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hb-writes · 3 years

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I Won’t Leave You

Summary: The Shelby boys have just returned from the war and John is lost and heartbroken after coming back to a home without his Martha. His best friend Sophie has been there for his family in every way, caring for his little ones while they’ve had no one else, but Sophie’s kept John at a distance, hesitant to intrude on what she feels isn’t hers.

Characters: John Shelby, Sophie Mason (OC), Robbie Shelby (John’s son)

Content Warnings: canon-typical content, angst, grief, death, war, (it’s hurting john shelby hours)

Sophie ate a quarter of her dinner in silence before setting it aside and doing up the dishes, cleaning the kitchen until it gleamed. Then she tidied up the rest of the small two-bedroom she had lived in for her whole life, a family heirloom of sorts.

She cleaned until there was nothing left to clean, not a speck of dust left on the mismatched frames or the secondhand furniture or the tired floors that had never been hers to begin with, all of it passed down from her parents and her mother's parents before them, everything a hand me down except for two pictures Sophie claimed as her own, one from the wedding day of her two best friends and the other of the groom just a few years later, donning not a wedding suit but a military uniform. He was a boy of only nineteen in the photo, but already a father of three…four, if you stopped to count the seed sowed the very same morning he left them all behind at New Street Station.

Sophie figured John had met the new baby by now, little Robbie Shelby who was more like the father he had yet to know than any of the other children before him had been, breaking and healing all of their hearts for the last three and a half years with the smiles and gestures they assumed they'd be going without while their proper owner was off in France.

The boy inhabited the space between pain in the arse and little charmer as if navigating a sailboat on calm waters, with the sweetest grin and the silliest comments and getting up to casual mischief integral parts of the boy’s typical way, full of words that had no business coming out of a three-and-a-half-year-old’s mouth and actions that had no business coming to fruition at his innocent little hands and his sweet, gentle way.

It was the thought of Robbie after her second over-poured whiskey that had Sophie slipping into her coat and shoes. Either John would have the kids put to bed and she’d find him alone, quiet. Or the devils would still be up, driving their father mad with their demands for more attention, more stories, more dinner, more sweets.

More, more, more.

John and Martha’s kids hadn’t always seemed hungry from the start, but they had been that way since Martha had gone from them. But with their father gone for so long before their mother’s passing, they just always seemed starved for something these days, anything—the food, the touch, a loving word or a stern one, the answers to a million and two questions.

Sophie imagined those babies had passed John’s first day back gorging themselves on their father’s mere presence, filling themselves to the brim with his laughs, drinking up the blue shine in his eyes, hanging off his every word and limb, stealing away the little insignificant moments in the off chance they’d need to one day make a meal of the meager memories they’d been fed.

It wouldn’t be the first time John and Martha’s babies had subsisted off nothing more than distant memories of John Shelby. Sophie knew that life too, though her memories of John and Martha were far from dim, polished by her mind to shine and shimmer just like the trinkets she’d just spent the evening rubbing a tired cloth over, willing the attention to detail to quiet the particulars running about wild in her mind.

Sophie focused on her steps on the walk over, willing herself to focus on the cool of the wind through her jacket, willing herself to empty her mind of the details. Sophie wasn’t certain of what she’d find in John Shelby after these four years and when emptying her mind failed, she set herself to the task of avoiding expectations, of breaking up any of the pictures that formed in her mind’s eye, unimagining his smile, disassembling his eyes, and shattering the imagined sound of his laugh, but as she stood on Watery Lane, shivering in the damp night’s air, she couldn’t stop herself from picturing him coming to answer her calling.

It felt odd to Sophie for her to be knocking on the door she’d become accustomed to passing through as if it was her own, arriving without notice and towing whichever child was wailing or meddling or in some sort of immediate danger up into her arms as she came through, an act she’d engaged in for months out of some unspoken obligation she felt to John and Martha, to the babies who didn’t ask to be born on the cusp of war, wailing for their father for four long years while everyone thought they were just after a bit of milk or food or kiss and a cuddle to heal an injury away.

And that was all before they’d lost Martha.

A little over four months had passed and the loss of her still felt fresh. Sophie thought maybe because it was, in a way, because they’d all been anticipating the boys’ return, anticipating the fresh wave of pain that would come from another person learning the new way of things, from coming back to a house that felt empty even though it was filled with kids, from the sense of camaraderie that had swiftly left the home, the lost sense of partnership that had once come from a shared glance fraught with laughter when the kids were getting up to something that warranted a snicker, but wasn’t to be encouraged, the shared frustration when all four of them were sick, a shared drink after they all went down, when the exhaustion finally distributed through the limbs and you couldn’t remember what had passed during the three or so hours after dinner.

Those things had all continued to feel fresh to Sophie every single day since Martha had gone. She had thought it would subside, thought that she’d stop looking over her shoulder or imagining telling Martha whatever story about her child when she returned from this outing or that, but those urges, the deep-seated need… it didn’t wane with time, but it was more painful in the start.

That was really what finally pulled Sophie from her kitchen chair, the thought of John alone once the babies went down, alone in the house he’d dreamt of for four years, fantasized about while he tried to sleep in the mud and the dust. At least that’s what Sophie imagined he’d been dreaming about in France—his little house on Watery Lane, filled with his wife and his babies, so loud and chaotic and lovely. They wore those words like a badge of honor, even their sweet, quiet Martha who had barely spoken when they first knew her.

Sophie started when the door creaked open and stepped back onto the cobblestone, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Sophie hadn’t allowed herself to imagine what words would be the first exchanged between them, and the ones she heard stumped her, confused her enough that John’s rough voice could’ve been speaking French and she’d not have known any better how to respond.

His voice, the first part of him she took in, even before she pulled her eyes up from the wet cobblestones to observe his face, was just as she remembered even if it had a little edge to it, and that had her mind crafting the types of responses they’d once been prone to, the cheeky comments that earned reciprocal grins and friendly shoves in the arm, laughter hidden behind hands or an impromptu cough to cover it all.

There was no grin on his lips though and no laughter either as she dragged her eyes from his face, running her gaze over the body he’d leaned against the door frame, focusing on his clothes, just a simple undershirt with sleeves pushed up to his forearm, an old pair of pants that hung a bit loose now, things he’d probably dug out of the bottom of his drawers.

“They’ve been asking after you all afternoon.”

Sophie met his eyes then and found them tired and red, fatigued from more than just being with a bunch of rowdy kids all day. John seemed tired in a way the kids couldn’t touch, and Sophie had a feeling their presence, their shouting and scrambling and squealing had made him look a bit better, a bit more alive, even though she couldn’t make herself imagine him looking worse.

“I only asked after you once,” he continued in her silence, backing through the door. “Pol said, ‘Let the girl have a day off. She’s been with those kids every—’”

“I wanted to give you time with your family, John. I—” Sophie followed him, stepping in off the lane and securing the door behind her, dealing with the lock that always caught with a certain ease as John watched her, a bit of sickness settling in his stomach. It was why he rarely locked it. He could never get it on the first try and somewhere along the line, he'd just decided it wasn’t worth his trouble.

John cleared his throat. “So, you’ve really been with them every day?”

Sophie caught his gaze as he turned back to her, his eyes sweeping over the simple green dress she’d exposed by taking off her coat before he settled back on her face, her cheeks warmed by the journey his eyes had just made.

She shrugged. “Someone needed to be.”

John nodded, reaching behind him to grab the glass of whiskey he’d set aside to answer the door.

She’d spent the last four years accumulating questions and comments for him, four years of things she knew she’d one day like to ask or say, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice a single one of them, all of it seeming a bit disingenuous considering, so Sophie focused instead on picking up the toys discarded across the room, settling them in their proper place before she noticed John was watching her, taking slow sips from his overpoured glass as his eyes followed her.

“We ate at number six,” he said as her gaze drifted to the kitchen door.

She already knew that though, was well acquainted with the schedule of the day for the Shelby family, the 11:17 into New Street, the family lunch planned immediately after, the lunch which she supposed had spanned until dinner, drinks maybe, screaming kids covering any of the awkward silences.

Babies always did that.

“John, I…”

John turned from Sophie as the creaking stairs sounded and Sophie wasn’t sure if she’d rather curse or thank the baby rubbing his eyes as he made his way down, heading straight for her skirts, hiding there against her side as John watched the two of them.

“It’s past bedtime, mate. You should be asleep.”

Sophie smoothed back the sweaty hair from Robbie’s face, both of them eyeing John as he took another sip of the whiskey.

“Your dad’s right, Robbie,” Sophie said, trying to take his hand and lead him towards the stairs, but the boy reached his arms up instead.

Sophie sighed and hoisted him up to her hip, his head immediately falling to her shoulder as she settled him in her arms.

“Can you read me a story?”

“How many stories have you already had?” she asked.

“Just one,” he said. “Aunt Polly told us just one because you spoiled us with too many. Can you read me a story even though it’s your day off?”

Sophie snorted. “My day off?”

“Aunt Polly told ‘em it was your day off.”

Sophie glanced at the clock. It was seventeen minutes past midnight.

“Good thing for you it’s tomorrow,” she said. “Go find daddy’s book.”

Sophie let the boy down and watched him amble across the room, watched as he tugged the heavy book off the shelf, stealing a few glances towards John as he settled on the far corner of the couch with his glass still in hand.

Sophie sat half a cushion away from him, grateful when Robbie climbed up into the space between them, settling the open book there in his lap, tilting the pages toward Sophie.

“Maybe daddy will read with us if we ask nicely, eh Robbie?”

“Sissy says you do better voices than Auntie Sophie.” Robbie spoke the words into the space in front of him, his eyes on the book rather than his father.

“Hey, there—” Sophie tickled his side, the small squeal bringing a tired smile to John’s face. “—My voices are just fine, mister!”

“Yeah, well, Uncle Tommy does ‘em better than any of us, eh Soph?”

Thomas Shelby doing the voices was something Sophie hadn’t thought of in some time, something she hadn’t heard since they were kids themselves, and she found herself longing for it a bit, the tenor of Tommy acting as the villain or the hero or Aunt Polly. It brought a gentle smile to her face, a wistful sort of relaxation falling over her, a feeling she found lacking in John as he chewed his lip for a moment.

“I’ll concede your daddy that,” Sophie finally offered. “Your Uncle Tommy does it best.”

Robbie made a face, raising his eyebrows as he glanced up at Sophie. “Really?”

The boy couldn’t imagine the man who’d sat at the table all day doing little more than smoke his cigarettes and answer questions in curt monosyllables doing the voices.

“Put us all to shame when we were little like you.”

“You weren’t ever little like me!” Robbie accused, poking her shoulder.

Sophie poked him back, tickling him a bit as he started to giggle. “Everyone starts out little like—”

John cleared his throat. “Alright you two, it’s late. What are we reading?”

“A good one. I just have to find it,” Robbie mumbled.

The boy flicked through the pages, slow and deliberate as he peered at the titles he couldn’t read, the symbols and pictures matched in his head with the tales they accompanied. John rubbed his eyes and settled his head against his fist, his gaze directed across the room while Robbie continued with his search for several minutes.

With only the sound of pages turning and Robbie mumbling to himself, Sophie shifted, settling her legs beneath her and stretching her arm across the back of the couch, her fingertips barely grazing John’s shoulder. It startled him and he met her eye for a moment before reaching for the book in Robbie’s hands. John pulled it into his lap and started reading off the open page, the only complaint from Robbie a look of shock when the boy turned to Sophie, his discontent quelled by her smile and the magic that was his father reading him a story for the first time.

As John read on, Robbie leaned back against Sophie, his eyes struggling to stay open as the words lulled him to sleep. John gave it a page and a half extra after the boy's breathing deepened before he shut the book and set it on the coffee table.

Sophie moved to shift the boy who’d curled into her during John’s performance, but John reached down, his hand sliding against Sophie’s side as he pulled Robbie up and away from her, settling the boy against his chest, the baby’s eyes fluttering open at John’s gentle repositioning.

“Sophie,” he mumbled, reaching his little hand down toward her though he stayed resting against his father’s chest.

John held a hand down and tugged her up, marching up the stairs first, his head shaking as his sleepy son extended his hand down over his shoulder, reaching out with his small fingertips to hold Sophie’s hand.

“Say goodnight to Aunt Sophie,” John said just outside the door to the bedroom where he and Joey slept, the room just across from the girls.

Robbie mumbled something incoherent and Sophie pressed a kiss to his forehead before his father carried him into the room, tucking him back under the covers, whispering something Sophie couldn’t hear, a short set of words that elicited a giggle from the boy and a chuckle from John as he shushed him and pulled up the covers.

“They missed you," Sophie offered as John shut the door to the boy's room and stepped across the hall to look in on his daughters.

“I don’t know. That one seemed more excited to see you than he was to see me.”

Sophie let out a soft scoff as she headed to the stairs, John just behind her as she went.

“Robbie’s a sweet boy…and a right pain,” she offered, turning up the stairs as she reached the bottom, a small smirk gracing her face as she delivered the teasing offense, “much like his father.”

“Well, he looks like her.”

Sophie, stilled, a hand going to the back of the sofa for stability, her heart a touch heavier at the mere mention of the woman who should’ve been there helping John tuck the baby back into bed. Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment though it didn’t stop her from seeing in her mind exactly what John had meant.

Robbie had her eyes, not the color, but the set of them, and a dimple just to the right side of his smile. There was something about the nose, too, though Sophie hadn’t yet figured out exactly what, but somehow it was Martha’s face there in the boy, even if it was John’s mouth and mannerisms and mind.

“Sarah, too,” he said, pouring whiskey into two glasses and settling them both on the coffee table as he sat back onto the couch. “I remember when she was born thinking she wasn’t mine. The kid didn’t look a thing like me. That’s why she was so insistent we name her after my mother.”

Sophie lowered herself onto the cushion beside him. “Well, I’ve never had a doubt. Those kids are all a bit of you.”

“And a bit of her,” John said.

“Yeah, well, that’s usually how it works.”

John finished his drink, setting it aside, his gaze fixed off across the room again though he could’ve been someplace else, a different house, a different country, a different time.

His hand was shoved in his pocket, and Sophie watched as he fiddled with something.

“How long was she sick? Was she—”

“John,” Sophie said, his name nothing more than a plea.

It was starting to grate on her, the way John wouldn’t say his wife’s name, the way 'Martha' had yet to come from their lips, but Sophie could feel the woman there, filling the room, filling the space between them, filling the hurt, but neither one of them had even said her name.

“How long?” he ground out, pulling his hand from his pocket and leaning forward to settle his elbows on his knees, a glint of gold finding the light as he fumbled with a ring.

Martha's ring.

Sophie put her hand on his shoulder, pulling back when he turned to her, repeating his question.

“How long?”

Sophie swallowed, her eyes shifting to his hand, to the ring before she could bring herself to deliver an answer.

“I know you were here every day, then, too. How—”

“A few...three months,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “She was sick for three months...or just about.”

John nodded. “Seemed like it came on sudden.”

That’s what the letter had said, the one delivering the message of her passing. It had been the first that had said anything about her being sick, first and last.

“She didn’t want you to…”

“And what about you? You didn’t write me the whole time I was away.”

It seemed silly now, the argument that Sophie had had in her mind to explain away four long years of silence, the one that said it wasn’t her place to be writing to him. Sophie had decided that it was something reserved for family, for Martha and the kids, for Polly and Ada and Finn, but there was a lot of things Sophie had done that had seemed reserved for family, a lot of business and caretaking that traditionally wouldn’t have been done by anyone other than a Shelby, and her not writing suddenly felt selfish, because her eyes had run over the letters John sent home. She’d memorized the stories scrawled out on the backs of his letters just as well as the children had, and she hadn’t even let him know his wife was sick.

She hadn’t written to him after either, hadn’t taken up Martha’s penning him lengthy tales of what the kids got up to on Watery Lane even though she knew whatever Polly and Ada were sending him wouldn’t be good enough because while John sent the kids tales from some fictional world he’d devised in his head, Martha had for four years sent him masterpieces of their domestic life, her tales of Sarah, Joey, Katie, and Robbie Shelby somehow coming across as epic fantasies, entertaining and descriptive, and so well done that the kids John came home to didn’t feel so much like little strangers to him.

And their best friend Sophie was weaved in there too. Martha had always been sure to include something about her, some silly story about something she’d gotten up to with the kids or some tit for tat she’d gotten into with Polly, mischief she got up to with Ada or Finn. There was always something, but Sophie hadn’t had it in her to take it on, not after being quiet for so long.

She let out a breath, blinking away the wetness in her eyes.

“I should have,” she said, her voice dwindling to a low murmur, the words barely coming out at all, “especially after Martha, but…”

Sophie stopped herself, so easily paused in her explanation because she'd been hoping for him to interrupt so she wouldn’t have to continue, so her voice wouldn’t break.

She thought the sound was nothing more than John clearing his throat, preparing himself to speak, but then his shoulders started shaking as he leaned forward, his silent sobs pressed into his fists as the ring fell to the floor, and Sophie sat frozen beside him, allowing his pain to wash over her, the pain she brought on just by saying Martha’s name, something they’d been dancing around since she came through the door, and just like in not writing him, Sophie realized she had been standing just outside, holding him at a distance, acting like this moment wasn’t hers to intrude on, like John wasn’t hers to comfort, just like he hadn’t been hers to write to, just the same as the way she’d barely allowed herself to cry over Martha’s death, letting those who were supposed to grieve have it even though John and Martha Shelby were the closest thing she had to family.

Sophie reached out a hand, tentative, slow, and had barely settled it on John's shoulder when he shrugged it off. “You shouldn’t have kept it from me, either one of you.”

“John, I—”

“No,” John said, his voice nearly masked by the sound of the glass shattering as he picked it up and tossed it across the room. He turned to Sophie, showing his reddened face and tear-stained cheeks.

Sophie stood up only for John to catch her wrist, keeping her still. “You should’ve known better. You should’ve fucking told me the truth. You should’ve—”

Sophie shook her head and held herself back from prying at his grasp, hoping her words would do the trick and he'd let her go. “John, I think I should—”

“Don’t go.” John tugged her to him, his head suddenly set against her stomach, his arms tight around her back as he hugged her to him.

Sophie stood there with her hands raised up in the air, unsteady on her heels, held up on her feet only by John’s crushing arms, surprised by the sudden shift in the room. As she steadied herself, Sophie was near-certain that she would break, both from the sound of John's painful wailing and the tightness of his arms wrapped around her.

Sophie took a settling breath as she lowered her arms around him, rubbing her palms first over his tensed arms before allowing her fingertips to find his hair, cradling the back of his head with one hand as her other hand found moved to his shoulder and back as she shushed him, soothing just as she'd done with his babies and his wife while he was away, easing the pain, drawing out the hurt, wishing wholly for them to find a bit of peace.

“They all leave, Soph.”

Sophie swallowed at John’s words, willing her mind to stop itself from running through the list, unable to stop once it got going.

Sophie’s mother.

Sophie’s father.

Her older sister.

John’s mother.

Tommy’s Greta.

And now their Martha.

It took everything in Sophie to not agree with him, to not slip down into the same pit of hurt and despair and hopelessness that came at accepting the truth of his words, to acknowledge that so many had left them behind, left them alone.

Sophie held him to her still, clinging to him even as his grip slackened and the fight that had him gripping her fell away, his sobs still echoing in the quiet as she whispered to him.

“I won’t leave you, John. I'll stay.”

For the night, the week, for the rest of their lives. Sophie knew even as she'd said it, that's what she meant. She'd be there for John in whatever way he needed, same as always.

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edupunkn00b · 3 years

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You’re Family Now

Rated G - CW: Past abuse referenced. Other than that, it's a fluff factory :) - Word Count: 2380

Remy and Emile stop by for a little wedding planning while Logan is babysitting for Roman and Janus. Logan and Emile get to learn just how much the have in common. This story takes place in between Chapters 14: Want and Chapter 15: Joy in What Might Have Been. Other related stories: Remy & Emile and Happily Ever After. Written for TSS AUgust Day 12: Family

---

“Yes, Janus, I am absolutely certain… Mm-hm… Yes. Yes, Joy is perfectly content. And if she gets bored with me, Remy and Emile are coming over in a half an hour… Mm-hm, I remember, yes… Please… please enjoy your afternoon with Roman…” Logan swallowed back a chuckle at the anxiety in his ordinarily suave best friend’s voice. “Yes, yes, Joy is fine. Now go have fun… Yes, I am hanging up the phone now… yes… mm-hmm… yes…” Logan finally laughed, “Goodbye, Jan. See you at 7.”

Logan ended the call with one hand and looked down at Joy nestled in his other arm. “Your Papa is worried about you, little one.” Joy cooed around her fingers stuck in her mouth. Logan grinned, making the sign for yes and nodding, “Yes, that is exactly what I said! Do you think your Papa and Daddy will like a picture to show them you are safe?” Joy cooed again, swapping her fingers for her thumb. “That sounds like a ‘yes’ to me.”

Opening up his camera app, Logan snapped a few pictures of Joy and sent them off to Janus and Roman, along with a note, I am turning off my phone now, so do not call. Enjoy your date and we will see you at 7. “All right, then, I think we have Papa and Daddy sorted out. How about we have a little tummy time…”

---

A half an hour later, the front door opened and Remy stuck his head through, “Dad? We’re here…”

“Hello you two, come on in… we are in the living room.” Logan called from his spot on the carpet. Remy and Emile came in, kicking off their shoes and laughed.

"We?" Remy asked from the hall. "Oh, good, I was afraid Uncle Janus was going to back out at the last second again. The way they were going, Joy would be in college before they went out without her."

Laughing lightly, Emile called out as he entered, "Hello, Mr. Sanders!" He immediately dropped to the floor when he saw Joy. "Well look how big you've gotten…"

“I’m not sure who’s having more fun with that squish toy, Dad,” Remy chuckled, watching Logan and Joy laying on their stomachs on the floor, as his dad bounced a brightly colored toy in front of her, enticing her to lift her head and grab at it. Logan nudged it a little closer and she grasped it, pulling it toward her mouth.

