#dings gets his shit together after these two and goes back into lots of research and schemes to solve the barrier problem

[n4rval]

HI I WAS MENTIONED

i haven't even posted anything about my hcs to the PATIENCE and BRAVERY siblings yet but holy shit you guessed lucas' character spot on ahahahahaha (sweats profusely) (honestly kind of scared)

i will take the opportunity to add some takes on SOULs and magic here if you don't mind

FOLLOWING BELOW: further insight on SOULs and magic, the 6 fallen humans and how their qualities are presented in UNDERTALE's narrative, imagining Wingdings and the laser siblings

For me, it makes more sense for the presentation of white color on a monsters soul have much more to do with their natural MAGIC ABILITY (besides love, hope and compassion). When they use different attack dynamics, they can reach for these values within themselves and exercise the manifestation of it with intent, like when you shine a light on a prism and it breaks down in individual colors.

Humans might not have the innate ability to cast magic spells, as "FLESHLINGS ARE TERRIBLY DEPENDABLE ON THEIR ORGANIC FORMS" (a real quote i was there he really said that), but magic is there, and magic has been learned and used in the past on the casting of the barrier. If DELTARUNE is a valid source to understand these mechanics (high probability), we can see it is possible to increase Kris' magic ability through boosted items – not that the item on its own is magical, but it allows better channeling of a living being's magical potential (if otherwise we'd probably see kris using it, but kris knows no spells so magic boosting items are useless to them so far).

What's with human's coloured souls, then? Well, take the prism. I like to think a soul's colour doesn't necessarily dictate what kind of magic a human would be able to do exclusively, or that they are only that colour — but their most prominent value and by extention, the kind of magic they would be more familiar with as mages. In fact, the way it is possible to shine a different light on another's soul (such as Frisk's) and bring forth these values is evidence of such.

PATIENCE for, well, sit still, will you? As much as the motif sounds like ye olde regular Your Best Friend, it does have its own spice to it! A cheerful energy, like a playful small child who's genuinely happy to see you. I've worked a character around this one; little Prudence's entire run basically consisted of looking pretty and waiting for everyone to take her wherever she needed. When you're small and cute, you've got to know exactly the right time to take an opportunity and make it unscathed. Also, sad monsters sometimes need a little patience.

BRAVERY for facing your issues head on! Get on with it, old man! Lucas is a menace and doesn't shy away from anything, punching through and racing towards his goal. Like a speedrunner. He skips NPC dialogue like a total idiot and gets very lore confused later. Perhaps he would benefit to learn, someday, that giving away some of your time or crying like a baby for help is indeed the bravest thing to do. He is so dorky and I cannot wait to post my designs. Come on, he wears a bandanna with VERY MASCULINE ABS drawn on it (and they're pink). Sad monsters sometimes need a little push forward, a little bravery.

INTEGRITY for remaining true to oneself. A soul that is grounded and very down to earth (not creepy at all), but never gives up on hopes and dreams, always reaching ever higher. Ingrid takes herself and others seriously, and promises mean a great deal to someone with this value. Huh, where have I seen this before?

PERSEVERANCE for clinging on dear life and never letting go, even if all odds are against you. Even if you're slow and out of shape, even if your vision sucks and your glasses are always dirty, even if the cool tortoise grandpa wants nothing to do with you – do your best(pathetically) to persist. Sophie was a klutz, but harbored a curiosity that would creep most people out. She was so insistent on knowing, so keen on her note taking, so terribly questioning that she fell into his creation and shattered- ah, wait, no, that was somebody else. Either way, good luck trying to shake this one off.

You know what else is a perseverance dynamic and I don't see it being pointed out often, if any at all? The KARMA effect. Your stats may suck, but with a neat little trick and a little persistence, you may be able to get what you want. I think of it as the ATK counterpart to the defensive invincibility boost of their items.

KINDNESS for a sweet gesture, especially to those who have hurt you. It takes incredible inner strength to remain kind and forgive, and it may feel self-sacrificing, but one must give kindness to receive kindness. Of course, this doesn't mean taking shit from anyone, but you see that even bitterness can be delicious – and that is how you like to cook your conflicts. Cooking, kindness ... huh, where have I seen this before?

I haven't worked out much around the adventures of the kid I called Andre yet, but he makes some mean breakfast. So good it rivals the spider bake sale!

JUSTICE for a fair game and a thirst for making things right. Bullet hell? Well, they've got bullets too, and they are great for directly countering attacks. You know what they say, the best defense is a great offense. Clover (i think we all just agreed that's their name as a fandom) is confident and has their rights and wrongs very neatly laid out, as well as astoundingly accurate intuition. But you know what's actually interesting about all of this?

That Alphys was the one to cast that light, even though she's not particularly much of a connoisseur of magic arts.

It might just be an uhhh whatever toby moment, but I feel like this adds another interesting layer to Alphys' character and justice's seemingly small role on the UNDERTALE narrative. But we'll talk about her somewhere else.

Anyway, back to the sibling's adventures with the dingus in scene.

I'd like to think if he is involved, the lab is where they are finally reunited and proceed as a duo. I mean, it's not like patience is in a hurry, or that the guy is too enthusiastic about handing over a little kid to the guy who swore war on humanity. Or having a little kid carry the weight of murdering a big sad softie. And now, somehow, there's TWO of them (what a nightmare).

There's the whole lead-up of ooohhh 👻 beware the man who speaks in hands 👻 he's a huge creep and brilliant and everything but he never comes out and he's super weird and spooky good luck talking to him 👻👻👻 and then they enter the dark lab and there's just. this really pathetic blob of sadness with a weird accent and his collection of contrastingly goofy gadgets and gizmos.

At first he's happy. Then he's worried. Then he's afraid, very afraid. Are you SERIOUS? Weren't you some kind of GENIUS?? The siblings together do a great job at pulling him out of that terrible place and aiding him on process loss, with a gentle push and a little bit of patience. They learn a lot with him; about monsters, about magic, about their own strength and how to sync their skills. He makes it a mission to stall them the best he can, until he can maybe talk to Asgore about it, achieve an agreement. Oh, STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT! With these ridiculous, pointless gimmicks already! What are you so scared of??

Well, the jig is up. It is both admirable and a little intimidating, how despite their entire journey, despite everything they know now, these kids still wish to try their chances with the King of the monsters. Whether they make it back or not isn't as important as being together. It puts his mind at ease, and for a moment, he thinks he knows the King well enough so that he could hope he would indeed drop the trident and be filled with hope once more, just as they managed to do with him. A hypothesis quickly proved wrong. It takes much more than a little patience and a gentle push to overcome the sheer horror that was the mere idea of ever making it out of these caverns.

The Bravery SOUL. so normal about it Shotout to n4rval's Gaster who got me thinking about the two humans‼️ Stares

(Patience not included as it's just plain good ol 'Your Best Friend' throughout) Why does the theme sound so NERDY. All the other SOULs, even Kindness, sound serious. And it would be logical for Perseverance to sounds like that, but nope: it's Bravery's theme.

When I listen to Kindness' theme, it associates with defending oneself, Perseverance with calculating your next moves, while Justice focuses on the opponent's.

Integrity is hard, its creepiness strays me from my line of thought, but most fitting would be 'attacking'. The dustiness of the tutu doesn't play a role in my choice and it's likely that neither of the humans killed anyone, as it would instill at least some fear into monsters and, y'know', be mentioned at least somewhere. But self-defense is still an option, though! Doesn't have to go as far as murder. Nerdy, and many people have pointed out the presence of Gaster's leitmotif in there.

(The video it's taken from)

And, well, these. Just some silly things. Personally I think Gaster could've dealt with two humans after Chara, namely Patience and Bravery. The Patience and Bravery weren't used for the reason of being excessive (I feel like 4 SOUL modes is enough) and Toby not having ideas about how such a SOUL mode could be even executed (the OVERTIME one has a special place in hell). But if looking at it from an in-universe perspective, what if Gaster utilized the SOUL power for lasers? I think a monster's SOUL combines every human trait in it, making it white. Like RGB. So they can also use colored attacks, which have a unique effect. The Royal Guard uses blue attacks to hinder the movement of their target, or, more specifically, a human. Same goes for sentries like Sans and Papyrus. Woshua uses them so you could stand still and let it cleanse you. Hard to say why Gyftrot would, but hey! It's a personal choice, so why not? Orange attacks are very scarce and only one monster exclusively uses that type of attack, and not a combo. Tthat monster being Pyrope. When it comes to switching between these two, Mettaton uses both because of the lasers prominent in the CORE and Hotland, while also being a robot, which, I suppose, makes the utilization easier. Asgore, unlike Undyne, isn't adamant on his target being still to the point of rendering it immobile, so he uses blue attacks instead like the rest of the Royal Guard, while also mixing them with orange ones to disorient the human. So Sorry is a weird case. They attack you but are also sorry for that. (Asgore-style) ..They're quite the character. Green attacks are self-explanatory. Also got a silly idea: what if, since a monster's SOUL is all traits mixed together, white attacks damage you since that is also applicable to them? If you make an orange and a blue attack into one, then it turns into an attack that damages you upon contact either way. But strong monsters, like the main cast, can turn your SOUL a different color. Which, too, is connected to the fact that a monster SOUL consists of every trait, so it can be any color. I already talked about Undyne above. Sans rarely even fights, but in the one instance that he does, it's the sins weighing on our SOUL. Papyrus views the whole fighting thing differently, so for him it's about the challenge. The art of fighting. The purple and yellow modes are a bit weird, the latter one especially. But Muffet uses the former one over the green one due to her playfulness. The purpose of the yellow mode is hard pin down, because it doesn't inconvenience you in any way. But a SOUL is a SOUL, so naturally, SOUL magic would affect them as well. The yellow mode could be used to aid monsters and allow them to get more precise hits? My point is, monsters using either of these (colored attacks and SOUL modes) is natural. What Gaster did was to use that power a bit differently, fusing it with technology.

I feel like Bravery stayed with Gaster for a bit longer than Patience, hence the amount of connections. But if we're going off of Flowey's order of the six SOULs, Patience died first. Bravery dies shortly afterwards. Very reminiscent of the Dreemurrs, isn't it? Ouch. Imagine searching for them and finding out that you arrived a bit late to the scene. Gaster, probably: human...... i know your BRAVE.

[yeah-all-of-it]

I’ve had this headcanon for awhile now about Ian and Mickey starting a family and since I’m becoming more comfortable with writing, I thought I’d turn it into a fic. Enjoy!

A Life Changing Gift

“Debs, are you sure you understand what you’re offering right now?,” Ian questions, feeling a bit skeptical.

It is Debbie after all. Sometimes she’s perfectly pleasant and reasonable, other times she can be a raging bitch. But, she is his sister and he can’t imagine her offering something this monumental only to renege after they’ve gotten their hopes up. And she’s definitely mellowed out since they didn’t end up selling the house and she didn’t have to find a new place to live.

Ian and Debbie are sitting at the kitchen table in the Gallagher house. She had called him over to look at a cut Franny had gotten playing in the backyard. Wasn’t sure if it needed stitches and thought Ian could use his past medical training to check it out. In reality, it was barely a scratch. Ian should have known at that point Debbie was up to something, especially when she invited him to stay for coffee.

“Ian, I’ve been thinking a long time about this. Came up with the idea months ago but wanted to be completely sure before I said anything,” Debbie explains.

“Yeah, but, Debbie. This is fuckin’ huge. Think about how hard it’ll be on you-“

“I’ve already thought about all that shit, Ian. I’ve been through it before, you know. It’s really not that bad,” Debbie assures him.

Debbie seems sincere. Like she’s really considered every angle, every downside, upside, and in-between. He’s trying to keep his excitement reined in because he still has to convince Mickey that this is a good idea, which could be easier said than done.

“Listen,” Debbie says. “You don’t have to say anything now. Go home, talk it over with Mickey. You can even bring him over here and we can all talk about it if you want. No pressure.”

They both stand from the table and Ian goes to give her a hug.

“Wait, what the fuck are you doing?” Debbie jokes. “Thought you hated me and that we don’t do hugs anymore.” She laughs, and Ian knows she’s remembering how tense things were a year ago when she thought she’d be homeless and alone and she lashed out at all her siblings.

“Would you just fuckin’ come here?” Ian smiles warmly and holds his arms out.

She steps into his embrace and he just holds his little sister. Sometimes he still likes to imagine her as that sweet little girl that was always helping people. Always loving people, sometimes so much she would get hurt. It would kill him to see the tears in her eyes.

Sometimes, he sees glimpses of that caring little girl in the jaded woman she’s become. Like when she pretended to be the bride at his wedding; staying in the kitchen, missing the whole ceremony, just so he and Mickey could get married without any problems from the homophobes at the venue. And now, when she’s offering this selfless and life changing gift to them.

Ian whispers into her hair, hair that’s the same vibrant shade of red as his own, “I don’t even know what to say, Debs. Just… thank you.”

Debbie gives him one more big squeeze before pulling away. “You’re welcome. Now, go home and convince your husband to let me have his baby.”

———

“No fuckin’ way, NO fuckin’ way!” Mickey exclaims. “No way am I bangin’ your little sister.”

Mickey hops up on the counter, takes a long chug of the Old Style in his hand.

“Mick,” Ian sighs, leaning up against the opposite counter. “That’s not how it works. You would basically jerk off in a cup and she’d use a turkey baster, in the privacy of her own room,” he emphasizes,” to… place the sperm where they need to go.”

“Don’t you need like, a doctor or some shit to do that?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“Well, you can use a doctor but it’s expensive. This way is free,” Ian clarifies.

Mickey is clearly churning the idea around in his brain. Finally speaks.

“I thought we were just gonna like, find a fuckin’ kid that didn’t have parents or somethin’.”

“We can do that too, one day. Ya know, if we like the first one enough to do it again,” Ian says lightheartedly, slight grin, trying to calm Mickey.

Ian steps toward Mickey, placing his hips between Mickey’s knees, resting his hands on his thighs, rubbing softly.

