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wincestisasincest · 3 years

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Gimme a Ring (Ringo Starr x Reader)

Okay so there’s lowkey highkey not enough Ringo out there which is a massive disappointment and we as a community should be ashamed.

Idea for this fic came about when I was thorsting (romantically + also a little not) with @carpebeatles.

Description: You are trying on some of Ringo’s clothes like the fashionista you are, but you are caught!!

Words: 1,296

Warnings: Actually none. This is a very wholesome fic.

The rings looped around your comparatively smaller fingers. There was a large gap of space between your finger and the bottom of the ring, but not too big. You could make it work if you wanted to. Fashion is all we have, after all.

The jewels, real or otherwise, glinted in the sunshine that was streaming through the windows.

Moving in with Ringo had been so stupidly easy. You had had both adapted to each other so quickly that you never really had to the chance to properly explore and examine how the other functions domestically. For example, this was the first time you had noticed that Ringo had a larger jewelry collection than you, and just how fantastic that was.

His namesake definitely suited him.

Right now, he was building that namesake even more, working tirelessly with his band in that cramped recording studio banging away at his drum set. Some days he would come home terribly stressed and you would have to calm him down, and make him some tea to relax. Other days, he would come home euphoric, and would lift you in his arms and twirl you in the air just because he wanted to hold you.

Too bad you couldn’t really do that in public.

You set the rings down gently, organizing them by color, and cracked open the door to his closet curiously.

You’d been in here a few times because of laundry duty, but as a couple you both made a point to respect each other’s privacy. You normally did a very good job at that, but with the reality of him being gone for another month you felt like you couldn’t get enough of him in the meantime.

Of course, that was the reason why you were at home and not at work. You were meant to help him pack. Ringo was leaving on tour tomorrow.

The closet was lined with several loose silhouettes of your boyfriend, all the jackets and coats perfectly adapted to his frame. You ran your fingers across the fabric.

Oh. It was this one.

You pulled it out for old time’s sake. You’d actually met Ringo during the filming for A Hard Day’s Night, so his characteristic coat brought back certain memories.

You slipped your arms through the coat and let fall down to your knees. It was warm, and it smelled like his cologne.

It was missing something, you knew. You got on your toes and reached up to the shelf above the hangers in the closet. Your fingers prodded the different textures and folds before you landed on a pleated newsboy cap. You pulled it down and plopped it on your head.

It was slightly too big, but you didn’t mind. You propped it back a little bit to show your face.

You stepped out of the closet and looked in the mirror. You’d have to borrow his clothes more often, they really did suit you.

You returned to your ring pile and began slipping them on your fingers, careful not to drop any.

You twirled around in the mirror as you added the finishing touches to your look. When you spun around and looked at your back, you almost couldn’t tell the difference between yourself and Ringo.

You saw his back a lot.

You remembered that you would see it again tomorrow when he got on the plane for his tour.

“Well, I seem to ‘ave found me a doppelganger,” a Liverpudlian accent announced from the doorway.

You grinned and turned to look at him.

He was leaning against the door frame, clearly very tired. His hands were folded across his chest but even from here you could see the callouses on his fingers. He was smiling, which suited his face perfectly, and some of his bangs had stuck to his forehead because he was sweating in the hot studio.

He looked perfect.

“Well, I’m sorry sir, I don’t know who you are, but I am definitely Richard Starkey, otherwise known as Ringo Starr of the Beatles,” you bowed dramatically and he snorted.

“Oh, terribly sorry sir, I’d better introduce myself. I’m (f/n) (l/n), pleased to meet you,” he stretched out his hand.

“A pleasure,” you reached your more gilded hand forward and shook his hand vigorously. The rings on your hands and his clinked together metallically.

You reached to pull your hand away but he was still holding onto it, gently but firmly, examining your rings.

“You have excellent taste in rings, Mr. Starr,” he was still looking at your hands.

“Why thank you. You have excellent taste in people, (f/n),” you added. He smiled again before releasing your hand.

“Well, maybe I can convince the lads to have you replace me on tour,” he chuckled and stretched his arms out.

You could feel your smile taking more effort to maintain.

“Yeah, maybe,” you turned around and began taking the rings off. He would need to pack them.

There was a small silence as you slowly messed around with the jewelry box.