“You got it!” Logan cheered, twisting to sit in front of Joy, making the ASL sign for applause. Noting the copious amount of drool dripping down her chin, he made the sign for eat, “Are you hungry, Joy? Do you want to eat?” Looking up at the boys, he added, "Are you you two hungry?" Emile shook his head.

"Oh, we're fine… we met Emile's parents for lunch after religious school got out," Remy answered, making faces at Joy.

Emile tilted his head, watching his soon-to-be father-in-law. “I'm curious, Mr. Sanders… Does Joy understand your signs? We use some ASL with the kids at Temple, but I didn’t know babies this young could learn it.”

“Infants and toddlers have a greater understanding of symbolic language than their oral control can support.” Logan stood, then picked up Joy, walking with vRemy and Emile to the kitchen to prepare her bottle. “By teaching them basic signs, they can engage additional learning pathways and, in my experience with the boys, at least, communicate simple ideas and needs long before they are able to form the words.”

Logan laughed, “I could almost literally go on about this all day. You two are not here for an impromptu lecture on early childhood development, though. Remy, would you get my computer from my room, please?” Remy nodded and sprinted up the stairs. “Emile, did you bring the checklist from TBT?”

“I’ve got it right here, Mr. Sanders!” He patted his shoulder bag then clapped his hands together, grinning, “Time for a planning party!”

---

Remy, Emile, and Logan, with Joy in his lap, were gathered around the coffee table in the living room. The table was covered with checklists, sample menus from three separate caterers, notepads, laptops, and the large planning binder Emile and Logan had started the weekend after Remy and Emile’s—unexpectedly joint—proposal.

The bespectacled pair had been working their way through Emile’s checklist for two and a half hours. Remy had long since tapped out. “You two lost me when you got into the foot traffic debate.” Emile blushed but grinned when Remy kissed his cheek. “How about I play with Joy while you two… do this,” he smiled, waving his hands over the library’s worth of material spread across the table.

Eventually, Joy had grown fussy and Logan took her back, resting her head on his right shoulder, rocking her back and forth while he made notes with his other hand. She was asleep within minutes. Remy shook his head, stretching out on the couch and watching his dad and his fiancee revel in their logistical planning element. “Dad skills, man. Dad skills…” his last word dissolved in a yawn.

Logan caught Emile’s eye and they both fought back knowing laughter, each sufficiently familiar with Remy to know that he was not far behind Joy in joining the land of the dreaming. After a few more minutes, Remy’s breathing had slowed to a steady, quiet rhythm, his face relaxing into a blissful cherubic expression. He shivered in his sleep and Logan started to rise to find a blanket.

Emile waved him off, “Please let me, Mr. Sanders.” He followed Logan’s gaze and pointed to a door near the hallway. “Blankets are in there?”

Logan nodded, tilting his head. “You are quite observant, Emile.”

Emile was back in a moment with a plush knit blanket. Logan watched Emile’s face as he opened it up and covered Remy, taking extra care not to wake him. The softness in Emile’s expression as he tugged at one corner of the blanket, making sure Remy was completely covered and comfortable, spread a warm fuzziness through Logan’s chest.

Emile looked up, grinning at Logan and whispering, “They’re both so cute when they sleep.”

Logan looked down at Roman and Janus’ sleeping child in his arms and rubbed her back. He leaned in closer, sniffing the sweet baby smell of her wispy hair. He smiled, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “It… It has been a long time since the boys were this small…” He chuckled, looking at Remy, noting his adult son’s five o’clock shadow. “Boys,” he repeated, shaking his head.

It hadn’t escaped Logan’s notice that holding Joy felt so very different from holding his own sons when they were this age. He harbored no doubt that he loved this little girl, blood or not. If nothing else, his extended family was walking, talking, loving proof of the—correct—adage that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the waters of the womb. He’d lay down his life for this child, just as he would for his own.

But he couldn’t simply ignore the lack of tension he’d felt that he had always associated with the boys when they were infants. At the time, he had thought it was his own natural reaction to being charged with the care of such a tiny, vulnerable little being. But now, holding Joy, that anxious undercurrent was gone and all he felt was bliss.

Logan' heart jumped into his throat when he realized why.

When his sons were babies, Logan had always been a little bit... afraid. Even when Remy was just an infant, Logan had already learned by experience how important it was for the peace of the household to steer clear of her moods. It had kept him cautious and guarded in his words and behavior, and drove him to take Remy on long outings to the park or the Seattle U campus whenever possible, just to get out of the house. By the time Patton was born… Logan shook his head slightly, halting his spiraling thoughts.

Emile noticed the change in Logan’s face from across the room.

“Mr. Sanders?” He stepped closer to where his soon-to-be father-in-law sat. “Are you alright?”

Logan reached up with one hand, touching his cheek. His fingers came away wet with tears. He fished in his pocket for a tissue and hastily wiped his face dry. “Yes, yes, of course, Emile,” he shook his head, schooling his face into a more careful mask. “Yes, and please… I apologize.”

Emile touched his hand, “It’s okay, Mr. Sanders, I was just worried about you.”

“I am fine, truly.” Emile peered at Logan for another few moments before nodding. Logan tucked Joy closer to his shoulder and re-centered his attention on the notepad in front of him.

After he’d composed himself, Logan grasped for a new topic. His eye caught on the engagement ring on Emile's hand. “There is something I have wanted to say to you, Emile.” Emile knelt next to the coffee table, putting down the highlighter he’d been using, giving Logan his full attention. His shoulders relaxed a bit when Logan smiled at him.

“I am inexpressibly happy for both of you. It brings me a great deal of joy that Remy has you in his life. It would embarrass him to hear me say this, but…” Logan glanced quickly at his son, checking to be certain that he was still asleep. “I know that he loves you very much and…” Logan sighed, wincing a bit at his awkward phrasing. “Knowing that you two are about to be married… it makes me… hopeful." He shook his head lightly, marveling at the shy young man in front of him. "Remy is so very lucky to have you. You make him happy.”

Emile grinned, “I feel like I’m the lucky one, Mr. Sanders. Meeting Remy was… life-changing .” Emile looked at Remy as he spoke. “If I’d never met him or... Or if Remy hadn’t been so completely and perfectly… Remy…” His smile fell as he considered, for just a moment, what his life would be like now without Remy. He swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat.

He looked at Logan for a moment before staring back at his hands, picking up the highlighter and twisting it between his fingers, “I… don’t know if Remy’s told you much, but… I was… I was engaged before Remy and I started dating.”

Logan saw an all-too-familiar haunted look in Emile’s eyes as they flashed over to meet his gaze before returning his attention to the highlighter in his hands.

“He would... Well, he was, um…” Emile bit at his lip, voice trailing off.

“He was abusive?” Logan asked quietly.

Emile’s eyes widened, and he stared down at his hands, twisting the cap on the highlighter. Emile nodded once, then quickly added, “Maybe abusive is too strong a word… he wasn’t…” Emile shook his head and licked his lips, breath caught in his throat, “He never actually hit me… he just…” he sighed, words failing him.

Carefully shifting Joy to his right arm, Logan leaned toward Emile and held out his left hand, palm up. His scar, while nearly decades old, was shiny and unmistakable close up. Emile froze, staring at Logan’s palm. “They very rarely do in the beginning.”

Emile suddenly remembered the first time Remy had talked about his parents. ‘My dad just... well... he got stuck in a bad... situation.’

Logan continued, “Emile, you were brave and lucky to have left when you did.”

Emile’s eyes started to fill with tears and when he looked up at Logan’s face, he saw he wasn’t alone. “Mr. Sanders… would it… would it be okay if I… I hugged you?”

Logan smiled, holding out his left arm in invitation, Joy still cradled against his chest and supported by his right. Emile sat next to Logan, wrapping his arms around him. Logan squeezed with his left arm.

Emile and Logan sat quietly together, long after both of their tears dried, just watching Remy and Joy sleeping. They didn’t speak, they didn’t plan, they simply basked in the serenity and contentment that fell down over them. It was a peace that they’d both been seeking for a long, long time.

Eventually, Joy started to wake. Logan gave Emile another squeeze and recovered his arm. “She likely needs changing… that’s a diaper cry.”

Emile grinned, “How can you tell?”

Logan shrugged, rising from the couch, “You just start to hear it.” Emile followed Logan to the other room. “Oh,” Logan craned his neck toward the living room, “Would you bring—” Emile held up Joy’s diaper bag. “Perfect. Thank you, Emile.”

Logan began to change her diaper, narrating for her what he was doing and using the signs for diaper, cold, wet, and dry, as he went.

“Um, Mr. Sanders…?”

“Mm-hm?,” Logan hummed, holding a clean diaper under his chin as he wrangled a very squirmy Joy.

“I know you’d prefer that I call you Logan, but, um…”

Gently shaking his head, Logan corrected him, “I would prefer that you call me whatever makes you feel most comfortable, Emile.” He smiled while he strapped the velcro tabs on the fresh diaper cover. “I simply do not want you to feel obligated to call me something formal.” He started snapping Joy’s sleeper closed. “You are part of the family now.”

Emile handed Logan a disinfecting wipe for his hands, fiddling with the lid on the dispenser. “Well, I was wondering… would it be alright with you if I called you… ‘Dad?’” Logan turned to face him, rocking Joy against his shoulder. Emile stammered, “I—I call my own father Abba, so it’s not like you're taking anything from him or…”

Logan smiled and whispered in a rough voice, “That would be perfectly acceptable to me, Emile.”

Emile nodded, calmed by Logan’s sanguine reaction.

“Here, would you like to hold her?” Logan asked, shifting his grip on Joy.

Emile grinned, “Oh, yes, please!” Reaching carefully, Emile cradled Joy’s head, wrapping her in a football hold and swinging her gently, laughing when she cooed in response. “Well, hello there, little one… Pretty sweet family we both lucked into, huh?”

---

@tsshipmonth2020 (a little late for day 12...)

taglist: @mavenmush @demon9980 @crossiantgay @psychedelicships @justmeandmygayships @ts-creator-boost (why not)

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leafsbabe · 3 years

Text

Erik Johnson imagine - we got this

1.2k, i went with feminin pronouns for reader even tho the ask didn’t specify cause they’re pregnant and most pregnant people happen to be feminin, cw: unplanned pregnancy

“YOU’RE WHAT?!”

“Pregnant, Gabe, you heard the lady.” Erik’s arm left your shoulder to wrap around your still small middle protectively. The two of you had only found out about the baby a short while ago but it was a nice little surprise for EJ and you. You were already three months into the pregnancy and while didn’t have a bump at the moment you were sure it would show soon, hence why you wanted to tell the team right after you told your parents. Erik had suggested just playing dumb with them when they would notice your growing bump but you thought that was a bit mean.

Sure it was very unexpected but some of his oldest friends on the team were looking at you like you had just announced EJ wants to quiet hockey to become a professional teeth model.

“Congratulations you guys.” Andre basically jumped out of his seat. “I love babies, they’re the best. Do you know how far along you are? Have you picked names?” The tense atmosphere calmed down a bit. The partners all came over to talk about the news. It was nice to finally share the news with somebody outside your immediate family and to be honest you enjoyed the attention a bit.

Several of Erik’s teammates came over and congratulated you as well. Especially the younger guys seemed excited about the news. At some point you felt Erik slip away but you didn’t mind. After all the team bbq you were hosting had quickly turned into an impromptu baby class. With tons of information and ideas being thrown at you from all sides. What the best swaddles are or where to get designer pacifiers.

While you weren’t that far along you and Erik had waited until you were in your second trimester to announce it just to be sure. It was a bit stressful and you’d rather not stress out baby too much. Looking around for your boyfriend you found him in a corner with some of the Avs core, looking pissed off and like they’re in the middle of an argument.

“Hey,” Erik turned away from them and looked at you, “you wanna get married?”

His words echoed across the yard and people turned to you, expecting an answer. You had thought about it before, sometime probably in the future but honestly neither of you wanted a big pompous event.

“Sure.” You yelled back. Immediately you were swept up into another round of congratulations while EJ turned back to the group he was standing with looking smug.

It took a while but everything calmed down again, everybody split up into their own little groups, and you could finally get a few quiet minutes with your boyf.. fiance? “That was weird.” You noted before Erik pulled you into a kiss. “So... marriage?”

“There’s... there’s this interview. From a few years ago. And i said i wanted to wait until after hockey to have a family and marriage.” His shoulders sagged a bit and you couldn’t help but step closer to comfort him. “And at the time i meant it but then i met you and now we’re having junior and i wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. But the boys remembered the interview and thought that maybe something happened or that the baby is some kind of trick and they said some things.” He trailed off. “I got angry at them and proposed to piss them off. I do want to marry you though.” His voice trailed off at the end. “Are you mad?”

He looked so sad and you couldn’t think of anything else except making him smile again. “It’s okay Erik, i’m not mad. I know this isn’t what we had planned and everything is kinda happening all at once but we’ll manage. We don’t have to get married now, we can just have a long engagement or go sign some papers in the courthouse and then have a ceremony after hockey. Whatever you want.” You brought your hands up to his face, caressing his cheek. “I never had any big wedding plans anyway so we can do whatever you like. And if there’s any doubt from anybody we’ll just do a prenup or something i don’t care. I love you.” You leaned up pressed a small kiss to his lips before pulling away. “Not your possessions.”

“Never.” Erik injected, pulling you closer against him, “If i ever do something stupid enough to loose you, you deserve to take everything i own and leave me with nothing but the jersey on my back. But you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You just agreed to be stuck with me foreverrrr.”

“Forever?” You gave him a teasing smile.

“Forever. Now,” he gently turned you around and pointed out a large group of partners that had gathered in your cozy backyard sitting area, “they look like they’re already planning either wedding or baby related events and they won’t let you get a word in if you don’t interrupt them now.”

A short while later you were in the middle of assuring Andre that yes if EJ is fine with it he can babysit and no he doesn’t need his former teammates to send over reference letters when Erik came over with some of the older Avs.

“I got you some food.” He greeted you before handing you a plate full of delicious smelling food.

While you had all eaten together a while ago you definitely felt hungry again a fact you blamed on the small human growing inside of you at the moment. “Aw, thank you Erik.”

“I also brought the boys over because they wanted to tell you something.” He looked at them expectantly.

“We’re sorry we thought badly about you.” They all recited in unison.

“And?” He gave them a smug look.

“And... we shouldn’t have assumed anything. We tried thinking of ways to make it up to you but we haven’t really thought of anything except like teaching EJ about dad stuff and maybe finding cute baby stuff for when the baby is born.” Gabe bashfully said.

“And babysitting.” Nate chimed in. “We can watch the baby. Then you two can like do date night or whatever.”

The way they just looked at you all earnest made you laugh. “It’s fine. It’s whatever. But hey if you guys want to round up that would be awesome. It’s been a long day and growing a human is exhausting.”

Erik looked like he was about ready to jump up and yell at the rookies to fuck off but Gabe signaled for him to sit down with you. “It’s okay, we got it. You guys deserve the rest. Keep us updated about the little one okay?”

They turned around and got ready to leave, collecting their partners and offering rides to the young guys that had taken ubers. It was late evening in Denver, the sun was disappearing behind the horizon, and you were sitting in your beautiful backyard with the love of your life.

“We got this. Right?” You asked EJ, looking up at him.

“We got this.” He assured you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling you closer to his side. His hand protectively resting over your belly. “We got this.”

#erik johnson #hockey imagines #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #hockey player #erik johnson imagine

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ellewords · 3 years

Note

you know those posts of people saying to send a wedding invitation to celebrities because sometimes they’ll send gifts congratulating the couple? and you know how sometimes the celebrity will actually show up? this is my head cannon of who would end up showing up just because.

(little bit of a warning: these are very half-baked and mostly just stream of consciousness because my brain is fried and i’m in need of a distraction from writing essays, but the thought hasn’t left my head, so now you have to deal with my brainrot, mwahahaha!)

i think oikawa would show up to a bunch of weddings for he people he doesn’t know. it starts in argentina when a fan sends him an invite, and he’s stupid happy about it and no one really knows why. he just really enjoys weddings, they suppose. it’s in the area, too, so he buys a gift for the happy couple and he shows up. he genuinely tries to be really low key because he doesn’t want to ruin their big day, so he stays in the back for the ceremony and he is the perfect wedding-goer. at the ceremony, though, he has a much harder time remaining out of the spotlight. when the bride and groom notice that there’s a tiny bit of a commotion happening, they lose their minds when they realize that it’s because oikawa actually showed up!!! they thought he was kidding when he accepted the invite, or maybe that he’d send an assistant or something!!! but nope, there he is, looking both enthused at being the center of attention but also kind of uncomfortable. when the couple lose their minds in front of him, though, being utter fanatics and hyping him up, he eases up and finally begins to have fun, dancing on the dance floor with different people, drinking responsibly, talking to people, bashfully signing autographs. he doesn’t lose steam for even a second, and when the party seems to lull just a little bit too long, he goes out of his way to make sure everyone gets back to enjoying themselves to the fullest (which the bride and groom appreciate). nearly everyone in attendance gets his attention for a short portion of time, and if they don’t, he tries to snag a picture with everyone on the way out. at the very end of the night, he records a short video for the couple telling them how lovely they are, thanking them for the invite and the great time, and wishing them the absolute best. it’s the highlight of their lives, besides, y’know, the whole getting married thing.

it’s gets out that oikawa actually went to a wedding he was invited to by strangers when someone posts a picture of the wedding online and he was spotted in the background, so now he gets invites all the time. he doesn’t go to all of them because he’s busy and some of the places he gets invites from are across the world, but if the location intrigues him and he has the time, he’ll usually be there.

kageyama would definitely go, too! but it would be mostly because he can’t remember for the life of him if he knows the couple, and it stresses him the hell out. he’s definitely gotten a lot more confident since he was in school, but at the root of him is still an awkward kid who questions everything about himself if it’s not volleyball. so he panics about it for weeks before the wedding, wondering what they’ll want as a gift, accidentally tricking himself into believing that he does in fact know the couple and buying a gift that he assumes they’ll like based off of thinking it’s one of his old classmates from school and buying something that they’d like. and when he doesn’t recognize either of them at the ceremony, he gets so distracted trying to place anyone’s face as someone he knows and he just can’t for the life of him figure it out. he’s half a beat behind everyone when they start cheering for the couple as the kiss and leave because he’s so deep in thought. it isn’t until the reception that he finds out that he doesn’t actually know anyone and he gets so pouty about having stressed over it for so long that he broods in a corner, trying to avoid everyone. he doesn’t start to enjoy himself until someone recognizes him and rambles for nearly ten minutes about how amazing he is and about this one play that he did that they practiced for weeks after seeing it but they still couldn’t nail and that he was their inspiration. imagine everyone’s surprise when they find them in the hallway of the reception hall with a volleyball kageyama had in his car, kageyama teaching the person how he did it. a small game breaks out in the obnoxiously big hallway with a scrappy set up of chairs precariously piled on top of each other until they were high enough and a bunch of coat jackets tied together along the top and bottom of where a net would be so they can see through. the noise is just barely softer than the music, but they gather a bit of a crowd until the game is over, and as much as kageyama enjoyed it, he apologizes to the bride and groom afterwards for feeling like he took away their spotlight. they laugh and say they don’t mind as long as the groom can play the next match.

a picture of kageyama smiling and cheering as his impromptu teammate makes a good play goes viral days later and kageyama does everything in his power to get the pictures taken at the wedding so he has the memories of that night forever. he even sends an awkward thank you card to the couple after.

ushijima accepts an invite, too; mostly because he feels it would be rude not to accept when they spent the time and money going out of their way to send him one. he spends a lot of money getting them a gift, and he cleans up super nicely, and he’s almost distracting for the entire ceremony. the quiet mysterious type suits him well, and everyone notices as he stays in the back, politely applauding when necessary and offering tissue to anyone crying and helping when it’s needed. at the reception, he mostly stays in his seat, but he stops to have conversations with anyone that comes by. most of them are very to the point, and don’t get longer than a few minutes because ushijima doesn’t beat around the bush much, but as off-putting as it sounds, everyone absolutely adores him. some people are trying to size him up, but he’s just too straightforward about how they are perfectly good on their own without having to compare themselves that they wander off shocked that he was so... nice? no, he is, but that’s not quite it... honest? about it all that they feel validated and off-kilter by the time they walk away. others come over to ask him to dance, which he politely accepts and he’s just so earnest in his attempt that they can’t even be upset that he’s a little stiff and bumbling. if anything, they fall for his charm even more. as he leaves, everyone insists that he take a few plates to-go and that if he ever needed anything, all he had to do was ask. he was very confused by this proclamation as he didn’t know anyone well enough. in his bag of to-go boxes, however, he finds a ton of business cards and stuff that he stores away just in case he does need any of their services.

at his next interview, he gets asked about the entire experience, and as always, he’s super honest: “i had a wonderful time. everyone was very kind. that being said, i felt as if i was intruding on a very personal moment meant to be shared by those you hold dearest, so as much as i appreciate the sentiment, i do not plan to attend anymore weddings if i don’t know someone involved. it should be their big day, after all, and i would hate to distract from it.” if he gets anymore invites, he politely declines and instead sends them a gift and his congratulations.

i’ve been gone for a few days because of school, but i’ve been itching to send something in ever since i saw the wedding prompt. plus, all of the hc coming in from it have been so good! you have so many talented followers, and your additions are great as always, elle!

anyway, i have to get back to school. hope school is going well for you, elle! and make sure you’re taking care of yourself! -🌙

— from elle ! wait, hold on i love this >_< but hello moon anon !! i hope all those essays are working out well for you and i hope you’re able to take breaks in between :) anyways, this definitely made me love and i like that it’s true to the characters (esp. kags). my quick lil scenarios (under the cut as usual) is kind of an amalgamation of what you sent in because i'm just thinking of what would happen if the couple took a shot in the dark and invited all three of them. and they all attend :>> thank you for this and i hope you are having a wonderful day ! <3

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

“yohoo, tobio-chan!” kageyama heard, a figure sliding into the empty seat next to him. the voice is airy, familiar, one that he had heard several times in the past. the ceremony was due to start in five minutes, everyone from the guests to the wedding party already taking their respective place.

he narrows his eyes towards the figure, recognising the man just after a couple of quick beats, “oikawa-san?”

