oh man and mothers day is coming up time to get her presents

A Good Thing

“Bobby, you can’t keep doing that to him.”
Bob raises his eyebrows, putting down his fork. “Doing what, Alicia? Corralling our son into talking about his crush?”
“Exactly.”

Or, A fic about Bob and Alicia noticing Jack’s feelings for Bitty before even he does.


Bob Zimmermann is kind of messy, only a bit of a smart ass, and just a tad hard of hearing. Yet even without perfect hearing Bob can’t miss the affection in his son’s voice when talking about a certain line-mate.

Bob Zimmermann is many things, but he is no idiot.

“Did you get that paper done for your…what was it again- american pie class?”

Bob looks over his shoulder just in time to see Alicia send an appraising look from the couch. He catches a hint of a smile.

He winks back and she rolls her eyes in return.

Bob turns again to the large window, the white light blinding him for a moment. The large expanse of grass is still littered with snow, lining the way down to their lake. A blank sky hugs the horizon.

“Women, food, and American culture, Papa.”

“Right. So how’d you do on the paper? Did Eric help you out?”

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food truck au 1/??

(inspired by my earlier post)

Anyone who knew Jack Zimmermann would laugh at the idea of him even being able to remember the login for his Twitter account.

No one, not even his parents, would ever suspect that he checked his feed every single morning.

Jack didn’t care much for social media; he was too private a person to ever want the world to know where he was or what he was eating at any given moment. In fact, he only followed three accounts: his mother’s, the official Falconers’, and that of Li’l Dicky’s Southern Comforts. The latter was the only one he actually cared about.

See, Jack Zimmermann had a deep, dark secret – he was in love with the mini apple pies that were sold daily at Li’l Dicky’s. It was the only dessert he ever indulged in on a regular basis, and said indulgences were a secret he would take to his grave.

Every morning, Li’l Dicky’s posted their location for the day. Jack knew the general schedule by heart at this point, but some days the truck switched things up, due to weather or construction or event catering, and Twitter was the only way for Jack to know if he would be able to get his apple pie fix.

It didn’t hurt that Eric Bittle, the owner of Li’l Dicky’s, smiled at Jack like the sun shined out of his ass every time he came by. But really, it was the pies Jack couldn’t enough of. Mostly. Probably.

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Tips For Writing Time Travel:  An Illustrated Guide.

@jjpivotz asked:

“What is a good way that I could write time travelling without it being cliche?”

Ooh, I love questions like this!  They’re so much fun, and on a somewhat self-indulgent level, they really get me thinking on the tropes themselves.

So without further ado, here are my personal thoughts on writing about time travel:

1.  Embrace the fact that it’s not gonna make total sense.

This goes for a lot of creative fiction.  When I was writing my urban fantasy novel, for example, I used a lot of traditional mythological figures whose duties and depictions (i.e. one humanoid being reaping the dead despite the fact that over a hundred thousand people die a day, billion-year-old entities who still look and behave like teenagers, figures from religions whose world views wildly conflict interacting with each other, etc.) weren’t compatible with what we currently know about the laws of physics.  

And the sooner I resolved not to even attempt to explain it, the sooner my novel improved.  

The wonderful thing about fiction is that it doesn’t have to imitate reality as we know it;  the laws of the physical universe need not apply.  And as long as the characters in your universe accept that, so will the reader.  

I’ve had around twenty beta readers look at my book, and not one of them has poked holes in my casual disregard for the conventionally accepted rules of physical reality.  The suspension of disbelief is an amazing thing.

As for how to best apply this to time travel, take Back to the Future, for example. This is one of the best time travel series ever made, but if you really look at what’s going on, you’ll come to find that none of it really makes any sense at all.

First of all, Marty McFly is a popular high school student whose best friend is an eccentric nuclear physicist.  Conventional wisdom (and just about every fiction writing book or advice blog I’ve ever read) would dictate that this is a pretty heavy plot-point and warrants some explanation.  But the narrative never questions it, and as such neither does the vast majority of its audience.  

It is in this exact manner that Back to the Future handles its heaviest of all plotpoints, the act of time travel, which is the main driving force behind its entire plot.  

How does it explain Doc Brown’s ability to time travel?  Well, he invented the Flux Capacitor, of course.  What is a Flux Capacitor, you ask?  How does it work, exactly?  Well, fucked if I know.  All I know is that the narrative treats it like it’s a real thing, and by default, so do I.    

The same could be said for the magically changing family portrait, the fact that the characters can’t interact with their past or future selves without universal destruction, flying cars, and the fact that the McFlys’ future children inexplicably look exactly like them.  None of it makes any sense.  And it’s fucking magical.

Another of my favorite examples of this is pre-Moffat Doctor Who.  The science is campy, occasionally straight-up ridiculous, and unabashedly nonsensical, yet paves the way for some truly great and thought provoking storylines and commentary.  

Bottom line is, I don’t know how to time travel.  I’m guessing you don’t either, otherwise you probably wouldn’t be asking me for advice on how to write it.  Accept it.  Embrace it.  Don’t be bashful about it – trust me, time travelers are probably a minority in your readership, so they won’t judge you.

So as to what would be a good means of writing time travel, the short answer is:  any way you want.  For obvious reasons, I’d stay away from old cars, police boxes, and phone booths, but with the power of the suspension of disbelief, virtually nothing is off the table:  a pair of magic sneakers, a refrigerator, a closet, a treehouse -oh, crap, that one’s been done before.  But you get the picture.  You can be as creative as you want to be about it.  Don’t be afraid to step outside the police box, so to speak.  

Trust in the magic of the suspension of disbelief, and don’t overthink things.  Your story and readers will thank you.

As for how to avoid other cliches, that brings me to my next point: 

2.  Look at the tried and true tropes of time traveling.  Now subvert them.

This might just be me and my adoration of irony talking, but since you specifically asked how to avoid cliche I’m going to indulge myself here.

Do the exact opposite of what people expect from narratives about time travel.  You know the old trope:  the protagonist steps on a bug, and comes back to the present to find the world being ruled by gorillas.  

I’m not telling you not to include drastic consequences for time travel, because there would probably be quite a few (at least if you believe in the chaos theory, which states every action has a universal reaction.)  

But you could toy around with the idea that fate isn’t something that can ultimately be altered at all, and that all the protagonist accomplishes is solidifying (or even triggering) a pre-existing outcome.   

My knee-jerk suggestion, as someone who takes fiendish glee in incorporating humor into my writing, would be to make the protagonist have some Forrest Gump-type encounters that unwittingly trigger huge, history-defining event, but it can also be significantly more tragic than that:  maybe the protagonist goes back in time to save his father from a hit-and-run car accident, for example, and then accidentally kills him.  Or perhaps he realizes that his father was a bad man (beat his mother, planned on killing someone, etc.) and makes a moral decision to kill him (which is also a great way to ask philosophical questions.  More on that later.)  

I don’t know what kind of time travel your writing or what your style of writing is, but these are things I’d personally just love to play around with.    

Or maybe time travel does change things, but it’s not even close to what the protagonist expected:  maybe his words of wisdom to his newly married mother about true love and the meaning of life and whatnot unexpectedly lead her to realize that she’s deeply unhappy in her current marriage, and he returns to the present to find her divorced (lesbian stepmom optional.)  

Maybe absolutely nothing at all changes, but he realizes that he’s responsible for some famous Mandela Effect, like the Bearenstein/Bearenstain discrepancy.  

Bottom line is, don’t be afraid to do the unexpected.  But conversely, don’t be afraid to use tried and true tropes, either:  regardless of how overdone they may seem to be, they can almost always be rejuvenated when interjected with a thought-provoking plot.

Which brings me to my final point:

3.  Make sure it has something to say.

Science fiction, especially the speculative variety, tends to be best when it begins by asking a question, for which it will later provide an answer.  Take, for example, Planet of the Apes.  The pervasive question of the movie is whether or not humanity is inherently self-destructive, which it ultimately answers with its famed final plot twist that humanity has long since destroyed itself.  

Rod Serling (who was incidentally responsible for the original Planet of the Apes, by the way) did this remarkably well:  almost every episode of the Twilight Zone packed a massive philosophical punch due to the fact that they followed this simplistic formula.  The episode would begin with the presentation of a question, big or small (frequently by the charismatic Serling himself) and by the end of the episode, that question would be answered. 

I’m not going to go in to detail here, as it would spoil the magic of uncovering the plot twists for the first time, but Serling used his speculation to tackle the narrow-mindedness of beauty standards in Eye of the Beholder, the dangers of fascism in Obsolete Man, the communist paranoia of the time period with the Monsters are Due on Maple Street, and countless more.  

I would recommend watching the original Twilight Zone for almost anyone looking to write speculative fiction such as time travel. 

Even if your work isn’t compatible with this specific formula of Question => Debate => Answer (which some work isn’t) it will still need to have some kind of underlying statement to it, or no matter how clever the science fiction is or how original the time travel is, it will fall flat.  

This is why Twilight Zone, Planet of the Apes, Back to the Future, and (pre-Moffat, as I always feel inclined to stress – he does literally the opposite of almost everything I recommend here) Doctor Who still remain widely enjoyed today, despite the fact that many of their tropes have been used many, many times since they original aired.

So for time travel, remember that it is a means, not an end.  You could write the most cliched type of time travel story imaginable, and your audience will still feel fulfilled by it if your message is heartfelt, thought-provoking, and/or poignant.

Maybe you want to use time travel to make a statement about your belief in the existence of fate, or lack thereof.  In this case, using the Sterling Approach, you would have your story begin with the question of whether or not humans can alter or change destiny, allow the narrative/characters to argue the question back and forth for a while, and then ultimately disclose what you believe the answer to be.

Or maybe you want to use time travel to explore or subvert the treachery of history and how it is taught, and show how the true narrative can be explored, purposefully or otherwise, by the victors.  

Maybe you want to show that there’s no clear answer, or maybe no answer at all, a la the cheerful nihilism of Douglas Adams novels.

Either way, figure out what you want your message to be long before you put pen to paper, and then use time travel, like any other creative trope, as a means to an end to answer it.  Your story will thank you for it.

(I hope this helps!)

Abstract

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER | TAEHYUNG VERSION 

WORD COUNT: 9K

In your household nothing was truly what it seemed; your mother was having an affair with her business partner, leaving your stepfather to work himself into a pit of denial. The only person who had real feelings under that roof was you. You felt disgust when your mother would blatantly lie to her husband, you felt overwhelmed and stressed because of university, and you felt the euphoria of your late night rendezvous with Taehyung.

Your stepbrother.

warnings: graphic smut, dirty talk, rough sex, dom!taehyung + sub!reader, degrading, humiliation, spanking + strong language

Originally posted by sweaterpawsjimin

masterlist | ask | song

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Why English is Weird

A series of poems, sentences, and other works that describe the oddity of the English language. Have fun reading these out loud!

Pronunciation

I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble but not you
On hiccough, thorough, slough and through.
Well done! And now you wish perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps?

Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead, it’s said like bed, not bead-
for goodness’ sake don’t call it ‘deed’!
Watch out for meat and great and threat
(they rhyme with suite and straight and debt).

A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth, or brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there’s doze and rose and lose-
Just look them up- and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward
And font and front and word and sword,
And do and go and thwart and cart-
Come, I’ve hardly made a start!
A dreadful language? Man alive!
I’d learned to speak it when I was five!
And yet to write it, the more I sigh,
I’ll not learn how ‘til the day I die.

~

Verbs: The Past Tense

The teacher claimed it was so plain,
I only had to use my brain
She said the past of throw was threw.
The past of grow -of course- was grew,
So flew must be the past of fly,
And now, my boy, your turn to try.
But when I trew,
I had no clue, if mow was mew -
Like know and knew
Or was it knowed
Like snow and snowed

The teacher frowned at me and said
The past of feed was - plainly - fed.
Fed up, I knew then what I ned:
I took a break, and out I snoke.

She shook and quook (or quaked or quoke?)
With raging anger out she broke:
“Your ignorance you want to hide?
Tell me the past form of collide!”
But how on earth should I decide
If it’s collid (Like hide and hid)
Or else - from all that I surmose,
The past of rise was simple rose,
And that of ride was surely rode
So of collide must be collode?

Oh damn these English verbs, I thought
The whole thing absolutely stought !
Of English I have had enough.
These verbs of yours are far too tough.
Bolt upright in my chair I sat,
And said to her “That’s that. I quat!”.

~

Homophones

  • The bandage was wound around the wound.
  • The farm was used to produce produce.
  • The rubbish dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
  • We must polish the Polish furniture.
  • He could lead if he would get the lead out.
  • The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.
  • Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.
  • A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum
  • When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
  • I did not object to the object.
  • The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
  • There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.
  • They were too close to the door to close it.
  • The buck does funny things when the does are present.
  • A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.
  • To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
  • The wind was too strong to wind the sail
  • After a number of injections my jaw got number.
  • Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.
  • I had to subject the subject to a series of tests
  • How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

~

General Weirdness 

There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren’t invented in England or French fries in France (Surprise!). Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren’t sweet, are meat.

Quicksand works slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig. And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham?

If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth beeth? One goose, two geese. So one moose, two meese? Doesn’t it seem crazy that you Can make amends but not one amend. If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it? Is it an odd, or an end?

If teachers taught, why don’t preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell? How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up and down at the same time and, in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

Why do you drive on a parkway and park on a driveway. English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. And while we’re at it, why doesn’t “Buick” rhyme with “quick”?

Hide and Seek

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Omega!Werewolf!Reader -A/B/O

Summary:  You’re a bonded Omega who left your human family when you were turned. Now, a year later, your mother and father have hired an interventionist to extract you from what they assume is a cult. 

A/N: What are a/b/o dynamics

Words: 5300+

Beta: @just-another-busy-fangirl

Warnings: Pregnancy, kidnapping, dominance, violence. References to: claiming, choking, oral sex, unprotected sex (obvi), biting, rough sex, some dom/sub overtones.

Your name: submit What is this?


It’s not that you didn’t love your family, in fact it’s quite the opposite, love is the reason you disappeared. Being bitten by a werewolf meant that life as you knew it was over. You had nightmares of killing your mother under a full moon, unable to control your base instincts: ripping out your father’s heart and eating it raw under the night sky.

Telling them the truth wasn’t an option; your father’s a physiologist, your mother a nurse. They’re level headed people who at the first mention of lycanthropy would have had you committed.

You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t see a way out, so you ran.

You wrote a note. Most of it was lies, but you wanted it to seem plausible. It wasn’t in your character to just abandon the people you loved, so you had to make it seem real. You had to hurt them so they would let you go. You wrote about meeting someone you wanted to start a life with, about how they’d suffocated you for twenty five years and you just couldn’t take anymore. You told them they drove you to leave.

You cried as you set the note on the kitchen table early one brisk autumn morning, then walked out the door falsely assuming you’d never seem them again.

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The Only Exception (Part 1)

Summary: AU. Reader is given the task of running a popular love advice internet show when her coworker is fired. Her cynical attitude toward love makes her offer some harsh advice, and more than a few hearts are caught in the aftermath. Will hers be one of them?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 3,442

Warnings: language, fluff, wishful thinking, hot firemen, sarcasm, cynicism, bad jokes

A/N: Okay, so I saw a movie a long long time ago that was terrible, but it inspired the ‘bad’’ love advice and the firemen. I’ve been dying to have fireman!Bucky in one of my AUs.

And yes, the title comes from the Paramore song. I felt like it’s how reader feels throughout. Hope you guys like it. I had some writer’s block, and some house guests, so this is a little late being posted.

Part - 1 - 2 - 3 -

Originally posted by 8bit-arc-reactor

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Owner

A/N: Hello everyone! It’s been a hot minute. Hopefully this new series makes up for everything J I haven’t written hybrid!au stuff before, but I find it really hot so why the fuck not right?

