#fic | i'm your man

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 19

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

AO3

Word Count: 3.5k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58 @justheretoreadthxxs @blakelysco-pilot

A/N: I'm sooo sorry this chapter took so long!! things have been super busy lately and my motivation to write was so low it was literally in hell. But! we got there eventually - please enjoy!! <3

December 1945

Morning sunlight flooded the room, the hustle and bustle of New York sounding through open windows as Frankie pried open a new paint can with a grunt, leaving a smudge of blue in her wake as she raised a paint-stained hand to wipe across her forehead. With each brush stroke, the room grew more alive with colour as everything steadily seemed to come together.

She'd been up since before dawn. Sleep didn't come easily these days.

Hair pulled messily out of her face, Frankie dressed in a pair of Rosie's old pyjamas, the shirt only half-buttoned, left open where it became too small to reach across her swelling stomach. A bassinet remained unassembled in the hall, waiting for its spot to be ready, and the smell of coffee wafted up from downstairs, a surefire sign that Rosie had awoken too, undoubtedly readying for work.

Within a few minutes, he came to her, hovering in the doorway in his suit - the one that was tailored the best, the one that made her melt a little no matter how many times he wore it. "Morning," She called with a smile, adjusting a piece of masking tape along the window frame. The sun caught her at just the right angle, illuminating her silhouette as she straightened.

"You're beautiful," Rosie beamed, crossing the room towards her. Lifting a hand to cup her cheek, he brought his lips to hers, delivering a gentle kiss.

"Ah-ah," Frankie chided, ducking backwards as she lifted her hands in surrender. "Paint hands." He chuckled as she scampered from the room, scurrying to the bathroom to wash away the streaks of wet paint that stained her hands to preserve that excellent suit of his.

He was waiting when she returned, a pleased smile creasing his cheek as she returned the first kiss, one of his palms pressed against her stomach. As she finally pulled away, he raised a hand, stifling a chuckle as the pad of his thumb rubbed at the paint staining her face.

"Don't work yourself too hard, honey," He urged, entirely unable to meet her eye without a smile creeping across his expression.

"Oh, you know me," She teased, straightening his tie.

Scoffing, Rosie shook his head slightly. "That's the problem."

Frankie shrugged. "Eh. Bucky's coming over in a bit, might sit down for a whole ten minutes. I'll drop by the garage for a bit just to check in."

"Have him drive you," He nodded, turning to head for the door.

"I can drive!" She protested. Rosie let out a bark of laughter, swinging back on his heel.

"No, you cannot - for the safety of New York, I beg."

Frankie guffawed, batting a hand in his direction. "Get outta here!"

"Yes ma'am," Rosie grinned, tipping an imaginary cap before disappearing down the hall.

Once again alone in the nursery, she smiled to herself, chuckling as her fingers drummed against her stomach. "Your dad thinks I'm a terrible driver," She whispered as if confiding a secret to the child within her. "Although, your uncle Bucky says it too, so they might be onto something. Either way, it looks like I won't be doing the school run."

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A little over an hour later, the doorbell sounded, startling Frankie enough to make her jump, a splatter of paint falling from her brush and staining her sock as she cursed beneath her breath. Waddling slightly as she made her way downstairs, she seized a sweater from the back of a nearby chair, tugging it up over her head to cover her stomach. As she wrenched the door open, gaze settling on the figure standing on the front step, she fought the urge to grin.

"I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"Shut up," Bucky chuckled, stepping inside as he wrapped her in a hug. "You look huge."

"You smell bad," Frankie grimaced.

"Late night."

"Oh yeah?" She raised a brow, a smirk curling her lip as he shrugged nonchalantly, a faint splash of colour tinting his cheeks. "Anything to share with the class?" Bucky frowned, side-stepping his way inside like he owned the place

"Oh come on," Frankie groaned, shutting the front door with a slam. "I haven't been out for a drink in months, I need someone to live vicariously through."

"There... may have been a girl."

"Knew it," She grinned, scurrying into the front room to take a seat in one of the armchairs. "Sit, sit, sit!"

"Jesus, you need to get out more," Bucky muttered, perching on the edge of the couch. "That baby's making you weird."

"Not the point. Start talking."

Throwing his hands up in frustration, he let out a sigh. "I don't know! I got drunk and we danced - she was pretty, I think her name was... Jo? Josephine. But other than that I got nothin', so I'll probably never see her again."

Frankie let out a long, agonised groan as she pushed herself back up out of her seat, waddling towards the kitchen. "God, what's the point of living through you if all you do is make stupid decisions?"

"Where are you going?" Bucky called after her, craning his neck to watch as she disappeared into the kitchen. It was quiet for a while until she reappeared in the doorway, a plate of shortbread in her hand, already chewing a mouthful.

"You want some?"

He snorted back a laugh, smiling sceptically. "You made those?"

"They're the only thing I'm good at. Three ingredients." She mused, licking some sugar from her fingertip as she returned, putting the plate down on the coffee table. Lowering herself back into her chair, Frankie let out a groan, the feeling of weight being taken from her practically euphoric. "So. What's the plan for tracking down this Jo?"

Bucky threw his hands up in despair. "I dunno. It's impossible."

Her eyes narrowed slowly. "I don't think I've ever heard you say those words," Frankie teased. "Do it again. Slowly."

"Shut up," He frowned, stuffing a piece of shortbread into his mouth to avoid having to speak for at least a little while.

"I just never knew you to be a coward," She shrugged. "You're setting a bad example for the baby."

Bucky scoffed, a few crumbs blowing loose from his moustache. "The baby doesn't know what's going on."

Frankie felt a stretch within her as the baby kicked out with her tiny foot. "Oh, she begs to differ."

"Oh my God."

"Hm?"

"I just realised there's actually gonna be two of you. I dunno if I can cope with that."

