i know you'll cook hard with "baby brother" for the feb prompts
23. baby brother
Sam is mostly asleep when the door opens. When he looks over at the clock on the nightstand, it's later than he expected it to be, but you wouldn't know it from Bucky's incredibly un-stealthy entrance.
There's a thud of something colliding with...the wall, maybe? It's swiftly followed by a loud shushing noise, and a less-loud oops after the sound of vibranium thunking against the doorway. The suspicion is already crystallizing in Sam's head when the door is pressed shut and the waft of air that follows smells a whole lot like moonshine.
For another few moments, Sam listens to the noise of Bucky moving through the space: some stumbling footsteps here, rustling and the whoosh of thrown fabric there. There's clicks and whirs, too, the kind that Sam generally associates with the panels on Bucky's left arm, but after what seem to be a few clumsy taps, there's a frustrated sigh, and then the footsteps draw closer to the bed than they were before. Sam scoots over just in time to avoid getting pinned to the mattress by two hundred pounds of supersoldier, but as soon as Bucky is in the bed, he's blindly reaching out to find Sam.
Before he knows it, Sam is being drawn to the middle of the bed, and Bucky has slung a leg and an arm over him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
"Hi, Sammy," he says, and up close, Sam can finally identify what that familiar medicinally boozy smell is.
"Hi, baby," he says, kissing Bucky's forehead. "You have a good time trying Tommy's absinthe?"
"Uh-huh," Bucky says into Sam's neck. "Was homemade. Tasted like licorice."
"Yeah, if licorice was 150-proof and caused hallucinations," Sam says, laughing a little. "I can't believe he managed to get you drunk."
"M'not drunk," Bucky says, pushing up off of Sam's chest to look at him. "I'm just buzzing."
"Sure you are, sugar."
"I am," he insists. "I'm always buzzing with you. S'just more blurry now."
Sam muffles a laugh. "Is the blurriness why you couldn't take off your arm?"
Bucky nods, slumping back against Sam. "My fingers forgot how to be hands."
He runs a hand over Bucky's bare back. "But they remembered long enough to take off your shirt and your pants, huh?"
"No outside clothes in bed," Bucky says. "You said so."
"That's true; I did," says Sam. "Thank you for remembering."
"Welcome," mumbles Bucky. "Will you take my arm off now?"
"Yeah, baby," Sam says, placing a steadying hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Hold still, okay?"
"'Kay," says Bucky, and instantly wiggles to the left. He settles down when Sam gives his shoulder a squeeze, though, and holds still long enough for Sam's fingers to find the right plates and press them in the right order. With a whir and a click, Bucky's left arm detaches, and he lets out a gusty sigh. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Sam keeps one arm around Bucky as he deposits Bucky's left arm on the nightstand. "You good to sl--"
But Bucky cuts Sam off with a gasp, half-sitting up again, his eyes wide in the moonlight. "Sammy, I have to ask you something," he says, his tone serious. "It's important."
"Okay," Sam says, furrowing his eyebrows. "What is it?"
Bucky blinks slowly a few times, taking a few slow deep breaths like he's trying to center himself.
"Sam," he says, carefully enough that it's clear he's trying to get it right. "I love you so much. I want you forever and ever and ever. Longer than time. Like, forever ever."
Sam smiles, putting a hand to Bucky's face. "Same, baby."
"Yeah?" he asks, and Bucky's face immediately lights up when Sam nods. Then he takes a deep breath, looks down at Sam with a slightly unfocused but very determined gaze, and asks, "Should Alpine have a baby brother?"
For a moment, Sam just blinks, the words so unexpected that he can't fully process them for a few seconds. "Alpine," he repeats. "A baby brother?"
"Uh-huh," Bucky says. "So she's not lonely when we're gone. I was lonely a lot before. It was bad. I don't want it to be bad for her."
"Is it still bad for you?" asks Sam. He feels a little guilty about prodding when Bucky isn't quite sober enough to deflect, but it's hard not to wonder. "It's okay if it is."
But Bucky shakes his head furiously, then makes a face like he regrets it. "Nuh-uh," he says. "Not now. Not with you."
"And when I'm not here?"
"I still love you when you're not here," says Bucky. "Loving you's not lonely."
"Oh," says Sam, a little embarrassed that he's choked up over it. He clears his throat. "That's good."
Bucky nods, smiling the dopiest smile Sam has ever seen. He blinks down at Sam, each one just a little bit slower now. "It's real good, Sammy," he says. "The best."
"Yeah, it is," murmurs Sam, and then Bucky's face lights up like he's been struck by inspiration.