Ian continues. “Think about it though, Mick. This baby would be us, you and me. It’s the closest we can get since we don’t exactly have the right stuff to do it on our own. He or she would have your DNA and, through Debbie, a little of mine too.”

Mickey beams at this, wraps his arms around his husband’s shoulders. “It would be kinda fun to have a little version of us runnin’ around,” Mickey admits. “You know a kid that’s part Milkovich and part Gallagher is bound to be a little shit though, right?” Mickey jokes, smiling at the thought.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Ian quips, leaning in and planting a sweet kiss on his smiling husband’s lips.

Ian pulls back from the kiss and asks seriously, “So. Do you wanna do this?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do. What about you?” Mickey questions.

“Fuck yeah, I do. Let’s call Debs right now.”

———

“I’ve done a lot of research about this. You guys know it might not work on the first try right? Don’t want you to be frustrated or disappointed if it doesn’t work this month. Doesn’t mean it won’t ever work, but it can take a little time,” Debbie explains.

They are sitting in the Gallagher living room the day they are making their first attempt at insemination.

“Yeah, we know, Debs. Don’t worry,” Ian replies. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“Okay, good. Keeping your expectations reasonable is good,” she says. “I’ve also been tracking my basal body temperature and took an ovulation test, so today is my most fertile da-“

Mickey interrupts, “Thanks, Dr. Gallagher, but we don’t need all the gory details. Now where do I jerk off? Hey Ian, you gonna gimme a hand, man?” Mickey clicks his tongue and bounces his eyebrows playfully.

“Ugh, no gory details, right? Let’s just keep all the personal shit to ourselves okay?” Debbie requests.

“Yeah, this is already awkward enough. Don’t need to make it weirder,” Ian agrees and eyes Mickey scoldingly.

Ian and Mickey are forced to go into the bathroom because Lip and Tami live there now and their old bedroom is now Fred and the baby’s room. They’re not home but it would be uncomfortable seeing Fred’s little toddler bed, his stuffed animal collection staring at them while Mickey gets off. So, bathroom it is.

“Listen, Mickey,” Ian explains. “I’ll help, but we are keeping this clinical. Short and sweet. We can fuck at home later for fun; this needs to be done with a purpose, a goal. Debbie’s waiting.”

“Ugh, Jesus, man, why you gotta bring up Debbie? Doesn’t exactly make this process easier to think of her waiting in her room to squir-“

“Okaaayy, focus Mick,” Ian interrupts before that sentence goes any further.

Ian yanks down Mickey’s pants and gets to work. He knows exactly how Mickey likes it to make him come quickly. It works and Mickey finishes into the bulb of the turkey baster in record time.

Ian wipes off the edges and walks it to Debbie’s room, knocking on the door. She opens it just enough to stick her arm out and Ian places the bulb in her hand. Ian hears her say, “Uh, you guys can go home. I’ll text you later,” and shuts the door.

On their way back to the Westside, Ian’s phone dings. He picks it up and reads the text from Debbie out loud. “Transfer is complete.”

“What now?” Mickey asks.

“We wait,” Ian answers.

———

“It should have worked by now, right?” Mickey asks, an edge of concern in his voice. “I mean, it’s been almost 4 months. What if like, my fuckin’ swimmers don’t work or somethin’?”

Ian tries to calm Mickey down, rubbing his arm that’s slung across Ian’s belly. It’s midnight and they really should be asleep but Mickey’s spiraling over the whole surrogacy thing.

“Mick, this is normal. We knew it could take awhile. There’s no need to freak out yet,” Ian assures. “What’s all this about, anyway? All the worry.”

“Just… I know it took a long time for me to even wanna have kids. Then you had to convince me to do this shit, to be okay with Debbie carrying my baby. Fuck, that still sounds creepy as hell. But anyway, I know I wasn’t on board with everything at first, but now? Ian, I’m so fuckin’ excited to have a baby with you. To be a dad with you. It’s just hard to wait, that’s all. And then I think… what if it doesn’t happen? What if this whole plan just fuckin’ fails? Then what?”

“Then, we come up with another plan,” Ian assures. “I wanna raise kids with you too, Mickey, so fuckin’ much. I wanna give them the childhood we never got to have. I wanna take them to the beach with you, I want us to play blocks on the living room floor, and read bedtime stories together. All that shit. It’ll happen, Mickey. One way or another, we’ll make it happen.”

Ian snuggles Mickey closer, kisses him on the top of the head, and they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

They are woken up by Ian’s obnoxious ringtone at 6:00 am, well before they have to be up for work.

“Who the fuck is calling this goddamn early? Better be fuckin’ important,” Mickey grumbles while rubbing his eyes.

It’s Debbie.

“Hey, Debs!” Ian says with fake cheerfulness, still half asleep. “What’s up?”

“There’s two lines!” she screams on the other end of the phone.

“Okay?” Ian replies.

“There’s TWO lines!” she repeats, emphasizing the word two.

“I don’t know what the fuck that means, Debs. Two lines where?” Ian questions.

“On the pregnancy test, dipshit! It’s positive! I’m pregnant!” she yells.

Ian bolts upright in bed. Mickey grumbles “what the fuck” under his breath, eyes still half closed.

“Holy fuck! It’s positive?” Ian exclaims. “It worked?

Mickey’s up now too. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Debs! Thank you! I love you! I’ll call you back later!” Ian says, unable to hold in his excitement.

He hangs up the phone. Turns and looks at Mickey. “It worked. She’s pregnant,” Ian practically whispers, unable to believe it. Ian sees tears well up in Mickey’s eyes and, for only the second time Ian has ever witnessed, they spill out onto his cheeks.

———

“Damn, you look like a beached whale, Debbie,” Mickey observes.

Debbie gives him a dirty look but chooses to keep her mouth shut.

She’s a week past her due date so they are at the clinic today to make sure everything is good. Debbie is up on the table and Ian and Mickey are sitting in the two available chairs when the doctor comes in.

“Hi, Debbie! Hi, Dads!” she says cheerfully. “So we are going to measure your belly and do a quick ultrasound just to make sure your amniotic fluid looks good.” Mickey grimaces at the term “amniotic fluid”. “I’ll have her back in a jiffy, guys!” the doctor says as she whisks Debbie out of the room.

They spent the last 6 months getting everything they needed for their new baby. Tami even threw them a shower where they got clothes, bottles, a swing, a carseat, and about a billion diapers. They decorated the nursery in light gray bedding with tiny white stars. Gender neutral because they want to be surprised. They have everything ready, all they need is the baby who is taking its sweet time.

Around 20 minutes has passed when the doctor pokes her head in the door.

“Sooo, I have some news. Debbie’s water broke while we were doing her ultrasound and her contractions started coming really fast. From what I’ve been told, her first delivery was pretty quick so we’re transporting her to the hospital just down the road, just to be safe. You are welcome to head over there now. I will be delivering so I’ll see you guys there!” and her head pops out as quickly as it appeared.

Ian and Mickey just look at each other, stunned. Finally Mickey regains his senses and breaks the silence. “Well, let’s fuckin’ go!”

They finally make it to the OB floor after a couple wrong turns inside the hospital. A nurse points them to Debbie’s room and they walk in when she’s in the middle of a pretty intense contraction. Once it subsides, she greets them and informs the epidural is on its way.

Once it’s been administered and Debbie is blissfully pain free, she asks, “Do you guys want to be in the delivery room?”

They both look at each other. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” Ian replies.

“Fuck, no,” Mickey says. “I don’t wanna see that shit.”

“Mick, you don’t have to watch. We can stand up by her head. Hold her hand. Be supportive since she’s bringing our baby into this world.” Ian turns to Debbie. “Are you sure you don’t mind? We understand if you want to keep things private.”

“Ian. I gave birth to Franny on our kitchen table in front of… like, everyone. Kev saw my vagina. V saw my vagina. Fuckin’ Sean saw my vagina. Trust me, I don’t care if you two are in the room.”

Ian looks at Mickey. “Fuck… fine. We can be in there,” Mickey relents.

A nurse comes in to check Debbie and informs her she’s 100% effaced and 10cm dilated. It’s go time. Things move at a quick pace after that. More nurses come in, turning on extra lights, bringing in supplies, wheeling in the heated bassinet.

Ian and Mickey stand side by side to Debbie’s left, Ian holding her hand, while she pushes. It’s fast. She only pushes for ten minutes before they hear cries and the doctor’s holding the baby in her hands, declaring, “it’s a girl!”

The next thing they know, a nurse is throwing a clean blanket over Mickey’s chest, and another nurse walks over and places the baby, his daughter, in his arms, blood, vernix, and all. Ian expects him to be grossed out but Mickey just stares in awe at this beautiful baby. This baby that looks like him in the face, but has a head of red hair.

Ian steps up to Mickey and wraps an arm around his shoulders, placing his other under Mickey’s arms that are holding their daughter. There is not a dry eye in the room. Ian and Mickey are crying, Debbie is crying, even the doctor and nurses are crying.

The next hour or so is spent getting the baby, and Debbie, cleaned up and dressed. They take the baby and run the normal tests and give her a vitamin k shot.

Once Debbie is in a room, the nurse brings the baby in to her dads. Ian sits in the rocking chair snuggling her while she sleeps and Mickey is right next to them.

Debbie just gazes at this new little family from her spot in bed. “So,” she finally says. “What are you naming her?”

Ian and Mickey just smile at each other before Ian responds, “Debbie, meet Margaret Laura Gallagher-Milkovich. Maggie for short.”

Debbie’s eyes tear up. “You guys gave her my middle name?”

Mickey surprisingly fields this question. “We wanted her to be named after the person that’s responsible for her bein’ here. For helping’ create her for us. I know I give you a lotta shit, but I love ya, and I appreciate the fuck outta you, Debbie.”

“Aww, Mickey, I love yo-“ she begins before being interrupted.

“Don’t get fuckin’ used to it. I’m emotional today,” he snaps with feigned grumpiness. Then smiles at her.

They let Debbie snuggle her for a bit before being released by the pediatrician to take her home. Thankfully they had already installed the infant seat in their car so they were prepared.

They walk through the door of their apartment 30 minutes later. Ian sets the carrier down and picks the baby up out of it, snuggling her tiny body to his chest before passing her off to Mickey.

“I’m not sure what you were so worried about, you’re a natural, Mickey,” Ian says as he gazes at his handsome husband tenderly cradling their beautiful baby girl.

They walk over to the sofa and sit down, thinking about the whirlwind of a day. Not knowing when they got up this morning to take Debbie to the clinic that by evening, they’d be holding their daughter in their arms.

Ian wraps Mickey’s shoulders with his arm, places his hand on their swaddled baby and says, “Welcome home, Maggie Gallagher-Milkovich. Your dads love you so much.”

[libsterslobsters]

Whole Lotta Love

Synopsis: For some people, Valentine’s Day is another word for "stress", especially when you don't know what the other person is expecting. Several years into their relationship, Bucky’s pretty sure he has a good understanding of the Reader, until a word from Sam makes him question everything he thinks he knows. The race is on to make their first Valentine’s Day since saying their vows a special one, but as per usual, fate has it's own ideas about what will make the holiday truly memorable

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! Enhanced! Super-soldier Reader

(Reader can see bits and pieces of the future in visions as well as speak every language)

Warnings: Smut, Fluff

Author's note: This fic contains references to earlier stories. For more information, click the series masterlist link. As always, the reader is unnamed so that this can be read as a self-insert, but at this point, I think of her as an OC.

The song referenced is Hearts Don't Break Around Here by Ed Sheeran

Series Masterlist

A The Song Remains The Same Fic

---------���-----------------------------------

“So, Valentine’s Day.”

Bucky doesn’t look up from his laptop (or more specifically, the field report he’s typing) at Sam’s words. Despite his concentration, he can tell that his partner is staring at him, boring holes into his back with his gaze.

“Uh-huh.” He’s listening, but so far, he doesn’t care.

“What are you doing for it?” For Valentine’s day? Um…

“Not much.” It’s a Tuesday this year, right? Then probably working, like most other people, he’d imagine.

The room is silent as he types, so Bucky assumes that settles the matter. That is, until Sam mutters a quiet, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“About what?” How many paragraphs does he have to type before he can pass this off as a full report? When he joined the Avengers, he thought the hardest part of his job would be the bad guy of the week, not doing paperwork!

“You’re really not doing anything for Valentine’s Day? Seriously?” He nods absentmindedly and clicks the save icon. He’ll finish this tomorrow. It’s five o’clock. Time to head home. Home to-

“What’s your wife gonna think about that?” He shrugs and cuts the power to the laptop.

“She thinks that the whole holiday is a rip-off. See you Monday?” He turns around for confirmation, only to catch Sam staring at him, mouth hanging wide open. “What?”

“A rip-off?” Is he just going to be stuck repeating himself?

“Yep.” Told him that the first February 14th they spent together.

“And you actually believed her?”

He nods. “She’s not one to lie.”

Sam nods incredulously. “Uh-huh. And are you planning to ever have sex again?”

He’s not going to dignify that with an answer (because really, isn’t it obvious?).

“Fine.” Sam shrugs. “You do you, man. All I’m saying is, if I had a wife who looked like that-” he indicates the lock screen of Bucky’s phone (a picture of her laughing, telling him to put away the damn camera after wrestling the dog for the tie to her favorite robe). “-I’d have my V-day plans set up a month in advance.”

Normally Bucky would take what Sam says with a grain of salt, but he is after all a man out of time, so maybe it’s worth considering that his partner may be right.

“What would you suggest I do?”

“Outside of the bedroom?” He narrows his eyes at the Falcon. “Okay, bad joke.” Sam scratches at the back of his head, thinking. “I don’t know, man. That’s your girl. You know her best, but flowers are always a good place to start.” Good to know that hasn’t changed since the 1940s. Although, last time he brought her flowers, she spent the afternoon sneezing until he eventually convinced her that it was okay, he wouldn’t be offended, she should throw the damn things out. Then again, that was before she was a super soldier.

“Flowers.” He repeats, earning a nod from Sam.

“You can get creative. Do a little research. But I’m just saying, when a woman waits five years for you to reappear, the least she deserves is a few flowers.” On that, they can agree.

