#I do actually speak a smattering of French

[katyswrites]

don't call me 'baby'

PART 1 | SERIES

Pairing: Steve Harrington/fem!reader

Warnings: Sugardaddy!Steve, swearing, sexual harassment/men being gross, alcohol use, smoking, age gap

Wordcount: 4k

A sugar daddy modern AU, a whirlwind summer romance in Italy, and two people from completely different walks of life, somehow finding each other in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But, what will happen when summer ends?

PART 1 | in the same room, at the same time

This wasn’t supposed to happen. That’s what you would tell yourself, later. But, life is funny that way - nothing ever really goes the way you’d expect it. And, when you had taken the last-minute shift at Enoteca Bruni, the fine-dining restaurant where you worked as a cocktail waitress, you could have never predicted where the night would take you.

It had started with a large reservation that had come in around 8pm, four businessmen in suits and watches that you imagined cost more than your entire month’s rent. You were used to that type - considering the prices on the wine list, nearly everyone you served here lived at least three tax brackets above you. It wasn’t a job meant for everyone - a lot of these types of customers were dismissive, rude, and expected those who serve them to disappear in the background, not to interrupt whatever they were doing, which was obviously oh-so-important. But, the tips were phenomenal, and the late night hours worked perfectly with your daytime shifts at the cafe in the city’s center.

Still, the most intriguing thing about them was that they weren’t Italian, like you had gotten used to - nor were they speaking Spanish, French, German, or any of the other languages you had learned to recognize over the last few years. No, they were American. It wasn’t often that you heard your native tongue and accent nowadays - no, it was actually jarring. But, you welcomed it. The oldest man at the table, a gray-haired, thin man with a sharp face and tailored three-piece suit, smiled when you greeted them with a hello.

“How wonderful,” he had exclaimed. “Someone from our side of the world.”

“Finally,” a younger man with a smattering of freckles on the other side of the table had said, exasperated. “We’ve got someone who actually speaks English around here.”

“Well,” you said, “To be fair, you are in Rome. I suppose you could say we are the odd-ones-out.”

He rolled his eyes, and shrugged. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m just trying to say it’s nice to actually understand who I’m talking to for once, you know? Not that I’m looking for her to talk back.”

Unfortunately, that didn’t even crack the top ten worst things a customer had said to you in your time working here. So instead, you just plastered on a cheerful smile.

“Of course. In that case, what drinks can I get started for you gentlemen?”

As the hours wore on though, it was becoming harder and harder to feign kindness. With each wave of dismissal, or snap of their fingers, you wanted to take the drinks you were serving and throw them in their faces. The worst of the bunch were probably the first older man you had spoken to, who had such a vile demeanor about him that you couldn’t quite put your finger on it; and perhaps worse than him were two of the younger men, the dark-haired one with freckles, and a sandy-haired guy with what you could only describe as a mullet.

1982 called, it wants its hairstyle back, you thought to yourself. 

It was those two who you could see undressing you with their eyes, who called you over for nonsense requests, asking you to bend over the table to get things that you knew they were perfectly capable of reaching themselves. And, you weren’t deaf; you heard the comments they made as you walked away to fetch more wine and scotch.

Look at that ass go, one of them said. I’d definitely hit it.

As if you could pull that, the other said. Besides, you’ve already got two bitches on the side Billy; leave some for the rest of us.

Don’t look at me, the sandy-haired man who was apparently named Billy retorted. If anyone around here needs to get laid, it’s Harrington.

With your back turned, you rolled your eyes, and wondered if they’d notice if you spit in their drink - that was, until no-first-name Harrington replied.

Guys, lay off - just let the girl do her job, yeah? 

You took a deep breath, and recomposed yourself - it was the bare minimum, but it was something - someone who saw you as a person, maybe.

You carried the tray over with a wide smile plastered on your face, handing out drinks as you surveyed the table. You glanced at Harrington, the quietest one in the group - you had hardly heard a word from him all night, until right now. He was handsome, on the younger side of the group, but you’d estimate still about a decade your senior; he had a thick, slightly wild head of chestnut hair, and more of a boyish look about him. And with the exception of his perfectly-tailored suit and ostentatious Rolex, he didn’t look to have much else in common with his colleagues at first glance. While they sat at ease, laughing and conversing over their drinks, he sat up straight, stoically swirling his wine.

You pulled the post-dinner cigars they had asked you to bring out of the box, slicing the end with the guillotine cutter and handing the first one to the oldest man, striking a match and lighting it for him until he drew smoke. It felt humiliating sometimes, to light the Suits’ cigars for them as if they couldn’t do it themselves, but that came with the territory in a place like this, you had learned. 

You reached Harrington last, only for him to shake his head.

“Oh, none for me - thank you though.”

Thank you - he was probably the first one from the table to say that all evening. 

“Can I get you gentleman anything else?” you asked stiffly.

“That’ll be all, for now,” the gray-haired man said, waving you off. 

You nodded, and at the bar, decided it was high time for your smoke break. You glanced at your watch - your shift was over in less than an hour, and your high heels were killing you. You signaled to the manager behind the bar that you were taking fifteen, and shouldered your way out the door.

*****

The first few minutes outside were peaceful, and relatively quiet - at least, as quiet as Rome could be at this hour. There was still the distant sound of traffic, the bustle of people on the sidewalk, many drunkenly stumbling and laughing, in the midst of making merry on a Friday night. You took a drag from your cigarette and inhaled deeply - even just a few moments off of your feet, and sitting out here on this bench in the fresh air, was starting to take the edge off. Still, you couldn’t shake that table of men - your manager had warned you that it was a very high-profile client, explaining that the dinner was likely a pretense for some multi-million dollar deal to be discussed. Still, you found yourself muttering under your breath, practicing the retorts and profanities you had wanted to throw at them. The shield you had built for dealing with customers was only so strong, and if your job wasn’t on the line, you probably would have told them to fuck off hours ago.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you don’t hear someone approaching, not until they’re right next to you, clearing their throat.

“Oh! Jesus, hi,” you say, clutching your chest with your hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Harrington was standing above you, hands in his pockets and his tie loosened.

“It’s fine - I promise, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His smile was friendly, and a bit apologetic. He looked different in the dim light, a bit younger, and not at all like someone who spends his days in an office doing… whatever those men inside did.

“You mind if I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the empty spot next to you on the bench. You just shook your head, a bit wary of him still.

He smiled, and started fishing around in his pockets until he pulled out a small baggie of tobacco and a pack of rolling papers. You raised your eyebrows, and smirked.

“You roll your own cigarettes?” you asked.

He nodded, not quite looking at you, focused intently on the task and hand.

“Yep. It’s so much better than that crap you smoke, trust me.”

You scoffed, despite the fact that this man was technically your customer, and your shift wasn’t quite over yet.

“Yeah, well, I’m doing just fine with what I’ve got. Thanks though…” you trailed off, looking at him expectantly. He caught on and turned to face you, grinning.

“Steve. Steve Harrington.”

He extended a hand towards you. You hesitated for a moment, caught off-guard by the simplicity of the gesture from someone like him, but you took it, telling him your own name. His much bigger hand was warm and calloused, shaking yours firmly before pulling away.

You stared at him intently, desperately trying to figure him out as you placed your cigarette between your lips and inhaled. It was hard to figure out what exactly his deal was - but, he was talking to you like you were an actual person, so that was at least a step above most of the people you’d waited on here.

When he finished rolling, he stuck the cigarette between his lips, then sighed. 

“Shit - d’you have a light?”

You nodded, reaching into your handbag and pulling out your small blue lighter. He leaned in close, close enough that you could faintly smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off of him in the cool May evening. It took a moment for the flame to catch, then he was leaning back and he took a drag, letting his eyes flutter shut.

You looked away quickly, staring at the street ahead. Your black cocktail dress didn’t offer much coverage, causing you to shiver slightly as a breeze picked up. It was Steve who broke the silence, after a few moments.

“I want to apologize, by the way - my, uh, colleagues… they’re assholes.”

You nearly choked at his words, whipping around to face him.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“I - I don’t know how much you heard in there, but -”

“I heard enough,” you said quickly.

His face fell, then hardened. He looked… angry? Or, perhaps disappointed.

“I really am sorry. I know I probably should have said something, but…Brenner’s my boss. And, there’s a lot of people who would kill to work for him. So, you have to understand… I mean, Tommy and Billy, they’re real jerks. I can’t stand them, most of the time. So, just know that if you want to punch them in the face, I’d understand.”

You laughed at that, shaking your head. 

“Well, just between you and me, I do want to punch them. But… I would really like to keep my job, and actually get a good tip at the end of the night. So, if I can make it through the next -” you glanced at your watch, “- half an hour or so, I’ll be alright. I’m kind of used to it anyway, working here.”

You felt his eyes on you, but didn’t turn to meet his gaze. Then, he said more softly, “I’m sorry to hear that. Really.”

You shrugged. 

“It’s fine. But, thank you - most people don’t take the time to say that, I guess.”

A moment of semi-awkward silence fell between you and him, before you added, “But, it’s good to know that I apparently have a nice ass.”

He laughed at that, choking on the smoke he was inhaling.

“Oh God - Billy and Tommy really are the worst. Did you hear that they actually were trying to make a bet about you in there?”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

“What kind of bet?”

He suddenly broke eye contact, staring straight ahead as he shook his head vigorously.

“You know what - nevermind, you’d be disgusted -”

“Well now you have to tell me,” you conceded, inching closer. “C’mon, it can’t be that bad -”

“They said if I manage to get you to go home with me tonight, they’d agree on this huge deal with HNL that they’ve been trying to close with our European counterpart for months - they said it because they knew it wouldn’t happen, of course, I don’t really -”

“What would you get?” you asked bluntly.

“Huh?”

“If they thought you won the bet, like, would that be good for your job?”

He scoffs, nodding fervently.

“Um, yes - my yearly bonus would probably quadruple -”

“Then let’s do it,” you said.

His mouth fell open, and he was staring at you like you had three heads.

“Do what, exactly?”

He suddenly looked flushed, frozen in place as he stared at you. You felt a devilish grin spread on your face as you looked back at him, stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of your shoe.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Harrington.”

*****

You had made sure he arrived back at the table only moments before you. The group of cajoling men were louder now, Tommy slurring his words and Billy in a heated debate with Brenner. Steve flashed a smile at the group, then started sipping his drink as if he had never left.

“What I’m saying is, if we offer them 14 percent -”

“Well, at that rate, we may as well sell them the whole goddamn company -”

“We’re going to have to budge at least a little if we want to make headway, otherwise Upside Tech might outbid us -”

“Harrington!” Tommy cried over the other two men. “Where th’hell ‘ave you been? You left me stranded with these two, they’re actually trying to work right now -”

Then, he spotted you, suddenly flashing a grin that was too wide for your liking.

“Mademoiselle - might I say, I think you’ve only gotten hotter since I last saw you -”

“That was only about twenty minutes ago,” Steve said firmly, cutting Tommy off. “Also, we’re in Italy, not France.”

Tommy waved him off, leaning closer across the table, towards where you stood. 

“May I ask, how’re you getting home tonight, little lady?”

You just smiled.

“I’m actually so happy you brought that up - while I appreciate your concern and all, I’ve got that covered.”

You then turned to Steve, who froze in place.

“Ready to go, Steve?” you asked innocently.

All conversation stopped, then, the other men around the table stopped to gape at him. A smug smirk appeared on Steve’s face, and he stood up slowly, smoothing out his suit.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Despite yourself, your heart fluttered at the pet name, as ridiculous as it felt. 

“What?” Billy said, his jaw nearly on the floor.

But before they could ask any more questions, Steve was holding out his bent arm, which you graciously hooked yourself through. You pressed yourself into his side, flashing another grin back at the group.

“I’ve left your bill on the table - thank you gentlemen for a wonderful evening, and we hope to see you soon!”

Then Steve surveyed the table, adding, “I suspect you’ll be in touch about negotiation meetings shortly? Since that was the deal and all. I’ll see you at the office on Monday.”

Then, you and Steve turned a corner and headed out the door, to where a car was already waiting for you.

Steve gestured for you to go in ahead of him, opening the backseat door. You slid across, greeting the driver quickly and Steve followed, shutting the door behind you. The second it was closed, you both looked at each other, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my God - did you see their faces?”

“I’m going to live on that for years,” he added, fighting to breathe. You threw your head back, practically cackling at the memory of their dumbfounded expressions.

“That was amazing,” Steve said, regaining his composure. “Seriously, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it - I think I got off of it more than you.”

“I doubt that.”

You met his gaze, and your breath stopped for a moment. He really was handsome, his honey-brown eyes staring into yours with such sincerity that it was actually overwhelming. You looked away quickly, staring straight ahead.

“Well, if anything, it made my shift more interesting, so thanks,” you said, fiddling with your hands in your lap.

“Yeah, and you just made me my yearly bonus, so thank you.”

After a moment, he cleared his throat. 

“So, uh, where do you live? So I can get you home.”

“Oh! Right,” you said. “Um, do you have any ID or anything?”

Steve furrowed his brow, confused.

“Why are you asking?”

“Look, don’t take this personally - I’ve watched way too much Criminal Minds in my life. And, while I’m sure you’re nice and all, I’m not exactly gonna tell a strange man I’ve never met where I live without some precautions. So, I’m going to take a picture of your ID and send it to my roommate, so she knows who to turn in if I end up on the news, yeah?”

Steve just smirked, and pulled out his wallet.

“So, you think I’m strange?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile.

“Obviously, yes.”

Steve chuckled softly, fishing his license out of his wallet.

“Fair enough - as long as you’re not trying to steal my identity or anything.”

“Oh, definitely,” you said sarcastically. “I was actually going to buy a mansion in your name, if that’s alright.”

He laughed, handing you the card as you took a photo. The address was in Indiana - interesting. He was also 30, judging from his birthday - nearly ten years older than you. Also interesting. You handed it back, shooting a quick text to Robin:

I’ll explain later, but in case I get murdered!

You attached the photo and pressed send. 

Satisfied, you leaned forward, telling your address to the driver, who nodded and pulled onto the busy city street.

You leaned back in your seat, staring out the window. You passed dimly-lit alleyways and bustling restaurants, groups smoking on the sidewalk and couples kissing on benches as the evening started winding down. The silence in the car is comfortable enough, considering that you met the man beside you a few hours ago. It’s him who breaks the lull in conversation, once again.

“So, why did you do it?” he asked quietly.

“Hm?”

“The bet? Well, kind of - at least, why did you make it look like I - like we -”

You shrugged, shifting to face him.

“Honestly?”

He nodded, gaze fixed on you.

“Well - a few reasons, I guess. I knew it would get those jerks off of my back. And, I knew it would help you, with your bonus and all.”

“And why did you want to help me, though? You know nothing about me.”

“Not true,” you said firmly. “I know one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re kind.”

It was simple, but true - for the type of clientele you usually served, he was a rare breed. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I mean, you were nice to me, and actually treated me like a person. I can’t say that for a lot of people, not in that place.”

“Oh,” he said softly. 

A beat. Two. Then, he added, “Oh no - I didn’t even ask, did you have a car, back at the restaurant? Because we can go back and get it -”

“No, don’t worry about it - I don’t have one. I usually take the bus.”

“Oh - alright.”

You tried to stop yourself from rolling your eyes - Steve probably wouldn’t be caught dead on a bus. Or any public transport, for that matter. But, you kept it within yourself, and turned out towards the window again - the sights were getting more familiar, the buildings a little more run-down - closer to home.

You noticed your phone light up in your lap, and glanced down - a response from Robin.

Um… congrats???? Getting laid???? You’d better tell me EVERYTHING!!!!

You laughed under your breath, and saw Steve move to look at you out of the corner of your eye, curious. Before you could respond to her message, the car came to a halt right outside of your apartment building. You sighed, and turned to face the man beside you.

“Well, this is me. Thank you. For the ride home, I mean - you didn’t really have to do that.”

“Of course I did,” Steve said, waving a hand. “Had to make sure you got home safely and all, it was the least I could do.”

You both looked at each other for a moment, faces soft. You shot him another appreciative smile, and popped open the car door.

