#I have lost so much hope in humanity with a single fucking Google search

[fatphobiabusters]

I think these suggested questions on Google right next to each other show how much fatphobia and diet culture have destroyed society.

I cannot believe there are people who give a fuck about a flat stomach after giving birth through a major surgery like a C-section. Right after reading suggested questions about almost your entire body being numbed, how the doctor moves your fucking organs around to get your child, and having your body literally cut open, I have to see that enough people asked about the possibility of this surgery giving them a flat stomach that Google decided to make this a suggested search.

This is one of those times that I want to scream and shake people to make them finally wake up and LOOK at the state of this fucked up, fatphobic world. If you care about equality, then start giving a damn about fat people and how severely oppressed we are, because no one would be asking shit about flat stomach C-sections if fat people weren't so despised and discriminated against.

-Mod Worthy

[yoonjinkooked]

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien | Jimin

moodboard by the lovely and amazing @flajka, who was also my #1 helper and support through the torturous 10 month journey that this story was. 

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Strangers to lovers, smut, romcom

Warnings: explicit sex, slight exhibitionism (fingering, out in the open but not in public, boat sex, oral (f and m receiving) brief but gory painting description, a lot of cursing, Jimin will end you Word Count: 19k+  Summary: You keep meeting a handsome stranger in Paris. One coincidence after another leads to the most amazing trip of your life A/N: This shit took 10 months to write. Thank @flajka, Kehlani and Jimin’s sexy Paris photos.  Spotify playlists for this fic are: 1 / 2 / 3  - I had to separate them because you can’t put Edith Piaf on the same playlist as Ace Of Base.  Hope you enjoy! 

Looking up from the screen of your phone, you blink once, twice, three times – you are not where you are supposed to be and Google maps are the stupidest invention ever.

It took you two hours to find your Airbnb apartment yesterday, all because Google maps were not quite user friendly. Not to mention that your sense of direction was utterly pathetic.

Yet despite all of that, you were absolutely positive that finding ‘Shakespeare and company’ would be an easy task – after all, you were so close to it, having just spent 10 minutes mourning the fact that the Notre-Dame was still very much unapproachable. From there to the bookstore, the route should have been easy to follow but alas, it was not. Somehow, you have managed to confuse yourself even further.

Looking around in place, you breathe a sigh of relief when you see the green doors and a sign that tells you that perhaps your sense of direction isn’t as bad as you think it is – ‘Shakespeare and Company’.

There it is, the bookstore with such rich history, one of your must-see places in Paris, something that the ‘Midnight in Paris’ lover in you had to tick off the list – there it is, right before you and very much closed. You check the time, finding that it is almost nine – a quick Google search, which is something you should have done before leaving your apartment – tells you that it opens up at half past nine.

You don’t have time, you absolutely don’t have time to sit around and wait for it to open. It’s going to take you some time to reach the 7th Arrondissement and once you do get there, two museums await. Wasting time, waiting for a bookstore to open is not a luxury you can afford right now.

Perhaps you will have time before you leave. After all, you still have a week to spend in the city of light and although your plans are pretty strict and well-organized, you are aware that some changes are bound to happen. But you will leave that for the last day – right now, you only have a few minutes of your life to offer to a closed bookstore.

As you take photos of the famed location, you recall the comments your mother made before you left, about how a young woman shouldn’t travel alone in a foreign country. She had a point – one shouldn’t travel alone if they want to have at least one photo of themselves on the memory card. It sucks a bit but you don’t let it dampen your mood – you don’t need photos to preserve the memories. A selfie stick was always an option but it was also beneath you – something you’ve decided when they first appeared.

“Is it closed?” a voice asks from behind you, making you jump a bit, as you weren’t aware that you had company. The man looking at you seems to be about your age and a tourist, if the camera around his neck is anything to go by. The brief once-over you give him lets you know he is also unnaturally attractive.

“Yeah,” you tell him, offering him a compassionate smile when you see his expression sour. “It should open soon though – about half an hour, if Google is correct.”

“Thanks for the info,” he smiles, before he lifts up his camera and starts taking photos. You realize that the chit-chat is over, so you resume taking photos as well. Just a few seconds later, his presence gave you an idea.

“Hey, would you mind taking a photo of me?” you ask sheepishly, smiling when he nods his head at once. “I’m travelling alone and I just want at least one photo of me in the folder, you know?”

“I can relate,” he chuckles as he takes the camera from you. “How do you want to take it? Casually touristy, right in front of it or artsy, with you looking up at the sign in awe?”

“Artsy,” he laughs at your immediate response, to which you simply shrug. “When will I be artsy if not in Paris?”

“Touché,” he agrees, before directing you so that he can take a decent shot. “Turn a bit to the left.”

A few seconds later, it’s his turn. After settling your own camera around your neck, you take his and take a few photos of him as he stands in the same spot you did, looking up at the sign in fake awe. This gives you a chance to properly look at him for the first time. He is indeed handsome, insanely so. Dark brown hair swept away from his face, insanely clear skin and a jaw that could cut right through glass. Looking right at him is almost blinding and you rush to take the photos.

“All done,” you smile as you return the camera to him. “I think you have a few decent shots there.”

“Thanks,” he smiles as you adjust your backpack, ready to take your leave – Shakespeare will have to enjoy your company some other day. “Enjoy the rest of Paris.”

“Yeah, you too,” you smile back at the man, mumbling under your breath as you leave because it serves you right to meet the most handsome man ever half-way across the world.

By the time you finally escape the Parisian metro, you are dead tired. Musée Rodin was just as beautiful as ‘Midnight in Paris’ made it seem to be. You’ve spent the good part of the morning roaming it’s gardens, before finally moving onto Les Invalides, which housed the tomb of the oh so great Napoleon Bonaparte. That was arguably less exciting than Musée Rodin, with you actually giving up on it completely as soon as you saw his tomb. The comments you thought of while admiring the size of the tomb and him obviously carrying his complexes into afterlife were left to you alone, making you chuckle at random times and earning a few curious looks from your fellow tourists.

Your tourist escapades ended at Champ de Mars, with an impromptu picnic which included sitting on your jacket and eating a marvelous French feast made up from pre-packaged Starbucks caramel macchiato and salt&vinegar chips – mmm, so French it hurts. Originally, you wanted to wait for the infamous light show to start but after just an hour, you have already given up and made your leave, hoping not to get lost in the metro yet again.

Luckily, you didn’t. You were so tired by the time you got to the place you rented in the outskirts of Paris that you barely had the energy to shower. And tomorrow, with Versailles being your top priority, your day was bound to be even more tiring.

You are fuming, absolutely fuming, wanting nothing more than to curse out loud and stomp on the ground. You have been tricked and that was just the drop that made the glass overflow.

You woke up with a massive headache and after forcing yourself to eat a bit, you could finally drink medication. By the time you were ready to leave your rental apartment, the timetable you made for today was already long forgotten – you’re at least an hour late.

But that isn’t a problem. It’s not even the ever confusing metro, because somehow, with a lot of help from locals, you’ve managed to figure out where you should wait for the right ride to Versailles. All of it was a bit stress inducing but definitely not a problem. The real problem occurred when you were in front of the magnificent golden gates, which you couldn’t even see because of the massive line.

Clutching your fast pass ticket, you approach a smaller line leading to the entrance, hoping and praying that you weren’t wasting your time waiting there instead of in the massive crowd, hoping that your fast pass can actually let you pass, fast.

You were mistaken. Apparently, every single human being waiting in the long ass line also had the fast pass ticket. How long do people without a fast pass have to wait is a question you don’t even want to know the answer to. With a few huffs and puffs, you took your place in line, annoyed at anything and everything, starting from the stupid agency who sold you this worthless ticket, right down to your best friend who suggested taking this trip together, only to bail on you to let her boyfriend take her to Ibiza.

As if all of that was not enough to ruin your mood, rain had started to fall, damping your clothes enough so that they match your mood.  At least you were ready for it, having read up about the unpredictable early summer rains of Paris and making sure to never leave the apartment without your hideously yellow umbrella.

An hour and a half later, you finally put the damn fast pass into use and enter the extravagant home of some Louis – you’re not ashamed to admit to not know which one. After all, you were about to learn.

The inside of the magnificent palace left you with mixed emotions, in all honesty. On one hand, it truly is as grand and striking as you had always imagined it to be. On the other hand, the crowd was killing you. Teens running around and touching things they shouldn’t be touching, people looking at everything through the screen of their phones and cameras instead of actually looking… It all left you feeling a bit on edge and wishing you had a chance to attend a private tour or something. Knowing that you will probably experience the same thing later today in the Louvre wasn’t helping either.

Every time you would pass a window, you found yourself wanting to be outside and after an hour of torture and not being able to enjoy anything, you have finally given up – fuck the rain, fuck it all – most people are still inside to avoid the rain after all and you do have your trusted umbrella with you.

Stepping into the gardens of Versailles was the best decision you could have made and you regretted not making it sooner. There were very few people outside and even the light drizzle could not ruin the experience of such a beautiful place. It’s fascinating, really, to look from the balcony above and to not see the end to all the gardens, green labyrinths, with many fountains and statues placed at nearly every corner.

It was almost impossible for you to decide where to start, so you just decided to roam freely, with no end goal in mind. You don’t even bother with your camera much, once you reach the seemingly endless green maze. The view from higher ground is magnificent but as you walk around, all you see is green hedges, incredibly tall green hedges – a very literal maze of plants. The smell is comforting – a mixture of the familiar smell of rain and of plants – more specifically, grass.

You wander around, enjoying the peace and quiet. There are more people in the maze but they are far from you and compared to the crowd you were in just minutes ago, they are ignorable, unless they are heading directly in your direction.

You recognize him instantly – other than a few locals you’ve asked for directions, he is the only person you exchanged more than one sentence with – it’s the guy from ‘Shakespeare and Company’, walking towards you. Your fear of awkwardness makes you lower the umbrella so that you can pretend that you simply didn’t see him. You only lift the umbrella up when you see his feet walk by you.

It would be weird and awkward. What do you say to someone you recognize but don’t really know? Hey? What if he doesn’t remember you and you embarrass yourself for no good reason? No, this was completely ignorable, luckily for you.

You are not fast enough the second time. The next crossroad in the maze leaves you making eye contact with him, as he is standing parallel to you, with a solid distance in-between. Solid enough for you to still pretend you do not recognized him. The eye contact made you feel a bit uneasy because what if he remembers you too? The awkwardness you’ve wanted to avoid might have just doubled.

So you walk on, taking a left turn as soon as you find one, finding the first ‘hidden room’ of the maze and a breathtaking, extravagant fountain that all but begs for you to take photos of it. Consciously steering away from the direction he seemed to have been taking, you walk along.

Left, straight, left again, straight, a bit to the right – you even manage to lose track of your surroundings, hoping that you are heading towards the gigantic fountain you’ve seen from the upper balcony.

Yet somehow, you still manage to see him again and much to your dismay, make direct eye contact. He is standing parallel from you and before you turned around and started walking, you could see what looked like mild confusion on his face.

Crap. He must have recognized you to a certain extent and now you’re making it painfully obvious that you are running away from him. For no good reason, too. You could have simply said “Oh hey, I remember you from yesterday, enjoy Versailles” or something along that line and made your exit but no, god no, you just had to make a fool of yourself.

You’ve never taken pride in your title of awkward social potato and this little mishap has to rank pretty high on your list of embarrassing moments. Sure, weird eye contact isn’t that big of a deal but the fact that it could have been easily avoid it and wasn’t only makes it 10 times worse.

Surprisingly enough, as soon as you realize that you’re being ridiculous, you have a chance for a do-over.

By the time you’ve reached the grand fountain, with a very confusing yet majestic statue of horses in the middle of it, you see him again, standing right on the edge of it, luckily not looking your way. Once again you are reminded of just how good looking he is and it’s not helping you with what you are about to do, since insanely attractive men tend to make you nervous and tongue tied.

“Well, at least the Versailles was open,” you try to sound as casual as possible as you stand a few feet away from him, watching as confusion disappears from his face as he puts two and two together.

“I thought I recognized you,” he laughs and you realize that his laughter is as melodic as his voice. Damn him. “They opened yesterday minutes after you left,” he tells you and to that you shrug.

“Nine days in Paris aren’t enough – I had museums to see,” you tell him, watching as he nods in understanding, still smiling at you. “I hope you enjoyed it, though.”

“I did,” he tells you. “Since you’re here, would you mind taking a photo of me?” he sounds as sheepish as you did yesterday. “You’re the only stranger I’d trust with my camera,” he adds. He makes a simple sentence like that hit you like a full force flirt and by the time you actually take the camera from his hands, you are positive you are blushing.

You take a few photos of him, his insanely good profile in particular, hoping that you are not drooling all over yourself. “Return the favor?” you ask, lifting your own camera, to which he laughs and extends his hand to you.

Posing is always awkward, period. Posing to a hot stranger is borderline traumatic. You do it anyways, looking away from the camera because you’ve had enough “eye contact” with him to last you a lifetime. Awkwardly standing in front of him, you wait as he checks the photos before smiling up at you and offering the camera back to you. “Perfect.”

“Thanks. Enjoy the rest of Versailles,” you casually announce your departure, feeling relieved and regretful at the same time as you walk away from him, backwards. In all honesty, the kind smile on your face made you want to stick around for a while longer.

“Thanks, you too.”

You turn around and walk away, taking a deep breath to relax yourself. The Louvre awaits – hot strangers will have their turn some other time.  

Four days in Paris were enough for you to start your own list of unpopular, maybe even popular, opinions about the city. You were always interested in the city but never obsessed with it, like many are, so you’d say that your opinions are unbiased, at least to a certain extent.

For example, Parisians are nice and they actually do make an effort to speak English if you ask them something. Of course, not everyone has the same experience but the urban myth of them being condescending, rude and downright ignoring people who speak English was proven to be false.

Yes, the city is gorgeous but it has so much to offer beside a fairly tall tower.

And last, but certainly not least – the Louvre is overrated.

After waiting in rain, again (not the museum’s fault, obviously), you finally got inside, only to proceed and get lost four times. Actual four times, you had no idea where you were and where you were supposed to go next. You were nearly trampled in front of the Mona Lisa, all while watching in shock as the people were pushing each other to try and take a selfie with the iconic painting behind them. That was the first instance when you thought how much you hate people. The next one was when you saw a grown adult, a man in his 30s, grabbing an antique Greek statue by the balls.

It was at that point that the museum walking became torture to you. Paired with its confusing layout and the employees who either truly had no idea how to help you or simply didn’t want to bother with helping a pesky tourist, you ended up wandering aimlessly, looking at everything and nothing at all, wondering how much it would cost to get an exclusive, chaperoned, after-hours tour of the Louvre. Probably too much for someone who’s keeping cheap ramen in their rented apartment.

Muse d’Orsay, your present location, is something else entirely. It is painfully obvious that at least a third of the yesterday’s crowd only went to the Luvre because someone told them they should, you overheard a few say as much, and compared to that, the visitors of Muse d’Orsay came here on their own accord. It is decently full, but not crowded. The only place where you actually had to wait in line was in front of Van Gogh’s artwork, which was to be expected.

The entire place is casual, yet sophisticated, far less confusing compared to the gigantic mess that is The Louvre. You can take your time and go wherever, without having to consult a map and pray that you’re not confusing yourself even further. You can also sit and relax for a little while, which is something your tired feet are extremely grateful for but in a very unusual way, the people around you are making you feel uncomfortable. Most of them are casually sitting and sketching the gigantic clock, the centerpiece of Muse d’Orsay and while observing that is beautiful, it also remindes you that you are, to put it nicely, talentless in the same field.

So you keep on roaming, until you find your place on a bench set before an enormous painting. Definitely three times, if not four, your height, The Women of Gaul has your full attention. The piece is as eerie and hauntingly beautiful as it is confusing – like many times over the last couple of days, you’re not sure where to look first. What catches your attention, bizarrely, is the center character – a woman, standing tall and proud with an angry look on her face and holding a dead baby by the arm.

It appears as if she has killed the baby on her own accord – she’d rather lose everything she has than surrender. Admirable and scary at the same time. With all due respect to the masterpiece, she looks ready to bitchslap some soldiers.

“We meet again, stranger,” you only realize someone is talking to you when they sit a few feet away from you and you nearly choke on dry air when you realize it’s him – the Shakespeare guy, the Versailles guy, your unofficial photographer, in all of his ripped jeans glory.

“Wow,” you laugh. How big is Paris? How many people live here, how many tourists roam the streets every day? And yet three days in a row, you see him. “We keep bumping into each other.”

“Looks like our travel itineraries keep overlapping,” he chuckles. “I’m Jimin, by the way,” he adds, before the silence turns awkward. “It’s nice to officially meet you,” he offers you his hand, which you accept instantly.

“Y/N,” you shake his hand. “So, how’s Paris working out for you?”

“I love it,” he admits, looking away from you to focus on the much less friendlier woman in the painting in front of you. “I like it more than I thought I would, in all honesty.”

“Same here,” you admit, finding it quite easy to talk to him, given that you are usually definitely more apprehensive when it comes to people you don’t know. But hey, you know his name now – that counts, right? “From word of mouth alone, I thought it was a bit overrated but it has its charms. Plenty of them, actually.”

“Museums or city streets?” he asks, turning to look at you again. He has striking, dark eyes that have no trouble looking directly at yours – you, on the other hand, swallow a lump. “Which do you enjoy more?”

“A bit of both, depends on the day,” you sound way more casual than you feel. “You?”

“City streets,” he answers, focusing on the painting again. “Art is amazing but art is art, wherever you are. While cities… they’re all different. Each city has its own thing and as much as I enjoy looking at artwork, I’d rather pick… exploring the city, breathing it in. Polluted air and all.”

“Makes sense,” you agree, knowing just how right he is. A museum is a museum, whether it’s in Paris or the tiniest of towns. It’s fascinating but it’s still a building with four walls and a roof – outside, the streets, the people, the charm distinct to each city – that’s where all the fun is at.

“Have you seen the impressionism area?” he asks.

“Not yet, why?”

“Me neither,” he laughs, confusing you a bit. “Travelling alone is fun but at times it can get painfully dull. I thought maybe you’d want to look around the museum a bit more and then we can go somewhere?”

Oh. Okay. He wants your company. Surprising, yet flattering.

“I’d love to,” you find yourself answering, ignoring all the possible red flags you probably should have not ignored – after all, this is fairly similar to the plot of Taken, and you don’t have a Liam Neeson waiting to rescue you. Mr. Ripped Jeans Jimin has a point – travelling alone can be very dull. With how the two of you have been running into each other for days now, it seems like the universe wants you to have someone to talk to for a while. “Anywhere you’d like to go in particular?”

“Montmartre?” he suggests after considering your question for a few seconds. “The stairs in front of Sacré-Cœur are always a good idea?”

He isn’t wrong - Sacré-Cœur is very much on your bucket list – scheduled for tomorrow, right on time to see the sunset. But at the same time, you have no specific plans for this afternoon and Jimin does seem like he could be good company.

Why not?

“Sounds like a plan,” you agree, feeling a metaphorical punch to your gut when his face lights up once you agree with his idea. “Let’s see those impressionists first, shall we?”

The language barrier is quite something. Despite knowing a few basic French words and phrases, your pronunciation is so damn tragic, no transaction was possible without the use of English and sometimes, like right now, lots of waving and pointing.

Jimin was looking at you in amusement while you desperately tried to explain that you need one chocolate croissant. By the point the lady behind the counter understood what you wanted, you were more than happy to leave with whatever the hell she’d give you, even if it’s not your precious croissant.

“Do you want something? Are you hungry?” you ask, wanting to treat him to some food since he insisted on paying for the bottle of wine that is currently in his backpack.

He nods, proceeding to speak to state his order in what sounds like fluent French. “I got some for you too,” he tells you as he elegantly stands in front of you, taking out his wallet and smiling as he sees that you are about to protest. “No way,” he shakes his head. “I’m paying – I ordered more. Besides, if you are buying the chocolate croissant, you obviously have no idea what you’re doing.”

A comment like that could have sounded extremely condescending coming from anyone else, but from Jimin, with his kind smile? No way. “You did not just diss a chocolate croissant!”

“Oh, yes I did,” he chuckles as he rushes to offer money before you can – defeated, but a little glad, you return your wallet into the bag, thinking how maybe you will treat yourself to more than instant ramen for your lunch tomorrow. “I love chocolate as much as the next guy but the raisin one? Hell, even the plain one – much better,” he tells as he takes the bag and exits the bakery, leaving you to follow him.

“I’m all for experimenting but come on – it’s a chocolate croissant. It can’t be bad.”

“I’ve never said it was bad,” he laughs at you as you finally catch up with him and the two of you walk side by side. “I’ve just said others were better, which you will confirm once you try them. Now – do we walk or do we waste money on the lift?”

How can a question so simple be so complicated? Your feet hurt, you’ve walked more since you landed in Paris than you have the whole last month – of course you want to take the lift and avoid unnecessary stairs. On the other hand, stairs pretty much guarantee that you will have more time to spend with Jimin and so far, he’s been a decent companion.

“How about… we take the lift to go up and we walk on our way down?” you suggest.

“Deal.”

He didn’t have a chance to see Montmarte either, he tells you on your way up. Much like you, he had a schedule and he kept to it. Until today, when he spontaneously dropped his plans and invited you to spend the rest of the day with him. You did not have solid plans to begin with, so it wasn’t much of a change, save from the fact that you were in good company.

And good company he was – surprisingly, there weren’t many moments of awkward silence as the two of you tried to find a place that fits you both – that was a challenge, seeing as many people have gathered to enjoy the view, a nice drink and an impromptu performance by buskers. In the corner of the stairs, a little bit away from the crowd, the two of you sit and it’s a matter of seconds before Jimin is opening the bottle of wine with a swiss knife he pulled out of his bag – a bag that looks like it costs more than your monthly rent – not that you were paying any attention to it.

“So…” he starts, pausing to smile at you as he gives you your cup, before moving on to fill his own. “Tell me something about yourself. I only know your name and that we live in the same city.”

“And yet somehow we’ve met on a different continent,” you add, smiling when he ‘clinks’ his plastic cup against yours. “What would you like to know?”

“Anything,” he shrugs, nodding in approval at the taste of the wine. “Why Paris? Why alone? What’s your favorite color? An actor you hate but can’t explain why? Tell me anything.”

“Why Paris? Why not Paris? There are so many places I want to see, cities I want to explore and it all had to start somewhere. My friend had wanted to see Paris while I was pretty much up for anything. Of course, she then decided that Ibiza with her boytoy sounds like a better idea than Paris with her friend,” you add, sounding just a little bitter. It’s not the nicest thing she has done but you’ll get over it.

“And your boyfriend was not interested in the beauty of France?”

Now you are confused. His raised eyebrow and tiny, barely there smile, tell you that he is absolutely asking about your boyfriend for no other reason but to confirm whether or not you have one. However, this wouldn’t be the first time for you to completely misread signs and confuse flirting with casual conversation. You decide to play it safe and not waste time on reading between the lines.

“Don’t have one,” you shrug, looking away from him and focusing on the buskers. “It does get quite boring after a while. It would be nice to have a travel partner.”

“And if you don’t, you can always ask a random, kind stranger to take your photos for you?” you join in on his laugh, glad that you spoke up that day in front of ‘Shakespeare and Company’. If you hadn’t, chances are you wouldn’t have a conversation in Versailles, which then would not continue today.

If he can do it, so can you – the can of worms is wide open. “And what does your girlfriend say about you traveling without her?” you asks, before backtracking quickly. “Or boyfriend. Or one of each, really,” you add, making him laugh.

God, there really is no smooth way to ask about the relationship status of someone you barely know, someone you’re not even completely sure you like. If two are at a club, where the music is loud and they can’t even keep a conversation, ‘are you single’ is completely acceptable. And that setting is perfect for a rejection – if they say no, you just dance away to your drink or to the next person.

This? It’s a warm day in Paris and you are surrounded by people of all ages, families even. You have been talking about the city, travelling, art and now what, ‘are you single’ or ‘would you be interested in sleeping with me’ is the next topic of conversation? No, it doesn’t work that way. Especially when you’re not even sure what you want, much less what he wants.

“Well, I don’t have either of the two so I can’t really answer that,” is that a hint of a smirk you see on his face? Okay, you may not be a champion at flirting but it looks like things are heading that way.

“Interesting,” you mumble, earning an eyebrow raise from him. Shit. You panic and focus on the plastic cup full of wine, hoping that if you drink enough of it fast, the blush that is taking over your face can be attributed to the alcohol. It doesn’t help – you move the cup away and meet his eyes, only to find him obviously waiting for you to explain your comment.

“Are you going to explain why that’s interesting on your own or should I ask about it and force you to elaborate?” he asks and you immediately turn to your cup, making him laugh, loudly, in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and his whole body move.

“I’m awkward, please don’t make it any worse,” you tell him, a part of you hoping he won’t hear you.

“As you wish,” he is still laughing and you still want to die of embarrassment. That being said, him teasing you is a good sign, you think. Now, you’re fairly certain that you absolutely are in the flirting territory and while that doesn’t make things easier for you one bit, at least now you know you perhaps won’t make a fool of yourself if you are more straightforward. Or maybe you will. Who knows?! “Y/N, do you believe in destiny?” he asks and while you’re glad the topic is changed… really?

“That’s such a broad question,” you chuckle, pausing to think about it for a second. “I suppose I do, but you’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. What kind of destiny?”

“Okay… first, do you believe that it’s all planned out? Like, your entire life?” he asks.

“Hardly,” you answer immediately, having thought about that already, many times in your life. “I suppose that to a certain extent, it is destiny. Like… the situations that you will be put in. But your reactions to said situations are your own. Destiny can’t control how you, or the people in your life, react to something. So I guess… no?” you try to sum it up, laughing at your own rant.

“Makes sense,” he agrees as he leans back, now almost lying down on the staircase, propped on his elbow as he looks away from you and towards the magnificent view of Paris. You realize once again that he looks like a full course meal, skinny jeans and all, and you reach for your plastic cup for solace, again. “Some things are set in stone… like where you’re born, who your parents are, maybe even who you’re going to be in life. But not the tiny details… like what kind of friend you are, if you can cook or not, who will be your first kiss and so on… Is that what you meant?” he asks, suddenly turning his eyes on you and faced with them, you nearly choke on the drink you’ve been hiding behind.

Damn him and his eyes. And his smirk. And yes, his ripped skinny jeans too.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And what about us?” he asks, smirking your way again. “We’ve been running into each other all over Paris… that’s why I thought that there has to be a reason behind it… don’t you agree?”

“Could be,” you agree, knowing that no matter how skeptical you might be about the concept of destiny, even you have to admit that the amount of times the two of you have crossed paths this week is something unusual. “You think it was destined for two of us to meet and hang out on these stairs?”

“Why not?” he laughs, sensing the trace of skepticism behind your words, even though you mostly agreed with him. “I can accept that not every cute girl I meet is destiny playing its tune but we couldn’t have avoided each other even if we tried, could we?”

You’re cute. Okay. You can live with that. You can definitely live with that.

“What else does destiny want us to do?”

You’ll admit it, you feel bolder now, knowing how shamelessly he had admitted that he obviously thinks you’re cute. Sure, you’re not nearly as bold as you wish you were but… step by step?

“Well, there’s this party down at the 8th Arrondissement that I thought of going to. Nothing huge, just a regular club. We don’t have to, if you don’t feel like partying. If you do, we can sit here for a while longer and then take a cab down there or something?” he suggests.

First he thinks you’re cute. Then he wants you to go clubbing. Sure, he isn’t hitting on you per se, but he obviously wants to spend more time with you and knowing that makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. Maybe it’s the butterflies that you’re feeling now, after ages of them being MIA, maybe it’s the way Jimin looks at you, with the tiniest of smirks gracing his face, or maybe it’s just Jimin himself – you’re not sure and frankly, it doesn’t matter. Bottom line is, he wants to spend more time with you and despite you not really giving a shit about destiny, you do want to spend more time with him too.

“Sounds like a good idea.”

And then he goes and bites his lip, mid-smile.

Yeah, there’s no way in hell you’ll survive clubbing with him. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try.

It didn’t take you long to realize that Jimin is a piece of work, in the best ways.

He is confident when approaching strangers, whether it was you, earlier today, or a random person to ask if the two of you could join their table. He can handle his drink and he does, in fact, drink quite a bit. His behavior doesn’t change – he’s still smiley, friendly, his words never slurring, his walk as perfect and sexy as it was when he was 100% sober – the only real change in his appearance is that three tequila shots in, he’s red in the face.

You? You’ve stopped drinking one shot ago, not wanting to push yourself into the state of ‘please fuck me in the alley behind this park, Mr. Stranger’ because you do tend to turn clingy after drinking a bit too much. No, this time around, you’ve kept yourself tipsy enough to throw away some inhibitions but sober enough to not jump on the guy in the middle of a crowded club.

And lord almighty, it is crowded.

You would have never thought that Parisians and a couple of tourists would be this into 90s trash music but here you are, dancing the night away with a hot as hell stranger to the tune of ‘Be My Lover’. You’ve been dancing nonstop for what feels like hours, the only break happening when he goes to the bar to get the two of you drinks and you take that chance to lean against the wall to catch your breath.

You want to chastise yourself for trusting a stranger with your drink but after debating it while you were still sober, you’ve come to the conclusion that you’re going to trust said stranger. 

Taking a deep breath, you rummage through your bag, trying to find something to cool yourself down with, settling for a brochure you had picked up in Musée d'Orsay earlier today. You fan yourself, staying comfortably away from the crowd that’s dancing like their life depends on it.

It’s hot, it’s crowded, you’re tipsy and if you’re being completely honest, you’re turned on. Yes, in a tiny, dark, hole of a club, with a 90s eurodance song in Spanish blasting through the speakers, you can still manage to feel that way and it’s solely because of him.

For the past two hours, he has been flirting with you in ways that make you wonder if he’s actually flirting of he’s a hallucination of your deranged mind.

He hasn’t stopped touching you all night, but he does so in ways that are not… obvious. He holds your hand while you are walking through the crowd. He puts his hands on your waist while you’re dancing, but they’re positioned in a way that makes you think he just enjoys having a dance partner, not that he wants to fuck your brains out. He is close, but not close enough to make you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wants to kiss you. It’s driving you insane and you’re feeling hot – literally and metaphorically.