"Oh, don't tell me Uncle Bucky's gonna shirk his duties."

"...Uncle Bucky?"

"Mhm."

He began to grin, chuckling to himself, unable to suppress his smile as he leant back into his seat. "Well... alright. I think I can work with that."

Frankie mirrored his smile, the room falling into quiet for a long moment before she snapped her fingers.

"Ok. You're giving me a lift to work."

"Oh, am I?"

"Yep. Rosie says I'm not allowed to drive."

"Oh, yeah, no, good call actually. I'll get my coat," Bucky nodded firmly, fumbling for his keys as he rose to his feet.

"Well, I was thinking I'd go put proper clothes on first," She pointed out. He turned, taking in her appearance, the sleeves of Rosie's sweater dangling past her fingertips, paint-stained socks peeking out beneath the hem of her pyjama bottoms.

"Seems fair."

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Bucky's car vanished around the corner as Frankie headed inside through the open garage door, groaning slightly as she craned backwards, stretching her back against the weight it carried. The place was alive with work, her staff bustling away as they tweaked and mended the cars in their custody, a raucous whirr filling the air and bringing her back to the countless hours spent in her father's shop as a girl.

"Mrs Rosenthal," One of the mechanics nodded to her as she waddled past, tipping an imaginary cap in her direction.

"Mornin', Ted," She paused, stepping up beside him as he peered beneath the hood of one of the cars. "How's it lookin'?"

"Think we got a problem with one of the carburettor valves - I'll take it out and have a look, but we'll probably have to order a part."

"Alright," Frankie hummed. "I'm sending out an order later anyway, if you can get it checked today I should be able to get it in fast."

"Thanks, Frank," Ted smiled, the pair exchanging nods as she headed towards the office, which sat tucked away in the far rear of the place, its windowed walls giving her a perfect view of everything that went on.

"Excuse me?" A voice echoed through the garage, barely audible over the roar of machinery, giving Frankie pause as her hand reached for the office door. A woman lingered in the entryway, clutching her purse as she glanced around hoping to be noticed. Her blonde hair was pulled back in neat curls, a pleasant smile curling red lips as she met Frankie's eye.

"Hi!" She grinned, meeting the woman in the middle of the room as they headed towards each other. "What can I do for ya?"

"I'm just here to pick up my car, I brought it in a few days ago."

"Alright, no worries," Frankie nodded, back-tracking towards the office to grab her clipboard "What's the name?"

"Josephine Pitz."

She paused, slowly looking up from her notes, her earlier conversation with Bucky replaying in her head.

"Mhm. Ok. If you could just take a seat, I'll go deal with the paperwork and you'll be good to go," Frankie urged, waddling at full speed back to her office as Josephine found a chair.

Alone in the privacy of her office, she grabbed the papers, fumbling for the phone on her desk as she forcibly dialled the familiar number. Holding the handset between her shoulder and her chin, she scribbled away, deigning not to get too precious about her terrible spelling as she waited for her friend to pick up.

"Hello?" Bucky's voice came down the line.

"I think I've found the answer to your Josephine problem."

She heard him scoff. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Shut up, she's just come in. Josephine Pitz - blonde hair, green eyes... great legs."

"Oh shit."

"That's what I'm saying! Get down here right now - knock on the back door."

"Alright, yeah - On it."

The line beeped as he hung up, and she couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image of Bucky scrambling to get out of the house, scurrying to his car in a frenzied hurry. Frankie pushed herself closer to the desk, the table's edge digging into her stomach as she signed off on the last paper, only half paying attention as she focused on keeping Josephine firmly in her peripheral vision.

After ten minutes of clumsy stalling, the knock of a fist against the back door came as a welcome intrustion, and Bucky was scarcely able to offer greetings before he found Frankie's lunch thrust into his hands.

"Wh-?"

"Go round the front - pretend I forgot this, and Rosie's asked you to bring it."

He looked down at the crumpled paper bag, nodding firmly. "Good plan. Great plan. Ok."

"Right, go."

Flashing her a grin of excitement, Bucky disappeared around the side of the building, appearing mere seconds later at the front entrace, her lunch held aloft as if in victory. Josephine did a double take, eyes widening slightly in recognition, whilst he seemed to be pretending he hadn't noticed her yet. It struck Frankie as an odd decision.

"Here you are," Bucky declared, holding the bag out to her with a smile as he approached. "Can't keep forgetting this. Feedin' two n' all."

"Oh! Yes, thank you," Frankie nodded. Even when unable to see her own face, she could tell her attempt at appearing surprised was not going terribly well.

"... John?" Josephine's voice intruded. He turned to face her. If Frankie's effort at feigning shock had been unsuccessful, his was worse.

"Jo? Huh! Fancy seeing you here!"

Jo's jaw hung slightly slack, gaze darting between them as the gears turned in her head. Bucky and Frankie stood frozen, waiting for her to speak.

"... Oh my god, you're married?!"

Some kind of terrible squawk escaped Frankie's throat, an awkward middle ground between a choke and a guffaw. "Oh, Jesus, no! No, no - see the Rosenthal & Co. sign outside? I'm the Rosenthal. He's Egan, completely unrelated."

Jo's frown faded slightly, brows still pinched as the shock of what she thought she'd realised slowly wore off. Briefly glancing at Bucky, he offered her an awkward thumbs-up.

"So... Who's the 'Co.'?"

"Right here," Frankie patted her stomach, which barely fit beneath the buttons of her coveralls.

"... Huh."

"We're just friends," Bucky assured. "We worked together during the war."

"This whole thing was just a set-up attempt, cuz he was at my house earlier talking about you," Frankie shrugged.

Suddenly the others were both staring at her with expressions of equal alarm. She paused, clicking her tongue awkwardly.