“Goodnight, Steve Harrington. Until we meet again!”

You knew the chances of seeing him ever again were slim at best, but it felt like the right thing to say, given the hilarity of the situation. After slamming the door shut, you rooted through your bag for your keys, taking the steps up to your door two at a time. Before heading inside, you turned and waved to the car one more time - Steve wasn’t visible through the tinted windows, but you liked to imagine that he was waving back, maybe even smiling fondly. 

******

Two days later, an envelope was pushed through the mail slot in your door. It was Robin who brought it in, plopping it down on the kitchen table as you sipped your coffee.

“What’s that?” you asked.

She shrugged, carding through the other envelopes and flyers.

“Don’t know. But, it’s made out to you. The envelope looks fancy though - I mean, who the Hell puts a wax seal on letters anymore?”

You felt your heart skip a beat, and snatched it up, turning it over in your hands - it was thick, the nice kind of stationary that you had to go out of your way to buy. There was a return address, but it seemed like it was for an office building of some kind, with no name associated. And, right on the center, a red wax seal with an H. You felt your face grow hot, your stomach doing somersaults as you practically tore the thing open.

Inside was a simple piece of paper with a note scrawled on it. After writing out your name, it read:

Thank you again, for the other night. You have no idea how much that helped me out. Plus, it was probably the best time I’ve had at a work event… well, ever. But, since you provided such great service… you really should be tipped appropriately. I also made sure to leave a glowing review with your manager the next day. Buy yourself something nice.

S.H.

You glanced back in the envelope, and gasped - loudly enough that Robin stopped what she was doing, and joined you in her awe.

“Is that -”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s a shit ton of money.”

He had sent a stack of €100 notes - you hadn’t counted yet, but it had to be over €1,000, at least. 

“Dude, that’s like, at least two months’ rent right there, right?” Robin asks, flabbergasted.

“I - yeah.”

“Okay, be honest - are you a drug dealer? Is that, like, a side gig you’ve got going?”

You shook your head incredulously, gripping the money - the most cash you had ever held at one time in your life.

“No,” you admitted. “That would be a lot easier to explain.” Steve Harrington, you thought to yourself, what’s your deal?

Notes: a brand new fic! A ton of credit goes to my friend Em, who indulges my fantasies and headcanons with plenty of ideas of her own. Also, I've never been to Rome, so bear with me here. Also, please always read content warnings before reading each part!

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[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

quiet night in listening to you speak another language (it's so casual)

summary: it's the eve of christmas eve and nate's somehow found himself listening to you speak french (he's not complaining)

warnings: swearing, tension?, mentions of christmas celebrations

the series!

< this was originally going to be longer but i need to rehash the lore first >

In all actuality, Nate hadn’t actually realised that he’d even owned a book in French. He’d scoured past every title and spine of each single one at least three times before, and not once did he clock the French one. In his defence, the title was pretty misleading – that was in English – and still, according to you, the inside pages were all in French. 

French. He’d shaken his head, and if it had been anyone else, he might have scoffed and not believed them, but he was beginning to get the hang of reading your body language and facial expressions pretty well in the five or six months you’d been friends – and he’d yet to decide if that little skill of his was a good thing or not. On one hand, it let him know exactly when to shut the fuck up (now, for instance), and on the other…well, the more he thought about it, the more he was coming to the realisation that there wasn’t much to not like about getting to know you more.

But now? You standing in his living room because you’d both miraculously managed to get back to Cole Harbour for a few days at Christmas? If he was being completely honest with himself, it was kind of driving him crazy.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t work out why.

It might have something to do with the fact that he was a little bit tipsy; it might have had something to do with the fact that maybe he found he wasn’t entirely too bummed out that he’d just made a fool of himself in front of you; or it might have had something to do with the fact that he’d just realised your voice changed when you spoke French.

Was that something that happened to everyone who spoke more than one language? He couldn’t remember. He’d heard Jo speak French on a number of different occasions, even you when he’d met up with you in Montreal, but with the close proximity forced by lowered inhibitions from the alcohol in both your systems, he was just now figuring it out.

Your voice was deeper, but somehow softer. And Nate found himself wondering if it changed yet again if you spoke a different language. He found himself wanting to find that out. Actually, that seemed to be a recurring theme lately: you’d say something or do something, and he’d stop for a moment, his mind soaking in that new piece of information – the calm before the storm – until his brain would ultimately spiral into a smattering of different thoughts and questions, all of them pertaining to you.

He’d considered writing them down and making a note of them, but the risk of someone accidentally stumbling across such a list was slightly mortifying, and the only thing he could do was promise his future self that when things stopped being a little bit awkward (i.e. silences where both of you would remember that the person in front of you was still a stranger and not in fact an old, good friend), he’d just start asking them. Out loud. And without shame.

Take this moment, for example:

It was the day before Christmas Eve. He’d spent the morning dropping off presents to non-family in the local area (mainly Sid and some other childhood friends that he still kept in touch with), and along the way he’d received a phone call from you and walked home to the sight of you huddled on his doorstep, clutching a bottle of wine with the excuse that you thought it’d be more bearable to drink with someone else than alone.

And if he was being completely honest, when his phone first lit up with that incoming call, he felt himself perk up, a grin already on his face when he answered – of which he was entirely sure you could hear in his voice down the line. Though, that was nothing compared to the actual proof of you on his doorstep, nothing at all.

He’d had to keep his hands from shaking when he stuck the key in the lock, and stop himself from staring for too long, because you’d clearly come from some sort of dressy-gathering and were wearing pretty, formal clothes and you’d clearly had a good day already because you were practically already glowing.

Needless to say, it hadn’t taken much for the two of you to eventually settle in his front room, a Christmas movie on low volume in the background as you trawled his bookshelf with curiosity. That was when the little debate had started, and it was also when you’d rather unapologetically rolled your eyes and shoved the pages under his nose to prove you were right, because what else would you have done?

What would he have done? Probably the same thing. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen your competitive side, either, and if every little discussion ended up with you sitting right next to him, your legs folded underneath you as you held the book in front of your face, eagerly rattling out sentence after sentence in French – he figured maybe losing this kind of this wasn’t such a bad idea. He also figured he could cope with going a little bit crazy every now and then.

(Nate hated losing, that should be known.)

Though, one thing he found sufficiently annoying was his own inability to understand just what it was you were saying. He’d always wanted to learn French – he’d have probably ended up on a different team in his youth if he had known French – but he’d never really committed himself to picking up the language, not even when he met Jo. Sure, he knew basic phrases, as did most people, but this was something else.

Every sentence or so you’d have to reread what you’d just read in French in English for him to understand, and even though he wanted to know the translation, he also wanted to batter his child self for ever turning those lessons down, because hearing English after speaking French was incredibly…well, as much as he liked the English language, it lacked the unique beauty of the French language.

“Do you want me to keep reading, or–”

“Yes please.” He instantly regretted interrupting you – not only because he was honestly so eager to keep hearing you talk, but because of your own reaction to said eagerness. He didn’t even need to be looking at you to feel the heat of your amused stare into the side of his face.

Though, he also knew, at least some unconscious part of him did, that it was also because he liked being close to you in this way: a kneecap pressing into the side of his thigh, one sock-clad foot under said thigh, and your shoulder leaning against his bicep from where it had previously (already) been outstretched across the back of the couch. After all, you’d put yourself there. Initially to prove a point, but you hadn’t moved, neither of you had.

The glasses on the coffee table were empty, as was the bottle, and it was getting pretty dark outside already. The fire was on, While You Were Sleeping was playing, and he felt comfortable. Infinitely more comfortable than he would have done if he’d have just come home to an empty house, though he half suspected that if you hadn't been here he’d have just asked to have dinner at his parent’s house, but you’d sorted that too with a few clicks on your phone.

He rather liked having you around, it was something he’d recognised from the very beginning but he seemed to be reminded of it each and every time you saw each other – which wasn’t very often at all, not often enough: you were in Montreal and he was in Colorado, and very rarely were the two of you ever in the same place at the same time. Not unless he had a game in Montreal or you had to visit the chain in Colorado, or you were both at home. Other than that, your friendship was strictly limited to the confines of technology, and even then there was often a small conflict with the time difference.

Two hours wasn’t much, but with his constant travelling and your workload, you’d come to learn it was no easy feat trying to organise a video call – hence, texts just seemed to be the easiest thing to do.

Yeah, he found himself thinking, fuck knows when you’d get to see each other next.

It was why he took the chance of sounding like a bit of an idiot: if he wasn’t honest then it’d take forever to actually get to know each other properly, and he wasn’t going to have that, at least, not if he could help it too much.

“Does your voice sound different when you speak Spanish than when you speak French?” He wasn’t looking at you when he asked it, but the burning of his cheeks did intensify when you slowed to a stop, the book lowering to your bent knee.

When he did look at you, your head was tilted, a careful look of consideration melted into your features. You rested your head momentarily on his arm and he had to fight to not react to that.

“Probably.” You settled on, voice rough from the alcohol, “You have to use your facial muscles differently to produce the sounds depending on accent, rhythms and intonation patterns.”

Your head lifted off his arm, and for a second his mind went blank.

“What does your Spanish sound like?”

You raised your brows, eyelids heavy, “You want me to speak Spanish?”

He just nodded, fighting off a cheeky grin.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.”

“Cualquier cosa.” You muttered, watching his face carefully for any indication your voice had changed.

It was a little odd to admit, but there was something entirely endearing about watching Nate react to things – whether it be something you said, or something that happened. It was fascinating: the way his mouth would twitch or his brows would dip down or raise, or the different creases that would appear. It felt like a game trying to predict what would change on his face to formulate a complete reaction, but it was weirdly adorable.

Though, your favourite thing just had to be his nose – mostly because it was the one constant: you could always rely on the sharp slope and slight curve to stay the same. The relevance that had to your previous observation was little to none, but…you liked it.

This time his mouth twisted, and he glanced away from you momentarily, like he needed the extra few seconds to replay the moment in his mind to make the decision. In truth, you already had an idea of what your own voice sounded like speaking different languages: part of the learning process was to record and talk and relisten to improve pronunciation, and it was then that you’d realised for yourself that you sounded slightly different.

Spanish was a higher pitch, probably because you found it less comfortable than speaking English and French. English was a nice medium to refer back to, and French was lower even then, probably because of the accent itself, and the fact that you’d been speaking it just as long as you had English.

Still, it didn’t take ten minutes for you to notice the differences like it had Nate – it took a good couple of days.

“Spanish is higher than French and English.” Nate turned back to you, confident in his answer, and for the sake of not showing just how shocked you were at that, you nodded.

“A propósito, tu cabello se ve bien de ese modo.” 

He blinked, eyes lazily focused on your mouth as you moved, and his lack of reaction to the unfamiliar phrase prompted an unintentional blush to warm your cheeks – the sheer intensity of his eyes and the mix of his slightly parted mouth (either out of curiosity or lack of self-awareness) bringing something a little heavier to the moment. You attempted to distract him from the colour of your cheeks by nudging his thigh with your kneecap.

He swallowed, mouth closing, “What does that mean?” 

And because he usually had pretty pale cheeks, the flush of the alcohol blended seamlessly into any further reddening making it almost impossible to distinguish if he was the least bit embarrassed about you having caught him staring so unashamedly – if it weren’t for the tips of his ears burning.

“It means ‘by the way, your hair looks good that way’.” You muttered a little sheepishly, lifting the book up to hide the bottom half of your face, eyes peeking over the top to spy on his reaction whilst also trying to appear nonchalant. 

You watched his eyes widen a little bit, jumbled mind digesting your compliment, before running a self-conscious hand through his waves. They were probably the most messed up you'd ever seen them: unruly and a little floppy. It wasn’t exactly a sight that screamed ‘Nathan’ to you, but you weren’t lying when you said it looked good. He looked good.

Only, he didn’t seem to agree, because he frowned, fingers twirling the ends of his hair, eyes cross-eyed as he dragged strands down to his own view, “My hair’s a mess.” You heard him mutter rather confusedly, and you lowered the book once more, leaning your head against your fist, mindful not to knock his arm off the back of the couch.

And maybe it was because you were also tipsy, or maybe it was because you didn’t want him to start fixing it, or maybe – just maybe – there was a small part of you that needed him to know you weren’t teasing, convince him that you you weren’t just saying it for the sake of saying it, “Stop fussing with it.”

“I can’t, it’s pissing me off.” He groaned, using both hands to scrape his hair backwards, which did nothing but draw your attention to his features: the shadows under his eyes from the light and his lashes; the prominent hook of his nose; the precise groove of his philtrum; the shape of his mouth; the soft stubble decorating his chin.

You were staring.

And he opened his eyes, the clear blue startling you to look sharply at the TV, now acutely aware of the fact that you were tucked against his shoulder, pressed against his thigh and under his thigh, all in pretty close proximity to say you’d only known each other for a few months.

Usually it took you a while to get comfortable with someone as a friend, even in the physical sense: hugs weren’t usually a comfortable thing – you didn’t know why, you just weren’t like that – though alcohol was the only thing that made you more comfortable with that kind of thing.

The common denominator.

“When do you go back to Colorado?” You spoke as you turned your attention back to him, speaking the first thing that came to your mind to get his sudden frustration away from his hair.

“Christmas morning.” He sighed, thumb scraping his eyebrow, “What about you?”

“Christmas evening.”

There was a lull in conversation after that, the both of you quiet as you took in what it meant. Usually you hated uncertainty and having such a lack of control over future plans, but it was something you’d had to quickly accept and adjust to if it meant you wanted Nate in your life. You didn’t know when you’d next see each other after this holiday. It could be weeks, it could be months.

You swiped your phone from the coffee table, pulling up your calendar app and scrolling through the dates. You knew he didn’t have any games left in Montreal, which left (at least, up until the play-offs) it up to your own work schedule. Sometimes your boss would have you travel to other branches across Canada and the US to implement training or just to evaluate how different departments work in your division – maybe you could learn more efficient techniques etc. But that was rare – you’d been down to Colorado once in the last seven months, and it was only luck that Nate was at home then.

Which put you up to Summer if the Avs clinched the playoffs, and even then it was fifty-fifty as to whether or not you’d be able to take holiday, obviously not to just see Nate, but to spend time with family that you didn’t get to see as often as you’d like. Though, your holiday leave tended to be used for birthdays.

You switched off your phone, running a hand through your hair and placing the book on the coffee table, untucking yourself from Nate to sit next to him instead, a suitable amount of distance separating you on the cushions. It wasn’t an obvious gap that you’d placed, but it was appropriate enough.

“Two days to spend time with the family.” He murmured, arms crossed over his chest.

“I think that’s the thing I miss most about not living here anymore. But I’m always ready to go back to my little apartment – I hate feeling like a kid again.”

Nate hummed in agreement, though a part of it felt fake. He knew what you were saying, he understood where you were coming from, but it felt fraudulent to sit on his couch in his house and agree with you – you who had to go back to your parents and probably get pestered (lovingly) as to where you’d been all day, before getting told not to go to bed too late. He hadn’t had that in years. He’d spend days at his parent’s house, but he’d always come back here.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want.” 

He’d said it quietly, a part of him wanting to be drowned out over the sound of the movie, and despite wanting to come across as it being a casual suggestion, he couldn’t help the note of sincerity seeping into his tone. He supposed it was that that had you hesitating, eyes carefully roving his face.

“I have a spare room already made up, it’d be no trouble.” He shot you a wry smile, shrugging helplessly, before turning back to the TV to give you space to think.

Only, you just sighed and picked your phone up again, before throwing him a glance out of the corner of your eye, “Are you sure?”

He nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile, “I’m sure. I can drop y’off in the morning.”

[anonymousboxcar]

My Stanley (RWS) Headcanons

I’ve finished an AU series to do with Stanley, but I still find my mind going back to him! Here’s an assortment of headcanons I’ve developed lately.

A headcanon with an asterisk (*) next to it relates more to my AU series, while one with a dash (-) is more canon-compliant.

———————————

-Built for trench railways in WWI, Stanley only spent a month in the U.S. before going overseas. He still has most of his accent because he spent a lot of his early life working with American servicemen.