"You know what we should do right now?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the hand that Sam has on his cheek.
"What, baby?"
"Get married," Bucky says, grinning down at Sam. "Let's get married. There's already cake in the fridge. I always wanted a chocolate wedding cake."
A drunken proposal shouldn't give Sam butterflies, not least because Bucky devoted more words to the cake than to asking Sam to marry him, but it's still stupidly charming and Sam can't help but smile up at him.
"I don't think we can right now, Buck," he says, trying to keep a straight face as he tucks a lock of Bucky's hair back behind his ear. "It's pretty late and all the guests went home."
"That's okay," says Bucky. "Don't need guests. Just need you."
Sam's face goes warm at that. "That's very sweet of you, but you also don't have any pants on, and you probably do need those to get married."
"Oh," Bucky says, eyes wide with realization. He seems to turn it over a few times in his mind, then nods in acceptance before he lies down again, still half-sprawled on Sam. "M'kay. Tomorrow, then."
Sam can't help it. He laughs, shaking his head, and grins when Bucky laughs, too. "Alright, Buck. Let's get married tomorrow."
"With cake."
"With cake," affirms Sam. "A wedding and chocolate cake."
"And then we get Alpine a brother?"
"And then we get Alpine a baby brother."
"See?" says Bucky, pressing a sloppy kiss to Sam's cheek, then a second for good measure. "Told you it was good."
Sam smiles as Bucky cuddles into his side, even as he knows it'll get too hot halfway through the night with Bucky clinging to him like an octopus. "Not just good," he says, kissing the side of Bucky's head. "It's the best."
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A kiss on the cheek for the kiss prompts!! Whatever pairing you want
an honor to get a prompt from THEEE clairejamie author of our time
There were many things Han loved about Leia. So many, he didn't think he could name them all if he tried. The list would start with her wit, maybe her hair, and catalogue just about trait he could associate with her. Hell, he even started drinking starblossom wine because it reminded him of her, headache afterwards and all.
But, his secret favorite, the part of her he kept closest to his chest, lest anyone try to pry the information out of him, was Leia's way of casual affection.
Leia wasn't stingy with her informal, fleeting caresses. No one would have blamed her if she was — but like always, she had to go subverting everyone's expectations of her. Alderaan's demise did not define Leia Organa, she did not let it steal what little she had left, including her affection. He'd seen how many times her lips landed on the side of Luke's cheek, or the way she'd occasionally reach for Rieekan's hand after a briefing. He'd watched her rub the backs of pilots who'd lost their partners, parents who'd lost their children. She'd held hands with injured rebels in the med bay, wiping tears off faces and tucking hair behind ears. Hell, she'd done it to him enough times: a light hand on his shoulder, a bumping of elbows, the press of her fingers against a wound, a harsh kick under a table.
That was why — well, that and the full bottle of that damned starblossom wine they'd split at dinner — he had to choke down some strangled, strained sound from the back of his throat when her lips landed on his cheek for the first time.
She settled back down on flat feet, giving him an amused, questioning stare from the top of the Falcon's ramp. Han shut his mouth, which he'd realized only a moment too late had fallen open in surprise, steeling his face into neutrality.
"Everything alright, Captain?"
And she had to go using his title, didn't she? Like she knew the way it send a pang through his entire body, all his systems sputtering and sparking in it's wake. Based on the small, nearly undetectable smile she wore, Leia did seem to know the affect that word had on him. Han cleared his throat, pulling the already-low collar of his shirt away from his neck, suddenly finding the cold air of the spaceport hot and suppressing.
"Thank you — for dinner, I mean," she said when he didn't answer, peeking past him into the ship, as if she could see Chewie still working on the dishes. "I wish he would have let me help clean up."
Leia was the only person Chewie refused to accept help from. Everyone else, Luke, the Rogues, especially Han were all delegated cleaning tasks after one of their dinners aboard the shift. But the Princess? No, Chewie would rather take one of his own arrows through the skull than to see Leia roll up her sleeves like she wanted to.
"He's stubborn like that — probably doesn't want you to break a nail on scrubbin' duty." It was the best he could come up with while still feeling the press of her lips on the side of his face, the fleeting, hot breath that followed after.
Leia frowned, like she always did when someone mentioned her title — especially him. "He does realize I do KP with the rest of base, right?"
He knew how much she hated being thought of as different, as royal. She worked harder than anyone else on this popsicle of a planet, constantly getting her hands dirty. Perhaps that was part of the Wookiee's concern, when was the last time Leia truly felt like a princess?