"I am... gonna go get your car. Just... carry on without me."

"Please go away now," Bucky uttered.

"Yep."

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5th January 1946

Christmas lights still bathed the living room in a flickering array of red and green, the tree long since wilted and thrown away, although neither of them had quite found the time to take down any of the other decorations. There always seemed to be another job that needed doing more urgently, and as the days passed, Frankie found herself more and more open to Rosie's pleas that she simply sit down, rest, and let him take care of it all.

He was lounging in one of the armchairs, newspaper unfolded in his lap, a few dry patched of paint still staining his shirt from where he'd helped her to finish painting the nursery. Padding across the room, Frankie's eyes screwed shut as she let out a yawn, only opening them as she felt his hand gently tugging at her wrist. She hadn't even had to look at him to know what he wanted, hearing the rustle of the newspaper being cast aside as she lowered herself to perch in his lap, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck as his hand rubbed circles against her spine.

"God, I'm bored of waiting for this baby," Frankie sighed. He hummed, breath warming her skin as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, a bubble of laughter escaping her throat.

"Not much longer now," He said, voice muffled against her as he held her as close as he could, the red and green lights reflecting against the polished metal of her ring.

"... You think it's time for the decorations to come down?" Rosie asked, chin resting against her shoulder as he glanced around the room.

"No," She tutted. "I like the idea of it still being Christmas when she gets here."

"You're so sure it's a girl?"

"Oh, yeah. And I'm always right."

"Of course."

A soft finger against his jaw tilted Rosie's face to look up, his eyes softening without delay the moment they landed upon her. Her hair had been messily scraped back into a ponytail, loose strands sticking out at every angle. But her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were bright, and to him, she'd never been more beautiful. Frankie pressed a quick kiss to his lips, their foreheads resting against one another as they both let their gazes travel to her bulging stomach.

"You're gonna be such a good dad," She hummed, barely more than a whisper. He lifted his head, pressing another, longer kiss to her temple.

"She's gonna love you," He muttered against her skin. Frankie shrugged, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. After a beat of silence, Rosie pulled away, looking her in the face. "You okay, honey?"

"I dunno, I just," She sighed. "I don't remember my mum. I don't really remember how they're supposed to... be."

Sucking in a long, deep breath, he wrapped his arms tighter around her, a frown creasing his brow.

"You're not supposed to be anything. You're already the kindest, funniest, smartest person I know. And you've got your dad - if you're anything like him at all, our kid's gonna be just great."

Rosie chuckled as she wrapped her arms around his head, squeezing it in a vice grip. She kissed his scalp firmly before resting her cheek against his hair. "I love you."

"I love you so much," He said, muffled against her sweater. But she could hear the smile in his voice.

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10th January 1946

Frankie's face was still drenched with sweat, hair clinging to her temples as she cradled the tiny infant in her arms, unable to wipe the grin from her cheeks even for a second. Even as exhaustion willed her eyes to close, she couldn't bring herself to look away. "Oh, there you are," She whispered as a gurgle escaped the girl's throat, her hand so small it could do nothing but wrap around her mother's pinky finger.

Rosie wiped away the sweat from Frankie's brow, hand ceaselessly gentle. "You feeling okay?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," She nodded. He looked down at the baby in her arms, eyes welling with immediate tears. A tired laugh escaped Frankie's throat. "Oh, honey. You wanna hold her?"

Beaming at the prospect, he reached out to softly pry the child from her mother's grip, his hands so big against her tiny frame that it seemed almost impossible that something so small could even exist. "Hi there Maggie," He sang, sniffing loudly as he tried to blink away the tears before they could roll down his cheeks. Frankie reached out a hand, wiping them away with the pad of her thumb.

A soft knock sounded at the door, cautious and restrained as whoever stood outside waited patiently, hesitant to intrude.

"Come in!" Frankie called, voice mellow to avoid stirring the baby.

Creaking slowly open, George's head poked inside, a wide-eyed smile crumbling as she processed the scene in front of her. "God, I said I wasn't gonna cry," She tutted, wiping her eyes as she hovered in the doorway, as if hesitant to make her entrance before she'd fully composed herself.

"Oh, who cares, c'mere," Frankie laughed, holding out her arms as her best friend hurried forward. Passing the baby with barely more than a glance, she enveloped her in a fierce hug, perching on the edge of the bed beside her.

"I'm so proud of you," George choked back a sob, raising a hand to stroke Frankie's hair out of her face. "You smell terrible."

"Just like the old days, huh?" She laughed. "Although I did just have a bloody baby, do you actually want to see her?"

"Oh, shit, yeah," George sniffed, wiping her tears as she pulled out of the hug. Rosie was still standing in the corner with Maggie, a smitten smile creasing his cheeks, seemingly unaware of anything else around him.

"Rosie," Frankie prompted gently, snapping him out of his trance.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," He looked up, edging towards George so that she could get a peek at the child beneath her bundle of blankets.

"Hiya," She whispered, grinning as she leaned closer, lifting her hand so that the baby could wrap a chubby hand around her finger. "What's her name?"

"Margaret. Well, Maggie," Rosie smiled.

"Margaret Georgina Rosenthal," Frankie pointed out, George's eyes widening as she turned to look back at her.

"Shut the fuck up," She blurted, hand raised almost immediately to cover her mouth, glancing nervously back at the baby as if she somehow understood. Rosie began to laugh, the vibration of his chest making Maggie gurgle happily. "You didn't."

He shrugged. "Well, we thought that you-"

"I don't even like that name!"

Frankie snorted. "I know!"

George groaned. "Fine, well, I think she suits it better anyway." She nodded to Rosie, wordlessly asking his permission, and he gently placed Maggie into her arms. "Yeah. She's a cool baby."

"Bucky's coming to see her later," Frankie said. "He'll be mad I didn't somehow find a way to name her after him."