“ah! i'm glad you could still recognise me.” oikawa grinned, squinting his eyes at the vast amounts of sunlight that entered through the windows, “too bright in here, isn’t it?”

“what are you doing back in japan?” he asked, eyes growing wide as he’s unsure if the sight in front of him was actually real.

“visiting family, taking a little vacation.” oikawa replied, leaning back in his seat, “so how do you know the happy couple?”

“i...i'm not sure.” kageyama admitted, looking down at his lap in embarrassment.

“can you keep a secret tobio?” oikawa leaned in to whisper, waiting for him to nod before continuing, “i don’t think i know them either.”

it was about halfway through the ceremony and oikawa was getting just a little bit restless; he loved weddings, truly, but this one was dragging on much longer than the ones he previously attended. his gaze was lingering everywhere — from the loved-up gazes of the couple, the flowers that lined the aisles, to the guests who hung onto every word of the vows. one of the guests in particular was more familiar than most.

“pst, tobio.” he spoke, nudging kageyama’s shoulder, “doesn’t that guy look familiar?”

he tilted his head towards the man who sat at the very back row, trying his best to keep a relatively low profile. kageyama followed with his eyes, attempting to be as discreet as he could. he recognised the man immediately, “that’s ushijima-san!”

maybe kageyama had exclaimed a little too loudly, earning himself a few shhhhs from the people who sat around him. he bows his head slightly as an apology while oikawa bites his lip to hold in his laughter.

the three of them were able to meet up during the reception, opting to sit at the same table — the one farthest away from everyone as to not draw any attention to themselves. well, oikawa insisted that they did and kageyama and ushijima didn’t really know anyone else to be comfortable enough to sit with them.

“what did you both get the bride and groom?” oikawa asked as an attempt to make conversation, taking a sip from the glass in front of them.

ushijima was one to spare no expense when it came to gifts, but he wasn’t one to brag about the cost of it either, “just a simple tea set. nothing much.”

what he failed to mention was that simple tea set cost several thousands of yen. but of course, oikawa took it as a bit of an opportunity to one-up ushijima and brags about his gifts. yes, gifts. plural.

ushijima was in the bathroom and oikawa had gotten the attention of a couple of bridesmaids — flirting with him while he tried his best to subtly deflect their advances — leaving kageyama all alone at the table.

he felt a hand tap on his shoulder, soft and hesitant, “kageyama tobio?”

“yes?” kageyama asked, turning to face the source of the voice. he’s met with a teenage boy, possibly not older than sixteen, looking at him with complete nervousness in his eyes.

“i'm sorry to bother you. but i've just been such a huge fan of yours for the longest time and i wasn’t even sure if i should approach you but i really needed to let you know how much you have inspired me and i still have so much to learn but...uh, yeah.” the boy finished, looking at everything but kageyama at that point.

and a light flush colors kageyama’s cheeks, completely flustered. it was the first time anyone had approached him like that before, and he’s unsure how exactly to take the compliments. but he noticed the way the fan’s hands trembled, and he recalls all the times he’s approached the players he was a fan of when he was his age. “is there anything you need help with?”

needless to say, oikawa and ushijima were surprised when they found their table completely devoid of kageyama’s presence; only to find him in the incredibly large hallways with a makeshift volleyball court with chairs haphazardly stacked on top one another.

“where did you get that?” ushijima asked, pointing towards the volleyball that kageyama held in his hands.

“my car.” he replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“well then,” oikawa smirked, eyes lighting up as he looked around the halls, especially at the gathering crowd, “how about a friendly little match?”

kageyama and the fan he was meant to be teaching stood on one side of the makeshift court while oikawa and ushijima stood opposite them, getting into position. most of the guests had their phones out, recording everything and posting it on social media.

“at least i will finally know what it’s like to finally play with you in a team instead of against you.” ushijima commented, briefly glancing at his teammate for the night.

oikawa choked on air, taking a few seconds to compose himself before responding, “should have come to shiratorizawa, huh?”

it was barely even noticeable, barely lasted a few seconds, but ushijima cracked a smile.

the night ends with the newlyweds approaching the three of them, expressing their gratefulness for their invitations but also apologising for stealing their thunder on their wedding, going so far as to offering to pay for their honeymoon.

“as tempting as that may be,” the bride smiled, “it really is no problem. we’re surprised that you even attended in the first place.

the groom nodded in agreement, “we had a lot of fun watching you play tonight, so we feel like we should be thanking you more. you didn’t have to bring gifts too.”

oikawa waved a hand as if to say it’s nothing, while kageyama and ushijima offer tickets to their next match in exchange for photos from the wedding — particularly that of their little volleyball match.

the three of them finally make their way out into the night and into their respective cars, but not before oikawa lets out one more question.

“the three of us should hang out more,” oikawa smiled, not a trace of teasing or malice in his tone, just a genuine offer, “at least once before i get back to argentina.”

years ago, none of them would even consider such a thing, but all three liked to think that they moved past such trivial things.

kageyama gave him a small smile, “alright.”

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

a question: what would the hq characters be like at a wedding? | written on the margins masterlist

taglist : @haikyuutothetop @crystal-lilac @tobioespresso @sushijimawakatoshi @itsmeaudrieee @pantherhappy @jesssobs @mysticstrawberryballoon @cloudedsky_29 @sakusasimpbot

join my hq taglist here. <3

#didn’t think i’d be thinking about timeskip!oikawa-kageyama-ushijima dynamics tonight #but here i am and i loved writing these lil scenarios #written on the margins 🔖#oikawa headcanons #kageyama headcanons #ushijima headcanons #oikawa scenarios #kageyama scenarios #ushijima scenarios #🎐 — 🌙anon! <3

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sardinesandhumbugs · 3 years

Note

dude dude empty chairs at empty tables from les mis that line "oh my friends, my friends, forgive me that I live and you are gone" thats BADGER

A/N: asdlfjadslfjadsf your mind, nonny. This was meant to focus solely on Badger and his losing Rat Sr and Toad Sr, but then, naturally, this broadened out to Badger and grief in general.

For obvious reasons, trigger warnings for death.

(Also, yes, I am still working on these prompts, so if you are waiting on one, fear not! It will get written... just very, very slowly. @wolfiethewriter I snuck the hat story in!)

It had been a bitter winter that year. A selfish winter, taking so much and giving nothing in return.

And Badger is tired.

Toad Sr had been the first one to go – an impossibility to anyone who had known him, but, then again, life cared little for probabilities. It took the indomitable toad in a cascade of carriage wheels and snowblind storms and slick roads and Badger was left with nothing but a funeral to prepare alongside his mourning friend.

"It's how he would have wanted to go," Rat says in the twilight hours following the funeral.

(To many, Rat is now Rat Senior, but Badger finds the epitaph weighs heavily on his mind; it's a constant reminder that his friend (and he) are ever growing older while the generation below settle into the youthful energy that he and Rat had once enjoyed.)

"What?" Badger grumbles. "Dramatically?"

"No. Quickly." Rat sighs and readjusts the blankets around himself that are far too numerous for an armchair by the fireside, even in the bleak midwinter. "He would have hated to fade away slowly."

"One would think he'd much rather have not gone at all," Badger says.

"We must all go eventually, Badger."

"Maybe. But not any time soon. Not yet."

"We're not so young as we used to be."

"Neither are we so old as to welcome death as a familiar friend," Badger answers with rancour.

Rat gives a breathy half-laugh. "Even so, it seems like a long time since our first meeting. Do you remember it?"

"Like it was yesterday," Badger says, and he does not add that it is not long ago enough, not by half. Not by a long shot. "Toad invited us both for a meal at the Red Lion Inn. You looked like you thought I might eat you."

"Can you blame me? You were scowling at me something rotten." Rat chuckles sheepishly. "Truth be told, I'd never really met a badger before then – they always seemed to keep to themselves, and you're not the least intimidating of animals."

"I suppose we're not. We're not really Undergrounders or Wild Wooders, and we're certainly not Riverbankers." He hesitates. "We're just Badgers."

"Well, that never bothered Toad."

"No, it didn't."

A pause lingers between them, a silence for the animal who would have filled it within a heartbeat.

"Toad was the first animal I could honestly call a friend," Badger says eventually. The words sit heavily in his lungs, a truth he has been avoiding since the news came of Toad's demise. "A sorry state of affairs to reach at that age, but most other animals veered on the same opinion as you did," and he nods to Rat (not accusing nor bitter, only the lonely truth), "that we were a solitary type and best left to our own devices. And then he introduced you, his oldest and dearest friend, and I suppose some part of me felt..."

"Territorial?" Rat offers with a rueful smile.

"I suppose that is one word for it."

"And now look at us."

"How the tables have turned," Badger agrees.

Rat gives a breathy half-laugh. "We've had some times though. Do you recall the night Toad showed us the tunnels beneath the Hall?"

"I remember it, but I'm surprised you do. You were three sheets to the wind, and then some." His words are admonishing, but his tone is affectionately amused. "You and that blasted amphibian."

"If I recall correctly, you were singing as loudly as either of us."

"I wasn't the one who dove head-first over a wall in trying to catch his hat."

Rat snorts. "It was a low wall."

"Not low enough and there was a drop on the other side. I was prepared to climb over to fetch your hat back for you, but you just shouted–"

"'Grab my legs,'" Rat choruses with a chuckle.

"–and leapt head-and-arms over it without even checking to see if I was there, like it's an impromptu trust exercise."

"You did catch me though."

"A few drinks later and I might not have." Rat's humour is contagious though, and Badger finds himself smiling along at the chaotic memory. "I just turn to see a pair of legs rapidly sliding over the wall and all I can think is I'm not trained for this kind of thing."

"It was a good hat."

"It better have been one-of-a-kind for that stunt."

Rat gives a laugh that shakes at the edges and ends abruptly with a sharp, pained inhale. The smile returns quickly after, but it is watery and the carefree humour has faded.

(Badger makes no comment on the rattle in his friend's laughter, just as he has made no comment on the sudden breaths Rat takes between words, nor how the water rat has slipped quietly from captain to passenger aboard his own boat, relegating the rowing to the generation below.)

(Maybe, if he doesn't comment on it, it won't matter.)

(Maybe, if he doesn't comment on it, Death won't hear and will pass his remaining friend by.)

Rat's paw finds Badger's, and although his friend's has always been dwarfed by Badger's, it now feels frailer than before. The grip is tight though, and the fervour unnerves Badger.

"Don't retreat," Rat says. "When the time comes, don't hide back in your sett."

Badger cannot promise that. "When the time comes?" he echoes instead.

Rat smiles, but there is sadness in his eyes that tell he is not fooled by Badger's feigned ignorance. "First friends will always be special, but they're a beginning, not an end, Badge," and the smile does reach his eyes in that moment – at the nickname that had been so commonplace in their more youthful years. "And, whatever anyone else might think, you are not a solitary animal."

And then there is one.

Rat's passing had been as slow as Toad's had been quick, and that cruel winter had hemmed Badger and his fading friend and the barely-beyond adolescent Ratty in a house that stank of death.

(A blessing, said animals who didn't know better, that he eventually went; better for all that the suffering should finally end.)

And as he attends the second funeral in as many months, towering over the heads of the above-ground folk, he feels keenly the buffering that his riverbank-born friends had granted him. Animals who had once earnestly invited the trio for drinks now offer faltering commiserations with gazes that refuse to meet his, and there is more than the awkward shadow of grief that hound his conversations.

The Undergrounders see him as more Wild Wood than one of theirs (after all, his home is in the wood's depths; how much more Wild Wood could one get?) and the Wild Wooders regard him as one of the Undergrounders (they pay their respects, for his medical knowledge has helped more than one of their kind, but he is not one of theirs, he is of the earth) but it is the Riverbankers who break his heart the most. Their eyes flicker to the Wild Wooders, to the Undergrounders, and it is clear that he has been a visitor to their world; a tourist staying by the grace of his friendship, but that friendship is buried beneath the ground and he should follow suit.

He stays through the funeral, for respect to his late friends – and their offspring, who are too shattered to bear the brunt of well-meaning animals alone – and he stays civil, despite the keening anger that sits in his heart. Instead, he speaks in steady, unerring words of the Rat he had known, and he is too tired to correct the animals who mistake his dry eyes for detachment.

He is tired, and he is alone and his friends are gone.

So let the Badger who sung at Rat's wedding and danced at Toad's die alongside them, he decides. There is no room for that Badger anymore.

He packs up the part of him that begrudgingly endured society and the world lets him. Badgers had always haunted that sett; they are a somber, to-themselves kind of animal and the fact that the current badger had been an outlier is something comfortably and quickly forgotten.

Toad Jr and Ratty have yet to shed their childhood nicknames, but in time they will pick up the moniker mantels that their fathers have left in their wake – and Badger cannot watch it happen. There is already too much of their fathers in them – or perhaps not enough. In their sons are left uncanny valleys of the animals he had once known; ghosts that linger in rogue phrases and remnant gestures, echoes of a time that are forever lost to him.

And maybe there is too much of their fathers in him. For, in the wake of their fathers' passing, neither animal loiter on his doorstep for more than the acceptable allotted condolences, both given and received. There is no outreach of mutual mourning to tie them together; only the bitter memory of what has been lost to render each presence painful.

Barely beyond puphood, Badger finds himself thinking as Ratty (still Ratty, always Ratty. Rat was his father; Rat was his lifelong friend; Rat is gone) shakily takes the meal that Badger has brought. They both are grieving, but Ratty is young and hopeful and, even as the sickness had stolen more of his father away, he had never quite believed that it would do the unforgivable until it was too late.

But Badger has sat with his grief so long that it feels like well-worn slippers. Every time he had visited his friend's parlour for lunch, or by the fire with drinks, or smoked out on the jetty, his mind had whispered perhaps this will be the last time. So when he and Ratty share that meal and the conversation is a muted, disquieted thing, Badger accepts the truth that his grief has been promising.

Ratty is not Rat.

Rat is gone, and Badger remains.

When Badger leaves that once-cosy riverside abode, it is with the knowledge that he will not return to his late friend's home until its present owner comes to Badger's sett on his own terms. He will not darken Ratty's door with reminders of his grief until Ratty is ready.

(It doesn't occur to him that Ratty might be thinking the same thing; that he saw the flinch in Badger's stoic form as his turn of phrase cut too close to his father's, or the quickened breath as he for a moment – but, oh, what a cruel moment – mistook Ratty for Rat Senior.)

(It doesn't occur to him that Ratty might see his own absence to Badger's doorstep a similar kindness, or take Badger's retreat to his sett as confirmation.)

(And so the cycle continues.)

Badge becomes Badger becomes Mr Badger, and suddenly he is the old, intimidating animal that he had seen his grandfather and his father become. He is not quite Wild Wooder and not quite Undergrounder, and he had forgotten that in his time playing as a Riverbanker, but none have space for him now.

Rat is gone and a badger he doesn't recognise remains.

That is, until a lost mole and a water rat wander to his doorstep one cold autumn night.

There is so much of Rat in his son that, even now, the grief runs riot through Badger. Ratty is no longer the scruffy pup hanging on to his father's coattails, nor the gangly, grief-stricken adolescent shakily reheating a mourning meal, but an animal comfortably settling into adulthood.

There are differences, of course (there is a tension to Ratty that easy-going Rat had rarely possessed, and a sharpness to his words that betray a difficult time of it) but when he laughs, it is Rat's voice that Badger hears.

It is not the raucous fracas that Rat would employ (Toad Senior had laughed so loudly, so infectiously, that Rat had caught some of his careless volume) but there is enough of it. And so even when Ratty reintroduces himself as Rat, Badger can't help but stick by Ratty.

Still Ratty, always Ratty. Rat was his father; Rat was his lifelong friend. Rat is gone.

Rat is gone, but Ratty remains and he needs Badger's help.

There is enough of the Badger that once was that he rises to the occasion. He braces for that same uneasy grief he had met with in the aftermath of the funerals, but not for the almost-filial manner Ratty and Toad appeal to him with – nor for the fragment of something he hesitates to call paternal responding in kind.

It is different, but that's no bad thing.

For Ratty and Toad are not their fathers, but neither is Badger the Badger that once was.

He is different.

But maybe that's no bad thing.

#Anon #replies #wind in the willows musical #witw fanfic #cat writes #you should know that nothing I write will reach the emotional punch of opening this ask and seeing #'oh my friends my friends forgive me that I live and you are gone' applied to Badger #also this song holds a special place in my heart #it was sung at my high school leavers do #also also I'm appreciating the irony that this is being applied to badger #when craig mathers (aka mole) actually has performed this song as marius #'empty chairs and empty tables' rich line for an animal who literally only has the one chair for himself that we see #also I have to laugh how ratty literally goes 'badger tell him!' when he disapproves of Mole tricking the stoats #if that doesn't just reek of appealing to the adulter adult then I don't know what does #messing about in a boat on the river with queue #okay now I want to write more paternal!badger with ratty and toad #also this hit 2K words that's ridiculous #might have to transfer this to ao3 eventually

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driversmutbucket · 4 years

Text

Kitten XI

Hey! It’s me! Sorry about the impromptu hiatus, but, ya know, life.

Kylo Ren AU x Reader

Warning: NSFW, minimal plot - maximum smut, eating assssssss, spanking (with belt), oral sex.

💋💋💋💋

1 year later

You pulled the fridge door open with such force that Kylo looked over from where he was making a coffee.

Grabbing a bottle of Pinot Gris from in the door you were aware, in your peripheral vision, of Kylo’s eyebrows shooting into his hairline.

“Not this time then?” He asked gently.

“Obviously!” You snapped, a surge of venomous anger washing over you.

You pulled out a wine glass and slammed the cupboard door shut.

“Kitten.”

The tenderness in his voice was all it took. You burst into tears- guttural, gasping sobs.

“I don’t-...why-...” you tried.

His arms were around you within seconds, pulling you into the warmth of his chest, hands rubbing soothing circles on your back.

—

Infertility was a bitch.

You never had any indication, apart from being the wrong side of 30, that you would have any trouble conceiving.

There was nothing wrong per se, with either of your reproductive systems. It just wasn’t happening.

You had tried for 6 months au natural.

Now, you had a regime of pills and injections that had taken over your life.

Sex had become monotonous.

You had never been more miserable.

—

“I can’t do this anymore.” You sniffed, “I feel sick all the time, my moods are completely erratic, Kylo, I can’t….i’m so…. ” tears were threatening to spill out of your eyes again.

You were snuggled up on the sofa, Kylo stroking your hair, your head resting against his chest, the beating of his heart calming you.

“You’re done, I can see that, it’s ok,” He soothed, “i want my happy wife back.”

“You’re not disappointed?” You asked in a small voice.

“Not in you, never in you, babe, but I’m really fucking certain there is no God.”

You snorted, breaking into a small smile.

—

It was like you both breathed an unspoken sigh of relief, after putting conception on hold. You gleefully packed away a pharmacy worth of medications and ovulation strips and deleted the multiple apps off your phone. Good riddance.

It wasn’t that you weren’t sad, of course you were, but there was also a part of you that was content with letting the universe decide.

Now you were on a mission to get your sex life back. The one that had been smothered under expectation, ovulation cycles and pharmaceuticals.

You hadn’t had sex in 2 weeks. The longest you had ever gone in your relationship. There was a sense that perhaps you were both decompressing from the intensity of the last 6 months. The clinical, downright boring, let’s-get-this-done sex to try and conceive. And my god, quantity was certainly not better than quality.

Tonight you were making an effort, having even finished work early and had your hair done. It had been woefully neglected.

The idea had been sparked by a dress in the back of your closet that you had caught sight of this morning. You had worn it the first time you met Kylo. It was black, tight in all the right places with a plunging neckline, surprisingly it was in one piece, despite being almost ripped from your body that night. You smirked at the memory.

—

Pulling open the door to the bar, you scanned the dim room for your husband.

You spotted him in a back corner booth, in head to toe black. His handsomeness still gave you butterflies. The way his dress shirt buttons strained just a fraction due his broad physique and his ability to dwarf the majority of furniture made you bite your lip and squeeze your thighs.

Kylo looked up and saw you when you were a few feet from the table.

He froze, slowly placing down his drink, jaw slackened.

Good.

Hair freshly styled, a fair whack of makeup and a sexy outfit had you feeling like a new woman.

You had forgone underwear, the bodice of the dress was tight enough to squish your breasts in place, the plunge of the neckline ending a few inches above your belly button. Long sleeves and a knee length hem kept the garment in the realm of tasteful. You opted for black stilettos, even though they were hell to walk in, you knew he loved them.

“Jesus Christ.” He half choked as you say down next to him.

His eyes lingered briefly on your cleavage before drifting up to the dainty gold necklace he had given you on your wedding night.

“Hello, Sir.” You purred, unable to suppress a grin.

His eyes flashed in acknowledgement as he recognized the dress you were wearing.

“Kitten.” His voice was almost a growl.

You picked up the drink he had pre-ordered you, sipping and meeting his searing gaze.

You leaned into him, placing a hand on his thigh,so your lips were right beside his ear.

“When I have finished this drink, I want you to take me home, and fuck me like you did before you knew my name.” You whispered, grazing your lips along his jaw and placing a quick kiss on his lips.

A smirk slowly appeared on his face as you took another sip of your drink, watching him.

“That depends.” He mused, picking up his glass and swirling the dregs of an old fashioned.

You raised an eyebrow, as his hand trailed up your thigh.

“Are you going to be a good girl?”

He felt you clench, his large hand was rubbing soft circles at the top of your thigh. His smirk only got bigger.

“Yes, sir.” You nodded.

“Then be a good girl and finish that drink, before I get us arrested for indecent exposure.” He quipped, before draining his cup.

You all but gulped down the cocktail.

You walked with Kylo to the bar, his hand rested on the small of your back.

