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sailor-aviator · 7 months

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Don't Hang'em Til Noon: Chapter Two

Pairing: Jake "Hangman Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin is a notorious leader within the Dagger posse of the old western territories of the United States. You, a recently orphaned socialite from the eastern seaboard, find yourself swept off to live with your older brother who has set down roots in said western territory. Determined to to make the best of your situation, what will you do when said outlaw sets his sights on you?

Warnings: Language, Jake flirting, nothing else really.

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: So, I lied. Here's another update for you all. Feel like the quality might have dropped off a little halfway since I wrote the last half on my phone at work lol I'm not sure yet if I'll have anything to post tomorrow as I work weird hours, but here's hoping! As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are greatly appreciated. My inbox is always open to chat. 18+ ONLY!! Find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator! Enjoy!

Series Masterlist || DPU Masterlist || Jake "Hangman" Seresin Tag List

“Well, this is it,” Benjamin proclaimed proudly. You looked at the house before you. It was a large, two story home with freshly painted white walls and matching white picket fence surrounding the yard. A chimney was built on both sides of the house, and a giant porch hugged the front as well as the second floor. A barn sat further down the path that led to your new home, and a simple wooden fence stretched even further.

“It’s beautiful, Benji,” you started, “but how much land did you purchase?”

Benjamin rubbed his neck sheepishly. “About one thousand acres.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “One thousand acres? Benji!”

“Hear me out, Scout,” he pleaded. “The cattle we raise will bring in even more money. We can establish a legacy here!”

“We already had a legacy,” you muttered, and Benjamin fixed you with soft, pleading eyes. You sighed. “You don’t even know the first thing about raising cattle.”

He perked up. “Oh, Maverick said he’d teach me all I need to know. Even made suggestions on who to hire as ranch hands when the time comes. He’s the one that convinced me to seek out my fortunes.”

“Was he now?” you murmured, already plotting what you were going to say to the town’s founder when you met him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Benjamin, and you glanced up at him. “But this will be good for us, Scout. We’ll be a part of history and expanding our country. Making it better.”

You hummed, and he continued with a sigh. “The truth is, Scout, my firm isn’t making as much money as I had hoped out here. Ranching will help bolster our income until I can become more established in these parts.”

You sighed, knowing there wasn’t much you could say in argument. Instead, you turned back to look at the house, shadows growing darker as the sun finally disappeared below the horizon. “Let’s go then. I’m eager to see the new house.”

Benjamin practically skipped up to the house, holding the door open for you as you stepped inside. It was much grander than you were expecting. Wooden floors gave way to a grand staircase that turned into the next floor. You made your way through one of the archways and found yourself in the parlor. Your familiy’s furniture already decorate the room, and you brushed your fingers gently over the top of the grand piano in the corner. Continuing, you found yourself standing in a large kitchen, one of the fireplaces taking up a large portion of the far wall.

“If you’re hungry, I think Natasha left some stew for us,” Benjamin, striding over to where a pot hung above the small fire. You raised an eyebrow, barely containing your smirk.

“Does Natasha cook for you often?”

You saw a blush creep its way onto your brother’s face as he straightened up to look at you with a small pout. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

You chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. “I’m only teasing, Benji. But, no. I’m not hungry at the moment. I’d much rather get some rest after my long day of travel.”

Benjamin nodded and led you up the stairs. He stopped in front of the second door on the right, opening it and gesturing for you to step inside. Doing so, you saw your familiar pieces of furniture that you had shipped off weeks ago. Your hand mirror sat on your vanity, and your wardrobe door was opened to reveal your more practical, every day use dresses. You walked further into the room and up to the window. Peering out, you could faintly make out the barn and rolling desert in the sprawling darkness. If you looked harder, you could faintly see the outline of the distant mountains. Turning back to face your brother, you offered a smile.

“It’s lovely, Benji. Thank you.”

Benjamin returned your smile and gestured down the hall. “My room is two down if you need me for anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine for the evening. Go on,” you waved him off. “You need your sleep just as much as I do.

“Before I forget, Maverick has invited us to dinner with him and his wife, Penny, the night after next,” he said. You nodded, letting him know that you had heard.With one last smile, Benjamin closed the door behind him.

“Benji, have you gone shopping for supplies at all, or do you send poor Natasha out to do your tasks?” you cluckled impatiently, finding nothing but a stale loaf of bread in the pantry. You had managed to collect the eggs from the chicken coop earlier that morning, and that was all that made up you and your brother’s meager breakfast.

“I haven’t the time, Scout,” he mumbled, already gathering his things for the day. “Besides, you know I’m not much of a cook.”

“How you’ve survived this long, I’ll never understand,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Benjamin looked at you with a twinkle in his eye.

“Eye rolling is not becoming of a proper young lady,” he snickered. Scowling you made to whip him with the towel you held in your hand.

“Go, before you’re late,” you hollered as he rushed out the door. Sighing, you made a mental note to teach him at least some of the basics in the upcoming days. Turning, you marchd back into the pantry and looked at the empty shelves disdainfully with hand on your hips.

“Honestly,” you muttered, exasperated at how incompetent your brother seemed at doing the most basic of things. You made a list of things you would need in the upcoming days, and walked out to take another look at the house. As much as your brother could fumble on the small things, he did have an eye for home decor. There were very few pieces of furniture you wanted to move around across the whole house, and you made another mental note to let Benjamin know that evening when he returned.

Walking out the front door with a basket in hand for your supplies, your eyes were drawn to a small patch of the front yard that had been fenced off. How you hadn’t noticed it the night before was beyond you, and you chose to chalk it up to fatigue from your journey. You walked over and saw several gardening tools scattered along the ground. You realized this must have been the garden Benjamin had mentioned yesterday to you in his excitement.You added seeds to your list of supplies for the day.

You turned away from the garden and made sure to latch the gate to your front yard securely before strolling down the path into town.

Today was much like yesterday had been. People walking up and down the streets, shouting at one another in greeting, and children still running about. You wondered why they weren’t in school at this time of day. You resolved yourself to asking Maverick about it the next evening at dinner. Turning down on to the main street, you stepped onto the porch of the general store. Across the street at the saloon, you saw a group of men gathered by the enterance. One of them turned and saw you, and you supressed an eye roll when he lout out a long whistle.

“Hey there, darlin’!” he called out to you. He was handsome, you’d give him that. His dark skin glowed in the sunlight and you could make out his white smile from across the road. Strong muscles were hidden by his simple, white cotton shirt and beige wool pants. A hat covered his short, dark hair. Choosing to ignore the stranger, and by extension his four companions who had turned to look your way, you walked into the general store. the owner greeted you as you stepped into the spacious room that housed a multitude of goods from different places.

“Howdy, miss!” He chirped, leaning against the counter with a smile. He was older, dark skin weathered. “Haven’t seen you ‘round these parts before. The name’s Hondo.”

You returned his smile warmly. “A pleasure, Hondo. My name is y/n. My brother is Benjamin, perhaps you know him? He runs the firm just down the road.”

“Ah, yes!” He chuckled. “The lawyer from Baltimore. Well, miss, you’re in luck! I’ve just gotten back from Independence with new goods and wears! If you’re looking more in the ways of sugar and molasses, i’m afraid you’ll have to wait until my partner, Joel, arrives back in town. Should be any day now, in fact.”

“I see, and what is that you have today?” You inquired, taking in the multitudes of crates still scattered around the counter.

“Let’s see,” Hondo thought. “I got some salt and some fine new tools from St.Louis. I also managed to trade for some fresh produce down by Independence.”

“That sounds lovely,” you smiled as Hondo began showing you his wears.

You spent about a half hour picking out the best produce Hondo had to offer, making plans to return when his partner made it back into town.

“Hondo, I don’t suppose you have anything in the way of cooking wine?” You asked, placing your new wears into your basket. Hondo grimaced with a shake of his head.

“'Fraid not, miss.” He sighed, looking out past his door towards the tavern. “But Miss Penny should have somethin’ for you to use.”

“Maverick’s wife?” You asked, unable to keep the surprise out of your voice. Hondo nodded, a look if worry on his face.

“Penny runs the saloon here in town. Normally, I wouldn’t even suggest you go ‘round that place without someone accompanyin’ you, but everyone here knows not to mess with Miss Penny. You should be safe while she’s there.”

You handed Hondo the money you owed him, and gave him a grateful smile. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Just be careful who you talk to when you’re over there, ya hear?” He called after you as you moved to leave. “A lot of real unsavory types like to prey on pretty, littke things like you!”

“I will!” You called over your shoulder. You looked across the street to see the group of men from earlier had migrated down the porch over to, you assumed, their horses. Making sure they were safely distracted, you hurried your way across the road. Trotting up the steps, you made it to the door just as the group turned around to see you. Before they could say anything, however, you marched confidently into the saloon.

You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as you had thought, considering Hondo’s warning. The enterior looked a tad run down, but you supposed it had been in business for a while. It was clear that it was a beauty back in its debut. A piano was shoved against the far wall and several tables were scattered across the room with a few patrons nursing different liquids. A woman came out of a back room and spotted you. She was one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen. Dark hair framed a slender face, and bright eyes looked at you with a maternal warmth you hadn’t seen in quite a while.

“Hey there, sweetheart!” She called to you. “What is it that I can getcha?”

“Hi,” you smiled, walking closer to the counter where she leaned. You could feel the stares from the other patrons on your back, and you couldn’t help but stiffen.

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” she started, casting a stern look across the room. “No one here’ll mess with you while I’m here. Name’s Penny.”

You held out your hand when you were close enough to the bar to reach her. “I’m y/n. It’s a pleasure.”

“You must be Benjamin’s sister. You two look so much alike, I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner,” she laughed, the lines on her face crinkling. You couldn’t help but wonder if you would look as beautiful as she did when you were her age. She took your hand and gave it a tight squeeze.

“We get that quite a bit, actually,” you chuckled, dropping your hand back down to your side.

Penny’s smile grew wider. “So, how can I help you today?”

“I’m looking for some cooking wine. Hondo mentioned you might be able to help me find some.”

“Cooking wine, huh?” She chewed her lip thoughtfully. After a moment, she nodded, turning to head back into the back room. “Yeah, I think I just got some new bottles in, actually.”

You waited while she disappeared through the door. You heard the group of men outside on the porch, and it sounded like they had moved back towards the entrance. You let out a heavy sigh, realizing that you wouldn’t be able to avoid them forever. You took a closer look at the saloon. A set of stairs led up to a second floor that must double as an inn of sorts. Your brother had told you that's where he stayed while your home was being built.

“The townsfolk here are all kind as saints here, Scout,” he had written to you in one of his many letters. He hadn’t been wrong, well, save for one person. You frowned at the memory of the tall blond and his debonair smile. The outlaw probably wooed many girls with those good looks and charming words. You would not be fooled.

At that moment, Penny appeared back around the corner with two bottles of wine and another warm smile. You took the bottles from her gratefully, and slipped them into your basket.

“How much do I owe you?” you ask, but Penny shakes her head.

“No charge,” she says. “Call it a ‘welcome to town’ gift.”

“Thank you,” you respond. You hear the group outside laugh, and you can’t stop the slight frown from etching itself onto your face. Penny notices, and offered a sympathetic smile.

“Those boys may be loud and rowdy,” she begins, “but they’re harmless. I promise. Just walk out of here with your head held high, and if they start to give you trouble, you call for me. I’ll knock their heads together.”

You nodded your head. You made your way back to the swinging doors, but stopped just shy. You willed your nerves to settle, and straightening your shoulders, you marched as confidently as you could out of the saloon.

The men were all gathered around the steps, and their conversation stopped when you stepped out. You could see them all more clearly now, and to your dismay, they were all unfairly handsome.

“Hey there again, darlin’,” grinned the man from before. He leaned in closer to you with grin. “Name’s Javy. What’s yours?”

“Coyote, you asshole,” snapped the man to his left. “Tell her our names, too!”

Javy—Coyote—rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that you didn’t catch.

“These here are my compadres, Bradley, Bob, Mickey, and Reuben,” he said, gesturing to each man as he said their name. He turned back to you with a smirk. “Now what about yours?”

At that moment, the saloon doors swung open, and a familiar blond strolled out with a hard set look on his face. His eyes darted from the group of men before you down to yours, and his grumpy expression melted into a lascivious smirk.

“Did you get it?” Asked the man off to your right, Bradley. Jake spared him a glance before returning his eyes to you.

“‘Course I did, Rooster,” he replied, walking closer to you. You gripped your basket harder and fixed him with a glare. “Fancy seeing you here, Scout.”

Rooster? You realized now that the Dagger Posse is who stood before you, and you suddenly found yourself feeling weary.

“Mr. Seresin,” you replied curtly, turning his smirk into a full blown grin.

“C’mon now, Scout. I thought we decided you’d call me Jake?”

“I don’t recall that being how the conversation went,” you sniffed. Navy cleared his throat from where he stood from behind you. You both looked over to find him and the rest of the squad grinning. Well, Bradley was smirking. The others were grinning.

“Is this the little spitfire you were goin’ on and and on about last night, Hangman?” Bradley-Rooster-asked, humor evident in his voice. You glanced over at Jake who had a dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. Ignoring his friends, he looked back at you, some of his bravado returning.

“Ignore my friends,” he said, smile returning. “They don't know when to shut up.”

You hummed, “I could say the same thing about you.”

You heard a couple of snickers from behind you, and Jake cast a glare over your shoulder. Looking back at you, he continued, “Now, sugar. That wasn’t very nice. I’ve been plenty nice to you.”

You let out a noise of derision. “You and I must have very different definitions of the word ‘nice,’ Mr. Seresin.”

“If you let me,” he smirked, leaning closer so that his breath fanned over your face. Your eyes widened and your heart stopped for a brief moment at his proximity. “I could show you all the ways I can be nice.”

You didn’t respond for a moment, lost in the emeralds of his eyes. Blinking, you murmured, “Not a chance.”

You turned to the group behind you, offering them a tight lipped smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you all.”

“I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the near future, sweetheart,” grinned Javy.

“Yes, well,” you smiled politely, “let’s hope not.”

You pushed past them and began making your way down the road. A hand gripped your elbow, spinning you back around so that you crashed into a solid chest of muscle. Looking up, stunned, you were once again in close proximity of Jake Seresin.

“Let me give you a ride home,” he offered, gesturing back at Whiskey. You shook your head, placing a hand on his chest to try and put some kind of barrier between the two of you. Jake took your hand in his, squeezing it tight.

“That's not necessary,” you breathed. “I live just down the road.”

“Then let me walk you,” he pushed.

“Down the street?” You snorted. Jake grinned, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.

“A lot could happen between now and when you get home.”

“Goodbye, Jake,” you said with a pointed look, pulling away from him. You tried not to frown at how cold you felt without his presence next to you. You turned to walk away.

“I’ll wear you down one day, sugar! You’ll be in love with me before you know it,” He calls after you. You stop in your tracks, whirling around to fix him with your iciest glare.

“I am not something to be conquered,” you hissed. Jake stared at you for a long minute, a different kind of smile creeped onto his face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said this one was almost…affectionate.

“I don’t expect you to be,” he said finally, giving you a two finger salute. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Scout.”

#jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #hangman x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x you #top gun hangman #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman top gun #hangman x you #jake hangman x you #jake hangman x reader #top gun x reader #top gun fanfiction #dhtn #mine

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londonfoginacup · 1 year

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A New Larrie’s Guide to Tumblr

A probably incomprehensible, certainly incomplete list of what you need to know; whether you’re coming from a different platform or discovering Larry for the first time.

My credentials

Hello! I’m Emmu. I’ve had tumblr since… 2008? Maybe 2009. I moved over from deviantArt and used Tumblr as a personal art blog for many years. I joined the One Direction fandom in 2014, so my 1D blog has 8+ years at this point. That being said, I will get on my soapbox a bit during this. Please excuse me, I’m quite passionate about cultivating a happy and healthy fandom.

What makes Tumblr different

The biggest thing that makes Tumblr, as a site, different from Twitter or Instagram is the rejection of algorithms. The “following” tab on your dashboard is in chronological order (and if it isn’t, you can – and should – change that), and the “for you” tab is both a recent feature and rarely used. Tumblr has very little algorithm, and the algorithm they have isn’t very good. It means that you’ll get the most god awful ads you’ve ever seen on this site, because they don’t utilize your data well. And that’s to your advantage.

Tumblr is a great place because you can curate what you see more than other social media. The people that you choose to follow are the only people that you see on your dash (unless you choose to follow tags, which I guess is an option? @lululawrence says “it is and it used to not do anything unless you went to the search page and then it would like autofill your followed tags options, but NOW they take those followed tags and plop them on your dash... SOMETIMES. usually only on mobile. but if there's only one new post in the tag, it shows you that post OVER. AND OVER. AND OVER AGAIN. IT'S SUPER ANNOYING ACTUALLY. SO I STOPPED FOLLOWING TAGS. lol anyway”).

So, the site is in chronological order. This is its biggest selling point.

There is also the opportunity for long posts. Masterposts. Things that are searchable without having to read through pages of screenshots or condensed twitter threads. You can write a whole lot more without worrying about character limit. People publish whole fics on here (I suggest ao3 for that, but tumblr is technically an option!).

Another important thing to know about tumblr is that the archives on tumblr run deep. There are newer larries here, and a lot of them, but you can also find older larries. People whose 1D blogs go back to 2010 or 2011. You can dive into the archives and read firsthand accounts of what was happening with One Direction or larry at that very time. Doing a bit of research means you find cute fetus pictures of the boys, but also you’re able to figure out for yourself whether something actually happened. Rumors always seem to spread quite easily and fandom memory always seems impossibly short, but here on tumblr you’re able to find out for yourself. That means the next time you hear about how xyz thing happened a long time ago, check out some of those archives and see what you can find.

Also, my personal favorite part of tumblr is that old posts are just as valid as new posts. Find a masterpost about RBB and SBB from 2015? Go ahead and reblog that; bring it back to the circulating dash. People will love that. Find a fanartist that you really like? Search through their tags, reblog anything you want. It’s not considered stalking or weird in any way. We love bringing back old posts here. Tumblr is a website where you’re not meant to just talk about the present.

The cultural difference between Tumblr and Twitter

Speaking of the ways that tumblr and twitter are different, let’s talk for a moment about the 1D fandom in particular.

I’ve held this theory for a while that the twitter (and instagram) algorithm is fracturing the fandom. Because twitter is so dependent on the algorithm, people are more likely to split apart and join smaller and smaller communities based on smaller, more specific opinions. Tumblr, being a place where you don’t just get a post on your dash because someone else liked it, doesn’t have those smaller cliques. There are larries, and there are antis.

(if you get really in the weeds, there are also larry shippers [who don’t believe they’re together but like to read it in fic], and houis [who think they were together but broke up], but I just don’t hear about them as much).

While I do occasionally hear about blouies on my dash, for the most part this is a culture that exists primarily on other sites.

On another note, because tumblr doesn’t have that handy algorithm, we have to work to make it a more active space. Likes don’t do anything here for anyone other than you, and it doesn’t really change anything about what you’ll see on your dash. Think of them more like the bookmark setting on twitter or instagram. Reblogs are necessary to get anything spread. Anything that you enjoy, or that looks interesting for any reason? Reblog it! That’s the only way other people will see it! And leave a happy comment in the tags if you’ve got one (more on that later).

And, while lurkers do exist in this fandom (and we love them), it’s important to get an icon and blog header that make you look like a real person. People on tumblr have long been in the habit of blocking shady blogs, mostly because of a bot problem, so if you want to lurk, you have to look like a lurker. Maybe reblog a post or two to establish yourself, and make sure you don’t accidentally look like an icon-less bot posing as a sugar daddy.

How to set up your account

Okay, so you’ve got a tumblr. Let’s take a minute to fix up the settings so that you’re not getting, well, the worst version of the site.

My advice is to start by going into your dashboard preferences and:

Turn off the best stuff first (it’ll just show you things you’ve already seen)

Turn off “include stuff in your orbit” (you’ll see terrible posts that are mostly NOT in your orbit)

Turn off “Included based on your likes” (again, you’ll see posts you hate)

Turn off “shorten long posts”. It’s a ridiculous setting that, like many things on tumblr, had potential but was rolled out in an incredibly unhelpful and user unfriendly way.

Once you’ve got that squared away, go into filtering and block any tags and content you don’t like, as that is always proper fandom etiquette. Not seeing things you don’t like is your responsibility, not the responsibility of the person posting them. I personally suggest adding the topics you don’t want to see to both the content list and the filtered tags list, as that gives a much better likelihood of posts that are particularly unsavory for you getting caught by the filters. Please also note this might need to be done on both desktop and the app separately as, depending on where tumblr is at the moment, these filters do not always carry over from one application to the other.

Now scroll down to tumblr labs. These are their experimental things. Some are good! Some are very bad. They do change, though, so this might get out of date pretty fast.

Personally, I enabled fast queue

And disabled everything else

ALSO, an important note, if you are using the apple app, you need to go in and turn off the adult content filter. No idea offhand where that is, but it means posts that include tags like “mine” and “girl” are blocked. It’s ridiculous.

Who to follow and how to find them

So, you’ve got a new tumblr and need people to follow. This makes sense! To really fill up your dash, I’d suggest the following

Find one person you like. There’s a good chance you know at least someone from twitter who also has a tumblr, so you can start there. If you’re not from twitter, or are looking to start fresh, you can dive into the search function (I’ve never tried finding someone this way myself, but searching larry stylinson or something similar would probably get you started)

Find the people they reblog from and check out each of their blogs! Follow people that make you happy

Follow some update accounts! Thinking of some off the top of my head, there’s @HLUpdate, @Stylesnews, @dailytomlinson, @HLDailyUpdate, or @neilswaterbottles (there’s definitely more though).

Follow some fanart or fic rec accounts!

I’d always suggest @1d-fanart or @hlcreators for art.