The song changed to something a bit more bearable for listening, but still trashy enough, when you finally felt your body relaxing and calming down after the onslaught of senses it has been through in the last two hours. However, the moment you think you’ll manage to cool your head, you see him.

It’s not that he is hot. Sure, he is hot as hell and nice on the eyes, which is something you see others noticing, as they turn their heads while he walks past them, drinks in hand. It’s not that he is so damn charming, although that plays a part too. What’s really getting to you is simply the way he looks at you.

Even now, in the crowd, as he makes his way to your little makeshift hideaway, his eyes are directly on you. He’s not even paying attention on if he’s spilling your drinks or not – nope, he is looking right at you. And despite the feeling of panic that causes, you can’t look away. You can’t hide from it, you can’t fight it – you just have to keep eye contact with him, even though you feel like weak prey.

You’d lie if you say that there weren’t moments when his eyes would look… elsewhere. Your lips, your neck or at the tiny trace of cleavage your shirt lets him see (is that one a blessing or a curse?)…  That you could deal with, as much as you were figuratively on fire. But a man with confidence to look you directly in the eyes, all the time? Yeah, you’ve kind of wanted die.

Especially now, with him sliding through the cracks between people, smiling your way, eyes burning into yours. With mere seconds to get yourself ready for him, you take a deep breath, thanking your lucky stars that he looked away, enough to put your drinks on the table next to you.

“I know you didn’t want anything, but I got you a cocktail in case you change your mind later,” he tells you and the only reason you actually understand every word he is saying is because you are staring at his lips. The music is loud, loud enough to make you want to come closer to him and ask him to repeat his words but at this point, you are a certified lip reader because good god, his lips.

“That’s okay.”

You wanted to say more, you really did, but the moment he put those drinks down, his hands were on your waist and he was close now, closer than he was before, with just an inch of space between your face and his. And even this close, even with a damn inch between the two of you, he stares into your eyes, directly into your eyes, as if he knows what he’s doing to you. And frankly, he most likely does.

“Let’s dance, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You let him take you down into the crowd again, not even noticing the loss of your precious brochure you’ve used as a makeshift fan. You let him stay close to you and you let him keep his hands on you at all times. You let him take over your entire mind, knowing that at this point, you can’t think of anything that isn’t him.

Where? Where are guys like these? Where are guys who are confident, funny, charming and sexy, without trying to get into your pants like desperate teenagers? He has the right amount of everything and a part of you wonders where are others like him? But with him in front of you, directly in front of you, with barely an inch of thin air between you, does it really matter?

You’ve given up, totally and completely. You let him eat you up with his eyes, sway your hips to the beats of bad music in any direction he wants, smiling back at him when he smiles at you.

He is closer now, even closer than before, your noses brushing against each other every other moment. He is closer and you feel like you’re going to faint if he doesn’t do something, anything really.

It’s a weird feeling to describe. You don’t know what you want but you want it, bad. And while in theory, it would be easy to take the last step and just kiss him, you can’t do it. What’s stopping you – you don’t know, you really don’t. Yes, he hasn’t explicitly said that he wants you to do anything but his actions speak enough on their own. You could close the space between the two of you and end the misery but you can’t. Something is stopping you and at this point, it feels suffocating.

All of it. Him, the crowd, the sweaty bodies all around you – it’s too much. You need fresh air. Right now.

“What time is it?” you yell at him and you can see he’s surprised – you’ve mostly been quiet, overcome with everything else to form rational thoughts. Not only that, but you’re asking about time, of all things.

“Almost 1:30AM,” he tells you, after glancing on his wristwatch, before returning the hand back on your waist. “Why? Do you want to leave?” he asks and for one second, one damn second, you see a trace of something other than pure confidence on his face. It’s not insecurity or worry, not even disappointment. It looks like a mix of all three and something else, but it’s all very faint and lasts for barely a second before he smiles at you. “It’s okay if you do. Truly.”

“It’s not that I want to leave,” you mumble, before remembering you’re in a damn club. So, you close the space between the two of you and put your lips to his ear, brushing his skin as you speak. “It’s not that I want to leave. But I need some fresh air. We can come back if you want to.”

“You want me to go with you?” he asks as you pull away and you nod. “You sure?” he asks, looking at you with worry in his eyes. He’s questioning it, if only a little bit, probably worried that you’re running away and he’s being pushy. Which isn’t the truth. You are running away, but not from him, not exactly.

“Yes,” you laugh, taking his hand, as if to show that you mean it. He smiles back at you and leads the way. You think he’d go back to your borrowed table, so that he can finish his drink but he doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he leads the way to the area where you left your bags in exchange for 5 euros.

Seeing as you are the only ones leaving this early, the exchange for your stuff is quick and by the time you are breathing in the cool Paris air, it hasn’t been more than a few minutes since you’ve expressed your desire to leave. And the cool air helps. Well, it’s either the cool air or the fact that Jimin isn’t attached to you at this moment. With a bit of distance between you, you can actually use your brain.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he watches you take deep breaths. “We can walk it off if you’ve had too much to drink? I can walk you back to your place if you want to leave?” he suggests.

“No,” you smile at him, feeling a little bit overwhelmed by how helpful he is, as well as worried. “I’m not wasted. I don’t even know if I’m tipsy anymore,” you tell him. Sure, you might not be tipsy from the alcohol but he is a different story – you are very much drunk on him. But you won’t tell him that. “I just needed a bit of air. Maybe we can walk? Then come back or something?”

“Sure, yeah,” he nods and you lead the way. “You know, we don’t have to come back here because of me. I’m perfectly fine with just walking around. We can go somewhere else or find a bench to sit on. I can call a cab for you if you want to go back to your place.”

“I’m enjoying tonight very much,” you reassure him. There are… so many other things that you’d like to say, about him and the way he makes you feel, but you just… don’t have the balls to do so. So you simply settle with reassuring him that you’re enjoying the night. “Let’s just walk around and then figure out what we want to do next. The same goes for you – I’m fine with doing whatever you want to do.”

“You know, the last light show of the night is at 2AM,” he tells you, glancing at his watch quickly. “We can still catch it, if you’d like to. Maybe we even have time to go to the tower itself but we can definitely make it to Trocadéro on time?” he suggests and even though you normally refuse to be such a basic tourist, a huge part of you is excited at the thought of seeing the tower light up.

“I haven’t seen it yet. You want to go?” you ask, continuing with the tradition he had started of questioning everything for whatever reason.

“Sure, let’s go.”

There are people roaming around the area – of course there are, it’s Paris, there are tourists in every nook and cranny of the damn city. However, the numbers are smaller than they were when you went here the other day. You were definitely not alone but you did manage to find a section of the fence where no one was waiting with their cameras ready. Which is exactly what the two of you are doing now, waiting to capture the perfect moment of the tower lighting up.

You’ve been fairly quiet since you’ve left the club but it wasn’t the negative kind of silence, not at all. It was the silence that comes after a slightly overwhelming moment. You’re not sure if Jimin feels the same and if he does, he sure didn’t show it, but he was quiet along with you, speaking up only when you do, smiling your way whenever you’ve felt brave enough to make direct eye contact. It was comfortable and it made you realize just how much you have let this total stranger get under your skin.

“Doesn’t this feel a bit like the New Year’s countdown?” you ask, adjusting your camera so that the tower is right in the center of it – as much as Jimin is overwhelming, you still want to capture a decent photograph. It’s a once in a lifetime event. At least for us, non-Parisian commoners.

“It does,” he chuckles. “Ah, here we go!”

It’s impossible not to laugh at all the sighs of wonder you hear coming from around you. Yes, it’s a beautiful sight but… come on! It’s not a natural phenomenon; it’s a tower with lights on it! You sense Jimin reacting to it the same way you do, laughing a bit at the amazement of everyone around you but still taking a photo and enjoying the moment.

“Wait, let me take a photo of you,” he tells you and to your surprise, he doesn’t ask for your camera – he simply steps back with his. You don’t say anything and you try not to think too much of it but at the very least you are now expecting an exchange of social media or emails, knowing that you now have a perfect excuse of contacting him. Unable to hide a smile at the realization, you try to strike a casual pose, all while feeling like a complete idiot because he is looking at you again. “Wait,” he suddenly says and walks back up to you, reaching his hand closer to your face. “May I?”

You nod, not even sure what exactly you’re agreeing to here. Gently, he runs his hand through your hair, similar to the way he runs it through his own hair a few times a minute, messing it up a little bit. You don’t exactly have a mirror on you right now, but you imagine it’s the cute kind of messy, not the messy kind of messy. Why would he want you to look like shit for the photo? So, you let him, trying to ignore the way your pulse races because of him being so close. “There,” he steps away from you, smiling.

“Messy enough?” you joke, laughing when he does.

“It’s not messy, it’s sexy,” he tells you and yeah, your stupid heart is in overdrive, the butterflies in your stomach wilding and your face absolutely blushing. “It’s cute, natural. It’s more you than the preppy pose you’ve just tried to pull off,” and now he kind of insulted you.

“Hey!” you snap back, unable to keep a straight face when he starts laughing again. “You’ve known me for a few hours, how do you know preppy poses aren’t my thing?”

“I just know,” he shrugs. “Now act natural. Smile.”

You wanted to fight him back in a passive aggressive way and remain preppy but you just can’t – not with him making you smile. So you smile and giggle, pretending like he doesn’t have a camera in front of his face. If he wants you to be natural, you’re going to be natural.

After a few shots, he moves the camera away from his face and gives you the most blinding smile he had given you so far.

“Your turn,” you order him, unsure how you can even talk anymore. You feel like jelly on the inside and it’s actually quite worrying, seeing as you haven’t felt like this many times in your life. Of course, you liked people, you dated people, hell you’ve even loved a guy or two! But god good, they’re not Jimin. The guy has it all and all of it is affecting you in ways you didn’t know you could be affected.

You swallow a few lumps as you try to focus on the tower too, and not just him, because yes, it kind of needs to be in the picture too and that is the whole point of this, isn’t it? It takes you a few tries but you end up with a good shot. No matter how tonight ends, you’ll have a palpable memory of Jimin saved in your camera and you’d be lying to yourself if you say that doesn’t make you feel a bit more at ease.

“How can something be so tacky and so breathtakingly beautiful at the same time?” you ask while walking back towards the fence, letting the camera dangle around your neck as you stand next to Jimin.

“It really is amazing, isn’t it?” he chuckles. This time around, you are the one shamelessly staring – he is too preoccupied with looking at the tower. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it’s Paris, or just tonight or maybe even you, but everything feels so… I don’t know, honestly,” he laughs, shaking his head as if he’s in disbelief. “I guess I’m just… really enjoying tonight.”

Here he is, this… beautiful, hot, kind, charming stranger, right next to you. Just a few days ago, he was no more than a fellow tourist. Just a few days ago, you didn’t think much of him. Today was a different story. Today, he didn’t let you push him into the back of your mind. Today he had made himself the focus of your day, night and quite frankly, this whole damn trip.

You don’t have to see him ever again if you don’t want to. If destiny keeps messing with you, you might run into him back home but by then, enough time would have passed for you to be able to keep your cool. If it goes good… it’ll go good. And if it goes bad, you can go back to pretending like none of this ever happened, and that your whole Parisian escapade was not Jimin centric. It might be easier said than done but you’re a tough cookie. You can do it.

Why not go for it? Seriously Y/N, why not go for it?

So you do.

You step closer to him and reach your hand out, putting it on his cheek and turning him to face you – he doesn’t have enough time to react properly but you can see the flash of surprise on his face. There is no time for him to say or do anything, because you lean in and press your lips to his.

Fuck it. Seriously, just fuck it. You’re here, he’s here and with doing practically nothing, he’d made you feel more than you’ve felt in months. As tacky as it is, you truly do only live once and you know yourself well enough to know you’d end up regretting not doing this.

You might regret it anyways, who knows. But you’d eat yourself away if you hadn’t gone for it.

You’d be lying if you said that the kiss is magical. Really, it’s awkward. Your lips are not much in comparison to his beautifully plump ones and while that could be overpowering, he technically isn’t moving. What you thought would be a kiss that would rock your world, ends up being nothing more than one slightly longer peck because he isn’t moving.

You can feel it – you’ve fucked up. You went for it and in hindsight, you shouldn’t have. Feeling absolutely mortified by his lack of response, you pull away, feeling even worse when you see the way he’s looking at you – no awe, no surprise, no excitement. He doesn’t look pissed either, or confused. It’s difficult to describe it but he’s almost… scowling at you.

You’ve fucked it up. But that’s okay. At least you won’t wonder about the ‘what ifs’.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, looking away from him quickly. As much as you’re trying to reassure yourself that it’s better to know than to wonder, you’re absolutely dying on the inside. If there’s a hole near here in which you could hide, right this second, you’d go there. Alas, you’re out in the open and have to deal with the mess you’ve made. “I guess I’ve misread the signals. I-“

With his hand on your back, he pulls you smack into his chest, not leaving any room between the two of you whatsoever. All that you see is him leaning into you with his eyes closed.

It’s not a peck – it’s anything but a peck. His lips guide yours to open and not even a second later, you feel his tongue moving against yours. He pulls you even closer to him, your bodies practically stuck together, with your hands squished between you. You feel him run his other hand through your hair, turning your head a bit towards the side so that he can have more access to you, as if he hadn’t had enough to begin with. His tongue is relentless and you’re absolutely sure that you’re about to faint, knees barely managing to keep your body standing.

You have never been kissed like this. Definitely not in public.

He pulls away slowly, tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth as he goes. He’s not scowling like he was moments ago, but he’s also not the cute, smiley Jimin he was for the better part of the day.

And you? You’re honestly struggling to breathe. A kiss is a surprise itself but a kiss like that is not something that’s easy to survive. You’re well aware that you’re practically panting because of him but it’s hardly something you can hide. You’re affected and you’re going to be affected, no matter how embarrassed you are about it.

“If you’re going to kiss me,” his voice is low, much lower than before and it’s not helping your situation at all. “You should kiss me like you mean it.”

Fuck everything.

You grab his shirt and pull him towards you once again.

Life works in mysterious ways. Just this morning, you were a regular tourist, doing regular tourist things, sticking to your itinerary as you try to cram all of Paris into one week. And now? Now you’re pressed up against a wall of a random building in a part of town you haven’t ventured into before, making out with the hottest guy you have ever met, who is also pretty much still a stranger.

You don’t even care about how uncomfortable you are in this position – him kissing you makes it all better, very literally. He is a marvelous kisser – hungry, but not overpowering, with lips for days. He smells of cologne you have never smelt before but somehow know you won’t be able to forget anytime soon. Even the soft cotton of his white shirt that your hand is digging into feels heavenly.

Jimin, Jimin, Jimin. All you can focus on is Jimin, to the point of even almost managing to ignore a whistle directed towards the two of you.

You’ve had it coming, really – almost dry humping in the middle of the street. When Jimin starts to pull away, probably because of the wolf whistle, you still chase after him, desperately trying to keep your lips stuck together. He still moves away but not too far – he nuzzles into your neck, leaving you gasping for air at the feel of his lips attacking your neck.

Is it too far? Maybe. But too far is the exact direction in which you want to go.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” you suggest. You’ve never directly propositioned sex to someone you weren’t in a relationship with and while you were internally panicking, you also know he probably won’t refuse you. Unless the thing you’re feeling against your thigh is his phone and not him being happy to see you. “My airnbn is a bit far but we can go there?” you suggest, not wanting to be too direct and invite yourself to his place. Honestly, you’d even go into a public toilet at this point, but you’ll keep that bit of information to yourself.

He doesn’t respond immediately and you would have worried about it, if he wasn’t preoccupied with biting your neck, with enough force to leave marks and make you want to crumble. You shudder, actually shudder with pleasure as you feel his tongue run over your skin. “The place I’m staying at is just a few minutes away,” he finally speaks up, stepping away from you for the first time in what feels like forever. “Do you want to go there?” he asks.

The way he looks at you tells you he’s asking you more than to just go over to the place he’s staying at. You know it, he knows it. Even though it was your suggestion, he is still checking in with you, despite probably already knowing that you’d agree to pretty much anything. You laugh at his question.

“Jimin… I’m… I’m more than fine with going to your place, yeah,” you settled for that. Letting him know that you’d let him fuck you in the middle of the street, right here, right now, might be a bit too forward of you. Incredibly accurate but perhaps too forward.

The beaming smile you get from him when you agree serves like a confirmation to yourself that no, this is absolutely not a bad idea. This is everything you’ve hoped for but didn’t think would happen. This is the brief romance that novels are written about, a story you might remember when 30 years from now, your 20something-year-old daughter goes on her first trip to Paris and you remember him. Jimin will be your story, one that you might revisit often, depending on how the night ends.

Taking your hand in his, he leads the way and you follow blindly, enjoying his touch even during simple handholding. You want to do more, so much more, but if you do, you’ll never get to your end destination. Jimin must have sensed that, because the two of you are walking faster than you did this whole day – now you actually have a goal in mind. And what a goal that will be.

“Not to bring the mood down but we could have been going to your place a lot sooner if you’d kissed me back in the club,” you admit. Maybe that was a little bit unnecessary but you want to break the silence between you – and if you can compliment him in the process, why not?

“Hmm, maybe,” he sighs, suddenly letting go of your hand, only to hug you around the waist and pull you into his side, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re not the only one that was worried about misreading some signals. I wanted to be sure, so I consciously waited for you to do something.”

“Thank fuck I did because that was a close one,” you laugh in disbelief, amazed to know how close you were to this simply never happening.

“Not gonna lie, I was worried,” he laughs too, giving you another quick peck. You’re positive that you’re blushing again. Every time he kisses you, your stomach does somersaults, excited at the thought of him wanting to kiss you as much as you want to kiss him. Which is a lot. More than a lot. “I’m glad you mustered the courage to kiss a guy that’s quite obviously wanted to kiss you all afternoon.”

“For future notice – be more direct,” you warn him through laughter. The lucky girl who gets to experience him next deserves to be spared the inner turmoil you’ve went through. He spent the entire night dancing on the line between being very direct and not direct enough. One step in either direction would have settled your dilemma, so hopefully the next person will have more luck.

“I’m a bit preoccupied with you right now, thanks,” he chuckles as he sneaks his hand down to your ass and squeezes it shamelessly. You jump up in surprise but don’t feel particularly troubled about being in public, seeing as there is no public around you, at all. It’s just the two of you, walking along the river, the boats moored along the way seemingly empty. Feeling brave, braver than you ever remember feeling, you’re the one who initiates the kiss this time, making sure to show him how much you want this. You move slowly, enjoy the feeling of taking the lead and the lazy movements of your tongues, interrupted only when you feel the need to bite his bottom lip, which is way more often than you’d be willing to admit. Somehow, you once again end up being sandwiched between him and the half wall behind you. Seizing the opportunity, you sit on the half wall, pulling Jimin towards you by the belt – his hands find their way to your waist as he situates himself between your legs. This time around you’re sure it’s not his phone you’re feeling. It’s a very prominent bulge, noticeable enough to make you salivate at the very thought of what’s hidden. You’re not the only one acting braver – for the first time tonight, Jimin’s hands find their way under your shirt, eliciting goosebumps on your back almost immediately.

It’s when his fingers move to the front and graze your bra that you remember the two of you are still very much out in the open. And while at this point you wouldn’t particularly mind letting him have you here and now, the last thing you want to add to your Paris story is being arrested for indecent exposure.

“If you keep kissing me like this, we’ll never get to your place,” you warn him and contradict yourself immediately, attacking his neck with bites that make him sigh and shudder.

“Thank fuck we’re already here.”

You reluctantly detach yourself from his neck, looking around in confusion – you don’t see a house around you, at all. There’s nothing but the walkway and the park across the street. And as much as you like Jimin, you’re not going to fuck him on a bench which he sleeps on. He sees your confusion and nods towards the river. It takes you a bit too long to connect the dots.

“You’ve rented a houseboat?!” you ask in surprise and he gives you a quick kiss, pulling away with a smile.

“Of course,” he chuckles. “Hotels are boring. Boats are awesome.”

“Who even rents a boathouse?” you ask in wonder, all the while feeling slightly pissed at yourself because why the hell didn’t you think of that? It sure would beat your tiny airbnb, with a building that has no damn stairs – nothing but an elevator. Why would you be locked in such a claustrophobic space when you can have a damn boat? Lesson learned.

“I do,” he smirks at you. “And tonight, I’m going to fuck a very beautiful girl on that boat. So I guess it was a good call. Don’t you agree?”

“Yep. Wholeheartedly. You win.”

You know you’re going to die of embarrassment when he realizes just how wet he’s made you but you’re past the point of caring. With the words he says and the way he kisses you, you and your pussy never stood a chance.

Before you can kiss him again and prolong the wait, he takes your hand and leads the way, first down a set of concrete stairs and then towards the second houseboat in a row; it’s close to the ones on its side, but not too close for comfort. Climbing up the stairs that lead to the impromptu balcony on the boat, you immediately realize the appeal of choosing housing like this – once you can take your eyes away from Jimin’s ass, that is. No, once you are not looking at it, you can appreciate the view the boat has – you can even see the Eiffel tower, a bit down the river. The deck has a huge table, a few chairs and way more plants that a boat deck needs. It looks comfortable, beautiful and with how easily accessible it is, just a bit dangerous. All the words you can use to describe the man who is now kissing your neck, standing behind you as you reach and lean yourself on the boat rail, hoping it is safe.

“I see you’re an exhibitionist,” you laugh when he pulls you back so that your ass is right against his crotch and good god, you can feel how hard he is as he rolls his hips against you.

“No. Maybe just a little,” he chuckles. You laugh too, until you feel one of his hands leave your hips and reach for the button on your jeans. You gulp, eyes widening and as if he can sense your alert, he doesn’t unbutton them immediately. “You?” he asks. God, consent is so fucking sexy.

You’ve never dabbled in it, never really thought about it either but now, in this predicament? “Maybe just a little,” your voice is low as you give him permission. You weren’t joking when you thought that he can do anything he wants, were you? It doesn’t matter, because you said yes and holy fuck, his hand is going down your pants.

You jolt immediately and how could you not, when he went straight for your clit, right off the bat. Jimin does not play around, that much is obvious. You can only pray the fence is secure enough to keep you out of the water.

“Didn’t think you’d be this turned on by foreplay in public,” he laughs directly in your ear because the moment he ran his fingers against your slit, you threw your head back to lean onto him more, afraid of your legs actually turning into jelly because of him. “I’m proven wrong.”

“You don’t know me well enough to assume my sexual preferences,” somehow, you manage to laugh and remain sassy, thought that is cut short the moment he returns his attention to your clit, circling it very, very slowly. “But I suppose you found out some.”

“And I have the whole night to learn, don’t I, Y/N?”

“You do,” you bite your lip to hold back a moan because he started rubbing his fingers against you, the sudden change from slow to fast catching you off guard.

“You don’t have to keep quiet baby,” he presses a quick kiss against your neck, pushing you more into the rail as he rubs himself against your ass in a manner that almost has you begging for more. You are, internally, but not aloud. Not yet, at least. “I don’t think anyone could hear you down here. And I know I want to.”

“Duly noted,” you moan out because he presses his fingers into you harder – with the pressure and the speed, you know you’re going to fall apart way sooner than you’d though.

There has to be some flaw, right? He cannot be this perfect, no human being can be this perfect. If you were to stick around long enough, maybe you’d find a personality trait of his that makes him less perfect than what he is now, in your eyes, but you won’t be staying long enough to find out. For tonight, you’re more than fine with letting him be your little perfection.

“Let’s go inside?” he suggests as he drags his hand away from you and that is by far the worst thing he had done the whole night. You never want him to stop touching you, but that can be arranged at a more appropriate location. You nod, or so you think you do, unsure of your movements and thoughts, and you let him pull you by the hand and towards the door, pausing to fumble with the keys.

He opens the door and you stumble inside as he puts his bag on a hallway table – you choose to throw yours on the ground, waiting for him to turn on the lights. The moment you can see him clearly, the passion takes over you.

Driven by it, you all but slam him into the wall, almost laughing as his eyes widen in surprise. You don’t though – you don’t laugh, you don’t say anything. You simply reach for the hem of his shirt and lift it up slowly, making sure that your fingers cross every inch of skin you uncover. Seeing him shiver is worth the torture you’re putting yourself through, because a part of you wants to drop to the floor and start unbuckling his belt. You fight your own instincts, wanting and hoping to give him at least a fraction of the pleasure he had given you just moments ago.

Soft to the touch but very well defined, his body is a work of art that could rival those that you have spent the last few days observing. The tattoo you discover on his ribs serves as a perfect imperfection, a blemish on the canvas that somehow looks so right. Gulping, you let him take off his shirt and as soon as he does, you’re against him, kissing those lips of his again.

You don’t stay there long – slowly traveling under his chin, down his neck and all over his chest, staying there long enough, pressing soft kisses and licks until he is properly panting. When his hips roll, subconsciously looking for any kind of friction, you decide to move further down, slowly kissing a trail down his stomach, looking up at him, enjoying the sight of him so visibly… distraught. The moment your eyes meet, he closes his. And now you know you’re doing it right, if for the first time he is the one afraid of eye contact and how deadly it can be.

“You’re killing me,” he chuckles nervously, his voice breathless. And you simply smile, slowly unbuckling his belt and pushing the pants down to his knees as slow as you possibly can. You want to offer a remark about how he’s clearly enjoying it but his cock is one major distraction, in the best way possible.

He’s hard and ready, the sight filling you with instant pride because you know that you did that. You made him like this. A little bit pliant, a little bit breathless and very much not ready for what’s about to come. He’s hard, twitching under your gaze, making your mouth water. You still take it slow, enjoying the pace set to tease him – slowly licking the tip of his dick, smiling as you watch his Adam’s apple bob from above you – he still can’t look at you.

“I love how you’ve been staring me down the whole night and now you can’t handle looking at me,” you admit as you slowly drag your hand up and down his cock. Of course, now he opens his eyes and looks down on you but the lump he swallows shows you that even though he responed to your challenge, he is still very much affected and you’re living for it.

“I see you like to tease,” is what he says, making you smile.

“Very much,” you nod, giving him a quick lick that is followed by another muffled curse coming from him. “But I can be kind too,” you conclude, before finally taking him into your mouth properly.

It’s a bit of a challenge but you are more than happy to take it, slowly sinking your mouth up and down his dick, enjoying the symphony of noises that is coming from him. Every sigh, every curse, every moan – it all just makes you even more adamant to give him the best head of his life.

“Fuck Y/N,” he barely manages to say, moaning as you speed up your movements. He gathers your hair in a makeshift ponytail and slowly starts guiding you faster, eyeing your reaction, despite being momentarily distracted by the sight of you taking all of him into your mouth. “Fuck, you look so… You’re gonna make me come,” he lets out a slightly panicked laughter, gently pushing you away from him, to which you pout. Despite not being that big on blowjobs, giving one to Jimin felt somewhat like a privilege and you wouldn’t admit that lightly. Not wanting to stop completely, you squeeze him in your hand, slowly moving up and down, watching as he goes through another crisis. “Y/N,” he laughs in warning, making you stop, albeit reluctantly.

“Isn’t it the point to make you come?” you ask but still stand up when his hands grab yours by the elbows and he lifts you up to stand next to him.

“Absolutely,” his eyes don’t leave your lips and he gives you a quick kiss, biting into your bottom lip hard enough to earn a moan. “But not like that, not before I fuck you. Not before I have my way with you.”

The smile on his face looks sinister enough to make you even wetter than you were moments ago. He doesn’t sound like a man who makes promises lightly and you get your confirmation as he puts his hands on your hips and starts pushing you back towards the room behind you. You’re too fucked out to notice anything other than the fairly modern design of the furniture around you. Before you can notice anything in particular, your ass slams into a hard surface and you jump up, letting him settle between your legs again and kiss you even harder than he did all night.

You’re the target now, and good god, you’re loving it. His lips alter between being gentle and harsh, kissing you with so much passion before biting, as if he wants to show you that he’s the one in charge. And you let him. By god, you let him.

He takes your shirt and bra off quickly, not wanting to drag it out like you did, but the moment you’re half naked before his eyes, he slows down. If him staring you down made you feel nervous before, you are positively burning right now because he is eating you up. He doesn’t even have to touch you – just the sight of him, looking like he’s about to ruin you is enough to cause goosebumps to form all over your body. He comes closer, attaching his lips to your chest. You are losing your mind because he is purposely slow, kissing you all over before finally attaching his lips to your nipple, taking it into his mouth and slowly rolling his tongue against it. You swear you can feel him smiling, but you’re too far gone to check – especially not when his hand reaches for your other breast, squeezing it shamelessly. You’ve been able to control your noises for a little while, but the moment his teeth come out to play, you’re a goner. With his fingers and lips moving at the same time, you can only moan, reaching towards something, anything to hold and settling for his hair. You grip it, perhaps a bit too harshly if his moan is anything to go by – but he doesn’t stop you. In fact, he simply sucks harder, making you arch your back towards him.

He’ll ruin you. He will absolutely ruin you and you are perfectly fine with it.

After what feels like an eternity, he detaches his mouth away from you and your eyes meet. He truly is a sight for sore eyes, especially now when he looks so blissfully fucked out. His hair is a mess, his lips red from all the kissing and sucking, his torso a work of art. He looks so fucking hot, you moan. At the very sight of him, you moan. He’s not touching you, he’s not teasing you, he’s not doing anything but looking at you and that is enough to make you moan, moan and rut your hips in his direction, looking for friction which you find in the form of his thigh. He lets you, he lets you move against him. Your moment of pleasure doesn’t last long, because he steps back, fumbling to unbutton your jeans. You lay down, ignoring the cold of the table against your naked back, lifting your hips to help him undress you completely. Unlike the slow, sensual moves that you used on him, he is quick, taking them off as fast as he possibly can. When you’re left in nothing but your underwear, that is when he slows down again, crouching down out of your sight.

“Fuck!” you gasp in surprise when you feel him nuzzling his nose against your clothed center – you can feel how wet you are and you know, you know he can smell it, feel it, see it and you absolutely do not care. In fact, you’re even more turned on by the thought of it – he clearly is enjoying it and you want nothing more than to let him know how good he’s making you feel.

He doesn’t torture you for too long and other than a muffled curse, he doesn’t comment on how wet you are for him. Instead, he goes right down to business, using his fingers to move your underwear to the side and he immediately attaches himself to your clit, sucking on it harshly, with the same fervor as when he was sucking on your nipples.  