-(He also realized that it annoyed some people, making him lean into it out of spite.)

-His accent somewhat softened, however, after exposure to European accents. He knows a smattering of French he picked up from the trenches in France as well.

-He also picked up smoking cigars from the trenches, when an officer tried to use his firebox to light a cigar. Stanley protested until the desperate officer offered to share the cigar with him.

-The other officers thought this was hilarious. Soon, they too began sharing their cigars with Stanley. He enjoyed feeling like one of them and grew to crave the taste of cigar smoke.

*These days, Stanley doesn’t smoke any tobacco or nicotine products. It can’t hurt him, but he knows now the secondhand smoke could hurt the humans that work with him. His years in the mine forced him to quit anyway, leaving him free of cravings.

-Stanley doesn’t know much about “the States,” but he doesn’t like admitting that. He wishes that he spent more time in his country of origin, with Baldwin Works and his Baldwin siblings.

-All he knows about the U.S. comes from his late-night talks with American servicemen, who were eager to talk about and remember their homes. It was then he realized that most of these men were, in actuality, quite young. Many of them were still teenagers.

-He saw some flashes of action during his service, but he saw the aftermath of action more often. It was no easier on him once he knew the casualties were too young to even drink.

-A consequence of this is that Stanley developed a soft spot for children. Following his transfer to the Mid-Sodor, he’d take extra care if he had children as passengers on his trains, speaking with a gentleness that belied his usual bluntness. He wanted them to have the childhood that the soldiers of the Great War lost too soon.

*It wasn’t until after his rescue from the mines that he realized he’d lost his own childhood of sorts. Baldwin Works built him for war. There was no innocence, no idyllic phase. There was no time to grow into his frames.

*To an extent, his efforts to ensure happy childhoods for people was him projecting his own wish for a better youth.

*It’s still difficult for Stanley to talk about WWI and his military service. But after seeing he was more affected by it than he thought, he’s begun to open up about it more often. This continues to illuminate aspects of his years on the Mid-Sodor. For instance…

-Stanley had no conception of civilian railways before he came to the Mid-Sodor. He didn’t know how to socialize with civilian engines, crews, or passengers. As a result, he seemed rude and disrespectful. (Though he could be genuinely rude when it came to Duke, who he sometimes thought of as an old stick in the mud.)

-Derailments were also commonplace on the trench railways. Not only did he and his siblings derail often, but so did many other engines due to the precarious nature of their tracks and their light rolling stock.

-As a result, Stanley grew to perceive derailment as a part of daily life. He grew to “not give a dime about a few spills.”

-He was telling Duke what he honestly thought: that it was normal. And once Stanley determined the problem was with his gauge and not the track, he figured they would regauge him soon.

-The military repaired him because it was necessary for their operations. It was common sense. He didn’t think it was any different on the Mid-Sodor… until it was too late.

*Nowadays, Stanley still refuses to sit in the very back of a shed, or to go into a mine. He hates being confined to any place for too long.

*These are his limits. He accepts this, and so do his friends. However, after some thought, he begins exposure therapy of sorts with some cramped spaces. “I can avoid a mine, but what if I get stuck in a tunnel?” he asks. “I gotta learn how to deal with stuff like that.”

*It’s all very difficult sometimes, but it’s possible. It’s worth it in the end. Every end, he’s decided, is a new beginning.

[bilbosmom-belladonna]

Fic Writer 20 Questions

Thank you for the tag @insertmeaningfulusername! Sorry it took me so long, I was... well, I was adding more fics to my total 😂

1.) How many works do you have on ao3?

8 (hi, I'm new here)

2.) What’s your ao3 word count?

116,779

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

Currently I'm writing for Star Wars and Stranger Things. But who knows where the wind may take me!

4.) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Maybe 10% Better, Stranger Things (Steddie)

Trying to Escape What You Can't Let Go, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (genfic)

Plans, Star Wars: Rebels (Kalluzeb)

Less Talk More Rokk, Stranger Things (Steddie)

A Flimsi Excuse, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (Fox/Quinlan Vos)

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Absolutely! I love hearing from people and I love the chance to expand on my thought process during writing. It's like people showing up on my doorstep asking for a live director's cut interview (in the best way). I could talk about that stuff for aaaages.

6.) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

That would have to be my Jangobi fic A Mandalorian Comes Riding, which is tagged Major Character Death for a reason! Which is funny because I rarely read stories like that but... I wrote one?

7.) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I mean, there are more than one. For Star Wars it's Trying to Escape What You Can't Let Go, and for Stranger Things/Steddie it's either Maybe 10% Better or my schmoopy Christmas fic, Our Kind of Advent.

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

Uh, not yet?

9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I do! Though I haven't published any yet; stay tuned for January.

10.) Do you write cross overs? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

No, I only write dumb crossovers in my brain. They never have a plot, it's just me going "wouldn't it be cool if..." and then agreeing with myself that it would, indeed, be cool.

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge...

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not yet, but I am open to it!

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

I have not! To be honest I have no idea how cowriting works in a practical sense and I don't know if I would actually enjoy it.

14.) What’s your all time favourite ship?

I have never been an OTP kind of gal, so I won't commit myself. I am changeable, like the tides.

15.) What’s a WIP you’d like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I'm pretty new to writing fic so I don't have a mountain of WIPs (yet?) but I have a Foxiyo fake-marriage fic that I kind of over-plotted in the outline and now my brain doesn't want to sit down and actually write the story. Maybe one day when I've forgotten enough about it I will get back to it.

16.) What are your writing strengths?

I think I am pretty darn good at writing dialogue in general and banter specifically. I love a flirty and/or teasing conversation.

16.) What are your writing weaknesses?

I feel like I have to work very hard to remind myself to include descriptions of places. And like, metaphors. I don't really do a lot of metaphors.

17.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I've only done a smattering of Mando'a so far, but I'm open to it! I speak French so that's an option, though I don't see it coming up much in the fandoms I currently write in.

18.) First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars: Rebels; I wrote Plans in 2018 and then just yeeted it into the sun and ran away. Took me until 2023 to start "really" writing.

19.) Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

I'm very proud of Meet in the Middle, the RexObi fic that kind of felt like it came to me in a fever dream and expelled itself from my body without my input. It's kind of a strange little story but I like that it's a weirdo.

No pressure tagging @sexysmeagolshitposting @sankt-jesper @brooks-skirata (hiii!)

[tangleweave]

How much time do you spend thinking about a reply before you sit down to type?

What’s a grammar rule you notice other people ignoring the most?

Are you proficient in any language outside of your native tongue? do you write characters that speak multiple languages?

If you translate your own writing or the writing of others, what sort of obstacles do you face regarding syntax or dialects? Idioms or slang?

What time of day are you most productive with regard to writing?

Do you proofread / edit as you write or do you just wing it and save editing for last?

When roleplaying, do you pace yourself when answering replies or do you like to write for them as soon as you can?

[ Roles to Play / Accepting ]

Answered here. 🙂

Believe it or not, lack of capitalization tends to be the most frequent grammatical crime I see on this site. I bite my tongue when it comes to grammar mistakes though, because I know I'm a massive stickler. I can barely stand sending DMs that lack periods.

Proficient? No, sadly not. I would say I have some passing familiarity with Spanish and I know a smattering of words in French. Six of my muses can speak multiple languages (Coulson and Spidey are fluent in Spanish, Strange in French and Greek) [Bill, Venom, and Vision are 'cheats' in that alien origin and/or universal translation capability gives them access to virtually all languages they encounter], though I've yet to RP them as putting those skills to use.

I can count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of mutuals who've moved me to use a translator. I'm grateful to Google for the function. The words are precise enough that syntax isn't an issue, and I'm not familiar enough with dialectical differences to be aware of them, so I can't say they're an obstacle. As for slang and idioms, I use the ones I'm familiar with, though I limit their use to characters who would know how to use them correctly. It's actually kind of fun to write Bill or Groot, working so meticulously to convey their meaning without being able to use common colloquialisms.

Either late night or early morning. It's when there's the least amount of noise/activity around me.

I'll be honest, seeing the red SpellCheck squiggle underneath something I've typed annoys the everloving $#!t out of me, and I can't stand to leave it on the page as I continue writing. I'll go back and edit it before I'm done with the paragraph.

I honestly do prefer to write them as soon as I can, most of the time, because I fear losing the motivation -- or even the plot! I can't tell you how many times I've gotten a tag back after some untold amount of days, weeks, or even months, and I'll have to go back and read it from the beginning to make sure I didn't already write what I have in mind to reply with!

[catsnuggler]

Another week of being #2 on the list. It's good, it's really good, except it means there still aren't openings, or else I'd finally be hired as an apprentice instead of still waiting, even at #2.

My dad is still as transphobic as ever. Got all cozy with me like he just wanted us to spend some quality father-son time, just to drop a Jimmy Dore video on me wherein Dore & co. dumped on the feds for... *squinting* removing a trans boy from intolerant parents and actually giving him trans-affirming care. Of course, Dore, and the articles he cited, made sure to deadname and misgender the boy, and my father agrees with him, because he's a fucking third-positionist.

Not a quote, despite the use of the marks, but an essential summary of my dad's and Dore' s position, based on all the shit I've heard and had to pretend I agree with because disagreement just gets me punished and doesn't lead to him reconsidering his position at all: "The left has to dump minorities and marginalized people, and unite with the right, to get rid of the real fascists (even while "we" unite with Tucker fucking Carlson) and the capitalists, even though conservatives absolutely don't want to do that, and even though we recognize the political machine of a republic is inherently corrupt in such a way that change cannot be effected within the system. We can't be anarchists because, God forbid, that would mean conservatives wouldn't agree with us, and we might have to give a fuck about marginalized people, even though we recognize the evils of a republic. Also, because the US is wrong about everything, China and Russia are right about everything. Like liberals, we believe the world has righteous colonial empires and malevolent colonial empires, we just disagree as to which ones are, instead of recognizing the nuances and evils of all these empires."

My brother still struggles with the same issues he has for years, and a fundamental obstacle to his recovery is his fear of change, even self-directed change, which goes hand-in-hand with his fear of responsibility as such. I feel for him, but I'm also being held back by his state of mind, or at least by a frustration of concentration due to it, along with an intense and deep fear for his well-being...

I don't know if my younger sibling is still at the stabilization facility. I don't know how long our protection order lasts, which includes a ban on contacting us. I don't know if they'll be okay.

My dad, brother, and I still haven't seen the funeral of our aunt/grand-aunt. At least, we haven't seen the 20 minutes that our cousin translated for us from German (Swiss German, I think?) to English. I lament that I've never set foot on another continent, let alone visited her and her family in Switzerland, nor do I speak any dialect of German. I only know a few smatterings and phrases. I have known a few Germans for years, at least intermittently, but one has been a long-abiding friend... But I still don't know her language. Granted, my domestic situation isn't conducive to learning anything. It's more immediately important I learn Spanish, though, given where I live, but while I'm *more* fluent in Spanish than German, I'm not fluent. Anyway, my grand-aunt was a very thoughtful person, very kind and intelligent, a great lover of the arts, and her death was unfortunate. However, she'd experienced severe paralysis, and even loss of consciousness at times, the ultimate results of a terrible stroke. Life wasn't doing her any favors anymore; I'm glad she's no longer suffering. I wish I could get to know my grand-uncle, too, but he only knows, I think, French and German; probably some Italian, too. In any case, I don't speak those languages, so no dice. She had to translate for him the one time they visited years ago. I don't think I can become fluent and have sufficient correspondence to get to know him before his time comes, and it's not like some app-translated letters would really convey any heartfelt feelings... plus, he probably wouldn't want to correspond, anyway. Lonely as he surely feels, it's obvious that such correspondence would be futile.

I learned something about one of my ancestors who decided to come colonize here because of his conversion to Mormonism. He had a wife in Britain. Kids, too, I think. She didn't want to come along. I don't know if she kept the kids, I'll have to talk with my dad about that or check the family tree. He was so convinced that that racist, colonialist cult was right, that he abandoned his family. I probably have some cousins across the pond who descend from him, or at least from his wife.

How many people who should be kin are separated by distance, by oceans, by violence, by national barriers, by linguistic barriers, cultural barriers, or by poverty, or by being subsumed into cults, or into reactionary political dogma and bigotry?

Yet, even as I talk about family, and longing for lost connections and kin in Europe, I know I'd just be another foreigner. I don't feel at home on Turtle Island - who can, when they realize what they benefit from, what their ancestors did to other people and this continent, itself? Yet I don't know Mother Europe. I'm not Tulalip, but I was born on traditional Tulalip territory, though taught virtually nothing about them. I'm not Yakama, Umatilla, or Nez Perce, but I was raised in their traditional territory, though taught virtually nothing about them. Colonialism sure is something, doing it's damnedest to segregate people and keep down the original peoples. I'm not Scottish, I'm not English, I'm not German - my ancestors were. I'm "white". The colonies, and later, the US, cobbled that up as an alliance against the many peoples here who were (and are) all fighting for their homes, and against African people, who were enslaved, and are still persecuted by the state. I'm "American", but I see the unjust facade of this country, and don't want to be American. So where does that leave me? Confused. Very confused, and more than a little distraught.

So much unrighteousness, so many burdens and betrayals, so little belonging. Where do I righteously belong? Who can I rightly keep in my life, and who can I rightly deny? I don't know.

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Reverse batfam headcanons please centred on dickiee

i think about this entirely too often but yes yes of course.

languages were simultaneously the most simple and most complex thing dick had ever encountered in his long nine years of living. everyone in circ d’caleé spoke multiple different languages, and they'd lived in each other's shoes for so long that the travelling troupe developed their own little language, a mixture of everything and anything that could be understood. in addition to that, everywhere they went, dick picked up local dialects and accents with a tip of a hat and flip of his feet. of course, that made it a bit difficult to properly communicate when he had to live with the waynes. while bruce, tim, and jason could speak a smattering of other languages, english was what they defaulted to first and foremost. damian was fluent in both arabic and nepali first and formost, those just happened to be two languages that dick didn't speak very fluently. cassandra was just now getting the hang of spoken language with a bit of sign language thrown in. so the first few months of dick's shiny new home in wayne manor, everyone fumbled around words and phrases and vague gestures until they settled into hesitantly speaking french and attempting to convince dick to learn fluent english.

jason didn't like having a younger brother, he didn't. especially since that little brother was dick grayson. after all of the heartbreak and loss and weight of malediction bruce had lived with his entire life, jason could almost proudly say that he was one of the few people in the world to drive bruce out of his head, to get him to smile while taking jason out for ice cream, to sit him down and watch football with him, to make him laugh. and then here comes this upstart little brat who couldn't keep both feet on the ground for the life of him and thought football was actually soccer and who could make bruce laugh like it was fuckin' easy. who could so easily clamber up bruce's shoulders for a hug and beam as bruce ruffled his hair and sob into bruce's chest in the middle of the night when everyone was supposed to be asleep. jason had spent years coaxing bruce out of his shell, step by painful step, and dick made it happen with two backflips and a cheeky pun. it made jason's blood boil, the way dick never appreciated what he had, what he could do. the brat had taken to following him around, both in the cave, staring with awe as jason went through training routines, and in the manor, hopping into an armchair and asking jason to read a book aloud for him. it was irritating, just like it was irritating when dick popped jason's latest baking experiment into his mouth and loudly exclaimed how utterly delicious it was, just like it was irritating when dick dragged him to the aerial set bruce had installed in the batcave and asked him to watch his new routine. no matter what the rest of jason's stupid family said, dick was definitely not growing on jason. they could take their smiles and coos over the two "babies of the family" and shove them up their asses.

