempts to clean up her mess had no effect, she ran back towards the main room and grabbed Dick, holding him in front of her as a shield. 

Batman slowly followed, without saying a word he stomped into the main room and came to a halt right in front of Dick. “Uh, hi.” Dick awkwardly greeted Batman. Marinette shakingly peeked her head out from behind. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, also known as Ladybug.” Batman’s low voice boomed with authority. “What are you doing here in Gotham?” 

Marinette yelped and went back to hiding behind Dick. Barbara interjected, “She’s here to investigate a recent use of the Lazarus Pit, mainly the Red Hood. From what we gather the creatures that give her power were also the ones who created the pits.” She explained on Marinette’s behalf. 

An uncomfortable silence hung in the room as Batman contemplated her answer. “Fine,” he relented. He turned and walked away. 

Marinette released a sigh of relief as she saw Batman leave. Dick took out his phone and began tapping on it, he just had to notify the rest of the Bat Family of what had just transpired. After a few moments he put his phone back in his pocket and walked away, “I’ll get a mop” he yelled back at Marinette and Barbara. 

Marinette then slumped on the dining table, hands in her head. Completely embarrassed at how she made a fool of herself in front of one of the world’s greatest heroes. Barbara calmly patted her back in consolation. After she calmed down and got herself another cup of hot chocolate, Marinette decided to head home.

On the way back to the apartment she shared with Zoe, she checked the messages that Zoe sent her during the past couple of days.  “Hey, are you okay?” The first one read.  “I haven’t seen you in the apartment for a while now,” she said, followed by a message that said “Please don’t be dead, I can’t afford rent by myself.” Marinette sent a quick reply saying, “I’m okay, I’ve just been busy taking care of some things.  See you tonight.” she said. When Marinette got home, she logged onto her computer to see a few messages from Alya, asking her of how she found Gotham City. Expressing worry for her friend, especially with the notoriety of Gotham's crime rate.

Marinette typed up "Hi Alya! Gotham is all right, I can take care of myself, you know that."

Alya decided to video call Marinette and her face appeared on screen. "Hey!" Alya waved her hand to her friend.

"Hi" Marinette gave a tired wave back.

"Everything okay?" Asked Alya.

"Fine, just tired from moving into the new place." She explained.

"By the way, could you open up a portal with Kaalki to my room?" asked Alya.

Marinette complied with her friend, as she put on the horse Miraculous and opened a portal. Soon a paper bag dropped from the ceiling and landed on the floor. "I had a feeling you might want something to cheer you up, I went to your parents' patisserie earlier."

Marinette opened up the bag to see several treats from the bakery.  She thanked her best friend profusely, and began eating them “How are things back in Paris?” Marinette asked, taking a macaron out of one of the boxes, she smiled as she took a bite out of it.  It was almost like she was 13 again, and her dad had given her a box of macarons for the first day of school.  

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Alya said, winking at her. “So, have you met any of Gotham’s vigilantes yet?” Marinette rubbed the back of her neck.  “Well, yeah,” she might as well tell her some of the things that happened.  “I accidentally spilled hot chocolate on Batman’s cape,” she confessed. “And you’re still alive?” Alya’s mouth hung open in shock. “Well, he does have a pretty strict ‘no killing’ policy,” Marinette told her. “Okay fair enough, how are you still in one piece?” Alya asked, still somewhat shocked.

“He just kinda glared at me, and I hid behind one of his sidekicks.” Marinette told her, “So, that’s how.” “Ah so you’ve met the sidekicks then,”  Alya gave her another knowing smile. “Some of them, Nightwing being one of them.” Marinette told her. “Did you get a good look at his assets?”  Alya gave her a wink, and Marinette rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure his assets were spoken for,” Marinette said, and before Alya could say anything more she quickly added “and no, I am not telling you who the lucky person is.” “You’re no fun.” Alya pouted mockingly, but she couldn’t stay angry at her friend.  Alya noticed the faraway look in Marinette’s eyes at that moment, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Marinette wondered how best to phrase it, “do you know anything about the Red Hood?” she asked.

Alya’s eyes widened in shock, “You’ve met him? Are you and Zoe living in his territory?”

“No, at least not that I know of, I just…” Marinette assured her, “Do you know anything about him?” “Give me a moment,” Alya said, quickly turning away to search for something on her laptop screen, “must have heard something about the guy…” she muttered.  Marinette never really told Alya about her soulmate bond, and she wasn’t about to start now.  “Says here he’s a crime lord that operates in Gotham City, that he took over Black Mask’s crime syndicate not too long ago…” Alya told her, “Pretty brutal to those who cross him, by the sound of things.” “Good to know,” Marinette muttered. “Marinette, are you sure you and Zoe are okay?” Alya asked. “We’re fine, just that Ladybug ran into him while working with Batman’s sidekicks.” Marinette told her. “I should have been there, it would have been a fun interview for Ladyblog.” Alya chuckled, and Marinette raised an eyebrow.  “I mean, after the fight of course, or maybe I should just stop talking.” “Try pitching the idea to Vicki Vale or Lois Lane, I’m sure they would jump at the chance.” Marinette joked.

"Just you wait until I get my Journalism degree, I'll bother you everyday for a scoop." Alya retorted. The two of them continued to laugh and joke with one another before Marinette went to bed.

The next morning, Marinette was woken by someone gently nudging her awake.  “Get dressed dummy, we’re going out.” she heard a voice say. Marinette looked up and blinked a few times before Zoe’s face came into view.  “What time is it?” Marinette groaned. “9am,” Zoe told her, “we are going to go out and get some breakfast together.” Marinette groaned in response, but slowly got out of bed.  Zoe leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms and smiling.  She chuckled slightly at the sight of Marinette’s tousled hair, Marinette smiled slightly in response.  “All right, all right, give me some time to get dressed.” she said and Zoe left, closing the door behind her. 

The two friends sat down to eat breakfast at a nearby diner, and Zoe began telling Marinette all the ways in which America was very different from France.  “First of all, they call the 24 hour clock ‘military time’, I never understood that.” she explained before taking a bite of her pancakes.  Americans made pancakes a lot thicker and fluffier compared to crepes, was another thing Marinette noticed.  “Oh, no more 2 hour lunch breaks, and as a French person, you will get made fun of for having more time off work than the Americans.” she said.  

As the two finished breakfast, Zoe paid the bill and left a tip. Marinette raised an eyebrow at Zoe for paying what was higher than the bill. “Marinette, remember, always tip whenever you go eat at a restaurant or a diner.” She explained. 

“Why? Isn’t there a service charge added? Don’t the servers get paid?” Marinette asked.

“Not at all.” Zoe deadpanned. 

“What?” Marinette exclaimed in shock, she quickly covered her mouth as eyes turned to face her for her outburst. 

 Zoe beckoned Marinette to follow her, “Come on, I’ll show you all the hotspots in Gotham City.”

 The two walked out onto the street and across several blocks.  Zoe stopped as the two reached their destination. She then pointed to an old gothic tower, “That there is the old Wayne Tower, creepy isn’t it? Built in 1888 by Cyrus Pinkey for the Waynes right at the heart of Gotham City. It’s been closed for a few years now, since Wayne Enterprise moved to the New Wayne Tower in the financial district.”

 Marinette’s eyes widened in recognition, it was where the Belfry was located. She remembered the gothic tower, but she had no idea it was the old Wayne Tower. She decided it would be best to keep quiet about this revelation. 

 The two continued sightseeing as they ventured into Robinson Park. “This park is amazing, the biggest park in the heart of Gotham. Also it's very close to Gotham U, I’d love to come here everyday after class to unwind.” Zoe explained. The two calmly walked across the park, enjoying the scenery and stopping by to feed some ducks.

 “Anyway I need to get some things on the way back,” the two then walked to a nearby grocery store and bought groceries. Being on a budget, Marinette eyed the price tags frugally, calculating how much it would cost her. Zoe smirked at Marinette, knowing what would come next when the two went to the cash register. Marinette was thrown into a loop as the total amount did not match the price tags. Marinette tried to ask for an explanation from the cashier, but they were not helpful. The cashier only said that it was tax, “Why isn’t tax included in the price tags?” she pleaded to the cashier.

The cashier gave Marinette a light shrug. “That's just the way things are.” 

Marinette pulled her pigtails in frustration as to why the final price doesn’t match the price tag. “Ok fine, what's the tax in America?”

Zoe took the chance to intervene and explain it to her friend. “It depends, it varies between states, counties and even cities.” 

Marinette banged her head against the counter in frustration. “Why? Why is it so crazy here?” 

Zoe and the cashier laughed at Marinette's antics. The cashier asked “You new here?” 

Marinette did not lift her head up, “How could you tell?” 

The two made their purchase and walked home, Marinette had to do a double take on the loaf of bread she bought. She stopped Zoem and said that they needed to go back to the grocery store for another loaf of bread, because this one had expired. Zoe snatched the loaf from Marinette’s hands and took another look. “Nope it's fine, remember America uses Month/Day/Year here.” Zoe explained. Marinette’s eye twitched as the two walked back to their apartment. 

The semester began the following Monday at Gotham University. As a Fashion & Design student, Marinette had long studio classes which usually kept her busy during the day.  She would have to spend even longer hours in the studio if she had a project due.  When Zoe wasn’t attending lectures, she had a part-time job that kept her busy as well.  So Marinette didn’t see much of her by the time she managed to return to their apartment.

Over the course of the next few days, she would go to her classes by day and go out every night to search for her soulmate. However, the Red Hood had proved to be elusive, always alert to the movement of the red thread that tied them together.  Marinette found that the thread changed wildly.  Some nights she stopped by the Belfry, exhausted and dejected. Barbara had noticed this and decided that she had to know about Jason, it might change her mind or it might not. She deserved to know if she was going to go looking for him every night.

One night when she entered the Belfry, Barbara gestured to Marinette, “Come over and pull up a chair.” Marinette followed and brought a chair to the computer. The two sat side by side, “Mari, you deserve to know more about Jason...the Red Hood.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at the mention of her soulmate, “Please tell me more about him.” she begged.

“Marinette, I’m sorry, we knew more about him but we didn’t tell you.” Barbara apologised.

Marinette was hurt at how they were withholding information about her soulmate from her. “Why?” was all that she was able to say.

Barbara took a deep breath, “Because Jason was the second Robin.” 

Marinette’s jaw dropped at this bombshell, her soulmate used to be Robin. It would explain the skills he displayed out in their last encounter. Marinette wondered how tough his life was, how he suffered at the hands of the criminals of Gotham at such a young age. Some of the things he said back at the dockyards were now sounding like they came from experience.  “What was he like?” she asked, wanting to know what her soulmate was like before his death. 

“Angry, rebellious, Jason always felt like it was him against the world. He was caught trying to steal the wheels off the Batmobile, that's how Batman found him and brought him in.” Barbara explained. 

“How did he die?” Marinette asked.

Barbara grew silent at the mention of Jason’s death. “He tried to pursue the Joker, but it was a trap. The Joker caught him, tortured him for god knows how long. I saw his bruises, it-it was as if he was beaten over and over again with a crowbar.” Marinette covered her mouth and her eyes welled with tears as she heard the gruesome details of her soulmate's unfortunate end. 

“To make matters worse, he locked Jason in the room with a bomb.” “What about the Red Hood?” she asked. “We...we buried a mannequin in a wig,” Barbara explained, “the real body was taken by the League of Assassins, trying to make up for what happened.”

Marinette stood up and rushed to the guest room, she had heard enough.  She could not imagine the pain and suffering her soulmate had been through his entire life.

Jason had been constantly on the move, knowing that his soulmate was out looking for him.  He tried to shut off the part of him that wanted to get close.  He was honestly surprised the Bat clan hadn't told her every horrific story they had about him.  Either they didn't know they were soulmates or she was knowingly walking head first into the lion's mouth.  If she didn't find him, then she might stumble upon a group of his men at work, and they might be a lot less forgiving.   If he was constantly checking over his shoulder, making sure the girl wasn't close by, things were bound to start slipping through the cracks.  

He himself had various safehouses scattered around the city, but he couldn't keep running forever.   It was getting ridiculous, he had faced crime lords, assassins and even gone toe-to-toe with Batman multiple times.  Yet here he was, running and hiding from a girl who was about a foot shorter than he was.  He knew why, of course, he wasn't afraid of her but she should be very afraid of him.  He had hoped that she would give up the search, as she drew closer and closer to finding out the truth about what happened to him.  But life had never been that easy for Jason, and sooner or later she was going to get too close to the untamed monster beneath.  If she got hurt because of him, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.  Not even his old self could forgive that.  He would have no trouble protecting her from other criminals, not that she really needed it.  However, whatever came crawling out of the pits was something else.

After putting a swift end to some people who were causing trouble in his territory,  his mind wandered back to Ladybug.  Specifically, the sad look in her eyes when he explained how brutal and unforgiving Gotham could be.  He tried not to think about it, because that look made him want to hold her close, and reassure her that everything would be okay.  Thoughts of how the idea of her gave him hope all those years ago would come bubbling to the surface.  It made him want to protect her, to ensure that this world wouldn’t hurt her the way it hurt him.  When she looked at him with those eyes, it made him want to believe that she trusted him to do just that.  He shook his head, and told himself that what he was also the very thing she needed protecting from.  

Most nights Jason had nightmares about failing to save her.  There were even nightmares where she died by his hands.  Her blue eyes would become lifeless and vacant, her skin would feel ice cold, and he would end up cradling her limp form in his arms.  Batman would just love it if those nightmares came true.  It would only prove to him that Jason was nothing more than an unhinged monster he couldn’t cage.  It wasn’t as though the Bat had much luck caging the real monsters in Gotham anyhow.  Most days, Jason’s skin crawled as he remembered the feeling of the Lazarus pit’s waters.  The creatures she was palling around with were the ones who made it. They probably didn’t give a damn about the evil they had inflicted on the world because of it.   For all he knew, being around her little fairy friends would make the effects much worse.  Still, when he snapped back to reality, he would see the string glowing red, just as it had always done.  Occasionally moving and twitching as his soulmate searched high and low for him. Maybe the time had come to have a little talk, soulmate to soulmate...

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Season Two Episode Four

A 1918 timestamp ushers us into one of Downton’s more slow moving episodes where three parts painful banality has been mixed with one part life-or-death peril.

Providing more interesting political and cultural conflict than WW1 (at least at Downton) is Isobel’s ongoing grating at Cora’s very soul. Cora has had the temerity to ensure that the staff don’t collapse on their feet and has done something with the linen that I can’t quite fathom which, of course, Isobel takes as a slight upon her medical knowledge. Isobel makes the fatal error of calling Cora’s bluff threatening to ‘seek some other place’ if she is not appreciated at Downton. Major Clarkson also takes sides with Cora and Isobel now has no choice but to throw herself and her messiah complex upon the Red Cross in Northern France. I am sure they will be thrilled. 

With Isobel’s departure, Moseley and Mrs Bird find themselves at a loss having deep cleaned the house and moaned about their employer’s eating habits. Turns out that one thing they forgot to do was deploy any semblance of a security system as a random man with a drama school limp wanders into the house looking for food. In a manner that would make the current Conservative front bench recoil with horror, Mrs Bird starts up a soup kitchen out of her own (presumably rather small) pocket. In her latest attempt to not do her job, Mrs Patmore drags Daisy out for some fresh air and in the process uncovers this particular bit of well meaning but financially unsustainable charity. Mrs Patmore scales up the operation, creating a “special storage area” to squirrel away surplus from the army’s stock, which O’Brien conveniently overhears (but to be honest, it’s not that much of a coincidence. I imagine most of the kitchen heard it considering that Mrs Patmore practically yelled it). In an effort to try and inject a bit of actual drama into this episode, O’Brien reports this to Mrs Hughes but (un)fortunately, Mrs Hughes could not care less. But after watching the world’s most appalling secret handover of goods in the village, O’Brien rallies and this time is successful in bringing Cora to the nefariously compassionate Bird-Patmore coalition. To absolutely everyone’s surprise (viewers included) Cora orders food to be taken from the house stock rather than army and with all the over-confidence of a consultant sets about re-arranging tables and streamlining the workflow. 

Feeling much less charitable than Mrs Bird, Moseley heads to the Abbey and attempts to make himself indispensable and reach the dizzying heights of ‘Valet to the Earl of Grantham’. But not long after the peels of laughter that such a notion invites have died down, Bates returns and takes Mr Molesley’s shoehorn which one can’t help but think is emblematic of something. The return of Mr Bates is, naturally, a painfully protracted process that involves key protagonists not talking to each other, Thomas smoking on a wall, and the obligatory invocation of Kamal Pamuk. Robert invites Bates back to help him through the ‘veil of shadow’ and as such I was intrigued to learn that he is a World of Warcraft devotee. Bates reappearance downstairs also allows for the return of two other key Downton Abbey tropes: Anna and (John)Bates having a heart to heart under the cover of darkness, and Thomas and O’Brien’s irrational loathing/scapegoating of Britain’s most infuriatingly lovelorn character (outside of Thomas Thorne) to resume with aplomb. 

Less happy to be within the confines of the Abbey is Edith who continues to signal that all of this is really a bit beneath her (certain elements quite literally). Ever the teacher’s pet, Mr Molesley reports the sighting of an Officer by the maid’s staircase to Mrs Hughes who hears that there have been lots of rumours on the timeline tonight and comes out to say that she does not live in a sack. Unfortunately, Major Bryant does not live in one but definitely frequents one and, as such, it is of course Ethel is dismissed. As she rapidly packs all her belongings, Anna pleas to Mrs Hughes on her behalf confirming that she is indeed the friend we all want but probably don’t deserve. But Mrs Hughes can’t get rid of her that easily as Edith (and passenger) skulk back to liven up the end of the episode with news of an oncoming baby *Eastenders drums intensify*. 

Talking of undeserving relationships, Sybil and Branson receive more air-time than usual, providing the latter the opportunity to demonstrate that at times he really can be a muppet. And a slightly malevolent one at that. Sybil is firmly under the cosh this week with Violet making thinly veiled references to inappropriate alliances and Mary asking probing questions whilst she tries to get on with her job. Mary thinks that she has spotted her sister and Branson having some kind of romantic exchange but in reality, all that she has seen from afar is Branson telling Sybil that she is in love with him which when you think about it, is all kinds of awful and hardly the basis for a healthy relationship. After a long walk through the grounds where I am half expecting Branson to appear on a horse Willoughby-style, Sybil eventually caves and confesses to Mary that she doesn’t know if she likes Branson despite his eminently creepy voice over. Sybil then relays her sororal confidence and rather than taking this as an opportunity to ingratiate himself, Branson for whatever reason attempts to coerce Sybil into a relationship but not before he belittles her job. Sybil looks rightfully outraged as some equally emotionally manipulative strings wail in the background in an attempt to try and make us think that anything that has just happened was evenly slightly dreamy. 

Threaded through this glacially paced episode has been the looming threat of a both a concert and the death of Matthew and (to a much lesser extent because that is how class works) William. In an effort to break the monotony of walking around the exact same bit of French trench (see previous re-caps for further details), William and Matthew take to wandering across some largely unadulterated land and into the path of some nonchalant Germans. Daisy’s lack of (presumably fawning) letters from William starts off a chain of enquiry which confirms that the War Office has declared Matthew and William missing enabling Mary to once again deploy her signature move: weeping into her gloves. But only one hand this time because she needs to keep a bit of composure for the show must go on! Apparently. Following some abysmal piano playing (I grew up in an appallingly musical household and we all had to endure the torture of other people at the early stages of learning an instrument. It was of course blissful when we got good but, heck, I was thrown straight back to the horror of it all with that ‘accompaniment’ and had an odd sort of stress response which I won’t describe here), Mary and Edith do a rendition of If You Were the Only Girl (In the World) as everyone looks on stony-faced before participating in the millenia’s most morose sing-a-long. With a very good sense of drama, Matthew and (to a much lesser extent) William make their return. Matthew takes his place at Mary’s side and joins in the signing to what is now presumably quite a bewildered audience. Ah, Downton. 

Romantic declaration of the moment 

Violet raises reasonable concerns about Richard Carlisle but Mary is more interested in expanding her real estate portfolio and agrees to throw her lot in with a fiscal agreement disguised as a marriage. Upon his ‘miraculous’ return, Matthew gives the union his blessing on the condition that Richard remains deserving. Not that he ever really was. But the sentiment is what matters here and what is more loving* than putting another’s presumed happiness before your own.

*there are actually a lot of other more loving things but in the interest of formatting, we’re going to sweep those under a very large rug for now. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Rather than training as a nurse or being actually pretty useful in a convalescent home, Mary’s contribution to the war effort is being amicable with Edith. Violet declares that she has now “seen everything” as the spirit of Mrs Adelman moves on. 