There will be smut in later chapters!

If you’re not into that kind of stuff, then I wouldn’t read this story.

Based sorta on this J-Drama called Kimi Wa Petto, if you wanna check it out its super cute.

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My Fake Boyfriend Part 4

Summary: After receiving a very rude letter of your ex on the mail saying that he is going to get married. You see yourself not knowing what to do, you can just let it go or accept the help of your hot neighbor and pretend he is your boyfriend.

Paring: Bucky x Reader

Words: 1576

Warnings: Angst, fuffly

A/n: Thanks to @drinkfantasy for being my beta. You rock.

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

credits to the gif owner

Originally posted by coporolight

When your brother knocked on your door you didn’t know what he wanted but you knew it couldn’t be anything good. Outside of your bedroom, you can see that your brother is tense “You really need to be dressed like this?”

You look down, you are only in Bucky’s shirt but why does he care “You are married, your wife never borrows your clothes to sleep?” You asked annoyed and your brother groans changing the subject “Why didn’t you tell anyone that you are dating The Winter Soldier?”

“Because I’m not, I’m dating Bucky Barnes and why do you care? What do you want?” You are already sick of this conversation “You are my little sister, you are lost in life and this needs to stop. Moving to another state? Dating an assassin? Coming back here for some petty revenge?”

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[In] Sickness

anonymous asked:

Hey, that fic about andrew in car accident was amazing!!! Could you please write hurt/comfort: You’re burning up + andreil (with sick andrew) ?

(Lord have mercy it took me FOREVER to get around to writing this! Anonymous I hope you are still out there and I’m sorry and I hope you like this!)

Brief but not explicit mentions of some troubling things from Andrew’s past, including Drake.

Neil’s duffle bag is on the floor outside he and Andrew’s room. There’s no note, no texts from Andrew. Neil tries the door but it’s locked.

“Oh, baby, what did you do?” Nicky asks. He hangs over Neil’s shoulder, his breath smelling like coffee.

“Nothing,” Neil mutters, elbowing Nicky off. He picks up his duffle and just stands there wondering. He hasn’t seen Andrew since this morning. They hadn’t fought the night before in fact it had been a really nice night. Andrew had even given him a small peck on the forehead when he left the dorm early to go running before class. So why? Why was his stuff out here? Why was he being shut out?

Aaron shoved by him, sending Neil crashing against the wall.

“Looks like the honeymoon’s over,” Aaron smirked. It was a very unpleasant expression. “Not that I’m surprised. After all Andrew’s just—”

“Aaron,” Neil cuts him off, his glare as sharp as Andrew’s knives, “shut up. And fuck off.”

Aaron snorts and flips Neil off before going to his room. Neil drags his duffle out to the common area where Kevin’s watching an exy game and doing pushups.

“Andrew kicked me out,” Neil says, taking a seat on the floor next to Kevin. He’s not really watching the game; he’s too busy trying to figure out why he’s been exiled.

“Fix it,” Kevin pants. His gaze doesn’t waver from the screen and his movements don’t pause. “We have practice.”

Neil nods but it’s only to placate Kevin. He knows Andrew and if this was really about him then he’s fairly certain Andrew would have said something. Leaving his stuff in the hall is too passive aggressive for Andrew. Locking himself in the room isn’t a typical Andrew play, either. If Andrew were pissed he would continue with his routine while giving Neil the cold shoulder. No, this has to be something else.

“I’m going to go talk to Renee.” Kevin doesn’t even acknowledge that Neil has spoken. This Neil thinks to himself is why Dan is captain, not you.

Renee and Allison are hanging out, perched in the windows, making commentary on the students walking on the sideways below them. Well, Allison is making commentary and Renee is trying to stop her from being mean. It’s a lost cause.

“Here he is! Ladies and ladies, may I present the Walking Wound Man of Palmetto State, the Stone Cold Survivor, Neil Josten!” Allison’s loud enough that the students outside look up at the window.

“Shhh!” Renee tries to shush Allison but she’s laughing too much. Neil shakes his head but lets Allison pull him into a side hug.

“Hey babe, what’s up? You come to hang out with the foxiest ladies in all of South Carolina, no, all of the world?” Allison plants a messy, boozy kiss on his cheek. Neil isn’t sure why Allison is day drinking but at least she’s in a happy place.

“I was wondering if Andrew went to class today.”

Allison wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “One track mind, Josten, not attractive.”

“He wasn’t in class with me,” Renee offers, “but he texted me and said that he would need notes later. And homework. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“I haven’t either,” Allison comments, “but I try to avoid the twins at all costs.”

“Okay, thanks,” Neil starts heading for the door, “I’ve got to go… do some stuff. Allison, you’ll be sober tonight?”

Allison makes a raspberry and snorts, “As sober as Day. You’re not the boss of me yet, Neil.”

Neil nods and hurries out the door while he still can. Dan is going to have her hands full tonight.

He waits until his other suite mates have left for dinner before knocking on the bedroom door. He squats outside, ear pressed to the wood, listening for movement. There’s nothing.

“Andrew? Hey, babe, you going to let me in?” Nothing. “Kevin, Nicky, and Aaron went to dinner. It’s just me.” Nothing. Neil tries knocking again. Nothing. He calls Andrew’s cell. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Now he’s starting to get a little panicked because Andrew doesn’t play the silent game, not like this. There’s a very real possibility that he can’t come to the door and Neil starts mentally running through a list of awful scenarios, starting with the worst: what if he’s dead? The thought, unlikely as it is, won’t be ignored.

“Andrew? I’m unlocking the door, okay?” His fingers are shaking as he gets the key in the lock.

The room is dark, the blinds closed and all the lights off. Neil flicks on a desk light and closes the door behind him. There’s a lump in Andrew’s bed. It’s not moving.

Neil tiptoes across the room, wary of waking Andrew if he’s asleep. They’ve come a long way but Andrew still reacts badly to being woken.

The blankets are pulled up over Andrew’s head, only tufts of blond hair peek out from below the heavy comforter. Neil hovers over the bed, trying to determine if Andrew is breathing.

“Andrew?” His voice is loud, not a shout but above normal talking volume. “Andrew Minyard if you’re alive, move! Or something.” He almost says please but he catches himself in time. There’s no movement so he moves on to more extreme measures, touching Andrew’s shoulder.

This produces a stunningly violent reaction. Andrew grabs Neil’s wrist, bending it back almost to the point of breaking. Although the grab was fast, the rest of his reactions are slower and he doesn’t look right…

“Andrew! God, it’s me! Neil. Shit, you’re hurting my wrist, Andrew.”

“Neil?” Andrew’s voice is hoarse and sluggish. He blinks slowly and wavers before releasing Neil and falling back onto the bed. “Thought I locked the door.”

Neil kneels on the bed next to Andrew. “You did. What’s up with that?” Andrew’s shivering violently, trying to pull the blankets back up around his face. Neil helps him and his fingers brush Andrew’s skin. “Oh my God, Andrew! You’re burning up.”

Andrew coughs weakly. “It’s just a fever. I’ll be fine.”

“What?” Neil grabs a bottle of water from his desk and hands it to Andrew. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Just… using… your line,” Andrew mutters. His eyes are closed and Neil presses his palm to Andrew’s forehead, the heat coming off him is unreal.

“Well, I’m stupid, you’ve always said that,” Neil replies. “We’ve gotta get your fever down. How long has it been like this? Andrew?”

Andrew’s almost asleep again but he opens his eyes enough to glare at Neil. “I didn’t feel good this morning. That’s why I put your stuff out. So you don’t catch it.”

“Oh for fuck’s—” Neil fumes. He’s trying to remember every home remedy he and his mother used for treating fevers.

“Neil,” Andrew’s voice is weak and it makes Neil want to panic. Andrew is never weak. “Relax. I Googled this. Rest and fluids. See, I’m resting and,” he shakes the water bottle, “fluids. You’re keeping me from resting. Go away.”

“No.” Neil climbs back onto the bed, peering at Andrew like he can magically make him better just by being close to him.

“Ugh. Fuck off,” Andrew groans and covers his face up with blankets.

“Fine.” Neil slides off the bed but he doesn’t move from his post. He studies his phone, reading all the articles he can about fevers and related illness. He’s upset that there’s nothing he can do to help, Andrew’s already taking care of it just by sleeping and drinking. After a while he gives up and pulls a chair over. He can’t see Andrew, can’t touch him, all he can do is be there.

The minutes pass by slowly but Neil doesn’t really notice. He’s thinking about Andrew locking him out, about Andrew getting sick. He wants to ask Nicky what Andrew’s done before. As long as he’s know Andrew the sturdy goalkeeper has never gotten sick. Andrew has always been strong and reliable that way. Even after Drake, Andrew didn’t care about his wellbeing; he was too focused on Aaron. Neil hates that about Andrew, hates that the man he loves more than anything does so little to take care of himself. Like locking Neil out to keep him from catching whatever illness is wreaking havoc on Andrew’s immune system… god, Neil can’t believe it took him so long to figure it out.

When the guys come back from dinner Neil leaves his post, ready to get some answers from Nicky or Aaron. Both guys are in their room, arguing about movies and actors, until they see Neil. He’s annoyed that they aren’t immediately concerned about Andrew. He’s annoyed that both of them assumed that Andrew was fine and that he and Neil had fought. The amount of concern that either of them gives to their family is so lacking that it making Neil furious.

“Andrew’s sick,” Neil states, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Nicky, then Aaron.

“No he’s not,” Aaron says dismissively. “Andrew doesn’t get sick.”

Nicky’s slightly more apologetic. “Really, Neil, he doesn’t. I’ve never had to take him to the doctor for being sick, I don’t think he’s ever gone to Abby, either.”

It takes all of Neil’s self-restraint not to yell. “You two are both assholes, you know that? Andrew has a fever of 101.2 right now!” He’s totally making that part up, but they don’t know that. “That’s why he’s been locked in the room all day, he doesn’t want to get us sick by spreading his germs.”

“The only germs he has he probably got from you!” Aaron’s voice is ugly, the unspoken accusation is uglier.

“Okay! Everyone calm the fuck down!” Nicky yells, getting between Aaron and Neil. “Aaron, you’re out of line. Neil, I totally believe you but what do you want us to do about it?”

“I just want…” Neil waves his hands over his head, feeling more worked up than he has in a long time. “I just want you to care. He’s been in there, alone, all day. Because that’s how he knows to take care of himself, by shutting himself up where he’s safe and no one can get to him. Do you get that? What do you think happened when he got sick as a kid? And he couldn’t—” Neil chokes on a sob and sits down hard, his back to the door. He didn’t mean to say that, didn’t mean to spout out the thoughts that have been torturing him, especially not to them.

Nicky and Aaron look ill, both of them exchange an uneasy look that says that they’ve tried not to think about Andrew’s childhood, especially after they all found out about Drake. Andrew won’t talk about it but Neil knows, he knows it was horrible.

“Neil,” Nicky reaches for him but Neil pulls away. “Neil, we didn’t know.” Neil snorts. The amount that Nicky and Aaron didn’t know, still don’t know, is unforgiveable.

Neil gets to his feet, brushes off his running shorts. “Whatever. You know now. Do better next time. Or don’t. Fuck you both.” He doesn’t slam the door on the way out because he doesn’t want it to accidentally wake Andrew.

He ignores Kevin on the way to the kitchen and grabs more waters and a bendy straw. He should probably eat but he’s too amped up from fighting with Nicky and Aaron and he wants to be with Andrew, just in case he wakes up.

Andrew is still sleeping so Neil settles back in the desk chair to wait, skimming over his textbooks but not really retaining what he reads. He ignores Kevin’s summons to attend practice, locking the door so the big striker won’t disturb Andrew. Around eleven Andrew wakes up and Neil hands him an opened bottle of water with a straw. Andrew rolls his eyes at the gesture but he still accepts it, chewing on the straw while he thirstily drinks almost the entire bottle.

“Are you hungry?” Neil asks. “We’ve got tomato soup I could heat up.”

Andrew shakes his head and leans back on the pillows. “You should go sleep on the couch.”

“Whatever.” Neil’s been resting half on the bed, arms folded on the blankets, head pillowed in the crook of his arm. “If I haven’t caught what you have yet then I’m not going to. Besides, the guys already think you hate me because you threw my stuff out.”

Andrew smirks a little. “I did not. If you opened your bag you would see that I nicely folded your clothes and put them in there.”

“Hmm. Yeah, we both know how good you are at riffling through people’s drawers.”

“You always have to bring that up.”

“Well.” Neil plucks at the blankets. He’s glad Andrew’s talking but he’s still worried and messed up about everything else. It’s taking a good deal of effort to keep his thoughts to himself; Andrew doesn’t need that burden now, maybe not ever.

“Neil.” Andrew’s fingers are in his hair and that feels nice, so nice that Neil thinks he could fall asleep just like this. “Junkie.” Neil turns his head to the side so he can see Andrew. His face is still flushed and his eyes are bright. Fever. “Either get on the bed or sleep on the floor. Sleeping in a chair is bad for your back.”

Neil doesn’t wait for Andrew to rescind his offer. He scoots onto the bed, still wearing his practice clothes. He snuggles in, but not too close. Andrew’s already overheated and he doesn’t need Neil’s body heat adding to it. Neil holds out his hand and Andrew takes it.

“Your hands are cold,” Andrew yawns.

“Mmmm,” Neil hums. “Your hands are hot.”

“They’re always like that.”

Neil huffs a quiet laugh and shifts around a bit more until he’s settled. He feels warm from the heat radiating off Andrew and he feels safe, but more than that he feels wanted and accepted. Andrew Minyard is a champion at pushing people away but for once he’s reaching out to pull someone closer. Neil doesn’t know how he got so lucky but he’s holding on and never letting go.

Leave This Town Pt 8 (Mechanic!Bucky AU)

Characters: reader, Bucky, Wanda and Pietro (mentioned)

Summary: After leaving the small town life behind, you’ve worked hard to make your dreams come true. When something unexpected brings you home, you’re brought back to the place where everything changed. Timing is everything and now there just might be a second chance with the man you left behind.

Song Inspiration: Angela by The Lumineers

Warnings: Fluff!!!! 

Word Count: 3.4k

Tags are at bottom (TAG LIST IS CLOSED I’M SORRY)

**This fic is for @bionic-buckyb ‘s 5K AU Writing Challenge**

Y/N: Oof. 

<<<Part 7   Part 8   Part 9>>> 

Leave This Town Masterlist

Full Masterlist

____________________________________________

Originally posted by science

Previously: 

You waited a few minutes until the driver’s side door opened with a squeak and Bucky slid inside. Shaking his head, water droplets sprayed in your direction making you squeal in laughter while shielding your already damp self.

Bucky threw you a wide grin, feeling a familiar warmth inside you grow despite the chill seeping in from your wet clothes. He held out a hand and you gave him the keys with the engine roaring to life seconds later.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” you replied, wondering what this unexpected night would bring.

_____________

Conversation was impossible on the ten minute drive to Bucky’s place. The loud thundering of rain pelting the truck’s roof along with Bucky’s need to concentrate on the road with very little visibility, you resigned yourself to silence. You didn’t mind though. It gave you a chance to unabashedly stare at the man you hadn’t seen in two years, and yet you instantly still felt that comfort and ease in his presence.

Bucky was right, he hadn’t changed much. His hair was a bit longer with a few more laugh lines around his eyes, but you found that they made him even more attractive. One of your first observations, though, was the lack of a ring on his finger. That still wasn’t a definitive answer to a question you had yet to voice, though.

Keep reading

You’re My Favorite

In honor of H’s 23 birthday, enjoy this little one shot! :) 

Plot: What to get to the man who has everything?

