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bangtanshomura · 3 years

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PINK | 2/? | pjm

summary: A neighbor as pink and hopelessly romantic as you and an equally pink neighbor like Jimin (but without a thing or two in common), sounds almost perfect together, right?. The only problem? That you are madly in love with him but his tonalities are very different from yours.

pairing: park jimin x female reader.

genre: fluff, angst, (maybe in the future a little of smut? not so sure).

word count: 1992

warning: unrequited love, pinning, so much embarrassment, a looooot of pink hehe, hurt, some mxm with ot7, you know…it happens sometimes.

------

Pink, 'cause you are so very

“Sup with the face, sugar?” Seokjin’s voice pulls you back to reality. Or maybe was Jimin’s text.

“Jimin asked me if he should go on a date with the pretty girl of the coffee shop across the street”

“You are a pretty girl” He points you with a finger, looking at you harshly. “And Jimin always says stupid things, so please, don’t overthink this”

“But I'm not the pretty girl he would consider asking out on a date” your voice is almost a whisper, so genuinely hurt that Seokjin can't help the tug at his heart.

“Well, his loss, I’m telling you” He scoffs “He will see you someday—” Tucks a lock of hair behind your ear with an affectionate smile. “ like, really see you. And I hope it's not too late when that happens”

Everyone knows what a wonderful person you are, including Park Jimin.

The only person who apparently lacks this information is you.

And it's not that Seokjin has any feelings of hatred and contempt towards the now black-haired boy; but he didn’t appreciate the way he lured you to him and then pushed you away.

Actually, even if Namjoon thinks otherwise, he is absolutely certain that there is some reason why Jimin's colors look somewhat... dull.

There must be a reason why despite the subtle -quite obvious in Seokjin's opinion- attraction Jimin feels for you, he doesn't let it develop but also doesn't let it stop.

Seokjin just knows it's like that, it's a feeling,

“I love you so much Jinnie, but I don't want to talk about this anymore” You leave a small kiss in his cheek before you continue talking. “Are you coming for some unhealthy dinner tonight?”

“You know that we will, baby” The wink it throws at you makes you giggle “Namjoon will pick us up ten minutes before we close the store, safety an all, you know my man” You both laugh a little. “Any suggestions?”

“I'm craving a cheeseburger from McDonald’s”

“A cheeseburger from McDonald's will be” It’s a reality, they don’t know how to say no to you. And they don’t want to. “Now, help me with this arrangement, I have never met a bride as demanding as this girl. I swear”

______

"Just when I think you can't get any more idiotic, you come along and surprise me Jimin."

Yoongi’s raspy voice makes him roll his eyes.

“What are you talking about now?”

“You know what. Don’t play dumb with me” He signals his phone with a movement of the head and scolds him with his eyes. Translation: He read the messages. “You can’t keep doing this to her.”

Jimin looked out the window again, exchanging glances with the barista who batted her eyelashes flirtatiously, gifting him a smile that he returned with a smaller one of his own.

She's pretty, he had to admit that. But neither her flirtatious smile nor her long, stylish hair, managed to provoke anything in him.

Not like his small, pink, innocent neighbor.

A sigh left his lips and he returned his gaze to his phone.

“I know”

______

“Are we hungry or what?”

Namjoon enters the shop with his extra-large arms extended, prepare to wrap you two in a bear hug.

“We are always hungry; you already know that hun”

Seokjin takes his face in between his hands with so much delicacy that you want to cry but instead you fake a gagging noise that makes them chuckle and you smile fondly to the presence of their love.

“Let’s go before you suffocate me with so much PDA” You give them a weak smile walking towards the entrance, in a crestfallen manner.

The taller one knows there is something in your voice that doesn't fit the facade you want to sell him, so, he looks to his boyfriend direction with a raised brow and an interrogation mark painted on its face.

His boyfriend answers him with a silent lip movement, a name, clarifying the situation.

Of course, it had to be.

“I cross paths with Jungkook this morning”

“Really? How is he?” Your question doesn’t come as curious as his want’s to, but he keeps anyways.

“You know, hotter than before” Seokjin watches him curious while locking the gate of the flower shop, eyebrow arching and he clarifies his voice. “I might have invited him to dinner today”

Okay, he may not have invited him, but they did crossed paths in a convenience store while the younger one was carrying a bag full of banana milk.

But he will.

“…You did?”

The hesitation in your voice gives him a push.

“Yeah, I mean, is it wrong?”

————

You should have known.

How is it possible that a specimen like Jeon Jungkook exists and on top of that, he is single.

Damn Kim Namjoon and damn his twisted plan or whatever that goes through his prodigy brain.

“You could have warned me that he looked like that!”

“Boring” Namjoon prolonged the ‘o’ “I don’t see what’s wrong. He is hot, you are hot, he is single, you are single. A win-win situation if you ask me”.

“But I didn’t”.

“Irrelevant. We are having an amazing night y/n. You know that I’m not going to force you on a date with Jungkook but I want you to enjoy this moment with me, with us”.

“I am enjoying the moment, excuse you” You murmur.

“No your not. You think that I didn’t see the sadness in your eyes?”

“Nam…”

“No baby, not today” He takes a deep breath and looks at you with so much love and concern. “Please”

Deep inside, you know he is right, that you need a night of rest from the problem in your heart that has Park Jimin as its name.

Jungkook is funny, sweet, attentive and Namjoon isn't lying when he says the four of you are having a spectacular night.

You can see it in your best friend's eyes, the desperation to see you well, happy.

So, you agree.

“But!—” Namjoon waits for whatever that you are going to say “What the fuck with those tattoos? And the piercing? He can’t be real, you created him”

He lets out a thunderous laugh as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Girl, I know”

______

“Thank you so much for having me tonight y/n”

“Oh, no, no” You blush. He chuckles, watching you trying to burn holes in the door of the apartment in front of yours to avoid his gaze. “I-I…eh…Thank you! T-Thank you for coming, like, here, to my house, obviously…oh my god”

You want to slap your face for making a fool of yourself in front of another extremely hot man.

And then, he smiles.

And it's not a smirk or a chuckle that can be interpreted as "I know what I’m doing to you."

It's genuine.

He’s giving you his adorable bunny smile.