Wait, what? 

“I wish we had a man” Presented without comment 

“If I am not appreciated here, I will seek some other place” Yes. PLEASE. 

“What must he do to persuade you he is in love with Lavinia? Open his chest and carve her name on his heart” No, Mary. Matthew merely needs to carve her name with a compass on his forehead to prove that… 

“I hate the word ‘missing’. It leaves so much room for optimism.” Robert is a bit emotionally weird isn’t he? 

“We haven't kissed or anything. I don't think we've shaken hands. I'm not even sure if I like him like that. He says I do, but I'm still not sure.” And lo, another red flag is raised. But because Branson is Downton’s version of a Bolshevik, both Mary and Sybil view this not as a warning about the boy’s behaviour but rather a symbol of his political leanings and such signals are duly ignored.

“He always seems a romantic figure to me” Daisy Robinson writes fanfic. Pass it on. 

“Sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it.” Once again, Violet, tell us more! 

Bates says that he has returned to “Downton at war” which sounds like a lucrative exhibition name if I ever did hear one. 

Despite Mary’s most valiant efforts, no musical performance had ever gone out to such an impassive audience until Rosalind came along 

Matthew of course is used to a much better quality sing-, sorry, song-a-long 

[marvel-and-mischief]

Daisies

Part of my Floriography Series

Pairing: Pero Tovar x F!Reader Words: 2700 Warnings: gambling, swearing, alcohol, rough handling by guards, allusions to prostitution (it’s part of a scam), lighthearted punishment in the stocks Synopsis: Pero seems to always be around at the wrong time to sabotage your scams and join in with your punishments. Enemies to Lovers (sorta)

Daisies: attachment, new beginnings

💐

“Now remember, ten or above wins you double your stake, below ten and your stake is mine.”

The scruffy drunkard sat opposite you let out a bellowing laugh, the nasty stench of his rotten teeth hitting your nostrils. His movements sloshed the tankard of mead in his hand, spilling some of its contents on the table between you. You had to hold back your look of disgust and smile through the uncomfortableness.

“I won’t lose. Throw ‘em, lady,” he slurred. You had to fight off the smirk threatening to show on your face as you shook the two, six sided dice in your right hand. You had nothing to worry about, the dice were weighted, favoring the lower numbers and therefore guaranteeing your win every time. 

“Alright, but when you win you owe me a drink!” you winked cheekily at your mark, catching his eye whilst you threw the dice on the table. The more you distracted them the less chance there was of getting caught in your scam.

The dice came to a stop and you both looked down at the same time; a three and a four, earning a groan of disappointment from the few onlookers that had gathered to watch.

“Better luck next time,” you grinned, gathering up your dice and winnings as the man muttered something unintelligible and grumpily left the table, “anyone else want a go?”

“I will.”

You froze at the voice in your ear and saw the figure of a familiar man take the recently vacant seat opposite you. Pero Tovar always seemed to show up in your life when you least wanted him to. He was an annoying ghost and you could never shake off his haunting. You should gather up your earnings and leave but something kept you rooted to the table. And the longer you took to contemplate your next move, the more the drunkards in the tavern wanted to know what was going on. Soon you’d attracted quite the crowd.

“I said, I want a go.”

You looked into his brown eyes, the ones that sparkled with humor, always at your expense. 

“It may be too difficult for your small brain to understand how to play,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Then let us play a different one. I will throw the dice, and if the total is lower than ten, I win every penny you have taken tonight.”

The bastard. The only reason he would suggest playing it that way was if he knew how you were cheating the game. You clenched your jaw in frustration. 

“I think I am ready to take my leave-“

“But we have an audience!” Pero smirked, raising his voice and waving a hand at the tavern full of people who hurrahed, eager for you to throw the dice. You were cornered, physically by the wall of people around you and mentally by Pero who knew if you refused the game it would look suspicious. 

“Fine,” you grumbled, faking an over the top smile, twirling the dice in one hand and clenching your other hand into a fist under the table. Stay calm, don’t show him how much he was getting to you, you told yourself. You’d chase him down afterwards and with a knife to his throat take your money back. That would show him.

You dropped the dice on the table and leaned back in your seat to see Pero staring at you. You didn’t need to see the dice to know you had lost, the weights that usually worked for you were against you this time, and the tavern goers yelled in surprise and delight, some were even joyfully patting Pero on the shoulder in congratulations. All the while Pero was smiling at you, self satisfied at playing you at your own game. 

You pulled the drawstring bag off your hip and threw it across the table, hitting Pero in the chest. 

“Better luck next time,” Pero mocked your earlier words, “would you like a drink to drown your sorrows in?” Pero threw the bag of coins in the air and caught it successfully. 

“Oh bugger off, Pero,” you hissed, leaving the tavern in a huff. You didn’t want to see him again this night. You’d get him back next time.

-

The boy was young, still a teenager but old enough to know better. His clothes were of the finest materials, gold threads held the pieces together and added beautiful patterns to the front and shoulders of the jacket. He even had a long, shiny feather in his cap. He stuck out in the crown like a sore thumb.

You had been scouting the market for marks all morning and he was the only person you thought worthy of relieving of coin. He had a guard with him, who was more interested in looking at the women walking by, and his coin purse was dangling enticingly down by his hip. It would have been much easier for a child to run along and snip the string with a knife but the only ones you’d found were hand in hand with their parents. So you were on your own.

You were hidden down the side of a building, in the shadows and away from prying eyes. Or so you thought until you caught the flash of a grin out the corner of your eye.

Pero Tovar was mirroring your position on the other side of the marketplace, the wealthy man in the middle of you both. Pero moved his gaze to said man and it was then you knew he was after your mark. 

It had been only a couple of nights since he took all your money at the tavern and you’d be damned if you were going to let him swindle you of even more coin. You had to get to the mark before Pero did, by any means necessary. 

You tried to plead with him, subtly shaking your head but all Pero did was lean against the wall and offer you a warning glare. 

The mark was buying a trinket from a stool, handing his purchase over to the guard to carry and looking around for where to go next. This was your only chance. 

You untied the string at the top of your tunic, letting it open up to display your chest more than you would usually allow. But you needed a distraction and a way of getting close to the man without suspicion. You pulled out the small scissors from your boot and held them comfortably in your dominant hand, shaking down your sleeve to keep them out of sight.

You tried to ignore Pero but as soon as you slipped out of the alley he did the same, heading directly for the wealthy man. 

Unfortunately whilst you were gaining speed through jogging movements, Pero’s purposeful strides were larger than yours, meaning you both reached the man at the same time. 

“Sir, could I offer my services-“

“You seem too respectable to want the services of a harlot-“

“Harlot? Excuse me, I am so sorry, this ruffian-“

“Ruffian! You should show some respect-“

Your attempts to get close enough to grab the purse were scuppered by Pero subtly pulling you away with a hand around your waist. And as much as you tried to pry him off you, he was strong and stubborn, rendering your scam completely useless. The wealthy man’s guard dragged him away with a growl in your direction to stop you from pursuing them.

“What was that!?” Those words had been on the tip of your tongue but Pero spoke them first. You looked at him with a confused frown.

“What?”

“What were you thinking? That guard could have killed you.”

“Oh do not pretend you care for my health, you wanted that purse to yourself.”

“I did, but when I saw you were going to get yourself in serious trouble I had to come and save you instead of getting the coins for myself. You are welcome, idiota.”

You stared at Pero in disbelief. Was he expecting gratefulness? You couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.

“I have been doing this for years and I haven’t gotten caught once. I would appreciate it if you didn’t save me again,” you huffed, tying up the strings of your shirt before stomping away from him. 

If you never saw Pero Tovar again it would be too soon.

-

You were mad. But you were mad that Pero was right more than you were mad at your actual predicament. 

You had been playing a simple card trick on an unsuspecting traveller, one that you’d played hundreds of times, it had never gone wrong. Somehow the extra card up your sleeve (the one you used to cheat with) had slipped out and fallen to the floor and a guard that had been watching had spotted it and arrested you before you could run.

So that was how you found yourself in the stocks all morning, set in the middle of the courtyard of the castle grounds for everyone to laugh at. A few delighted children had thrown various rotten vegetables in your face, most adults had taken pity on you and walked on by. Your back was hurting from being hunched over, your feet were aching on the hard, stone ground. But none of that compared to the pain of seeing your foe being dragged towards you. 

“Please, I beg you, this is punishment enough, do not put that man anywhere near me.”

“Anyone would think you hated me,” Pero grumbled, humor in his voice despite being guided towards his punishment.

You felt the top half of the stocks lifting off the back of your neck, a second of relief, as the guards situated Pero next to you. His hand was so close to yours you could touch him, not that you wanted to. The stocks were dropped down and locked in place and the guards left you alone.

“You bring me nothing but bad luck,” you mumbled, huffing as you shifted on your feet.

“Because I was not there to save you this time?” You could hear the smirk in his voice which irritated you.

“Because I have never been caught, and then you start showing up everywhere I go and I am caught, and to make things worse, I have to be punished next to you!” You laughed humorlessly, narrowly dodging a handful of what smells like horse manure. You shoot a glare over to the man who threw it.

“Carino,” Pero clicked his tongue and you felt his hand sweep against yours, “these rotten potatoes are preferable to your whining.”

You gasped and tried to flick at his hand but it only hurt your bruising wrists.

“When I get out of here I am going to find the biggest vegetable, fresh from the ground, and throw it at you.”

Pero laughed a large, belly rumbling laugh that surprised you. 

“Why are you laughing?” you asked, baffled at his sudden turn of emotions, but it didn’t deter him from laughing more. 

It was the second plop of manure hitting the top of your head that had you joining in with Pero. The ridiculousness of the situation, the bickering between you, and your damn hand kept knocking into his. It was all so silly.

You spent the rest of the morning in fits of giggles with the man you thought you hated.

-

You were thrown down the steps of the dungeons, your knees hitting the hard, dirty floor before you were hauled back to your feet to be taken to the cell that would be yours for the night.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” was the voice that greeted you. You saw him sitting in the corner of the cell, a growing bruise on his jaw and stripped of his leather outer garments. He looked softer in just a shirt and breeches, more vulnerable but also kinder. Like any ordinary man, not the pain in the ass you knew him to be. You chuckled at the sight of him.

“Your life would be boring without me,” you teased, but Pero nodded his agreement. You plopped down next to him with a sigh, stretching out your legs and feeling the soreness of your knees as you rested them. You rubbed at the tenderness over your skirts. 

“Are you hurt?”

“Some scrapes, that is all,” you assured him, but his eyes lingered where you were soothing your burning knees, “how did you end up in here?”

“Not my fault,” you raised a sceptical eyebrow, “a drunkard started a fight with me.”

“And where is this drunkard?” you asked suspiciously, looking through the bars into the other cells, all of which were empty.

“He passed out. The guards did not want to drag his useless body in here.”

You hummed, clearly not believing his tale. He rolled his eyes at you, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing.

“And you?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you end up in here?”

You sighed, remembering what had happened.

“A noblewoman thought I was going to steal her purse.”

“You were not going to steal her purse?”

“No!” You feigned looking scandalised at the mere suggestion, before dropping the act, “I was going to steal her dog.”

Pero guffawed, not expecting you to say such a thing.

“Her dog?”

“It would have been worth more than the coins in her purse.”

Pero rubbed at his tired eyes. You listened to the sounds around you; the guards gossiping outside the dungeon door, a rat squeaking somewhere nearby, the rhythm of Pero’s breathing. It was the first bit of peace you’d had in a long time.

“If we get caught again they will not simply throw us in the dungeons,” Pero whispered ominously. 

You couldn’t disagree with him, but there weren’t many other options for people like the two of you. You were wanderers and loners. You had no money, no home, no family. What choice did you have?

You glanced at Pero who was already looking at you. He looked defeated, with dark bags under his eyes and his lips turned ever so slightly downwards, he looked how you felt. Hopeless and alone. 

“We keep running into each other. That must mean something,” you claimed, feeling stupid as soon as the words came out. You quickly looked away and waited for him to mock you.

“You think this is God’s will?”

You shrugged and began picking at the dirt on your skirts.

“Perhaps we should do something about it.”

“Like what?” you asked, allowing your tone to lift in hope. 

“If we are meant to be, maybe we should get out of this town and find another.”

“Together?”

“Why not?”

You looked at Pero then. There was no teasing in his eyes or smirk on his lips, he was being deadly serious. Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of sticking with Pero from now on. However, you couldn’t make it too easy for him. 

“Well for one, I’d be stuck with your ugly mug.”

Pero grinned and let out a deep, throaty chuckle. 

“I would wager my ugly face is better than the hangman's noose.” 

The room became sombre once more as you realised what your options were. You had to leave town, but you could either do that alone or with the man whose company you were beginning to enjoy. 

You felt Pero nudge your side and you saw he was holding a single daisy up to you. 

“Do you carry flowers at all times?”

“No, idiota, they are growing in the walls,” with an amused shake of his head he carefully placed the small flower behind your ear and leaned back to admire his work.

After your initial shock you smiled your thanks and he smiled back. 

“Bonita,” Pero muttered and leaned his shoulder against yours as he settled back against the cold, damp wall.

You think you could get used to sticking by his side. 

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @computeringturtle

[howtolongfurb]

How to Long Furb

For whatever reason, furbies have taken over the internet. It’s beautiful and terrifying and I desperately want one. Original 1998 furbies are hard to acquire but that doesn’t mean you can’t make one of your own. Imagine the potential for neck pillows with long furbies! I’m going to walk you through step-by-step how I acquired the supplies and compiled these monstrosities. Note, this is not by any means a comprehensive guide, just my personal experience. I am an ameteur. There is a huge community of furby fans online with tips and tricks on executing a variety of furby modifications. Read more below!

I will start off by saying there were many points throughout this whole process where I got frustrated and set the project aside for weeks at a time. I initially started hand-sewing long furbs but was disappointed with the poor craftsmanship. That’s when I impulse bought a cheap Singer over the 2020 holidays and retaught myself how to use the machine. The point I want to make here is to persevere. Every furby is beautiful! Crooked faceplates and chunky bellies just give a furby more personality. They say practice makes perfect, right? So let’s get started. The main components of a furby are:

1) The faceplate: unless you can get your hands on an original furby, finding a faceplate for your project can be tricky. There are a variety of people online selling furby faceplates. You can also 3D print faceplates using files from thingiverse. I’ve even seen faceplates pressed in resin. My favorite faceplate is from MrDsPrintedCreations on Etsy. The iris of the eyes are recessed so you can easily insert glass eye chips. The first thing I do with my faceplate is glue a piece of fabric behind it so it’s easier to sew into the head. I paint my faceplate with acrylic craft paint and top it off with a clear gloss coat. 2) The spine: for a poseable long furb, there needs to be a flexible inner piece. I thought thin wire from Menards would do the job, but once it’s in the plush it doesn’t hold it’s shape. I found plastic doll armature works well as a spine. It even creaks when bent for that extra spritz of cursed, spooky energy! You can also use a flexible coolant hose as a spine. I’ve ordered doll armature online from CR’s Crafts: the 1/8th and 1/4th size works well. The 1/2th inch armature is hard to stuff around. 3) Fabric! Fur and belly piece: In order to make furbs, I knew I first needed a sewing pattern. Tumblr user Cavity Sam created a template based on the 1998 furby and I used this to make my first furb with my new machine and scrap fabric lying around. My friend Gunnar 3D printed a rudimentary faceplate to use. After using Cavity Sam’s sewing template, I modified the pattern to use for long furbs specifically. You can download that sewing pattern here.

You’ll need the following supplies per one 3-foot long furby:

quarter of a yard faux fur fabric (9 inches x 44 inches)

patterned fabric for belly, ears, feet (~3 inches x 44 inches)

sewing machine (thread, needle, scissors, pins)

faceplate, 14mm eye chips, eyelashes

E600 glue, scrap fabric

paint (acrylic or nail polish), paintbrushes, clear top coat

spine (plastic doll armature)

cotton stuffing (I cut open cheap pillows from Walmart)

Step one: Use the sewing pattern to cut fabric pieces for the head and body. When cutting on fur, make sure to trace the pattern on the flat backside of the fabric with the fur flattened in the right direction. For example, the hair on the Y-mane piece (back of the head) should be pointed downwards. I made notes on the paper pattern pieces where you can eyeball more or less space. The mane piece should have more rounded corners, for example. I made my furbies 3 feet long, so the front belly piece was 2 inches wide by 3 feet long. The back fur was 6.5 inches wide by 3 feet long.

Step two, feet and ears: Depending on how small you cut your fabric, it can be really hard to combine two separate pieces. For the feet I folded a piece of fabric in half and sewed the C-shapes before cutting them out. Using tweezers made it much easier to turn them back right-side-out. After cutting the ear pieces (making sure the hair on the fur was pointed in the right direction, inside out) I pinned them together before sewing. Turn back right-side-out. 

Step three, head: Line the pattern pieces up so the Y-mane is in the middle. Sew the sides of the head to the mane first. Once that is one solid piece, fold it in half to sew the top curve of the head. I have pinned these pieces to ensure they don’t slip when going through the machine. Slow and steady wins the race; make sure to turn the fabric as you’re curving the top of the head. Finally you can sew the piece under the ear together, leaving a gap for the ear to go in.

Step four, ears: Everything up to this point has been done on the machine. I haven’t figured out a way to attach the ears with the machine, so this step was done by hand. With the ear facing right side out, pin the ear to the inside-out head. Make sure the patterned part of the ear is facing outwards (where the faceplate goes). By hand, sew the ear to the hole in the head. After the ear is secured, turn the head right side out and voila!

Step five, body: Lining up these pieces is important and a little tricky. You’ll want some excess belly fabric on the top to merge with the bottom of the beak on the faceplate. See the diagram; rotate everything 180 degrees to begin sewing. The fur hair needs to be pointed upwards and the belly fabric pattern is facing down on top of that. After sewing the belly fabric to the fur, fold it over to sew the other side. The fur should be on the inside of the sausage/ body piece. Once you’re finished sewing, the finished piece needs to be turned fur side out.

Step six: Faceplate break time! This step can be done at any point in the process, up until you hand sew the faceplate into the head. To start, glue a piece of fabric behind the faceplate. The faceplate itself should just be the eyes and the beak, making it easier to sew into the head of the furb. You don’t need that extra plastic around the bottom of the beak (or at least I haven’t figured out how to sew that in convincingly). I used grey scrap fabric and E6000 glue to adhere the faceplate. Then you need to paint the faceplates. In earlier furbs I used acrylic paint topped with clear DecoArt gloss varnish on top. You can also use colored nail polish with a clear coat on top. In the pictured furbs I tried sealing the faceplates with mod podge but it dried tacky/ uneven. Optional: you can accessorize your furb with jewelry!

Step seven, inserting the faceplate: You need to sew this part into the head by hand as well. Start from the top center (head inside out, faceplate facing into head) and work your way down the right. Make sure to use a thicker needle and poke the needle through as close as you can get to the faceplate to ensure the fabric fur is flush to the face. The needle may be stubborn (poking through the hardened glue) so use a thimble or bottle cap to help push the needle. When you get to the bottom corner of the eye, the fabric may not line up perfectly. Use excess fabric to sew a seam, effectively acting like a cheek. This part takes a little finessing. Finish attaching the fur fabric one third of the way down the beak. This is where the belly piece will connect to. The final step (later) will be to put the eye + glass chip in. 

Step eight, attaching the head to body: I was able to use the machine for this part. Turning the head inside out, pin the head to the outside of the back fur. The head and back should line up so a gap is left for connecting the patterned belly to the bottom of the beak (that step comes later). After the head is connected to the back, I do a second pass to make sure there isn’t any gap in the seam. When turned right side out, you’ll see that excess patterned belly spills out the top. Keep the furb inside out to connect under the beak. 

Step nine, connecting the belly to the beak: On the excess patterned fabric sticking out the top of the body, trace the shape of the “M” to cut out. See the highlighted yellow portion in the picture, as well as the printed sewing pattern piece. The piece directly below the beak needs to be done by hand. If you can manage it, you can sew a diagonal line with your machine before trimming the patterned belly. I found it easiest to start from the right and work my way to the left. The acute angle under the cheek will need finessing, but with small and tight enough stitches the end result is good. Turn the furb inside out to see your long sausage of a creation!

