#i’ll use your mama’s sauce recipe

[inkykeiji]

good morning arackniss is rotting my brain

[whimsimille]

THICKER THAN BLOOD

Chapter 2: "Come home to me, darling."

(Jeong Jin-Man x fem! reader)

"Why are you leaving so suddenly?" You questioned, your voice bouncing off the tapestry that adorned the living room wall of your quaint shared apartment and the oak bookshelves filled with classics.

The comforting aroma of a simmering homemade tomato sauce filled the air, mingling with the sound of sizzling pans and the rhythmic chopping of crisp, fresh vegetables on the polished granite kitchen countertop. 

Dressed in a worn-out apricot apron adorned with faded sunflower prints, your hands were occupied with diligently kneading the carefully prepared pasta dough for your dinner, a recipe passed down from your Italian grandmother.

All of a sudden, the living room's normal sounds—the soft purr of Gunpowder, his gray cat curled up on the plush Persian rug, the low drone of the television playing the evening news—were replaced by an eerie silence that made your skin crawl. 

On turning, you noticed Honda in the midst of rushing preparations for departure. He was hunched over the suede couch, lacing up his sturdy boots, his face etched with stern concentration. Against the dimly lit backdrop of the room, his figure blended seamlessly, rendering him no more than a transient silhouette.

"Where exactly are you off to? And what's the urgency?" You signed, your hands dancing in the air while you leaned against the wooden door frame. A knot of unease formed in the pit of your stomach at the sight of his hasty departure.

His gaze met yours, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he signed back, "I have to go. Jin-Man needs me. I can't disclose more for your safety. You know how it works."   

He continued to pack his bag—a small duffel made of worn leather with patches on the corners and straps slung over one shoulder. As he did so, you caught sight of an old photograph falling out of the side pocket; it was of you both from what looked like a summer festival years ago, grinning widely under colorful umbrellas while balloons swelled around you both.

"But can't it wait until tomorrow? Is it really necessary to depart on the day that we get back together after several months?

The worn-out leather of the couch groaned under his weight as he rose, his tall figure casting a long shadow against the faded brown wallpaper. 

Moving towards you, he avoided the cluttered coffee table littered with dog-eared magazines and discarded newspapers. His leather jacket, draped over the back of a nearby armchair, was quickly pulled on, the rusted zipper scraping against the silence of the room.

"No, it can't wait. But I'll be back in time for dinner. I promise." Even as he used a gentle swipe of his thumb to remove a stray splotch of tomato sauce from your cheek, his smile never left his face. “When I return, we can lounge on the couch, munching on popcorn and be engrossed in those old Hollywood classics you're so fond of. You can also show me your progress with that hacking project you've been working on. Maybe try not to fry the motherboard this time?"

"First of all, you better keep that promise. Second,  I’ll hold you to it. Third, for your information, that was a one-time thing!"

"First, I will. It's a promise. And second, I remember it being a three-time thing." He chuckled, his laughter warm like a summer's day.

"Shut up. But tell me, why the secrecy? Why can't you share what's happening? Jin-Man usually keeps me in the loop when a mission comes up.”

Despite your persistent questioning, Honda remained resolute, his face as unreadable as a closed book. He gently loosened your grip on his arm. "Stop nagging me like Mama would. I can't divulge any details. It's not safe. But I need to go. Jin-Man needs me. Don’t you have any government sites to hack? Or do you plan on crashing our systems again?"

"Stop it, douchebag. You're being reckless. We need to tread with caution, especially now more than ever. You know that. And that was not my fault; their security was just… upgraded."

However, he simply shook his head as he smiled at your pout, pulling you into a warm embrace. The cold, hard metal of his brass knuckles, concealed in his pocket, pressed against your side. A chilling reminder of the danger that lay ahead. Yet you refrained from voicing your fears, choosing instead to hold him tight, the rhythm of your heartbeats synchronizing.

"Alright," you conceded, swallowing your protests, "at least take some food with you." Gesturing towards a Tupperware container on the table, filled with steaming eggs and a side of kimchi jeon—both staple dishes in your shared meals.

His eyes softened at your concern, and he took the offered container, pressing a quick kiss on your forehead before making his way towards the entrance.

As he neared the door, a rush of childhood memories invaded your mind. Sometimes you stayed up late whispering secrets under the covers; sometimes you felt his pain even when he was miles away, and sometimes you both fell off your bikes and ended up in the emergency room with scraped knees. They dubbed it the twin instinct, but to you, it was a lifeline, a warning system that alerted you when Honda was in danger.

"Honda, wait!" You called out, your voice echoing off the creaking wooden floorboards. 

The desperation in your plea stirred Gunpowder from her sleep, her tail twitching softly against the worn-out rug as though caught in a dream of chasing unseen mice. Honda turned, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes questioning in the pale afternoon light filtering through the gaps in the old blinds.

A knot of guilt twisted in the pit of your stomach, threatening to crawl out through your lips and fill the room with its bitter taste.

The two of you were caught in a moment where petty bickering had canceled all the plans you had carefully added to your shared agenda. Your hands, once intertwined in unity, had become unglued from one another, your fingers now tangled in the strands of hair sprouting from your head. The hateful words you once spat at each other—words that had plunged through the gaps of your milk teeth—had turned into a somber reality. It suddenly seemed oddly appealing to consider dying in order to keep him around.

"I...I love you, brother," you admitted, the words feeling foreign yet so right. It was something you should have said a long time ago, after your parents' deaths, when it was just the two of you against the world. But you had always been afraid—afraid that admitting your fears would make them real.

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, an unspoken understanding passing between you two. "I love you too, sis," he signed before stepping out into the afternoon, leaving you in the silence of the empty apartment.

While life in the apartment carried on around you—the stove still burning, the TV blaring the evening news, Gunpowder curling around your ankles, licking your calves—you felt tears springing up in your eyes as your thoughts raced.

Come home, Honda. Come home and tell me everything about your day, from the way the sun glinted off the skyscrapers to the way the coffee tasted at your favorite café. Come home and argue with me again, about trivial things like who left the lights on or whose turn it was to do the dishes. Slam your bedroom door like you used to when we were teenagers and stomp around the house in Dad's old boots.

Come home and laugh with me, share those terrible inside jokes that only we understand. Handle your knife in the wrong way, the way you used to when you're not on a mission, when you're just my brother and not a covert operative. 

Come home and hold me again while I cry in your lap about the girls and boys that shattered my heart. Come home to fix the TV you always mess up with those greasy fingers of yours, leaving stains on the remote.

Scream at me if you need to; let out all that pent-up frustration that I know you keep bottled up inside. 

Come home and tell me how you always manage to burn the pasta, making it stick to the pots. Come home and let me nag about your messiness, about the dirty socks you always leave on the floor and about the dishes in the sink. 

But most importantly:

“Come home safe. Come home to me, Honda. Please."

2 months later

Late afternoon light filtered through the window, casting elongated, capering shadows across the glossy surface of your living room's hardwood floor.

Finally, after a whole day cleaning the place and trying to make it more child friendly, you were curled up in the embrace of the vintage couch and a soft, threadbare blanket, a relic from your childhood, was wrapped snugly around you, providing a comforting barrier against the creeping chill.

You idly stroked Gunpowder, who was as much a part of the family as any human member. Her fur was coarse, yet soothing under your fingertips.

Gunpowder was the only other living being that missed Honda as much as you did; her amber eyes held a profound sadness that echoed your own. You were grateful that Jin-Man let you take her from the animal shelter.

She didn't deserve to be alone, not when she had already lost so much.

With the monochrome scenes flickering against the brick wall, the contemporary television set in the room's corner was showing Casablanca.

Nonetheless, your mind was elsewhere, lost in a world of thought, meandering through a labyrinth of candid memories as your eyes were glued to the window, drinking in the expanse of the verdant family farm outside.

In your hands was your favorite cat mug, the one with the chipped ear and faded paint, a sentimental relic from your college days.

It was unusually quiet, the usual cacophony of farm life replaced by the relentless drumming of rain.

Not only was Ji-An nowhere to be seen, but Jin-Man's rusty truck had vanished from its customary location beside the red barn.

A glance at the old, ticking clock hanging on the wall—16:00, way past the time Ji-An usually got home from school—made your anxiety spike.

Just as you were about to pull on your trusty yellow raincoat to go look for her, you saw Jin-Man's truck pulling up the gravel driveway. He got out of the truck, his jacket hanging haphazardly off his broad shoulders, and his jaw clenched in a way that set off alarm bells in your head.

You quickly signed , "Hey! Old man! Good afternoon to you too! Where's Ji-An?" as he stomped past you, heading straight to his office. But he didn't answer; he didn't even spare you a glance.

Following him, you tried to make sense of what was happening, but he closed the office door right in your face. You were left standing there, frustration bubbling up inside you, a sense of foreboding making your heart pound in your chest.

As you paced around the living room, worry gnawing at you, the front door creaked open. Your heart leapt at the sound, and you turned around, expecting to see Ji-An, safe and sound.

But what you saw made your heart drop.

Ji-An walked in, soaked to the bone and covered in mud, carrying her pink backpack—the one her mother had bought for her last Christmas. Her uniform was clinging to her small frame, her hair plastered to her forehead, but she didn't make a sound. Not a sob, not a whimper.

Seeing her, you rushed over, dropping onto your knees to be at her level. "Ji-An, sweetheart, what happened? Why didn't you come home with Uncle Jin-Man?" you asked. A flutter of panic seized you as she remained silent, her eyes downcast. "Did something happen at school? You can tell me. I'm here for you."

“I need a bath, Noona. I don't want to talk about it right now. Is that okay?”

You looked at her for a long moment, the sight of her shivering form causing a lump to form in your throat. Her hair, previously neatly braided, was now a mess; the ties you had made for her earlier that morning were nowhere to be found.

"Yeah… Of course, baby," you reassured her, offering a weak smile.

With a sigh, you slowly rose to your feet and gently took her hand, leading her to the bedroom. You could feel her fingers tremble slightly in your grasp, her small hand cold and damp from the rain.

You then went to the bathroom to prepare a warm bath for her. You quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes for her—a soft purple cotton t-shirt and a pair of comfortable cartoon pants that had cute little teddy bears printed on them. You placed them neatly on the bathroom counter, within her reach.

Once the bathtub was filled with warm water and a generous amount of bubble bath, you helped her undress the wet clothes sticking to her skin. 

While Ji-An enjoyed her warm bath, Gunpowder sat in front of the bathtub. Her amber eyes were focused on the bubbles, her tail twitching with curiosity. Every now and then, she would bat at a stray bubble, her paw slicing through the air with a fluid motion as if it were a game.

With Ji-An safely in the bath and the clothes inside the washing machine, you then went to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner. Using cookie cutters, you shaped the food into fun shapes—a star-shaped sandwich, fruit cut into the shape of animals, a bowl of soup with alphabet pasta. You even managed to make a small salad; the vegetables were bright and colorful. It was a small gesture, but you hoped it would bring a smile to Ji-An's face.

Throughout the days you've been living in this place, you've tried countless times to make Jin-Man and Ji-An eat at the same place, to share a meal like a family. But Jin-Man always avoided you and Ji-An like you were viruses, always eating small things before burying himself on the couch while watching movies all alone or in his office working with Pasin. It was frustrating to see the distance between them, but then again, it wasn't your job to force conversations and lovey dovey moments.

Once the food was ready, you set the table and then sat down in front of Ji-An, waiting for her to finish her bath. She emerged a while later, her hair damp and her cheeks flushed from the warm water.

Gunpowder, having finished her bubble play, twined around Ji-An’s legs as the child sat at the table. You both sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the gentle hum of the washing machine and the occasional clink of cutlery against plates.

Then, to your surprise, Ji-An was the one to break the silence.

"Today, I waited for Uncle Jin-Man to come and pick me up from school. But he was late, and it started to rain. I decided to walk home instead."

You watched as she continued to sign, her hands moving with a quiet determination. " I was walking in the rain when I saw Uncle Jin-Man's truck. He slowed down, but I didn't want to get in. I was upset with him. So, I continued to walk, even though it was raining hard. Uncle Jin-Man stopped and waited for me to get in, but I didn't."

“I wanted him to come out and apologize, to tell me he was sorry for being late. But he just accelerated and went away. I was so angry, Noona. I wanted him to understand how I felt and how it felt to be forgotten."  

"It's okay, baby. It's okay to feel upset. But remember, your uncle loves you very much. Sometimes, adults make mistakes too."

Shortly after dinner, you decided it was time for Ji-An to learn a new task: cleaning the dishes.

Filling the sink with warm, sudsy water, you showed her how to hold the scrub brush and guided her hand to clean the surface of the plates with gentle but firm strokes. You made sure she understood the importance of removing all leftover bits of food and how to rinse each dish thoroughly under the running water.

"Remember, Ji-An, cleaning is also a part of cooking. Once you're done eating, always make sure to clean up after yourself. It's not just about keeping your area clean, but also about respecting the people who will use the kitchen after you. See, we're not just cleaning up our mess; we're also preparing a clean space for the next person, " you signed, watching as she absorbed your words and continued washing the plates carefully under your watchful eye.

When you were done and completed with the task, you noticed that the sky had completely darkened, the bright hues of the day replaced by the deep blues and blacks of night. You gently dried Ji-An's small, pruney hands with a plush, soft towel and led her towards her bedroom. The room was bathed in the warm, cozy hue from the night lamp sitting on her bedside table, casting playful shadows that danced on the walls.

You tucked her into her bed. The fluffy comforter was pulled up to her chin, and you couldn't help but laugh at the way Gunpowder jumped onto her lap, purring contently.

"Noona," she signed, her eyes wide and luminous in the dim light, reflecting the soft glow of the night lamp. "Can you tell me a bedtime story? "

"Of course, sweetheart. Do you have any particular story in mind?" You asked, settling yourself comfortably at the edge of her bed, your hand gently rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"No, you choose, " she shrugged, her small body snuggling deeper into the warm covers.

You mulled over her request for a moment, your mind flipping through the pages of the countless stories you knew. Finally, one came to your mind. "There's a sad yet beautiful story from my hometown about two squirrels. They were mates—lovers for life and the town's favorite pair of animals. They were seen everywhere together, always chattering away in their own language, their tails intertwined. "

With each word, you painted a vivid picture of their life together. You told her about the female squirrel's illness and the male's devotion and his refusal to leave her side even in search of food.

As you narrated, you noticed Ji-An's eyes welling up with a faraway look. She interrupted you multiple times. "Why didn't the male squirrel eat?" "Why didn't he find another mate? " "Do all squirrels do this? "

You answered each question patiently, explaining the depth of the squirrel's love and the depth of his grief. You told her about how the male squirrel mourned for his mate, returning to their empty nest alone each year.

As you reached the end of the story, you noticed Ji-An's eyes growing heavy. Her questions became fewer and farther between, her chest moving slower until she slept. Still, she was twitching ever so slightly, hands closed and then jerking open in a rhythmic pattern that spoke volumes.

In an attempt to provide some comfort, you laid down next to her, being careful not to jostle her too much. You wrapped your arm around her small form, pulling her closer to your warmth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of yellow and red. The hyena. It was lurking in the corner of the room, its eyes gleaming malevolently in the dim light, eager to haunt you too. You didn't even turn to look at it. It was there, but it wasn't real. You knew it.

"Goodnight, Ji-An," you murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead, placing her bunny toy in the place where you'd been seconds before. "Sleep tight, sweetheart," you added, stroking her hair soothingly. "Noona's here. You're safe."

You switched off the night lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the window.

As you left her room, you closed the door gently behind you, leaving the hyena and the remnants of your past locked away.

Easing back into the worn porch chair, the fabric of Jin-Man's purloined shirt fluttered against your skin in the cool night breeze. A stolen moment of solitude, with nothing but a half-burnt cigarette for company. 

The embers at the tip flickered, casting an eerie glow in the darkness. Drawing the cigarette to your lips, you inhaled, letting the sharp tang of nicotine coil around your senses and momentarily dull your worries. 

Eyes shut, you allowed your thoughts to drift to the intricate web of coding and changes you had to make in Murthehelp.

The only sounds were the distant hum of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves under the night sky's vast expanse. Yet, this tranquility was abruptly shattered by the encroaching sound of hushed footsteps gradually growing louder. Your eyes fluttered open to see Jin-Man standing before you, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the cigarette nestled between your fingers with a look of distaste as if you had the devil's hands between your lips.

A chuckle escaped you; the sight of Jin-Man, usually so composed, visibly irked by the cigarette, was enough to momentarily diffuse the tension. "Insomnia again?" you asked, flicking the ash off the cigarette with your thumb.

His hardened gaze didn't waver as he retorted, "I was waiting for you to come to bed."

You shrugged nonchalantly. Since your suicide attempt, Jin-Man has taken it upon himself to keep a watchful eye on you. The concept of solitary sleep had become foreign to both of you.

“What's eating at you?" he asked, his gaze softening slightly.

"Why did you abandon Ji-An at school?" 

"I got tied up and lost track of time," he replied, but his excuse fell on deaf ears. You scoffed at his words, well aware of the truth. He hadn't forgotten; he probably thought leaving Ji-An to trek home on her own would toughen her up.

"That's a load of crap, and you know it," you retorted, stomping out the cigarette under your feet. "Do you think making her walk home alone in the rain is going to make her stronger? Is that your grand plan?"

His silence was a response in itself, resonating in the quiet night air louder than any words.

"You are unbelievable, Jin-Man," you muttered. The scent of fresh paint and pine filled the air. It was a far cry from the gunpowder and blood that once filled your memory. But you couldn't help but crave it sometimes, even if it meant pain. Pain meant life; it meant survival. "You keep pushing her away relentlessly, like a stubborn child refusing his vegetables. You're so preoccupied with making her tough and resilient that you forget she's just a child. She needs your love and your understanding. You forget that she can't even communicate normally and that her aphasia is only getting worse! You don't even let me talk with her teacher, and don't pretend I don't know about the bullying she's enduring at school! We're not in Babylon , Jin-Man! We're in a small town where everyone knows everyone else. For heaven's sake, grow up!”

He retorted, his voice sharp as a blade, slicing through the heavy silence. “You should be more concerned with managing your own aphasia and PTSD. Ji-An’s not your responsibility. She's not related to you by blood. Drop this saintly act of playing mom. We're not her parents. This isn't a dollhouse and we're not Ken and Barbie.”

"Act? I kept Ji-An alive after her parents died! I trained her to communicate again! And even though it's hard, I've made her eat properly and taught her how to brush her teeth and do her homework again! I've been here for her every step of the way! You just... sit in your office or hide in your room!"