dick didn't understand why exactly bruce was so overprotective over the smallest things. he never let dick travel anywhere alone, regardless if it was as far away as france or as close as the one gelato place left in gotham. it was so unfair, because dick heard that bruce let jason run off to ethiopia of all places, and only went after him because cass had told bruce about it the minute jason left. he never let dick hang out with his friends, no matter how much dick asked to have a sleepover at wally's or go hang out with donna. on the rare occasions he said yes, they were only allowed to come to the manor. it was unreasonable, because bruce let tim run wild with young justice, despite the stories of tim going crazy after everyone in his team had died. tim wasn't crazy, as far as dick could tell, just a little paranoid and high-strung. also everyone on his team was alive, so dick didn't know what roy was talking about. cass didn't really want to go out anywhere, preferring to stick in gotham with her and tim's friend stephanie, but she had free reign over the city! and dick wasn't allowed to fight any major threats by himself at all. damian had battled deathstroke at his age, and dick was pretty sure damian was still in contact with the league of assassins, but dick couldn't even fight penguin with bruce insisting he be there for backup. he was so overprotective it made dick's blood boil.

being around dick physically hurt tim sometimes. not the crass (yet still somehow funny?) jokes jason made about dick jumping into body-slamming hugs and crash landing into laps so fiercely that even tim could feel it. but it hurt,,,,emotionally, so to speak. dick was just,,,,,dick was so much like stephanie, it ached. to be more specific, stephanie before. steph before she'd desperately bid for bruce's attention and landed herself at black mask's feet for her troubles. steph before the power tools dug her life away bit by bit until she was just gone. steph before she'd come back with green eyes and rage splitting at the seams of her scarred skin. steph before she realized that black mask had killed her and put tim in a wheelchair for the rest of his life for trying to avenge his best friend, and bruce had done next to nothing. tim would sit in his clocktower and force a smile onto his face as dick rambled on and on about the most meaningful of meaningless things, as dick shoved new foods he'd never tried before into his face, as dick laughed loud and bright and clear, trying to forget a time when steph would do the same. she smiles now, grabs lunch with him and cass, wakes up on days when there isn't any green in her vision, but she'll never be who she used to. and tim prays that there never comes a day when dick ends up like her.

dick feels,,,,,isolated sometimes, compared to the rest of his new family. or no, maybe isolated isn't the right word. set apart, maybe, or differentiated. both damian and cass had spent their lives being beat and broken and put back together supposedly stronger than before until they were almost wiped away entirely. steph and jason had both grown up poor and hungry and flinching back from their fathers, bending under gotham's merciless weight. (then steph had died, and come back worse than ever imagined.) tim had grown up lonely, had learned to fend for himself, had turned his name into a half-revered, half-feared whisper even when his legs were taken from him. maybe dick could have related a bit to bruce, but bruce had put himself through so much hardship and so much suffering in an attempt to keep himself from ever being hurt again. in contrast, dick hadn't gone through nearly as much. he'd been happy before the circus came to gotham, happy and cared for and loved. but that didn't mean he couldn't still help. he could sit and listen as they raged, because their anger couldn't touch him; he had no part in it. he could coax out smiles from their stone walls and laugh enough for all of them put together. he could take a name that had previously only been associated with death and heartache and turn it into the light and joy of gotham. he could dust the stillness from the curtains and breathe life back into wayne manor. and that, for him, was enough.

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @subtleappreciation @screennamealreadyused @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @bikoncon @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @xatanna-troy @red-hood-redemption @capricorn-stark @batshit-birds @comics-observer

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

Hello! I hope you are having a good day/night. May I ask for axis and allies plus spain, romano and prussia speaking to their s/o in their native language? Thank you very much! -Humble Anon💕

A very good morning/afternoon/evening to you as well, lovely!

When I began brainstorming these, I kept approaching this ask with the thought in mind that the S/O's first language is not the same as that of the Nation's, and aren't quite completely fluent as of yet. It made it a little bit easier for me to write, and offered me just a little more leeway to daydream. ^_^;

America:

Alfred really only does so when he's super tired, stumbling into the kitchen with bedhead to grab his first five cups of coffee, half-flopping on you as he greets you with a kiss to the cheek- ruined by his yawn- accent stronger than normal as he rumbles out a good morning, asks how you slept. He rambles lightly about his weird-ass dreams, making you smile just from his annunciations. At some point, he remembers to start translating, swapping over to the dialect you're most familiar with mid-sentence.

Canada:

Oddly enough, Matthew plays Language Tag more frequently than Al, but more often than not, it's usually an unrefined Franglish that has always irritated Francis and Arthur. (He enjoys this fact, just a little.) Around you, however, it really only flares up in moments where he's just so overwhelmed and in awe, taken aback by how much he's in love with you. Most of his petnames for you are in English, but those moments where you're both spending a lazy evening in bed, he'll happily shower you with all kinds of cheesey compliments in French, teasingly poking your nose every time you try to get him to translate.

China:

Yao has a habit of slipping back to Chinese on a whim, honestly oblivious to the fact most of the time. You've noticed it gets significantly worse whenever he's stressed, and you've learnt some very colourful nicknames for the Others over the years because of it. Despite his seemingly incessant need to pace while venting, you always manage to coax him into your arms, steadily working your fingers across his back, easy out the knots that had been plaguing him. Meetings always brought him stress, but after a good rant and a few moments of your grounding touch, he's sighing away all remaining agitation, slowly bringing himself back to you and apologising for the slip.

England:

One of Arthur's greater strengths comes in linguistics. While he would much rather prefer a courtship with an English speaker, he's not going to deny himself happiness just because of a silly little language barrier. He generally tries to keep everything on common ground, but his nicknames for you, and some of his more scandalising compliments, are murmurred in English. He always keeps it quiet, an intimacy reserved only for you. There's many a "dearest" and "darling" when first waking up in the morning, a languid greeting for the coming day. (Also, he swears mostly in English, so be careful if you decide to borrow any of his vocabulary.)

France:

Francis never hesitates to prattle in French; it's second nature to him. Sometimes, he'll hop between both yours and his preferred dialects several times in a single sentence. You know it's just part of who he is, and while it can be annoying some days, it is helping you improve your own fluency. There are also moments when he makes you weak, his expression uncharacteristically sincere, hands carefully clasping your own. He hums out a soft phrase, one you still haven't fully translated, leaning closer to caress your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek, any number of praises passing his lips.

Germany:

Ludvig, since Day One, has tried his best to make sure you're comfortable around him, and part of that is him keeping firmly to the language you are most familiar with. When coming across words he may not be entirely familiar with, or saying a more complicated phrase, his accent may sometimes come out a bit thicker than would be normal. The only time he really slips into German is when he's on the phone with folks from his government. You don't mean to eavesdrop on the latter, but you do enjoy how much deeper his voice tends to get when he's being "professional." Secretly though, you have to admit his voice when he sleeptalks is your favourite of them all. 

Japan:

Kiku constantly, and often unnecessarily, goes out of his way to make sure that you're comfortable, and despite your arguing against it, one of his ways of trying to do so is to only stick the language you both share. Frankly, you love hearing him speak Japanese, even though you really only hear it when he's at the store, and sometimes to the servers during date night. You love how gentle his voice is, his accent adding almost a sweetness to his words. Lately, you've been debating how to tell him that you'd like to hear it more, but for now you savour the little pieces you've collected over the past few months.

Prussia:

You learnt some time ago that Gilbert quietly speaking in German actually helped you fall asleep significantly easier. For that reason, he primarily only does so while either headed to bed, or whenever you're spending an afternoon together in the library. He'll sometimes read to you, but mostly he tends to ramble. You only understand a handful of the things he's saying and assume that he's regaling you with tales of days long past. In reality, he's running through his checklist for car parts he wants to fix, complaining about something stupid Roderich did back in 1648, and most often- when you're on the cusp of sleep, breathing deep and relaxed, his hand resting on your back- he's listing off every single thing he's come to love about you, not as afraid of his vulnerability when you're hardly conscious enough to hear it.

Romano:

Lovino spent too long relearning Italian to ever abandon it, even for your sake. He casually weaves it into regular conversation, the endearments, greetings, exclamations, and nicknames fluidly blending into the ordinary. He figured out quite a while ago that you actually enjoyed his "slip ups," so he's especially generous on date nights, about half of the words he's saying falling around you in his unique dialect. He once told you that you should be grateful, that he was blessing you with "the most beautiful language in the world." And begrudgingly, lost in his smile and the way the candlelight makes his eyes spark, you have to agree.

Russia:

Over time, one of your favourite pastimes with Ivan has becoming hunkering down on a settee by the fireplace, where he'll work on his knitting. The best part of these moments, especially on particularly frigid mornings where you've no obligations, is that Ivan will start to sing to himself, always pieces in Russian. Sometimes they're lullabies he's picked up from the royal families over the years, sometimes they're peasant rhymes he's known since childhood, and on some rare occasions, he'll sing something from an opera he fell in love with back in 1872. He'll often pepper in a few casual words here and there, always with a lightness to it, but you're absolutely addicted to how full his voice sounds when he sings.

Spain:

Antonio is actually the worst of the bunch. He can and will ramble in Spanish, a lot, so much so that some of it has permanently rooted itself into your own vocabulary, some of your replies slipping out without pause these days. He tends to catch onto his slip-ups quickly at least, quickly sliding back into your shared venacular with a quick apology. Still, you'll often hear him singing in Spanish, greeting the plants in Spanish, talking to the cats in Spanish. He's particullarly bad at losing himself whenever he's invested in a football match, or if you happen to catch him irritated about politics. Tonio has taught you quite a few colourful curses over the years, smattered with some day-to-day phrases you've both come to recite by default.

Veneziano:

Feliciano is surprisingly good at sticking to the language you feel most comfortable with, though he's notorious at mucking up the number of syllables in certain words. You have a strong suspicion he does this intentionally, this elongation solely designed to annoy you, especially as he always seems slightly bemused each time he does it. Regardless of how annoying he can be in your language, you do love eavesdropping on his conversations with his brothers, chattering away in Italian, his words and hands moving far too quickly for you to even hope to follow along. There's something so soothing in listening to him speak, even if he is producing 500 words per minute.

Thanks for the ask, Anon! I hope you enjoyed~

[naivesilver]

😭 CRYING, 🌹 ROSE, 🙊 SPEAK-NO-EVIL, 📣 MEGAPHONE, 🎭 MASKS and 🎵 MUSIC NOTE for Pierrot? :^)

*Montaigne voice* YOU SHOULD KNOW BY NOW I AM A CLOWN

OC Emoji Asks

😭 CRYING - what makes them cry? do they cry easily?

He cries ALL THE FUCKING TIME - that is, if a) you're someone he trusts to see his raw emotions or b) you're not to be given attention to and are as such doomed to get the full theatrics. He tears up out of happiness, out of genuine sadness and/or despair, out of pain, out of a need to let big emotions out, you name it. He can cry on command, too. That has come in handy more than anyone would expect.

🌹 ROSE - do they like valentines day? have they been confessed to before? have they confessed to anyone before?

I mean...he has tried? He loves Valentine's Day, would give out roses to anyone if he could, but he has been rebuffed more often than his advances have been accepted.

He's a good sport about it, though. He would never continue to pursue someone who has made their disinterest clear. He just mopes and pines from afar.

🙊 SPEAK-NO-EVIL - what is something your oc will refuse to stay quiet about?

To quote Samuel Vimes, Truth! Justice! Freedom! Reasonably Priced Love! And a Hard-Boiled Egg! akjhkjhjkahhs he is a protester at heart, okay? He loves getting center stage for more mundane stuff, so he often takes it as an advantage to be heard about what he perceives to be the major injustices of Storybrooke's society, be it through speeches or nasty ballads.

Also his jokes. You thought you'd escaped the latest pun? Think again. He's never going to let it go unheard.

📣 MEGAPHONE - how loud are they? what do they speak like? got a voice claim?

He is VERY loud. He can be heard from a notable distance and Leona can pick his voice out of a crowd within seconds. He has a very musical, soft cadence even when he's not singing, with a smattering of French here and there - I don't have a specific VA picked out for him, but I like to imagine him sounding a bit like Bilal Hassani sometimes

🎭 MASKS - do they act differently around certain people? what's different between the way they act around friends, family, strangers, etc.?

Like a metaphorical Shrek, he resembles an onion. There is the outermost face, the one he presents to the world at large, who is loud and easygoing and a people person; then as he gets away from the stage lights, he gets peeling off layer after layer too, until he reaches his actual core, who is a lot more insecure and frightened by some ghosts of his past that he would like to let on.

Not many people are allowed to see him at this level of vulnerability, though. Leona can, as do his closest friends, and he is warming up to Marco on that front, but...there's a long way to go still.

🎵 MUSIC NOTE - what is their playlist like? their favourite artists? do you associate a particular song with them?

Full of the unexpected like my own playlists. 80s hits, Taylor Swift, shaky records of semi-unknown bards, the latest viral earworm, the list is endless. He is not to be given the AUX cord in any circumstance, unless he's won a bet, and he can easily be distracted while someone else changes the song even if it happens.

Aside from the songs I shared in the past, I like to associate him to this specific Witcher song (YES, IT'S SO PREDICTABLE, WHAT ABOUT IT) because I imagine his own shows to have the same kind of snark and fire when he's properly roused. Also, funny scenario would have it that this is what he sings for Twinkle every now and then.

[spiltscribbles]

The One With The Soulmate

~Notes: Hiya loves! This is a one shot from my The One With The Marauders series and I’m just moving it here to Tumblr<3 

.-

Send ME A Friends Episode/Storyline  |  A Reblog Means The World!!

.-

“You are seriously insatiable tonight,” Remus rebukes, swatting Sirius’s hand away from where he was eagerly grabbing at his arse for another round of fun, positively delicious, bloody remarkable, mind-blowing fun. God Sirius thanks every deity above that he fell in love with such a secretive, little wildcat.

“Oi, wasn’t the whole purpose of this getting married shtick so we could do that whenever we please?” Sirius harrumphs, flopping back on their bed, starfished out as he watches his ridiculously beautiful husband dropping his towel to the floor and digging through their shared drawer for a new pair of pants. He really tries his damndest to not focus on how the dying evening light filters through their room’s open window, bathing Remus in this resplendent, almost heavenly glow, turning the tips of his eyelashes as golden as his hair and caressing the dips and valleys of his lithe muscles, accentuating the smattering of freckles on his thighs and the dimples he’s got on the small of his back. God Sirius can’t take his eyes off of him for even a moment. “Because if not I reckon I can sue for false advertising.”

Remus only sniffs at him, affecting a lofty air as he pulls on the green, turtle net sweater that Sirius especially likes on him for how it brings out the amber flecks in Remus’s emerald eyes and how it hugs his physique in the exact right breath to show off how bloody good looking he is. “We did that right when you came home from the firm, and then again in the shower less than five minutes ago. Don’t tell me it was that forgettable?” He asks with a pointed hiking of the brow.

“Never my lovely little croissant,” Sirius contends hurriedly, popping up from his lounging position to snatch for Remus’s boney wrists, and dragging the shorter man down to sit in his still very naked lap. “You are the best shag and handsomest fellow and—“ Remus claps his hand over Sirius’s mouth, probably trying to come off stern, but Sirius could totally catch the way the corner of his lips begin to flinch upwards— he’s endeared and Sirius knows it.

“Enough of that bollocks, else I’ll get a cavity.”

“But my beautiful crumpet, I want to sing your praises,” Sirius pouts mockingly, kisses the tip of his nose, while one of his well built arms slings around Remus’s slender waste, with his free hand slowly crawling up his inner thigh, thwarted nearly immediately by Remus standing up in a huff. 

“Like a bloody mutt.” He scolds.

“Only for you my delightfully delectable cabbage,” Sirius leers, finally standing up and taking the proffered slacks so to get ready for this little soiree Lily’s law firm is holding for their fiftieth anniversary.

“When do you reckon these awful nicknames will drop off?”

“You’re the one who said you like it when I speak French at you,” Sirius goads, smacking Remus’s pert arse as he struts into their master-bath.

“Oi, when it’s spoken in the ruddy language, and not some awful accent you’ve conjured up.” Remus counters moodily before he grabs for one of the colognes on their vanity, and Sirius only smiles privately to himself, so beyond besotted with him that it’s getting detrimental for his health, exhibit A being how he very nearly squirts his aftershave right into his eyes.

But God Remus is so worth it.