He must bid Sam some sort of goodbye and make his way through the Avengers compound, but he’s unaware of anything until he’s in the parking lot, sitting behind the wheel of his car, googling “What to do for your wife on Valentine’s Day.” There’s a web page that boasts twenty different selections. Might as well give it a look.

___________________________________________________________________________________

She’s nearly home when her phone dings with a text from Barnes. “Just got in. Forgot to get milk. Can you swing by on your way, or should I go to the gas station and pick up a gallon?” A frown forms on her face. It’s pretty rare that Bucky forgets things. Must’ve been a hell of a day at work, then. Either that, or his brain has completely turned to mush thanks to typing out field reports. Either way-

“I got it. See you in twenty.” She thinks about tacking on a “love you”, but the light turns green before she can.

The grocery store is packed thanks to so many people getting off work. There’s only three carts left, all with bad wheels. She chooses the least squeaky option and, grabbing an add on her way, heads into the grocery store. Milk, and if she remembers right from this morning, they’re running dangerously low on coffee and tea. Despite caffeine having absolutely no effect on their enhanced bodies, both of them are nightmares to be around in the mornings without their beverages of choice. Force of habit and all.

She’s halfway to the checkout when she sees it. A sign, decorated in garish shades of red, pink, and purple. “All Valentine’s Day chocolates 10% off.” Shit. Yeah, that is coming up. To tell the truth, she’d completely forgot all about that day halfway through February. For most of her life, it only meant giving homemade cards at school when most kids had store-bought. Then, once she reached adulthood, it was a reminder that she was destined to be alone. Who would want someone who’s on the run, and what’s more, sees the future? Once she and Barnes got together, it didn’t change much. That first Valentine’s Day, he mentioned the holiday, and she shut it down immediately. They were both broke (or at least, he had no legitimate way of making money while she was broke), and celebrating a mostly commercial holiday seemed like a waste. Plus, she didn’t want to put a strain on a new relationship. Over the years, the subject never came up again, and she’s content for it to stay a non-starter, thank you very much. In her opinion, you should show your partner you love them every day of the year, not shoe-horn it into one twenty-four hour period. Call her unromantic if you must.

She’s completely immune to the various displays of cheap chocolate in heart-shaped boxes and overly sentimental cards as she approaches the register and starts to unload her items. Milk. Tea. That one specific brand of coffee that he likes because, “It tastes like what we drank in basic training. Terrible, but I kinda got used to it, so now everything else tastes like it’s trying too hard.” whatever that means. He’s right; she’s tasted it, and it’s fucking awful. Still, every morning, he drinks at least three cups while she drains her pot of tea.

“You got a hot date for Valentine’s Day, hun?” The cashier asks her, never breaking her rhythm as she rings up the items.

She chuckles. “As a matter of fact, yes.” The cashier’s eye go wide, and she holds up her left hand. “And every other day.”

“Ooh, nice. How long have you been together?”

“Nine years.” Wait… “Or four years, depending on which of us you ask. He blipped, I stayed.”

The cashier nods. “So are you older than him now?”

Physically? They’re not completely sure, but if you calculate the times he was off the ice with HYDRA and add that to the age he was before the serum, then they’re not far off. But chronologically- “No, he’s still older.” And yes, it will always be funny that Sam responds with “Okay, boomer” whenever Bucky makes an outdated reference (even if he’s off by a good twenty years).

With a little more light chatter, she pays for her items and leaves. Now, for home.

As soon as she opens the front door, she’s greeted by their dog, Sarge, barking excitedly and hopping around like he’s on a trampoline despite missing a leg. Bucky’s not far behind, placing a quick peck on her forehead before taking the bags from her and unloading them in the kitchen. Tonight’s his night to cook, but unless her nose has suddenly decided to give out, he hasn’t started dinner yet. She doesn’t mind taking over tonight, and when he sheepishly apologizes while she begins her preparations, she brushes it off. Although, for the second time in an hour, she’s seen proof of his unusual absentmindedness. Oh well. She’ll ask him about it later.

Despite being relieved from tonight’s chef duties, Bucky stays in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar scrolling through his phone as she cooks. His expression is neutral, which can mean one of two things; a) he’s just killing time and there aren’t any interesting posts or articles vying for his attention, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, b) he’s deep in thought, possibly angry, sad, or even frightened, but he’s gone into Winter Soldier mode and shut down so that she won’t pick up on his mood. Damn the man and his poker face.

Eventually dinner is served and she sends him off toward the fridge in search of two beers while she serves their plates. Just as she’s spooning a generous helping of salad into her bowl, it happens. A vision, but a limited one. All she’s seeing is a phone. Well, that and the hand holding it. She’s not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed that she immediately recognizes the hand as Bucky’s, but that goes by the wayside as she takes in the article he’s reading. “Should you do something for Valentine’s Day even is she says no?” It’s a thread on some anonymous discussion board. The reply that has his attention is in reference to a now divorced individual who “was dumb enough to believe that, on our first V-Day as a married couple, she didn’t want anything.” Oh boy. Not good. This will be their first Valentine’s Day since exchanging vows, and if the fact that he’s read this reply (if not already read, will read soon) means that it’s at least crossed his radar that she might be feeding him bullshit. That’s not the case, but after his research, she knows from experience that no matter how much she tries to convince him otherwise, a small part of his mind will be stuck on, “But what if this is a big deal?” Which means-

“Doll, are you just gonna stand there with the salad tongs in your hand?” That snaps her out of it.

“No. Just a vision.” He frowns as she passes him his plate.

“Anything important happen?” Should she say?

“No.” She’s not sure if the smile or not, so she takes a bite from her roll to cover it. “Random sneak peek.” It’s not a lie. What she saw really isn’t important. Still, if he’s in that mindset, she should probably go on and do something for him just in case. After all, why should it only be the ladies who reap this holiday’s benefits?

___________________________________________________________________________________

Not flowers. That’s the one thing that, after copious amounts of research Bucky is one hundred percent certain about. They may still be a common romantic gift, but since they were also a go-to back when he was courting girls in the 1940s, it’s safe to say they’ve been overdone. Plus, he doesn’t really want to remind her of that time she had such a severe allergic reaction to the flowers he picked her on a walk through the park in Bucharest that her eyes nearly swelled shut and she sneezed herself sick. That doesn’t exactly seem like prime romance.

Chocolates or other candies have the same issues as flowers. Contrived and predictable. A bottle of wine is nice, but neither of them can so much as get mildly tipsy thanks to the super serum. The fourteenth is his day to cook, so he guesses he could do some reading and try to create something a little more special than spaghetti (he thought about going to a nice restaurant for dinner, but there’s a few issues with that, not the least of which is they’re likely to be recognized without their disguises, and he’d rather not look at his wife through sunglasses on Valentine’s day), but that seems a little underwhelming.

As he loads the dishwasher (she fell asleep half-way through the third episode of whichever nonsensical comedy they’re watching this week, so he sneaked back downstairs to clean up the dinner dishes), he thinks back to the dozen separate articles he read on the subject of Valentine’s Day gifts. Jewelry was a common theme, but that’s out. She’ll say thank you to his face, but worry about the cost behind his back. Plus, he has absolutely no idea what she’d like, and there’s no sense in purchasing something only for her to hate it.

Another common one was lingerie. Bucky almost choked on his tongue when he saw some of the examples given with that option. None of it looked comfortable (in fact, he’s still scratching his head about how you even put on one of the pieces that popped up on the web page) and he doesn’t want to give her the impression that she has to dress up for him. Even putting all that aside, he has no idea what size she’d even wear. He likes to think that he knows his wife pretty well, but somehow, in all their years together, it never occurred to him to ask her for her clothing sizes. That, and have you even seen the bra sizing system? Does it make sense to anyone, because to Bucky, it’s all gibberish. 32 B? 36 DD? What the hell? Somehow, when HYDRA was training him to extract information, they failed to go over the translation of a woman’s bra size. He supposes he could ask, but he’s not sure there’s a non-suspicious way to work, “Hey, sweetheart. What size are your breasts?” into casual conversation.

Sam said to get creative, so he tried to think outside the box. What’s something she really needs? A new vacuum cleaner is the first thing to come to mind, but he’s not stupid enough to think that would make a good gift. He knows she’s had her eye on a set of throwing stars, but that doesn’t seem to correlate well with what this holiday is all about. That’ll keep until her birthday.

He’s still wracking his brain for anything at all that might work when he feels a wet nose poking at his hand. Sarge. “Hey, boy. Has your mom gone to bed?” The response is a quiet “woof” and lick to his palm. He scratches the mutt behind the ears, smiling to himself as Sarge’s back leg thumps at the treatment.

“What do you think we should get our girl? Huh?” There’s no reply (of course not, he’s talking to a dog), but he nods, pretending all the same that Sarge has offered up a suggestion. “A bone. Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s her thing. Try again.” The dog blinks at him lazily. “No, you’re the one who wants new tennis balls. Not Mom. Although you’re right about her liking peanut butter.” At this rate, he might as well get her a bone and some tennis balls, because he’s sure not coming up with any ideas.

She likes music. The thought pops into his head while he’s brushing his teeth. All sorts of music. Over the years, he’s tried to make sense of the songs he’s heard her listen to, but has yet to find a discernible pattern in her listening habits. She doesn’t seem to stick to just one genre or era. More like she picks songs by how they relate to what she’s feeling at the moment. Wait a second-

“A mixtape.” His reflection mouths the words back at him. Despite technology having moved on from the days of burning CDs, she still has a thick stack of the disks stored in a cabinet and plays them on the regular. He’s even seen a few that she made herself, pasting together the songs she likes to make a “Cleaning mix”, “Workout Mix” and “Pissed off Mix”. Bucky’s sure he could figure out how to burn a CD, but it’s not like she’d be able to listen to that everywhere she went. That leaves a playlist. She uses one of those apps to listen to music on her phone, right? Surely he can put something together for her using that.

Quietly, he climbs into bed next to his sleeping wife and pulls her back against his chest, slinging one arm over her waist as usual. He closes his eyes, but his mind is alight with activity. A playlist. Of course. He’ll put some extra effort into whatever he cooks that night, stop by a bakery and pick up some sweet treats for dessert. Hell, maybe they’ll both dress up and act like they’re on a date. Then, once they’re sitting down to their meal, he’ll pull out his phone and hit play. It’s perfect. At least, he hopes it is.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Putting on a lacy bra and panties set underneath her regular work attire seemed like a brilliant idea this morning. Today’s a short day; she’s only got three classes to teach, and Rhodey called last night to tell Bucky that he’s suspending work hours at three pm “Since most people have holiday preparations to make.” Her plan was to be waiting on the sofa in the living room when he arrives home, professional button-down blouse open just enough for him to get a good look at what’s underneath, pencil skirt pushed up enough to reveal the stockings and garters she’s donned for the occasion. It’s fun, with just enough cheesiness to match this whole holiday. And, well, it’s a guarantee that by the end of the night they’ll be in bed together, both rumpled, sweaty, and satisfied. Perfect, right?

Wrong. On her drive to work, her skimpy underwear began to ride up, giving her a wedgie, and there was no way to adjust without running the risk of wrecking. She was so distracted by her discomfort that she missed her exit, and by the time she arrived at the college, she was running so behind that she didn’t get the chance to run to the bathroom and readjust. Her lecture on sentence diagrams was pure torture before the underwire from her bra decided to join in the fun and poke her directly in the ribs, but with that addition, she was especially impatient with her students’ tendency to joke around a little too much in class.

Luckily, she had just enough time to wrap the exposed metal bit in tissues before her next class, which eliminated the pain in her chest, but did nothing to alleviate the discomfort once her stockings began to slide down, having at some point disconnected themselves from the garters. She taught like that for the next two classes, but as soon as they were over, she pealed the whole ensemble off in the teacher’s restroom and changed into her gym clothes. Alright, screw the whole seduction routine. She needs to blow off some steam and fast, or else she’ll be in a bad mood all night.

That’s why, thirty minutes later, she finds herself in the training room of the Avengers compound, working over a punching bag. “Fuck-” Her fist connects, making the bag swing crazily from it’s hook. “-this- whole- day!” It goes sailing, and she feels a little better.

“Ouch!” The voice comes from behind her and she whirls around, gaze resting on-

“Sam.” The man in question holds up his hands in an “I surrender” gesture.

“Don’t shoot! I come in peace.” Rolling her eyes, she holds up her middle finger, receiving a snicker in acknowledgment.

“Just working off a little frustration before I head home.”

“Good.” Sam chuckles. “’cause otherwise, I’d be worried that when Barnes pulls out his dick tonight, you’ll bite it off.” She thinks about telling him that there’s no chance of that, but she might just cut off his if he crosses her. However, that jogs her memory.

“Has he left yet?” Sam nods.

“About an hour ago. Said he had to pick up groceries.” Shit. There goes her plan to shower, throw the damn lingerie back on and proceed as planned.

Bidding Sam a hasty reply, she makes tracks towards her car and, once inside, heads for home. Fine. New plan. She’ll shower once she arrives and then when the evening is drawing to a close, wait for him in bed. Nodding to herself, she puts the car in park and climbs out. Now, to psych herself up enough in the next few hours to put the damn lingerie back on.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Where did he go wrong? It takes all of Bucky’s self control not to spit out the spoonful of sauce he just tasted. This was supposed to be an easy recipe for Chicken Alfredo (or at least, that’s what the website boasted; he should’ve known better than to get his information from the internet and stuck to a good old-fashioned cookbook from the library). Not… whatever the hell this is. Maybe even if the sauce is nauseating, the chicken is okay?

He pulls open the oven door, and immediately smoke billows out, making his eyes water. Okay, chicken’s a little well-done. Who is he kidding? Black. The chicken is burned black. And the pasta… he lifts the pot lid and stirs, only to come to the realization that the pasta is completely stuck to the bottom of the pot. Wonderful.

It’s inevitable; over the years, he’s had his fair share of cooking disasters, but usually he does okay. Tonight though… who the hell up there did he piss off, because the only explanation for how badly this is going is his karma coming due.