Warnings: None. 

Three weeks to H’s Birthday:

“Baby,” Harry groaned exasperation. His eyes rolled back and he let his head drop for a moment, appearing to be completely and utterly done with the subject I had been bugging him with for a few hours now as well as over the past days.

Harry’s birthday present.

And still, he was being close to no help. His eyes met mine and I whined, wanting him to take me seriously, because even though we (admittedly) had been discussing this topic a bit too long now, he somehow still didn’t understand my point.
Birthdays were something I took very seriously, especially Harry’s. It was the first time for me to celebrate his birthday with him given that our relationship was only a few months old and all I wanted was him to be showered with love and spoiled silly. I wanted to make him happy.
Planning his day wasn’t the problem, it was easy. I would spend the night before with him, mainly so I could make sure him being spoiled would start early in the morning already (breakfast in bed, maybe some sex) but most of all I wanted to stay with him because I knew how Harry didn’t like having to sleep and wake up alone. It made my heart ache a little bit and fall even more in love with his sensitive and gentle soul and so I liked the idea of him not having to do that on his birthday, too.
Later, we would have lunch with his mother, sister and step-father so we would be able to exchange gifts quietly and just in the presence of his immediate family. Harry absolutely adored them and I knew he’d love being able to be with just his family for a while, before his friends would join us for a dinner at his favorite restaurant. It was a simple plan and wouldn’t entail too many surprises for him, but I knew that would be what Harry enjoyed most. All of his life was always extravagant and a big deal, so I imagined him having simple family time would be just what he’d need.
What had been giving me a headache for a while now was the most difficult question I’d ever had to ask myself. What makes a good present to a person who could buy the world?

“You are so difficult sometimes,” I argued quietly, nudging Harry’s hip with my own.

We were standing in my tiny kitchen and cooking dinner together, well, less cooking and more arguing about his upcoming birthday. The pans were still empty and the table wasn’t set either. Three weeks. I had three weeks left to get him the perfect present and I was absolutely clueless.

Harry laughed. “Says the one who’s been worrying herself silly over a present for a birthday who’s almost a month away.”  

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I just shouldn’t get you anything then. If I’m just being silly.”

My body turned and I went to reach for two wine glasses, almost dropping them when Harry startled me by wrapping both of his arms around my waist. His chest hit my back and I squealed when his head buried itself into my neck, releasing puffs of hot breath, making me squeal.

“You wouldn’t do that,” he murmured quietly, sounding like a little boy who’d been denied… well, his birthday present.

“Oh wouldn’t I, Styles?” I giggled, squeezing his wrists through the thick material of his grey jumper.

He shook his head, lips ghosting over my skin and I relaxed into him. “Don’t think you would.”

And of course I wouldn’t. But I really was lost. In my imagination, I could see his face lighting up with that beautiful smile of his and his pretty eyes would sparkle in surprise and happiness. I wanted that image to be reality, had seen him wear the expression on other occasions before and I wanted to be the reason why he wore it on his birthday. And the one bloody thing needed for that to happen was missing. An idea.

Two weeks to H’s Birthday:

In my desperate situation I’d called up the only person I could think of, who knew Harry better than anybody else did. His mother. Anne and I were sat in a small cafe just around the corner of where Harry lived. I held my mug of hot chocolate tightly and listened eagerly to the stories Anne had to tell, all of them involving a much younger version of Harry. Anne waved her hands in the air, mimicking Harry’s desperate attempt of rollerblading and I laughed out loud.

“He sounds like he was an incredibly clumsy child,” I giggled.

“Oh he was,” Anne smiled with a nod, “Still is, really. You’ve seen how he used to stumble around on stage. Even broke his foot once, the silly boy.”

“Oh right, I forgot about that!”

Anne chuckled and kindly offered me some of her cookie, which I happily accepted.

“So,” she began, handing me a piece of her desert, “I’m sure there’s a other reason behind you summoning me, other then hearing stories you can mock my son with later.”

I laughed gently and nodded. “Though, I could listed to those stories all day, I did call because I have a problem I was hoping you could help me with.”

A small frown took over Anne’s kind features and she set down her cup. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing too serious,” I quickly assured, not wanting her to worry, “It’s going to sound silly to you, I’m sure. But I just can’t come up with a good idea for a gift for Harry.”

My eyes met hers and I sensed that she was about to ask if I was kidding, because of course it sounded stupid to anyone else, and so I carried on quickly.

“His birthday, is coming closer and closer and I can’t figure out what to get him! That man has everything and if he doesn’t, then he buys it the next day. And even when I finally find something he hasn’t seen before but would love, it costs so much more than what I have! It’s so frustrating ‘cause all I want is to make him happy and surprise him with something nice but I can’t even get him something as simple as clothing! He came around with a cardigan just yesterday that cost £5000! I don’t even own anything that expensive! That piece of clothing he loves, is worth two months of my rent.”

Anne bit her lower lip, her expression serious again and I sighed. I felt so whiny and like an uncreative child, but I really was at my wit’s end.

“It’s the first birthday I get to spend with him and I’m going to fail him completely.”

My eyes lowered to my mug and I tapped the porcelain lightly, feeling defeated.

“Sweetheart,” Anne said kindly, “Harry will love whatever it is you get him. He adores you.”

A small smiled tugged at my lips and I blushed at her words. “I don’t want him to like it simply 'cause it’s from me, though.”

I raised the cup of chocolate to my lips and took a sip, then decided to just come clean with my greatest worry.

“The women he’s been with before me,” I began quietly, avoiding Anne’s patient gaze, “were rich enough to get him the world. What if he realizes that I’m just not… I don’t know. Suitable for his standards?”

The worry sounded stupid when it’d come to my mind the first time, but it’d stayed. Kendall Jenner, the last girl Harry had been involved with before me, was probably just as, if not even richer than he was himself. Same counted for Taylor Swift. They could go wherever he wanted to go, dress just as expensively and rent entire venues for him to host his party. Me? I had to scrap anything I had together every single month so I could afford my tiny apartment in London. Harry of course was aware that I couldn’t afford the same lifestyle as he had, but sometimes, especially when he came around with a £5000 cardigan, I wondered if he was aware how much money he actually had compared to what ordinary people earned.
When I dared looking at Anne again, she surprised me by wearing a bright smile. Both of her hands reached over the table and she took hold of my own, squeezing my fingers in a comforting gesture.

“Him thinking you aren’t suitable for him is absolutely and a hundred percent impossible, Y/N. Believe me.”

“You think so?” I asked timidly.

She nodded, still smiling confidently.

“The women Harry was with in the past,” she shook her head, pausing for a moment, then she continued, “were lovely, sure. But they never stayed around long. They never mattered to him as much as you do. He never brought one home, only introduced them casually over a dinner or sometimes not at all. Trust me, sweetheart, you are the first one he’s let get close to his heart and I can see it every day. You might not notice it because you’ve never seen him without it, but since you’re in his life, there’s an extra sparkle in his eyes and his smile is just a tiny little bit wider. He told me he’s been getting more sleep and that he even learned how to cook. That’s your influence on him, I know that. You’re taking care of him and that means the world. So trust me on this, you give him enough of what he couldn’t get himself every day. No birthday present could ever make you a failure to him.”

“Oh, Anne,” I almost squealed, blinking away the tears forming in my eyes. I squeezed her fingers in return and sniffled, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart.

She squeezed my hands once more and just like her son, her comforting aura was enough to ease me.

“And besides,” she continued in a giggle, “if he thinks I’m getting him anything even remotely close to £5000, he’s gone mad.”

H’s Birthday:

My lips lingered on the warm skin of Harry’s cheek and I giggled when I felt his smile beneath my lips. Harry’s hand found mine on his knee and he interlocked our fingers, humming quietly in appreciation. I could hear Gemma snicker at our interaction and I pressed another kiss to his jaw, then I withdrew. Harry’s eyes found mine and I could read his surprise in them. Normally I wasn’t as touchy feely with him when his family was around, but today I couldn’t help myself. My Harry was officially 23 years old. I couldn’t believe it.
We were sat on the couch in Harry’s living room, Gemma, Anne, Robing, Harry and me. There was cake and coffee on the small table along with the presents we’d bought for him. So far, the day had gone neatly and after the chat I had had with Anne, I felt confident about my choice of present, too.
Harry seemed so happy, relaxed and like he was enjoying himself. Just like I had intended to do, I’d been showering him with love all day long, waking him up with kisses and embracing him every few minutes. For breakfast I’d made him pancakes, bacon and eggs, making sure that the only healthy thing he got was a smoothie. And the sex well, had been mind-blowing.  
I squeezed Harry’s fingers tightly and blushed when he pressed his lips to my own cheek for a moment, as he wasn’t too much into PDA himself either, then he turned to engage in the conversation his family was leading.

“Harry,” Robing began, “I know you’re not a kid anymore, but do you want me to initiate that it’s time for you to get your presents?”

“That would be great,” Harry laughed, letting his arm rest around my waist in a loose hold.

I smiled at him lovingly and felt my stomach flutter when Harry pulled me even closer into his side, sharing his warmth with me. How did he always smell so good?
The first present he opened was Gemma’s. He let go of me and got up to hug her in thanks and joked about how it was the exact same thing he’d been thinking of getting her only weeks ago and she giggled, muttering a “liar” under her breath. Next came Anne and Robin’s present, then came mine. My fingers itched and I swallowed. Though I wasn’t worried about Harry not liking my present, I was very eager to see the excited expression on his face.

“S'big,” Harry said, giving me an impressed glance when he picked up the box I’d wrapped neatly with blue wrapping paper.

He carefully began to pull at it with care as if the paper wasn’t actually meant to be ripped apart and I giggled, resting one of my hands on his shoulder to squeeze it. He was so adorable.
Once finished, he began to tap the cartoon box as if expecting a noise and I giggled at his comedic and silly behavior. Anne shook her head at him but the smile plastered on her face was a big enough sign that she was just as delighted to be here with her son as I was. With careful fingers Harry continued to open the box and my heart squeezed when he smiled instantly.
Since I hadn’t been able to decide on one present for him, I’d gotten him several.
The first item Harry revealed was a bottle of massage oil, his favorite with the soft smell of almond mixed with vanilla. I’d remembered the many evenings where I’d found him on his couch, face a grimace of pain and exhaustion where he claimed nothing could ease and soothe him better than my fingers massaging his tense muscles. Though I was tired on most night when I came home after a long day, I’d always given in. Seeing Harry unhappy was enough of a persuasion to make me help him.

“For when your back is acting up again,” I murmured quietly, allowing my hand to run down Harry’s back in a soothing gesture, “Won’t even complain about it, I promise.”

He chuckled and nodded, setting the bottle to the side before sticking his hand back into the box in search for the next item I’d gotten him.

“Oh I wanted to get that one myself!” Gemma exclaimed when Harry held up the navy blue nail polish.

“Do you think I can pull this color off?” Harry asked me, a smile on his face. “S'a bit flashy, don’t you think?”

“It’s blue, Harry,” I laughed, “Pink would be flashy. And of course you and pull this off. There’s nothing you couldn’t, really.”

The next and last item Harry pulled out of the box was a small journal, similar to the one he already owned.

“I saw yours is almost full,” I explained when Harry smiled at the new journal.

It had the same leather cover as his other one did and since he’d decorated it with small stickers and words, I’d allowed myself to leave my own small message to him. A tiny inscription saying you’re my favorite right at the bottom of the right corner. I’d scraped it into the leather, making it a permanent decoration so he’d have something to remind him of me when we were forced to be apart.

Harry actually blushed when his thumb stroke over the words and he momentarily leaned into my side. My heart hammered in my chest.

“Open it,” I whispered quietly.

He glanced at me briefly, then he opened it slowly. At first he didn’t see it, but once he turned some of the pages he noticed that some of them were already used. And once he began to read what I’d written, he teared up. The grin on his face grew, revealing his loveably dimples and his widened.

“Y/N,” Harry sighed and shook his head.

His fingers kept on running over the paper and he swallowed visibly. He looked as if he found it difficult to believe what his eyes were reading and one of his hands found mine.

“What?” Anne asked, leaning up so she could catch a peek as well.

“They’re just some notes about us,” I explained.

But they weren’t really, not just some notes. I’d filled the pages with small texts and short sentences, all of them about Harry and me. They were tiny stories about us, remembering our first kiss, the one we’d shared standing on Jack’s balcony while all of our friends were celebrating and partying indoors. The second paragraph I wrote about how I’d felt when I’d first met Harry, how excited I’d been and how I hadn’t stopped thinking of him since then. I even admitted that I’d fallen a tiny bit in love with him already.
Harry’s eyes were still teary when he read a few more pages, then he closed the book.

“I love it.”

The words were whispered to the journal, his head held low. His hands clenched around the item and he sniffled noisily. My fingers squeezed his hand and I pressed another kiss to his arm. This was better than having wearing a wide grin. The present, one that I’d gotten him for a reasonable price, had actually made him speechless.

“I’m glad, Harry,” I giggled.

Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you to every single one of you who takes the time to read my one shots! I’m so excited and happy about every note I get. 

Rest of what I wrote: 

http://harryimaginedstories.tumblr.com/post/144920695218/masterlist

Flood my Mornings: Little things far beneath us

Anon said: Was reading FMM again () and had forgotten how mean and judgy Claire’s old neighbors were to her back before Jamie came. I would LOVE to see a scene where sassynach gives her a peace of her mind!!!

@themusicsweetly suggested (many moons ago): Jamie going into his first skyscraper and looking out over the city. 

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment: Winky (Claire’s nickname for Ian has some unexpectedly poignant tie-ins to their lives) 

Special Flashback installment! 

Yes, the date is March! No, you’re not going crazy! 

As noted on a previous post, I intentionally fastforwarded through the Ian pregnancy, with the intention to occasionally flash back and show some of the scenes I had already written, but chose to skip over. As always, feel free to request scenes from any point in the timeline  :) - Mod Bonnie


March, 1951

It was amazing to see the exact same expression on their faces as they looked out at the city below; to hear the awed delight in both voices, battle-hardened man and tiny girl in his arms somehow one in the novelty and wonder.

“Da?” Bree’s hands and nose were smushed right up against the glass. “Everyfin’s all LITTLE down-there.”

“Aye, you’re right, Bree.” His hands were occupied holding her up, but his own nose would have been eagerly flattened too, if it weren’t for the brim of his hat. “All the Cars and people are like wee bugs crawling about.”

“….They’re…. BUGS?”

“Nay,” he laughed, kissing her cheek before peering out again himself. “Only from up so high, they seem bitty and small, aye?”

“Uh-huh….Will they stay small all ever?”

“They’ll go right back to their proper sizes when we go back down,”  I promised, slipping my arm around Jamie’s back.

“M’okay, that’s-good!” 

“So, what do you think?” I asked Jamie, rubbing my belly gently and already knowing the answer. 

“’Tis a grand sight, Claire. Thanks for winning me over to the idea, for ‘tis well worth it.”

It was an unseasonably warm, blue day for March, and from the top of the skyscraper’s observation deck—even at only 25-or-so stories—the view was little short of spectacular.

“What’s the highest up you’ve been, previously?”

“When I voyaged on the Aeroplane, I suppose,” he said after considering a moment. “Though, I’ll confess, I didna once hazard looking out the wee portholes to inspect the view.” 

“Oh, you absolutely must next time! It’s breathtaking to see the world from up there.” 

“Aye, took my breath and my breakfast both, repeatedly.” He gave a playful shudder. “Why d’ye think I was so reluctant to let ye drag me up here? I’ve been atop mountains that were higher still than this, certainly, but a view so high of a city….” He shook his head, kissing the top of Bree’s before turning his gaze back to the horizon, “I canna recall ever seeing such a thing.”