“Fuck, Jimin!” you moan out, gripping his hair with all the strength you have, knowing that that must have hurt – again, he shows no signs of having a problem with it. Fuck, he probably even likes it.

“What is it baby?” he asks, not waiting for your response and instead choosing to lick up your center. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, fuck yes,” you manage to reply, momentarily distracted by the feel of his finger sinking into you.

“If you let me, I’ll eat you out for hours tomorrow morning,” he tells you, pausing to bite on your thigh, a bite that you know will leave teeth marks, but you don’t protest. “As much as I’d be willing to do it for hours right now, I really need you on my cock.”

“Yeah, okay,” you laugh, biting your lip at the feel of him sinking another finger into you, slowly dragging them in and out as he stands up, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. You say nothing more – you couldn’t, even if you wanted to. You move your hips in time with his fingers, riding them like you would, and hopefully will, ride his dick in a matter of moments.

“Bedroom?” he suggests as he stops his assault on you. You nod, somehow managing to sit up, nearly laughing at the sight of him. Half naked, with his jeans still hanging right above his knees, his member standing up proudly. How he could wobble you towards the table in that state is beyond you. You don’t have a chance to ask, too distracted with the sight of him licking his fingers, all while looking directly into your eyes. He’ll be the death of you, that’s for sure.

You stand up, leaning against the table as he loses the last articles of his clothing – you barely have the time to take a few deep breaths before he starts kissing you again, his tongue overpowering yours as you moan at the taste of him. You don’t bother opening your eyes, letting him lead you towards the bedroom, trusting him that you won’t end up overboard, hoping that if you do, you wouldn’t be too turned on to notice. You hit a wall and a door on your way there, giggling by the time he is pushing you onto a bed, finally letting you breathe. Standing above you, he somehow manages to look both menacing and hot at the same time. His eyes tell you to wait, which you gladly do, watching him as you settle yourself on top of the covers. You choke on your own breath when you notice his ass, for the first time without the barrier of skintight jeans – it’s a sight, alright. You watch as he fumbles through his suitcase, smiling at him when he turns around, waving a condom at you.

No matter how much you’re into him, there’s no way he’s fucking you without protection. You’re glad he’s on the same page, not even stopping to suggest going bare. While you’d like that and you’re guessing so would he, it’s simply not happening. He walks towards you, not putting the condom on immediately, instead choosing to give his member a few strokes, enjoying the view of you on his bed, naked and waiting. Though your lip bite was an unconscious reaction at the sight before you, he is affected, grunting at the sight – the moment the condom is covering his dick, he is rushing to get on top of you, finally letting you feel his whole body against your own.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he tells you before kissing you passionately, flicking his tongue slowly as he settles between your legs. He doesn’t enter you immediately, instead choosing to grind onto you, making the both of you moan into the kiss. You’re the one who pulls away, if only for a moment.

“Please,” you moan out, enjoying the feel of his dick rubbing against you, pushing you closer to the edge – too close, considering you didn’t even have a chance to feel him inside of you. “Please just fuck me.”

“Gladly,” he gives you a quick kiss before finally sliding into you. Slowly and with ease, he fills you up in a way that makes you moan – louder than you did the whole night, feeling absolutely shameless. You don’t care, you don’t care where you are or who can hear you, if anyone – he feels that damn good.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you gasp, taken by surprise with him slowly rolling his hips into you. It’s as if he can tell you need no more time to adjust to him, he starts moving a bit faster with each roll of his hips, making you curse out as you grab onto him, your fingers digging into his skin. It seems he enjoys you being rough with him, showing him how good he’s making you feel because he isn’t complaining and you know it has to hurt. He wastes no time, dipping down to take your nipple into his mouth, never stopping his dick from moving in and out of you in the best of ways.

“God,you’re so tight baby!” he grunts as his thrusts become harder and faster, so much so that you faintly notice the sound of the bed thumping into something, most likely the wall. You don’t care, you really don’t – you pull him closer to you, blindly reaching for his lips, enjoying the way he overpowers your senses, even smell - he smells like sex and expensive cologne, the most mouthwatering scent you’ve ever had the pleasure of smelling. The moment your lips touch, you feel his hand graze your clit, eliciting a particularly loud moan for you. Unable to focus on anything, you give into pleasure and let him do whatever he wants with you, the onslaught on your senses killing the little sanity you had left.

You dare and think it can’t get any better than this and right as you do, he delivers a particularly hard thrust, pinching your clit between his fingers at the same time. You weren’t ready – you weren’t ready for it at all and with his actions catching you by surprise, you lose the little control you’ve had, coming hard. The orgasm washes over you stronger than any orgasm in your recent memory, making you gasp and moan, holding onto him with all the strength your body has left. He is losing his cool too – his hands give in and he’s pressed up against you completely, lips grazing your ear. “Just like that, come all over my cock,” he urges you through your high, his words making it even harder for you to calm down.

Body shivering, you somehow calm down your breathing – it’s a challenge, seeing as he still hasn’t stopped moving completely. He slowed down enough not to send you in complete overdrive too soon. Even his consideration is a turn on – almost as strong of a turn on as him using your body to pleasure himself, still rolling his hips into you and moaning softly, directly into your ear, the moan turning more high pitched when he feels your nails running up and down his back.

Turning your head towards him, you search for his lips. He kisses you eagerly, stilling himself inside of you for a moment, as if he wants to focus on the kiss and kiss alone. Slowly, he moves away from you and leans back, running his hand up your thigh. He raises his eyebrows as he pushes your leg up, asking you for permission. You nod, moaning as he moves your leg towards the side. Quickly, you turn to your side completely and judging by the moan he lets out, that’s exactly what he needed you to do.

You want to do more, you do. You want to ride him till you can no longer move but he is so damn overwhelming, all you can do right now is just… take it. And you’re not complaining. Slowly but surely, the pleasure builds up again and you realize there’s a strong chance you’ll come again. Suddenly brave again, you look at him, directly at him, as you put a hand between your legs and start rubbing yourself. The moment he realizes what you’re doing, he looks down, lifting your leg up so that he can have a better view. “Fuck,” is all he says, followed by the sexiest groan you have ever heard a man make.

“I’m so close,” you warn him, wanting to feel all of it again but somehow not wanting it to end.

“Come on baby, come for me again,” he urges you on. As much as you want to, you really don’t want it to be over anytime soon - the buildup was so damn hot and you simply don’t want to stop. Thinking about his earlier promise about eating you out for hours is what pushes you over the edge. Feeling Jimin and think of the dirty words he whispered in your ear is enough for you to come again, your entire body shivering with pure pleasure. Looking up at him, you notice the way his face scrunches, the way his voice is deeper and his moans never stopping… he takes over you again.

“I’m going to come,” he warns you, making you remember that he can’t come inside of you and fill you up, which is something you would really, really like. You settle for the next best thing.

“Come on me,” you tell him, moving your leg out of his still firm grip, and spreading your legs as much as possible, now having a perfect view of him slamming into you, much faster than he did before. “Come anywhere you want,” you urge him, biting your lip as his hips lose rhythm at your suggestion. In the speed of light, he slips out of you, leaving you empty and wanting more, more of him, more of his dick, more of anything he’d be willing to give you. You watch as he takes the condom off in the speed of light, still rubbing yourself and ignoring the overstimulation you are feeling, absolutely urged by the hottest sight you have seen in your entire life: Jimin, stroking himself with a firm grip, moaning loudly as he closes his eyes, his face scrunched in pleasure.

You watch in awe as he finishes all over you, the streaks of his cum reaching all the way up to your breasts. You have never, never in your entire life, experienced anything hotter than this. You know now, there is nothing hotter than watching Jimin orgasm. And you have never in your miserable life had sex nearly as good as the one you had now.

Jimin’s body gives up and he falls directly on top of you, making you chuckle. Your hands roam his back, as if you are comforting him through the aftermath, completely ignoring the fact that his now softening member is still rubbing against you. Both of you are sweaty, your bodies covered in his cum but you don’t care and neither does he. Once he is finally able to move, he simply leans a bit to the side, just so that he can look at you. And he does. With the brightest, sweetest smile that shouldn’t belong to a man who fucked you as hard as he just did.

“Hi,” you speak up first, shocked at how rough your voice sounds. Perhaps you were a bit louder than you thought you were. He smiles and you feel yourself melting again, accepting that you are whipped for him, way more whipped than you should be for someone you barely know. He doesn’t make it any easier on you when he leans in for a kiss, his lips slow and lazy and yours following suit, ignoring the butterflies that are going berserk in your stomach again. You ignore it all, shutting your brain off and enjoying the post sex glow that he is radiating with.

He pulls away but not before caressing your face and pushing hair behind your ear – a very sweet action for someone whose mouth can do all those dirty, lovely things.

“That was… wow,” he admits and for the first time since you’ve met him, you think you see a blush on his face – a blush that isn’t caused by alcohol, that is. Is he suddenly shy? Is it the post sex blush? You don’t know and you don’t care, as long as you can keep looking at him.

“Wow seems appropriate,” you agree, joining in his laughter. He is still chuckling as he nuzzles into your neck, giving you a few quick pecks before pulling away.

“Do you want to stay the night?” he raises his eyebrows, giving you a way out if you don’t want to take him up on his earlier offer. “I could call you a cab or even walk you back to your place. I’d like you to stay the night though.”

“Good, because I don’t think I can use my legs at the moment.”

It wasn’t supposed to be such a funny remark but for some reason, he laughs hard and after fighting it for a few seconds, you can’t help but join in. If you look past his hotness and the ease with which he communicates with people, he really does have a comfortable aura around him – if he laughs, it’s contagious and you don’t mind joining in.

The two of you calm down and after a few moments of silence, he runs his hand through your hair again, pushing it away from your face as his eyes focus on different parts of it – first your eyes, then your lips, then your cheeks. It looks as if he is trying to memorize you and to that you can relate because this is one night you’d never want to forget, not one part of it. And not one part of him. “Let’s go and get cleaned up?” he suggests.

You’ve lost count of how many times you have let him take you by the hand and lead the way for the both of you. You are yet to regret those decisions, gladly letting him lead the way now, knowing that wherever he takes you… it’s going to be good.

You wake up feeling content, well rested and sore, all at once. With a dumb smile on your face, you giggle and bury your face in the pillow – it smells of him, making your memories of the night before even more vivid.

His promise of devoting hours to you and your body this morning did not wait until dawn. It all occurred the night before, with you still kissing one another by the time sun had started to rise and the birds had started chirping.

It all comes back to you in flashes, the bath you took together, the way he caressed your skin as he was washing you up, before his hands went a bit further south. Both the sweet words and the dirty talk are engraved in your mind forever, just like the way he made you feel all of last night.

You knew it before, you’re sure of it now – he has ruined you. He has absolutely ruined you, in the best way possible. And you don’t want it to end.

You knew it had an expiration date. This is a trip romance – short, sweet, steamy and memorable. It had an expiration date the moment the two of you shared the first smiles in front of ‘Shakespeare and company’. While the thought of it does leave a bitter taste in your mouth, you’re a big girl and you can live with it. Smiling, you decide to enjoy the morning, or early afternoon, with Jimin. You’ll deal with the negative side effects later.

“Afternoon, beautiful,” you hear him, turning around towards the direction his voice is coming from – he is leaning against the doorway, smiling at you, looking too hot for his own good with gray sweatpants, a white shirt and a part of his dark hair pulled back in a makeshift bun. “Did you sleep well?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” he smiles as you close your eyes and shamelessly yawn, remembering a second too late that you should put a hand over your mouth. You open your eyes just in time to see him sitting down on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on your naked thigh and slowly moving it up and down your skin. It’s not as sexual as his touches were last night – in fact, this feels more comforting than anything else. “How long was I out? Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, I slept like a log. And it’s 2PM now, so you’ve had a few hours.”

“2PM?” you’re shocked to realized you’ve already lost half the day. It was very much worth it, though.

“You have somewhere to be?” he teases you, probably unaware how he makes the butterflies in your stomach go nuts. You have a sneaky suspicion that he’s not aware of your dilemma – do you go, do you stay? Does he want you to go or does he want you to stay? What are you even supposed to say now?

“No, not really,” you shrug, cowardly throwing the ball into his court. You’ll admit it, you’re a whimp and you are more than happy to let him decide if you should be on your way or stick around a bit longer.

“Well, I’ve made us some quick lunch. I wanted to order something but wasn’t sure if you’d want to stick around for food… so I figured I’ll make something and eat both portions if you bolt,” he admits through laughter and you’re immediately relieved – you weren’t the only one uncertain about everything.

“I don’t have to bolt. And I’m also kind of starving,” you admit, shuddering when you remember that the last thing you ate was a croissant almost a full day ago – you’re absolutely starving.

“We can eat on the deck if you want?” he suggest, before breaking out into a sudden smile.

“What?” you ask, confused with how he’s looking at you. You either have something on your face or he’s going to make this whole thing 20 times more difficult and you’re afraid the second situation is more likely.

“Nothing. You’re just beautiful like that,” he shrugs as you let him run his hands through your hair.

“Half-dead and messy looking? I’m sure I am,” you roll your eyes.

“Not messy. Sexy,” he corrects you, the same way he did last night. With a sigh, he pulls away and stands up. “I’m starving too, so you’d better hurry up if you don’t want me eating you up instead.”

“I don’t think I’d mind that, to be honest,” you admit, hiding your face in his pillow, knowing that you no longer have the dark to hide the blush that appears whenever you say something a bit more straightforward.

You expected him to say something or maybe laugh – you absolutely didn’t expect to feel his teeth on your right ass cheek. You jump up in surprise, nearly hitting him in the head when your leg jerks, but that only makes him laugh. You’re smiling way too wide for someone who’s just been bitten on the ass and you decide to scream into the pillow once he’s away enough not to hear it.

“Your clothes and underwear are dry and clean but feel free to steal that shirt from me,” he winks at you. “I’ll wait on the deck.”

With that, he leaves you alone to get dressed, try to gather your thoughts and maybe, just maybe, control your emotions a little bit. It would have been a lot easier if he was the ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of guy but surprise, he’s not! No, he fucked you like a full-fledged sex god, giving you the best night of your life, while caring enough to throw your clothes into the washer and drier and even wanting to feed you the next day. Nope, still no flaws in sight for Park Jimin.

You wash up quickly, slapping yourself a few times for good measure, hoping to calm yourself down enough to be able to turn around and leave very soon. You still don’t know if it had worked but your bag is packed and you join him on the deck, dressed in your jeans and the shirt he wore yesterday that he generously let you sleep in and steal for good.

He doesn’t notice you immediately, leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed. The sight of him sitting like that, with his dark hair pulled back and tied, his neck in full view and all but glowing in the sunlight makes you want to cry. The man is actually so goddamn pretty it almost brings tears to your eyes. It doesn’t help when he notices you and smiles at you, pointing at the two bowls set on the table.

“I know it’s just noodles but honestly, I’m too pretty to know how to cook,” he explains as you take a seat. You burst out laughing at his comment.

“Cocky yet very true,” you nod in appreciation. “Don’t worry, I love ramen.”

“It’s lame but I at least I’ve added poached eggs,” he tells you, looking oh so proud about adding an extra ingredient.

“Nothing beats instant ramen,” you reassure him. “It smells of youth, not having enough money and artificial flavoring. I’ve never felt more at home,” this time around, it’s he who laughs, wishing you a good meal as the both of you dig into the food. You weren’t lying when you said it’s more than okay – you just need some food in the belly and it’s not like you’ve expected him to greet you with a full course meal. It’s the thought that counts and it’s more than enough. Actually, it might even be too much.

Halfway through your lunch, the silence between you turns slightly uncomfortable. It isn’t anything that either one of you did – it’s just the entire situation. The clock is ticking, the both of you know it and neither one of you is quite sure how to act about it. You can’t stay here for another day, even if you wanted to – your stuff and a huge chunk of your money is back at your airbnb. Even with that little detail aside, you’re not even sure if you want to say – not to mention, if he wants you to stay or not.

But it feels… wrong. It feels wrong to leave just like that, pretending like he hadn’t given you an amazing night. Not only was the sex mind-blowingly good… even before that, he was a perfect travel partner yesterday. He’s good company and knowing you’ll be saying goodbye to all of that… it doesn’t sit well with you.

Despite avoiding eye contact for a few minutes now, you fail and the moment your eyes meet from across the table, you know you’ve reached that page of the little novella the two of you wrote. He knows it too, setting away his chopsticks, sighing as he leans back into the chair. You say nothing, watching him as he stares you down, slowly shaking his head.

“I don’t want this to end,” he admits. You stay silent, following his suit as you put away your own chopsticks and lean back into the chair, completely shutting down the rest of the world – you no longer hear the birds or passing boats. You don’t see the tourists walking along the river, you don’t even feel the subtle waves that gently sway the boat you’re on – you can only focus on him, on his face, on the way he looks bothered by this. “It feels wrong to end this but at the same time, doesn’t it feel like the only proper way to go about it? Am I making any sense?” he asks, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“Yeah,” you nod immediately, assuring him that you do understand it. “It feels good, it feels right, like it would be a shame to walk away from but… what else can be done?”

“Exactly,” he agrees, leaning towards you. “It feels equally right and wrong. What are we going to do?”

You can go back to get your stuff and spend the rest of the trip here with him. You can exchange numbers and meet up back home. It could lead to something beautiful, a continuation of a marvelous chapter one, just as easily as it can lead to a complete disaster. Life’s unpredictable and you don’t know if it’s worth it to possibly ruin this amazing… encounter.

How can you even find an answer to that? Not like this whole thing hasn’t been…

“You believe in destiny, don’t you?” you ask him, suddenly putting two and two together, smiling at the confused nod he gives you. “We met here so many times. Different days, different times, we somehow ended up together. Who’s to say that won’t happen again?” you ask.

“What are you suggesting here? To… see if we meet again?”

“Exactly,” you nod, feeling proud of the solution you’ve come up with. “You believe in destiny and I don’t. If we meet again, I’d be willing to question that belief. We go our separate ways. If it ends up being a onetime encounter, we’ll remember it with smiles on our faces. And if we meet…”

“I don’t let you walk away again,” he smirks at you. You don’t say anything as that smirk turns into a genuine, real smile. He means it, he actually means it. And if you meet him again… you will too. “What happens if we run into each other back home?” he asks.

You remember how you talked last night, realizing that the two of you were hanging around the same places before, perhaps even at the same time. It made you wonder how many times you have passed one another, without a second glance, thinking of other things, of other people. Running into him back home seems more likely than seeing him again here in Paris.

“Then we say hello and see where that takes us,” you answer adamantly.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

He offers you his hand from across the table and you shake it firmly, suddenly a lot more hopeful than you were moments ago. No, you don’t believe in destiny but if there’s someone that could make you question that, it’s Park Jimin himself.

“Fucking hell,” you curse under your breath as you wrestle your way through the crowd – for the first time since you’ve arrived in Paris, you were stuck in the metro during rush hour and you have never felt so many backpacks smacking your face in such a short amount of time.

Trying to get Google Maps on, you make your way up the stairs and into fresh air, taking a deep breath when you do. If your phone is correct and based on your previous experiences, it’s probably not, you’re a five minute walk away from the Luxembourg Gardens.  A perfect way to end your last full day in Paris – outside and hopefully away from any kind of crowd.

You walk in the direction your navigation deems right, checking every few seconds if it had started spinning out of control like it did yesterday – there is nothing more stressful than your GPS telling you to turn right and once you do, immediately telling you to take a sharp left.

It’s the smell that makes you take a detour – it’s always the smell. Sure, you could continue to sheepishly follow your navigation but when the smell of freshly baked pastry smacks you in the face, you know where you’re heading. The bakery is fairly empty and you test your poor French as you order a plain croissant.

Damn him and his plain croissants. Something that should be so simple and so irrelevant now irks you, almost to the point of you changing your order to a chocolate one. You don’t, already knowing that you’re nowhere near proficient enough in French to explain your change of heart.

The lady behind the counter is a bit of a bitch, not waiting for you to put your wallet away before she hands you your meal, giving you a dirty look when it takes you a second too long to take it from her. Offering her a sour, kiss-my-ass smile, you take the pastry and head towards the door, now trying to juggle your food, phone, wallet and the door handle, all at once.

You’ve just managed to close the door behind you and turn around, nearly avoiding a collision.

“Jesus Christ!” you gasp, gripping your phone and the pastry harder, stopping them from flying out of your hand.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!”

Your heart stops at the sound of his voice. You slowly look up, scared of both confirming and denying your suspicions, unsure which one would hurt more – him being here or him being a product of your imagination. You know that voice and you know it well.

It’s him, looking panicked and checking if you have a hold on your things. “I’m sorry, I…” he goes mute once his eyes meet yours and he realizes it’s you.

Jimin stares at you, not saying anything. One second before the encounter turns uncomfortable, you watch in amazement as he grins at you, a grin so wide and genuine your heart skips a beat.

“I… I could have dropped my croissant.”

He huffs a small laugh at your horribly timed Vine reference, pursing his lips as he tries to hide his smile – why, you don’t know and don’t care to find out because he can’t do it. He can’t hide his smile and it’s evident that he’s happy to see you. So are you, thanking and cursing at destiny at the same time.

Taking your empty hand in his, he says nothing as he intertwines your fingers and starts walking, slowly leading you away with him. You follow him, desperately thinking of what to say, of what to do but somehow too panicked to actually do anything. It feels like one of you should do something and apparently, he thinks the same because he suddenly stops and turns your way.

He puts his hands on your face, pulling you in for a kiss. The moment your lips are pressed against his, you remember how much you’ve wanted to do this since the last time you’ve kissed him, before walking down the steps of his boathouse. The relief that fills you as he deepens the kiss makes you a reluctant but firm believer in destiny.

No words are needed, you know that now. So when he leans away and smiles at you, you smile back, reaching for his hand again. He leads the way and again you follow, knowing you’re definitely not going to regret it this time either. THE END

[whitehotharlots]

CRT and the sad state of educational politics

If our culture is studied 100 years from now, the predominant theme of the research will be a sense of perplexed revulsion toward how we did nothing to address the climate crisis in spite of having decades of forewarning. If there is a second theme, it will be a profound confusion regarding our immense and unearned sense of self-certainty. A retrospective of the early twenty first century would be titled something like Who the Fuck Did These People Think They Were? 

The latter theme is illustrated in the debacle surrounding a recent slew of municipal and statewide bills that seek to ban the teaching of Critical Race Theory (CRT) in public schools. For the record, I am strongly against these bans. But I’m also self-aware enough to know my opinion matters very little, and therefore realize that an analysis of the discussion surrounding the bills will yield much more worthwhile observations than a simple delimitation of their pros and cons. Regardless of your personal opinion, I hope you’ll humor me.

I am, in some regards, a moral absolutist. But I also realize that abstract morality has very little bearing on material and political realities. In my ideal world, classrooms are free from political meddling. Teachers teach to the best of their ability, presenting students with truths that are confidently unvarnished due to the thorough amount of work that was required to reach them. I don’t cotton any of that socratic bullshit. Students are there to learn, not to engage in weird Gotchas with some perverted elder. The teacher’s job is to teach. The material they teach needs to be subjected to some graspable and standardized mechanism of truth adjudication before it is worthy of being taught. Teaching is not therapy. Teaching is not poetry. Teaching is not love, nor is it religion, nor is it a means of social or political indoctrination. There are plenty of other avenues available to accomplish all of those other things. Teaching is teaching. 

That’s the ideal. But ideals are just ideals. They never come true. The art of teaching, regardless of setting--from overpacked classrooms to face-to-face instruction to curricular design to nationwide pedagogical initiatives--boils down to a teacher’s ability to reconcile the need to convey truths with social and political pressures that are heavily invested in the suppression of truth. 

I have formally studied and practiced education for nearly two decades. In that time, the prevailing political thrust toward education has been a desire to casualize the practice of teaching, to render educators as cheap and fungible as iphones. The thrust takes different shapes depending on the political affiliation of whomever happens to be in charge of the state and federal governments that fund education, but the ultimate desire is always the same. The goal is always to attempt to make teaching rote and algorithmic, something akin to running a google search for How to do math? or What is morality?. The framing is always just windowdressing, empty culture war bullshit. 

Maybe it’s the inescapability of this thrust that’s rendered so many educators so blind to it? We only have nominal political choice, after all. The discourse gets more blinkered and vicious as the stakes decrease. At any rate, this is the undeniable reality, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth listening to. 

Non-administrative per-pupil spending as been on a steady decline since George W. Bush was president. Administrative bloat and meddling are becoming as common in k-12 as they are in higher education. The will of parasitic NGOs are implemented as common sense pedagogy without anyone even bothering to ask for any proof that they work. The so-called Education Reform movement is sputtering out due both to its manifest failures and rare, bipartisan backlash. But it will be replaced with something just as idiotic and pernicious. The thrust of causalization will not abate. 

And so what do we decide to do? What’s the next big thing on the education policy horizon? Critical Race Theory. 

Okay, this makes sense. In 2021, a local paper can’t run a news story about a lost cat without explicitly mentioning the race of every human involved and possibly also nodding toward the implied cisnormativity of pet ownership. So it makes sense that this broad rhetorical mandate would come to dominate the transitional period between Bush-Obama Education Reform and whatever bleak future awaits us. The controversy is so perfectly inefficacious that its adoption was inevitable. Because, seriously, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of the outcome of this kerfuffle, no problems will be solved. The real shortcomings of public education will not be addressed. Larger social problems that are typically blamed on public education in spite of having little to do with public education will especially not be addressed. Maybe white kids will have to do struggle sessions in lieu of the Pledge of Allegiance. Maybe black kids will get full credit for drawing the Slayer logo in the part of the test where their geometric proof is supposed to go. Or maybe it won’t happen. Maybe instead these practices will be banned, and in turn liberals will begin to embrace homeschooling, the charter movement will be given new life as a refuge against the terrors of white supremacist behaviors such as, uhh, teaching kids to show their work. Whatever.

Within the context of public education, the outcome will not matter. It cannot matter. There will be broader social impacts, sure. It will continue to drive Democrats more rightward, providing their party’s newly woke corporate wing with progressive-sounding rationales for austerity. But so far as teachers and students are concerned, it won’t matter.

Why do I give a shit about this, then? To put it bluntly, I’m struck by the utter fucking inartfulness of CRT’s proponents. At no point has any advocate of CRT presented a case for their approach to education that was at all concerned with persuading people who aren’t already 100% in their camp. There’s been no demonstration of positive impacts, or even an explanation of how the impacts could hypothetically be positive. In fact, so much as asking for such a rationale is considered proof of racism. Advocates posit an image of existing educational policies that is absolutely fantastical, suggesting that kids never learn about slavery or racism or civil rights. But then... then they don’t even stick with the kayfabe. They’ll say “kids never learn about racism.” In response, people--mostly well-meaning--say “wait, umm, I’m pretty sure they do learn about racism.” The response is “we never said they don’t learn about racism.” You’ll see this shift from one paragraph to the next. It’s insane. Absolutely insane. 

Or take this talk from a pro-CRT workshop in Oregon. The speaker freely admits that proto-CRT leanings like anti-bias education, multiculturalism, and centering race in historical discussions have been the norm since the late 1980s. The speaker admits that these practices have been commonplace for 30+ years, as anyone my age or younger will attest. Then, seconds later, the speaker discusses the results of this shift: it failed. Unequivocally:

We had this huge, huge, huge focus on culturally relevant teaching and research. [ ... ] So you would think that with 40+ years of research and really focusing and a lot of lip service and a lot of policies and, you know, a lot of rhetoric about cultural relevancy and about equity and about anti-bias that we would see trends that are significantly different, [but] that’s not what we’re finding. What we’re finding that you see [is] that some cases, particularly black and brown [students] the results, the academic achievement has either stayed the same and gotten worse.

Translation: here’s this approach to teaching. It’s new and vital but also we’ve been doing it for 40 years. It doesn’t work. But we need to keep doing it. Anyone who is in any way confused by this is a dangerous racist. 

Even in the darkest days of the Bush-era culture war, I never saw such a complete and open disregard for honesty. This isn’t to say that Bush-era conservatives weren’t shit-eating liars. They were. But they had enough savvy to realize that self-righteousness alone is not an effective way of doing politics. You need to at least pretend to be engaging with issues in good faith. 

This is what happens when a movement has its head so far up its own ass that it cannot comprehend the notion of good-faith criticism. These people do not believe that there can exist anyone who shares their basic goals but has concerns that their methods might not work. Their self-certainty is so absolute and unshakeable that they can proffer data demonstrating the complete ineffectiveness of their methods as proof of the necessity of their methods.

For decades, the most effective inoculation against pernicious meddling in education has been to lean upon the ideal form of teaching I described earlier in this post. We claimed that teaching is apolitical and that no one is trying to indoctrinate anybody. Regardless of the abstract impossibility of this claim, it has immense and lasting appeal, and it was upheld by a system of pedagogical standards that allowed teachers to evoke a sense of neutrality. The prevailing thrust in liberal education is to explicitly reject any such notions, and no one--not a single goddamn person--has proffered a convincing replacement for it. We still say, laughably, that we’re eschewing indoctrination. But people aren’t that stupid. If you find it beneath yourself to make your lies digestible, people will be able to tell when you’re lying to them. 

This, my friends, bodes very poorly for the future of education, regardless of whatever happens in the coming months. A movement that cannot articulate its own worth is not one that is long for this world. Teachers themselves are the only force that can resit the slow press toward the eventual elimination of public education, and they have embraced a worldview and comportment style that renders them absolutely unable to mount any worthwhile resistance. 

[smol-and-grumpy]

Cross My Heart - CH.18

Pairing: Bodyguard!Dean x Reader; Chuck Shurley x Reader

Summary: After opening up a letter, the life as she knows it, changes forever. Her husband hires Dean Winchester to protect her but is Dean really who he said he was? And is her husband really worried about her safety?

Warnings: Fluff

WC: 2068

A/N: This is it. The end. Again. I’m always so sad when a story ends. Please, please let me know what you think about it. Feedback keeps me going. Thank you for reading the 18 chapters. I know it was a lot. I apparently can’t write short series anymore. 

SERIES MASTERLIST

Y/N has offered to pay and cover for Cas’ expenses if he wants to stay here while Dean’s still in the hospital — she got her bag with her things back too, because Bobby came in to see Dean before he left, and left her bag with Dean. She’s a little sad she missed Bobby, hadn’t really got to officially meet that man that Dean’s so fond of. He came in when Cas and her were out to find her some pants. Cas politely declined, though, because he needs to get back for his new job as a car salesman. 