Han shrugged. "We can let him live in his delusion a little while longer."
That earned him another one of those barely-there smiles, one that make his heart lift dangerously in his chest. She was lingering, longer than she normally would at this stage of their goodbye, rocking backwards on her heels.
At least he wasn't the only one who found that drink going straight to his head.
"Well, thank you, Captain," she said into the terse silence, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. Han crossed his own, lest he have any temptation to reach out, to ask her for another one of her fleeting affections.
"Anytime, Princess."
They stared at each other for a moment longer, Leia not taking another step down the ramp. Instead, tilting her head curiously at him, mouth open like she'd say something else —
A crash sounded from beside him, followed shortly by his name in Shryiiwook, a bellowing command. Han cringed, spying Leia hiding a laugh, once again trying to peer behind him into the ship.
"I think you're being summoned."
"Yeah, yeah." Han waved his hand, as if to wave off her words. He took a step inside before he blindly complied with his urge to follow her. "I better go before he blows a fuse."
Leia took a hasty step down the ramp, fast enough that she wobbled. His instincts took over, taking three quick steps and reached out, snatching her wrist from the air. She steadied, fixing him with a narrowed eyed, inquisitive look.
He was standing over here, close enough their chests nearly bumped into each other.
Han dropped her hand as if it was on fire, not trusting himself to touch any part of her right now without saying or doing something supremely stupid. He quickly took his three steps back up until he was safely within the ship, safely out of range. If she was hurt by the gesture, she didn't make it known, schooling her features back into practiced neutrality, her hands falling by her sides. He nodded to the bottom of the ramp, shoving his own hands deep into his pockets.
"Right, well." She didn't quite seem to know what to do with herself, smoothing out the wrinkles on the front of her snow suit. "Goodnight then, Han."
She'd already turned and marched down the ramp before he could respond, her name a jumbled mess on his tongue, feeling too intimate to think, let alone to say.
Goodnight, Leia.
Ooh if you’re still in your jyncass era prayer beads for the November prompts? If not feel free to apply to any pairing you like
Kassa remembers Mami's beads.
A multi-strand bracelet wrapped around her wrist, made out of smooth, dark brown wood, each one lovingly carved by Kassa's bisabuelo, handed down from father to father to daughter. Each one knotted on the long, tough fibers they used to weave their cloaks. Mami would thumb off each bead and say, Stella. BenedicĂon. Rosa. Teo. BenedicĂon.
Depending on the family, some bead strings would have twenty, thirty, maybe even forty. Kassa's family was the only one in the whole village that had fifty-five. He'd been so proud of that, fifty-five ancestors, and each name spoken like a blessing.
The beads were beautiful, but they weren't meant for just prayer. Mami could flick her wrist and snap them out like a whip; wrap them twice around an opponent's neck before they could make a step towards her. Once they were older, Mami had promised to teach him and Kerri how to use them. The day the Imperials came to Kenari, Mami had unwound the beads from where they lived around her wrist, and prayed through gritted teeth: "Franco. AyĂşdanos." Franco had been the name of Kassa and Kerri's abuelo. That's when Kassa truly understood the trouble they were in. You only ever called upon the ancestors if you were in the direst need.
Mama had been wearing the beads when she and Papa had been killed. Kassa had unwrapped the beads from around her wrist and taken them back to the remains of the village, now the camp where and all the other children and teenagers slept. Between him and Kerri, they slept with them shared in their clenched fists every night.
He'd given the beads to Kerri right before he left for salvage. Mostly to stop her fussing at him for going out and leaving her, again, but also because he was the oldest, and that meant, Papa told him often enough, making sacrifices. For your sister, mijo. A calloused, gnarled hand, but still so strong, gently ruffled his hair. He'd wrapped them around his sister's wrist and said, "Keep them safe for me, si?" She nodded solemnly, awed by the responsibility.
He never saw those beads again.
/
Cassian didn't touch the beads, Jyn noticed.
They jumbled together in the trappings of a cover identity Command had worked out for them, a laborer couple out to make a few credits in an Imperial factory. The quartermaster had given them a hastily assembled bundle of clothing, accessories and other such things and Cassian had looked barely concealed disapproval. "It's got to have continuity," he muttered, going through the mismatched contents of their go bags.
Jyn followed his example, but honestly, she didn't really care. She learned how to make do with almost nothing in the last fifteen years. Being handed an entire bag worth of clothes, shoes and gear felt like the height of luxury. The beads slipped out of the tangle of items, falling amongst the scarves and layers they'd been given. Jyn was surprised--jewelry wasn't common item in the quartermaster's supplies--but Cassian saw them and just--stopped, for a second. As if recalling something.