For fic, you could check out @hlficlibrary, @ficsyoumayhavemissed, or @thelarriefics.

Or, recurring fic fests! @onedirectionbigbang or @wordplayfics, which happen every year.

And if you end up not enjoying someone you’ve followed? Unfollow them! It’ll make you happier.

How to interact with posts

Tumblr is all about tags. Do you have a comment or thought? Reblog a post and say your thought in the tags. That way anyone you follow will see it, and the person who made the post will see it. This way a post doesn’t end up with a lot of cluttery additions that don’t mean a lot to the average person reblogging it, but if you browse the tags of posts you’ll find lots of interesting things. Tags can be used to keep track of things, too, of course — some people tag all pictures with who’s in them, or tag art or fic with tags that mean they can find them again. Tags are versatile! But reblog, don’t just like, and tag! The more you interact, the happier content creators are!

What not to do

Don’t repost. If you see something you like on tumblr, reblog it. Even if it’s a really old piece of fanart (like circa 2011). Reblog that old post! Reposting means people don’t get credit, and it doesn’t link back to them. That’s not cool, and in the long term makes fandom less happy.

How to cultivate a happy and healthy fandom

Send happy anons! Ask how people are doing, do question memes, say how much you loved fic/art/edits, etc.

Reblog art. Reblog fic. Reblog what makes you laugh. The more you reblog, the more other people see, the more the fandom moves! Content creators just want their things seen; every time you reblog, their phone gets that little notification and you’ve given someone a bit of happiness.

Unfollow people who annoy you. Follow people who make you happy!

If someone has a take about 1D that you don’t agree with, don’t tell them or send them argumentative anons. Find people who will agree with you, and complain to them privately. Or make your own post, not shading anyone, just presenting your own opinion and theories!

Remember that everyone is a real person. Cut them some slack when you find them being annoying. But also, unfollow. Curate your dash.

#I made this like #in the spring? or summer #and then felt like it was too pretentious to post lmao #anyway maybe this will help someone!#foggy essays #that's a tag that WILL have more in it eventually #once i write my essay about Carolina #...which i was supposed to do back when it first came out lmao

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pixelatedraindrops · 2 months

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Hello everyone!! Today I grow a year older :3 (and I hate it lmao) FEEL FREE TO REPLY BIRTHDAY WISHES IF YOU WANT :3

So, over the time I've come back here, I've become pretty confident and proud of my once hidden passion about sick characters, sickfics and sick comfort/whump... 🌡️

And you all have been so supportive and sweet despite my weirdness so I thank you for that. You helped me feel more confident in my otherwise weird fixation <3 So, for my birthday I thought I'd try and make up a little drawing challenge for anyone who wants to give it a try... There are soo many talented artists on this site (and in this fandom)

So... It's your turn to target your faves now. You will see how fun it is and hopefully understand why I love doing it so much. 😈🌡️

(plus it's my birthday and I require some sustenance LMAO JKJK)

But yeah anyone can join in. This is just for fun though! You don't have to if you don't want to! I think its okay to ask for some food on my birthday though...right?? X'D So if you wanna do sth for my birthday...then... 👉👈 💦

CHALLENGE BELOW~

DRAW YOUR FAVE ON A SICK DAY CHALLENGE🌡️😷🥵🤧

~~~~

(Mmmmkay, I am lying to myself when I say this isn't mostly aimed at the RainCode community... X'D Can't help myself. But anyone can join regardless of the fandom!!)

So here's the challenge and the rules!! (featuring my two main lil targets ofc :3)

Regardless of who it is, put your fave through some sickness hell >:3c I'd love to see it! Make em' as miserable as you want!

destroy them 😈 jkjk XD

If you're in the RainCode community you can target anyone, but as you know, my main targets are Yuma and Makoto. If they're also your faves and who you decide to use, that will make me extra happy!

Some tips for anyone new to drawing a sick day scenario art. A few things that make it look convincing are the following:

Pajamas or Loungewear

Messy Bed Hair

Fever flushed face w sweat or at least a red nose

Tired Eye bags

Shivery body

Ice Pack or a Compress on the head

Thermometer sticking from their mouth

LOTS OF BLANKETS

Tissues or medicine surrounding them

Tea or Soup (or both)

Those are just to name some from the top of my head. If you'd like some pointers on how to make a character look ill, check out my Fever Coloring Guide. This is for digital artists but traditional artists can try it too!

You can add injury or angst to the scene but I'd like illness to be the main focus of it.

The scene can be anything you want to, it can be fluffy and wholesome (with a caretaker) it can be angsty, or it can be silly. Its all up to you! Do it for the sake of fluff! Caretaking scenes are the best for any kind of relationship >w<

Either way, have fun with it!! I look forward to see what people make if they decide to give it a try! It doesn't even have to be a full on picture! Doodles and sketches are fine too! Just show me something >w<

(feel free to tag me and say happy b-day and mention my challenge, I am proud to be known for this and would love for many to participate :3) I wanna see you take a go at it :3 Show me your style! :D

~~~

(wow look at me misspelling the word writing on text when I did it fine with my own hands lol)

Now, I know not everyone can draw...

Well never fear! I accept writing as well! ✍️✍️✍️

(hi vivia lol sorry for giving you a cold, at least you have an excuse to read and do nothing now haha x3)

Sickfics are one of the biggest things I live for! Any little drabbles or full fics with more than one chapter are welcome! Again target who you want any fandom you want, but I'll def be super happy if you make a RainCode fic. And even happier if you target my faves as well, but again, anything will do! Just make a cute story about your fave being miserable and being tended to! Trust me, it's super fun!

You can add injury or angst to the scene but I'd like illness to be the main focus of it.

Feel free to post your writing here and tag me or mention my AO3!

If you need a start to your fic, look on my blog for illness prompts! Maybe it can help give you a good start or give some inspiration! (thats why I share 'em :3)

I look forward to anything you try to write!

That's about all!! I hope you decide to participate! ✨

Good luck, have fun, and godspeed you future whumpers! 😈

(nah jk XD)

AGAIN THIS IS FOR FUN! NO PRRSSURE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO!

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starqueensthings · 11 months

Text

Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)

AO3 | Next Chapter

Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.

A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️

A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.

The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.

In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.

The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.

Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.

The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.

‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’

The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.

“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.

Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.

“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.

“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.

“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”

“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.

“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.

“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”

“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”

The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”

The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.

“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”

Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.

“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”

He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.

Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.

“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”

He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.

The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.

Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.

“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”

Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.

“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”

His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.

The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”

Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”

You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”

His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.

“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”

You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”

Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”

“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”

“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”

“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”

***

The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.

A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.

If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.

A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.

‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.

Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.

He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.

“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.

“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”

The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.

“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.

“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”

“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.

“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.

“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”

The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.

The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”

Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.

“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”

It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.

“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.

“Indeed,” he breathed.

His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.

‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.

“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.

“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”

An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.

“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.

“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”

“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”

“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.

The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”

He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”

“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”

“That is obvious.”

The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.

“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”

“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”

“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”

Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.

“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”

His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.

It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.

The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.

“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”

So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.

Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”

“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”

The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.

“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.

Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.

You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he’d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.

“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.

“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”

He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.

The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.

“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”

“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”

His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”

He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”

He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.

#the bad batch #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #tech x you #starqueenswrittenworks #starqueensedits

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havecourage-darling · 2 years

Text

Lucky Number Seven

blue-serendipity asked: Hello you :) To say i fell in love with the way you write Eddie is a total understatement! Idk if you have your requests open but i thought to just try my luck. Was thinking of Eddie X Reader where the reader has similar powers to Eleven and knows the whole Hawkins gang from before Season 4 ? She (or GN Reader) is also quite Eddie's age, maybe 1-2 y older. If you ever have time for this, you would make a tiny fan from far away mega happy! Anyhow, lots of love and can'T wait for more stories^^

A/N: You might have been looking for something a little more romantic lol but I already had most of this written and on the backburner while finishing the Firsts series. It's barely proof read so excuse any inconsistencies or typos. Additionally, I had a POC reader in mind when writing this, but should read easily. Hope you like it! xo

(also, if anyone has any burning requests...I'm happy to try my hand at any!)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female Adopted!Hopper Reader

wc: ~6.8k

warnings: cursing, S4 V1 spoilers

Masterlist || AO3 link

You knew you should’ve gone to California with your sister.

Hawkins was never going to let you out of its grip. Eleven knew that, Joyce knew that, that’s why they left this haunted town. But now it was too late. You were here and you were the only thing left that could help your friends. Your family. You were a Hopper now. Hoppers didn’t run from danger.

“I’m setting up base of operations here,” Dustin said, and you glared at him.

“I spent all morning organizing those tapes,” you said. Dustin waved a hand, your usually affective glare never worked on him. From the moment you’d met him when he’d found you and Eleven in the woods, he’d never been afraid.

“I need to find Eddie’s friends phone numbers,” Dustin said to Steve.

You glanced at Robin who shrugged and sighed as she picked up the tapes he’d knocked over. Eddie? Who was Eddie?

“Your new best friend who you think is cooler because he plays your nerdy game?” Steve asked, his tone betraying his jealousy.

Hiding a smile, Robin bumped her elbow with yours as she handed you the tapes.

“I never said that!” Dustin argued. “Besides, Sev is the coolest out of all of you.”

Steve shot him an indignant look and you punched Steve in the shoulder. “I am cooler than all of you,” you said.

Max nodded. “That’s true, Lucky is above you all.”

“What, just because she has superpowers?” Steve hissed. “Not all of us can be that cool.”

“So, you admit, I’m cool?” You said, smiling when he shot you a look.

You don’t remember when everyone had started calling you Lucky but you think it was around the time Eleven had been shortened to El. She still called you Seven and you still called her Eleven. The ink on your wrists made sure you’d never escape it, so why bother trying?

“Saturday is our busiest day,” Robin snapped, organizing the paperwork that had gone flying.

“This cannot wait!” Dustin half shouted and you hid your grin. You would deny it, but Dustin had always been your favorite. Well, and Will – you’d already been out to visit once and the two of you had been attached at the hip. He never thought you spoke too little and he never minded when he needed to explain things you didn’t understand to you.

“Do you want to strangle him or should I?” Steve asked.

“Lucky could dangle him in the air maybe?” Robin said. “That would teach them.”

You grinned at that, imagining Dustin’s outraged expression as you lifted him into the air.

“Don’t you dare,” Dustin said, not looking away from the computer. “You shouldn’t waste energy like that.”

And like that, the smile dropped from your expression.

“Dude,” Steve hissed. “Too far.”

Max’s expression turned sympathetic and you whirled away from them. You should’ve made peace with it already – Eleven seemed to and she’d completely lost her powers. After Starcourt, and the Mind Flayer, your powers had weakened and dwindled to a fraction of what they had once been.

You’d been practicing over the winter and had gotten better. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Dustin, Mike, and Lucas had taken to holding practice in the woods by your cabin after school. Steve and Robin showed up half the time, to supervise they’d say. You knew Steve was just worried you’d be pushing yourself too far.

“Sorry,” Dustin said, finally breaking his gaze with the screen and offering up his fist. “Too far.”

Bumping his fist, you accepted his apology. “What are you two doing here anyway?”

Max and Dustin exchanged looks. Oh no. The knot in your chest tightened even further.

As you watched Dustin lead you all towards the boat house behind this stranger’s house, you felt Steve tug at your wrist.

“Are you okay?” He asked, eyes darting around the dark woods.

“I’m fine,” you said, smiling at him. Steve, Robin, and you had become a lot closer after working together at Scoops Ahoy. It was your dad that had suggested you get a job and make friends that summer. When he’d adopted you and Eleven – his ‘nieces’ – you knew the town had a harder time with you. You didn’t look like they did. You didn’t blend as easily. You didn’t fit in as well as Eleven did, which was saying something. Your friends knew it, everyone did really, and without Jim or Eleven…your friends made you feel a little less alone.

“Don’t worry, it might be nothing,” Robin said, coming up to your other side.

“Or he might be just a regular murderer!” Steve said.

Dustin whirled around and glared at you three. “He’s not a killer!”

“I don’t know him,” you clarified, and you didn’t. You had managed to take to school a lot better than Eleven and were able to graduate within two years. You hoped she was having a good time with Mike’s visit. She had been hoping that you’d visit but, you didn’t want to spend too much of the money Hopper had left you both. You wanted Eleven to go to college, to have a normal life. You could wait until she was set.

The door creaked open and you pushed Dustin and Max behind you. “Stay close,” you said to them, voice not leaving room for arguments.

“He’s not a killer,” Dustin insisted.

“I don’t care if he’s goddamn Mother Theresa, listen to her,” Steve hissed at them. Max stayed close to your side, her eyes darting across the smaller room.

You watched Steve grab an oar and begin stabbing at the boats. Dustin and Steve started squabbling and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“I know you think it’s funny but considering that everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times,” Steve said, hand on his hip, “personally, I think it’s just good sense. Besides, we’re trying to conserve her energy, remember?”

Crossing your arms, you nodded. Steve was right, in Hawkins, caution was always best.

Dustin opened his mouth when the tarp flew off the boat and a man with a broken bottle in his hand jumped towards Steve. Instinctively, you shoved Max and Robin behind you. A hand grabbed the back of your jacket tightly in their fists and your hand was already reaching for Dustin.

“Eddie! Eddie! Stop!” Dustin screamed, his hands up. “It’s me! It’s Dustin! This is Steve!”

When there was no recognition in his eyes, you lifted your hand. Eddie’s eyes went to you and Dustin’s panic elevated.

“Wait, wait, Luck – don’t. Give me a second!”

His words fell away at the sight of the glass pressed against Steve’s throat. His eyes were lit with fear and the need to protect the last of your family surged within you.

“Dustin,” you said, words pried from your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, everyone calm the fuck down!” Dustin shouted. “This is Steve, he’s not going to hurt you, right Steve?”

“Right, right,” Steve said, voice strangled.

“Steve, why don’t you drop the oar?”

At the loud sound of the oar dropping, Eddie pressed the bottle more firmly to Steve’s throat and you had had enough.

“No more,” you said, and Eddie’s eyes darted back to you. Reaching within, you grasped at the smaller, but still powerful, embers in your chest. They lit up, responsive, and you concentrated on removing the threat.

“Luck – wait – no, shit! Robin!”

Before anyone could touch you, you lifted Eddie into the air and tossed him to the other side of the room. He landed with a thud and you ran to Steve. Planting yourself in front of him, Steve’s hand came up to your back.

“Hey, I’m okay, I’m okay,” Steve murmured, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s okay. Dustin, go check on Eddie.”

Dustin scampered over to Eddie and you watched as the man in question bounced up to his feet. “What. The. Fuck. Was. That!”

“That was…um, that was,” Dustin scrambled, looking a little panicked, “I – she’s-”

You watched Eddie tremble and a faint bell rang in the back of your head. You’d seen him before – you recognized him. He sat at the loud table at school – Nancy had pointed him out to you a few times when he was shouting in the cafeteria. His usual smug look was gone and he looked…scared, of you. You didn’t like that.

“I’m Lucky,” you said, stepping forward slowly, hands up. “I’m Chief Hopper’s daughter.”

Eddie’s brown eyes darted to you and he took a step back, stumbling into Dustin.

“She’s cool, Eddie, I swear she’s cool,” Dustin rambled, “you just scared her. She’s a little…protective.”

“She just lifted me into the fucking air man,” Eddie’s voice shook.

Chewing on your cheek, you knew there was no way to talk yourselves out of that one.

“How about we all explain what we know…you first…” Robin said, walking slowly to them, “we just want to know what happened.”

“You won’t believe me,” Eddie said, eyes still on you. Tilting your head, you realized he looked panicked but not scared of you, not anymore. That was new. Everyone always looked a little scared of you – both of you – at first.

“Try us,” Max said.

“You’re gonna scare him,” you said to Dustin, tone unapproving.

“Why would I scare him?” Dustin asked, forging ahead with the bags in his hands. You narrowed your eyes and Robin huffed a laugh.

“Scaring people is not nice,” you said to Steve who nodded solemnly. You elbowed him and he cracked a smile.

“It’s fun,” Robin said, watching as Dustin kicked the door open and Eddie’s loud Jesus Christ made Steve laugh.

Walking in after them, you felt a little apologetic when handing Eddie the cereal you’d picked out. Instead of mistrust, you saw his eyes light up as he reached for it eagerly. Your hands brushed as he took it from you, both of you freezing at the contact. His eyes met yours and you furrowed your brows. What was that? Why did that feel like you’d been shocked?

Trying to look normal, like always, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and moved towards Steve. You watched his face fall as Dustin explained to him what you’d all figured out.

“Hunt the freak right?” Eddie said, voice angry.

“You’re not a freak,” you said, despite not really knowing much about him. You didn’t like that word. Everyone looked over at you, surprised, and you shied away into Steve’s shoulder. Eddie’s mouth curved up before turning back to Dustin.

“We are down a few members,” Steve admitted, scratching at his face, his other arm coming around you. “We usually rely on El and Luck, to be fair.”

Dustin nodded.

“Who’s El?” Eddie asked, eyes darting between you all.

“My sister,” you said, your fingers dancing across the numbers on your wrist. “She’s my sister.”

Eddie’s brows raised. “And does she have the force also?”

“I don’t get that one,” you whispered to Steve who smiled almost instantly. You turned to Dustin who sighed.

“Star Wars, remember, I showed you the movies?”

You shook your head and turned to Eddie. “I don’t know a lot of things,” you said, clarifying. Eleven always felt embarrassed by both of your lack of knowledge – she had thrown herself into magazines and Max had helped her along the way. You, however, didn’t mind so much. Usually someone was happy to explain it to you.

“What she means is, she doesn’t know pop culture,” Steve said, looking a little defensive at Eddie’s snort. “She’s not dumb. She graduated with a 3.5 GPA,” he said, looking proud and you smiled. Nancy had practically lived at your house – tutoring you.

Dustin sighed. “The point is, yes, they both have the force.”

“That’s cool,” Eddie said, eyes still on you. Usually, it made you uncomfortable when people stared – and they always did. His was okay. It felt…nice? “Where exactly did they get the force from?”

“We went over this yesterday,” Robin reminded him.

“They were experimented on, in the lab, remember?” Dustin said quietly.

You didn’t know why everyone felt so weird about it. Whether bad or good, it was still the truth. Eleven and you had come to the conclusion that it made people uncomfortable to think of what you’d both gone through. They weren’t necessarily bad memories, not all of them.

Eddie’s eyes traveled up to yours and you smiled, trying to seem less intimidating. His returning grin was wide, and made your stomach flip.

You all heard the sirens at the same time and whirled into action.

“Tarp, tarp!”

Darting to the window, you saw the patrol cars zoom past Rick’s house.

“They’re going somewhere in a hurry,” Steve said, already reaching for his keys.

“Let’s follow them,” Max said, grabbing her backpack. You walked back to the boat, slowly peeling back the tarp and nodded down at Eddie.

“They’re not coming here,” you said quietly, giving him room to sit up. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His eyes darkened, his hands clutching at the cereal box. “Thanks, Hopper.”

You smiled at the sound of your last name. It still never ceased to bring you a bittersweet feeling. If you lived long enough, you wanted to do something good with your life. So his name would still live on. Lucas once said you’d make a good lawyer.

“Luck, let’s go,” Max said, beckoning your forward. You glanced at Eddie before shaking your head.

“You guys go check it out and come back for me, okay? I’ll stay here with Eddie.” Robin and Max nodded, both of them already heading out for the car. Dustin hesitated at the door, eyes tracking you both.

Steve, however, protested. “Absolutely not, what if someone comes by?” Steve said, hands on his hips.

“That’s why I’ll be here,” you said, looking up at him. “To keep him safe.”

“I meant for you,” Steve said, hand coming up to your shoulder, “you don’t have as much juice anymore. What if someone sees you with him? You’ll be added onto their list. It’s too risky – no offense Munson.”

“None taken!”

Steve’s worry felt familiar, he always worried for you. Dustin usually did too – a little more subtly than Steve.

“I killed a demogorgon,” you reminded him, “I helped close the gate. No one is scarier than the Mind Flayer. I’ll be okay. I’ll have the radio. You can call me if you’re worried.”

“Luck-”

“Steve, she’s decided. Besides, it’ll probably be safter for both of them here. Come on,” Dustin said, shooting you a look before jogging out the door.

“I’ll be back, okay? If you need me, come find me. Seriously.”

You hugged Steve tightly and shook your head. “If you need me, let me know. I’m still the strongest one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, squeezing you. With one last glance, Steve disappeared out the door.

“You two are sweet,” Eddie’s voice was teasing. You turned around to look at him and felt confused. Steve could be sweet but he could also be annoying.

“I guess?” You said, not sure what the right answer was.

“I didn’t know you two were dating,” Eddie said, kicking his feet up onto the edge of the boat. “Didn’t keep up with Harrington when we were in school.”

“I’m not dating Steve,” you said, disgust in your voice evident. “He’s like…he’s like…” you tried to search for the right word.

“Was on the varsity basketball team? On the swim team? Everyone’s type?”

“…my brother,” you said, grinning when you found the right word, “he’s like my brother.”

Eddie’s expression stilled before laughing. “Okay, that’s not what I was expecting,” Eddie said, shaking his head.

“It’s like Jonathan and El,” you said, nodding as the words came to you. “Jonathan Byers?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Eddie said.

“Jonathan and El are like Steve and me,” you said, proud of yourself. “You know?”

“Not really,” Eddie laughed lightly again, he had a nice laugh, you thought, “but I get the gist of it.”

Smiling, you sat onto the floor, with your back against the door. “I don’t think anyone wants to date a freak,” you said, pointing at yourself.

Eddie’s brows rose. “A freak?”

“Did you think you were the only one?” You asked. “This town doesn’t like me either.”

Something flashed across Eddie’s face, too quick for you to read.