"He's gonna cry," "He's gonna cry," George and Rosie stated simultaneously, lifting their gazes from the baby to look at each other, snorts of laughter escaping them both.

"Alright, that's enough, give me my baby," She grunted, shifting forward on the bed and holding out her arms. Maggie let out a series of gargling sounds as George lowered her into Frankie's arms, tiny eyes staring up at her mother as she held her close. She let out a faint chuckle, stroking her thumb across her cheek.

"Yeah... She is gonna be pretty great."

[ckret2]

Oh yeah?? Could a child do THIS??? *represses his grief and pretends everybody's okay for the next trillion years*

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[idk-bruh-20]

Irondad fic ideas #151

There is a LOT of Iron Man merch out there. One day, Stark Industries comes out with a line of Iron Man themed night lights that look like arc reactors. The marketing? "For kids who are scared of the dark: Iron Man will protect you."

In completely unrelated news, a whole bunch of child abusers across the country have recently been arrested as a result of  anonymous tips to local authorities.

Bonus:

It's an open secret at some point. Teens who are being abused start buying the night lights. Hell, adults start buying them. Charities pop up to cover the cost for anyone who needs it. Kids who are newly safe often send their night lights on to others ("I'm not scared of the dark anymore," they say).

Even with all of this, nobody snitches to the media or government. They all know grown-ups tend to complicate and ruin precious things.

It helps that the night lights clearly can distinguish between different types of situations. Kids whose parents need mental health or addiction support suddenly find they're being contacted by free services that actually help. If ICE is a concern, the people knocking on the door are not cops but immigrant rights activists. Kids who are hungry get food. Families who need housing support coincidentally find it.

"Iron Man will protect you," indeed.

This fic idea was inspired by this post from @fotibrit!!

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[souenkun]

Larry's random conversarion lines 🍙

Pokémon Masters EX spoilers ahead!

Random conversation 1:

Ever since I met a certain individual, I now find myself gazing up at the sky every once in a while. There's scenery you'll never even notice if you stick to flat, well-trodden paths. Just something I've observed. I don't dislike the vast, clear sky... But I don't think I can reach it. It's nice to know that there's something like that out there, though.

Random conversation 2:

Pasio seems to have many good restaurants. Ah, I'm not asking for specific recommendations, though... I actually enjoy walking around and looking for a place I might like. That's part of the experience. I seek the exceptional only when it comes to food. Pasio has a variety of cuisines to choose from, so it's hard to stick to just one.

Random conversation 3:

(Player), which do you tend to favor: the exceptional or the average? I was thinking of inviting you to have a meal sometime. Casually figuring out your client's preferences is a special skill that you learn as a salaried employee.

Random conversation 4:

Lunchtime is one of the few things that a salaried employee like me can look forward to at work... We can decide whether to spend that precious time eating something familiar or trying out a new restaurant. It's not just about the meal. The decision-making process leading up to it is also something to look forward to.

Random conversation 5:

People, Pokémon... There's no need to overcomplicate things. Nowadays people only seem to want a shock factor. Something weird, something bizarre. When all's said and done, simplicity is strongest.

Random conversation 6:

You don't necessarily have to follow every instruction from your boss. But I pretend to follow them, at least, so I can avoid hassles later on. That's a technique you can use to get by in the workplace. Keep it in mind.

Random conversation 7:

I'm here in this famous tourist spot, but I can't really spread my wings while my boss has her eye on me. I guess I'll do what I usually do on my lunch break and find a spot to Roost...

[eats-a-berry]

wjatever......i dont even care.........WHATEVER

[novelconcepts]

It really frees up so much mental real estate when you start thinking of sex as just: a thing people sometimes do. Some people are super into it! Some aren't! It's for fun! It's for intimacy! It's the deepest connection some people will ever feel and totally meaningless to others! It's hot! It's boring! It helps some people sleep! It exists as an exciting construct solely in fantasy for others! What it isn't is some complicated moral ground that needs to be fought against at every turn. It's just A Thing. Which means people who have a lot of it, or none of it, or whatever in between are all worth the same. Which means stories that have a lot of it, or none of it, or whatever in between are worth the same, too. Smut isn't less valuable than "clean" stories. People who have a high "body count" aren't less valuable than those who have never had sex at all. It's just A Thing. Making peace with sex as just A Thing that is natural to consentingly have or not have, want or not want, really is a great adjustment to your brainspace.

[sforzesco]

"Since you've named yourself after Julius fucking Caesar, perhaps I'll follow in your lead and choose one of the conspirators." "Interesting," says Giuliano. "Should I worry about finding you at the center of some kind of conspiracy that ends with my death?" "Not from me," replies Ascanio. He sounds tired. "Not anymore."

informally, some kind of. conversational follow up to the last comic. I'm trying to get the atmospheric conversational whimsy out of my system because I have a vision of the vatican as a body in active decay, a point of infection spreading out and poisoning the well, a jaw unhinged that people walk into over and over, and I am so close to figure out how to convey this visually. maybe.

[jhonny]

"stop talking like that boy you're ruining my tboy swag" - yami bakura, probably

or, when both bakuras are trans but only one of them has perfected the trans voice.

+ bonus thief king (as a treat)

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 1

Masterlist |-| Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

AO3

Summary: As Frankie reaches the end of her second week at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield, she begins to find her footing among the men of the 100th Bomb Group

Warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption, language

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee

The setting sun cast a golden blanket over Thorpe Abbotts airfield, basking everything in an idyllic, orange glow that was almost beautiful enough to distract from the heady stench of motor oil that lay thick on the air, permeating hair and clothes so thoroughly that anyone who spent even five minutes in the place would carry it with them for the rest of the day.