Step ten, spine insertion and stuffing: Now THIS is where I may have messed up (i.e. got frustrated multiple times) and need feedback from the furby community. The furby is essentially complete, it just needs the butt and feet attached to seal it off. Because of this long sausage of a furb, it was hard to push stuffing all the way up into the head/ ears, even using a yard stick. Maybe if I printed my original sewing pattern at 115% or 130% size, the completed project wouldn’t have been so narrow. (The ears are a perfect size now that I think about it, so maybe just the head pieces need to be bigger.) This resizing would make for a larger in diameter, plushier furby too. I thought I could insert the spine after stuffing, but the opposite is true. Insert your wire or doll armature after the ears and head are stuffed but before you begin stuffing below the beak. Alternatively, you can fasten the top of the spine behind the faceplate before stuffing. I taped a cup to the end of a yard stick and that helped push handfuls of stuffing into the furb at a time. Leave 2 to 4 inches of the bottom unstuffed so it’s easier to sew on the bottom circle. We will leave a small gap for the rest to be stuffed before totally sealing it off. 

Step eleven, connecting the feet and bottom: Stuff the feet and seal them off with a couple stitches. Don’t stuff the feet completely full, the top seam should lay flat. Place the two feet on the bottom of the belly, pointing upwards. Sew the feet onto the belly in a straight line. Now comes the part that takes more finessing, the bottom. When you line up the bottom circle, make sure the hairs of the fabric are pointed backwards. If you can manage it with the machine, sew the bottom circle to the bottom of your furby where the feet connect to the belly, about a third of the way around the full circle. The fur of the circle should be facing down, touching the belly of the furb. Once you’ve attached the circle to the feet, you can fold the circle back to see the butt starting to take shape! You can give it another pass on the machine, sewing the opposite side/ flip the furby so you can see the backside of the belly. Leave enough room to stuff the rest of the cotton and close the gap by hand sewing. Now that your furby is essentially complete, you can add the finishing touches! I always leave the eye chips for last so I don’t scratch them in the process of turning my furb inside out. You can print or paint the eye designs to place behind the glass chip. Use clear glue like superglue or E600 for the best results. Gluing eyelashes on with superglue is an optional last step.

Aaaaaaand the furbies are done! Again, I’m an ameteur sewer who’s learning as I go. I’m always open to suggestions and feedback; if there’s a way to revise this process to make more efficient and better quality furbs, I’d love to know. Thanks yall and enjoy making these cursed friends!

[ladyeliot]

“Let's go home?”

Request: @mycosmicparadise - Hi there! I think your idea is great, cheer up. I wanted to make an request, and don't worry if it takes a while. I had in mind Chris Evans x female reader, with Dodger please and make it fluff. Everything else I leave to you. Thanks a lot!

Thank you very much! You are the first request and my first one-shot at Tumblr. I hope you like it!

Pairing: Chris Evans x FemReader 

Word count: 1536

Notes: Fluff + Dodger / English is not my native language, sorry for the mistakes.

The sunset was near, the large windows of the room no longer allowed those warm rays to pass through that had disappeared just a few minutes ago. The sound that enveloped the atmosphere was concentrated in the non-stop tapping of the keys on the laptop, the last few days had been really exhausting. Last week you returned from a long week's holiday, which together with your move to New York had barely allowed you to keep up with the developments in your work, so you had a lot of work to do.

A small grunt from the chair caught your attention and made you look away from the computer screen for a few seconds, then smile as you continued to type and respond to emails. Your eyes focused on the small clock at the bottom of the computer window, which made you realise that the whole afternoon had passed without you even moving from your chair in front of the desk. You sighed and leaned back on the chair, thanking the change of position and being able to see through the shop as the street lamps were already lighting up the streets. You looked back at the chair to see that half-white, half-tan snout that was resting on a cushion.

"Don't look at me like that," you smile as he rests his face in his hands. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Dodger, realizing that he was paying attention to him, raised his head and with a small jump he went down to the ground. He seemed happy because he soon jumped over you to be caressed while expressing his emotion through some barking. It took you only a couple of minutes to get ready and go out into the street, the air crashed into your face, for even though it was the month of September the weather reported that the cold was approaching New York. Greenwich Village was a lively neighbourhood, the streets were busy at the time, and you had chosen to hide under a Red Sox cap that you had stolen from your beloved boyfriend. Dodger knew what the route was, since every afternoon you used to go for a walk along the Hudson River. Near where you lived there was a park that allowed you to escape from all the tumult of the big city, to find yourself in a moment of peace and tranquility.

You wouldn't know how long you were walking, but night was already falling on the big city. You both sat on a small wooden bench where you could look out over the other side of Jersey City. The lights produced a strange melancholy in you, however something distracted you from your own thoughts. Dodger began to bark and try to get off the leash when he saw a figure in the distance, somewhat blurred by the low light produced by the streetlights. You got up from the bench and turned to look at the person who was approaching, until you could discover who it was and a smile lit up your face.

"I knew I'd find you here," he said as he bent down to pet Dodger. "Where else would you be?"

You kept your smile on your face until Chris approached her to kiss your lips. It was a kiss full of tenderness, just like he used to give you after a day without seeing you.

"Did you miss me?" he moved only a few inches away from your face and stroked your cheek.

"Do you really want me to answer?” you bit your lower lip, while showing a little crooked smile.

"I see," he muttered, nodding to himself. "I guess not much, because I've been calling you on the phone and you didn't answer... Until I got home and realised that you had left it there.

Chris took the mobile phone out of his pocket, but the moment you reached for it, he waved it away again. 

"I don't think you need it right now," whispered Chris as he placed a small kiss on the tip of your nose.

In a thousandth of a second your lips would merge in an intense and warm kiss again. The air that flooded New York City that night stopped for a moment around you, avoiding creating discomfort and breaking that moment. Chris slowly caressed the locks of your hair that fell on your shoulders while at the same time he held his other hand on your chin making that kiss unfinished. You couldn't help but draw a little smile as his beard took over the kiss itself, touching the corners of your mouth. At that very moment, a bark from the floor caught your attention, undoing the probably most romantic moment of the day you were living. You looked at Dodger and where he was looking at, just ten meters away from them there was a person leaning on the railing looking at the Hudson riverbed, but what inspired Dodger to bark was the fact that there was a Husky next to that person who seemed to have caught his full attention. Chris bent down to catch up with his dog and stroked him as he was being sucked by him, which he barely tried to avoid.

"We'd better go, we don't want Dodger to break any more hearts this afternoon," Chris stood up and took the strap from your hands, intertwined your fingers and placed a little kiss on your cheek. “What would you like to do for dinner tonight?”

"What did you have in mind for me?"

You put your other hand to the one you both had intertwined and looked up to contemplate with a wide smile Chris' face that was a few inches higher than yours.

"What did I have in mind to prepare for you," Chris repeated with a small laugh and nod at the end of the question.  "Let me think..." he paused slightly as he bathed his lips with his tongue. "How about a plate of cool ranch doritos combined with avocado sauce?

"Very appetizing" you said with ironic certainty nodding, as your boyfriend began to laugh and deposited a kiss on your forehead that was at the height of his lips. "By the way, this afternoon I have been informed that I have to travel a week earlier to Scotland, there have been a number of problems due to the weather, and the merger between the companies has had to be brought forward".

"And when are you supposed to leave?" asked Chris in a calm tone of voice, but at the same time showing his discontent in his scowl.

"Next week," you barely let out a thread of voice with inner guilt. "But I'll only be gone a couple of weeks.”

"Oh, come on! That means that when you go home, I'll go to Atlanta" his voice contained a tone of heaviness, while showing a bit of desperation when it came to gestures.  "And I wasn't going back to Atlanta until the end of the month.”

"I know and I'm sorry, I was hoping to spend time in New York with you at least until you started filming again, but it seems that these impediments have arisen," both were detained in the park by the river. Chris rested his back on the railing, while showing a gesture of regret on his face, he had already broken eye contact with her.  "I'm very sorry, I know we'll hardly see each other for the next two months, but I promise you we can make up for all that time.”

They both knew that their lifestyle would cause this series of situations, they had experienced it before in the other relationships and it could be a source of conflict in order to cope with their day to day life, however they were fully aware that both were willing to face them. You positioned yourself in front of him by dropping your body onto Chris' body, put your arms around him and looked upwards for his gaze. Your boyfriend kept his gaze fixed on the distance, his face turned to the right avoiding eye contact. You smiled melancholy, you knew Chris' tactic, he used it whenever he didn't want to argue with you.You raised your right hand to caress his cheek, which caused Chris to look into your eyes.

"Let's go home?" she asked, waiting for an affirmative answer from him, who, after smiling back at you, nodded his face.

Those were the first months of a relationship that began in a certain way. Hope was not placed in them, much less that feelings would arise so deep that they would plan a life together, making their residence in New York City official. However, in that brief period of time in which they had been able to meet and find the real person that the other was hiding inside, they had been able to verify that for some reason both were in that place and in that instant together, and that reason mainly was why they were going to fight.

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Tag list:  @imerdwarf​ @mycosmicparadise

[kelyon]

Golden Rings: A Story

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

 Rumpelstiltskin tells the truth

Read on AO3

Rumpelstiltskin looked at his wife in awe. She looked like Mrs. Gold, with her tight black dress and dark makeup. But the way she spoke sounded like Belle. The curse wasn’t broken, so she wasn’t Belle. Not yet. This woman was something in between the two extremes, a light coming into the darkness--like a half-moon, or the first gray haze of dawn.

His wife spoke of dreams, she called him Rumple. After months of lies and silence, she was desperate for the truth. And he was desperate to tell it to her. 

The table where he had laid out his dagger separated their bodies. He limped around it as he went to her. He held her hands between his own over his cane. Her wedding ring was off her finger, but she held it tightly in her fist. At his prompting, she opened her hand. He circled the outline of the ring against her palm. 

“What do you remember,” he said softly, “about our rings?”

She bit her lip. Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to think. “I--I remember… that they came from the shop. That you have a tray of gold wedding bands that never sell for much. The ones we wear were the ones that fit us best. I remember you ordered me to never take it off. You said it meant I belong to you--that a wedding ring was more binding than any kind of collar or--” She gasped. Her eyes went wide. “Or cuffs!”

His wife gripped his hand, like he was the only thing she could be sure of. “I remember there were cuffs. I wore them on my wrists like bracelets, but they were magic! They were made of gold--or straw.” 

She looked down at her wrists, clearly trying to reconcile how a thing could be gold and straw and magic all at the same time. “You gave them to me. They made me do whatever you said. But… But then I took them off. And when you gave them back to me, they were rings. And instead of wearing both of them, I only wore one. You wore the other.” Her gaze shifted to their hands, she rubbed his ring with her thumb. “It is a sign, not of bondage, but a bond. A vow we could break at any time, but mutually promise not to.”

Rumpelstiltskin heard his own words repeated back to him. Time and distance and curses had changed nothing about his marriage, about how much he loved Belle.

And now Mrs. Gold remembered being Belle. She looked up at him. Her eyes had never been wider or bluer or more beautiful. 

“Which memory is true?” she whispered. There was a tremor in her voice.

He wrapped his arms around his wife, he pressed his face into her hair. “The second one,” he answered. “Is that the memory where you think of me as Rumple?”

Clutching him, she nodded.

“Then that’s the truth, sweetheart.” He held her close, rubbed her back. “Any time you remember being married to Rumple, that’s when the memories are true.”

“Those are the memories where you look like a monster.”

He held her face and used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her eyes. “But not, I hope, the memories where I act like one.”

His wife shook her head. A weak smile flickered over her face, like a match trying to catch logs to make a fire.

“You have magic in those memories.” She broke their embrace to look at the table. “Magic that has something to do with this dagger.” She picked it up in one hand, her fingers gripping expertly around the handle. “And something to do with me?”

Standing beside her, he set his hand lightly on her waist. Now that she was becoming Belle again, he never wanted to stop touching her. It was hard to stop at just holding her hands. 

“I gave you the dagger,” he reminded her. “So you could control me, and all my powers.”

He felt the shiver go up her spine. “We used that control for sex, didn’t we?”

Rumpelstiltskin chuckled  and kissed her temple. “Yes. Yes, I’m not surprised you remember that, darling. Those times were… memorable.”

Holding the dagger, his wife turned to face him. “Mr. Gold would never let himself be weak around anyone. Not even me. Especially not me. He would never give me power over him.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “No,” he said softly. “Gold was too much of a coward to trust you with himself.” His hands squeezed at the cap sleeves of her dress. “That was a lesson I didn’t learn until it was almost too late.”

Bringing her hands up to his chest, she rubbed the dark fabric of his suit lapels between her fingers. “But you’re Rumple now.” She looked up at him. “How long have you been Rumple?”

The trickster-true answer ‘all my life,’ sat on his tongue, but Rumpelstiltskin wanted to give his wife honesty. 

“Since October,” he said.

Nodding slowly, she looked him up and down. “Rent Day in October. That was when you started to change.”

 “Yes,” he said. “I woke up the moment I heard Emma’s name.”        

She blinked. “Sheriff Swan? What does she have to do with all this?”

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Everything,” he grinned at her. Without letting go of her hand, he stepped away from her body. “There is something I must do, sweetheart. There is somewhere I must go.”

“Where?” She followed him as he took a step, her fingers threaded through his. “And what? Do you need me to drive?”

Already pulling out the keys to Gold’s car, he looked at her. “You can drive?”

To his surprise, she laughed. A radiant smile filled her face. “Yeah, gosh, since I was sixteen. I had to get my licence as soon as I could, so I could do deliveries for my dad’s shop, or take my mom to her doctor’s appointments.” She swallowed, her smile shrank, then vanished. “After my uncle and my cousin Andrew were in their car accident, Aunt Terri would only get in a car if I was driving. I don’t know why she trusted me more than anyone else, but she did.”

It had never occurred to Rumpelstiltskin to imagine this woman as a teen-ager in this world. But she had been. Or at least, she remembered being one. She wasn’t entirely Gold’s creature. His wife had been a child once. She’d had a family who had relied on her. She’d grown up in this world and learned skills that Belle never had.

Her eyebrows suddenly furrowed. “Wait, are those memories fake too? My family, are they not--”

“We’ll find out,” he assured her. He didn’t know the truth himself, but he’d be damned if he let this poor woman have one more moment of self-doubt. “Come with me, and we’ll figure it all out, together.” He held Gold’s keys out to her. “Do you know how to get to the cabin?”

With a wry grin, she took the keys in the hand that wasn’t holding the dagger and her ring. “I’ve been there once or twice.”

****

  It was odd for Rumpelstiltskin to be in the passenger seat of the Cadillac. Odder still to see the woman who looked like Mrs. Gold driving. She adjusted the seat and put on her safety belt and checked all the mirrors before she started the ignition. Without having to drive himself, Rumpelstiltskin was better able to observe the other cars and pedestrians as they made their way out of town. 

Emma Swan’s Volkswagen was crookedly parked under the “officials only” sign at the hospital. The car was a few feet away from the black Mercedes Regina drove--also parked haphazardly, as if in a desperate hurry. On Main Street, Mary Margaret Blanchard slowly walked away from Granny’s and towards her apartment. She held herself closely, looking visibly distraught. David Nolan pulled out into the road, his pickup truck fully packed as he drove away from her.  

Inside the Cadillac, it was quiet until his wife spoke up. “So, um. I think there’s a lot that I don’t understand. I mean, obviously there is. But, maybe, instead of me asking you for every little detail, you could just, um, tell me the whole thing?”

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. He would have taken her hand, but she had both of them on the steering wheel. His other instinct was to squeeze the flesh of her thigh, but that gesture felt wrong, somehow. Things between them were still too tenuous, too unknown and too fragile. The woman beside him was his wife, but she wasn’t Belle. Not entirely. Not yet. Her wedding ring and his dagger both lay inert on the seat between them. 

“Back at the shop I said I would tell you everything,” he answered. “Of course, ‘everything’ is quite a lot. Would it be all right to start with just the parts about you?”

For just a second, she took her eyes off the road to look at him. Then she nodded. 

“Thank you,” he said. He took a deep breath, and began: “Once upon a time, there was a man who had so much wealth and power it made him into a monster.”

He saw her hands tighten around the steering wheel, but she said nothing.

“In his monstrousness, the man sought out a girl. He wanted to use her to satisfy his own cruel appetites. The girl he chose was beautiful and intelligent and brave. She was kind and innocent, and all the monster wanted to do was hurt her.”

His wife’s lips pressed together. “She wasn’t that innocent.” Her voice was thick. “Or that kind.”

“She was,” he assured her. “Everything she endured, she did it to save her family.”

She shook her head, but kept her eyes fixed on the road in front of her. “She abandoned them. She didn’t think she had a life or a future with them, so she sold out.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “She let that man take her away from them because she wanted a better life--a richer life. A life where she wouldn’t have to worry, wouldn’t have to care about anybody.” As she gripped the steering wheel, Rumpelstiltskin understood that she was trying to dig her fingernails into her palms. “And then, once the man started hurting her in ways that she didn’t like, she told herself that she deserved it.”

“She didn’t,” Rumpelstiltskin promised. Was any part of what she said Belle’s story? Or was it all Mrs. Gold? “What the man did to her… was entirely his fault. She bears no blame for any of it.”

“Doesn’t she?” She glanced at him again. “I mean, they made a deal. She benefited from all that bullshit as much as he did. He gave her a good life, she got off on most of it.” 

She tried to smile, but all Rumpelstiltskin could do was rest his hand on her arm.

“If he was a good husband, he would have cared about her safety. He would have only done things that brought her pleasure. And he never would have made her feel like she was in his debt. A true marriage is a marriage of equals, of giving as much as you receive.”

“I am yours as you are mine.”

Belle loved saying those words. They were the motto of Jefferson and Leona, a couple who each wore a collar to show their devotion to the other. Belle often repeated the phrase in their marriage as they played their games of submission. Of course his wife would repeat them now. 

“In the story,” he continued, “the man who became a monster, found that he wanted to become a man again. And that frightened him. He fell in love with the girl he had taken. He found that he didn’t care about power or darkness anymore. All he wanted was to give her a good life.”

“She fell in love with him, too.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “By some miracle, she did. And when he told her that the only good life for her would be without him, she refused to leave.”

His wife’s brow furrowed. “That’s not right,” she said. “She did leave. He was cruel to her. He made her go away. He told her that he didn’t love her and she didn’t want to fight him anymore, so she left.”

Rumpelstiltskin felt her words like darts into his heart. She was right, of course. And it was like Belle to remember the worst of things and want to bring them out into the light. She was compassionate and forgiving, but she would never deny the truth.

“You’re right.” He shifted in his seat. “She did leave. But she came back.”

“She searched the whole castle looking for him,” she sighed. “And she found him in the dungeon cell where he had once imprisoned her.”

“He was a broken man,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “He thought the light had gone from his world forever.”

“That was when you gave me your dagger.” They pulled up to the cabin. His wife parked the car and turned to him. “That was when you asked me to marry you, Rumple.”

He nodded. He wanted nothing more than to reach for his wife, to pull her into his arms and kiss her deeply. But positioned as they were in the front seat of the car, all he could do was grip both of her hands in his own. 

“The only fair price for someone’s heart is to give your own heart to them in return.”

Her eyes were full of tears and love in equal measure. “Rumple,” she whispered. 

Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead. “I know,” he murmured. “And I promise you, there is more. There is… everything. But first we need to take a walk.”

****

The well was only a short walk away from the cabin. It wasn’t useful as a source of drinking water, it wasn’t attached to any man-made waterways or pipes. Gold would have had it demolished years ago, but it was a protected landmark. A brass plaque on the side of the structure proclaimed it a wishing well. Local legend said that the waters of the well had the power to return that which was lost. 

Rumpelstiltskin knew that many worlds had such tales associated with bodies of water. In his own land, the source of this magic was called Lake Nostos. In worlds with magic, all of the waters were connected, which often gave them greater power than any other force in that world. He had been waiting for the moment when magic would fully enter this world. Then, he would be able to harness the latent powers of these waters.

They walked through the forest, him and his wife. A beaten-down path led from the road to the well. She was surefooted, even in Mrs. Gold’s stilettos--or at least as good as he was with Gold’s cane. It was a quiet journey. When he looked at his wife, she had her eyes on the forest floor. Her lips moved slightly, as though she were talking to herself, trying to figure things out.

“How are you?” He stopped to talk to her. 

She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can believe all this.” She folded her arms over her chest and bit her lip. “Like, when I think about it--when I think about magic and daggers and castles--it all seems completely crazy.”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed. “I understand.”

“But--but it’s what I’ve been dreaming about for months now. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? And you don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

“No.” He cupped her cheek in one hand. “No, sweetheart. I promise, everything you remember is what I know to be true. Please trust me.”