"Oh," he said, looking at the beads. "Where did--?" he looked around the bunk where their items had been laid out by the two of them. "Did those come with the clothes?"
"They did," Jyn confirmed. "Do you know what they're supposed to be?"
Cassian paused, still looking at the beads, his normally quick hands still. "They're--they're an ancestor strand. Or beads. Each bead means a family member who came before you."
Jyn glanced down at the necklace. There had to be at least thirty beads on the cord. "Did this belong to someone?"
"It must've," Cassian said, his tone oddly blank. "Most--most of the effects are donated, or--if a member of the Rebellion is killed in action...they're asked, beforehand, if they want their personal effects want to be donated to the stores so it can be reused or repurposed, or sent back to their families, if we can manage it. Most choose to donate."
Jyn's hand closed around her kyber crystal unthinkingly. Each bead on the strand meant someone's family. Fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles. Grandparents. "Then...whoever this belonged to..."
"They might not have had family to send it back to," Cassian said. His voice was quiet now, just stating a fact they knew all too well.
The beads lay on the bunk innocuously. Each one had been carefully, precisely carved. Dark brown wood, well-polished from years of use. "Do--do you want them?" Jyn asked uncertainly. She didn't think it would be right for her to use them.
Cassian looked at the beads. His voice grew strange, distant. "My family had a strand of beads like this. Fifty-five on a cord. " He gave himself a slight shake and carefully picked it up, wrapped it multiple times around his wrist. His movements looked like something he had seen done a dozen different times. "It will come in handy if others have them," he told Jyn, steady again. "That way they can recognize us as someone they can trust."
Jyn nodded slowly, seeing the sense of that. They gleamed on Cassian's wrist, an unbroken line. "Who will they be?" she asked. "The beads?"
Cassian glanced down at his wrist. "They'll be my family," he said simply. "Everyone who came before me, and..." he glanced at Jyn, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. "Everyone's who with me now."
That pleased Jyn inordinately, so she ducked her head to hide her own small smile.
number 50 for the rogue one crew!! knowing full well that i have a prompt of yours regarding that very crew wallowing away in my inbox .... humblest apologies
Baze spent a good twenty years of his life listening to Chirrut tell him that they couldn't leave Jedha, whenever the subject arose. Baze's arguments—that their fellow Guardians were gone, that their religion had been all but wiped out, that their holy city was overrun by the Empire, and that there was nothing left for them there—had never made much of an impression. Chirrut remained adamant that they needed to stay and when Baze asked him why, he only said the reason would become apparent in time. Baze, at least, had a lifetime of experience listening to Chirrut's vague proclamations to prevent him from getting too annoyed with this non-explanation. Being more in-tune with the machinations of the Force than Baze is, and being deeply beloved by him regardless, Chirrut can get away with such things.
He'd almost shouted at him on the ship as they narrowly escaped the destruction on Jedha. Had that been why they needed to remain? So they could watch their home, already stripped of its autonomy and its peace for so long, finally be annihilated before their very eyes? His eyes. Chirrut does not—cannot—watch. He hadn't been sure who, of the two of them, was the luckier in that moment. But they hadn't been alone then. They were surrounded by strangers and, while he wasn't above giving Chirrut a piece of his mind with an audience present, he hesitated to give these people on whom their lives now depended the impression they'd picked up two raving mad men in the desert. After that, everything else had happened too quickly for Baze to have the luxury of deep contemplation and the matter had been pushed aside in favor of following the captain, of helping Jyn, of keeping an eye on their pilot. Arguing with Chirrut would have to wait.
Baze is ashamed to say he doesn't put it together on Scarif, not even when they'd all nearly died. He doesn't put it together when they're back with the Rebellion, keeping vigil in the medbay as, one by one, their crew—Rogue One, Bodhi had called it—healed up and moved on. He doesn't put it together even as he watches with mild amusement as Jyn and Cassian grow closer and closer like two trees twisting around each other in the wild, becoming inseparable as he and Chirrut did long ago. He doesn't put it together when what he once thought of as a natural tremor disappears entirely from Bodhi's voice, replaced with a tone of gentle command, or when the frost melts entirely from Jyn's demeanor when she interacts with her partner's droid and he is so entirely shocked when that same droid delicately—delicately!—inquires about Jyn's bloodwork halfway through her pregnancy and listens sympathetically as she rants about the medical droids the Rebellion employs that he can be forgiven for not noticing it then either.