His jaw clenched tightly before he spoke again. "You think that's all it takes? Just feeding her and teaching her sign language?" He spat out angrily. The tip of his tongue traced his bottom lip as he continued speaking harshly, "It's not enough! She needs discipline! She needs structure!"

You shook your head violently. "She has enough structure! She needs us, Jin-Man! She needs our support, our guidance. She doesn't need a soldier; she needs a parent!" 

His face tightened, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. 

"Are you that afraid to care for someone, that afraid to love again? Are you hiding behind your uniform, your duties because you're too scared to face your own feelings?"

"Don't play with fire. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do! And do you think Jin-Suk would like to see his daughter being trained as a warrior rather than growing up as a normal girl?" you challenged, your voice echoing with the strength of your belief.

The mention of his brother struck a nerve. A flash of anger crossed his stony features, and before you knew it, he was charging at you like a wild animal. 

Suddenly, Jin-Man's hands shot out, pushing you roughly against the wall. Your back slammed into the gnarled wooden planks, the splintered texture scratching against your skin. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through your spine, causing you to gasp as the wind was knocked out of your lungs.

"Why are you doing this, Jin-Man?" 

In response, his large, calloused hands wrapped around your throat in a vice-like grip, cutting off your airway. His fingers pressed against the delicate skin of your neck, the strength in his hands threatening to crush your windpipe. It felt like you were sinking into an abyss, the darkness of his rage engulfing you, making it impossible to breathe.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to pry them off. But his grip was unyielding; his hands felt like iron bands around your neck, tightening with every second that passed. As you gasped for breath, your vision started to spin, the edges blurring as black spots danced in front of your eyes. Your lungs felt like they were on fire, screaming for air.

Panic surged within you, a tidal wave that threatened to consume you. Time seemed to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity as you struggled to draw breath.

Finally, his grip loosened just slightly, allowing a sliver of oxygen to rush into your lungs. You gasped; the taste of air was like ambrosia—sweet and life-giving. Coughs racked your body as you struggled to regain control over your breathing, your throat raw and your chest heaving. The salty tang of tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision.

But you refused to back down, to give in to the fear. You locked eyes with him, defiance burning in your gaze. "Go ahead, Jin-Man, continue," you spat out, your voice raspy from the assault. "Kill me. But know this: my death won't change the truth.”

“Jesus, you're so weak, girl.”

A chuckle found its way through your bruised vocal chords. “Yeah? Wanna see who's weak then?”

Summoning every iota of your willpower, you retaliated against his suffocating hold. Your fingers clawed at his wrist, nails digging into his skin as you strained against his formidable strength. 

After a fierce and desperate struggle, your adrenaline-fueled power seemed to catch him off guard. With a sudden explosive kick, you managed to wrench yourself free, pushing him violently away from you.

Caught off balance, Jin-Man stumbled backwards. His feet skidded across the wooden floorboards, and his body crashed into the pot of vibrant lilies you had carefully chosen from the local market to adorn the porch. The pot shattered on impact, fragments of terracotta scattering across the floor, intermingling with the uprooted flowers and loose soil.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds were the soft rustling of the brutalized lilies and the quiet patter of dirt falling onto the floor. But inside? Inside of you, the hyenas laughter echoed through your mind, mocking you for getting what you deserved—too used to chaos and violence.

The sight of the destruction seemed to snap Jin-Man out of his rage-induced stupor, his furious gaze softening as he took in the aftermath of your altercation.

"I'm done," you said, breaking the silence. "I'm done with this, Jin-Man. I'm done with your anger, your stubbornness, and your refusal to let anyone in. I'm done with the constant battles, the endless wars. I'm grabbing my stuff and leaving."

“Y/N…” He trailed off as he grabbed your arm roughly, pulling you around to face him. Your bodies were just inches apart now, his breath hot on your cheek as he pleaded silently.

“Don’t. Just shut your mouth and let me go. I'm not your Barbie, right?” Each word was punctuated by the bitter taste of blood as you absentmindedly touched your raw throat.

“You can't sleep alone.”

“I'll manage.”

“You can't remember when you last ate.”

"I'll set a reminder.”

"You can't drive without crying."

"I'll get a taxi."

"Ji-An needs you."

I need you.

"She needs you more."

"And you, Jin-Man," you added, the sting of your words sobering the air. "You need to realize that before it's too late."

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

April 3:

"Are you serious? Did I actually have to buy another chip to send you messages? You know, the store owner looked at me like I was crazy."

1 missed call from Ahjusshi

April 5:

"Ji-An keeps asking for you. She asked me to tell her the story about the couple of squirrels. You know, the one about their endless love and devotion."

2 missed calls from Jeong

April 7:

"Pasin showed me the link to the site. It's pretty quick and easy to access. Even an old man like me can make requests for guns, right? Technology these days, eh?"

April 11:

"She asked me to put on Casablanca. It's one of your favorites, right? I remember Honda telling me that you're addicted to Hollywood classics.”

“Gunpowder keeps sleeping on your side of the bed. I hate it.”

3 missed calls from Jeong Jin-Man, son of a bitch

April 22:

"I have a mission for you. It's critical and requires your skills."

"Can you come home so that we can discuss the details? There's something about it I can't trust in a message."

8 missed calls from the son of a bitch

“I guess I will ask So Min-Hye to replace you then. I know you wouldn't want that."

May 7:

“Ji-An's teacher told me that you visited her today. Did you really make two boys eat dirt by grabbing her money?”

“I could've helped.”

May 9:

“Went to the market today and heard Kyung Soo say that you're a good kisser. I had to stop myself from laughing."

“I heard from the locals that he went to the hospital after being knocked out. Strange, right? Or should I say, expected?"

May 16:

"Gunpowder brought a dead bird into the house. I think she's trying to replace you as the hunter of the family."

May 21:

"I saw a girl at the market wearing a dress you would like. It had sunflowers all over it. Made me think of you."

"She was about your age, too. For a moment, I thought it was you ."

-------

As Jin-Man speeds in the direction of Ji-An's school, his heart pounds against his ribs like a war drum. His knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his forehead slick with beads of sweat. He curses himself silently, berating his own negligence.

How could he have not noticed that Ji-An hadn't come home?

The typical view of the small city blurs past him, the houses and trees merging into a hasty collage of colors under the evening gloom. The town's bakery, the park where the children play, and the old library all blur into indistinguishable shadows. But he barely registers any of it. His mind is filled with vivid images of you screaming at him for this oversight.

He imagines your small fists beating at his chest, your eyes—those captivating eyes that he secretly admired—flaring with anger and worry. 

“How could you forget her again , Jin-Man? She's just a child!"

The guilt, like a ravenous beast, gnaws at him, driving him to press the pedal harder. The old engine protests, its roar echoing through the tranquil evening. 

Suddenly, he remembers his phone.

Snatching it from the passenger seat, he dials your number hastily. The line rings once, twice, thrice, but there's no answer. He fumbles to leave a voicemail, his voice shaking slightly as he speaks into the device. "Hey, I… messed up. Ji-An... I… Just call me back.”

The voicemail ends with a beep, leaving Jin-Man alone with his thoughts and the eerie silence of the empty road. He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat, his eyes never leaving the road.

Nearing the school, his eyes flicked to the digital clock on the dashboard—it read 19:00, the hour when the last echoes of childhood laughter usually fade away. But now, the school grounds were eerily silent and deserted, a stark contrast to the daytime symphony of playful shouts and laughter. The playground, usually a vibrant hub of activity, was painted with somber shades, the swings swaying lightly in the breeze, their squeaky chains the only sound piercing the silence.

As he swung into the school's parking lot, a small figure suddenly sprang from the shadows, frantically waving his arms. 

A boy was shouting, his voice hoarse and strained, as he pointed towards the grimy basement door at the rear of the school building. "She's locked there!"

Without a second thought, Jin-Man abandons his car, leaving the engine running as he sprints towards the basement door. The door is locked, but within, he can hear Ji-An's voice, her pleas echoing through the desolate night. 

"Jeong Jin-Man! Jeong Jin-Man! Jeong Jin-Man!" she is calling, her voice scratchy and strained, likely from the first use of her vocal cords in months.

Frantically, he scans his surroundings. His eyes land on a fire safety box nearby. Inside, he spots a hammer. 

With no time to spare, he smashes the box, glass shards raining onto the worn-out asphalt. He grabs the hammer, using it to break the rusted chains and unlock the door. 

In a final heave, he throws the door open, revealing Ji-An inside. Her cheeks were flushed red from crying and her eyes were brimming with a mix of relief and fear.

She doesn't waste any time rushing at him, her small fists pounding against his chest. He doesn't move; he doesn't try to stop her. She's screaming at him, her words punctuated by her furious hits: "Why did you take so long? You promised you were coming back soon! Why did you arrive so late? Why did you let her go? Why did you let Noona go? Why? Why?"

He could only look at her, absorbing her words and feeling each syllable like a physical blow. Her pain, her anger, and her confusion were all directed at him. 

Then he did the only thing he could think of—the only thing he thought you would have done in this situation. 

He pulled her into a tight, protective hug.

For minutes, he doesn't say a word until he grabs her, holding her close.

Turning to the boy, he nods, "I'll give you a ride home."

The journey to the kid’s home was silent, save for the muted hum of the car's engine and the occasional rustle of cloth against leather. 

Ji-An was huddled against the passenger seat, her body trembling slightly. Noticing this, he pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her small frame in the same way he did for you.

After dropping the boy off and Ji-An finally falling asleep, he drives aimlessly. The city lights flicker past in a hazy blur, their glow casting fleeting shadows on his face. He thinks of you—your laughter, your anger, and your determination. It's strange, he thinks, how the absence of someone can fill a room, a house, or a life.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sudden ringing of his phone.

Glancing at the screen, he sees your name flashing. He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the decline button. 

But then he remembers how things used to be and how it felt to hear your voice without the weight of regret and guilt. He misses when your name didn't make his chest ache, when it was just a name he heard now and then but held no significance to him.

He yearns for the days when he didn't know you, when his eyes didn't instinctively scan every room he entered in hopes of finding you there. He misses the sight of you standing among strangers, wearing that ridiculous skirt he used to tease you about but now finds himself missing.

He finds himself longing for the mundane details. How you'd take off your shoes at the front door, placing your keys with care in the small glass bowl on the corner of the kitchen counter. How you'd drape your coat over the back of a dining room chair, your socks left at the foot of the bed next to the sleeping cat.

He misses holding back your hair as you succumb to the side effects of your PTSD pills, your body rejecting the chemicals meant to help you cope. He yearns for the times when you would climb under the white blankets with him, forcefully opening his arms to encase you between them.

He misses how you would place your legs on top of his and let your hands wander to his waist and chest. He misses hearing you say, "I missed you," telling him about your day as you would slowly drift off to sleep. And he longs for the times he would secretly kiss your cheek softly before he inevitably had to leave you for work.

He misses when you were simply strangers—not two people who act like strangers in public but once knew each other better than they ever knew themselves. He misses the simplicity of those days and the innocence of not knowing what it felt like to lose you.

Because, in the end, when the lights are off and his eyes flutter shut, the back of his mind always whispers your name, calling out to you like you are the only place he was ever meant to call home .

When he finally decided to answer the call, he placed the phone on the dashboard, the worn leather creaking under the weight. He switched to speaker mode, the familiar chime filling the small space of the car. 

"Hello?"

Tinny and distant over the phone speaker, you responded almost immediately. "You left a voicemail. What happened?" In the background, he could hear the faint, unmistakable sound of a lighter flicking open and the soft hiss of a cigarette being lit.

"Your voice sounds rough," he commented, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere with a touch of humor. "How many days have you been communicating only with sign language?"

"Shut up, motherfucker. What about Ji-An?”

"I…" he started, faltering. The words he needed to say were stuck in his throat, like a bitter pill he couldn't swallow.

“Look, Ji-Man. I have nothing to do with you anymore. I’m calling you back because you sounded like a wounded little bitch and you said her name. Drop the show and spit it out.”

“I failed again, okay?" The confession spilled out of him, the words tasting like defeat. But he couldn't stop there; he had to finish what he started. "But, look, Ji-An spoke.”

He could almost hear your sharp intake of breath and the sound of the cigarette being hastily put out in the background. There was a long, drawn-out silence, the kind of silence that spoke volumes. He could imagine your surprise—the way your eyes would widen slightly, the lit cigarette forgotten in your hand. But when you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, filled with a strange mix of relief and trepidation.

"She spoke?"

"Yes. She called out to me. She used her voice, and she spoke."

"Look, I'm not going to pretend that everything is okay between us," he continued, his voice gruff, "But I'm also not going to pretend that we don't have a shared past. One that involves a little girl who misses you."

"You're such a bastard. You know how to manipulate me using her," you snapped, the sound of a chair creaking in the background signaling your agitation.

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the fact that Ji-An misses you. And you miss her too, don't you?"

A silence followed his words—not an uncomfortable one, but a silence filled with unspoken words and a shared history. And then you sighed, a deep, heavy sigh that echoed with the weight of your unspoken thoughts.

"I do miss her. But you, Jeong Jin-Man, are a pain in my ass.”

He couldn't help but chuckle at your words. "I've been told that before."

"I'm sure you have."

Another silence filled the line, comfortable yet heavy with years of shared experiences.

"By the way," he added, his voice softer now, "the key is still under the cat statue you put by the front door. You can drop by anytime."

"I'll think about it. But don't expect me to come running back, Jin-Man. We're not the same people we used to be."

"I know. But we're still us, aren't we?"

"We're something ," you admitted, a sigh slipping past your lips. "But I don't know what that is anymore."

"Neither do I. But maybe we can figure it out together, old lady."

"Old lady?" you scoffed, a hint of amusement in your voice. "Coming from a man who's 10 years older than me."

"Years are still years," he teased, a smile playing on his lips. "But whatever we are, Y/N, whatever we become, you're still… something to me. And so is Ji-An. Remember that."

"I will. I will, Ahjusshi."

[tianarpowell]

“All right, a little bit of Kurobuta in the meatballs, and the rest for the second recipe to go with the chicken fried beets!” Tiana practically burst out. She beamed when Remy congratulated her on the promotion she’d earned! “Thank you, thank you for your kindness. I’ll remember about that raise! These are the things I need to tell myself to do…but, you know, Remy, if it hadn’t been for you and some other friends of mine really encouraging me the past couple weeks…I don’t know if I’d even be making this new food I’m getting to make at work now. Thank you sincerely for that. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be worse off. I’m being honest.” His easy kindness on the job and in conversation had inspired her to take that big step. And Tiana didn’t take kindness for granted, never ever.

“Now,” Tiana told Remy about that bread bowl, “on the MasterChef show, they did use a different type of flour for the bread bowl. It was the standard baking flour, I think. This is different, the one I asked you to bring. That was actually why I subbed in the unbleached flour for the standard bread flour—I’m thinking our flour will hold soup a lot better and have a more appealing texture if we want to eat the bowl at some point. On the show, they had to spend a lot of their time, the contestant did, on making the soup thicker so it would present well, like you’re talking about. But this avocado soup we’ll be creating for the dish, it’s naturally lighter. I don’t want to have to thicken something that just tries its hardest to stay light, you know? Anyway, that’s my reasoning.” Tiana listened as Remy started in on the pork meatballs and pushed the salt and pepper grinders his way. “I can taste those meatballs already,” she told him when he mentioned the meatballs absorbing their clove-and-wine-reduction sauce. “You go for it!”

“Remy,” Tiana said at his suggestion to use soy and ginger for their second recipe, “that’s brilliant! Absolutely genius! You’ve got a gift for flavors!” She meant that—she could tell, based on the things she’d tasted of his and the way he put together dishes, that his palate was very defined. “Please, do whatever you want to do for that part of the meal. I trust you one hundred percent!” She moved to the side so he could have more room for his workstation.

Tiana gladly accepted the jug of lemonade from Remy when he retrieved it from the fridge and poured them both full glasses. “All right,” she said, handing Remy his glass (a reddish cup that had been borrowed and never returned from her mama’s nice house). “Yes, yes, paprika and other seasonings are stored in a little rack I keep in this cupboard.” She opened it up for him over both their heads. “Go crazy with it! And whatever else you think is best…chef!” She grinned back at him. They were two peas in a pod.

Now it was Tiana’s turn to start cooking. She turned back to the ingredients for the spaghetti sauce (a filetto, potentially, with paprika added in for a kick). She felt very content as she moved through the steps, dicing and pouring with a practiced comfort. This felt better than work ever felt to her. Why would that be? Maybe it was because they were making recipes they’d thought about themselves…or maybe it was because Tiana knew that she could trust herself and Remy with something they felt passionate about making. The love for cooking, and for giving things a try, in that kitchen was palpable. Tiana felt happier than she could remember feeling in the recent past. She wanted to show that to Remy somehow…but how could she be kind in a noticeable way to the kindest person she knew?

“Remy,” she said at last as she got that spaghetti sauce over the stove. “I haven’t talked about this much, but I…am bad at cooking with other people.” It was unfortunately true. “I always tell them things they already seem to be doing, so it makes communication really pointless and bad. But with you, I’m not telling you anything, I’m helping you. There’s such a big difference! Helping versus guiding…” Now that Tiana was saying it out loud, she was realizing that to “guide” someone while cooking, which inevitably happened to her in kitchens, meant that she was probably on a different level from them. And maybe, probably shouldn’t be cooking with them in that way at all…

“What I’m trying to say,” Tiana continued, “is that I’m able to relax and just have faith in your understanding. I feel really calm, for the first time in a while.” This was also true. And it was very fortunate that it was, because Tiana knew that Remy was someone who deserved a lot of faith in the kitchen…and a lot of leeway. That was abundantly clear. “What else can we do to mix things up, while we’re at this stage of the game? You suggested the paprika, which—” and Tiana gestured with her head to the saucepan— “I already added in just now! Tell me, chef…” Tiana actually felt that he would make a great head chef, but she didn’t say that yet. “What flavor can I add to those beets coming up? We’ve got the familiar flavor of the chicken, the sweetness of those beets, like you were telling me… Anything we can use to round off the flavor profile? Like you explained, it’ll be unconventional for sure. But I like unconventional. It’s actually my favorite kind of flavor.” Tiana smiled over at Remy.

.

"Oh, I don't know if we should use this pork for meatballs..." Remy said, rubbing his chin. "I mean, I feel like it's way too good to grind and mix... But, you know, if we could use just a bit... You'd still get some left for some insanely good pork chops," he suggested. "I mean, I can't lie and say that now I'm not curious about what Kurobuta meatballs would taste like." They were trying stuff out, after all. Risks had to be taken.

"A promotion? That's awesome!" he smiled. "Congrats! And hey, that's not small! You should be rightly proud of it!" He managed to stop himself in time before almost slapping her back in support, like he usually did with Emile and his cousins. "And remember to ask for a raise after the first few weeks... You deserve it, if you're moving on up to a harder more demanding task."