“Then they’re idiots because I already like you and you’ve thrown me across the room with your mind. I’ve only known you for like, a day.”

Flustered, you didn’t know where to look and settled on your hands. “Thanks.”

“Why did you stay?” He asked.

“What?”

“Your sister, El, she left with the Byers, right?”

You nodded.

“Why did you stay if this town is cursed?”

Robin had asked you that the day after El had left. She’d found you crying in your cabin, alone.

“Because it is cursed. This is where I was born,” you said, “this is where my dad lived. I don’t know anywhere else. El…needed to leave. The bad memories stayed with her. I don’t want to run from them, I have spent too much time running.”

“That is…incredibly insightful and sad.”

You laughed. “I’ll leave one day. Maybe New York City?”

“I’ve heard it’s pretty cool there, great music scene,” he said, coming over to sit by you. At your look, he grinned. “I can hear you better from here.”

His shoulder pressed into yours and you suppressed the smile building at the contact.

“Alright then, Hopper, let’s play twenty questions.”

“Is that…what happened to Chrissy?” You asked quietly. Your mind replayed the sound of Patrick’s bones snapping.

Your emotions were all over the place. The adrenaline was wearing off and you felt exhausted.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eddie muttered, trying to start the engine.

“Eddie!” You screamed.

“I’m trying!”

You watched Patrick and Jason’s bodies getting closer and closer. Suddenly, Patrick disappeared.

“Wait,” you said, “where’d he go? Where’d the other one go?”

Eddie turned to glance at the water and he stilled. “Oh no.”

The lights from the boathouse flickered and Eddie groaned.

“It’s happening again,” he mumbled, hand coming to your leg. Your eyes stayed on the water, ready to act, when his body was flung into the air. Surprised, you stumbled back, landing hard on your hip.

“What’s happening? Eddie, what is that!”

“Fuck it, come on,” he said, pulling you into the water. You swallowed a mouthful of water, not ready, and felt Eddie pull you towards the shore.

“I can help him!” You said, looking around for what was hurting him. “I don’t see anyone!”

“There isn’t anyone,” Eddie reminded you, “he’s in the upside down!”

Once you felt dirt beneath your feet you whirled around at the sound of breaking bones. “Eddie!”

“Don’t look, don’t look,” he insisted, pulling you to him.

Your heart broke as you heard his body hit the water.

“We have to go, Hopper – come on.”

“Hey,” Eddie said, “you’re shivering.”

You were. Your entire body was soaking wet and the night air had cooled off enough to make you feel like you were inside a freezer.

“Here,” he said, pulling his jacket over your shoulders. Eddie’s scent immediately filled your sense, the jacket chasing the chill away.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is that…what you’d dealt with before?”

Shaking your head, you closed your eyes, trying to forget the sight. “No…I could always fight something before. This time…it was invisible. I’ve never been helpless like that.”

“Hey, you couldn’t have helped,” Eddie said, sitting down next to you, “nothing could’ve helped him.”

You frowned, shaking your head, and feeling despair in every atom of your body. Leaning into his warmth, you couldn’t help but tuck your face into his chest. His arms came around you, one hand rubbing your back.

“You did everything you could,” he said, stern. “This is not your fault. You’re not fucking invincible. You’re not a superhero.”

Shoulders dropping a little, Eddie pulled you into the space between his legs. You glanced up at him, surprised, and he smiled. “Trust me?”

You nodded without hesitation and he huffed a laugh.

“Lean back,” he instructed. You pressed your back to his chest and he laid his head against the rock behind him. “I’ll take the first watch, try to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” you protested, “what if someone finds us?”

“Then I’ll wake you up,” he promised, “look, it’s almost – shit, my watch broke. Well, it’s probably one in the morning at this point. We’ll try to find the others the second the sun is up and we’re not fumbling blindly in the dark. You look ready to fall over. You said you trust me.”

You narrowed your gaze. “Friends don’t lie,” you told him.

“Friends don’t lie,” he echoed, pulling you back into his chest.

“Thank you,” you said, after a beat, “for pulling me to shore.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you there, you were freaking out,” he said, his breath fanned over your ear, making you shiver. “Still cold?”

“No,” you said, burrowing into the collar of his jacket. “I’m good.”

“Luck?” Steve shouted. You sat up, excited to hear your friends. You’d both barely slept as the sun rose. You’d both managed to steal a walkie from a nearby policeman and notify the others of where you were.

“Steve!” You shouted back.

Despite your eagerness, Eddie planted himself between you and the direction of the footsteps.

“It’s them,” you told him, placing a hand on his arm.

“I know,” he said, still suspicious. His expression caused your stomach to flip. You could break someone’s arm without much strain and he was worried about you.

Within seconds, you saw Dustin’s relieved face. “Here they are!”

“Holy shit, I was fucking worried,” Steve said, running towards you and all but swinging you in the air. “What happened?”

Eddie launched into the explanation, words frantic and fast.

“When we got to shore, we tried to call you guys but the walkie was dead man,” Eddie took the water canister from Dustin and opened it. Handing it to you gently, you felt his eyes on you as you drank from it. With shaking hands, you handed it back to him. He eyed you a bit before taking a sip.

Pulling Eddie’s leather jacket around you tightly, you shivered. You’d never seen anything like that…the way his body had snapped. Eleven mentioned it once, a long, long time ago when you were both a lot younger. You’d been taken out the lab for a test in a town over after…after Eight had escaped Papa wanted to test your powers – to see if he could control them easier.

When you’d come back, everyone was gone. Everyone except Eleven. Papa told you not to ask any questions and that it was important you stayed safe. He kept you and Eleven closer after that.

“That wasn’t normal,” you said to them, “what happened to that boy…that was…that-”

Eddie pulled you into his arms and you fought off the memories that flooded your mind. You weren’t in the lab anymore. Papa was dead. He couldn’t hurt you. El was safe. You were safe. It was okay.

“We’re good, okay?” Eddie said quietly. “We’re okay.”

Taking a deep breath, the way Hopper had taught you, you counted up to ten.

One, two, three, four…

After a few deep breaths, you stood up again. Shaking your arms out you nodded to your worried friends. “I’m okay – I’m okay now.”

You half-heartedly listened to them talk about how to kill Vecna and what your next move should be while you kept an eye on the trees around you.

“Wait, maybe…we sneak into his lair and she can end him, right?” Lucas said, motioning to you.

Wanting to feel useful, you nodded. “I can help, when do we go? How do I get to him? Maybe the house?” You wanted this threat gone. Nothing could come over to this world – not after it had threatened Max. If it got Hawkins and El found out – she’d come home. If she came home, she’d be in danger. You couldn’t risk her. Not any one of your friends.

“No!” Steve and Eddie said at the same time.

Everyone looked to the two of them with varying degrees of surprise.

“Why not?” You asked, crossing your arms. “I’m the best option.”

“Well, for one, you and El never fought separately. You usually used both your powers,” Steve said.

“And it’s too dangerous,” Eddie added.

“Your powers aren’t what they used to be,” Max said.

You frowned and motioned to where you were standing. “Look around, there’s nothing else coming to help us. We don’t have any other options. It has to be me.”

“No,” Eddie said again, standing up and crossing over to you. “You haven’t slept in days, you barely ate anything, and you swallowed like a liter of lake water when we swam out the lake. It’s too risky.”

Exasperated, you turned to Steve who shook his head. “I’m with Munson on this.”

“Dustin!” You shouted, wanting back up. He ignored your cry and raised his arm.

“Boom! Bada, bada, boom. I was right!”

“No way,” you said, stepping forward to keep Dustin from getting on. “You stay with Max and Lucas. Keep them safe.”

“What! That’s not fair, it’s my goddamn theory,” Dustin complained.

“You heard her,” Robin said, hand reaching for his compass.

“Who put her in charge?” Dustin said.

“I did,” Robin said.

You crossed your arms. “Plus, I’m the strongest,” you said again, “do I need to remind you guys how many times I’ve saved your asses?”

Eddie snorted, sitting down and grabbing an oar.

Steve pushed the boat off into the water and climbed in at the last second. “Hey!” Dustin screeched.

“Holy shit, can he get any louder?” Robin groaned as she pulled the oar.

Eddie smiled at you, brows raised and you rolled your eyes – hiding your smile as you turned around. How had you spent the last twenty-four hours with a practical stranger and now you felt connected to him in a way you’d never felt before. The way his eyes stayed on you made you wonder if he felt it too.

The boat reached the middle of the lake quickly and Robin pulled you all to a stop. Glancing at the compass, you realized you must be on top of it now. Without a word, Steve started to pull at his shoes and you straightened.

“Steve, what are you doing?”

“It has to be me,” he said.

“Absolutely not,” you said, standing up, “I’ll go.”

“You barely know how to swim,” Steve said.

“You taught me!”

“Yeah, barely,” he snorted, “you almost drowned us both at the pool last summer. Remember?”

“I did not,” you huffed, “what if there’s something down there?”

“Luck, Steve’s got this,” Robin said, tugging you.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, dragging out the word, “I vote for Harrington.”

“Of course, you do,” Steve said, snorting. “At least I know you’ll try to keep her safe.”

Confused, you tried to argue when you realized Eddie was turning red. Annoyed, you crossed your arms and sat with your back to Steve until he tossed his shirt at your head.

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be right back,” Steve said, hand squeezing your bicep as you scowled. Without another word, he bent his knees and dove into the water.

Eddie’s hands came up to you as the boat wobbled precariously. “He’ll be fine,” he said, plucking a cigarette into his mouth.

“Gross,” Robin said, grabbing it from his mouth and snapping in half.

“Hey!”

“She hates it,” Robin said, nodding at you. You had. Hopper had quit a few months into you living with him. The smell always reminded you of the bad man with the electric stick. Eddie immediately dropped the pack onto the boat. Eyes on the water, you tried to ignore them both.

“Nancy,” you said, practically ready to dive in after him.

“One minute,” she said, peering over the edge with you.

“Everyone calm the hell down, he’s fine,” Eddie said, hand gripping your – his – jacket so you wouldn’t fall in.

A second later, Steve gasped and splashed water on the other side. Almost tipping the boat in your rush, you placed your hand over his. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I found it, I found the gate,” he said, gulping air down. “It’s more a snack size gate than a mama gate but still, it’s pretty damn big.”

Your chest tightened. Not again. You’d closed the gate, hadn’t you? You and El? And Hopper. After Starcourt this was all suppose to be over. That was the reward after the price you paid. This was over.

Pulled from your memory, you watched Steve get pulled under again. Your grip on his hand had him surge up. Confused, you both looked at each other before he was ripped from your grasp.

“Steve!” You screamed, panicking.

“What the hell was that?” Eddie shouted.

Robin and Nancy shifted, rocking the boat precariously. Your mind was running a million miles a minute and you knew Steve didn’t have much. Whatever pulled him under was probably pulling him through the gate.

Without thinking twice, you stood and felt a hand wrap tighter around your jacket. “No, you can’t – you can’t go in there.”

“Stay here,” you said, slipping out the jacket - and his grasp - and dove into the cold water. Kicking hard, you found yourself slipping through the gate quickly. Gravity quickly took hold of you and slammed you into a rough floor.

Blubbering, you tried to cough out the water from your chest when you heard Steve screaming. “Steve!” You shouted, trying to find him. The ground was cracking, the sky dark and ominous. Every hair on your body stood and you ignored it all until you saw Steve fall to the floor.

“I’m coming!” You screamed, running towards him. As you ran, you reached for the energy inside you, bending it to your will. Before, you would’ve been able to dispatch all three of them but you could only barely control two. Aiming for the one wrapped around his neck you pulled at the thread you could see in your mind.

Seconds later, it exploded. The blood splattered and Steve gasped for air. The ones on his side screeched, aiming for you and you panicked. Closing your eyes, you frantically aimed for the closest and it split in half. The other slammed into your chest and you went down.

Arms flailing, you felt like you were underwater, hitting whatever you could reach. Its claws sank into your skin and you screamed.

“Get the fuck off her!” A third voice joined you, slamming it into the air and it’s loud screeching abruptly cut off.

You blinked, dizzy, and saw Eddie peer down at you. “Why the fuck did you jump? You stupid brave hobbit!”

“Incoming!” Nancy screamed, oar flying in her hand.

“Get me up,” you said, “help me up!”

Eddie’s arms darted under yours and he hauled you to your feet. Swaying, you closed your eyes and tried to concentrate.

“What are you doing?” Eddie said, voice panicky and high pitched.

You ignored him and tried to remember what you were fighting for. You needed to get out of here alive, you needed to keep your friends alive, and your sister safe.

Pulling from what felt like the depths of your soul, you imagined Papa, staring at you and wanting results. With your arms up, you let out a scream as the creatures burst, all at once, carcasses dropping onto the ground with a disgusting sound.

Going limp, you felt Eddie catch you, sinking to the floor with you.

“What did you do?” Steve screamed, blood dripping from his face. His hands darted around your body, looking for wounds he could take care of but you knew he wouldn’t find any.

“Is she okay?” Robin asked anxiously, her hand gripping Nancy’s shoulder. You blinked, gaze going to the wide-eyed boy who’s lap you were in.

“Hi,” you said, voice a little slurred.

“Hey,” he answered back, his tone a little shocked. “Has anyone told you that you’re kind of amazing?”

“Yeah,” you said, honestly, liking the laugh he barked out after.

“Okay, lets go back through the gate before she passes out and can’t hold her breath. I can push her up to the surface with me if one of you helps me,” Steve said to your left.

“Look, there’s more,” Nancy whispered.

“I can get them,” you struggled to stand.

“Yeah, and lose whatever you have left? I don’t think so,” Steve said, tone leaving no room for argument. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I can do it,” you insisted.

“Hey, we got it, okay?” Eddie said softly.

You stopped struggling against his hold and slumped back down. “Okay,” you said as another wave of nausea hit you.

“We can take them,” Steve said, voice trailing off as all your heads turned up to watch a flock come your way.

“Let’s go into the woods!” Nancy said, grabbing your arm and hauling you onto your feet. She wrapped an arm around your stomach and yours around her shoulders. “Munson! Look alive!”

Eddie came to your other side and they pulled you forward into the trees.

“Steve, Robin, I’m fine,” you assured them for the tenth time in five minutes.

“You didn’t wake up for a few minutes,” Robin said.

“But I’m awake and fine now,” you said. Mostly. The nausea still rolled through you every so often. You were almost at Nancy’s house – it wasn’t too much further.

“In their defense, it did look a little worrisome for a while there,” Eddie jumped in, his hand still in yours. Nancy had fallen away once you’d woken up by Skull Rock, all of them leaning over you. Eddie had given you a relieved smile and threaded his fingers through yours. Just in case, he’d said.

Robin had shot you a look but you hadn’t minded. His hand felt…nice.

“I’m fine!” You said, the eleventh time.

“Okay, okay,” Steve said, backing up a few steps and turning to Eddie. “Make sure she stays awake and don’t let her use her powers.”

“I think I couldn’t stop her even if I wanted to dude,” Eddie said, saluting Steve as they jogged up to Nancy.

You shivered and Eddie pulled you to a stop. He pulled his jacket back over your shoulders and you glanced at him. “It looks better on you anyway,” he said, cheeks pink.

Ducking your head, you smiled and reached for his hand. “Just in case,” you echoed his earlier statement.

With a wide, beaming grin, he intertwined your fingers and pulled you closer to him. “Obviously.”

“We never finished twenty questions,” he said, after a beat of silence.

“I think we asked more than that,” you replied, stepping over a vine.

“The number is a suggestion, the game only ends when both parties agree to it,” Eddie said, matter of fact.

“Alright,” you said, smiling at him, “it was your turn then.”

“Why Lucky?”

You shrugged. “I don’t have a name and I think it made people uncomfortable,” you said, not really remembering who had suggested Lucky so long ago. You thought it was Will.

“What about Luck? Lucky?” Will asked, cheeks red.

“That sounds like a dog,” Lucas said, rolling his eyes.

“Lucky,” Eleven breathed, her shoulders wrapped in your arms. “I like it.”

At everyone’s blank looks, Will shrugged. “She’s like Lucky number Seven. We’ll always win as long as she’s here.”

“I am Seven.”

“I think you should pick a name you like,” Eddie said, “something badass like you.”

Flustered, you almost tripped over a vine. “Badass?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, keeping you steady, “you just fucking leapt into the water after Harrington without looking back. I saw you basically destroy half the bats with your fucking mind. That’s metal. Badass.”

“Badass,” you repeated, nodding. “Bitchin’?”

Eddie laughed and you realized it was the first time you’d really heard it. You liked the sound.

“Yeah, bitchin’.”

Nancy’s eyes caught yours, hers widening and pointedly looking at Eddie. Her knowing smile made you even more flustered, like you were doing something you shouldn’t be.

“I haven’t thought of another name,” you admitted. You hadn’t found your mother yet, or if you ever would. You didn’t know if you ever had a name – not the way Eleven had. Hopper had been the first person to ask you if you had wanted to switch yours. All your documents connecting you to him said Lucky. “My dad…called me sweetheart?”

Something in Eddie’s eyes changed, they became soft and like he only saw you.

“I think you should come up with a name you like,” he said, “not one assigned to you by anyone else. Sweetheart is a good one though.”

What name did you like? You liked Eddie’s name. Or maybe you just liked him?

“I like Hopper,” you said slowly, “I don’t want to change my name. It was my dad’s name.”

“That’s fair,” he said, “what do you want me to call you for now?”

You considered the question. “Seven,” you said firmly. It may make everyone shift a little, their eyes never quite meeting yours, but that’s what you were used to. For now. Until you found something badass.

“Okay, Seven Hopper,” Eddie said, bowing dramatically, “I’m Eddie Munson. Pleasure to meet you.”

You let him take your hand and press a kiss to the back of it. Warmth surged through your body and you felt the need to hide. Without thinking too much, you surged forward and kissed Eddie’s cheek. “Nice to meet you too, Eddie Munson.”

His face turned pink and you smiled at him. Despite where you were now, and what you had to accomplish, you were glad to have met him.

“Munson! Stop flirting and keep up!” Steve shouted, shooting you the same smile as Nancy had.

Eddie winked at you, not denying it, and pulled you forward with him.

The portal broke open, pieces of flesh and vines dropping onto the floor. Eddie’s hand shot out to yours and he pulled you behind him. You blinked, surprised. Why did he seem determined to shield you from everything? You smiled when he glanced back at you, relief evident when he saw your expression.

Most people you knew pushed you to the front of the line, you were after all the best defense they had. But…not Eddie. He didn’t treat you like a weapon or something to be used. The weird flutter in your stomach woke, the sensation making you feel weightless. Eddie’s shoulders blocked most of your line of vision but Robin’s knowing smirk showed she’d seen your expression.

“Okay, Seven first,” Eddie said, ushering you towards the makeshift rope.

Steve’s eyes got a familiar teasing glint in them and Nancy shot you a knowing look.

“I’ll stay last,” you said quietly, ignoring their looks, “if anything happens, I can fight the best.”

“I don’t know,” Steve started.

“No,” Eddie said, frowning.

You nodded. Everyone knew it. Even if your powers had weakened and you felt a little drained you were the best bet. You might not be able to do the same damage you once had, but you were better equipped than the others.

Robin started to climb and Eddie looked ready to argue. “Munson, I’ll stay with her – just go,” Steve said.

With a disgruntled look on his face, he climbed. You kept your eyes around the trailer, watching for anything that felt wrong. Glancing up, you were caught by Eddie’s worried gaze. His eyes didn’t move from yours, tracking your movement as Nancy climbed.

“Okay, no arguing Hopper, you go,” Steve said.

Rolling your eyes, you focused on the current inside you – weak, but ready to answer. Steve yelped as he flung through the air and landed hard on the mattress on the other side.

“I hate it when you do that,” Steve moaned, clutching his stomach. You smirked.

“Lucky!” Dustin shouted. “You shouldn’t use up your energy like that! Hurry!”

Without much thought, you climbed the rope, feeling gravity shift as you landed on your back.

“Her name is Seven,” Eddie’s voice echoed in the small trailer. His warm hand enveloped yours and he pulled you up. His warm eyes ran over you, as if assessing you, and he sighed when you reached to hug him. Eddie’s arms wrapped around you instantly and tightly pulling you into his chest.

“I’m okay,” you promised, not used to anyone besides Steve worrying this often. You didn’t know what to say, what to do.

His answering smile was blinding and his thumb came up to wipe the blood from your nose. Everyone around you started discussing what you’d seen, what they’d been through, but you couldn’t help but keep your eyes on Eddie despite the chaos. He’d glance at you every few minutes, smiling when he saw your stare. He squeezed your still clasped hands and you felt something within you shift.

Maybe staying behind in Hawkins wasn’t so bad after all.