Still holding the offending spoon, he looks over at Sarge, who’s staring at him, long pink tongue sticking out as he pants. “Trust me, boy. You don’t want any of this.” There has to be something else he can pull together on short notice. Normally he’d be worried that she’s running late without so much as a text, but today he’s relieved. At least if she’s running behind he’ll have time to… what? Maybe order takeout? Before she gets-

“I’m home.” Shit.

Sarge yips, shaking with excitement, and starts towards the kitchen door, then turns back, uncertain. “Go on. I know you’re dying to jump on her and lick her face.” Something they really should be training out of him because he’s getting too big for that sort of behaviour but, well… there’s a reason they call them “puppy dog eyes.”

Not needing to be coaxed, the dog takes off, tripping a little in the momentary lapse in his memory that he’s a tripod, but easily catches himself and goes on his merry way, leaving Bucky to clean up his mess. From the sound of things, a game of fetch is going on in the living room, so she should be distracted for a while.

He manages to pour the sauce down the drain and scrape most of the pasta into the trash while Sarge is acting as a decoy, but there’s absolutely no way he can dispose of the chicken without tipping her off (damn enhanced senses, it’s a wonder she hasn’t already smelled it). Finally, he decides to just go for it. She’s going to notice whether he throws it out now or two hours from now. Might as well get a head start on cleaning.

Sure enough, not ten seconds after he empties out the oven, he catches a movement in his peripheral vision, and the familiar sound of her breathing tips him off that he’s no longer alone.

“Hey, Doll.”

“Hey, Bucky. Did something burn in here, or-” He holds up the pan for her inspection before continuing his scraping.

“That’s one way to put it, yeah.” He slams the lid back on the trashcan and turns on the tap, intent on rinsing out the pan. “Another is whoever the god of culinary arts is has it in for me today.”

She chuckles. “You know, that would be funnier if we didn’t actually know a god.”

“Yeah, but he’s in control of thunder.” He meets her eyes, smirking slightly. “Although it did look like I electrocuted the bird.” Her lips quirk up into a smile, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her, cupping the back of her head gently to hold her in place when she tries to move away, muttering something about being sweaty.

He’s not entirely sure how it happened, but by the time they come up for air, her back his pressed against the wall and he’s got her pinned in place. Not that he’s complaining.

“Anyone ever tell you that the tip of your nose turns pink after you’ve been kissed?’ Her cheeks go rosey in response.

“I think so. One guy did. I told him it’s only when I’m kissed properly.”

He really would like to continue the playful banter, but there’s still the small matter of whatever it is they’re going to eat.

“What do you feel like for dinner tonight?”

“Apart from electrocuted chicken?” He responds with a swat to her ass, which earns him a snicker. “Let’s keep it simple. Pizza. Your choice of toppings.” Right, that’s easy enough. Plus, if they have to wait longer than thirty minutes, it’s free.

“Okay. I’ll order while you shower?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He’s just pulled up the menu on his phone when the sound of her clearing her throat attracts his attention. She’s standing in the doorway, combing through her freshly let down hair with her fingers, a playful look in her eyes.

“Or you could join me. Just a mild suggestion.”

Dinner can wait for a while.

___________________________________________________________________________________

The Brooklyn townhouse they live in has many nice features. There’s a functional if small screened in back porch, big enough to hold a table for two and a grill. Two bedrooms, on the off chance someone from work needs to crash for a night or two. A kitchen with a dishwasher. A working fireplace. Good closet space. And an en suite bathroom.

Maybe it’s a little ridiculous to call a bathroom luxurious, especially when, in comparison to what’s featured in many brownstones, it’s more than modest, but she can’t help but think of it as such. There’s a double sink so that in the morning rush to get ready, Bucky’s able to shave and brush his teeth without having to wait for her to finish applying her makeup. Shelving above the toilet makes certain that even if the last person to shower took the towel with them, another one is on hand. Speaking of the shower, it’s not the largest one in the world, but both of them can fit in comfortably at the same time, which is what’s lead to their current situation.

She’s just finished allowing the water to course over her body, easing the sweat from her skin, and is about to begin the process of washing her hair, scrubbing her body, but she hesitates. She might as well ask. It’s only practical after all.

“Do you want to start now or get cleaned up and have dinner beforehand?” It’s obvious what she’s referring to, so she doesn’t bother to spell it out.

His brown knits, and if she didn’t know him as… intimately… as she does, she’d actually believe he’s confused.

“Oh, so you’re just assuming there’s gonna be sex involved at some point tonight?”

She shrugs, wringing out her hair.

“Seemed like a safe enough bet.” She glances pointedly between the two of them. “After all, we’re already undressed. “

His laugh is a quiet huff, barely discernible over the sound of the water. “Then I’d say start now, have dinner, then go for round two. Sound about right to you?”

She nods. “Solid plan.”

“Then get over here.”

Unlike the welcome home kiss they shared not half an hour ago, this one is less tender, more electric. Hands twist in hair, bodies press together. Tongues begging for entrance quickly give way to teeth nipping at bottom lips, an unspoken sparring match for who’ll be in control this time around. Ultimately he wins, grasping her hips and lifting as she wraps her legs securely around his back.

There’s no need for prep; the teasing of their earlier words is foreplay enough. Back pressed against the wall, her body easily welcomes him in as she braces one arm against the glass shower doors for balance. Any concerns about slipping and falling wash away as they move together like so many times before. She’s sure her nails will leave marks on his back, fingertips digging in for purchase and it’s a guarantee her hips will be littered with fingerprints from his grip, but she can’t find it in her to care, and if the desperate, bruising kiss assaulting her lips is anything to judge from, neither can he.

“So damn good, Doll.” It’s panted against her neck. “Always. So damn perfect for me.” All she can manage is a moan in response.

She feels him twitch inside of her and knows he’s close. So is she, but she can’t quite get there without-

As if he’s read her mind, he reaches between them to touch her where she needs it most, and on instinct, she readjusts, locking her arm around his neck to stay in place. “Let go, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?” She couldn’t disobey if she wanted to.

“Fuck.” As her walls contract around him, he pulls out just in time to paint her middle with his release.

“That’s one word for it.” She’s still fighting to catch her breath, but she shoots him a shaky smirk, which he returns.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Barnes.” Snickering, she releases him to stand on unsteady legs and pecks his legs.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Barnes.” Maybe there’s something to this holiday after all.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“You want the last slice?” Bucky considers it for a moment before deciding-

“Nah. You can have it.” It may not be exactly what he planned, but it’s been a good night. Between the two of them, they’ve gone through two large pizzas while watching the new version of Beauty and the Beast (she rolled her eyes when he asked if this was her way of saying he reminds her of a certain hairy, horned character) in their pajamas.

“No, really. You take it. I don’t want it.” She nudges the mostly-empty pizza box towards him. The noise makes Sarge lift his head from where he was snoozing beside her on the sofa. That gives him an idea.

“I don’t want it either, but I can think of someone who does.” He cocks his head towards the now-drooling dog. “How ‘bout it, boy? Wanna help us out?”

Snickering, she picks the pepperonis and pieces of sausage and ham from the pizza, forming a pile. “Here, Sarge. Catch.” She tosses a coveted treat in the air, and Sarge’s jaw snaps, swallowing it whole. “Good boy.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before she speaks again.

“You know, I actually did have something planned for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” She nods.

“Absolutely. Had a whole seduction plan laid out. Tiny underwear, lacy bra, and stockings with garters included.” Huh. Guess she wouldn’t have taken the “lingerie” option the wrong way. He’ll file that away for future use… along with a mental note to ask her bra size. “That is, until I tried wearing the damn things for longer than an hour. Turns out, hiding a dirty secret under your clothes is more itchy than sexy.”

He can’t help it. He laughs, producing a pout from her which quickly turns into her own quiet laughter.

“Well, that fits in perfectly with my fancy dinner going up in smoke.”

“We really do have shitty luck with the whole “romance” thing.” She’s joking, but he decides to respond anyway.

“I don’t know about that.” Entwining his fingers with hers, he lifts their hands, twin wedding bands catching the light. “You waited five years for me to reappear after the blip, and I convinced you to elope with me. Seems pretty romantic.” Although, that reminds him…

“Don’t move.” Releasing her hand, he stands and goes in search of his phone.

“Bucky, what-”

“Don’t move, Doll. Stay right where you are.” Ah. On the kitchen counter, just where he left it. Jogging back into the room, he resumes his place on the couch next to her. Ignoring her questioning gaze, he pulls up the app and, selecting the correct playlist, hits play.

Immediate recognition blooms on her face at the opening lyrics. “She is the sweetest thing that I know. Should see the way she holds me when the lights go low.” He’s not one for modern music, but when he was googling “songs for Valentine’s Day” and this one popped up, he couldn’t help but think that the lyrics were fitting.

“I didn’t know you’d heard this one.”

He chuckles. “Even old men have a few tricks up their sleeves. That, and a wifi connection.” She rolls her eyes but leans closer, which he takes advantage of to show her the playlist.

“This is the app you use, right?” Receiving a nod, he continues. “Feel free to scroll through and add whatever you want. I haven’t listened to all of them the whole way through, but they seemed to fit the mood.”

Her hand closes over his, covering the phone. “Thank you, Bucky. It’s perfect.”

As the singer goes on about how hearts don’t break around here, he presses his lips against hers.

“I love you, Doll.”

“Love you.”

Not bad for a disastrous Valentine’s Day. Not bad at all.

[pollylynn]

Just About, Chapter 7—Just About Glad: Linked Season 1 Caskett Drabbles (Complete)

Title: Just about, Chapter 7—Just About Glad WC: 1700

A/N: Another random number of words, but I think this is done now. This is more or less where, lo those many years ago, I saw this as winding up. 

He’s surprised when she says yes to poker night—and without even too much hounding from him. He’d really worked on ratcheting back the hounding, because she’d come entirely of her own volition the last time. And because the last time had ended on a kind of weird note, courtesy of his mother, Mistress of the Unwelcome Weird Note. 

He’s surprised again when she actually shows up, promptly and bearing a bottle of wine, though he’d told  her not to bring anything. He’s surprised at the easy way she lets him take her coat and greets his mother.  

He had, in fact, had the distinct impression that his mother had made her downright skittish by shining a light on the fact that Kate Beckett, Chez Castle, had become a not entirely irregular thing. He’d found himself on the receiving end of some sharper than strictly necessary barbs and a few more exasperated than warranted answers to perfectly reasonable questions, as though she’d been trying to reset the annoyance clock all the way back to Day 1. 

But she’s here now, of her own free will. Unless the Captain ordered her here or something. That’s . . . an awkward possibility, and not solely because he’s suddenly paranoid when it comes to interfering parental figures. It’s possible—it’s just possible—that he overdid it with the hard sell when he’d invited the four of them over for a game. 

He’d made a point of asking them as group, rather than singling her out. He’d leaned hard into the amenities of a friendly game at his place could offer, and in a desperate, covering-all-the-bases moment, he’d noted that it would be a good research opportunity to see them all with their ties loosened and their sleeves rolled up. It’s possible—it’s just possible—that the Captain might have taken that as a request from a friend of the mayor, not just a request from a friend, if that’s what they are.

That’s what he thinks they are. Him and her. Him and all of them, up to and including the Captain. They’re friends, or at least well on their way to being that. He thinks so, but now he’s totally muffing a round of betting, because he’s too busy studying her for signs that they’re not friends at all—that she’s here under duress—to pay attention to his cards. 

They’re lousy, it turns out. They’re just awful, and he ends up having to bluff his way through to the end, all the while wondering if means anything that she’s the only one without a drink at her elbow, if she’s been counting the hands or surreptitiously looking at her watch, trying to find a time when she can reasonably leave. 

But for all his divided-attention theater, he pulls it off. He takes Esposito for most of what he has left. They all crow over the good detective’s pouty face, and she crows right along. She’s relaxed and into the evening, he decides. She came because she wanted to come, and she’s stayed because she’s having a good time, and he’s glad about that. 

The night proceeds and he’s glad. He feels like they’ve recalibrated, like things had gone a little off the rails after the first time she’d come here—after she’d told him about her mother and he’d spent some quality time under a bare, swinging bulb discovering in grisly crime scene photos that she looks like her mother to a heart-stopping degree. And then he’d lured her here and her presence had thrown into sharp relief the glaring fact that falling into old habits with Meredith was a mistake he no longer wanted to keep making. 

And then his mother . . . 

Well, the less said about that, the better. She’s here and they’re friends, or they’re at least on their way to being friends, and Oh shit, he seems to have just thrown what turns out to be the last hand of the night. 

And that’s not exactly something he does for his friends. 

*************************

His mother outs him. He wonders if it’s some kind of bid for assisted suicide. He also wonders where the volcano nearest Manhattan might be and if its resident gods accept definitely non-virgin sacrifices. But mostly he wonders if he is going to survive an elevator ride with a Kate Beckett who is riled up enough to get right up in his personal space, because there are several different ways that might kill him. 

He does survive though. He does more than survive. He gets her to accept to yet another invitation to his home. They lock horns in full view of all the string-pullers and power-brokers orbiting around the two of them, and what’s happening with them—between them—has nothing to do with that. 

He doesn’t know what’s happening between them—and then she throws the last hand of the night and he super extra doesn’t know what’s happening—but it doesn’t have anything to do with whose friend he is or who she works for. It doesn’t have anything to do with his mother’s meddling or even his own casting about blindly, figuring out what he definitely does not want out of life at this juncture. 

It’s strange, whatever it is. It’s sharp edged and awkward. It’s challenging and humbling and damned uncomfortable a whole lot of the time. But it’s also exhilarating and it makes him laugh and want to work harder than he ever has in his life. It’s fun a lot of the time. And it’s between them. It’s just between them. 