“Cute”

If he is about to say something else besides what your brain translated as a compliment, a voice coming from the elevator at the end of the hall momentarily distracts you from it.

“Hey pink”

Although Jimin's greeting is for you, his eyes are intently fixed on the male figure next to you, who watches him curiously.

“Jiminie, you are at home”

Jungkook's eyes travel quickly from Jimin to you, who -with incredible speed for someone so small- runs into the arms of the black-haired boy standing in front of the elevator door.

The gears in his brain working at full power, stopping abruptly when this guy drops the bags he was carrying on the floor so he can wrap his arms around your waist, still throwing daggers in his direction.

Then the realization hits him, and his lips let out an amused chuckle.

This guy must see him as a threat and being honest, he could be.

If you'd let him, that is.

“Yoongi didn't let me escape early, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to dinner with you”

The butterflies in your belly do a triple loop at his words.

"It's okay, I understand" You say turning around but not before grabbing one of the bags lying on the floor and incidentally, the hand he keep unoccupied by the other bags, you turn to Jungkook with a smile "Jungkookie, this is Jiminie, my neighbor!"

“Hi, Jiminie the neighbor”

Jungkook extends his hand offering it in a cordial greeting, while Jimin examines him completely to finally put down the bags and shake it without separating his hand that is holding yours.

“Just Jimin”

You don't quite understand why they seem to be having a battle to the death with just their eyes, in the middle of the hallway, while Mrs. Kim passes by and watches the scene with curiosity.

You give her a somewhat apologetic smile and make a small bow before -trying- to take a step to get closer to Jungkook.

Try, because the moment Jimin detected movement on your part, he pulled your hand with a little force -without hurting you of course-, to return you to his side.

Jungkook catches between his lips the mocking laughter that wants to escape from his chest and instead returns his gaze to you, smiling softly.

"I'd love to stay and get to know 'Just Jimin' a little more, but I'm afraid it's a little late" You can watch from the corner of your eye as Jimin rolls his eyes and turns to the side with a pout on his lips.

Weird.

Not the tantrum, you've seen it multiple times.

The moment. Yeah, that's weird.

"Actually, yes. It's late. Jungkookie from college" Jimin says dryly

For some reason your brain fails to organize its ideas and thoughts, they're all scattered all over the floor of what you assume is the control room in your head.

"Sure" Jungkook replies without looking at him, taking a step to get closer to you, snapping you out of your thoughts "Really, thanks for tonight, y/n"

Jimin knows, he can feel it.

His cheeks must be red and his forehead must have the biggest scowl in history.

Because, who does he think he is, Jungkookie from college, to hug you like that?

Even when his hand is intertwined with yours!.

"Oh" Jungkook's warm embrace brings you back to your senses completely. unconsciously letting go of Jimin's hand to return the gesture with affection "Thank you for coming, I hope Namjoon didn't force you to come all the way here."

"Not at all. Actually, I'd love to meet with you guys again."

When you part, Jimin makes his presence noticeable again, taking your hand quickly with a huff.

------

"I thought only Namjoon and Jin were coming for dinner?"

Jimin lets the question out casually, wishing it wasn't too obvious his need for information from the - apparently - new member of your group.

"Oh, yeah, Namjoon found Jungkook by chance and invited him over for old times' sake."

He can see how you arrange some cans in his cupboard, as if you know the place by heart.

Leaning on his kitchen counter, a smile moves over his lips at the domesticity of the moment.

How can you look so pretty and pink, doing something as mundane as stocking his pantry?

And it's this very thought that forces him to take control of the situation. Because he knows that what happened in the hallway a few minutes ago must have confused you even if you don't show it to him.

And it's not something he can afford.

"I see" Running his hand through his hair -a habit he doesn't intend to abandon-, he starts rummaging through another shopping bag as he continues "Did you read my messages?"

He can see you cease your movements and stand still with a bag of candy in one hand.

"I-I..."

"Nevermind" He Interrupts you "Yoongi advised me on one or two things that might be useful."

"He did?"

No.

But you can't know that.

"Yeah, he did."

------

A/N:

For the people who read the first part, I'm sorry for the delay but I've been going through an unexpected and difficult time, so I promise to make up for the lost time. In the meantime I'll leave this chapter here and I hope you enjoy it and again, I'm really sorry!

#park jimin fanfic #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #jimin x reader #park jimin x reader #park jimin #jeon jeongkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #kim taehyung #jimin angst #jimin fluff #bangtan fic #bts fic

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lacrossepapi · 5 years

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Of Gods and [the] Monsters [they are]

“And it was Death itself who stood behind me, with his arms wrapped around me as tight as iron bands, and his lipless mouth kissing my neck as if in love. But as well as the horror, I felt a strange longing.”

— Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace

Ao3 link (Please check tags!) Words:2888 Chapters: 1/1

“Stiles!”

The young god of mischief and retribution giggled delightedly to himself as he slipped into the shadows behind a nearby pillar. The only ones that could track him down once the shadows enveloped him were the Hades bound death gods, and they never hung around Olympus long enough to even care that he was hiding from punishment.

Lightning suddenly crashed through the throne room taking away his shadows and startling him out into the open space.

“Oh dear. You put a hole in the table.” Hera worried quietly.

“Better patch it up before he tries to put his dick in it ma’am.” The words flowed much too easy for the death sentence they carried.

“Stiles!” shouted his father from his place beside Hermes at the same time the rest of the room was gasping from surprise and mirth.

“Don’t be crass darling.” Hera chastised, though she added a little quieter, “He’s not wrong though, is he?”

Stiles laughed and laughed despite the angry glare Zeus was sending him.

“Stiles. You’re games grow tiresome. Perhaps a more severe punishment should be in order?” Poseidon offered.

“What are you going to rape me in someone else’s temple too, oh great Earth-Shaker?” Blue eyes flashed at Stiles’ response.

“Insolence!” Ares shouted, slamming his fist on the table.

“You’re right! Maybe instead of disrespecting someone else’s temple he’ll just turn us both into horses and rape me that way!” Stiles flashed a sharp, predatory grin at the gods before him.