She can imagine him selling a lot of cars to single women, to be honest. He has that charming smile and eyes that are blue as a clear sky on a sunny day.

*

The next day, when she goes in to see Dean, he’s already sitting up and talking on the phone. She slips into the room and sits on the empty chair beside him. 

He’s doing incredibly good for someone who almost died. It’s only the wound on his stomach that’s still hurting and he’s on painkillers. The doctor’s are happy with the progress he makes, and said that it’s rare that they see someone with his wounds recover that well. Guess Dean’s a super human, at least that’s what he is to her. 

Dean’s frowning while he talks but he smiles at her with his eyes, she can see it clearly. She likes that, likes the way he smiles and she’s able to see the smile reaching his eyes. It’s so rare to see that in a person. 

Y/N takes out her new phone which she bought this morning and begins to set it up while she waits for Dean to finish his call. She can hear that he’s talking to Benny.

She knows what Benny's telling him because she went in to see Benny this morning, as he’s still in town to wrap the case up. 

Apparently, Chuck’s company isn’t doing well (surprise!), and he’s close to losing it. And instead of selling or getting investors on board, he decides that it would be easier to kill off his own wife. She’s glad that her soon to be ex-husband is facing life in jail, to be honest. Because that’s what Benny has told her. They’ve got a strong case and the chances of Chuck ever getting out of jail alive, are slim to non-existent. That’s good. Really good. It’s just, she doesn’t look forward to going up into the witness stand. Especially when they could bring up her relationship with Dean, which could lead to other suspicions and would raise more questions, but knowing Dean, he’s going to be great in the courtroom. It’s her that’s going to need some coaching.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Thanks for everything man. I owe you. Of course. Yeah, we should. Okay, bye.”

He hangs up and rubs at his ears. He’s probably been on the phone for a while, “Benny says hi.”

“I like Benny,” She says, looking up from her phone to grin at him.

“Yeah?”

“He ties with Cas on the list of my favorite people.” She shrugs.

Dean raises his eyebrows, “Who tops the list?” 

“Um,” She says, pretending to think, “There’s this guy.”

“Yeah?” He pats at the space next to him on the bed and she gets up and sits closer to him. He rubs over her thighs. Up and down.

“Yeah,” She smiles, “He’s quite alright. He took care of me so that brings him to the top of my list.”

Dean chuckles, pulls her closer by the neckline of her shirt to kiss her. 

He breaks from it and grins, before his face gets serious, “Jesus, I love you so much, you know that? It terrifies me. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

He’s so blunt about it, it blows her mind. Her cheeks start to flare up. 

“Me neither.” She says, because it’s true. What she thought was love? What she had at the beginning with Chuck? It was never like this. She leans forward, kisses him, smells him, tastes him, and smiles against his lips, “So, will you do the honor of being the first number I’ll save into my new phone?” She grins, holds the phone out for him to punch in his digits. 

Dean chuckles, takes the phone and thumbs over it, writes his name. When he’s done, he hands it to her and she looks at the contact.

“D?” She looks at him, “D. This is all you wanna be known as?” 

He shrugs, “Yeah, I don’t like people knowing everything about me.”

“But D, ugh.”

“Hey, I could have written The best D you ever had but that would have been inappropriate.” There’s a cocky grin on his face.

She sighs, “Fine, but ugh, I wanna put a heart next to it at least. So I won’t mix you up with all the other D’s that I’ll be having on my phone.”

“Hey!” Dean has to laugh, and is now holding his stomach and then he tries to think of something not funny, she can tell, because his lips are pressed into a thin line and after a couple of breaths, he manages to calm down. After a couple more minutes of even breathing, he reaches over to get his phone, and hands it to her, “I need your number too.”

“Why? Will you send me a dick pic?” 

Dean snorts at that and she can’t help but giggle. He’s holding his stomach again, and maybe she should really not be a pain in his ass. She just can’t help it and seize the opportunity when it’s there.

He raises one eyebrow then, “Would you like me to send you a dick pic?”

She should have known that karma will get her, because now, the one who’s blushing is her. With a shrug, she says, “It depends who’s dick it is,” 

“What do you mean, who’s dick it is? I don’t have pictures of other dicks. At least I don’t think I do,” He grins, pretending to think and she rolls her eyes.

Grabbing his phone out of his hands while he’s still lost in thought, she gets off the bed and begins to type in her number, had to search for it on the receipt she got, because she can’t really remember it by heart. But when she finishes, she sits back on the empty space she just left and hands the phone back to Dean, a grin so wide, like she’s really proud of it.

Y/N watches as Dean looks at his phone. His eyebrows meet in the middle and there’s a slight lift of one of them. 

“BAE LOML? So many hearts?” Dean looks from the phone to her and she really, really tries not to laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“You could google it?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Dean places his phone back on the charger and turns his attention back to her, “I’ve talked to Sammy this morning.” 

Ah, he’s changing the subject because he’s embarrassed that he probably quite likes the name she just gave herself. At least it doesn’t seem like he would want to change it.

“Yeah?”

“He’s going to handle your divorce. If you still want to divorce that son of a bitch, that is,” Dean pauses, pulls her into him, so that she’s half on the bed and half on top of him on the side that he’s not hurt, “Which, I would hope that you will, because he’s kind of a dick.”

She has to chuckle.

“Sam’s going to prepare all the paperwork so the only thing you have to do is signing it.” Dean kisses her forehead.

“I will,” She nods her head. She wants to do it. Wants to move forward.

He looks at her, his hand tucks away a loose strand of her hair, “Do you want to go back to your house after all this? Live in the city?”

It’s the first time that he mentions the life after this nightmare. Honestly, she never thought about it. She doesn’t know what to do with her life at all.

“No, I don’t want to go live in that house anymore.” She says. She couldn’t possibly go back. There are too many memories. It’s too big, it’s too fancy. It’s too Chuck. Plus, she doesn’t have anything in the city anymore that could hold her there. No friends, no family, no Chuck. 

Dean’s smirking, it’s probably the answer he was anticipating to hear, “Can you imagine coming back with me?”

“Well,” She says and Dean’s smile turns into a straight line. She really doesn’t want to play with him when he’s still recovering, but it’s so easy to rile him up, “I don’t know,” She sighs, for the dramatic, “You’d have to buy me a drink first, I’m not that easy, Dean.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack,” He mumbles, curses some more but then he grins, kisses her lips bruisingly hard.

“Ugh, Liz won’t like me living there, though.” 

“Liz doesn’t really like anyone, and besides, that’s her problem and not yours.” Dean scoffs.

“She likes you.” 

“Baby,” Dean holds her face between his palms, squishing at her cheeks so she has a fish mouth and then he grins, “What do I have to do to make you see that you’re it? Huh?” He pecks her fish lips and then he lets go of her face, strokes her cheeks instead, and he gets serious again, “All I saw was you. I think I even dreamt of you when I was out and unconscious. And even in my dreams I made sure that you were okay. When I was there on the floor? I was angry at myself, you know? I was thinking that I was fucking stupid to have thought that Chuck wouldn’t have a back up plan. And when I heard the shot, I hoped and prayed that he didn’t shoot you.”

She says, leans in, nuzzles her nose against his stubbled jaw, “Okay, I move in with you.” Moving up on the bed a little, she lays on his shoulder, buries her face into the crook of Dean’s neck. 

“We could get a house. I mean, it won’t be as big as the one you’re used to living in but we can get a reasonably sized house in a reasonably good neighborhood.” 

She has to chuckle at that, “Sounds reasonably good. I don’t need big things.”

“That’s because I’m already quite big.” 

“Oh my god.”

“It’s Dean.”

Y/N punches his chest and he has to laugh and flinches at that. Good. He deserved it.

“Don’t you think it’s too soon, though? I mean, we don’t know each other for very long,” The question is not really weird? Is it? It’s true, they know each other for what? Two weeks tops? She doesn’t really know anymore but it feels like a lifetime. Although it’s only a question to rile him up a little more.

“I think I know you better than I know anyone else.” Dean says, and adds, “But I’m not pressuring you. I just wanna add that I’m here no matter what and you should know that by now.” 

She smiles, it’s so easy with him really, “If you know me, you should know that I’m ready to follow you anywhere by now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean places a soft kiss on her lips, “You let me keep you?”

She nods with a smile, “Promise me that you will,”

“Cross my heart,” Dean huffs out a breath, kisses her again, it’s soft and tender, pours all his love into it and she feels it. Feels it too. Feels the butterflies, feels the little bubbles getting bigger in her heart. And she thinks that Dean’s right. Sometimes things do happen for a reason. She looks forward to a new future, it might not be gold and glitter, but that’s not what she wants anyway. She wants someone who sees her as his equal, she wants someone who treats her right, who makes her want to be the best version of herself. She wants someone who can make her laugh, she wants someone who has her back, no matter what. She wants Dean.

FIN

[amphtaminedreams]

COVID-19, Negligent Manslaughter, and a Timeline of Tory Indifference

“I feel sorry for Boris Johnson. He is doing the best he can in the situation and I don’t think anybody else could have done a better job.”

[exhibit A: a gem somebody that I’m Facebook friends with reposted earlier]

It’s a sentiment that I cannot quite wrap my head around. I sit here hopeless and furious and trying to hold back tears because it’s been almost a year since England first went into lockdown and yet here we are, almost 100,000 dead, in an even worse position than we were before whilst other countries begin to slowly return to normality. It is clear to me who is to blame for this, however there are a large proportion of people who don’t want to “politicise” the actions of the PRIME MINISTER with regards to his approach towards handling a virus sweeping the country he GOVERNS. 

Typically, these kind of posts making the rounds on social media will be accompanied by some kind of photo of Boris Johnson looking somber as if to suggest that the way things have played out were beyond his control and that he is some kind of broken man beleaguered by the suffering he has, despite good intentions, inadvertently caused.

This one in particular of Johnson with his head in his hands is a staple. In reality, this is a photo taken back in 2018 whilst he was receiving flack from party members for comparing Theresa May to a suicide bomber (for her handling of Brexit, ironically) as well as from the papers due to his rumoured (now also proven, in a completely non-surprising turn of events, to be true) affair with his former aide, Carrie Symonds. 

So let’s shut this narrative-where we should feel for Boris because he’s doing his best, and apparently a better job than anybody else could’ve done in his situation- down right here. In a supposedly developed country with one of the world’s largest economies, if we’re talking by proportion, our COVID-19 death toll is up there with the worst of them. It seems that every other state figurehead (bar a small handful), and I mean almost every single one of them, is doing a better job. People love to throw figures out there about how densely populated we are to combat damning statistics as if we haven’t got just as many factors playing to our advantage, as if it’s unfair to compare our response to Germany’s or Japan’s or Singapore’s (both of which are far more densely populated) or New Zealand’s or Vietnam’s, but we are an ISLAND with world-leading technology and infrastructure and healthcare equipment and professionals and a relatively high standard of living. In what world is almost 70,000 dead in a country with abundant time and means to prepare a response reflective of said country’s leaders doing a good job?

Apparently we’re supposed to believe that Johnson feels some sense of moral responsibility for this astronomical failure. A man who refuses to acknowledge the multiple children he has fathered outside of his marriages and who has had repeatedly engaged in affairs and one-night stands throughout said marriages. A man who continued to cheat whilst his most recent wife was receiving treatment for cervical cancer, for fuck’s sake. Yep, a real stand-up guy. 

So where does this idea that Johnson must feel remorseful for this catastrophe come from? We haven’t seen a second of remorse or a hint of accountability for the lives lost from him nor any members of his cabinet. That much is really no surprise; I have this hypothesis, and it’s not a stretch, that these people do not have an ounce of empathy in their bodies. These ridiculously privileged, privately-educated individuals who have had everything handed to them their entire lives simply cannot put themselves in the shoes of the average working person and that is the problem. Unable to recognise that what distinguishes them from most others is little more than the luck of being born into wealth and the abundance of recourses and connections that has entailed throughout their lives, they see us as beneath them-as less intelligent, less driven, and thus less deserving of the status and respect they enjoy. They see us as a bunch of whining, unmotivated idiots who do not recognise the chokehold they have over our media nor the fact that everything they do is a desperate grab to keep money and power within the hands of a select group of people, an exclusive members club from which most of us are barred (just take a simple Google search and watch Jacob Rees-Mogg’s opinion of the Grenfell victims or the buried Johnson speech where he talks about how inequality is essential). They know that we will squabble amongst ourselves about who is to blame rather than wising up to the truth which is that every decision they make is fuelled by cronyism and the inability to make and follow through with difficult choices, the pandemic being no exception. The supposedly self-made elite see the life of the average working class person as having far less value than their own, and their parties actions over the last 10 years have made that very clear. 

It was in December 2019 that the first case of COVID-19 was declared to the World Health Organisation and on March the 11th that they announced they considered it as a pandemic. In Wuhan, people were dying of pneumonia in their clusters. And what was Boris Johnson doing in this time? Well for starters, here in the UK we didn’t even have a pandemic committee-Johnson had scrapped it six months before. If years of benefits cuts and defunding of the NHS in favour of funding nuclear weapon programs, keeping British troops on other people’s lands, and tax breaks for the mega corporations that donate to their party didn’t convince you that the Conservatives have little regard for human life, them getting rid of this committee-whilst a pandemic has been declared year after year as the greatest threat to mankind-should have been the first sign of trouble. As if that wasn’t enough, he also skipped five of the COBRA (meetings are made up of a cross-departmental committee put together to respond to national emergencies and PMs routinely attend those pertaining to crises on the scale of COVID-19) meetings addressing the situation. Whilst other countries were closing their borders and stocking up on PPE, Johnson and his ministers were selling PPE abroad and simply telling people to wash their hands to the length of the tune of happy birthday. Their only policy was one of “herd immunity”, which was in fact not a policy but just an abandonment of their party’s public duty disguised as one, intentionally obfuscated with pseudoscientific jargon.

Even thinking the absolute worst of politicians you would hope that when it came to the point where the UK’s non-response to COVID-19 was becoming an international disgrace, Johnson and his ministers would take proper protective measures if only to save face. But when they eventually seemed to do so, it became clear that the priority was not the safety of the ordinary people affected by the virus. Outsourcing their test and traces system to companies such as Serco, Sitel, Deloitte and G4S rather than public health services, Conservative ministers could not resist attempting to line the pockets of their friends and benefactors in the process. According to the Guardian, instead of reaching out to the experts or using publicly funded services to handle COVID containment measures, the Conservative party has awarded a disgusting £1.5 BILLION WORTH of contracts to businesses with explicit connections to its MPs and donors, the majority of which lack any relative experience of the tasks they’ve been trusted to carry out. Unsurprisingly, the National Audit office found that when awarding contracts relating to the production of COVID-19 protection measures and treatment needs, there was a “high-priority lane” for suppliers referred by senior politicians and officials; companies with a political referral were 10 times more likely to end up winning a government contract than those without. On top of this, it is not hard to draw a link between the late initiation of lockdown measures and preemptive openings of pubs and restaurants against scientific advice to the interests of frequent donors such as Wetherspoons owner Tim Martin. Even if one chooses to ignore the blatantly obvious correlation between the owners of the businesses whose profits were prioritised over safety concerns and the number of those owners who donate to the Conservatives, party officials at the very least were reluctant to follow the lead of many other countries in financing furlough schemes themselves and instead avoided this responsibility by using loose lockdown measures to leave it down to the discretion of small business owners, who couldn’t themselves afford to furlough staff, whether or not to stay open. 

Time and time again, as the government flounder and fuck about, favouring personal desires to keep their powerful, high-paying jobs and to satisfy the corporate allies who make this possible, blame has been shifted from the public to care homes to NHS workers and back again whilst we, the public, make the biggest sacrifices of all under the illusion that we were being guided out of this pandemic rather than lied to and thrown under the bus. Whilst the elite continue to pick and choose what rules apply to them, it’s students and the elderly and the vulnerable paying the fines and scrabbling to afford basic living costs and hoping that they don’t lose someone dear to them.

Don’t get me wrong, a large proportion of the public have contributed to the spread too with their selfishness and entitlement and the arrogance it takes to develop a sudden refusal to acknowledge basic science from experts who have studied in the field their whole lives so that they can justify their need to go to the pub (speaking of, it’s absolutely HILARIOUS how many “mental health advocates” are suddenly coming out of the woodworks on football avi Twitter after they’ve spent years calling people on mental health Twitter attention seekers). And don't get me wrong, there were inevitably going to be casualties of this pandemic. But it didn't have to spread to this many people, and there didn’t have to be so many deaths due to a lack of preparation, and this wouldn’t have been the case if it weren’t for the inherent apathy of the Conservative party towards the lives of people of lesser status than them, the reluctance to put those lives before party interests. I wish I felt like there was an end in sight, I wish there was some positive takeaway from all of this, but even now, we continue to see corners being cut with the vaccine lauded as our saving grace and anti-maskers gathering outside hospitals to chant about how “oppressive” it is to be urged to wear a bit of cloth over their faces for the short periods of time in which they leave their houses and all I can think of is the selfishness that runs like poison through our country. It makes me sick and leaves me to question desperately where we go from here. I don’t like unanswered questions, I don’t like feeling politically directionless, and I don’t like the growing fear I have about the state of the world which seems to intensify every single day. In the UK at least, it’s starting to feel like nothing will ever change-we’re told we live in a democracy and yet mainstream media is owned by the people whose interest is to keep their Conservative friends in power. The stronghold they have over print media in particular allows them to continually get away with smearing and defaming every person who comes along and seems to want to actually help ordinary people, without being challenged, to the point where the only kind of “opposition” we’re left with promises nothing but a big boss approved tactical reshuffling of the status quo (which they call “electability”); it doesn’t feel like democracy when the majority of the country are being fed misleading information and convinced against voting in their best interests. 

This is the result of that. The state we find ourselves in is the inevitable result of being manipulated into helping the elite build their protective wall whilst the rest of us scrabble to get in and step on each others heads along the way, the people inside shouting over that it’s those even more vulnerable than ourselves that are taking our places. Outside the wall, the earth is falling from beneath our feet, and instead of throwing over the ropes to help us out, the people inside are stockpiling them so they can secure their firm place above ground and then later flog the rest. How many more people have to die before we reach some kind of widespread realisation of that? Where do we go from here and what do we do? Well for one, we can stop spreading those god-fucking-awful textposts on Facebook and get our heads out of our arses. Wear our masks over and wear them over our fucking noses. Have some fucking consideration for others. Don’t wait til an issue affects you personally to give a fuck about it. AND START HOLDING THE FUCKING PRIME MINISTER AND HIS MINISTERS AND HIS ENTIRE PARTY AS WELL AS THE OPPOSITION MPS THAT HAVE SAT BY THE SIDELINES AND ALLOWED THIS TO GO ON WITHOUT PROTEST ACCOUNTABLE. That would be a good start. 

I’m so tired. Things didn’t need to be this way, and yet because of the selfishness of the few, thousands upon thousands are dead. It’s not about “throwing around blame”, it’s not about “throwing around” anything, it’s about expecting a leader to do his best to protect lives. If that is “throwing blame”, let’s get things clear, I have no issue with hurtling it torpedo style at those who handed out a death sentence to so many in this country rather than do anything that might compromise their own privilege. Honestly, pass me the shovel after and I’ll happily bury the wreckage in the ground. Who wants to join?:-)

[thevoidable]

How and why Dabi is still alive - a theory

Now, assuming the Dabi is a Todoroki theory is correct, there’s always been one big, persisting question since we got a certain confirmation several chapters ago in the manga: just how is Dabi still alive?

That’s the question I’m hoping to answer or at least provide some more insight on by the end of this post, and what I’ll be doing is going in-depth about the cremation process and digging into context clues within the manga, so, major manga spoilers and TWs ahead.

Before we look into how Dabi is still alive, we must first answer how Toya himself actually “died”. As I previously mentioned, chapter 249 gave us confirmation that the Todorokis all firmly believe that Toya is dead, but it was still left unclear on just what was the cause, and most of us had the idea that Endeavour had possibly killed Toya during training.

But then, chapter 252 gave us another vague yet crucial detail:

Endeavour was not directly responsible for his death, but the way this is worded still implies that he is somewhat part of the reason. So, if Endeavour didn’t kill him, what did? Previously in chapter 250, Fuyumi mentions the following:

So, we know that whatever happened to Toya was after the kettle incident. Now, given all the build-up of him being the eldest (therefore him seeing and experiencing the most), suffering through Endeavour’s abuse, and then his mother snapping and becoming potentially just as dangerous, the most likely cause of death for Toya is, unfortunately, suicide. Everything was just too much for him at that point and he, too, snapped. It’s likely that he hid away in an empty room and burned himself alive, and by the time Endeavour (or possibly any of his siblings) found him, it was too late.

So now that we know how Toya died, we can finally start getting to the juicy part, but before we do, I would just like to quickly bring up Dabi’s Quirk and how compatible it is with his body, because that’s going to be important later.

During Dabi’s fight with Geten, we got confirmation that his flames are indeed detrimental to his own body.

Paired with Endeavour’s words said to Shoto during training, and Natuso, Rei, and Fuyumi’s conversation in chapter 187,

it’s easy to put together that Toya inherited a body more suited for an ice Quirk. Given that, it’s still very impressive that Dabi is getting away with the burns that he has and isn’t just straight up dead, so just how hot are his flames? With a quick Google search, blue fire burns at a whopping 1400 - 1650 degrees Celsius (2600 - 3000 degrees Fahrenheit), which means that despite his disadvantage, he still has an amazingly strong resistance to extremely high temperatures. Not only that, but his body is also very likely to survive extreme cold temperatures too, so in a way, Toya essentially has a very flawed version of Shoto’s body and Quirk.

Alright, back to our regularly scehduled programming.  So, Toya burned himself alive, and now Endeavour has to deal with the aftermath. What does he do? Something that I’ve noticed which is incredibly strange is that none of the authorities have been able to figure out Dabi’s identity at all - as of right now, every single core League member has been revealed except for Dabi. If Dabi is Toya, why has no one been able to get DNA tests, fingerprints, etc.? If the other members can be figured out, then Dabi should be too. ...Unless Endeavour had wanted to erase Toya from public existence entirely.  It’s entirely possible that Endeavour contacted the Safety Commission to help him cover up his son’s death and make it as if he had never existed in the first place. Back then, Toya was seen as nothing but a mistake, a failure, so with him dead, it was easy for Endeavour to just sweep him under the rug and move on with his successful son. The Safety Commission would have handled erasing any and all data on Toya, which would explain why investigations regarding Dabi’s identity are coming up dry (oh the irony). So, with his digital existence erased, what about his actual physical one? Considering that around 99% of deceased in Japan are cremated, and Dabi’s name itself means “cremation”, the choice is blatantly obvious. What we have next to look at to figure out how Dabi survived is the cremation process. It consists of a few basic steps: - The body is transported to the crematory and kept in cold storage until the time of cremation - The body must be identified before the cremation process can begin - The body is cleaned and dressed (optional) - The body is placed into a cardboard box or casket and is cremated in the cremation chamber for 2 - 3 hours - Lastly, the remains are then ground up into “ashes” and given back to the family. First of all, in order for this theory to check out, we must address the elephant in the room: Toya is presumed dead.  So how would he even be alive at this point anyway? Well, there’s actually a pretty good explanation for that. Turns out, people waking up in morgues can happen every so often. (As a side note, I’m no medical expert, so if I get anything wrong or get the information confused, then please let me know.)

A reduction in temperature you say? Like...being kept in cold storage? When Toya burned himself alive, he would have burned until he lost consciousness due to the fire eating away at his oxygen, which could have prompted his heart to stop or reduce its pulse greatly. Thus, as the above article suggests, when he was placed into cold storage, he was kept alive and given time to recover. The fact that his body is more suited to the cold is even better in this case, meaning that there’s no way the cold would harm him either.

With the elephant removed, we can now move on to the next steps: body identification and cremation preparation. Assuming that the Safety Commission is taking all measures to make sure that no one knows this is Endeavour’s eldest son, this part of the process suddenly becomes extra shady.  What the body identification means is that the body is labelled with a unique number so that the remains can be identified after the cremation. However, there is also paperwork involved - yet another thing that the Commission would have to keep confidential, or perhaps even alter, giving fake names and the like.  As mentioned earlier, the body being cleaned and dressed is optional, so that is clearly off the table too in order to keep Toya’s identity hidden from whoever works at the crematory.

And finally, we now get to the best part: the cremation itself. I doubt that Endeavour would have a casket prepared for Toya, so he would just be placed in a sturdy cardboard box, and then he’d be slid on into the cremation chamber, which is basically a human-sized brick oven. Now, this is where Toya’s body compatibility really comes into play. Remember how I said that blue fire burns at 1400 - 1650 degrees Celsius (2600 - 3000 degrees Fahrenheit), and that regardless of his burns he still has a crazy high temperature tolerance because of it? If he is able to withstand a decent amount of his own flames, then a measly cremation temperature of 1000 - 1300 degrees Celsius (1400 - 1800 degrees Fahrenheit) will do almost nothing to him besides make his already existing burns a little worse. So, it’s at this point that we now have to ditch science and research and start letting our imaginations run wild, because everything that happens next is all plot-based. It’s worth mentioning that I have never worked in a crematory before, so I’m not sure if the bodies are watched constantly while they burn (I know that families can watch their desceased be cremated if they so choose, but as far as general monitoring goes, I’m not sure), mostly because the process takes 2 - 3 hours, but if they’re not watched, then it’s my personal belief that Toya wakes up as he’s being cremated and busts his way out of the cardboard box in a fit of panic. Once out of the chamber, he realises what’s going on due to another body that could be cremating at the same time.  I’d imagine that what’s going through Toya’s head right now is that people think he’s dead when he’s actually not, and he’d perfer it if it stayed that way. He has the perfect opportunity to get away from Endeavour and start anew elsewhere - this is his second chance. To avoid being found out, he braves the flames again to switch out the ID labels so that the other body’s ashes will be mistaken for his, and he makes his escape out of the crematory to face the streets for the first time. As for what happens during the ten year gap between then and now, I have no idea of what Dabi does or goes through, so that’s all for Hori to know and us to find out.

And so, that concludes my theory! 

I hope you all enjoyed reading it - I did as much research as I could and tried to come up with the most logical scenario possible, and this was the result. I’ve been working on it since midnight and it is now 3AM, so I am going to go the fuck to bed and get some sleep lmao. Let me know your thoughts and if you have anything to add!

[godofplumsandthunder]

Size Don’t Matter

Pairing: Thor x Reader

Warnings: Body shaming, fat shaming, few curse words

A/N: This was written for @agentpeggybarnesfanfics​ 400 follower writing challenge. I had the prompt "A kind act can sometimes be as powerful as a sword" from “The Lightning Thief”. This was hard to write, but I had to release some pent up anger over people, but I hope you’ll like it. 

It was no secret that Thor has changed since Thanos. He's changed mentally, emotionally, and socially. Yet, the most obvious change, the one people focused on the most, was his physical change. Thor knew he gained weight, but he didn't care. That was largely due to you. You taught him his self-worth didn't come from a number on a scale or the size of his waist. Most days, he didn't care what others thought about himself. Because most days, he was happy with his body. But today wasn't most days. Today Thor didn't feel that love towards his body. He loathed it, and it was all because of a google search.

Having been on Midgard for a better part of a decade now, Thor knew what it was like to be a celebrity. He knew what it was like to live under the magnifying glass that is the press. So, Thor did know the number one cardinal sin a celebrity can break. Googling themselves. Thor hasn't been out for a while, so he thought there wouldn't be anything too new. But was he wrong. The first article that came up was from a trashy tabloid, TNZ.

"God of Thunder Thighs: God of Thunder makes rare public appearance, showing off his 100 lb weight gain; Friends fear for his life!"

All of the articles were talking about the same thing. Apparently, someone took a photo of Thor when he went to the grocery store. So, of course, the photo wasn't the best. He was dressed in sweatpants and a hood. It was the grocery store, not a gala. But that didn't stop the comments from rolling in.

avengerfan1: Can't believe how fat he's gotten. Doesn't he have a mirror?

anonymous: How can he live with himself being that fat. No wonder why Jane left his fat ass.

stucky4ever: Look at the tits on him! You fat fucking waste of space!

On and on went these messages, comments, and news articles. Fueled by the anonymity the internet brings, thousands of strangers believe that they have the right to insult, belittle, and offer "helpful" health tips. They don't see that Thor is healthy, or more importantly, he is happy in his body. They don't see every little accomplishment Thor makes against his anxiety and depression. Thor knows that he is doing better and that he is happy, but right now, the screaming voices of strangers get the better of him. Hot tears rolling down his face, Thor pulls the cover back up to pull away from the world.

=====

You were used to Thor sleeping in. This was something he did quite often, and considering how little hours of sleep he got, you let him sleep whenever he has the chance to finally get some sleep. But what does worry you is that he isn't getting out of bed for breakfast. Thor loves your fry ups, with sausage, toast, some hand-squeezed orange juice. Even on his worst days, he still gets up and eats breakfast. You knew Thor still had his bad days because healing from mental health isn't always linear. And you're fine with that. You love Thor, and no diagnosis or trauma could ever stop that. But it doesn't mean you can't worry. That was the first lesson you've ever learned from your mother, to worry for those you love. You creep up the stairs toward your shared bedroom, where you see Thor curled up in the fetal position, completely covered by the bed's comforter.

You slip into bed, next to Thor, and start rubbing his back. "Baby, what's wrong? How can I help?" You use all of the coping mechanisms that Thor's psychologist gave you. Thor turns, mumbles something and thrusts his phone to you. It’s there that you see the terrible, tasteless, and frankly mean headline that has caused Thor to spiral back into a funk. And honestly, things like this article make your blood boil. We live in 2020 for goodness sake. But we don’t have common decency towards one another? Especially on the internet. As soon as someone can become an anonymous little troll, all of their humanity is off the table. They think this is funny, or acceptable behavior put little do they know how much this hurts Thor. The God who gave everything, his family, his planet, his people, to protect these dicks. They don’t deserve his protection. But your feelings have to be put to the side. Right now, Thor needs some major TLC.

“Thor, honey, talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling. Please,” you plead to Thor. When he gets into these ruts, he cuts himself off. Not talking, and keeping to himself. But, by some miracle from Valhalla, Thor rolls to his side, strips the blanket off, and talks.