You felt someone grab your torso from behind.

“I know, I know, you don’t like ‘avin me gone,” he started, leaning his head on your shoulder a bit. You held onto his hands and sighed.

“Yes, but it’s your job. And you’re happy. And I can’t exactly say no to that.”

“You’re too good to me, y’know tha’?”

“You make it terribly easy,” you quickly turned around and kissed him on the nose, “just don’t forget to give me a ring while you’re gone, okay?”

“Yeah, speaking of Rings, look, uh,” he was fiddling around with the ones on his fingers now as he backed away from you. He did that when he was nervous.

“Is everything alright?” you asked softly.

“No, no, everything is wonderful, which is why, I guess, I wanted to, uh....” he trailed off before swallowing deeply and catching his breath. You just watched not really sure how to intervene.

“(y/n), you mean the world to me, you really do. I’m so lucky to have you, and I’m so lucky that you’ll have me. And I’m sorry that we have to live life like this, because it’s difficult, but I think I’ve realized that I want to spend the rest of this difficult life with you. So, uh,” he got down on one knee, “will you marry me when I get back?”

He fished a small box out of his pocket and held it open for you. A rather simple diamond ring flashed.

You could feel yourself tearing up as your cheeks flushed.

“Oh my goodness, yes! Yes!!!” You skipped the ring and went straight to his level on the floor, hugging him around the neck and kissing him on the lips.

He was clearly a little taken aback, but then returned the kiss once he collected himself. You’re not sure how long you were there, and you didn’t care.

When you finally left to catch your breath, you spotted Ringo’s newsboy cap on the floor and realized that it must have fallen off.

You gently backed away and picked up the hat, affectionately plopping it on Ringo’s head. You took the box from his hands and slipped the ring on your finger. It was so different from all of the other rings that he owned, and yet, it was perfect.

You felt a hand clamp down on your head and the rustling of your hair with pleated fabric. You saw the newsboy cap back on your head in the mirror.

“You wear it better,” Ringo said as you turned around yet again and kissed him deeply.

“I love you, (y/n),” you whispered in his ear, smiling a little bit.

“And I love you, Ringo,” he returned, gentle grin still on his face.

#Ringo Starr #ringo starr x reader #the beatles #the beatles x reader #the beatles imagine #John Lennon #paul mccartney #George Harrison #ringo starr imagine

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bluegarners · 3 years

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AHHHH YOUR CARD LOOKS SO GOOD!!!! maybe hope is scary with young bruce and dick ?

Ugh, dust, you know I’m such a sucker for them!! Thank you so much for sending in your request, I hope you enjoy it~ @dustorange

Hope Is Scary

Bruce never really realized how quiet the Manor was until he began to notice the echoing of padded footsteps that weren’t his own. Alfred was easy to tell, polished shoes with prim heels step step stepping along waxed hallways and carpeted floors. Easy and comforting in a way that Bruce was accustomed to and found a strange warmth in. Alfred had been wearing the same brand of shoes since coming to work for Wayne Manor. The same color and shoe size, and though Alfred had lost some weight over the years, he still carried himself like the young man at heart he’s always been.

But the additional pair of footsteps was new to Bruce and the dim creaking of stairs and uneven floor boards made that apparent to him.

Dick didn’t like to wear socks. He said they were distracting and made it easier for him to slip and fall when he was running around and trying to do intricate flips off of the railways and walls. When Bruce suggested that, maybe, he just not do those things, Dick had leveled a look at him that made him feel as if he had just stepped upon his parents’ graves. Which, perhaps, he did. This was Dick’s livelihood. All he had ever known. To ask him to stop flipping and twirling was like asking him to stop breathing. It just couldn’t be done.

Bruce buys him some socks with rubber pieces on the bottoms as a compromise. Dick wears them only once before stowing them away in a drawer. He says he doesn’t like not being able to feel the floor.

And maybe that’s something Bruce should have been paying more attention to. That key part in Dick’s reasoning. He’s new at this though. New to being a p... a guardian. To being responsible for the well being of another. Bruce doesn’t interact with children. Ever. Sure, he’ll smile at the camera and kiss a couple babies on the head so the Gotham Gazette has a nice picture and headline, but he’s never actually had to take care of a child before. What do nine year olds like? What do they do? Are there certain rules he has to follow? Rules Dick has to follow? It’s not like Bruce can go up to him and ask what his parents usually did because that would be horribly insensitive and Bruce doesn’t want to replace Dick’s parents. He doesn’t.