Stiles didn’t fear these immature hypersexual rapists. Their wives were always on Stiles’ side when it came time for punishment, always protecting him from anything too severe. Stiles’ sharp words and small deceits and tricks made eternity spent with assholes a little more bearable, and he would continue to speak the things others wished because they needed to be said. Demeter and Athena don’t speak of the wrongs Poseidon committed against them, but Stiles did for them. He didn’t miss the vicious glint of righteous fury in Athena’s eyes or the guarded neutrality in Demeter’s whenever he came after the god of the sea. Persephone once told him her mother still wept over the event, and that was not something he could let go. He would make these men rethink their actions, their words, their lives.

Stiles was a young god, new to his powers and immortality, but not new to the ways of the gods. He still remembers his human life, mostly blurred images and some strong emotions. He remembers sneaking into the woman with red hair’s trial and declaring himself the father of her child so he would be punished instead of her. He remembers taking the gallows march knowing he couldn’t be the father, but at least this way she would get his land and money. He knew he would have married the girl if she’d told him soon enough and they could’ve had a romanceless but happy life, but someone had told the town judges before she could seek help. The world was cruel to women and Stiles would trick, lie to, and punish the men that took advantage and let it be so.

Hera had seen his bravery and devotion, had felt his intentions to marry even though the child was not his and he did not love the woman with the red hair and blessed him with the power of a god. He spent his days spying on and badgering the elder gods, much to Hera’s delight because first and foremost she was his benefactor and the only one he had to make sure still enjoyed his company.

“I think that will be enough youngling.” Athena’s calm, authoritative voice cut through Stiles’ racing thoughts and the fury of the elder, male, gods.

“I think so too, miss. What shall my punishment be?” Stiles faced Hera again, ignoring the indignant look on Zeus’ face.

“My dear Stiles.” Hera’s voice was a soft melody as she smiled at him, “Report to Hades,my darling. Work for him until I send for you.”

Stiles’ fear and anticipation was both immediate and overwhelming, but he remembered where he was and who was watching him so he held tight to his composure and thanked his benefactor before walking calmly out of the throne room.

The god of justice and order found him outside a few moments later a frown on his face.

“Noah I do not wish to hear reprimands. I will serve my punishment with grace and dignity, it is not any worse than the ones before.” Stiles sighed.

“Son, you have always been bold with word and spirit and I will not condemn the very whims that brought you immortal life and into my path. I am not your benefactor nor your real father, but after all this time I’ve come to think of you as my son. And I’m proud of you.” Noah was always so loving and devoted when it came to the people he respected and cared about, and Stiles was always caught off guard after one of his confessions.

Stiles grinned up at the elder god and pulled him into a fierce hug. He was going to say more, but the shadows rippling behind the tree beside them meant someone was here for him.

A godling with light brown hair and piercing blue eyes stepped out into the daylight and nodded at the two of them. Death gods were not known for being social or talkative, but this one was down right cocky as he approached.

“Hello gentlemen.” Stiles snorted, cutting him off.

“Let’s try that again. Hello gentlemen, I am here to collect Stiles for his duty to the Underworld.” The godling glared at Stiles, probably already irritated with Stiles’ presence.

Stiles grinned at him and said proudly, “That’d be me, handsome.”

Noah groaned with fond embarrassment before taking his leave.

The male’s nostrils flared before a grin of his own spread over his features, “Interesting, they do not usually punish the powerful ones.”

“Yes well I suggested that Zeus would try to fuck the hole he’d created by throwing a tantrum because I dyed his eyebrows pink. Really if he’s going to fuck everything then he should spruce it up a bit.”

That startled a laugh out of the male before him.

“Well we should get out of here before he decides this isn’t punishment enough.”

“Oh my us, aren’t you going to at least tell me your name before you whisk me away?”

The male laughed again before informing Stiles that his name was Peter. He lead the god to the shadow of the tree.

“Hold onto me, gorgeous.” Peter winked before stepping into the shadow transporting them both to the Underworld.

“Can we see Icarus?”

“No”

“Oh come on! I just want to ask him how he likes his hot wings, burnt or soggy.”

That startled another laugh out of the death god, but all mirth was gone as they stepped out of the shadow realm and into a beautiful throne room.

Stiles had always imagined Hades’ castle to be dark and creepy, but what he saw was spectacular splashes of violet and emerald green among shades of gray. Chandeliers of diamond and ruby, decorative curtains of strung opal and onyx, and silver sparkling from every corner.

“See, my love I told you they weren’t sending some worthless troublemaker! They sent Stiles!” The sound of the ever lovely Persephone made Stiles’ head whip up, a smile already gracing his features.

“I knew the Underworld was fascinating, but now it’s just down right beautiful.” He winked at his friend crossing the hall quickly to hug her.

Persephone giggled as he dramatically rocked them in their embrace.

“The castle looks stunning! I had not expected that you were such a good interior designer.” Stiles gushed pinching her cheek lightly as she flushed with praise.

Hades cleared his throat before speaking, “I am the decorator actually.”

Stiles laughed and stepped away from his friend to shake Hades’ hand and introduce himself.

“I should’ve known it wasn’t this one.” he jerked a thumb in Persephone’s direction before continuing, “I’ve seen her room at Olympus and it’s like Iris vomitted rainbows on the walls.”

Both gods more powerful and older than him laughed at his description.

“Hera told me why you are here and while I could give you the typical punishment of soul reaping with one of the others I do not think you should be punished for putting Zeus and Poseidon in check. Demeter and I may not be on good terms, but I do know she will not forget your words, nor will Athena. Most do not stand up to Poseidon, he is too respected and too powerful, but you did. For that we will be sending you with Peter.” Hades smiled at Stiles before motioning for Peter to join them.

Stiles tried to whisper quietly, he really did, but his words were clearly audible as he whispered, “Did you have to give me one that’s so attractive?”

Persephone giggled, the sound of wind chimes on a cool sunny day, while the other two males looked at Stiles like he was an idiot.

“I stand by that. Sunshine likes to torture me.” Stiles defended himself with a shrug.

Hades continued to look at Stiles like he was a biggest fool the male had met in a millenia, while Peter’s look morphed into a smug smirk before he winked at Stiles.

The younger male was doomed.

Hades shook his head at the two of them before dismissing the pair to start Peter’s duties, which took them topside much to Stiles’ delight. He did not often frolic with the mortals, but he always enjoyed his time there.