No, he only puts it together when he's sitting with Kitri in his lap and she wraps her whole fist around his pointer finger and refuses to let go. It's a random, seemingly insignificant moment for his heart to stop and the whole of his life to suddenly come into sharp and coherent focus, but he assumes no one really gets to choose these things or their timing for themselves.
Next to him, Chirrut makes an inquisitive noise, which probably means Baze stopped right in the middle of speaking.
"This is why we couldn't leave Jedha," Baze says, impressed that he's managing any words at all right now amidst what could most reasonably be called a life-changing revelation. "This is what we were waiting for, all that time. Them."
"Of course," Chirrut says, wiggling his fingers within capturing distance for the baby, much to her amusement, not seeming to understand or appreciate that Baze is going through something at the moment. "You mean to tell me you didn't know that?"
"You're telling me you did?"
"Not beforehand. I'm not psychic," Chirrut says, as if such a thing is entirely ludicrous to believe. As if that's not how it sometimes feels to Baze when Chirrut describes the way the Force moves around them all. "But the moment I spoke to Jyn, I knew. That's why we followed her and the captain! What did you think I was up to, if you didn't know until now?"
"I thought it was one of your strange whims, Chirrut."
"It's been years, you daft old man," Chirrut laughs.
"Yes, well..."
Chirrut shakes his head, amused. "You really will follow me anywhere, won't you?"
"Yes," Baze says, only vaguely embarrassed by the admission. "Don't act surprised."
Kit makes a noise of objection from her spot in his lap, the smallest foreshadow of an all-out cry, probably because she hasn’t successfully captured Chirrut’s hand with her own yet in this simple but frustrating game he’s initiated. Across the room, Baze sees Cassian, who has dark circles under his eyes again after many years of looking healthier and better rested (though these ones have appeared under happier circumstances), start to rise from his seat, ever watchful over his daughter’s moods and needs. Before he can get far, Baze sees Jyn put a hand gently on his forearm to arrest him and an entirely silent conversation happens between them in the brief eye contact that follows. He feels like he can read all of the beats of an argument and a counter argument and a surrender in the smallest lifting of eyebrows and lowering of lashes.
“We have help,” Jyn says, softly but firmly, as if they’ve spoken all of their concerns out loud so far.
“I know,” Cassian replies, and settles back in next to her. He briefly closes his eyes and rests his head on the back of his seat. Jyn doesn’t take her hand off his arm until he moves it to rest around her shoulders a moment later. Looking over to Baze, Cassian adds, “If you need me to take her, though—”
In the very same moment that Jyn reaches out to swat him for that, Kit screeches with laughter, having finally captured her other uncle’s hand and covered it in an unfathomable amount of drool in an incredibly short amount of time, and diverting Baze’s attention from her parents at last. Next to him, Chirrut smiles with a dangerous amount of pride.
“The Force moves delightedly around this one,” he says, surrendering to this injustice with good sportsmanship as always. “She would have made an excellent Guardian.”
Before the pain of that pronouncement can hit him, Baze hears Jyn speak up. “Good thing we picked up a couple of them in our travels back in the day,” she says, turning to Cassian. “Smart of us, wasn’t it?”
Cassian nods, not so successfully hiding a smile. “Wouldn’t want her squandering any of her potential,” he says. “You’ll have to keep an eye on this connection to the Force, Chirrut. Let us know if she needs any training…”
Chirrut lifts his head at that, looking like a hunting animal picking up a scent. The idea of it hadn’t occurred to him either, then, which makes Baze feel less stupid for not thinking of it himself. He’d grown so accustomed to think of the Guardians as gone and dead, like Jedha was, or at the very least nearly extinct. Kitri’s far too young to have the survival of an entire religion on her shoulders, but he and Chirrut can tell her the names of their teachers and elders and friends and their stories will survive for another generation. There are other children of the Rebellion, too. Their way of life need not die with them. It’s a heady, baffling new feeling, this untempered hope. They’ve been rationing it out carefully among them for years and to have his fill of it all at once is slightly overwhelming.
Chirrut’s expression would be closed off to anyone who hasn’t known him for fifty years, but Baze sees through its defenses quite easily. He sees the surprise and the awe and the barely guarded delight all there plainly. Chirrut turns his attention down to Kit, still chewing on his hand happily, and runs a palm over the sparse but silken hair on her head lovingly, and something heavy and ancient slots into place in Baze’s soul, the final piece of a long forgotten puzzle settling in where it belongs.