“We’ll have to pop down to New York, one of these days,” I said dreamily as I threaded my arm through his. “The Empire State building is over triple the height of this one.”

Truly?” he breathed, staggered. “How far away is—”

“Oh my goodness! If it isn’t Mrs. Randall!”

We both jumped and whirled, and a dread I hadn’t felt in over a year suddenly drenched my entire body at sight of that perfect wave of blonde hair bobbing toward us.

“From the old house?” I was nearly as shocked by Jamie’s immediate comprehension as by the sight of Julianne Wirth herself, until I remembered. Lord, he must have encountered her as he went door to door, asking after me. I nodded once in answer and saw his jaw tighten. Knowing her—as I unfortunately did— she would have shut the door in his face immediately, unless she had called the police first.

To this very day, I couldn’t say what it was exactly that had made this woman take such a dislike to me. In those brief months, though, when Frank and I were—by all appearances, anyway— a normal, happily-expecting couple on Furey Street, Julianne had picked up on my detachment immediately and saw fit to make every encounter a living hell. She had a knack for bringing me down with a masterful array of half-veiled jibes, all while fawning and mooning over Frank, leaving me and her poor husband to stand awkwardly to the side. I was convinced it was all a game to her, not driven by any desire for Frank or anything at all, really, apart from fiendish cruelty. 

After the divorce, when I was alone as a new mother, encounters with her had been rarer (for I didn’t bloody go out of my way to invite the Wirths over for dinner parties, anymore, did I?), but no less nasty, and had sent me into fits of enraged tears behind closed doors on more than one occasion. Even then, though, I had kept my mouth shut and taken it, too vulnerable and uncertain in my place in the world to risk outright confrontation. 

“My word, what a pleasant surprise” the present incarnation of the spiteful bitch was simpering up into my face, her 5-foot-2-inch frame still infuriatingly perfect. “How are you, Mrs. Randall?”  

Julianne,” I said with a warmth I that I’m sure did not extend to my eyes. “I’m quite well, thank you, and it’s Mrs. Fraser, now, in fact,” I said, turning to introduce Jamie. “This is my—”

“Oh, that’s right,” she was already saying, eyes alight as they moved between Jamie and me. “The divorce.” She said it with deepest pity and loud enough to be heard across half the observation deck. 

I could hear Jamie’s rage in every tightly-controlled breath as he very deliberately put his free hand on the small of my back. Reinforcement, it said. Ye need only say the word.  

“My, and look how much sweet little Barbara has grown.” 

Brianna,” I corrected with a smile so forced it could have broken through a brick wall. “I trust Daniel and the children are well?” 

“Yes, wonderful, all,” she beamed over her shoulder, where her family stood at the opposite end of the observatory. Clearly, she didn’t want them personally witnessing this exchange, for she jumped right in with, “How is the job, going, these days, dear?” 

Out for blood, but damn me, if I would let this harpy get the better of me. “It’s splendid, thank you for asking!  It’s beyond compare, to be so useful in a context outside the home. Though, I’m working only part-time at present, as I’m soon to be studying to be a physician.”

“Goodness! What a devastating challenge that will be to your family; but you’ll keep at it no matter what, I’m sure,” she said with a sympathetic grimace before brightening and having the gall to pat my belly uninvited. “And you’re in the family way again, I see! How lucky that you found another husband so quickly.” She paused, distracted by Bree, who—oblivious to the drama—had pulled Jamie’s hat off to play with. For the first time, Julianne looked actually surprised, and I watched her expression go positively crazed with glee. “Ohhhh….Oh, I do think I see.”

“See?” It was Jamie that said it, sharp and wary. I myself knew precisely what she was piecing together. 

“Well, Mr. Randall was a lovely man, but there are limits to what even a saint can endure, of course, when he learns that his wife isn’t—well—Not all surprises are good ones, after all.” 

I wasn’t certain if it was peripheral vision or premonition, but I caught Jamie’s wrist behind my back before he could even budge. His fingertips were like a vise through my coat, perhaps the only thing preventing him from lunging forward and slapping the woman. Lord knew, I agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly, but I only gave him a squeeze. 

And then, I charged. 

“Oh!” I cried, blinking as though coming out of a daze. “Oh, Julianne, dear, I’m terribly sorry, have you finished?” She opened her mouth but I was already flashing her a dazzling fake smile to match every one of hers. “Didn’t think so. I’m sure you’ve got an endless list of faults to throw in the face of someone who, despite more than a year’s acquaintance, is an absolute stranger to you. That being true, of course, because no matter the many, many opportunities you had to extend kindness, you stood by and reveled in her struggles and made sure everyone called it shame.” 

My voice was as saccharine-sweet as my smile, but I took a step forward, letting every inch of my superior height and pregnant bulk work to my advantage. “I truly hate to disappoint you, but I’ve no room in my life whatsoever for shame, and what’s more, I’m precisely where I wish to be.” I placed a hand softly on her arm, still beaming. “Please don’t ever come near me or my family again, mm?” I leaned forward as though to kiss her cheek in farewell and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “Kindly go fuck yourself, Julianne.” 

Her gasp and splutter were sweet, sweet music.

“Have a good day, dear,” I said at normal volume, stepping back and linking arms with Jamie. “Lovely to see you.” 

Bree, uncharacteristically silent up to this point, piped up suddenly with, “Mummy, who’s ‘at?”

I maintained eye contact with the still-indignant Julianne and tilted my head to the side in challenge. Do you really want me to say aloud who (or what) you are?

She clamped her jaw shut and turned on her heel. Across the observatory, I watched her find her husband and children and begin herding them at once toward the stairs.

“Just a mean woman, lovey,” I said to Bree as I let the breath escape me in a whoosh. “No one we need worry about.”

If we didn’t have an audience,” Jamie whispered, in French to evade little listening ears, “I would have you right there on that bench….RIGHT now.”

He was absolutely serious, of course. I laughed and patted his cheek. “We really need to work on finding a less base outlet for your appreciation of female assertion, my love.” 

“Tell me another way, and I’ll do it, gladly. That was—Damn, Claire, if that wasna the best thing I’ve ever bloody seen!” He leaned in and kissed me, still chuckling gleefully as he pulled away. “Can we go find someone else for ye to eviscerate next?” 

“Anyone in particular?” 

“Well, and surely we can think of a handful of other people at least that have wronged ye over the years.” He jostled Bree encouragingly. “Is there anyone else that’s been mean to Mummy?”

“Umm….” She gave it considerable thought. “Somm-atimes you bite her on’the neck?” 

Jamie’s grin was positively impish as he raised his eyebrows in my direction. “Never fear, Bree, Mummy likes that.” 

Bree scrunched her eyebrows sternly. “Da, isnot NICE, bite’n.” 

“It is the way I do it. Mummy’s verrrra ticklish, aye?”  


It’s Hard to Balance | Part ii

Description: With her sudden separation from her mother, the Reader feels more free than she has ever been with her new family. Although, being a Stark is going to present a dozen other problems, one being that her secrets are going to be a little harder to keep. But with the missing half of the team her family assuring her she’s not alone, and her upcoming date with Peter Parker, things are really starting to look up.

Words: 3,263 (yikes)

Notes: I have no idea where this series is going, but I do know that it’s fun to write.

Characters: Michelle “MJ” Jones, Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Ned Leeds, Flash Thompson.

Ships: Avengers x Superpowered!Reader, Peter Parker x Superpowered!Reader

Masterlist


THREE MONTHS LATER

“Yeah,” You said softly into the phone,”Tony’s adopting me. She gave me up as soon as they told her.” The memory of your mother’s disbelieving hiss echoed in your mind, ringing louder and louder,”Starling.” She scoffed,”Yes, I’m sure my disappointment of a daughter is a superhero. Funny.”

Steve silenced her voice with his own,”Look on the bright side,” He suggested, deep voice not quite real over the phone,”You’ll have everything you’ll ever need with Tony. He loves you, I love you, the whole team loves you. You’re basically our kid, and now it’s just in official writing.”

You sniffled,”Yeah, that’s true. He keeps shoving the idea of a vacation to Hawaii in my face. It’s nice, though I would rather stay here and protect the city.” You could hear your mentor and older brother smile crookedly, the cold telephone even colder against your face in the winter weather,”And I’m guessing you’re staying in school? Figured Tony would want you homeschooled…”

“For stupid reasons, but yes.” You laughed, pulling your sweater tighter around your figure.”Hey, that’s good! School’s important, even if you’re staying there for stupid reasons.” Steve reminded, background voices on the other end becoming louder. Before the phone was taken from him, you asked tentatively,”How is he?”

Sighing out of his nose, Steve thought of his best friend,”He’s still under. But they’ve figured out a way to repair his memories while he’s sleeping. By the time he wakes up, he’ll be the man I knew before.” You smiled, elated to hear the news,”Perfect. You guys wake him up every once in awhile, right? Tell him I said hi.” You requested.”Sure thing. Here, Wanda wants to talk to you.” There was a small commotion on the other end as people argued over who would talk to you next, and you grinned, bigger than you’d ever grinned in months. So this is what it felt like to have a family that loved you.

Wanda laughed,”” In Sokovian as soon as the phone came into her hands. You laughed with her, face brightening,”” You responded just as eagerly. She grinned proudly,”You have been learning more, I see.” You went on to explain you had a school project involving foreign countries. You’d chosen Sokovia and researched more words to impress her.

“Vell, I’m definitely impressed. How are things vith that cute boy you like?” Wanda pried, accent coming through in her vibrant excitement. You flushed, remembering the events that were to take place soon,”Okay, um, don’t tell anyone… but… I may have a date with him in a few days.” You admitted. She emitted a loud, happy squeal,”Oh, Y/N! The next time ve speak, you are telling me everything!”

After you relayed to Clint how his family was doing, informed Sam that you had eaten all of his snacks, and assured that Scott’s daughter was fine, you walked the rest of the way to school. You’d never been happier.

You got a package today, kid. - Tonironi

And why is my name Tonironi on your phone? Lame. - Tonironi

You retrieved your new Stark Tech phone from your pocket, the next song on your playlist beginning as you answered the message. You finished typing it as soon as your shoes hit the grass of the football field, a passing group of girls looking in your direction and whispering frantically. News had spread quickly that you were being adopted by Tony Stark, the mystery of Starling’s secret identity unraveling with the story.

Who from? And if someone read my texts and saw your real name, they’d freak. - You

You ducked as a football sailed over your head, nearly striking a band kid in the face. This brought laughter from the popular portion of the crowd heading inside the building. You pulled out your earbuds and put them away, taking your usual route to get to your locker. You paused at the mural at the entrance, painted by the Art Club a few years before you came to the school. Einstein, Tesla, and many others coated the walls.

It doesn’t have a name or return address, just the Wakandan seal. - Tonironi

And hey! I made that phone myself! It’s got a passcode, fingerprint identification, retinal scanner, and like 2,000 other things! No one is going to break in and read your texts - Tonironi

You stared at the mural, at the faces of Abraham Erskine and Howard Stark. To think, you knew three people who had met each of them. But you had to double take at the text, The Wakandan seal? This had to be what Sam mentioned on the phone; in Wakanda, it was customary to welcome an adopted child into the family with a care package. Sam also added,”We hid something for you in there. They’re not gonna find it, so you’ll have to.”

Knowing Tony was already having a security team go through it, you nodded, hoping that this wouldn’t get your family caught. You weren’t sure if you wanted them found or not, either.

Gotta head to class, Tony. See you soon. - You

You smiled at the following text,

Stay safe, kid. Have a good day. - Tonironi

You replied with a quick you too, before nearly walking into the person at your locker.”Texting a boy?” MJ guessed, closing her copy of The Manchurian Candidate. You made a face as you entered your combination into the lock,”Ew, no. I was texting my…” You stopped, trying to consider what to call Tony,”… Dad.”

“Tony Stark, right? Because that’s what everyone’s been saying.” MJ said “Tony Stark” like it was a joke, smirking as she raised an eyebrow. You deposited your books inside your locker, breath catching in your throat once you saw the note. Pretending it wasn’t there, you took it and your books and folded them into your arms.

“Yeah, it’s… my month’s been crazy, MJ.” You summarized, indicating you’d tell her at lunch. She trailed you down the hall, the first bell ringing,”You’re shitting me. I thought you were joking when you said your mom kicked you out.”

“Yeah, well, she did. They told her, and she didn’t want me.” You whispered to her. A boy ran into your shoulder, dodging around you without an apology. MJ flipped him off as you kept walking in tandem,” She knows you’re Lumin?” MJ hissed. You jogged up the steps, the pressure bookbag against your shoulder nothing in comparison to the pressure you’d face as a Stark. You nodded solemnly, looking straight forward at the incoming stairs.

“She gave me up immediately. Tony rushed in, and his lawyers took care of it all like it was nothing. The papers will go in on Friday, and then I’ll be Y/N Stark-L/N.” You gave her a soft smile,”It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, to be honest.”

MJ observed your expression, allowing a proud smirk to come over her features,”I’m happy for you. Finally got away from that witch.” You let out an angry sigh at the thought of your mother, adjusting your grip on your books,”Don’t even get me started. For the rest of my life, it’ll be Stark this and Stark that, and I couldn’t be happier.”

“But don’t you know what this means?” MJ’s eyebrows furrowed in concern,”Everyone’s going to make the connection. By next week, everyone will know who you are.”

“No, he’s got a plan, I think. The government would never let him reveal information like that, and Natasha promised me that she’d do anything to protect my identity.” Michelle pushed open the door to your first-morning class, shoulders slouching,”You’re still going to turn into one of the popular kids.” She grumbled. You grabbed her shoulder abruptly, her curls swinging with your sudden use of strength.

No way,” You assured firmly,”You’re like my best friend. I’m not going to turn into one of the things you hate.” You smiled at her, poking her cheek as you slid into your seat,”But I am totally going to buy you a ton of books. As many as I can.” You promised. A smile flickered across Michelle’s face, and she tucked into her own seat at the back of the class without another word.

As class started, you waited until some students were blocking her view of you to open the note. You unfolded it, the handwriting you recognized in every one of your letters popping to life in blue ink. It was written on sketching paper, torn into a rough square and folded into a compact rectangle. T’Challa sent you a bunch of Wakandan spices. I put it in the Saffron.

You took the note under the table, checking for any watching eyes. At the absence of any attention on yourself, you fired a muted blast into the paper and burnt it to ash. Kicking it under your desk, you returned your attention to your teacher.


Concentrated on the book in your hands, your friend was in her own little world. Without a conversation to keep your attention, your eyes wandered around the Gym. Most students were either warming up or on the benches like you and Michelle. Flash was bragging about something to his group of friends, and Ned was, according to your super hearing, psyching Peter up.

“Okay, go over the steps with me.” Ned said after listing off all the things he should do when talking to you.”Uh—compliment her, ask how’s she’s doing, er, say how excited I am for our date, say her name often…” Peter tried to remember, pouting in the way he did when he was thinking,”And then be nice to Michelle because they’re best friends.”

He and Ned then performed a complex handshake. Michelle and yourself exchanged a look, snorting and sniggering when you relayed to her what they had been talking about. Michelle pat your shoulder, wishing you a good luck and sliding away just within ear shot. You found yourself flushing as Peter approached your row on the bleachers, but wiped it off your face the way Natasha taught you.

“Hey,” He greeted softly. You grinned at him, internally cursing yourself for being so eager,”Hey.” Peter took a seat beside you, smiling at you awkwardly in return. You stared at each other uncomfortably for a minute, and you broke the subconscious staring contest with a cough. Adjusting your hair, you rubbed your exposed legs nervously. With a laughed you informed him,”You know I have super-hearing, right?”