It’s only been a month since Dick arrived at the Manor. A little more than three since the Grayson tragedy. The weeks in between were days Dick did not like to talk about. Why Gotham thought a juvenile detention center was the next best thing to house an orphan still infuriates Bruce. He tries his best not to think about it. Dick doesn’t seem to be bothered much by it, however. In all actuality, Dick has been remarkably resilient so far.

Again, maybe that’s something Bruce should have been paying more attention to. The stability factor. It didn’t align with everything that had happened recently, but Bruce had taken it as a sign of hope for the small boy. That perhaps he wouldn’t be as badly affected by the murders or the things that happened afterwards. Of course, these were all stupid and foolish notions Bruce had convinced himself of. He’s studied psychology before, knows the signs and symptoms of PTSD, but Bruce kicks himself sometimes for not having invested enough time into child psychology.

Bruce’s room is three doors down from Dick’s. Between them is a guest bathroom, a guest bedroom, and a spare closet Alfred likes to keep his dusters in. They had allowed the nine year old to choose his own room and when he had realized Bruce would be down the hallway from him, a strange look had passed over his face. Dick had looked up and down the corridor, something similar to trepidation flashing across his young features, and Bruce had glanced around too, searching for the thing that had caused that look. It was just an empty hallway though, a picture here and there of a late Wayne or some sort of art piece Bruce has never really bothered to look at.

Briefly, Bruce had allowed a sliver of panic to settle into his chest at the idea that it was himself that was the problem. Perhaps Dick didn’t want to be so close to Bruce, a near perfect stranger offering a house to live in, and maybe three doors just simply wasn’t enough for the boy to feel comfortable. The initial anxiousness had passed after a week though, Dick showing no further outwardly signs of distress at their proximity. In fact, he was a rather cheerful child.

Was, being the unfortunate key word.

The small but sure steps that echo down the hallway at twelve thirteen a.m are Bruce’s first clue that something is wrong. It’s not uncommon for any one of them to get up in the middle of the night, seeking an out from the nightmares or sleepless dreams. Alfred’s habits usually just had him retiring into bed late and getting up early, something Bruce has been trying to coax him out of by taking melatonin pills. Bruce himself is a deep sleeper, his REM cycle taking only about ninety minutes to take over, but even then he can’t seem to sleep more than five or six hours at a time.

The smallest things will forcibly wake him up, now ingrained into him not to ignore them ever , and that has resulted in him listening very carefully to the patter of tiny feet across wooden floors. It’s Dick, Bruce knows this, and it’s not uncommon for Dick to get up late in the night for water or exploration. The boy was still learning to accept the fact that neither Bruce or Alfred would be angry with him for exploring the Manor, peering into all the rooms and invading the attics. Bruce had done the same thing when he was younger and he does remember it being quite fun, but Dick carries the notion with him that one little slip up will spell out his removal from his new home.

Bruce struggles with reassuring the boy. He hasn’t made any head-way as of yet.

The footsteps stop outside his door and Bruce can see the shadow of small feet beneath the gap. The lights are on, dimmed in the hallway, and the figure stands there for several moments, refusing to move. The handle shutters, like someone grasping at it but failing to fully turn the mechanism, and Bruce sits up in bed unsure at what to expect. The handle slowly turns again, jerking back upwards when the door opens a crack, and Dick stands in between the door and the corridor. His slight figure blocks out some of the light, shadowing the child’s face, and Dick continues to stand there, seemingly staring into the void that is Bruce’s room.

“Hey,” Bruce whispers, completely lost on what he should be doing or saying. “Are you okay, bud?”

Is he allowed to say that? Is it alright for him to use nicknames yet? Bruce has heard Alfred refer to Dick as “lad” or “chum” a few times, old English nicknames second nature, but Bruce has been careful not to overstep his bounds. He still doesn’t know what the boy thinks of him. What he thinks of his… guardian.