“Good to see there are some things in the galaxy that can still surprise you, old man,” Baze says, not sounding nearly as irreverent as he wishes to.
Kit laughs in the same moment Chirrut does, like she’s in on the joke somehow, like she’s been waiting for it. And who knows? Maybe she is. Maybe she has.
For the character meme!!! Gilbert Blythe obviously
lol this is a little rough bc its been so long since i wrote for fun, but thank u love u!! will continue working on the other prompts <3 (if anyone wants to send me prompts, feel free !!!)
Headcanon A: Â realistic
Sometimes it suits Gilbert to say that he fell in love with Anne the moment she hit his head with her slate, and in some ways that’s true. It certainly sparked a lifelong obsession, if nothing else. Over the years she spends hating him, Gilbert grows to like her -- respect her intelligence, marvel over her kindness (extended to everyone but him), admire her courage, and wish fervently that he one day become deserving of her loyalty. It isn’t love, though, until later. In Avonlea, people largely end up doing what their parents did before them. Gilbert, the son of farmers, is expected to become a farmer himself. His parents are proud, but still skeptical when he tells them he’s thinking of becoming a doctor. Mrs. Lynde thinks his dreams are a sign of madness, perhaps transmitted through excessive contact with Anne Shirley. The Sloanes wonder if that means Gilbert, the Blythe’s only son, will be selling off the homestead and want to know how low Gilbert might be convinced to sell for.Â
It’s only Anne who greets the news with delight, confident that if Gilbert Blythe wants to be a doctor, then a doctor he will be. In fact, she says one day after church, if Gilbert Blythe wishes, he will one day be the most extraordinary doctor in Canada -- known for curing all sorts of exotic diseases. She says this in the hearing of no less than eight people who had come up to Gilbert at various points in the last week and expressed their kindly concern for his future, wondering if there was not perhaps a more stable route he could be taking for his own sake and that of his poor parents?Â
In that moment, Gilbert is helpless. How could he do anything, but fall head over heels in love?
Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious
Knitting is good for surgical dexterity, Gilbert claims when he asks Anne to teach him how to knit. Embroidery must be as well, Anne responds. Anne, someone who dearly loves to wear pretty clothes, has always hated embroidery and is merely an acceptable knitter. Anne is also incredibly intelligent and teaches Gilbert embroidery, and when he’s good enough at it sets him the task of making over one of her older dresses. Initially, Anne thinks that he might not want to take credit for what admittedly turns out to be an exceptionally lovely dress, but Gilbert, walking down the main road with Anne to deliver a letter to the post-office the first day she wears her new dress, stops every person they meet to marvel at his handiwork.Â
Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends
When Anne turns Gilbert down, for a time it feels like everyone is trying to convince him that he’ll find someone better soon. Someone like Gilbert couldn’t help but land on his feet, they say, and Anne was always a little too strange and wild for him anyway. He’ll find a nice girl, pretty and intelligent, but not quite so sharply fierce. Someone who will make a good wife and mother, and who will serve well as the future Mrs. Doctor Blythe -- not like some of these “career” types who waste money that would have been better spent on a trousseau, some people say. Gilbert smiles faintly, begs forgiveness for all the social events he has to miss because he’s busy studying, and resigns himself to a life alone. Â
Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.
Take 1: Anne is so morally convincing that her argument at the beginning of Anne of Avonlea convinces Gilbert to not whip his students as well!Â
Take 2: There are many reasons why Anne doesn’t talk about her childhood pre-Avonlea, even with the people she loves best. Matthew would have cried. Marilla, Anne feared in the beginning, might actually agree with Anne’s former caretakers. (Of course she wouldn’t have, but that initial fear keeps Anne from talking about it until it’s been too long and she figures it's easier to not bring up at all.) Diana is a combination of both -- initially, Anne worried that if Diana knew she wouldn’t want to be Anne’s friend, and by the time Anne was confident in Diana’s friendship she was equally certain that if she told Diana how she’d once been treated Diana would cry. For some reason, Anne thinks, the thought of anyone shedding tears over something not even Anne has cried about in years makes her feel awkward and itchy.Â
Enter: Gilbert Blythe. Anne meets Gilbert at a particularly raw time in her life, grief and worry for Marilla heavy on her shoulders. Gilbert is a kindred spirit, she quickly realizes, but not one that she’s necessarily afraid to lose (at least in the very early days.) He asks her one day, something innocuous about her early childhood, and to Anne’s surprise, she finds herself actually answering. In the moment, Gilbert responds perfectly: outrage, but not excessively so. No tears. Kindness and understanding, but never pity. When they meet the next day, he acts as if nothing had changed. Over the course of that first summer, which even in retrospect always felt longer than any other Anne had ever lived through, Anne finds herself talking to Gilbert about all sorts of things she thought she had forgotten. By September Anne and Gilbert have walked every inch of their little portion of PEI, and Gilbert knows almost everything Anne remembers up to the time she first met Matthew at the station. She never speaks about it again, but for the rest of her life Anne knows that Gilbert -- for better or for worse it seems at times -- knows the parts of her she finds the most wretched and likes her anyway. If Anne ever asked Gilbert about it directly, he’d tell her he actually loved her better for them.Â
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“Honestly, Ronald, pay attention - the fact that you slept in the same dormitory as Seamus Finnigan and know next to nothing about football should be embarrassing, especially considering you’re such a quidditch fanatic -”
“How interesting can it be if the posters don’t even move - why’re we even doing this, Hermione, we could be inside baking or knitting or snogging -”
“We are going to play this game and we are going to beat Harry and Ginny and then we are going inside to bake and knit and snog, now pay attention.”