Peter’s expression flickered between confusion and then embarrassed understanding,” Ned—Ned, uh, he read an article about talking to girls. He thought I would need the advice, I… uh, guess…” Peter trailed off, coughing and blushing. You pat his knee with a giggle, feeling strangely girly around him. He flushed redder at the contact, clearing his throat and distracting himself with more conversation,”Uh, how are you doing?”

“Well, you got my text. My life’s gotten pretty weird the last few weeks.” You sighed, and Peter perked up, scooching closer to you,”Yeah, yeah, I heard about that… I guess I’ll be seeing more of you, then.” Peter smiled sweetly, making light of the situation as you crossed your arms over your chest shyly. Blinking at him under the harsh light coming from the gymnasium windows, you leaned in a little closer to his face so no one else could hear,”And I’ll still be seeing more of you on Friday, Spidey.”

Peter leaned in too, his breath sending the particles floating in the sunlight fluttering off. At the sudden realization of how close you were you both reeled back, him scratching his neck and you carding back your hair. When you turned to stare at him (longingly), you found him already staring. You didn’t look away this time, but he looked down at his lap as he considered what to say.

“You look really nice today,” Peter confessed softly, hesitantly laying a hand on your arm. Your skin prickled pleasantly when his hand came into contact with your skin. You turned your head to avoid confronting his soft eyes, but with a jolt, you shot up your arm and deflected the incoming volley ball.”Y/N!” Peter’s eyes went wide a few moments before the ball was even thrown, hand jumping to the back of his neck to muffle the tingling of his spider-sense. You bat off the ball with the front of your arm, and it struck with a loud slap against your skin. Regardless of the blood prickling under your invincible arm, you were fine.

“At least we know your spider-sense works,” You muttered frustratedly, standing on the bench of the bleachers. Peter followed suit, and your eyes fell upon Flash just as he ducked away from the ball. Wiping off the front of his gym uniform, he laughed up at you,”For a girl, you can really hit!” He snickered.

“Yeah, and for a guy named Flash you can’t run at all!” You retorted sharply, squeezing your fists tightly. You didn’t really have it out for Flash until now, but for the fact that he was a stuck up little rich kid who made fun of Peter because he didn’t have a lot of cash. You really wanted to blast this kid to bits.

A bunch of people hollered at your comeback, surprised the quiet kid in class was so quick-witted. Peter gently tried to pull you into a sitting position, and you followed until Flash pulled the card you were expecting,”Oh yeah, and why don’t you go run back to your new dad, Tony Stark? I’m sure he’d like to hear you’re banging his intern!” His tone was sarcastic, clearly believing you weren’t actually being adopted by Tony Stark.

In quick succession, you spun your finger across your watch, and his caller ID appeared above your wrist on a Stark Tech hologram,”I just might.” You threatened. Caught off guard, Flash couldn’t come up with a response. As for the intern comment, you scowled, leaving it be as Coach Wilson started the class. You shut off your watch, settling down into your seat beside an incredibly embarrassed Peter.

“Those watches haven’t even hit the market yet!” Peter exclaimed in a hushed whisper. You shrunk the screen between you so you could both see, hiding it behind the backs of students as they piled onto the bleachers. With two taps on its screen the Avengers “A” appeared, ready to be clicked to alert Tony, Vision, and Natasha that you were in danger. You closed the program, forgetting the previous conversation entirely as you realized just how much you liked Peter’s blush,”You look really nice today too, Peter.” You told him, before sliding to the other end of the bench to join MJ’s side.


Tony was leaning against one of the glass outer-walls of the Facility, rolling his eyes like a child as a taller man delivered a speech to him. He seemed strict and possibly… homeless, judging by his attire. Tony looked like a child in comparison to the dark skinned man, pouting against the wall and clearly being lectured. You tried to use your super-hearing to hear them, but only caught the tail end of their conversation,”… You can fix this. It’s what you do, Tony.” The man said, briefly looking to the left to glance at you. It was split second, but the eye patch gave it all away as he sharply walked off. The public had yet to know he was still alive, so he kept away from you, exiting with nothing but the flutter of his jacket.

Tony raised his hand in parting, getting off the wall to greet you as he shouted back to Fury,”Good to see you too, Nick!” When Fury didn’t respond, he rejectedly shoved his hands in his pockets and swiveled to you.”Hey, Star-kid! How’s it going?” You relayed to him the events of your day at school, knowing he would want to know everything regardless of how boring it was. You left out the details of the note, but eagerly questioned him as to the whereabouts of your package.

In the Saffron, the note had said.

Tony left for his lab, probably working on upgrading his (or maybe Rhodey’s) suit. Relieved at his sudden absence, you dashed into the living quarters, leaping the steps to the living room platform and dodging toward the dining table. You searched around the room for any of your team members, left with an empty room. You stepped in the way of the security camera as you stared at the package.

Just as Tony had said, the only indication of its origin came from the Wakandan seal; which had been torn when security went through it. You hesitantly reached out to touch it, gently grazing the sleek paper of the stamp. As your finger came into contact with it, the seal alighted, Steve’s typical symbol glowing from underneath it. True, this was a gift from T’Challa, but it was also a gift from the rest of your team.

Pulling open the box, you found it had only been lightly riffled through. You told yourself to be patient, chiding yourself when you reached for the saffron first. But there were other things in the box, too, the true gifts from your family. Something was written in Wakandan on a note resting atop a jar, and below it was a translation; Welcome home, little star.

Finding your eyes watering, you wiped at your face, sliding into the seat at the table to steady your shaking legs. There were plenty of items inside, and all were exotic gifts you could only get if you actually went to Wakanda. It was the Panther figurine that your fingers touched first, gently grazing the black metal to find it was surely made of vibranium. This item alone was maybe a pound or two, and yet was probably worth at least 2 million dollars. Careful to touch it, you gently set it aside, returning to searching through its contents.

There was the Wakandan Flag (red, green, and black, emblazoned with a panther), some  Belgian chocolates, and then the spices. All of the other gifts were personal… there was a Polaroid camera, a necklace, an empty leather-bound notebook, and dozens of other small things. It was then that you couldn’t take it anymore, ripping through the spices and tearing out the jar of Saffron.

Saffron was a reddish, stringy spice, smelling sweet and bitterly sour at the same time. You opened the jar with ease, staring down into its contents questionably. When nothing appeared, you remembered the symbol; you had touched it, and then the shield appeared. So you carefully stuck a finger in the jar, the stinging touch of cold metal greeting the pads of your fingers.

You pulled out the small ring, choking on your own surprised laughter. The Avengers “A” was hinged to the top of the ring. Out fell a piece of paper when you opened the small crevice, which had been covering a small button within the ring’s center. You pulled open the paper, Press it when you need us.

You burned the note between your fingers, light searing it into ash and then smoke under your hand. Taking the box in your arms, you hefted it up the stairs and into your room. Putting the items away, you got to work on your homework, distracted with the safety you hadn’t felt in so long, and the sudden urge to hear Peter Parker’s voice.

The Secrets of Fate. {Elriel Oneshot}

Elriel (with a side of Nessian). Adorable with a touch of smut. Elain’s POV. 


6:58 p.m.

“Excited to be an aunt?”

I look up to find Azriel standing above me with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted slightly to the left. He’s dressed casually in his training pants and an old tunic, he must have just come from the rooftop with Rhys. Sweat has forced his dark hair to be matted against his forehead and his shirt to cling to his sculpted chest, his arms, his abs.

It is only when he approaches me that I realize I’d been dozing off.

“Yes,” I yawn, reluctantly. “Can’t you tell?”

He smiles, softly. “You should get some rest. I’ll let you know when it’s coming.”

“It should be soon!” I argue, although I do not know that to be true. “Any minute. Really.”

He senses my lie, but instead of pushing me further, he scoops me into his arms and walks down the hallway.

I do not protest. Sleep does sound marvelous. I’ve been sitting outside Nesta and Cassian’s door since before breakfast. It was almost nightfall, and her contractions are nowhere near where they need to be. All I hear is Nesta screaming and cursing, damn you Cass for doing this to me being the most popular.

In which Cassian laughs and replies, you’re welcome, beautiful.

Feyre has been coming and going all day with buckets full of ice and cold water and new, dry towels. Although I cannot contribute much, except for the occasional head pop-in to ask how things are going and if anything else is needed, I haven’t been able to force myself to leave my spot in the hallway.

Just in case.

Azriel, apparently, does not see the point in that.

“You’ll come get me when it’s time?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“I would not have said yes otherwise.”

“Are you getting sassy with me?” I lift my eyebrows, in which he replies with a breathy laugh.

Azriel and I have become good friends in the last two years, since my living here became permanent after the war with Hybern. Although, I would be lying if I were to say I did not find him beautiful, and kind, and completely perfect in every way.

Some days I think he’ll make his move, reveal his feelings for me, but then I remember that it’s Azriel and find myself embarrassed for even thinking such a thing. But now, with my head on his shoulder listening to the rapid beat of his heart, realizing that he’s still carrying me in his arms down the hall, I wonder if those thoughts were not made up after all.

One of his wings brushes my back, making me gasp, and his body turns rigid from my reaction.

He kicks open my door with his muddy boot and I notice the shadows beginning to creep around his shoulders.

“Rhysand will not be pleased with the muddy footprint on his door,” I scold.

He lies me down on my bed and pulls off my boots, one by one. “Rhys can come find me if he has a problem. I’ll tell him I was escorting a beautiful woman to her bed.”

Realizing his words, he begins shaking his head, thinking I’d take offence. But, instead, I burst out laughing. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep, or the glass of wine Mor had brought me an hour ago, and then refilled twice, but I am feeling bold. Giddy, even.

“Does your escorting end here?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, but nothing comes out.

My cheeks turn red. It must be the buzz. Az doesn’t think of me like that. I am like a child to him. A friend, nothing more.

“I thought you wanted me to keep an eye on Nesta,” he says, instead, an underlying question in his statement.

“And what do you want?” I say, before I can stop myself.

Yes, definitely the wine.

He watches me for a long moment and I realize I must look a mess. I haven’t bathed since yesterday. I haven’t even brushed my hair, for Cauldron’s sake. He must pity me, my rumpled clothes and smudged makeup.

But, as he takes a step closer, I realize that is probably a question that he does not get asked a lot. And, for a moment, he looks surprised.

And when he takes a step toward me, then another, then slumps to his knees before me as I sit on my bed, I can’t stop the heat from spreading from my cheeks, to my stomach, to places I wasn’t aware that heat could be felt.

“I want…” he pauses, placing his head in my lap, then taking my delicate hands in his scarred ones before looking back up to me. “I want you to know how beautiful a person you are. I want to know what it’s like to love, and be loved, by someone like you.”

I am so stunned that I cannot properly string a sentence together. He watches me, lips slightly parted, as if he just revealed the secrets of the universe. And, in a way, I feel like he did.

Here is a male who has been alive for hundreds of years before I was even thought of and formed in the womb, a male who has slain on the battlefield, a male who has met thousands of females who would no doubt love him….and yet, he is before me, on his knees, sweaty, dark hair falling into his eyes and large, membranous wings looming behind him, looking no more than a shy boy, a dark soul, a fallen angel.

I take his face in my hands and kiss his forehead, gently. “There has not been a day in a very long time that I have not wondered the same thing.”

Something broke loose in him, then. Something wild, animalistic. The wild fae beneath the bashful male.

I had always associated him with utter gentleness. But, the male before me was anything but gentle.

A question looms in his eyes and I nod before I can second guess, if a second guess would ever even come.

I doubt it.

He slides one arm behind my back and lifts me further back onto the bed, until my head is sinking in my collection of floral pillows.

“Elain…” he whispers, but stops, as if any other word he could say would not be good enough for this moment.

Instead, his lips brush mine in a soft, tender rhythm. Once. Twice. Thrice. Harder, and a little more confident, until my fingers are intertwined in his hair and his abs are pressing against my stomach.

A small gasp escapes my lips as his mouth moves to the hollow of my throat, and he thrives on that gasp as he kicks off his muddy boots and they hit my floor with a thud. His bare feet, rough and calloused, run up my shins before I wrap my legs around his waist.

He unbuttons my dress, slowly, one by one, keeping his eyes on mine, in case I were to protest. I don’t. I won’t. I can’t, I am completely undone.

His lips find mine, once again, and I do not stop until we are one in the same, two beings in the same space, two bodies in search for the same thing.

He thrusts once, twice, three times until I am begging him for more.

He is gentle, but rough, and I have trouble breathing as I can’t find where my body ends and his begins. I was never loved by a human man, but I can’t imagine it would be anything close to this. This is magic. This is beauty. This is a love that only comes around once in a lifetime, even if that life is immortal.

By the time I realize how loud I’m moaning his name, how I’m holding onto him, afraid he’ll disappear into the shadows, it’s over, and I instantly want him again. That nearness. The closeness. The feeling of utter euphoria.

He’s hovering over me, still, shuddering, sweating, kissing me gently. He brushes the brown locks out of my eyes and laughs, gently, before wrapping me in his wings and holding onto me, afraid I’ll disappear into the shadows.

After we catch our breath, we fall back into our dance, into utter euphoria.

11:58 p.m.

The sound of crying jolts me from my sleep. Azriel is still lying next to me in my bed, an inked arm draped across my stomach. I slither out of his grasp, making my best attempt not to wake him, and fall onto the cold, wooden floorboards. I grab a shirt off the ground and toss on my robe before freezing at the sight of his bare body lying upon my blankets. I blush, force myself to look away, and ease into the hallway.

Faelight leads me down the hallway as the crying stops. Feyre is standing outside of the door, eyeing me as I approach.

“Is she here? Is it a she? A he? Feyre, answer me!”

My younger sister laughs. “We don’t know yet. It just happened, Cassian will come get us when it’s time. Nes just wanted it to be the two of them.”

I nod, understandingly. “Okay, good.”

“Don’t worry,” she winks. “You didn’t miss anything.”

She takes me in, then, for the first time. Her eyebrows raise and her lips open, slightly, then turn into a bright smile. “Is that Azriel’s shirt?”

I glance down and curse myself softly. A dress. I wore a dress, today. I pull my robe closer around me and shrug.

Elain!” she practically squeals and I hastily shhh her.

“How was it?”

“Shhh.”

“Was he timid? Was he rough? Oh, was he-”

“Quiet.”

“Is it true about the wingspan?”

Feyre.

The door swings open, leaving us both silent as we take in a sweaty, panting Cassian. His cheeks are red, as if he’s been crying. We both run into the warrior’s arms, the new father, and congratulate him before sneaking further into the room.

Nesta sits propped against her headboard, looking far too pristine for just giving birth, cradling a tiny, brown-haired infant in a bundle of blankets.

She looks at us, pure pride radiating off her. “Meet your aunts, little love,” she whispers, and Feyre and I are instantly by her side.

“It’s a girl,” Cassian says from behind us, exhaustingly, proudly.

“What’s her name?” Feyre asks.

Cassian opens his mouth, but Nesta speaks first. “We don’t know, yet. We can’t agree.”

That doesn’t surprise me.

I take the baby in my arms, and Nesta freezes. “Is that Azriel’s shirt?”

Cassian gasps from behind me, and I turn to find his eyebrows wiggling uncontrollably.

“Wingspan?” Nesta whispers.

“Mmm,” Feyre sighs. “I asked the same thing.”

“You are all ridiculous. A baby was just brought into the world,” I scold.

“We’re discussing this later,” Nesta orders.

“A discussion in which I will also be present for,” Cassian mumbles.

I can’t help but laugh as I look down at the baby sleeping in my arms. If this baby has Nesta’s will and Cassian’s humor…Mother help us all.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, wondering if I will one day be blessed enough to have one of my own. “Will she grow wings?”