No sooner do those thoughts enter and leave his mind does Dick turn around and begin walking away. He pads away almost as noisily as he came and Bruce tosses off his sheets to follow the boy. Just as Bruce steps out his door, he sees Dick re-enter his own room, leaving the door wide open. The lights aren’t on in Dick’s bedroom, bathed in darkness, and as Bruce takes measured steps to check in with the boy, he hears Dick begin to cry.

It’s a sad and hollow cry, one that Bruce himself is much too familiar with, and his heart skips a beat as he fumbles with the light switch. Dick is sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him like he’s fallen, and for a moment Bruce wonders if he did fall and hurt himself. He crouches down beside the boy, hands hovering and unsure of what’s appropriate for him to do.

“Dick?” he asks, trying to look into the boy’s eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

The nine year old ignores him though, continuing to cry and look down at the carpeted flooring. The tears that pour down his face and drip off of his chin sadden Bruce deeply, a strange pang in his chest as he merely watches the boy sob in earnest. Should he get Alfred? No, the man gets little sleep as it is. Besides, Bruce is an adult. He can handle this, he’s handled much worse before.

“Dick,” Bruce tries again, “Bud, please look at me. What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

He’s ignored again, the boy’s small shoulders shaking beneath the weight of his tears. Cautiously, Bruce reaches a finger under Dick’s chin, tilting it upwards so he can see his face. Dick’s eyes are open but there’s a lull in them, like he’s not quite focusing on anything at all and is merely just staring off into space. They contract and expand like normal though and carefully Bruce waves a hand in front of his face. This seems to be the wrong thing to do as Dick flinches back, a whimper escaping him. At the sound, Bruce feels himself pale a bit.

“Sorry,” he is quick to rush out. “I didn’t- sorry. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

It’s like Dick can’t hear him though as he continues to whine, hands fidgeting with nothing and grasping at air. His mouth moves in patterns like he wants to speak but has forgotten the right words, and his eyes dart about as if picking one thing to look at only to find it gone the next. It scares Bruce. He doesn’t know what’s going on. What’s happening? What is happening?

Despite his better judgment, Bruce reaches out a hand again, gently placing it on the ankle of one of Dick’s splayed legs. He’s wearing SpongeBob themed sleep-wear, and though Bruce nor Alfred know hardly anything about the cartoon, Dick’s smile had bloomed at the sight of them and had shyly given them each a hug. It was like receiving a… gift. Full of love and gratefulness that Bruce isn’t used to getting. It was warm. Genuine. Kind. He places his hand, that is neither warm nor kind because he has hands made for punching and handling sharp things, atop the ankle-cuff of the silly pajama bottoms and Dick screams.

Bruce jerks his hand back, immediately shuffling backwards, and he’s about to say something, say anything, say sorry because he’s still new at this, still doesn’t know where the boundaries are, still doesn’t know if Dick is even happy here at the Manor, but Dick is still screaming and wailing. He’s staring off into a dark corner of the suddenly too massive room and a chasm yawns before Bruce as he struggles with the urge to help and the knowledge that it’s not wanted. He steals a glance towards his open hand, half-way expecting to see blood or angry red or something that would tell him what he did, how he hurt the boy, because that wasn’t his intention but he should have known. He should have known.

His hands are not made to be gentle.

Soft and thunderous footsteps pound against the wooden floors and Bruce surges upwards as Alfred enters the room, robe half on and feet clad in old gray slippers. His crinkled eyes are wide open, searching for the distress that had announced itself so loudly, and with a presence of mind Bruce himself isn’t capable of having at the moment, flicks on the light switch to the room.

“Good heavens,” Alfred cries as he finally sees the sobbing child. “Master Dick, what in the world-”

Finally, Alfred’s eyes flick over to Bruce’s guilty and hunched form, a hand hidden behind his back and an awful look of shame shrouding his sharp face. “I don’t know what I did,” Bruce says, shaky and uncertain. “I didn’t hurt- I didn’t mean to hurt him, Alfred.”

The butler just frowns though, neither unkind nor scolding. Instead of a lecture or some reprimand, Alfred cautiously approaches the nine year old, who is still staring sullenly into the far corner of the room and heaving with great hiccups that expand his small frame to a great degree that was surely painful. Carefully, in full view of the child, Alfred lowers himself to the ground and assesses with an experienced and all-too-ready gaze.