“Do you come to the land of the living often?”Stiles inquired.

Peter hummed his confirmation, being purposefully vague as he lead Stiles into a city. The buildings and markets around them were large and well made, most displaying a royal insignia, Stiles’ eyes quickly examined everything they passed. Peter moved through the streets with the speed and ease of constant visitor, almost as if he lived in this capital city. Stiles desperately wanted to look around and experience human civilization, but this trip was not like his last one. He had a job to do, most likely one that involved reaping souls.

Peter nodded to the guards, though the guards did not know they were nodding to an incredibly attractive death god due to the glamour now surrounding Peter giving him the appearance of an old man with a long gray beard and a cane. Stiles quickly pulled a glamour around himself giving him the appearance of a man in his forties and clothes that matched Peter’s, before he too nodded to the guards.

Stiles’ mind was whirling, his thoughts flashing erratically in his hyperactive brain.

Why are we glamoured?

Why are we interacting with the humans as one of them?

Why aren’t we invisible?

Whose soul are we here for?

Peter’s quick steps had them in the throne room in no time, the guards never looking twice at the old man and his companion.

“Old Man Aldrich is here, momma!” a small child screeched as she ran straight at Peter/Aldrich.

Stiles laughed, a much too high pitched sound for the man he was masquerading as, as Peter fake grunted under the weight of the small child.

“Cora darling please release Sir Thomas, he has grown much to weary and you much too large for those kinds of greetings.” A regal woman approached him serenely, her long dark hair swaying around her waist and her dark skin unmarred by hard work.

Stiles still had no idea who Sir Aldrich Thomas was or why Peter was pretending to be him, but now they were speaking with a queen.

“And who might you be?” The Queen addressed Stiles finally, the soft smile falling from her face.

“This is my successor, Beckett Clayton, he hails from the west and I have been training him to take over here when I leave. We’ve talked about my successor before Talia, you know my time draws near.” Peter/Aldrich’s voice was full of steel despite the fact that he was supposed to be a human speaking to their queen.

Talia looked pained for a moment before the young girl still attached to the old man whined, “Why do you have to leave us, Aldrich?”

He crouched before her and laid one liver spotted hand gently on the nape of her neck, “All people must leave eventually darling girl, and all you can do is love them while they’re here.”

Peter had a life here with these mortals. Peter was loved, but Peter also had to watch these people that loved him die. Stiles wanted to cry for the male. Forever doomed to love and be loved only for them to watch him die and he to reap their souls. Stiles tried not to think about his own eternal loop of being cherished and being punished.

After the reunion and Stiles being introduced to the royal family Peter finally signaled for Stiles to follow him out of the castle, the sounds of laughing children and chatting servants following them out into the hot evening air. Once they were far enough from the palace and its guards Peter and Stiles dropped their glamours.

“Why do you help this kingdom instead of leading them to ruin?”

“Death plays a long game, and a prospering kingdom has many citizens all whom must die.” Peter said with a sad glint to his blue eyes.

“Why this kingdom then?”

“Ah, now that is much too personal. Let’s reap these souls and maybe I’ll tell you then.”

They spent all night reaping the souls of marauders, innocents, and the ill Stiles was exhausted and his spark a bit more dim. Peter on the other hand was glowing, a slight blush to his cheeks and warmth to his aura that drew Stiles in like a siren’s song.

“Are you intoxicated off death?”

Peter stepped closer to Stiles one foot at a time, his eyes staring directly into Stiles’, a strange magnetism overtaking them as Peter backed Stiles up against a wall. Their faces were close, Peter’s body hovering over Stiles’ when Peter finally replied.

“I’m intoxicated by life dear boy. Their lives reside in me until I release them to the underworld with prayer and an offering to Chiron for their safe travel. I am full of their love, passion, and fire until they make their journey down to Hades.”

Peter was all energy as he spoke, his body still but his aura pulsing, drawing Stiles in with each breath that ghosted over his lips. Finally Peter closed the miniscule distance and kissed Stiles like he was burning inside and Stiles was the soothing water he desperately craved. Their bodies crashed against each other, twisting and grinding until both males were panting.

“Queen Talia is my granddaughter. This was once my kingdom.”

Peter’s words ghosted across Stiles’ lips, but their echo screamed in Stiles’ mind causing him to flail his limbs and separate them so that he could look into Peter’s eyes.

“Explain.”

“Hmm. Bossy. My son had risen to the throne when he married, but a rival kingdom had taken his sister hostage with the help of my brother, who felt he deserved my throne, and threatened to wage war. To save their lives I snuck into the Argent dungeons. I released my daughter and ended my brother’s treacherous life, but was caught by the guards at the kingdom border. I was able to get her onto a horse and sent her to safety before taking my own life so I would not be a pawn used to wage war against my kingdom.” Peter’s eyes were pained but shone with a love Stiles couldn’t remember seeing in someone else’s eyes.

Sacrifice in death to save an entire kingdom and his family was sure to catch one of the gods’ eye, but his brother’s betrayal explained Hades’ interest. Stiles couldn’t blame him, that amount of devotion and bravery was more than worthy of immortal life.

Stiles found himself jealous of anyone deserving the love and devotion Peter was capable of, no one had ever truly fought for him. Hera and the other women of Olympus only defended him so far as to keep him out of the way of the elder gods wrath, but only when it suited them. Noah loved him, but he had never tried to protect him from the cruelty of the world they lived in.

But here was Peter, glowing with the force of humans’ lives and full of love and loyalty, and Stiles found himself wanting for something more. For the first time in his immortal life Stiles allowed himself to be unhappy with his life, allowed himself to want more than the gift he was given, allowed himself to yearn.

“I imagine you figured out the rest, your face is fascinating when you are thinking.” Peter’s voice, still heated, reminded Stiles of their position and the activity they could be doing instead of letting his mind race.

“Kiss me before I start thinking again.”

“As you wish.” Peter’s blue eyes shone bright in the dark alley before he kissed Stiles with renewed passion.

#Steter #peter/stiles #the steter network #kyla writes #kyla creates

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dilkirani · 6 years

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Fanfiction request: ://Jemma is pregnant with her second child but their first child (i loved your one with James in it) is jealous. Basically family and domestic life! You’re literally the best writer I swear ❤️

Thank you so much, Anon!