Frankie Bevan clamped a flashlight tight between her teeth, the narrow beam of light illuminating the underside of the B-17's gun turret as she surveyed it for any cracks or gaps in the glass that could compromise its integrity. The rest of the ground crew had called it a day almost two hours ago, but the Yanks always did prefer to work in the daylight. She was nearing the end of her third year in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, and after so many nights spent running the airstrips in the darkness for the RAF, Frankie was well accustomed to toiling away into the night.

Thorpe Abbotts was new, and yet much the same. It was only her second week here, compensating for the Americans' manpower shortages. The job was always the same, no matter where she went or what planes she worked on - checks, fixes, refuelling, over and over again - but thus was the nature of a mechanic's job. What she was not yet quite used to was the Americans themselves. Loud and brash and self-assured, Frankie was sometimes glad they worked different hours.

Taking note of a few cracks in the glass panelling, she reached up to swipe the torch from her mouth, offering a satisfied nod as she completed her checks for the night. All that was left was to pin her list of concerns up on the board inside the mechanics' Nissen hut, and then it was off to the pub for her.

Once she changed out of her oil-stained coveralls, that was.

"They're working you like a dog down there on the strip," Georgina, one of Frankie's bunkmates, pointed out, flipping nonchalantly through a magazine as she lounged on her bed.

"Someone's gotta do it," She shrugged, kicking off her coveralls as she rummaged in the shared wardrobe for the correct service uniform. "Some of the mechanics they've brought over are practically kids, not sure I'd trust 'em to fix my plane if I was going up there."

"You'd better show 'em what for, then," George smiled, glancing over as Frankie finished buttoning up her blouse, reaching for the navy blue jacket.

"You coming for drinks?"

"Uh, nah - I'll go tomorrow. Sandra thinks we'll be starting early tomorrow so I wanna get a decent night's sleep."

"Ooh, luxury," Frankie teased, shimmying her shoulders as she made her way to the door of the hut. "Alright, see you later."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pub was crammed from door to door as she forced her way inside, the sound of chattering overpowering the music blaring from a radio in the corner. The American invasion of Thorpe Abbotts had well and truly been successful, scarcely a flash of RAF blue visible amongst the sea of khaki as Frankie burrowed her way through the crowds towards the bar.

"Pint of Guinness, please," She called over the din, the bartender offering a friendly nod of affirmation as she felt the crowd behind her push her body further into the edge of the bar.

"There y'are, love," The man nodded, placing the pint glass in front of her as she smiled her thanks, foam lining her top lip as she took her first sip. Frankie barely had time to wipe it away, turning to take a step back from the bar, before another body collided with hers. She gasped as the beer she had so looked forward to sloshed over the rim of the glass, pooling on the floor and staining the front of her uniform, as the other man's drink did the same.

"Woah, careful there!" The man cried, flicking a few stray droplets of spilt beer from his hand onto the floor. A deep frown creased her features as she peered up at him. The soldier was so tall that the tip of her head didn't quite pass his shoulder, and yet the irritation in her expression was so palpable that he took a full step back.

"Oh, that was my fault, was it?" Frankie tutted.

"Well, sweetheart, maybe if you'd been looking where you were going-"

"Maybe if you bloody Yanks gave us some room to breathe in here we wouldn't have a problem!"

There was an easy smile on the man's face that struck her as distinctly annoying. Discarding his now almost empty glass on the bar, the man put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Look. We're not gonna agree on this, so what d'ya say we settle this with a little friendly competition?"

She raised a brow. "What sort of competition?"

"Uh... how 'bout a drinking contest?"

Frankie let out a guffaw so forceful that the man's confident smile disappeared, and a few nearby airmen turned to watch the scene unfold. "Y'know what? Yeah. You're on."

With a nod, he turned away, marching towards the closest table. "Alright boys, gimme some space, I got a contest to win against half-pint over here."

She approached the table, sitting down opposite the soldier, smirking at his arrogance. The airmen he had kicked out of their seats were lingering to watch the spectacle unfold, and it was clear their bets were on her opponent.

"Now," He sighed, taking a seat. "In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I oughta introduce myself. John Egan," He said, reaching a hand across the table.

"Frances Bevan. Frankie," She nodded, shaking his hand.

Egan nodded. "So, normal rules apply. No spilling, no vomiting, gotta drain the glass. Still wanna do this?"

Frankie nodded firmly. "I'd never pass up such a wonderful opportunity to humble you Yanks," She grinned.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Egan was turning red, his smug smile long since vanished, the motion of his arm slowing as he reached for the next shot glass, glancing across at her with a slightly nauseated expression. The crowd surrounding them had long since grown since they had begun, although how long ago that was she couldn't quite remember. The huge pile of empty shot glasses in the centre of the table did nothing to jog her memory.

"Oh, come on, Egan, you've gotta do better than that," Frankie teased, reaching forward and downing her next shot. In fairness, she too was beginning to feel light-headed, but it never showed on her face, her demeanour as cool and collected as it had been when she first sat down.

"I thought... I thought this would be easy," John complained, grimacing as he brought the next glass to his lips. "You're so small, where are you storing all this liquor?"

"I'm British - pretty sure it's in our bloodstream," She teased. Egan's eyes narrowed as he weakly upturned the contents of his glass into his mouth, screwing up his face as the liquid ran down his throat.

"I really like her," John admitted, letting out a long sigh as he drew a hand over his eyes. A few of the airmen laughed, clapping him over the shoulders.

"I think we're done here," Frankie chuckled.

"You forfeit?" He asked hopefully.

"No, I'm saying you're about to. That or you're gonna throw up - either way, I win."

"Nuh-uh," Egan shook his head. "Not gonna happen," He fought to suppress a burp, and the room seemed to brace itself for the inevitable vomit that would follow, letting out a collective sigh of relief when he swallowed his nausea back down. "...Yeah. Ok."