“Master Dick?” he calls softly. “Can you hear me?”

There is no response other than the continuing tears and rough hiccups that echo in the much too wide room. One would think with the impossibly thick pillows, soft blankets, and even softer still carpet, sound would travel as if stuck in a tube, but each cry is as loud as a gunshot in Bruce’s mind. He caused this. He did this. He… didn’t mean to.

Bruce is a man composed of glass shards and copper stained cement. There is nothing gentle about him. He should not have tried to be.

Alfred stands then, hands on his knees as he heaves himself off of the ground. Were his joints bothering him? Bruce thinks he should look into getting another physical therapist for the butler. Maybe a chiropractor or massage therapist as well. It couldn’t be good to crouch and bend so often and the man has-

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, “a word, please.”

At the beckon, the younger man takes a few steps forward, meeting the butler halfway to the door. The brighter lights from Dick’s room bleed out into the dimmer hallway, a shadow of sorts created between the two sources as their figures shroud the doorway. Carpet meets wood and Bruce wonders if Dick chose the softer texture for a reason. If he chose the cushioned floor so he’d have something nicer to land on when he falls.

“I don’t like it when I can’t feel the floor, Bruce. I just don’t.”

Bruce sighs heavily and with the knowledge that he was never fit to be any sort of guardian to Dick. He had fooled himself into believing he could save this child from the same fate he’s cursed himself into, save the child from years of torment and ache that came from the bones of murder and the empty graves of justice and peace. Who was he to think he could save someone from that when he was still stuck in that chasm himself, still struggling to use these scarred hands of his for anything else other than exacting his vengeance in the dark night.

“Alfred,” and Bruce hates the way his voice cracks but he’s so lost and still so young himself, “I didn’t-”

“No,” the butler sighs, placing his own calloused hand on Bruce’s sagged shoulder, “No, you didn’t, my boy. I know you would never hurt that child, not if you could stop yourself, and even then that would be some fight.”

“But, Dick, he’s-”

“He’s fine, Master Bruce, I promise you that. He won’t even remember any of this come morning.”

The younger man looks up, still so horribly ashamed and confused. “I don’t understand. He’s crying. He- He screamed when I touched him, Alfred. He’s terrified of me. I must have done something to make him so scared. Maybe this was all a mistake. I thought I could help him by bringing him here, but I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”

Alfred’s face is a weathered one. The creases in between his brows tell of many nights spent thinking, frowning at the future and unknowns. The crow's feet that dance and jump at the corners of his eyes also tell of many days spent laughing, smiling, embracing the present. He, too, has his own scars to tell about stories that are best left unsaid, marks that are proof of a life that could have been but would never be. There are a thousand words alone that can be thought of through the visage of the old butler’s weathered face, but sometimes, it’s good to say them aloud. Sometimes, they are needed, deserved, to be said aloud.

“My boy,” Alfred says, a softness in his eyes belaying the heartache in his face, “you have done a tremendous thing, bringing Master Dick here. A tremendous and kind thing. In the few weeks that boy has been here, I have seen remarkable growth and healing. This,” Alfred motions to the crying nine year old still on the floor, “is all part of that. This is a sign of hope, Master Bruce.”

“He’s frightened of me, Alfred. He… I’m not good for him.”

“These are simply night terrors, Master Bruce. When you were a child, you had them too. I know it’s… scary to look upon but you must understand that they are here because the boy finally feels safe. Master Dick finally has a place, a home , to feel safe and happy in once more.”

Dick wails again, forlorn and raw, and Bruce flinches at the sound. The palm of his hand stings with the phantom touch of soft fabric and the echoes of wrong-doings.

“What do I do?” he asks, head bowed and voice hardly above a murmur. “I don’t know how to help him.”

Alfred squeezes his shoulder, a grounding and solid gesture. “For now, my boy, you must merely be there for him as I once was for you.” Alfred sighs, releasing Bruce’s shoulder and letting his arm fall back to his side. “Talk to him. The terror will be over soon enough, but in the meantime, comfort the boy. Coax him back to bed. This will pass, Master Bruce, but please. Do take it as a sign of hope for the boy. He is in desperate need of it.”