“What do you see in me? Why are you still with me, with someone that looks like this?” Thor paws at his stomach, for further emphasis.

“What I see, Thor is a man who loves me with every fiber in his being. If I asked for the stars, he’d give every single one of them to me. I see a man who makes me laugh, and puts up my dumbass all the time.”

“Y/N-“ Thor tries to speak, but his tears are being quite the formidable enemy.

“And Thor,” you lay your hand on the curve of his belly, which causes Thor’s breath to hitch, “you know I love your body, regardless of what shape it’s in. You’re still that strong and sexy Avenger that I fell in love with.”

Thor looks into your eyes, his mismatched irises piercing into you. He grabs you and pulls you onto him, straddling his belly.  

"Y/N, I've faced the sting of a thousand swords. I've faced the combined power of the infinity stones, but they don't hold a candle to the power of your words, of your actions. God, I love you so much, Y/N." Thor peppers your body with kisses in a slow, tender way. It wasn't passion he was expressing, it was love. And it was there, straddling Thor, who was still recovering, who would still have his bad days, that you deeply lost in love for that man. And the best part so was he. He treated you like the queen you are. The road forward will be bumpy and long, but you know that you can both make it, hand in hand.

[twilightbimbo]

Solstice pt 1: Twilight AU

This is an expansion of the Twilight universe with my OC characters!

                                    home is where the heart is

                                    and i’m afraid

                                   i’ve lost my way

Samson

“Why do you think you’ll win? I know when you’re bluffing,” I chided, laughing. Esther rolled her eyes with mild amusement. Esther is the most competitive one in our family and she always tries to best me in poker, despite the fact that I have the gift for sniffing out inauthenticity. 

“‘Cus you suck at poker,” Esther pulled up the corner of her lips in a slight smirk and laid out her winning hand. 

“Har har,” I huffed in frustration. I felt my eyebrows furrow as I realized what was happening. “You assholes!” I exclaimed. Suddenly, the cards of Esther’s winning hand became fuzzy and resembled a glitching computer monitor and then smoothed out into her true, losing hand. I looked up at Esther who was nearly hysterical, tears in her golden eyes from laughing and clutching Chip’s arm. 

“Sorry, brother,” Chip smiled softly and brushed a lock that fell out of Esther’s bun and brushed it behind her ear. I booed loudly and pushed the deck of cards off the dining table between Esther and me in mock anger. 

“Clean that up, Sam,” Sunny said to me without even looking in my direction as she walked past with a basket of laundry. Sunny liked to blend in more than the rest of us. “Keeps us humble,” is one of her favorite phrases. Sunny is the matriarch of our family, even though she is the youngest of us. Technically. 

“Sam, if you couldn’t cheat, you would be terrible at poker,” Stella yelled from her upstairs bedroom. Stella didn’t need to yell, she could even whisper it and we would be able to hear her. But, Sunny forces us to act human at all times, even in our own house. Where no one can see us. Or hear us. Sunny’s word is law. 

Nathalia 

If I was human, I would be panting from running this hard and far. Actually, if I was human I couldn’t run like this at all. I still let air rush in and out of my lungs naturally, tasting the forest around me. I had been feeling the urge to see the ocean lately. I miss home. But, I can’t go back there for a lot of reasons. Mainly because it’s always sunny down there. So, the Oregon coast is perfect for my needs, it’s overcast here the majority of the time. And it felt familiar here, the beach was always a constant for me until I died.

 I have been on the run for three years. That is so dramatic to say, but it’s true. I’ve been through nearly all of California, eastern Oregon, and about every rural area in Washington. I haven’t been around the general public in what seems like forever. If forever means three years and three hundred and sixty-two days. I’ve missed normalcy. I’ve missed being able to call a place my own. I miss belonging to something.

The trees began to clear as the river widened and gray light bled between the branches above as they became more sparse. I slowed down into a more relaxed jog, my damp hair starting to cling from my shoulders all the way to the small of my back. I relaxed my pace completely as I could see the river desperately reaching the ocean, letting my bare feet sink into the mossy and wet forest floor. I walked slowly until the ground turned into sand. I tilted my face up towards the sky and let the gentle rain kiss my face. 

The waves crashing is familiar and it eased some of my longing. Longing? God, I’ve become so pretentious. In my human life, I couldn’t stand being alone for longer than hours and now I’ve gone years. I guess loneliness changes you. 

While I was roaming in Washington, I heard there were vampires who tried to pretend to be humans and go to school and stuff. I was transformed only a year after I graduated high school and I didn’t get the chance to go to college. I had my eyes on the University of California, Los Angeles. But, here I am. Not alive, but also alive. On a beach. In the middle of fucking nowhere. 

“Hey! Aren’t you cold?” A voice called out to me from down the beach. I’ve been practicing for this. I turned my head slowly, trying to be careful of the speed of my movements. I looked down at myself briefly. I was wearing a thin, gray sweater with jeans. And barefoot. It’s probably in the low forties right now and getting colder. So much for attempting to blend in. I looked back at their direction and while I was definitely too far away, I smiled tentatively at them. 

“Got thick skin!” I yelled back, shrugging. The person behind the voice was an older man, the wind carried his scent towards me. I could smell the warm blood and as he slowly approached me, I could hear his faint heartbeat. It would be too easy. In half a second I would be right in front of him, pushing his head back to expose his neck. His red cap would fall off and in my frenzy, I would probably tear apart his windbreaker. Blood on the sand. My eyes red. 

Nope, nope, nope. I’ve gone three years without tasting human blood. I’m not going to fuck this up now. I turned on my heel and went back to the forest, as soon as I was certain I was covered by the thick swarm of trees I took off sprinting. 

Where am I supposed to go now? I need to get better clothes to blend in. I need to find a place to live. “Live”. To be frank, I had it pretty easy. I never had to worry about this kind of stuff. In the distance, I can hear cars sporadically driving on the wet pavement. If there are cars, there are people and if there are people, there are clothing stores and libraries. I changed my direction in order to run parallel to the highway giving myself about a half a mile distance between me and the road. 

It wasn’t much longer, maybe twenty miles or so before I saw neon light tinge the fog and the smell of car exhaust got stronger. Smelled disgusting. I thought about how I would be able to wander into some random mom and pop shop to get clothes without sticking out. I’ve been practicing my self control but it’s much easier when I hold my breath. How can I go without talking to the small town locals without seeming like a bitch? I guess the only thing I can do is hope what they say about first impressions isn’t true. 

Luckily enough for me, the river, which had dwindled down to a creek, ran close enough to the highway so I could wash my feet and legs so I could look less dirty and homely. Unfortunately, about every person I passed stared at me. Everyone has dressed appropriately for the wintery beach weather. Except for me. 

The first clothing shop that looked like it could have clothes for people “my age” and nearly completely empty was the first one I walked into. I bought nearly everything. Well, bought is a loose term. It was about four days after my transformation that I realized I had an ability. A “super talent” he called it. If I want someone to do something I want, they do it. It’s never something intense like falling in love with me or giving me their kidney or anything like that. It’s small stuff like if I want their approval I got it. If I want their coffee, they hand it over. Small stuff like that. 

The shopkeeper handed over around six hundred dollars in merchandise with a bright smile on her face. I made a mental note to make an anonymous donation as soon as possible. Sometimes I felt bad about swindling people, sometimes I felt like it was a necessary evil. A girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do. 

It wasn’t that hard finding the library after the shops, and lucky for me, the librarian allowed me to stash my shopping bags behind her desk. The public computer whirred to life slowly, I could practically hear the viruses worming around. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for, or even where. I tried local listings, Craigslist, even some dark web shit. It wasn’t until I caved and made a fake Facebook account that I was able to find a single bedroom apartment to rent. 

The man who owned the place was rather kind. I hardly had to use my ability to sway him to let me live rent free for the next foreseeable future. His name was Ernie and he had quite the beer belly and a bald spot on the back of his head, reminding me vaguely of a freshly cracked egg.  I assume that he felt quite flattered that I was flirting with him. Actually, it could have been the innate human experience of being my prey who is inevitably lured to his death by my inhuman womanly charm. Who could say?

The apartment was painfully small but fully furnished. I couldn’t say if it was fully furnished as a part of the lease, which I did not have, or my newfound landlord was just too caught up in our conversation. I’ve been told I dazzle people. Whatever that means. A large full length mirror hung in the bedroom and I took a full look at myself for the first time in a long time. 

My dirty blonde hair was a mess. I think I can see a dread forming in the curly mess. My black eyes peered back at me in disbelief, how could I let myself go like this? Dark circles clung around my eyes covering the splatter of freckles on my face, I looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks. More like years, I chuckled to myself. I need to feed soon. An uncommitted corner of my mind thought aimlessly about what animals are in my vicinity. The other portion of my mind looked back in the mirror. I still was pale as before, still more beautiful than I ever was as a human. It’s weird, feeling this conceited but it was true. My very nature was to lure humans in, even more so with my ability. I can get humans to literally lay before me, neck exposed. But, I promised myself a while ago to never feed on humans again. 

This place was definitely not intended to be left fully furnished, a laptop laid on the desk in my new bedroom. I realized I never learned about this town before I decided on it. The ocean picked me. I wiped the laptop and set it up under my preferences. This time, password protected. My google search reminded me I’m currently in Brookings, Oregon. I had made a mental note earlier when I saw the welcome sign out of the corner of my eye on my way into town. 

Oh, perfect! I exclaimed internally. There is a local community college that happened to offer marine biology courses. Marine biology was my intended major before this happened to me. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I’m being an idiot and making stupid choices by surrounding myself with humans. But, honestly, I’m lonely and I don’t think I can take this punishment much longer. 

Part 2

[staytruetonorthch]

Perfect Ch. 1

A/N: I’m super anxious but here is my first official post. It’s just a single chapter around 4.5k. I plan on this being a pretty detailed, long-form story so if you like it, hang in there. I promise it’ll speed up once we get past exposition. I’m also highly aware of the switches from past/present tense, but I’m too tired to fix it and I’ve been so hesitant to post it’s either a now or never. I hope you guys enjoy <3

Football!Calum x Dancer!OC  

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"Don't make me come over there!" It may have looked like I was yelling into the racks of clothing and shoes in my closet, and to be honest, I might as well be. 

"You worry too much, Celley." I can hear the smile on my best friend, Brynn's face from my bed in the other room. 

"I do, but only because you don't give a fuck, B and I know those boys don't," I said, counting each person out on my fingers. "That's four people in, and not a single fuck is being given. Someone's got to, or nothing would get done." 

"You've got a point. The delivery was a little aggressive, but I'm moved nonetheless," Ash spoke up through Brynn's phone. 

"I'm cleaning as we speak, Cel. It's gonna be fine," Luke chimed in from the boys' side of the phone. 

"I can hear you lads playing FIFA," I said with an exasperated sigh.

We have a party planned at the boy's house tonight. A party I only had five hours to prepare, but that's the beauty of university, right? Spontaneity. All precautions to the wind. Everything that I never could be in high school and am still afraid to do today after a whole month of coursework. Don't ask me what I think might happen. Spontaneous combustion? Instantaneous death? A party that no one has fun at because I didn't have time to make an updated playlist or look up the actual rules for any drinking games? 

"Brynn, are you ready to go?" I ask, peeking my head out of my closet to look at her sprawled out across my bed. I can hardly see her underneath the excessive number of decorative pillows and thick white down cover.

"I just got so comfortable. I was actually contemplating taking a nap."

"Please," I plead, batting my lashes over large dewy eyes. It’s a trick I picked up after so many lyrical dances over the years. Direct eye contact with these watery eyes always left judges speechless.

"Ugh… fine, but I'm getting wasted tonight and sleeping in this wonderful bed. Have your asses in gear by the time we get there," she said, hanging up on the boys and throwing pillows haphazardly across the floor. I cringed at every one as it landed in the thick white carpet. I don't bother telling her that I hadn't expected the night to end any other way. I pull myself back into the closet, eyeing my options once more. I could either go with a red gingham top, or I could tie my white vogue tee shirt in the front for a more casual look. Both require a bra sadly.

"The red is trying too hard," Brynn said, leaning against the doorframe. "You can't pull out picnic bitch chic at a party."

"I guess you're right." I pull the tee over my head careful to avoid touching the thin white fabric to my made-up face. Once I had a knot secured at the base of my rib cage, I fluffed my hair as if it could get any bigger and smoothed out my denim skirt. "Shoe's and I'm good. What about you?" I said eyeing her in the reflection of my full-length mirror. She wore a white hoodie underneath black overalls and black high-top converse. Splitting her hair in half, she tied it up into multicolored space buns on top of her head. Brynn is the kind of girl who could put on mascara and chapstick five minutes before she left, and she’s effortlessly beautiful. Her freckles do most of the work across her nose and cheeks, making her insanely adorable.

"Done. Let's hit the road, Jack," she said, walking towards the door to my studio flat. I quickly replace the pillows back on the bed and turned off all the lights before joining her. She grabbed the keys to my Jeep, knowing I’m too preoccupied to drive us.

"Are we stopping at the store on the way or coming back out?"

"Stopping on the way. We just need paper towels, red cups, more ping pong balls because Mikey lost three of the last four, and snacks. I also found this recipe for a cool looking pink drink, but the boys are all stocked on beer."

"I almost hate the fact that I can't use my fake here. I spent good money and almost got arrested for something that's legal here." I smile, scrolling through my checklist one more time to make sure I didn't forget anything.

"Well that's your fault for not doing a simple google search before you came to uni in Aus."

"I'm just saying, in America, I would be a plug." She turned wide out into the street, speeding past every car. She has a bit of a lead foot.

"That one's lost on me, love." I try to keep up with her American slang, but I wasn't able to watch a lot of American shows or anything growing up, so I'm a little behind to put it gently.

She said she has a southern accent, but I can't tell any difference. Everything she says just sounds brutal to me. Shit slams, anything can pop off apparently, and a lot of good things burn. At least that's what I gather when she uses 'fire' and 'flames' as adjectives. 

I met Brynn at new student orientation. She seemed to be the only other one unamused by the school's welcoming parade meant to encourage school spirit, so as soon as our parents left, we left campus to explore the surrounding area locating the nearest shops and eating places. She was unlike any friend I had ever made swearing and speaking in riddles. I went to an all-girls catholic school filled to the brim with carbon copies of perfect people. We were second to none in both academics and clubs, which my parents loved, and Brynn was the absolute antithesis of that. She was a self- proclaimed 'thick' queen who was a pleasant deviance to the bird thin girls I was usually surrounded by. Her hair couldn't choose a color after multiple self- dye jobs. Even her mixed Mexican and Jamaican heritage were new to me. She said what she wanted and smiled wide at everything. I'm just happy she saw something in me to stick around even if it was the fact that I kidnapped her on the first day, keeping her from someone better.

I grab the frame of the car as she whips into the car park stopping short of a disgruntled gentleman in the crosswalk. She cursed loudly, causing my face to heat up. I contemplate jumping out of the car seeing as how the doors to the Jeep are safely kept in my garage. It’ll be a quick getaway, but I may need to make sure she makes it into a spot that isn't already occupied with this lovely gentlemen's car.

We soon found a spot and made quick work of the shopping, splitting the list I organized by section right down the middle. We’re back on the road in no time, heading closer to the edge of campus where the boys lived.

Ashton was actually the first person to befriend Brynn. They met at a summer fellowship program that put them in parts of Australia that don't have service for a hundred miles. They have that rugged woodsman thing in common. It kept them in touch through their final year in high school before she 'coincidentally' got accepted into the same university as him an entire ocean's length away. They were equally as smiley; she was just a little more… brash at times which is hard to believe. She didn't want to admit that she was nervous when he invited her to the house, he shared with two of his best mates, so I didn't mention anything when she asked me along. As the male version of Brynn, I immediately got on with Ashton. Mikey was chirpy and so sweet despite his punk persona. His other mate Luke was quiet only offering his very corny, yet intriguing commentary. He seems to be the closest thing I have to the friends I'm used to at home despite his lip ring. We formed a group of sorts meeting up in the library to study during the week and finding anything else but coursework to do on the weekends.

Our first kickback was just a barbeque featuring the five of us until Ash invited a few friends he made throughout the week with his open and boyish charm. Brynn had a few of her own, and Mikey wanted to join in on the fun, so he found a few friends to join. Luke and I were just fine meeting people as they were brought to us. Before we knew it, there was a group chat of about fifteen of us with more and more ideas of who to invite to the weekend shenanigans.

The boys had felt the pressure of expectation early this morning before Michael was a functioning human being. He shooed everyone off with a 'ya sure' before hanging up and going back to sleep. Brynn called me with our invite not only to attend the party but to host it at about 5:00 and of course, I freaked out. I plan everything, including some of the most successful events of my college career, if I do say so myself, so I took the praise for last week's party in stride. The difference is, I didn't spend my week planning out this event down to the second hand, so anything can happen. I wouldn't feel all the way like expelling my insides if it hadn't been confirmed that the first-year football players were going to be in attendance after today's match.

This confirmation came directly to Ash from another one of his mates from college, Calum Hood. Not only the best first year but the best player on the whole bloody team. He's also the hottest. The first time I saw him, he was leaving the classroom I was walking into. He opened the door just as I turned the handle, pushing me backward and almost to the floor.

"My fault, mate," he said distractedly, zipping his bag and flipping it over his shoulder. He was obviously sponsored by Nike dressed top to bottom in their slate grey gear, the school's emblem attached to every piece. The only thing I could tell wasn't sponsored was the gray beanie he had pulled down over his ears covering his hair. When he finally looked up a smirk graced his pink lips.

"You alright, doll?"

I couldn't tell if my reaction showed on my face because I didn't expect him to be so adorable with the brute force, he opened the door with. I just nodded my head taking deep breaths, trying to keep my face still. His tan skin was smooth and warm, complimenting the heat in his eyes that was slowly melting my resolve.

"Right. Well you're late, so you might want to…" he trailed off, nodding over his shoulder into the classroom.

"Right," I replied, hoping my hair was doing that cool thing it does when the wind pushes it back. It's either doing that, or the curls are fighting themselves on top of my head. It's so thick I can never really tell without a mirror, but let's be honest. My hair tells me what it wants to do, I rarely have any say in the matter. Instead of walking out of the door, he extended his arm, acting as a human door frame for me to walk under. When I turned my head to look again, he was gone.

I showed up a little earlier to class the next day to see if I could catch him again. Then I was late again and right on time before I decided to be outside the room before his class even ended. He was still nowhere to be found. I had practiced redeeming myself with a smile or maybe even words. Anything but how cringe-worthy I had been the first time, but to no avail. I didn't see him again until the boys dragged us to the first football game.

I don't mind sports at all. I grew up going to my older brother's rugby matches, so I'm not entirely clueless. Brynn, on the other hand, sat unmoving and quiet for the first time in our friendship. I think she concerned Ashton the most, as he asked her if she was ok every time the ball stopped moving.

"Someone tell me why I chose the guitar over football again," Luke said, pulling his hands down his face. "I was just as good as him, but now he's got fans and his face on posters."

"If that was true, I'm sure you'd be out there, dude," Mikey said, patting his shoulder. Michael wasn't interested in playing sports unless it was FIFA on the Xbox, but he was supportive nonetheless. Luke wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer, so he could point out the center forward dribbling through two defenders.

"That's my best mate, or at least he was before he got club offers," he said, taking a swig of his beer.

"I'm surprised he even came to university. He could've just gone pro," Ash said before he cursed the refs loudly. The boy Luke had been pointing out was quick with powerful legs and defined arms. His jaw was clenched, making it sharp enough to cut through glass. Thick curly hair was pushed out of his face with a thin gauzy headband, a gold streak shone prominently in the surrounding darkness of his curls. As he made quick work of the remaining defender, there was only himself and the goalkeeper who looked menacing. Making a sharp left jab, he caused the goalie's weight to shift, giving him the perfect opportunity to use his nondominant foot for a goal.

I jumped out of the way as the boys leaped up, hugging each other, and spilling beer. The entire crowd erupted in shouts, holding on to one another as if the world depended on it.

"CALUM! CALUM! CALUM!" the entire stadium roared. He smirked up at the crowd with a small wave. I gasped, grabbing onto Brynn's arm in surprise.

"Calum?" I asked incredulously. Oh boy what did I miss out on being dumbstruck? Not only is he incredibly attractive, but he's a football king? My parents would love him, I would literally win my family if I could've snagged him, but I'm stupid. So incredibly stupid.

This is why tonight is so stressful and important. If I can not only get a football player, but the best football player here and he looks that good, I can get my parents off my back. My mum went to university solely to get a husband, which she found in my dad. She worked as a primary school teacher until he could support them at his father's law firm, and before you know it, he was running the place. They pop out a few kids, dad runs for Parliament, and the rest is unfortunately history. Mum loved teaching, but she loved being a mum more. She just raised the 'perfect children' she liked to say to anyone who would listen. My too perfect to be true brother Cleo and her wannabe prima ballerina Celeste, me. So tonight, I have to look perfect, and everything has to be perfect, but I don't have time to bustle around and host. This party has to go on autopilot, so I can set my focus on Calum.

"It could be worse, Celley," Brynn shrugged as she set the grocery bags down on the counter of the boys' home. She's right, it could be. I didn't expect it to be this clean actually, but there were no discarded clothes in sight, no pizza boxes on the counters, and no beer cans all over the place. At first glance the place looks fine, I just have to get the dishes out of the sink and out of sight, so they're not broken. A quick vacuum run and the place would work out just fine. I relaxed a little letting my shoulders pull forward.

"Thank you, Lukey," I said, starting the water in the sink. I knew he was the only person who really did any cleaning around here. As much as they were all messy, he couldn't live in filth for too long.

"No problem," he replied sitting on the island watching me work.

"Hey, I picked up my own stuff," Michael complained looking through the bags we brought in pulling out various things.

"You picked up the underwear that your mum wrote your name in and sat back down." Ash always laughs when he chastises, never letting you know if he’s serious or not.

"Exactly. I picked up MY stuff. You guys never listen to me." He shook his head, disapprovingly.

"Thank you too, Mikey, but start throwing those balls around this kitchen, and I will cut yours off as a replacement," I said sweetly. His eyes went wide as he set the ping pong balls back in the bag he got them out of.

"So, what's the vibe going to be tonight?" Brynn asked, putting chips in bowls and swatting the boys’ hands away.

"Well I accidentally invited like twenty people this morning."

"And those people invited people," Ash added.

"And word got around so looks like we've got ourselves a rager," Luke said, rubbing his hands together with a devilish grin. "You've got to admit, we're becoming the best party house for first years."

"Calm down. We're just the only first-years who don't live in dorms where you can't party," Ashton said, punching Luke in the arm. Not many groups of friends stay together long enough or get into the same university for their parents to go in thirds on the house. It worked out to be less expensive than staying in dorms.

"We've got the fucking football team coming, Ash, I think we're doing pretty well." I listened to their banter silently as I cleaned and set things exactly where I had imagined them. The first guest started to arrive a few hours later after I had time to add a few extra touches and have my first glass of the wine Brynn and I had hidden in the fridge. Neither of us is too keen on liquor or beer.

Boys are scattered around the living room, passing around joints and playing FIFA. Girls talk around them, mingling on the patio. There’s a very competitive game of beer pong going on in the dining room that somehow consists of all four corners of the table instead of teams on halves. I was content for the first few hours refilling bowls and dancing with friends I had made at past parties. I even had time to play wingman for Michael and a blue-haired girl in the corner, but soon I got anxious. It was reaching the first hour of the new day. I found myself sitting on the floor between Luke's long legs watching him play Super Smash and stealing hits of the joint he had held between his fingers. I gave up on being cute at about two, smoking enough for my eyes to be as red as Luke's, and my shoes had long been discarded in one of the boy's rooms. I didn't know, nor did I care who's it was.

There were just about the maximum amount of people possible crammed into this small house, and I didn't bother saying excuse me as I got up to make my way to the bathroom. At one point there were so many people taller than me I felt I was walking through a forest. I tried slipping past one particularly muscular redhead boy caging a giggling blonde against the wall. I did my best to slip behind him, but he decided it was the perfect time to do the douche stretch and flex hitting me with the red cup in his hand. The pink sticky drink that was delicious if I do say so myself covered me from neck to foot. My skin went hot, and I'm pretty sure the blonde's giggles were going to cause me to evaporate the liquid from my skin with embarrassment alone. Where was my snarky American friend when I needed her to tongue-lash someone?

"I'm sorry, love," the boy said, failing to conceal his laughter. I tried to avoid his face at all costs burning a hole through his chest with my eyes. The school's emblem was stitched into his slate grey shirt, but I couldn't quite remember where I had seen this exact shirt before. I didn't have time to worry about it with my shirt becoming more see-through by the second and my head spinning in circles.

"Just let me by please," I said. Redhead stepped closer to the girl who was giving me a snarky look over his shoulder. "Stay in your lane, honey," I said, trying out one of Brynn's colloquialisms on my own tongue. My glare was enough to split the crowd like the red sea as I stormed past. Just as I reached the bathroom and twisted the handle, it swung open forcefully, revealing a disheveled brunette with smeared makeup and haunting blue eyes.

"What the fuck happened to you?" she said with an amused smile playing at the corner of her lips. 

"I could ask you the same thing," I said, pushing my hair out of my face. "Are you finished in there, so I can get cleaned up or?" She just smirked sauntering out with a wink. I shook my head, entering the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. I looked in the mirror at my hair that was slowly but surely frizzing out, and my shirt may as well have been a window into my soul for how see-through it was. My mascara was smudged in the corners of my eyes and my lips had lost their shine ages ago.

"Are you alright?" I was startled by a voice coming from the toilet.

"Oh my goodness, I didn't know anyone was in here," I said, covering my eyes. "I thought that girl was the only one and she left and--"

"It's fine. I'm not doing anything but looking at my phone." I peeked through the cracks of my fingers to see a boy was sat on the toilet cover searching diligently through his phone. I scanned him from head to toe. Black Vans, faded black skinny jeans, a cut-up muscle shirt that was barely attached at his hips, exposing his defined torso and arms. His warm skin, his dark hair with a single gold streak running up the front. I gulped, hoping I would take my own advice and just spontaneously combust.

"I'm gonna just go," I said quietly, reaching for the door behind me. I had forgotten how quick he was on the field because he scared me shitless when his hand captured my shoulder stopping me from leaving.

"No, I'll go," he said quickly. "I don't think I'm going to find what I'm looking for anyways. Unless… do you happen to know whose party this is?"

"It's my mate's house actually," I said, quirking an eyebrow in confusion. He should know. He invited himself and the whole team this morning.

"So you know all the lads? Michael, Ashton…"

"And Luke," I finished for him.

"I've been trying to reach Ashton and I just barely caught Mikey before he went down to the beach with some girl. He let me in, but there's so much going on I never made it past the kitchen. Do you know where Luke is?"

"Uh… couch." I pushed my hair out of my face taking a deep breath. I may as well just give up at this point. I'm in no position to charm anyone, and I can see the remnants of that girl's lip gloss on his lips. It was kind of cute on his pink pout, but I shook my head to clear the thought. He's not looking at me like that, and he probably never will.

I turned the faucet on testing the temp before grabbing a washcloth from the cupboard and washing the stickiness from my neck and exposed stomach. I expected him to leave, but he just sat back on the toilet cover, fiddling with his thumbs. He looked forlorn, his eyes longing.

"You ok?" I asked undoing the tie at the front of my shirt and attempting to wring it out to no avail. I glanced at the sad boy in the mirror and shrugged before pulling the wet material over my head and rinsing it out underneath the water. It's not like anything was left to the imagination with it on.

"Have you ever heard Luke say anything about me?" he asked quietly.

"Kinda," I tilted my head slightly as if it would help me think harder. "He did say you used to be his best mate when we went to one of your matches."

"He did?" he asked, perking up like a puppy.

"Yeah, watches every match. About loses his mind with pride every time you score, which you do quite often, good on you," I said, fixated with the faint pink water swirling around the drain. Maybe it wouldn't be a lost cause to put this in the wash. I'm so high and sleepy it probably won't make it tonight. "Well, I'm gonna go. If you work it up in you to go see Lu, tell him I've gone back to my flat. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see you."

"I'll do that," he said, standing up assuredly. "I'm Calum, by the way."

"I gathered that," I said with a small grin. "I'm Celeste." When I opened the door, I didn't imagine how bad it might look with me leaving sans shirt, with the school's football star following close behind me. I decided to start caring in the morning when I had Brynn to complain to. I'm a person who knows how to quit while they're ahead. My perfect night shouldn't be able to get any worse, and I'm not going to give the universe the time to try. 

[icefrozendeadlyqueen]

Embodiment of a Goddess: Prologue

A/N: It might just be a one time thing. It was hard to write I couldn’t decided where my mind was taking this. I am incapable of following the show in ways. This pop up in my head, and I couldn’t stop writing it.

I don’t own the viking show or its characters. I do own mine

idk Viking Language Google told me:

Að unna means love. 

if you know plz let me know, I appreciated Thank you

enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

"You lied to that boy, sister", (y/n) locks the door once both of the Perovina sisters were in. The daughters of the Godesses people whisper among themselves as they go in crowds and out. (y/n) glances around her sister's chambers when she claim in front of the crowd the truth Ashla is Hvitserk's other half perfectly align with the prophecy she sees in her mind. (y/n) wears a fine silk (f/c) dress with adorning accessories gifted to her by her husband. Long and horrendous years that we have lived not knowing if we gotten to our destination that century or achieve the path we were given. 

Ashla & (y/n) always together... that was the idea of the gods for us. (y/n) can know the desire future of the beholder with no regards on reality. You can bend the future to your bidding with or without re-precautions... you have never suffer any or because the gods fear darkness that you have at your disposal. You are the delighted representation of light in all types or forms. This world has proper our mission is true, we have done enough and given everything to become what we are now. The journey here to find Kattegat was not easy; however, we prevail in what we do best create hell-firing WAR.