She clapped, throwing up her hands in victory as a couple of the men standing behind her cheered. "Well, it's been a real pleasure doing business with you Major," Frankie chuckled, fighting through the splitting headache that was growing in her temples as she rose from her seat, offering him a hand to help him stand.

John batted her away, but stumbled as he got up, one of his friends pressing a firm hand on his back to keep him upright. She smiled. "I'll help you get him back since it's my fault. Gotta get back to the huts anyway."

The airman accepted, each of them slinging one of Egan's arms around their shoulders as he tilted haphazardly over to one side, struggling to prop himself up against her due to her height. Trailing towards the door, a few of the men let out celebratory whoops at her as she passed, praising her victory.

"Thanks for the night, gents - I'm here all war," Frankie called over her shoulders, a cheer erupting from the crowd as they dragged Egan sideways out of the door.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was growing difficult to see as they marched John back to the huts, the street lights growing more and more sparse the closer they got to the airfield. "You gotta teach me how to do that," He slurred, tilting his head down towards her, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.

"You gotta get more practice in - you Americans with your 'no alcohol until you're 21' rule never stood a chance, we've just been in the game longer."

"Ah," He nodded, pausing for a moment. "Hey, why'd you call yourself Frankie?"

"Because Frances is a terrible name," She scoffed.

"Can I call you Fran?"

"Only if you want to die."

"Fair enough."

As they reached the end of the row of men's huts, she shrugged his arm off of her shoulders, relinquishing custody of John to the other airman, who thanked her for her help.

"See ya 'round, Shortcake!" Egan called as they trailed away, grinning proudly to himself at the nickname. Frankie scoffed, rolling her eyes and massaging her temples as her headache steadily worsened.

"You look like shit," George whispered as she wandered back into their hut. She had rolled her hair up into pin curls, protected beneath a headscarf, and was reading a copy of Wuthering Heights in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

"Got into a drinking contest with one of the Americans," She shrugged, tossing her beer-stained blouse and jacket into a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, a reminder to wash them tomorrow.

"Did you win?"

"Of course."

"Shh!" One of the other women hissed from the opposite end of the room, shrouded in the darkness. Frankie pulled a face at her scolding, dragging a brush through the knots in her dark brown hair as George stifled a laugh, discarding her book and turning off the light once her friend had changed and gotten into bed.

It was silent for a while as she lay beneath the blankets, staring up at what would have been the ceiling if not for the complete absence of light. Her alcohol-induced headache thrummed behind her eyes, a constant, dull pain keeping her from sleep.

"George?" She whispered.

"What?"

"Do you have an aspirin?"

The sound of quiet rummaging was audible in the stillness of the hut, and she struggled to suppress a laugh as she felt the tube smack her in the face, a result of Georgina tossing it blindly in the darkness.

"Thank you," She giggled, trying not to gag as she took the pills dry, lying back and waiting for the pain to subside as she thought back on the night's events.

I'm not that short.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The blinding morning sun was unwelcome the next day as Frankie made her way to the airfield from her hut, bike resting against her hip as she made a momentary stop to fix her hair for the day ahead, hair tie held between her teeth as she scooped it into a ponytail. Most of the women she shared the Nissen hut with had left over an hour ago, hurrying to the flight tower in anticipation of the arrival of yet more American pilots, but her job didn't begin until after the planes landed, so fortunately for her, she had been afforded a little more sleep, her headache now more or less dissipated.

A loud honking startled her, the hair tie slipping from her teeth and falling to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, a jeep rolled to a stop in front of her, the horn parping once more.

"Fuck's sake, what?" Frankie muttered, glancing up to see the cheery grin of Major John Egan smiling down at her.

"Mornin'."

"Are you even fit to drive after last night?"

"Fifty-fifty. Hop in, throw your bike in the back."

She frowned as she noticed the pile of bikes already forming in the back of the car, but stacked her on top all the same, sliding into the passenger seat beside him. "Starting a collection?"

"Won them in a bet, night before last. Got one for me and my buddy Buck, he's arriving today."

"Is that Major Cleven?" She asked.

"Sure is," John nodded as the engine roared to life, taking them sailing along the road towards the airstrip, the wind ruining her hair before she even had a chance to finish it.

"So..." He began, swerving slightly to dodge a few maintenance workers on bikes. "Where ya from, Frankie?"

"Stratford."

"I... do not know where that is."

"I didn't expect you to," She chuckled. "Grew up with my dad working his garage, that's what got me into it. Always preferred planes to cars, though."

"You and me both," John nodded, slowing as they neared the landing strip. Up ahead, the flight crew were beginning to disembark, and Frankie's eyes narrowed as she noticed one of the airmen carrying a large dog.

"If they let that dog shit in the plane, I'm not cleaning it up," She stated. "You've heard me say it, that's on the record now."

"Yes ma'am," Egan affirmed, pulling to a stop, a grin spreading across his face as he got close enough to recognise his friends.

As he clambered out of the car, stepping forward to greet his comrades, she climbed out of her seat, wandering around the back of the jeep to disentangle her bike from the pile, tugging it free as the sounds of wind and aeroplane engines overpowered the men's voices.

"Oh, and, uh - This is Frankie Bevan," John called, guiding Cleven towards her, speaking louder so that she could hear. She raised her hand in a somewhat awkward wave, almost dropping her bike on her foot as she hauled it off the back of the jeep. "Best damn mechanic we've got, she's holdin' us together, that's for sure."

"Ma'am," Cleven greeted her with a tilt of his cap.

"He's never seen me work," Frankie shook her head, stepping forward to shake Cleven's hand. "We only met yesterday, he's just being nice in the hopes I won't tell you about how I drank him under the table last night."

John scoffed. "That is not what-" She raised a brow and he stuttered. "Yeah, that - that did happen."