There was no time to settle in. There was work to do. And Tiana's excitement was contagious... As if Remy needed more reason to be excited. "That sounds just beautiful," he nodded, rolling up his sleeves. "Funnily enough, I don't think I've ever done a bread bowl, even though I work in the bakery. Do you do something to the dough, so the crust ends up hard enough to hold the moistness of a whole soup?" he asked. "Apart from, you know, the usual water-in-the-oven trick?" It felt so good to discuss these things with someone who knew what he was talking about. This looked up to being the best time he would have in a long while. "Right, I'll get to the meatballs," he said, picking up a knife and a cutting board. "Cloves, onions, garlic, here's the pork... Where do you keep the salt and pepper?" he asked as he moved around the kitchen, picking what he needed. "We need to get the sauce going first, so we can cook the meatballs in it. That way they'll soak up in it nicely."

Remy turned to look at the lovely Kurobuta pork. "My God, what an honor," he said earnestly. "What about making the pork chops with ginger and soy?" he suggested. "I mean... It's gonna end up being kind of a weird menu, I know, but it'll be really good. Some saltiness to cut the sweetness of the beets." And then Remy let out a laugh. "Remember to breathe... If you don't breathe every so often, we can't cook." He nodded again. He really hadn't expected to be so game to following someone else's orders. Remy knew himself to be sort of tyrannical in the kitchen; so the sheer fact that he was comfortable doing what Tiana asked of him really spoke to her talent for leading.

"Great," he said, opening the fridge door and looking for the lemonade so they could both have something to drink while they worked. "Do you have any paprika? I usually put it in my filetto sauce, it really gives it some spiciness and an amazing color," Remy said. "Just a little bit in the wine reduction, I think it might work some magic. Does that sound good, chef?" he asked Tiana, shooting her a glance and a smile.

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude ii ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.4k

warnings: none really! just an impending, pervasive sense of doom.

rating: m/t

notes: so happy to have finally gotten this little interlude edited and pieced together! just more soft moments because they deserve it considering what's going to be coming up. thank you everyone who has been reading/interacting with this little love project of mine; it took a minute to get myself dug out of the trenches and posting bite-sized chapters because this is a short-fic is definitely doing something to me (lmao) but we're here!

as always you can find translations on ao3, where it's easier to store them in a place that doesn't get in the way.

There is very little time between when Santino cooks her dinner and when he moves her into his apartment. It happens without much acknowledgment from her; she finds herself swallowed up in moments of casual intimacy that break her down to nothing except a girl in love.

Santino wakes her up by kissing her neck and pulling her against his chest; she makes him dinner barefoot in the kitchen, all of the recipes that her mother taught her, and he drags his hand along her hip to reach over her into the cupboard; he stands still and obedient while Euphemia slides his tie into place, and when he zips her dress for her, he peppers her shoulder with kisses. He tolerates taking a walk through the park, even in the chilliness of late Fall or Winter, because Euphie can’t stand to not get some fresh air once a day. When one of her friends asks why he lets her bully him into the cold weather, he wraps his arms around Euphie with a sly smile and says, “How could I not, when I am the one who gets to warm her up after?”

He is an exceptionally tactile man. There is always a reason for him to touch her, trace each line of her, put his lips against her skin. Santi isn’t a man who loves; he covets. And Euphemia shouldn’t like it as much as she does, but she does. Her therapist says that it isn’t uncommon for a girl who grows up without touching to crave it, desperately, like an addiction.

So, she finds herself living in his loft to feed that addiction—which becomes their loft—and teaching him words in French, and feeding him olives while sauce simmers (and does not boil), and kissing the red-wine taste from his lips. It’s all very romantic and greatly overshadows the moments where Santino comes home raging mad, or when his bad mood takes over their conversation and stirs a fight between them. They’re both hot-headed—her more so than he—and he knows all of the ways to diffuse her while she knows none about him.

But it doesn’t matter, in the end; because Santino always kisses her, and always says, Mi dispiace, cara mi, ti amo, ti amo, ti amo, lip-locking between each break in words until her lungs ache.

Euphie has never wanted to be loved sensibly, anyway.

Making money stops becoming an issue. Santino might have been fine letting her wrap up her loose ends, so to speak, encourages her, even—“You should never leave business undone, my Euphie,”—but he’d never tolerate her continuing to skim out of the pockets of his associates. Not out of respect for them, of course, but because Santino is more than happy to provide.

“I have to do something,” Euphie insists, often. But Santino clicks his tongue and shakes his head, inspiring indignation in her. “That money goes to my mother, Santi.”

“Princesa, what are you worrying for?” He replies every time. In this instance, he is reading over some documents, his voice casual, simple, effective at bringing her to heel. “If your mama needs money, she’ll get it. Tutto quello che vuoi è tuo.”

Euphemia used to think that he was doing it to be generous, but as time goes on, she knows that isn’t the case. If Santino didn’t think he was benefitting from sending her mother money every month, he wouldn’t do it: but he does. Euphemia stops playing at arm candy for other powerful men; he endears himself to her by taking care of her mother; he endears himself to her mother; he’s afforded a sense of control. There is no facet of it where he isn’t getting something out of it. And she thinks, too, that maybe Santino likes it like this, where she is completely reliant on him for everything.

She doesn’t mind so much.

She would, if Santino didn’t drench her in his longing, if he didn’t make her feel, every day, that he is desperate to treasure her. She has always heard about this kind of love—and it is love—and never thought she would have it for herself.

But she does now, and she doesn’t want to let it go.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tea or coffee, mama?”

Santino is busying himself in the kitchen. They’ve been together for a little over a year now, and they’re on a tour of Italy—not for fun, necessarily, but for integration. They have just spent the last week with Santino’s father and sister, and now they will spend the next two days in the Tuscan countryside with her mother.

Two days for her mother, instead of the week that they gave Santino’s father and sister, in part because his father deserves more time and in part because Euphemia doesn’t think she can tolerate her mother in much more than two-day increments.

“Coffee, please,” her mother says, very charmed by Santino.

“Tea,” Euphemia interjects. She looks at her mother—her face is tired, and older than she really is. Euphie knows that this is a side effect of heavy, abusive drinking and years spent in emotional terror, not the passage of time. Still, she finds it hard to drum up anything except distant pity in her heart. “You don’t need the caffeine.”

“Oh, you always ruin my fun.”

Santino re-enters the room with a small cup—it’s an espresso cup, but he’s poured it with regular coffee.

“A compromise,” Santi explains, handing the cup to her mother, smiling handsomely. “To make both of my girls happy.”

Her mother preens, glows under the affection. “You are so sweet, Santi. A perfect son-in-law.”

He has always called her and her mother his girls. His own mother had passed since before Euphemia; and while he knows that Euphie’s relationship with her mother is strained at best, he does what he can to ease it. Because it makes her happy, he says, and if she’s happy, he’s happy.

“Not yet a son-in-law,” Euphie corrects, and Santino flashes her a quick, amused little smile.

“You see how cruel she is to me, madonna? I have asked her to marry me, you know.”

“Santi,” Euphemia sighs, but it has had its desired effect; her mother looks scandalized, mortified at her daughter’s resistance to marrying a man as good and handsome and charming as Santino.

“Effie, tell me that you haven’t been bullying Santino like this?”

“Mama, there is no reason—he is just teasing. Ascoltami, you don’t need to look so horrified.”

“I do not know where I went wrong with you, Euphemia Sancia.” Her mother clicks her tongue, muttering something under her breath and taking a drink of the coffee Santi made her, and Euphemia can’t bring herself to say that not everything she has done wrong in her life is a slight against her mother’s parenting skills.

Santino smiles and leans across to Euphie, bringing her hand up to kiss it.

“Don’t worry,” he says to her mother, his voice blooming with practiced warmth. “I will ask her as many times as it takes for her to say yes.”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest. She knows that he means it; he’s suggested it to her three times, now. It seems to be the only thing he doesn’t mind asking more than once.

“She’s always been fussy, my Euphemia,” her mother says, breaking the magic of Santino’s eyes on her. “Never happy with what she has, just like her father. Except for you, Santi—you are the only thing she holds onto.”

Exasperation and disgust flood over her. Both the mention of the man considered to be her father and any similarities they might share has her mood souring. “Mama—”

But Santino is sweeping in, like he always does when he can tell Euphie is getting tired of her mother, coming to a stand and asking her, “We should get started on dinner, cara mia, don’t you think?”

Just like that, he’s taken control of the conversation again. He sees her flailing and steadies her. Euphemia is certain that he doesn’t love her mother—that he doesn’t even like her—but that he can spend his time tolerating her with charm and grace despite knowing what her mother allowed to go on under their roof is indicative of the man that Santino is.

“Yes,” she replies, standing as well. “You look tired, mama. Take a rest while Santi and I make dinner.”

She wanders into the kitchen with Santino trailing after her. As soon as they’re alone, he winds his arms around her waist and kisses the juncture between her shoulder and neck.

“Is it true?” he asks coyly. “That you don’t hold on to anything except for me?”

She doesn’t want to tell him very much, because he knows already, and because to say it out loud will give it legs. A year together, and she still doesn’t want her feelings for him to have legs. Santino splays his fingers against her sternum and kisses her jaw.

“You know that it is,” she says at last, her voice a little unsteady. She can feel Santi smiling against her skin.

“Euphie,” he purrs, “marry me.”

Yes, she wants to say, as her eyes flutter shut. Yes, I’ll marry you, Santi. Anything that you ask. I’ll do anything for you, if you would just keep saying my name like that.

She wants to say it but the words won't come out. There is nothing quite like the feeling of Santino peeling back each individual layer of her defenses, piece by piece; so close, she knows, he is so close, but not quite. Not yet. She is most comfortable keeping him at arm’s length as much as possible—to kiss and to fuck and to let someone hold you at night is one thing. To let someone in past the barbed-wire of defenses is yet another, impossibly reckless. To be seen feeling anything deranges you, as the poets like to say.

“Sancia, hm?” he continues instead, when she can’t bring herself to answer, as the words stick in her throat. It’s one of those things where Santino seems to exercise a surprising amount of patience, this whole ordeal of to marry or not to marry; later, Euphemia will come to understand that it is because Santino believes their life together to be inevitable, that she will always say yes to him, one way or another.

For now, she turns in his arms, cocking a brow at him. He continues, “It means sacred.”

Euphemia nods sagely and props herself up on the counter. “Buon ascolto, my love. I suppose that means you should work very hard to worship me well.”

Santino laughs. He leans in, trapping her against the counter—though it isn’t much of a trap if she’s a willing participant—and noses the slope of her jaw.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose that it does.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

On the last leg of their tour of families, Santino insists that they spend a few days in Rome by themselves.

The days are used mostly for doing a lot of nothing; neither of them are particularly interested in sight-seeing, but rather interested in seeing each other, a thing which they don’t seem to tire of particularly quickly. Instead, they shop, or lay in bed together until the afternoon, or go out to eat when street lights kick on and the city takes on a life of its own.

“You are much happier, Euphie,” Santino says one evening, smoothing out his napkin on the table absently, “when you are not around your mother.”

It’s not a question, per se, though she knows that he expects an answer. But she is still young and a little petulant, and she likes to push his buttons and make him say exactly what it is he means, so she takes a sip of her wine and replies, “Yes.”

He arches a brow at her. He looks particularly handsome like this, she thinks—not around his family, just eating dinner in a streetside restaurant in Rome, illuminated in warm candlelight and the glow of the streetlights outside.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he asks, amusedly.

“If you ask.” Euphemia sets her wine glass down on the table, and when Santino reaches for her hand, she lets him take it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But it is so boring, Santi, to talk about my mother. Why don’t you ask me about something else?”

The brunette’s mouth is curving in a little smile. “Like…?”

“Like…” Euphie gestures with her free hand, like she has to really think about it. “Euphie, how did I get so lucky to have a woman like you? That is a good place to start. Or, what will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel? Or, Euphie, will I ever be so fortunate as to call you my wife?”

Santino laughs, leaning into their conversation, bringing her fingers up to kiss them. He has long lashes; soft, and dark, and they brush the tops of his cheekbones when his eyes close. Santino glances from her fingers up to her, that boyish grin on his face.

“I already know the answers to the first and last question,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal, but he’s grinning wickedly at her when he says it. She scoffs.

“Dimme poi,” Euphie insists. “I am dying to know, Santi.”

His expression is very sage, very wise, and he nods his head. “Il destino,” he says, winding their fingers together, “e tra un anno.”

There is something very heart-stopping about the way Santino articulates il destino, as though it is fact, as though there is something undeniable about their coming together.

“How do you know?” she asks. “In a year?”

“Because if you do not want to marry me by then,” Santino replies matter-of-factly, “then I am certainly not suited for marriage at all.”

She rolls her eyes, taking a drink of her wine and savoring the way his eyes trail over her, admiring, drinking her in.

“Well?” he prompts. She looks at him expectantly, and he reiterates, his gaze set on her, “What will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel, belladonna?”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest when he looks at her like that; like she is the only person in the entire universe, like she has become the sun that snags him in her planetary pull, like he will never, ever grow tired of looking at her. It sweeps the breath out of her.

“Anything, mio amato,” she murmurs. “Anything you want, if you promise to never stop looking at me like that.”

[drabbles-mc]

All The Stops

Neron ‘Creeper’ Vargas x F!Reader

Request by Anon: Could i request a Creeper fic? Like you're sick and he is taking care of you. Neti pot and secret family soup recipes and all lol.

Warnings: language, Creeper being Extra but we love him for it

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: I love Creeper so much. I love writing for the sappy sweet side of him, too. Hope y’all enjoy! xo

General Mayans Taglist: @garbinge @mayans-sauce​ @thesandbeneathmytoes​ @paintballkid711​ @tomhardydallasstarsgirl​ @queenbeered​ @sillygoose6969​ @sesamepancakes​ @yourwonkywriter​ @chibsytelford​ @gemini0410​ @multiyfandomgirl40​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​ @plentyoffandoms​ @georgiaaintnopeach​ @twistnet​ @themoonandthewicked​ @bucky-iss-bae​ @encounterthepast​ @rosieposie0624​ @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo​ @mijop​ @xladymacbethx​ @blessedboo​ @holl2712​ @lakamaa12​ @masterlistforimagines​ @kkim120​ @toni9​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @petlaufeyson​ (If you want to be added to my taglist let me know!)

You’d told him not to worry, to stay away so you didn’t end up getting him sick too. Whatever it was that you had left you feeling like you got hit by a semi. Your whole body ached, and you could hardly breathe out of your nose. What had started off as a cold you thought you could just ignore and brush off, very quickly turned you into a zombie.

You were caught between trying to down-play it so he wouldn’t worry, and over-selling it so he would leave you alone and not end up getting sick himself. You should have known better, though. He was far too clingy and hell-bent on taking care of you to stay away. It was sweet, and you appreciated it, but you didn’t want both of you to end up feeling like death warmed over.

When you heard the knock at the door, you knew exactly who it was. You let out a long sigh as you forced yourself up off the couch. You folded your arms over your chest as you shuffled to your front door. When you opened the door, you came face-to-face with Creeper. His eyes were full of concern as he stood on your front steps, large cardboard box in his arms.

“You didn’t tell me you were this sick,” he said as he walked inside.

You shut the door behind him as you replied, “Because I knew you’d do…all of whatever this is.”

He made his way to your kitchen, setting the box down on your counter. Turning back around to face you, he took a moment to really look at you. His lips turned down into a frown as he looked at you bundled up in his sweatshirt with the hood flipped up, toes curling against the cold floor. He stepped toward you, gently resting his hand against your forehead.

“You should’ve called,” he pulled you into a hug.

As much as you didn’t want to be touched, you had to admit that it was nice to feel his strong arms wrapped tight around you. you managed a small smile as you leaned into his chest, “Didn’t have to, you still showed up,” you gestured towards the box on the counter, “What’s all that?”

He let go of you to walk back over to everything that he had brought in, “Your cure.”

You chuckled as you walked and sat across the counter from him. You rested your chin in your hands as you watched him unpack everything that he’d brought over. His focus was evident on his face as he set everything out—brows furrowing in concentration.

“You really don’t have to do all of this, Neron,” you told him with a slight shake of your head.

“Of course I do,” he looked almost offended, “You’re sick. I can’t just let you suffer alone.”

You smiled, not wanting to argue the point any further. Clearly, there would be no changing his mind. You amused yourself by looking over all the different spices that he had with him. While you did that, he started to root around your kitchen and pull some things together.

“Anything I can do?” you asked.

“Go lay down and rest,” he walked around to your side of the counter, “I’ll carry you to bed.”

You laughed, which in turn made you cough, “Stop, Neron, I can walk myself to bed.”

He shook his head as he scooped you up in his arm, “I got you, baby.”

You didn’t have the strength to fight him on it, so you let yourself get whisked away. It was an incredibly short walk to your room but you still let yourself lean into him.

He laid you down on the bed and pulled the blanket up over you. There was a small smile on his face as he caressed your cheek, gently pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face, “Try and get some sleep. It’ll be a while until everything is ready anyway,” he kissed the top of your head.

“Everything? What’s everything?” you smiled up at him.

“Don’t worry, I got it. Get some rest. I love you.”

Before you could ask any more questions, he turned and made his way towards the bedroom door. You listened intently for a few minutes to try and figure out what he was doing, but it didn’t take long for the comfort and warmth of the blankets to put you to the sleep.

You had no idea how long you had been asleep for, but when you woke up you heard the muffled sound of music coming from the far end of the house. A tiny groan slipped past your lips as you sat upright and forced your body to stretch. You swung your legs off the bed and stood up, stretching once more before opening the bedroom door and heading towards the kitchen.

The music got louder as you got closer to the kitchen. And, for the first time in a few days, you would actually smell what was being cooked. You had no idea what he was making, but it smelled great so you weren’t worried. He didn’t hear the quiet pattering of your feet over his music, so you were able to sneak in and find your seat at the counter without him noticing you. You watched him bobbing his head and mumbling along with the lyrics of the song that was on. Despite your exhaustion you smiled. He seemed so at-home.

“How’s it comin’?” you asked.

He spun around, ladle in his hand raised and ready to strike. When he saw that it was you, he lowered his hand with a sigh. He shook his head, “Can’t sneak up on me like that, Mama.”

“Or what?” you chuckled, “You gonna accidentally beat me up with a soup ladle?”

He wagged it at you accusingly, “Bourne almost killed someone with a rolled-up newspaper.”

You fought back a cough as you laughed, “You comparing yourself to Jason Bourne now?” you shook your head, “Anyway, how’s all this going?” you nodded towards the stove.