It’s not necessary to read the short fic anon was referencing to understand this, but if you’re interested:

http://dilkirani.tumblr.com/post/159933407005/fitzsimmons-10-if-youre-up-for-it

Thanks to @itsavolcano for the beta! Read below or at AO3:

It’s not that they plan to have only one child, but when James turns two and they decide to try again, it just never happens. There doesn’t seem to be any particular reason, at least none that the doctors can discern. The solutions they suggest involve a lot of money and invasive procedures and shockingly high failure rates, and neither of them wants to put the other through all that.

Jemma cries only once, late at night, three years after they first realize something might be wrong. “I’m so happy with our life,” she insists. “We’ve fought so hard to be here, and I love our family more than anything. But Fitz—”

“I know,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from her face and placing a kiss to her forehead. He blinks against the tears filling his own eyes. “I wanted to meet her, too.”

It’s the first time they’ve spoken of it. Even when, months into Jemma’s pregnancy, the doctor had shown them their baby on the monitor and announced they were having a boy, they hadn’t talked about the daughter they’d once had yet never met. When Deke visits, they smile indulgently at the easy way he tosses James in the air, and they don’t talk about his mother. After James inevitably falls asleep sprawled across Deke’s lap, Jemma passes around the Zima they can only brave drinking for their grandson, and they listen delightedly to the adventures he is having on an uncracked Earth. Every time, Fitz swallows back down the question he’s too afraid to ask: Do you resent us for not bringing her back to you? But the question is meaningless because surely Deke knows, like he and Jemma both know, any daughter they might have had in this timeline couldn’t possibly be her.

And yet, all scientific, rational thought aside, there is an ache Fitz is ashamed to feel: a space in his heart carefully carved out for a beautiful baby girl who will grow up to be exactly like her mother. A daughter he knew he would raise before he’d even married. And James, his precious, longed-for child—he worries he has already failed him because in his thoughtful silences and emotional outbursts, Fitz sees himself and the solitary childhood he hadn’t wanted to pass on.

But if wounds never fully heal, they at least stop throbbing. The latest household emergencies involve a very minor burn from James’s unauthorized experiments and having to inform his wife the grocery store is out of her favorite crisps. Every now and then he has to stop for a moment and breathe, because his life is wonderful in a way that still feels like a dream he’s desperate not to wake from.

So when, eight years after James is born, Jemma holds up three positive pregnancy tests, neither his brain nor his body seems to know how to react. He remains rooted by their bedroom door, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Her words barely register before he’s already worrying about their age and if this could put Jemma in danger, and yet something completely illogical inside of him pushes all these thoughts away because he knows what this will mean. His arms pull her flush against him and his lips crash into hers and in between his kisses and her laughter all he can say is, “We didn’t lose her. This time we won’t lose her.”

James is an extraordinary child, even disregarding the obvious bias of his grandparents and the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s inner circle, but they’ve agreed he’s too young for certain truths. He knows his parents used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and he knows sometimes they consult on projects that require him to stay far away from the lab, but for now Deke is his uncle, time travel is science fiction, and there never existed a future where he wasn’t free to roam the beautiful Scottish countryside with his doting grandmother.

Fitz and Jemma don’t mean to exclude him as they prepare for their daughter’s arrival. They don’t even realize how their excited whispers might appear to him. They’ve lived their lives all out of order, and someday they will sit down with their children and try to map out time as if it had ever been linear, but for now Fitz places his warm hands on the swell of Jemma’s abdomen and they speak a language no one else has ever understood.

It’s when James throws a spectacular tantrum at the dinner table and announces his intention to move in with Deke that they realize he’s been faking excitement about his sister. Jemma, sicker and more exhausted during this pregnancy than her first, orders him to his room. She doesn’t need to ask Fitz—he’s jumped through holes in the universe for his wife; he can have a conversation with their son.

Fitz has actually done the reading, so he’s prepared for the feelings of jealousy. He’s sure James, unconsciously or not, worries about losing his parents’ undivided attention. Maybe he even thinks they’ll take away his newly reinstated lab privileges in favor of making him help with the baby.

What he isn’t prepared for, what he’s not sure he could ever have prepared for, is the way James sits carefully perched on the edge of his bed, backpack already filled with clothes and his most important belongings, his expression determined.

“You’ll love her more,” James whispers. Tears shine in his eyes, but his face is defiant, and Fitz doesn’t know whether his heart breaks more for the falsehood his son so clearly believes, or that his fiercely open child is trying desperately to hide from him.

For a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond. Even now, the words sometimes jumble in his head and it’s worse when he’s feeling vulnerable, when voices remind him of his failings. He hesitates, closes his eyes, and concentrates on breathing. He practices techniques he’s perfected from years of therapy until he can kneel in front of his son and not fall apart.

James is silent through all of this, and once again Fitz is infinitely grateful they’ve somehow raised a kind boy who always lets him take the time he needs, who holds his hand when it shakes and has never allowed anyone to mock him for the stutter that occasionally resurfaces. He wishes more than anything he could explain to his son properly, but words have never been good enough, even before his brain injury.

Fitz folds him carefully in his arms, surprised as always at how small he still is, how he fits against him, filling cracks he never realized he had until the moment James was born.

“We won’t love her more,” he says softly, lips brushing against his son’s silky curls. “If you’re determined to leave, will you at least take a walk with me first?”

James’s silence stretches for a long moment until finally he nods, shrugging out of Fitz’s embrace. They walk out of the house together, Fitz throwing Jemma a look he hopes is reassuring, and head down the moonlit lane towards the park. He has an almost overwhelming urge to carry him, but James is very against being treated like a baby at the best of times, so instead he links his fingers through his son’s, relieved when he doesn’t pull away.

When they arrive, James dutifully allows himself to be led towards the swingset, and they each take a swing. James twists his slowly, around and around, while Fitz drags a foot through the sand, writing equations and erasing them, destroying the world and recreating it endlessly.

“There’s a lot we haven’t told you,” he says, when he’s sure he can manage it without his voice breaking. “And I’m sorry for that. I really am, and I hope someday you’ll understand why we thought it was for the best.”