i just wanted to say that while i havent been super active in reading starmora fic in the last year, and ergo havent really been following rock me gently, im always so inspired by how dedicated you are to writing it and the thought and detail and long span of time you allow your fics to exist and blossom within! its so admirable and i appreciate it a lot from afar! keep being awesome michelle
AHHHHH THANK YOU! <3
I miss you in the fandom though I’m glad you have things that are making you happy!!
for the prompts: a bloody kiss, pairing of your choice?
phil was kind enough to allow me to roll the dice instead so here have some mushy space pollen nonsense. in theory this could be read as a follow-up to this fic, mostly because I didn't want to name another planet.
23. a kiss influenced by alcohol/other substances
In retrospect, Sam should maybe have thought a little harder about context before he took the hotel concierge's advice. It had just been so bright and exciting, being on another planet, and Bucky's eyes were so big and shiny and full of wonder as they walked through the doors. He could hardly be blamed for asking the concierge where they could go to see something beautiful, and the botanical gardens had seemed like a perfect choice to kill time until they had to go to the drop site that they would be scoping out.
(Had Sam been twenty percent less giddy, might he have thought a little harder about what activities the concierge might recommend at a luxe and very private resort on what was apparently the sector's most popular honeymoon destination? Maybe, but it's too late for that now.)
The botanic gardens sit on the planet's border between day and night, the light over the arched glass ceiling slowly fading into starry skies as they wind down the path. It's balmy after a few minutes inside, and Sam is glad as the air gets heavier that he wore short sleeves. He even managed to convince Bucky to do the same, not that it seems to have helped. Sam pauses to admire a technicolor succulent, and when he turns back, Bucky is busy undoing the top half of the buttons on his shirt.
Sam, suddenly and for probably-unrelated reasons, is reminded of the bodice rippers that he used to see at the library as a kid, with all their lush backdrops and heaving bosoms.
"Hot," says Bucky, when he notices Sam looking at him. His face reddens, the warmth clearly getting to him as he adds, "In here, I mean. It's humid. Sticky."
He blinks, processing Bucky's words. He'd thought that he'd heard noises earlier, rustling in some nearby bushes and the whispered voices of other visitors up ahead, but the place seems to have gone quiet now. If there's anyone else in the gardens, they must be far away.
"Maybe it'll be cooler on the nighttime side," says Sam, pointing to the area beyond the orange-y pink of sunset. "Come on, let's go look at those climbing flowers."
Bucky follows as Sam heads for the trellises, drawn by the sweet smell of the flowers carrying through the air. It's somewhere between jasmine and magnolia, heady enough that the air feels weightier with it, and when Sam breathes it in, his shoulders relax a little at the reminder of home.
Beside him, Bucky looks less tense, too, his eyes closed as he breathes deep. He's closer than he was a moment ago, not that Sam remembers which of them moved.
"This place is growing on me," Bucky says, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smile. "You think we could plant some of these back home?"
"That's gotta violate like, five hundred different quarantine laws," says Sam. "So I guess we just have to keep it a secret."
Bucky beams at that, wide and delighted. "You're the best, Sam."
Sam feels his face go hot. "Thanks, Buck," he says, smiling back at him. "I'm glad we came here."
"Me, too," Bucky says, his voice gone soft. He drops onto the grassy ledge beside the trellises, patting the spot beside him. "Come sit with me a minute, Sammy."