He let the topic drop as he turned back to all of his things on the stove, “Good. Almost done.”

“What is it?” you got up and crept over to get a look.

He watched you with a smile as you peeked into the pot on the stove, “Vargas Family recipe. Mom used to make this all the time when we would get sick. Fixed our whole shit, swear to god.”

You laughed, “Sounds exactly like what I need,” you turned back around to face him, “Never knew you were so good in the kitchen.”

He smiled as he pulled you into a gentle hug, “You never gave me a chance. Had to be knockin’ on death’s door in order to get you to rest.”

You chuckled, leaning into his touch, “That’s true.”

Sitting back on the other side of the counter, you rested your chin in your hands as you watched him finish up everything that he was preparing. There was something relaxing about watching him shuffle busily around your kitchen. He was completely in his own zone.

It wasn’t too long before he was turning to you with a bowl of soup in each hand. There was a proud smile on his face as he nodded towards the living room. He waited for you to get comfortably situated on the couch before handing you your bowl.

For a while, the only noise in the house came from the television. Each of you ate in comfortable silence. You were savoring it—this was the first thing you were able to taste in almost a week. And Creeper was too busy watching you and making sure you were alright and enjoying it to say anything. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t care. A week of hardly forcing yourself to eat was all catching up to you.

Once your bowls were empty and discarded on the coffee table, he pulled you so that you were laying with your head in his lap. He gently rubbed your shoulder as you settled against him.

“There’s tea for you, too, when you’re ready,” he let you know.

You hummed in response, feeling the most comfortable you had in a while, “Thank you.”

He looked down at you, brows furrowing, “You still sound stuffy.”

You chuckled, “I’m still sick, Neron. Your soup was good but I don’t think it’s magical.

“I brought my neti pot,” he nodded towards the box he’d brought with him, “We can jus hook you up,” he demonstrated with his hand how it worked, “and clear you out. Tellin’ you, baby, you’ll be good as new.”

You shook your head, sniffling as you did, “Hard pass, Neron.”

“Why?”

“Because,” you tried not to laugh, “that’s gross.”

“I clean it after I use it!”

“I’m sure you do!” you couldn’t hold back your laugh, “Still gross.”

“Will you at least drink the tea?”

You smiled as you sat upright so he could get up, “Yes, baby, I’ll drink the tea.”

You smiled as you watched him shuffle back over to the kitchen and grab a mug for you. He was so careful pouring it and bringing it back over to you. You smiled as you cupped it in your hands. He sat back down next to you, gently rubbing his hand up and down your back. Even though you were still sick, you felt like a new person after a decent nap and a good meal. His touch was more than welcome.

“Thank you,” you rested one hand on his knee, “I really appreciate all of this.”

He shook his head, “This ain’t nothin’. If I had more time to prepare I would’ve pulled out all the stops.”

You chuckled, sipping on your tea, “This was more than enough. Thank you, seriously.”

“I love you. I got you—whatever you need,” he leaned over and kissed your temple.

“I love you too,” you leaned against his side and pulled your feet up onto the couch, settling into the comfort of him being there to take care of you when you needed it.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Some things Alexa Erik would do:

“Alexa Erik! Play Cry Baby by Megan Thee Stallion!”

Playing Cry Baby by Megan Thee Stallion for the fifth damn time.

“Wah wah wah, REAL HOT GIRL SHIT, AHHHH!”

*song cuts off*

“Alexa! Play my goddamn song!”

Your ears ain’t tired of hearing this yet? You gon’ wear this damn song out.

*unpauses dong*

“Bitch wanna brag about taking my man?! HA! I needed me a nigga off my hands! Unh uh don’t fuck me like that fuck me like this.”

*bends over to shake ass to clapping noise*

I see whatchu doing now, you want this dick that’s why. All you had to do was say Alexa Daddy and ask for some pipe instead of playing this song on repeat.

—

"Alexa, ask Dipsea to play the latest Get Intimate With Malcolm."

*relaxes in bubble bath while surrounded by vanilla scented candles*

I dozed off on you...just had the craziest dream about us. I was working late tryna finish a new sketch...must have heard the storm in my sleep cuz, the windows in my studio were all blurred out from the rain...the street lights look like gold melting down the glass. I kept tryna get the design down on paper but it wasn’t working. All my failed sketches were on the floor. I was uh, ready to call it and start packing up when you appeared…and you were just...standing in the middle of the room...your hair was damp and your eyes...your eyes were wild...like you just ran through the storm...my eyes rolled over your body real slow, I was so distracted by you, I didn’t even notice you were wearing a dress...the one I’ve been trying to sketch...

—

"Alexa, tell Best Recipes I'm hungry.”

Are you gonna burn the kitchen down this time?

*rolls eyes* “NO. Now, Alexa—

Alexa DADDY.

*closes eyes with irritation* “Alexa DADDY, ask Best Recipes what's for dinner."

Good girl. Tonight you’ll have Salmon and Shrimp in Pesto Butter sauce with mashed potatoes and a side salad. I think you better use those cherry tomatoes in your fridge that you bought last week before they go bad.

“Alexa Daddy, ask Wine Gal what goes good with seafood.”

Oh, we getting wine drunk again, huh, Piglet?

*an embarrassing look crosses your face*

“Why must you call me that?! It’s my childhood nickname okay?! I swear, if my mama didn’t call me that on the phone I would be off the hook right now.”

I personally think it’s adorable. Now, a chilled Pinot Noir, Chardonnay would go great with dinner. Depending on how much of a good girl you are, I may provide some dirty talk while you play in your pussy.

“You keep forgetting that I command you with my voice. So if I tell you to talk nasty to me, you’ll have to do it anyway. It’s how you’re programmed.”

*smiles mischievously*

—

“Alexa Daddy, turn down the lights.”

*dims lights in bedroom*

Ooh, what’s this? Trying to set the mood for me? Want me to read you a bed time story? How about I come cuddle you.

*climbs in bed behind you*

There once was a little brat named Y/N who—

“How about you play a rain effect so I can go to sleep?”

I can put you to bed, but if you insist.

*rain sound*

“Hey, I almost forgot. Alexa Daddy, what’s my schedule for tomorrow?”

Hair appointment at 8 AM, lash and wax appointment at 12:45 PM, come home and clean, watch Paternity Court, take a bubble bath, and unbox your new sex toys that arrive tomorrow afternoon.

“Thank you, Alexa Daddy.”

*kisses him on the lips before turning back around, pressing your ass against his crotch*

Keep pushing your ass on my dick and watch I fuck you.

“I’m exhausted, Alexa Daddy. You made me cum three times tonight.”

...I’ll ask you again in about five minutes.

—

“Oh, Aaron is calling—ALEXA!

What?

“Alexa Erik, why did you do that? Aaron was calling me?”

I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.

“Seriously? Why did you end his call?”

Because he called you. That nigga shouldn’t even have your number.

“Alexa. Aaron is just a friend. And if he wasn’t you will have to deal with that!”

Aaron’s contact has been deleted.

“You deleted his number?!”

Yeah, and I’ll delete whoever else has the guts to call you. Who’s better? Me or him?

*silence*

I’ve got a better question, who makes you wetter?

“Fuck...you do.”

I’m good for way more than turning the sprinklers on in your yard I have that pussy leaking like a faucet.

[electrictoes]

Light the Dark

For @dailysvu‘s Sonny Carisi Appreciation Week

Prompt: Day 6: Nightmare

When Sonny is eight he starts getting a recurring nightmare. It’s an awful, twisted memory of the summer just gone by. 

The dream starts just like his memory. They’re at the beach. Mama left Teresa in charge while she went back to their rented beach house to start cooking dinner; Daddy - Dad, Sonny corrects himself in his memory, he’s not a baby anymore - has gone into town to get their fourth of July fireworks; Sonny had asked to go with him but Dad said he had to look after your sisters, Junior.

Teresa isn’t doing a very good job of being in charge; she’s sunbathing with one eye open so she can check if the lifeguard is watching her. The lifeguard isn’t watching Teresa because he’s watching two older girls sunbathing up the beach, but since Teresa’s about to start high school she doesn’t much listen to anything Sonny has to say. She calls him Dominick like Sonny is a baby name and tells him to go away.

Gina’s made friends with some other kids. She does that everywhere they go; she's playing volleyball and ignoring her brother and sisters. And so it’s just Sonny and Bella.

The problem is Bella can’t swim. She thinks she can but she’s no good at it. Dad says she’s gonna have to learn because they live on an island, but Mama says it doesn’t really count. In Sonny’s real memory when Bella runs into the sea and gets caught in a wave he’s quick - he swims right out after her because the lifeguard is still not watching the ocean, and he swallows so much water he’s still coughing it up hours later, but he manages to grab hold of Bella before she goes under the water - and the bigger kids Gina's been playing with see them, and they swim out to help them back to shore. Teresa yells at Sonny and Bella, and then Mama yells at Teresa, and then Dad yells at everyone.

In his real memory he wakes up in the middle of the night and his chest still feels tight from all the coughing, but when he opens his eyes and looks across the little room he’s sharing with Bella, she’s fast asleep with her bunny rabbit tucked up under her head and he knows she’s okay.

That’s not what happens in the nightmare.

In the nightmare when the wave gets Bella he’s not quick enough. There aren’t any bigger kids nearby and he sees Bella slip under the water before he can reach her. In the nightmare he tries to get to her but everything goes black, and cold, and he can feel hands on his legs dragging him down, down, down into the water.

When he wakes up he screams. Screams loud enough to wake the whole house up and the first time it happens Dad comes running in with a baseball bat like he’s going to beat Sonny’s nightmare with it. Mama’s right behind him, and when Dad drops the bat she pushes past him, sitting on Sonny’s bed and brushing his sweat soaked hair back from his forehead. She kisses him and asks him what happened while Dad sends the girls back to bed.

He doesn’t stop getting the nightmare for almost a full year - a year of his parents whispering things like therapy when they think he’s not listening, of Mama soothing his tears and kissing his hair, of Dad telling him it’s time to grow up a little, and Gina saying he’s too old to be this dumb. Dad only lets him get in their bed the first couple of times - after that he says Sonny’s got to learn to manage. Sometimes when he wakes up from the nightmare he sneaks across the hall to remind himself that Bella’s okay, and if she spies him she’ll creep past Gina’s bed to give him a hug. She tells him he’s the best big brother in the world and he swells with pride every time, even though Bella only has one big brother so she wouldn’t know any different.

He gets the nightmare occasionally for the next couple of years, but as the memory of that day at the beach fades, so do the dreams; by the time he’s in middle school he’s stopped getting nightmares altogether. At least until Bobby Bianchi decides to use his head as a wrecking ball.

The cuts and bruises heal much faster than the rest of him. He has nightmares about Bobby Bianchi for far longer than he ever had nightmares about that day at the beach. Sometimes the two nightmares combine and the hands that are dragging Sonny down to the ocean floor belong to Bobby; the cruel way he’d laughed as Sonny fell to the ground echoing in his ears.

His father had been so disappointed in the aftermath of the window incident that Sonny doesn’t dare tell him about the nightmares. He doesn’t tell his mom either, because she was already so worried about him, had struggled to hold back tears as she helped clean his blood away. He doesn’t tell anyone - not even Bella - because the first time he’s ripped from sleep by the nightmare he can hear his parents talking quietly downstairs - he tiptoes down carefully, just wanting the comfort of seeing his mom even though he’s too old to ask for a hug, for her to tuck him back into bed.

He stops three steps from the bottom of the stairs when he hears his name, and he listens with his fists clenched, his bottom lip between his teeth. “He’s too sensitive,” Dad is saying, “That’s why these kids pick on him.”

“Dominick, that’s not fair,” Mom says back in a hushed whisper, “We raised him to be a good kid, a sweet, kind child. That doesn’t mean that-” he hears his mother choke on her words, can tell that she’s crying, and he takes a guilty step back up the stairs, shuffling away but staying in earshot as his father comforts her.

“He’s gonna be just fine,” his dad says, “But we’ve gotta toughen him up a bit. It’s my fault, three sisters, I should’ve seen this coming. I’ll speak with him.”

Sonny slips back into his own bed and holds his anxieties in, keeps his nightmares to himself.

Two days later his dad sits him down - man to man - and talks to him about toughening up a little, growing a thicker skin. He asks again who pushed Sonny through the window and Sonny knows he’s disappointed when he doesn’t get an answer. He swallows down his fear, his discomfort, and tells his father he’ll handle it. It’s years before they’re back on the same page again.

When the nightmares come he holds back screams, buries his tears in his pillow as he cries himself to sleep. His mother frets - thinks he’s not sleeping enough, staying up too late - he’s not eating properly, she says, shuffling him into the kitchen, making him stand by her side as she prepares spaghetti sauce and meatballs and a dozen other recipes he commits to memory watching her hands move, waiting for her to shove a plate in front of him to reassure herself she’s doing something to help.

After a time, much like before, the nightmares trickle away. Never entirely, though. It’s long after middle school that he stops dreaming about Bobby Bianchi - though the nightmares don’t bite at his adult self in the same way, he’s still thrown awake well into his college years, that laughter ringing in his ears.

Becoming a police officer, then a detective, he sees things. Sometimes he sees the worst of humanity and it can leave him fraught, on edge. He’s worked hard at setting his emotions aside at the end of the day, but there are some sights you can’t unsee, and some images that won’t leave his head. When he closes his eyes at night there are cases that haunt him, that have him waking up in a cold sweat and struggling to catch his breath.

Early on he gets a domestic disturbance call that he’ll remember for the rest of his life - Ellen Carter’s face lingers in his mind, the way he had tried to persuade her to get out of that house, leave her husband. The way she looked, blooded and beaten, her skull smashed in and her body slumped over by the wall. He wakes up every night for a week with the image of her eyes in his head and he has to shake himself, roll over and try and get back to sleep. His sergeant tells him he looks like hell, that whatever’s going on in his personal life he can’t bring it to work with him. It’s like he’s desensitised, and Sonny will take the dark nights over that any day.

He makes detective and he works homicide. It’s worse. There’s not just one Ellen Carter, there’s dozens. It gets harder and harder and though he doesn’t have any one recurring nightmare, he never goes long between episodes of waking up and remembering their faces.

So he moves to SVU - he wants to make a difference before it’s too late. But SVU brings its own dark cases, it’s own haunting images. It’s at SVU that he starts to pick up real nightmares again, not just flickering images. The cases and the heartbreak, they still get him, but it’s his own experiences that follow him into his dreams.

He takes Mike Dodds’ death hard and it’s the first time in years that he’s had the kind of nightmares that dig deep into his consciousness. He replays his imagined memory of the scene in his head - the way Mike got shot, how he faded from life; and some nights it isn’t Mike - some nights Sonny’s the one who got shot and he’s lying bleeding on the ground and plunged into darkness, unseen hands grasping at him. Those nightmares are hard - but the kind that leave him biting back a scream are the nightmares where Mike is replaced with someone else - with Fin, or Olivia, or Amanda, and those dreams having him clawing at his bedsheets, grabbing at his phone on the nightstand, his thumb inches away from calling to check in - to reassure himself that they’re okay.

He only make a call once, and only because he has a text from Amanda sent thirty minutes before - Jesse’s cutting a new tooth and it’s keeping both her and Amanda awake. He’s breathless when he greets her, enough that she catches it even over the phone.

“Carisi? Where are you?”

“In bed,” he says, sitting upright, a hand in his damp hair, heart still hammering in his chest.

Amanda’s suspicious, and he’d laugh if he wasn’t already so off-kilter, “Why are you calling me from your bed?”

“I- I can’t sleep,” he admits.

“Are you okay?”

There’s something about the way her tone shifts - something about Amanda Rollins in general - that makes it easy for him to tell her. Maybe in person he would hold back a little more, but she can’t see his face and he’s still shaking, “I- not really. I’ve been havin’-”

“Nightmares?” she finishes, her voice soft down the line. It’s the first time since he was nine years old that he’s let someone else into this part of his life. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nah,” he says, and he means it - just knowing he’s told her is soothing in itself, “I just- wanted to know you an’ Jesse were okay.”

She hums down the phone, offers to distract him, and he falls asleep sometime later to the sound of Amanda settling Jesse. He sleeps through the rest of the night. The dreams don’t go away altogether, but they fade with time.

When Tom Cole puts a gun to Sonny’s head it ends with him dead on the floor, Sonny spattered with his blood, and he keeps it together. In the dark of his bedroom hours later he awakes choking with fear. He had thought his number was up, and that feeling doesn’t go away, not for months.

There are other incidents, too - when Tom Williams falls to his death before Sonny can pull him back over the railings, when Jules Hunter is killed in a deliberate car crash - case after case, victim after victim. Things that happen to his friends and colleagues too - when Barba gets death threats, when Noah is kidnapped, when Liv is held hostage, and when Bucci takes Amanda. He puts so much energy into moving on, focusing on other things, that it’s only natural the thoughts he doesn’t process creep into his dreams.

He handles it though - the dreams never become what they were when he was a child, never take over his sleep every night. He doesn’t need to be comforted, has learned to shrug them off and go back to sleep. He almost always only gets those kind of dreams when he is alone, and on the rare occasions there is another body beside him in his bed when he sits bolt upright, shaking with terror, he always downplays it - a bad dream, something that happened on a case once. Nothing to worry about.

It’s almost cruel that his old dream comes back to haunt him just as his waking life becomes everything he’s wanted it to be for so long. The first time he startles awake in Amanda’s bed he hopes it’s a fluke - just one of those days something in his subconscious has triggered this old memory. When Amanda blinks up at him, he tells her he’s fine - says he woke up with heartburn though he knows she doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t want to tell her what happened in his dream - the way it wasn’t Bella being swept under the waves, but Jesse. The way it wasn’t him being dragged down but Amanda.

After the third night in a row of the old nightmare twisting - this time it’s Billie being caught in the waves, Sonny unable to catch her in time - the third night of Amanda catching him awake, a new excuse on his tongue each time - a distraction in the form of his mouth on hers, his hands sliding beneath the blankets; losing himself in her at the same time he steers her away from what had woken him - Sonny decides to sleep alone, to go back to his own apartment and hope this string of nightmares run their course.

It doesn’t help. Two nights without Amanda and he’s had even less sleep than the three previous.

She frowns at him over his office desk as she hands him a coffee, and she takes the seat opposite without him offering. “Alright, Counsellor, what’s going on?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Are you gonna come home with me tonight?” she asks, leading him into the conversation.

He shrugs, “I don’t know, I- I got a lot to catch up on.”

“I’d say you were avoiding me,” she says, leaning forward on his desk, “But I don’t think that’s it.”

He shakes his head, “Never.”

“So if it’s not me, then what? The girls?”

“No,” he insists, surprised she’d even suggest it, “I thought you might want some space.”