James says nothing, leaning his head against the chain and staring at the stars. His fascination with space is both a mirror image of his and Jemma’s and something that continually alarms him. Fitz finds himself constantly pointing out all the beautiful, fascinating things on Earth, but he supposes he can’t expect his son to crave something he’d never lost.

“Maybe this won’t make sense because of that. Or because I can’t explain it well. But your mum and I never thought you could exist. We…we’d been told, we knew we would have a daughter. We prepared for her. We felt like we’d known her for years. But you, we didn’t think we could ever have you.”

James looks over, finally making eye contact and glaring at him in disbelief. “Of course you could have a son. Statistically, pregnancies are slightly more likely to result in males. And even if you had a girl, maybe she wouldn’t actually be a girl, because I was reading about how—”

Fitz cuts him off with a laugh, utterly charmed at the way he really is a mix of himself and Jemma and yet entirely, wonderfully unique. “You’re right,” he acknowledges. “It was silly of us. But I think we both got to a point where we just…didn’t feel we had the right to hope for certain things.”

He sighs, leaning back and letting the swing slowly carry him. “So many terrible things happened. I still…sometimes it’s still hard to talk about. Or think about, honestly. But we made it here, and we found the home we’d always dreamed of. We were so incredibly happy, and it seemed like wishing for anything more was tempting fate.”

James processes this carefully. “Because you’re cursed?” he asks, and Fitz groans.

“I wish your mother hadn’t told you that. I said that one time.”

James looks skeptical, so Fitz pushes forward. “The point is, your very existence was a surprise. The best surprise, really. And I thought I couldn’t possibly have any more love left in me until I met you. This baby is different. We knew a long time ago we might have her, and we will love her so much, but we could never love you less.” Fitz reaches out to grab the chain of James’s swing, halting his son’s rotations and forcing him to meet his eyes. “I promise. If you only ever believe one thing I tell you, please believe this.”

Tears stream down James’s face and Fitz aches to wipe them away, but he waits for his son to make the first move. James hesitates, then steps down from his swing and climbs onto Fitz’s lap. They both barely fit, and the chains press uncomfortably into Fitz’s side when he shifts to give James more room, but he doesn’t care. He can feel tears soaking his shirt, so he wraps his arms around his son, resting his cheek to the top of James’s head and letting the swing sway them back and forth.

He wouldn’t remember this, but Fitz used to bring him here as a baby, when he wouldn’t stop crying and Jemma inevitably collapsed in exhaustion. He would sneak out of the house, eschewing the stroller for Jemma’s wrap, and swing for hours with James on his chest until he fell asleep. The way James burrows into his chest now takes him back to all those years ago. He’s very nearly too big for it to work anymore; this might even be the last time he can comfort his son like this, and the thought causes him to hold James even tighter. He thinks of his own mother, letting her only child leave for the Academy at fifteen, and can’t fathom ever having her strength.

“I always wanted a brother or sister,” he confesses, brushing his fingers through James’s hair. “I was lonely as a kid, until I met your mum.”

“But I’m not lonely,” James insists. “I have you and Mum. And Uncle Deke and tío Mack and tía YoYo and Aunt Daisy. And the kids at school are all right. Liam and I did that project together. It was fun.”

“I know,” Fitz says. “And we’ll always be here for you. But I still think you and your sister could have a great relationship. You just need to give her a chance.”

“Okay,” James sighs, as if he’s agreeing only to appease his father, but Fitz can tell from the way his breathing calms that they’ve turned a corner.

“And I promise,” Fitz continues, “if she’s being annoying and you want to hang out alone, me and you, we will. No questions asked. Okay?”

Fitz can feel James smiling against him. He closes his eyes, enjoying the slightly chilly breeze and the way his son’s quiet puffs of air feather against his neck. He doesn’t particularly want to move, but when he catches himself nearly falling asleep he gently lifts them both up.

“We should head back. Your mum will be worried. Want me to carry you?”

James rolls his eyes. “I’m not a baby.” But he drags his feet, exhaustion causing him to stumble, until finally he tugs at Fitz’s arm, pulling him lower so he can jump on his back. He wraps his arms around Fitz’s neck, resting his head against a shoulder.

“So, are you going to Uncle Deke’s? Or will you stay a little bit longer?”

James tightens his grip and shakes his head. “Maybe later. He never makes me good food anyway.”

Fitz laughs as he turns onto their street. “Your Uncle Deke grew up in a place where they didn’t have many options. It’s left him with an…interesting palate.”

“I don’t like it,” James confesses. “I mean, he lets me eat all the ice cream and candies Mum won’t let me have. That’s nice. But last time we had a box of Twinkies for dinner. He found them in some American store, and they were expired.”

“Great,” Fitz mutters. “I didn’t know Twinkies could actually expire. Let’s not tell your mum any of this, and I’ll have a talk with him next time he comes ‘round, okay?”

“‘Kay,” James agrees.

Fitz thinks he might say something else, but his arms start twitching slightly, the way they always do in sleep. He carries him carefully into their house, into their room where Jemma is wide awake. She’s been trying to read but mostly worrying, he can tell, and she smiles in relief when they walk in.

He sets James carefully down on the bed and steps to the dresser, pulling out his pajamas to change.

“I know,” he says before she can protest. “He’s way too old for this.”

Jemma laughs fondly, tucking the blanket around their son and switching off her lamp. “Yes, and I know it’s not really for him.”

He gives her a sheepish look and she smirks up at him, but her eyes are shimmering and soft. He lies down on the other side of James, turning off his own light and stretching an arm over his son, trailing his fingers down the curve of Jemma’s belly. Of all the impossible things Fitz has experienced in his lifetime, the one that he finds most incredible and unbelievable is the way his universe keeps growing and yet somehow always fits into his arms.

Jemma whispers something reassuring, but sleep is already pulling him under. He’s never been happier or safer than he is right now, his wife’s quiet endearments mingling with the sound of his son’s heartbeat, the feel of his daughter’s movements beneath his palm.