Cleven laughed, squeezing Egan's shoulder. "Well, I'm sure glad he's had someone to keep him humble before I got here. Thank you for your work, ma'am, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

She nodded, grinning at Egan's embarrassment. "How was your flight?"

"Smooth sailin', not sure there'll be anything to fix up this time."

A soldier she had heard John greet as Demarco spoke up from where he was stood, scratching his dog's stomach. "The dog dropped a deuce in the cockpit."

Clicking her fingers, she pointed to Egan. "She's not doing that!" He called, craning his head over his shoulder as Demarco put his hands up in surrender.

"Well, that works wonders," Frankie chuckled, lifting her leg to straddle the seat of her bike. "Now, if all you gents have planned is standing around, I've got work to do."

"Bye Shortcake," John grinned as she pedalled the bicycle into motion, ringing the bell and offering up a middle finger as she left. He chuckled, feeling Cleven clap him over the shoulder again.

"She's interesting... nice," His friend began. "Bucky, I know you're sick of Marge tryna set you up, but she is definitely-"

"She's definitely my friend, Buck. Besides, I could never date a woman with a higher alcohol tolerance than me. That's just embarrassing."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The wind whipped her hair this way and that as Frankie hammered at the pedals, gaining speed faster and faster with each second until the rolling fields beyond the airstrip were little more than a green blur. She'd always loved to cycle, preferably as fast as she possibly could. Her father used to say she should try racing, but his ambition curtailed rather when she got in trouble for almost taking out a couple of tourists outside Shakespeare's birthplace on her way home from school. Besides, she'd never quite had the discipline for sports.

Her breaks squeaked noisily as she rolled to a stop outside the mechanics' Nissen hut, stationed just beyond the main runway. They had been given a single hut for all of their operations, much to the chagrin of many. The back end was an orderly pile of spare parts - buckets of rivets, piles of sheet metal - but someone had supplied them with a table and chairs, and the recent addition of a gas stove and kettle had proved a huge hit.

Ken Lemmons was sat at the table as she wandered in, glancing at the corkboard by the door where she and the others posted notice of anything in need of urgent repair.

"A couple of the guys replaced the glass in the gun turrets earlier - thanks for the shout," Lemmons spoke up.

"Ah, good," Frankie nodded, taking a seat opposite him. As much as she bemoaned her younger, American co-workers, she had grown fond of Ken. He was sipping a cup of coffee, and by the look on his face, he was not enjoying it. She tossed the paper bag containing her lunch onto the table, retrieving a cucumber sandwich - meagre subsistence, and a sight that made the boy frown.

"I think I'd actually murder someone for some Hershey's right about now," He remarked, grimacing as he took another sip of coffee.

"Hey, we make do with what we've got," She shrugged, attempting to devour the sandwich before the cucumber could soak through the thin slices of bread. "I know one of the girls in the Land Army - I darn her jumpers in exchange for a bit of her extra cheese ration."

Lemmons chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I miss good chocolate. I can't get used to... Cad-berry's?"

"Oh, that's sacrilege," She laughed, tossing a slice of cucumber at him, which stuck to the breast pocket of his coveralls. "If you'd come a couple years ago when they were still making Dairy Milk you'd've thought you'd died and gone to heaven."

"I'll believe it when I see it," He grinned, plucking the slice off of his clothes. There was a pause before he spoke again. "One of the fellas says they're actually taking off later."

Frankie nodded, lifting a hand to cover her mouth as she spoke around her food. "Oh yeah? This gonna be your first proper go at it?"

"Yeah..." Lemmons admitted, looking momentarily nervous. "You?"

She snorted back a laugh. "Nah. I've been in the WAAF nearly four years - moved around a bit, but whether it's Attlebridge or Docking or Thorpe Abbotts, it's all the same gig. You stick with me when the planes start coming back down and you'll be fine."

The corner of his mouth tilted upwards in a smile. "You're gonna babysit me?"

Frankie grinned, standing up to reach across the table and ruffle his curls. "With a cute little face like yours, who could help it?" She teased, laughing as he batted her away.

"Get off, I'm serious," Lemmons chuckled, but the smile never faded from his expression.

Ken's buddy hadn't been wrong, per se, but his fabled mission had come not hours, but days later, with a hammering knock on the door to her hut, the women stirring from their sleep in a wave of disgruntled moans.

"What time is it?" Frankie whined as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, resisting the urge to burrow her head beneath the pillow and block out the relentless knocking outside.

"Four thirty," George groaned, frowning vindictively at her watch as she put it on, as if time itself had caused her personal grievance.

"They're flying today, get ready!" A young male voice bellowed from the other side of the door, clearly too shy to bare his face to a room of half-dressed, irritated women.

"Fuck me, I'm coming," She muttered, brushing her hair with one hand as she buttoned up the front of her coveralls with the other.

"Spot me! How's my lipstick?" George called, and Frankie leant across the bed that separated them to wipe a stray smudge of red away with her thumb.

"All good."

"Right," Her bunkmate huffed. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"See you later," Frankie affirmed.

"I'll join you for drinks this time if all goes well!" George called over her shoulder as she scurried towards the door.

"I'll hold you to that!" She replied, smiling as she laced up her boots.

The planes left and returned in mere hours, but the in-between had felt never-ending as the ground crew waited in tense anticipation to see how many would return and in what state. Frankie had sent Egan away to the flight tower after his nervous hovering had started to get on her nerves, and she had since spent the last half-hour sitting in the grass beside the runway making daisy chains with a few of the local children as a way to pass the time.

"Frankie! They're comin' in!" She heard Lemmons yell from across the airstrip. Hurriedly sending the children back to their parents as the sound of plane engines grew steadily louder overhead, she scrambled to her feet, grass stains streaking the knees of her coveralls as she jogged over, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as the planes began to descend towards them.