As he handed over his card to pay, the hand drifted down and squeezed your butt, before patting it softly.

You looked up at him with a grin, “subtle.”

“Don’t get mouthy with me, Kitten.” He warned in a low murmur.

Entwining hands, you walked out into the night air to begin the short walk home.

You had walked as fast as your stilettos had allowed. Kylo was near striding, which had you giggling and cursing as you tried to keep his pace.

“Thank god!” You gasped, staggering into the elevator, behind Kylo, slightly puffed.

Kylo leant against the opposite wall of the elevator, eyes raking over your body.

“I’m not wearing any underwear.” You offered cheekily.

His eyes snapped up to yours almost in time with the elevator opening at your floor.

You exited before him with a grin, hightailing it to your door.

You toyed with his belt, grazing his growing bulge with your fingers as he fumbled with lock on the front door.

“Fucking brat, you have no patience.” He hissed, finally getting the door unlocked and pushing you inside.

“Says you, who dragged me home.” You countered, looking up at him.

He cupped your jaw and ran his thumb roughly across your lips. “You better be naked by the time I get to the bedroom Kitten. But leave those shoes on.” He pushed his thumb into your mouth, and you sucked it greedily.

“I need to think about how I’m going to punish you for being so mouthy.” He outright grinned as he pulled his hand away and turned you in the direction of the bedroom, smacking your ass.

You walked with an exaggerated sway of your hips. Pulling down the zip of your dress as you went. You could feel his eyes burning into your back.

Walking into the bedroom you kicked off the dress and bent yourself over, resting your elbows on the bed. You knew your legs looked great in these heels.

You were wet from the anticipation alone.

You shivered with excitement as you heard his footsteps.

You could feel him behind you, heard his belt being undone. You stayed still and quiet, like a good girl.

You jerked as the cold leather of his belt was dragged over your cunt, he slapped your clit with the doubled-over belt. Not hard, but enough to make you gasp.

“Soaking.” Kylo murmured.

He cracked the belt on your ass, you yelped at the sharp pain that quickly gave way to a wave of pleasure.

“Good girl.”

Another. You didn’t yelp this time, just uttered a guttural moan.

It seemed his patience was limited, you heard the belt be dropped on the floor before he took an ass cheek in each hand and squeezed.

“Kitten, you look so perfect bent over for me in those heels, this peachy ass- fuck!” His voice was rough.

“Thank you, Si- oh god!”

Kylo buried his face between your legs. You peeked back, he was fully clothed, on his knees, and you doubted you had seen anything more erotic.

He ran his hands up and down your legs, as his tongue probed your entrance.

You pushed back against his face unconsciously.

His hands traveled up and kneaded your butt cheeks again, spreading them, your whimpers of pleasure morphed to filthy moans as his tongue dragged upwards and he must have been spurred on, because he began to eat your ass with enthusiasm.

Your legs were shaking, you hadn’t experienced pleasure like this in, what? Months? God, you had forgotten how good it could be.

You whimpered as he pulled away.

“Lay down, baby girl, give those legs a rest, you’ve done so well, Kitten.” He murmured, guiding your shaking body to the bed, “need to make you cum before I fuck you.”

Laying on your back you had hardly caught your breath before Kylo pushed your legs open again and wrapped his plush lips around your clit.

You arched your back with a moan as he plunged two fingers into your warmth and sucked your clit.

“Ohfuckohgodbabyplease!”

Another finger and a subtle change of angle had you orgasming so hard your eyes watered and a rather large gush-

“Holy shit!” You yelped.

“That was…...so hot.” Kylo said huskily.

His pupils were blown, hair rumpled, and he was still fully clothed as he looked at you from between your legs.

“A lot of pent up orgasms.” You mumbled sheepishly.

You honestly couldn’t remember the last time you had climaxed - as sad as that was.

“I know babe, I’m so sorry, fuck, we just…..” he sighed with a look of anguish.

“It’s ok, it’s over with.” You reassured him. “Now can you please hurry up and get naked?”

The smirk returned, “I’ve missed this.”

Kylo placed some quick kisses down your thighs before standing up and beginning to strip off his clothes.

You watched, propping yourself up on your elbows, smuggly thinking, that is my husband.

“Are you gonna let me ride you?” You asked, eyes fixated on Kylo’s cock as it was released from the confinement of his trunks.

You had had enough missionary let’s-get-this-done sex to last a life time.

He didn’t answer, instead, he sat against the headboard. You crawled over to him, as he slowly pumped his cock.

You straddled him eagerly, batting his hand away from his cock and quickly replacing it with your own.

He cupped your butt as you hovered, lining yourself up.

“God, I love you.” He breathed, eyes roaming your body.

You beamed at him before easing down onto his cock with a sharp inhale.

“Mmmmph fuck! So good.” You kissed his lips gently as you rolled your hips experimentally, “I love you too.”

He squeezed the flesh of your buttocks, helping you fuck yourself on his cock.

You buried your hands in his hair, and kissed him. You hadn’t kissed with urgent, fiery lust in weeks. Within seconds you were moaning into each other’s mouths as your tongues did a well rehearsed dance. Nipping and sucking each other’s lips as your movements on his cock became more frantic.

“Not gonna last.” Kylo panted, pulling away from your mouth.

“Don’t care.” You whimpered, “please touch me.”

One of his hands moved to your front and dipped in between your bodies, seeking your sensitive clit.

“There! Hnnngh!” You cried as he began rubbing tight circles.

Your forehead dropped to rest on his shoulder as you felt his hips stutter, he came with a groan beneath you. You placed little kisses down his neck as he let his head rest back against the headboard.

The second orgasm that washed over you was less intense but just as magical, your toes curling while you made little noises of pleasure into Kylo's neck.

“We are never having sex for the sake of it again,” You mumbled, snuggling into your spent husband, “not when it can be like that.”

“Never.” He vowed.

———

Tag list: @reyloaddict55 @candycanes19 @jediminddicks1000 @finn-ray-nal-beads @maybe-your-left @thegreenmatt @morby @sydneyssmut @contesa-lui-alucard @millenialcatlady

#fan fiction #filth and smut #kylo ren au #kitten #reader x kylo #smutbucket #kylo ren x reader

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sxveme-2 · 3 years

Text

blueberry pancakes // bucky barnes

MASTERLIST

Description: A single mother. Juggling being a mom, a full time pediatrician, and a difficult ex who believed now would be the best time to finally be a father. A soldier ripped out of time. Ex-assassin turned superhero. Learning how to balance a new domestic life with handling demons of his past, while facing the trials of the future. a love story began over something as simple as chocolate chip pancakes with hidden blueberries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

Status: Edited

Note: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Fourteen: The One With Her Brother

Warnings: Mention of childbirth

Word Count: 2644

The cool air around the waiting room shrouded a twelve-year-old blonde by the name of Lily Osborne. Wrapped in her cardigan-covered arms was a five-year-old Rose, the younger sister of the eldest Osborne. Just to the right of her sat two conservative grandparents, only moments away from learning if their third grandchild from their daughter would be a girl or boy. So far, the two had only been gifted with granddaughters, two from their other son William, and two from their daughter, Alicia, the mother of the two girls awaiting their newest sibling. Lily had already been through the grief of a new sibling with the little girl that sat in her arms, but it sadly didn't transfer over to the second blonde born from Alicia and Abel Osborne.

The small creek of a door just beside the many uncomfortable chairs stationed behind a small half wall and all four of the family member’s blonde heads popped up. Lo and behold though, it was merely a group of nurses seemingly leaving from their shift. Four collective sighs created harmony throughout the robin egg blue maternity wing waiting room. A heavier head leaned back onto her shoulder and Lily placed a gentle kiss on the bright blonde curls that sat atop of Rose's young head like a mop. Glancing down, Lily saw her little sister’s eyes flutter shut and she let out a gentle sigh, running her fingers up and down the child's thin arms. Just moments later, however, the doors opened once again and a panting Abel Osborne came shooting out with a bright smile plastered on his rugged features.

"Do you guys want to come to meet your new baby brother?"

-----

For as long as Lily could remember, being Cedar's older sister was one of her most sacred pride of joys. Or just being an older sister in general. Especially being so much older than the younger two. Her parents were amazing, sure, and they always did their best with raising the three children. But when it came down to more personal issues and handling things like bullying, friends, or middle school, Lily was their go-to. And she cherished that fact. It was like having her own child, but without a majority of the responsibilities, the mother faced. It helped scratch that maternal itch Lily had since a baby.

Whenever her parents weren't able to, Lily walked Rose and Cedar to school. She was even his emergency contact for high school after their parents, same with Rose. when Cedar began high school, Lily was in her last year of university before beginning med school and handling a one-year-old baby boy and an unhelpful husband, she travelled down to Long Island with Hunter, and joined Cedar for his orientation day when their parents were on a business trip. Everyone thought she was his mother, and the two made a bit of a joke out of it.

Just below a year before that, when Lily and Scott were scrambling together a wedding, it was Cedar who had helped her choose a wedding dress that made her feel beautiful, even while she was four months along in her pregnancy. She was tempted to try and convince Scott to elope, feeling as though she wouldn't find a dress that gave her that moment that made her face light up when she saw herself in the mirror. Luckily, Cedar helped her achieve it.

-----

She didn't want to go, really. It was the last place on earth that Lily wanted to be. Every morning when she looked in the mirror she felt huge. She thought her thighs were getting too big. That her cheeks were getting larger and she felt puffy. All because of the beautiful life growing inside of her. It wasn't her fault. She was four months along in the pregnancy she was handling at the age of 22, all while planning a fairly rushed and impromptu wedding to the father of her unborn child. Even though, if she would admit it to herself, she knew deep down this wouldn't work, and that he wasn't good for her. But she'd never say it out loud.

But today, well, today she just felt awful.

Today was the day that she would be picking a wedding dress. After a whole week of yelling at Lily, her fiancé, Scott, managed to get her to drop the idea of eloping, and instead, funnelling money into a wedding. On top of handling pregnancy and her last year of university. Lily had originally planned to handle this feat alone, feeling self-conscious about having anyone else there. But with her parents and brother now living in her basement, with her brother staying with them over the summer before he would go back to Long Island and stay with his grandparents until Lily gave birth, and their parents would move back home, well...her brother was the only one she couldn't get to stay at her home when she went out.

The boy had just turned 11 and was a pretty stereotypical pubescent boy. But with a much closer relationship with his sister than most kids with the age gap that the two had. Lily depended a great deal on her relationships with her siblings, for she never really talked or even spent time with girls or boys her age outside of school when she was younger. Of course, moving to New York City and over the past few years, she had expanded her bubble.

As the youngest and oldest Osborne sibling arrived at the quaint wedding dress shop in Soho, Lily wished to turn around and avoid any sort of questions about the growing bump that was prevalent on her stomach. Being at this store was the last place Lily wanted to be spending her Saturday afternoon. But alas, the tug of a boy’s hand on her sleeve persuaded the blonde to enter the shop alongside him.

After answering dreadful pregnancy questions from the shop owner, Lily had found the dress. But her hands cupped the growing belly of hers, and those green eyes grew sad as she looked in the mirror. The dress was a spaghetti strap, heart-shaped neckline, lace flower decals dancing across the organza type material, and sliding from her waist in an a-line style. it was loose, flowing, and hid any real evidence of a pregnancy. But Lily knew. She knew what was growing inside of her. What she would look like within two months when the wedding would be taking place. Her stomach even more swollen.

Cedar slowly stood from the couch and walked towards his older sister, taking her hand and looking up at her with the eyes that made Lily realize just how lucky she was. And with a shy nod towards the owner, Lily had found her dress. All thanks to the young blonde boy she called a brother. And those soft eyes.

-----

Ten years later, the two were still as close as ever. Or so she believed. He stood at her wedding party at her and Scott’s wedding when she was twenty-two. He was there when she gave birth to Hunter. God, she remembered the day she went into labour so vividly. And the boy who had informed her distracted parents, and who pushed through the labour alongside his sister, before the actual birth began. She remembered that day so vividly.

-----

Her hand gripped onto the pen she was using to take notes from her online lecture. Being the top student so far in her first year at Medical School had its perks. The professor's offered her online lectures and videos, while she handled the pregnancy. Her brother and parents had taken over the basement, as they came down from Long Island to take care of their daughter, who was very obviously in a neglectful marriage. The cool winds of November whispered secret thoughts to Lily, the window of her office allowing them in.

As Lily went to finish off a note about the fetus in a woman growing, her own decision to take a different approach. A popping deep within her set off a relay of gasps as water trickled down her leg, staining the loose dress she wore over top of her swollen stomach. her hand smacked itself across her lips as a small squeak escaped from her throat. A pair of footsteps ran themselves into the office, catching Lily's eyes as he spotted the water dripping down onto the floor.

"Mom! Dad! Start the car! Lily's water broke!" Cedar exclaimed, holding onto his sister’s hand. The same hand he'd be holding for the next few hours.

—————

Maybe it was the feelings of betrayal that hit Lily the hardest. Before her then sat one of the most important people in her life, handcuffed to a table, waiting to be interrogated by police officers for attempting to break into her ex-husband’s apartment where her child sat, scared to death of the somewhat familiar tone of voice. Or it may have been the disgust that churned deep within her stomach as she came to the realization this was not the same sweet and innocent boy she had last seen a mere few weeks ago when visiting her parents. A boisterous and somewhat playful smile far gone from his face that was now carved full of deep stress lines, with bruises evident on the thin skin below his eyes. This wasn't Cedar Osborne. This was a mere shell of him.

"Sir there must be some sort of mistake," Lily laughed softly, gesturing towards the glass, "That's my brother he would...he would never hurt my son or try to. He's a nice kid how would he—"

"Ms. Osborne, I know this is a shock but this is the man that was caught trying to break into your ex-husband’s apartment." The detective said in a calm tone, "He confessed to it. We just can't get any evidence as to why he may have done it out of him...which is why we called you."

Lily stared at the man in front of her. Her crossed arms dropped to her sides as a look of pure shock took over her previous exasperated and confused face. He wanted her to interrogate her own brother? Try and get him to confess information about a crime he tried to commit against her son. Why Lily wanted nothing more than to smack the living daylights out of the police officer. But then again nowadays she has had this happen often.

"You did not just ask me that!?" Lily exclaimed, "He is my brother, and I know my brother, officer. There has to be a mistake. There has to be! And until you figure out what that is I will not be questioning the same boy that sat by my side at my son’s birth when my husband wouldn't. He is not capable of this. My son is the most important thing to that man and you dare think that he would scare him?" Lily exclaimed, chest heaving.

The officer fell silent. The look in his eyes said it all: he knew this woman wouldn't be interrogating this man. With a curt nod, the police officer spread his arm to guide Lily from the room. Her shoulders moved up and down at a rapid pace as she stormed from the building, her heart racing inside of her chest and pounding in her ears so loudly she couldn't even hear the loud noises from the New York streets. Typically, Lily would wait for an opportunity to cross the sidewalk to her car, but today, she bulldozed through the group of people, fumbling for her keys. The moment the ignition turned on, the tears fell.

The tears ran down her face non-stop as she drove through the streets of New York. Sobs wracked her body as she continued to shake. Lily had no way of comprehending the fact that her own brother was the culprit arrested for attempting to break into her ex-husbands home. Sure it was known that the entire family had a distaste towards Scott Harvey, but the Osborne's were a far from violent family. Docile and subservient almost. It was only when Lily pulled into her driveway when a memory fell on her like a ton of bricks.

-----

'Here Comes Santa Clause' played over the speakers as the Osborne family bustled around the cozy home of Lily's parents’ home. Children played and adults laughed over wine as the previously mentioned woman and her brother slaved away in front of the stove as they prepared Christmas dinner. The two quietly chatted while working on their respective side dish, patiently waiting for the turkey in the oven to finish so they can begin to eat.

"Hey, how's work been going for you?" Lily hummed, working her arm as she continued to mash potatoes.

"Oh yeah," Cedar responded in a gentle tone, "I actually just left the company." he continued, failing to elaborate to Lily as to why on earth he would have left the job as an electrician at a power company that supplied most of Long Island's power.

"Really?" the eldest Osborne huffed, halting her movements and turning to her younger brother, "What happened to your dream of being an electrician?" she wondered, head tilting to the side a bit.

"Offered a different job, better pay," he stated abruptly, turning his back to Lily as he finished mashing the yams that he had been working on.

"I see...where are you now?"

"Dinner's ready!" Cedar yelled, ignoring his sister’s question and pulling the freshly finished turkey from the oven.

-----

Lily felt her heart sink as she recounted the events of the Christmas that had just passed close to a year ago. Her hand slapped itself over her mouth as she came to the realization that her sweet and innocent brother may have very well found himself in a sticky situation. Her mind ran to the worst place she could think of...what if he was working for a hitman agency? No that couldn't be right. HE may be sneaky but Cedar wouldn't be capable of murder.

Shaking her head, Lily pulled her hair back from her face and allowed her breathing to regulate itself once more. God, she felt like everything she knew to be normal was crumbling around her. Everything that she had become accustomed to was falling to pieces and there was nothing she could even do about it. If Cedar was getting invested in solicit and illegal activities, Lily knew she would be the last person he would admit it to. The two had a relationship based on kindness and loyalty...and it broke the blonde's heart, the idea of her baby brother falling into the traps of something horrible.

Stepping from the car, the cool and brisk air of the season chilled the raging heat the flared in Lily's face. Locking her car, the young mother unlocked her front door to hear music playing and the dog going wild. Furrowing her eyebrows and stepping out of her shoes, the blonde made her way down the hall towards the living room where the loud noises were coming from. When she rounded the corner, the sight made all of the pain and sorrow she was just wallowing in mere moments ago fade into distant memories.

Hunter was stationed on Bucky's back as they flailed around to an outdated Justin Bieber song that the blonde boy sang at the top of his lungs, igniting the howls of Joey. With a giggle, Lily dropped her coat and bag and made her way towards the pair, joining in on the singing and dancing. For once, Lily allowed herself to step away from the burden of anxiety and enjoy the moment in front of her.

Her eyes locked with Bucky and she knew, that maybe, just maybe, things could work out.

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sitcomified · 3 years

Text

we can’t make any promises now, can we, babe?

summary: impromptu peraltiago wedding one-shot set in the b99 season three finale word count: 5.4k rating: general

read below or on AO3

A buzz of chatter spills across the bar. Jake, Amy, and Charles are reunited at last, sharing stories the past few weeks over cheap drinks on a sticky wooden countertop. Amy finally tells Jake she loves him so much and he reciprocates without second thought. Charles offers a knowing glance to Amy, but Jake’s phone buzzes before he can follow up.

“Ooh, I'm gonna get this.” Jake excuses himself from the conversation and answers the call from an unknown number on his phone.

“Jake Peralta? This is Jimmy Figgis.” He feels like his throat has been shoved down his stomach. Cases were never truly solved, and usually the perps harbored resentment, but he had never been singled out like this, on his personal phone number. His first instinct is to try to locate Figgis, but even if he wanted to track the call he couldn’t. The voice on the other end has been altered by a robotic filter, and the background noise is indiscernible.

He hesitates for a moment before responding, “oh, uh, hey, dog.”

“You and Ray Holt took down my operation. Now I'm gonna kill you both.” Jake squints across the room in search of anyone remotely suspicious. Unfortunately, he could read too much into anyone when given the chance. He doesn’t recognize the new bartender, and he’s been less chatty than the others. There’s a lady squeezing her purse against her chest as she looks in his direction. His anxieties boil over in his throat as he tries to stammer out a response, but Figgis ends the conversation before he has time to interject: “later, dog.”

Jake’s hand is still shaking as he lowers his phone. His eyes dart around the room. “Uh, Captain Holt?”

“Peralta,” Holt says from across the bar, approaching the counter after politely excusing himself from an odious conversation with Hitchcock and Scully. His arrival catches the attention of Amy and Charles, who drop their conversation about where to find the best sundaes.

Jake scans the room once more before speaking in a low voice. “I just got a call. From Figgis. He knows that you and I busted his operation and he’s coming for us.” He sighs and his shoulders fall down with defeat. Amy instinctively reaches for Jake’s hand.

“Oh dear,” Holt replies. Even his ever-emotionless expression is disturbed by the news, with raised eyebrows and a slight frown. “Well that is certainly unfortunate.”

“What does this mean?” Amy asks, her voice trembling. Jake squeezes her hand, in a futile attempt to calm the storm of worst-case scenarios she’s piecing together.

“We’re screwed,” Charles says, “don’t worry Jake, I’ll make sure to tell your story.”

“We are not ‘screwed’,” Holt replies, “however, we should discuss proper procedure in a more private place.” He gestures to the couple making out at the table to their left. The group nods in agreement. “Go ahead to the precinct, I will meet you there.” He exits the conversation just as swiftly as he arrived, sparing no second in rallying his—albeit somewhat tipsy—squad.

The walk to the precinct is uncharacteristically somber. Charles doesn’t even comment on the fact that Jake draped his jacket on Amy’s shoulders the second they left the bar. The omnipresent breeze of arguments between neighbors, loud music, and traffic goes still and the only noises they can hear are their own footsteps, and the occasional sigh.

The precinct is at least familiar, but laced with uncertainty as night shift officers occupy the bullpen. The trio make their way to the empty briefing room, which is fortunately unlocked. Amy takes a seat in the back, and Jake hops on the table next to her. Charles heads for the bathroom to face the consequences of the “Authentic Asian-Mexican Fusion” cocktail he tried earlier.

“It’ll be okay,” Amy says, gently stroking Jake’s palm. His blank gaze is fixed at the wall in front of him for minutes that seem like hours, and he still hasn’t said a word. Usually when he was worried, she couldn’t get him to shut up. Seeing him silenced sent an eerie chill across her. “At least for now, Figgis and his guys are way too smart to infiltrate an active precinct.”

He finally replies, “So you want me to live the rest of my life here?” He lets out a meek chuckle. “I think that would be worse than getting shot.”