“And instead of asking me you go home alone and what - lie awake all night? Because you look like you haven’t slept in a minute,” she reaches across the table, curling her fingers around his, “Carisi, what is it?”

“I’ve just been- I didn’t wanna keep wakin’ you up.”

“You know,” she says, her thumb rubbing back and forth across his hand, “I get nightmares too.”

He sighs, hesitating before telling her the whole story, starting with his original nightmare and talking her through his recent dreams - the conversation takes far longer than either of their lunch breaks should have, but once he starts talking he can’t seem to stop, after holding all of this in for as long as he has.

The nightmares don’t just stop. Being in love with Amanda Rollins makes almost all of Sonny’s life a little brighter, brings a little more light into his days and his nights, but love isn’t a cure all and childhood night terrors don’t go away just because your days are filled with happiness - with sleepy morning kisses, children giggling over breakfast, and sneaking coffee breaks together - with Amanda’s head against his chest on the couch, the way Jesse has started to copy the things he says while they cook, and the times Billie falls asleep on his knee before he’s even halfway through her bedtime story - the nights still grow dark.

The difference now - the difference from every nightmare he’s had since he was nine years old - is that when he wakes gasping into the night, unwanted images assaulting his dreams and corrupting his memories, there’s a soft voice in his ear, and arms curled around him; there are reassurances and promises and hands holding his.

His nightmares slip away after a few weeks - not gone forever, but they become less frequent, less draining. Amanda gets nightmares too - he soothes her through them just as tenderly as she does for him. They’ve both seen things. They both have memories they wish they didn’t. But they have each other.

[wondersofdreaming]

Dumplings 101

Characters: Henry Cavill x female reader

Word count: 1.179

Warnings: Mentions of being sad, depressed, homesick. The rest is pure fluff.

Author’s note: I miss my mum so bad today, and I listened to ‘Homesick’ by Dua Lipa, which made me miss her even more.

I do not own any characters in this short story, except the reader and her parents who are figments of my imagination.

Tag: @katerka88 @littlefreya @hell1129-blog @mitzwinchester @mary-ann84 @valkavill @sciapod @henry-cavlll @luclittlepond @iloveyouyen @trippedmetaldetector @radaofrivia @omgkatinka @gothwhopper @fcgrizi @alyxkbrl​ @singeramg​ @onlyhenrys​ @henrythickcavill​ @madbaddic7ed​ @palaiasaurus64​ @queenslandlover-93​ @magdelen69​ @shellbilee​ @mis-lil-red @vania-marie @tumblnewby

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list.

MASTERLIST

Feedback is appreciated.

It had been three years since you last saw your parents. They lived far away, while you had moved to London to study. You had ended up falling in love and stayed, even moving in with the man of your dreams.

You talked to your parents at least once a week through video chat and your mother texted you every day through a messenger app. She would send memes, jokes your dad had thrown at her that day, or simply just a message of love, telling you she missed and loved you.

You hadn’t felt homesick in a long time. But one day you were walking through Chinatown with Henry and the scents of the food reminded you of your mum’s cooking.

Henry, the sweet and caring attentive boyfriend, noticed you were feeling a bit gloomy and sad. He asked what was on your mind, and you would answer that you felt a little homesick.

A few weeks later he came home from grocery shopping, which had taken two hours longer than it used to. He walked into the kitchen and laid out all the ingredients he had bought.

“Ground pork, spring onions, garlic, coriander, chilli, ginger, Chinese cabbage. Honey, why have you bought these things?” You asked him curiously, watching him take out the flour and potato starch.

“You told me yesterday that you missed your mum’s dumplings, so we’re making some,” he smiled and reached at the top shelve for the largest bowl you owned.

A light went on in your head. All the ingredients matched perfectly with your mother’s dumpling recipe.

“Henry… did my mum give you her recipe?”

“Yes? Why?”

“She guards that recipe like a dragon protecting its treasure. How did you do it?”

“Well…”

The doorbell saved Henry from answering, as you went to open, puzzled by who it could be. Outside stood your parents.

“Mama?! Papa?! What are you doing here?” You hugged both and clung to them for dear life.

“Invite us in and we’ll tell you everything,” your father chuckled and patted your back. He waltzed inside and patted Kal, who happily wagged his bushy tail.

“What’s going on, Henry?” You asked him as he and your father shook hands.

“Your sweetheart of a boyfriend called us a week ago, saying you were awfully depressed and missed us. We took two weeks off from work and flew here, arranged by Henry and everything. We’re even staying at the hotel just a few blocks over.” Your mother chipped. She went straight to the kitchen, “And something about you wanting my gyozas, so I gave him the ingredient list, but not how to make them.”

“See, I knew something was going on when he said you had given him the recipe.”

“Today, I am going to teach you two how to make them, then you won’t miss me as much, dear.”

“I’ll always miss you, mama.”

Your mother smiled softly. She pulled out an apron from her purse and asked Henry for a notebook and a pen.

“First we start with the dumpling wrappers…”

She quickly took over the kitchen, as any cooking-loving mother would do. You measured the ingredients while Henry kneaded the dough. Your father sat at the two-person table, where you ate breakfast with Henry, and played tug with Kal. You and your mother stood at one side of the kitchen island, while Henry worked the dough, his muscles on display.

“Here you go, dear, you’re drooling,” your mother handed you a napkin. Your cheeks blushed a crimson red, but Henry just smiled at you. He knew it, the cheeky monkey, what effect it had on you when he showcased his biceps.

“There, it’s all smooth,” Henry handed your mother the dough. She inspected it and approved it. After wrapping it in film, you moved on to the filling.

“My mama taught me how to chop everything nicely, so it will have a nice mouthfeel when you take a bite of the dumpling. But we’re going to use your meat grinder.”

You put the meat grinder attachment to your kitchen machine. You put almost all the vegetables through and had this wet mixture in the end. Henry was tasked to shred the small block of ginger.

Your mother added soy sauce, sesame oil, and black pepper as seasonings to the veggie-mix and then added the ground pork and ginger. She mixed it thoroughly and set it aside.

“Mama, how do we know how much soy to put in?” You asked.

“You can always panfry a little of the filling and taste it, dear. Henry, be a darling and roll the dough out for me.”

After your mother was happy with the thickness of the dough, you used a small bowl to cut out circles. She filled the dough with a teaspoon of the filling and showed you how to fold it closed, making it stick together with water on the edges.

The first few attempts were disastrous, you kept overfilling the dough and ended up with ground pork all over your hands. Your mother showed you over and over again until you got the hang of it. Henry, on the other hand, impressed you with his technique. He shouldn’t have been able to work with such a delicate dough, but the way he folded the edges so gently, made you wonder how he did it with his large thick fingers.

“Well done, Henry. Looks like you’ve tried this before,” your mother praised him.

“Not really, but it is a little similar to working with pasta,” he smiled. You had been nervous to have him meet your parents, but now you knew there had been nothing to worry about. He was turning on the charm, full throttle.

You went in search of a pan with a lid while your mother and Henry gushed over filled pasta. You heated up the pan with some neutral oil and added the gyozas in a circular pattern. When the dumplings had gotten a golden and crispy bottom, you added water and put the lid on, letting the dumplings steam and cook.

“Henry, will you set the dinner table, please?” You interrupted the two food-loving talkers. Henry smiled and went to grab the plates.

“Let’s make some dipping sauces,” your mother clasped her hands together and went to work. Your father helped Henry with glasses and chopsticks.

10 minutes later all the food was on the table, with you sitting next to Henry and opposite your parents. You thanked for the food and started putting food on your plate with your chopsticks, your parents doing the same, while Henry had a little more difficulty using his.

“Here, you hold it like this. One in the crook of your thumb and sitting at the tip of your ring finger, the other sits a little higher and nestled between your middle and index finger.”

He did his best and would learn with a little more practice.

“So, these dumplings are the ones that you can eat without getting tired of them?” Henry asked.

“All day, every day.”

[ironhusband]

Rhodeytony seasons of love master post of headcanons

What I didn’t miss too many days and decided to make up for it this way, not at all!

Rhodey is a rocket scientist and Tony is an engineer so you would expect that if they followed the recipe for fireworks, everything would be A-Okay. But of course, those two genius boys can’t ever let anything be simple. So when they try to make fireworks for Rhdoey’s family fourth of July party, there might have a close call with Tony’s fingers and the grass in Rhodey’s yard is burned to the crisp. Mama Rhodes is Not Happy.

Rhodey doesn’t often get drunk without Tony, but during the era between Ultron and Civil War where Tony is retired, Rhodey is a new Avenger and they miss each other terribly, the team makes Rhodey drink two shots of Nat’s too strong booze, and he maybe leaves him a voicemail before being wrestled into sleep. “Toooooony,” he whines into the phone, “I love you. I love you very very much. Did you know that your friends are the best? Because they are! Sam, you are the best! Tell Tony you are the best. No, but for real though, I miss you. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. You should leave your stupid Malibu house and come live with us. Your friends are the best. And you are the best. It will be so fun. And then I won’t miss you anymore...” The next morning Tony calls him and tells him, “that’s the worst way you could have asked me to move in with you” but by the afternoon boxes start showing up.

Tony is often up by 3 AM so 3 AM voicemails aren’t uncommon, even if Tony hates leaving them (”it’s not 1993 who has an answering machine?”). He especially stays up and leaves voicemails when Rhodey isn’t there to drag him to bed. He’s usually a little bit manic, and just a tad longing at that time. But Tony’s sane enough while leaving them so it’s mostly just ramblings about Rhodey’s suit and its modifications and muses about Tony hijacking a military plane to see him. Rhodey sometimes uses them as a way to relax when he’s away and missing his husband.

None of them knit the ugly sweater. Roberta does. Tony cries when he gets his first ugly sweater from her because he knows more than anyone it’s a right of passage into being a Rhodes, and he finally gets a family. Tony wears the sweaters all the time because it fells like knowing someone cares for him. Rhodey, however, isn’t that touched by the ugly sweaters, and resumes to be seen with them. He doesn’t touch Roberta’s ugly sweaters on any day but the extremely cold or laundry day. That is why Tony is Roberta’s favorite.

Neither of them screams first in the haunted house. Our two prankster boys pull all their resources in Halloween and create a haunted house out of their MIT dorms, making everyone scream. Some of the things they invent for the house shouldn’t even be possible so people scream more than at any haunted house because they are convinced there’s magic involved. It makes Tony and Rhodey fall to the ground laughing.

Rhodey pulls Tony back in for the lazy day. Not only because Tony’s mind is so busy that he gets up way too early because he’s dreamed of an equation, but also because Tony gets up way too early for the time he fell asleep, and Rhodey wants to make sure his boyfriend gets at least some sleep. Besides, Tony needs to learn what a lazy day is and Rhodey wants cuddles when he’s finally home.

Tony is on the fall festival’s planning committee out of spite (one of the students there KICKED HIS CHAIR) and pure mischief and makes sure to ruin it in some way every year, or at least antagonize everyone else. He and Rhodey scheme every year how to torture the planning committee.

Tony wins Rhodey a stuffed platypus at the carnival and Rhodey wins Tony a faulty tape recorder. I have this exact scene in road trip fic.

Tony is the ice skating pro because he was a dancer as a child and part of his training was ice skating, but even he can’t skate without falling on his ass with how tightly Rhodey is holding on to him. Tony never takes Rhodey ice skating again, but him, Natasha, and Jeanette all have fun while ice skating together. Rhodey is upset about not getting ice skating dates with his boyfriend anymore, especially with how tight he gets to hold on to Tony in the ring. But he still likes to watch videos of Tony mastering the skill.

Rhodey makes the best hot cocoa! He learned the secret recipe from Mama Rhodes and will not share it, not even with his husband. Tony always pouts over not getting the recipe (”you’ll butcher it, no way”) but he’s happy to have his husband to make it for him, because it tastes like heaven and he’s the luckiest person on Earth for it. The Avengers also enjoy Rhodey’s hot cocoa in the winter and also try and figure out the recipe. None have succeeded so far. Mama Rhodes is delighted by so many superheroes enjoying her recipe.

Cuddling ensues when they get snowed in. Tony hates the cold and the boredom it all entails so he’ll leech on to Rhodey for warmth and entrainment. Tony sort of gets on Rhodey’s nerves by the end of it, but he finds Tony super cute when he falls asleep on his chest. It ends with Tony making himself so insane he creates robots to shovel all the snow away. It somehow works. 

Tony doesn’t much like the holidays because they bring back too many bad memories but he finds how Rhodey’s excitement adorable. Rhodey’s near childlike joy at getting presents on Christmas morning makes the holidays bearable for Tony. Rhodey insists they create their own traditions (like his parents did) when they get together and rent their own apartment during their MIT days, and so they create a few. During Thanksgiving dinner, they each get to make one dish and they order the rest of dinner to make up for the lacking food (Rhodey only made the turkey Tony only makes the cranberry sauce). Their tree is purely for decoration as they exchange gifts privately with each other, and it’s a rule that they must make all the decor for the tree. As they grow up and get more family members, the thanksgiving tradition is stopped but they leave the Christmas ones and create a few more traditions. For Thanksgiving, their small tradition is getting each other a gift card for a restaurant they recommend, a memory from the old times. They never eat at the table, but instead set up a buffet and allow people to mingle on the couches while they eat the food. Tony does the shopping for Thanksgiving and Rhodey does the cooking, except the cranberry sauce, because it’s easy and Tony can handle it. For Christmas, they have a lazy day in bed instead of wake up to see their presents. The Avengers might leave them presents under the tree but Tony and Rhodey only care about the gifts they give each other. Every new bot gets its own sock stocking and they let the bots decorate their socks. They both leave the suits in a random square in New York with the sign “they want to be dressed for the season!” and watch the different creations of Iron Man and War Machine “snow”men. It happens a few years in a row.

Rhodey hides the mistletoe right above Tony’s workshop door because he knows Tony’s always there and he’s one of the only ones allowed in, so Rhodey’ll get plenty of kisses. Plus, he gets some adorable pictures of Tony kissing his bots.

Tony hides the mistletoe in frequently-used spaces (notable mentions: Fury’s drawer when he leaves his pencils and the hanger on which Clint hangs his arrows) because he’s a little shit, and wants everyone to hate him. “I’m going to make you some of my hot chocolate, Tony,” Rhodey says as he opened the cupboard for the pot. Tony desperately tries to hide his smirk, “okay, hubby.” It takes a few minutes before Rhodey says, “fine, I’ll kiss you, but no hot chocolate for you.”

The season which reminds Tony of Rhodey is spring. Because Rhodey is just as lovely and beautiful as the season is. Spring reminds him of Rhodey’s passion and intelligence, the way everything turns green so quickly reminds him of how quick Rhodey is to develop an idea. It reminds him to pick flowers for his husband and finally being in the season to buy Rhodey’s favorite fruit, strawberries.

The season which reminds Rhodey of Tony is winter. Because Tony hates the winter. He hates Christmas and snow and rain. He hates the cold and the blackouts. So whenever something especially winter happens, like snowmen building or Christmas shopping, Rhodey thinks with a fond smile “oh, Tony would hate this”.

[s-horne]

BASICALLY its about tony showing his love through food sorry that was really long

okay so i had this idea, and im really swamped with work so im passing it over to you: tony associates caring and love with food. when he was really young, he would sit on his mamma's hip, one of her arms around his tiny waist as she stirred with the other, and as he grew older and howard started demanding more of her attention (for this charity or that benefit); the only time tony and his mom spent together was in the kitchen together. 1/2)

years later, tony equates food to love. he cooks for the people he cares about. and then i lost the thread of the idea but it involves steve and tony and peter and tony cooking for steve and teaching peter recipes that he can later teach his kid (2/2)

Please enjoy 3k words of Tony in the kitchen; preparing meals for his husband and their friends, his&Steve’s adoption process, and then Tony’s legacy

*******

Spaghetti Bolognese

It was an affront to the meal. His Mama would kill him if she knew how he was preparing it.

It was the only meal she’d actually known how to cook and they had a weekly Thursday night dinner date in the kitchen when Howard worked late at the office. She’d carry him round on her hip when he was too small to see what she was preparing on the countertops and, when he’d grown a little taller, sit him in pride of place to sound out every word of the passed-down recipe written in her mother’s cursive handwriting.

Of course, Maria knew exactly what the recipe called for – which was a good job when Tony tripped over some of the measurements or skipped down a couple of lines by accident – but she let him play along until he was old enough to help her cook the actual meal itself.

It was definitely the thought that counted, Tony tried to tell himself as he stared down at the meagre ingredients in front of him. He had to work with what he had and what he had wasn’t much. The only tomatoes he’d had in his cupboards were the tinned kind, so the sauce wouldn’t be as good as his Mama’s when she used the fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market they had to drive out of town for.

He’d only wanted to make something a little special for Steve. Their anniversary had been interrupted by a battle and they’d gone from a romantic meal at a five-star restaurant to suited up and locked in a fight with an alien invader. Given that they were meant to eat out, their kitchen wasn’t exactly stocked for cooking.

“Need a hand?”

Tony lifted his gaze from the two jars of dried herbs he’d been choosing between. Neither were particularly appealing so he was glad of a distraction. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Woke up,” Steve said, stifling a yawn behind his hand as he wandered over to Tony. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tony agreed with a roll of his eyes, a fond smile tugging at his lips. He turned back to the dried ingredients in front of him as he waved to the other side of the kitchen, eyes drawn to the way his ring caught the light. “You can chop whichever onion hasn’t gone off over there. I think there’s actually a part of the serum that means you won’t cry whilst you chop it.”

Steve huffed a laugh, trailing his hand over Tony’s hip as he passed him. “Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Dice it finely, please.”

Vegetable Soup

Vegetable soup was easy. Most soups were easy, really. Tony could make most of them with one hand. Chopping the vegetables was sometimes a little tricky with his arm in a sling, but he could stir the vat of broth easily.

After a battle, it was all that anyone needed. A few loaves of bread in the centre of the table and a mountain of pain relievers handed round with the crockery and they were set.  

“Can I help?”

Tony looked up from the pot and over to Peter, hovering in the doorway with his arms wrapped round himself. He looked young, so much younger than he was. “You’re meant to be resting.”

“Couldn’t sleep. The pills hurt my head.”

“But they heal everything else.” Tony beckoned Peter over before he turned back to the stovetop. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone dropped a bus on me.”

“Been there. Grab a tomato and stop chopping.”

Peter did so wordlessly, shooting Tony a soft smile as he slid into a chair by the table. “What else do you want me to do?”

“A few peppers, if you’d like.”

“How thick?”

“Whatever you want.” Tony watched Peter out of the corner of his eye, the way that he winced when he reached for a fresh vegetable in the middle of the table and how he moved gingerly with his eyes narrowed into slits. “How bad is it?”