 .-

 The ballroom of the swanky, Mayfair hotel is dressed up in all the opulence that should be expected for a soiree made up of the throng of stuffy, stuck up solicitors that are present. Sirius is not impressed in the slightest, even if he can work the room for one of these parties as effortlessly as breathing thanks to his upbringing as the son of a Lorde and Countess; though he still hates the ambiance of it all, so much so that it makes his skin crawl to this day, but he promised to be here and at least Remus is right besides him, with Sirius’s hand in his back pocket and hazel eyes flickering to him every few minutes or so, as if attuned to Sirius and all his mercurial moods.

God he loves him.

“Alice and I have been shagging non stop,” Frank says, which works well enough to bring Sirius’s attention away from wanting to drag Remus behind the champaign fountain so to have his wicked way with him, and back to the conversation they’re all having; even if that means that instead of looking passive, Sirius is sneering over at Frank.

“Dacorum man.”

Frank apologizes, beyond glum. “We just don’t know what to do. The doctors say that we shouldn’t have this much difficulty with it, but we just checked before coming and still, nothing.”

“I’m sorry mate, that’s awful.” Remus tells him, and Dorcas nods along, but Sirius just rolls his eyes.

“We’re not even thirty yet for fuck’s sake,” he tells him. “Maybe ’s a sign for you both to stop trying to ruin your lives with a baby.”

“Shut it Sirius,” Dorcas hisses, kicking at his ankle hard enough to make him wince.

“Ouch, hey! I’m just saying, a kid’s a lot of responsibility, and commitment.”

“I’ve been with Alice since we were seventeen Black,” Frank tells him hotly . “I think I’m already properly committed.”

“Then what’s the point of the kid!”

Frank raises his brows, floundering with no words as if he just could not comprehend Sirius and all his Sirius-ness, which is fair, the only two people who’s been able to do as much turned out being his brother, (James), and his lover, (Remus)… Speaking of which…

“I’m sorry he’s acting like such an arse Frank, he doesn’t mean it.” the sandy blonde says cooly, giving Sirius one of his looks that he usually keeps designated for his more rowdy students. “Do you.”

Sirius glares at him before looking back at Frank and nodding stiffly. “Sorry mate, you and Flores would be marvelous parents, I’m just being prickish.”

“Nothing knew then,” Frank says, but it’s coupled with an amiable grin so Sirius knows he’s off the hook.

“Right, well why don’t I make it up to you by grabbing you a drink? Yeah?”

“See if they’ve got an iced white?”

“Me too Black,” Dorcas scoffs, doesn’t even bother to look at him to make the command.

“Righto,” Sirius claps Frank’s shoulder with a friendly squeeze, winking at Dorcas and glancing over at Remus before he goes. “Vodka tonic?”

“With lemon please.”

Sirius nods, still pecks him on the lips even if they’re sorta in a fight, as if Sirius could ever stay away for too long.

.-

By the grace of God, the open bar is mostly vacant, except for a familiar head of messy hair he’s considered family for over half his life.

“All right Prongs?”

James pivots around, drinks already in hand and grinning at the sight of him. “Wow, didn’t even recognize you for a tick there Pads, you don’t even have your hand plastered to Moony’s bum!.”

Sirius smirks, tossing him a covert two finger salute as he saddles up besides him and orders the round of drinks. “What can I say Prongsy, the cheeky bugger made me vow to have it there constantly, can’t just jilt my bloke like that, can I?”

James grimaces with a roll of the eyes, and Sirius’s far accustomed to that look of exasperation from him by now. “You’re a mutt.”

“Would you believe you aren’t the first person to say that to me within the last hour?”

“God save our poor Moony.”

“Oh God doesn’t have to worry, I’m taking care of him just fine.”

“Are you being gross about my best friend,” Lily asks as she struts up towards them, looking like an absolute diamond, even if her nose is wrinkled indelicately.

“Aren’t I always in your opinion?” Sirius asks cheekily, trying to balance the four drinks in his grasp before she just rolls her eyes and grabs the flutes of wine for Frank and Dorcas.

“Your impossible prat-ness aside, I actually think you being all grossly territorial over Remus tonight is actually a good thing.”

“THat’s a first,” James says, but Sirius can only glare, suspicious.

“Why’s that? Oi! Don’t tell me that absolute plonker Dearborn is here!”

“Oh God no,” Lily startles, shaking her head as if the thought was too insane to even fathom. “’S just the firm’s just hired this new bloke and I’m really quite positive that he’s Rem’s soulmate.”

“Lily! Don’t say that!” James balks, glancing over at Sirius worriedly, but he in turn only laughs at the magnitude of the statement.

“Jesus, Evans, didn’t think you believed in that ridiculous shite?”

“’S not ridiculous Sirius! And yeah, ‘course I do, like James and I are definitely soulmates.” She twists slightly so to kiss the curve of James’s jaw, making him go a bit blotchy. Poor git’s wrapped around her littlest finger.

“And what? You reckon Remus and I are just here to kill some time?”

“No, don’t be a pillock,” Lily reproves. “’s just he’s his soulmate is all.”

Okay, Sirius’s amusement has officially given way to irritation, and he twists his head so to scowl down at her as they make their way to the others. “Alright Evans, explain yourself then, yeah? Tell me how he’s Moony’s supposed soulmate.

“Well he’s French.”

“I speak French.”

“He’s got amazing, blonde hair.”

“I’ve got amazing, black hair.”

“He majored in literature just like Remus.” Lily says airily, knowing that Sirius can’t match that being an architect himself.

“Well— I read all that snotty shite Remus asks me too.” He huffs, and Lily answers with a shrug to her delicate shoulders.

“Fine then, I’m wrong. You’ve got nothing to worry bout.”

She struts off to their little lump of friends as if to cut the conversation off completely, and Sirius is perfectly find with that. She’s acting off her bloody rocker. But, if Sirius stands closer to Remus than usual for the rest of the night, or if he ends up kissing his temple whenever he feels like someone is watching them, or if he glares at one of the blokes working catering after deigning to offer Remus an empanada— Well that’s Sirius’s business and his alone. He’s not intimidated by this soulmate shite, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like he’s trying to stave off the bastard or something. He does all of that simply because Remus is his husband now, and he loves getting to show that off to all onlookers, even the ones who may or may not be Remus’s soulmate.

 .-

 “We’ve got dinner with Reggie and his latest girlfriend tonight,” Remus tells Sirius the following Tuesday, tossing the scarf his mother had gifted him last Christmas— with a matching one for Sirius— over his shoulder as they stroll around to the front of the Three Broomsticks for their morning coffees, hands linked and the early winter snow catching in both sets of their lashes. 

And God does Sirius love the sound of that, of their schedules overlapping, becoming one almost. Loves the idea that where ever one goes the other follows. Sirius knows that they’ve both have their demons, from Sirius’s neglect and emotional abuse as a child— occasionally sprinkled with a good smack or two if his mother was particularly fuming. To Remus’s complex of never feeling like he can ever be enough, and the way Lyall had acted for years after Remus had come out to his parents as gay, coupled with his multiple hospital visits as a lad until they finally figured out his lupus diagnosis. But they’re better, so much fucking better now. Plenty of the credit going to the remarkable group of friends whom they’ve picked up along the way, but another huge chunk was finding one another, and Sirius knows it in his bones. Knows that there couldn’t be anyone else for him, and sure he knows Remus sometimes deserves more, deserves better— But he’s chosen him, he’s chosen Sirius. He loves Sirius. And it’s remarkable and unbelievable and amazing, and Sirius holds onto the sensation of it with hungry piety.

“Love? Did you hear that?”

Sirius jolts back to the moment, and smiles softly down at him, kissing the corner of Remus’s mouth in penance. “Yes, of course gorgeous. I didn’t forget, I’ll be home early and maybe we can have a lie down before leaving if you’ve finished grading those papers?”

Remus’s laugh right then is like the most splendid instrument Sirius has ever heard, light and magical and warm as a bonfire. “Try to be good and maybe.” He tells him with a cold fingered tapping of his nose before he flounces off to the main counter to order for them.

Sirius doesn’t know how long he stares after him instead of grabbing the gang’s typical seats up front, but is startled when he hear’s a choked out noise coming from behind him and sees Lily, panic faced and eyes wandering frantically.

“Oi, what’s squirming up your arse Evans.” He asks her suspiciously, thick brows furrowed.

“I didn’t know you guys would be here,” she explains so quickly that her words begin to crash into one another. “Oh bloody hell, the one time I have a late start!”

She stomps her foot and Sirius shoots her a fully fledged glower. “What is making you so damn barmy for Christ’s sake.”

Lily parts her lips, but no noise comes out, because right then someone follows her indoors, a very familiar someone if only based off of descriptions. A very tall, very blonde, very smiley looking someone.

Sirius hates him right on sight.

“I’m sorry I took so long at that shop Lily, my mother loves these, how do you say, snow globes?” The stranger says, shaking one for emphasis with Big Ben set in the center.

“Ridiculous tourist trinkets is more like it,” Sirius practically snarls, which earns him a confused look by the blonde and a tired one by Lily.

“Right then, well Sirius this’s Thomas Martin, Thomas this is Sirius Black.”

“Lupin-Black now, ta Lils.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, blue eyes blinking wearily. “Nice to meet you, ah, Sirius.” He extends his hand, and when Sirius shakes it he makes sure to feel the bloke’s bones crushing together, just so he understands who exactly he’s speaking with.

The French arse eventually pulls away, pinning Sirius with a one eyed squint as he curls and stretches his fingers.

“Oh God,” Lily groans, leading them to their spot and depositing herself onto the sofa with absolute exasperation, and Sirius only continues to glare at Thomas as he sits besides her, growing stiffer once Remus returns.

“Oh, hiya Lils,” he smiles, handing Sirius his drink before flickering his gaze to the fucking Frenchman.

“‘lo love, this’s the newest hire at the firm, Thomas. Thomas, this’s my best mate, Remus.” She introduces quickly, the fucking trader.

“Remus?” Thomas asks, dimpling down at Sirius’s fucking husband with bright eyes. And Sirius has to curl his fists so not to punch him right in the sodding face, only growing angrier when Remus chuckles and ducks his head, like he was nervous by him! Like he thought he was in fact very good looking and very charming and his damn soulmate.

“Yeah, blame that on my mum, she was big into the classics.”

Thomas’s grin widens even more and Sirius feels the pulse on his neck beginning to throb. “No, it’s very charming. My Grandfather was very, erm, focussed on those studies as well? Begged my parents to name me Enkidu. They thankfully refused.”

Remus laughs fully now, and Sirius wants to a punch a wall. It took him literal months to make Remus laugh like that— genuine and glimmering and gorgeous. “Lucky bloke. Though I do have to admit that Gilgamesh is a favorite of mine, I think I’ve read the epic twenty times over.”

“Oh mine too,” the fucking Frenchman says, stepping closer to Remus and now in front of Sirius fully, gambling bravely that Sirius wouldn’t try to cap him right here. “If you ask me however, I do believe that he and Enkidu are more than just, friends.” His eyes flicker down to Remus’s lips for a split second and when he looks back up his face is positively leering.

Sirius sees red.

“God, so nice to finally talk to someone who gets it, the professors I work under are usually so painfully heteronormative that it’s crippling.” Remus tells him, smiling kindly.

“Oh, I’m the furthest away from that, I assure you.”

He winks! He fucking winks! Sirius swears to God! He sees the bastard winking at his husband! His fucking husband! What the bloody hell does he think that platinum band on Remus’s finger matching Sirius’s own is suppose to represent! Holy shit!

“I’d love to read anything you have on the subject, most things translated to French are a bit clunky.”

He’s trying to ask him out! Right here! Right in front of Sirius! Sirius is going to strangle his snail swallowing neck! Thankfully, Lily must sense his inner turmoil because she interjects their conversation right then, asking Thomas to grab her a jasmine tea.

“Oh yes of course,” he nods congenially, rounding back on Remus before he leaves. “Would you like a pastry? On me.”

Is he trying to ask Remus to eat it off of him? What the hell! It took nearly a year of them fucking for Sirius to get Remus to bring food in the bedroom, to get to watch Remus lick the chocolate syrup off his cock. And what? Does he think he’s even got a chance so quickly!

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Remus grins and a part of Sirius dies on the inside. “But I’ll come tag along, yeah? I love talking about this stuff and Sirius absolutely hates this ancient rubbish.”

“I do not! I think these dead blokes are very interesting,” he harrumphs, heated, with pouting lips and crossed arms. But Remus only tosses back his head with uninhibited laughter in response, which makes the fucking Frenchman beam that bit brighter.

“After you,” he says with a swish of the hand.

Sirius is going to be tried for murder, and he’s not even sorry about it.

“’s okay love,” Lily reassures him, patting his head dotingly. “We’ll find you someone new.”

“I hate you Evans!”

“Don’t blame the messenger!”

Sirius is about to tell her just how much he does exactly that, but then he catches on the fucking Frenchman putting his hand over Remus’s to prevent him from sliding over his card and all the fight leaves him in an instant.

 .-

 Sirius ended up not even going to the on sight location for the latest project he’s heading at the firm. He instead spent the bulk of the morning and part of the afternoon grinding his teeth as Remus spoke and barbed and giggled with the fucking Frenchman, like he was enjoying himself. And it was torture, watching the way they naturally clicked and got on— Literal fucking torture.

Sirius is still fuming as they sit in front of his younger brother and his newest bird, a pretty girl named Amal, who’s just graduated from a posh, fashion institute in the north of France. And Christ it’s like he’s being bombarded with the idea of that country all day.

“God that must’ve been such a wonderful experience,” Remus says, smiling as she leans forwards with a grin, speaking louder over the chatter of the busy sushi joint they had all agreed upon.

“Oh yes, the cuisine was simply unmatched, even if I did end up missing London, being home and all. Though I’m afraid my French is seriously dwindling compared to my English and Arabic now.”

“You should ask Reggie to practice with you, I know I love it when Sirius speaks the language.” He winks right then, making Amal crow with laughter and Regulus roll his eyes fondly. But Sirius stays peeved off with his hinged jaw, absolutely seething.

“Bet my hopeless brother recites poetry to you and everything, rose in his mouth and all.”

Remus laughs and Sirius suddenly has the horrid image of the fucking Frenchman doing as much outside the window to their bedroom, and is furious all over again.

“Well Reggie, Remus here does fancy all things French, foods and wines and blokes and just the whole lot.”

“Well good, we have something in common,” Amal snickers, lacing her hand through Regulus’s own over the tabletop. Sirius and Remus haven’t held hands since the waitress brought out their drinks, and remembering as much makes Sirius take a swig of his ail, hating everything.

“Yes well, you can say it’s Remus’s soulmate, France I mean.” He says, words beginning to slur. “He’s meant for French food and wines and blokes, innit true love? You’d prefer a French bloke?”

Amal frowns and Regulus pins him with a one eyed squint, befuddled. But Sirius only gathers his wits about him when Remus clammers noisily out his chair and tugs on his arm to follow suit.

“Reg order us the specials yeah? And a round of spring rolls,” he instructs, words clipped, and a small dent peeking out between his brows, like it does when he’s especially annoyed. “C’mon Sirius we need to talk.”

“But that’d be awfully rude,” Sirius retorts, already hates the flat, fuming tone Remus is speaking with, and feels good and properly nervous for the impending argument.

“They have one another, ’s fine. Now let’s go.”

Sirius concedes and pretends it doesn’t feel like he’s being lead to the gallows.

.-

“All right prick,” Remus huffs, rounding on Sirius right after he locks the door to the single user loo. “What has gotten you in such a bloody awful mood.”

Sirius sniffs, arms crossed against his chest and his head tilted imperiously. “I’m peachy.”

“You’ve been acting like an arse ever since we had coffee with Lily,” Remus counters, reproving.

“Actually love, if you didn’t notice, Lily left about halfway through you and the blonde’s little clucking session.”

Remus furrows his brows now, pillowy lips pinched and looking lost as hell. “You’re angry because Lily left for work?”

“Oh for bloody hell Remus!” Sirius erupts, tossing his arms in the air. “I’m angry because you met your ruddy soulmate and now you’re going to ride off into the sunset with’m and read French poetry together while eating cheese and bread and talking about highbrow shit like Aeneid!”