That’s the conclusion, such as it is, that he comes to during the last of the poker games they play for the time being. It’s not at his place this time. It’s at hers, he supposes, but also at theirs, and that pleases him. She slaps down the jumbo-sized bag of Gummi Bears, and he slaps down the rubber-banded deck on the corner of her desk that they share, and it pleases him 

The late-night atmosphere of the bullpen hums along in the background. Phones ring and voices float out from the break room as the two of them battle back and forth and the elevator occasionally dings. It’s not long before things get ridiculous. Anything so pedestrian as Texas Hold ‘Em or Five-Card Draw falls by the wayside. They’re eating their banks and one-upping each other with the ridiculous Dealer’s Choice rules they each call in turn. 

“It’s late,” she says at last. It’s at once too soon and far later than he thought it would be. He’s also pretty sure that it has more to do with the fact that they’ve eaten the last of the green Gummi Bears than her actually having any burning desire to break up the evening. “Should probably call it a night.” 

“Probably,” he agrees, even though he doesn’t agree at all. He has various, wild, sugar-addled, sleep-deprived points of disagreement, but he rises when she does. He stands by with his hands firmly shoved in his pockets, waiting, as she wrestles her clumsy, tired way into her coat and heaves her bag on to her shoulder. He doesn’t do anything so ridiculous—so very nearly suicidal—as try to hold her coat for her, much as he’d like to. He doesn’t offer her his arm.

He simply waits, happy that she seems to take it as a given that they’ll ride the elevator down together, they’ll head out on to the street together, they’ll spend a few more pleasant moments of a thoroughly pleasant evening—together. 

He feels close to her. It’s such a simple statement of fact, and yet he finds himself sincerely, strangely moved by the phrase as the elevator car glides downward and the reality hits him—he feels genuinely close to her and that’s . . . for him, it’s a rare thing. 

He studies her. She’s tired to the point of nodding off a little bit in the corner where she’s propped herself. He remembers not knowing what to make of her at first—not knowing what to make of everything he was feeling about her. He still doesn’t know. He has no idea what will become of them, and that seems suddenly wonderful. 

He turns to tell her so, to say something ridiculous that will be as much a surprise to him as it will be to her. He turns, but the doors ding open just then. He follows her through the lobby and the revolving door. He faces her for what’s poised to be a perfectly cordial, if somewhat perfunctory goodnight between friends—between people who are on their way to being friends, at least. 

That’s fine. It should be completely fine, but he can’t let the moment go. He’s compelled not to let it go. 

“You know, I’m glad you turned me down after that first case,” he says quickly enough that her mouth is still opening to say Night, Castle. It’s still opening, then it’s closing with a snap as he rushes on. “I’m glad there was no . . . debriefing.” 

Her eyes narrow and he knows—he just knows—she’s going to tell him there was never any possibility of that. He knows that’s what she’s going to say, just as surely as he knows it’s not true. There was a possibility. There is a possibility. There will be a possibility until the moment that it’s more than that, so he goes on, confident now. 

“It would’ve—“ he has an ill-timed pang of longing that he has to power through. “It would have been great. But then maybe we wouldn’t have had this.” He gestures between them, tasting Gummi Bears on his tongue. “And this is really great. So I’m glad.” 

“Glad,” she echoes. She sounds utterly baffled. “Great. Okay?” She shakes her head as if to clear it and comes up looking utterly baffled. “Night, Castle.” 

She turns to go, casting one puzzled look over her shoulder. 

“Until tomorrow, Detective,” he calls after her. He stands a minute, watching her recede. He is glad, he tells himself. He’s just about glad.  A/N:  Just about glad we didn’t have that fling, or so says Declan McManus, International Art Thief

[eternaljouska]

Redamancy, Chapter 1 - Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Husband!JihoonxReader

Genre: Angst, the tiniest amount of Fluff (later? maybe?)

Chapter: ONE | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | end | epilogue |

Word Count: 2.2k

Note: This is my first fic on tumblr as an attempt to be a more active user (I usually just read and send anonymous rant on how i love other people’s writings, hehe) I am not a medical student, but I did some tiny research, so… Alright, hope you enjoy.

–

“Hello, what is it?” Jihoon snaps into his phone. He was jotting down possible lyrics to the very lacking melody he created yesterday when his phone rang for the third time. He grabbed his phone aggressively and sighed. It was Y/n, his wife of eight years. Last night scene was replaying in his mind, getting him more agitated by the second as the continuous ringing robbed him of his ideas.

“Hey, I was wondering. Could you pick up Jaemin and Jimin from school?” Hearing your timid voice, he sighs once again, trying to control his irritation.

“Y/n. I am at work now.”

“I know. But since you use my car, I can’t go. School’s over in twenty-five.”

“Shit,” He mutters under his breath. You are right. His car broke down since a couple of days ago, and it seems to rather enjoy its stay at the repair shop. And you have let him used yours since the only places you frequent are the school and the grocery shop.

He sighs, again.

When he borrowed the car last weekends, it hadn’t occurred to him that he would need to send or pick his kids up from school. He realized it only this morning. This morning he went to work later than intended since he had to do the former task. But it’s not much of a problem because the school is in the same direction as the company’s building. And the boys were beyond delighted. As wonderful it feels to see their gleaming faces when they see him, he can’t go.

He really can’t leave his job; he needs at least five demos by the weekend. It’s been a week since he’s given the task, but so far he has two. And his mind definitely won’t cooperate after your fight last night. It is stuck repeating your arguments instead of generating beautiful lyrics as it usually does. He didn’t even remember what the fight was about. Maybe it was him staying up late in the studio for days. Or maybe it was him apparently neglecting his family’s needs, which he thought as ridiculous. It doesn’t matter. He is always at the wrong, and that is why he was mad out of his mind.

He is still mad out of his mind.

That is why throughout this conversation you keep your voice small. You are afraid to tick him off. You are afraid he would choose not to go home, again, letting out his frustration towards working and staying up all night in his studio.  That is why, when he didn’t say anything after his expletive, you offer, “If- if you’re busy, I think I can take the cab. That would be okay, I guess. Sorry to interrupt.” And with that, you end the call.

You take a long breath as you look at the watch on your wrist. After you dialed for a cab, you call your youngest son’s teacher to inform her that you’re probably going to be late. It would take you ten to fifteen minutes if you drive yourself, but just in case the cab is taking too long, you told Jimin’s teacher anyway.

Jaemin is seven years old, and Jimin is five. Both of them were newly admitted to their respective school this year. The kindergarten and the elementary school are from the same institution, therefore, they’re located next to each other. You were worried because they would have a different schedule, but you’ve managed pretty well. Usually, you will be at school at least ten minutes before the kindergarten’s bell rings, and you and Jimin will wait for Jaemin together.

Through the call, you told Jimin’s teacher, Mrs. Seo, who was also Jaemin’s teacher when he was in kindergarten, to accompany Jimin until you arrive. She agrees, and she even volunteers to tell Jaemin’s homeroom teacher that Jaemin can wait for you in the kindergarten with her and his brother, that way he won’t be confused as to why he can’t find you waiting in the parking lot.

The cab is quick to arrive at your house, almost but not quite five minutes. And the traffic is also good since it’s not lunch time yet. One or two cars drive above the speed limit, but you pay no heed to that, rather conversing about your sons with the driver. That’s it until a loud honk suddenly cut into your storytelling. It is followed with a screech, a crash, an excruciating scratch of iron and asphalt, two other or three thumps, and then silence.

Jihoon has his head on his palms, his headphone hanging around his neck. He is frustrated because he couldn’t get anything done for almost two hours. He is so ready to throw everything that is on his desk right now but decides to go take something out of the vending machine. He’s about to open the door when it is burst open, revealing the red face of one of his members, Seungkwan.

“Hyung! Why don’t you pick up your phone?” He half yells, his head fuming.

“It’s on silence. What’s so important?”

“The school tried to call you, but there’s no response. So they called me. They were asking about Y/n. They said Y/n told Mrs. Seo that she’s gonna be late but they’ve been waiting for like an hour, she didn’t show up.”

Seungkwan’s daughter, Sunye, is a year older than Jimin, she is in the same kindergarten as him. Knowing that Seungkwan is related to both of you, Mrs. Seo probably checked in with Sunye’s teacher and told her about the waiting situation that occurred.

“Shit! I shouldn’t have put my phone on silence. Sorry. She told me she was gonna take a cab to pick them up. Where are they now?” Jihoon says, walking back to look for his phone under all the scattered papers on his desk.

“It’s okay. They’re at my house. Did you get a message from Y/n?”

Jihoon frowns when he sees his notifications. “No, but I had a few missed calls from an unknown number.”

“Maybe that’s the cab. Maybe the car broke down or something.”

“Shh, I’m calling them.”

The person picks up on the second ring and with a relieved sigh, “Thank goodness, Mr. Lee, we’ve been trying to reach you. You’re the only emergency contact of Mrs. Lee.”

“Wha- Emergency contact, what?”

The lines between Jihoon’s eyebrows are getting deeper while Seungkwan grows one of his own, looking and mouthing his curiosity of what’s happening to the older man.

Jihoon holds his forefinger out to Seungkwan and asks to his phone, “Who is this?”

“This is Seoul National University Hospital. Your wife has been admitted to the ER about an hour ago due to a car accident.”

As soon as Jihoon heard the word accident, he immediately hangs up the phone. He doesn’t need to hear more. The gears in his head are not moving quickly enough for him to remember where he has placed his car key. “Key, key, key, where the fuck is my car key?! Fuck!”

Jihoon finally goes with his initial plan of throwing away everything that is on his desk while Seungkwan is just standing in the doorway, utterly bewildered. “Hyung, what happened?”

He ignores the other man and when at last he found what he’s searching for, he shouts, “Move. I said move!” He shoves Seungkwan out of his way and runs to the garage, the younger one following close behind, starting to understand the urgency.

“Hyung, did something happen to her? Hyung, where are you going?”

“The fuck, Seungkwan. Can you fucking shut up for once?” Jihoon replies once both of them are inside the elevator. He punches the button like a mad man while muttering a few more expletives.

“You can’t drive in this state. Give me your key.” Seungkwan says, extending his hand, palm up. He knows there is no controlling Jihoon, yet he tries to sound strict and not to cower in fear because of his bandmate’s lash out.

“The fuck? She’s in the ER, do you hear me? Fuck! Why is this elevator so fucking slow?!” He punches the elevator door a few times until it dings and shows the basement of the building.

“Hyung! Give me the key! I’ll drive.”

Seungkwan kept on thanking the God above until he arrived at the hospital for the traffic was not too bad, lest his ears would’ve been burned from the ever-flowing river of curses that is Jihoon’s mouth. They are stuck in another slow elevator, with Jihoon pounding on its door, again. Seungkwan has a hard time staying calm. He is worried beyond anything. He is worried about you, his best friend. And he is worried about Jihoon. He never saw him like this, ever. And he is scared, not for himself, but for Jihoon.

When the elevator finally lets them out, Jihoon runs to the receptionist’s desk, Seungkwan catching up behind him. Jihoon starts talking a million words an hour, and the receptionist, the person who was on the call with him, only says that you’re still in the ER with the doctor’s team. He walks towards the ER with ragged breath while Seungkwan stays behind to ask a few more questions. He found out that the other man was dead on the way to the ER, and the cab driver suffers from a few major and some minor injuries; he didn’t get everything she said but she mentioned about partial airbags malfunctioning or something. The receptionist told him about the police, too. They might want to speak with Jihoon. But as he tears himself away from the receptionist’s desk to follow where Jihoon went, he knows that there’s no way that will happen any time soon.

“Hyung,” He calls for Jihoon ever so softly. The older man is slumped down near the ER doors, his whole body visibly trembling and his teeth chattering as if he is cold to the bone.

He sobs, “It’s my fault. I- I was too caught up. I- She- Seungkwan, she-“

By the time he heard Jihoon said his name, Seungkwan’s already crouching by his side, holding him by the shoulders. “Shh, no, it’s not your fault. Shh.”

“But it is!” He shouts, earning a few glances from the people nearby. “It is my fault! I fucking used her car, but I made her pick up the kids anyway. I was selfish. I was petty. I was fucking useless!” His eyes are bloodshot, and it costs Seungkwan everything to hold Jihoon still in his arms.

“Hyung! Calm down.”

“How can I fucking calm down, Seungkwan? Tell me how, when the doctor- no, the doctor’s team was still in there even after an hour of being admitted. Tell me how, when the last thing I did to her was curse! I cursed! You know the last thing I said on our phone call just a few hours ago? Shit! Shit! That was it. That could be the last thing she heard from me, Seungkwan, I- I am the worst. I didn’t deserve her.”

“No, hyung-“ Seungkwan was going to rebut his friend’s words when the doors to the ER open and a doctor calls Jihoon’s name.

“Mr. Lee,” He begins, standing in front of Jihoon who tries to peek inside the room instead of making eye contact with the doctor as he rises to his feet. “We just finished with a few diagnostic tests to identify the injuries. We are going to tend to her head injury first and then her fractured left shoulder and arm.”

“How bad is the head injury? How long after the surgery would she wake up?” Seungkwan pipes in when Jihoon only stays silent for a few seconds too long.

“I am afraid to say that the head injury is rather severe. It, will take some time for her to wake up.”

“What? What do you mean some time?” Jihoon asks unbelievingly, his voice is low and chilling. Jihoon is the receding seawater before a tsunami. And Seungkwan feels the calm water washes over his back, sending shivers down his spine.

“It could be days or weeks. It could also be months. I am saying that you cannot predict a head injury.”

And the first wave strikes.

“How can you not?! It’s your job! It’s your fucking job!”

Seungkwan almost loses his grips around Jihoon, and he really doesn’t want to worsen the worse by asking, but he shoots the question nonetheless, “Are you saying that she’s in a coma?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Jihoon shrieks and launches himself at the doctor, catching the attention of the security who is talking with the receptionist. “Hyung! Calm. Down. Hyung!” Seungkwan is struggling to restrain Jihoon from attacking the doctor until the security comes to his aid.

“We’re sorry, Mr. Lee. We will try as hard as we can.” The doctor is silent for a moment before he continues, “There’s something else that I need to tell you. Due to the damage to her brain, when she wakes up, she might temporarily not remember a few things. We are very sorry, Mr. Lee.” With this, the doctor nods sympathetically and leaves.