Alfred’s muted footsteps go back out into the corridor and Bruce is left standing halfway between the open doorway and the weeping nine year old. The carpet feels like grain beneath Bruce’s toes as he shifts to face the boy, tugging against his feet as he takes the three steps that distance them. Slowly, gingerly, Bruce lowers himself to the floor and criss-crosses his legs. He does not touch the boy, does not dare get close enough to even consider it, and folds his hands together in his lap. The bumps and fine lines he feels on his own palms make him cringe and he hides them deeper into his knees.

Dick doesn’t stop crying. His bright blue eyes stay transfixed into the far corner of his bedroom and Bruce wonders what he sees. What captures his attention so completely and holds onto him like that of cold hands and wilted flowers. Alfred said Dick won’t remember tonight. Won’t remember coming to Bruce’s room. Won’t remember cowering away from Bruce’s touch. A small part of Bruce hopes that he doesn’t. Hopes that tonight remains forgotten in oblivion, the only shred of evidence of it all being the wet stains on SpongeBob pajamas.

Dick mutters something, voice small and a jumble of nonsense, and Bruce’s heart clenches in his chest. His hand twitches to wipe away the salty tears that slide down the boy’s face but Bruce resists the urge and continues to sit motionless. Yes, it was better to have this chasm between them. Dick is kind and pure, composed of things that would only become crippled when exposed to what makes up Bruce.

He was not made to be gentle.

Bruce sat with the nine year old into the night, well after the terror had stopped and Dick had fallen asleep once more. He leaves before the first creep of morning, slinking back into his room, and splashing cool water on his face. By eight, Alfred is ringing him to come down for breakfast and with heavy limbs and an even heavier heart, Bruce lumbers down towards the kitchen.

He freezes when he spots Dick happily munching away on eggs and toast, mussed up and pillow-worn hair splayed in different directions. He sees Bruce as well and gives a sloppy wave, sleep still tugging at his small arms and droopy eyelids.

“Mornin’, Bruce,” he says. “Alfie made toast.”

And it’s just as Alfred said it would be. Dick doesn’t remember any of it. Bruce does. He always will. But this is hope, right? This is what healing is: searching eyes. Tears. Screams. Terror. Helplessness.

This is hope, Bruce reminds himself later that night as his door creaks open again and footsteps slap against the wood floors. Dick screams at him again and howls at the walls, grieving over things he won’t remember in the morning but will bounce around in Bruce’s head for weeks after.

This is hope. This is healing. This is Dick feeling safe and comforted. It has to be, it has to be.

But it scares Bruce.

#Dick Grayson #Bruce Wayne #Alfred Pennyworth #bad things happen bingo #hope is scary #night terrors #so if it's not clear Dick is not afraid of Bruce at all #he trusts Bruce completely #i didn't want to ramble in the actual fic so i'll explain it here #when someone is recovering from a traumatic experience symptoms don't always show right away until that person's brain feels safe enough to #essentially freak out- which is what is happening here #my little brother had night terrors for a week straight and he would scream for hours and point at his closet saying that a bad man was #in his closet- he never remembered it happening when he woudl wake up the next morning #many children go through night terrors and it doesn't have to be from trauma #it can just be a bad sleep cycle or their circadian rhythm is off #they're very scary to see if you don't know what's going on #dustorange

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2manyfandoms2count · 4 years

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#LadynoirJuly Days 4 and 5

To avoid being too late on the prompts, I’m just going to combine some of them from now on! Hope the banter is satisfactory, I wasn’t quite sure I was doing it right... Enjoy! xxx

@ladynoirjuly2020

Read the previous entries: Day 1, Day 2, Day 3

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Days 4 and 5: Disguises and Banter

Ladybug waited outside the hospital, comfortably swaying in her long red and black dress. She was pretty satisfied with the design; she thought she’d nailed the elaborate XVIIIth century style, complete with small train, frills, ribbons and slightly puffy sleeves. The rich damask cloth, combined with the petticoat, kept her warm in the crisp October night air. It was going to be a cold winter.

Shrill sirens echoed from nearby streets, bringing her back to the matter at hand. She tried to ignore their meaning as she checked her Miracuphone for a sign of her partner. Out of all the days he could've chosen to be late, this one was possibly the worst. The children in the hospital weren't expecting the two Paris Heroes (they'd made sure to keep their visit under wraps to surprise them), but they were definitely waiting for their Halloween treats. And she wasn't going to disappoint them on that front.