#fitzsimmons #fsfic #fstag #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #leo fitz #jemma simmons #kidfic #mentions of deke #tw: fertility problems #no 5x22 spoilers #wow I just realized I ended this fic basically the same as the other one with James haha #it's like I cosleep with my dog or something #also I have no experience with children sorry #I just wanted Fitz as the SOFTEST DAD which is what I deserved from this season yet was somehow robbed of #reply #rani writes things #Anonymous

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chronicbatfictioner · 6 years

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Theater of the Soul - Chapter 12

Chapter 12

He had looked through the rooms, and couldn't find what he wanted to find. He knew he was scared - although if anyone asked, he wouldn't tell. There were people. Strange people. There was a woman he could not fight who had jabbed something into his arm that was restrained by the big, big man he could not struggle out from. They were speaking in soft, rich people's voices, and he knew they were hurting him. But the street boy and the redhead claimed that they were not hurting him on purpose.

The other friendly face was not there. He had looked thoroughly, to every nook and cranny within the place. And he wanted to know what happened to that face; to the soft and gentle face with a slight eyebrow cock that amused him so.

He struggled and screamed and tried to get away, hard. He couldn't hit the ladies. No, he was raised better than that. But the guy, he could hit hard. If only any of his hits would actually land before the guy locked his arms and legs tightly.

The street boy and girl he'd been with looked scared. Well, here's a news flash, kids; he was scared, too. If he couldn't even get away from this big man, what chance would those kids have against him? Who would protect them if he couldn't?

As he was starting to get desperate, the other face, the pretty friendly face with blue eyes and black hair came running. He thought he was going to be rescued, the big guy would get punched again or something.

But there was merely an extended hand, pressed softly but firmly to his cheek. The blue-eyed-black-haired person just soothingly telling him it was going to be okay.

And then it clicked. The person was friendly with the big man. He was not tense around the big man.

He looked into the blue eyes, and saw calm and tenderness in them, sprinkled with a little worry pronounced by the small dent between the brows. He wanted to get lost into those ocean-blues, but settled to lean onto the hand pressed to his face, instead.

As soon as he leaned onto the hand, the lock-hold the big man has on him eased. The guy probably came to the same realization he did. Those blue eyes, he knew, would protect him.

Things didn't really always go as planned, Tim knew that. Just didn't realize how spectacular a screw up could get until he saw it with his own eyes.

The CT Machine could not get there by that day, and Jason decided to throw a fit by the next. Tim wasn't sure what had brought on the tantrum, either, since Danny and Ellie were both in the room. Evidently, he had tried to get out by way of the windows, apparently - which Bruce strongly objected against.

The tantrum subsided once Tim came in to try to help Bruce to contain Jason. But not before Jason had apparently landed a nice hook on Bruce's chin, which sported quite a nice shiner.

"He was looking for you," Barbara told him once Jason calmed back down, with a little amused quirk on her lips.

"Huh?"

"I would surmise that he has started to imprint on you," Dr Thompkins agreed.

"But I was..." Tim paused and remembered, he had gone out that morning to catch some sights around town - kind of wanting to fill his quota of vacation before the week ends. Jason was still asleep when Tim had left, before the crack of dawn. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'," Barbara agreed. "He actually went on his own to your room to look for you. And to the other rooms. Knocked on ours, but barged in to Bruce's like he was thinking Bruce might be hiding you."

It was then that Jason realized that Bruce, Barbara, and Dr Thompkins were still in their sleep clothes, and the clock at the walls showed only 7.50. "Oh god... I'm sorry." he groaned. "Bruce, I'm..."

"He thought you were a pedo-bait, man." Danny said bluntly. "Sorry 'bout that." he grinned, a little sleepily, still.

Tim scratched his head, and Bruce sighed. "I'm... not sure if your vigilance should be a cause for concern or not. But I'm not..." he paused, "anyway. Tim, it would be nice if you can let us know that you're planning to go somewhere next time."

"Okay, Bruce..." Tim replied sheepishly. "Actually, I was... kinda planning to go to the beach to catch a sunrise. Tomorrow. Maybe they can come with? I mean, after the scans? They'll come today, won't they?"

"I shall call them to find out. But if the scan is tomorrow, Timothy, I'd rather you don't bring them along." Dr Thompkins said.

"Yeah, I get it. Too much stimulation and stuff could mess up the brain reading." Tim conceded. "I'm... gonna make some pancakes. I was gonna before..." he gestured at the upturned coffee table and mess strewn about. "Uh... yeah, I'll refill the coffee pot." he said awkwardly, and then swiftly turned on his heels and marched to the kitchen.

Barbara's wheelchair really has no right of being so quiet. But then again, nothing that is Barbara is what 'should have been'; she being the one that always exceeded and surpassed everything ever expected of her; ignored limits and boundaries expected of a disabled person; and somehow honed her observation skills to the point of obnoxiousness. "Have you showed him the photo, yet?" she asked.

Tim whisked the flour and eggs and milk mixture slowly. "No I haven't." he admitted. "There was... no time. I'm not..."

"You're scared that he won't recognize the photo." Barbara cut him.

Tim cringed. "Yeah, I mean, I read up about this... Trauma-based catatonia thingy. It said that... it's not like amnesia, where someone basically forgets things, right? It's more like PTSD or severe Panic Attack where your brain just shuts down and pushed the least important stuff, like memories, sentiments, feelings in general; in favor to prepare your body for the more instinctive things like running, fighting, hiding, right?' Tim did not wait for Barbara to reply before continuing. "So what good will it be for me to show him something that could make him emotional? I mean, we're not exactly home, right? Like, we're approximately 2,700 miles away from home. What if... what if when we actually get home, his brain decided that it's safer in here, in LA, because of his association with the photo?"

"I think you're worrying too much." Barbara finally got a word in edgewise. "Fact: he got anxious when he thought you were gone. Fact: he was calmed when you came in. Fact: you knew what he liked and disliked, when it comes to food. Heck, you even know how much milk you should pour in for his second glass - I would have never noticed that! And I've known him longer than you have!"

"It's not like you ever had breakfast with him in formal settings," Tim reminded.

"Still, Tim, whatever it is you are anxious about, you've found him. You make him believe that he's safe. Why not capitalize on that?" she argued.

"I'm not anxious." Tim hedged. No, he was not going to let Barbara know how anxious he was. Definitely not telling her about his fear of Jason hating him again when his memories come back, and he would remember that Tim had been one of the reasons he'd gotten into this predicament.