"You know as well as I that you are Hvitserk's future for all of these not to be in vein. You have to marry him not King Umpa of the Legion", (y/n) extend her arms about sketching a map of all the steps we have taken through the vile obstacles that the gods would give us just to fuck with us. Heart tightens making hard for you to not scream at the skies for the stubbornness of your sister here, "It's meant to be", She whispers under her breath trying to atone for the pain she cause Hvitserk. Ashla wears a blood red cloak tender flickers of light emit from the piece of clothing moving about as if alive. (y/n) catches sight the darkness pilling at the hem of her sister's dress. Ashla wore a black dress (y/n) has no idea how can she turn dark everything touching her body of the finest fabrics Hvitserk could find. (y/n) remembers that day by the markets Hvitserk searches fabrics for a dress to be made for Ashla, "There is a bet at stakes (y/n). Ashla told me that if I can somehow make a dress keep its color while she wears it at the next feast! She'll dance with me for as long as my heart desires", His lips press together staring from thick to soft fabrics not sure what would do. He knew that such task was impossible to achieve in his heart he knew thus still he tried to make it a reality. In Hvitserk's shared chambers with your sister, Ashla darkness among men, (y/n) has this whole plan to convince Ashla that this is madness.

"He told you? so it was you that help Hvitserk win huh?", (y/n) glances up lips curl into a genuine smile from your sisters lips. A sense of helpless washes over you when you stare into her eyes it comes with looking into darkness, "You know having share thoughts its extremely annoying", (y/n) claims knowing very well it isn't. You and Ashla are more connected than your husband and you would ever become, "Bridge fell?, Cave Bandits?, Dragon?, Saxxon army? and so on and so forth. I may be arrogant after all who better to protect you than darkness huh? Your Ragnarsson's husband? A human? ha! Cute", Ashla goes on about set reasons to avoid centering to the matter at hand, Hvitserk. You know from the way she caress Hvitserk's objects all around a sense of peace rushes in the room when Ashla's eyes soften barely showing the blood she is so hungry for all the time. War its what keeps her going, she says. War is all she needs, she continues. Love is not something she wants, liar is what she is. 

It was it a time matter a jump or life ending you have no idea what was first. No one ever interrupt us discussing matters for Kattegat's future that's what we used to tell Ragnar and he had no reason not to believed us. We have won wars for him prosper Kattegat to levels they can't wrapped their minds around. Vikings are still afloat on top of the world by the era we are in they should have died long ago. It's our duties as Goddesses to keep that from happening. It was sacred, we said. After this we would part ways going to our respective Ragnarssons; however, fate laugh in our faces. I have already knew what was coming if I let my sisters even inch closer to the window she will escape my judgement as usual. 

"I appreciate you, sisters", (y/n) starts stopping the raging monsters that's Ashla from continuing the rampage of her trying to evade love, "I am not discarding that I need you just as much as you need me", Ashla's black shadows Holt their movement watching Ashla do the same. She gulps saliva hearing (y/n) words trying to reason with her, "I don't know why don't you accept, Hvitserk. He has given you care and acceptance more than anyone in Kattegat had. Ragnar and Aslaug took a liking to me; however, Lagertha took a liking to you". (y/n) a satisfactory grin writes in your lips. Ashla breath for the first time since 2 weeks ago when you dare her to stop breathing to see how long a Goddess can go without air. Her shadows rejoice at the name of their war mentor a human, Ashla would have laugh, she would to anyone else not to Lagertha. 

"You unhitched swine. W-why! you!", Ashla swing around ready to throw her darkness at me in a playful manner to get me back for breaking her solemn walk. It was the only person that would work among us sisters, "Hvitserk", Ashla breath out her eyes flying from (y/n) to his green ones. You glance at your right stand one of Ragnar's oldest son, Hvitserk. (y/n) lets go of the breath you were holding happy that now everything might get fix, "Ashla". Hvitserk breaths out, he blinks a couple of times before taking a step forward towards her. Ashla's hand shake a bit of an anxious habit she is well known for, but no one is brave enough to tell her. (y/n) knows thats a sign that Hvitserk's presence is affecting her. Hvitserk stops looking around localizing every single shadow of hers. They have a tendency to frighten the living hell out of him, "I told you, they won't attack you...  (y/n) and you might be the only people they tolerate". Ashla blurts softly as if scared to raise her voice afraid of what might come out. They keep eye contact ignoring your presence all together, "Hvitserk and Lagertha". (y/n) corrects Ashla slight mistake.

"We need to talk", Hvitserk takes a step towards her. His hands closer to his chest though spread about hoping to get close enough to bring her into him.

"No good conversation comes out 'we need to talk' spit it out!", Ashla raises her voice a bit trying not to shout. Shouting only leads to them fighting, and she wants to enjoy this a little longer.

"We don't always see each other eye to eye. (y/n) and you have help my family keep on living for all these years with nothing in return. You given me a muse, and a reason to go into battle knowing well I'll always come out alive... my brothers don't have what I have. Sigurd has (y/n) and I can confirm I have you", Ashla got lost in his voice the way his lips move distracting her awareness. His eyes on hers is all a girl can wish for the reassurance that loneliness is long forgotten. She takes deep breath walking the couple steps towards him. She locks her arms around his back while he does the same to her, "Speak to me. I am begging you. Why? Have I fail you in anyway? Do you wish to marry me? Is that why every King or Earl thinks they stand a chance?". Hvitserk goes on to this feast trying to find an explanation for what happen. King Umpa of the Legion proclaim to Kattegat that he wants Ashla hand in marriage at the feast. The royal family's smiles left as Ashla said yes instead of no. Everyone who knows the relationship between Hvitserk and Ashla stare horrified at Ashla confirmation.

"Is it not your wish to have the greatest army of the world, Að unna? Ragnar's army are equal to none. Sigurd has (y/n) who can see our greatest and worst future. I have you, but you have no army that you can brag about. I want to give you that. I want to give you everything", Ashla takes a breathing letting her words free in the pages of destiny. A black tear runs down Ashla's cheeks showcasing the truth in her words. (y/n) has never seen her sister shed a tear not even really weep. You wait to see if she laughs at the end of her words but she never even grins. Hvitserk lets go off her tender embrace bringing his rough hand to cup her cheeks with tears on his own eyes, "I have you, Ashla. I don't need an army when I have you. You are darkness for the rest of the world, but for me you are my redemption. You make breathing a blessing not a curse. You make living paradise not hell without you in my life I would have gone mad". Hvitserk closest the gape between their lips sealing their future from now on till the ends of times.

[for-bucks-sake]

Underwater.

Pairing: Stucky x Reader Word Count: 4.5K. I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Warnings: Angst, Endgame Spoilers, general sadness? Characters death. That’s it probably. Summary: For the past five years, Y/n has been holding her breath.  A/N: Idk man, I want to thank everyone who read Missing Is a Recurring Theme. I was overwhelmed by the comments so just,,thank you! Currently working on part two (get ready for fluff!) But for now, this was requested by the lovely @fandomnerdxox. Hope you love angst, because that’s what this fic is all about. Hope you like it! 

Her lungs were filled with dust. She could tell. Unable to expend them enough to take a breath, ribcage staying painfully small. “Bucky?” She called, maybe yelled. Nothing was clear anymore. Not even the air.

The fighting stopped all at once, there was a shift in the atmosphere, like the universe itself sensed something has gone terribly wrong. She stopped running when a Wakandan soldier reached for her, hurt, looking distressed as he tried to come closer, his back bent.

She swallowed, the urged to find her partners almost overpowering her instincts to help the man. She took his hand nevertheless, holding it tight in hers and pulling him up. She glanced to the sides, forever searching with her eyes familiar figures, when she felt the man slipping from her touch; “Are you oka-“ y/n looked back just in time to witness him disintegrating in front of her eyes, warm human flash crumbling in her grip, nothing left but dirt.  

She gasped, nearly falling back. Her eyes widened in panic as she finally started to notice more and more people dissolving into thin air.

Y/n ran. “Steve!” Knowing it’s too late. But she ran. “Bucky!” The field was too big to cover on foot. But she ran.

There was a long leg clothed in navy blue uniforms, scattering into invisible particles. Wind spreading them all over two silver, Vibrenium made shields, That’s when she stopped.

“No.” She choked, vision clouded, not even registering the chaos she walked right into.

A single, large, sniper rifle abandoned on the grass, inches away from where the leg was no longer. “No.”

It can’t be. It can’t. Not them, it can’t be them.

She collapsed to the ground, the weight of her injuries finally hitting her fully;

“I can’t breathe.” She panted, holding her sore throat desperately, starving for oxygen,“I can’t breathe.”

-

Loneliness is a funny thing. You could be lonely for years, decades, even. And never once notice it. You could live content with what you have, not even wondering about what you might miss. That’s when life tricks you. It lures you into tasting it, like a pinch of salt you bake inside a cake, bringing the sweetness out. Life places it on your tongue, melting it away into your bloodstream, changing you forever so you will never be the same. And then, they wait.

Wait in the shadows, until they think you’re too used to it, until they decide you don’t deserve it anymore. So they take it. Snatch it from between your fingers with brutal force, leaving you alone, bare, unworthy.

Funny may not be the accurate word, no. But all the other words she thought of to describe her situation were too tragic. So she sticks with funny.

-

Nat asked her to move back to compound today.

Y/n said no, of course. Not even remotely considering this as an option, furious at Natasha that she did. It got heated quickly, on her part, mostly.

She was alone all her life. Both of them were before the universe was vicious enough to give a meager taste to the starved.  She thought maybe Nat, could understand.

Y/n didn’t want to move in. Waking up to the sound of Natasha trying to save a world that already lost. Listening to her secretly wiping about what Clint has become. She didn’t want to do that. Y/n had enough shit to deal with on her own.

She finally reached her front door, fumbling with her keys, groaning as the jingling continued because she couldn’t find the right one, hands still shaking from anger.

“Did you know how quickly smell fades away?” Nat’s hair was longer, red color vibrant than ever. It suited her.

“I’m sorry?” Confusion replaced Natasha’s fading smile,

“Smell.” Y/n stressed, “of people, I mean. When they’re not here to renew it, it just disappears. Dissolves into the air, like it was never there.” She refused to sit, not once stopping to chip on her nails.

“Are you okay? Y/n, I’m starting to w-“

“Especially with clothes.” She frowned, burring her hands inside the pocket of her oversized leather jacket, changing her mind right after, bringing right hand fingers to her lips instead,  “you know, I tried keeping their clothes in the closet, I thought maybe, it will help preserve the smell. But it was all bullshit. Turns out I just missed about a year of their scents. When I opened it, it was barely there.”

Natasha remained silent, too alarmed to speak. Y/n accepted it as an invitation to continue her ramble.

“I was so angry, you won’t believe.” She laughed bitterly, “At myself of course, like, I could’ve googled it or something, but I didn’t. So I don’t have much to go with now.” Y/n continued, either going through an aneurism, a fit, or finally losing her mind all together, doing so hysterically right in front of Nat.

Natasha left her chair, walking towards y/n as carefully as she would approach a wounded predator.

“Listen to me, it’s going to be fine.” She cringed at her own words, feeling terrible at making people feel better. Steve was great at it, he always knew what to say and when to say it. Surly if he returned to give an advice, it would’ve calmed down his grieving girlfriend.

Natasha was relieved to be her only audience, if anyone else was seeing her state she would get a fast pass to a psych ward. Nat knew she wasn’t crazy, just…hurting.

“Yeah. yeah,” y/n dismissed her, swinging her hand, “anyway, that’s my way of telling you I can’t move here.” She finally sat down, leaving Natasha facing the wall. She turned around.

“Why not?” She said carefully, crossing her arms, “the thought of you all alone is- .”

“I don’t mind being alone.” Y/n cut sharply the kind words directed to her,

“do you?”

She finally managed to find the right one, shoving the key to its lock and twisting. She pushed the door with her shoulder, dropping her small bag to the floor.

Five years had gone and she still wasn’t used to the unnatural silence.

The blinds were shut, the air didn’t move, and for a second she could believe that time actually stopped.

Y/n inhaled deeply, standing still in the middle of the room, not daring to make a sound - maybe time did stop. She jumped when a car honked outside. A loud, ear cutting sound that tore her ruthlessly from her bubble.

She blinked, as if waking up from a deep slumber, realizing her precious reality was nothing but a dream.

That’s how she felt everyday, if she was being honest. Sometimes their touch felt more like a delusion than a memory. Sometimes, metal hand and starred chest turning into dust were just a horrifying nightmare. Sometimes, two purple, ugly fingers snap themselves together was just a fucked up hallucination. Sometimes, the existence of two, perfect men, reciprocating the strong, burning love she felt was just too hard to believe.

Nothing was real anymore.

Y/n walked into the bedroom, grabbing the white bottle of aspirin from her bedside table and swallowing down two. It was an exhausting day.

Her head met the sagging pillow with a soft thud, unlike most days, sleep came quickly, and with a flutter of her eyelashes, she was already gone.

He was so handsome with that beard. It was really impacting her ability to focus.

“Hi, ms. Astronaut!” Steve called her, golden fragments of light dancing in his eyes, “your pretty dreamy looks won’t help you on the battlefield.”

“Really? So you’re just that good at punching people?” She smirked, adjusting the straps of her sports bra, “no staring at your enemies with those baby blues until they beg for mercy?”

He caught her off guard, using her shoulder to hoist himself up and tackle her ankles from the back. She hit the soft padding embarrassingly easily, Steve not even giving her the time to react.

He offered a strong hand, swinging her off the ground like she weighs nothing when she took it. He smiled at her, eyes a brilliant cerulean- “ready to beg for mercy yet?”

Y/n huffed and hit his shoulder, “not a chance.” She paused, tightening her ponytail, returning to starting position, “now explain to me how to block it.”

Suddenly, her scenario dusted away in a disgusting black ash, swirling around her body, ruthlessly throwing her into a field.

She started running. She didn’t know where she ran, but it felt like she’s been there before; sounds and smells familiar, recognizing the path to god-knows-where as her legs kept carrying her.

A more clear image started to form, the sky bore lightning but it was warm outside, faceless monsters with sharp teeth and slick skin tried to attack her but only went through. Y/n was starting to realize where she was; it was their last fight against Thanos, and she got another chance.

Running was a part of her by now. Unable to stop or slow down, one mission in mind. Looking for a reflection of the sun on metal, or just the eyes of two bearded men before they disappear for good.

She heard them calling for her, loud and clear, two voices she hasn’t encountered for a long time, yet will never be able to forget.

“Bucky?” She screamed, this time she has to find them, she has to, “Steve? Where are you? Steve, Bucky!”

The tears woke her up, cheeks stained and breaths that were no longer under her control, hasty gasps that choke her up instead of supplying oxygen.

She was so close this time.

Her body shook violently, trembling with fear and drenched in cold sweat. The headache she had when she fell asleep was worse now, an echoing sting compressing her brain every time her heart beat.

It wasn’t just her failed attempt to say goodbye. She dreamed this every other night, and every single time she finds herself inside an unknown territory, not knowing what she needs to do until the very last minute, when she fails miserably, only to awaken to the voices of her loved ones, calling her to come save them.

No, it wasn’t just that. Because this time- this time she had a good dream too.

They used to spar all the time together, it was a good energy outlet and an excuse to spend more time with each other. She had a lot to learn from two super soldiers, and to her surprise, she taught them some moves too.

Y/n remembered that day, Steve and she were having an early morning while Bucky was still soundly sleeping, so they decided not to wake him, leaving an orange sticky note on his metal arm that said, gone to kick steve’s ass, be back by 9:00. love you.

Steve drove them to the compound, crisp breeze hitting her freshly opened eyes as she clutched his firm chest tighter, leaning her body weight on his.

He asked if she was okay, loud noise of the engine and the wind free whistles in her ears, maybe he thought he drove too fast.

She nodded, smiling in reassurance when they bypassed traffic, Steve maniacally dodging cars and driving in between the small spaces vehicles leave. He was crazy. But he managed to bring them to the compound in under twenty minutes, which was a new record.

They entered the gym, Steve’s hand still on her lower back as they stopped walking, taking off their jackets, staying only in training clothes.

“I really like that jacket.” She said, feeling the worn leather of the large brown cloth under her fingertips.

“I know.” He smiled and bit his lips, taking her hand and guiding her to the large ring.

They took their positions, adjusting their stances, “Last night I remembered some old fight moves I didn’t use in a long time.” Steve scratched his beard then stretched his shoulders, “maybe we could start with them?”

She remembers nodding, not registering exactly what he said because she got distracted, thinking about his beard and his eyes and everything else.

It was a good day. Peaceful day. A day she would give anything to experience just once more.

Her eyes were tired, begging for an actual rest as she got up, still in her clothes from yesterday, blindly walking to the kitchen and hitting some buttons on the coffee machine- it was too old now. Needed to be replaced.

Nothing has really changed, since half of the world disappeared, since Steve and Bucky disappeared. She set next to the kitchen table, filling only one of four chairs, like every other day, holding the same bitter, black coffee in the same chipped mug.

Even killing Thanos didn’t mean anything, and she wasn’t even there. Too struck with grief to see the last light behind this monster’s eyes before they darkened forever.

Y/n felt like the world ceased to move, like maybe, in a way, they were caught in a lop, and time did stop.

-

“I’m sorry.” She went to visit Natasha again. Being sad was no excuse to treat her only friend spitefully. She leaned against the lintel, trying to find support, or hide behind it, she didn’t know.

Natasha’s eyes were swollen, eyes still threatening to tear up again any moment.

“It’s okay.” She took a bite from her sandwich, “Clint did it again.”

Y/n thought about yesterday, her own thoughts were so unfair to Nat, who did nothing but help her the past five years, how could she be so selfish, thinking she was the only one in suffering.

“I’m sorry, Nat. I really am.” Y/n approached her, taking the chair that was opposite of her, “did you try looking for him? Clint is a good guy. You know he is. He’s someone who lost everything at once. Something like that gotta mess up with your mind.”

“You’re still here.” Nat said quietly, already regretting it,

Y/n bit the inside of her cheek, reclining against the back of the chair, “If there’s someone in this world that could save him - it’s yo-“

“Hey, Hello, This is Scott Lang. We met a few years ago, at the airport, in Germany, I got really big-“

Both women were startled, slowly getting up from their chairs, looking at the small monitor.

“Is this an old message?” Y/n asked, her eyes burning, she inhaled sharply. Scott Lang is supposed to be missing, he dusted with all the others. And if that really is Scott it means…

-

Scott didn’t disappear because of Thanos’ snap like the others. So it didn’t mean shit. And hope crushed her chest once again, hating herself for letting it invade her thoughts repeatedly, not learning her lesson.

His incoherent ramble about a time machine sure didn’t help. Natasha insisted they would go visit Tony anyway, saying that if he recognized a real chance he would never hesitate to help-

But when she sees Tony with his daughter, her world nearly crumbles for the second time in two days. The odds he would cooperate were now down to zero.

Tony saw them approaching. She watched him letting the kid down, following her with her gaze as she ran all the way to the front door, swallowed by the wooden house.

“I’m happy for you Tony,” y/n heard herself saying, “I really am. But you can help so many people, you can help bring so many people back, and you won’t even…”

“No. I won’t even.” There was a finality in his voice, one that clearly states they are done.

“Steve? You remember Steve? He used to be your friend. Or have you already forgotten him. How easy.” She pierced the air with an ice cold tone , anger consuming her. “You live your happy life, and you got everything. Tony. Everything. What do I got? What do I have?” She heaved, breathless, and he looked like he was going to say something, when his daughter came jumping on his lap, securing her little arms around him in a firm hug, “mom told me to come save you.”

Y/n finally got a good look of the girl. She was sweet looking, a visible brain behind her eyes; And she didn’t know Tony Stark very well, but y/n could tell the kid shared a deep resembles to him. Who wouldn’t do anything for their child? Even if it means letting the other half of the world burn. -

She clearly didn’t know the man at all, because for some reason- Tony Stark came back.

Everything they did seemed to fail, and when Bruce couldn’t figure it out, almost making what’s left of the Avengers babysitters to baby Scott, Tony arrived to the rescue.

“He turned into a baby, didn’t he?” He snarked with a sly grin, revealing a weird looking metal bracelet and a proud attitude that said, I did it.

“Thank you.” Y/n took his hand, squeezing it hard, knowing that as of now, she owes this man her life. “Thank you so much.”

He offered a knowing smile, grief shifting his features, “I know what it’s like to lose someone.” - “See you in a minute.” She heard Nat, giddy with excitement, before all of them were pulled into a colorful vortex, a hurricane rearranging her guts, staying with her even when they landed in an unfamiliar ally in New York.

“Are we in the right place?” She asked Tony and Bruce, changing her white and red, Quantum traveling suit, into a more area fitting one with a single button.

Smashing sounds got closer by the second right after she asked, not long before they saw a much greener Hulk, destroying everything on his path.

“I’m pretty sure this answers my question. “ Y/n said to herself, amused, heart light inside her chest despite the heavy mission ahead of them.

Y/n wore a big SHIELD identification, saying she was incredibly high clearance, it’s supposed to get her what she needs quickly, no questions asked; but when she entered an elevator full of Hydra thugs, testosterone reeking the small space, she assumed there might be some questions.

“Gentlemen.” She said, too ceremonially, “I will need you to hand me the Scepters. Orders from high, I’m afraid.” She felt all of them tense around her,

“And who are you, if I may ask? I have never seen you here.” The bald man who looked less threatening than all of them asked,

Y/n held her ID high, pointing out her clearance level, “not ever seeing me here is a good sign, Mr…”

“Mr. Sitwell.”

“Very well, Mr. Sitwell. Now, if you will, the Scepter. I’m in a bit of a rush. Wouldn’t want to keep people on the higher floors waiting.” Y/n decided to do something bold, the outcome could either be a success, or one that she would have to punch her way out of. She leaned against Sitwell, bringing her mouth closer to his ear and whispered,  

“Hail Hydra.”

The man looked apprehensive at first, debating with himself for a long moment, until finally nodding to one of the other men, handing her the long suitcase reluctantly.

Y/n gladly accepted it , the elevator finally opening up as she turned her back to them, smirking in satisfaction, going towards the exit.

Her legs stopped in their tracks. She wasn’t supposed to see him. Not now, not like this.

Steve, wearing a very cheesy and outdated Captain America suit approached her, holding his earpiece, and before she could even registered what was going on, she heard him say he has eyes on Loki. Fucking Fantastic.

It wasn’t her Steve, she knew, but it was harder to accept than say, because as it seemed she is going to have to fight him, and she wasn’t ready.

In the months before the mission Natasha got her back into a very strict schedule of training, trying to beat her into shape again. It couldn’t repair years of damage and neglect, but it was better than anything. And as past Steve swung his shield to her direction, y/n held onto every bit of shape she head.

It wasn’t her Steve, her mind screamed as she dodged his punch, fighting the desire to take off his mask and kiss him.

He hasn’t met her yet, of course he won’t recognize her.  

“Hand back the Scepter, Loki.” He demanded, she was suddenly happy she couldn’t see his eyes.

Steve tried to use her shoulder to hoist himself up, but y/n hunched over, waiting for him to miss his jump, and placed two hands securely on his broad shoulders, lifting herself and using his support to flip over, forcing him down along with her, wrapping her body around his, trying to chock him long enough for him to lose consciousness.

“I can’t do that. “She panted, struggling to keep him in a tight enough grip, “and I am not Loki.”

Steve fought out of her hold, twisting his thighs around hers and kicking her kneecaps, rattling her entire body as they changed positions, now she was the one being strangled. She arced her back, hitting him in full force with it, but he didn’t budge. Not even when she jerked one ankle, jolting him right in the junk. She’ll apologize later.

Y/n couldn’t beat him in a hand to hand combat, poorly shaped and outmatched by him. Distraction was her only possible advantage, and she was running out of time, options, and air. What could baffle 2012 Steve Rogers? She thought frantically, just as the answer presented itself to her.

What would faze 2012 Steve Rogers? The same thing that would faze 2019 Steve Rogers, or any Steve Rogers for that matter.

“Bucky, is , alive.” She coughed out, and it was enough; the lock on her throat was released, giving her an opportunity to take the Scepter and run. She took it out of its case, pointing it at Steve general direction just as he gained composer again, hovering above her. She caught a glimpse of blue, cold and painful to watch without the warm undertones that appeared every time he looked at her.

“Sorry.” She squeaked as he dropped to the floor, head planted down. Only falling asleep, she hoped.

- The minute she saw Clint collapsing, an empty space to her left, she knew Natasha was not coming back.

They didn’t know exactly what happened, and it didn’t matter. Because everything else was clear. She gave her life to get that stone, to get everyone back. That only meant one thing; They could not fail.

- As time went by, y/n thought less and less about what would happen if they came back. There was no point to lead herself on, right? So she didn’t.

But now, as the possibility of them returning appeared more vivid, worry began to chew on her confidence.  Insecurity seemed the last thing she needed right now, so insignificant, superficial, in times like this, when the faith of the world was at stake. Yet, she was staring at the mirror, for the first time in five years, really looking. Examining carefully, with attention, how her body has changed. She didn’t like what she saw.

It’s not about you, she had to remind herself, it’s about them.

“Also", a very familiar voice, challenging her with the cheek in her tone; Nat. “Give those two dumbasses more credit, they will love you, no matter what.”

-

It was only them, and they were losing.

They managed the snap, and it almost cost Bruce’s life in the process. Nothing in the world seemed to scream about drastic changes so far, and then Thanos decided to pay a visit, depriving them of finding out if everything they have gone through was for nothing.

Slowly but surely, they were losing. Being wrecked by the purple alien that already destroyed once their lives as they knew and loved.

It wasn’t fair, Stark was the last one standing. She watched him from where she landed, after being brutally thrown. He could never face him by himself, he wouldn’t survive long enough. She remembered that day, it seemed like thousand years ago now; when she swore, she owed her life to that man.

No superpowers, no special suit, no weapon. Just her, and her fists. That’s all she had to offer. She owed it to too many people to not just surrender and die, leaving a world to burn behind her. She owed it to herself.

Y/n gritted her teeth and spit blood to the side, standing side by side with Iron Man, bringing two fists to the front of her body and fixing her stance.

She inhaled deeply and glanced at Stark, he nodded, letting her know he’s ready when she is.

“Y/n?” She heard her name, somehow loud, in her earpiece. Tony looked confused just as her, he heard it too, and it wasn’t him talking.

“Doll, it’s Steve. Do you copy?”

Her breath was knocked off her lungs, she searched around her for any sign of him, of Bucky, of anyone, when an orange portal was opened behind her. And then another one, and another one, and another ten.

“Holy shit.” Tony called from beside her, laughing, somehow, “holy fucking shit.”

Y/n was at a loss of words.

“Go.” He opened his helmet, motioning her to the sea of warriors behind them - he wasn’t standing alone anymore - “go!”

She shook her head, not moving an inch. “I’m staying right here.”

-

It was her dream again. Her eyes scanned the crowds, running amok between injured people, bodies. Vision too blurry and burning to see any face at all.

“Y/n!.” A deep voice called in her direction, and she nearly twisted her neck attempting to find its source.

Her eyes teared up instantly, knees threatening to buckle underneath her, a metal arm coming just in time to hold onto her, support her in place. Wiping tears was useless, she found out soon enough, giving up instantly to simply sobbing into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.” She kept crying out, he had a long cut on the side of his torso, he shushed her gently when she tried to bring it up.

There was a subtle movement behind her, and she tensed, head shooting up, “Steve?”

“I’m right here, sweetheart.” He said softly, another pair of strong arm enfolding themselves around her, his eyes radiated warmth, bright in the middle of a dirt stained face. She took one last look before burying her body deeper between them, surrounding herself with a scent that was a mix of salt and earth and blood, so humanly them.

“You were gone and I-“ Y/n kept glancing every other second at Bucky- even though she was still in his arms, hysteria got the best of her, gradually taking over any rationale left- the fear they’ll disappear, like last time, becomes too real.

“I didn’t say goodbye and-“ She gasped for air, they caressed her, talking sweet nothings in her ears, just to calm her down.

“It’s been five years and I…I couldn’t live without you.” She said finally, physically struggling to speak, clutching onto them harder,

“We’re so sorry.” Bucky muttered, choking down on tears of his own, weaving fingers through her knotted hair, “So fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve reassured her one more time, kissing her temple, then her knuckles, then her lips. “we’re here now.”

[spytap]

Italy 2017 - Part 4 of 4: ROME

Man, if Florence took longer than I expected, this is just gratuitously late. Nevertheless, we forge ahead.

Even with the experience of hindsight and time to consider, I worry that I don’t have really anything to say about Rome that isn’t superficial or repetitive. It was, for the most part, just as we expected it to be. That’s certainly not a bad thing, especially when meeting high expectations - but in a trip of such unexpected discoveries and deliciously surprising experiences, it stood out for being the city that was most like we thought it would be.

In my memory, I remember Rome as more closely related to the “real world” I inhabit in my “mostly LA with a fair dose of NYC” existence. Of all the cities we visited in Italy, it felt the least foreign, the most easily understood, and the most comfortable. Whether that’s a good thing is left to the reader to decide.

The irony is that Rome wasn’t on our to-do list until the very end. We’d booked our flights into the country, but were still figuring out how we were going to get back. Barcelona, Geneva, and even Paris were all on the options list, courtesy of Europe’s extensive train system and a rather liberal expectation of how late we could get back to LA on Sunday evening and still be acceptably functional at work Monday morning. But a couple weeks of searching culminated in a chance sale on rather comfortable Rome to Oslo to Los Angeles seats, and we had our final destination locked in.

So because Rome was always booked as “the place to take the flight back home,” our trip headily biased our time towards the other cities we wanted to visit, thus leaving us just two and a half days to spend with the city. Added to this was the simple reality that Rome wasn’t geographically like the other cities we visited. With Milan, Genoa, and Florence, you could walk from one end to the other without too much effort - Rome, on the other hand, is damn near 500 square miles. Putting it in perspective, that’s just barely smaller than the city of Los Angeles, and more than 50% larger than all five for boroughs of New York City combined. It is, to use an old Roman term, “fucking huge.”

Nonetheless, we came into Rome in perhaps the best worst way possible: frantically trying to make our train, and dreading the idea that we’d have to immediately get a bus on the other end and somehow track our progress well enough to get off within walking distance of our apartment. Thanks to Google Maps and T-Mobile’s rather generous outlook on providing international data, our “run, train, bus” triathlon worked out almost perfectly, and by 2pm we had our bags in the apartment and were ready to explore the city.

As per tradition, the first day we got well and truly lost. And by design or accident, within just a few hours we’d wandered past ancient ruins and modern squares, the Pantheon and Trevi Fountain, Spanish steps and whoops-there’s-a-cathedrals. We weren’t really trying to hit all the spots, but everything seemed to lay itself out in front of us, and our feet continued to carry us towards monuments and cultural touchstones in short order. Maybe it was just luck or maybe it was habit at that point - who knows. But within four hours of offloading our bags, we’d hit a half dozen of the biggest to-dos in one of the great ancient cities of the Western world.