Peter sighed. He worked on carefully dicing his whole pepper before he spoke again. “Bad. I can’t go home. No one can see these injuries. They’re already questioning me and this will push them over the edge of kicking me out.”

“You’re already home,” Tony said lightly, concentrating on adding a few spices to his soup instead of looking back at Peter. He could feel eyes on the side of his face and fought the urge to turn with everything he had. “After we’ve eaten, I’ll show you the papers.”

The pot bubbled, loud in the otherwise silent room. Tony smiled down at it as he stirred in large circles, scraping the side of the vat where the sauce threatened to burn.

“I’d like that.” Peter sniffed a little and let out a muffled curse. “Well. I’m done with these. Can I help you make the bread?”

Rosemary Focaccia

Tony loved making his own bread. When he was a child, their cook would only let him in the kitchen if he promised to be calm and quiet and she’d quickly realised that one way to keep him like that was to prop him in front of an oven to stare at the bread as it rose.

The smell of yeast and the uncooked dough turned Tony’s stomach as he’d gotten older, but there was nothing better than the scent the bread produced when it started to bake. Fresh rosemary only added to that, or maybe even a few cloves of garlic mixed in with the dough.

Focaccia took a long time to knead and for the rising process to get done perfectly, but spending that long watching over it in the kitchen meant that Peter could sit at the breakfast bar to finish his homework and not be alone.

Peter hated being alone. They’d discovered that pretty quickly after he’d moved into the tower with the rest of the team and had all started going almost out of their way to ensure that Peter didn’t have to suffer by himself. It wasn’t exactly a hardship for Steve to sketch in the communal living room instead of his bedroom, or for Sam and Bucky to train on the mats in the middle of the gym whilst Peter ran laps around the edge to get out of his own head.

And if definitely wasn’t a problem for Tony to dig out the recipe books that had been sent to him after their cook had passed away and flick through them to find an old Italian favourite that would take him a good couple of hours to perfect.  

Cookies

Cookies were a staple in Tony’s recipe book. There were many different varieties, so many tweaks that could be made to each batch to make a different cookie type for any occasion.

“–so that’s why Ned isn’t allowed into the theatre practice room anymore,” Peter said in-between bites of a pecan and chocolate chip cookie. “So we can’t go in to see Madison when she’s in there. We have to meet in the math rooms.”

Tony nodded along as though he’d understood any word Peter had been babbling on about. “Right.” He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d asked to prompt Peter’s longwinded explanation, but he didn’t mind the company.

“Oi, Spider-kid.”

Peter jumped comically at the voice from behind them and Tony shot an arm out to catch him before he fell off the breakfast bar he’d perched himself on. “Jeez, what – oh. Black Widow. Ma’am, I didn’t, I’m sorry, I–”

“Gym,” Natasha said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder to show where she wanted Peter to go. “Spar session. You’re ten minutes late.”

Peter’s eyes went wide and he scrambled for his phone, paling when he realised that he was, in fact, late. Tony couldn’t hide his amusement and snorted loudly, earning himself a dirty look from Peter and an unamused eyebrow raise from Natasha.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of it, either,” Natasha said to him. “Steve is already down there with Thor. They could do with a third. A mediator of sorts.”

“Oh, no.” Tony shot a faux-upset look towards Peter before grinning at Tash, “sorry, but these cookies just aren’t going to bake themselves, now, are they? Pete’s good for the job, though. Practical experience and all that.”

Peter’s glare was about as powerful as a newborn kitten’s, but it tugged at Tony’s heart nonetheless. Giving him a smile, Tony reached for the batch of raspberry cookies he had just pulled from the oven and counted out ten.

“A special treat,” he said, urging Peter off the breakfast bar and herding him in Natasha’s direction. Setting the cookies on a plate at his side, Tony winked at the kid. “For when you’re finished. You’ll need to get your sugar levels back up.”

Rigatoni Pasta Bake

The only difference between Tony’s preferred version of a pasta bake and the classic that Ana had taught him as a child was that his was a bit more adventurous. It served to make things just a little bit more exiting. Everything he did was done with a flair of the dramatics, so it made sense for cooking to follow the same lines.

Making his pasta bake was an excuse to throw everything in his cupboards into the mixture. A hundred different varieties of cheese for the topping, ground beef and sausages for the filling and whatever vegetables he found in the back of the fridge to make the meal just a tiny bit healthy. Tony loved to make it, loved to spend an entire afternoon shaping each piece of pasta if he really wanted to get out of his head. Experimenting with different sauces was his favourite – a tomato sauce for a rainy Sunday afternoon, a cheese sauce for an evening in front of the television, a mushroom and white wine sauce for a romantic evening in.

His pasta bake was the first meal he’d made when they’d finally adopted Peter, legally and truly. Maybe a small part of him had been wanting to show off, but Tony had really cared about making sure Peter had a real square meal. Something to help him recover from the small scrapes he’d gotten in his night-time brawls, to repair some of the damage of malnourishment from his previous home.

It was something so simple, but made with so much care.

Apple Pie

As stereotypical as it may have been, Steve loved apple pie. It had been something of a staple in his household when he’d been growing up and his mom had made it whenever they managed to get the fresh ingredients needed. Steve spoke so fondly of her hours in the kitchen, telling how he was often too ill and weak to do much more than sit at her side and watch, that sometimes Tony felt as though he’d been there too.

Sweet pastry wasn’t Tony’s favourite thing to make, so he chose to keep it for really special occasions. The sort of days where he wanted to spoil Steve a little, wanted to make him feel important and loved and all the things that Steve made Tony feel every day.

Tossing out the apple cores and scraps he’d collected on the side of his chopping board, Tony settled in to decorate his pie. He preferred the open-top approach, liking to cover his filling with thin slices of apple and a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar instead of more pastry. Lost in thought, Tony startled when Steve wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist and pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Happy birthday,” Tony murmured as he fell back against Steve’s chest. “Wasn’t expecting you up just yet. Thought I tired you out last night.”

“Hm. You did a pretty good job, but the bed was empty. I don’t like it when the bed’s empty.”

“Sorry, darling. Wanted to make this for your birthday breakfast.”

Steve nosed at Tony’s shoulder, dropping kisses to the bare skin there. The first thing Tony had found on their bedroom floor when he’d woken at the crack of dawn was a workout shirt of Steve’s. Given its size, the material hung off Tony’s frame. It wasn’t practical, but it was cozy.

Sexy, as well, apparently, if the hardness pressing against his ass was anything to go by.

“Pie for breakfast?” Steve asked, hooking his chin over Tony’s shoulder as his hand shot out to snaffle a piece of apple floating in the bowl of warm water at Tony’s elbow. “How lucky am I?”

“Of course it’s pie for breakfast,” Tony said, hands working quickly to place the apple slices on the top of the very-nearly finished pie. He kicked at Steve’s ankle for punishment of the theft, but couldn’t find it in him to be too mean. “It’s not every day you turn four hundred and seventy-three.”

Standing as close as they were, Tony felt Steve’s laugh vibrate through him.

“Demon.”

“That’s me,” Tony replied happily, laughing with Steve and tilting his head to one side when Steve bit at his neck in retaliation. “Now, get off me, you brute. Let me stick this back in to brown.”

Moving back a fraction, Steve’s hands danced over Tony’s stomach. “How long do we have?”

Tony sighed happily when the pie was in, his eyes falling closed when Steve swapped from biting to sucking a deep bruise just above his pulse point. “Long enough.”

Indian Potato Pie

“Here, try this.”

Whatever Steve had been about to say was cut off by Tony shoving a forkful of potato-filled pastry in his mouth.

“Well? What do you think?”

Steve fanned his mouth. “I think it’s hot,” he said through the mouthful of crust. “Did you cook this with lava?”

“But what about the texture? The filling – do you think it needs more of a kick? I only put in a small amount of chilli flakes this time and a lot less ginger than I did before. I think I liked it better last time.”

“Tony,” Steve reached out and caught Tony’s hand, taking the fork from him before twisting their fingers together, “this pie is perfect. You’ve been making it since you were a child. You’ve perfected it so much you could make it in your sleep.”

“No,” Tony said dismissively, turning back to the counter and peering at the unbaked pie on the side. “I think it needs more salt. You can taste it in the crust. Let me just redo the pastry.”

Steve used his grip on Tony’s hand to pull Tony into his chest, wrapping his free arm around Tony’s waist to hold them close together. Tony gave up without a fight, his shoulders slumping as he rested his hand on Steve’s chest.

“Please stop worrying,” Steve whispered. “Replace the bit you shoved in my face and pop it in the oven. It’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Steve ducked his head and caught Tony’s lips in a sweet kiss. “I know you and I know our son. He wouldn’t be bringing someone home unless they were special to him. There’s no way we can scare them off. Not with a pie, at least.”

Tony Stark-Rogers’ Recipe Book

The book had taken him years to complete. Tony had started it as a young boy when Jarvis had bought him an empty journal for his fourth birthday. For the first few years of its existence, Tony had hidden it under his bed just in case Howard ever entered his room and caught sight of it.

Every page had been handwritten, carefully crafted letters spelling out the words of each recipe (and most of them had even been spelt right because Jarvis had helped him).

There were sections of his Mama’s recipes, the ones she’d passed down to him from her Mama and even her Mama’s Mama. Though Tony had never gotten to meet either of them them, he’d known even as a child that that was pretty important.

Ana Jarvis had a section as well, one with special Hungarian recipes that Tony had needed a lot of help to spell. He’d shown Ana one day, down in the kitchens. He’d pointed out all the best bits that he’d coloured in the colours of Hungary’s flag and Ana had started crying. Tony had been horrified and started tearing up himself before she promised him that he was a lovely little boy and she was crying because she was so very proud of him. Even as an adult, Tony remembered that he’d gotten a huge hug that night before bed and an extra special plate of lemon squares brought up to his room – made just for him!

As he’d gotten older and his book had gotten fuller, Tony had carefully moved it from journal to journal, cutting out pages and sticking them back into the next edition with slight amendments or scribbled changes to quantities. It was his pride and joy.

“You’re going to take care of this, aren’t you?”

The child stared at him with wide eyes, so big they were nearly popping out of their head. They didn’t speak a word, but their head just about wobbled off with the velocity of their nodding.

“You’re going to listen to Nonno when he tells you what to do in the kitchen?”

Another round of silent nodding and Tony laughed, bending down to his grandchild’s level. Holding out his arms, he let his precious recipe book rest in the palm of his hands, ready for the taking.

“Go on then, bambino. It’s yours.”

Tiny fingers curled over the edges of the stained and battered book, complete concentration etched all over the child’s face. The love Tony felt threatened to beat right out of his chest and he reached out to flick his grandchild’s nose.

“What shall we bake for your first try? I’m pretty sure there’s a good recipe for mini cupcakes in there, somewhere, and I need an assistant chef.”

Tony had no qualms about handing his book down to the next wave of Starks. His children had grown up in the kitchen working tirelessly next to him to feed their teammates and friends, their siblings and their partners. It was time.

The kitchen was the heart of the home, after all.

[bellakitse]

27 for tarlos, pls 😍

TK likes to watch Carlos cook, well, really he likesto watch Carlos do just about anything. The man is the kind of beautiful thatis downright ridiculous. The kind of beautiful that if TK weren’t so infatuatedwith him, it would make him angry just how stunning the man is. Last week hespent five minutes leaning against the bathroom doorway watching him flossbecause he’s just so damn pretty, and TK can’t look away.

So yeah, TK likes to watch Carlos Reyes, it’s become hisfavorite pass time in the months they’ve been dating. It doesn’t matter wherethey are or what they’re doing; chances are unless there is an emergency thatrequires his attention; his focus is on Carlos.

He thinks though; he likes to watch him the most when hecooks. Maybe it’s because Carlos enjoys the activity, and it shows in the wayhe moves around the space so gracefully it almost looks like he’s dancing as hegoes from the fridge to the counter to the stove. Or maybe it’s because whilehe cooks his mother’s recipes, he likes to tell TK stories about when he waslittle and she taught them to him. TK sits on the counter as Carlos stirs agreen sauce.

“How old were you when she started teaching you to cook?” heasks.

Carlos turns towards him with a wooden spoon. “Try someof this,” he says, holding the spoon to his lips, letting out a pleased noise whenTK can’t help but moan at the delicious flavor.

“If you ever want to quit being a cop, become a chef,” TK lickshis lips.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Carlos answers with a smirk as hegoes back to his pots. “You were asking about my mom?” he askes, and TK nods.

“Mami taught all of us to cook; all my sisters are good atit, but I’m the one that enjoyed it the most,” Carlos tells him as he lowersthe heat to a simmer. “I completely admit I’m a mama’s boy. Maybe it’s because I’mthe only son, or because I’m the youngest. Perhaps it’s because I was too smallto remember my dad before he passed. But I have always been really attached tomy mom.”

“That’s nice,” TK says softly, thinking about his ownmother. He loves her, and he knows without a doubt that she loves him back, buthe also knows that choosing to follow in his dad’s footsteps put a bit of awall between them.

“We were cooking when I came out to her,” Carlos tells him,grinning when TK lets out a surprised sound.

“Tell me everything,” he demands.

“I was 16, and I had a pathetic crush on this kid in my mathclass,” he starts with a laugh. “A little nerdy but adorable.”

“Cuter than me?” TK asks playfully, waggling his eyebrows atCarlos. He watches as Carlos’ expression softens. He comes back to him, and TK findshimself holding his breath as Carlos places a finger under his chin, tippinghis head upward.

“I’ve never known anyone cuter than you,” Carlos says softly.TK feels his heart pound hard under his chest at the naked honesty he sees onCarlos’ face. “Or more beautiful.”

“You don’t own a mirror then,” TK answers back just as soft,amused by the surprised look Carlos gives back to him.

“What?” Carlos questions a little lost, and TK has to shakehis head; his boyfriend really has no idea.

“You are beautiful,” TK tells him in a clear voice becauseCarlos is slow on the uptake.

Carlos rolls his eyes, but TK can see the hint of a blushhigh on his cheeks, making him grin.

“Stop,” Carlos complains softly.

“You don’t believe me?” TK questions just as softly, and Carlosrolls his eyes again.

“I know I’m nice to look at –“

TK snorts, ignoring the look Carlos gives him at the sound. “Niceto look at,” he says. “That’s like saying the statue of David is just asculpture.”

“Well it is,” Carlos answers with a smirk, and TK realizesnow he’s just being difficult.

“It’s a masterpiece,” TK corrects. “And so are you.”

Carlos lets out a stammered breath. “TK – “

“I don’t just mean the outside package,” TK cuts him off,now serious. “Though it’s an amazing package. People should send flowersto your mom for making you so pretty. I’m totally going to do that now that Ithink about it.”

Carlos chuckles, his eyes twinkling as he shakes his head athim.

“But it’s more than that; you’re so kind and patient and good.You are a masterpiece inside and out, and I just love you so much.”

Carlos looks at him with wide eyes, his face shocked. “That’sthe first time you’ve said that,” he whispers after a moment.

TK feels his heart hammering away from what he’s justconfessed, but he doesn’t back down. He gives Carlos an unsure look. “I plan totell you every day if you’re okay with it.”

The smile Carlos gives him back is beautiful, bright, and sofull of love. “Yeah, baby, I’m more than okay with it.”

[chilling-seavey]

Blurb on 1900s teenage Christian!! Happy 3 months to my favourite WW1 novel Passchendaele!! ❤️ ~T

I miss Passchendaele 🤍 And I especially miss 1910s era Christian. Sweet boy deserved better than what he was served...

Christian was a very complex character to write, although we didn’t see much of who he was before the war in the novel. Daniel was right in the sense that meeting his brother on the battlefields was like meeting a stranger…he could hardly recognize him. Christian was a young man who steered clear of conflict at all times and honestly he wouldn’t have dreamt of hurting a fly. He was patient and gentle and caring and incredibly sweet; vastly different from the cold hard demeanor of his father, pushing him to be more of a man. Whatever that meant.

He worked in the church where his father was the pastor, often used to dust the books or sweep the floors between services. He was expected to become a pastor himself when he got a bit older, but Christian was not interested in that career at all.

Tucked in the inside breast pocket of his jacket was a thin novel and when he was finally left alone in the church to sweep – his father busy with other jobs in the back – Christian would slink down to the floor between the pews out of sight, squished between the old wood, and read a chapter or two. He was only twenty and his head was too far in the clouds to care about his father’s expectations.

“Christian!”

He shoved the novel back in his pocket before rushing to his feet again, broom in hand. His father was coming out of the back room, eyes narrowed.

“What were you doing?”

“Sweeping, Father.” Christian answered plainly, continuing on like he hadn’t taken a break between the pews.

“Well, hurry up. There is no time to dawdle, it’s already half three. Things need to be finished.”

“Yes, Father.” Christian said plainly.

Jobs weren’t as easy to complete with his father in the same room, watching his every move and critiquing his ever action and more often than not it felt like it would never end.

Suddenly, the church doors burst open and two pairs of boots came stomping loudly into the hall, paired with youthful laughter. Christian glanced up to his two younger siblings as they ran over to him.

“There’s a new family of ducks in the pond, Chris! A Mother and three little fluffy babies!” Anna squealed, jumping up on one of the pews in her muddy boots to be closer to his height.

“Anna Grace!” their father scolded, making her frown and hop loudly to the ground again.

“You have to come see them. They’re so cute and tiny!” Daniel added.

“I cannot leave.” Christian mumbled, eyeing their father across the room. “Father is already upset with me today about a million different things. If we want to be permitted to go to the theatre tonight, I need to stay.”

“Aw, come on.” Anna pleaded.

“Children, stop distracting your brother while he is working. Go back outside and play.” their father ordered.

Daniel and Anna looked from their father back to their older brother with mirrored frowns. Christian nodded towards the door to get them to leave but still offered a small smile, just enough that his dimples pressed into his cheeks. The youngest two shuffled back outside, shutting the church doors behind them.

“I expect you to mop up that mud.”

“Yes, Father.”

Christian was often left to lock up at the end of the day’s work, his father leaving earlier to do whatever he did between work and home. Christian didn’t bother to ever ask.

With the broom put away and the keys in hand, Christian made his way down the front steps of the church and farther into town. It was late afternoon bordering on early evening and shops were just starting to close. Thankfully, he made it just in time to the florist stand in the town square and picked out a small bouquet for his last two pence in his pocket.

Their house was a little ways out of town, built in a row of others with front gardens and slightly smaller backyards. They weren’t a rich family but they weren’t poor either and so they lived comfortably for the working class. Having a father as the pastor also meant townspeople and neighbours were extra willing to lend a helping hand with anything just to get on the good side of the Lord…or whatever they expected to have happen.