As she was about to head inside, anxious to get to her mission, Chat Noir casually walked around the corner. In the semi-darkness of the street, she thought at first that he hadn't dressed up, but then she noticed his bandana and his large black shirt, taken in at the waist by his belt, from which his baton hung like a sword.

"'Evening, m'lady." He bowed as he approached. "Your nickname is particularly fitting tonight, may I presume I was a source of inspiration?" He quipped as he took in the majesty of her dress. As a designer's son, he could appreciate how much work must have gone into the gown, not to mention its accompanying feathered hairdo.

"Don't worry, they're not real. Wouldn’t want you to sneeze all over a bunch of kids, would we Chaton?" She smirked as she caught him looking apprehensively at her hair accessories. "Also, I like your costume, Westley, but couldn't you have gone for something a little more… original?" She asked. Not that it wasn't a good costume; she did very much like the Princess Bride and its hero. She also appreciated how handsome her partner looked with a more rugged look.

"Sorry, Bugaboo, it's been a busy week." He shrugged apologetically. "Also, I thought we were making our own costumes, sans the help of actual designers. I would've asked Marinette too, otherwise." He said pointedly, indicating the designer's embroidered logo at the bottom of the skirt.

Ladybug swore internally, while noting how much her partner paid attention to detail. She'd absentmindedly signed her work on her sketch, and forgotten to remove the gold stitching when she made it. She'd realised it a minute before leaving, and had counted on its discretion rather than risking being late. Oh well, as long as Chat believed she'd hired Marinette…

Chat continued his rant. "Plus you have it easy, as a woman. You can just slip on a dress to cover your costume! How am I supposed to cover all this leather, even a kilt wouldn't do." He pouted.

"What about a cape?" She winked at him as she slung her arm in his, directing him towards the hospital entrance.

"But Edna said no capes!" He gasped as they walked in, enjoying their proximity and giddy at the thought that she'd initiated it, for once.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head in response, the small smile tugging at her lips giving her amusement away.

She reluctantly (because it was slightly cold in the hall, of course) let go of Chat's arm as they approached the main desk and greeted the receptionist. Although the latter tried to keep a straight face, she could tell he was torn between surprise, internal fangirling (she wondered if there was a more gender neutral term for it) and a detached attitude.

"Good evening sir," she smiled warmly. "I believe you have something for us." She looked behind him and pointed at the large hand trolley, on which were piled Tom and Sabine cake boxes. It wasn’t necessarily very traditional for Halloween, but then again, it wasn’t a very celebrated holiday in France, and she doubted the children had access to pastries very often.

It had been weird casually striding into her parents’ bakery as Ladybug and pretending to not know very much about their products, when she knew exactly what she wanted. She’d ordered enough to cover the sugar needs of all the Paris hospitals, complete with diet restrictions, so when Sabine had told her the order was on the house, she’d almost slammed all her money in the tip jar anyway. The way her Mum had looked at her then reminded her of when she talked back sometimes, and she knew better than to open that door. She had respectfully backed down on the payment front, but had been particularly zealous in the kitchen as Marinette to compensate. Marinette had also insisted on delivering the order straight to the hospital earlier in the afternoon, despite her parents’ reservations at the idea. It was the least she could do.

“Oh yes, of course! Let me bring it out for you.” The lad almost tripped as he stood up, but thankfully didn’t crash on the trolley. That would have been awkward. As he wheeled out the bounty, Ladybug noticed how hungry Chat’s eyes looked as he followed the movement of the food. She smiled lovingly and leaned towards his ear.

“Don’t worry, I saved you some.” She whispered, and he shuddered in delight at the thought of Tom and Sabine’s passionfruit macarons, chouquettes and croissants.

“You sure know how to get to a man’s heart, m’lady.”

“By getting to his stomach first?” She asked cheekily.

They were interrupted by the receptionist clearing his throat, uncomfortably wringing his hands as he waited by the lift with the goods. Ladybug jumped away from her partner and made her way towards him, Chat hot on her heels.

“Thank you so much…” She trailed, waiting for the man to give his name.

“Patrick.” He completed, grinning. Ladybug knew his name, now.