“Oh, come on, it wouldn’t be that bad. I’d see you every day, you already eat most of your meals out of a vending machine, and the bathrooms are nicer than your apartment.” Amy jokes.

“Hey, one day that will be our apartment, watch your mouth.” He cracks a smile. For just a moment he allows himself to forget about the immediate danger surrounding him and indulges in the idea of a daily life with Amy. They would order takeout and sit on the couch watching an action movie, and she would be curled up with her embroidery and he could smell her eucalyptus shampoo. Or maybe he'd learn to cook, and she'd put on another nature documentary, and he'd get to listen to her laugh at the stupid voices he did for the animals. He runs his fingers absentmindedly through her ponytail. That’s a life he would buy a million mattresses and toss his grey towel thousands of times over for.

His fantasy is, however tragically, cut short by the Captain’s arrival. “Peralta, a word, in my office please.” Jake nods and follows him through the bullpen, without even bothering to greet any of the officers. It's as if he was watching himself enter the room, rather than actually experiencing it.

“Take a seat,” Holt gestures to the chair across from where Jake was standing awkwardly across the desk, and he hadn’t thought about sitting down. To be completely honest, he wasn’t entirely aware of the fact that he had a body. “I have contacted the U.S. Marshall’s office to make arrangements to send the two of us into Witness Protection. I know that this comes as a disappointment, but I believe that this level of security is necessary to avoid the threat.”

The news hits Jake like a punch to the gut. It’s a new type of dread, one that’s crushing him in instead of pulling him apart. He had worked on high stakes cases before, but this was a new level of imminent danger. He’d always been able to talk his way out of any threat; the squad was always there to help him. Even without them, he could fend for himself. Hell, he survived six months undercover in the frickin mob. Jake clenches his fingers against the captain’s desk. “Captain, with all due respect, is that really necessary–”

“–I understand your hesitancy, but it is absolutely critical that we take the utmost caution, but this is non-negotiable. Our Marshall will be here in two hours. Sergeant Jeffords is on his way to brief the squad on necessary protocols right now.”

“How long will we need to stay in WITSEC for?” Jake tried to reason with himself. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. It could be a couple weeks, a month tops. It would hurt like hell, but it’s nothing he couldn’t handle. If it was somewhere cool, then he could also get a killer story out of it.

“Indefinitely,” Holt responds, as if it was obvious and insignificant as the color of the sky. His answer severs the last thread holding Jake’s sanity together. He bangs his fists on the table.

“What the hell? You just assumed I would be okay with all this?” he shouts, “I can handle myself. I don't need to be babysat. I've been a detective for ten years!”

“Precisely, that's why I assumed you would react like an adult, and not like a petulant child.” Holt retorts. His dismissive delivery only fuels Jake’s anger.

“What did you expect me to do? I just got to see Amy for the first time in weeks and now my life is at risk because of some stupid case?” He pauses for a moment, recalling the ridiculous conversation from the briefing room moments ago. “Let me stay here, I’ll take down Figgis. I’ll even live in the precinct.”

Holt manages to convey a magnificent lack of amusement. “I don’t have time to deal with your immaturity right now. There are several arrangements I need to attend to, for your safety, If I may add.”

Jake’s heart is still pounding as he storms out of the captain's office. A pair of officers look up at him with concern before returning to their paperwork. He walks directly to the evidence lock up. As much as he wanted to squeeze out every last moment he could with Amy, he couldn't risk ruining it with some impulsive hot-headed remark.

He paces around the room before eventually landing on a box to rifle through. If he couldn’t address his feelings, he could certainly distract himself from them. It’s an old case—from before Holt became Captain. From what he could remember, the perp was busted for poisoning victims she catfished, and stealing their identities. When he opens the box, a puff of dust fills the air, hitting him with the heavy reality of just how much time had passed. He occupies himself by sifting through the contents of the box: the bracelet she used to store arsenic, the harddrives containing compromised information, and the perfectly crafted report that Amy had spent their whole lunch break editing. He really didn’t know how lucky he was then. He spent every day with the most wonderful woman alive and wasted it by teasing her.

Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He would recognize Amy’s awkward clunking in her “going-out heels” anywhere. Even if he was deep undercover all the way across the country. “I knew I’d find you in here,” she greets him, standing in the door frame with a bunched up tissue in hand.

“It’s like you’re a detective or something,” Jake says. He aims for the light flirtatious tone that the two have grown so accustomed to, but it comes out too aggressive for either of their comfort.

Amy hesitates before clearing her throat and approaching him. She closes the lid and returns the box of evidence to the shelf, and reaches an arm across his back. She notices Jake’s widening eyes, slowing heart rate, and just as he opens his lips she accepts his implicit apology. “This is stressful, I understand.” She pauses and Jake can hear the soft popping of her lips; she's choosing her words very carefully. “I was thinking. Figgis will take a while to track down. I can’t let you go alone for that long.”

Immediately Jake tenses back up. He felt that they were in an awkward stage relationship wise, even before Amy went undercover. He worried she thought that he was moving too fast too soon. That he wasn’t serious or responsible enough. He can’t stop himself from vocalizing his anxieties. “Ames, are you breaking up with me?”

Luckily for him, Amy looks equally horrified at the idea. “No, the opposite, actually—” she takes a deep breath, as Jake violently racks his mind for what that could possibly mean,“—I think we should get married. I know this is all really soon and we haven’t hit all the relationship milestones, but WITSEC only allows contact with immediate family, and after what we just went through I can’t imagine—”

He interrupts without a second thought. “—Duh-doy, of course I’ll marry you.”

Although the proposal was a mere technicality, excitement washes over the room. Amy launches herself at Jake with wide-open arms. He squeezes her tightly and lifts her up. Figgis was still on the loose and his life was still in jeopardy, but it all seemed insignificant when he knew Amy would be by his side. He slowly lowers her down onto a pile of boxes. With their faces pulled back from each other, Jake can actually see Amy’s brilliant smile. He almost feels guilty for dampening it. “Uh, the Captain said the Marshall would be here in two hours, and everything’s closed.”

Her eyes are illuminated by that specific laser-focused excitement that was reserved for completing a crossword puzzle, or, choosing a new notebook, or, someone concerningly, receiving praise from her captain. “Leave that to me,” she says.

Jake can barely muster a response as Amy races to her desk. “You’re my dream girl.”

“I know,” she replies from across the precinct, no doubt doing one of her lovable dork dances from behind the door. The officers must assume that they’re somehow crazier than they already do, but Jake doesn’t care. Amy’s voice is still echoing in his ears when he returns to the captain’s office. His senses return to him, and he’s even grateful for the precinct’s faint smell of metal and burnt-coffee.

Holt seems to have calmed down from earlier, or at the very least, he’s so immersed he can’t be bothered to deal with Jake’s crap right now. He has a pile of binders on his desk and his reading glasses are on the verge of sliding off the tip of his nose. Seeing Holt in serious action almost makes Jake feel guilty for acting out earlier.

He enters the room awkwardly, and Holt looks up from a particularly thick file and clears his throat. “Detective, I noticed you and Santiago were conversing. I trust that you have sufficiently addressed any emotional concerns this process might have, given the romantic nature of your relationship. I understand that the prolonged separation can be quite challenging to navigate. Kevin and I recently had quite an emotional conversation ourselves.”

“Hello Kevin, it is I, your husband Raymond Holt.”

“May I inquire about the occasion? This is a rather unusual time to call.”

“I agree it is quite unorthodox, but this news is urgent. I just completed a very dangerous case and my life is in danger. I am headed into a Witness Protection program indefinitely.”

“I understand. I am quite disappointed by this news.”

“As am I.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Jake replies. In any other circumstance he would declare his eternal love for Amy from the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, making sure that the whole city could hear. But, although he would never admit it, he cares just as much about the Captain’s approval as she does. Whenever he imagined proposing to Amy, years down the line, he knew it would be elaborate and tasteful (to the extent he was capable of it) and when both of them were ready. He knew that’s what Amy deserved, and Holt knew it too.

“Pardon?” Holt takes his eyes off the monitor and folds his arms, and Jake feels as if he’s being interrogated. Through the glass, he watches Amy at her desk frantically typing and scribbling down notes.

He purses his lips in anticipation. He doesn’t have time to do a bit or give a fake story to dull the big news like usual, and that makes the ripping off of the bandaid even more painful. “It is possible that Amy and I maybe just decided to get married before the Marshall gets here.”

Holt opens his mouth with a slight indication of confusion, before swallowing a gulp of air. “I see…and you’re sure that you will be able to file the requisite paperwork in time?” An entirely unremarkable—and characteristic—reaction to the situation. No hints of judgement or celebration, just an acknowledgement of simple facts. Jake supposes that he filed any emotional response away to be processed at a later point.

“Don’t worry sir, we have a plan,” Jake assures his still-skeptical Captain. “Well, Amy has a plan,” he clarifies, and Holt indicates marginal relief.

Holt sighs, “I know I am not one to talk you out of your schemes—”

“—It’s not a scheme, it's a plan, and it’s a great one. Amy and I are going to go to whatever craphole state the Marshalls send us to, solve the case in no time and then make out 24/7,” Jake says with a new rush of adrenaline.

“As I was saying, you seem to be quite confident,” Holt continues, “which is why I’m not going to attempt to negotiate with you. You are excellent detectives and you clearly care a lot about each other. Congratulations to you both.” He gestures to Amy, who has her face nearly pressed to the glass behind the shades, as she tries to listen to their conversation. “Santiago, you may enter.”

Amy almost trips on her way into the office, and Jake greets her with a hug, “Did you hear that? The Captain approves!”

Her face floods pink, undermining her already futile efforts to maintain composure. “Thank you sir, it means a lot.”

“Of course. It’s highly enjoyable to see a couple as compatible as yourselves.” Jake has to bite his tongue to avoid mocking his word choice. “Now, given that time is of the utmost essence, I urge you two to go home and gather personal documents. I’ve already spoken to the night shift’s Sergeant, and he has agreed to lend officers to escort each of you.”

“We need to get all the marriage paperwork sorted out, I can just stay here,” Jake adds, turning to his girlfriend, “Amy, all my important stuff is under my beanbag chair.”

“That's why it's so lumpy!”

“I’m sure Detective Boyle would be more than happy to help out with your nuptials,” Holt replies, pushing aside his disgust with his Detective’s living situation. “Here is a list of things that the Marshall will need,” he hands over two slim printouts from one of the many binders on his desk. “You are dismissed.”

“Thanks,” Jake says, flipping through the sheets. He would be so screwed trying to find this all in his apartment.

“See you on the other side, babe,” Amy whispers as she leaves the office.

“See you on the other side,” Jake says, planting a soft kiss on her forehead before heading downstairs.

///////

One hour later.

Amy returns to the precinct with a sleek folder containing every document the Marshall requested. While gathering her necessities, she changed into her old graduation dress. It’s knee length with cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, not nearly formal enough for the wedding she had several binders dedicated to, but for all she cared she would marry Jake in sweatpants and grandma glasses.

Her jaw drops as she enters the break room. As it turns out, Charles wasn’t the only one in the squad ecstatic about a Peralta-Santiago wedding, even if it was just a formality. As soon as the rest of the squad found out, they volunteered to help in any way possible. Rosa took her motorcycle to the City Clerk’s office where she obtained a Marriage Certificate and License, though she wouldn’t disclose how she got into the locked rooms. Terry convinced his neighbor who worked in the State Court to begrudgingly sign a letter authorizing the marriage in under 24 hours (“Theirs is a love story for the ages, for the ages Margo!”) Hitchcock and Scully even rearranged the furniture to form a sort of mock-chapel although it didn’t help that Scully was asleep on one of the couches in the back.

Charles himself went full-Boyle. The room is decorated with a beautiful miss-match of flowers from the 24/7 bodega down the street, and soft classical music was playing over the precinct’s sound system. It’s enough to make the holding cell containing a single perp with thirteen charges of public urination seem miles away. “Amy!” he turns around when he sees her, letting the banner of post-it's he’s hanging drop to the floor.

“Charles, this is incredible!” Amy exclaims.

“Thank you, it's not the wedding I dreamed about for you two,—that one has far more exotic birds involved, both for eating and for pleasure,—but I figured it was my job to step up as Jake’s de facto best man,” he says, pulling her into a hug. “If you hurt him I swear to god I will make you suffer for the rest of your life,” he whispers into her ear.

Amy pulls back hesitantly, “yeah, of course I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Jake.” She laughs, but no one joins.

“Seriously, we mean it,” Rosa adds, her tone somewhat undercut by the bouquet of roses she’s tying together.

“Everybody, leave Santiago alone, she’s not going to do anything,” Terry says, but his authority is undermined by the mouthful of tape from hanging up decorations.

At that moment Jake walks in, “Leave Santiago Alone, She’s Not Going To Do Anything: title of Amy’s sex tape.” He’s changed into a white button up shirt under his leather jacket and dark jeans. His red tie and scuffed sneakers match the flower petals around them. Charles must’ve coordinated this, Amy thinks. He looks so handsome that she forgives the insult. Besides, they both knew he wasn’t speaking from experience.

“Dude, you’re literally getting married,” Rosa says, as Jake rolls his eyes. He saunters over to Amy and gives her a quick kiss. She takes his arm around her, and they walk to the back of the room for a semblance of privacy, taking a seat on the couch opposite Scully.

“Hello future wife,” Jake greets Amy.

“Hi future Mr. Santiago,” she responds, with a slightly smug smile.

“Wait, what are we going to do about last names? Should we hyphenate?” Jake asks, frazzled. He’s still processing everything that’s happened that day.

“We can work all that out later, but it would make paperwork a nightmare,” Amy says, as she tucks a tiny curl behind his ear. It immediately bounces back. Jake smiles at her. Of course she could still be thinking about paperwork at a time like this.

“I know it’s cliche, but I really do feel like the luckiest man on Earth,” he says.

“Well you are being targeted by one of the countries largest crime families, so I guess it evens out.” Jake looks away in response, and Amy bites her lip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up, I just thought with everything—”

“—No, it’s fine,” Jake says, and he quickly pulls back his frown. At some point over the past evening (early morning, really) Jake had allowed himself to believe that this marriage was forever. That it was the next step in the infinite journey they would share or whatever. His stomach churned at the nagging idea that this was just a loophole for Amy to work a case with him.

“Babe, is everything alright?” She turns to face him, and he realizes the uncharacteristic length of his silence.

“After all this is over—if it’s all over—are we going to stay married?” he asks, not quite able to make eye contact.

“Is that what you want?” Amy counters.

“Maybe,” Jake responds. He definitely knows what he wants, but he tiptoes around putting Amy in a precarious position. The last thing he wants is for her to feel compelled to stay married to a guy she’s only been dating for a year. Instead, he returns the question, “is that what you want?”

She pauses for a second to think. “I want a proper wedding. With my family and everything—I think my mom would kill me if I didn’t. But I want to marry you. Preferably not in a police precinct though,” she adds. Now it’s her turn to avoid his gaze.

“I want that too,” Jake smiles in agreement, “Although a precinct wedding doesn’t seem that bad. Terry’s kids could be our flower girls.”

“That would be adorable,” Amy says.

“Do you think Sarge could bring them in now?”

“Jake, it’s the middle of the night on a school night,” Amy reminds him. Stupid reality always getting in the way of his great ideas.

“Right,” he pauses, and then lets out a laugh. “I love you, Ames.”

“I love you too, Jake,” she says, with her head on his shoulder. He wishes that they could stay like that forever, but time (or, to be more precise, his captain’s anal scheduling practices) were not on their side.

Amy explains all the different forms they have to sign and Jake watches her carefully scan each line and write her name in font-like handwriting. She feels Jake’s leg shake underneath the table and lays her warm hand against his knee to calm him down. He picks up a pen from the floor and adds his name next to hers. He takes a moment to appreciate the smooth black ink from her favorite fountain pen next to his skipped blue-rollerball scrawl.

“Alright, we’re married,” Jake announces, going in for a high five. Amy looks at him with disbelief, and Charles takes the opportunity to cut in and slaps his palm. The rest of the squad joins them around the table, except Hitchcock has fallen asleep on Scully’s lap.

“I can’t believe it,” Rosa shakes her head, “someone actually agreed to spend the rest of their life with Jake.”

“Hey,” Jake protests, “that’s my wife.” He looks up at Amy with his adoring heart eyes and she feels a flutter in her chest. It was the first time she was referred to like that, and he didn’t even use the Borat voice like she expected.

“Whatever. I’m happy for you dorks,” Rosa says and she’s just drunk enough not to hide her smile. “This is unacceptable,” Charles interrupts, “I mean all this work, all this build up—years of watching your heightening sexual tension—just to sign a few papers? At least give us the vows.” He gestures around at the decorations to emphasize the point.

Jake is about to butt in about how it’s not for him, and if they were able to they would celebrate more, until Terry adds on. “I agree with Charles! Terry loves love.”

“Eh, seems like a good way to kill twenty minutes, babe, you in?” Jake turns towards Amy.

“Why not?” she says.

“Yes!” Charles exclaims, “I can officiate, I’ve had my speech written for years. How familiar are you with the different types of tentacles?” Amy and Jake exchange horrified glances, and Jake gets ready to talk his friend down. “I’m just kidding, about the tentacles,” he clarifies, although Amy isn’t entirely convinced.

“Am I going to be able to stop you?” Jake asks.

Charles is already running to his computer when he replies, “Not in a million years!” Terry soon follows him outside, inviting every officer to come watch the ceremony. Rosa tries to wake up Hitchcock and Scully with a gentle nudge before eventually slapping them awake.

In the meantime, Jake and Amy stay at the table. They’re both exhausted from the events of the day, and Amy tries to stifle a yawn as Jake asks her nonsensical questions about life in WITSEC. “What do you want your undercover name to be? I’m thinking Larry Sherbert.”

Amy rolls her eyes, “I’m not taking the last name Sherbert.”

He smiles, “that’s right, because I took yours, Rainbow.”

“You want my name to be Rainbow Sherbert?” she responds incredulously.

“Yep, you had hippie parents,” he explains. She’s about to tell him to knock it off, when Captain Holt enters the room. Amy instinctively straightens her posture and smooths out the front of her dress.

Holt lays the bottle of champagne he’s holding on the table, “This is from my miniature fridge. I was saving it as a mentor-to-mentee gift for when Santiago passed the Sergeant's exam, but this occasion seems equally appropriate.”

“Thank you sir. This is too kind,” Amy says, in the most formal voice she can muster.

“Of course,” Holt says, “It is a customary gift between workplace associates such as ourselves.” Jake shifts his puzzled gaze between his wife and his Captain. He loved them both, but couldn’t for the life of him decipher their relationship.

Terry and Charles return and a few officers trickle into the chairs in the back. Holt takes a seat in the front row, next to Rosa, and Amy and Jake join Charles in the makeshift archway between the vending machines.

“This is the happiest day of my life,” Charles whispers, putting his arms around Jake and Amy.

“Because you found out you were adopting a child, right?” Jake checks.

Charles blushes, “yep, totally that. I’m going to be such a responsible dad.” He rifles through his papers one last time, “Ok I’m ready whenever you are.”

Amy glances expectantly at Jake who gives her two sharp thumbs up. “I think we’re good!”“Alright let’s get this party started!” Charles announces. His volume catches the attention of the crowd, and the chatter dies down. “We are gathered here to celebrate the union of the two most magnificent people I know: Jake Peralta and Amy Santiago. Many of you have had the privilege of watching Jake and Amy’s relationship blossom from the overly competitive co-workers who drove us crazy with their constant bickering, to the glorious sight it is today.” He continues his speech, skipping over entire pages that have been crossed out, containing metaphors everyone is undoubtedly thankful not to hear. “To Jake and Amy, partners in crime solving, and now also, partners in life!”

The room applauds, and Jake takes the time to dab at the tears he was holding back during the speech. “We come now to the words you’ve all been waiting for. Before you declare your vows to one another, I want to hear you confirm that it is indeed your intention to be married today. Jacob Zachary Peralta, do you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself to Amy Maria Santiago in marriage?”

Jake and Amy share a mischievous glance, realizing he never told Charles his actual middle name. He’s about to bring that up, along with the fact that none of the day’s events were remotely close to his intentions, but he gets the sense that Amy wouldn’t be happy if he derailed the ceremony. Instead, he smooths out his tie and confidently says, “I do.”

“And Amy Maria Santiago, do you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself to Jacob Zachary Peralta in marriage,” Charles continues, oblivious to their antics.

“I do,” Amy smiles.

“Please face each other and hold hands,” Charles says, pulling two silver bands out of his pocket. Amy looks at Jake with confusion and he mouths the words beanbag chair. Charles instructs the two to repeat after him as they place the rings on each other’s fingers. The whole ceremony starts to blur in Amy’s mind as she realizes Jake already had this ring that somehow slid perfectly on her finger.

“And now, by the power invested in me by the state of New York, it is my honor to declare you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride!” Charles declares, tossing his papers on the ground for dramatic effect. Jake reaches his arm around Amy’s back in an attempt to dip her as some grand romantic gesture. She fumbles a little and ends up standing up and pulling her head up to his until their lips meet in a warm, invigorating kiss. Both of them chuckle as they pull apart. A few of the officers take that as a cue to return to the bullpen.

“It’s my grandma’s—the dead one’s,” Jake explains, pointing to Amy’s ring, “—and that’s like the one Peralta marriage that wasn’t a total failure so I thought it would bring good luck or something. Plus, you know the crushing debt.”

“It’s perfect,” Amy says, examining the carefully carved diamonds.

Captain Holt rises from his seat and reaches for the bottle of champagne, announcing a toast. As he starts to open the bottle, the cork goes flying across the room, shattering the vending machine glass. Hitchcock and Scully race towards the rubble to steal some free snacks. It’s at that moment that the Marshall, who unbeknownst to the squad had been waiting outside the Captain's office, decides to examine the break room and investigate the noise.

There’s a moment of silence, interrupted only by the fizzing of the overflowing champagne. Amy feels her stomach churning as if she’s somehow in trouble. Holt is at a complete loss for words. At last, it’s Charles who speaks up, hesitantly saying “Mazel Tov?”