#eddie munson x reader

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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

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fic rec friday 41

hello and welcome to fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

Won't you lie with me a while? by notverystraight

When their laughter finally died down, their eyes found each other, the two falling into an intimate kind of quietness. Keith realised their bodies were now so close that his bangs tickled Lance’s forehead, the warmth of their skin mingling, Lance’s every exhale grazing his lips. If he tilted his head ever so slightly, their noses would brush. Lance’s gaze was magnetic. All of a sudden, the air felt much heavier than it had been a minute ago. Keith was hyper aware of the arm curled around his middle, fingers ghosting beneath his shirt. The slow, burning heat that was beginning to pool in his gut was mirrored in Lance’s eyes as they roamed over Keith’s face, his neck, his chest, pausing where his fingers lay against the sliver of exposed skin at his waist. Keith’s breath hitched. - Or, Lance and Keith hang out in Lance’s bedroom. That’s it, that’s the fic.

i LOVE this one. all the little details are so cute. y'all know @mothmanavenue 's recent post with keith and lance's room?? this is like an older fic version of that, almost. the percy jackson poster in lance's room, the bed, the way they're squished together on it.....it's just so sweet and transitory i'm in love

2. In (Almost) Every Reality by notverystraight

When Lance finds himself face to face with alternate universe versions of himself and all his friends, he’s excited to talk to them – who wouldn’t want to see just how different their life could have turned out? However, that feeling begins to sour when Lance notices that, out of all his alternate selves, he seems to have the most underwhelming life. And another unexpected thing. He and Keith seem to be a lot more, um… friendly with each other in the other realities…

early season dynamics when lance is still like fully insisting on the rivalry thing while also being super attracted to keith and mad about it, and then finding out that he and keith are literally soulmates?? like in love in every reality?? ENDLESSLY funny. also lance being a big nerdy fic reader is so so real

3. Speak in Tongues by laidellennt

Lance learns Altean from Coran. Keith's kind of weird about it.

keith getting like lowkey horny when lance speaks different languages is SO real and SO funny 💀💀 like of course this whipped dumbass is just like so hugely attracted to lance in all his strange awkward competency and of course he has no idea how to handle it. of course lance is offended by it. i love early season dynamics

4. 5 things Lance was surprisingly good at +1 thing that should be obvious by orphan_account

5 things Lance was surprisingly good at +1 thing that should be obvious, it's pretty self-explanatory.

i love this one bc its just a way to headcanon lance as being good at random stuff. like yes obviously he can throw knives. of course he can bake. duh he can sing. the world would be a better brighter place if we just talked all the time about how good lance is. also side note but do any of yall remember when clicking the orphan account link on ao3 would bring you to a massive account that had archived every fic to every be abandoned instead of an error page?? bc i do lol

5. Would You Like A Sticker? by delaneym_15

Lance has been working hard these past few weeks. Getting the newly set up infirmary being one of his most pressing concerns. Gone are the days of being put in a healing pod for every little injury. Of course that means someone has to run it, and what better person than the paladin who has been all but officially apprenticing under Coran since the Blue lion first brought him to the castle. If only the rest of the paladins would take him seriously.

i fucking love the medic lance tag. well and truly it is the gift that never ever ever stops giving. he is just so well suited for it!! i love him so!! let him be competent and judgmental and pretty as he does it!! like!!!

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

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masterwords · 7 months

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Hi, I’d like to order a 32 please: A kiss while someone watches 😙

Coming right up! How about 2500 words of heart trouble that leads up to a heart-racing finish with a LOT of someones watching? Chicago retirement universe, football, sappy soft old men. This is unedited and scrappy, so please forgive glaring errors and halfway correct medical nonsense - I used to work in a coumadin clinic and with a cardiologist so I have some (probably outdated and definitely sketchy at this point) knowledge and that's about where we sit here. Forgive me for errors, I tried to remember things without trying to dive too far into research just to get them to kiss. We're in the CM universe, this is probably still closer to accurate than most of the show was. LOL (I'll put this on AO3 tomorrow. I have to go clean my house and get ready for a football game filled weekend of my own now.)

Warning ⚠️: heart problems & procedures, mention of death/implied abusive household (hotch's father)

(Send me a kiss (or LOTS of them) and I'll write you some hotchgan!)

Hotch hadn’t been to work in months. Summer vacation provided a clever cover for his ailing health, he thought. Usually he would pick up a summer course or two, just to keep busy, but it wasn’t required and this year he didn’t even consider it. His heart had begun to act funny sometime around spring break – nothing he hadn’t experienced before. Since Foyet, he’d had random periods of erratic heartbeats. Too fast, sometimes alarmingly so, but always over quickly. A few scary minutes accompanied by a seasick feeling and then back to normal. He would think about it for an hour after, sitting and waiting for the next one, for the Big One.

His father, riddled with cancer though he were, died of a heart attack right there in front of his eyes. One minute he was sitting on the couch talking, complaining about how dry his sandwich was (his mother made it without mayo, just meat and bread, because his body couldn’t tolerate the fat anymore) and then...everything stopped. His eyes went wide, his jaw went slack and he was gone. His heart just stopped, at least that’s the way Hotch remembered it. It was possible it didn’t go quite that way, he was young enough and filled with enough teenage vitriol that if he compared notes with his mother, it might look completely different. He didn’t care to find out, though. The idea that his father’s ticker just ceased to function one minute had always brought him some kind of strange comfort, scared as he was of it happening to him too. Like no matter how terrible a person he was, his clock had run out. His time was up. (Sean asked if his heart exploded, later, after the funeral. The image became ingrained in him, even now as an adult – a heart attack meant that your heart exploded gore in your chest, meat and blood everywhere. In relation to most people he hated the thought, but in relation to his father...well it seemed a fitting end.)

It came and went over the years, sometimes for days at a time, but his doctors assured him that it wasn’t anything to worry about. There were medications and treatments if it became persistent, if it didn’t reset on its own. It always did. He would worry his time was up, and then his heart would say no, not yet. You get another day, another week, another year. Just making sure you remember I’m here and I’m in charge.

But he was older now, and just before spring break as he taught a class on Criminal Law to his to his grad students, he felt his heart begin hammering in his chest faster than it ever had before. He put his hand on his chest and swallowed hard, that had always worked before somehow (maybe only by coincidence) but it only served to make him feel faint. Stubbornly, he pressed on and turning toward the white board, he looked up, squinted to read the words he’d written and grabbed for the red marker he intended to use.

The next thing he knew he was waking up on the floor with a sea of concerned faces staring down at him.

Most people could go a whole lifetime without collapsing in the middle of a presentation, yet he’d done it twice now. Where was the justice in that? The only silver lining was that this time he happened to wake back up before he was in an ambulance with an oxygen mask obscuring his face. (Just barely. The EMTs arrived just a few minutes later and he was alert enough to insist on standing with their help and walking to the ambulance rather than ride on the stretcher through the hallway of his university.)

This time, it didn’t reset on its own, not for hours.

This time Derek was called out of his classes, leaving his baseball team to the assistant coach so he could rush over and sit with Hotch while they attempted to get his heart back into a normal sinus rhythm. Even then, it was precarious. They didn’t expect it to last, not with the onslaught of concerning symptoms that brought him here in the first place. He went home with a pile of new prescriptions to try and treat it medically, all of which failed spectacularly in everything except making him feel like garbage. His least favorite was the re-introduction of blood thinners into his life. The last time he’d taken them was the months after Foyet when they feared that he was at risk of stroke due to the severity and location of his injuries, and the lasting effects those same injuries had on George Foyet himself. Hotch had argued that Foyet had stabbed himself more times, that he’d practiced, that nine was a lot less than what Foyet wore but he had taken the blood thinners dutifully then and he did now too. He suffered through weekly appointments to check his INR, make sure that everything was looking like it should, and because he had Jack and Hank and Derek looking at him like that...wondering if he was going to have a stroke...he never missed or rescheduled a single appointment even if it meant throwing his entire day into disarray. He limped himself along to the end of the year on sheer determination, refusal to cut and run before his students were finished with the courses they’d all begun together. He’d seen them this far, and if his last couple of lectures were given while he leaned heavily on the podium (or sat at his desk on one particularly bad afternoon) then so be it. They always forgave him.

As soon as school was out, he scheduled himself in for an ablation – a procedure to try and go at it from the inside. They assured him that he might feel bad for a while after while he healed, but it was likely to be the ticket. The way to get him back to feeling like himself. The way to get him off of the blood thinners.

The whole time he just felt tired. Not necessarily sick, just unable to do much of anything. His normally active lifestyle had become difficult and sometimes impossible. He and Derek would ride bikes on the weekends or run in the morning and he tried to maintain it, his doctors told him it was in his best interest to be as active as he could be, but some days were just too hard and he couldn’t keep up. No one in his family made him feel bad about it, he did that plenty on his own.

He was miserable, watching summer slip by without getting to do much more than lie in a lounge chair in the backyard and soak up whatever sun Chicago provided him with. He missed out on their usual big summer trips to wherever Savannah was working, he’d said goodbye to Derek and Hank and Jack as they flew to southern Mexico to spend two weeks with her at the ocean. He wasn’t up for the flight and knew they’d all just spend the whole time worrying about him if he went at all. He was better off at home, spending afternoons playing cards with Anthony and Fran while Cindi was at work or going to movies with Desiree and Sarah. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t enjoy himself, he just had to stay close to home because when the exhaustion hit him it hit hard.

Once he had the procedure, things would be better. He was certain. At least after the healing period which would probably make him seem worse, and for the most part, he was right. He’d still decided not to work for a while, to take the first semester of the year off. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time built up. He probably could have worked, but he didn’t need to and he wasn’t in the habit of killing himself for his job anymore. Things were already looking up a few weeks after the procedure. His energy was slowly returning along with his appetite and his desire to get out and be part of the world. The ever present fear that he would collapse again in public started to slip back into the recesses of his mind. He wasn’t feeling good, necessarily, but he was feeling better. There was hope that he was on the upswing finally.

Occasionally he overdid it and there were setbacks, but he was being good. Taking his medication on time every day, not missing appointments, things his younger self would have deemed impossible. A luxury he didn’t have. Well, now he had it in abundance. He’d spent the day before in the backyard, getting it ready for winter while he had the energy to do it. Derek had started the job but he had no love for these tasks and would avoid them as long as he could – Hotch wanted to do it, he wanted to push his hands into the cold soil and prepare it to sleep. But being outside all day had come with an evening of exhaustion like he hadn’t had in weeks, and the next morning he could barely pull himself out of bed. His body was scolding him again. “Rest today,” Derek said, kissing him on the top of the head. “Please. For the love of everything holy, rest.”

“Yes sir.”

He did. He didn’t exactly stay in bed all day but he did take it easy. He was motivated to take it easy, he had a reason. And when Derek came out of the bedroom and saw Hotch standing near the door dressed in the highschool’s colors, bundled up with Derek’s beat up old ball cap on, he couldn’t really understand it. Not after the way he looked that morning. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Hotch asked, checking the time. Derek frowned.

“It looks like you think you’re coming to the game. BOYS HURRY UP!” The last part was shouted as Derek turned back toward the hallway, a hallmark of dad-mode. Being able to carry on two simultaneous conversations, in different pitches and intensity, without skipping a beat. Jack shouted something back and something crashed against the floor, but Derek had already turned back to Hotch.

“I am coming to your game.”

“Like hell you are. You’ve been sick all day.”

“If I can sit at home then I can sit in the stands at a football game. It’s the state championship, Derek. You guys worked your tails off to get here, I’ve hardly seen you in months. How long has it been since your school has won?”

“Thirty years. We won when I was a senior.”

“Thirty years and I’m going to miss it because I’m tired?”

“Aaron…”

“Don’t Aaron me. I’m coming to watch you coach your team to a championship.”

“DAD!” Jack called, rushing down the hallway with Hank dangling upside down from his arms giggling. He was wearing his football jersey, minus the pads, and a pair of jeans that looked about two sizes smaller than Hotch would have preferred but he supposed that was the style these days. “You’re coming?!”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

“DADDY COMES!” Hank shouted, wiggling almost to the point of Jack dropping him.

“See? It’s settled.”

Derek gave him an unconvinced, almost exasperated look but he didn’t have the time to argue, he just took the whistle that Hotch extended to him with a smile and ushered them all out to the car in the cold October evening. They were playing on the Northwestern field, and some part of Hotch was a little worried – he’d taken the semester off to recover, to try anyway, and hadn’t seen his colleagues in months. He hoped they wouldn’t pay him too much attention.

The game moved fast – the crunch of shoulder pads, the shouting of gruff coaches and screaming of fans, the bright lights catching the freezing rain as it fell to the field and whipped around in the wind. The announcer called out name after name, and he watched Jack on the sidelines in his uniform cheering his friends on, holding a towel and wiping off game balls for the referees, helping keep the team hydrated. He was hoping to make Varsity next year, but his entire Junior Varsity team was there to cheer on the big guys and Jack was working a little extra hard to make sure his contribution was noticed. He couldn’t get onto Varsity by slacking, not with his dad coaching. He had to work twice as hard. It looked to Hotch, as he squinted at the full university stadium, that the whole city of Chicago had turned out to watch these boys from the south side bring home the title.

And when it came down to a field goal, when the whole stadium held its breath and watched that ball soar through the uprights, and when Derek was jumping around like a mad man amid shoulder pads and helmets and shouting crying teenagers, Hotch stood and cheered just as loud as anyone. His heart beat faster, thumped intensely in his chest, but it felt normal. The good fast. The kind that reminded him that he was alive and his body was built for a lot more than he gave it credit for sometimes. That he might be tired tomorrow but he would never get tonight back.

Being alive sometimes meant being uncomfortable, he realized as Derek bounded up the metal stairs taking two and three at a time, as he launched himself through the bleachers until he reached Hotch at his comfortable perch and practically threw himself at the man. “WE DID IT! WE DID IT! THEY DID IT!” He was beside himself with excitement, the pride of knowing what his kids had achieved, the memory of achieving it once himself so long ago he thought he’d forgotten but it felt the same now as it did then. It made his skin prickle, shock waves that made his bones jump, his head screaming for joy. The stadium had erupted in so much noise, but Hotch even with his bad hearing managed to hear him loud and clear, and when Derek wrapped him up and kissed him hard right there he didn’t put up a fight. He found his arms sliding around Derek’s waist, pinning them both in place, and the air sucked from his lungs, the beat in his heart all but stopping now. The stadium got quiet around them, the sound sucked into a vacuum, and then slowly a new sound erupted, a different kind of cheer, led by the football players on the field hooting and hollering. Hotch peeked one eye open to see the two of them kissing on the big screen right above the scoreboard, right above the score proclaiming their victory. He smiled into the kiss and closed his eyes again as fireworks began, and he let himself believe just for a moment that those fireworks were for them.

Being alive never felt so good. “Congratulations,” he whispered against Derek’s lips. “I love you.”

“Hot damn! I love you too baby! WE WON!”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds #jack hotchner #hank morgan #chicago times universe

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jessamine-rose · 1 year

Text

♡ Chemistry – Author’s Note ♡

(づ ᴗ͈ ˬ ᴗ͈ )づ*.ﾟ Read Chemistry here!!

ଘ(∩^o^)⊃━☆ Read Magnum Opus here!!

Aakdndknkda thank you to everyone who expressed their love for Dottore’s twisted love story!! It warms my heart knowing that y’all enjoyed my writing and suffered from brainrot ψ(｀∇´)ψ

This post will discuss my characterization of Yandere! Dottore, the science behind his elixir, creative details in the fic, and bonus content. It will also double as my processing session as I recover from Dottore ꒰✘Д✘◍꒱

“In the realm of science, love and insanity are closely intertwined mysteries. Disillusioned with the world, you have long forgotten its beauty…until the wise doctor gives you a change of perspective.” (AO3 summary)

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Introduction ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

♡ As of now, Chemistry is my darkest fic. I was originally going to write for Yandere! Dottore x Yandere! Reader until I got inspired by the biochemistry of love. Thus we ended up with a body-horror-esque story about Dottore breaking his darling through science. I found it quite fun to write about a darling who is more needy and obsessive than the yandere~

♡ Assistant! darling is a mix of the common darling tropes for Dottore:: old friend + test subject + fellow scientist + devoted supporter + Akademiya batchmate + Fatui assistant. I wanted to combine those different relationships and I’m quite happy with the final result. Compared to my other yandere fics, Dottore x Assistant’s dynamic has more banter and familiarity.

♡ Once again, say thank you to @diodellet for her peer review!! She offered so many helpful comments for Chemistry and Magnum Opus, and my fics wouldn’t be the same without her input Σ੧(❛□❛✿)

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Characters ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

♡ Rip among the Harbingers, Dottore was the most difficult to write for. For his Webttore and Primettore characterizations, I rlly wanted to highlight the differences between his younger and older self. His dialogue alone required the most source-checking for that proper balance of prose and scientific speech :’>

♡ Dottore strikes me as a very sadistic yandere who wants to be entertained in the relationship. His “love” starts out as morbid fascination, and he originally views his darling as an expendable test subject. As his feelings develop, he becomes more averse to harming her but nonetheless remains very cruel and controlling.

♡ Additional notes on Yandere! Dottore~

♡ Assistant’s character is more self-insert-friendly than my other darlings. This is because her breaking point/ Dottore’s methods don’t require any psychoanalysis or detailed backstory, excluding what started her crush on him. Because of her healthy upbringing and prestige as an Akademiya scholar, she is more confident, outspoken, and (academically) intelligent.

♡ My own name and appearance for Assistant

♡ After the Archon Quest, I had to give the Segments more scenes!! Each clone views/ treats Assistant differently—the older the Segment, the more fondness he feels towards her. Their rivalry was very entertaining haha Dottore get exposed by yourself

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Elixir ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

♡ For the elixir, I was inspired by irl studies on love’s effects on the physical body. The drug’s main purpose was to alter the hypothalamus’s production of “happy hormones,” causing hormone deficiencies and addiction-like symptoms. This is how Assistant’s genuine feelings turned into unhealthy codependency.

♡ As for the other effects, Dottore told the truth when he said that it would rewire the circadian rhythm and improve the immune system. That was inspired by the news story about a Russian scientist who injected himself with ancient bacteria lol. I incorporated the Nilotpala lotus to make it sound scientifically legit and tug at Assistant’s heartstrings bc AAHH ZANDIK MADE SMTH OUT OF HER RESEARCH :’0

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Literary Motifs ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

♡ Science of love – Since we’re talking about Dottore, I couldn’t write his fic without making it all sciencey. It was fun to write about the different scientific terms/ theories related to attraction from chemical hormones to the golden ratio.

♡ Secret – This is an important concept to Assistant, since sharing secrets requires a certain degree of trust and closeness. Given the ambiguity of her relationship with Dottore……yeahhh she values that sign of intimacy. This recurring theme is also kind of ironic, since science is about sharing knowledge.

♡ Godhood – For Magnum Opus, I wanted to incorporate more of Dottore’s canon lore. It was easy to draw a parallel between love and worship since both have themes of euphoria, devotion, and power.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Chapter Titles ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

♡ Scientific terms – Fun fact, most of my prewriting work came from googling all of those love hormones, physical reactions, etc. I’m pretty sure that I spent more time researching those irl terms over Genshin lore -.-

♡ Research notes – I wanted to provide details on the experiment and show the progression of Dottore’s feelings *cough* his comment on Assistant’s “cute” expression, the use of Assistant’s name *cough* I used Zandik’s Legacy and Eleazar Hospital Notes as my reference.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Deleted Scenes ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

♡ ii. blood rush originally had a scene where Assistant cuts class to spend time with Dottore at Devantaka Mountain. He was going to visit her classroom and convince her to skip her boring lecture.

♡ The golden ratio scene in viii. vasopressin was originally the moment Assistant begins crushing on Dottore. I transferred that scene to a later stage of their relationship since it felt “too soon” for Dottore to say that. I might recycle that scene as an independent one-shot someday, because his darling falling for the parts of Webttore which aren’t considered scientifically beautiful!!

♡ The first draft of Magnum Opus had a conversation where Dottore compares his Segments to the idea of naturally conceiving a child with his darling. This is another scene which I might post separately one day if I feel like it. All I can say is that I’m never writing anything with family/ children for Dottore.

♡ Read An Experiment in Procreation here!!

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ My Favorite Scenes ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

Assistant’s Special Files

♡ It’s the tension which kills it for me. Dottore’s charming threats, Assistant almost realizing the truth, the obvious red flags, THE KISS WHICH FOLLOWS!! I was worried about how the scene would play out, but it turned out quite nicely compared to the first draft And yes, his darling gets special folder rights.

Kiss scenes + First Time + Somnophilia

♡ I f*cking died writing those scenes. Ofc Dottore’s fic has the most spice. Ofc he is the character who made me write about detailed makeouts and somnophilia for the first time. Ofc I had to highlight the difference between Webttore and Primettore’s kisses. I hate this harness-wearing man with every fiber of my being. And if I didn’t make this headcanon clear enough through the hair-pulling and mutual love bites, I’ll say it here:: He is a switch.

Conclusion of the experiment

♡ Unhappy ending time!! From the start, I wanted x. pair bond to be about Dottore testing his darling’s loyalty and revealing his own feelings. My browsing history was full of search results for “how to write a choking scene” rip. Also aaahh Dottore’s messy appearance, bare arms, and soft gaze~

♡ The ending of Magnum Opus turned out much softer than expected. The last research note…….Dottore and Assistant finally doing something unrelated to research…….watching the sunrise together again…….Dottore’s scarf and their banter…….his soft resignment to his feelings!! The experiment is a success <3

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ Dottore x Assistant Playlist ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

Thanks a lot, Dottore, now these songs are stuck in my head >:T

♡ Doctor by Jack Stauber ft. Sarah

♡ Suki Suki Daisuki by Jun Togawa (Caitlin Myers cover)

♡ Hatsukoisou by FLG4 ft. Flower

♡ Otome Dissection by DECO*27 ft. Hatsune Miku

♡ Rumor by Police Piccadilly ft. GUMI

♡

Once again, thank you for reading Chemistry and Magnum Opus!! I can’t describe how happy I am every time I read your comments, and it is entertaining to see everyone crying over Dottore bc of me. Sweet dreams ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

#il dottore #dottore #dottore x reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere dottore #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #fem reader #jessamine-writing

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jimmyandthegiraffes · 3 months

Text

Fic Writing Review 2023 🌈

Thank you sm @itwoodbeprefect for the tag!!!

I hardly published anything this year so if u wanna skip to 'projects for 2024' that's gonna be the most interesting bit >.<

Words and Fics (on ao3) 📚

words posted: 714 💀 but many more words were written, just not posted lol fics posted: 1 first fic/last fic 😅: King of the Eyesores - Doctor Who (1963)

Ships and Fandoms ⚓

Doctor Who - no ships really but KotE is Mike Yates-centric.