She put her hand over his own on her face. “I do,” she murmured. “I don’t understand why. I don’t understand anything. But I do trust you, Rumple.”

He took his hand away and reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out the glass vial and showed it to her. The glowing purple-pink of magic shone against her pale cheek. 

“This is the best I have to offer right now, in terms of proof. As far as I know, this is as much magic as has ever been collected in one place in this world.”

Eyebrows furrowed, she stared at the bottle. Her hand raised, as if she wanted to reach out and grab it, but didn’t dare to. “What is it, Rumple?” she whispered. “What kind of magic?”

“The most powerful magic of all,” he told her. “The only magic that doesn’t come with a price. True Love.”

“Snow White.” Even as she said it, she looked only more puzzled. “And Prince Charming. Them, together, they have true love.” Her eyes widened. “I watched you make this potion. From their hair!” 

“Yes.” He smiled, remembering that day in his tower. “The two of them have true love. And what they create together, is a very powerful thing.” 

 “The Savior.” His wife began to laugh. “Emma! Emma is the savior we’ve been waiting for. Emma will break the curse!”

“Yes!” He wrapped his arm around her. “And soon, I think. Very soon. When it happens, we’ll need to be ready.”

She nodded to the vial of True Love. “You’re going to use that for something.”

He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Yes, my love. I’ll show you when we get to the well.”

They started to walk again. Rumpelstiltskin felt the urgency building in his mind. He wanted to get closer, he had to get closer. There was a tension in the air, like the coming of a storm. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

He picked up his pace, leaving his wife to trail behind him. The well was in sight. They were so close. The work of lifetimes was about to be completed. He had toiled for centuries to have the curse be cast, he had waited for months for it to break. 

And then, it did.

Not just True Love, but True Love’s Kiss.

The power swept over the land--stronger and purer than anything within the capabilities of the Dark One in all his terrible glory. Rumpelstiltskin felt it as a bolt of lighting that took up the whole of the atmosphere. But this power was not destructive. It was not harsh and damaging. No, the opposite. The intensity was enough to level cities and crumble bones, but the purpose of it was to heal. The light was a golden rainbow, infinitely strong and infinitely gentle. This was a force to restore, to rebuild.

To break curses. To bring back happy endings. To regain that which once was lost. 

Rumpelstiltskin felt the magic pour over him, but he had no power over it. This was pure goodness, something so much greater than himself. It was greater than anything--except the person who had created it. All he could do was close his eyes and let his soul witness this rarest of magical events. 

“She did it,” he whispered to himself. 

When the moment passed, he kept walking. There was still work to do. If he was lucky, some of the force of Emma’s magic would have been absorbed by the waters in the wishing well. He could use that, and the True Love he held in his hand, to bring forth some magic he would be able to control.

“Wait,” his wife’s voice came from behind him.

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. They were too close. “It’s just up here.”

“No,” Belle’s voice broke through the mania of magic in his head. “Rumpelstiltskin, wait!”

His feet refused to move. She was holding the dagger. Magic was in Storybrooke now. 

Belle had given him an order. 

He turned his head to look at her. He couldn’t speak. It was her. Nothing had changed about her appearance. The way she stood, the tilt of her head, the steady, wide-eyed gaze--those were all the same. But now she was Belle, in a way she hadn’t been, even today, not before this moment. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “My darling. Belle!”

Tears fell onto her smiling cheeks as she closed the gap between them. With the dagger in one hand, she wrapped her arms around him. 

He returned the embrace, holding her body tightly against his own.

Their mouths met. He kissed her with enough force and passion to erase the past twenty-eight years. She returned the kiss hungrily. Both of them gave everything they had to the other. They needed it. They had needed each other for so long.

When they broke apart, she rested in his arms. She laid her head against his chest and whispered: “Rumpelstiltskin, I love you.”  

[gallickingun]

hiii im in love with your writing!! and i surprisingly fell hard for that little oneshot of kirishima arriving home and just snuggling SO i thought it was the most adorable thing. i was wondering if you could write another wholesome sweet moment, perhaps during an afterglow or during pregnancy or just another snuggle i dunno jaj sorry if it's not from a prompt list i couldnt find one PLEASE AND THANK YOU YOURE AWESOME BYE

a/n: omg thank you SO MUCH YOU ARE SO SWEET!!!!! i love love love kiri, and i love making him soft. he deserves a sweet lil SO who will love him and hold him tight! here we go!! 💕

ps, you got a pregnancy afterglow!!! hope that made you doubly happy! spicy, so below the cut!!

pps, we have.... daddy kiri here. in BOTH senses of the word. hope that’s cool with you!

“That okay?” Kiri asks, hands gentle around your waist as he shifts you on the mattress. His fingertips brush the slight swell of your belly, thumb finding your navel as his eyes wash over your full figure.

You nod, biting your lip as you gaze up at him. Really you want to beg him to go faster, your hands in his hair and his name on your lips, but you can’t help to keep yourself quiet when you see the way he’s looking down on you in pure adoration.

Kirishima’s mouth brushes over the highest part of your stomach, dragging his tongue and teeth up your sternum until he connects to the upward curve of your chest. He smirks up at you, “These are nice.”

“Kiri!”

“What?!”

You giggle, shaking your head as your hands drift into his hair, threading through the bright crimson strands. You tug a little to guide his mouth down to your chest and he takes the hint pretty quickly. He licks over your skin, bringing goosebumps to the surface as the air conditioning hits you from above.

“Gonna start movin’, ‘kay?” Kirishima mutters, teeth catching your nipple. You whine and whimper, trying to force your head to nod up and down. He must understand because he starts rolling his hips forward again, using your gathered slick to slide into you easily.

It’s not hard for him to work you over the edge, not at this point. He’s had you going for a little while now, sweat sticking to your temples and lower back from the effort. The tinge of red on his cheeks reminds you of the amount of effort he puts into loving you.

Kirishima pulls away from your chest with a pop, lips bright red as he meets your mouth in a kiss. One of his hands rests in your hair, the other drifting around your torso, indecisive in his desire to touch your belly or support your back. His tongue presses into the seam of your lips and you part for him willingly, keening into him.

“Shit, sweetheart, you feel good,” Kiri murmurs into your mouth, the stroke of his cock within you turning your head away in pleasure. You whine, jaw dropping to let your panting gasps fall free from your tongue.

Kiri takes advantage of your wanton state, mouth ravaging your throat. The sharp ends of his teeth make quick work of your thin skin, nipping until you’re crying out and then soothing with his tongue and lips afterward. It’s like he lights you on fire only to then calm the flame.

You palm over his back and shoulders, the rippling muscle underneath your fingertips doing little to quell the wetness gathering between your thighs, distributed as he ruts into you. Kirishima has sucked at least three hickeys into the curve of your neck but you have little mind to care. You’re overwhelmed by him; the scent that fills the room, the heat that radiates from his body, the calloused pads of his fingers.

“C’mon, baby girl, tighten up for me.” Kiri’s hand in your hair tightens, yanking at the base of your head. He smirks, that confident persona he puts on once the clothes come off becoming much more evident the longer his cock is in you.

You nod in acknowledgement before focusing as much as you can on clenching yourself around him. Kiri nods, chewing on his lower lip as he loiters above you, thumb traveling down the expanse of your thigh to eventually find your clit.

"Such a good girl," Kirishima kisses the top of your knee, using his thigh to prop you up, "You always come so good for me, yeah? So pretty."

You're a blubbering mess, words unable to form on your lips, catching on your teeth like a net. You push them out anyway because you think Kiri loves to get you flustered; the smirk on his face and the tensing of his shoulders only does more to confirm your suspicions, so you continue.

He twists so he can get your leg over his shoulder, penetrating you at a whole new angle. You cry out at the first thrust but your cheek is pressed into the pillow so it's muffled.

Kirishima chuckles, "You like moanin' for me, baby?"

"Y-Yes, Kir-"

He tuts his tongue against his teeth, mouth scraping over your knee cap, "What was that?"

It's a warning, a promise that there will be repercussions if you don't follow his lead.

You turn, blinking wide eyes up at him in an attempt to have him forgive you, "Yes daddy."

"Good girl."

Your hand wanders around in midair, something you can't see, in search of him to help him ground you, to anchor you to this world before your spirit flies too far away. He slips his knuckles between yours, effectively grounding you. His mouth pressed to each of your fingers, soothing the nonexistent pain of your bones.

"Tell me what you want, pretty girl," Kirishima mutters. You can barely hear him over the mixture of panting and blood pumping in your ears. You let out a wanton cry, eyes screwing shut as he drills into you mercilessly, hips slamming into you, surely leaving bruises.

You gulp, your throat sticky from whining into the open air, "Please, I-I want your come. I want you to come in me!"

He chuckles and the deep baritone sound rolls like a wave, the vibrato of his chest making you shiver. You only wish he were talking in your ear instead of so far away.

"I already gave you a baby, sweetheart, what else do you need my come for?" Kirishima snaps his hips particularly fast and you feel your cervix cry out from within you, a jolt forcing its way up your spine.

You whine once you realize what he's said, tears beginning to pin prick the corners of your eyes, "B-But, I-I wan'it."

"Yeah?"

He's mocking you, you know it. His tone is too patronizing, the glimmer in his eyes sarcastic. You pout, squeezing his hand, "Please, daddy. Please. Want you to co-come in me."

Kirishima has his thumb circling your clit, hardening the tip of his finger just enough to give you added friction. You grind your hips upward, chasing the high that will have you crying out his name and stuttering for moments after.

His free hand wraps around your neck from behind, pulling you forward so he can kiss you on the mouth, "Such a good girl," the words are mumbled into your lips, muffled and distorted by the skin, "takin' me like the perfect little slut you are, huh?"

You whine into his mouth, palming at his back as you buck along with him, but he's got you producing waves of slick already. Your eyes roll back in your head as he continues fucking you through the crescendo, his own release building and begging in the form of his cock twitching within your dense muscular center.

"Please daddy, please," you know your irises are swallowed by your pupils, eyes blown wide with serotonin. You whimper, sifting your fingers through his hair before digging your nails into the tops of his shoulders, "Wanna make you come, wanna make you feel good, please."

Kiri pushes both of your knees back so he can butterfly you open, your thighs pressing into your chest as he ruts into you sloppily. You can tell by his rhythm that he's nearing the edge of his resolve, his mouth twisted and his nose scrunched at the center.

Your begging for him pushes him over, beckoning a wave of pleasure for him to ride just as steady as he's riding you. Kirishima's hips stutter and his cock twitches from base to tip and you can't help the moan that parts your lips.

After he's come down from the aftershocks, Kiri nuzzles his face into your neck, tugging your legs just enough to help you lay flat on the mattress. He kisses your cheek, "Such a trooper, sweetheart."

"Worth it," you giggle as he blows raspberries against your throat.

His mouth trails, pert blushed lips tickling your body, from your collarbones to your belly. He laughs once he gets to your navel, his voice soft as he speaks, "Not givin' mama a hard time, are ya'?"

Your heart warms at the sight of Kirishima mumbling to your unborn child, his fingertips tracing patterns and names over the stretched skin. He never fails to make you feel beautiful and important, especially not now. Kiri is always telling you how amazing you look, even if it's in a pair of sweatpants and one of his tee shirts.

"You’re so perfect, you know that?” Kiri kisses the top of your belly before pushing himself closer to your face. He’s smiling as he kisses you gently, much in contrast to the past couple of hours you’ve spent between the sheets. He doesn’t mind, though, not right now when your hormones are raging and you want every bit of him that he has to offer.

Kirishima kisses your cheek before pulling away, tugging you close so you can curl up into him, “I don’t know who I had to bribe in another life to get lucky with someone like you, but thank goodness I did it.”

You lay your palms flat against his chest, the muscles of his pectorals flexing under your touch. A smile tugs on the corners of your lips, but overall your body is tired and slow to move. He notices, dipping his head down so he can kiss your forehead and temple.

“You’re gonna be such a good momma,” Kirishima murmurs against your cheek, voice a low rumble in his chest. “I can’t wait to put another baby in you, keep you full all the time, yeah?”

If you were being honest, you’d have as many children as Kiri wants you to have, so long as he’s willing and ready to help you take care of them. And you know he will; Kirishima has been fawning over being a dad since the day you got married a couple of months ago. You’d been together for too long for him not to know with his whole heart that you were to be the mother of his children.

Even so, you scrunch your nose and swat him away, “I’d need a break sometime, you goof.”

“There’s my girl,” he’s peppering kisses over your cheeks now, giggles passed between the two of you at the action, “I can’t wait to meet them. I hope they’re just like you.”

“Kiri,” you whine.

Another bout of laughter escapes his lips, the vibrations in his chest making you feel whole somehow. You never believed any of those sappy romance stories before Kiri; everyone else had played with your heart - toying with it like it was some sort of thing detached from you as a person. He had been the first to throw himself at you and be truly vulnerable, the kindest person you’d ever met.

“What?!” He has you caged into his body now, knees on either side of your waist and elbows by your shoulders. In every sense of the word, you should feel panicked, frightened by the proximity and your inability to escape it. However, the only things flooding through your system are comfort and safety.

Your hands float to meet his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the tops of his cheekbones, “I hope they have your heart. You have such a rare one.”

A blush paints over his cheeks, starting at the neck and making its way skyward. You smile at him, the hormones making a raging comeback as tears fill your vision, “I am such a lucky woman, a lucky wife. You’re going to be a wonderful father.”

Kirishima tucks his face into your neck, careful not to let his hips hover too close to your belly. You feel the wetness of tears on your neck so you drift one hand into his hair, soothing his scalp with your nails. His mouth presses openly to the column of your throat, nudging his nose over your jugular. You smile at the warmth that spreads throughout your body as he curls closer around your, tightening his grip.

“You’re amazing, Kiri,” you murmur into the darkness of the bedroom, “I love you.”

He kisses the juncture of your jaw and neck, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

The next few moments are spent in silence, hands finding different patches of warm skin and mouths touching over bones and muscle. His fingertips roam over your belly, hushed words whispered as he brushes his nose over your rib cage. You are sure to echo the same amount of kindness in return, your nails mapping out the dips of his muscles and your mouth littering kisses over the top of his head, planting seeds of kindness like flowers in a garden.

“Wanna take a shower?” Kiri asks after a particular lull in conversation.

You scrape your fingertips over his back, a shudder running down his shoulders at the motion. A hum from you tells him that you’re in agreement, so he shifts away from you, standing to his full height beside the bed. Kiri holds you by the hand, but you tuck your legs into yourself as a shiver racks your body.

“S’cold, Kiri,” you whine, pouting in hopes that he’ll pick you up like he always does.

The redhead chuckles before tucking his arms underneath your shoulders and knees, plucking you from the bed and cradling your body into his chest. You rest your head on his collarbone, nuzzling your nose into his pectoral, “You’re so warm, honey.”

Kirishima kisses the top of your head, turning his body as he walks through the bathroom doors. He sets you down on the counter, your legs swinging slightly while he starts up the shower. The mirror fogs at the top from the heat and you feel a little dizzy from the sudden amount of steam.

You blink when he comes to stand between your legs, hands brushing over your ribs and down over the growing swell of your belly. He’s smiling, a genuine grin that you can’t help but mimic. Kiri leans forward to kiss you on the mouth, hands palming at you to keep you close. He is slow but deliberate, melding his lips to the shape of yours, gently tugging you toward him.

He hums, disconnecting just enough to press warm kisses from the corner of your mouth to your ear. A sigh from his lips makes you shiver, your hands instinctively threading into his hair. Kirishima kisses the juncture of your jaw before pulling away, “Ready?”

You nod and he helps you down from the counter, holding your hand as you step into the shower. Kirishima is quick to pick up your shampoo from the corner shelf, lathering it in his hands while you dampen your hair. His hands are gentle, smooth, much in contrast to his quirk’s abilities. He slides his fingertips through your hair, building up the bubbles as he works the soap into every inch of your hair.

A gasp parts your lips when you feel him press up against you, his torso completely parallel with yours. Kirishima kisses your shoulder, hands slipping down over your body, settling at your hips. He chuckles, “Relax, angel, you’re so tense.”

Kiri’s hands continue to map out the planes of your body, soap trails in his wake. The water from the shower washes over your body, erasing the evidence of his touch. Kirishima helps you to wash the soap out of your hair, turning your body so you’re facing him now. He dips his head under the water to kiss you on the lips, hands still massaging in your hair to relieve it from shampoo and suds.

“You’re so pretty,” Kiri murmurs against your lips. He tugs you forward, rolling his hips up into you, “God, you’re so beautiful, I’m so glad that you’re mine.”

Your hands find his shoulders and you pull away so you can look up at him, stars in your eyes. Just as always, the truth in his gaze - the reality that he really does love you with his whole heart - turns your insides into hot lava, warmth licking at your ribs the longer you stand in front of him. You smile, leaning into him so your bodies are entangled.

You’re not sure when it happened, when you truly became one. But now, you’re satisfied with the idea that you can’t truly tell where you end and he begins.

And you wouldn’t change a thing.

TAGLIST: @kamehamethot @simplybakugou @lady-bakuhoe @todorki-shoto @redhawtriot @burnedbyshoto @cookies-n-chaos @katsukisprincess @rat-suki @cutesuki--bakugou @k-atsukidayo @bnhatrashh @succulent-momma @voiceofreader @multifandom-fanfic @that-one-enthusiast @bitchtrynafck @cutest-celestial-princess @blue-peach14 @pastel-prynce @bokunokangae @shoutodoki @bakuoushoe @tenyaingenium @lxvely-mha @myherorambles @ramen-rambles @bratwritings @samanthaa-leanne @orokayagi @tumblingintothefeelstrain @sunbeamwrites @bnhawritten @bnhasidebin @lovekatsukibakugo @aizawamirite @plusultrawritings @bnha-violetnote @yuueimagines @suckersuki @heroes-landing @bnha-mha-imagines @heroesreverie @pink-imagines @brattyquirks @kazooli 

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: epilogue (OC)

Summary: An early morning, a doctor’s appointment, a new beginning.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x OC

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: pregnancy (including like… probably incorrect math and science but my degree was in English and this is fanfiction okay)

Word count: 2.7k

a/n: I’m actually so emotional don’t look at me thanks ♥️

Series Masterlist

———

The sound of Spencer’s ringtone pierced through the early morning quiet, shrill and disconsolate. Maggie hummed against his chest, shifting as he clumsily reached across to the bedside table to answer it. 

“Hey,” he croaked, voice still smothered in sleep. “Mm... When?” He paused, and she could almost make out the answer on the other end. “Got it. Yeah.” 

He carefully set the phone back on the bedside table, and then his arms came around her shoulders. He let out a long sigh, the one she’d gotten quite used to over the last year and a half— the one that meant he had to go. She squeezed him around the middle and let out her own sigh. “Case?”

“Yeah.” He ran light fingers down her arm. “Jet’s taking off in ninety minutes.”

She glanced at the bedside table to the alarm clock that read 4:57am. They both knew he needed to leave within the next half hour if he was going to make it on time, but neither one made any effort to move. Instead, they breathed together in the pre-dawn stillness— a single moment of peace before the world and all its ugliness could crash through the fortress they’d constructed around their space and around each other.

“I don’t wanna go,” he whispered. 

“I know.” She pressed a kiss over his heart through his t-shirt. “I know.”

“I’m gonna miss everything,” he lamented. “Appointments, and milestones, and firsts, and I— I’m gonna miss all of it.”

She lifted her head at the tears in his voice. “Hey.” She shifted in the circle of his arms to prop herself up on his chest. “You’re not gonna miss all of it. You’ll miss this one appointment. And it’s— it’s not even an important one,” she assured, gentle fingers swiping away the lone tear that had managed to escape over his lash line. 

“Yes, it is.” He shook his head. “They're all important.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips before sitting up and deciding to reassure him in the only way she knew how. “Okay, doctor. Eleven weeks. Tell me what we’re gonna find out today.” 

She pulled him up out of bed, interlacing their fingers and pressing their shoulders together. As she led him to the bathroom, he explained, “Dr. Layton will do the first ultrasound, and Baby will look more like a baby now. At around ten weeks they made the transition from embryo to fetus. They’ll be about two inches long.” 

She handed him his toothbrush and turned to grab his toiletry go-back from the linen closet, stifling a yawn. “Mmhm. What else?”

“Did you know they’re breathing now?” he asked, and she smiled at the way the excitement crept into his voice. “Between weeks ten and eleven, the fetus starts to inhale and exhale small amounts of amniotic fluid, which aids in the development of their lungs. It’s kind of like they’re breathing underwater.” 

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted, turning back to set the bag on the counter. “That’s pretty amazing. What about the heartbeat?”