Those words are arrows aiming at every cell of his body. And as Jihoon recalls the memory of you from last night, crying, he surrenders to gravity and along with a whimper, he collapses into the earthquake of his own making.

–

Thank you for reading~

Every chapter will be around 2K (I think), so I don’t know how long this series gonna be. But, we’ll see. Teehee.

[scripts4dreamers]

All’s fair.

All’s fair pt. 1

AN: Maybe you’d been wrong about Theseus Scamander. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy at all.

Characters: Theseus Scamander, Newt Scamander.

Pairings: Theseus x reader Spoilers: None

Warnings: None Prompt: Could you do a Theseus x reader where he and the reader start out as really competitive (almost rivals) at the ministry but reader saves his life one day and idk he tries to protect her a lot after that and they fall for each other? (Also your Theseus series is SO GOOD OMG) for anonymous

(Ps. Thank you so much for that lovely comment! It’s messages like that that really give me the confidence to keep writing and posting, also oops! This is gonna be like twoish parts.)

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

You loved your job. You really, really loved your job. Every day when you woke up you were excited to go into the office, because you knew that what you were doing was important. You kept order, pursued justice and kept dark magic at bay. The night before your first day of auror training, you’d been so excited that you’d barely been able to sleep.

Now, nearly two years later, you were still every bit as excited.

“Hey, Y/L/N,” a voice called, distracting you from your work, “You ready to get your ass handed to you during assignments today?”

You sighed. Theseus Scamander, the one flaw in an otherwise perfect job. He was arrogant, ambitious and fiercely competitive. Unfortunately, he was also exceptionally brave, fiercely intelligent and very good at his job, nearly as good as you. He was leaning up against your desk with an infuriating smirk on his perfectly sculpted face.

“Charming as always, Scamander,” you sighed, ignoring his analytical gaze, “and I wouldn’t count your assignments before they’re handed out if I were you.”

Theseus opened his mouth, a retort ready on his lips, but the ding of the elevator cut him short

“Morning,” your boss, Avery Thicknesse, called as he swept through the room, “Y/L/N, have you got the Abbott case cleared up yet?”

“Yes sir,” you answered with a smile, jumping up to hand him the completed file, “I finished the paperwork last night.”

He scanned the page and gave a satisfied grunt, “Good work, very thorough. Scamander, same question. Have you finished the Avery case?”

Theseus blushed, and gave you a furtive look, “Uh-no, not yet, sir.”

Thicknesse gave him a disapproving look and sighed; turning back towards his office, “Get it done, Scamander. We don’t have all day here.” He chastised, “Aurors, be ready in ten minutes to receive your monthly assignments.”

The office buzzed with excitement and you turned back to Theseus with a smug smile.

“What was that you were saying about getting your ass handed to you, Scamander?” You poked, “Not so confident now, I suppose.”

“I was talking about assignments, Y/L/N.” he replied, “Being a pencil pusher is very different to actually being out there in the real world.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled, “Yeah, whatever. You’re just mad that Thicknesse is pleased with me instead of you for once.”

Theseus maintained a sulky silence next to your desk for a few moments longer, before stalking back to his own. You turned back to your work with a satisfied smile and started daydreaming about your upcoming assignments. Theoretically, no one assignment was any better or worse than any other but, in reality, the assignment you were given was generally a reflection of your standing in the office. Annoyingly, Theseus and Prewett generally got the best assignments (working in the field), with you getting the slightly more tame postings in either Observation or Research. Thicknesse said it was because he could trust Theseus to follow orders in emergency situations, while you….well, let’s just say that you’d always been more of an independent thinker.

“Alright, assignment time,” Thicknesse announced, “as you all know, we’re still focusing our attention on the apprehension of Gellert Grindelwald and his band of fanatics.” He reminded you, “So I’ll be assigning people to the Field Team, Observation, Research and Administration.” He paused, letting the suspense in the room grow, “The Field Team will, as always, be working in patrols and pairs. Patrol one will be headed by Deinard and will be made up of Deinard, O’gara and Smith, with Smith as second-in-command. Patrol two will be headed by Gibson with Dawlish as second and Bones rounding it out. Patrol three will be lead by Scamander and will include Prewett, Cattermole and Y/L/N, with Y/L/N as second-“

Your heart stopped and you instantly forgot how to listen. You’d done it! You’d finally made field agent, and as a second no less! You were so wrapped up in your little bubble of happiness that not even serving under Theseus could bring you down. You looked over to him and noticed that he’d crushed his mug. Your heart sunk a little bit at that. You knew that he didn’t like you, but you’d never thought he hated you enough to crush a mug just because you had to work together. Whatever, you thought, shaking it off. You’d made field agent and nothing he said could take that away from you.

When the assigning process had ended, you made your way over to the patrol briefing.

The senior auror, Alderon Deinard, stood and addressed you all, reminding you of your roles and assigning each patrol an area to take control of. You listened intently, soaking up every last bit of information.

“We’ve gotten word that Grindelwald has sent a signal to his followers telling them to cause mayhem tonight, which means we’re on high alert. We’re authorized to use maximum force and Travers expects results,” he explained, “so cast to kill.”

Your stomach pinched. You’d never killed another person before. You’d always found a way to take them down with non-lethal force and the idea of taking a life when there was another option unsettled you. Almost unconsciously, you looked to Theseus and saw, with a rush of relief, that he looked equally uncomfortable. He was sitting right at the front, biting down on the back of his jaw, his face stern. As though he could sense your gaze, he looked back and caught your eye. His gaze was dark and intense, completely different from the joking man who you were used to. Deinard dismissed you all and, as you made your way out of the briefing room, you felt a hand grab your elbow. Theseus Scamander was almost glaring you down.

“Can I have a word, Y/L/N?” he asked, pulling you the side before you could even answer, “Listen, I know that you’re probably really excited about finally getting in the field but this shit is real.”

“I know-“ you started, but he cut you off.

“I need to know that you’re going to listen to me,” he said, “if everything goes to hell, I need to know that I can rely on you to follow orders and get the job done.”

The look he gave you was so intense and serious that it made you swallow the sarcastic retort that you had had waiting in your throat. You had never seen Theseus so serious and, for the first time, you felt a flicker of fear in your stomach. You suddenly remembered Theseus’ first time in command. His patrol had been ambushed by a group of dark wizards and three of the five aurors had been killed, including his second. Theseus had faced an inquiry and had taken nearly a month off. You remembered how destroyed he looked when he’d returned, as though all the joy had been sucked out of him forever. He had been through hell, more than once, and yet he kept going, he kept fighting and you had to admire his strength.

With some difficulty, you met his eye, “You can rely on me Theseus,” you promised, “I know what’s expected of me, and I’ll get it done, I promise.” You maintained eye contact, hoping that he would be able to sense your sincerity, “I won’t let you down.”

In the ensuing silence, you felt a tenuous connection form between you and your workplace rival. Underneath all your mutual peacocking, there was an understanding. At your cores, you wanted the same thing, and you respected Theseus both as an auror and as a man. Theseus studied you intensely, searching for something in your eyes.

He must’ve found it because, eventually, he let your elbow go and gave you a curt nod, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I know you wont Y/N.”

You smiled, trying to break the tension, “Aw, sweet, you know my first name.”

“Oh ha, ha,” Theseus grinned, “don’t go getting a big head now. We’ve still got to work together and there’s not enough room in here for both of us and your inflated ego.”

You laughed and, for a moment, your rivalry seemed to fall away. It felt nice to be laughing together instead of at one another, you thought.

“Go home and get some rest Y/L/N,” Theseus suggested when the laughter had faded, “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

You nodded and worried at your bottom lip, the flicker of fear reigniting itself in your chest. Theseus noticed and gave you, what he hoped was, a comforting smile.

“It’s going to be fine Y/N,” he assured you, “chances are nothing will even happen.”

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

You hit the wall, ducking behind a corner as a burst of green light missed you by centimeters. Your heart was pounding and adrenaline was pumping through your veins at one hundred miles an hour. Grindelwald’s followers had, indeed, come out in full force that night and they’d quickly overwhelmed you with sheer numbers. The sound of rebounding curses and hoarse voices filled the night air, filling up the narrow street. You desperately searched for your allies with your eyes, catching sight of Helena Cattermole, hiding down an alleyway and Theseus crouched behind an overturned car in the middle of the road. Four patrols had started off the night together with fifteen fully trained aurors. From what you could see, only five of you were still in action. You’d helped three escape down the back roads, sending them back to the ministry for help. It had been nearly twenty minutes since then and the fanatics had you pinned down. You couldn’t even apparate out without exposing yourself to danger.

For a moment, there was silence. The remaining aurors had hidden themselves so well that Gindelwald’s fanatics had nothing to aim their wands at. In your mind, you heard Theseus’ voice as he’d grabbed you and shoved you behind him, once it was clear that you were outnumbered.

“Get out of here,” he cried over the din, “get the others and get out. I’ll hold them off.”

Your stomach pinched with guilt. You’d promised to obey his orders but, you were his second, you couldn’t just leave him there to drown, so you’d stayed and he’d noticed. From his position behind the car, you could feel his cool blue eyes on you. The dark wizards, led by Carrow and Kraw, started to advance slowly, searching for the remaining aurors. Their numbers were greatly depleted, credit for which both you and Theseus had a rather significant claim. They were slowly approaching the car, behind which Theseus was hiding, but you didn’t think they’d spotted him yet. Unfortunately, it didn’t look as though Theseus had noticed them either.

His eyes were still fixed on you and you could tell that he wasn’t at all pleased. You watched, horrified, as he raised himself, preparing to move to a more defensible position. He was still mostly hidden, but you shook your head frantically, knowing that any step he took would expose him to Carrow, who was making her way closer and closer. Theseus didn’t notice and he stepped out into the street, hunched over and still half in a crouch.

It was as though everything slowed down. Carrow’s face lit up, she raised her wand and began to mouth a curse that you knew, with overwhelming certainty, that Theseus would never have enough time to respond to and block. At the same time, you knew that you needed to be closer in order for your spell to be strong enough to override hers and that, as soon as you stepped out, you yourself would almost certainly be killed. There was no time for hesitation. You thought about Theseus, his joking smile and his commitment to justice and made your choice.

You stepped out from behind the corner. Theseus saw you and his eyes widened, he opened his mouth to call to you but, before any sound made it, out you screamed “Protego!”

Carrow’s killing curse rebounded, glancing harmlessly off the car, and giving Theseus enough time to reach his wand and disarm her. You felt a momentary pang of relief, heard a rough voice yell something twisted and cruel, saw a flash of purple flame, felt a sharp pain in your chest and the world went dark.

Your first thought was that death was extraordinarily comfy. Your second was that, to your surprise, you were breathing which meant that you couldn’t be dead. The third was that your chest felt like it had been kicked in by a hippogriff. Slowly, you opened your eyes and found yourself staring at a pristine white ceiling. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see someone hunched over in a chair next to your bed, his head hanging low and his hands clasped together as though he was deep in prayer. You were lying in a hospital bed at St Mungo’s, you realized, which meant that, somehow, you must’ve escaped from at alleyway. The battle, Theseus and the other aurors. You sat up suddenly and winced. Your body ached, as though you’d been crushed by something heavy. The noise had, however, made your visitor aware that you were awake. Theseus’ head snapped up and grabbed your arm, supporting you as you struggled into an upright position and fluffing the pillows behind you so that they supported your back.

“Thank God you’re awake,” he croaked, his voice hoarse, “I was starting to think-“

“Theseus?” You asked, still groggy from sleep, “What happened? How did we-“

He looked exhausted, as though he hadn’t slept in days, and his clothes were rumpled and untidy, but his eyes were alive with relief, “Help came. Ogden and Peakes made it back to the ministry and let them know that we were pinned down,” he explained, “Carrow and Kraw escaped, but we managed to round everyone else up without too many casualties.”

“Casualties?” you asked, your heart dropping, “who did we lose?”

Theseus’ face darkened, “Edgecomb, Fenwick, Suzuki and-“ he swallowed hard, “and Deinard.”

“Deinard?” you asked, tears welling up in your eyes, “No, no it can’t-he can’t.”

“Kraw got him in the chest with a killing curse,” Theseus explained, his voice dead, “he didn’t stand a chance.” You sat in silence for a moment, each of you lost in your own memories of the hardened auror who’d taught you both so much. Eventually, Theseus cleared his throat, and fixed you with an intense stare, prompting you you wipe the stray tears from your cheeks, “Y/N,” he started, “I told you to leave.”

“I know but-“

“I told you to leave,” he continued, “and you stayed. You disobeyed a direct order from your commanding officer and, because of that, I owe you an apology.” He said. You frowned, confused, but Theseus gripped your hand in his and squeezed it tight, “I’ve made your life miserable since the day we met and you still defended me. I was your commanding officer and I led you into danger and I’m so so sorry. If you hadn’t been there, I would be dead. You threw yourself into harms way, you risked your life and you saved mine.”

You blushed, oddly embarrassed by the intensity of the moment, “You would have done the same for any of us.”

Theseus shook his head but didn’t let go of your hand, “You could’ve died, all because I was too stupid to watch my own back.”

“Theseus,” you insisted, sitting up straighter, “we were outnumbered and pinned down, people were dropping like flies all around us, it was chaos. What you did was smart, you were trying to move to somewhere more defensible. Any one of us probably would’ve done the exact same thing.” He opened his mouth to argue but you cut him off, some of your old fierceness coming back, “No, Theseus, stop. You are a brilliant auror. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made you head of the whole department soon enough. You made one, simple mistake that anyone could have made and I will not have you beating yourself up for it, okay?”

There was a long silence, during which you noticed, for the first time, how startlingly blue his eyes were. Eventually Theseus nodded and you relaxed back onto your cushions, grateful for the reprieve. To your surprise, he didn’t leave, preferring to lean back in his chair and chat to you. Theseus stayed for hours, catching you up on the tings you’d missed and talking about everything and nothing, from school memories to his fears for his brother, until eventually the nurses had to ask him to leave because visiting hours had long since ended. Grumpily, he stood and pulled you into a gentle, but firm hug, thanking you again and promising to come back as soon as he could before waving goodbye and disappearing out into the world again.