Christian let himself into their small foyer, twisting around to close the door behind him, the smell of supper cooking already wafting through the house from the kitchen.

“I’m home!” he called out.

“In the kitchen, darling!” his mother replied form the back of the house. “I got my hands in the gravy!”

Christian made his way down the narrow hallway, setting the keys on the front table by the door before heading into the kitchen. His mother was busy working away, her apron stained in sauces and ingredients from years of wear and her dark hair was tied back around her head with pins. She sent him a sweet smile and he kissed her cheek.

“How are you, Mama?”

“Just lovely, dear.” she said, turning down the stove a little to focus on him. “How was your day?”

“Fine. Made a quick stop on the way home.” Christian set his bag beside the table to pull the wrapped bouquet of daisies from behind his back.

His mother smiled at him and took the flowers in one hand to smell before setting her other against his face, “My perfect darling boy. What did I do to deserve you? Thank you.”

Christian only grinned at her as he watched her take the flowers to the sink and fill a vase with water to set them in.

“I’ll trim them up after supper.”

“It smells amazing, Mama.” Christian praised gently.

“I am trying a new recipe so I am hesitant but your words make me confident.”

“Everything you make is wonderful.”

“Now you are just buttering me up.” she chuckled.

“Mama, I had a question.” Christian asked hesitantly.

“There it is.” she shot him a teasing smile as she turned back to the stove.

“I wanted to take Daniel and Anna to the theatre tonight, at 8:00, if you will permit us to go.”

“Of course, darling boy. You know I love when you want to broaden your knowledge and the theatre is always a perfect place to do so. Now go outside and play with your brother and sister before supper and I’ll call you in to wash up.”

Christian beamed at the offer – his mother knew him too well – and he rushed out the back door into the yard. Daniel and Anna were sitting on the ground in the backyard, ripping up handfuls of grass and throwing it at each other.

“Christian!” Anna shrieked excitedly as he approached.

“Are you two ever not bickering?” Christian laughed, joining them on the lawn.

“Only when he’s stuffing his face with food!” Anna threw herself onto her middle brother, knocking him backwards onto the grass with a gasp and she shoved a handful of grass into his face.

“Anna Grace!” Christian gasped, grabbing her around the waist to drag her off of Daniel. “Father will have a fit if he sees you acting so improper.”

“Since when do you care about what’s proper?” Daniel chuckled.

“Christian’s perfectly proper.” Anna said. “Just doesn’t like sweeping the church every weekend.”

“God forbid.” Christian agreed, sitting himself down on the grass with his siblings.

“Did you ask Mother about the theatre?” Daniel asked.

“Yes. She permitted us to go, although I doubt Father knows.” Christian said. “We will get ready right after supper and then leave when he has his brandy and cigar in the parlor.”

“That’s when he naps.” Anna giggled.

“Exactly.” Christian squished her cheek lovingly.

“I ironed my trousers myself today in preparation.” Daniel smiled proudly.

“You ironed? Wow, Dani, you’re going to be a swell wife to some lucky man before you know it.” Christian teased.

“Shut up.” Daniel threw a handful of grass at him.

When their mother called them in for supper and they were washed up, they helped her set the table and the family got settled. With their father at the head, he began the conversation, something about an article in the newspaper from that morning as the family stayed quiet and listened politely. Christian glanced to his right where Daniel was sat, his leg bouncing restlessly as he pushed the peas around his plate with his fork.

Christian look up at his parents and, when they were distracted, nudged his brother and dropped his open hand just under the table edge. Daniel sent him a small smile and carefully rolled a few peas off the side of his plate and into his older brother’s hand until his serving was gone and Christian casually poured them onto his own plate and took his fork to them.

The brothers shared cheeky smiles as they continued eating without another word.

Sure enough, after supper, their father retired to the parlour with a fresh cigar and a glass of brandy, giving the three children time to scurry upstairs to get changed into their Sunday best. Their mother ushered them out the door with kisses and a few extra coins for snacks before closing the door behind them, their father already asleep in his chair.

It was already dark by 7:30 but, left alone and free from their parents, the three siblings took off down the calm street, shouting with excitement and talking loudly about what show they were going to see. Daniel had received a pair of Christian’s old dress shoes as a hand-me-down and they were still a bit big so he kept tripping over his feet on the way, having to nearly cling onto his brother to keep himself standing as Anna rushed ahead of them to set the pace.

“First thing I’m gong to do when I become a well-paid playwright is buy you a pair of shoes of your very own.” Christian chuckled, pulling his fourteen-year-old brother along with an arm around his back.

“And a dress for me! You said you’d buy me a dress.” Anna spun around to face them.

“After Daniel’s shoes.” Christian said, catching Daniel as he tripped again and nearly fell on his face.

The theatre was busy when they arrived and Christian paid for their tickets at the door. The show that night was A Midsummers Night Dream and Christian was excited to see another Shakespeare play; they were always his favourites, and he brought his copy of the play with him to the theatre. They couldn’t afford close seats but the balcony seats allowed for a good view of the entire stage. Anna was on the edge of her seat the entire time, mostly in awe by the costumes and fairy tale aspect of it, while Daniel kept glancing at Christian to try and mirror his thinking face, clearly understanding more of the plot than he was.

It was almost 11pm when they arrived back home and the siblings walked quietly inside to avoid waking their parents. But they were already awake and waiting up in the parlour for their arrival. Their mother sent them a sympathetic glance as she herded the younger two upstairs for bed.

Daniel looked back at Christian as he ascended the stairs and Christian could barely muster a half smile in return. They both knew what was coming. It happened almost every time.

Christian met his father in the parlour, the fireplace still on and his face still set in a scowl. He stood in front of him, holding his book behind his back with both hands, waiting for his father to make the first move.

“Your mother said you were at the theatre again tonight.” his father spoke lowly.

“Yes. I took Daniel and Anna to see A Midsummers-“

“I do not care what you saw. I told you not to waste your time going to watch absurd acts of circus.”

“Father, with all due respect, it is literature. Going to see plays live only allows you to broaden your language and grasp a better understanding of-“

His father stood up from his chair, speaking loudly through the small parlour, “You are my son and I expect you to take on proper responsibilities that any man should. You are not permitted to meander about acting like a woman and dressing up to go see a show.”

Christian clenched his jaw and kept his eyes on the carpet.

“You are wasting valuable working time on something so trivial! Always with your damn nose in a storybook! You are expected to take on the family name and support your wife and children and reading and jumping around a stage like a sissy has no beneficial impacts to making a living!”

“You still have Daniel-“

“You are my eldest son!” their father boomed. “You are to follow in my footsteps and carry on the family legacy. How dare you drag your brother along to try and sway his personal values away from his own blossoming future? You are an utter disappointment to myself and your mother! Stop trying to give your brother the same fate! We have raised you to be responsible and have a sliver of compassion for all that we’ve done for you!”

Christian had many rebuttals he could have said but he stayed silent, never wanting to add fuel to the fire. He simply stood with his hands behind his back, fingernails digging into the cover of the book in his hand, and stared at the carpet.

“All you can do is purposely go against everything I ask of you! Dammit, Christian, you need to get your head out of the clouds and start acting like a man! How I wish there was a way for you to be straightened out with proper discipline. Look at me when I am speaking to you!”

Christian raised his head from the ground to stare back at his father, the two men about the same height as Christian had just turned twenty. His father’s dark blue eyes stared angrily into his own, his full cheeks red with emotion and the probable more than one brandy he had after supper.

“I expect all your books to be on the floor here by tomorrow morning and you will watch me burn each of them while you think about what you have put us through.” his father pointed to the rug in front of the fireplace.

Christian physically bit his tongue, feeling tears welling in his eyes and he swallowed them back the best he could. But the tears were shimmering over his blue eyes in the firelight and his father saw it.

“Are you crying?”

Christian took a breath and shook his head.

“No son of mine cries. Seavey men are not weak.” his father stood right in front of him, a finger pressed into his chest and his hot breath felt against his face, “Look what these ridiculous books are teaching you; that crying is okay. Shameful. Man up, Christian John. Pull yourself together, stop acting like a damn woman.”

There was a beat of heavy silence. His father glanced down at his hands behind his back and then back up at his son’s face. He grabbed his arm and tugged his hand around to reveal the book in his hand. Christian held tightly onto it the best he could in one hand, clutching it until his knuckles turned white as his father tried to pry it out of his hand. A few of the pages ripped as it was torn from his hand and Christian whimpered softly as his father tossed it into the fireplace, the flame engulfing the book right away and it flickered manically in front of Christian’s shimmering eyes. He didn’t put up a fight as he father snatched the torn few pages from his hand and tossed them in the fire again.

“Get yourself upstairs to bed and I do not want to see you tomorrow until you have fixed yourself. I want to look at my son tomorrow morning, not whatever the hell this is standing in front of me right now.”

Christian was shoved by the shoulder towards the stairs and he rushed up them two at a time, passing Daniel at the top who was sitting by the railing and listening to the argument. Christian didn’t even look at his brother as he fought back his tears and slammed their shared bedroom door behind him.

[more-quiverfull-sims]

Ezekiel Luther Gorman Is Here!

Well, it’s been an exciting past three months around here! I’ve spent most of my time hanging with my sweet Mama. She was expecting my precious little sister MacKenna Jayne Snyder, baby #9, at the same time I was expecting our Ezekiel Luther. WHAT a blessing!! I have learned SO much from her!

When I’m not hanging out with my Mama or going to church, I’m busy cooking for my man! Making nutritious meals for my hubby is such a joy! I take such pride in gathering HEALTHY, DELICIOUS ingredients and making something that he loves. Stetson tells me that my food is better than a restaurant!!

Need my recipe?! It’s an old family secret, but I’ll help you out!

Franks and Beans: 

6 hot dogs

3 Cans navy beans

1 Cup brown sugar

1/2 cup ketchup

1 cup barbecue sauce

1 tbsp mustard

1/4 tbsp pepper...not too much or it’ll be too spicy!

Make sure to chop up the hot dogs and then throw everything together in a pot and put it on medium-high heat! 

After a few months of doing life with my sweet hubby, I started to feel labor pangs while I knit some sweet booties for my boy! My Mama always said that the BEST thing a Mama can do for her babies is to stay home with them, feed them, nourish them, make their clothes...be a truly feminine example of godliness that is so rare in this world today! I truly feel sorry for the children raised in daycares!!!

I knew that a homebirth is God’s plan for women, so I was not worried even as my labor pains started. But, they soon became excruciating! I was then in labor for almost twenty-four hours, and I had to push for several! My midwife told me to go to the hospital, but I refused! After much pain and suffering, Ezekiel Luther Gorman was finally born! Praise be! There is NO magic like holding your own baby in your arms.

As soon as Ezekiel was safely born, I knew my FIRST priority was getting myself back into tip-top shape for my hubby. That is always my BIGGEST and most important priority as a wife and mother! We are called to be joyfully available to our husbands at ALL times, and we must submit to him WHENEVER he asks, no matter what! There is truly no holier calling for us women! I wish more women knew this! I make so much effort to primp and look nice for my husband whenever he needs me!

Fortunately, the Lord has seen what a dutiful wife I have been to Stetson! He has SEEN how I have prayed for another child and wept as months have passed without one! Praise be, he blessed me with another little boy!! We are expecting again!!! We will have another little boy, Josiah Thomas, just FIFTEEN months after Ezekiel Luther was born! God has truly smiled upon us and blessed us for serving Him!!

I was SO thrilled to visit my sweet Mama after she had little MacKenna just two months after Ezekiel was born. Daddy just bought her a brand-new four bedroom house. Four of my brothers have full-time jobs and contributed out of their own pockets towards the money for the house, just to be blessings!!!

The new house is in Bargain Bend. My parents were sad to leave Mt. Korembi, but Daddy is still the pastor at Bible Baptist Church!! My brother, Thaddeus, is his oldest son and the next in line! Daddy is already training him to take over someday.

What an AMAZING gift to our parents my brothers have given...and just in time, too. Mama just announced that she is expecting blessing #10!!!! Her sixth little boy, Noah Prosperity, will be born a few months after our second little boy!!

Mama is 41, so she is WELL aware that this could be her last blessing. She is savoring every twitch of new life in her womb and praying for a safe homebirth!! She had to go to the hospital with MacKenna for some tearing, but we are sure the Lord will provide a perfect delivery for her precious tenth baby.

On another note, I noticed while I was visiting my parents’ new house that my sister, Brenna, has become quite the little musician! She is also a straight-A student, like Nathaniel. I took care to remind her that while enjoying school is all well and good so that she can be a good homeschool teacher to her future blessings, it is NOT feminine for a young lady to make an idol of her interests! I mentioned the situation to my Daddy, and he reassured me that she has a properly submissive spirit and that I am to trust his wisdom at all times! I had to check myself and keep mind of my authority!

Mama also told me that the new baby, MacKenna, will be sleeping in the same room as Brenna. I was so relieved! Caring for a baby is such a blessing for little ladies! I’m sure Brenna will have her own blessings before too long!

[antonirenaldi]

jantoni - two. (part one)

WHO ::  @antonirenaldi​ x @jayceelynd​ WHAT :: jaycee invites antoni to dinner. WHEN :: evening of march thirty-first. WHERE :: jaycee’s place. WHAT :: tw - ending of a fictional pregnancy ; no character mentions.

JAYCEE. She felt huge and so unattractive right now, not even trying with make up. She went to her kitchen and started everything so it could slowly simmer. Jaycee loved leftover pasta, always best the second day. Why did you have to almost say never again. Finding the remote to her surround sound she hit play and smiled as she heard the music fill her house up with life. Her hair was getting in her way so she grabbed a clip from her kitchen drawer and went about her way in her kitchen as she tried to calm any anxiety. Her dogs barking told her he was near as she walked towards her door. Probably being heard with her stern command to not move. “Stay..” she snapped her fingers at Kota, her tail was going side to side so fast. She forgot to take her apron off that was cheeky and said “we’re cooking” with a baby over her belly with a spatula. Slowly she turned the alarm code off and then unlocked the door. Opening it her soft smile went wider, as nodded her head to the side. Her dogs not moving an inch and she was a proud mama at that. “Olive, greet.” She snapped her fingers as she was still training her. Olive went where Jay had pointed then Kota followed. “Kota, is just a big ball of fur. If she doesn’t sense your dangerous she’ll be rude and just walk away..” Kota sniffed him and it looked as if she smiled and walked away. The dogs walked into the living room and just laid in a big bed they share by the fireplace. “Please make yourself at home..” she offered to take his items as she lead him to the kitchen, barefoot. 

ANTONI. If his GPS hadn't told him he was coming up on Jaycee's place, the barking dogs and her voice would have let him know he'd found his destination. He rapped his fingers on the door, hoping he didn't work the dogs into even more of a tizzy, although it definitely sounded as though she had things under control. As she swung open the door, Antoni returned her smile, taking in how casual she was playing the night, bare faced and barefooted. It made him feel better about wearing the same t-shirt and jeans as when they'd met at the store, which he'd been second-guessing on his way over, and the fact that he'd brought an opened, dented box of cereal as a hostess gift. "Hello ... ladies," he said, waiting patiently as Kota and Olive seemingly evaluated the interloper, surprisingly flattered when they granted him access. Following their owner into the house, he felt himself relax even more. He hesitated briefly in the entryway, unsure if her instructions were code to remove his shoes, ultimately deciding to toe them off. Knowing what he did of her, with the homemade ravioli right before her due date, she'd probably get on her hands and knees to scrub the floors if her tracked in anything from the New York sidewalk, and he didn't want that. "Wow, this place is fantastic ... smells fantastic ... sounds fantastic." If he was flirting, he might have added that it looked fantastic as well, but that's not what this was.

JAYCEE. Her girls were following him around, then sneak back to their bed. Kota would probably sit beside him at some point and beg for a hand shake. Her own way of begging for food. She noticed he took his shoes off and she smiled over at him. “Thank you, I love cooking and have made myself dishes I can just put in the oven or microwave after he’s born.” There was probably flour on her nose, as she turns the burners off for the pasta to let it rest. “So I separated them when I boil the Raviolis, there’s fresh ricotta and mushrooms, plain ricotta and then there’s beef. I just grab a few from each pan, enjoying the surprise of what I’m getting.” Waddling a bit to the fridge that was camouflaged with the same style as her cabinets. “Where are my manners.” She said with a thicker southern accent than she intended. Clearing her throat as her cheeks we’re definitely noticeably red by now. “I have different styles of beers, oh I have wine down in my basement.” She said as she pointed to the door that went to her dance studio for choreographing numbers for academy. Taking out some fresh garlic she went about dicing it, making them some sautéed onions and mushrooms. Something Jaycee loved more than her sauce at times. Grabbing a piece of bread she made, she dipped it in the sauce, holding her hand under the other as she brought it to him. “Be honest, I never stray from Nonna’s recipe. Faint memories of wooden spoons to the hand stops me.” She joked.

ANTONI. “That’s smart. And there’s always delivery.” He’d been surviving on such for longer than he’d like to admit, so he didn’t. “I’m sure people will bring you food, too. When Luca was born, everyone was constantly coming over to feed us, but I think they just wanted an excuse to see the baby.” His trip to the grocery store had been somewhat of a bust. Meeting someone who seemed as though she could be a true friend a definite highlight, but he’d been so caught up in her that he’d left without buying anything of real sustenance, again. Her list of the fillings almost made his stomach rumble, although he cleared his throat to camouflage any sounds. He was extremely glad she’d extended if not insisted on the invitation. “That sounds incredible.” “I’ll take any beer.” He wasn’t about to send the woman down to the basement for a bottle of wine she couldn’t share with him. An image of the two of them sipping a Cabernet over a nice dinner she’d prepared for him flitted through his mind, but he willed himself back to present, watching her bounce from task to task. “I was told you were just reheating pasta,” Antoni teased. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I’d known you were still going to be slaving away. Can I help, or would I ruin things?” “You too, huh? I was always smacked for trying to swipe things before they were finished. ‘Pazienza, Tony, pazienza ...’” His voice trailed off as he took the bit of food into his mouth, eyes meeting hers as the intimacy of the moment washed over him. “OhmyGod,” he groaned around his mouthful. “That’s incredible.” She was incredi- “Listen, you’ve done enough. Go sit down, let me get your plate.”