He nodded vigorously as he applied toothpaste to the bristles of his brush. “We should be able to hear it, although sometimes it’s too early— depending on the accuracy of the estimated date of conception.”

He ran the water over the toothbrush before popping it into his mouth. She kissed his shoulder and then moved back into the bedroom, shuffling into their closet for his go bag. She checked it over on her way back to the bathroom, ensuring it had been fully repacked after the last case. She set it on the counter and placed his toiletry bag inside, leaving it open for him to pack his toothbrush and then sitting on the closed toilet lid. 

He rinsed his mouth and put his travel cap over the head of his toothbrush, gesturing with it and then dropping it into the bag. “They’ll do some routine lab work to test for things like gestational diabetes, and we can also choose to do additional screeners for chromosomal abnormalities and possible complications.” He looked at her then, and she saw the despondence creeping back in. “I should really be there, just— just in case.”

“Honey.” She stood and held out her hand to him, smiling a little when he accepted it with a squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

He let out a breath and pulled her into his arms, and they held each other in the silence, the soft light from the vanity washing over them. His phone buzzed with an incoming message, and she knew he needed to get on the road. Still, she held him for a second longer, and then they shuffled through the door and into the bedroom together. 

Maggie made her way back to bed, scooting down under the duvet to preserve the last remaining notes of his body warmth. She watched as he dressed silently, pulling on trousers, socks, a button up and cardigan. He skipped the tie in favor of coming to sit on the bed, bringing his hand to rest lightly over top of her belly over the covers. 

She covered his hand with her own and laced their fingers together. “Maybe you could ask Luke if you can FaceTime with his phone. You can probably take twenty minutes, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Maybe I should just upgrade my own phone.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Couldn’t upgrade for me, but once a baby comes along you’re ready for an iPhone.” 

“That’s not— you— you shouldn’t have to do all of this alone,” he huffed, and she realized her joke didn’t land when his voice cracked at the end. 

“Spence, I’m— I’m just teasing.” She lifted her hands to his face, pulling him closer and meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry; you’re upset, and that wasn’t nice.” 

She leaned up to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger and breathing him in. “But I’m not alone. With you, I feel— the opposite of alone.”

“Irritated?” he offered. 

“No,” she laughed. “Supported, and cared for, and loved,” she corrected with a smile. “You’ve been all of that since day one. And I know that’s not going to change, whether you’re physically present in that doctor's office or not. Right?” 

When he nodded, she continued, “I love you. The most. And you are easily the best baby daddy on planet earth. Okay?”

The term of endearment dragged a smile from him, as it always did. “Okay.”

She leaned forward to press her lips to his, both sets upturned and a little dry from sleep. “Now, you need to go, or you’re gonna be late.”

“I know.” He kissed her again, long and slow, and then pulled back to lean their foreheads together. He hesitated for another ten seconds before standing to grab his bag from the bathroom. 

When he re-emerged, she reminded him, “Ask Luke about the FaceTime thing. I’m sure he won’t mind, and we can trust him to keep the secret. The appointment technically starts at 1:00, but I probably won’t be seen until at least 1:30.”

He crossed to give her another kiss. “I love you.” He crouched to press a kiss to her tummy. “And you.”

“We love you, too,” she smiled, fingers tangling in his curls. “And we’ll talk to you in a few hours.”

She kissed him one more time— couldn’t help herself. And then his warmth was gone from the bed, and the house was suddenly much too quiet. She snuggled back down under the duvet, her head on his pillow and the scent of his shampoo shrouding her senses and easing her mind.

Spencer really was supportive— endlessly so. Not overbearing, but interested and involved in every moment: reading all the newest research, bringing home her favorite treats, writing out a color-coded timeline of all the appointments and milestones. She wasn’t lying when she called him the best baby daddy. He was always there for her. So much so that the apprehension she’d had at the beginning of this surprise journey was nowhere to be found. 

As she drifted back into sleep, there he was again— she could almost hear the jangling of his keys in the bowl in the entryway, his feet on the stairs, the rustling of his pants and sweater being discarded onto the floor of their bedroom. 

And then she felt the warmth of his palm low over her tummy, coming to rest over the barely-there bump. She felt his lips on her shoulder and his chest pressed against her back. When she went to cover his hand with her own, her exhausted brain registered that it wasn’t a dream at all.

She turned her head, blinking her eyes open to see him smiling at her and drew her brows together. “What’s going on?”

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, snuggling even closer and rubbing his thumb along her belly. “I’m, um— I told Emily I’m gonna consult from home on this one.”

…

“Okay, Mom, this’ll just be a little bit cold.”

Dr. Layton smoothed the gel over Maggie’s lower abdomen, and Spencer moved to thread their fingers together, shifting to stand even closer to the examination table. The ultrasound machine gave off a low hum as the doctor adjusted the wand over her tummy. She felt Spencer press a kiss to her temple and turned to smile brightly at him before turning back to the black and white screen. 

At her first appointment five weeks ago, she’d been by herself— alone and uncertain and terrified— and she’d declined the option of the ultrasound. It felt wrong to see the baby before Spencer even knew about them. Now, together with him, with her soon-to-be husband— she was more than ready to see their baby for the first time. And she could practically feel Spencer’s excitement next to her, his body nearly vibrating with it. 

“Ah, here they are. Hello, Baby Reid.” Dr. Layton pointed to a small, white figure on the screen. “Okay, right here, you can see their big ol’ head— perfectly normal size for this stage of development,” she assured, eyes deftly scanning the image in front of her. “Everything looks great! Now, I’m just trying to find…” 

She adjusted the wand over Maggie’s tummy, and suddenly a wub wub wub came over the tinny speaker of the machine. “There we are,” Dr. Layton smiled. “Very strong heartbeat.”

Spencer squeezed Maggie’s hand, and she felt the drop of a tear on her shoulder. She brought her other hand over to cover their tangled fingers, rubbing her thumb along the skin of his wrist and kissing his arm. 

Dr. Layton made a slightly perplexed humming sound, moving the wand again and losing the sound of the heartbeat, only to pick it up again— this time slightly faster. Maggie’s own heart stuttered a little as the doctor moved the wand again twice more and then cleared her throat. “Is something— is everything okay?”

She turned to Maggie with a kind smile. “Yes, yes,” she confirmed, and then she raised her eyebrows. “Just— do you hear the difference?” 

Spencer tilted his head in consideration, drawing his brows together and straining to hear. The doctor shifted the wand once more, allowing them to hear the two distinct patterns. 

Two distinct patterns, Maggie realized. 

Dr. Layton pressed the wand a little more firmly into her abdomen, moved it just slightly. “Those are two different heartbeats.” She pointed to the screen. “And those are two different babies. There’s a matching set of Baby Reids in there.”

Maggie couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “Is there—” She turned to Spencer incredulously. “Do twins run in your family?”

He shook his head silently, eyes wide. “Yours?”

“Nope,” she squeaked. 

“This obviously changes things slightly,” Dr. Layton explained, cleaning up the residual gel. “I’d like to see you every three weeks rather than every four. Then at twenty eight weeks, we’ll see how we feel, okay?” 

She smiled gently as Maggie and Spencer nodded dumbly. She removed her gloves and stood. “I’m going to give you two a few minutes. I’ll be back with your photos in a bit, and we can talk about any questions you might have.”

The door closed behind her, and the room was bathed in silence. Maggie sat up carefully and swung her legs over the side of the examination table. She looked down at her tiny, unassuming bump and felt a tear slip over her lashes. 

“Are you— are you okay?” Spencer whispered. 

She brought her gaze to his, found them teeming with barely restrained joy and yet the ever-present worry. “Well,” she started. “I, um— I always imagined two kids.” She brought her hands up to her sweaty cheeks and held her own face between her palms. “I guess this is— you know— just a quicker way to get there.”

Spencer immediately wrapped her in a hug, pressing kisses over her hair, her forehead, her shocked mouth. “Two babies. We’re having two babies.”

“Twins, Spence,” she breathed. “Twins.”

He replaced her hands with his own, cradling her face and kissing her sweetly, sighing all of his joy and adoration into her mouth. “I love you. So much. The most.” He lowered himself to press his lips to her belly. “All of you.”

She used gentle hands in his hair to tilt his face up, meeting his smile with a watery one of her own. “We love you, too, baby daddy.”

She could see the gears turning as he stood, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “About that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Do you, um— how difficult do you think it would be to get everyone together this weekend?”

She paused. “You wanna get married this weekend?”

“Yeah, that’s probably too soon, huh?” He huffed out a sigh, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh— what about next weekend?”

“That’s just as soon!” she laughed. 

He furrowed his brow. “No, it’s not. There's a seven day difference.”

“You’re really in a rush, huh?” she teased. 

“Well. I just— I figure you should really be on my insurance anyway,” he reasoned. “Especially now that it’s— now that it’s twins.”

“Mm, yes, I’m sure that’s the reason,” she grinned.

He let out a long breath, and she watched his eyes journey over her face— memorizing every curve and angle, every new wrinkle, every last inch of her. And she knew the reason. 

“I know it’s just a piece of paper,” he murmured. “It doesn’t really change anything, but…” He used gentle fingers to brush her hair back from her face. “I just… really want to be your husband.”

She took her own minute to memorize the way he looked in this moment: her fiancé, the father of her children, the best man she’d ever known, the absolute love of her life. And she knew her own reason. 

“The paper might not change anything,” she agreed. “But— you’ve changed everything.”

He squeezed her hips. “In a good way I hope.”

“The best way.” She brought her hands to his face, rubbing her thumbs along his cheeks. “The best way.”

He closed the distance between them to kiss her with all the honey and magic and reverence he always did. He broke away to lean his forehead against hers with all the warmth and devotion and love he always did. She sighed, and it was all joy and vulnerability and contentment like it always was. And she knew their reasons. 

She kissed him again, and then murmured against his lips, “You know I’m still gonna refer to you as baby daddy, right?”

The laugh erupted from his chest and wrapped itself around her heart, tying tight and secure— a shield, and a haven, and a refuge— keeping her safe from every terrible thing. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

…

O no! Love is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

———

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Series (x OC) tags: @linnyalou @mikewizkalifa

[softspeirs]

Pairing: George Luz x OFC Summary: Post-war, George accompanies Josephine home, and they both find themselves trying to figure out how to go on. Partly viewed from an outside perspective. Author’s Note: I am nervous to post this! My first George-centric fic. Thank you to @serasvictoria​ for reading this over in the early stages and also to @basilone​ for assuring me this wouldn’t suck.

Margaret Bradford barely recognizes her daughter when she steps off the train, uniform hanging listlessly on her body, hair cut short.

For being only twenty-three, she looks years older. World weary already.

The train makes a screeching iron-on-iron noise when it pulls away, and she flinches slightly, some of the men around her doing the same, but trying their best to hide it.

It’s then that her mother realizes one of the men near her is with her, carrying her duffel and speaking to her quietly as they try to spot anyone she recognizes. It makes something in her mother’s heart clench - seeing the way his free hand hovers at her elbow, as if he’s ready at any second to catch her, as if he’s had to steady her a hundred times before.

When their eyes finally meet, she feels a piece of her heart finally click back into place, now that she can see with her own eyes that her daughter is alive.

Tears fill both their eyes, and then suddenly they’re embracing. They clutch each other, arms banded tight.

The man lingers in the periphery, looking a little uncomfortable, but there’s something else there -- happiness? Relief?

“Mama.” She croaks, her voice hoarse and thick with tears.

“Josephine.” Her name is so soft, but so heavy with meaning. The name that’s been on repeat in her mind for the last three years, a mother never not thinking of her first born child.

“Oh!” Jo turns, like she’s forgotten something. “I’m being so rude. Sorry - Mama, this is George. We served together--”

He sticks his hand out, a little pink on his cheeks. “George Luz, ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you--”

The train whistle interrupts her, and she watches as Josephine and George both startle, George’s muffled “Christ”, immediately followed by an apology.

“Let me give you a hand, Jo.” He says softly, grabbing her bag once again.

“Your father has the car.”

The three begin walking, Jo and George following a step behind Margaret, heads bent together as they talk quietly. There’s an intimacy there that Margaret didn’t expect.

It doesn’t seem romantic, not entirely, though Margaret sees a inkling of it in the way George looks at Jo. No, this-- some of this, anyway -- comes from years in the trenches, in the foxholes, in the barracks and billets. Weeks spent pressed together in the cold and rain... some of which Josephine had relayed in her letters.

“He’ll be pulling round soon,” Margaret says offhand when they get to the curb, waiting with everyone else to be picked up.

“I suppose this is where I leave you,” George says, and Margaret watches as something like panic blooms in her daughter’s eyes. It makes her heart ache.

“Luz--”

“You’ll be alright. Better than alright, Jo.”

“George--” Margaret interrupts, “If you’d like, you can stay with us for a few days. Get your feet under you before going home. A hot meal, fresh sheets...”

He smiles, but it’s reserved. “I wouldn’t want to impose, ma’am.”

“Nonsense. I won’t take no for an answer. You two have been through enough. The least I can do is send you home to your mother well fed.”

Jo looks so hopeful, Margaret is almost sure George feels he doesn’t have a choice.

“Well.” He says, shifting his garrison cap from hand to hand. “I can’t say no to that.”

.

It’s after a full dinner and a few rounds of cards that the house is awoken by a piercing scream.

Andrew Bradford is out of bed before he can put together what he’s hearing, Margaret only a step behind.

They’re only two steps behind George Luz in the corridor, and they watch with fear and amazement as the man doesn’t hesitate, bursting into Josephine’s childhood bedroom.

“Jo--” The man says her name through grit teeth, falling quickly to his knees beside the bed, grasping Jo by the shoulders as she writhes. “Wake up, Jo.”

She screams again, a little quieter, but no less heartbreaking, and Margaret covers her mouth with her hand so she doesn’t sob.

This is one part of Josephine coming home that she naively hadn’t anticipated.

Jo’s eyes fly open and immediately search the room until she seems to realize her friend is right in front of her. “George--”

“Hey, you’re alright. You’re home, Jo. Safe.”

“I thought-- I could hear it--”

“I know.” George’s voice is calm, like he’s done this before. He probably has, Margaret realizes. “We’re not there anymore, Jo. You’re home.”

Jo takes a few deep breaths, the force of them rattling in and out of her chest. “I’m s-sorry--”

“Don’t apologize.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” He looks over his shoulder and notices Margaret and Andrew in the doorway, and immediately stands. “I’ll leave you--”

“It’s alright.” Margaret finds herself saying, surprising even herself. “Just-- at least sit in the armchair if you’re going to stay.”

He looks skeptical, but pulls the armchair closer to the bed quickly, and Margaret is once again struck at how close the two are. She knew Jo would form bonds with whoever she served with, lifelong bonds that she would never be able to replicate with her girlfriends from home.

There’s something else underneath the surface here though, a thread that connects these two. It’s clear in the way George takes Jo’s hand without a second thought, the way Jo’s eyes seek his like a lifeline.

Margaret leaves the room quietly, shutting the door slowly behind her.

.

.

When the door clicks shut, a huge sigh leaves Jo. She feels trapped, suffocated, the weight of her nightmare holding her down like boulders.

“How are we ever going to do this?” She whispers aloud. George meets her eyes, brow wrinkling in confusion. “Get back to normal.”

He shrugs. “We don’t have a choice, Jo.” His smile is gentle. “Your parents will take care of you. They seem like good people. They’ll help.”

Jo feels panic swell when she considers the fact that George is going to go home at some point. Of course he is. He has his own parents to see, who are probably worried sick. His sisters, too.

But who is she without them? Without him? She doesn’t know who she is when she’s not a soldier, not anymore.

She’s spent years living and breathing war. Surviving. Nothing else mattered. Now she’s back here, back to being Josephine Bradford, daughter of two educators, who wanted nothing more than for their daughter to do what she felt was her duty and come back alive.

Now, she’s a shell of herself. She has a blister on her finger from her rifle that she thinks will never heal, and internal scars that will heal even slower. How does she even begin to get used to the idea that her life isn’t in danger?

As if reading her mind, George scoffs. “You’ve never had a problem fitting in anywhere, Jo. Now you just have better stories to tell.”

“I know you have to leave, but I don’t want you to.” She blurts.

There’s a flash of surprise in his eyes. “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He squeezes her hand. “I’ve never lied to you.”

She rolls her eyes, and he looks triumphant at making her laugh. “That’s a lie right there.”

He grins. “Okay, maybe a tiny white lie when I first met you.” His gaze softens. “I wouldn’t lie about this, though.”

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you, George Luz.”

“It’s always been the other way around, Josephine.” He responds quickly, more serious than she’s ever seen him.

.

.

In the morning, Margaret watches as George loads his bag into the back of a cab idling on the curb.

“Two weeks.” He promises, looking at Jo. “You can’t get rid of me for too long.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She answers, arms crossed over her chest as if her heart would leap out and follow him into that cab if it could.

“Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am.” George says quietly.

“You took care of her when I couldn’t.” Her answer is simple. He goes a little red around the ears, but nods.

“She took care of herself, and me.” He says. “But I would have protected her with my life if it came to that. Still would.”

Jo looks uncomfortable that her mother and her-- George are having a quiet conversation she can’t hear, but Margaret can already see the light returning to her daughters eyes. Something was made clear the night before between the two of them.

“We’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Yes,” George agrees. “Take care.”

When he turns back to Jo, his entire body shifts. He stands closer, his shoulders relax, and his right hand reaches for her as if out of instinct before he remembers where he is.

“Two weeks.” He reminds her. “A smile would be great here, Jo, come on.” He chides, a laugh slipping out unbidden.

“Okay, I think I’m ready for you to go.” She says, smirking.

“Josephine. That one hurt.” He says dramatically, but he’s grinning, the biggest smiles Margaret has seen out of either of these two in the last 24 hours.

When he’s gone, Jo and Margaret watch until the cab is out of sight.

“Some tea, dear.” Margaret says, pulling her daughter close by looping their arms together. “You have much more to tell me about him.” She says with a wink.

Jo smiles as they begin to walk. “He was cracking jokes from the first minute we met in Toccoa…”

Jo’s voice trails off as she gets inside, and she finally feels that she’s beginning to find herself again.

[flowerfan2]

Hello all!  This chapter includes some mild physical h/c (in addition to all of the emotional h/c I’ve been throwing at you).  Enjoy!

David x Patrick, A03, 25k total

Chapter 8

Patrick wakes up and for a moment he’s confused – is he late for work?  Did he forget to set his alarm?  He reaches out an arm to find his phone and bumps into David, who grumbles sleepily and flops over, snagging the hem of Patrick’s t-shirt in his hand.

Patrick’s heart races, and it’s all he can do not to break out into delighted laughter.  It’s just a random Thursday morning, except by some miracle, David Rose has come back into his life.

He settles back down, adjusting the blanket over them and letting David nuzzle into the crook of his neck.  David’s arm is curled over Patrick’s chest, and Patrick takes his hand and plays with his fingers.

Patrick noticed right away, back in the airport, that David wasn’t wearing a single ring.  Not his old silver ones, and not his gold engagement rings. Nothing new, either.

Neither of them has mentioned it, although Patrick feels certain David has noticed him noticing their absence.  David’s rings featured prominently in the story of their relationship.  Patrick is still proud of himself for finding David gold engagement rings that matched his beloved silver ones.  At the time Patrick felt like it was a sign that he knew what he was doing, proposing to a uniquely wonderful man with a uniquely perfect set of rings.

It feels wrong that David’s fingers are bare.  He wonders if David has found a new habit to stem his nerves, now that sliding his rings from one finger to the other isn’t available.

As if aware of Patrick’s scrutiny David stirs again, blinking his eyes open to look at Patrick.

“Hi,” Patrick says softly, unable to help the smile that stretches his cheeks.  “Good morning.”

David smiles back for a moment, his face open.  “Good morning.”  His eyes slide closed again, and he snuggles closer to Patrick.  Patrick lets his hand rest on David’s shoulder, his thumb moving slowly up and down.  “What time is it?” David finally mutters, opening his eyes again.

“Almost nine.”

David flops over on his back and frowns.  “That late?”

“Yup.  You want to go run, don’t you?”  Patrick asks.  He’s realized even in this short time with David that it is almost like a compulsion for him now, the urge to go running first thing in the morning.  Patrick isn’t going to get in the way.  He leans in and presses a quick kiss to David’s nose, making him wrinkle it in response.  “Go ahead.  I’ll have the coffee ready when you get back.”