“She will,” Cassian sits at the foot of the bed and pulls Nesta’s feet into his lap. “She’ll be able to hide them though, like Rhys, since she’s half High Fae.”

“I hope she doesn’t.” Nesta watches her Mate, her eyes growing misty as the reality of her new life settles in. “I hope she never hides them.”

Tears dwell in Cassian’s eyes, forcing them to pool up in my own. If this child has Nesta’s undying love and Cassian’s goodwill….a queen. This child will be a queen in her own right.

2:30 A.M.

They had to pry me off her. Octavia, they named her. Strong. Beautiful. Kind.

Azriel and Rhysand found us mere minutes after Feyre and I entered the room. Mor snuck in not five minutes after them, and we all wept, joyfully, for the new member of the Court of Dreams.

We passed her around while she cried and watched us curiously with her gray-blue eyes, the eyes of our mother. Azriel stayed close to me, his hand constantly brushing mine, for the majority of the night, having gone to get himself another shirt before joining us. You look much better in my clothes than I do, he told me at one point, making me blush furiously among our circle.

Rhys eyed my shirt curiously throughout the whole ordeal and I am convinced Feyre spoke to him through the bond, most likely promising him details later, because he eventually stopped.

Now, my heart is overwhelmed as I lie awake, tracing circles on Azriel’s bare chest. He’s breathing, softly, steadily, sleeping like everyone else. My mind is running wild, though, at this newfound romance, at the birth of my beautiful Octavia.

I laugh, silently, to myself and snuggle up next to my Illyrian warrior, my fallen angel. I fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, his hands holding me tightly against him, his wings wrapped around us both, and I thank the Cauldron my life didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.

It’s nearing the end of his second year when suddenly rumors pop up about how Headmaster Dumbledore had convinced someone famous to visit for Career Day. Charlie didn’t pay much mind to the excited whispers and loud debates about who the famous wizard - because wizard not witch is the only thing that everyone seemed to agree on - visiting was and what job they’d be talking about.

“Maybe it’s Mad-Eye Moody,” Charlie had said when his roommates had asked him, starting an argument about whether the Auror was considered ‘famous’ or not.

They found out he was wrong on a Monday - because even though it was called Career Day, it usually spanned over the time of a week due to the guests’ hectic schedules - when a woman called Amelia Bones, Senior Auror she introduced herself, came to represent the DMLE. The talk of potential job prospects - and the electives and grades they’d have to get to be accepted - at the DMLE was followed by a very stern lecture on the consequences of disobeying the law that morphed into the presentations of other Ministry workers.

Ministry Monday, his roommates had called it.

(Really, Charlie was just pleased to see his dad for a bit - sure some of the jobs seemed interesting, certainly they were important, but-…)

Tuesday consisted of the residents of Hogsmede making the trip up to Hogwarts to talk about the jobs there, from things like working at the Three Broomsticks to crafts like carpentry. Wednesday consisted of several people from Diagon Alley showing up such as Madam Malkin who spoke of creating clothing and running a self-own shop to a Gringotts employee who spoke of the kind of work that goblins would have you do - something Bill was so interested in that he skipped classes just to visit (and drag Charlie along) the room the employee had set up shop in.

The most interesting thing about Wednesday, though, had to be when he wandered into the Daily Prophet’s designated room by accident and, within minutes, watched as the wizard talking about the wonders of journalism was hounded by a seventh year witch named Rita Skeeter about a job post-graduation.

Thursday, really, was tame given it was the Hogwarts staff whom took time to speak about their jobs in their free time - Charlie quite liked following Hagrid about as the man showed the tasks he did for the school. Feeding the Giant Squid and help grooming the Hippogriffs who decided to make their home on the grounds was very interesting and, while everyone else made fun of the time he’d 'wasted’ following Hagrid around for the day, Grounds Keeper seemed to be the most interesting job he’d heard about so far.

Friday came and with it the farther flung people, such as a Potioneer who came from Brazil to speak and a professional Broom Racer who’d gotten fifth place in the European Relay, along with Whispers about the 'famous’ person.

Wrote one of the textbooks - Care of Magical Creatures, Charlie heard during breakfast by a group of passing Ravenclaws.

Slytherins, when he was trailing them to listen to the Potioneer, muttered, Works with animals - oh, the shame his family must have felt!

Don’t see how it’s famous, a roommate complained to him at lunch, Sure he wrote a book but it’s a textbook and it’s about animals - it’s nothing interesting like an Auror or the racer!

“He was a Hufflepuff too!” a Hufflepuff said to her friend as they exited a room, “Really, he’s quite nice and his work seems interesting but…I don’t think it’s for me.”

Charlie paused to look at the room the pair had exited, it was empty save for an older wizard who smiled when he saw him, “Oh, hello. Are you lost?”

I was just passing by, was on the tip of his tongue but something - maybe it was the various dismissals of the man’s work he’d heard throughout the day, maybe it was how easily the man assumed that his coming was a mistake - had Charlie shaking his head and going further into the room. “No,” he said instead, “I wanted to learn more.”

“Oh, well, Magizoology isn’t a very popular - or, uh, lucrative - field, not like being an Auror or Quidditch Player.” the man started hesitantly, almost like he expected Charlie to turn around and leave at once. Charlie took a seat. “But, in my years, I’ve never once found it boring.”

Never be unkind, his mother had told them and it was the reason why he entered the room. It wasn’t the reason he stayed, though.

No, that was all genuine interest in what the man - Charlie really wished he’d asked the wizard his name but it seemed kind of awkward to ask now, besides the wizard was talking about a Thunderbird named Frank of all things - was saying. It was like the time spent with Hagrid, except more because the moment with the Giant Squid and the Hippogriffs were fleeting because there were so many other things to being a Grounds Keeper the animal care but this - Magizoology - was all about the animals.

A mention of his time yesterday with the Hippogriffs had the man launching into an excited tangent about the Hippogriff herd - “Though sometimes you’ll hear a group referred to as a 'flock’ but seeing as the horse half of them are the more social bit, it’s commonly agreed that a group is a herd.” the man said - and how it had originated from the wizard’s family’s own herd. Apparently, a group of younger Hippogriffs decided they wanted to try making their own herd and, in an effort to keep the groups from fighting in territorial disputes and from the new herd from being endangered, were relocated to Hogwarts.

Then, the wizard started talking about dragons.

This, Charlie knew deep in his bones as surely as he had known he was a wizard, this is what I want to do when I grow up.

It was startling when Professor McGonagall interrupted them just when they were about to debate if the Horned Serpent might be related to the Hungarian Horntail by way of a common ancestor, “Mr. Weasley, your brother has been looking for you since you missed dinner - it’s past curfew.”

“Oh,” Charlie hunched slightly because he just knew Bill was going to lecture him about not taking proper care of himself. If he was lucky, he’d manage to convince his brother not to owl their mother about him 'starving’ himself - again.

“He’s not in trouble, I hope," the man said hurriedly, "It was really my fault, I lost track of time-”

Professor McGonagall glanced at the papers strewn about - at some point they’d both wound up sitting on the floor as the wizard spread out notes and sketches of creatures to emphasize a point - and said, in a very even voice that made him flush, “So I see.”

It was somewhat relieving to see that the wizard wasn’t immune to Professor McGonagall’s tone, looking rather abashed as he returned the papers with a wave of his wand.

“And no, Mr. Weasley’s not in trouble since, I suppose, he didn’t technically break a rule seeing as he had adult supervision the entire time,” she said, then looked at him sternly, “That being said, it is time for him to go to bed - I will escort you back to Gryffindor tower.”

“It was nice meeting you, I really enjoyed talking to you.” Charlie said, then blurted, “But I never got your name.”

The wizard blinked then laughed, smiling and answering once he calmed, “Newt - my name is Newt Scamander and the pleasure was all mine.”

I almost lost you...

Expect a number of mini ficlets based on kiss prompts from me over the next few days. This first one was requested by a lovely nonnie -  Captain Duckling and “I almost lost you” kiss. (rated T, 1600 words)


The tip of her silver spoon dips in and out of her lamb stew as she tries to conjure an appetite, her mind too full of other things to focus on the meal before her. It’s been much the same each time she’s sat at this table these past few weeks, eating enough to sustain, but too nervous to indulge - even when presented with her favorite meal of warm brie on toast. He left before dawn almost two fortnights ago, taking with him her heart. The truth of this had hit her like a kick to the gut she received once while learning to fight with one of the Royal Guard, feelings she’s been avoiding stealing her breath as his ship grew smaller and smaller on the horizon. A shakily forged alliance between Pirate Captain and Queen Snow had set him on this journey, his task to pretend to be an ally and ascertain The Evil Queen’s plan.

The man she apparently loves is attempting to trick the most dangerous villain in all the realms and she’s just supposed to sit here and eat food and breathe and - oh god - something’s wrong. Her stomach heaves and her spoon chips the china bowl as it falls from her fingers. Sweat immediately begins to tickle at her temples and along the back of her neck as her own light magic pulses to life beneath her fingertips.

“Emma, what is it?” 

Snow is on her feet and kneeling before her in seconds and Emma lets her hand be taken in her mother’s strong ones, knowing her magic will never hurt the ones she loves. 

“I…I…I’m not sure, I just feel, something has happened…” 

A loud crash and muffled voices cut off her ramblings and soon Grumpy is barreling into the dining room, his face a mask of annoyance as he shakes off one of the palace guards. 

It’s here! The Jolly Roger, it’s back!” 

Keep reading

◆ —— SHAMELESS (US) QUOTES STARTER PROMPTS.

PART. 2 [TRIGGER WARNINGS AHEAD]

  • When did you start to care? 
  • I’ve dreamt about your death; put money in a collection box and prayed for it; blew out my birthday candles, wished for it. If it actually ever happened, I’m not sure I’d feel relief or guilt.
  • What if I don’t want to change?
  • Don’t what? 
  • You’re a fucking pussy. 
  • You look like a baby rabbit when you sleep.
  • You’re getting careless. Don’t.
  • I just assumed we’d eventually decide how to move together like normal couples do.
  • But there never was a ‘we’.
  • People fuck up, that’s life.
  • Family is supposed to be forever. They’re supposed to take care of you, regardless of what you do. 
  • Please don’t be the guy that lies. 
  • I have red hair, freckles and crooked teeth. No need for any more character. 
  • I need at least one person in this family to not turn cynical and my money’s been on you. 
  • Anyone who’s been married knows that sex is downhill from there. 
  • Big toe is throbbing like blueballs that no blowjob can ever fix. 
  • She’s a skanky, manipulative bitch and you should unfriend her. 
  • The porn at my desk isn’t really porn. It was pictures of penises, but it was from a circumsision website. 
  • I’ve seen crazy and I’ve seen bad for kids. You aren’t either of those things.
  • Don’t forget to check for hair behind the grill. 
  • I realize you’ve had sketchy parental role models, but can we agree that offing people is not cool? 
  • That turned me off, periscope down. 
  • I want normal people problems. 
  • When you tried to get me to be intimate with three of your friends, it made me feel sad. 
  • So, thanks to me, you’ve been pistol whipped and shot in the ass. 
  • Alcohol is a gift.
  • All I’m gonna be thinking about when you choke me out is how much I love you. 
  • If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard you say that, I’d have one dime. 
  • I don’t mean to be an asshole. It’s just genetic. 
  • I know you think you’re helping, but as someone who has been in and out of the system care my entire life, I can tell you it’s a nightmare. 
  • I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. 
  • Nobody fucks with the [insert last name]
  • You buried a body and you stole from the federal government. You will never get out of prison. 
  • We could always adopt.
  • Girls take that hero stuff straight to the bank. 
  • The whole 'my dad is gay for your brother’ thing has thrown me outta loop. 
  • Giving or receiving? 
  • Doing things you don’t wanna do is how you make a relationship work. 
  • I know school was never your thing, but you’ve never been dumb. 
  • Asking him to pick me over them is asking me to change the thing I love most about him. 
  • She is a crazy bitch and not crazy bitch like you’re a crazy bitch. 
  • She once tried to beat me to death with a frozen fish because I asked for more broccoli. 
  • Kick ass, take names.. and don’t blow anyone. 
  • When you’re poor, the only way to make money is to scam it or steal it. 
  • You get along a lot better with a weapon and a kind word, than a kind word alone. 
  • If I don’t invest in myself, no one else will. 
  • My baby was stolen by my mom and her developmentally delayed boyfriend. 
  • He’s not my boyfriend. 
  • It smells worse than a dead hooker’s ass in there. 
  • I’m not going to let you throw him out like used Kleenex. 
  • She’s fragile.
  • She’s broken. 
  • I don’t wanna be me anymore. 
  • An accident? Where his penis just slipped into your vagina? 
  • You gotta get me out of this car, I’m getting too horned up. 
  • I’m sorry, but now I gotta go pick up my wife’s boyfriend. 
  • Sometimes it’s not worth holding out. Life’s too short, why not just give in? 
  • Why would anyone go to the zoo sober? 
  • I’d trade my left nut for one more hour of sleep. 
  • Your mother was a real cunt. 
  • Circle doesn’t start with an S? What the fuck? 
  • Sometimes when I see the word hospice on the street, I pronounce it ho-spice. 
  • You’re lucky your moms dead. 
  • I made a list of the top 50 stupidest things and all 50 were when I was drunk. 
  • My testicles have never been my ally. 
  • Go fuck yourself. 
  • Front door was locked so I came in the back. No pun intended. 
  • I’m sick of living in your shadow. 
  • I never thought I’d say this, but you were right. 
  • She said she had some personal business. I change her diaper, what’s more personal than that? 
  • How can you be so cold about this? 
  • Just for the record, a lot of great men have been well-lubricated. 
  • I’m not the reason your life is a piece of crap.
  • Your coochie smells like brimestone and Sulfur. 
  • One of my unspoken rules is you don’t fuck someone else when we’re on a date. 
  • You married a drug lord’s daughter to hang on to your ear? 
  • I don’t take bribes. 
  • Honey, you’re an alcoholic. 
  • Where can I get knives and blunts? 
  • You can’t control what goes on in the world. You can just choose to be a part of it everyday. 
  • Where I come from, it’s an honour to share your man. 
  • I’m gonna beat your ass like a pinata until candy falls out! 
  • You don’t love me.
  • You’re kinda growing on me. 
  • Dead people poop themselves. 
  • Where’s the money? 
  • It doesn’t make you a kept woman, it makes you a smart one. 
  • I’ll keep that in mind when I’m feeding my family dog food this winter. 
  • I can’t share a room with someone in constant state of arousal! 
  • Look at me. I can’t go to jail, I might as well wear heels. 
  • I’m gay. 
  • You just made my boy parts get bigger. 
  • Not to be a dick or anything, but you have been kind of a whore. 
  • Eat my ass!
  • Wanna see me make a mangina? 
  • You fucked my brother. 
  • Whores don’t get cars. 
  • I wouldn’t exactly call it an orgy, but there were a lot of naked body parts flying around. 
  • You wish you had a dick as big as mine! 
  • Are you gonna put those in my ass? 
  • If you do this for me, I will dress up any way you want. No safety word. 
  • I was raised by a pack of wolves. 
  • I certainly hope you’re not pooping in there. It’s a closet. 
  • Can I get you something? Milk? Soda? A joint? It’s medicinal. 
  • Like you in the sack, make it quick. 
  • Did you purposely order a Sex on the Beach so I’d say it to the gay bartender? 
  • No. No way. I can’t handle anything in my ass without alcohol. 
  • The beard gets me laid. 
  • I haven’t had a drink for two days. Well, granted, I was unconscious. 
  • You’re hot, but it’s been a while since I’ve been with a dude. 
  • He was warm, like the inner thighs of an overworked hooker. 
  • He may look like he’s in a boy band, but he’s got a point. 
  • Let’s be honest, she’s my last chance at happiness, and that’s more important than video games and masturbation, right? 
  • I am not a religious man, but every now and then, a child comes along who makes me believe in the existence of Satan. 
  • I believe the answer to that question, like the answer to most questions, is fuck you. 
  • Keep laughing, or I will slit your throat in your sleep. 
  • Brush your teeth, I wanna play. 
  • Other than the presents and the booze, can you tell me three good reasons we should get married? 
  • Oh, don’t mind me. I accidentally took three of my pills instead of one. 
  • Well, if you need me, I’ll be in the bushes across the street stalking you.

anonymous asked:

Any chance of more a hundred lesser faces soon?