Three of my favorites worth highlighting a bit:

If you’re wondering whether it’s worth waiting the fifteen to thirty minutes to enter The Pantheon, seeing the dome and ceiling alone are worth the time. I spent a half hour just marveling at the construction and laughed a bit when I found out that no one actually knows when it was built, or what sections of the structure came when. It seemed more than a little appropriate that, in a city where we often ran across ancient ruins across from markets and archeological digs in the middle of otherwise totally modern neighborhoods, one of the largest historical and tourist spots in the city is in many ways a mystery.

Like moose, Trevi Fountain is so much larger than you think. However large you think it might be, triple it. Every photo or video I have is careful to have at least one person next to the fountain for scale just to show people “Look! Down there! That small dot? That’s a fully grown adult human!” It really was comically large, and the spray coming off of the water helped cool the hot September afternoon down a bit.

Late in the afternoon, we went off to climb the Spanish Steps, and once we’d reached the top, we watched the sun begin to set over the still ten-degrees-too-warm city. As the fifty-third man offered me the “opportunity” to purchase an overpriced rose “for the lady,” we watched tourist and local alike all take a moment to sit down on the steps, wipe their brow, take a breath, look over the teeming life within the piazza, and feel the air start to cool as the night approached. It as if the whole piazza exhaled at once. It was such a simple, beautiful moment.

After having had such luck nailing all the spots we’d had on our to-see list back-to-back-to-back, we ran across a restaurant that Beth had on her “must go if possible” lists. Luckily, having run across it at just after seven, we were slightly before Roman-acceptable dining hour, so we were able to get a table outside on the patio fairly easily. And in return, we had one of the most distinctive meals of our trip.

For a restaurant that seemed to take “Roman Style” as as indication to go well past what you’d expect from Italian food, every single dish was interesting and wonderful. Even the dishes that included foods I don’t generally enjoy (raw tomatoes, for example) were bursting with flavor and complexity. Simple dishes like a grilled artichoke heart were somehow transcendent of their straightforwardness, while a Secondi that we ordered almost entirely because Google Translate told us it literally translated to “Rolled Meat Tubes, Roman Style” and we assumed that had to be a translation error, turned out to be exactly that: veal wrapped around vegetables, simmered in a tomato sauce, where every single flavor was both distinctive and balanced.

As a side note, this was only one of two dinners during our entire trip that didn’t include ordering the house wine - both of which happened in Rome. This first night it happened because the restaurant didn’t have a house wine, only a hundred-plus page book of wine options (thank you Tuscan Wine School for helping us pick a truly excellent twenty euro bottle.) The following night it happened again - this time because when we ordered the house wine, the owner straight up told us, in a very charming Italian accent, “Is no that good tonight. Is eh.” I asked to try it anyway, and when he asked what I thought, I answered in the only way that felt appropriate: an agreeable “Eh” followed by ordering a bottle that was met with nodded approval.

Anyway, that first night, as we discussed the day’s events, we realized that yes, Rome was crowded and busy - and yes, whenever we found ourselves around some of the more well known elements of its storied past there were lots of tourists. But get a hundred feet away and it didn’t actually feel particularly touristy. For the most part the city felt like the locals were going about their business, and the tourists clustered in certain areas.

In short, it felt more than a little like … Los Angeles. Which is weird.

To add to the comparisons, similarly to LA, it wasn’t a city that felt overtly inviting beyond the known tourism spots. To get any sense of what it was like, you had to really search beyond the bit that ended up up on the pamphlets. Again like LA, Rome felt like it had better things to do than to cater to the expectations of tourists.

The next day began the first of two scheduled days of our trip. Because of our limited time in the city, we had a couple things we put on the “must-do” list: one day was dedicated to perusing the Colosseum and nearby Forum, and another day was dedicated to The Vatican and hoping I could high-five the Pope (spoiler alert: it didn’t happen.)

There isn’t anything to say about the Colosseum that hasn’t been said before. It’s easy to stand there for hours, feeling the mass of history almost as if by a localized increase of gravity. I found myself fascinated with the textures - variances that denoted hundred of years of technological and cultural advancements, mere meters apart. Most of my photos, in fact, are just close ups or wide panoramas that highlight the textures of the Colosseum. That said, it was one of the few times I wish we’d have taken a tour - there’s only so much to absorb by walking around on your own and staring at things. The few times I overheard tour groups, the information they were getting seemed like fascinating additions to the experience.

The Vatican was the exact opposite: we had the unique experience of a guided tour of the gardens, coupled with a remarkably colorful history lesson that leaned heavily into the fighting spirit of the Vatican’s storied and tempestuous relationship with Italy. Turns out that even the heads of multi-billion-person religions are sometimes the scrappy underdogs in the retelling of their own tales. The words “faithful” and “exiled” and “oppressive” were used rather liberally as we strolled through the perfectly manicured gardens discussing thousands of years of Catholic history under the Roman sun.

Out of the gardens, we had the rest of the Vatican to wade though - something that I would have absolutely relished had it not been for the apparent flood of other people aiming to do the same.

The one thing I wanted to see above all else was the Sistine Chapel - an hour-long wait that resulted in equal amounts of disappointment for the actual chapel itself and the disrespect of the visiting hordes. Granted, being packed into a small area with hundreds of people who felt too special to follow the repeated “no flash photography please - it damages the chapel” and “please no talking - this is a place of worship” announcements was certainly no way to fully appreciate the artistic elements of the chapel. But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t think I would have had much different of a reaction had I stood alone in the center of the silent building, free to contemplate and examine the chapel in solitary peace. I know the history and its importance. I’ve seen the photos. It…just didn’t do anything for me.

Now Saint Peter’s Basilica stands on the other end of the awe scale. In fact, it ruins the scale entirely, forcing you to hastily make a new scale just to properly convey the applicable amount of awe. Standing in that building feels impossible. The space between the floor and ceiling isn’t communicated properly with words - hell, it’s barely conveyed with photos.

If the intention of Saint Peter’s Basilica was to be the physical manifestation of one religion’s idea of man’s distance from God, then they pretty much nailed it. Because that’s what it felt like to stand in the center and look around.

The detail of the marble carvings was unreal. Or too real - rock conveying sheer silk sliding over bone and muscle and veins. The pillars extended upwards as if into the clouds. The angels above, carved out of solid marble, seemed at the same time far too massive to be supported by the ceiling, and too dainty to need to be attached at all. If they circled the room once per hour on their own power, I wouldn’t have been shocked in the least.

Even after two weeks of increasingly impressive cathedrals - nothing stood even remotely close to Saint Peter’s Basilica. Nothing. I think we spent an hour just walking around - seeing, touching, marveling. I could have spent a lifetime there and not been able to convey the majesty of the space. I’m not a religious person, but it is without question simply breathtaking.

Back within the (Roman) city limits, the downside of devoting so much time to those two locations was that it left us just the evenings and our initial half-day to get acquainted with the rest of the massive city. The bad news is that I don’t think we really got to experience the culture of modern Rome as much as we’d have liked to in retrospect. The good news is that despite the timeframe, the evenings in Rome were nonetheless memorable.

Without going into detail on everything we ate and drank, it ranged from merely excellent to superb. Rome had treasures that ranged from a place near our apartment where the owner himself served us (and forgot to put in my entree order, resulting in a comically exaggerated forehead-slapping apology and a few items on the house), to the best gelato we had in all of Italy, to a nondescript restaurant in what can only be described as “cobblestone Brooklyn” where the room next to us regularly exploded with old Italians half-drunkenly singing old Italian standbys and the main dining room was filled with young locals there for the equivalent of your favorite Aunt’s home cooking.

We enjoyed three hour dinners where we chatted with the couple next to us (an older Mexican couple - he was a general in the Mexican military, and she was a diplomat), and the younger British girls who replaced them after they left. We watched a hundred mopeds and motorcycles all gather together to drink wine on the steps of a church, bought a bottle for a table of strangers we were chatting with, and nearly caused an international incident when we showed up at a restaurant with a bottle we’d brought from Florence.

That final night we walked slowly back to our apartment, hearing the local church clocktowers signaling midnight while knowing that we had to be up early the next morning to catch our flight - but nonetheless taking as much time as we could steal alongside the Tiber as it rippled and slipped south towards the Mediterranean.

Ultimately, I don’t think anything in Rome itself really surprised me - but I also expect that’s on us. My memory is of a major city, Italian style. There was certainly history, but it felt segmented away, and we never got to experience the rest of the city that was culturally distinctive from what we’d seen before. Again, it felt more like Los Angeles than Milan or Florence. But maybe that’s what Rome ultimately was (for us, at least) - an opportunity to end our experience in a liminal space that blended Italy with familiarity as a transition back to home.

As the taxi picked us up the next morning and took us to Rome’s airport, I took my final photos in Italy: the sun illuminating and shining through the long, languid clouds that hung high in the sky. After two weeks away, having seen six areas and cities throughout Northern Italy, and finally seeing the city where my family came from, there were just two flights left to bring us back to our daily lives.

It was, as it always is, too soon. But in a trip filled with surprises, we still had one left: it turns out that if you catch the right flight - say a 6:45pm heading west out of Oslo - the sunset shines purple through the windows nearly the whole flight home.

[aresaphrodites]

this crown of thorns.

Summary: 

She never knew Jughead Jones. She would never know the man in that video, happy and carefree amidst all the death and war around them.

She knew Winter; a man who was fearless, feared. A man who was quiet and cold, almost a statue of a human being. She knew a man with enough demons and monsters to echo her own. She knew a man that stayed up all night, thoughts plagued with nightmares of deaths he wished he could forget. She didn’t know the war hero, she knew the asset; the man who brought war with him. She loved Winter. She didn’t love Jughead.

MARVEL AU. Some events were taken from CA:TWS. Betty = Black Widow. Archie = Captain America. Jughead = The Winter Soldier. Veronica is Hawkeye, Reggie is Iron Man, and Cheryl is Scarlet Witch although they’re only really mentioned, not key characters in the story. 

As of right now, this story is just a one shot. I could consider adding another part if anyone wants it, though.

Thank you to @bettydooper and @itstenafterfour for cheering me on with this fic. And thank you to @jaded-youth for helping me with the ending. You guys are too good to me. 

Jug speaks Russian in this fic so a few translations are (and don’t blame me if they aren’t entirely correct. I used Google, lol.):

Не стесняйтесь - Do not hesitate. 

мое сердце - My heart.

Вы мое сердце - You are my heart. 

ENJOY!

Life is weird. You wake up one day and you don’t really know how you got there or what happened prior to that one specific day. It’s just like you wake up and suddenly you can’t really remember anything from before, but you know that you’ve been alive for however many consecutive years and it’s just weird. People show you pictures and videos of yourself and they laugh about how cute and funny you used to be. They say things like ‘Oh, remember that time when?’ but no. You don’t remember any of it. You don’t remember a single thing. You nod, though. You nod and act like you have any clue what they’re talking about.

Betty Cooper sometimes feels like she hasn’t known anything from before she was a teenager. She doesn’t remember what it was like to be a child. She can’t remember if she was ever actually a child at all. She has no memories of swings and playgrounds. She doesn’t remember what it’s like to have tea parties and play with dolls.

She must have been a little girl at some point. She didn’t just wake up one day at the age of ten. Someone must have given birth to her. She must have had a mother and a father, maybe even a brother or a sister. She wonders if they’re still alive, if they ever think of her. She thinks about searching for them sometimes, but she never goes through with it. She’s scared of what she could find. She knows not to get her hopes up. Good things don’t happen to people like her.

Betty Cooper might have been a little girl once, but she had never been a child. She never would be a child.

“Cooper,” a voice calls from behind her. She turns around and Archie Andrews is looking at her with those eyes of his that always look so dead, so tired. “You okay?”

She feels bad that he’s asking her that. She doesn’t deserve to have people worry over her. Archie Andrews though, he deserved that. A fallen war hero, barely back from the dead itself; he deserved all the love and worry that he was faced with constantly. She knew that he hated having people baby him. He didn’t want the fame and responsibility that came with being Captain America; just like Betty never wanted the dread and death that followed Black Widow around.

“Great,” she tells him, smiling the smile that she’s perfected over the years. It’s the one that says ‘I’m perfect. I’m perfect in all and every way.’

She hates it. She hates being perfect, because she knows that she is and she knows what it means. It doesn’t mean that she’s a good girl who never gets in trouble; a girl who is pure and kind. It doesn’t mean any of that. She’s the perfect killer. That’s all she’ll ever be.

Archie nods. He knows that she’s lying. He always knows when she’s lying. He used to lecture her about it, being America’s golden boy and all, but he doesn’t lecture her anymore. She feels like maybe he understands. Maybe he lies too sometimes. She can hear him at night, screaming and crying. She hears the way he throws things all over his bedroom. She hears cries and then she hears nothing. She asked him about it one time and he just gave her a tired smile. He didn’t throw things after that. But he still cried. It didn’t matter how thick the walls were at the Avengers tower, she could always hear the broken cries of man who lost his whole world seventy years ago.

When Cap came off the ice, the United States cheered for their fallen hero. She remembers the day perfectly. Every news channel was talking about it, pictures of his face were plastered everywhere. It was the same picture of him that was taken during the war; him standing tall in his uniform, staring right at the camera with a smile on his face.

He had been happy. Once upon a time, Archie Andrews had been happy. He had been in the middle of a war and yet, he still smiled. There was still war and death, even seventy years later. War would never leave the world and Archie followed it like the true soldier he was, but the only difference was that he didn’t smile anymore. Sometimes she wonders if maybe he wished he would have died up in that plane all those years ago. Sometimes she wishes that he would have. At least then he wouldn’t be so sad.

The tower is quiet. Reggie is out at some kind of press meeting in D.C. and he won’t be back until tonight. Betty doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not. The tower is quiet without him, way too quiet, and the silence between her and Archie is so thick. They’re friends, of course they are. In fact, they probably get along better with each other than anyone else in the team, but that’s the problem. They know each other too well, their secrets and nightmares, they know them all. Betty doesn’t necessarily like that. At least when Mantle’s around, him and Archie are arguing with each other so much that they don’t really have time to focus on anything else. Sometimes she thinks they argue a little too much.

“Ronnie says we should train,” Archie tells her as he holds up his phone in her direction. He’s still getting used to technology, but at least he doesn’t flinch every time his phone vibrates now.

“We always train.” She’s been training since she was a little girl. She’s tired of it. “Tell her to come over here and train with you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks her, picking up on the slight edge to her voice. “We’re friends, Betty. You can talk to me.”

She wants to remind him that if it weren’t for all the fucked up stuff they’d endured throughout their life, that they wouldn’t have been friends at all. If Archie Andrews had never picked up the shield and gone off to fight Nazis all those years ago, they wouldn’t be friends. If Betty had never been taken away from her family to go learn how to become the world’s most lethal assassin, they wouldn’t be friends. In a perfect world, they don’t know each other. In a perfect world, they aren’t friends. In a perfect world, Betty isn’t perfect.

“I need some air,” she says suddenly as she gets up from the couch. Archie looks at her like he wants to stop her, but he won’t because deep down he understands what it’s like. He knows all about the demons and monsters that plagued their thoughts and he knows that sometimes you have to run to escape them.

She wonders if she’ll ever stop running. She wonders if she even knows how to stop anymore.

Training never stops.

Everything in the Red Room qualifies as training. It never ends. She can’t remember the last time she sat down and had a moment to herself, a moment of peace and quiet. A moment where she could be herself, the version of herself she cooked up in her mind at night when her nightmares kept her awake; the nightmares that were her reality.

She had a version of herself, happy and carefree, living anywhere else. She has a family, friends, she’s happy. She doesn’t kill people. She doesn’t know what someone’s eyes look like right before they die. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone beg for their life. She doesn’t know what bones sound like as they snap under her touch.

‘Eyes up.’ The lady snaps in Russian. Betty isn’t Russian. She knows that much. She doesn’t know how she got here. She doesn't know why she’s here. She doesn’t know anything.

She looks up. She obeys.

It’s the first time she sees him.

She can’t see his eyes. His long hair falls into his face, matted and a little bit greasy, as he looks down at the ground. He’s wearing a black, leather getup and he should look normal, normal enough for the Red Room at least, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because his left arm is made completely out of metal, from his shoulder all the way to his fingertips. She’s never seen anything like it before.

‘Begin.’

It’s like a second nature, the way her body reacts to the command. She jabs her fist out and watches in complete shock as the man ducks the punch. He’s still looking down at the floor, hair still covering his face, and he doesn’t even lose his footing. She frowns and reaches out to hit him again. This time, he grabs her fist and twists her arm behind her back.

She doesn’t cry out. She learned long ago not to cry out when she was in pain. Instead, she clenches her jaw and breathes out through her nose. She digs her feet into the ground and then brings up her leg and stomps down on the man’s boot covered foot. She doubts it hurts him, but she isn’t trying to hurt him. She needs him to become unfocused, taken off guard, and it works. He must not have expected her to still be able to think or move under the grip he’d had her arm in, but that’s where he was wrong. She had endured far worse than that.

She kicks him in the side and this time he does lose his balance as he stumbles to the side. This seems to anger him as he finally looks up at her. She gasps as she looks at his eyes. They’re a deep green color, but that’s not what shocks her. It’s the way he seems to be looking at her like she’s nothing. She can tell in his stance that he’s angry with the way she one upped him, but his eyes look void of any and all emotion. It’s unnerving and for the first time in a long time, she feels scared.

He steps towards her and reaches out for her, but she dodges it and brings her fist up to punch him in the jaw. His head snaps back and she twirls around, putting herself behind him and then wraps her arms around his neck as she forces him down to the ground.

His knees barely touch the ground before he’s standing back up, reaching up with his own hands to grab at her. She uses his body as leverage and brings her legs up to wrap around his neck. As he stands up tall again, she brings her hands together and hits him in the face. She thinks that it might end there, but instead he just shakes his head and leans back, making her lose her balance. Once he feels her grip loosen, he reaches up for her and grabs her, tossing her onto the ground afterwards.

She lands back on the floor with a hard thud and pain erupts throughout her entire body. She can hear sometime telling her something, but the words sound muffled to her.

She opens her eyes and gasps in shock when she sees a metal fist coming down at her face. Without a second thought, she rolls away from the oncoming impact and flinches to herself when she hears the sound the fist makes as it hits the ground.

She jumps up to her feet and roundhouse kicks the man in the face, not giving him any time to stand up again. He goes down and as he does, Betty reaches for the knife she keeps in her thigh holster and yanks it out before jumping on top of the man and bringing her hand up to kill him.

That’s what they do here. If you can’t keep up then you die. There are no do overs. Not here, not now. The man looks at her, empty eyes and for the first time in a long time, she feels sad.

He doesn’t look scared or even worried about what’s about to happen. The action startles her so much that she hesitates.

‘Не стесняйтесь.’ The man says simply and it takes Betty by surprise as she looks down at him, shocked that he’s actually said something to her. Before she can even realize what he’s said, he grabs the knife from her hand with his metal one and flips them over, pinning her to the ground before bringing the metal of the blade to her neck, pressing down on the skin there.

The people remember.

That’s what everyone usually tells Archie when they go out places. The people remember what he did for the country; for the world, and they appreciate him. He smiles, timidly and usually forcely, but he still gives them the validation they need; that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere. For Betty, it’s not that simple. The things she’s done? The things she’s seen? People don’t know about that. They look at her and they see the woman who’s helped Captain America keep the world safe and alive recently. They thank her too, but she doesn’t smile at them and offer the hope they want. She just nods.

She wonders what they would say if they all knew the truth.

There’s a bench in Central Park that she likes to sit at sometimes when she just needs to think. It’s nice to get fresh air and watch the world carry on in front of her eyes. She wishes that she could be one of the women running with her girl friends, gossiping about whatever juvenile things their significant others did that weekend. She doesn’t have any girl friends, but even if she did, she wouldn’t be gossiping about men with them.

She has no man in her life. Not anymore.

Veronica likes to think of them as friends, but Betty can’t allow that. She can never get close to someone that way again. Archie is different. He’s seen things, he’s experienced the horrible things in the world first hand. He knows the way their lives work and how they’ll end. Veronica still thinks the world can be saved. She thinks that one day they’ll all be able to live happily ever after. Even Cheryl, the girl who watched her twin brother die right in front of her eyes, has some hope for the future. They’re both young; they’re naive.

Betty accepted her fate long ago. She’s either going to die with a bullet to the head or a knife to the throat. There’s no other option. She’ll go out fighting, it’s the only possible way.

Her life feels like it’s on standby. She spends all her time waiting. Waiting for the next mission, for the next attack. She wakes up in the morning and spends her time waiting until she can sleep so she can begin the cycle all over again. She waits for the day that it’ll all finally be over. She didn’t used to think this way. Once upon a time, she’d looked forward to the sun rising every morning. That had been a different time though, back when he was still there; when he was still alive. Sometimes if she closes her eyes and focuses hard enough, she can see his eyes looking at her. Most of the time they had still portrayed that nearly lifeless look, but sometimes, when they were alone in the quiet hours of the night, he’d look at her and he’d see her. It was in those hours that she’d see glimpses of the man he might have once been and he saw the girl she’d made up in her mind.

Her fingernails dig into the palm of her hands, drawing blood, as she remembers him. It hurts too much to think of him these days, especially because now she knows. She knows who he is and what he did. She knows his real name and the man he once was. She can’t escape his face anymore.

She remembers when she’d first found out. Archie had dragged her down to the Smithsonian. It had been right after he’d woken up from the ice, only a few months after she’d been saved by S.H.I.E.L.D.. He told her that he needed to see the exhibit, the one dedicated to him; he needed to see how people remembered him. Betty had thought it was a bad idea and she was right. It just turned out to be bad for her.

It was like seeing a ghost.

She’d never been to the exhibit before. She didn’t really have time for it. She still didn’t like being in large crowds. She couldn’t trust the people around her. As she stood closely by Archie though, she felt a little safer. People wouldn’t harm her if she was with their hero.

He wore a cap and kept his head down, avoiding the eyes of everyone at all costs. Betty didn’t have to do that. No one knew who she was. She was no one, just like she’d always been.

It was kind of unreal at first, seeing Archie’s original suit on the mannequin. She wanted to reach out and touch it. Several other mannequins surrounded him, each wearing their own getup. Archie didn’t seem to pay attention to any of them except for the one that was directly behind him to the right. The mannequin was wearing a blue jacket and Archie didn’t hesitate as he reached his hand out and touched the material gently before ripping it back, as if it had burned him.

‘It shouldn’t be up here.’

Betty looks at him in question, but he doesn’t pay any attention to her.

‘His jacket should be with someone who loves it, who loved him. It was his favorite. He wouldn’t want it hanging in some old museum.’

‘Was he your friend?’ She asks, noticing the way his eyes start to water slightly.

‘He was my brother,’ he says softly. ‘In every sense except biological, he was my brother. He was always watching out for me, little Archie Andrews who couldn’t step down from a fight. He always protected me and when he needed me the most, I couldn’t do the same for him.’

Betty doesn’t say anything, mostly because she understands what that’s like. She had tried to save someone once too. It didn’t work out that well either.

‘I should have died with him that day.’

The words startled her. Archie had never said anything like that before and she didn’t know how serious he was.

‘I wish I had died with him that day.’

‘The world needed you,’ Betty tells him, not really knowing how to comfort him. She’d never had to comfort anyone before.

‘He needed me more.’

And that’s that. Archie turns away from the costume exhibit and walks off towards the memorial. She’s never seen the memorial, but she can hear the words that are spoken out through the intercom.

‘From childhood playground to the front lines of war, Sergeant Forsythe Pendleton “Jughead” Jones III and Captain Archie Andrews were inseparable. Jones followed right along Captain America as they banded what would become known as the Howling Commandos. Jones was the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.’

Archie stares at a moving video on a screen in the exhibit and Betty follows his gaze.

She nearly faints at what she sees.

It’s him. Winter is on the screen in front of her. She moves closer, heart rate kicking up as she takes in the sight in front of her.

Winter is there, laughing and smiling right next to Archie as he throws a hand over the redhead’s shoulders. They both look so happy and Betty feels like she can’t breathe.

His hair is a lot shorter than it had been when she’d last seen him; right before they took him away from her, before they killed him, but she would recognize his face anywhere. His eyes are full of light; of life. It’s something Betty never got to see before. It’s beautiful. It’s heartbreaking.

‘Archie…’ she whispers out, begging for the other man’s attention. It comes slowly, pained, and he has to force himself to tear his eyes away from his once best friend. ‘That’s him. That’s Winter.’ 

She looks back on it now and realizes that maybe she should have never said a single thing to Archie. She’d seen the way his face had gone from confused to doubtful to hopeful. They had a long talk that night. Betty told him all about the Red Room, something she’d yet to do with anyone else. She told him about how they had taken Winter away from her. She couldn’t call him Jughead. That wasn’t his name, not to her. She never knew Jughead Jones. She would never know the man in that video, happy and carefree amidst all the death and war around them.

She knew Winter; a man who was fearless, feared. A man who was quiet and cold, almost a statue of a human being. She knew a man with enough demons and monsters to echo her own. She knew a man that stayed up all night, thoughts plagued with nightmares of deaths he wished he could forget. She didn’t know the war hero, she knew the asset; the man who brought war with him. She loved Winter. She didn’t love Jughead.

That was the first time she’d ever seen Archie cry. He cried as he longed for the friend that Betty had only seen just a few short years ago. He cried for the man that he’d once known and he cried for the man he had become. He cried for having to relive the death all over again.

Betty didn’t cry.

She had cried when they took him from her; only a few tears and not in front of anyone else. She knew better than to make that mistake.

She wonders what happened to Winter; how he ended up where he did. How he was alive after all those years. Her mind reeled with all the unanswered questions. She didn’t voice them though, that had been Archie. Archie who had barged into S.H.I.E.D., eyes blazing as he demanded someone to tell him what was going on, what he was missing.

Conversations about Serpents and terrorists rung out into the air; a man who had helped the enemy shape the world for almost a century. Archie had tried to drink himself blind that night, but it didn’t work.

‘He was a war hero,’ Archie had said with empty eyes. It was the first time she’d ever seen him look like he was giving up. ‘He was a war hero and they just took that all away.’

Betty doesn’t know Jughead Jones, but a small part of her sometimes wishes that she did. What was he like? Was he just as strong and hard headed as Winter had been? Archie had once told her stories of how he would charm all the girls in Brooklyn. No one could resist Jughead Jones and that smirk he would give them. Betty knew a little bit about that.

Her feet were aching and her muscles were screaming out at her. The last training session had been especially hard today and all she wanted was to take a shower and rest. She knew that wouldn’t happen though. There wasn’t time for rest in the Red Room. You could rest when you were dead. That’s what Madam B. had always said.

She was allowed to shower though. The cold water helped her aching muscles and she yearned to stay under there forever.

The sound of heavy footsteps echos in the quiet restroom, the sound of the shower door being open rings out, and she knows who it is before she even opens her eyes.

It’s him.

He’s fully dressed in front of her. His hair has recently been cut, not by much though, and she can see his eyes now as he looks at her. He doesn’t try to hide them from her anymore and she doesn’t hide herself from him as she stands up tall, completely bare in front of him.

He just looks at her, tilting his head to the side as he takes in her physical appearance. She knows what he’s looking at before he even does anything. He reaches out with his hand, the flesh one not the cold metal one, and touches the bruise that’s forming on her cheekbone.

‘It’s okay,’ she tells him as she brings her hand up to hold his. The touch startles him at first just like it always does, but his shoulders soon sag in familiarity and he lets her grab his hand and pull it away slowly. ‘It’ll heal. Just like yours heal.’  

Except his wounds heal abnormally fast. She’s never seen anything like it before. Things don’t hurt him the way they hurt the others. He never stays down too long, even when the beating he takes should leave him a nearly lifeless lump on the ground.

He steps closer towards her, the shower isn’t a big one and their bodies are nearly already pressed up against each other. His combat boots slosh against the water and a part of her wants to ask him to undress. She won’t though. Because he never truly does.

He lowers his head and brings their lips closer together, but not close enough that they’re touching. Betty stays completely still as she waits for his next move.

It comes soon enough. His lips are slightly chapped as they press up against hers, but they still feel better than anything else. She’s never kissed anyone before, not until he came into her life, but she can’t imagine doing it with anyone else. He kisses her deep and passionately and Betty has to grab onto his arms to stop herself from doing something stupid like fainting.

‘мое сердце.’

It’s what he always calls her, the Russian words falling off his tongue so beautifully. His accent isn’t Russian though, so she knows that he’s not a native. His accent is flat, mirroring her own and she knows that they’re from the same place. She often thinks about asking him, but she isn’t prepared for the answers she’ll get. She wonders if he even knows or if he’s like her; confused and lost.

‘Don’t be gentle,’ she tells him. He looks at her, eyes a bit nervous, but she just nods. Winter knows what she needs. He always knows what she needs.

He puts his hands on the back of her thighs and picks her up in one swift motion. She gasps out in surprise and wraps her legs around his waist to stop herself from falling, even though she knows he’d never let her fall.

His metal hand is cold against her skin but it feels so good, a stark contrast to the warmth of his flesh hand on her other thigh. He digs his fingers into her thighs, like he can’t get enough of them, and she hisses out at the pain of it. It feels good against the soreness of the muscles there and he must see that because he digs them in a little deeper.

Betty groans out before wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing his face down to hers, pressing their lips together in a kiss that is more teeth than it is anything else. It’s a contrast to the one they shared earlier, but it’s just what she needs right now. He bites at her lip a bit harshly before pulling away and licking at the spot, trying to soothe it over.

She knows they don’t have enough time. They never have enough time. She dreams of a day when it’ll be just them, no more Red Room and no more handlers. She dreams of a day when they can lay together in a bed that’s bigger than twin sized; when they can sleep in until noon and she can wake up before him, bring him breakfast in bed and then waste the day away together.

But for now they have a cramped shower and that has to be good enough for them.

He unzips his pants quickly, using only one hand and Betty tosses her head back against the wall behind her. She wishes they could savor this moment.

He presses himself into her gently and she moans out at the feeling of him inside of her. No matter how many times they do this, she never gets used to the way he feels inside of her. She feels full and complete, like she wants them to stay in this position forever. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

He begins a steady pace, pushing his hips into hers gently as she bounces up and down in his arms. The water cascades around them and for a moment, she lets herself think that they’re anywhere else but here.