David pushes himself up on an elbow, considers Patrick’s words, and then nods.  “Okay.  Thanks.”  David rolls out of bed and heads off to get dressed.  A few minutes later Patrick is still in bed when David appears, ready for his run in a long sleeved black athletic shirt and silky short shorts, defined thigh muscles on full display.

“See you soon,” David says, a hint of shyness in his voice.   He leans down and kisses Patrick, not caring about the fact that Patrick still hasn’t brushed his teeth, and Patrick cups David’s cheek with his hand and returns the kiss.

“See you soon.”

Patrick forces himself out of bed after David leaves, figuring that he might as well make himself presentable as well as see what he can scrounge up for breakfast.  His ribs are still twinging, but they’re definitely getting better.  The bruises on his face are fading more and more each day.  Progress is being made, and Patrick thinks it’s not just physical.

He’s been happier this week than he’s been in a long time, and the reason is obvious.  Patrick hopes that David is feeling the same way.  Even though they’re still awkward with each other, still learning about how they have both changed, it feels like each painful revelation has the potential to bring them closer.

Patrick’s in the kitchen, getting the coffee going, when his phone pings with a text.  He lets out a soft groan when he sees that it’s from Stevie.  She has messaged him repeatedly over the past few days, and Patrick hasn’t responded.

<i>Stop avoiding me, Patrick.  I can’t get in touch with David, either.  Coincidence?</i>

Stevie is too smart for her own good, Patrick thinks.  He writes back, figuring that now, while David is out, is as good a time to do this as he’s likely to get.  

<i>I’m not avoiding you.  And it’s not exactly a coincidence.</i>

<i>So you’re saying that you know why David’s got his out of office message on?</i>

<i>He’s taking the week off.</i>

<i>And you are privy to this because…?</i>

Patrick sighs, and bites the bullet.  <i>He’s with me.  Don’t throw a fit.</i>

His phone rings, and Patrick answers it, ready for a lecture.  

“If you planned this without telling me, I’m going to be pissed,” Stevie says, but her voice doesn’t sound even the least bit angry.

“I didn’t plan it – are you serious?  You know how things have been.”  Until recently Patrick’s plans haven’t been any more ambitious than eat and sleep.

“Then…?”

“We ran into each other at the airport, when I was on my way to my parents’ place in Florida.  We… talked things out.  And then he asked if he could come with me, and so now he’s here.  With me.”

“You ran into each other at the airport?”

“Yup.”

“And he changed his plans, to stay with you, just like that?”

“Yes.”

“That’s some rom-com level stuff.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Patrick waits, biting his lip.

“Okay, just… be careful.”

“I will,” Patrick says automatically, despite the fact that he thinks he’s never been less careful in his life than he’s been this week.  “Thanks for not being mad.”

There’s a pause, and then Stevie speaks, a rare bit of sincerity in her voice.  “Don’t sound so surprised.  I know how much you’ve missed him.”

“I really have,” Patrick admits.

“Are you guys back together?”

Patrick thinks about David’s sleep-mussed hair, and soft kisses flavored with toothpaste.  “Yeah, we are.”

“Well, if that’s what’s going to make you happy, I’m not going to yell at you for it.  And as much as it pains me to say it, I still want the best for him, too, and you are definitely good for him.”

Stevie doesn’t say <i>too good for him,</i> although from the tone of her voice it may be a close thing.

“Thanks, Stevie.”  Patrick hears the door open, and startles, surprised.  David’s only been gone half an hour or so.  He promises Stevie he won’t ignore her any more, and puts down his phone.  When he looks up, David is limping into the house, one arm clutching the other.  One leg is streaked with blood.

Patrick feels his chest tighten as he rushes towards him.  “David…” Patrick grabs David’s shoulders and scans up and down his body.  There’s dirt and grass down one side of his arm, and both knees are scraped, bright red and angry.

David is trembling, and it sends a mirroring shiver through Patrick.  He steps closer, one hand reaching to hold David’s head as he catches his eyes.  “David.  What happened?”

“I’m fine, a car just came too close and-”

David’s knees buckle, and Patrick pulls him tight again his body.  “It’s all right, I’ve got you.”  Forcing himself to keep breathing, he shuffles them over to the couch.  David practically falls onto it, Patrick’s arms the only things keeping him upright.

He runs his hands up and down David’s arms, careful not to press too hard.  David’s still trembling, clutching one elbow, and leaning hard into Patrick’s side.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Patrick says, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice.  “You’re okay.  You, um, you didn’t get <i>hit</i> by the car, right?”  He can’t believe he’s asking this question, David can’t possibly have been hit by a car, he could have internal bleeding, he could die -

“I don’t think so,” David whispers against Patrick’s neck.  “No.”

Patrick doesn’t much care for this answer, but David seems so shaken he’s not sure he’ll get anything clearer out of him right now.  He strokes up and down David’s back, keeping him close while he slowly catches his breath.  He feels rather than hears David swallow tightly, and realizes his own mouth is dry as well.  “David, can you stay here a minute while I get you something to drink?”

At David’s nod, Patrick goes to the kitchen and grabs a brightly colored sports drink out of the refrigerator.  He twists open the cap and gives it to David, who takes a few long gulps, then makes a face.

“This tastes horrible.”  David frowns at the fluorescent green beverage.

“You bought it.”

David blinks at Patrick, and lets out a shaky laugh.  “Oh my god, what is going on?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”  Patrick looks down at David’s knees and the blood drying on his shin.  “That looks like it hurts.  What happened?”

David purses his lips and then stands up. He appraises the room, as if for appropriate props, and then places himself next to the kitchen island.  Patrick stifles a smile – even in the midst of his stress, David can’t help but put on a show.

“I was running down the road, the one past the gate, that goes by the pond with the bridge?  Going against traffic, like you’re supposed to.”  

“Okay.”

“Then this car zooms around the corner,” he gestures to the end of the kitchen island, “going really fast, like he’s in the senior citizen Grand Prix.  And he came right at me, so I sort of  - threw myself out of the way.”  David indicates what he means with a swing of his arms.  “But I think my foot got caught on the curb or something, and I hit the ground.”  He stills, looking lost.

Patrick rises and puts his arms around David’s waist.  “That sounds scary.”

David nods.  “I could feel the wind the car made, you know?  I think it was really close.”  He sucks in a breath.  “He didn’t even stop.”

“Asshole,” Patrick says, spreading his fingers out over David’s lower back, feeling the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Yeah.”  David rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder.  “And now my knees really hurt.”

Patrick lifts a hand and gently threads his fingers through David’s hair.  It’s a little tacky with yesterday’s product, but doesn’t seem to be hiding any horrible head injuries.  “You’re sure you didn’t hit your head, right?”  He hates to ask, but if there’s a chance David has a concussion, they need to know.

“No, just my knees and my elbow.  Horrifyingly, I think there’s gravel stuck inside my skin.”

“That’s going to have to be cleaned out.”

“Ugh, I know.”  David sighs.  “Give me a little while to take a shower and deal with my wounds, and then we can go on your trip into town.”

Patrick runs through possible responses in his head.  It would be easiest to just say okay, and let David go about his morning as if nothing happened.  But as much as he’s trying to be calm for David, he’s got a lot of adrenaline running through him.  It’s terrifying to think about David getting hurt, even if it turned out to be only scrapes and bruises.  The look on David’s face when he came in the door is still haunting Patrick, and it’s only through sheer force of will that he isn’t the one needing to be comforted.

He’s not ready to let go of David just yet.  And although David is putting on a brave face, he thinks David is still shaken up too.  Besides, cleaning out those scrapes is going to be a bitch.

“Want some company in the shower, before we clean up your knees?”  

David levels a searching look at him, Patrick’s hair still damp from his own shower, and Patrick knows David can tell that he was scared, too.  “Yeah.  Yes.  That would be good.”

In the bathroom they both strip down wordlessly and get under the spray, arms around each other.  Patrick studiously avoids ogling David, keeping his eyes at chest level and above.  It’s mildly ridiculous, given all the time they have spent naked together in the past, but he doesn’t think now is the time for more.

There’s not much cleaning going on at first, both of them awkward as hell, but finally Patrick lathers up David’s hair, and David leans his head back against Patrick’s shoulder, humming his pleasure at the feeling of his fingers against his scalp.

“I’m really okay,” David whispers.  “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Patrick replies.  He rinses David’s hair, careful not to get any soap in his eyes.  David relaxes against him, and Patrick takes his time, smoothing his fingers over his forehead.  “You know, we could still go to the doctor, if you think there’s any chance you hit your head, or if you just want to be sure…”

“Go to the doctor and tell them I <i>didn’t</i> get hit by a car?  I’m not sure my insurance will cover it.”  David rolls his head up to look at Patrick, blinking away the shower spray.  “But if you need me to, I will.”

“You’ll let me know if you start to feel worse, a headache or dizziness or anything?  If it might be a concussion?”

“I will.  But I’m going to be fine.”  

Patrick lets out a slightly panicked laugh, and David joins in.  He can feel his body relax, the need to hold David against him no longer as urgent.  He hands David a loofah and gives him some space to soap up.  

It’s not sexual, or at least not much, not even when David finishes rinsing off and turns back to Patrick, a smile skirting the edges of his face.  Patrick is grateful for David’s understanding, if that’s what it is, grateful that David has allowed them this space to be together, to find their footing again.  

He suddenly doesn’t want it to be entirely platonic, though, and he knows David is waiting for a cue from him.  So he reaches up and cups David’s cheek, pulling them close for a soft, tender kiss.  

He’s still not sure why he’s not ready for more.  He’s tried to imagine explaining it to David, but he comes up empty every time.  

This, though -  gentle touches and almost chaste kisses, David’s eyes constantly finding his as they get out of the shower and dry off, this is so good it hurts.

Patrick is drawn back into reality when David limps out of the bathroom and returns in a pair of black boxer briefs and a sweatshirt (“It’s Neil Barrett,” Patrick can almost hear him say), the first aid kit from the hall closet in his hands.  “We better get this over with before I chicken out.”

Patrick forces himself to look at David’s knees, and then back up at David.  “Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath.  “How do you want to do this?”

David pokes through the box of supplies and takes out a tweezers and some antibiotic ointment.  “Can you, um, check to see if the dirt is all out?”  

“Yeah.  But let’s get out of here, we need more space.”

Patrick gets dressed quickly in jeans and a t-shirt and then washes his hands while David spreads a towel out on the bed in the guest room. David perches on the edge of the bed, knees bent, and Patrick sits on a desk chair and shines a flashlight on David’s knees.

“I think the shower cleaned it out pretty well,” Patrick says, shining the light this way and that, firmly refusing to think about how the shallow scrapes on David’s skin could have been so much worse.  “I’ll just check, okay?”

David leans over, trying to look too, and bumps his head into Patrick’s.  “Sorry.  I don’t like the idea of pieces of the road stuck in there,” David says, waving his hand at himself.  “Do what you need to do.”

Patrick takes a piece of gauze from the first aid kit and presses at the side of the scrapes.  In response David hisses and grabs at Patrick’s shoulder, but Patrick continues, using the tweezer to check the scrapes, and eventually to remove one tiny piece of debris.  David has his free hand covering his eyes, peeking around every few seconds.  It’s kind of cute, although Patrick won’t say it.

When he is satisfied that the wounds are clean, he squeezes some ointment out onto his fingers and gently dabs it on.  He sticks a few large bandages over the worst of it.  Even if it will be difficult to keep the bandages on over David’s knees, it will give him a bit of extra protection for the time being.  

Sitting back, he looks up at David, who takes his hand away from his eyes and gives Patrick a sideways smile.  “Thanks,” David says, and Patrick nods.

“No problem.”  

David stands, frowning at the way the bandaids on his knees wrinkle, and starts to straighten up the bed.  Patrick repacks the first aid kit and puts it away in the closet, glancing at the clock in the kitchen.  It’s after eleven, and it will take a good twenty-five minutes to get to the restaurant he has in mind.

Worse than that, he realizes, it has started to rain.  Patrick opens the door to the lanai and looks out at the sky, which is dark with clouds in every direction.

“Not a great day for our trip, is it?”  David asks, coming up to stand beside him.  “Any good pizza deliveries around here?  I could google it, see if there’s a Little Caesars or something.”

Frustration wells up inside him, and he turns away, pressing a hand to his face.

“Patrick?  What’s wrong?  Since when don’t you like pizza?”

“I made you come down here, and all you’ve seen the whole week has been the inside of this house.”  

“And the Publix,” David says.  

Patrick knows David’s trying to turn the conversation around, keep it light, but Patrick can’t meet him there.  He knows this suburban town isn���t what David is used to when it comes to vacations, but he had hoped to take him somewhere special, to show him a good time, as it were, maybe make some better memories… Patrick shakes his head.  “We haven’t gone anywhere, you’ve just been babysitting me and soon you’ll have to leave and…”  <i>Get it together, Brewer,</i> he thinks to himself.  <i>This is not attractive.</i>

He glances up to see David struggling not to smile.

“What?  There are some places worth seeing, the beaches, and an art museum-”

The doorbell rings and David’s mouth twitches.  “Hold that thought.”  David darts in front of him to get the door, despite the fact that he’s still hasn’t put pants on, and brings in a large package.  Patrick is surprised to see that it’s addressed to David, with an RMG return address.  

David sets it on the coffee table.  “Do you have a scissors anywhere?”

Patrick finds one in the office and gives it to David, who delicately slices through the tape on the box, using just the tip of the scissors.

“Okay, I’m definitely curious,” Patrick says.  He’s not sure why David has to open the box right now, but he seems intent on it, so Patrick tries to settle down and follow along.

David lifts out a piece of plastic bubble wrap and nods approvingly.  “Looks like Rory paid attention to my instructions.”

“Rory?”

“My assistant,” David says, taking out yet another protective layer of wrapping.

“David, what’s in there?”

David flicks his eyes up to Patrick’s and then back to the box, looking cautiously smug.  “A very carefully curated selection of items from my warm weather wardrobe, including my favorite summer weight sweaters.”  David pushes some of the contents aside, poking around.  “I asked for a bathing suit, too, although that’s not as hard to replace.  I hope he found the pants I asked for, without them the Givenchy top isn’t quite right.”

Patrick stares at David, hope blossoming in his chest.  He assumed that David was heading back to Toronto after his week of vacation was up, and he hasn’t had the courage to ask about it.  He doesn’t know why David would stay longer, unless he’s as crazy as Patrick feels right now.  But why else would David want his summer clothes?

David has pulled a pair of black capri pants out of the box, holding them up against himself to smooth out a wrinkle, and Patrick finally spits out the words.

“David, does this mean you’re staying?”

David cocks his head at Patrick, setting the pants back in the box.  “Would you like me to?” David says, a hint of shyness in his voice.  

“Yes.  Yes, I – yes.”  Patrick surges forward and captures David’s lips in a kiss.  David returns it, gently, just as he has most of their kisses recently, but it’s not enough for Patrick this time.  He opens his mouth and deepens the kiss, his hands grasping at David’s hips and pulling him close.  David responds with a little gasp of surprise, and Patrick feels his whole body light up.

“David,” Patrick leans his head on David’s shoulder, not even sure what he’s trying to say.  “I’m…”

David pulls back to catch his eyes, his expression so fond that it opens up something inside of Patrick, a rush of warmth throughout his body.

“What, honey?”

Patrick beams.  He can feel his smile stretching his cheeks, and suddenly the words are there.  “I’m so happy.  I feel like my happiness muscles are waking up.”  

David gives a sideways smile, his eyes flashing.  “Is that a thing?”

Patrick laughs.  “I don’t know.  I sound insane, I know, it’s just -- all this week I’ve felt so good, not all the time, but more and more, and everything keeps getting-”  He struggles to describe it, holding David’s elbows and drinking him in.  “Clearer.  Brighter.”  

David ducks his head down, but Patrick can see the smile he’s trying to hide.  Maybe David is feeling it too, feeling the joy of just being together.  Maybe that’s why he’s offering to spend some more time with Patrick in this boring town with its cookie cutter houses and unseasonable weather.

“You can really stay?” Patrick asks, wanting to hear it again.  “What about work?”

“I’ll work remotely.  It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

David blinks and meets Patrick’s gaze, his eyes soft.  “Easiest decision of my life.”

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

I Am Lost

Masterlist

do i still taste like war?

can you still feel the battles on my skin

stitched across my back

am i still rebuilding

bone by fragile bone?

-what does forgiveness taste like? (r.n.)

It has been three weeks since the end of the Giant war. Three weeks of trying to build some semblance of normal. Of burning flags and wiping tears. Of visiting the medical rooms and silently cursing the gods for their arrogance. Campers wandered around, lost dulled looks in their once bright eyes. The little ones, sheltered by wood nymphs and aging satyrs in that violent week, ran around tugging at each other, and causing small forms of chaos. It was a grace that they had been spared the horrors of war.

Percy Jackson was swinging from the hammock in his cabin, staring at the rolling waves that crashed to the beat of his heart. His mind was faraway, wandering through the clouds, looking for meaning amongst fallen leaves, trying to breathe life into fallen embers.

He thought about seeking out his girlfriend, but a knot formed tight and heavy in his chest. It was a new, unwelcome feeling. The first time he thought it was nerves— not surprising when it came to her. She had always made him a little gooey on the inside, like the thrill of a plunging drop, like something exciting, and unfamiliar. But then he had met her in front of the great hall and those nerves had grown into this unbearable weight, pressing down on his lungs.

She had looked at him and some fleeting shadow brushed past her eyes. It was less than a second, but he had caught it, felt it like ice in his veins. Fear.

He shrugged it off that first time but their interactions since had become choppy, robotic.

He spent more time between his cabin and the training room. Hours upon hours, twirling and stabbing Riptide into dummies. He had only been interrupted twice. Once when a gaggle of children came in to stare. He only noticed because they clapped after he sent a dummy flying across the room.

He had laughed at them and brought them closer so they could learn. Camp activities were not yet restored to the scheduled times so some of the children hadn't any training with the weapons. They gasped and giggled as he helped a little boy shoot a pretend arrow. As he helped little Alec with their wooden dagger.

The second time when a friend had leaned against the doorway, a corded arm held above their face to block the sun streaming in.

"Percy," The voice was low, raspy in it's softness.

He let it wash over him but didn't acknowledge it, instead rolling his shoulders and pounding at the punching bag once more. Sweat dripped down his forehead, catching on his cheekbones.

"Percy!"

He dropped his head back, letting the timbered roof see his smile.

"Need something Grace?"

"You need to take a break."

"I'm not tired. But thank you for the concern."

"Bullshit, you've been at it for two hours."

That startled him, eyes squinting as he checked the clock on the far side of the room. His gaze travelled across the beams and landed on concerned blue eyes.

"I didn't realize it had been that long."

The blonde moved into the room, "You are killing yourself."

He shrugged, pulling off the tape around his hands, "So what?"

Jason's eyes whipped to his, something like devastation on his princely face, "What do you mean?"

His smile was cruel, "Did you come here for any particular reason?"

The blonde made to step forward, but then thought better of it. "I've just come to tell you that we've been summoned to the dining hall and—" He paused, taking a deep breath as if to gather courage, "And to ask if I could join you tomorrow?"

"Here?" He frowned.

"Yes, I could do with some training. Ever since Hera wiped my memories, I've been struggling to refamiliarise myself with the strategies I learnt at SPQR. I was hoping you could teach me?"

He tilted his head, studying his friend, "Sure." He said after a moment, "But only if we can learn a little more about combining our power."

"Why would you want to do that?"

He shrugged, "Call it curiosity."

The Son of Jupiter seemed to think about it for a bit, weighing his options as if life were a sensitive scale. "Deal."

Now he swung from his hammock, striking match sticks against the wood posts, watching as they flared, burned, suffocated. The smoke, he thought, was pretty in its evanesce.

A knock at the door scraped his mind to the present. He debated not answering but where else would he be if not here. So he jumped down and strolled through the cabin.

"Annabeth, hey."

"Percy," She gave a tight-lipped smile, "Can we go for a walk?"

"Uh sure," He disappeared for a moment, grabbing a cap and Riptide from the table.

"So what's up?"

"Percy," She said his name like it exhausted her.

"Are you okay?" He frowned, lifting his hand to feel her forehead.

She sidestepped him, kicking at the ground in false distraction.

"I— we—" She took a deep breath, "Piper and I are going to New Rome for the rest of the summer. Reyna invited us and since we're the only two who haven't gotten the chance to explore, we figured now was a good time to start."

"Oh cool, when do we leave?"

She winced, looked up at him with those swirling grey eyes he had loved like adventure, like hope, like something new.

"No Percy not we. Me and, and Piper. Just us. I think we need some rest. Some time to just be safe and do what we want. We need a break."