#b99 #brooklyn nine nine #brooklyn 99 #b99 fic #peraltiago #peraltiago fic #jamy #jamy fic #brooklyn nine nine fic #jake peralta #amy santiago #b99 one shot #my fic

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charmandhex · 4 years

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For @terezis. It’s still April 15 somewhere in the world, so Happy Birthday, Ginny!

Taako and Kravitz don’t have an anniversary. Or, they don’t have a set anniversary. Or they can’t decide on a set anniversary because, really, what would they even choose?

There’s Candlenights, of course. Or, sometimes there’s Candlenights, not so much of course but as muttered around a cough. Embarrassed about being beaten by Tres Horny Boys (twice! He’d lost to Merle fuckin’ Highchurch!), getting his ass kicked by Legion (hadn’t even seen them coming), and by Taako’s smug reminders that he had successfully tentacled Kravitz (smug because, yes, this will still make Kravitz blush years later), Kravitz will try to cross Candlenights off the metaphorical list of dates. An even more smug Taako will add it right back in, pointing out that it was when they met, Kravitz had met (some of) Taako’s family, and Kravitz had in fact expressed a desire to take Taako home to meet his mother. So. It’s debatable.

Then there’s their second meeting. Neither of them puts much stock in that one, given that you can hardly call sitting in someone’s apartment in the dark until they show up only to discuss whether or not you are going to drag them to the Astral Plane a date. Kravitz had had his first headache in millennia (before that day, he hadn’t even been sure his construct form could have headaches) trying to understand how, exactly, Tres Horny Boys had added eleven deaths to their already non-zero death count and walked away unscathed, to say nothing of the thousands of deaths within the town of Refuge in the space of an hour. Taako, meanwhile, had been understandably tense, what with the whole risk of being dragged off to the Astral Plane after dying eleven times. All that notwithstanding, both will still grudgingly agree that the conversation had gone on far longer than expected and Taako had made tea for them and Kravitz had hurriedly given Taako his frequency before rushing off to his next job. No way that one counts. Definitely not. Right?

And of course. There’s the Chug and Squeeze. Their first real date. That had also started with Taako concerned about being dragged to the Astral Plane and Kravitz wondering if Taako had intended this to be a date or simply had strange ideas about appropriate meeting places. Nevertheless. It’s a date. A real, actual date with wine and pottery and significant (clammy) hand touches. A real date with openness and honesty and analogies involving bowls. A real date where they’d both felt something there, even if that something had maybe been a certain sister lich. Even if it had ended with Lup, y’know, shooting a Scorching Ray and nearly toasting Taako’s new boyfriend.

There are the dates that follow: a street fair, a play, a night in, a concert, and one memorable instance of going out dancing that may have required Taako to cast Chain Lightning. And with those dates had come their first kiss (and second and third and so on), the first time Taako had cooked for Kravitz (and the first time Taako had let Kravitz help), the first time Kravitz had sneakily stayed the night (though both will admit, it is easier to sneak out when you can simply tear a hole in the fabric of reality and plane-hop), the first time Taako had seen Kravitz go full skeleton when startled (by a squirrel), the first time Kravitz had heard Taako snort while laughing (Kravitz had gone skeleton because of a squirrel), the first time they’d nearly (nearly) been arrested together.

There’s the Day of Story and Song. When Taako saved Kravitz. When Taako kissed Kravitz without giving one singular fuck about who was watching or what was happening around them (the literal apocalypse). When Taako told (showed) Kravitz what happened in Wonderland. When Kravitz told (showed) Taako that he loved him. When Kravitz met Taako’s family. When Taako and Kravitz both helped saved the whole entire multiverse, thank you very much.

And after. There are more dates, more firsts. There’s Taako meeting Kravitz’s family. There are impromptu visits at work (and even more impromptu kraken ex machinas). There’s a wedding where, for the first time, Taako realizes that Kravitz’s hand is warm. And more still to come.

Maybe they really don’t have an anniversary. Or maybe they don’t have one anniversary. Maybe they have many, made from extraordinary days and quiet moments, all of them a piece of the greater whole and each worth remembering and celebrating.

“Does that mean Candlenights is finally off the list?” Kravitz asks after one particularly long, thoughtful conversation on the subject.

“You fuckin’ wish,” Taako retorts with a smug grin. “You’re not getting out of it that easy, babe.”

Kravitz just shakes his head, laughing. And then he kisses the smug grin right off Taako.

#taz #taz balance #taakitz #taz fic #taz fanfic #taako #kravitz #charm works #i'm legally not late yet so i win #this is what i meant when i commented way back at the beginning of april

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op-peccatori · 4 years

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shake my heart and let love fall out| MLQC Victor | Kinktober: October 23rd

Prompts: Lingerie || Hate-fucking/Angry sex || Forced orgasm

Here’s entry number 6 for @alloveroliver’s Kinktober 2019!! Hope you like it.

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Reader/Victor

Rating: 18+ (nsfw)

Word count: 7500

Warnings: explicit sex and language, angst porn??, angry sex, overstimulation, hickeys, mild spanking, kinda forced orgasm, possessive Victor, marriage, idiotic decisions made for the sake of angst, the sense of flight is stronger than the fight, I have proven yet again that I'm incapable of writing angst

When I write, I like to play a little game: how many synonyms can I use? ha...hahaha...smut is in the second half! There’s a mood board too, my first one ever!

Will I ever stop getting carried away when it comes to writing for Victor? ...probably not

High heels clack down the long hall, the sound echoing off the marble floor.

The sight of a familiar broad back has your throat tightening, steel grey eyes that seemingly look beyond you making your heart race as you reach the top of the sprawling staircase. Victor’s face is beauty carved from the smoothest stone, and his gaze is cooler than December rains.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to cup his face, to coax out some form of emotion.

You know you look good, but that never seemed to stop him from complimenting you in the past. Your dress is soft, cream satin on your body, your hair curled to perfection. Your neck is bound by thin lines of glimmering gemstones, a gift you found waiting for you when you stepped out of the shower. To have him barely glance your way now – it hurts you more than you’d like to admit. But you can admit that you had it coming.

“I see you’ve decided to end your vacation,” he’d asked you, hours after your return, his tone frigid enough to freeze your breath in your lungs. The deep bags under his eyes struck you harder than his words. “Did you finally remember you’re married?”

You never forgot. You have been a coward, tormented by thoughts of confrontation and rejection. You ran away. It was a mistake, you know that now. A split-second decision you can't take back, resulting in a whole year away from the man you still love but don't know how to be with.

The wedding band on your finger still burns with the weight of your decision.

Your hand in the crook of his arm feels natural, the heat of his body comforting; you have to refrain from leaning into him As you descend the steps together, you can’t help but glance at the people waiting at the bottom. At the woman who had called you exactly two weeks ago, crying and pleading with you to come back. Aunt Grace smiles back at you, the look of worry in her eyes fading. You don’t know why she thinks you can fix anything, to be honest. All you do is run. You hadn’t expected anything less than the frosty welcome you got from your husband and it has only gotten worse since then.

“You both look lovely,” she says with a wobbly smile in place, as Victor’s father smiles like he thinks everything will be okay now. You can feel the guilt threatening to burst forth, with the knowledge of what you’re hiding. For now. “Have fun at the party!”

You met Victor in your last year of college, at a farmer's market of all places. It took one impromptu lesson in how to select fresh produce, one cooking class, and a heart-melting kiss under the stars for you to fall in love. You both got married right after you graduated – it was the perfect fairy tale romance. You had been utterly consumed by how much you loved him, to the point where you just...lost yourself, somewhere along the way. You wanted to be with the love of your life. You didn’t know who you were without him.

And then, a year into marriage – the fights started. It was normal, everyone said. Fighting makes you stronger. It didn’t seem that way, it only seemed to weaken you. You two were barely talking. Eventually, you only saw him about twice or thrice a week. He came home later and later, and you stopped waiting up for him. There were no apologies, just expensive gifts. His company was doing so well, deal after deal cementing him as the entrepreneur everyone wanted to do business with. Rumours of his supposed affairs were making rounds in the gossip rags and even though you didn’t really believe them, it fueled the ugly parts of you. The resentment, the jealousy, the insecurity. You were suffocating, under your unwillingness to step out of your little bubble.

But you still didn’t have the courage to confront him.

You don’t even want to think about what your sex life had devolved into.

And then you reconnected with your childhood friend Gavin. He knew you beyond what most people now knew you as- the wife of a successful man. It was refreshing, and it gave you the courage to be more adventurous. You knew he used to have a major crush on you, but it was just something to laugh about after all those years. But Victor had never liked him in the past, and he didn’t like him when he flew back into your life, the perfect distraction from your dull life. You started spending more time with him, handsome and kind Gavin, always there to lend you a shoulder, always there to accompany you wherever you wanted to go.

You think that was when you saw Victor at his ugliest, when you were out with Gavin at your favourite restaurant and he came home early for once, to watch Gavin walk you to the front door. Except, then he tried to kiss you. You rebuffed him as politely as you could, he apologized for overstepping and both of you were mortified. And then there was only dread when you walked in to see Victor. Accusations were hurled, each comment more biting than the previous, and things that could never be taken back were thrown out in the open.

Did you fuck him?

You hurt each other.

We were a mistake.

You made it very clear things were platonic between you and Gavin, but the naked pain on his face still haunts you. The wounds were raw and bleeding after that, and neither of you knew how to patch them up. You couldn't stand the sight of each other for a while. He shut you out, so you left. You took a break. You went to your father’s hometown, where he had established his production company. His protégé, Anna, welcomed you with open arms and encouraging words. You needed a break, you needed to rebuild. And Victor needed time to get things in order, but you secretly hoped he would figure out how to give enough time to your relationship.

There was no more word from Victor though, he just sent over the luggage you had packed but left behind, with a message from Goldman to let him know if you needed anything 'while you were away', and when you planned to go back. You left the more expensive gowns and jewellery he had bought you in your closet and thankfully, he respected it and the distance you chose to put between them.

Taking over your father’s company had been terrifying when you had only worked with them briefly in the past, but it felt right. It’s one of the best decisions you’ve ever made for yourself, and you could finally begin discovering you were without the man who completed you.

You still cried yourself to sleep more often than not, but that was something you kept to yourself. This was something you needed to do.

It was the first time you made a big decision without Victor’s steadiness to take comfort in. Releasing that you are capable of making decisions without him was thrilling, yet devastating. Because he wasn’t an option at the time. It was only a matter of time until you received the divorce papers or a demand from him to return.

Sometimes, you thought of just going back. You knew you could. But something stopped you. Just a little more time, you told yourself. Your company was growing by leaps and bounds. And before you knew it, a year had passed. You were so different from the woman Victor married, yet your feelings for him still ran deep. You kept a close eye on any news you could find on him – the media had a blast speculating about the lives of the young couple. You had managed to survive without him, despite the loneliness. You didn't want to be alone, you wanted him. But you just didn't know how to fit the new pieces of you with his and you didn't know if he even wanted you to.

But he never asked you to return or leave him, and here you are, walking arm-in-arm into the party to announce your return. People whisper excitedly, but most seem to have believed you had just been busy being a successful producer and running your company. Not entirely untrue, but you aren’t going to comment either way, and it seems like Victor agrees.

Not until you talk to him about your future, with or without him.

You accept two flutes of champagne with a dazzling smile, passing one over to Victor with familiar ease. Clinking the glasses together, your eyes meet over the glasses and flick away, your masks in place, ready to meet the world. You hesitate before you leave his side, brushing a hand across his forearm willfully, squeezing once before you’re off to socialize. You know he watches you go, held in place by the sway of your hips.

You greet old friends and new, longtime enemies and people who aren't too excited to have you back. You deflect catty remarks, accept envious compliments aimed at the new jewellery your husband has so lovingly gifted you, field questions about your work. Your smile is flawless regardless of who you speak with, your gaze never too far from Victor as you watch people fall all over themselves trying to impress him.

It’s hard to hold a smirk back at the sight – some things will never change.

Goldman pulls you aside to stare at you for a few seconds before telling you that you're despicable, a coward for doing what you did. “But, I’m so glad you’re home. It was getting...difficult.”

That’s the problem, something that really bothers you. Aunt Grace, Victor’s father, Goldman – everything they’ve said implies that Victor’s been in unending agony in your absence. You shouldn’t have given up, you knew that. But after the big fight, you had tried. Not often, but you tried to talk to him. Victor, he barely came home and you just...couldn’t do it anymore.

Victor seems to have forgotten you were ever in love. It doesn’t help.

Kiro greets you with a brilliant smile and then Victor’s eyes feel like hot coals on the back of your head. You should feel a little more shame at the vindictive satisfaction that curls in your heart.

“I heard your new album,” you tell Kiro excitedly. “You’ve outdone yourself yet again. You must make an appearance on our show!”

“Aw, thanks, ___! I’ve been keeping up with your adventures as a producer too.” Kiro’s smile is warm and knowing – you feel strangely touched. “I’m glad. You seem so different. In the very best way, of course.” He squeezes your hand in support and your eyes meet stormy greys narrowed in a glare.

Whatever. If he has a problem with people talking to you, he can try doing it himself.

Chik is the next to step up to you, with her pin straight hair and dramatic falsies, expression peeved as she curls her arm around yours, leading you to the long table with a mountain of appetizers. You eye each other warily, nibbling on what seems to be a fancy mozzarella stick. "It's nice to see you, Chik."

She glances around to ensure your privacy before she snorts. "Took you long enough. I'm all for extended vacations, but this was too long ___. " You glare in silence, and she meets your narrowed gaze with her own. "You're starting with the fried stuff. Must be pretty bad."

Your expression is enough to make her wince.

"Ah, well. He's still sickeningly in love with you, so I'm sure it won't be too bad. Just, I don't know, fuck his brains out till he forgets you were gone for a year."

"Chik!" you hiss, but you can't hold back a grin at the scandalized looks you both get from the old couple hovering nearby.

But her words throw you for a loop; your plans jumble up by the second and you feel less certain of yourself. You don’t see him watching you from across the room until you're desperate for a distraction, and then it cuts into your path smoothly, with the lethal grace of a panther.

Victor is excellent at feigning disinterest in what you're doing. But it’s when you’re talking to Professor Lucien that he finally seems to have had enough, cutting in stiffly. The Professor’s sultry gaze has produced far better results than you could’ve predicted. Fingers clench at your waist reflexively before stroking your side, a sign of his agitation. He could never resist the feel of satin on your skin, something you’ve taken advantage of far too many times to count.

“We should be getting home, it’s been a while since I had my lovely wife all to myself,” he says with a tight-lipped smile, his eyes brewing with the beginnings of a hurricane. Lucien inclines his head, drawing out a promise from you to catch up soon. At that, Victor’s fingers dig into your flesh, Lucien smirks wittingly and your heart flutters with expectation.

You leave the ballroom in silence, not looking at each other, almost strangers – almost, but for the strange, buzzing tension between you both. The long hallway is nearly deserted, but you spot lovers whispering to each other in a corner, giggling and touching and blushing. You’re distracted by the sight, the sting it brings, the memories it digs up, and so you’re caught off guard when Victor pulls you into a shadowed corner of your own.

It's like stepping into a muted space, one that is cut off from the rest of the world. You’re stuck between the wall and him as he presses closer, breathing in the fresh scent you like to wear, his expression mostly hidden in the dark. It is here that he loosens the reigns, just a little; his hands glide up your sides, just barely brushing the sides of your breasts and it’s enough to tug at your own tightly wound strings. His mouth skims along your jaw, your mouth, tempted and tempting, not quite a kiss – and he’s straining, you feel it when you touch his shoulders, his chest, the iron of his control tight in his muscle.

“___,” he breathes, your name a prayer and a curse in the way it falls from his mouth. His hand splays against the curve of your hip, his tongue traces the shell of your ear, and your breath catches on a moan. And then he rips himself away from you, leaving you bereft and gasping, struggling to process his actions and the depth of your craving.

The ride home is silent. You feel a bit drunk on his achingly familiar scent, the perfume you’ve always loved; your eyes are unable to keep from peeking at the sharp angles of his face. His suit jacket is draped over the top of his seat, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up to his thick forearms, his shirt straining across his broad chest. His knuckles are white from how tight his grip on the steering wheel is.

You get home, and you think it’s finally time to talk.

He opens the door for you, but in your haste to step out and talk to him, your heel gets wedged between the cobblestone lining the pathway. It breaks in half, the snap of it damning and you flail as you go down, your embarrassing dive on the walkway stopped by steady arms winding around your waist.

It's a terribly romantic moment, one where you're close enough to count his lashes, close enough to see the sudden spill of warm yearning in his eyes. He squeezes you closer for a second as if he can’t help it, before he, quite literally, sweeps you off your feet and walks to the entrance. Your face flushes deeper when you catch sight of the grin on his staff's faces. The walk through the door, with you in his arms – you can't help but remember the day of your wedding, when you made a similar entrance. This time, he pauses in the living room, gently placing you down on the couch and your heart swells with hope.

“Victor–“ He walks away before you can continue, without even a hint of acknowledgement, and you freeze at the sight of his back to you. It’s not the first time, but you’re left staring into nothing as you remember all the times he’d walked away when you tried to talk to him. It still stings and you’re unable to say a word.

You miss his glance back at you, the furrow of his brow. You slip off your heels and slink off to your room, something heavy settling in your stomach.

‘There’s no point.’

The divorce papers, empty of any signatures, sit in your bedside drawer.

Victor could never put aside his pride and talk to you. He’s left vulnerability behind in the past. You squeeze your eyes shut as more flashes of your wedding day pass through your mind, of soft eyes and softer smiles. Of twirling on the dance floor, high on your joy at marrying the man of your dreams.

It’s alright. You’ll have to resort to more drastic measures, but perhaps that’s what is needed. You don't know what he wants, all you can give him are options.

You look at your reflection, at your teary eyes and defeated expression. You wonder how, after all this time, you’re back here in the very same position. Focus. You need to get dressed for bed before you can give in to the urge to barge into Victor's bedroom and throttle him. The necklace is the first thing to come off, followed by the pins keeping your hair in place, and a wince when your scalp aches. You almost don't want to take the dress off, but it's too pretty to be ruined by sleep.

Your zipper is stuck, and it feels like the thread you were so determined to hang onto finally snaps. A surge of helplessness takes over, you're left with few options. Your despair mounts, and your fingers itch to break something. It’s not a good thing. You’ve already proven yourself capable of breaking your own heart.

You hurl the broken stiletto at the wall instead, letting it bear the brunt of your displeasure.

“I see you’re still unable to manage your emotions like an adult.” You whirl around and see Victor standing in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in hand paired perfectly with an eye roll. You observe him as he steps in and closes the door behind him; he's exchanged the sleek suit for an old grey sweatshirt and dark pants, both hugging his body in ways that seem unfair. Your old room, usually unreasonably spacious, feels small with him in it.

Your mouth dries up, and you feel the regret sharply in your throat, cutting you. “And you’d know all about that, of course.” He remains silent, and you’re so sick of his silence. “Oh wait, that would imply you actually have any.”

He simply rolls his eyes again. It’s still annoying and draws out indecent reactions from your body. You want to sink your teeth into his thighs and see if he still rolls his eyes like that. “I didn’t come here to trade insults, ___.”

Ignoring the jolt in your belly in response to him saying your name, you keep tugging at your zipper to no avail, staring at his reflection in the ornate mirror warily. The things you had left behind are still here, dusted and in place; the whisper of your name in a dark corner is still fresh – you don’t know what to feel.

“Then what do you want?” He sighs and walks over to you, placing the glass down on your vanity and slipping his other hand out of his pocket to help you. It cooperates with him right away, the traitorous thing, and you’re left melting at the feeling of his warm breath in your hair, the stroke of his knuckle on your skin.

“I...think we need to clear a few things up.”

“Thank you.” But his hands haven’t fallen away, and you can see his eyes glued to the bare expanse of your back, his finger tracing the edge of your bra. You’re wearing one of his favourite sets, you realise belatedly. The one you’d bought for one of his birthdays, with pebbled peaks clearly visible through the sheer material. The delicate one he’d refused to let you take off until he’d fucked you twice already, that he’d then unclasped and peeled off with such care you had giggled until he stuffed his fingers in your mouth.

‘I have to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him.’

Your heart pounds in your ears as he slips the straps of your dress off your shoulders, one at a time, fingers stroking down your arms leaving goosebumps in their wake, letting the dress pool at your feet. His eyes lift to join yours in the mirror, his pupils dilating until his eyes are nearly black with desire at the sight of you, exposed and trembling with your own want. His fingers dance along the waistband of the material adorning your hips, that hides nothing. The calloused digits trace a teasing path along your spine, tangling with the hair at the nape of your neck.

You can’t quite breathe, torn between saying something and arching into his touch. True to form, you’re quick to step away, slipping over to the window to put some distance between the two of you. To escape whatever seems to be building between you two, the desire in his eyes that mirrors your own.

“Yes, I have some things I need to tell you.” You need to get this out before you end up doing something you...probably won’t regret.

Clearly, Victor has other ideas. He strikes fast, your wrist trapped within the confines of his hand before you can stop him. You try to back up and he lets you, but follows along, prowling after you with dark desire clear in his stare.

Outside, the sky is darkening with impending rain, and all you hear is the beating of your heart, all you sense is the longing for his warmth, his touch a balm on your starved skin.

“No more running away,” he says quietly. You’re still trying to free your wrist from his grip when his eyes fall to your wedding ring. “Did you ever take that off?”

You still, knowing the various questions hidden within those few words. And they all had one answer. “No. Of course not. But I...”

He doesn’t reply, just steps closer, pushing your wrists up until they’re pinned above your head, your back flush against the cold glass of the windows. His fingers come up to trace the soft curve of your mouth, smearing the lipstick with an electrifying intensity in his eyes. “Victor...”

“You made me wait for so long.” You try to reply but he doesn’t let you, slipping his index finger into your rapidly drying mouth. “You left, ___.” You left me is left unspoken, but you hear it clearly enough. His leg slides between your thighs, firm against your mound.