Not a single soul - except Bruce, Jason, and Tim - had heard what Jason said the night he'd stormed out of Bruce's office and started packing. No one should even remember that Jason's departure had casted a shadow so dark that everybody had forgotten Tim's birthday. Jason had left in July 12th. Tim's birthday was in July 19th. Good thing that Tim was used to have nobody remembering his birthday, that when nobody gave him birthday wishes, it hadn't hurt so badly.

This year, though. This year, Jason will turn 17. If they could make him at least responsive by his birthday in August, Bruce would be happy. When Bruce is happy, everyone will be happy. And then the theater can move on and live forever. And Tim can go back to being obscure little Tim that nobody would notice. Ever. Again. Get on the stage only to take pictures. That should be all.

Even if Jason could never take the stage again.

"Tim," Barbara called, breaking Tim's reverie. He nearly started at the high stack of pancakes he had made automatically, thoughtlessly. He nearly panicked, wondering if he had actually put in all the ingredients before noticing that Barbara was chewing one pancake. "He doesn't hate you, you know." she suddenly said.

Tim wanted to laugh. "Who?" he asked calmly, instead.

"Jason. He liked you back then..."

Tim shrugged. "Sure, before I was officially Bruce's child."

"He's not that petty, you know. He loved having you around more when Bruce got your custody."

"Custody did not mean that I was Bruce's kid. The adoption papers made it official. He... left... after." Tim gritted, absolutely trying to flatten the last pancake to contain his frustration. How could they not see that it was Tim's adoption that had made Jason leave? How could Barbara, the one he thought had the same mindset as his, not acknowledge it?

Barbara just watched him quietly with her head tilted slightly, and Tim could not read her reaction at all - much to his exasperation.

Whatever it was Barbara going to say was cut off by Ellie, marching in to the kitchen area with Jason in tow, demanding, "Danny said there'll be pancakes."

Tim gave her a forced smile. "Oh yes there is. I just hope I've made enough for everybody!"

#Tim Drake #Jason Todd #JayTim #SoulTheater!AU #Barbara Gordon #Bruce Wayne #leslie thompkins #no-capeAU

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go-redgirl · 5 years

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Delingpole: Black Conservative Headmistress Hits School Results Jackpot; Left Throws Tantrum

Children at an inner London state school in one of the roughest, most deprived, ethnically diverse parts of Britain have won spectacular results in their exams.

But instead of celebrating the children’s success, the left is spitting blood:

Katharine Birbalsingh @Miss_Snuffy · Aug 21, 2019 1. Told you will never work in the state sector again.

2. 3 years fighting detractors to set up a free school, call it Michaela.

3. 5 years with an amazing team, transforming kids’ lives & fighting the good fight every day!

4. Thursday August 22: GCSE results finally here 🥳

Why does the success of the Michaela School so infuriate the left?

Because though the headmistress Katharine Birbalsingh is black, she’s the wrong kind of black: a conservative who doesn’t believe in playing the race card or identity politics.

Because though the kids come from largely working-class, migration-background families, they are the wrong kind of working-class immigrants: ones who don’t know their role is to be victims and to blame their failures on racism and government inaction.

Because though the results are some of the best in the country, they were achieved using the wrong kind of methods: not the “child-centred”, supposedly creativity-nurturing, discipline-lite laissez-faire approach as recommended by the leftist educational establishment — aka the Blob — but with teaching methods so rigorous and demanding that classes are like a cross between a Trappist monastery and a Marine boot camp.

I know because I’ve been to visit the Michaela School — anyone can, with a bit of advanced notice — and was utterly blown away by what I saw.

It’s non-selective (so it can’t be accused of cherry-picking the best local talent); it’s most certainly not in a wealthy catchment area (very few of the kids are white; only one in the entire school is middle-class; many if not most of the girls wear hijabs); and it receives the same per-pupil funding as any other British state school. Yet astonishingly, its first ever GCSE results (the exams taken by British 16-year olds) were among the best in the country.

Just have a look at this video (keep the sound turned down because there’s a lot of screeching) of one of the girls discovering she got the highest possible grade in every single one of her subjects.

These are children who, had they gone to your average state school, would have had their studies disrupted by kids who didn’t want to work in classes run by teachers who couldn’t keep discipline. It’s highly unlikely that they would have done anywhere near as well.

So what, exactly, is Michaela School’s secret?

It’s no secret at all, really. Good teachers and good schools have known it for generations, but decades of dominance by “progressives” have largely consigned these methods to the dustbin of history.

Basically, it boils down to discipline; dedicated, enthusiastic, teacher-led classes; hard work from the children; traditional, rote-learning methods including times tables, grammar, and regular tests, strict marking, and no “all shall have prizes” rewards just for turning up — no excuses.

I sat in some of the classes. They are conducted in near-total silence. Only the teacher is allowed to speak. The pupils only speak once they’ve raised their hand and have been invited to do so by the teacher. There’s lots of eager competition to answer any questions the teacher asks (academic attainment is valued; no one thinks it’s cool to slack or do badly).

Between classes, pupils move swiftly (but running is banned) and silently. Lateness is punished. So is turning up to school with incorrect uniform or without the correct stationery or textbooks. (Most of the textbooks are produced by the teachers themselves — the ones available on the market being deemed insufficiently rigorous).

Katharine Birbalsingh @Miss_Snuffy Yes. Our detractors don’t understand that it is thanks to THEM that everyone is shouting about us! No other school in the country has been so vilified as Michaela. Normal ppl see that as unfair. So when we do well, it becomes a story! 😀#HatersGonnaHate https://twitter.com/jamestheo/status/1164822717310230528

I was very impressed by Michaela, its headmistress Katharine Birbalsingh, its dedicated teachers, and its extraordinary kids. Their success doesn’t surprise me at all but I’m glad they’ve had it because they totally deserve it.

Let me tell you the most impressive thing of all I found at Michaela: when we talked about Brexit, half the kids on my table made an intelligent case for it. Can you imagine that happening anywhere else in the brainwashed, left-indoctrinated state sector?

The Left hates Michaela because it’s an indictment of all the “progressive” values which have failed kids in Britain, the U.S. and elsewhere for decades. Michaela is a shaming reminder of how good state schools could be if teachers pulled their socks up, stopped blaming their pupils’ failures on inadequate funding or ethnicity, and got on with the job of actually teaching.