Part of Sam's brain registers that this isn't normal for a botanic garden, but Bucky's smile is too inviting, the grass around him the perfect length and softness. The moment he sits down, Bucky flops back onto the grass, his breath leaving him in a whoosh.
Sam, with the smell of those flowers thick in his nose, doesn't hesitate to do the same. He feels a fine grit on some of the grass, finer than sand, and when he lifts his hand to his face, he sees that his fingers have been stained purple. Up above them, the stamens of the flowers are bright purple with pollen, but Sam tears his eyes away from them when Bucky whispers his name.
He turns his head to the side to find Bucky looking back at him, eyes wide and so, so blue. "You good?" he asks.
"I'm so good," Sam says, and he realizes belatedly that he actually is. The twinging in his shoulder from the fight he was in yesterday is gone, and the flowers around them smell like home, and Bucky is right beside him, smiling all soft and sweet. "What about you, Buck? You good?"
"Mhmm," is Bucky's response. He's still looking at Sam like he's searching for something. Sam watches his tongue poke out to lick his lips and can't help but stare. Has Bucky's mouth always been this pretty? He has memories of admiring it before, but they're hazy right now.
Still, he decides to say something, just in case Bucky doesn't hear it enough. Validation is good, Sam knows. An important element of partnership.
"Hey, Buck," he whispers, after they've looked at each other for a long moment. "Guess what?"
"What?" Bucky whispers back.
"Your mouth is pretty," says Sam. "Like, so pretty."
"Well, your eyes are so pretty," says Bucky. After a second of thought, he adds, "And your ears. And your nose, and your eyelashes, and the gap in your teeth, and your ears."
Sam feels warm all over. "You said ears already."
"Ears twice, then," Bucky says, smiling at Sam. He reaches out, and Sam can feel the warmth of his hand before it settles on the side of Sam's face. "Everything twice. You're the prettiest, Sammy."
"Thank you, baby," says Sam. Beside him, Bucky's whole body shivers, but it doesn't look uncomfortable. Sam reaches up to hold Bucky's hand where it is against his face. "You're the prettiest, too."
They lie there in silence again for a few moments, and then Bucky whispers, "Hey, Sam."
"Yeah, Buck?"
"Can I tell you something?"
As if Sam could refuse him that. He nods. "Uh-huh."
"We should kiss," Bucky says. "We should kiss for like, a long time."
"How long?" asks Sam, already deciding what parts of this space vacation can be given over to kissing.
"A long, long time," says Bucky. "For forever, maybe."
"We gotta get back home, though," Sam says.
"We can kiss at home. I want to kiss you a lot at home."
"Really?"
Bucky nods. "All the time. So many times."
Sam turns the idea over in his head and finds nothing wrong with it. "I want to kiss you all the time, too," he says, scooting closer to Bucky. Their sides are pressed together now, their noses nearly brushing. "So much."
"Sam?" Bucky whispers again.
"Yeah, Buck?"
"Can I kiss you now?"
Sam doesn't wait to give him an answer, just tips his chin up and leans in enough to press his lips to Bucky's. There's an elbow jutting into his ribs at first, the pollen on the grass scratchy where Sam's ear brushes against it, but Bucky sighs into his mouth and Sam can feel it in his whole body, so why should he care? It's hard to make his muscles do anything except feel, really. He slides a hand up to trace down Bucky's jaw, fingers skimming over his collarbone and then lower, too lightheaded from the sensation of Bucky's chest hair to move any further.
When they pull apart, Bucky's eyes are bright, his lips even pinker than before, but there's only one thought on Sam's mind.
"Okay," Sam says, blinking a few times. He doesn't remember not breathing, but he'll double check for Bucky's sake, dragging a few lungfuls of air in and out. "I'm breathing."
Bucky puts a hand on Sam's chest, watches as it rises and falls for a moment. He smiles. "You're breathing."
Sam huffs. "I'm breathing, so keep kissing me," he says. He feels himself frown for a moment, but then he's looking at Bucky's face again, the way his lips are all kiss-bitten. He taps a finger against Bucky's lower lip, giggling a little as he does and murmuring, "Pretty."
After a moment, he feels Bucky's hand against his face again, thumb sweeping over his cheekbone. Sam's eyes flutter shut, surrounded by the familiar smells of home and of Bucky. He feels a kiss against his chin, his mouth, his nose, both of his temples.
Bucky lingers for half a second, just long enough to nuzzle against Sam's jaw, and then murmurs, "Pretty. All pretty."
Beaming, Sam pulls Bucky in again, relishing the weight of his body pressing Sam's into the grass.
Kissing for forever is starting to sound like a very good idea.