You whimper and his slips his middle finger through your lips. “I never knew you could be so resolute. I have to admit, I’m almost impressed.” He towers over you and you’re struck silent by how furious he looks now, the devastating rage in his eyes robbing you of words. Your tongue licks soothingly along his fingers reflexively, and you hear him suck in a breath. Then you’re gagging on his fingers with wet eyes, his lips warm against your temple. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I have you now. You’re not going anywhere again, not anytime soon.”

The words sound ominous, his expression slipping into something unhinged but you’re too distracted by the fingers pulling out of your mouth to slip down your body, shoving your panties aside to tease your wet slit. Your breath stutters and his lips brush yours, featherlight.

You breathe each other in, eyes fixed on the others. You lick your drying lips and then his other hand is around the back of your head, tugging at your hair as he releases your wrists. The sound he makes when you mewl at the sensation is guttural, painfully raw. Like a man possessed, he yanks your head back and then his mouth is on yours, kissing you like he’s desperate to love you and hurt you with this one action.

You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and your heart feels unbearably full. His lips are hard and bruising, tongue intertwining insistently with yours, moving with a ferocious hunger that threatens to steal the very breath from your lungs. You respond with the strength of a thousand fevered thoughts behind you, every bit of longing you’ve tried to suppress in your heart, every filthy dream you’ve had to try and forget.

He nips at your mouth, hands moving down your body with intent, tugging your panties down your thighs. “You won’t be needing these.” You step out of them without protest, quivering at the way Victor caresses your sides, your abdomen clenching when his hand slips between your legs again. “Stay quiet, I don’t want to hear a sound from you.”

His fingers push their way into your sex, and you yelp into his mouth. The sudden stretch is painful but there is pleasure etched in the pain, his fingers knowing how to curl and where to rub, to make you writhe. Your hips grind into his hand, but he pulls it away, leaving you moaning and chasing after his touch as he sticks the glistening fingers in his mouth.

“Tch. You just can’t listen, can you?” But you know he’s pleased with your inability to stay quiet when he touches you. Victor’s always easier to read when he gets riled up. Stripping you of all sense and control never failed to do so, and you’re satisfied to see it still holds. “And you’re so wet already.”

It feels like there has been no time away at all, in this moment. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted him this badly before, your need for him raging through your veins and threatening to drown you. Victor can’t seem to step away, his tongue tracing along the edge of the cloth hugging your breasts, his teeth tugging at your skin. He takes special pleasure in giving you a new necklace, this one made of bruises, crafted by his teeth.

His hands squeeze your plump rear, kneading the flesh as he works your mouth open again, tongue slipping in and out of your pliant mouth, intent on devouring you like a starved beast. His lips trace a wet path down your jaw to your neck, and you moan, hands slipping into his hair, down his back; his throat vibrates with a rumble when you leave scratches on pale skin. Your eyes slide in and out of focus and, like gravity bringing you back down, fall on your bedside drawer. You freeze at the reminder of what sits there and Victor does the same. His chest heaves as he pulls away, staring at you questioningly.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” You can almost choke on the guilt you feel. Should you just forget about the papers and burn them later?

“And why not?” God, his voice. It was rough with need and so fucking deep, you could probably come just listening to it. But you can’t. Because you’re here for one reason only-to do what’s best for Victor. Well, what you thought was best for Victor. In the long run. It’s probably not great for his blood pressure.

“We need to talk.”

“We can talk later.” You want to cry at the way he half-bites his lip, caressing your hips meaningfully.

“No. Look, I...this is such a bad time to do this but you need to know something.” Victor raises a brow, nearly unable to keep his eyes from falling to your body. There’s not much that can keep him from fucking you right now. “I didn’t come back to be a burden. And to avoid doing that I...” You’re done holding him back. You’re doing the right thing. Right?

“What did you do?” he asks quietly, eyes suddenly even more intent on you. You take a deep breath. “I thought you came back because you were ready.”

‘Just rip the bandaid off.’

“I wanted to resolve things and I wanted to, I don’t know. To free you.”

Oh God, why did I say it like that?

There’s complete silence in the room now that you’re not panting like you’re in heat. The sky is rolling with thunder, flashing violently. It’s akin to the look in Victor’s eyes before he speaks, hands falling away from you.

“To free me?” he repeats, his fists clenching at his side. You bite back a whimper at the ice in his voice, but keep going. You’re half-certain you’ve got this completely wrong now because Victor did not touch you like a man who wants to be freed.

“Okay, that didn’t come out right. But, yes. It’s not fair to you. None of this is. I couldn't just, waltz back in. And you never said anything. I didn’t know what you wanted. So I, I got divorce papers drawn up before I came back. In case that’s what you wanted. I just...want you to be happy–“ Victor doesn't even let you finish, a vein threatening to burst on his forehead before he turns around and storms away, his fury coiled around him like a venomous snake. You slump against the glass, dread pooling in your stomach at this new blunder.

You should’ve just kept your mouth shut.

The room spins violently, and then your front is pressed up against the cool window – for a moment, you’re not sure what happened. The entire length of Victor’s body presses firmly against the back of yours, a sense of danger so very alluring settling in the air. You flinch when his palm strikes against the window, fear and anticipation coursing through you in equal measure. The aggression is rolling off of him in waves and then he’s crushing you to him.

“To free me?” he laughs, low and disbelieving at your ear. He struggles to speak through the outrage, you can feel it. He kisses your neck so softly, a tendril of fear curls around your spine; you feel like prey caught under the enraged lion’s paw. “You want me to be happy?” His words are a snarl and you do whimper now. “You think you know what’s best for everyone, don’t you? You think we shouldn’t be around each other, so you leave. You decide that wasn’t enough punishment so you come back, to tell me you want a fucking divorce?” His hand comes down on your ass hard, making you cry out before he presses you more firmly against the window, his throbbing cock pressing against the curve of your rear insistently. Your breath fogs up the glass. “Well, fuck that.”

Your heart seizes in your chest. “I didn’t-that’s not what I-I don't want-“

His hand is heavy on your back, pressing down and you’re unable to get any more words out when you realize what he intends to do.

“We do have important things to clear up. I see you’ve gotten more idiotic in your time away. Did you really delude yourself into believing I would want that? Or did you just want a reaction?” His voice edges on dark amusement now, as if you’ve done something extremely stupid. “You’ve got it. Is that what you wanted to hear? To see proof of your place in my heart? Silly girl.” He strokes your slick sex avidly. “It doesn’t matter where you go, this cunt will always be mine. You will always be mine.”

Relief mixes with shame at his words. You’d told yourself over and over that he would want nothing to do with you. But in the deepest parts of your mind, you could admit that this was also a provocation. Something that would make him react for sure, that would shatter the ice. That would make him so angry he would act with only honesty.

Well, here you are. Burning inside out, getting what you wanted. His honesty and his wrath.

You hear him unzip the fly of his pants, your entire being aching with the need to see him. But he doesn’t want you to. This is not two lovers reuniting, this is him punishing you for your idiocy, your cruelty. This is his response to your actions and your words. As if on cue, he finally speaks.

“You’re not to come until I tell you to. You’re going to be a good girl and let me use your pussy for as long as I want. And I’m going to fuck you until I think you’ve learned your lesson.” They’re simple statements. A command you’re expected to follow. You feel the tip of his cock hitting your ass and your walls quiver at the knowledge that he’s pumping himself in preparation. “Is that clear?”

“Y-yes sir,” you rasp. He lines himself up with your entrance, and you brace yourself. But nothing could prepare you for the way his thick cock pushes past your folds, hot and hard, in one swift movement. He doesn’t stop to ease you into it. It hurts, it burns, your brain short circuits. Your hand smacks the window in a bid for something to hold on to as a scream tears out your throat.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and as your eyes roll back at the feel of him hot and hard in you – you can relate. God, you’ve been dreaming of this for so long. Of being so full of him that you can feel him everywhere. He pulls out halfway and slams his hips into you so hard a vague part of you is surprised you didn’t go flying out the window even as tears pool in the corner of your eyes. Each thrust is punishing, aiming to drive a lesson home. “Fuck, I lo-I missed this. I’m never letting you go again.” He’s relentless as he fucks you against the window, his pace charged by the depraved cries crawling out your throat and the anger burning him inside out. Your hips will soon be mottled by bruises with how hard he’s gripping them. But the feeling of having his cock in you, pounding your pussy, filling it up after so long is too much to bear. “Mine. My wife. My cunt. This is mine.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Your cheeks are wet, and you feel him growl when your walls clamp down around him tight. He stops his thrusts right away and you cry out in earnest.

“Victor, no no no, please. Please, please please.” His palm comes down hard on your asscheek. He spanks you again and you whine, trembling with arousal and desperation.

“Shut up.” His tone is unforgiving but it’s said with a groan, his hand roaming the skin available to him fervently. He cups your breasts, his touch greedy, and pulls you up against him. His dick slips out of you and you whine out loud again at the loss but you’re immediately cut off by his teeth sinking into the side of your neck again. Victor studies the blossoming bruise with carnal satisfaction. “I said, shut up. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? So take it. Take it all - but only when I want you to.”

He turns you around again and, unbalanced, you fall into his arms, a hand on your jaw forcing you to meet his fervid gaze. Your makeup is a complete mess, your hair is in disarray, and you pant wantonly against his collarbone. You’re completely exposed save for your sheer bra, and Victor still has all his clothes on; there’s something deeply sensual about the kind of vulnerability you feel as your bare skin meets soft cloth. He looks like he wants to kiss you and strangle you simultaneously, his chest heaving and flushed pink.

He sweeps your loose curls away from your face. “Did you let anyone touch you in my absence?”

“No!”

“No? Not even once?” His hands are still squeezing every inch of flesh they can reach on your body. His touch is frenzied and ardent, amped up by your tongue flicking his nipple, grazing it with your teeth. “I find that hard to believe. Look at you, you’re such a little slut.” Only for you, you want to say. You know what he wants to hear.

“Not even once.” Your voice is hoarse and your throat feels raw. “I’m still–still yours. Your wife. Your slut.”

Victor tugs at your hair again, but you can tell he’s pleased. “Mine? You chose to refute that claim when you ran away.” His hands are on the back of your thighs, lifting you, still pressed against the window. Your legs wrap around his waist, your mouths close. “And now you want to do it again.”

“No. I’m sorry. I’ve always been yours.” Your words are a sincere whisper on his lips. “Always will be.”

He nuzzles the soft spot behind your ear. “Did you think about me?” he whispers, darkly.

“Every day. Every night.”

“Did you touch yourself?” Your fingers can’t compare to the lazy glide of his length along your slit.

“Yes. But it wasn’t enough,” you breathe. You have your reasons for leaving, for staying away and he will hear them. For now, his cock is entering you again and you’re helpless in his hands, unable to do anything but let him fuck you senseless. His pelvis grinds against you and you try to throw your thoughts elsewhere, anywhere, to keep from coming. “I’m – yours.” Your head falls back, your eyes glued to his face. His hair is wild and sweaty, his muscles flexed as he holds you up against the window.

“Don’t come.” His voice is rough and he knows you won’t be able to follow his demands. You can hear the anticipation hidden in his voice. You try, though. You sink your claws into the figurative cliff edge, holding on for life. He’s merciless, driving into you with the sole purpose of seeing you break. He wants to see you in pieces. “Don’t you dare fucking come.”

And break you do – by the quick drag of his skin on your swollen nub. You’re driven over the edge, the wave of mind-shattering pleasure sweeping over you and you barely hear yourself wail over the growl of thunder. Your walls grip him possessively, massaging his cock and pulling him in with you, robbing him of all control. He chokes out your name as his cum fills you in hot, throbbing spurts –you’re still convinced nothing feels better, your silky walls milking him avariciously. He groans into your hair, his shallow thrusts into your sensitive flesh making you sob.

“I told you not to come,” he murmurs.

You can’t bring yourself to regret it when he pushes you facedown onto the plush rug, half climbing over you, kissing you until you can feel him swell against your ass once more. Arching your back and, looking at him with a hooded gaze over your shoulder, you part your knees invitingly, obedient in a way you know drives him crazy.

You’re left incapable of even standing by the time he deposits you on the bed, primal satisfaction curling along his mouth. Your neck is littered with teeth and finger marks, matching your hips and thighs that still quake and have trails of drying semen courtesy of how many times he came inside you, like an animal reinforcing his claim on his territory. You enjoyed every minute of it, even the bit where he coerced orgasm after orgasm from you, determined to make you forget your own name, to make sure you associate pleasure with only his name. You’re sore from your throat to your toes, not entirely sure you’ll get out of bed tomorrow.

Victor helps you pull on a pair of panties, refusing to allow any ideas of cleaning up. “You’re going to keep all of it inside. It should help keep any more absurd thoughts at bay.” You just know he’s going to want to shower together.

Your husband looks spent, his clothes having come off some time into the second round, his bangs slicked back, eyes more sleepy and satiated than angry.

You want nothing more than to fall into blissful sleep, a feeling that’s encouraged by the way Victor pulls you into his arms, caging you against his trembling body. You pull the blanket over your bodies, both of you pausing to watch the rain for a moment. You swallow a few times to soften your throat, trying to think of something to say but he beats you to it.

“Where are the papers?” His question is asked quietly but it feels like ice shoved down your shirt. You pull out of his arms slowly, tears held back and knees shaking all over again, and you reach into your drawer to pull them out. He takes them from you, studying them silently as you try to regain the ability to breathe, and then looks up at you.

He tears them in half.

“I meant what I said.” He pauses and you wait with bated breath. The anger finally falls away, leaving pain in its wake. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut against the vulnerability. “I can’t let you go again.” You burst into tears and he rolls you both over to hover over you. “You need to understand something. It doesn’t matter how long you were away. It doesn’t matter where you were or are on this bloody planet – you’re mine.” He punctuates the words with a hard kiss. “And I’m yours. That will never change. We have to work on us. I won’t just...let you leave without even trying.” You cry and cry and he just kisses you softly, his own eyes wet with pain.

“I just want you. Just you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you blubber and he shushes you, sighing into your hair. “I love you. I love you. I don’t even want a stupid divorce. I thought you might. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Idiot. You weren’t.”

You’re half afraid you won’t get another chance like this, so you try to pull yourself together. “I guess I have a lot of explaining to do.” He hands you a glass of water, having switched to watching you. You know, somehow, that he’s cataloguing all the changes, all the ways you’ve grown. Without him. You had done the same while he was pretending to ignore your return, the longer bangs and tired eyes at odds with the memories you had of him.

“That’s putting it lightly,” he replies, wrapping you up in his shirt and stretching out on his back as he waits for you to start talking. And you talk. You tell him everything, every part of ‘your side of the story.’ The impulsive decisions, the terror, the growth. The hardest to admit to are the insecurities. He listens, with agony in his eyes and his mouth pursed.

But he listens.

“And none of this excuses what I did,” you tell him. “It doesn’t justify it but...”

“I get it.” His voice is gentle. “You needed space. But...the day you came back, you looked at me with so much caution, so much fear that I didn’t know how to react. So I just didn’t. And the anger kept building, you kept treating me like a stranger. I felt so...angry. ‘You’re my wife,’ I wanted to say. Does that mean nothing to you anymore?”

You let how a shuddering breath. “I feel like I’ve changed so much. I didn’t-I’m not who I was when I left.”

“Neither am I. I do wish you’d given me the chance to be there with you. But...at least something good came out of it. ___, you shouldn’t have run away and I...I should’ve tried harder to stop you. I took you for granted. I thought...there will be time for us later, building us an empire took priority. And then you just left, and you didn’t come back. I knew you needed time but then you just. Didn’t come back. I’m still so angry with you, you idiot girl.” He lets you hug him again, lets you cry into his shoulder. He kisses you again and again, with anger and with more love. “But ___, you should know how proud I am of you. I’ve seen your work. I’m so, so proud of you sweetheart. It’s changed you for the better. And the pain of your absence has changed me.”

Your arms tighten around him when he sinks into your embrace, his breath a shudder against your neck. “And I know I can’t live without you. So we’ll try harder. I refuse to entertain any other ideas. And you need to come up with less extreme methods for dealing with problems.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore,” you admit quietly. He scoffs at your words, pulling you even closer to soothe the sting.

“If I ever stop wanting you, you can safely assume it’s an imposter.” You giggle weakly, struggling with the insecurity and hope warring in your heart. “___, l will spend the rest of our lives showing you how I feel about you. Nothing can change that. Not distance, not time, not even your extremely moronic tendencies. So, I’ll try. I’ll listen.”

“And I won’t make any more stupid decisions. At least not without consulting you,” you promise him, laughing when he pinches your cheek. “No more running away. You're it for me, you always have been. I've done a terrible job of showing it, but...we've got time. I'll work hard.”

Nothing is fixed, but it’s a step in that direction. You’ve both got a lot of work to do. You’ve got a lot to make up for. But the way his body curls around you drives away most of your fear. And the soft kiss he presses to the band around your finger tells you that this time, he won’t stop you from trying.

#alloverkinktober #mlqc victor #mlqc #mlqc fanfic #smut #mr love queen's choice #mr love: queen's choice #love and producer #mlqc li zeyan

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laurawritesandgames · 4 years

Text

Title: Objections

Fandom: Beetlejuice (Musical)

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Beetlejuice/Adam/Barbara, Charles/Delia

Prompt: Wedding

Content Warning: Set during coronavirus pandemic

Summary: It’s Delia and Charles’s wedding day. The Maitland-Deetz household tries to keep their irreverent demon from spoiling the big day. Little do they know it’s not Beetlejuice they need to worry about….

It had taken ten minutes, but Barbara was finally satisfied with Delia’s lashes. “There. I think we’ve got it.” She moved aside to let Delia see herself in the mirror.

Barbara had put her hair and makeup skills to the test and helped Delia out on her wedding day. Why invite over a makeup artist and hair stylist during a pandemic if you didn’t have to?

Delia examined her reflection and beamed. “It’s perfect.”

That was being kind. It wasn’t exactly one of the dramatic looks on Delia’s wedding Pinterest board. More dramatic makeup would’ve suited her dress better. Ordered from Italy, her dress was a gold ballgown with dramatic tiered tulle flounces on the skirt and a deep V neckline. The gold in the dress played off the gold accents in Delia’s bright orange hair, which was in romantic waves down her back. It was daring and sweet all at once.

When the pandemic hit, the household had talked about postponing her and Charles’s wedding. But Charles’s parents were old-fashioned, and since Delia and Charles wanted to try for a baby right away, they decided to have a virtual wedding instead.

“I can’t thank you enough, Barbara.”

“I’m not letting you do your own hair and makeup on your big day!” She gestured to the laptop. “Now go show the girls.” Her bridesmaids were eagerly awaiting drinking mimosas and celebrating Delia’s look. Barbara had met them at Delia’s virtual bachelorette party, though, of course, they hadn’t known Barbara was there. The bachelorette party had also been rather subdued, considering Delia’s usual standards. She, Barbara and the bridesmaids had streamed both Magic Mike movies, ate popcorn and drank champagne. What else could you do in a pandemic? “I’ll go check on the preparations.”

Delia’s phone, face down on the makeup table, buzzed again. Someone had been texting her all morning, and Delia had been ignoring them. Her gaze flicked to the phone, jaw tightening before she looked back into the mirror.

Barbara gestured to the phone. “I can grab that for you, too.”

A hint of a frown worked its way between Delia’s brows. A moment later, her expression relaxed, and she waved the suggestion away. “I’m fine, darling. I’ve been getting so many robotexts lately. You know, you could stay and have a drink. You’re a bridesmaid too, dear!”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I like keeping busy!” And if I bump something or the camera catches me drinking a mimosa, the focus is definitely not going to be on the bride. Barbara excused herself and went downstairs.

The walls of the living/dining room were decorated with curled gold ribbons and champagne-coloured tulle banners beneath the crown molding. The ghosts and Beetlejuice had moved all the furniture—quite easily, with telekinesis—and added two rows of four chairs on either side of an elegant pale gray runner. The rug led the eye to the laptop, set up on a crystal-laden table where the officiant would’ve stood, and the pale-wood wedding arch wrapped in the same champagne tulle. Everything looked perfect.

Adam, Beetlejuice, and Lydia, the family’s impromptu wedding photographer/videographer, were gathered around a photo album. It took Barbara a second to recognize it.

“Aww, our wedding album!” She joined the group, resting her head on Adam’s shoulder. He kissed her temple, pulling her closer with both arms. The book continued floating in mid-air.

“Obsessed with sunflowers much?” grumbled an unimpressed Beetlejuice.

“I guess so,” Adam said. “My family’s farm had a little sunflower patch. That kinda became our thing.”

“Love the mason jars,” Lydia commented.

“Hey, those were the big thing in 2009,” Barbara said. She supposed their wedding had followed a lot of popular trends: an outdoor barn wedding, lots of tea lights in mason jars, and even a photo booth. But they’d managed to be ahead of the curve on a few things. “Remember our party favours, sweetie?” she asked Adam. “They were little terrariums in stemless wineglasses.”

Adam grinned and squeezed the arm around her waist. “They were tied with ribbons that said ‘Thank you very ‘mulch’ for coming to our wedding!’”

Lydia chuckled; Beetlejuice rolled his eyes.

“Don’t encourage that,” the demon said to his friend. He continued scowling at the wedding album, but Lydia seemed happy to keep looking at the photos.

The most pages they turned, the more Barbara’s mood slid closer to Beetlejuice’s. All those photos were full of friends and family she couldn’t see anymore. Most of her friends’ Facebooks or Instagrams were private, so she couldn’t even do any light internet stalking unless she wanted to log into her old accounts and confuse everyone. Was Lisa still going back to school to get her Masters, or had the pandemic put that on hold? Was Alison still having issues with her mother-in-law? Barbara had no idea. Dead women didn’t have friends. Not to mention her family….

But a wedding was no time to be sad. She pasted a smile on her face and even managed a few cute wedding stories.