You were stunned. Never before had Theseus Scamander had an actual conversation with you, let alone given you a hug. As you laid back down to sleep, though, and quietly grieve the loss of your comrades you realized that you’d enjoyed it. You liked him, when he was being himself and, as you drifted off to sleep, you wondered if, maybe, you’d made a new friend.

Theseus insisted on coming to visit you every day and bringing you a different present each visit, no matter how many times you told him that he didn’t need to. The nurses had asked you if they ought to tell him to back of, but you’d waved them away. Theseus was sweet and gentle with you and, as much as you hated to admit it, his visits had fast become the highlight of your day.

By the time you were discharged, nearly a week later, you were weighed down with gifts and, somehow, had acquired a new best friend, a best friend who, luckily, was there to help you carry your litany of gifts. Theseus was kind, you’d realized, and funny with a penchant for physical contact that made you laugh. You’d commented once, that you’d received more hugs in two days, from Theseus Scamander than you had from your mother in the past year. You remembered how he’d blushed and apologized, swearing to do that less, before you’d cut in and told him that you liked it, you thought it was sweet. Now, as he walked you back to your apartment, he seemed to be treating you with extra caution, insisting on holding your hand every time you crossed a street and double checking each side road for danger. You would never tell him, of course, but it helped. Ever since the night of the ambush, you’d been terrified of running into Grindelwald’s followers again and you’d started to have powerful, vivid nightmares.

Upon arrival, Theseus searched your apartment before letting you in and then helped you unpack and rearrange your belongings, so that your bed now faced the door, before giving you another hug and waving goodbye, apparating you and leaving you on your own. The second he was gone, you missed him terribly. You sat down on your couch and looked around your apartment. It seemed smaller, you thought, less vibrant, without Theseus in it and, for the first time since your accident, you felt well and truly alone.

[goldenscript]

for the requests, i really like the idea of a fluffy freelance web designer idea - title would be something like "the cryptography of your heart" (oh god that was greasy nvm) with namjoon?

pairing: kim namjoon | readergenre: slice of life au / tooth-rotting fluffy fluff, youtuber x freelance web designer word count: 1,529 author’s note: the title isn’t stupid at all!!!! i think it’s lovely

How to tell someone I like them, the Google browser reads.

Cluttered around the stark white screen are the search results consisting of endless results for tutorials, articles, and even Pinterest boards about how to go about the perfect confession. While some are witty, tempting even, there are others that actually elicit an abrupt strangled sound from the researcher.

“What do I do?”

“Just tell her,” Jimin tells him dumbfoundedly. The younger man’s expression matches his tone, looking at Namjoon as if this was simply ordering a caramel macchiato from the coffee shop down the street. As if casually telling his client that he likes them and wants to date them and hold their hand and kiss their cheek and take them to his favorite bookstores and listen to their music recommendations and their childhood stories and—! (Well, you get the picture.) But from Jimin’s tone, it is as though telling Y/N is easy. As if it weren’t enough that you were severely out of his league as it is.

In response, he simply frowns.

“What?”

“It’s not that simple…” Namjoon sighs, already knowing what the conversation that will ensue engails afterwards. He decides he would rather nip it in the bud now than listen to the incredulous accusations later. “And before you ask me how it isn’t that simple, then you gotta understand that I’ve never told anyone that I liked them before.”

Jimin blinks, tilting his head to the side. It is the first he has heard of this sort of thing from Namjoon, but then again relationship talk just hasn’t been the hot topic between the two of them. Jimin knows that Namjoon isn’t keen on leaving his apartment unless it’s for coffee and his job, sometimes if he’s forced out by him or Jungkook (on the days that Jungkook isn’t tempted to sit in and tinker with film editing software, of course). It’s strange to consider though.

When Jimin really thinks about Kim Namjoon and his dating life, it hits him how nonexistent it is. He realizes the great deal of lacking that he never once considered, and a sympathetic look glosses over his cherub-like features before contorting in confusion.

“What do you mean you’ve never confessed to anyone before?”

It’s the dreaded question. One that Namjoon feels the anxiety prickle on his nerves as he glances back at the screen, taking mental notes of the successes and failures that have come with confessing to a crush. That is why. He has heard the horror stories, watched them unfold in adolescence, and dreaded suffering from the same fate.

He is no brave man, you know. Laying his heart out on the line is a hefty deed that makes his stomach queasy and his heart the exact replica of mush. Instead of going into any elaborate detail, not that there is a huge amount to talk about in the first place, he simply shakes his head.

“I just haven’t.”

“…Like not even once though?” Jimin tries once more, wanting to comprehend this statement. Surely, Namjoon had done this at least once.

“Really, I haven’t,” he repeats, looking a little more distraught. He is so new to the idea of romantic love that it’s actually kind of debilitating. And he knows he likes you a whole fuckton. When he thinks about going over to a café to work on your website with you, he can’t help but feel butterflies flutter in his stomach. When he hears about your day, he wants to keep hearing you talk. And god, when you ask him about his and about what he likes and dislikes, it’s… different. In the best way possible. “It never occurred to me that I should. At least until now.”

“You really like Y/N that much?” Jimin muses, eyes flickering to Namjoon’s second screen where your website is pulled up.

Namjoon nods, “A fuckton.”

“She’s supposed to double-check your code before it goes up right?”

Namjoon nods slowly, trying to comprehend. Of course, he’s quick to answer, “I mean she has another comp-sci friend to check it for her though.”

“But she’d still look it over too, right?”

“Yeah, she can be pretty anal about that stuff.”

Jimin giggles, earning a glare from Namjoon as he asks, “So, what are you getting at, pervert?”

“I’m not a pervert!” Jimin pouts, though Namjoon can tell he’s still trying to stop his quivering lip. “But why don’t you just confess to her in the code?”

Namjoon’s jaw drops, “You’re shitting me right? That’s so cheesy…”

“Well, do you have anything better? Can you go up to her and actually her to her face that you like her?”

“Well… no.”

“Then? What else do you have to lose?”

Namjoon considers Jimin’s words as carefully as problem sets from Professor Lim, knowing that despite all his certainties, some attempts are still a hit-or-miss. He knows that whatever happens, happens. He either takes that leap of faith or stays by the ledge, wondering what-if.

His gaze flickers up to the second monitor right then.

He sees your smile etched in between the little symbols, the memories of conversations spent just deciding on a color theme, and a hope that maybe you saw something in him through all that time too.

And with that, he comes to a decision.

“Might as well just leap. It might hurt less.”

/

“Check your code.”

You blink at Yoongi, almost alarmed at the sudden drawl of his voice. As soon as you got the green light from Namjoon, you had Yoongi come over to look it over for one more final look and you’re not sure how to feel about the blond’s curving lips. “What? Why?”

His brief amusement melts away as soon as he clicks his tongue at you.

“It’s a rule of thumb to always check your code, dipshit.”

“You say this like I was the one who created it. I hired someone to do it, y’know. And, I’m having you check it. For free. Like the good friend that you are.”

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, well, still. Check it.”

“Is there something I should know about?” you ask, wondering if somehow Namjoon made a mistake. Is that why he made you pay less than the estimated amount? You frown at the thought, wondering if maybe he was having an off day the last time you both finalized the code. Though if you’re being quite honest you do know you’re going to miss meeting up with him.

“Er… well, I’ll let you be the judge of that—it’s definitely something you needa check out though.”

You even receive a shake of the head, a deflection that doesn’t go unnoticed, earning your long-time friend a small glare before you change tabs from YouTube to your website’s url. It piques your interest knowing that maybe this might be another reason to see that adorable chestnut-haired man again.

“Alright, fine.”

You scroll to the lines where Yoongi instructs you in the Python program.

‘’’

Hi Y/N. I’m sure you won’t overlook this message, and I’ll understand completely if you decide to delete out or if you never talk to me again, but that last day we spent together I wanted to tell you a lot of things. I wanted to know more about you. Not just from your videos, but from you. The real behind-the-scenes. I think about it a lot. I think about you a lot. Um… God. This is my first time so have a little mercy, okay? I like you. A lot.I’d like to take you out for an espresso. Wait. You hate those. What about brunch at  flâneur? I hear it’s great. I honestly don’t how this works, really, so if this goes completely wrong, please put all blame on Park Jimin, a dance major at Seoul University. Anyway…. um, good luck! (God, please tell me if I just fucked up my first confession, ever, because I could take all the pointers I can get.)

‘’’

A smile curves on your lips when you look at Yoongi, who only snickers at you.

“I told you so, dipshit.”

/

A ding emits from his nightstand.

Namjoon has to hold his breath, wondering if maybe it was another message from Jimin asking if you talked him about what he left for you in the code. He admits it was pretty lame and stupid, but was there really another way? Could he really face you without being tongue-tied and pink in the cheeks? His visages contort in embarrassment at the thought, releasing a deep sigh before unlocking the phone without a second thought.

[11:34 AM] y/n interesting final touches on the code. I have to say I accept. I think flâneur is perfect. how does today at 2 sound?

[11:34 AM] y/n btw, no pointers or pointed fingers needed. it was pretty perfect already

He grins to himself, unable to contain his cries of joy or the flopping of his limbs. The sun is bright and the day is so fucking beautiful.

He tells you that it’s perfect and that he can’t wait.

The leap isn’t so bad after all.

[ylizam]

Do Dis: List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on. This can be writing, art, vids, gifsets, whatever.

tagged by: no one, but I was putting together a list for myself (to gameplan working on something, finishing it, and then working on something else, etc.) and figured, hey, why not post it in public so maybe someone will yell at me if I never finish anything ever again (no really will I ever finish anything ever again?) 

Writing:

The Actually Really in Progress Ones (by which I mean that I’ve written 1,000+ words of these in addition to assorted notes, etc.) (closest-furthest from finishing, and therefore the order I’m going to work on them)

Holby City, Berena telepathic bond fic - AU after the first kiss (and in the sense that it’s a world in which telepathic bonds exist and Guy Self’s neuro specialty is in the field of bonds), Serena POV, she thinks it’s just her also she never gets anything important from Bernie, just things like cigarette cravings and trying to find her trainers at way too early in the morning o’clock, does research and consults with Guy, all while they flirt and avoid feelings and look at each other over wine glasses and kiss again (and Bernie doesn’t go to Kiev, but that opportunity does come up and they haven’t dealt with the bond yet and Serena freaks out because what if it fucks with her brain for Bernie to be that far away) (look they don’t actually talk about that part until after they go back to kissing each other) 

[redacted]

The Vaguely in Progress Ones (by which I mean that I’ve written 1-999 words and also have a bunch of notes and stuff) (possibly working order, but could be changed after the above stories are done)

LTiH, Gillian/Caroline where Gillian kisses Caroline for the first time to hide from someone and suddenly they’re fake!dating, shit, also Caroline’s sort of casually with Olga, who is kind of maybe sorta possibly somewhat back with her ex, but also everyone ends up making out because drinking games (to be honest this one has many words written but also no real sense of what it is as a story yet, other than Gillian and Caroline kissing a bunch)

Holby City, non-monogamous Berena fic - canon compliant-ish? in that by the time I finish it Serena could’ve returned and left all over again at the speed I write, but it’s canon-compliant in that it involves Serena leaving on her sabbatical and Bernie staying behind and it’s basically about them negotiating a relationship through grief and also getting all the therapy they both need because it’s also about happiness and life and sex and compromise and love and it’s basically the closest thing to my own personal curtain fic (yes they do end up sharing a home and possibly a cat and a really nice aquarium what)

Holby City, five people Serena didn’t fall in love with and one she did, Serena/Fleur, Serena/Sian, Serena/Buttons, Serena/Raf, Serena/Ric (or Serena/Jac, which is what I’d prefer but also I’m not sure I can make it work on Jac’s end so), Serena/Bernie - a bunch of AUs where Serena hooks up with various people (and realizes her bisexuality at various times in her life) (and gets therapy even when she’s not depressed) and is basically happy in all of them this is 100% about making Serena happy and getting her laid (this, due to the fact that it’s 6 separate AUs or whatever, has the chance to be the first story since mailing lists that I post chapter-by-chapter instead of waiting until I’m finished)

The Closer/Major Crimes, Brenda/Sharon, goes AU somewhere after Andy and Sharon get together - Sharon takes the promotion: Commander, FID, ding dong the wicked witch is back. Andy does not take it well. To put it lightly. They fight. They break up. Brenda ends up back in LA, doing something, and she and Sharon become friends, and then more, and they have sex and fall in love and never move in together because two places are better than one and also there’s a cat that goes between the two places and doesn’t hate cars.

The Not Yet in Progress Ones (by which I mean that all I have is notes! scribbles and notes!) (hahaha order, what is that?)

Star Trek: Voyager, Janeway/Torres/Paris post-Endgame - the one in which Janeway somehow finds herself a part of the Torres-Paris family, and she decides that she's okay with that. Every so often she looks up from her work and Miral is sticky-handed and underfoot--she actually did want children, and that didn't work out for her but now she's kind of sort of co-parenting? she really doesn't know how to define what they have, but they’re all surprisingly happy.

Star Trek: Voyager, Janeway/Tuvok, Tuvok/T’Pel - AU on Voyager where Kathryn and Tuvok start a relationship after she helps him through his pon farr (featuring holographic!’TPel), and T’Pel knows and is okay with it because Tuvok loves both of them and she's taken a lover back home too and it's all okay and then they get home because Admiral Janeway still has to come back to save Tuvok and they all keep having their relationships and Kathryn loves Tuvok's grandkids and her sister thinks it's hilarious that she skipped right to grandmother and it's just very logical and loving and good. 