Remus startles backwards, long lashes flapping and mouth gaped open. “Oh Christ, you’ve gone absolutely barmy. You’re mad.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I feel like I should call someone about my husband going bloody mental.”

“I repeat. Not. Helping.”

“What in hell has convinced you that this random bloke is my soulmate?” Remus asks, back to being patient as ever.

“Lily!” Sirius shouts. “She told me that you and the fucking Frenchman are soulmates! And she’s right okay! She’s bloody spot on.”

Remus rolls back his entire head now, groaning out, “You are such an idiot.”

“Real nice Moons,” Sirius frowns, doesn’t even know how to feel now, the anger seeping out of him the longer he’s standing besides Remus, leaving an awful, clawing abandonment in its wake.

“Did you ever once think to ask me what I think of the damn concept of soulmates? Hmm?” He asks, single brow hiked with pure condescension.

And oh.

Sirius is stuck for a minute there, doesn’t see an out to the question. “Well…. Erm—“

“Well if you had asked, like a normal sodding bloke! I wold’ve told you that I married you because I know your my soulmate you arse! And it isn’t because of some ridiculous notion of stardust or providence or whatever else. It’s because we grew together, and we fight for one another, and even when you’re being a complete prick or we’re arguing like mad you’re the only one I want. Only person I can ever see myself with, the only person I want to try this hard for. The only fucking person I ever want to call my husband! My partner! lover!”

“Oh.” Sirius breathes out, all his fears being strangled by the conviction embedded into Remus’s words. 

And it’s like all of Sirius’s insides melt, like all the adoration and love and reverence he holds for Remus is pooling in his stomach and threatening to pour out his every orifice. And God he can’t even inhale, only scrambles to lock his hands around Remus’s cheeks and press his head against Remus’s own.

“Yeah? You really think that.”

“Hell, I thought the wedding and all would’ve made that clear.”

Sirius chuckles, only lightly, his thumb dragging beneath Remus’s eye tenderly. “God I love you, so endlessly. Please forgive me for being an idiot?”

“Yeah, I suppose I’ll keep you around,” Remus teases, bouncing on the balls of his feet to kiss Sirius’s nose and lock his arms around his neck, and the sensation of it— them knotted into one another— could never be replicated in a thousand years, not like this, not like them. 

.-

Other Wolfstar One Shots  |  Send Me A Prompt

[thetriggeredhappy]

Sniper reacting to Scout speaking French?

i love that we just instantly segued from dad!spy into just off-brand sniperscout content like i just really enjoy how little time it took yknow?

-

“Passez-moi ça?”

Sniper looked up with narrowed eyes. “...What?” he asked, confused.

“I said ‘pass me that’, what, are you deaf or somethin’?” Scout snipped, raising an eyebrow as he pointed just past Sniper at the salt shaker, accent firmly East Coast American, decidedly not speaking in what had sounded like fluent French. Sniper leaned to do as he was asked, passing the salt over, albiet with his eyebrows furrowed. “Thanks.”

“No... problem,” Sniper mumbled, trying to shake it off and go back to his breakfast.

Later that week, a similar situation. He was sure that Scout mumbled some long, drawn-out curse in French as he was assailed by gunfire on the field just below Sniper’s perch—or was that Spanish, actually?—but as soon as he tuned in properly, it was the regularly scheduled smattering of ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘bitch’.

He was so sure that he could catch it, if he just focused. The problem was that he would half-sarcastically answer Spy’s questions with ‘oui’, or otherwise offhandedly mock his accent, and while he was half-sulking over having missed it again, Scout would say something under his breath that for sure sounded like it was in French, but he never heard it clearly enough to be positive.

Maybe he slipped into the accent when he mumbled. Sniper knew his own accent got thicker when he was tired, or drinking, or talking to himself. Maybe Scout just had a bit of an accent that he’d picked up from his dad, and he worked hard to phase it out of his speech most of the time.

He finally caught it when he wasn’t paying attention—and ironically, or perhaps therefore, when Scout wasn’t either.

“The, er, Eastern Coast,” Sniper mumbled, eyes feeling heavy, glancing over at where Scout was half-sprawled across the table from him, a version of relaxed that looked a little less calculated than it usually did, probably due to the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey between the two of them. “What’s, er, what’s that, then?”

“Fuck’s that mean?” Scout mumbled.

“What’s it like? All cities and the like out there?” Sniper elaborated.

“I didn’t actually grow up out there, y’know,” Scout said, rolling his eyes either exaggeratedly or clumsily. “Just knew I might’ve, watched a lot of movies, started mimicking the accent and it uh. Stuck, y’know?”

“So you’ve no idea what the place is like?”

“Nah.”

“Not the slightest? Not, not even a bit? No idea about the—“ He idly tilted his glass around, trying to remember the right words. “—the, the scenery, the food, the people—“

“Again, I’ve barely been, comment le saurais-je?” he drawled, looking right at Sniper.

It took a few seconds, but then Sniper was on his feet, pointing in a way that was entirely accusatory. “French!” he said, startled, surprised, delighted. “Bloody knew it!”

A few moments of Scout just blinking at him, a little wide eyed, before he shook his head dismissively, glaring off to one side, face red maybe for reasons besides the alcohol. “My dad’s French, you think I didn’t pick up nothin’?” he scoffed, but his eyes flickered up and away, and his accent was more pronounced, more like cardboard.

“How long do you think you can get away with pretending you’re not as clever as you actually are?” Sniper demanded, feeling unusually brave.

Another glance, and away, his eyes just a bit wider for a second. “No idea what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he murmured.

“You speak multiple languages fluently, mate. That’s a far cry more intelligent than plenty of the other blokes here. And I’m willing to bet you suddenly ‘remembering’ recipes when you’ve got no choice but to cook isn’t nearly as accidental as you want to make it seem, and I know for a fact you’ve got to be sewing your own clothes when they tear—“

“How do you know Spy doesn’t do it for me?” he demanded.

“Because he tailors half of his own, as well,” Sniper shot right back. “And you’ve got nearly all the blokes figured out on how to talk to them properly, and how long do you think you’ll get to pretend it’s Spy who keeps breaking in here and fiddling with my things?”

“That last one is stupid, he loves snooping, he does that to everyone,” Scout said, rolling his eyes again.

“Except I know it’s not. When Spy breaks in somewhere, the bastard leaves behind the cigarette and cologne smell. It’s his one and only tell. You, however, don’t leave a damn thing behind.”

Scout’s expression looked pinched.

“It’s clever, I’ll give you that much. He’s a much clearer target for blame. But I was bound to figure it out eventually, and so are the rest.”

“I still dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Scout said stubbornly.

“Well, I’d repeat it in French if I could, but unfortunately, I don’t know it,” Sniper shrugged, and Scout rolled his eyes again, but this time he caught the very edge of a smile.

[heyitssmiller]

Chop It Like It’s Hot

A Worst Cooks in America O’Knutzy AU

The Sweater Weather Discord group helped me come up with this idea like two months ago, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. All credit goes to @lumosinlove for her amazing characters!

Chop It Like It’s Hot Masterlist

Chapter 1: Don’t Go Bacon My Heart

The Day Before the Competition

Interviewer (off camera): Finn O’Hara and Logan Tremblay for their introductions.

Logan: * taps on microphone* Is this mic working?

Finn: How do you still not know how to work a mic? You deal with them all time.

Logan: I signed up to compete in a cooking show, not to deal with your chirps.

Finn: You love ‘em. *winks*

Interviewer: So basically all we want from you guys is a brief introduction for the viewers. I’ll ask some questions, but most of this should be you guys just talking. We can edit things out later, so don’t worry about anything like that. Why don’t you guys start with your names and careers and we’ll go from there.

Finn: Yo, I’m Finn O’Hara, and I’m a terrible cook. *finger guns* Although I guess that’s a given, seeing that I’m on this show.

Logan: *mumbles in French, head in hands*

Finn: This asshole – shit, no – fuck! Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be cussing. This is a family-friendly show.

Logan: Dear God, please stop talking. I’m Logan Tremblay, the unfortunate boyfriend.

*Finn pouts*

Interviewer: And you guys play hockey?

Logan: Yeah, we play in the NHL. Gryffindor Lions.

Finn: That’s how we met, actually. Through hockey. We played together at Harvard, then got drafted to the Lions about a year apart. We’ve known each other for eight years and have been together for three of them. Can’t seem to get rid of this one.

Interviewer: And you’re not worried about being rivals on this show?

Finn: Rivals is a strong word… I mean yes we’ll be competing against each other instead of being teammates, but we know going in that it’s not personal. Just a little healthy competition.

Interviewer: So what made the two of you sign up for this show?

Logan: We didn’t. Our teammate Dumo and his wife Celeste did. They thought it would be funny. *pause* They’re probably right.

Interviewer: Out of the two of you, who is the worst cook?

*Finn and Logan point to each other*

Logan: You can’t be serious.

Finn: You once cooked pasta so much that it turned into literal paste!

Logan: You tried to cook pizza rolls in a toaster.

Finn: That’s what it said in the instructions!

Logan: It said toaster oven, you - *more French*

Finn: English, Tremz. How many times do I have to tell you that? I guess we’ll find out once and for all who the better cook is by the end of the next eight weeks, right? *mouths “it’s me” to the camera*

Logan: Whatever, Fish.

Interviewer: I think we’ve got all we need guys, thanks. Start time for tomorrow is 10:00 am, but plan on being here forty-five minutes to an hour early to get ready. We’ll see you then.

Competition Day

“Are you nervous? I’m nervous.” Finn stated, running a hand through his hair and looking around at the studio they’d be in and out of for the foreseeable future. There were cooking stations everywhere and he could already see tools and machines that he had no clue how to use. There were twelve other contestants that he didn’t know and the crew scattered everywhere, running back and forth trying to get everything ready. “God, how am I sweaty already? Is this normal?”

Logan rolled his eyes but still reached over to grab Finn’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Relax. It’s not so bad.” Finn smiled down at him, glad that they were at least here together. How in the hell did he get so lucky?

“Besides, you’ll be sent home soon enough. So don’t stress too much.”

Finn laughed. “Wow, I hate you so much right now.” He betrayed his words with a quick kiss. “You’re going down.”

Those green eyes flashed at the challenge, but right as he opened his mouth to respond-

“Good morning, recruits!”

All heads turned towards the voice. Three figures stood towards the front of the room: one they both recognized as the producer, who was flanked by who Finn assumed to be the chefs, seeing that they were wearing chef’s outfits. Chef’s uniforms? Did their uniforms have a technical name? Finn made a mental note to google that later.

Anyways, one was a short woman with dark ringlets tied back in a ponytail and an undiscernible expression on her face. The other was tall, blond, and had legs for days Jesus Christ-

“Welcome to your first day of boot camp! This is chef Dorcas Meadowes and chef Leo Knut; they’ll be your team leaders. We’re going to start with some footage of you all walking into the kitchen, so if you all would wait out there until you’re allowed to come back in. Cameras will be rolling, so be ready! After that, our chefs will explain the first challenge and then you’ll start cooking.” He clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s get this show started!”

“Why did they make us come in here just to send us back out?” Logan grumbled, following the other shuffling contestants out into the hall.

“Probably easier to give directions to the main studio instead of saying ‘hey, just wait out in the hall.’”

Logan hummed noncommittally. “I guess.” He wasn’t overly excited to be here; most of this (besides the initial push by Dumo and Celeste) was Finn’s idea. And god knows he could never say no to Finn. One look at that pout and brown puppy-dog eyes and he was done for. Logan didn’t like cooking, but he did like Finn. And they’d probably remember this for years to come. It didn’t matter what he was doing, as long as he was with Finn and making memories with him he’d do just about anything.

“Wonder what the first challenge is.” Finn mused, his eyes locked on the doors.

Logan laughed. “Always so impatient.”

“I’m a New Yorker,” Finn grinned, leaning into his accent. “It’s in my blood.”

The doors opened and contestants began filing back into the kitchen. Finn made sure to wave enthusiastically at the chefs with a wide smile. Logan noticed the tall one (god, he’d already forgotten the guy’s name) give a little wave in return as the other chef commanded the attention of everyone else in the room.

“Good morning, recruits, and welcome to boot camp! I’m chef Dorcas Meadowes, and this is chef Leo Knut. He’s the rookie of our crew, but don’t worry – he’s still qualified to teach all of you. Even though that’s not saying much.”

There was a smattering of laughter and chef Leo smiled, revealing dimples Logan could see from where he stood. “Hey, y’all. I’m very excited to see what makes all of you qualified to be put on this show. Who knows? Maybe you’ll give me more gray hair.” Dorcas laughed and ran her fingers through the tuft of gray hair at his temple.

“When did you get this? I don’t remember seeing it when we were in culinary school. Is it from Iron Chef?”

“Nah, this is from having Gordon Ramsay come to my restaurant.”

“Truly a terrifying man.” She shuddered. “Anyways, you guys be nice to this giant ball of sunshine. Even if he’s new, he’s still able to eliminate you from this competition.”

“In order to pick our teams, we need to see what kind of skills you have.” Leo winced. “Or don’t have. So today, we want you to make your favorite dish. Easy enough, right?”

“Oh god,” Finn murmured into Logan’s ear. “What’s my favorite dish? Do I even have one?”

“Finn.”

“You all have an hour to complete this task.” Dorcas said, glancing down at her watch. “And your time starts… now!”

“Fuck.” Finn stated emphatically, dashing off to the pantry.

Fuck was right. God, what was Logan going to make? He was wracking his brain for something while he grabbed two aprons from the back. He tossed one to Finn and took the station beside him before hurrying to the pantry. Chicken was always a safe bet, right? Celeste made a barbeque chicken recipe that was to die for. That couldn’t be too hard. It was just chicken and barbeque sauce. And maybe green beans on the side? He could get those canned ones and they’d taste fine if he rinsed them. This was fine.

He guessed on the temperature for the oven. 350 seemed good. Then he dumped two chicken breasts into a pan, poured the barbeque sauce over them, and put them into the oven.

“What are you making?” Logan startled at the soft voice, turning to see chef Leo at his station.

Blue eyes.

Logan blinked, Leo’s question forgotten. “Quoi?”

“You speak French?”

Why was his brain refusing to work all of a sudden? Get it together, Tremblay. “Uh, yeah.”

“What are you making?” Leo asked for the second time, but now it was in French. Weirdly worded French.

“Barbeque chicken.” Logan responded in French, then switched back to English. “What in the world was that?”

Leo flashed him a grin. “New Orleans, born and raised. We speak French there, too. Now tell me how you’re making that chicken.”

“Uh.” He had never said the word ‘uh’ so much in one sitting. Merde. “I put it in a pan, spread barbeque sauce over it, and I’m cooking it at 350.”

“How do you know when it’s done?”

Was this a trick question? It felt like a trick question. “Uh.” Fuck. “It has to get to a specific internal temperature, right?”

The chef nodded. “And what’s that?”

“145?"

Something in Leo’s expression flickered, but Logan couldn’t figure out what it meant. “Well, good luck. Logan, right?”

“Yeah.”

“See you at the judging table.” He said with a dimpled smile before moving to Finn’s station, which was already a mess. “Oh my. How are you doing over here?”

Finn laughed a bit hysterically. “Not good. Not good at all.”

“Ok. What’s going on?”

“Well I’m trying to make carbo’hara, and –“

“Really, Fish?” Logan called from his station. “That’s what you’re making?”

“What’s carbo’hara?” Leo asked as he watched Finn put bacon in a pan.

“Oh,” Finn waved a hand carelessly. “It’s just carbonara, but a pun on my name, O’Hara. Get it?”

Leo laughed, crossing long arms over his chest. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, but it makes me happy. My parents used to make it every night before my brother or I had hockey games.”

“Oh, that’s right. You guys are hockey players.”

“Go Lions!” Finn cheered, taking a spoonful of butter and throwing it into the pan with the bacon.

“Are you putting butter on bacon?” Leo asked with a raised eyebrow.

Finn responded with full confidence, “I didn’t want it to stick to the pan.”