“Thank you, Patrick.” She smiled.

The heroes took their leave and ascended to the children’s ward. When the lift doors opened, they were greeted by a group of pirates, princes, princesses, witches, wizards, and even Miraculous impersonators, little treat bags at the ready as they waited with nurses in what Ladybug assumed was the ward’s lounge. The kids gasped and cheered as they walked out.

“Trick or treat!” Chat called out, earning himself a round of giddy laughter. Giving each other an understood glance, Chat and Ladybug separated into the small crowd, each going to one side of the room.

“You look like a princess!” A little Rena Rouge fan in an arm cast squeaked as Ladybug approached her.

“Thank you, Rena! But what happened to your arm? How will we fight the Akuma without your help?” Ladybug asked with her best shocked expression.

The little girl giggled in response, which made Marinette smile. She gave her some pastries “to help her recover quickly”, and went to join Chat. Her partner was having a pretend sword fight with a pirate. He was surprisingly good with children, she noticed. And he looked great laughing as he parried an attack. Did he fence, like Adrien? Maybe she could ask him to give her lessons. Not to spend more time with him, and definitely not to see him in a fencing uniform, which she had to admit would be particularly fitting on his muscled figure. It could just… prove to be handy if they ever swapped Miraculouses again.

She felt a small tug at her skirt, originating from the hand of a ten year-old boy wearing a Ladybug costume, sitting in a wheelchair.

“Hello there, Bugaboy!” She squatted down to be at eye level with him, her skirt sprawling out in a corolla at her feet. Some children bent down to touch the elaborate fabric. “What’s your name?”

“I can’t reveal my identity, or the Guardian will take my Miraculous away.” The boy grinned as she handed him a macaron.

“And you dare tell me you don’t say it that often.” Chat leaned on the back of a nearby chair, smirking. “Well done young man, you’ve done your research.” He winked at the kid.

Ladybug shook her head, refraining from saying that he was the one preventing them from knowing who was behind the mask now. She couldn’t say it out loud, there was some press around to record their visit, and even when they did sit down and talk about their identities, it would be best if the general public was kept in the dark about that knowledge for as long as possible.

“I want to be Ladybug when I grow up.” Mini Bug said proudly.

“You’d put me out of a job?” Ladybug said with a fake pained expression.

“Not if you don’t want to!” The boy’s eyes went wide at the thought he might have offended his favourite superhero. “I just assumed you’d want to rest in the future. It must be very tiring to battle against Hawkmoth all the time.”

“He’s got a point there, Bugaboo.” Chat acquiesced. “She won’t listen to me when I tell her she also deserves some time off.” He fake whispered in the boy’s direction.

“That’s because you always want it to be time off for you too!” She scoffed. “You’re always inviting me for ice creams or movie dates at the same time, how am I to relax knowing nobody competent is watching over the city?”

Chat’s heart sung at the compliment. “If that’s the only thing keeping you from going out with me, I’m sure I can find a solution, m’lady. You know, Rena and Carapace would certainly do a grand job.” He tried to keep a detached demeanor, but knowing he was so close to her accepting to go on a date with him was making his heart go haywire.

She pouted pensively, twirling a strand of hair that had fallen out of her hairdo, then shrugged. “As you wish, farmboy.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she waited for his answer. It felt like time had slowed. Was this too soon? “Kelly” had only been out of the picture for about a month now. Was it enough time to get over someone?

A stolen glance at him answered her question. Looking at him, she could tell Chat was repressing a smile. His eyes twinkled as he looked at her like protagonists look at each other in romantic comedies. The way everyone should be looked at at least once in their life. He gave a nod in the direction of the room, reminding her they were not alone. She nodded back, their brief exchange imperceptible for common mortals.

If the warm hug and lingering kiss he left on her cheek as they parted after remaining a little longer with the kids were any indication, she knew she’d said the right thing. Although it could have also been credited to the bag of pastries she’d handed him a minute before.

#long post #almost 2k words!#and i am now on the ao3 waiting list so you'll be able to read it on there soon #ladynoirjuly2020 #ladynoir july #ladynoir #ladybug #chat noir #miraculous ladybug #the miraculous tales of ladybug and cat noir #mlb #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #disguises #banter #elle writes

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