"...10, 11, 12..." Frankie muttered, coming to the slow realisation that many of the men they'd sent away that morning had not returned. But that loss did not negate the importance of the work they had to do now. "Ok, let's go," She patted Lemmons on the shoulder, and they reached for the bikes they had discarded on the ground nearby, pedalling hard towards the landing strip.

From the second they arrived, she was surveying the damage, scanning the planes for the areas that would need the most attention. It was impossible to pick just one.

"There's a reason we go at night," She muttered, so softly no one else could hear over the din of shouts and dying engines. The mechanics weren't emergency staff, but she'd seen a fair few planes come in either on fire, half-collapsed or both over the years, enough to learn it was best to get in as soon as possible.

"Shit," Lemmons huffed beside her, staring up at a huge, jagged hole in the metal of one of the plane's wings.

"Send a couple of the boys back to the hut - tell them to bring a car back with all the sheet metal they can put in it. Oh - and get me a welder!" She called to him, and the young man began barking orders at the other mechanics, the crew erupting to life around the plane as they began to fix the mess that had returned.

"Frankie!" Egan's voice rang from down below as she climbed up onto the top of the plane, marking out the areas of the body that needed replacing. She looked down at him as he yelled again. "You need anything?"

"Nope, we're good here!" Frankie replied, holding up a thumbs-up in case the wind drowned out her voice. Looking down at the work to do below her, it was as if she could map out every fix in her mind, envision every action in order, play it out in her head until the beast was as good as new. She smiled to herself. "This is what I do."

[chiropteracupola]

granby + iskierka + keynes

[feroluce]

Randomly consumed today by the thought of henghill cuddles, but like from a specific point in their relationship, like after they've only recently started laying in the same bed together.

It's something that takes them a long time to work up to; they both have nightmares, and yeah, Dan Heng is a Vidyadhara and he can heal himself beyond anything Boothill could accidentally do to him, but still. Boothill is made of metal now. He's heavy. It wouldn't take much, just a single flailing limb to cause some damage. He still gets up after Dan Heng falls asleep, and sneaks down into the guest cabin in one of the other cars.

But he'll lay in bed with Dan Heng until then. At first Boothill would always try to situate a blanket between them, because well. Metal isn't exactly pleasant to cuddle. But more and more lately, he's noticed Dan Heng keeps worming his way around their soft barrier and just kind of...rubbing his hand along him? Open palm up the curve of his side, across the planes of his chest, into the star-shape at his solar plexus, down the plates of his abdomen, back to his side again. Fingertips tap soundlessly against metal, or press into dents and divots, or smooth over old scars in the steel.

"Ya don't hav'ta do that, ya know."

"Does it bother you?"

Dan Heng's hand has already stopped, settling somewhere on the futon, neutral ground. Boothill clarifies that no, it doesn't bother him. But he can't feel any of it. He only knows he's doing it because he can see the motion out of the corner of his eye. Dan Heng doesn't need to go through the extra effort to do things for him like he would someone with a normal human body.

And Dan Heng goes quiet, just long enough that Boothill gets curious and turns to look at him over his shoulder. He has the cute little furrow between his brows, like when he's thinking.

And then he opens that pretty mouth of his and says, "That's alright, I think I'm doing it for myself, anyway" and Boothill nearly wheezes because wow, Dan Heng is almost never quite that honest when it comes to himself fdklsajlkd

Boothill cackles in surprise and asks point blank what he means, because what could he be getting out of that? Given the implied permission, Dan Heng's hand starts it's usual route again. Side, chest, solar plexus, abdomen, side. Boothill can practically hear him chewing on his words.

"I like that you're warm," is what he finally says, and Boothill suddenly feels like a bullet has just grazed something vital. "All the processes you run increase your temperature," Dan Heng's hand fans out across a span of steel and he holds it there, like he's soaking up the heat. "And your metal is smooth, it feels pleasant to touch," his fingertips move in circles, slip into a divot perfectly sized, rub back and forth. Boothill silently wills one of his cooling fans threatening to open up to stay closed.

"I like how you feel under my hands. That's all." Headshot! No recovery possible.

"...Suit yerself, then," and Boothill quickly turns back over before Dan Heng can see it in his face, how close he just hit to his heart.

[the-way-astray]

i've seen a fair amount of people that have a take that's something along the lines of "alden isn't abusive/toxic/a bad parent but i like exploring that in fic, so i often characterize him like that anyway" and i'm so curious as to why these people are not extending this same purposeful character assassination to other parents, like grady, or even kesler, and why it seems to be an only alden thing /gen

[yoyo-s-coffee]

a break from the murder

[nicercymybeloved]

Very attached to the idea that if Percy had been a woman she would have been named Ariadne. Like, I know that Persephone is a popular fanon name for female Percy because it's a nice way to keep her nickname. I've also seen Andromeda used by some because she lives a long life with Perseus in the myths. But Sally would have at least considered it right? Because Ariadne's a popular female figure in mythology, linked to both Theseus and Dionysus, two other famous figures in mythology. She was a clever mortal princess who was dealt a bad hand because her father's arrogance allowed him to think that he could get away with defying a god, just like how Poseidon's arrogance allowed him to think that he could get away with breaking the pact he made with Zeus and Hades. And in the end, Ariadne survived both her family's legacy and Theseus's abandonment, becoming Dionysus's immortal wife in both the PJO universe and in many retellings of the myth of the Minotaur and Theseus in real life. Ariadne got to live out her happy ending just like how Perseus did in mythology, which is the main reason why Sally even gave Percy the name Perseus to begin with. Am I delusional to think that Sally would have given a female Percy the name Ariadne? Who the fuck knows. But I'm so attached to the idea that it literally just supersedes any other name I could have come up with