“Ok. Got it. I… I look forward to seeing what you make.” Finn watched as Leo bit his lip and tried his hardest not to laugh.

Cute.

Finn felt his cheeks flush and blamed it on the steam from the pasta.

The last thirty minutes of the task were absolute chaos, but both boys got it done. Finn’s looked messy, which accurately summed up his cooking style. Logan was pretty proud of how his looked; he just hoped it tasted good. He gave Finn a smile and a fist bump. “Ready to be judged?”

Finn laughed, looking down at his plate. He grimaced. “Not really.”

“We’re all bad cooks. Chances are someone else’s dish is worse than yours.”

“That… actually helped. Thanks.”

***

 Finn was chosen to be judged before Logan. He brought up his plate with a sheepish smile and placed it on the table in front of the chefs. Dorcas raised an eyebrow while Leo prodded the pasta with his fork.

“It’s carbo’hara.” Finn stated with pride.

“Well, Finn…” Dorcas met his eyes. “This looks like a mess, but let’s see how it tastes.”

Finn cringed as they both took a bite of his food. Dorcas frowned as she chewed and Leo tilted his head, a confused expression on his face.

“I don’t know how you did it, but this solidifies in my mouth like glue.”

“Oh god, please don’t eat any more.”

“You definitely put a lot of effort in and you have a lot of potential,” Leo said with a small smile. “I think you were just a little too ambitious for this first round and it got away from you.”

“That’s fair. Thanks for the input.” Finn grabbed his plate and made his way back to his station. He wasn’t too upset by those reviews – he already knew he was a bad cook. But he had potential, so at least he had that going for him.

Logan grinned at him back at his station. “I can’t believe you served the judges glue pasta.”

“At least I’m not serving them canned green beans.”

“They taste just fine, thank you very much.”

“Lo, they’re professionals. You’re not getting away with something lazy like that.”

He definitely got in trouble for using the canned green beans. Dorcas looked down at them like they were worms. Leo gave him the ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ look, which was even worse, please don’t look at me like that.

“Canned food is a no-go, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“And this chicken isn’t cooked all the way.” Leo said, showing him the pink meat. “You said earlier that you’d cook it until it reached 145 degrees, but chicken needs to reach 165 at a minimum.”

“I’m sure it tasted fine, though.” Dorcas added. “You can’t really go wrong with pre-made barbeque sauce and chicken.”

Ouch. Logan grabbed his plate. “Right. Thanks.”

Finn was predictably cackling at his station. “Tremz, they couldn’t even eat yours. Celeste is going to be so disappointed in you.”

“Shut up.”

 ***

As soon as they were back into their hotel room, Finn kicked his shoes off and faceplanted into the couch. “I can’t believe that took so long.”

“Yeah,” Logan sat down and grabbed his take-out. “Who knew cooking all day would make us so hungry?”

Finn made grabby hands at the other food container. Logan laughed and handed it to him. “I haven’t been this hungry since playoffs, fuck.”

They ate in silence and were finished in record-setting time. Finn collected their trash and stood up to throw it away. “So blue team, huh? I’m kind of surprised they put us on the same team.”

“Me too. But Leo seems like a good teacher, so I’m glad we’re on his team.”

“Yeah, he seems so young, too.” Which sounded ridiculous to say; Leo couldn’t be that much younger than them. “If he’s already winning competitions and starring in cooking shows at that age, he must be pretty good.”

“Winner of Iron Chef America, Chopped, Guy’s Grocery Games…” Logan read off his phone with a low whistle. “He graduated culinary school early and opened his own restaurant a year later.”

“Damn.”

“There’s a video of one of his competitions on here.”

“Play it!” Finn said excitedly, flopping back down on the couch and peering over his boyfriend’s shoulder. Logan gave him a strange look. “What? Maybe we’ll learn something useful.”

“I think this is going to be way too complicated for us, but ok.”

So they sat on the couch watching cooking competitions for hours, learning skills and techniques that went way over their heads. Logan wordlessly switched to Leo’s cooking show Cajun Cooking, watching episode after episode of the blue-eyed chef teaching traditional New Orleans recipes.

Little did they know that halfway across the city in his own apartment, Leo Knut was watching Youtube highlights of the Gryffindor Lions, keeping a sharp eye out for number seventeen and number ten.

[rosella-writes]

writing tag game

Thank you so much for the tag @noire-pandora, @kittynomsdeplume, @melisusthewee and @emerald-amidst-gold <3

Whoooo boy, here we go.

How many works do you have on AO3?

17, but quite a few are just one-shots. I only have a couple long-fics, mostly because my poor ADHD brain is cruel to me.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

190,052, but if I hadn't orphaned my old (and embarrassing) Skyrim and Sherlock fanfics it'd probably be closer to 300,000.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

honey just put your sweet lips on my lips - 579

i couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted - 56

a fuller feeling (a brighter burst) - 54

Eunoia - 40

i'd wanna be felled by you, held by you (fuel the pyre of your enemies) - 39

(And to be perfectly honest, my most popular fic is by far my worst. I spend so much more time carefully crafting for Eunoia than I do anything else, but the little following it's picked up has made it worth more to me than all the kudos and comments on "honey.")

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do! I used to be terrible about it, mostly because the vast majority of comments I once got was hate (I wrote for a weirdly unpopular wlw pairing). Now I make it a point to respond to every single one when I can, even the short ones, to thank them for taking the time. It means so much.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

It was a drabble for the r/dragonage writing thread, actually! The premise was a font in the Black Emporium that would show your OC the outcome of a decision made differently. I wrote Eliana Lavellan from Eunoia discovering what would have happened if she'd fought with Solas in Crestwood until he told her the truth... and its outcome was worse than the timeline where he left her and kept his secret. You can read it here (it's about 1200 words, nice and short).

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

My various Solavellan pairings don't get happy endings. Evelyn Lavellan was more of a narrative tool to explore Solas with, so her ending was cut short. Eliana doesn't have her ending yet, but it will be bitter and painful. My happiest ending was for my Bella/Rosalie pairing for Twilight - Bella became a vampire and lived happily ever after with her wife.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't, unfortunately! Since my days on tumblr and FFNet, S*perWh*L*ck left a terrible taste in my mouth when it came to crossovers. I'd be open to it one day if I can find fandoms chill enough.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

As I previously mentioned, yes. In my Bella/Rosalie fic, I made it a point for Rosalie to love all the parts of Bella that weren't conventionally beautiful. My Bella is also a dark-skinned black woman, and the intersection of racism, colorism, and misogyny where it concerns attractiveness was something I thought worth including because I didn't see enough of it in fic. I wanted to highlight all the things that don't get enough attention or are actively reviled, like hyperpigmentation, stretch marks, natural hair, soft bellies, areolas and vulvas that aren't perfectly symmetrical or small, pubic hair and armpit hair and little hairs around nipples - things that I love about AFAB people! I got a lot of comments on my smut chapters calling Bella disgusting, or me nasty for choosing to include those traits. I deleted every single one.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

So much. I love exploring pairings or power dynamics that people wouldn't necessarily consider, like a strong female warrior Lavellan domming Solas, or Solas topping Blackwall. I wanted to show a black woman in an interracial relationship with a white woman where she got to be soft and loved gently, where she got to be quiet, bookish, and looked after instead of expected to be the loud, strong stereotype that we pin black women into. I wanted to show the power of masculinity in an elven mage who loves a warrior woman (Solas/Cass), or the nurturing side of domming in a relationship between a pan giant and a bisexual elf (Iron Bull/Solas).

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, tbh. I turn up to fandoms a decade late, so usually by the time I get any traction the fic-stealers have done their dirty work and leave me alone.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I haven't! I hope to one day write a fic in Greek for my best friend, though. They deserve to read about Solas in their mother-tongue.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope, but have done some plotting with aforesaid Greek friend.

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Solavellan, absolutely. Any variation, honestly - I've loved m!Solavellan, f!Solavellan, as well as any variation including nonbinary, trans, or other interpretation of the relationship. Solas sees and loves the spirit, and I love the idea that its vessel doesn't matter so much to him. I headcanon him as a he/him agender bisexual, for what it's worth.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I've technically marked i couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted as complete, but it cuts off right before Adamant and was intended to be a full Solavellan story. However, I just didn't care for my rogue f!Lavellan OC very much, and didn't think she matched Solas well. I developed an OC that I enjoyed writing much better and rolled with it. So, I'm sorry Evelyn Lavellan, but your story is frozen with the two of you happy in bed. Solas will never break up with her so long as I don't write that part, right?

What are your writing strengths?

I love dialogue and crafting character voices! Getting a comment that I've managed to portray a favorite character so well that they can hear their voice in their head as they read? Priceless.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Exposition vs description. I want to show instead of tell, but developing the right environment for a scene can be tough for me. It's so much easier to write that the characters are cold and the ground is wet than to wax poetic about dripping leaves and frosty air. But I'm working on it.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I'm obsessed with it. I love little bits sprinkled through that make sense with context, and culturally speaking it would feel wrong not to sometimes! I'm also the type of person that's always been obsessed with languages, and instead of becoming fluent in one I've learned a smattering of a whole lot. So any opportunity to sneak in some French, Welsh, German when it makes sense? I'm taking it. And don't even get me started on Elvhen or Qunlat because I will sprinkle that shit like biodegradable glitter.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Okay I'm gonna flout this question and just write my fandoms in order:

Sherlock (circa 2010 - 2014)

Skyrim (2016)

Twilight (obsessed from 2005 - 2010 but didn't write for it until 2019 or 2020 when Midnight Sun released)

Dragon Age (March 2021 and easily the most fanfic I've ever written ever)

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

My favorite one to write was probably i'd wanna be felled by you, but my favorite to reread is Eunoia. It's most likely the most honest, least presumptuous thing I've ever written, and it's easily the longest thing I've ever attempted. I'm very proud of it.

As far as tagging goes, I've been very rude lately with it by tagging people late in the day, or tagging folks that I haven't tagged before, and am still refiguring out tumblr etiquette (since I haven't been here since the days of the skeleton war and the Mishapocalypse lmao), so presume if you see this you're tagged to participate. With no expectations nor pressure, though, I'll tag @dreadfutures, @varric-tethras-editor and @blarfkey if they'd like. <3

[hyperfixationtimego]

Happy little hcs to atone for my sins

Taka and Hina are study buddies

Sometimes Aoi manages to get Taka off track because she’s just so enthusiastic and wants to hear about all of her friends’ hyperfixations and special interests

37.2 minutes later

Taka’s infodumping about how he despises moral philosophy but also thoroughly enjoys it bc that’s how moral philosophers are

Or he’s infodumping about political science and debate tactics and how speeches were effective or not for various reasons

Sakura and Mondo work out together

It started off as a coincidence when they were in the gym at the same time but it kept happening so they called it a schedule

They talk about their SOs and they’re smiling

Sakura teaches Mondo certain stretches and exercises to help relax different muscle groups for whenever he pulls a muscle or has a flare up from the thing with the bikes

Leon constantly asks Chihiro to turn alter ego into a vocaloid or at least program a bit of that tech into their system

Bc he would rather shave his head again than talk to Sayaka about producing music

He just has so many ideas

And it’s cool when there are kinda punk rock songs that are covered in an 8-bit or a vocaloid style

Byakuya and Celeste have a small series of bets with low stakes about what their inferiors classmates will do to lead up to them jingling away morosely like the fools they are

Sayaka shamelessly advertises her group’s mercy to her classmates and friends

Everyone gets their nails painted at some point

Nobody knows how Byakuya got roped into it but it worked

Makoto has rainbow loom

Atua forgives you

anyway YEAH LEGIT?

Hina has fully and thoroughly fallen in love with all of her friends and classmates’ expressions whenever they’re talking about something that excites them omg 🥺

she sees someone rambling and having a good time and hears the enthusiastic pitch of their voice as well as the general Vibe™️ that they’re giving off and she just???? [Y E A R N]

:)

and also just???? her and taka being study buddies is so valid oh my god??? they’re really close because of it!!! And Taka always loves hanging out with her because he knows she’ll let him just Talk??? and he adores that about her????? And she’ll be ENGAGED which!!!!!! oh my god!!!!?????

hi in this house we love and adore hina

And Sakura and Mondo???? absolutely?????

they have friendly competitions over who can lift the most weights/do the most reps/etc. (they do it sparingly, ofc! bc Sakura at least knows that they’ll both be subconsciously trying to beat the other as opposed to listening to what their bodies need in the moment. Sakura is the single braincell of class 78 no I won’t take it back because it’s true)

and they totally doooooo like they both get such cute loveydovey pining expressions whenever it’s Their Turn™️ to discuss the latest cute thing their partner(s) did. and listening to the other talking???? oh my god it’s literally the neatest thing????

Sakura looking at Mondo: I would die for this man

Mondo looking at Sakura: this woman is literally beauty and perfection in human form

THEY’RE SUCH GOOD FRIENDS OKAY???

also chihiro joins them for training sometimes!!!! She obviously isn’t able to do as much as the other two are, but both Sakura and Mondo are always so proud of her progress??? They’re like “you are so cool and strong do you know that??? you better know that”

and speaking of chihiro hdbdvdvdvdvdvdvdvd on GOD Leon will Not leave them alone abt it and they’re just like

“y....you do NOT have the attention span,.......you’re gonna get frustrated within like the first five minutes......and then I’ll have done all that work for nothing..............”

but Leon’s >:( no I won’t!!!! music is my Passion!!!!!!!!

so it’s like *sigh* okay

and anyway leon genuinely does rlly like it???? like he gets burned out very easily and can only compose things in short bursts, but he’s always so so so proud of the finished products??? (Even if nobody else likes it but shush 😌)

and it makes chihiro :D to know that something she made (even if it was done with reluctance) has brought one of her closest friends so much happiness????? she’s also like good for Leon but also if he ever bothers them about something like that again they are Literally Going to Snap but that’s another story for another day vwv

AND YEAH LIKE. HE DOESN’T MIND TALKING TO HER ABT MUSIC IN GENERAL BECAUSE IT’S AN INTEREST THEY SHARE (quite possibly one of the only times they will have a conversation without one constantly insulting the other ❤️) BUT. ADMITTING TO HER THAT HE NEEDS HELP WITH IT IS THE WORST HE HATES IT HE HATES IT HSBDBSBD

god okay so. his first impression of her when they had just come to hope’s peak and met for the first time was “oh my god!!! she’s a pop idol!!! so she must know a lot about music!!! maybe she’ll help me become a popular musician!!!” and her immediate reaction when she first heard him ask was to literally roll her eyes and he was like oh okay fuck her actually

and then slow burn enemies-to-friends 💛

WHEBDVSVS CELESTE AND BYAKUYA JUST BEING RICH ASSHOLES IS SO FUNNY??? LIKE THEY HAVE WEALTH SOLIDARITY AND THEY ACT ALMOST LIKE alright your status makes you worthy of my time, I suppose-

they’ve had bets on everything from how many times kirigiri will pass out from exhaustion by the end of the school day, to how long it’ll take before Kirumi finally Loses Her Shit, to how many people will be harmed by Komaeda’s luck while hanging out with him.

Mfs about to die smh

and dhdbwvwbsvwvwb yeah like??? sometimes a normal conversation with maizono will turn into her being like “yeah, and by the way, if you’re looking for a change of style and wardrobe, you should check out the newest shirt my band just released as part of our merch drop, and-”

Makoto is the one who gets baited into her merch ads most often sndbsbsbdbdbw

even mentioning the word “merch” around Leon or Kaz will earn her a lot of groaning and sighing, and occasionally a pillow or other soft object being hurled at her face 💛

oh my god they all have a manicure spa day,,,,,,,class bonding 🥺

hdbdvdvdv they got Jill to break into his dorm and kidnap him ngl like the specifics they gave her were something along the lines of “use as much force as you need to without killing him” and she was like “DONE”

and okay I’m not gonna talk abt everyone’s nails but now I’m thinking about it and like-

Sayaka gets like a lighter violet background with gold and white stars smattered around them, more concentrated in some areas than others, and it’s generally very pretty 🥺

chihiro’s are a different solid pastel color on each finger!!! it’s very kidcore and fun and they love it so muchhhh!!!

leon gets a little self-conscious when it’s his turn because his nails are highkey disgusting from all the time he spends playing baseball - there’s dirt trapped under them and everything so he’s just like hhhhhhh anxiety go brrrr but anyway he gets solid black because he’s edgy and cool like that 😎

I think Taka gets a French manicure with little dark red flowers pressed towards the tips because!!! simple yet pretty!!!