Top 5 Fics by Kudos 🏆

It's KotE again lol which is at 6 kudos. Of all time, tho:

After the Hour(glass) - Night at the Museum (Jedtavius)

Less Than Ideal Circumstances - The Man from UNCLE (TV) (Napollya)

When They Sleep - The Man from UNCLE (TV)

Dismiss Your Fears - Back to the Future

After All, I'm Only Sleeping - Doctor Who (1963)

Top 5 Favorite Fics 💖

KotE......... I do actually rly enjoy KotE I think it has potential in terms of where it's going. But since I only posted one fic in 2023, I'll do my top 5 of fics I've ever posted. Apart from the first one this is in no particular order

tickertape - The A-Team (TV) it's my baby it's all I thought about for months of my life, it's like an iceberg (i.e. most of it is in my WIP doc, and only a tiny fraction is published so far), it got me thru a difficult time, it's an exploration of mental illness and complicated messy relationships expressed in epic format (i.e. it's probably gonna be novel length when it's done)

Bullet Number Six - Starsky & Hutch (TV) it received criticism for being obscure and hard to follow bc it switches pov briefly halfway thru but idc i love it anyway

I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues - The A-Team (TV) it was my first A-Team fic and I still think for a beginner it nailed some p realistic in-character dialogue and addressed an undertone I wished I'd seen addressed in the ep it's a coda to.

When They Sleep - The Man from UNCLE (TV) it's kind of riddled with certain mannerisms of my slightly older writing which I personally find a bit annoying and have worked to iron out for the sake of elegance over the years. but I still think it's a cool little exploration of all my sleep headcanons for the pair of them in one place

King of the Eyesores - Doctor Who (1963) see it made it to the list after all! I kinda like it more for its potential than for what it is right now butttttt who cares.

special mention to Unbereft (Starsky & Hutch) which I really really like but I wrote it in one frenzied sitting and only remembered after I'd posted it that it was very like someone else's fic I'd read several years previously. I don't think it's too much like to be taken down and I've since mentioned the writer of the other fic (it was dawnwind, hello!) in the notes. that's the only reason unbereft isn't in my top 5 because I'm otherwise really proud of how well it's written. Not to tootle on my own trumpet.

Fandom fic events

none RIP but maybe this year!!

Projects for 2024

Okay here we goooooooooooo

priority 1 is to finish the unfinished works that I've already half posted: King of the Eyesores, Every Line A Comedy, OUTATIME, The Windhover, tickertape, The Hanoi Bank Job and Other Misadventures, 38 Hours. Bolded are my top priorities.

other works that I'm writing but which haven't seen the light of day at all yet:

Dear Mike - an epistolary between Jo Grant and Mike Yates following her marriage to Cliff Jones.

The Lark/Behind That Locked Door (working titles) - a 30-chapter 2/Jamie fic about season 6B in which Jamie suffers permanent memory problems after the War Games. It explores grief, social ostracism, feeling abandoned, undirected anger, guilt, and acceptance that healing sometimes is a process that is never complete. I've been working on it since about 2016 lol but I'm lazy I just need to press on.

hell valley au - as yet untitled lol. In which the Hell Valley!Marty (who is never seen in BTTF2 as he is in Switzerland) and Hell Valley!Doc (who has been institutionalized) break out of their respective situations and go on the run together. But there's a problem - they had to leave Einstein behind, and when they get information that Einie is to be used for a dogfight, they make the risky decision to go back to Hill Valley to rescue him. However, going back to the place they just escaped by the skin of their teeth also brings them face to face with the last person they expect to meet.

a changed man (working title) - a Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased) fic from Jeannie's pov. mostly it's about their picnic excursions but it's also about Jeannie wishing Marty wasn't such an elephant in the room

mfu/rahd xover (untitled) - the first chapter of this is almost ready to go tbh. it's what it says on the tin lol, Napoleon and Illya go to London and get help from a rather eccentric private detective who has uncanny powers of solving impossible cases but also they think is probably clinically insane

to see him happy - VERY weird rahd fic. it's smut but its also about grief. might never post it because several of my family members have access to my tumblr and therefore my ao3 lol they dont need to see that

the winter of '62 - a study of jeff and marty's life when they lived together in a grotty bedsit and couldnt afford to put the heating on

star wars (untitled) - set during ROTJ, han pov. han's lost a lot of time and now everyone is one step ahead of him which isn't a sensation he's used to

skyrissian - what it says on the tin lol

the older gen (untitled) - jeeves fic about bertie's aunts and uncles and parents as they were as they variously grew up, got married, had children, died (or didn't), fell prey to alcoholism or insanity or petty crime, went to war, prospered (or didn't)... This is pretty unlikely to be finished this year tbh as it's very detailed but I can dream

a couple of long form fics about starsky & hutch and mfu respectively (the s&h one is set post sweet revenge, the mfu one takes place at various moments throughout the show)

x-files series - canon compliant until paperclip and then gradually diverges into how i think the show should have gone lol. another biggie

and a handful of tintin fics that im protective of and might never post but we'll see - one where tintin and chang go on holiday in london after picaros, one where the gang encounters rajaijah one last time (featuring a letter from didi, chang making a very daring crossing at the songolese border, and tintin taking about ten years to chop up a clove of garlic), and one where tintin gets shitfaced at an embassy ball and accidentally starts an Incident. haddock looks on, appalled.

i knoooooooooooooooowww this is a lot but i'm not realistically hoping to finish it all this year but it's nice to have lots of things to play around with lol.

unfortunately i have the eternal problem of not ever knowing which of my mutuals write fic and which of those havent already been tagged but imma tag @theteaisaddictive and genuinely if u see this and u write fic ur tagged i want to knowwwwwwwwwwwww <333

#tag #doctor who #the a team #starsky and hutch #tintin #tag game #jamie mccrimmon #randall and hopkirk deceased #bttf #mike yates

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taizi · 1 year

Text

give me something that’ll haunt me when you’re not around

chapter three: me and you and the whole town underwater

rise of the tmnt pairing: leoichi (leonardo / usagi yuichi) word count: 3k title borrowed from dark blue by jack’s mannequin post-movie

(previous) (next)

read on ao3

Usagi: Good morning Leonardo. Unknown: USAGI Unknown: there are so many snacks in here oh my god Unknown: what the hell 😭😭😭😭 Unknown: im heavily medicated its not fair to do nic ethings ill cry Unknown: tell ur aunt i said THANK YOU!!!!!!! and the blueberry buckle was SO GOOD😭😭 Unknown: i shared some w mikey and he wants the recipe like yesterday Unknown: we actually ate like. all of it in one sitting. raph was pissed lol

Yuichi lays in bed smiling at his phone for a while before he gets around to pulling his braincells together to form a reply.

He starts and stops typing so many times that it’s embarrassing. He’ll pretend he didn’t do that.

Usagi: Those snacks were specifically meant to aid in your recovery. Unknown: so idk how familiar u are w baby brothers but typically mike gets whatever he wants

Yuichi thinks of his youngest cousin Jomei. Tiny and soft, with huge gray eyes, and unfortunately already self-aware at four years old. If Mike—Michelangelo, Yuichi thinks he remembers the boy being called—is even half as powerful as Jomei, then Leonardo’s blueberry buckle didn’t stand a chance.

Usagi: Fair enough.

It’s a good thing he woke up early. He doesn’t get anything else done for hours. Leonardo is an enthusiastic conversation partner at all times, and his texts manage to translate that energy effortlessly.

Typically, Yuichi lets his friends save their contact IDs in his phone however they want. Leonardo isn’t there to do it himself, but Yuichi makes the rookie mistake of giving him free reign anyway. So Leonardo insists his number go in under ⚡️⚡️NEON LEON⚡️⚡️ and Yuichi has something to roll his eyes at every time they message each other.

It also makes him feel warm. There’s an affectionate little tug in his chest at this clear proof of Leonardo in his hands.

Now that he has this unfettered access to the very same person he wants to talk to all the time, Yuichi checks his phone a lot more than he used to over the next couple days. He even keeps it in his waist apron pocket at work, which some of the other servers do, which technically isn’t against the rules because none of them have abused the privilege so far.

Yuichi will feel extremely bad and guilty if he’s the one who abuses the privilege and ruins it for everyone. But when it vibrates in his pocket while he’s going outside to dump the trash anyway, he might as well linger for an extra minute and check his messages, right? Right??

Once, Señor Hueso catches Yuichi lingering in the employee lounge after his lunch break is well over, moving at a snail’s pace back toward the dining room with his nose buried in his phone. He almost walks right into his boss’s chest, saved only by the last-minute sense of someone else’s immediate presence that Karasu-Tengu-sensei mercilessly trained into him years ago. So he freezes a few inches away instead and his eyes dart up to the skeleton yokai’s unamused expression.

Oh boy. Señor Hueso is generally a very patient person but he’s no-nonsense about work. Is Yuichi in trouble? Is he going to get fired?

“I’msosorry,” Yuichi whispers.

But instead of scolding him, Señor Hueso only gives a pointed look to the phone in Yuichi’s hands and says sternly, “You tell Pepino to give it a rest. He’s still recovering from a concussion, he doesn’t need to be staring at a screen all day, madre de dios. Please be a good influence.”

“You don’t know I was talking to Leonardo,” Yuichi says defensively. He has other friends he could be texting! Then he takes a second look at the older yokai’s face and backtracks immediately. “I mean. Uh. Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.”

“Good. Now you have tables seated in your section.”

It’s a dismissal if Usagi’s ever heard one, so he scurries into the dining room with five times his original speed, sending one last message before he shoves his phone away.

Usagi: Señor says no more screen time while you’re recovering from a concussion. ⚡️⚡️NEON LEON⚡️⚡️: what?? how even??? ⚡️⚡️NEON LEON⚡️⚡️: he doesn’t KNOW ur taking to me

Thank you, that’s exactly what Yuichi said!

He makes it a point to actually focus for the rest of his shift, but it’s a Wednesday afternoon, and things are slow. Sunita is off for the day, and Qiao is studying at the bar when they’re not actively pouring drinks, and those are the only two coworkers Yuichi is familiar enough to strike up conversation with, so he keeps to his own section and works quietly.

It’s been brought up a couple of times now, in passing—Leonardo’s condition. Apparently, even a month after the invasion, he’s still healing. Yuichi didn’t know the symptoms of a concussion could last whole weeks. He doesn’t really know much about kappa, or whatever manner of creature Leonardo and his brothers are, but for a head injury to be that severe…

Suddenly, the sight of Raphael’s damaged eye jumps to the front of Yuichi’s memory. The clean hole in the big turtle’s rock-solid carapace. What the hell could have done that? What happened to them?

His brain is coming up with nightmare fuel like that’s its job. Something horrible went down behind-the-scenes while Yuichi was completely ignorant—while Yuichi was waiting tables and getting into trouble with Kitsune and Gen and helping with the tomato harvest, Leonardo and his family were in almost certain danger. And Yuichi didn’t know.

He plops down on a stool at the bar at the tail end of his last break for the day, and Qiao wordlessly slides him a cranberry juice on the rocks.

“How do I get my friend to tell me about something that may or may not be a sensitive subject?” he blurts.

“Have you tried asking him about it?” the ram yokai replies in a tone that manages to be both over-exaggerated and monotone.

Yuichi doesn’t even know why he bothers. He taps his phone on the counter a few times, takes a big gulp of cranberry juice that he pretends is something much stronger, then goes for it.

Usagi: I need to talk to you. ⚡️⚡️NEON LEON⚡️⚡️: oooooo ominous Usagi: It’s not ominous, weirdo. I have to go now but I’m off at 7.

Any normal person would have taken that last text at face-value, but Yuichi isn’t dealing with a normal person, is he?

So maybe he should have been expecting it when he leaves the restaurant a few hours later and finds Leonardo waiting for him outside. He's leaning heavily on one of his katana, either in an attempt to look cool or because he’s having trouble staying upright.

Yuichi is not inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he blurts. His flat tone definitely does not convey his shock, but he’s feeling too much right now to articulate any of it properly.

Leonardo laughs out loud. It’s a different sound than it used to be—hoarse and a little restrained, like he’s trying to remember he doesn’t have to be quiet. But it’s still bright, and it still makes Yuichi’s heart do backflips in his chest.

He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt that looks way too big to belong to him, a deep maroon color, repaired with clumsy pink stitches along the shoulders. One of the sleeves is hiked up to Leonardo’s elbow, due to the unwieldy cast on his left forearm, covered in doodles and stickers. The hoodie is unzipped down the front, so Yuichi can make out the cracks in Leonardo’s plastron, spiderweb lines cutting cruelly through the armored scutes. It’s hard to imagine the kind of pressure it would have taken to crush his shell—the same kind that drilled that hole through Raphael’s? What happened to them?

The skin around Leonardo’s neck and the side of his face is still discolored from what must have been pretty nasty bruises, and there are puffy red marks where scars haven’t settled yet. He looks older than the last time Yuichi saw him.

But he’s here. And he’s smiling, a footprint of that laughter left on his face. And now he’s—oh boy, now he’s starting to list to the side.

Yuichi crosses the distance between them at a run, catching Leonardo by the arm before he can topple all the way over.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Yuichi says waspishly, afraid to let him go.

“You wouldn’t,” Leonardo says cheerfully. He’s leaning heavily against Yuichi’s shoulder, his hand is shaking as he sheathes his katana over his shoulder, seriously, what the fuck is he doing here? “Everyone’s cussed me out at least once since I woke up. Add you to the list.”

Flustered, Yuichi says, “I did not do that.”

“You did! You said the fuck word!”

Yuichi rolls his eyes and begins the process of dragging Leonardo toward the nearest bench, staring down anyone who drifts into their path. The tree yokai already reclining there takes one look at Yuichi’s expression, grabs her bag, and takes off without a word.

Maybe he’ll feel bad about being impolite later. He doesn’t have any room for it in his brain right now. He doesn’t even think he remembers to breathe until Leonardo is safely sitting down, slumping onto the bench seat like someone five times his age.

Yuichi crouches down in front of him, giving him a hard look. If he needs medical attention, Yuichi will kick Run of the Mill’s doors down and drag Señor Hueso out here by his tie. Who needs a part-time job anyway?

But Leonardo seems to be okay now that he’s caught his breath, and he’s still grinning, like Yuichi is the best thing he’s seen in days.

“Do you use your scary face to get what you want all the time, or is this a special occasion?” the turtle asks coyly.

“I am beginning to understand why everyone has cussed you out since you woke up this morning,” Yuichi replies, sitting back on his heels.

Something tight that’s been clenched in his chest like a closed fist has suddenly loosened, a letting go when Yuichi didn’t even know he’d been holding on.

He’s missed Leonardo. Being around him has always been easy, even when looking directly at him is like staring into the sun, even when Yuichi’s words get lost somewhere between his head and his throat and he ends up spending most of their conversations just listening and watching.

“Not since this morning,” Leonardo interjects. “Can you imagine everyone getting on my case like that all in one day? That would just be bullying. I meant since the coma.”

There it is again. Little breadcrumbs, teasing scraps of information.

Yuichi gazes up at him, and has at least a dozen questions he wants to ask. That’s why Leonardo is here, even if he doesn’t realize it. Yuichi’s curiosity inadvertently dragged his friend from the safety of his home and the safe harbor of his family to the chaotic streets of the Hidden City.

The trip itself seems to have been hard on him, when usually it’s little-to-no-effort to step through a portal between one location and the next. His forehead gleams with sweat, and he’s still breathing a little heavily, like he just ran a marathon. He’s a pale shade of the vibrant boy Yuichi first met a year ago. He looks like he regrets bringing up the coma.

But he’s still here.

Abruptly, Yuichi doesn’t want to ask any of his questions. He just wants his friend to be here.

When Leonardo says, “Sooo, what’s so serious you dragged me all the way out here?” Yuichi pushes himself to his feet and takes the seat on the bench beside him with a theatrical sigh.

“Nothing, Leonardo,” he lies. “I just wanted to talk to you. You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.”

Some tense line in Leonardo’s shoulders that Yuichi hadn’t noticed before seems to go lax, even as he rolls his eyes. “I’m a ninja, we jump, it’s a whole thing. Anyway, more importantly, did I see a stall selling dumplings down the street or nah?”

“There’s no way I can convince you to stay on this bench, is there?” Yuichi knows the answer already and he’s getting up before Leonardo has a chance to say anything, offering him his hands. When Leonardo takes them, Yuichi hauls him up onto his feet.

They stand there together for a moment, neither of them letting go. Yuichi doesn’t even feel the usual need to spring away from him before he gets too close because he’s missed this stupid guy. And his stupid face, and his stupid big hands, and the stupid way Yuichi feels around him.

Whatever happened to him, happened. Yuichi can’t change that now. And if Leonardo wants to tell him about it, he will. But Yuichi gets the feeling that what Leonardo really wants right now is to feel normal. To feel like maybe one thing in his life is the same as it’s always been.

“Dumplings,” Yuichi announces, with all the enthusiasm of his little cousins faced with the unjust trial of bedtime. “If you fall on your face, I’m leaving you there.”

“If I don’t, you’re buying,” Leonardo quips back.

Yuichi scowls, remembers he’s still holding Leonardo’s hands, and then sort of forgets how to person for long enough that Leonardo lets go and goes a few steps without him. His brain literally goes offline for a minute. That’s never happened before.

“No it’s okay,” he hears Leonardo saying to someone on the street nearby. “It’s not his fault, he’s never been the same, you know, not since the storm.”

Fur bristling, Yuichi hustles to catch up, hopefully before Leonardo has done any actual lasting damage to his reputation. He has an image to maintain around here! He’s Usagi Miyamoto’s direct descendant, and Miyamoto was never anything but cool!

“Quit making up lore about me!” he hisses.

“Quit being weird!” Leonardo replies, clearly enjoying himself. “Dumplings!”

Yuichi scowls but falls into step beside him anyway. This is the guy he missed so much?

As soon as he has that uncharitable thought, he regrets it.

He thinks about April saying he always seemed pissed off to have Leonardo around, and darts a quick look at the striped turtle ambling along beside him. Leonardo doesn’t seem put off by Yuichi’s prickly attitude, but still—it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.

Yuichi waits until they’ve paid the elderly yokai woman running the food stall for two paper plates of crispy gyoza, so he has something to do with his hands, something to focus on besides his awkward tongue, to say, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Leonardo glances sidelong at him, crunching through a dumpling unselfconsciously. His mouth is full but his expression very clearly says ‘say what now?’

“Here, I mean,” Yuichi tells his plate. “Back here. I didn’t even know you were—I’m just glad you’re better.”

They walk the length of the block before Leonardo replies.

“I wouldn’t worry about us, Usagi. Me and my brothers can take a hit. You could even say we were made for it.” That’s a strange sentiment, and something bitter comes and goes across Leonardo’s face before Yuichi can make sense of it, as swift and darting as the little minnows that flit through the creek that winds past his family’s farm. Then Leonardo adds, sounding much more like himself, “My stupid arm is all that’s slowing me down now.”

“Considering it was broken in eight places, I would take six weeks in a cast as a solid win,” someone says from directly behind them.

Yuichi doesn’t jump in shock, he freezes, rabbit-still. Leonardo doesn’t seem surprised at all—he just groans theatrically.

“Oh nooo, it’s the consequences of my actions.”

Donatello snorts. Because that’s who it is, Yuichi realizes as he turns to get a good look at him.

“You can’t just run off, Nardo,” the purple-masked turtle says. His tone implies that this is not a suggestion. “You get why that’s uncool and unfair, right? Like, I don’t have to explain that very simple, elementary-level concept to you?”

“I left a note,” Leonardo argues in his own defense.

“You sure did,” Donatello replies, so level and calm that it sets Yuichi’s whiskers on edge, because that level calmness is very much a thinly veiled promise of bodily harm. “You left a note on your door that said “Do Not Disturb, Beauty Sleep in Progress.” And then you left one on your empty bed that you just drew a winky face on.”

“I realized I didn’t need any more beauty sleep, Dontron. I decided to save some for the rest of you sad scrubs. You’re welcome.”

“How magnanimous.”

Beyond the color-coded masks and the dramatically different body shapes and skin tones, there’s another easy way to tell the Hamato siblings apart; all of them have brown eyes in varying shades. Michelangelo’s are warm, tempered honey, while Raphael’s are darker and richer, edging into red.

Leonardo and Donatello, the twins, have identical golden eyes, piercing and impossibly bright even in the semi-dark of falling dusk. Under the warm lantern light, with their defining characteristics all but overshadowed, it would probably be easy to mistake them for a perfect mirror of each other.

But Yuichi could never make that mistake. Donatello’s eyes are different, because the way he looks at Yuichi is different.

Especially now. Where Leonardo was delighted to see Yuichi for the first time since before the invasion, Donatello is looking at Yuichi like he’s a clear and present threat.

Yuichi doesn’t know what Donatello has to feel threatened about. He has a good grasp of his own abilities and he’s self-aware enough to admit that Donatello could definitely take him in a fair fight. Any of his siblings probably could, up to and including his sister, out of stubbornness and spite alone. Yuichi is the one who feels hunted, like a tiny fluffy animal that was just sighted by a bored, hungry hawk, all because of the cold, calculating gold in Donatello’s eyes.

Then Leonardo plants his good hand on the side of his twin’s face and shoves it an arm’s length away. Donatello sputters and flails, and Leonardo talks over him with the ease of years of practice.

“Thanks for the dumplings,” Leonardo tells him. “See you when I’m finally un-grounded, someday seven years from now.”

Yuichi nods, offering a little wave. He watches Leonardo unsheathe a katana and form a bright, spinning blue portal with one swift downward slice through the air. Donatello is griping at him in harsh undertones, and Leonardo is giving back as good as he gets, but it doesn’t escape Yuichi that Donatello has gravitated protectively to Leonardo’s bad side, and Leonardo is leaning his weight against his brother like he’s actually much more tired than he was willing to let on.

Leonardo needs a break. He needs fresh air. He needs to—to not disappear again, even if it probably won’t actually be for seven years.