The One I Keep Thinking About Starting (by which I mean that I haven’t even scribbled down notes yet, but I can’t stop thinking about it so)

ER, Kerry/Jeanie, post-series, Kerry comes back to Chicago with Henry (who defiantly roots for the Panthers instead of the Chicago NHL team) and catches back up with Jeanie and does some volunteer work because even though she hasn’t practiced in a while she kept up her qualifications or whatever (so she can’t really go back into emergency medicine, she’s lost too much time, isn’t up to date, but she can do non-M.D.-required volunteer work and eventually maybe even does go back to medicine full-time who knows) and they talk a lot and sit hunched in diner booths a lot and blah blah blah kissing!

[junker-town]

Congresswoman Jan Schakowsky is taking the NFL to war over player health

She's spent her career championing underdog causes. Now Schakowsky is taking on the biggest bully in sports.

WASHINGTON — It was a late afternoon last March in the busy halls of The Capitol when Jan Schakowsky (D-Ill.) shattered the football world's biggest lie.

Schakowsky sat in a corner of a small room crammed with scientists and lawmakers all collected there by the House Committee on Energy and Commerce to discuss concussion research and treatment. She read over notes in a patterned jacket and high-collared blouse, but quickly grew impatient waiting to attack.

“The NFL is peddling a false sense of security. Football is a high-risk sport because of the routine hits, not just diagnosable concussions,” she said. “What the American public needs now is honesty about the health risks.”

No one bit. The rest of the gallery barely paid her any attention. Schakowsky sighed before circling back.

“I just want to ask what I think is a yes or no question,” she continued. “Do you think there is a link between football and degenerative brain disorders like CTE (Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy)?”

Dr. Ann McKee, a leading researcher in Boston who tested the brains of former players for CTE answered first. Ninety out of 94 NFL brains she’d examined had the disease. Forty-five out of 55 college players, too. McKee didn’t balk at the chance to drive her findings home.

“The fact that over five years I’ve been able to accumulate this number of cases in football players, it cannot be rare. In fact, we are going to be surprised at how common it is,” McKee says. She repeats that this is not just about concussions. It’s about the hits, sub-concussive, players take at every level of the game.

“It’s devastating when you see this in a 25-year old,” she said. “What our job is, as American citizens, is to maintain the health of these young athletes for the entirety of their life. If there’s something we can do to limit this risk, it needs to be done immediately.”

With that, it was the NFL’s turn. Generally, the league, to that point, had denied McKee’s research and argued that science doesn’t point to a link between CTE and football. Except Schakowsky’s question to Jeff Miller, the NFL’s senior vice president for health and safety, melted the football empire’s stone wall.

“The answer to that question is certainly yes …,” Miller said.

“Is there a link?,” Schakowsky asked again.

“Yeah ... Sure,” Miller said.

“We think, or I feel, that was not the unequivocal answer three days before the Super Bowl by (the NFL),” Schakowsky responded.

“Well I’m not going to speak for …,” Miller said.

“Well, you’re speaking for the NFL, right?” Schakowsky asked, sitting up in her seat.

“You asked a question as to whether I thought there was a link. And I think, certainly based on Dr. McKee’s research, there is a link,” Miller said.

“We sat around thinking ‘oh, that was good.’ But that was it,” one staffer says now, remembering a landmark moment in the fight for player safety. At the time, though, no one in Schakowsky’s office, or the Congresswoman herself, had any idea what had just happened.

“She didn't know what she was doing,” a staffer who works for the Energy and Commerce committee, says. “She accidentally got this admission and picked up the torch from there and ran with it. I don’t think she understood the groundswell of what was going to happen with the NFL afterward.”

This day wasn’t billed as congressional testimony. It was instead a Republican box-check: By getting every party into one room, the majority could say they did something about a buzz-worthy public concern. But 90 seconds into Schakowsky’s questioning and everything fell apart.

“The fact that this explosion came out of that, was one: not the outcome that Republicans wanted; and two: not even close to what Jan expected,” an aide to a Democratic lawmaker says.

Since the day she got the NFL to publicly acknowledge the connection between CTE and their sport, Schakowsky has spent the past year leading the legislative fight to protect player health. This despite the fact that she counts herself as nominal NFL fan, a U.S. Representative who had no real interest in the topic of CTE until being confronted with the facts that day last March.

“Time and again, Jan didn’t have to put her finger in the wind to understand what was right,” Jon Samuels, one of Schakowsky’s top staffers from 1999 to 2007, says. “She just knows and goes off running.”

U.S. Senator Dick Durbin has known Schakowsky for decades. They usually speak weekly. But the day Schakowsky confronted the NFL, Durbin was in the Senate and hadn’t heard from his longtime colleague. When he found out what she did, however, it made sense.

The NFL were the only ones who didn’t see this coming, he says. Everyone knows that when Schakowsky gets hold of an issue, she has the “tenacity of a bulldog.” She never lets go.

“Let me tell ya, there are those moments,” Durbin says now. “The public is used to political figures and lawyers dancing around issues. But there come those moments in congressional history when the truth prevails.

“Maybe (the NFL) was waiting for that moment or chance to do it. But,” he pauses. “When Jan Schakowsky asks you a question, you take it seriously.”

For a woman who has spent most of her life fighting for marginalized groups — women, people of color, immigrants, the LGBTQ community and now athletes — Schakowsky’s office is a window into her beliefs.

It’s a catalogue to her decades in public service, 10 terms in Congress: portraits with Muhammad Ali from the 90s (“His generosity of spirit was so inspiring”); a quilt made by women in her district that represents several states with women legislators elected; pictures with former president Barack Obama before they both went so grey; an autographed photo from John Lewis from the day House Dems had a gun control sit-in on the congressional floor; portraits with Nancy Pelosi and the Dalai Lama; encyclopedias filled with every speech from Abe Lincoln’s political career.

Office of Jan Schakowsky

Muhammad Ali and Jan Schakowsky

We sit in her office on a warm day in April as she sneaks Coke from a mini-fridge behind a door. She swears she’s kicking the habit because “sweetener causes dementia.”

Schakowsky plops back on the couch in the middle of the decadent room and looks over a response letter the NFL sent her and three other House members after the reps inquired about a federal lawsuit which alleged that teams facilitated prescription painkiller abuse in locker rooms. The league stated that it had been compliant with federal drug law.

It’s apparent between sips that she’s getting more and more incensed.

“When you get a 15-page letter,” she scoffs. “You touched a nerve.”

She reads line by line then throws it on the coffee table.

“If they think that by writing a long letter with footnotes means we’re going away, that’s absolutely not true,” she said. “There’s a lot of room for us to continue to press and press.”

Schakowsky is a relatively short woman. If she said she’s over five feet tall, you’d probably debate her on it. Often seen in lime-green blazers or pink accoutrements on The Hill, she’s lively and energetic for a woman pushing 80 years old.

During a recent Congressional recess, she wore out the twenty-somethings in her office with 14 speaking events, 20 meetings, and six press conferences back home. She had to set aside three hours just to hit the grocery store because of all the fanfare she gets in the aisles.

“I come back at the end of some days gasping for air with my hands on my knees. She’s non-stop,” one of her aides says.

It takes the energy and the meticulousness of someone like this to think they can make an impact. It has to be hardwired into your being to believe that the NFL and other sports leagues that may endanger player health are worth starting a public war with.

“You put on your uniform. You take your helmet. You eat your pills. There’s this gladiator aspect, a bloodlust to the game of putting these brawny, mostly black men out on the field for a mostly white audience to, ya know,” Schakowsky says, making a crashing noise to finish her thought.

Speaking of football: she’s a fair-weather fan. She likes the Bears, but she hates Jay Cutler. Well, maybe, not hate. But she sure as hell doesn’t like him.

“Thank goodness he’s gone!” she says. Cutler crossed her after announcing his open support for Donald Trump, a man she definitely loathes. “I don’t think anyone in Chicago misses him. I’m sorry.”

She’s not, not really.

Siding with Trump puts anyone at odds with Schakowsky, especially when it comes to player health and safety. In October, Trump described concussions as “a little ding on the head.” In March 2013, he said the sport was ending because the NFL discontinued using a helmet to initiate contact. Last year in Nevada, he said football has become soft like how America has for the increased safety measures.

To put it lightly, Schakowsky thinks he’s full of shit.

“This is a man where winning and being on top is everything. So, a ‘little ding on the head’ a lifelong disability, a shortened life? Go for it. Be tough. Be a winner. Don’t be a loser. Complaining must make you a loser,” she said, sarcastically. “That’s who he is. That’s what he does for everything. This absence of empathy, I think he has a disability in that sense, an inability to connect with people’s problems.”

At the time Schakowsky got Miller to connect football and CTE publicly, she just didn’t understand everything. She had never even seen the movie Concussion. But when she went back to her office in the Rayburn House Office Building, her name blared on SportsCenter and her email inbox was full of kudos from friends.

“There was, like, this,” she stops to open her arms, puts her lips together and makes a sound similar to dropping a cannonball into a body of water.

It took Schakowsky time to grasp the full scope of the need for players’ health advocates, even as she took up the banner. She talked with constituents who blew up her phone that March after the roundtable and realized the enormous hold football has on American culture. She met with retired NHL players in October and watched middle-aged men cry because they couldn’t remember things.

“So, that was part of my lack of understanding what had just happened. I didn’t get the whole gestalt,” she admits. “It really started to dawn on me. I realized what a huge issue this was. It was right up my bailiwick.”

Schakowsky was born in a quiet Northside neighborhood in Chicago to two eastern European Jews who came to America at the height of the Nazi occupation across the ocean. By 1969, she was a young mother, who had grown annoyed by not knowing what basic items were fresh at local supermarkets and so organized the National Consumers Union (eventually changed later to National Consumers United) which, she jokes, was a “modest name for a group with six people.”

Office of Jan Schakowsky

Jan Schakowsky, Illinois State House

They researched coded numbers on the backs of products — the only way to determine when an item was made. The group published 25,000 “code books” to help shoppers tell whether they were buying fresh or withering bread. NBC picked up the pamphlets and ran a special on the nightly news.

Manufacturers quickly went on damage-control and stapled “use-by” labels on their products. Schakowsky was an overnight, local success.

“Changing the date on cottage cheese may not have saved the world, but it did change my life,” Schakowsky told Kurt Stone for his book The Jews of Capitol Hill: A Compendium of Jewish Congressional Members.

“It’s what I sort of love about her,” Dan Biss, an Illinois state senator who could be the state’s next governor, says. “From Day 1, she was figuring out a way to fight against powerful forces on behalf of people who needed help that lacks power. That’s what she’s done her whole career. You’re just seeing an example of it (with CTE).”

Since that first action, Schakowsky has made advocating for marginalized voices her life’s work. She worked at the state level until 1989, when she took on Washington, in a typically splashy way.

A powerful congressman from Illinois was chairman of a committee with jurisdiction over healthcare legislation and had backed a provision that reduced support for costly medicine, leaving the most vulnerable seniors to the whims of their insurers. Schakowsky did the only thing she knew: she raised a ruckus. She organized a protest. Lawmakers still remember the protest she organized.

“Oh my God. It’s like going back 30 years now,” Frank Pallone (D-NJ) says.

The congressman was slated to speak that day to community leaders about his stance. But he wavered at seeing the horde of protesters. So, the lawmaker hit the door, dashing to his car.

“They were chasing Dan down the street,” Pallone remembers. Many elderly people were screaming down the sidewalk “Liar!” “Impeach!” “Recall!”

The group surrounded the black car. They pounded on different parts of the vehicle with picket signs. They shouted into the windows. One woman wearing bright pink sunglasses and a matching dress stood in front of the car. The driver tried to nudge her out of the way by inching forward, but she ended up on the hood of the car, with onlookers and cameramen snapping photos.

Every major network broadcasted the skirmish. Newsweek and The Chicago Sun-Times captured the image. And months later, because of Schakowsky, the law was repealed.

“I don’t see any change in Jan,” Pallone chuckled. “That’s her. That’s her whole M.O. She’s always been aggressive and out front on issues that impact people directly.”

She built momentum from her protest and turned it into an eight-year stint in the Illinois statehouse. Her first campaign pledged to fight for consumer rights and healthcare. Schakowsky backed laws for seniors, increased support for day-cares and libraries and advocated for the marginalized in her district.

So when she found herself at a nearly silent roundtable with the NFL, armed with research that indicated that players weren’t being protected by their employers, Schakowsky did what she always does: she kept asking questions.

Only, the answers she got once she started prodding enraged her.

“You start to find out some of the internal research they do is bullshit,” she said. “It’s inaccurate. It isn’t well done. It’s not true. Then, I feel even more driven to get at the truth of this.”

There have been letters to the NFL, Pop Warner, USA Football, a national body overlooking high school sports and the NHL. But the reality is: Schakowsky can’t really force the NFL to do anything.

“I don’t think there’s any question that the NFL has to take responsibility. That’s first level,” Schakowsky said. “Accountability either has to be seriously accepted or imposed. But we just aren’t there yet.”

Nonetheless, she has her part to play. They can change laws, but they need their Republican colleagues’ help, something that in the last year has seem far-fetched. As it stands, the only people in Congress who can do anything about sports don’t care enough to, and that’s even inter-party.

“You can get 175 out of 190 Dems on a letter about Planned Parenthood,” one staffer said. “But this is not one of those issues where you’re going to have that.”

Office of Jan Schakowsky

So Schakowsky is banking on public pressure that she and other lawmakers can bring to force parents and other football consumers to steer clear of the sport. That means once again taking on a bully.

“It’s been exhilarating times, getting to make the changes I had dreamed about,” she said. “As old as I am, I was made for this moment. I’ve been an organizer all my life.”

As our conversation begins to close, a junior high-schooler who had been shadowing Schakowsky all day, decided to finally interject. Elena, bold and full of adolescent firepower, took up the same argument that many have about Schakowsky’s yearlong tirade against football.

“You’re never going to be able to stop it,” she told Schakowsky. “They really play it in high school. They announce it over the speakers in the classrooms. They even sell tickets at my school!”

Schakowsky, known for her piercing rebuttals, wasn’t going to argue with her guest. She smiled at the girl and offered a compromise.

“You know, you might be right” Schakowsky said. “But, it really is important to at least try and think about it.”