Celeste probably takes the longest because her request is sooooo complicated like it’s black and red and long ass acrylics with overlapping patterns and everyone else just kinda sits there feeling h o r r i b l e for that poor nail stylist

Toko gets a checkerboard pattern, with each nail having a different neon color in place of white!!! Because she knows that Jill will find it cool and pretty and colorful the next time she fronts (visual stimming jill?? 👀)

Togami just picks whatever will get him out of the chair quickest hdbsvdvdvdbdbdb

anyway Makoto????? rainbow loom????? absolutely

he has so many bracelets!!!!! so many so many so many and he knows how to create such a wide variety of styles it’s so cool!!!!!! he wears a bunch of them at any given time because they are so fun to fidget with!!!! and rubber texture hvvvvhvv!!!!

and he creates personalized ones for his friends, too, like he knows their favorite colors and sometimes picks up on whether they prefer a certain style or not from the way they react to the other ones he’s made and it’s!!! just so neat!!!!!

I’m thinking about it and!!! he has a bi pride fishtail, a trans pride arrow stitch, a black and neon green railroad, a pastel pink/blue/purple/yellow ladder, a jelly yellow and green dragon scale, a rainbow double cross, and a bunch more!!! he also has a bunch with charms and beads added into them!!!!

He also makes them for his friends even if he knows they won’t wear them!! Like Toko, for example, isn’t the biggest fan of jewelry because she doesn’t like the texture, but he creates one for her anyway and fills it with so much love (it looks like a daisy chain!!!! because at least she’ll be able to look at it and hold it and still be interested in it without it needing to be on her wrist!!!)

he makes a ton of bright colored ones for Mukuro (usually either single or inverted fishtail because he knows she wouldn’t enjoy wearing anything too heavy or overbearing) so that she has more mobile visual stims!!!

similar for Jill!! although most of hers tend to be black and bright neon rainbow in various bulkier styles!!!! Jill will also force him to let her look at his bracelet-covered arm whenever they hang out because. my god,,,,,,so many Colors™️

he’s found that togami prefers black and white simpler styles, and that Kyoko absolutely adores singles, fishtails, and double fishtails in any shade of purple, and that Mondo likes any of the larger styles in darker colors + blacks and grays!!! Chihiro loves anything with jelly and glitter bands!!!

Leon usually only wears one at a time, but he cycles through every single one that his boyfriend’s ever made for him because????? GOD they’re so cool and his boyfriend is so crafty and incredible and just,,,,,,,,,hvvvhvv every time he looks at the one he’s wearing he’s able to calm himself down and remember that Makoto loves him........it’s also very good for stim and fidgeting <3

anyways sorry yes Makoto with a rainbow loom is filling me with serotonin and it’s canon now

[doberbutts]

As someone whoa hoh due to audio processing, something that always makes me >:/ is when shows will provide translation for slang but then not just cc what theyre actually saying. Like i know this is only adjacent to the conversation, but it feels like its less about accessibility and more pandering to a presumed majority white audiences.

Oh I feel the same- and I always complain about the lack of accurate subtitles in non-English films because English subtitles always take liberties with translations and sometimes miss some subtle nature of what's being said- I see this most often with Spanish and Japanese, primarily because I actually understand large parts of these languages so sometimes I'll see the subtitle really does not say what was actually coming out of that character's mouth. I'm not good enough with German to try this! Censorship is the most common reason, but also culture-specific metaphors and turns of phrase that someone assumed would translate poorly are often lumped in with that.

And the thing that bothers me about open captions is that they often present differently to accessiblity devices (such as screen readers) and often closed captions will literally just stop to allow the open caption to do it instead, which does not make any sense outside that open caption is often placed exceedly poorly (and usually too big and with bad visibility to boot) so there's really no where on the screen for closed caption to go... and THEN you add that most open captions provide a basic translation but then closed captions if they're present during that bit at all just go [speaking x language] and don't bother trying to transliterate it on screen...

It also provides a stumbling block for those who ARE interested in learning more about that language in question because we know they didn't actually say whatever that phrase was in Standard [American] English, and yet we're Not Allowed to know what words actually were spoken in the dialect in question.

Additionally I still hold onto my critique that I never see dialects not associated with POC or lower class or poverty translated like this. Someone mentioned on one of my other posts on the subject that they've seen some Scottish films with Standard American subtitles- I haven't seen many if any Scottish films so I can't verify, but that's interesting if that's the case. I have watched some BBC shows including Doctor Who and Sherlock and Torchwood and can tell you that with my ADD processing and my inherent difficulty with thick accents there's times where I need to turn subtitles on because I genuinely cannot understand what's being said.

And yet, no open captions for an American audience because we're just expected to know and understand how white British people speak. It took me forever to understand what Sherlock was asking for when he wanted 'a moment of privacy' because he was muttering, his accent was difficult to understand at times for me, and his pronounciation of 'privacy' REALLY threw me. Why is it that AAVE, which I honestly DO NOT struggle to understand whatsoever outside of some older, less common words, is given the open caption 'we can't expect Americans to understand this' and yet heavily accented British English is expected to be perfectly understandable sans-caption for a hearing American audience? An American English dialect is too difficult but a British English dialect isn't?

One last thing: Cajun, like AAVE, is not slang but a recognized dialect of the American English language. There is also the Cajun French dialect, which iirc is considered endangered. In doing my research on this topic, I discovered that I actually grew up speaking two dialects: AAVE and Pennsylvania Dutch English. I had not realized that my heavy German influence to some words and phrases and the smattering of German I've been taught to use in place of English words was considered a recognized dialect.

[remywrites5]

           Sirius walked into his first class on his first day on University and was immediately distracted by a very cute boy sitting a few rows down in the lecture hall. He had tawny curls and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. In short, he was fucking adorable and Sirius wanted a reason to speak with him.

           “Jamie, do you know that guy?” Sirius asked, pointing him out.

           James shook his head. “No idea, mate.”

           Sirius sighed wistfully and rested his cheek in his hand, staring at the adorable stranger. As if the guy could sense someone watching him, he turned around and his eyes landed on Sirius. Sirius quickly sat up straight and gave him a friendly wave. A small smile broke out onto the stranger’s face and Sirius couldn’t help but find it lovely. The guy ducked his head down and turned back towards the front.

           Sirius spent half the lecture watching his new crush and the other half pretending he wasn’t watching him. He was going to speak to that guy if it was the last thing he did.

                                                           ***

           It had been weeks and Sirius had still not succeeded in speaking to his mystery crush. It seemed like the guy was perpetually late to the lecture, showing up just moments before the class was about to start, or sometimes after it had already started. He also seemed to fly out of there the moment the lecture was done. It made it impossible for Sirius to find time to speak to him or ask him for his number.

           It wasn’t until James’ party that Sirius finally got to meet Remus – he had at least managed to learn his name in the proceeding weeks – even though he hadn’t expected Remus to be there. He couldn’t be wholly surprised though seeing as James had invited half the campus to the party. Still it had completely blindsided Sirius to find Remus standing in his living room with a beer in his hand.

           Sirius quickly combed his fingers through his hair and walked over. Sirius didn’t normally get nervous around people but he felt something akin to it as he approached Remus. Perhaps it was the length and intensity of his crush that was making his insides do little flips. “Hi, I’m Sirius. I think we have a lecture together.”

           Remus bit his bottom lip and shook his head slightly. He brought his hands up and began to say something in sign language that Sirius couldn’t understand.

           “Oh shit,” Sirius said, feeling his heart sink a little. He didn’t know any sign language at all. He had finally gotten a chance to speak to Remus and they couldn’t actually communicate with each other. Then Sirius got an idea. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the notes app, starting to type away furiously.

           Hi, I’m Sirius. I think we have a lecture together. Sorry I don’t know sign language.            He passed the phone over to Remus to read and was pleased when Remus started writing back.

           It’s ok. Nice to meet you, Sirius. I’m Remus. I can read lips but I’m not very good at speaking.

           Their fingers brushed as Remus based the phone back and Sirius felt a little shiver pass through him just from the thrill of it.

           I bet that’s not true but if you’re more comfortable I’m fine speaking like this.

           Remus read what Sirius had written and gave a slight nod.

           I appreciate it. Thanks.

           It’s the getting to speak to you at all that I’m interested in.

           Why?

           You’re cute.

           Remus made a face when he read that and rolled his eyes at Sirius.

           You’re ridiculous.

           Don’t judge me. I have a thing for freckles. And curls. And guys that are taller than me.

           So you’re saying I’m your type?

           I’m definitely saying you’re my type. Can I have your number?

           I suppose that would be ok.

           Maybe a date too while you’re at it?

           Are you always this forward?

           I figured I might as well go for broke.

           Remus chuckled when he read that and the sound of it surprised Sirius just a bit. His laugh was low and raspy and Sirius desperately wanted to hear it again. He smiled up at Remus and raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?” he asked, holding the phone out for an answer.

           Remus took the phone back and quickly typed something. He handed the phone to Sirius and then leaned against the wall, taking a sip of his beer. Sirius quickly glanced down to read Remus’ reply.

           I programmed my number into your phone and I’m free next Saturday. Text me.

                       Sirius smiled triumphantly and held the phone against his chest. “I will.”

                                                           ***

           Sirius had spent the entire week leading up to his date with Remus watching every Youtube video he could find on learning BSL. He still was clunky and awkward with his movements but he could sign his own name and a few other things. Although it wasn’t much it felt like a start.

           Sirius did his hair and slipped into the well-worn leather jacket he’d had since he was sixteen. He couldn’t help stopping to look at himself in the mirror and make sure he looked good for his first date with Remus. He’d never forgive himself if he looked a mess.

           He felt like he had when he’d gotten crushes on guys back in sixth form. Dizzy and light as if he could float away at any moment. He’d never been terribly good at relationships because James was always his priority. But there was something about Remus that made him want to put in a little extra effort, even if that meant learning an entire new language. He had learned French easily enough as a kid. It couldn’t be that difficult to go from being bilingual to trilingual could it?

           Sirius quickly texted Remus to let him know he was on his way and grabbed the keys to his bike. It was just a short walk across campus to the housing Remus lived in but Sirius wanted to take his bike. There were only a few more months he could ride it before having to put it in storage for the winter. Besides, he knew he looked cool on the bike and he was aiming to impress.

           When he pulled up in front of Remus’ building, he pulled his helmet off and shook his hair out. Remus was already sitting on the steps waiting for him and noticed his little display. He smiled warmly as he descended the steps towards Sirius.

           ‘Hello’ he signed and Sirius copied him.

           Sirius’ hand movements were unsure as he tried to sign to Remus. ‘Hello Remus. You look beautiful.’

           Remus blushed and played with one of his curls. ‘You also beautiful.’

           Sirius grinned and made a fist, putting his thumb in the bottom and then pulling it out, doing the sign he learned for shit. Remus laughed and Sirius felt his chest puff up with pride at having caused it. He pulled out his phone and quickly shot Remus a text.

           So I think I’ve pretty much exhausted all the knowledge I learned off Youtube. Don’t be too disappointed in me.

           Remus shook his head and started typing back.

           You did well. I can teach you some more if you’d like.

           Yes please. Where would you like to go?

           On that thing?

           What’s wrong with my bike?

           Never been on one. Will it be safe?

           I’m not in the habit of injuring cute boys on the first date. I’ll be careful.

           I’m not sure that was a reassuring as you meant it.

           Remus. Look at how beautiful my face is. Do you think I would risk messing it up?

           Are you always this humble?

           We can walk if you’re that nervous. But I promise you’ll be safe no matter what.

                       Remus chewed his bottom lip for a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly. After debating with himself, he brought his phone back up and began typing something. Sirius waited with bated breath to receive the message.

           Do you have another helmet?

           Sirius grinned and pulled his spare out of his bag, handing it over to Remus. Remus put it on and then swung his leg over the bike, coming to rest behind Sirius. He put his arms around Sirius’ waist to hold onto him and Sirius couldn’t remember a time when he’d been happier.

           With no idea where he was going, Sirius kicked off and sped off down the street, making sure not to go too fast for fear of scaring Remus. He had a feeling this was Remus’ first time on a motorcycle and was just being a good sport. Sirius wanted to make sure he had a good time on their date so maybe he would get another one.

           He finally pulled up in front of a diner that he and James usually went to on morning they were hungover as fuck. He knew the food was good there and it was more casual. Parking the bike, he let Remus get off first, stumbling slightly on unsure feet. Sirius reached out and steadied him and Remus shot him a grateful smile before doing the sign for ‘thank you’.

           When they sat down at the table, they both pulled out their phones so they could talk to each other. Sirius couldn’t wait until he could speak BSL better so they could speak properly to each other. It felt important.

           The waitress came over and Remus pointed to what he wanted on the menu so Sirius could order it for him. Sirius got pancakes and sausage since they served breakfast all day while Remus got soup and a sandwich.

           Once their menus had been cleared away, Sirius put his hand in the middle of the table palm up. He wiggled his fingers a little in an invitation and Remus blushed slightly before taking his hand.

           Difficult to type like this.

           Don’t care. Tell me about yourself.

           What do you want to know?

           What kind of movies do you like?

           The kind with subtitles.

           Very funny.

           Remus chuckled and gave Sirius’ hand a squeeze.

           I prefer books. Conan Doyle, Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde. I’m kind of a nerd.

           But a very cute nerd.

           Please stop making me blush.

           I like it when you blush. I’d like to kiss you.

           Not here. People will see.

           So?

           After food. Maybe.

           Sirius sat back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at Remus challengingly. Remus met his gaze with an amused grin on his lips. Sirius raised an eyebrow at him and enjoyed that they were able to communicate non-verbally even after knowing each other for such short a time.

           Remus grabbed his phone and texted something quickly, not breaking eye contact with Sirius. Sirius felt his phone buzz on the table and he grabbed it.

           I’m not snogging you in public so you can just stop giving me bedroom eyes.

           I didn’t actually know I was doing that.

           Sure you didn’t.

           Maybe those are just my normal eyes.

           You’re so full of it.

           Remus waited until he had Sirius’ attention and did the sign for shit. Sirius barked out a laugh and found Remus smiling in return. He really was having an amazing time with Remus despite the fact that he couldn’t sign very well. He had thought maybe things would get awkward but they’d found ways to talk to each other and keep up the conversation.

           Their food finally came and they ate in a companionable silence. Sirius texted Remus to ask how his food was and Remus assured him it was good. Sirius might have eaten his food a bit quickly because he wanted to get outside and finally get a kiss from Remus. However he couldn’t make Remus eat faster and it was wholly frustrating.

           When the check came, Sirius quickly threw down enough notes for the bill and the tip before grabbing Remus’ hand and tugging him outside. He did the sign for kiss, bringing his fingers together and mouthing the word for Remus. It was one of the few he’d made sure to learn before the date. Remus chuckled and shook his head before tugging Sirius forward by his jacket and capturing his lips.

           Remus’ lips were soft and Sirius moaned appreciatively at finally getting the kiss he’d been craving since first seeing Remus in the lecture hall weeks ago. He put his arms around Remus’ neck and held onto him, drinking him in greedily. When Remus broke the kiss to finally breathe, Sirius took the opportunity to press kisses to the freckles on the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. Remus huffed out a breath in amusement as if he knew exactly what Sirius was doing.

           Sirius pulled back and swiped his finger across his chin, doing the sign for boyfriend, the other one he’d made sure to learn before the date. He pointed to Remus and then did the sign again. Remus bit his bottom lip and nodded emphatically. Sirius beamed at him and stepped forward back into Remus’ warmth. He closed the distance between them and hugged Remus tightly. He would continue to close the distance until they could talk without phones and without barriers, just the two of them.