Before he can second-guess himself, Yuichi blurts, “I’m off on Friday! You should come to the farm. One of our tokage’s nestlings just hatched so we have babies to play with and they’re really cute!”

Donatello makes an antagonistic noise under his breath and hauls Leonardo through the portal. Before he disappears, Yuichi watches Leonardo’s whole body light up, a grin splitting his face in half.

“It’s a date!” Leonardo calls cheerfully in the seconds before he’s gone.

The portal closes. Yuichi stares at the empty space where it used to exist while the word “date” bounces around in his head like a free-floating balloon filled with screaming instead of the more traditional helium.

Usagi: Important time-sensitive HYPOTHETICAL question Usagi: When you make plans with your friend and he calls it a date, how do you ask what he means by that without sounding like an insane person?? SUNA: oh my god!!!!!! ꒰☉ｪ☉꒱

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #leosagi #leoichi #usagi yuichi #hamato leonardo #hamato donatello #my writing #tmnt fic #bushido boyfriends #these bright blue city lights

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themand0lorian · 2 years

Text

Little Miracles

Summary: Sometimes pain brings little miracles.

Pairing: Pero Tovar x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: Mature

Words: ~14.5k (oops) (AO3)

PLEASE HEED THE TAGS BELOW. I understand this is a heavy topic for many people and do not want to cause you undue hurt. This will give spoilers for the plot.

Tags: pregnancy and associated symptoms, period-typical attitudes toward unwed mothers, reader says several times at the beginning that she would like to end the pregnancy/die but neither happen, use of the word whore, depressive episode. near-death experience, fluff, cats, grumpy pero, non-graphic birth scene, dad!pero, protectiveness, unrequited love?

Notes: Happy mother’s day yall--enjoy this story of reluctant motherhood. Have been in a Pero mood and thought it only fair I add to his content out there. Is he soft? Yes. Is he OOC? Probably. Do I care? not really

Im not necessarily thrilled with this, but its been in my drafts so long its time it made its way out. Also my document kept autocorrecting the Spanish so please let me know if anything is amiss! Pero also has very ~modern views on parenting so lets suspend some disbelief lol

“Amigo—the snow. It is coming,” Pero stated with a sniff of the air.

“Yes,” William agreed. “Let us travel one more day. Then we will look for winter’s work.” Pero nodded, the two setting off again. It had been months since they were in the east; since William (foolishly, if you asked Pero) chose Tovar over black powder and the two set off back west. They had ridden fiercely, stopping for coin when they could, picking up small jobs to sustain them until they came across the next settlement. Soon enough the two would part ways again; William to continue west toward Ireland and, presumably, Pero to the south toward Spain.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to go back yet. He had nothing there for him; no family, no home. But life on horseback was making him saddle sore; older in age than when he set out, with lasting pains from his many battles, he wasn’t sure how long he could continue like this, either. Truthfully, he thought he’d be dead by now—the thought of his future never crossing his mind. Now though—during long treks of open land, the partnership falling into quiet, or at night around the fire, keeping watch for threats—now, he wonders what could become of a weary sellsword.

It takes another two nights to come upon a village; a small miracle, Tovar is thankful to see a small inn at the outset of town, and William is thankful to see a bustling market in the center. People patter between stalls, buying supplies and food—surely someone would have work.

“Tovar.” His name brings him from his daydreams of a bed, turning to look at the man gruffly. “Take the horses. I will seek out work.” Tovar only nods, both dismounting and William handing him his reigns. He knows William will get work easier; a pleasant demeanor, a sharp smile, he can convince someone to trust him far easier than Pero ever could. He huffs at the thought, watching William’s back until he’s out of sight before bringing the horses to the stables at the inn.

Once the horses are settled and their stay is paid up for the night, Tovar walks back into the market, looking for his companion. People seem to move in all directions, though they give him a wide girth as he makes his way through the crowd. He takes them in as he moves, half looking for his partner, half evaluating any threats. A mother and her son at her breast, a couple looking at woolen fabric for winter. A woman stands at the butcher’s stall, smiling warmly at their young son who sells her one of his own misshapen wood carvings, despite the fact that his father seems to rebuff her business.

William stands with the local blacksmith, and once he spots him, Tovar makes his way to them.

“There is no work for us here,” William admits sheepishly while Tovar glares at him. “They do not have coin to pay or work to provide. I have asked the baker, the butcher, the blacksmith—” The two look around, defeated, when the woman from before catches Tovar’s eye; she’s speaking with the local healer; poultices, oils, rubs line her booth, but the elderly woman apparently does not have what she needs. Pero could recognize her weary, desperate look from his place across the market, watching as she attempted to shield some tears from being visible.

He wanted to wipe them away for her. The intrusive thought practically startles him.

“What about her,” William points out the crying woman, following Pero’s eyeline. She seems to struggle with her purchases slightly, but continues on her way further out of town. Tovar feels the need to defend her; insist she is doing fine on her own despite her struggles, but William, despite his easy demeanor, knows how to exploit a weakness, a damsel in distress, when he sees one. “She seems to need assistance.” William moves before Tovar can answer, following the woman, and Pero reluctantly trudges behind him.

You were frustrated. Frustrated at the butcher, who refused your sale, followed by a nasty comment about how you could find your own meats. Frustrated at the healer, for not having what you needed, though it was not the elderly woman’s fault she could no longer make it to the next village for supplies. Frustrated at the circumstances that keep you in this small village despite no family to name. Sure, you picked up your carrots and potatoes, and Edward’s crude fox figurine, but you needed that herb mix—and, according to the healer, the sooner the better. You’re so busy stewing in your own frustration you don’t hear the jingle of the two armored men approaching, startling slightly when they get your attention.

“Miss—please, we are looking for work. Perhaps you could—” You quickly blot the tears at your lashline with your sleeve, trying to hide your face.

“I’m sorry, I have no work for you.” You continue on your way; your small hut, just outside the village, in sight. You try to quicken your steps, but your body protests, and the two men keep up with you easily.

“Perhaps something from your husband?” “I have no husband.” The blond looked dejected, but quickly recovered, continuing to pester you. He was handsome, you suppose; spoke with a western accent. Cordial, though you suspected him of scheming under his pleasant exterior. His partner—all harsh edges, scowling as he trudged along—he at least had a face that spoke what he was feeling. You could appreciate that.

“We—we can put your stock away in the barn.”

“They are already in the barn,” you mutter. Now back by your home, Gil, the orange tabby who hangs around, begins to trot by your side. The cat and the dark-haired man seem to exchange a grimace.

“Let us just go,” the angry-looking man tries to interrupt, but the blond presses harder. “We could—we could fetch your water! Chop your firewood?” “I have plenty of both,” you sigh angrily. You know the type of men these are—mercs here to save a damsel for the winter, passing through until the weather clears. Surely they think you’re an easy target—taking advantage of a woman deemed “hysterical.”

“We could—we could fix your dinners! In exchange for payment—you would eat well.”

“She already looks as though she eats well.” You glare at the dark-haired man and his insinuation at your weight. It was true, you were heavier than most; but it was not something you could control at this point. Having approached your door, you’ve had enough.

“Listen, sirs. I don’t need you to coop my chickens or chop my wood or wash my feet. And I certainly don’t need you speaking out of turn on my land. I have no work for you, and even if I did, I have no coin to pay you. Goodbye.” With that, you move inside and slam the door in their faces, missing the way the blond slaps the brunette on the back of the head.

“Dumbass.” “What did I say?” Tovar asks innocently, and William only rolls his eyes. The two head back into town again; their night is paid up, so they might as well enjoy it before they need to move on. They spend some time washing up, shaving, becoming human again before heading down for dinner.

Tovar truly had no idea what he had said wrong; if anything, he felt William was out of pocket for picking at a woman who was clearly upset. He stewed over his mead for the night, watching as a barmaid made her home in William’s lap. When a second came to him, mumbling flirtations in his bad ear—a side effect of so many close-range explosions--until she took his requests to repeat herself as ridicule, he finally huffed, pushing away from the table without excusing himself and banging his way out the door.

The snow had already begun to fall; little things, floating through the air like ash. It will make for a miserable ride tomorrow, but he ignores it, stomping through the muddy paths, trying to calm his breaths. He’s not sure why the woman from the market earlier made him so unbalanced; he was no saint. Surely he deserved her ire for all the things he’s done, the blood on his hands. But why did she treat him so callously, when her heart could be so beautiful? He thinks of her smile again—the one toward the child. Then her tears, with the healer. Truly not something to come from good news. He wonders if he should also cry, knowing they will be leaving in the morning.

Tovar is so lost in his thoughts, he barely knows the direction he walks; clearly out of town by this point, the landscape is quiet, peaceful under gradually increasing falling snow. It sticks to his eyelashes, to wisps of his hair, and he shakes it off like a dog, hoping to stew a bit longer when he hears it—a whimper.

At first, he isn’t sure. He had lost most of his hearing in his left ear—could he also have started hearing things that didn’t exist? But then, he hears it again—softer, a bit—and he draws his sword, ready to fight. The white flakes make it hard to see, so he follows his ear, slowing when he comes upon a lump in the path.

He rushes over when he realizes it’s a person, laying long enough in one position that they have become covered in snow like a blanket. He clears it quickly, sword discarded to his side, to find the woman from earlier, a bag thrown to her side, the contents spilled. A glass jar lays shattered under her hip, though her other items seem mostly unharmed. Her cloak is soaked through, her teeth chatter—her eyes can barely focus on him as he curses under his breath.

“Mierda,” he huffs, trying to quickly brush off more snow, but she barely blinks at him, skin cold to the touch. “Why are you out here? Estupida. Idiota.” His insults seem to mean nothing to her, as she quickly succumbs to the cold, causing him to curse again in panic. “V—vamos, dama. Estás segura. You are safe.” With that, he lifts the woman to him; she isn’t a light thing, but he’s surely lifted heavier in his travels, and he doesn’t struggle, until out of nowhere, the fat orange cat from her homestead jumps in his way, hissing.

“Ay, gato, not now,” he mutters, continuing to try to lift the woman, but the cat puffs his fur and tail, stalking closer, and Pero doesn’t dare reach a hand out. “I help her, sí? Without my help, no meal for you,” he mutters. The cat seems to ponder it for a moment, and with that time, Pero gets the woman into his hold and begins his way.

Her hut from earlier is visible in the distance, and he carries her along the path, feet sinking in snow and mud as she whimpers, and he attempts comfort.

“Vamos. Un milagro, I found you—I’ve got you. Come,” he whispers into her hair, finally pushing the door to her cabin open with the cat at his feet, fur still puffed in suspicion. The house is sparse, like she has no possessions of her own—no clothes in the drawers, no excess of food for winter. She barely has a full set of kitchenware in the sink. He quickly deposits her on some furs in front of the fire, frantically searching for any remaining warmth in the house to envelop her with; luckily her cloak repelled most of the water and protected her from the shards of the broken jar, so her clothes were dry and free of glass underneath once the offending garment was removed. Pero knows a bit about surviving the elements—to become too warm, too quickly, could be just as damaging, so a hot bath was out of the question. All he could do was wait, hoping he had gotten to her before the cold could run too deep, piling blanket upon blanket on top of her, stacking the fire high with logs until it roared, and reluctantly allowing the furball that followed him in to curl up on top of her.

She groaned as the warmth began to seep back into her, causing Pero to exhale for the first time in hours. He watched her shivering body come back to life, and in desperation, looked for something additional to cover her; the involuntary movement having scared the cat somewhere into the recesses of the home to hide. Out of options, Pero gruffly laid down next to her to share his warmth, keeping her hands and feet tucked into his arms and legs until the blood returned to them.

“W—wh—” She tries to stutter out, but her teeth cut her words.

“Do not speak, milagrita. Rest now.” She doesn’t nod, but her eyes fall heavy, and her head pulls to his chest as she succumbs to sleep; Pero holding her there as her hair dries under the fire and the sun begins to rise outside the cottage. Once the sun streams in through the shutters, and her trembling has ceased, he finally pulls from her, picking her up to deposit her on the straw mattress in the corner, eyes fluttering and unfocused as she tries to parse him out.

You don’t remember much from your walk to the next village. Your leg seemed to ache more than normal, a sure sign the snow was imminent, but you needed the herbs the local healer couldn’t provide as soon as possible, and walking several miles to the next settlement was your only option. The healer’s words echoed in your mind.

“I only hope it is not too late, my dear.”

Still, the ache in your bones made you move slowly; though you got a decent price and a pitying look for your spoils, by the time you began the walk back, the snow had begun falling in earnest, coating the plains around you until you couldn’t see green anymore. Your body protested terribly, and you struggled in the mud and slush now covering the ground, body unbalanced with the weight of your bag. Still, you soldiered on, promising yourself a few days of recovery once back in the warmth of your cottage—you would need it after swallowing the herb mixture. Plus, you heard the way the men in the village talked—they would say you needed the exercise.

Life hadn’t been easy for you. Extra weight on noble’s daughters and barmaids was seen as desirable, healthy even—they were sought after as promising women to warm beds and bear children. Extra weight appearing on you—a lowly tailor with no family—was not seen as so. You’re reminded of the butcher’s comment, then the men from earlier in the day as you walk, the sellswords—how even two men, presumably isolated from women for some time and desperate for work—could still find you so repulsive. The light haired one, you had expected—he was attractive, charming. He had probably never struggled to get what he needed.

But the darker haired man, with the scar over his eye—he should know, of all people, what someone who looks different goes through. How you can be overcharged or undersold or taken advantage of, treated as weak. You huff again, brushing snow from your face before adjusting your sack; in doing so, you failed to see the gnarled tree roots ahead, blanketed by snow, and when entangled with your feet, you hit the ground in an instant.

Hard.

You had tried to get up—to will your legs to work, just this one time. But after digging hands through slush and frozen toes barely responding, you thought maybe--maybe you could give up. You could lay here, under snow like a blanket. See your family again. Solve your problems. Be free of the limitations of your earthly body, of the pain, of the scorn and rumors from your neighbors, of the sharp nose and scarred face that seemed to follow your mind, even now as you succumb to the elements…

When you awake again, you’re in bed. You don’t remember how you got there, how out in the snow resulted in swaddled in the house. You barely bend at the waist before a voice calls out, startling you.

“Do not move.” You freeze, though your body is too weak to support itself in a half-upright state, and collapse back into the mattress. You blink a few times as a figure approaches—is he here to steal? To rape and pillage and leave you to rot? It takes several seconds of him holding something in your face, you looking at it confusedly, to bring things to focus. “Drink.”

You cautiously take the proffered cup—one of yours, left drying from the last meal—drinking the water greedily when you realize how thirsty you are. Gentle hands pull it down and away from you before you can get carried away, quiet words accompanying the movement. “Gentil. Not so fast.” The removal of the cup reveals the gruff man who followed you from the market yesterday, his companion seeking work—the one who insulted you. At least, you think it was yesterday—you are unsure of how much time has passed, the sun high in the sky by the looks of it, but your head swims. You blink at him, his softer demeanor the polar opposite of the day before.

He seems to sense the tension, as he speaks next. “I have let the pigs out to roam, and gathered the eggs. The firewood is chopped. I hope you do not mind—I have brought my horse here, and the cabrón may have helped himself to some hay. He has no manners.” You continue to stare at him, wide-eyed. You did not know he had so many words in him, why he would do all this for you while you were infirmed. The conversation from the day before returns.

“I—I told you, I have no coin,” you offer weakly, hoping he will accept his losses and be on his way.

“No. I know, milagrita,” he says. “But—I will still help you. Get on your feet again.”

“I cannot pay you,” you remind him again, slurring but insistent, as if he misunderstood.

“Sí. Yes. I understand. But I will not leave you half-frozen and suffering. My mamá would have my neck.” You nod, eyes drifting closed—the small conversation almost too much as you recover.

“Please,” you offer weakly, half-asleep, and Pero chalks your murmuring up to your experiences so far . He ignores it as you continue to ramble. “You—you should have left me to die. Please—"

“Ay, do not say such things. Sleep now. I will tend to things and be here when you wake. Estás segura. You are safe.” His words barely wash over you before you’re back in your dreams—thinking of your own mother, of safety. Of a snowstorm which turns tarnished armor white.

Pero finally has a chance to seek William out when you fall back asleep, ensuring the cabin is shut tight before departing. He’s not quite sure what came over him—he doesn’t know the last time he did something without the promise of something in return; coin, food, a woman to warm his bed. But milling about your small homestead this morning, caring for the animals, chopping the wood—it felt nice. It was a sense of domesticity he hadn’t known since he was a child, popping in to check your temperature with a rough hand on your forehead as you slept, as his mamá did when he was a boy. He told you that you were safe—but for once, he felt safe, too. And he wasn’t quite ready to let go of that feeling.

He finds William in the tavern, practically in the same spot he left him the night before. The shock on the blond’s face is evident, clearly having assumed Pero had either moved on without him or died in the snow the night before, but he still greets him with a nod until he sits.

“Tovar. I thought you were dead.” “In your dreams,” Pero grumbles quietly, nodding to a barmaid when she places stew in front of him, though he doesn’t dig in immediately, and William notices, giving him a raised eyebrow.

“Where have you been?”

“No where,” Pero brushes off, and William rolls his eyes.

“Well, I’ve found work—”

“You have?” He interrupts.

“Yes. The local huntsman are looking for one more—they have room and board, but they can only support one,” he offers tentatively. “I have told them we are a pair.”

“You should take it,” Pero offers quickly, avoiding William’s gaze by digging into his meal. “I—I have found work, as well.”

“Where?” William asks, surprised.

“The woman. From the market.” Pero is purposely being not forthcoming, but William parses him out.

“And she is paying you?” Tovar is silent, so William specifies. “In coin?” “No.”

“—In her bed?” Tovar scowls at him.

“No.” “Then it is not a job.” If possible, Tovar scowls harder.

“It does not matter. We have both found work and we will stay for the winter. I will stay with the woman. You will stay with the huntsman. And we will be on our way come spring.”

“And what of when she no longer needs your services?” William asks. He’s genuine, but the thought still rubs Pero wrongly.

“That is for me to worry over.” The two men simply nod, Tovar’s bowl cleaned, and he parts ways from William, something in his chest clawing at him to check on you back at home.

When Pero comes back upon the small cottage, he startles, seeing the front door cracked ajar and the feral cat sitting watch outside, practically tattling to Pero. Breaking into a run, he draws his dagger, scaring the animal and bursting in the room to deal with any intruder—he was only gone a few moments. But you were sickly, in no state to defend yourself, and if someone else had found out—

He tries to shake the thought from his head, but the empty bed accelerates his heart, and he quickly turns toward the first sound he hears.

“Don’t come any closer!” You’re breathing heavily, a cooking knife trembling in your hand as a weapon. Pero lowers his dagger, attempting a step closer, but you try to intimidate him. “I mean it! I do not know what you want, but—”

“Relájate, milagrita. Relax,” he tries to soothe, though like everything he does, it seems to come out rough as he places his sword on the kitchen table. He doesn’t think you will actually act on your stabbing, but continues. “You are not in danger.”

“There is a man in my home who—just yesterday—was in search of coin I did not have and insulted me!” Pero sputters back as you speak, offended. “I would say this is danger!”

“This man also saved you from certain death in the snow!” You lower the knife slightly, surprise across your face as he continues to yell. “Should I have left you out there to freeze? Hm?”

“What do you mean?” You finally ask after a moment, head spinning. You had felt cold when you awoke, and vaguely remembered speaking to someone earlier, but the details were hazy; you thought it a dream. You try to hold your ground across from him, but the knife has gone limp, and you sway slightly in your spot.

“Please sit. And I will explain.” Pero gestures to the chairs in front of you, though you look less than convinced. “Please, let me say my piece knowing you will not faint in the middle of it. Then you may tell me to leave.” You don’t agree or take the chair; even if you are eager to rest again. You feel weaker than usual, and it’s knocking you out, but you look to the man expectantly, the knife still in your hand.

“My name is Tovar. I was out on a walk and found you covered in snow. Why would you go out in a blizzard?” He presses almost angrily, and you feel the need to explain yourself.

“I needed to travel to the next village for my—Oh god. The jar! Where is the jar?!” He raises his eyebrows at her. “Where is the jar from my bag? I—I need to take it, it has been days—”

“The jar was shattered.” “You—You shattered it!” “Ay! No, it was broken when I found you!” You tighten your grip on the handle of the knife.

“Estupida,” he mutters, shaking his head as you glare at him. “I brought you back here, got you warmed, and took care of the animals this morning. I was coming to check on you—you still look unwell.”

“You—you should have let me die.” Your voice is eerily level, though the words send a chill up his spine. “What?” He asks, alarmed.

“I—I want to die. Let me die!” With that, you move to stab yourself with the knife, the blade turned toward your stomach hastily. Pero moves faster though, gripping it in your hand; your strength is no match for his, and he holds it away from you, though still in your grasp.

“Please, please—I want to die! Please,” you sob, falling to your knees. He’s so close he comes down with you, lowering you gently.

“Do not wish such things,” he chides gently, unsure what to do as you bawl.

“Please, Tovar—Please. Plunge the knife, please—” “Dama, what is wrong? Why do you wish such evil things?”

“I am with child,” you weep, and he jumps away, knife-in-hand, letting you fall further onto your hands as you cry harder. “I—I am ruined. Please, let me end it—the herbs were my last hope, it is much too late—”

“No—I will not let you do that—your husband—”

“I told you—I have no husband! That is the whole point!"

“The child’s father, then--” he huffs.

“The father would rather us both dead,” you snivel, tears beginning to dry. Pero glares at you when he notices you eyeing the knife again.

“A father, wishing his bastard dead? Unbelievable—"

“I do not appreciate your tone, sir,” you snipe. “It—it was not meant to be this way.”