"You want a break?" His lungs felt too small, heart stammering like a stick record, mind buried in quicksand.

"Yes," She said it with certainty. As if she had thought about it enough to remove even her own doubt.

"From Camp Half-Blood or from me?"

Her face looked stricken, like she hadn't considered it, like they were one and the same. Maybe they were.

"Both?" She was less certain now, fumbling on loose stones.

"Do you want to break up?" Words were cotton threads sown into his tongue.

"Yes, no, maybe, I don't know!" She cried.

"Annabeth," Anguish was a mercy.

"I think it's best if we go our separate ways, for now anyway."

"What do you mean separate ways?" His throat was adorned with a necklace of rope, "We have been on the same path since we were twelve. We have followed each other into and out of battle. Have taken daggers, swords, curses for each other. We have experienced firsts, seconds, life together."

Her tears were endless, but her expression was without doubt, "I love you. I think a part of me will always love you, but times are changing, and I have to learn who I am without worrying about how to keep myself safe. I have to live Percy. I have been surviving for too long."

He sunk to the grassy hill; his knees too weak to hold him.

"Maybe someday," She started softly, "Maybe someday we will find our way back."

He looked up at her, pain making her blurry, a silhouette, unrecognisable. "I am not lost."

She crouched down, until they were staring into each other. He knew she could see the words written in his eyes, as she always had. For all they struggled with their dyslexia she had always been able to read him like a cherished book.

"I will miss you Percy."

He didn't reply, didn't have the words even if he wanted to. She kissed his cheek, wiped a stray tear and left him on half-blood hill, her blonde curls ruffling in the lowly breeze.

 ***

A week later Percy was waking before the sun, nightmares and heartache refusing to evict from his body. He scrubbed a hand over his face and slid out of bed. If the day was to start now, without his choice he could at least decide what to do with it.

It was no surprise then that Jason Grace found him in his newfound second home, amongst the ratty dummies, slashing Riptide through their stuffed insides.

"Do you ever sleep?"

He snorted, not faltering as he pretended to dodge and then swiped his sword low.

"Who are you fighting for?"

The questions caught him off guard, stumbling to his knees. Jason was at his side in an instance, supple fingers wrapping under his arms to haul him up. They settled on the bench, backs against the wall, hands flexing and clenching. The quiet was so loud in his head, like a ringing that never stopped.

"I am fighting for myself." He finally exhaled.

"I am fighting because I have been doing it for so long, I do not know any other way."

The Son of Jupiter didn't say anything, didn't even look his way. Percy settled further into his position, content to lapse into silence. His turmoil had been his friend for these long years, and he has learnt its language.

"When I was with Lupa," Jason started, "She used to say a wolf who is separated from the pack is only alone if they do not howl. Mostly it was a lesson for the cubs, so they knew to call if they ever got lost. But I liked it because it reminded me that telling someone you are lost may not make you less lost but will make you less alone. Someone will find their way to you."

They did not speak again, happy to be silent companions.

The day passed by in a blur of preparation. It was already halfway through the summer and as they did each year the Half-Blood Feast would mark the occasion. Percy helped where he could, picking strawberries at the request of Juniper, and pulling his weight in the dining hall by scrubbing at the concrete slabs on which they ate.

By the time night fell his bones were creaking like hollowed stairs. But he was excited. If for nothing else but the sense of routine and joy this festival brought after such horrible events. He tugged on a plain blue t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. It did not count as dressing up, but it felt nice to put effort into something. Albeit his hair couldn't be tamed, wild curls sticking every which way.

"Percy," A knock sounded at his door.

With a final glance at his appearance he stepped out, taking a deep breath of ocean air.

His heart skipped a beat, skipped two. It wasn't beating at all. Beating too fast to feel. Jason Grace was leaning against a marbled column, a halo of sunshine around his head and a blue shirt making his eyes as bright as the cerulean skies.

"We're matching!"

"The camp store does not have much variety." He grinned, "Although I think I'm pulling it off much better than you Grace."

It was a lie of course, Jason looked ethereal.

"I have to agree," The blonde winked.

Percy laughed, rolling his eyes as they made their way to the dining hall.

"A pity we can't sit together," Jason frowned.

"Maybe Chiron will make an exception today, since it is a special occasion."

"We can ask, the worst he can do is say no."

Minutes later they were seated at the same table while everyone gathered together.

The feast was as glorious as it had always been. Food to feed nations, fill homes, warm bellies. The sounds of laughter were a balm to his soul. He turned to his dinner partner, to see him with a soft smile on his face, eyes bouncing from table to table.

"It's nice isn't it?" He muttered, "To see them happy."

"I don't have the words." Blonde hair fell into his eyes as he shook his head. "It has felt like an eternity since we were all together, under the same roof."

They looked at each other then, twin flames dancing in their eyes.

"What do you plan to do after the summer?"

"I want to finish school. Want to finish something that doesn't involve in my death, or that of my friends."

Jason nodded, "It would be nice wouldn't it, to feel not constantly in danger. Although around you that may be a little hard."

"What do you mean?" Percy narrowed his eyes.

"If you were a Disney prince, you'd be Prince Danger."

"You think I could be a Disney prince?" He scrunched his nose teasingly.

"I think you can be a lot of things." That smile was cheeky, wicked.

"Is this the part where you say, 'I can even be your boyfriend'?"

Jason's answering laugh was bright and beautiful.

When dinner was finished and campfire songs had been sung till their throats were raw, the crowd finally dispersed, heading back to cabins for the night. He lost his dinner mate at some point in the singing and his other friends had long since disappeared. He didn't quite feel like tucking himself into a cold bed only for sleep to abandon him. The Son of Poseidon shucked off his shoes, stepping onto the sun-warmed sand and let his feet sink into the world. He walked towards the ocean, along the shoreline; let the water wash over his bared skin.

"Jackson!" A call sounded from faraway.

He stopped, turning to see Jason running towards him and couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.

"Hey, I wondered where you ran off to?"

"Got pulled away by Nico. He wanted to talk."

"It's nice. That he has you." Percy had been relieved to learn Nico confided in someone. And a part of him had been shamefully grateful it wasn't him. He did not know, was almost one hundred percent certain he wasn't fit to be someone's confidant, or mentor, or whatever it was that he would have become to the younger demigod. He had proved that the big brother role was not for him and he would not disappoint Nico again, or Bianca.

"So," Jason knocked his shoulder lightly, "What's got you lost in thought?"

"Bold of you to assume I think."

The blonde shook his head in amusement, "Do you ever wonder what our lives would have been like if we weren't demigods?"

He snorted, "More often than is healthy. It's like an obnoxious alarm that goes off at the most inconvenient times. When I'm in battle, just before I fall asleep, when I see my mom after an age, when I saw New Rome, when i—" He glanced at his friend, wishing the moon was brighter so he could see those comforting blue eyes.

"When you what?"

He shook his head, "Doesn't matter."

The Son of Jupiter tugged at his arm, pulled them closer.

"Sometimes I wish I had met certain people in a coffee shop on a winter morning, or at school on the way to class, or just anywhere but in the middle of war and prophecies."

Their foreheads fell together, sharing icy air.

"Wouldn't that have been nice?" He breathed.

"Jason I can't do this right now. I—" He winced, "I loved her."

"But did you?" The blonde muttered, "Really?"

"Yes. I did." His voice was hard with the truth. "You do not get to discredit my love just because the relationship it bloomed in has ended." He pulled away, turning to face the sea.

"You're right." He stepped back, scratched at his neck, "You're right, and I'm sorry."

"Did you ever love Piper?"

"I thought I did. But I don't think I really know what love is."

"Maybe it changes," The Son of Poseidon whispered, "But with her it was adventure."

They sat down on the sand, uncaring of the waves that soaked through their clothes.

"What do you want it to be like next?"

"What do you mean?"

"If it changes, what do you want next?"

"It will feel like home."

[heli0s-writes]

VII. Try Again

Summary: Reconciliation has arrived. And it hurts. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader A/N: Phew! I got one more chapter for ya and then we’ll be finished, my loves.

Slow Like Honey Masterpost

You watch Sam take off into the crowd and groan lightly at the way he almost resembles the road runner from those old Saturday morning cartoons, billowing dust clouds behind him and all. Steve clears his throat beside you and finally, you turn begrudgingly to regard him.

It’s been three weeks since the parking lot catastrophe, and almost two months since you’ve broken up. He stands now, blocking the sun, so that you’re eclipsed by the cool shade of his figure. It feels ominous, like a foreshadowing of how he might always be someone who takes the light but gives the shade. In this moment, you are both thankful and wary of the shade.

“Hey,” his voice is soft and careful. “I uh--- just wanted to say hi.”

“Yep, you said it.” You smile back, so that any passerby or watcher might interpret the look as one of warmth; no one is close enough to hear the stiff tone. But, to make polite conversation, since he did stalk you all this way, you ask, “Sarah with you?”

Steve points to the popsicle truck where Sarah bounces on her feet with Marnie holding onto her hand. There is a baseball cap on her head and a slight residue of pasty sunscreen on her arms that are quickly becoming ruddy in the sun.

It’s a little disappointing to see her like this, attached to her babysitter’s hip rather than her father’s. You’ve always wondered what the point of having a child was if parents don’t consistently spend time with them. It seems hypocritical that Steve and Peggy’s relationship fell apart because of her inability to spend time with Sarah—but here he is, too: not spending time with Sarah.

As if he could read your souring look, Steve shoves his hands in his pocket.

“I took your advice, you know.”

Your eyes flicker up to his as he kicks at a patch of vibrant green grass inattentively, “She’s been seeing a counselor... there’s-- as you said, lots of discussion. About the divorce. It’s getting better.”

A family comes up behind you to grab a piece of pie, so you and Steve find the right moment to move away from the front of the dessert table, taking your conversation away from possible eavesdropping ears. Chatter rises from the background, full of laughter and children's joyful shrieking. Popsicles shine in the daytime sun, sugary ice in dazzling and flamboyant hues, waving in the air as their owners run across the lawn. Colorful celebration flags flop noisily in the wind, adding their own percussion.

“And I… listened to the other thing you said, too.”

Sarah calls and waves to you from the line, pointing to the menu. You wave back with your best excited teacher face.

There’s no memory of that conversation sparking in your mind. You’re sure you’ve always thought so because he works so damn much—but can’t recall when it came up until your eyes begin to roam over the faded shirt stretched tightly over his chest. Speckled and gray, and perplexingly familiar. “What th—"

Suddenly the hazy sensation of your knees softly thumping against wood cabinets doors rushes into your mind. Soft grunts. A breathy laugh and low moans.

Oh.

Embarrassment creeps over your cheeks when you remember the last time you saw that shirt.

No, it wasn’t much of a conversation then, rather, more like a plead—a sigh passing your lips to encourage his hands as they slid over your body. The shirt, that Monday, had stayed on you for the rest of the day, even as Steve aligned his hips behind yours on the other side of the mirror.

You remember, too, its hem being rucked up when he took you back to bed again only a few hours later, sunlight pouring over you both and illuminating the thread-bare stipples of grey and white as he busied himself between your thighs. Steve couldn’t stop grinning each time he mentioned, “I really like this shirt on you,” even as his face was pressed into your lap.

The same grin graces his mouth now as you pull the brim of your hat down over your face once more. It’s a futile attempt to shield yourself from him and his knowing look, catching you in that burning memory.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I know this isn’t the best time...”

“Yeah, no kidding.” You hiss, but Sarah comes flying back with two popsicles in her hand, one melted orange drop splattering on your knee.

“Sorry!” She laughs before pushing it to Steve’s face, “Here you go, Daddy!!”

Then, she’s off again, tugging Marnie along as she finds Christine Parsons in the distance and jumps into her arms. It makes your heart hurt just a little, how easy it is for children to find solace in new caretakers. Even Sarah, whom you’ve grown so close to and spent personal time with, has seem to have forgotten all about you.

You can’t blame her, though, because it’s only the third week of class and all you think about every second of the day are your own twenty-four litter of students. Such is life in an elementary school. At least she’s not proclaiming her hatred for her teacher anymore.

But you watch Sarah dance around Christine now, tossing a beanbag in the air and catching it clumsily. In the small timespan of three weeks, she’s shot up another inch—growing so quickly from the already rapid change during the summer break. Her face has shifted slightly, elongating, nose becoming less round and taller, so many little details that add up to one seemingly giant transformation.

Yes. You understand Peggy Carter’s envy.

A bead of sweat trickles down your neck. Steve hands you the popsicle in his fist and you take it without thinking.

“I hired Sam after we--- you know, well…” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I realized my life needed some reupholstering. I had been too comfortable—falling into complacency, when I should have been paying more attention to the things that really matter.” His mouth turns into a forlorn crescent.

You glare, turning side to side, catching the eyes of the crowd shifting all around looking at the conversation that seems too serious to be in the middle of a bustling school picnic. He really has no sense at all, you think. Big, dumb, man.

Big, dumb, stupid, man.

Steve, unaware because he’s a big, dumb, stupid man, sighs as if he’s holding the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. “You told me you loved me, do you remember?”

To your right, a mother stops midway while reaching for a cut of brownie and you can see her eyes widen briefly before she quickly grabs the fudge square and plops it on her plate. She shuffles a little further away, but still in earshot as she pretends to look for another dessert for her tray. You think about saying something, but your eyes glaze over, trying to find the particular memory he’s referencing, instead.

No. Nothing. A cold trail slips down your palm and you realize the popsicle in your hand is dripping orange all the way down to your wrist.

Steve produces a tissue from his pocket and begins dabbing the melted ice away.

“I got ya.”

Your uninvited and eavesdropping audience member opens her mouth in a small round shape. Her eyebrows slope together as she absently places her hand to her chest, as if saying “aw.” Steve is tenderly wiping the bright orange trickle from your skin before he motions from the popsicle to your chin.

“You gonna eat that?”

When you stand too shocked and frankly flabbergasted to respond, he takes the opportunity to grab it and stick it in his own mouth, crunching the ice between his teeth and sucking the stick dry. A drop of sugar water lands in his beard.

“Huh--” He muses, “Thas pretty good!”

Your teeth gnash together in an attempt to push your suddenly growing smile away. Your eyes slip shut, frustrated with him. What the fuck, you think. Why is he like this? A smile weasels its way onto your face, tugging the left side of your mouth upward into a lopsided grin before you bite it down.

The mom, now taking an inordinate about of time to get a plate of dessert, smiles too.

“Is that a yes?” Steve whispers, peering down into your eyes. “You remember?”

“No.” You respond. “You’re being annoying. And messy.”

“Really?” He laughs, “Is that the best you got?”

Now you are glaring, because no, you’ve got so much more. He seems to pick up the cue and puts his hands up defensively. Then, out of reflex, Steve wipes your hand one more time for good measure. “Sorry, shouldn’t push it. Hey...” his voice grows softer now, and he leans in until you’re both sure the mother who is – goddamn it, still there—can no longer hear.

“Please give me another chance. Please, sweetheart. I really do love you.”

“Steve,” You snap, “That’s not something you say lightly. And it’s not something you say when you’re desperate, either. I have to go, and you should too because your daughter needs to spend time with you and not her babysitter, don’t you think?”

A sad smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah,” he admits, “Yeah. That’s why I hired Sam. He’s really good, you know? I wanted to show him the ropes around our fundraising events, but he’s been at the shop for almost a month now.”

It makes you pause.

“I’ve started taking off on the weekends. Come in just a few times—Wednesdays, for inventory. Fridays to prep for the Sunday rush. This is the first time I’ve called Marnie in almost a week.”

He looks so proud of himself, but he tucks his chin to his chest and regards you with shy eyes like a student waiting for a prize. Even his hands are inside his pockets again and he rocks back and forth on his heels, teeth tugging his heavy bottom lip gently. Big blue eyes. Stupid pretty eyelashes. Steven Grant Rogers knows exactly what he’s doing.

You begin to dig around in your purse in retaliation. Your fingers touch the edge of your phone—no, that’s not what you want. So, you continue to search as he waits.

Truly, you’re very proud of him-- beyond thrilled that he’s taken your advice to heart and has put Sarah first. Over at a game of cornhole, she cheers and claps when her teacher makes a beanbag in. Three weeks ago, that little girl was falling apart and cursing all of second grade.

The idea of him, finally not waking up at three in the morning and working until he literally drops seventeen hours later sweeps over your chest like a soothing current. You remember how exhausted he always was when you’d see him—and it was only summertime. His workload doubled with Sarah during the schoolyear. You remember coming over for spaghetti, and him, about to burst into tears while rolling meatballs.

It makes you relieved to know he would finally be taking care of not just his daughter, but himself as well.

Yes, you’re very proud of him.

Your fingers finally catch what you've been searching for. Slowly, with a ruinous smile, you peel off the points from the thin sheet of plastic and take it out of your purse.

“Congratulations, Steven,” you announce, sticking a quarter-sized and iridescent gold star over his chest. You hold up two thumbs and push them under his nose. “A-plus. Would you like a high-five, too?”

No, you’re not going to let him get away with his shit so easily.

Down the table, three more women have congregated, and they clap and cheer when Steve chuckles and leans his head back in mock defeat.

--

It’s four-thirty and you are slathering aloe vera on your shoulders when a knock pounds at your door. “No!” You yell, “Go away, Steve!”

You avoided him for the rest of the PTA Picnic, mingling with parents and your colleagues instead, but every time you would accidentally find his eyes over the yard, he’d smile at you. A few times, he actually waved. The star sticker, meant to be an insult, he wore as a badge of honor.

Big. Dumb. Stupid. Man.

Eventually, it got to the point where other people (other, other people, not just the eavesdropping mothers) noticed too. After the third person of the day asked if you were seeing Steve Rogers, you excused yourself and went home to nurse your growing sunburns.

“C’mon, hon!” Steve calls from the door, exceedingly pathetic.

“Fuck off!” Even though a laugh might escape.

“Sarah’s here!”

You yelp, because the f-bomb is fine and dandy, but not to her ears. When you yank the door open, wet glistening shoulders and all, ready to apologize... there’s no one there but Steve and two dozen roses freckled with baby’s breath and pearly wax flowers. Your arms cross and you think you might put your fist right through that outrageous arrangement. “Are you serious?”

Steve peeks over the massive amount of deep red and a river of words tumbles out.

“Yeah, Sam was positive that he clocked a flowers-and-chocolate girl from meeting you just one time and wouldn’t let me go without these. Figured it couldn’t hurt... but I got you something else...” He pulls a brown paper bag from behind his back and dangles it one-strapped from his pointer finger.

Two loaves of banana bread sit sandwiched next to each other inside- not even wrapped, just embedded in crinkled confetti-colored butcher paper. On top, a similarly colored scrap has scrawled in rushed and sloppy all-caps handwriting: UNLIMITED BANANA BREAD-- CAP&CO!

“You’re such an idiot.” You berate.

“I know!” Steve cries, “I know! I know! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, please let me come in so I can talk to you. God, please? Even if it’s just so you can yell at me some more?”

“I am not yelling at you.” You retort, but let him in, anyway. “You’ll know when I’m yelling.”

Steve sits cautiously on the couch, places your gifts on the coffee table, and then looks around curiously. Things are a little different since he’s been here last. There are more plants, and you’ve gotten a little square bookshelf positioned in the corner of the room by the T.V. The kitchen even hangs a few wooden panels with abstract strokes and your corkboard of polaroid photos has been changed out for small doodles and tiny watercolor pieces.

He realizes, as he peeks over into the dining room, that you’ve been painting in his absence. Each picture is more refined than the last, as if you’ve been practicing. His little hobby that he pressed upon you hastily, you’ve taken to heart and improved on, even though he’s been gone.

It probably hurt so bad, he thinks, to have those paints in your house, to be reminded of him. Steve shuts his eyes and counts to ten. He doesn’t deserve you, but he wants you. He wants you so much.

“So?” You ask, brow furrowed on the sofa chair to his right. Now that he’s physically inside your apartment, the mood has changed considerably. The snarky banter in public and goading at the door has transformed into solemn and dead air. You don’t know what he might say, and even worse, you don’t know what it is you’ll do in return.

It’s easy. So easy to care for him. So easy to fall back into that routine of being with Steve Rogers.

But he’s shown you that he finds it easy to return to Peggy, too. And you— the easiest one of them all, will just forgive him for it? Your breath sticks to your lungs and refuses to come out. If you could go back to that day in bed and have pleaded with him not to pick up the phone, you probably would.

No, that’s too simple. It’s childish, and naïve, too.

“I’m sorry.” Steve finally speaks into the silence of your living room. His hands are folded over his knees, and he is looking at you like he is trying to bury those words inside your body. He calls your name. “Baby, I am so sorry. I am so goddamn sorry.”