A Hundred Lesser Faces: Ten 

  • Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh? :  [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)
  • Section Two {A Hundred More}, the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together [(Eight) (Nine)]

“Mind yourself, laddie,” chided the cook from behind as she passed by the doorway. “Pay heed to that blade, or ye’ll be cuttin’ your throat along wi’ the beard!”

He answered with something lighthearted and offhand, for she was a kind woman and he greatly appreciative of her generosity. Whereas the innkeeper had shuffled sleepily off to bed as soon as he’d paid for their lodging, she—a lady of advanced years who bade him address him as Flora— had ushered him to her own chamber off the kitchens and settled him before the glass with soap, water, and razor, ‘at no charge, laddie, dinna fash yerself.’

Jamie saw to his surprise that the face in the reflection was nearly smooth. He’d been shaving mindlessly, it seemed, only the skill of long habit guiding his hand while his mind wandered—raced.

God in Heaven, did I not survive all those years of loneliness only by dreaming of being in Claire’s bed? And yet here he was, about to walk up the stairs and enter that very place, that sacred, hallowed place, and damn him, his hands were trembling.

Thank God they’d managed to exchange those few words after their hasty meal. She knew for certain now that he wanted her. That worry had weighed on them both, he thought; a natural insecurity given their age and long absence. But even as he’d left her standing there at the table, he’d known she was still hesitant, that something about the impending intimacy between them still troubled her. Damn his eyes, he ought not to have left her side until he’d discovered what it was, that nothing might be between them. As it was….all he could do was wonder. 

Did she take other men in our time apart? 

…Apart from Frank, he supposed he meant. She had gone to be the bastard’s wife again, after all, and certainly there would have come a day when they resumed—when they likely would have— Well, and they had loved one another before Claire had fallen into his own life, had they not?

But after the Englishman died? Did she seek out comfort in other lovers? Were they on her mind, tonight?

Though it made his blood heat and boil to consider it, he could hardly cast the first stone with regards to that possibility. He thought of Geneva, of Mary, and despite the accustomed pangs of shame, he couldn’t truly regret those nights, after all. Mary, in particular, had given him the gift of touch, something for which he’d starved himself for seven long years. Her tenderness, her softness with him had kept him feeling human for a long time after. If Claire had felt such emptiness in her time, if someone had offered her the same gift, that ounce of sanity, his most reasonable self (not to say the loudest of the voices in his mind) could hardly begrudge her for having taken it. 

If that’s indeed the case, though….what will she be thinking on, this night? About….how those other men were good to her? Or because they were cruel? Jesus, what if—

“I must say,” came Flora’s voice again as he finished and set the razor down, “we dinna often get folk hereabouts that care so verra much about how they look.” Glancing up at her in the mirror, he saw that she was examining him appreciatively—not lewdly, but as though taking genuine pleasure in the sight. 

He gave a gracious bow, grateful for the interruption from his uneasy thoughts. “Then I’m all the more grateful, Mistress Flora, that ye were able to accommodate the needs of a poor, vain wretch so down on his luck.”

She hummed graciously and dipped her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “Bound somewhere important in the mornin’, are ye?”

“Nay, it’s only that I’m here wi’—” He cleared his throat. “Wi’ my wife, this night.”

“The brown-haired lass? Well, an’ I should ha’ HOPED she was your wife, a ruiadh!” she snorted. “We’re no’ runnin’ a house of ill-repute!”

Jamie wondered what she would say were he to divulge that he was, technically, willfully engaging in bigamy. Technically only, thank God. “Aye, she’s my wife,” he said firmly, to reassure both Flora and himself. “We’re reunited, this day, after a long separation.”

Separation?” she repeated dubiously. 

“We…” He needn’t say anything at all, of course, for it was no one’s business but their own; but even despite his worries, he couldn’t help but grin (and feel the prickling of tears in his eyes) to share their news, even with a stranger. “We each thought the other dead for many years, and found each other again only hours ago.” 

“Oh, how GRAND!” Flora beamed, clapping her hands together, then coming over to clasp his own warmly. “And what a blessing! God was smilin’ upon ye, and no mistakin’ it.” 

With a startling flood of both affection and grief, he realized that it was Glenna Fitzgibbons she minded him of. Corpulent of body and cheery of feature, she moved with that same indomitable energy, certain of her domain and any that chose to enter it, and yet warm and lavish in showing love and care to those in her charge. 

She took a step back to look him over again, then gave a derisive pfft. “Well, in THAT case, a shave isna goin’ to be enough. I’ll draw ye some hot water so ye can wash up a bit wi’ a cloth. I’ll fetch some of my best chamomile soap for ye, too.”

“That’s most kind, Mistress Flora, I thank ye,” he said in genuine gratitude. With sudden inspiration, he asked, “Will ye offer the same to my wife? Not—” He flushed. “Take care that she doesna think I’m insinuating that she—ah—”

“She already requested a basin and got it, dinna fash, though I didna ken the grandeur of the occasion.” Flora was already bustling about, and he could hear the sounds of water being ladled into a ewer from the hearth. “We’ll reserve the insinuatin’ for comment on your own person. Beggin’ your pardon, a ruiadh, but ye stink to highest heaven and back.”

“Canna just say that you’re wrong,” he laughed.

A long-lost wife…restored….” Flora murmured contemplatively as she returned and walked about, gathering the bathing supplies. “All the more reason to scrub the road off ye, then, for as bonnie as ye are, I dinna think I’m wrong in observin’ that she’s a good sight fairer, even on yer best day.”

“Aye, she is certainly that,” he said, laughing at the spirit of Mrs. Fitz present here, that could make him feel warm and happy even while being fussed and picked over like an unruly bairn that’s fallen in the manure pile. 

Ten minutes later, he was wrapped in linen towels, shivering from the icy drafts of night air on his wet skin, but clean for the first time in weeks. Flora had left him be as he bathed, but as he was casting about for clothing, she reappeared, tsked, bade him ‘Be still, wee gomeral. You’re far from done,’ and plunked him down onto a stool with surprising force. A moment later, a warm, woolen rug settled around his shoulders and she took up a spot behind him, beginning to work through the snarls in his hair with a comb.

After a time of sitting tense and ramrod-straight, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the calm of it, to the soothing sensation of the tiny tugs at his scalp. His mother had brushed his hair just so, when he was a wee one prone to snarls from rough days at play. Years later, his Claire had done the same, her touch light and soft. She had always brought his face around, when she had finished, to kiss him, sometimes melting down into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck…

God…

Claire. 

That very woman, his beloved wife….She was upstairs, waiting for him. He could still scarcely comprehend the joy of that simple truth. She was whole. She was here

She’s expecting me…

Expecting a man that can please her. 

And therein was the greater part of the worry that had caused his hands to shake. Jamie wanted so badly to give her pleasure as he used to, and yet he hadn’t satisfied a woman—not in that way, not to his knowledge—in over twenty years. With Mary, and then with Willie’s mother, it hadn’t felt the time or place for that kind of passion. With Laoghaire—God, how he’d tried, but with no success. Try as he might to justify himself by insisting that she had been cold long before they wed, and there naught HE could have done about it, the icy fingers of doubt gripped at him, now. 

I wasna able to please one wife. What if it wasna Laoghaire that was the problem at all? What if I canna—

There, laddie,” Flora interrupted with fond finality, smoothing the back of his head tenderly before moving to the table. “That’s much better, aye? And here’s the fresh shirt. Tis many years old, but clean and sturdy, and should fit ye well enough.”

“You’re verra kind, a nighean,” he said, touched by her care and not a little hoarse from it. He examined the shirt. “‘Tis extremely well-made,” he commented appreciatively, seeing the fine, strong stitches, the linen showing hardly any signs of wear.

“Made it for my youngest….Tàmhas,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “…Drumossie, ken?” He gripped her hand. He knew. 

A long time after she’d excused herself, Jamie stood before the mirror, staring at the man therein; and, unbidden, the vice around his heart eased, a calming peace flooding inward in its wake. 

Even if he made a grand mess of this, even if he couldn’t please her the way he used, or made himself to look a fool, this was still a day of miracles. Here he stood, in the garment of a man who had died on Culloden field—died as and where he himself should have died—and yet, he had his sight, his freedom, the use of his hands and legs, a home, and a living…and Claire had been restored to him, beyond all reason and all hope. 

He brought his hand up and kissed the scar at the base of his thumb, pressing it to his heart, as he had done for twenty years. It was theirs, now, this world, to do with as they wished, and though he didn’t know what those wishes might be, he knew there was no fear greater than the hope he had in his wife. In them

As she’d said herself only hours ago, ‘we’ll manage with the rest. All the rest.’


Come in,” came her startled answer.

The candlelight danced beautifully around the walls, bathing all in a warm, red glow. Claire was already underneath the blankets, but they fell away as he entered, showing that she’d a sheet wrapped around her, tucked under her oxters like a garment. “Sorry,” she mumbled as he stared at her bare, elegant shoulders framed by the dark curtain of her curls. Her cheeks reddened and she dropped her eyes. “I—didn’t have a shift or anything.”

“No, dinna be sorry,” he said hastily. Lord, there ought to be no sense of forwardness between them now. They were married, after all, and in fact, the very notion that she’d undressed for him made his heart lighten even more than it had downstairs. If he had had any doubts, still, that she truly wished him to—

“You shaved,” she said.  She was smiling, weakly, nervously, but with real happiness across the dim room. “Let me see?” 

He set his things on the table by the door and came to her, kneeling beside her on the mattress.  She came up on her knees before him and took his face between her hands, gasping a bit as she ran them up and down. “God…you’re just the same, too.”

“A bit worn ‘round the edges,” he murmured, following her touch with his cheek, savoring her.

“But beautiful,” she whispered. She traced the lines around his eyes, the crooked knot—yes, that would be new to her—that now shaped his nose.

They knelt there, knee to knee for a long time, clothed in their linen wrappings, just drinking in the sight of one another. 

She swayed precariously of a sudden and he reached out a hand to catch her round the middle but she fell backward onto her hand. Her eyes went wide with shock as she realized what she had done, and she covered her face with both hands, shaking. “Oh, Jesus…” 

It was almost like being back on the hill, that shock and hurt. “Mo ghraidh….?”

No, she hadn’t just fallen. She had recoiled from him.

“Mo ghraidh?” he implored, reaching out a hand but not daring to touch her. “Claire?” 

She was crying. He thought she wouldn’t reply, and she didn’t, but she did reach out blindly and grab onto his hand, hard. He clung to it, nudged closer and pressed it to his lips, then his heart.

“I’m sorry—” she was whispering, hanging her head. “I’m so—so sorry—”

“You’ve naught to be sorry over,” he said intently, keeping her hand pressed tight to his chest. “What is it, lass? Is it— same as was troubling ye below? Over…going to bed wi’ me?”

“I want this—” she gasped out, “I want it—Want to touch you—want you to touch me— but I’m so—just so—”

“…what, Claire?”

“—afraid,” she gasped out at last, her voice a strained whisper between quick, shallow breaths. “I’m so afraid.” 

He forced himself to speak softly. “….Of me?”

“NO!” she breathed at once, shaking her head, hard. “Jesus Christ, no….Just—Damn, I don’t—It’s just—FRANK, and—”

Fr—?” Jamie felt rage boil up within him, revising his conclusions from those earlier speculations and feeling them burning through his mind. “Did he hurt you, Claire? If the bastard forced—”

NO,” she moaned, vehemently, “NO, Frank would never do that. No. Not his fault. It’s me. My fault.”

His chest eased, but the thought of what else the bastard Englishman might have done to her for all those years—MUST have done to her to make her feel these things, to be ‘afraid’ in a man’s bed—was enough to make him wish to slash his way through the goddamn stones and kill him… were he not already dead.

“Claire, hear me,” Jamie said with decision, squeezing her hand in both his own. “We dinna have to do this, tonight. We shall—” 

“I’ve wanted you every day these last twenty years—” she interrupted, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she laid one hand on his chest. “And I want you now, Jamie, I do. God,” she moaned, “more than I can—” She took a deep, shuddering breath and trailed off. 

Mo chridhe… you can say anything to me. Anything. Ye ken that, aye?” 

“It’s just been so long,” she whispered, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Frank was the only man who touched me since you and I parted, and I—I can barely wrap my mind around what it’s supposed to be, anymore.” 

Christ, it shouldn’t matter to him—and he cursed himself roundly for a shameful, wretched hypocrite—but he silently rejoiced and shuddered in relief. Only Frank. 

“I don’t know the way, anymore, Jamie,” she was saying; so mournful and heartbroken, that voice. “Something—It took something from me, to be…to be without…to not…Damn…Fucking, fucking damn….

He remained kneeling beside her as her breaths stayed shrill and strained, waiting, trying to think. Frank hadn’t forced himself on her, and yet their intimacy had left her with fears and doubts, had her struggling to look him in the eye. 

Could it simply be that they never found the secret of one another after she returned? Just as Laoghaire and I did not? 

“It’s…maybe no’ precisely what ye mean, Claire…” he began slowly, very quietly, “…but I can say in truth that I havena felt— joy in a woman’s bed since ye went away…. Is it anything like that?”

She stilled and looked up at him, then nodded, whisky eyes glassy. “Yes.” 

A pulse of relief and love filled him and he grasped at it, reaching out and cupping her cheek, holding onto her lest she slip away again. “To be hungry and desperate?” he went on, holding her eye with such sadness in both their hearts, “and to get something of it, to crave it again and again because ye think that this time it will be better, but to always leave the bed all the emptier in your heart? And feel that emptiness hardening ye into someone ye scarce recognize?”

“Twenty years—of—” 

It was a long time before she could manage to finish. When she did so, it was so faint he couldn’t understand her.

Heat,” she repeated in a whisper as desolate as the winter wind outside, “without light.

…Heat without light….

Aye, that was just the way of it. Need and hunger and the fire rousing to slake it, but no accompanying brightness, no beam of light in which to bask and be soothed in one’s heart. No relief or comfort: just rippling scalding, choking air that suffocated, rather than sustained. 

“And it used to come so easily, with you, the heat and the light together,” she whispered, trying not to fall apart, “I need it again so badly, and yet I’m afraid… of what I’ll do if I can’t give you that same—” 

Sorcha.” 

The word fairly burst from him, breaking his face into a smile of pure joy without his bidding.

“W-what?” she croaked.

Sorcha,” he said again, brushing the hair from her eyes. “’Tis your name in Gaelic, mo chridhe. Did I never call ye that, before?”

“Not that I can recall.”

He’d thought of her by that name for so long a time: her very self in his own language. His forehead pressed against hers, he looked deep and long and lovingly. “It means ‘light.’”

She inhaled sharply and gasped out something like a laugh. “You’re making that up.”

“Even in English, the root of your name has to do wi’ light, or brightness, or clarity….Et en Français, aussi.” 

“Au clair de la lune….” she recited. By the light of the moon. 

“Aye, just so.” He had her face in both his hands now, and he thumbed away her tears, kissing the tracks left behind. “You are my light, Sassenach. Ye always have been, in name or no.’”