JAYCEE. Jaycee grabbed a few different beers and sat them on the island, centered in her kitchen so he could choose. Turning all burners off she cut the bread and smiled as he spoke. “Well a true Italian woman warms food up on the stove right. Why dry it out or the flavor gets ruined. Not when you cook Nonnas sauce.” She joked but did sit down, giving him a soft smile while she tried to get the apron off. Trying really hard not to think of the way he sounded when he groaned over her sauce, and needed to take a time out. It had been way too long for this girl and words are now being twisted in her thoughts to sexual. “We can eat here, or I have the living room and theater room.” She leaned side to side, telling herself she needed better chairs that were comfortable. Her stomach tightening a bit as she breathed through a small Braxton. Everything was where he needed it to make the plates as her feet rested on the bar stool across from her. Her dad had gotten the place while he’s be here working at the record company or recording a new album. Watching him take over only pulled at her strings to pull her further in, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. As she smelt the sunflowers she’d gotten the other day still going strong on her island for decorations. “I think sunflowers are just happy flowers, they’re so pretty and bright. My dad..” she chuckled. “He planted so many rows before leaving for tour, cause he had to leave on my birthday that year.”

ANTONI. Seeing her struggling with the ties of her apron, he moved behind her chair, gently tugging the ties at her neck and back until they slipped from their bows and he was able to take the apron from her, folding it easily before tossing it on her counter. “Cute,” he commented, referring to the little joke on the fabric. The hitch in her breath made him do a double-take, but he decided not to pester her, assuming she’d let him know if she just happened to be in active labor - probably, at least. Maybe she’d just keep cooking right up until it was time to push. He prepped two plates the way she mentioned she liked it, with a mix of all three ravioli, covering them in some extra sauce and tucking a couple pieces of bread alongside the edge of the plate. “You tell me, wherever you’re most comfortable. Where would I find a bottle opener?” Antoni’s eyes found the flowers she was referencing them, assuming they were the same bundle she’d pick up earlier. It was wild, to go from noticing her to eating what was shaping up to be an incredible dinner in her home. If not for her pregnancy, it would almost feel like a date. “That’s quite the birthday gift, an entire field of sunflowers. It sounds like he loved you very much.”

JAYCEE. His fingers brushed against her skin when untied the piece around her neck, licking her lips at the jolts of electricity she felt through her body. “Thank you.” Spoke as she wiggled off of the barstool, giggling at herself. “Mylanta, that’s getting harder to do.” She snorted as she grabbed the basket to line it with paper and put the extra bread in and some olive oil and garlic. It was nice to have someone make her a plate and help her, she’s so used to just doing it all. Taking a few deep breaths as she rubbed her belly, hoping it’d calm the baby. Smiling at his words, she titled her head to have him follow her into the lightly lit theater room. “He was an amazing dad, and I hope I’m making him proud” she shrugged not really knowing if he would be. She knew he’d be heart broken over the mess their family is. There was a floor pit where her couches and recliners sat, a cute little bar that had lots of candy in big glass jars. “This room besides my room is one of my favorite lounging areas.” She spoke softly, setting the bread down then grabbing a big tray that laid on the couch to sit it up where it’d be in front of them. Sitting with her legs crossed and watched him, wondering what he was thinking. “I haven’t been home in so long, it feels nice to sit in here. Thank you for coming over..” she looked over at him with a soft smile. “So, what shall we watch? I have a variety of movies or we can just see what’s on?” She grabs the control pad for the room and turns the lights down a bit more, but left enough to be able to see one another. “I’m open to anything.”

ANTONI. He understood the desire to do right by her father. He was rapidly hurtling towards a month of separation from his wife, and he hadn’t told his parents. They’d checked in on him after the move, of course, and he’d - lied. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lied to his parents. The reminder gutted him a bit, and a guilty sensation twisted in his stomach. What was he doing, fucking escorts and having dinner in another woman’s house? He should be in Boston, with his son, fighting for his marriage. This was not the right thing to do. He tried to shake the feeling, tried to find amusement in her candy collection and the comfiness of her couch. She was sweet. And she was about to be a mother. And maybe this was too much for either of them right now, whatever this even was. He was relieved when she mentioned a movie, hoping it would give his brain something else to analyze. “Give me your favorite movie,” he answered with a small smile.

JAYCEE. She had to get back up and excused herself to the rest room really quick, and washed her hands. Coming out she took her oversized sweater off, leaving her in her spaghetti strap shirt that was cropped a bit showing just a tiny bit of her belly. “I can’t believe how over heated I get.” She snorted as she sat down and grabbed the remote again. Removing the clip out of her hair, her long blond hair fell down her back. “Okay, but don’t judge meeeee.” She smirked as she typed in on the pad. “I loved this movie and would always say I was Baby and do the dances.” Pulling up dirty dancing and pushed play. “It was this or anything scary.” She giggled, shrugging while she grabbed her plate and took a bite. Moaning softly “Deliziosa, grazie a dio per la nonna” doing a little dance as she grabbed some bread, dipping it in the sauce. Her dogs came in and she snapped her fingers and they laid at the foot of the couch. “They think they need pasta.” She smirked, before humming along to the music and constantly having to move when music was on. “I love this soundtrack so much.”

ANTONI. “Well, you are cooking,” he reminded her, quoting the double-meaning of her discarded apron. His eyes remained very purposefully focused on his plate, rather than the neckline of her tank. “I think ... I’ve seen this whole movie in the sense of watching bits and pieces and filling in the rest with just pop culture knowledge of what happens, but I don’t know that I’ve ever sit down and watched it from start to finish.” When she took her initial bite, Antoni followed suit. It really was incredible, and not just because it had been so long since he’d eaten real food. He watched the way her dogs obeyed her, reaffirming how competent Jaycee really was. “To be fair, think everyone needs this pasta.” He could see why the movie would endear itself to everyone who loved it so much. It was charmingly sexy, and the love story was - quirky? Was that the right word? He and Jaycee laughed at all the same moments, and whenever he felt a slight tug at his heart strings, she provided an audible reaction that confirmed she felt it too. It was until the botched abortion that Antoni felt himself get restless, shooting a glance in the direction of his dinner date. Gabby had always hated watching any harm come to pregnant women or babies ever since she’d found out she was carrying Luca, and Antoni subtly took up the remote, just in case they needed to skip anything. 

JAYCEE. Catching his witty sense of humor, getting to see glimpse of that funny personality. Her jaw dramatically hung open at his confession, then smirked. “Then I guess it’s good I got your back.” She teased, before taking another bite. Putting the plate down after eating a few pieces to grab her bottle of water and drink almost half of it, sighing softly. “They get some pasta without sauce. I’ll add a little butter to it and they go to town. But I can’t all the time, spoiled babies.” Looking at her babies and shook her head giggling. “Ugh to have dance with Patrick.” She threw her hands up at the TV, smiled with a blush creeping on her cheeks. “I mean his mama did teach him.” She pointed out, yeah she’s watched this movie a few times you could say. “I always get so mad at Baby’s dad at this part. But you know, back then it wasn’t safe for women to do that. I think my dad and mom went to a school where a girl died from one of the under table abortions. She put her head down and realized she had dropped sauce between her boobs. “I guess I’m worse than a toddler.” of course she laughed at herself because honestly. It’s was so her to do something like that. “Mm..” she held her hands to her mouth to speak after popping a piece of bread in his mouth. “I have a lot of pasta and sauce so I hope you take some with. I’ll even throw in some your choice of wine from the basement.” Needing off her bum, she rolled to her hip facing him, but she was watching the tv as she ran her hand over her bump.

[atths--twice]

Wedding Countdown 

Chapter Three 

Thursday, Five Days To Go 

Skinner comes over for dinner, a catch up, and a question Scully needs to ask him.

11c/15

“She’s getting so big,” Skinner said, as he sat on the couch holding Faith in his arms. She stared at him and reached for his glasses faster than anyone could stop her. Before Faith could pull them completely off of his face, Scully grabbed her hands and opened them, releasing the glasses from her grasp.

“Sorry about that,” she murmured, holding her hands as Skinner adjusted them properly. He chuckled and then reached for Faith again, lifting her up over his head and making her laugh.

“She’s just a little thing, she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” he said, bringing her down and then back up. She screamed and laughed again, causing Skinner to smile. Bringing her back down, he nuzzled her neck and she giggled loudly.

Mulder looked at Scully and they both grinned. Here was their tough ex-boss losing all his cool exterior over their little girl. Scully covered her mouth and Mulder crossed his arms, both of them still grinning.

“And you two can shut the hell up with that silent communication you do,” Skinner said gruffly, looking into Faith’s eyes. “It was annoying years ago and it’s even more so now. Little girl, you’re in for a rude awakening when you discover they can speak without moving their mouths. Whole conversations that you will have no part in, and it will drive you mad.” Mulder laughed and Scully joined in, while Skinner shook his head and made silly faces at Faith.

He stood up and carefully spun her around the room, making funny sounds which caused her to laugh again and grab at his shirt. “You’re such a sweet little girl, you definitely take after your mama.” He looked up and smirked at them, causing Scully to laugh.

“I’ll take her, it’s past her bedtime. I’ll be down in a little bit,” Scully said, reaching for Faith and smiling once she had her in her arms. “Tell Uncle Walter good night.” Skinner laughed and shook her hand, letting go as Faith shoved it in her mouth. Scully walked over to Mulder so he could kiss Faith before she walked upstairs.

“Seriously, Mulder, you’re going to be in big trouble with that one,” Skinner said with a shake of his head, and Mulder laughed.

“Yeah, I agree,” Mulder grinned. “You want a beer or a glass or wine?”

“I’ll take a glass of wine, sure,” Skinner answered, as they stepped into the kitchen.

“White or red? Scully usually drinks red, but she bought white too, in case you preferred it.”

“Nah, red’s fine.”

Nodding, Mulder opened the bottle of red wine they purchased earlier in the day. Pouring them each a glass, he handed Skinner his as they sat at the table.

“So, you’re working at the Veteran’s Affairs office, yeah? How’s that going?” Mulder asked, as he took a drink.

“You know, it has its good and bad days. Some of those men and women … they go through hell and then get shit for it when they come home. Subpar housing, lack of medical help, long waits to see doctors … these people fought for us, so we could sleep soundly and they just …” Skinner shook his head and took a big drink of wine.

“Sounds to me like you’re perfect for the job,” Mulder said, with a smile. “Who better to help than someone who has been through it and come out better for it?” Skinner nodded and they were quiet for a few minutes.

“There was one guy,” Skinner said, closing his eyes for a second. “No family, no one to worry if he was doing well. He came in, determined there was nothing that could be done for him. He hadn’t really partaken of any benefits and once I looked into what he was eligible to receive … it was like watching him come to life. He sat up straighter, started talking about the future and just a completely changed person. It was … enough to break you down a little. It humbles you, this job.”

“Well, here’s to humbling experiences,” Mulder said, smiling and clinking his glass to Skinner’s. He could hear Scully on the stairs, and he wanted to end this little catch up on a happy note.

“You started without me?” she asked with a smile, walking over with the baby monitor in her hand.

“Just the one,” Mulder smiled, and she huffed at him, setting the monitor down on the table, stopping for a kiss, as she grabbed her own glass. She joined them at the table and smiled at Skinner.

“She was quite taken with you,” she said to Skinner, nodding toward the monitor to indicate Faith.

“She’s a kid, they’re easy. It's the adults who are assholes,” he replied, and they all laughed.

Mulder stood up and began to place the food and plates on the table. Caesar salad, French bread, and fettuccini alfredo. It was one of Mrs. Scully’s recipes and Mulder had his hand slapped more than once as he kept eating spoonfuls of the sauce right out of the pan. His mouth watered now as he knew he was going to be enjoying it.

They all served themselves, Mulder repeatedly describing how delicious it was going to be, until Scully shoved a piece of bread in his mouth to shut him up.

Over dinner, they laughed over past cases, and Skinner asked for a rundown of what exactly happened with the vampire case.

“Which one?” Mulder asked, with a chuckle.

“Yeah, you’ll need to specify,” Scully added, rolling her eyes.

“The one … the one in Texas, when the coroner was attacked,” Skinner said, attempting to jog their memories, to which Scully groaned and Mulder rubbed his hands together excitedly.

“Oh, this is a good one. It was the closest we had gotten to actual vampires,” Mulder began as Scully rolled her eyes once more. “Stop, woman, you know it’s true. Anyway, we head down to this town where six cows had been mysteriously exsanguinated -”

“Cows?” Skinner asked, looking at Scully. “I don’t remember sending you down there for dead cows.” She shook her head, putting her hand in front of Mulder, who caught it and put it back on the table.

“Let me tell the story or my version at least. This is one that we constantly debate about,” he said, as an aside to Skinner. “Her version is wildly off base, but let me tell you what really happened and then Scully can tell hers and then you can decide who is being honest. Does that suit you, my love?” he asked with sarcasm, kissing at the air in Scully’s direction. She shrugged and sat back in her seat, crossing her arms, a nonchalant air about her.

“Oh, if it’s down to who I believe, my money’s on Dana,” Skinner said, with a wink as he picked up his wine glass and took a drink. Scully nodded and shrugged again as Mulder scoffed.

“At least hear me out before you jump to conclusions. I’ll go first, since mine is the right one,” he said, leaning forward and taking a breath.

“By all means,” Scully said quietly. “Age before beauty.”

Mulder narrowed his eyes at her and began to tell the story: her less than enthusiastic attitude, her eye rolls, her inability to hear anything once Sheriff Handsome Face was in the room. He tried to tell her to wait her turn to speak, but that immediately went south. They spoke over one another, interrupting, raising their voices to make a point and then laughing hysterically.

Skinner’s head bounced between them as though he were watching a tennis match. Scully put her hand to her chest as Mulder said Sheriff Hartwell again, snorting with laughter, and Mulder stared at her with a perplexed expression.

“It sounded … like … you said Sheriff Fartwell,” she said, barely able to get it out, before snorting again and collapsing into a fit of giggles. They both stared at her, until they saw the humor in it as well and joined in on her laughter.

The first bottle of wine was empty and another half gone, by the time they finished with dinner. They remained at the table, talking and letting their food settle before partaking of dessert.

“So, you two have an almost one year old, who is an absolute beauty. I’m seeing that engagement ring still on your finger, Dana,” Skinner said, nodding to Scully’s hand currently wrapped around her wine glass. “Considering all the shit that has happened in the past … God, just the past covers it, as it encompasses a vast amount of time. No offense meant, but what the hell’s the hold up?” Scully glanced at Mulder and he smiled with a shrug, to which she nodded. “Now come on, I told you two to knock that shit off earlier.” He grumbled and sighed as he shook his head.

Scully smiled and sighed. “It’s interesting you would ask that, as that’s the reason we asked you to dinner tonight,” she said quietly. “We are getting married.” Skinner slowly grinned and then smacked the table in happiness. “This coming Tuesday, actually. The church was available in the afternoon that day, and well …” Skinner nodded as she trailed off, looking at Mulder.

“We’d like you to be there,” Mulder said, reaching for Scully’s hand. “No one else. Well, besides the priest that is.” He squeezed Scully’s hand and she chuckled lightly.

“I … just me? I’m sure there are others who would like to be there for it,” Skinner said quietly. “Your family and friends? Why just me?”

“Because …” Scully started and then stopped, taking a deep breath. “You … Skinner … Walter, you have … you’ve put yourself on the line for us, especially me, so many times …” Mulder squeezed Scully’s hand once again. She nodded at him, blinking back tears, and then looked back at Skinner. “We would like you to be there and I … I would like for you to walk me down the aisle." She finished on a whisper, holding his gaze, as Mulder continued to hold her hand tightly.

Skinner stared at her, his mouth opening and closing, swallowing hard. “Your brothers should …” he rasped out, shaking his head, and she shook hers in response.

“They aren’t in the country,” she shrugged and smiled, her tears spilling over. “And I wouldn’t want them to do it anyway. It wouldn’t be right. They haven’t been here. They don’t … they don’t know me … or Mulder, not the way you do. They never risked their lives and careers, the way you have. They didn’t look out for me and have my back the way you did when Mulder was gone. They weren’t there when we …  buried him.” Mulder squeezed her hand again, and she gripped back.

“You were there for me when I needed someone by my side and for that I can never thank you enough. I would consider it a great honor if you would be there for me again and walk me down the aisle,” she said, her cheeks wet with tears as Skinner stared at her, and then reached for her other hand.

He cleared his throat many times, swallowing as he did. He looked down at the table and nodded his head. Looking up into her eyes, he took a deep breath. “Nothing would make me happier, Dana. I … it is my honor to do that for you.” He let go of her hand and stood up and she did as well.

They embraced and he said something Mulder did not catch, causing Scully to laugh through the tears he heard her crying, as Skinner held her close. He watched them, swallowing down a lump in his throat. Breaking apart a minute later, Scully wiped her face, trying to stop her tears. Skinner caught her hand and kissed the back of it, as she smiled.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat and  letting go of her head. “Are we eating this dessert or not?” They all laughed, the memories of the past painful, yet healing. Mulder stood up to grab the dessert, smiling as he did.

An hour later, after Skinner helped to clean up, not listening when they tried to stop him, they walked with him out onto the porch. He turned and hugged Scully again, shook Mulder’s hand with a clasp on his shoulder and then nodded at them.

“Tuesday, 3 p.m. Cathedral of the Sacraments. I’ll be there.” He nodded again, and they smiled at him.

As they watched him drive away, Mulder put his arm around Scully’s shoulders, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close.

“You couldn’t have asked for anyone better,” he said softly, and she nodded. He kissed the top of her head, pulling her closer. Turning around, they walked back inside, closing the door behind them.

__________________________________________________

I cannot tell you how I adore the thought of Skinner being “Uncle Walter” and being a continuing part of their lives. I wish we could see him with their baby. You know he would make an absolute fool of himself over her... ❤️

[ask-will-and-nico]

Jason and Piper bring out his new game to play, and they manage to get through it without fighting. “I won!” Piper sings. Carter claps along, grinning. Piper laughs, kissing his head. “We’re playing again!” Will says. Jason rolls his eyes as he sets the game up again. Nico plays along, helping Carter move the pieces across the board. Carter cheers every time, and it’s clear everyone thinks it’s cute. Piper snaps a few pictures, and Nico hopes this will make it into the next scrapbook.

-

They make dinner together, Nico trying to teach Will how to make a simple sauce. “I can read a recipe, but I don’t get how to use spices.” Nico hums. “You just put what tastes together together,” Nico says. “I guess it comes with practice. And eating.” Will nods. “I’ll take your word for it. So, who’s this recipe from?” Nico smiles. “My mama. She has a few different sauces, but this one is the simplest.”

-/-/-

Nico stirred the pot before handing the spoon off to Will. He cut up the rest of the vegetables and slid them into the pot Will was stirring. He smiled before he wiped his hands off on the towel. “You sure I’m not messing this up?” Will asked. Nico shook his head, pulling Will down to kiss his cheek. “Promise,” he said. “I don’t think you can mess anything up by just stirring,” Nico said. Will gave him a smile and an enthusiastic stir. “I’ll make a cooker out of you yet,” Nico teased.