It hurts. It hurts all over, but you won’t let him see you cry. “Okay.” You reply tepidly. Sorry isn’t enough.

“The truth is, I made a mistake. A really big mistake, and what’s worse is, I was too scared to admit it. I could think up of a million reasons why —about Peggy, or Sarah… It’s… so hard.” Steve puts his head in his hands, “The hard thing is that I have always been… stubborn. I was stubborn enough to move Sarah here by myself. I was stubborn to think that I could raise her on my own. Obviously, I couldn’t; I was falling apart, working too much, didn’t know how to talk to my daughter… and hadn’t spoken to Peggy in months. God, I hated being away from Sarah.  And when an easy road made its presence known to me— I went right for it.”

You want to focus on his words, because you know he means them, but a part of you begins to disengage to ease your own suffering.

“You got caught right up in the middle of it.” Steve whispers, choked on his sentences. “I wanted to badly to make my family work again, I didn’t realize that family doesn’t need to mean… what I think it means. It can be anything. And love can be anything.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Steve?”

The both of you are in tears now. Your breath comes out in short and sharp puffs as you try to contain the pooling wells of your eyes. Steve’s own face is flushed pink, as wipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm.

“Honey,” he stutters, “I love you. I love you so much. I know your love and it’s wonderful.”

“Y-you didn’t even c-call— I’m not— I’m not a fucking back up plan, Steve!”

He rushes off the couch in a fumble of noisy limbs and falls to your feet on his knees. You retreat into the cushion of the sofa chair, legs drawn and wrap your arms around yourself. Instinctively, you want to be protected from the hurt-- from him. You’re a jumble of wracked sobs and groans as your head begins to pound.

“I know you’re not.” His arms wrap around yours, digging behind your back as he shifts to move onto the seat as well. You’re an absolute mess, completely shattered into pieces in his embrace, jaw clenched and frozen as your eyes leak all the way down to your neck.

Steve holds on tighter, buries his head into your neck where droplets run down your shoulder and onto your back. He rubs your spine gently, shushing your cries.

He feels so warm and good to lean into. And in this moment of weakness and sadness, all you want is that warmth again, just for a single minute— even if it’s foolish.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was afraid and stupid. I thought it would be easier to go back to something I had already known, but I know now that being with you is what I really want. Your love is a wonderful thing. I’m so sorry I ruined it.”

He says it into the top of your head, his warm breath washing over you with each exhale. Steve pulls you to his chest and you can hear his heart hammering in his ribcage. Your own is near identical to his, deafeningly loud in the quiet rest of the apartment. His hands rub up and down your arms.

“Could you love me again?” He asks softly. “Could you try? I won’t let you down this time... I swear.”

His words are sweet like the very honey he stirs into his recipes. They slide down his tongue and out his mouth and soak you in their sticky, syrupy promise. You pull away and look into his eyes, red and blue, glassy and crawling with veins. He wipes a tear from your cheek, and you do the same to him.

Everything is fuzzy. You feel worn down and scattered about, pieces of you lost and trying to find each other.

The two of you sit there, looking at one another on the tiny sofa couch. Then, distractedly, you sniff.

“Where is Sarah?”

Steve erupts into a sharp, wet, laugh before he inhales and blinks his tears away, “God, I thought you were going to headbutt me.” He admits.

“She’s with Marnie at a movie. I asked her to give me an hour and a half before dinner. Time’s almost up.” When you hum softly, he takes the opportunity to press his nose against yours. When you sigh, he does it again before sliding his lips over your mouth.

“I love you.” He whispers against your cheek. One then the other, he places kisses over your face. “I love you.” Your tongue sits swollen in your mouth, unable to find the right words for this moment. “I’d never say it if I didn’t mean it.”

You feel both heavy and weightless, wavering between acceptance and denial. “I--I don’t know, Steve.” You whisper.

“Let’s try again, baby,” he pleads, trailing his lips over your jaw, the two of you scrunched up like pretzels, legs entwined, arms linked and gripped tight.

It’s obvious why clichés like breakup sex and secret relationships are exciting. The aspect of having a potentially glorious thing one last time is a thrill. This, too-- this apologetic, tender, intimacy-- is thrilling. Steve Rogers, torn open and laid bare for you, waiting for you, pleading for you, makes your stomach flip and sink.

He smells like sandalwood and pine. Clean shampoo and summer sun. You try to swallow the deadened weight of your tongue away, but it only grows larger.

Finally, you sigh, wipe your face one last time, and wipe his eyes too. With a crooked smile, you say, “Let’s go get Sarah.”

--

The car ride to Steve’s house is as quiet as a funeral. Your radio remains off the whole time and your brain is wiped completely blank by sheer emotional exhaustion. Any time a thought of whether you’ve done the right or wrong thing arises, it turns into snowy static and disappears. Maybe you’re a saint. Or an idiot. Maybe idiots can also be saints, and maybe that’s what you are.

What you really want is to stop feeling so much. The ache has subsided but its now replaced by unease laced with a steady drumbeat of something that resembles elation. You can’t help but feel excited again, because Steve is here. Steve is back. Steve has promised. And you hope he will deliver. Your chest thumps noisily and at light speed when you remember how happy he made you just a few months ago.

The reality of that approaching happiness resurrects itself inside of you, taking off on eagerly flapping wings.

Yet, the concerned part of you still stands planted on the earth, arrow raised and nocked, waiting to loose the bolt to shoot that bird down.

The two of them watch each other guardedly as they grow further and further apart.

 You turn off the engine and meet him on the sidewalk where he stands waiting patiently. Marnie’s car isn’t here yet, so he leads you inside by the hand and brings you a glass of water, observing you all the while.

“What?” You ask hoarsely after a big gulp.

He smiles—wide, blindingly white, reminiscent of the old wallpaper on your phone. “Just glad you’re here.” He says, suddenly shy.

“Yeah,” You reply sadly, “Me too. I think.”

Steve takes the glass from your hand and sets it on the countertop. “It’s okay.” He whispers, tugging lightly on your finger like a lost child, “It’s okay.”

A knock from the front door pulls your attention away and you can hear Sarah chattering on the other side. Marnie opens the door with her spare key and Sarah leads here in with a half-eaten bag of popcorn clutched to her chest. She does look so tall now, you think, and older with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and her jawline beginning to angle just slightly more like her father’s.

“Hi daddy!” She says in-between a crunching mouthful, and then pauses when she sees you behind her father. “Hi!!! Wow! Are you gonna stay for a sleepover? Daddy doesn’t work tomorrow! Can we go somewhere?”

She places the bag on the nearest counter and runs over to where you stand by the coffee table, jumping right up into your arms.

You stumble, because she’s even bigger than the last time she did it, and your life flashes before your eyes.

This time, because he was expecting it, Steve catches you against his chest and sets you right. Marnie smiles and waves goodbye from the doorway.

--

You wash dishes side-by-side in the kitchen after Steve tucks Sarah into bed at eight. She’s worn out from spending her day outside and running around so much that over dinner you watched her nearly doze off while eating her vegetables.

Steve had made dinner with fluffy brown rice and sautéed shrimp and lemon zest. On the side, he steamed summer squash and cut fresh slices of sweet peppers. Once more, you and Sarah set the dinner table and poured the drinks while he arranged the plates.

Dessert was simple: plump, blood red cherries from the farmer’s market. Sarah splashed burgundy over her shirt, and you dabbed some vinegar on it before rinsing it out for her in the restroom. Her nose had scrunched up at the smell and she pretended to barf until she actually dry heaved a little.

Huh. Second grade, you thought, as you backed away from her.

Patting the dishes dry, you stack them neatly into their respective cabinets before washing your own hands. Steve brushes a strand of your hair away from your face and leads you back to the couch where it’s safe: neither too forward nor too modest. Appropriate enough for two adults to talk while Sarah sleeps in her room with the door cracked.

Her bedtime playlist slips down the hall as a tinny, melodic voice. The lights are dimmed low, just enough for the two of you to see each other and not much else.

His hands sandwich yours and he places them in his lap. As he turns to look at you, the lamp behind his head illuminates his long hair, casting radiance all around him. Your breath quickens.

Big. Stupid. Beautiful. Man.

“You know what I thought the first time I met you?” He asks suddenly, a sly smile growing on his face. You frown. The hand on top of yours brushes over your knuckles, fingers rubbing back and forth slowly as he continues, “I thought—”

“I was too young.” You interject, rolling your eyes at the memory of his crass words at Open House.

“Yes.” He laughs. “I did think you were too young. Inexperienced. I had this idea of what a teacher should have been… But then—” he snickers again suddenly, clapping his hand over yours, “then you handed me your resume and flicked me off at the same time.”

You grin, because yeah, you remember that, too. It was a pretty audacious move on your part, but he had really pissed you off. “Is that what won you over?”

“Yeah. It really was. It was impressive—your resume, and your middle finger.”

“I didn’t like you very much when I met you.” You admit, “Didn’t like you … for a long time.”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart.” Steve chuckles, “You would literally run away from me. I had to chase you down with a plate of food-- with specially made banana bread! Jesus, that recipe was so hard.”

“Well, Steve Rogers,” You sigh, “Thank God I like you now.”

“Not God,” Steve corrects, “Thank Bucky. He really set me straight— twice.”

Steve told you once over a conversation all about Bucky and Natasha, the two old friends you briefly met in early June. Bucky was the one who had encouraged Steve to ask you in the first place. You remember replying how you’d have to thank him next time you see him for giving Steve the idea. Apparently, you’ll have to thank him again, too.

“He pretty much yelled at me for twenty minutes after… you know.”

“You deserved it.” You say.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, “I really did.”

Then, after a moment of silence, because both of you are unsure where to take this conversation next—too soon to apologize again and too soon to start acting like nothing is wrong again, Steve clears his throat.

“I talked to Peggy, after the airport.” He says carefully, as if the very mention of her name might make you burst into tears. You’re pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t, but again, it wasn’t her you had been upset with. So, you nod quietly and wait for him to continue.

“I think... we’re all on the same page.”

“Which page is that?”

“That you’re too good for me.”

It’s supposed to come out as a humorous thing, a thing you would laugh at and tell him the opposite. He even holds his breath in wait for the moment when your laugh would escape in a joyful exhale, but instead you glare. “I’m just a person.” You say grimly, and he doesn’t quite understand why the joke that was supposed to be funny has suddenly turned serious.

“I’m just a person. Not a substitute. Not a replacement guardian. Not an idea of a lover or mother or--”

“Woah!” And then the tears are falling down your face again and Steve’s chest feels like it might break open. “Honey, I don’t love you as anyone but yourself. I love you as the caring teacher. The… new painter?” He offers you a sweet smile, “The funny, beautiful, glorious, and gracious girlfriend…”

“My girlfriend?” He asks bashfully.

A small laugh escapes as you wipe your eyes, “Don’t forget I’m good in bed, too.” You tack on jokingly.

Steve puts his forehead in his hand, “Jeez, you gotta meet Bucky again. You two are two of a kind.”

He peeks at you between his fingers. A slow, tender gaze, full of affection and promise. Steve bites his bottom lip, looks at you with hooded eyes and takes a deep breath in. His tongue rubs against the edge of his teeth. “Can’t wait to spend time with just you.” He says in a single quick breath. “I want to make you feel better, baby.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “Don’t disappoint me, Rogers.”

The comment that is meant to be a joke flips on its head. Steve surges forward and tucks both arms under yours, pressing his chest to your chest, burying his face into your neck. “I won’t.” He murmurs, pained. His beard tickles when it scrapes against your skin, but his hot breath wicks it away.

“I won’t ever again.”

“Okay, Steve” You sigh, cheek resting on his head, “Okay.”

Last Chapter

[the1918]

Bespoke, Chapter 5 is taking me a stupid amount of time to finish, and I feel so bad about it that I’m going post post a teaser here :) This is about a quarter of the chapter. Hope you like it!

Teaser for Bespoke, Chapter 5

[Story No. 2 in the Compatibile A/B/O Universe]

Pairing: Shrunkyclunks (Cap Steve Rogers / Modern Bucky Barnes), of the bearded Alpha Steve and Omega twink!Bucky subvariety

Rating: Story Rated E for Explicit, this excerpt Rated T for Teen

Tags: A/B/O, sugar daddy!Steve

***

December 15

Thursday - 2:15 P.M.

Elevators in medical buildings always smelled like rubbing alcohol and iodine, which was definitely not Bucky’s favorite smell. He breathed through his mouth instead of his nose as the elevator descended the fourteen floors from Dr. Pete’s office suite, down to the ground floor.

Bucky had left work early that day to catch his monthly blood work appointment. Unpleasantly sterile smells aside, he was breathing especially easy that afternoon, for two reasons. First, he had finally wrapped up the enormous project he’d been working on in his lab for almost eight months, and he’d passed it off to the StarkTech testing department. Getting that load off his plate was a massive relief, and it came at the perfect time; he could now embark on his Vermont vacation (tomorrow!) with Steve and leave behind the weight of work on his shoulders. Second, the results of Bucky’s blood work had shown his hormone levels right where Dr. Pete had expected them to be, based on the Heat time-table they were anticipating. No early Heat.

Bucky was more stress-free than he could remember feeling in six months.

As he stepped out of the elevator to the ground floor, Bucky immediately felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a text message from Steve.

 [2:15 P.M.] Stevie: Done at Pete’s yet?

 Instead of walking out onto the cold, winter-time city streets, Bucky found a bench in the lobby and sat down to respond.

 [2:16 P.M.] Sent: Yep, just finished.

[2:16 P.M.] Stevie: Great. Any surprises?

 Bucky knew Steve was referring to his blood work. He typed out his response knowing Steve would be relieved by the results, just as Bucky was.

 [2:17 P.M.] Sent: Nope. Everything was where Dr. P thought it would be.

[2:18 P.M.] Sent: He says I look on track for April, maybe February if it comes early.

 Bucky watched his phone. There was no response from Steve for a while, and Bucky worried that he may have spooked him with details about their time-table. The two hadn’t talked about Bucky’s next Heat much at all since their first and only therapy visit with Dr. Welsh, but Bucky knew it was hanging over their heads. If his Heat came within the conservative margin of error that Dr. Pete had estimated, they could theoretically be dealing with it in less than 60 days. With it would come Steve’s rut, and if they didn’t make any significant, tangible progress on the knotting issue before then, they could very well be dealing with something they weren’t ready for emotionally. The pressure, however silent, was there.

His phone vibrated again just as he was pulling out his gloves to head out onto the street.

 [2:22 P.M.] Stevie: Good to hear. You got any other plans this afternoon?

 Bucky frowned. He wondered if Steve was going to ask him for a late lunch, and he wished he hadn't already eaten.

 [2:23 P.M.] Sent: No. Was gonna come home for the day, help you out with the lighting installation.

[2:23 P.M.] Sent: Why?

[2:24 P.M.] Stevie: Because you have plans now.

[2:24 P.M.] Stevie: [Blue Serenity Spa]  - You’ve Been Sent a Link on Google Maps!

His confused frown deepened as he clicked the link. It took him to the location of some sort of day spa in northwest Brooklyn, not far from their apartment. Before Bucky could text back a ‘???’, another text from Steve came through.

 [2:25 P.M.] Stevie: You have an open-ended appointment starting at 3:15 P.M. Any and all services you ask for. I got you scheduled for a massage already, but you can change that if you want.

[2:26 P.M.] Stevie: They have my card info. Don’t you dare to even think about looking at the price list.

[2:26 P.M.] Stevie: Better go catch the next train baby ;)

 Flabbergasted, thumbs paralyzed and seemingly unable to type out another text, Bucky decided to just hit the call button on Steve’s contact. He placed the phone to his ear and he suddenly felt antsy as he waited for Steve to pick up. There was no ‘hello’ when the ringing stopped, only Steve’s teasing voice.

“I thought I told you to head for the train?”

“Steve,” Bucky began, emphatically. “What is this? You booked me a spa appointment?”

Steve was silent on the other end of the line for a long moment, and Bucky wondered if it was because he was more nervous than his confident communication let on.

“Yeah, angel. I did. Look,” Steve sighed, “you really don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d like this, I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“Woah,” Bucky interjected. “Hang on, I never said I didn’t like it. I just… I guess I don’t know why you want — why you think I deserved—”

“—You don’t know why I think you deserved to be pampered, Buck?” Steve interrupted, incredulous. “Really? After you just worked your ass off at work for months to finish a project that no one else could have even dreamed of doing? The technology that Tony’s been yapping to me about since before I even knew you?”

“It’s still technically in R&D,” Bucky muttered, blushing. Steve had always been supportive and enthusiastic about Bucky’s engineering work, but it still never ceased to make him feel a little bashful when Steve got to actually raving about him and his skills.

“Yeah, and the finished product is going to be amazing, because Bucky fucking Barnes developed it.”

Bucky laughed and fiddled with a thread on his sweater.

“You… you’re sure? I’ve never really been to a spa like that before, and it looked really nice on Google…”

“And it will be nice for you, which is exactly what I want.”

“Stevie…” Bucky smiled to himself and shook his head, a little at a loss for words. “I really was going to come home and help, you know. It takes more than two hands to put up some of those bigger fixtures.”

“Doesn’t have to be your hands, though. That’s why Sam is here.” Sure enough, in the background of the phone call Bucky suddenly heard Sam’s voice, hollering something that sounded a lot like, ‘go get a fucking rub down, Barnes!’.

Steve chuckled, and then Bucky thought he could hear him walking away.

“Also…” Steve said, volume lower, “last night, you put a plug in your ass and begged me to nail you on Tony’s conference room table. I think treating my baby to a spa appointment is the least I can do when you’ve just fulfilled multiple fantasies I didn’t even know I had.”

Bucky barked out a laugh at that. He looked down at the clock on his new smart watch—another gift from Steve—and realized that he really did have to head for the train if he was actually going to do this. He stood up and grabbed his bag.

“Alright… alright,” he conceded. Steve’s smile was almost audible through the phone. “You’ve convinced me. Thank you, Stevie.”

“No thanks necessary, baby. I wish you would let me treat you like this all the time, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Finally walking out onto the cold and busy sidewalk, Bucky was just about to say his goodbye and hang up when Steve chimed in again.  

“By the way, I just put in a call to Tony. You’ll be hearing from him very soon.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped. “Shit. Did he figure out what we did? I mean, cleanup was a bitch, and we definitely had to throw away that undershirt after using it as towel, but I think we did a pretty good job covering our tracks? God, I’m gonna be in such deep shit with him—”

“No, nothing like that,” Steve chuckled. “I mean, there’s no way he doesn’t know, but he also knows damn well that he better come to me first if he’s got a problem with it. Besides… He probably considers it payback.”

“Payback? For what?”

“A story for another time,” Steve promised. “Are you at the station yet?”

“I’m walking there right now.”

“Alright, I’ll let you go. Have a relaxing time, baby. You deserve it. And use your time there, okay? I don’t want to see you home before six. Hell— keep ‘em ‘till they close, if you can manage it.”

“Okay,” Bucky laughed. “Thank you, Steve. Seriously… and I love you.”

“I love you, too, and I really love you when you let me spoil you.” Bucky could practically hear Steve wink. “Bye, honey.”

 As Bucky walked the familiar route to the subway station, his phone dinged again, this time from Tony.

 [2:44 P.M.] Tiny Snark: I literally cannot look at your face after what you did to my conference room with your jackass boyfriend.

[2:44 P.M.] Tiny Snark: Do not come in tomorrow.

[2:45 P.M.] Tiny Snark: Consider it extra paid vacation, you disgusting pond scum.

[2:45 P.M.] Tiny Snark: Seriously. I better not see you or your vile beau again until January.

 Bucky probably looked like an idiot laughing so hard alone in public, but he didn’t care.

 [2:46 P.M.] Sent: Thanks Tony. Merry Christmas.

[2:47 P.M.] Tiny Snark: Yeah, and Happy fucking New Year.

 Bucky stuffed his phone in his pocket and abandoned himself to his thoughts as he jogged down the steps into the station, marveling at the wonder that was his boyfriend. Sometimes, he still could not believe that Steve was his. Steve—who had not only been a supportive partner to Bucky from the very beginning, but who was also a powerful and attentive lover, and—most importantly—the single greatest source of Bucky’s joy. By the time he reached the subway platform, waiting for the train, the sudden enormity of his gratitude for Steve had begun to bubble up and spread within the depths of Bucky’s chest, and he felt fit to combust with it. He had to remind himself just to breathe.

How had he gotten so lucky?

***

I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek! Their relationship is about to head in a very special direction, starting in this chapter.