“Remember when your uncle Eddy tried to drink his wedding favour?” she asked Adam, who chuckled. “He almost choked on a succulent!”

“But he kept trying to drink from it! Three times!” Adam chuckled. A moment later, his smile faltered. “Probably because he’s a massive alcoholic.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” That story wasn’t quite as cute as she remembered. “So, um, why don’t we do a last-minute check? Make sure we’ve got everything.”

“All right,” Lydia said. She took the photo album from midair and put it away, frowning slightly. “This is probably going to be the nicest moment I have today, so thanks for that.”

Barbara and Adam shared a worried look. Lydia was deeply ambivalent about her father marrying another woman only six months after her mother died. Lydia had used that fact to extract a lot of concessions about the wedding: Delia had let her wear a black dress and take photographs on her analogue camera instead of a digital camera.

“C’mon, kid!” Beetlejuice said. “Just wait ‘til I get the party started!” He blew a party favour, and sparkly beetles flew behind him.

While Lydia rolled her eyes fondly at her friend, Barbara and Adam shared another worried look. The young woman went upstairs to get changed.

Barbara turned to Beetlejuice. “I just wanted to remind you about your promise, Beetlejuice. I know it’d probably be very funny to interrupt the ceremony. Maybe Lydia would even appreciate it. But this day means a lot to Delia and Charles. They’ve found each other through a lot of pain and hardship, and they deserve a fun, special memory.”

Beetlejuice waved her words away. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don’t know this about me yet, but I love a good party. And people can finally see me! Well, only people here, but whatever. Why would I mess that up and have everybody pissed at me? I’m here for the fun and the food, baby.”

As much as Barbara wanted to believe him, she suspected that the only reason he didn’t have a disruption planned was because of Lydia’s innate goodness, not his own.

“I noticed you didn’t love us going through the wedding album, buddy,” Adam said. “Is everything okay?”

He shrugged. “It just…it looked nice. Your wedding.” He glanced between Barbara and Adam, loudly announcing, “None of that boring-ass shit at our wedding, okay?”

Barbara tried not to look too surprised—Beetlejuice loved shocking them. “Noted. But it’s also not going to be jump scares every minute, or a projector that reveals everyone’s darkest fears, or some kind of Saw situation.”

Beetlejuice’s eyebrows rose. “I was just thinking there’d be singing cockroaches and banners made of bats, but those are way better! You wanna plan it, baby?”

“I said ‘not.’ It’s not going to be any of those things. Did you even hear that part?”

He darted in close and kissed her lips. “Eh, we’ll find a compromise that works for all of us. We’re all about that life, right?” His neck stretched cartoonishly to kiss Adam on the lips as well. Then he poofed away in a cloud of smoke.

After a few moments, Adam said, “Did he just ask us to marry him?”

“I think it was a joke proposal. You know him. If he really wanted to propose, there’d be a lot more pizzazz. And possibly dead bodies.”

“Right, of course.”

“Would you have said yes if he’d been serious?” Barbara asked, curious.

“Things between the three of us have been going pretty well, but I don’t think I’m ready to jump into another marriage quite yet. And you?”

It was exactly what she’d expected from Adam. They’d changed since their deaths—six months later, their afterlives involved parenthood, isolation from friends and family, a lot more free time, and a polyamorous relationship. But it was nice when she could guess what he was thinking. Not everything had changed. “The same. Maybe in a few years or so.”

Before the ceremony, Charles and Lydia stayed in the living room, helping older relatives log on to Zoom and greeting people as they logged in. Charles was wearing a pale grey tuxedo with a metallic grey tie and pocket square. Lydia looked like an elegant classic Hollywood starlet with a goth twist: her black lace gown had a subtle skull pattern to it, barely visible unless the light hit it just right. Her onyx choker and bracelets looked like thorny vines going up her pale arms and encircling her neck. On her head was a raven fascinator with golden bead eyes, her one concession to the wedding colours.

The laptop screen filled up with squares of happy, smiling faces. Everyone had dressed up for the occasion, wearing suits and dresses.

“Betcha most of them are wearing sweat pants,” Beetlejuice said.

“Well, hopefully we’ll never find out,” Barbara replied. The three of them were sitting on the white chairs on either side of the aisle. Most people watching this meeting online probably assumed these chairs were only there for symmetry. As far as they knew, Lydia was the only other person physically at this wedding.

Despite her earlier claim, Lydia was smiling and chatting with Charles’s parents and, to Barbara’s surprise, Emily’s mother. Coming to your son-in-law’s wedding six months after your daughter’s death must have been hard, but if there were any issues, Barbara didn’t see them, and she wasn’t about to eavesdrop on a family moment.

Emily was sick for years. I suppose her family had a lot of time to mourn her. She thought about her parents and her sister at her own funeral. What had that been like?

Lydia took video of Delia coming down the stairs to the bridal chorus, played on speakers set up throughout the room, then put the video camera on a tripod so she could participate in the ceremony.

“I want to thank everyone for joining us today,” the officiant said. “In lieu of wedding gifts, the bride and groom have asked that you donate to the Rural Connecticut Preservation Society. I’m pleased to share that we’ve raised $10,000, which will be donated after the wedding.”

If Charles had had any reservations about donating to a charity dedicated to stopping housing development in rural Connecticut, which directly impacted his career, he hadn’t brought it up during the wedding’s planning stages. Lydia had suggested the charity, after all.

Everyone applauded.

“We will now bless the rings,” the officiant said.

Lydia took out the rings, held them both tightly in her hands, and whispered her blessing into her clenched fists. She smiled mischievously at Charles.

“I suppose if they burst into flame, we’ll know Mom disapproves.”

There were a few awkward chuckles from the assembled, none louder than Delia’s. “That’s my darling, unique stepdaughter for you! Oh, Lydia, you’re so funny!”

In a mocking, little-girl voice, Lydia replied, “I appreciate the compliment, my dearest stepmother.”

Barbara and Adam made sure that they were holding Beetlejuice’s hands so he couldn’t raise them.

The demon scoffed. “You know, I don’t need my hands to do ghost magic? I could just set the rings on fire with my mind.”

“Do not—”

“I wasn’t gonna! Jeez.”

With a theatrical flourish, Lydia showed off the rings to the laptop camera. Barbara half-expected them to be Netherworld green, but they were normal. “My blessing has been spoken. Please speak your blessings now.” Ideally, everyone would’ve been able to touch the rings and speak their blessings in private.

After a pause, Delia’s father spoke first, and others followed. The wedding program had provided a few sample blessings, but people were free to write their own. Delia’s mother began crying halfway through hers.

“Save something for the wedding speech, Amanda,” her father joked. He reminded Barbara of her own dad.

Barbara and Adam gave their own blessings. “Delia and Charles, we wish you health, happiness and love as you start your new life together,” they said, touching the rings, making sure not to brush Lydia’s hands.

Beetlejuice had declined to take part in “New Age bullshittery,” so he remained hovering over his seat.

The rest of the wedding was more traditional, probably to appease Charles’s parents. Barbara’s mind wandered. She and Adam had come so far, hadn’t they? She held Adam’s hand lightly, running her thumb up and down his palm—rather, she did until Beetlejuice forced his way between the two of them and sat on both of their laps.

“Poor baby, no one was paying attention to you,” she cooed into his ear.

“It’s the worst,” he agreed. She ran her fingers through his spikey green hair. Adam gave him some attention by resting his head on Beetlejuice’s shoulder. That seemed to do the trick—he sighed and relaxed.

Readings were read, vows were said, and rings were exchanged. Charles’s vows were simple and straightforward—too curt for Barbara’s tastes—but Delia’s were long enough for them both. Barbara fought the urge to check the time. She felt like Delia had been going for 10 minutes.

Delia actually appeared to be wrapping up when “I object!” sounded over the laptop’s speakers.

A square popped up on Zoom, revealing that the speaker was a tanned older man with more salt than pepper in his hair and bright white teeth. He had a faint accent that Barbara couldn’t place. She’d never seen him on any of Delia’s photos or social media.

Delia made a few choking noises in the back of her throat, the colour draining from her face.

Charles glared at the screen. “You,” he spat out.

Clutching Charles like a lifeline, Delia drew herself up as tall as she could. “Jeremy, log off immediately! I don’t know how you got my number or how you got this link, but get out, you narcissistic psychopath! You don’t get to be a part of my life, not after what you did!”

“Delia, my love, I know you still feel something for me—“

‘My love’? This can’t be the ex-husband, can it? Years ago, Delia’s ex had sailed away to Rome with the secretary he’d been cheating on her with.

“Hey,” Beetlejuice whispered, “I never possessed someone over the internet before. Maybe if we all work together, we can do it?”

Jeremy had opened his mouth to speak again. If ghostly powers could stop this disaster, they had to try. Barbara grabbed Beetlejuice’s and Adam’s hands and held them out to the laptop screen.

“—and I—” Jeremy continued. His gaze abruptly unfocused. Barbara tried to force words into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, just as she’d scripted. “I’m going to log off and…and…and throw myself into a dumpster like the piece of trash I am.”

She hadn’t told him to say that. Barbara glanced at Beetlejuice, who grinned back at her.

“And then,” Jeremy continued, “I’m gonna take my toenail clippings, and my belly button lint, put them in a blender, take a shit in that blender, start the blender, and pour myself a shit-shake. It’s my regular Saturday morning routine, baby!”

Lydia rushed forward and tapped a few keys. His square vanished from the screen.

“I blocked him,” she said.

“Thank you, stepdaughter.” Delia sniffled, and Charles handed her a Kleenex from his suit pocket.

As Delia struggled to compose herself, Barbara whispered, “A poop-shake? Really, Beetlejuice?”

“It was Adam!” He couldn’t even keep a straight face, and chortled. “Okay, you caught me. Hey, I had to make sure he’d never be able to look these people in the eye again.”

Delia glared at the laptop screen. “Lydia, darling, explain to me how you set this event up again.”

“I set it as a private Zoom event. Everyone involved in the ceremony had to have a link and a password.”

“So,” Delia said, “who gave my ex-husband—who, I’d just like to remind everyone, is a cheating bastard—the link and the password?”

Slowly, one of Delia’s aunts raised her hand, her face bright pink behind her makeup.

“Millie!” Delia’s mom exclaimed.

“Mom!” shrieked one of Delia’s cousins.

Most people on the Zoom call started shouting at once. It took a few minutes to hear Aunt Millie’s explanation.

“I had no idea he was going to object,” she squeaked. “But he was such a big part of our lives for such a long time, and I thought he deserved to at least see the ceremony….”

“Aunt Millie,” Delia said, “you are no longer welcome!”

“Of—of course. I’m so sorry, Delia.” Aunt Millie took out her glasses and peered at the screen. “Er, which button do I…?”

Lydia took care of it, and banned her.

“And everyone thought I’d use my ghost powers for evil,” Beetlejuice boasted. “Look at me, doing good deeds! Being a goddamn hero!”

Barbara would’ve responded, but poor Delia sagged against Charles, tears running down her face. She tried to speak, but only managed a quiet sob.

“We’re going to take a break,” Lydia said quickly, turning back to the laptop. “See you in 10 minutes, everyone.” She muted them and closed the laptop.

Beetlejuice waved his hand to grab Delia’s attention, grinning broadly. “Thought I’d mention that if you know where he lives I could teleport to his location and, well, cause a little havoc.”

“Do we need to go over the house rules?” Barbara asked. ‘No Murdering’ was the first one.

“No murdering, this time! Just a little non-fatal revenge.”

Delia hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Non-fatal?” Lydia asked Beetlejuice. “Are you sure? Our wedding did set a precedent for murder….”

Beetlejuice chuckled, and the two fistbumped.

After a moment, the demon frowned. “Wait, should I fistbump you for murdering me?”

“You already completed the ‘bump—you can’t take it back now,” Lydia said.

“Shit, you’re right.”

Delia stared at the living room, lips quivering. “Maybe…maybe this is a sign. The universe must not want me to get married again!”

Beetlejuice floated over. “Delia! Signs don’t exist. Trust me, I’d know! There is no heaven, no hell, no meaning to anything! The universe is cold, distant, and uncaring. It’s basically my mom,” he joked. “But the point is—it doesn’t care what you want, and nothing you say or do can affect it.

“Besides, girl!” Beetlejuice leaned in. “Chuck is rich as fuck. Lock him down!”

Charles glared at him before turning back to Delia. “I still want to get married to you, Delia.”

“Are you sure?” She blew into her Kleenex before continuing. “There are women who…who don’t have ex-husbands that ruin their weddings and—and make a scene in front of all their friends and family….”

“Delia,” Barbara said quietly, “you’re not the first person to date an asshole. I mean, look at me and Adam.”

Beetlejuice appreciated the burn, even if it was at his own expense—he cackled over Delia’s tepid chuckle.

“Don’t blame yourself for what just happened,” Barbara continued.

Delia whimpered into her Kleenex. Charles stroked her hair lightly.

“Delia,” he said, “I stood in front of our friends and family and told them how you were the brightest light in my darkest time. I meant every word of it. Nothing will change that. I love you.” He kissed her so deeply that Barbara looked away to give them some privacy.

When they were done, Lydia cleared her throat. “I’ll go get the digital camera so we can adjust the photos faster. That way you won’t have to worry about your makeup looking perfect.” She began to set her analog camera down.

Delia shook her head. “No—you said this was your artistic vision, and I won’t see it compromised.”

Lydia looked surprised. “Oh.” Her smile was small but sincere. “Thanks, Delia.”

Delia took this as an invitation to hug her stepdaughter. Lydia rolled her eyes, but patted her shoulder and didn’t pull away.

“Besides,” Delia added, “this camera was your mother’s gift to you, and I don’t want her coming back from the Netherworld to tell me off.”

Beetlejuice facepalmed. “That is not how the Netherworld works! That’s not how any of it works.”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to make sure, could it?” Delia stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just fix my face.”

“I can help,” Barbara said, and Delia nodded.

Once they were upstairs, Delia collapsed in her makeup chair, sighing heavily.

“I actually thought it was going to go well,” she commented. “That I’d have one beautiful day even in the midst of the world’s ugliness. I was so stupid. Nothing ever goes right for me.”

Barbara reached out to pat Delia’s shoulder before stopping herself. When Delia looked confused, she explained, “Lydia said touching me or Adam is like touching an ice cube tray straight from the freezer.”

“I don’t mind.”

Hesitantly, Barbara touched Delia’s shoulder. It was the first time she’d touched a living person other than Lydia in months, and hugs from a 16-year-old girl she didn’t know that well were rare. The older woman shivered but didn’t pull away.

“Lydia’s not wrong,” Delia admitted. She put her hand over Barbara’s, squeezing slightly. “But a hand offered in friendship should never be refused. You know, it’s been almost four months since I last touched someone who wasn’t Charles.”

“Hopefully this coronavirus pandemic will end soon.”

“I’ve been saying healing prayers twice a day.”

Barbara wasn’t sure they’d be effective, but healing prayers were more than most of America’s leaders were doing. At least Delia was listening to the science and wearing a mask when she went outside. She’d grown so much in the short time Barbara had known her.

Barbara missed her friends from when she was alive. That was natural. But she couldn’t let her loss keep her from recognizing that she’d made a friend after death, too.

“Thanks, Delia,” Barbara said. “Not just for the healing prayers, but for everything. Having two ghostly housemates and a demon would be a lot for some people, but you’ve taken it in stride.”

Delia chuckled. “I once lived in a commune of 200 people. Living off the land, growing our own food…and digging our own toilets.” She wrinkled her nose, then chuckled. “You three are a walk in the park compared to that!”

“If there’s anything you need from me or Adam, please let us know. We don’t want to trouble you or Charles.”

Delia opened and closed her mouth. After a moment, she said, “Well….I suppose I do have a rather personal question….”

“Shoot.”

“Beetlejuice—is he actually good in the bedroom?”

Barbara giggled. “He is. He’s had millennia to think about what he’d do if he ever had sexual partners again. He’s very…inventive.”

“I’ll admit, I’m surprised. He doesn’t seem the type to be concerned with another’s pleasure.”

“Oh, there’s definitely times he forgets. But then we get to teach him. Ahem. Now,” she nodded to the mirror, “let’s get your makeup touched up.”

Barbara wouldn’t ever be hungry or thirsty again, but the stuffed butternut squash was delicious. Delia and Charles had deferred to Barbara and Adam’s local expertise when they planned the menu at their wedding dinner. Adam knew most of the farms the vegetables had come from.

The Deetzes had said goodbye to all their guests, and the family was eating their wedding dinner in the dining room.

Delia had been going to give out the crystals on either side of the laptop as wedding favours—the stones were mostly rose quartz, moonstone and a pale white stone called selenite. But after Jeremy’s arrival, she said she needed to cleanse the crystals. “I’m going to give them a few lunar cycles, just to be safe.”

Barbara nodded, pretending she understood what that meant. “Adam, Beetlejuice and I are dead. We’ve got nothing but time!”

“I just want to thank everyone again for your hard work,” Delia said, smiling at them. “Lydia, for your photographic eye and leading the blessing. Barbara, for the hair, makeup, decorating and emotional support. Adam, for sending out all the emails and doing the tech support. All the ghosts, for intervening when a certain someone decided to crash the party.”

“It was mostly me,” Beetlejuice said. Barbara rolled her eyes at Adam, who chuckled.

“He is the ghost with the most,” Adam said, making Beetlejuice grin.

“My mistake—thank you, Beetlejuice. Thank you all for being part of one of the most important days of our lives. Thank you for being our family.”

Barbara sniffled a bit as she and Adam applauded the speech.

“I got the happy couple some extra gifts,” Beetlejuice said. “For the wedding night.”

“I’m going into another room,” Lydia announced abruptly, setting her plate down. “Another house. Another life.”

As she left, Beetlejuice grinned. “We’re rated PG-13, guys! It’s just rose petals on the bed and some boozy chocolates. Figured you two have your own toys—”

Lydia started singing loudly as she covered her ears, taking the stairs three at a time to get away.

Barbara tried to figure out what he had in mind. “These rose petals won’t become spiders, will they?”

“They’re totally normally and boring, if you must know. I ordered them off Amazon.”

“How?” Adam asked. “You have no money.”

“I typed in Chuck’s credit card, duh.”

“What?” Charles snapped.

Barbara and Adam sighed. Beetlejuice’s morality was a never-ending project that was not without its consequences.

Not for the first time, Barbara reflected that it was a good thing the Maitlands loved working on projects together.

After the wedding dinner, as Barbara, Adam and Beetlejuice were cleaning up, Lydia came downstairs. She was carrying another photo album and wearing a glum expression. She’d changed out of her party dress, and was wearing a comfy hoodie and sweat pants—all black, of course.

“Got a sec?” she asked quietly.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Barbara said.

Lydia showed them a photo—a younger Emily Deetz on a younger Charles’s lap, grinning at the camera in a fancy restaurant.

“My mom and dad’s wedding wasn’t like today’s. There wasn’t any structure. It was just a big party at one of the best restaurants in New York, followed by wandering the city with all their friends and family. They stopped in at dingy bars to listen to live music, they caught a comedy show, they walked through Times Square at two in the morning. They almost got mugged! Mom was hard core like that. Daddy attracts dramatic weddings, doesn’t he?” she joked.

Her smile dropped a second later. “And Daddy looks just as happy here as he did today. I was photographing him and Delia the whole time. I’d know.”

“So,” Beetlejuice said, “the big takeaway here is that Chuck is in love with the women he gets married to?”

Lydia chuckled sadly. “Something like that. I mean, one of them was a woman he met in college, while the other was his employee…. But who cares about things like abuses of power when it’s true love? Daddy and Delia keep trying to make me comfortable with their love story, but how can I be? If it were any other situation, I’d be blasting Daddy online as he stars in the latest MeToo scandal, right?”

Barbara nodded. “You’re right. It’s pretty rare for a story like Delia and Charles’s to end this way. You sound like you’re carrying a lot, Lydia. Do you want to sit and—”

“No, thanks. I just wanted to whine for a bit. Delia’s family seem nice, at least. Except for Aunt Millie, obviously.” She closed the photo album in a short, frustrated gesture. “Well, goodnight, guys.”

“Do you mind if we check in with you tomorrow?” Barbara said. “See how you’re feeling?” Sixteen was such a tough age—particularly when your father was remarrying.

“If you want.” She shrugged, as if she really didn’t care, but her small smile made Barbara hopeful that she’d made the right decision. The only thing more difficult than being a teenager was parenting a teenager she’d just met a few months ago.

Beetlejuice was frowning as Lydia left. “Guys, we gotta help Lyds!” He was nothing if not loyal. “We should break Chuck and Delia up, right?” He leaned in to Adam. “I got the perfect way to do it. You know how Delia thinks Emily can come back from the Netherworld?” Beetlejuice became Emily Deetz for a moment, still with a few mossy patches and green hair. “Well, what if she can? And then we tell Delia to GTFO!”

That he was asking them instead of just doing it was a pretty good sign.

“Well, Bug,” Adam said, “think about it—if Lydia didn’t want this wedding to happen, she could’ve objected herself. Or asked her father not to get married to Delia.”

Beetlejuice became his usual self again, looking disappointed. “Oh. Right. Didn’t think of that.”

“She’s an intelligent, sensitive young woman with complicated feelings about a complicated issue,” Barbara said. “I think the best way to help her is to listen to her without judgement.”

“Why is the right way always the most boring way?” Beetlejuice said, sighing.

Barbara knew how to get him happy again. “Now,” she said, running her hand along his shoulder, “why don’t we finish up and go upstairs? After all this work for everyone else, we deserve some…ah, quality time together.”

Beetlejuice fistpumped and chortled. “Yes! Unfortunately, because of this fic’s rating, we gotta cut it off here. I just wanna let everyone know, it’s gonna be freakin’ awesome—'cuz I’m awesome, baby.”

Barbara had no idea what he was talking about, as usual. Adam kissed her cheek, and they went back to the dishes.

#beetlelandsweek2020 #Beetlejuice #beetlejuice musical #adam maitland #barbara maitland #beetlejuice x adam x barbara

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