“Surely, you fell on top of him, skirts lifted—” “Tovar!” You interrupt, though quickly deflate. Tovar knows he’s gone too far, but you begin to spin your tale. “A group of travelers came through this summer. There was one—well. He—he courted me. Proclaimed his love, took me,” Pero scowls harder somehow, so you add, “—willingly—and told me to meet him at the church the next day, to make an honest woman of me. That—that did not happen, and he is gone. And I am ruined.” He watches as you sway on your knees, reaching forward to catch you when you move too-far forward, and guiding you back to bed. You fall into it readily, eyes wide and teary as he moves around you.

“Rest now. We will talk more later.” Against your own will, you listen, laying down.

It’s short-lived; you jolt up, about to empty the contents of your stomach. A bucket seems to appear out of nowhere, thrust into your hands just in time. This was the symptom that brought you to the healer to begin with—that and your missed bleeds.

“I have a proposition for you.” You look up from the bucket, his voice ringing in the silence now that you’ve finished.

“I have heard that before—” Tovar ignores your sarcasm, continuing.

“You are in need of help. As your condition becomes—” he swallows visibly—"more apparent, you will not be able to keep up with your tasks. You will need someone to tend your homestead.” “I’ve told you, I have no coin—” “I am willing to do so for room and board.” You stare at him blankly. “I will sleep in the barn if you want me to, milagrita. But you need the help, and I need to know you—and the babe--are safe. When the child comes, I will be on my way, and you may go back to doing things for yourself.” You seem to ponder it more closely for a moment, so he speaks again. “May I remind you, you would be frozen without me.”

“Fine. The barn has a leaky roof. You may sleep here,” you mumble, your last words before retching violently again. You miss his smug grin.

“Gracias, milagrita.” He moves about; you notice any items possible construed as weapons—knives, the heavy pan in the kitchen, even the fork seems to be missing—have been removed from the premises. He gathers his final items before speaking again. “I will go tend to the pigs.”

You nod, though when he passes you again, you grab his wrist to stop him. He stares at it a long moment, but you don’t let go.

“Tovar--Why are you helping me?” He avoids your gaze, so you press further. “Why do you care?” After several long, silent moments, he speaks.

“The world is cruel. I am a sellsword--for too long I have added to it. If I am able, why would I not help a beautiful woman when she struggles?” You ignore the fluttering in your chest, having never been described as beautiful before. Tamping it down, you nod, releasing him, and he walks out the back, leaving you in bed, cradling the bucket.

It’s dark when you awake again—apparently the baby needs more sleep than you do--and you almost forget about your new companion until a cup of tea is unceremoniously shoved at you with a grumbled “drink.” Somehow, even after sleep, you feel worse than before; a heavy weight on your chest, mind blank, shivering under the blankets as you pull them tighter. Pero notices immediately.

“You are cold? I will put more wood on.”

“No—” you stop him with a whisper, and he looks at you with a raised brow. “I—I am not.” He humphs lightly, turning back to settle at the kitchen table; you see some of his possessions, knives and weapons and a few tattered clothes, set in front of him, being cleaned or tended to.

“I do not know how long you were in the snow.”

Pero looks up when you don’t answer, following your blank gaze to an uninteresting corner of the cabin. Uneasy, he outlines all the tasks he’s done for the day; the animals, the wood, cleaning snow from the walk outside, preparing meager porridge from your stocks for the two of you for a meal. You don’t move to accept it, eyes devoid of emotion, so he sets it aside, digging in to his portion himself.

You don’t move much for a week. You sleep, wake, sit in the bed, stare at the same corner of the room. You barely acknowledge him as he moves about the house, occasionally sipping tea or spooning porridge when he gets properly worried. After five nights of this, he gets the healer—the one from the town square, where he saw you—and brings her to your home.

“It is as I believed. She is in an episode.” The woman nods, though she is so ancient, it seems like her bones creak in the quiet room. “What will cure it?” The elderly woman hums.

“Time. You—you must show her kindness. Until she recovers.”

“And the babe?”

“Kindness,” she repeats. “They will come around.” He nods. “Your lady and your boy will be fine.”

“The child—it is not mine.” She nods, patting his hand, but doesn’t seem to acknowledge his statement. He’s ready to dismiss her as insane herself, but still, he dutifully presses a coin to her palm as she leaves.

His routine changes after that. In the mornings, waking before you, tending to the animals and the land, though the snow and ice still covers most of it. When you wake, he sits with you in bed, propriety be damned. He moves you like malleable clay—he spoons porridge into your mouth. Tips your head back until you drink. When you begin to retch again, stomach finally full of sustenance, he holds the hair out of your face, allowing you to empty your stomach as he rubs your back gently. The routine repeats throughout the day, with him murmuring to you as he works.

“The orange cat—he has come around again. Scared the Devil out of me.”

“The healer believes you to be having a boy—foolish old woman. There is no way she could know. Do you think she is a witch?”

“I have given the orange beast a portion of venison. I fear we are friends.”

When you still don’t really stir, a shell of yourself, he switches topics—he tells you of his adventures. Starts with the East; the black powder and the beasts and the great wall. He moves westward, telling you of when he and William avenged a small town to a raging taxman or he escorted a duke to the countryside. At night, while you sleep, he tells the babe instead—talks of wild creatures and gallant heroes. Teaches it Spanish words like it will come out of the womb bilingual. Your stomach has barely started to show beneath your skirts—only someone who knew to look would see it.

He yearned to touch it. He did not know why, but he often sat on his hands, restricting himself. He let himself believe, for a moment, that you were his. That the babe was his, that he was taking care of his home and his wife and his child in a way he longed for. After a few more days—stories exhausted, desperation kicks in—and he does.

His hand is warm and large over the small bump. Completely still. He swears he feels a flutter beneath his palm, but before he can snatch his hand back, your voice startles him.

“How did you get your scar?” It’s the first words you’ve said in weeks—you haven’t moved, still laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, but he’s confident—however garbled—it came out of your mouth. Especially when you expand. “On your eye.”

“You know I am a sellsword, no family, no home,” he remarks, but you don’t even nod at him. It forces him to continue. “I—I was not always. When I was young—stupid and young—I had a home. And a sister, Mirabel. In Spain.” He swallows nervously. “She was like you—with child. With her husband. But he mistreated her. He beat her, he stole from her, he slept with whores. He—he took it too far. I knew if—if I didn’t do something, the babe, my sister, both—they would be dead within the year. So I challenged him—I hoped to bring her back home with me.”

“He won?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“We both lost,” he answers remorsefully. “He brought my sister to the fight—he made her watch. He got my eye, but I—I sliced his arm and chest. I thought he was going to come back to the fight, but instead, he slayed my sister and the babe, in front of me.”

“Tovar,” you breathe slowly. “I am so sorry.” “As am I,” he replies, blinking back tears. “You—you must come back to me now. I know you are despaired. But--I could not protect my sister. I will protect you.” You move your hand down, covering his over your small bump. It’s the first movement he’s seen from you; light and delicate, you grip his hand over you, and the two of you sit there quietly. He sees a tear slip from your eye, and brushes it away gently. “My birth name is Pero. Pero Tovar.”

“Thank you, Pero,” you reply quietly, not moving to remove your hand from his. “For protecting us.”

You begin to pep up after that; more snow has fallen than you remember, but you sit up in bed, feed yourself, bathe yourself. You converse with Pero, albeit sparsely—not that he is not much of a conversationalist either. But it’s clear you were listening all those times he told you stories—he has watched your bump become slightly more pronounced, and you begin speaking to it, too. Telling it fairytales and bedtime stories.

This routine continues as winter rages on. When you wake in the morning, Pero’s already out on the land. Your body screams in protest, achy and bloated, when you walk over to the small window, watching him work. He’s lean, toned muscles flexing as he chops more wood for the day, keeping up your stocks better than you ever could. He startles when Gil approaches him, the two having a terse stare-off, before shooing him away and getting back to the task at hand.

During the day, he works around the house, putters with odd jobs or off to the market while you clean or stitch or read. You said nothing when materials for a blanket appeared, small and soft green, perfect for swaddling; you only took it gratefully, beginning to make it into a blanket. At night, the two of you would sit around the table, Tovar working his tools into sharper points or cleaner edges and you preparing food for the both of you. He always insisted on helping, that you should rest, but was lousy at it; now that you could do it yourself, you had no need for porridge anymore. It seems that tasks that took you all day barely filled his morning, and usually when you watch him tend to the animals, you get started on your own sustenance. You watch one night as the stew boils, Tovar continuing his work in silence, but eventually, he curses under his breath, and you notice him attempting to stitch a spare shirt, albeit poorly.

“Bring it to me. I will mend it.”

“You do not have to—” “You are helping me. Let me help you.” Pero acquiesces, bringing you the shirt.

“Thank you, milagrita.” You nod back at him, taking over the stitching on a particularly long slice through the fabric, trying to ignore the idea that there is likely an identical cut on the man’s body. Soon enough, you settle into bed for the night, and Pero makes his bed in front of the fire, the two of you drifting to sleep.

The next morning, you barely have the bread toasting before you begin to waver a bit; the babe has been taking a lot out of you, much like its father, but you persevere, wanting to provide for Pero as he has for you. As you prepare the meat and cheeses, you begin to sway in earnest, nausea rising from the morning wakeup. You pull out your mother’s recipe book, searching for her cure-all tea recipe as you work, a few pages flipped between each preparation as you sway slightly, until the door behind you slams open.

“Ay! What are you doing!” Pero yells angrily, causing you to shrink on yourself. He seems to realize how he comes across, but nonetheless, supports your back as he shuffles you back to bed. “You look unwell--you should not be on your feet. I have told you to rest.”

“I am not infirmed, Pero,” You retort, but he shoots you a stony glare. “I was making you a meal—” He stops, letting you sit in bed. “And a cure-all from my mother for me.” He looks at you closely, as if he can decipher what ails you from his vision.

“Si. You sit. I will make the cure-all.” He putters around the kitchen a bit, eyes eventually landing on your open recipe book. He seems to examine it as he pops bread into his mouth, before gingerly picking it up and bringing it to you.

“Please—tell me what to do, and I will do it.” You nod, reading off the recipe to him as he gathers the ingredients. When you get to a few he doesn’t recognize, he accepts your instruction on their location, and soon enough, you have tea in your hands and he has cheese in his.

“Pero,” you begin gently after thanking him for the tea. “The recipe—you cannot read?” He looks away ashamedly, seeming to chew even harder on his lunch. “It is not to be embarrassed over.”

“I was never schooled,” he mumbles quickly. “A boy of the streets. Fighting—it is all I could do.” You nod gently.

“I—I could teach you. If you want.” You don’t want to pressure him, but seeing him so unsure sends uneasiness through you. “I learned from my father. It’s just words on a page.”

“What does a sellsword need with words?” He’s angry, but you think he may be quoting someone else’s words to him.

“It does not seem you want to be a sellsword anymore.” He’s quiet for a long time, avoiding your gaze.

“Si. Yes.”

“So what do you want to do?” You take another sip of your tea.

“I—I do not know. We are done in the east. I have nowhere to go. But—I do not want to fight anymore. I want—seguridad. Safety.” With his confession, he quickly clears his dishes, rinsing them before leaving them to dry. “I—I am going to fix the leak in the barn.” You nod, watching as he leaves, but he pauses in the doorway, back turned to you but looking over his shoulder as he speaks.

“Perhaps—perhaps we could start tonight. With the words.” You nod eagerly, a small smile over your lips as you watch him startle from Gilbert again, seemingly waiting for him outside the house with a stern glare, before walking out to the barn to fix the leak.

With a new task at night, you seem to flourish; to relish teaching him each scrawl of the pen, each nondescript letter that looked like nothing more than hatch to him. You were endlessly patient, teaching useful words before full sentences, explaining and guiding and never judging. A calm presence for a busy mind.

He thinks you will be a good mother. He realizes it one day, your belly more prominent, as you teach him to write his own name. It is plain to him, despite your initial hopelessness, you already care for the child within you; he watches you cover it with your hands lovingly, whisper to the babe when you think he is out. You often refer to the life inside you as your “little miracle.” He watches you care for the cat like a child, appreciates your patience as he learns when he would rather burn the quill in frustration. You were hopeless for the situation before—not the child itself, who had no choice in being blessed to you.

He feels he is blessed, too; a weary woman, scorned by man, opening her home to him, giving him the safety and security he needs. He craves. His heart yearns for something, some deep ache he can’t name, when he’s here. When he goes to market, he only wants to be back. He caught himself, once, talking to Gilly, who followed in his footsteps on a hunt.

“Ay, Gilly—snowfall comes soon. We must return home.” The word causes him to stop in his tracks; Gilbert strutting ahead and leaving him behind. It was not his home, not really; a home is a place to lay your head. To wash of your sins, to pray to your altar. To live and thrive with the people you love. A place to belong. Surely this feeling—it will pass. He does not have these things here. He nods assuredly to himself, only covering a few more feet before he hears you yelp from inside—he has never dropped his tools faster, sprinting in only to see you sitting at the table, a smile on your face.

“What is it? What is the matter?” He searches the house frantically, but you chuckle, so he rushes over to you, holding your head in his hands as he searches your face.

“It is nothing—I felt him move. Here,” you take one of his broad hands, resting it over your swell. Before, he had felt guilty, feeling the life within you. But you hold his hand there eagerly, a broad smile on your face as he kneels to you.

“I do not feel any—” At the sound of his voice, a patter escapes; he knows, despite himself, it was a little kick, from the little body within your own. He looks at you in wonder.

“He likes you,” you offer gently. “From all your stories.”

“I do not think—” Another kick, and Pero gapes at it, making you chuckle lightly again. It is melodic to him, a dream come true; sitting in front of a beautiful woman, celebrating the new life within her—

He has to remind himself again, you are not his. This is not home. He is simply helping you; atoning for his sins with his sister, and then he will be at peace. Still, he struggles to pull his hand away, instead pulling the other to your other side until he frames it; the babe kicks up a storm in response.

“Ay, bebé—you must be kind to your mamá. I know learning to kick was fun, but you must let her rest. She deserves it.” You smile sweetly at him, and the baby seems to listen; the kicking ceases almost immediately.

As the weather begins to warm, Pero spends more and more time outside. You tamp down your disappointment, wanting to spend as much time with your companion as possible—but you figure he must be preparing for his departure, as the time for the baby to come is approaching. The babe kicks and tumbles all day, and you remain exhausted and swollen, unable to do much by way of independence even if Pero allowed it. Given the option, you think he would continue to wait on you hand and foot, but the garden needs turning over and the land needs culling for Spring; you even hear him making repairs to the barn in anticipation.

“It should only be a few more weeks now. Spring will come.” Pero comes in with a warm breeze, prepared to lay his head for the night after supper. You don’t look up from where you’re preparing the root vegetables.

“Yes—and the baby as well.” The words feel unspoken; and then you will leave. “Are you excited?” You seem to waver.

“I am scared,” you admit smally. “But I will be happy he is here.”

“Why?”

“I—I worry something will be wrong. I—I did not protect my miracle as I should have when I learned of him.” Pero sighs, but comes up behind you, taking the spoon from you to stir the vegetables in himself.

“You will love him all the same—do not worry over small things.” You nod, though you don’t walk away.

“What if—I will not be a good mother. He will—he’ll resent me, or leave me, or be like his father—” “No,” Pero responds resolutely, dropping the spoon, and you pick it up to continue, adding some dried herbs. “He will be nothing of his father. He will love you, and you him.”

“I can only hope I am enough, without someone to provide for us.”

“Why do you speak of yourself like that?” You look at him, but he stares back intensely. “Like you will never find someone to be with you.” “I—look at me, Pero. His father was right—I am homely and plain. No man has ever—ever even looked my way, before him. And now I have no family and no money, and I will have a child with no father. I know now it was foolish to hope for love. But no man would even come near me now.”

“You are beautiful.” The words are so simple, but you shrug him off.

“You do not need to say that just because—"

“I am not. You are glowing. You are strong and you are smart and you are important to me, and to this babe. I cannot force you to believe it—but it is not foolish to hope for love. Any man who passes you over is an idiot.” You nod, blinking away some tears; the babe has made your emotions peak more easily than before. “I have something for you, milagrita. Stay. Do not look.” You look at him in confusion as he moves to exit the house, but he eyes you, and you turn back to the stew, leaving him to whatever he was doing. You hear him scold Gil, then some scraping, and finally, Pero stands beside you, breathless. “Okay, you may look.”

You do not know what you expected, but a small cradle made of wood was not it. Pero walks over to it with you, a hand hovering over your back as you take it in. The wood is carved into intricate slats, and at the head of the basket is a small carved cat head. The bottom is thatched with hay, the same green fabric left from your blanket making tucked in to make it softer, as Pero approaches it.

“It sways, yes? So you do not need to hold the babe all the time,” he demonstrates, giving a small shove, and the basket sways gently. “I have made sure it is quiet so he does not wake. And see—Gilly is looking over him—” When he turns to look at you, you choke out a sob; fat tears running down your cheeks as you weep, he hurries over, concerned.

“Oh—you do not like it, I can—It would be good firewood—” “It is beautiful,” you choke out. “You will do nothing of the sort.” Pero nods, searching your face. “I just—I cannot believe what a kindness this is, Pero. We will treasure it, always.”

“Perhaps when you find someone—your next can use it, too,” he offers sheepishly, and you look at him incredulously. The only person whose babes you want in this cradle, are his.

The thought startles you, though it is not surprising. Pero has been nothing but caring to you; from the moment you granted him permission to stay, he has worshipped at your feet. The attention was unexpected, but nice—though what you really appreciated was his heart. The way he would leave in the middle of the day when you claimed you craved mince pies, returning with one from the market. The way he led Gilly around like he was leading a feline army. The way he tried so hard to be personable—to chat, even if the idea seemed to physically pain him. Pero was never good with words, never one to speak if his actions could show instead. And his actions recently made your heart flutter. His voice brings you out of your thoughts.

“Have you thought of any names?” You shrug plainly.

“My father’s name was John, I suppose that for a boy—I do not want him to bear his blood father’s name,” you add quietly.

“Would you tell me what happened, milagrita? I—I do not want to push, but--” Pero’s eyes plead with you; you know he’ll never push, but you offer the story, the missing piece.

“I have told you he courted me; he asked me to wed. A poor traveler, there was no ring—no promise, but we decided to meet at the church the next day. Not before consummating what was to be,” you add ruefully, though more disappointed in yourself than anything. “When I arrived at the church, he spit at my feet, disgraced me—told me I was an ugly cow, useful only for a good fuck, and should count my blessings that anyone wanted me at all, even for a moment. He told the town what we had done—that I was nothing more than a whore. Turns out, he and his friends had a bet for their travels—whoever beds the ugliest woman would get to decide where they went next. He decided, and they left. When I got home, I found most of my valuables—jewelry, silver, even food—was gone. He never cared once about me.” You swallow your tears, avoiding Pero’s eyes. “He does not want this babe any more than I did, and I will not curse the child with his father’s name.”

“Tell me.”

“What?” “Tell me his name,” Pero growls, moving to stand.

“Richard Hunte,” you reply. “Why?” “So I may kill him myself.”

“Pero—” He grumbles in Spanish, gathering his things. “Pero!” He glares at you, his anger turning soft when he realizes he stares at the victim, not the perpetrator.

“He is gone, Pero. It is no use.”

“He has hurt you.” “I let him.” He blinks at you. “I—I was reckless and in love. I let him. Please—settle down.”

“No, I—This—” “Pero,” you chide gently, trying to move with him. “I am not your sister. I am not Mirabel.” He turns to you, eyes crazed. “Breathe, Pero, please.” Your hand rests over his chest, bringing him back from his fury.

“I cannot let another foolish man walk free who hurts the people I—women—like this,” he stutters.

“Breathe,” you soothe, running your hand gently over his breathing heart, and bringing his to yours. “We are all foolish in love.” You look at him, something more in your eyes, he thinks, before he shakes it away, pulling his hand back sharper than intended, and you try not to take offense.

“I have not told you what I would name it if a girl,” you murmur, watching him put his things back where they came from. He pauses, though he does not look at you. “I—I was hoping for your blessing to name her Mirabel, after your late sister.” He turns to look to you, wide-eyed, and you mistake his awe for scorn. “It is okay if not, I just—it means ‘wonder,’ yes? And this is my wondrous miracle, and you helped me realize that—”

“I—yes, sí,” he blubbers, and you rush to him. “She—she would be proud to have a strong mamá like you to raise her namesake.” A tear falls from his eye, brushing by his scar. He tries to turn to hide it, but you catch it with your thumb instead, and he sniffles. “Do not feel you have to. But I—I cannot thank you enough for choosing to honor my family like that, milagrita.”

“It is you who deserves thanks, Pero,” you add softly. Your hands seem to fall around him easily, and despite the prominent bump there, you pull him to you into a hug that ignites every nerve in his body.

It’s clear you both needed this—some physical affection, a sign of trust to each other. When you pull back, one of his hands—broad, callouses crusted in dirt from his work clearing the garden to prepare for spring—comes to your face, cupping your cheek as you look deeply into his eyes. Both of you seem ready to say something, mouths slightly agape as you study each freckle and crease in the other’s face.

Rap rap rap. The moment is broken quickly by a loud knock at the door, you scurrying away to answer it. Pero hears you rebuff the man, but recognizing his Irish lilt, comes to the door instead.

“This is William,” he says plainly, and you eye the man at the door again. You suppose under the long hair and dirty beard, the man you met last fall may be under there. When Pero nods at you, you allow the man into your home, watching as he tries to inconspicuously eye your belly.

“I will give you two a moment,” you offer, heading for the door, but Pero’s grip stops you.

“Ay, milagrita, it is too chilly—” “The sun is out, Pero,” you offer gently. “And I need to finish the washing up.” Pero rolls his eyes, but quickly moves to bundle another coat of his on top of your shawl before allowing you out the door.

“She is with child,” William states plainly, the second the door shuts. “Yes.”