‘Harder,’ she pants out. He does as she asks, snapping his hips into her with a little more force. It allows him to slide deeper into her and Betty lets her head fall back as her eyes all but roll to the back of her head. It’s fast and dirty and it’s everything she’s ever wanted, everything she’s ever needed.

It doesn’t take long before Winter comes apart completely inside of her. He always comes inside of her; there’s no reason not to, not after the graduation ceremony.

He presses their foreheads together, both of them are panting lightly.

‘I wish we could stay here forever, Elizabeth. If it weren’t for you, I would have lost myself long ago.’

The words are spoken so lightly by him that she nearly misses them. It’s not like him to be so sentimental and she’s taken off guard for a moment before she smiles.

‘I love you.’ She tells him, because she does. She’s never loved anyone before, but she loves the broken man in front of her.

He looks at her a bit unsure at first before he presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

‘Вы мое сердце.’ 

You are my heart.

That’s what he had told her. He hadn’t said he loved her, but he didn’t need to. She knew he did. They both knew that what he told her meant more than anything else. She was his whole heart, just as he was hers. They didn’t make sense. They were two machines, created by people more dangerous than they could ever be, built to create chaos and leave destruction whenever they went. They had both been taught that they could never love, never be normal, but yet she found love and the closest thing to normal that she could and she found it wrapped up in him.

Her phone starts to buzz rapidly in her pocket, letting her know that it’s one of the Avengers trying to get ahold of her. She doesn’t know how she feels about being one of the “good guys” now, but she’ll take what she can get.

Archie’s number flashes on the screen at her. The words ‘TOWER NOW. 911’ screaming back at her. She gets up from her spot on the bench and walks over to the motorcycle she’d brought to the park with her. Throwing a leg over it, she starts it up and begins to dash through all of the traffic, ignoring the honks she receives in retaliation.

“Archie!” She yells as she walks into the tower. He’s pacing back and forth across the floor, suit on and shield across his back. “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a breach over at S.H.I.E.L.D. Ronnie says that she thinks some people have been undercover as Serpents this entire time. We need to get down there right now.”

“I could have met you there!” Betty yells at him, aware that they’re now wasting time.

“You’re going like that?” He looks down at her clothes. She’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans and high heeled boots, a black top and a leather jacket. Not exactly fighting clothes, but they don’t call her Black Widow for nothing. She’s fought in high heels before. They’re her favorite accessory. “This might be a fight, Betty.”

“Things have been a little dull around here,” she says with a slight smirk.

Archie just nods before making his way towards the elevator. “We’re taking the motorcycle.”

Traffic is bad. Archie swerves through it as much as he can, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is across the city from them and they don’t really have much time. They’re on the highway right now and Betty is about to just run the rest of the way.

It comes suddenly and out of nowhere when the bike randomly stalls in the middle of the highway.

“What the hell?” Archie says to himself. Betty is just about to yell at him for forgetting to fuel up when she looks up and stops.

A man stands at the end of the bridge directly across from them. He’s covered completely head to toe in black. She can’t see an inch of skin on him, a black leather getup covers his entire torso and arms, black gloves even rest on his hands, and his face is covered with a black mask and eye goggles. The only thing she can see is long dark hair, nearly black, that fans out around his face. He stands tall, unmoving, and Betty stands up from the bike.

“We have company,” Betty tells Archie, who looks up and follows her gaze with his own curious one.

“Who…” before he can say anything else, the man picks up his arms and Betty and Archie see the large gun he’d been holding.

“Duck!” She yells out, grabbing Archie and throwing them both onto the ground just as the man starts shooting the gun. “Who the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know!” Archie yells at her, looking at her incredulously. “How the fuck should I know?”

The man starts walking towards them, stopping traffic as he gets in the way of the other pedestrians. People begin to get out of their cars and run off of the highway and Betty almost wants to do the same.

“We got more company,” Archie says and points behind them. Betty turns around and sees three more men, dressed exactly like the other one and curses to herself.

“We can’t outrun them all.”

“We can try.” Archie stands up and pulls his shield off his back, holding it in front of them as the men start shooting at them. “I got them! Can you take care of the other one?”

She only has one gun and a knife on her, but it’s more than enough. She nods towards Archie and turns to face the man. He aims the gun towards her as he moves closer but before he can shoot, Betty swings her legs over the edge of the railing and jumps off the highway, landing on an abandoned car underneath them. A sharp pain runs through her legs, but she doesn’t pay any mind to it. She jumps off of the car and turns around just in time to see the man follow her lead as he lands on the car too.

He struts down the hood of the car and Betty falters slightly as she watches him. Something about him seems so familiar and she gets lost in the way he moves so gracefully.

He seems confused as he looks around for her and that’s when Betty realizes that she’s supposed to be “taking care of him”. She runs up behind him and kicks him square in the back, making him lose his footing as he stumbles forward. His grip on the gun loosens, but he doesn’t drop it completely.

He turns around and immediately begins shooting but Betty’s already circled her way around him. She doesn’t want to kill him. She made a pact with herself long ago that she would never kill again unless completely necessary, but she needs to unarm him now or else that’s all going to be for nothing.

Doing what she does best, she runs and jumps up, using the man’s body and her strength to climb up and wrap her legs around his neck. It’s her signature move that’s always been able to knock Archie off his feet and it seems to do the same to the man as he finally drops his gun in surprise.

Betty pulls out the wire that she keeps in her jacket pocket and wraps it around the man’s neck, trying to cut off his air supply. If she can get him to pass out then that could make this a lot easier.

He brings his hands up and tries to pull her arms away, but her grip on him is way too tight. She watches as he begins to go slack and she sighs in relief.

Her relief is short lived when she’s suddenly thrown off of his back and throttled across the street. She lands roughly on the gravel and rolls a few times before finally coming to a stop. She groans out in pain as she tries to get to her feet again.

The man is talking to someone else, instructing them to do something, but Betty can’t understand a word they’re saying.

The man’s attention turns back to her and she watches in fear as he begins to stalk over to her. There’s no way she’s going to be able to fight him off right now. Her head feels fuzzy from the landing and she can’t even see him properly. He grabs a knife out of his thigh holster and twirls it around in his hand menacingly.

Betty shuts her eyes tightly and waits. If she’s going to die then she’d rather not watch it happen.

She waits but nothing happens. She hears a deep grunt and opens her eyes to see that the man is staggering backwards, an arrow through his shoulder. Betty whirls around, knowing exactly who those arrows belong to.

Veronica Lodge stands on top of the railing of the highway. Bow and arrow ready as she looks down at Betty.

“You good?” She yells out.

Betty nods, her head finally clearing up. “I got him! Go help Archie!”

Veronica nods and Betty turns her attention back towards the man. She watches in horror as he rips the arrow out of himself before snapping his head up. She can’t see his eyes and that makes everything so much scarier. She has no idea what he looks like and it makes her nervous. She feels like she’s fighting blindly.

She runs up to man, knowing there’s no other way to get around him. She throws her fist out, trying to land a punch to his stomach but he jumps back and grabs her arm, swinging her around over him before tossing her to the ground again. This time though, she jumps back up quickly as she ignores the pain in her back. He tries to punch her but she dodges it and elbows him in the back hard, causing him to fall forward onto his knees.

She roundhouse kicks him and watches as he falls into the ground face first. Just as she’s about to reach for her gun, he flips over and swings his legs out, bringing her down with him. She grunts as she hits the cement again but manages to get her knife out of her thigh holster.

Just as the man crouches over her, she picks up the knife and makes to stab him in the shoulder.

Before she can, he reaches out and grabs it like it’s nothing before tossing it off to the side. Betty gasps and looks at him in alarm.

Who the hell was she fighting?

They begin to throw punches left and right once she stands up. She hasn’t fought like this in a while and for some reason it takes her back to the Red Room, to all the training she had to endure. She was groomed to become the perfect killer and she was. She was the best of the best and right now she could feel it in the way she dodged and ducked every single hit the man was aiming at her.

“Betty!” She hears Archie yells from behind her. “Duck!”

She does as he asks and the man loses his balance as his hand swings out and hits the air. Archie throws his shield forward and it takes the man off guard as it hits him straight in the chest, making him roll backwards onto the gravel.

The black mask he’d been wearing falls off and Betty looks at it in wonder. Her heart is beating rapidly in her chest as she watches the man begin to stand up. His hand goes up to his face and he takes off the goggles, letting them fall to the ground besides him.

Archie jogs up to her, standing by her side as the both of them watch the man slowly turn around, waiting to see who had been behind the mask the entire time.

Finally, he faces them and Betty’s entire world stops.

Green eyes stare back at her; empty, lifeless, but familiar. A face she’d spent so many years trying to forget is looking back at her.

“Jughead?” Archie gasps out.

Betty takes a step forward and then two more before Archie reaches out and grabs her hand, stopping her. She pulls her hand out of his, but stays put. The man seems confused by the whole thing as he looks at them with wide, frightened eyes. She’s looking at him with broken eyes; eyes that wished they were seeing anything else. She can’t go through this again. She can’t.

But he’s here. He’s right in front of her.

“Winter?”

The man tilts his head. “Who the hell is Winter?”

[fuckyeahexofics]

fic search #116

1. 

Hello! I hope you guys had a wonderful holiday/break. I'm positive everyone missed you guys, me especially! I'm looking for a fic. It's Chankai from what I remember (or Kairis), and basically Jongin has a cat. He's single and works from home. One night, he has a bit of personal fun and leaves his toy on the tub to clean the next morning. He wakes up the mext day and his toy is destroyed and he figures out his cat chewed up his sex toy. So he rushes her to the vet, vet is hot, vet helps. And they keep running into one another after that and eventually get together. I’ve searched not only the blog but my trusty friend Google and it’s not come up. :( If you can find it, I would really appreciate it! (And be in complete awe tbqh) thank you!

2. It is believe this fic has been taken down

Hi I'm looking for a chankai wolf au Chanyeol is an alpha and jongin an omega that is insecure because of a bad leg, and I think minseok is he's cousin

3. 

I'm looking for a nc-17 fic where one of them is a girl. I can't remember the pairing for the life of me T.T I think the guy might have been Jongin? In the fic they were going to a party and then after the party the guy was like I've been wanting you all night(?) so they had sex in the car while in the parking lot. They also went to a park during the day and then they did it again in the car?

4. Let Me Show You by lucyoppa

hi! so i read this fic not too long ago and im pretty sure almost everyone has read it but i can't for the life of me remember. so in the fic, Jongin goes to get his ear pierced and kyungsoo works there and jongin gets all gooey abt it and then when they go in kyungsoo shows him his dick piercing and they fuck and theres like breatheplay and i think daddy kink and all of that. thatnks so much for all you guys do!!

5. And We’ll Sail for Ithaca by curryramyeon

so i'm looking for this kaisoo fic i read a while ago and i'm forgetting the name but kyungsoo's father passed away and he has to take over his business and he meets jongin and they had a tragic history where kyungsoo left jongin in a cave. sorry if this is confusing i can't quite put it into words

6. I'm Ready for The Fall (Ready for The Colors to Burn to Gold and Crumble Away) by aprilclash

Hello admins (: I'm looking for a Chanyeol/Baekhyun fic where Baekhyun is a vampire and Chanyeol is a hunter. I remember them meeting in a bar/club and they went home together. And Baekhyun thought that they were just hooking up but then Chanyeol handcuffed Baekhyun to the bed and either tried to kill him or told him he was under arrest? Something like that.. (I think it was on Lj) but Ive looked and cant find it:(( Thank you so much for your help!

7.

I am looking for a hybrid!AU fic and I don't remember a ton about it just this one scene. The main character works at a museum (?) (I don't remember who the main character was...) and chen is a hybrid that works there and rubs on him to make the hybrid he has at home jealous... Thank you for the help and this blog is amazing and so well organized!

8.

I'm really bothered but I know I've read a fic where Baekhyun was a strawberry, falls in love with Chanyeol and became human? Or something... I'm so sorry! Ive been looking for months, but I think I got something there wrong. Please help me? :(

9. High Stakes by admortems

I'm totally lost in finding this one fic. I'm pretty sure I read it on LJ, and it was poly? It was either Baek, Chan, sehun and d.o or Baek, Chan, Kai and d.o. The first three guys kinda sleep around/with each other at school and then they try to get d.o in on it. I remember a scene where they we're having a sleepover and Baek and someone were making out then chanyeol took d.o to another room and did it with him? It ended with two of them doing it with d.o. This is so vague I'm sorry TT

10. Memento Mori by allegorein

Hi, there was this kaisoo fic i once read. Kyungsoo's lost a fragment of his memory after an accident and some time later he sees Jongin as a reaper, during another accident he witnesses. They become friends, they hang out in Soo's flat and later Kyungsoo finds out from Baekyeol and Sehun that Jongin was his lover who died in that accident while Soo survived. And in the end Jongin becomes an angel and leaves for good. Please let me know its name. Thanks.

Thank you 99minseok, starcrafted, luckyminseok, ofheartshapedsmiles and all the anons for your help!

[confusedunit]

Universe of Unreality - Chapter One

Chapter 1 -  'oh shit i didn't mean to hit that'

Gordan blinked slowly, as the words that played in his ears faded. He'd...gotten close to these characters, these people. He's not entirely sure if he'd call them- ...No, that'd be lying to himself. He absolutely would call them his friends now. Maybe not Benry, but...No, he thought to himself, even that's not true. If the game was indeed just that, that would mean there were certain bits of code in place, right? It would explain a lot, actually, about Benry as a whole...

He reached out abruptly into the darkness, even though he knew he would find no one there. "...Dr. Coomer? I...don't know if you can hear me. But...I'll get you all out of here." He closed his hand into a fist, pulling it back. "I don't know how, but I'll do it. I'm not leaving you guys trapped here. Never again."

"I hear you, Gordon!" A voice spoke faintly in the distance, with a verbal smile. "We'll wait patiently!"

He smiled too. "I'll be back before you know it."

He pulled off the headset, setting it on his desk as he took a slow breath. He tabbed out of the game, leaving it running, taking a look at the old laptop he was running it on.

He'd been given the laptop by the same friend who gave him the game CD, said something about how half the data was on the laptop and half on the CD? Josh seemed kinda uncomfortable when Gordon asked questions, so he'd just kinda taken him at face value. Some friend of a friend of Josh's said he had to pass along the stuff to Gordon, and that'd led to...the strangest few days of his life.

And now here he was, searching for the game's data files to try to figure out what they programmed the damn game in so he could figure out what he'd have to code their new space in. He wasn't about to just take the files out and have them just sit there. Without another program to run them, they'd be just as stuck as if he turned off the game. No, this would require research, and planning.

He groaned. He hated research and planning. At least he already had experience with coding due to his major back in college. That would make the process easier. But still...the files on the laptop were bizarre, and whatever this beta build used to run the actual thing kept the data scattered everywhere. It looked worse than his coding in college, actually. Even when he was drunk and had to code one handed.

He glanced down at his right arm, rubbing at the part of his lower arm where synthetic met organic. He knew Benry and Bubby couldn't have known he'd actually lost his arm years ago in real life, but having friends cause the loss of a limb again? Especially the same limb? That'd messed him up, and it'd taken until they'd found Bubby again to remember that their scenario was just a game. He stretched out his hand, before he sighed.

He decided to dive right into his work. His brother was asleep still, and it was...He checked the clock with a wince. It was three am. Okay, maybe he'd...google it tomorrow. Look up what the coding language that'd been used in the 90s had been, after he got some sleep. He carefully adjusted the laptop on his desk, before he tilted down the attached screen and moved to leave the room. He smiled faintly, hand resting on the light. "...Goodnight, guys. I'll...see you guys soon."

He shut off the light, left the room, and closed the door.

-

Benrey was somewhere he shouldn't be. He knew that for a fact, glancing around the space that should not make sense to humans. Luckily, he wasn't human, which was pretty fucking poggers if he did say so himself.

He floated closer to the object that had taken his interest, a machine of some kind, outside the bounds of their perceivable reality. What an obvious place to hide something like this. He almost felt annoyed at himself for not having realized it in the first place. How lame. Babygamer needed someone else to help him glitch out of the bounds? Not epic at all. Well, maybe epic in the terms of the company these days, he'd managed to hook up one of Black Mesa's terminals to the computer the User had used, to surf the internet. Apparently they were shit now? Or people thought they were shit. He'd adapt, if the word had changed. He'd done it before.

What was he saying? Right, big fuck off machine he needed to fuck with.

It had to be the thing that was causing all the problems. Or at least, was the connection to the thing that was causing all the problems. Why else hide it out here, where only a nonhuman could find it? They didn't expect anything else to try to look for it. Typical Black Mesa, so smart but so stupid.

He reached out, resting his hand on a panel in the metal, eyes blowing wide at the sudden assault of data on his senses. It was too much to process, but he couldn't stop trying. After a few moments of struggling, he felt some sort of question, and in typical fashion responded before he processed it.

"yeah sure."

The data stopped, and he heard a rumble, yanking back his hand. He glanced around quickly, before the words finally clicked.

"...oh shit. wait. no, no no-"

The entire world seemed to tilt, even as he floated. He flailed as if trying to keep his balance, pressing his hand firmly to the metal again.

"uh, nope. permission revoked. uh, unapproved. totally uncool. uninstall."

He saw a single line of data appear on the panel, before everything went black.

|Reboot Resonance| [Y/N]? [y]

-

Dr. Freeman yawned, stretching out his arms. He felt exhausted, even though he knew he'd gone to sleep at a regular time. He'd...needed to. It'd been a while since he'd been sick, but he still felt that lethargy, and he'd chocked it up to a lack of self care again. He was gonna hear a lecture, if he kept ignoring his needs, he knew it. Another lecture. It wasn't exactly the first time, after all.

He rolled over, curling more into his bedding, before he finally realized what had woken him: there was a muffled buzzing coming from the floor. He ignored it for a moment longer, before he launched across the bed, leaning over to grab the object.

His pager. Why was it on the floor? And why was it screaming at him?

He pulled it back up, reading over the message on the screen.

'Dr. Freeman. Test pushed up. 9:00. Sctr C.'

He read over the text a few times, blinking quickly. What...OH.

"Oh shit-" He looked over to the clock, startling and scrambling out of bed.

8:43.

"Oh shit!"

-

When Dr. Coomer opened his eyes, he was hit with an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. He knew where he was. This was the middle of his tram ride to the Sector C test labs. There was a cup of coffee in his hand, half empty. Other members of the Sector C science team were packed into the tram car, bantering with each other and chuckling.

He glanced out the window, expecting to see his own eyes looking back at him from a tram they passed. He was everywhere, after all. His eyes widened when they did not. There were no eyes to look back at him. The opposite train was empty.

Curious. ...In fact, remembering that he should have seen himself was curious. He hadn't remembered previous times, and he knew it would have had to have been more than once. Why did he remember this time? What had Gordon done? There was something different...

Gordon had said he would get them out of there. But here they still were, becoming aware of their usual work days. Or at least, he hoped the others were as well. ...What a complicated thought, hoping you weren't alone but also hoping your friends didn't have to repeat reality. He decided not to think about it, and push it into his mental box to be dealt with later.

"Repression is the psychological attempt to direct one's own desires and impulses toward pleasurable instincts by excluding them from one's consciousness and holding or subduing them in the unconscious." He mumbled to himself. "According to psychoanalytic theory, repression plays a major role in many mental illnesses, and in the psyche of the average person..."

He checked his watch. And then he checked it again. He looked out the windows, then checked it a third.

8:48.

Well that wasn't right. The last time he had checked his watch, it had been 8:53. The time that he remembered he had woken, at least. And he knew that for a fact, because he remembered sighing to himself over the fact that he was going to be late.

Déjà vu. But wrong, somehow. He couldn't have looked out that tram window and seen his own eyes if last time he woke was at 8:53, five minutes after they passed the tram in question. But he knew, in the back of his mind, that this was correct. If not last time, than it had to be a previous time. But why would a previous time be so different to the last?

"Although some interpret déjà vu in a paranormal context, mainstream scientific approaches reject the explanation of déjà vu as "precognition" or "prophecy". It is an anomaly of memory whereby, despite the strong sense of recollection, the time, place, and practical context of the "previous" experience are uncertain or believed to be impossible."

Well. This was going to be an interesting day.

-

Dr. Bubby blinked back to himself, a very annoyed scientist pressed into his face. What the fuck were they talking about?

"Are you even paying attention? Or do I have to call your minders?"

He grit his teeth, glaring into the eyes of the other scientist. He didn't remember his name, and he didn't care. "I'm fine. Get out of my face before I change my mind." He felt heat ripple across his scalp, reaching up to snuff out the small flames that sparked up at the tips of his hair.

The other scientist backed down, fixing his tie, before he stormed off.

Bubby rolled his eyes. Whatever. He hated that guy anyway, he was pretty sure. And if he didn't before, he certainly did now. What was he doing? He checked his watch. Right, he was heading down for the mass spectrometer test. Of course. How could he forget?

He hopped onto the lift and pressed the button, before the gravity of the situation hit him like a military grade airstrike. He clung to the elevator, trying to catch his breath. What the hell was going on? Last thing he remembered was...being on an alien planet, fighting for his life. Sending a friend, did he really have the right to call Gordon a friend, back across space. Fighting an eldritch being that didn't want to fight. And then a party at Chuck E. Cheese.

Why the fuck was he back at work? Like it was nothing? Like they hadn't earned their happy ending? He'd heard Dr. Coomer's comments of unreality, but that didn't make sense. He remembered reality. And it'd sure looked a lot like this place.

...Maybe he just had to wait for Gordon. Gordon would know what to do. He hated admitting he needed someone else's help, but hey, apparently that was a 'good thing' and 'breaking out of your comfort zone'. He'd give it a try. This time.

He staggered out of the elevator, before he broke into a run.

-

Tommy sighed quietly, resting his head against the vending machine in front of him. Of course. Of course this would happen. Sent back, again. What test this time, Black Mesa? Something new? Or the same old thing?

Though it wasn't Black Mesa that had them, was it. His father had told him that he was working on something, a fix, a plan. He just had to go along with it. 'Such a wonderful son, Tommy. You'll stick with them, won't you?'

Of course he would. His being there in the first place proved that. He knew better than to take it personally, though. He'd grown up around humans, knew their culture more than his own. His father didn't mean sharpness, or questioning, or doubt with his words. He just didn't always know how to emote like a human. He emoted in his own way.

But this? Being back in the facility after a party for his own birthday? What could possibly be the reason? He attempted to focus, see if he could locate his father, but felt nothing in reply. He sighed. Maybe his father was out of range, cleaning up some other mess of Black Mesa's doing. That seemed to be most of what he was doing these days.

He reached out and pressed a button, taking the can of soda when it dropped and cracking it open. Well, he'd just go along with it. It's not like he had much choice in the matter.

-

Benrey startled awake, flailing a bit on the couch he'd dozed off on. A Black Mesa Security break room staple, those uncomfortable couches that he found easy to nap on. He glanced at his hands, before looking across the room at the screens that displayed messages, gave the date and time. He blinked.

"oh, shit." He looked back at his hands. "...that's cringe, bro." He scrambled to his feet, snatching his helmet and shoving it in place before charging out of the room. If he'd really fucked up, he knew exactly where he needed to be.

Maybe together they could un-fuck this whole situation.

[pagingdoctordoesntgiveafuck]

It’s New Year’s Eve, 2018!!! 🎉

Oh my fucking god a new year is about to begin!

Today is more than an arbitrary date to add some excitement, joy, and/or excelerant to the general let-down after the holidays depending on your mental state.

Figuring all that out is your deal, however, if you’re like me and you can’t wait to put your body to the test of champions this new year, or you’re just telling everyone that’s what you’ll be doing so they go mind their own business so you can carry about yours, below are some completely unverifiable and unsolicited medical, dietary, fitness, relationship, and mental health tips that you can definitely read and use but that’s totally your decision!

P. S. Recommended age of audience for this blog is 35+

Tip #1

I Gotta Lose Weight This Year For Real

That’s admirable as fuck. There’s a lot that goes into that, 78% of which being white, hot, blinding frustration, however you are actually not alone.

The secret to losing weight over time and keeping it off lies buried within the following blog:

https://quadcitycrossfitter.tumblr.com

You’re going to have to hunt for it.

“Honestly, better or worse than just getting a self help book. Like just as useless or???”

It depends on your patience level for creative grammar and your grasp on the use of sarcasm, however actual real, tested, proven (at least once), verifiable weight loss tips for gradual metabolic reset (What is that? Keep reading!) and maintaining a healthier BMI after overcoming morbid obesity is all up in those virtual pages so good luck to you.

Tip #2

I lost a ton of weight in 2018 and I’m saving up for plastic surgery this new year but it’s expensive, I’m just, like, really on the fence. How can I solve this debilitating preoccupation?!

Drink more water, get more restful sleep, be able to quickly identify anyone in your life that is exacerbating your preoccupation so you can limit their privilege of the use of your time, and learn the importance of stretching and body weight exercises.

“That’s seems like a lot of things.”

It’s 4-5 things.

“Also what are body weight exercises?”

Here’s some:

Tip #3

I’m single and I’m losing hope

Hey! Buck up, friend. You’re definitely not alone, depending on your personality. I totally get it! Dating is a little bit the worst, especially the older you get.

It seems like as people age they generally fall into one of two categories (of course there are exceptions):

A. The Lonely

and

B. The Annoyed

Do you know which one you are?

“Hahahahaha a little bit of A and a little bit of B. Just kidding A all the way hahahahaha, *sobbing*!!!!”

Guess what? Congratulations on being a normal human being with feelings. Also, maybe you’re more like 5% A and 95% B. Also cool, and wonderful, and what makes everyone so unique. Also, maybe you’re 150% B, which is totally cool also, just try not to be too much of a

C. The Asshole

ALSO: This is important. Maybe you think you are a B/C when you’re truly an A but you are concerned because you associate A with the most fucking annoying people on the planet and you kind of like a B or C and you don’t want to drive them away and blah, blah, blah. Who doesn’t relate to that? The only thing you can do is to be

D. Yourself

If people don’t like what you’ve got going on with your bad self, that’s their issue. Also, maybe you actually are the most fucking annoying person on the planet, that’s definitely your issue, however all you can be is yourself and then people can either deal or not and then, again, the issues ball is back in someone else’s hands where you don’t have to deal with it.

Some people would very much rather be single than in a garbage can of an abusive relationship. They understand life is too short and that life is meant to be lived to the fullest and all that hippy-dippy bullshit for real. That is a completely foreign concept in some areas of the country, however, that’s something you have to do some soul searching about to figure out and then you get to have whatever fun you can conjur up once you know that about yourself. You might actually someday meet someone who feels the same way and actually be in a happy and stable relationship.

If you are someone who must always be in a relationship or has a propensity for abusive relationships do not fuck with the type of person I’ve mentioned in the paragraph directly above this one.

You’re wasting everyone’s time, especially the person I’ve described in the paragraph directly above this one which might push the person you’re pursuing into 3,000% B (as described a little further up) territory which I don’t care how bad-ass you are, people that are too annoyed find pretty creative ways to not have to deal with whatever it is that is annoying/being too mean to them when it comes to actually being in a relationship with someone and there’s no need to start your 2019 off on a stupid note.

This is your year for love!

Why don’t you go take a basket weaving course or something?

Tip #4

You mentioned ‘Metabolic Reset’ earlier and I gotta tell you, my metabolism, like, HATES ME, tell me what’s up with that?

Honestly it’s strategic anorexia BUT only effective if you have a metabolic issue that you either created yourself from poor habits or maybe from a medication issue or maybe some sort of traumatic event or some hardly-plausible fucked up combonation of the three. This is getting into dangerous territory and they key lies within the power of your Google searching skills, whatever the cool mental illness is to tell everyone you have ends up being in 2019, and your ability to actually commit to forming and sticking to habits that you feel are important to you.

Also, maybe your metabolism should go fuck itself and you should find something else to fixate on because metabolic slowing is part of the normal aging process and you can definitely tamper with that if you want, but it’s a lot of effort and hello it’s cold outside. Consider going back to review ‘Tip #3’ and then keep your eyes peeled for someone who doesn’t give a shit about your metabolism and who you can cuddle (tee hee) and get drunk with you so you can watch your metabolisms crash and burn together.

I’m just kidding, ideally shoot for a balance between the two (in refrence to the paragraphs above).

But for real you can reset your metabolism but it’s pretty dangerous so go annoy a medical professional about all that.

If you talk to one that wants to fight me because of this please send them my way with just a courtesy head’s up on what kind of doctor they are so I know to what degree I will need to dumb down my defense.

Tip #5

I really feel like this new year will be my year, creatively. I’m ready to really embrace my expressive intuition and align my inner most...

Please do not hold back on sharing your Etsy page with friends and family in 2019. This very well could be your year!

Tip #6

I have a friend in need, I know I can make 2019 the year they accept Jesus as thier Lord and Savior

Hey, good for you for spreading the good word or whatever it is that you are doing but I’m just suggesting that maybe the lordiest thing you could do in this instance would be to maybe give that friend of yours some space. Maybe they already have a religion they both quasi-revere and ridicule mercilessly and your insistence on their need for whatever yours is exactly will just open up some sort of portal to anchient Vatican hell that no one wants to deal with. Also, sometimes people seem like they are in need depending on your inability to focus on yourself. There are totally plenty of people that need jesus though. Why don’t you consider taking a mission trip somewhere and see if you can find some people that way. If you get some sort of fucked up disease, parasite, or injury I unfortunately don’t have any unsolicited medical advice for any of that but may Jesus guide you quickly and comfortably into the light.

Tip #7

I have got to get control of my mental health this year!

Hey welcome to the club. It’s not that exclusive of a club because literally everyone is a member but you’re still totally unique and special. Maybe you need an emotional support. Have you considered a pet of some kind? Maybe you could look into your mind’s eye and materialize a spirit guide. People also make wonderful companions however if your mental health is truly that complex please make sure you widen your social network because catching and trapping just one emotional support actual person that you only need for your comfort and absolutely nothing else, especially if they are a B from ‘Tip 3’, is just a real waste of everyone’s time and resources. My real unsolicited advice is to go find a combo of an appropriate coping mechanism, counseling and/or therapy, and medication, however you gotta go figure all that out for yourself. Godspeed to you!

Anyway, have a wonderful 2019!!!