 Her lips trembled as she smiled. “And you’re mine.”

“Then we’ve everything we’ll ever need.” He kissed her. “We can love, and never fear.” 

Claire fell slowly into him, then, wrapping her arms around his neck, weeping, not in despair, but in the sweet surrender of trusting, of loving. 

“When we wed,” he whispered into her ear, kissing the dear, warm spot just behind, “we barely kent one another. Ye didna want me for your husband, that was clear enough, and I had resigned myself to what ye could and couldna give me…. And yet that light was upon us even that first day, aye? Even wi’out your willing it, ye felt it, that—that— rightness between us?”

“Yes.” She was nodding, hard, her hands gripped tightly in the back of his shirt, her lips softly caressing his neck. “I felt it.”

He held her tight, rocking them gently. “We didna earn or deserve it, that day. We hadna prepared for it or practiced it as to be ready or worthy. It was a GIFT, that joy and ease between us. I believe it shall be granted us again, just as freely.” 

And in saying it, he, too, believed, the last of his own fears and insecurities loosening their grip and floating away.

He kissed her neck, her hair, then tucked her to his chest and laid them down, holding close around her back as they lay facing one another. “Tell me what’s in your heart, Claire.”

“Thought I had been,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes, though he could hear the hint of a smile. 

“Nay, but if we were to stay just like this until morn, only sleeping in one another’s arms, and leaving the rest for another—”

She made a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying I don’t WANT—”

“I know,” he cut her off gently, half-laughing, “I ken, Sassenach, but there’s nay hurry, aye? There’s the two of us now, and I’ll not let ye go.” 

She touched his face and exhaled, trying to smile. 

“Aside from any fears, what is in your heart right at this moment?” 

“….Happiness….” she said at last. “…such unfathomable happiness.”

“Aye…” 

“I…I can hardly believe you’re here. That I’m here.” Her voice cracked. “I’m still reeling from relief and joy from the hill….and I’m…overjoyed….” She ran the back of her knuckles down his cheek, staring intently into his face. “…that you finally know about our daughter…that you’ve gotten to see her face and learn that she’s safe….. that I’ll have the rest of my life to tell you about her.” 

He kissed her hand, pressing it tight against his lips. She kept on, the sorrow and abating from her voice with every word, replaced with warmth and joy. “I’m grateful that I know about Laoghaire…and the girls….and William…. I want to know more, in time, but there are no secrets between us, now, and that’s—You are who you appear to be….as I remembered you to be…..And Jamie, I’m so happy you’re alive,” she choked out as she pressed her forehead to his, her voice trembling, “and I can’t believe we finally get to keep one another this time…. To have you and hold you… I couldn’t ask for anything more….Nothing.

“I have two hands,” Jamie said hoarsely as he held her, “and they’re yours…. I have a body, and it is yours….. Anything that I am, I give to ye freely again today, Claire Fraser.”  

At hearing her name, that name, she let out a tiny, broken sound and pulled him down to her mouth. Almost at once, the kiss changed, became harder, urgent. His mouth and his hands and his body responded to hers without conscious thought, seeking her with every movement, every breath. 

His arousal was strong, violent, but he forced himself to pull back enough to look into her eye…..and at last, there was no fear written there.  

With a ferocity that startled and ignited him, he captured her mouth and slid his hand beneath her head as she rolled onto her back. With the other, he untucked the sheet from beneath her arms and bared her, sliding his hand down her length. She moaned into his mouth as he cupped her boldly, felt the warm, wet fullness of her there between her thighs, and that sound was honey to his soul.

She moved with him, the two of them joined by the trailing of his fingers through the slick center of her; her gasps when he moved up toward that small, precious spot; the exquisite pain of her fingertips digging into his flesh as he circled and caressed it. Claire was coming alive for him, moving against his touch to double every sensation. He could have wept only to feel her rouse to him so, but to watch her face breaking again and again with that beauty, to hear against his neck the same sounds that he’d treasured in his heart all those lonely years—He felt as though he were running up a mountain and down it again all at once. “Claire,” he could only groan into her hair, her skin, scarcely aware of his own body, enthralled to hers, “Jesus, Claire….”

“Jamie—” She was mounting and gathering under his touch, her legs and hips moving languidly, her cries becoming more urgent and and more frantic with every stroke. 

“Aye, Sassenach,” he moaned, circling and pressing harder, feeling the throbbing wetness of her. “Now—please—”

Wait,” she panted, slipping out from beneath him and pushing him back onto the pillows. It didn’t cross his mind to question her. He obeyed by instinct, pulling off his shirt and emerging from the cloud of white to see her straddling him, poising her body—Jesus, her exquisite body—just above him. He was half-sitting, hard and aching for her. Her legs trembled with wanting, too, but she reached slowly forward to pull him up, to kiss him, to press herself against his chest and twine her fingers in his hair. Their eyes locked and the world vanished for a moment in a burst of breath and light as she sheathed him to her. 

He grasped her tight, hands gripping and holding as the two of them gasped and shuddered from the shock and wonder of being joined and naked; ONE. Her breasts were so full, begging for him to put his mouth on them, but he couldn’t look away from her face.  

“Jamie—Love—” she moaned, settling him still more deeply within her body. 

“Claire—” 

He could see tears gathering in her eyes even as her entire body trembled and shuddered with the growing tension. She gasped and rolled her hips, her hands shaking and her breath catching, eyes fluttering.  “I’m going—to—”

Please,” he begged, “please—let me feel you—” He moved within her, and she upon him— And almost instantly she cascaded around him, pulsing and rushing and crying out with that sound—THAT SOUND— “Sorcha,” he moaned, her release nearly taking him, too. He couldn’t hold her close enough, couldn’t treasure her deeply enough. “Mo sorcha….”

“More,” she moaned before he could say more, grabbing his face and moving along his length with a ferocity that tore from him a feral sound to match her own, “More.”

He lost all speech and all restraint. He plunged up into her, his mouth on her neck, her breasts; his hands raking across hips and thighs and arse. They moved together, he taking her and she, him, joined in a fury of need and love that had them both gasping and snarling and moaning and near-weeping.

At one pass, she thrust down upon him such a way that he nearly lost himself, and in a flash, he was throwing himself forward with a growl so that she was beneath him, his hands under her buttocks, pulling her to him fiercely with every movement. Claire cried out, a sound of both need and satisfaction that echoed around the room. They were on fire, the two of them, thrusting and seeking with such wild energy, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. Every inch of him burned for her.

But there WAS light along with the burning. Even as they raced and tore and pounded, her eyes were in his and she was shining, smiling even as she destroyed him. As they each neared the end, they were beaming, glowing with such the most glorious joy. The most glorious light

After it was over, after she had come around him and he within her, there had been no slumping of exhaustion, none of that immediate, selfish isolation of the mind and body in adapting to the altered state. He had pulled her at once back up and knelt; knelt so that she could hold him as much as he, her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cupped his head in both hands, touching his hair, his face, saying his name again and again like a prayer, as he was hers. They were both crying, hard, but they were tears of joy, a cleansing of all fears and all sorrows. 

“Thank you,” he gasped out suddenly, broken with it, “for coming back for me.”

She had left everything. She had left EVERYTHING she knew, the entire life she had built, on the mere hope that he still needed her. He did need her. He always would.

She held him, body and soul. “I always will.”

Where’s daddy

(A/N): Literally so much angst and pain

Request: Hi ! I love your stories ! Do you think I can request a Bucky x Reader, where she has a 6yo son and he is Bucky’s but he doesn’t know ‘cause of HYDRA capturing him when she found out she was pregnant & they haven’t seen each other since, please?

Warnings: ANGST

Tags: @mcuimxgine, @ifoundlove-x0vanessa0x, @saradi1018, @holland-toms, @superwholockian309, @fly-f0rever, @capbuckthor, @l8nitl0vr


Originally posted by dailymarvel

    Grant Barnes ran around the park, squealing alongside all the other children. Their mothers watched them from afar, all smiling and cheering their babies on. Some of them even had fathers watching them proudly, their eyes twinkling happily and their heart full of joy. And then there was (Y/N) who was sitting on one of the benches furthest away from the playground all by herself. She had no ring on her finger, no man to kiss her cheek and call her beautiful, she had no husband and Grant Barnes had no father. Perhaps six or seven years ago he had one but that felt like a century ago, a century ago the war ended, a century ago when every woman stopped at the stations to pick up her man, when every wife presented her child to the recently returned soldier but that hadn’t been (Y/N)’s case. Rather than go and pick her lover up from the station she had sat at home, breast feeding her brand new baby boy. 

   "Momma!“ Grant yells as he approaches his mother, all smiles and giggles despite the sweltering heat of Brooklyn. "Will you come play with me?” (Y/N) smiles as she reaches out to ruffle Grant’s hair, a small, disbelieving chuckle falling from her lips. 

   “Baby, don’t you want to play with the other kids?” 

   “No mommy, I want you to come play with me,” Grant tugged on (Y/N)’s sleeve, persistent in his choice. (Y/N) chuckles as they stand up, much to Gran’ts delight as he squeals happily. 

   “What do you wanna play baby boy?”

   “I wanna play soldiers!” Grant exclaims innocently, his eyes shining with excitement. (Y/N) sighs softly as her heart aches, the memories of Bucky slowly surfacing. She had managed to keep them down, try not to dwell on the thoughts of her long lost lover but it was always inevitable- there was always something that would remind (Y/N) of Bucky. The bitter scent of coffee in the mornings, a poster for a new science convention, the smell of fresh sheets, the warmth that would surround (Y/N) every time she climbed into bed; there was always a bit of Bucky in everything, even if he never really was there. 

   “Okay, who do you wanna be?” 

   “I want to be Captain America!” Grant shouted, beaming from ear to ear. Little did Grant know that he was actually named after the man himself, (Y/N) had figured Bucky would have wanted their baby boy to have something to do with Steve and since- well, since he wasn’t around anymore the least (Y/N) could do was name her child after him. 

   “Okay Cap’n,” (Y/N) salutes their baby boy, smiling when he giggled with excitement. “Where’s our first mission?”

   “Over in Germ-Germ-Germ-” 

   “Germany?” (Y/N) suggest lightly, laughing when her son beamed at her. 

   “Yes! In Germany,” He slurred the word a bit, making his little facade even cuter. 

   “Well Cap’n, I don’t see a plane anywhere, how do you suppose we’re gonna get there?” Grant hums, stroking his chin in thought before jumping excitedly at an idea.

   “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind carrying Captain America to battle,” Grant suggest, his blue eyes shining up at (Y/N) with child like hope.

   “Captain,” (Y/N) placed a hand over her heart, sniffling softly. “It would be my honor to carry you to Germany,” And with that (Y/N) slides her arms around her baby boy, marching him across the playground and to a nearby tree or as Grant called it- Germany. Grant squealed in delight as (Y/N) made airplane noises as she all but charged for the trees, more than delighted to make their sweet baby boy happy. All the other mothers and fathers stared at (Y/N) distastefully but she didn’t care, not when Grant was laughing hysterically and having the time of his life. (Y/N) could only have wished that Bucky was here to see him…

~70 something years later~

   Bucky looked down at the file in his hands, about the life he had left behind. There were pictures of (Y/N), looking as beautiful as he remembered her but there was someone else…a little dark haired, blue eyed boy who looked like the perfect combination of Bucky and (Y/N). 

   “His name was Grant,” Fury mutters from his seat, his eyes glued to Bucky’s hands clutching the folder. “(Y/N) named him after Steve,” Bucky gulps, reaching out with a hand to run his fingers along the photographs of what should have been his wife and baby boy. “She found out she was pregnant the day you fell of the train,” Bucky sighs shakily, throwing the folder to the side as he rubs at his burning eyes. He’d left an entire life behind, he’d left behind (Y/N), the love of his life, he’d left behind his family, he’d even left behind a baby he didn’t even know he had. “It’s not too late y’know,” Fury states as he grabs the folder, tucking all the papers and photographs back into manila folder gently. “We’ve kept tabs on Grant over the years…he’s in a home Bucky,” Bucky looks up at the older man, gulping once again. “He’s losing his memory so I suggest that if you wanna meet your kid you better do it now,” 

   And that’s how Bucky ended up where he was right now, standing in front of a white haired nurse in some retirement home. 

   “I’m uh- I’m looking for a Grant Barnes?”  

   “Oh! He hasn’t had visitors in years…” 

   “Yeah uh- I’m a distant cousin, thought I’d come see him for a bit,” The nurse smiles, clutching a clipboard to her chest tightly. 

   “That’s so sweet, he’ll be glad to see you. He’s in room 303 by the way, just down the hall and to the left,’ Bucky gives the nurse a light smile and a polite thank you before he walks down the hall, stuffing his hands in his pockets. All around him the sounds of beeping machines and oxygen tanks filled the air, leaving his heart aching at the thought that his boy- his own damn child- was one of the poor sickly elders here. 

   Bucky’s feet stop abruptly in front of room 303, the door decorated brightly in pink and red hearts, each one stating something wonderful about Grant- about his son. With a shaky sigh Bucky knocked his knuckles on the door, waiting for a nurse or someone to let him in. 

   “Come in!” A sweet female voice called. Bucky gently opened the door, poking his head inside the hospital room. There were two people in the room, an elderly looking man who once looked as though he had been beautiful but age had slowly withered away that beauty and a young female, perhaps around the age of twenty, sitting directly across from the man. “Can I help you?” She asks, smiling at Bucky sweetly. 

   “Uh yeah- um, I’m here to see Grant Barnes?”

   “That’s me,” The old man smiles, gibing Bucky a small wave. “What can I do for you sonny?” God- his own child was calling him son and if that didn’t sting Bucky didn’t know what did. 

   “Um-” Bucky looks down at his hand sheepishly, biting his lip in thought. He hadn’t really thought of what he was going to say when he finally met his own flesh and blood, he thought he’d chicken out and leave before he ever even met his son but now he was here, standing right in front of him. “Was your father James Buchanan Barnes?” The elderly man loses his smile, his face taking on an ugly kind of glare. 

   “What do you want to know about my father?” Bucky sighs again, raking a hand down his face, one that looked almost like his own sons expect much, much younger. 

   “I have a little problem you see- I’m James Buchanan Barnes,” 


   Explaining his situation to his son had been hard, he was almost thrown out of the building until Bucky began to tell Grant things about his mother that no one except himself could know. From there it had been a bit choppy, his son was in shock, as was Bucky, but slowly they opened up to each other and now here they were- talking about (Y/N) as though it were the most normal thing in the world. 

   “You shoulda seen her,” Grant sighs, his eyes twinkling as he looks at the ceiling. “She was so beautiful, all my friends liked her,” Bucky chuckles, smiling so damn widely he was surprised his face didn’t bust in two. 

   “She was gorgeous,” 

  “And strong, so strong,” Grant whispers, breathing out heavily. “She got a job after you- after you died,” Grant hesitates to say the words, almost reluctant to admit that his own mother was dead. “She worked long and hard hours just to provide for me. We were poor but that never stopped her- we may have been low on money but you can bet your bottom dollar that she would find a way to make me and the neighbor kids desert,” 

   “She always was so generous,” 

   “She was the best mom anyone could ever ask for,” Grant smiles a little, a small, tender little thing that had Bucky wondering just exactly what Grant was thinking. 

   “I wish I could have been there-” Bucky sighs, his heart suddenly sinking. “I wish I could’ve seen your first steps, or heard your first words, I wish I could have seen you on your first date or watch you walk down the aisle-” 

   “That doesn’t matter now,” Grant smiles, reaching over to take Bucky’s metal hand in his own, withered one. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters to me…It’s nice to finally meet you Dad,” Bucky smiles, chuckling a bit even with the tears burning at his eyes. 

   “It’s nice to finally meet my son,”