“You said you would not warm her bed.”

“No,” Pero replies. “It is not—like that.” William nods, looking around the cottage. Pero is miffed by the intrusion of his past life, and pushes for more. “Did you need something?”

“Yes. The hunting group is disbanded for the winter. When the frost passes, I think it is time we resume our journey.” Pero doesn’t react outwardly; barely a twitch of his face. He doesn’t want to move on, to leave you and the baby here alone; he wants to stay. To feel safety, to feel at home. William seems to sense this. “Will you be coming?”

Pero’s practically in a trance. He doesn’t respond, like he needs to think it over; having settled on the bench below the open window to clean the cookery in the small basin, you overheard it all. It felt like it tore you in two, to know the second man you ever loved would do the same as the first, move on and leave you behind. You were frozen in fear, shame, sadness, left floating without a net. You may need him, but this was a stark reminder—he did not need, or even want, you.

A sudden cramp in your belly seized over the news, and you hissed when the blade in your hand caught your palm; the sound loud enough to carry inside. Over the sounds in the house, you didn’t hear Pero’s response—but in your heart, you knew what it was, your destiny repeating itself.

He seemed to be at your side in an instant, kneeling in the thawed mud to examine the wound.

“Mi milagrita, ay, we need to—” “No,” you reply tersely, pulling your hand from his gentle grasp and hiding your face from him so he could not see your tears. You didn’t know if they were from the cut or him leaving, but either way, you were ashamed. “No—I am fine. Go to William,” you bite, wrapping the injury in one of your cloths.

“What—” “I said I am fine, please—” You won’t look at him. “Just leave me be.” He nods simply, unsure where he went wrong, but leads William to the door anyway. William murmurs one last thing to him as he stands in the frame.

“Let me know when you have made your choice—I would like to set out before summer.” Pero only nods, watching him walk away until his horse is out of sight.

The pains start that night, the moon high in the sky. You suppose they may have started earlier, but you were too overcome with sadness to notice anything out of the ordinary. You had been purposely ignoring Pero, coming to terms with being alone again. But when the bed was wetted, and you released a loud gasp, again—he was by your side within a moment.

“It is happening,” you breathe steadily. “The baby.” “I will get the—” “No!” You reply quickly, grabbing his hand before he can leave. You needed him; needed his safety, his warmth. Needed him with you. He couldn’t leave.

“Pero! Pero, no, please—don’t leave, please—I need you.” You groan through the pain, hand tightening around his as he panics.

“I need to get the healer—” “Pero, please—” you sob. “I need you, please—don’t leave me—Pero--”

“I will be back. I promise.”

“Pero!” It almost breaks him, but he pulls from you, listening to you groan and whimper in pain as he makes his way out into the night.

The healer he knew of in the village led him to a midwife—specialized in child rearing. He did not feel she moved quickly enough, packing her things and walking to the cottage much slower than his panicked pace, as he heard you cry when he approached and cursed himself, the man who did this to you, the gods—anyone he could think of. The woman went to work, though, drawing the curtain between the rooms as she spoke to you in hushed tones.

He could hear you wail over the midwife.

“Pero! Oh, he—he has left. It has happened again. He is not coming back—I am cursed to live in pain, a punishment for my foolish heart—Pero!”

The midwife may have said something to calm you, but he missed it—panicked, crazed, heartbroken at the mere thought, he threw the curtain open, moving through the room with ease.

“Sir, this is quite inappropriate—” “Shut up!” He growls, rushing past her to kneel at your side.

“I’m here. I’m here, mi amor. Mi vida, I am here.” He grasps your hand tightly, pain across your features as you search his face frantically.

“Don’t leave, Pero. Don’t leave me—” You mean more than just right now, though you struggle to get that across. “Never,” he promises. “But you—you must promise me the same.”

“I cannot do it, Pero—” “You can. You are my miracle. My warrior. You are the strongest person I know.” Tears gather at his lashes, watching you grimace and sob. “Please, mi amor—please. You need to stay, too. You need to do this. For the babe—and for me.” You nod. “You will do this, and then—I will stay. I promise, with all that I am, I will stay.”

It's a battle unlike the countless ones he’s seen, but all the more victorious. He is used to being able to control fate--to rely on his swords or his fists to keep himself safe. Here, though; here he's powerless, and it kills him. He does what he can; hours passed of blotting the sweat from your brow, of strong-held hands and whispered praise. The moon dipping below the horizon, the sun just peeking in that of a new morning; a squalling baby boy is thrust upon your chest, lungs strong and face pinched in upset. The midwife tends to the linens, bringing them to the kitchen as you both take in the new life. Your tears match the boy’s, Pero ignoring the bursting in his chest as you look down at the babe in awe.

“He looks just like you,” Pero supplies. When he speaks, the baby quiets, wide eyes looking over at him. “And nothing of his father.”

“He is perfect,” you whisper, running a soothing finger over his cheek. “And your voice still soothes him.”

“You did so well, mi amor. Un diosa.” You look up to Pero from bed; your smile is wide, the babe hugged closely to your chest; your hair is crazed, your face heavy with fatigue, sweat still clings to your hairline—you’ve never looked more beautiful to him.

He does his best to ignore it—ignore the words he has said, whispered promises in the heat of the moment that you would never fathom now that you have your son. He tries to change the subject.

“What will you name him?” Your eyes remain on the boy.

“I think I will call him PJ,” you reply, then moving to meet Pero’s eyes. “For Pero John.” His eyes widen comically, searching yours, looking for a joke.

“You are to name him after me?” His voice is small, crackling as he speaks. One hand leaves the bundled boy to grab Pero’s.

“If you agree to it,” you reply smally. “I—I would like him to have a strong name. The name of our savior. Our miracle.” Pero chokes up a bit, watching as the boy yawns. His hand gravitates toward him; large and scarred, stained with blood, he’s almost afraid to inflict his touch on the boy; PJ does it for him, grasping his finger in one tiny fist and pulling it to his chest.

Nothing bad happens; the boy is not painted red, he is not struck by the gods. He simply curls into the broad thumb like a security blanket, chest rising and falling lightly.

“It would be the highest honor of my life,” Pero assures, squeezing your hand as tears fight to escape. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” you repeat, and the midwife comes back to tend to you. She insists on privacy—and you nod to Pero, signaling he is allowed to leave, though not before the boy is unceremoniously shoved into his hands by the midwife.

“There—just, yes, support the head, one hand here—good. A natural father,” she admits, shooing him out of the room as she goes.

Pero’s fought man and beast; seen atrocities he cannot name, watched friends and family fall to death. Nothing compares to the sheer terror for the first moment the babe lays in his hands—the midwife’s instructions barely registering, he trembles before the small creature, looking down at him.

PJ stays asleep, cooing softly as he snores, his face contorting as he gets used to life outside the womb. Instinctually, Pero begins to pace the room, bobbing up and down and shushing.

“Ay, hijo. I know—the world is not fun. It has scraped knees and cold snow and evil men—you will know them soon enough. But it also—it has good, and sweet, and strength. Your mamá—she is all of it. You are a lucky boy,” he tells him. His fear morphs almost instantly as the baby snuggles into him—he knows instinctually. He would die for this babe. He would die for you.

He would fight ten thousand more Tao Tei, he would slay dragons, he would suffer endlessly if it meant you and PJ were safe.

Because he loves you. Both of you.

Sometime between these revelations, Gilbert makes an appearance, proudly strutting through the open door to sneak a peek at the new addition. He rubs on Pero’s legs until he gets the attention he desires.

“Ay, michi—you have a new brother,” Pero tells him, presenting the baby to the cat like a natural. The animal turns up his nose and walks away, wandering into the garden instead as Pero mutters after him. “Gilly, you should be happy with more niños in the house, sí? You outnumber your mamá.”

The midwife exits your room then, her things packed, and Pero quickly pays her with one hand while supporting PJ with the other. As soon as she is out of the house, the two are back at your side; Pero watches in awe as you seem to know just what the boy needs. He feeds easily, greedily, he burps when patted. His eyes don’t stay open for long, but he takes in you and Pero with every second of it, darting between you two as you both look on in reverent quiet. Soon enough, he falls back into sleep, barely stirring from where you hold him in bed.

“Pero, come look,” you whisper, now sitting up slightly. It’s clear the boy has enamored you; Pero looks awkwardly to your side, but with a nod climbs in bed next to you, both of you looking on the swaddled bundle. PJ shoves his fist into his mouth after a big yawn, to which even Pero coos affectionately.

“Ah, yes, hard work today, hijo,” Pero comments quietly at the boy before looking to you. Despite going through the hardest points of your life, the most pain one could imagine, you still seem radiant. “Though I think it is your mamá who really deserves a rest.”

“I don’t know if I ever want to take my eyes off of him,” you coo, a broad smile across your face. PJ reaches out a fist in sleep, grabbing hold of your thumb and squeezing. “Ooh, yes, such a strong boy already,” you joke.

“You will no longer need me with him around,” Pero replies, though you look to him seriously. When he doesn’t look up from rubbing PJ’s arm, you call him.

“Pero—look at me.” He does, though his broad fingers, having touched the softness of the boy, don’t stop moving. You move your free hand over his to still it. “I will always need you.” He nods in understanding, and when PJ makes a small hiccup, you both refocus your attention on him.

Things remain like that as the frost melts and flowers begin to bloom. You and Pero both orbit around PJ like a small sun; your routine altered by the most precious gift. Through it all, Pero has been a lifesaver—he never complains when the babe wakes in the middle of the night, he offers to hold him while insisting you rest, he even changes diapers and cleans spit-up with only minimal good-hearted grumbling. He speaks to the boy in Spanish, pointing out objects and telling him the word in his language as PJ blinks in response. In the mornings, he still tends to the homestead; feeds Gilbert and the other animals, tends to the seedlings. He brings food from the market, fixes up a leak in the roof when the spring rains hit, mumbling about keeping PJ dry. He is the perfect, doting father in all aspects except blood.

He’s also a doting partner—he ensures things are set up as you like them, insists you rest when the babe makes you haggard. He sits with you when the babe feeds in the middle of the night, chatting even though he doesn’t have much to say, just to keep you awake. He works quietly to ensure he doesn’t wake PJ when he sleeps, makes small adjustments to the cradle as he thinks of new things to carve into the wood. You watch quietly at night when Pero bounces the boy lightly, a small bundle in his arms, as he murmurs to him, and your heart swells.

His words at PJ’s birth sometimes come back to you, though you try to brush them away. You were not about to be fooled again, to think a traveler would stay just for you and a boy without his blood. William hasn’t been by, but you know the time is imminent; PJ is growing fast, and with the warmer weather, Pero insists you all go to the local pub for supper, a small outing for the first time in months. He can tell you’re weary to see others again, having hid your condition for so long, but with a reassurance of him at your side, the three of you set off for the tavern.

It wasn’t far into town, the boy strapped to your chest as you walked over the uneven terrain, but it was far enough for Pero’s head to reel. He was going to lay everything out to you—how he feels. How he wants to stay, if you would let him. How he loves PJ like his own, considers him his own, and how utterly, deeply, truly in love with you he was.

He realized it one night while you fed the boy. He had heard the beginnings of his cry, jumping up to fetch him and bring him to you before your eyes could even flutter open all the way. He watched you coo to the boy, setting him to feed, holding him to your heart. And something compelled him—he needed to stay. Not just in this town, but here, close to your heart too. He made you laugh that night, a story about Gilly pooling his orange fur over Pero’s toes while he slept on the floor, and it sounded like music.

You invited him into your bed that night. PJ wouldn’t settle, and you knew Pero also became unsettled when his namesake became fussy. But as tired as you were, you placed the babe next to you in bed, then pulled Pero by the hand to his other side, nodding when he looked at you with wide eyes.

Pero was stiff in bed, watching in the stillness of the night as you began to drift off. A warm palm over PJ’s stomach had him drifting as well, and Pero was able to gently move him to the cradle by the bed; before he could make his exit himself, you stirred.

“Stay,” you mumbled.

“It’s not—” “Stay.” Your hand found his, pulling him back into the bed; he still lay stiff, until you curled yourself around him, your head in the crook of his neck. He kept a hand on the cradle, rocking it gently, but the light puffs of air from your nose forced him to relax, and soon enough, he was asleep too; the three of you, a family, asleep and intertwined.

All of you woke lazily the next day; spring sun streaming in, PJ had let you both sleep in as he chewed his own hand in his cradle. Pero took a moment to remember where he was, but when he did—when he saw you, still cuddled into his side, looking up at him with the most adoring look, he knew he needed to tell you how he felt.

He’s startled from the rehearsal of his thoughts when you falter over some stones, quickly grasping your elbow to right you again. When you go to pull away, he rests his hand over yours, allowing you to hold him for support, his hand over yours. You hide the shy smile it brings out of you.

The market is just closing for the day, vendors beginning to pack their wares when you walk into town. It feels like all eyes are on you, the babe at your front, your hands on Pero. You can practically hear the scornful whispers.

“Be careful, they may think we are betrothed,” you whisper sarcastically, trying to pull back from Pero, but he keeps his hand on yours.

“Would that be so bad?” You blink at him, heat rising to your face, though before you can answer you’re at the tavern, and Pero brings your group at a table near the fire, ensuring you are settled before he sits down next to you.

Despite your worries, dinner passes mostly uneventfully; Pero holds PJ first, allowing you to eat, and when you finish, he hands the boy back to you for him to eat. You can tell he’s nervous, practically bursting with something. There were a few whispers among townspeople on your walk—people you saw regularly last fall—though the pub itself is deserted other than the owners at the early hour. The wife of the tavern owner even coos over PJ before bringing by some extra blankets to coddle him. At one point, you see William come to settle at the bar—the only other person in the establishment--and a cold panic washes over you; this is it. Pero is about to announce his leave.

When the plates are cleared, neither of you move; you both seem to know something is coming, but neither want to bring it up first, until Pero swallows harshly and looks up at you to take the plunge.

But you’re already looking past him at the door, shock and panic over your face. Pero follows your eyeline quickly, seeing a group entering the tavern, clearly already deep in their drinks.

“Milagrita?” You can’t look away from the group; he sees your hands start to tremble, but before he can ask, a brusque man seems to make eye contact with you before speaking.

“Ah good—the pig is still here!” He bellows, and Pero begins to see red. He stands quickly, and you try to pull him back to seated.

“Pero—” “This is him, sí? Hunte?” You nod, trying to shield PJ, but the man saunters over, taking a closer look.

“Say, you down for another night? Maybe this time it will end in love,” he taunts. “Though your silver certainly got me more than a few whores to hold me over until I could see my future wife again.”

“She is nothing to you,” Pero snarls, and Richard seems to finally take in the look of you, realizing that the bundle in your arms is a baby when PJ begins to cry at Pero’s outburst.

“Ah—you have given her a Spanish bastard—” “You gave her a son!” Pero replies angrily, slamming his hands on the table. Richard smiles wickedly.

“Ah, then what fortune! A boy to carry my name,” Richard smirks. “Let me see him.” “No,” you reply quickly, turning away, but Richard barely sways in his spot, sniveling.

“No matter—you will be coming with me and I will see him all I want.” You look shocked, and before you can even answer, Richard continues. “Maybe when he’s weaned I’ll kill you and keep the boy.”

“You will not touch her or the boy,” Pero growls, looking down on Richard intimidatingly. “You will leave this place and never come back, or I will slice off your cajones and then your head, in that order,” Pero threatens. You stand then, laying gentle hands on Pero to keep him calm, but you can practically feel the anger coming off of him. Richard doesn’t seem to care.

“I do not know what kind of spell she put on you, but they are coming with me—her and the babe both!” Richard draws a dagger, and within an instant, Pero steps in front of you with a deep scowl. Richard quickly pushes him to the wall, the dagger at Pero’s neck, as you cry out; though Pero barely flinches. Richard leers. “You are willing to give your life for them! This—this whore and her bastard, who she is keeping from me!”

“Yes,” he replies curtly, drawing his sword from his sheath and pushing Richard back until he’s back in line with you, one arm hovering protectively at his side to keep you behind him. “I would lay down anything for them. You are not his father—you are not even a man. You left her here to rot, and instead she has thrived.”

“Then I will have to kill her myself!” Richard lunges, but Pero is able to easily avoid the drunk, pushing you out of the way. Finally, the constable enters the tavern, having heard the commotion, and begrudgingly makes his way over to where the two men peacock around.

“Gentlemen, please—this is a fine establishment, no? Let us take this outside—” “No,” Pero scowls. “I am not going anywhere until I know he cannot hurt them.”

“I am its father!” “You are nothing,” he spits. The constable seems to take in the situation with an appraising air before speaking.

“This can be solved simply,” the constable states, turning to you. “Who is the father of this child?” You shift uncomfortably.

“The child has Richard’s blood, but Pero’s name.” You step to Pero’s side, facing the lawmaker head-on in confidence. The constable turns to look at Pero, who won’t look away from Hunte.

“The babe bears your name?” “Sí. Yes.”

“But you are not its father?” Pero sighs loudly, and Richard looks smug. Pero knows he must make his move; the sword drops to his side slightly, but he only looks at you, not the lawman.

“The babe is not born of my blood. But he is my heart—he and his mother both. And if she would allow it, I would like to stay—to raise the babe as my own, by her side. I know I am not the most handsome, or the smartest, or the richest—but this is all I want. To be a family. Together.” You blink at Pero, tears rising to your eyes. The constable thinks for a moment before speaking to you.

“And you? What have you to say?” You swallow, holding PJ tighter for support.

“I—I have told Pero I need him. That I will always need him. I cannot promise that to be true—but know this. When I do not need him, I want him. Pero has chosen me and my son. He has protected us, provided for us—loved us as we are. I would be a fool if I tried to say I did not love him, too.” Pero’s face lights up; the sword is still at his side, but he rushes over to be closer to you as Richard scoffs in disgust. You think Pero may kiss you, the boy bundled between your chests, but he seems to think better of it with such an audience, and turns back to the constable when he speaks.

“Hunte—you are no longer welcome in this town. You have no affiliation here—get out, or we will force you to,” the constable orders.

“But—I am its father!” Richard sputters, still not addressing his son as human.

“A father stands by his child and his mother. He does not abandon them; threaten them. You are no father—not here.” Richard tries to stammer again, but the lawman shakes his head as PJ cries softly. “Out! And if I hear of you coming near this family again—you will be a dead man!” With one last huff, Richard leaves, his compatriots following and emptying the tavern again. Pero spares a look to William at the bar; with a simple nod, he gets up to follow, pulling the bow from his back quietly while Pero finally turns to you and the whining babe.

“You—you are alright? You both?” He asks, quickly grasping your cheeks with both hands and checking over your face before reaching for PJ. The baby settles quickly in his hold, rocked against his broad chest as Pero whispers to him. “You are alright. You are alright, hijo.” “Pero,” you ask quietly, and he turns his attention back to you. You look at him in wonder, taking a step closer to him; the tavern owners have made their way to the kitchen, leaving your group alone to calm. Pero looks nervous, anxious—the most unsettled he’s ever looked. You lock eyes with him. “Pero? Did—did you mean what you said?”

He doesn’t answer right away, causing you to look away unnervingly.

“If—if not, if for protection only, then I understand—thank—thank you,” you stutter, reaching for PJ, but Pero stops you with his words.

“I meant every word.” You look back at him in surprise. “I—I am not a good man. I have done things you cannot imagine. But I also—I have also done things I cannot imagine. Like settle in this village, speak to an orange beast by name, and watch a child grow and enter the world. But most of all—I fell in love. With you. I—I never imagined that I would feel this, but—this is my home. You and the boy—you are my home. I do not care whose blood is in his veins or whose name he bears, just like I do not care how he came to be with you. You always say PJ is your miracle, sí? Well—you are my miracle. Mi milagrita.”

“Pero—all I want is for you to stay. To love the way we both deserve. The way this boy deserves--” “I am staying, milagrita—”

“But, William—”

“He has been sent on a special assignment,” Pero replies. “Then he will head east. You will not be in danger any longer. You can live in peace in your home, whether I am there or not.”

“Pero—my home is nothing without you. But I need to know--I need to know you will not leave when the itch to travel comes along, or when you realize PJ is not your blood--" You reply tearfully.

"The itch is long since gone," Pero admits. "The time in your home--the safety, security of putting down roots--that is what I itch for, amor. I want to lay down my sword. I had thought it long before arriving here, and the time with you has only assured my decision. I--I could woodwork. Or be a farmhand, or help with construction. It does not matter--as long as I am with you." You're freely crying at his confession, tears of joy arching your cheek in the path of his scar. "As for the boy--I do not care of blood. I have seen enough. He is my son. We are meant to be a family--if you wish," he adds hastily.

"I would love nothing more. My two boys—my two miracles--making my house a home.” He takes your hand, pressing a kiss into the knuckles.

“I love you, amor—I do not think I will never stop loving you or PJ.”

“I love you, Pero,” you reply, teary eyed. PJ has drifted off in Pero’s hold, but it doesn’t stop him from bringing his free hand to your cheek, cupping it reverently and brushing a tear away with his thumb.

“No more tears, sí? The boy—he has enough,” he chuckles, but it’s watery too.

You end up taking the plunge; you bring yourself to meet him, pressing a passionate, amorous kiss to his lips. PJ remains squeezed between you, but before you can pull away, Pero pulls you back to him with his free arm, finally connecting with you in the way he’s always craved. The two of you kiss once, twice, three times, before PJ murmurs, letting you both pull away.

“You hear that, PJ? Your favorite person is staying. And you are now named after your father.” “Sí. I am your papá,” Pero replies gingerly, and PJ gives a gummy grin. You rest your forehead against Pero’s, arcing over the boy, unable to stay away now that you’ve been granted access.

“I am so thankful for my little miracles.”

“Sí—I must thank God for mis milagritas—for they led me to you.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x y/n #pero tovar x you #the great wall

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