#I’m dying in my winter jacket

[wtfuckevenknows]

Going home an hour early on a Friday afternoon?

Don’t mind if I do 💝

[transvampireboyfriend]

Had this “Steve only hates impersonal nicknames” idea in my notes for a while and then after seeing @cholvoq​ ‘s wonderful art I had to turn it into a real thing for Valentine’s Day. This is 2.4k, i’m SO sorry edit: you can now read this on ao3 :)

Eddie’s a nickname guy. It’s always Dusty this and Gare-Bear that and JeffJeff here and Bobbie there and it’s Mikey and Maxxii and Nance-pants and Johnny and… big boy?

Him being a nickname guy makes it near impossible to hide his crushes. Thankfully, Steve had been really cool about it. Sure, he seemed a little stunned, but Eddie still had all his teeth in place by the end of that interaction, so he had called that a win.

He hadn’t known then that Steve was… different. Or he was starting to see it but what he thought was shocking then had really been just the tip of the iceberg. He hadn’t expected Steve to be nice. Or funny, or caring, or protective, or understanding.

He had learned all of that after everything. During chats on Hellfire nights while the kids cleaned up after themselves, during hangouts at the diner with Robin and Nancy, during Saturday afternoons when he went to pick out a movie only to end up talking with Steve, their conversation flowing until it was cut short by Steve’s shift ending.

After some time, Eddie had gotten to know Steve even more during long weekday nights when one came over to bring the other something they left behind, or to share a record, or to demand the beers the other owes or to show the other a stupid article in a stupid magazine only to end up making dinner together and watching a movie afterwards.

They stopped making excuses about two weeks ago.

Eddie had asked “do youuu… wanna come over?” on Saturday night, while nervously twirling his keys as Steve locked the front doors of the Family Video.

The evening chill had cut right through Eddie’s leather jacket as his keys clanged against his rings. But Steve had nodded with a smile and asked “pizza?” on their way to their cars, and Eddie had forgotten all about the cold.

Point being, Steve had been just fine with ‘big boy’ when it happened. Eddie’s a nickname guy. Him and Steve are hanging out more now, and so, Eddie’s been calling him more nicknames. Some of them are very intentional, others come completely without thinking, and it turns out, Steve takes issue with a few of them.

The first time it happens, Eddie’s underneath his van trying to get the damn thing to cooperate, the recent winter was tough on it, and it keeps dying out on him.

Steve sits nearby perched on a little stool, wearing his Family Video vest since he came by right after finishing his morning shift to see if they could make plans for lunch. Eddie suggested they grab something at the diner if and when he finally gets the van to start back up and Steve had agreed to wait.

He’s been telling Eddie about tonight’s basketball- game? match? super bowl? Is there such a thing as the major leagues of basketball? Eddie’s not sure, but he adores the sound of Steve’s voice and he’s kind of invested in the drama of players switching teams and retiring and whatever else Steve wants to tell him about. So, he’s been listening, not really bothering with asking for clarification for what he doesn’t understand yet. He’ll figure it out as they go.

He's blindly patting the floor around his legs for his rag, when he feels Steve put it right in his hand.

Eddie’s relieved. "Thanks, bud!" he says, the nickname just rolling off his tongue effortlessly, no meaning attached.

It gets kind of quiet all of a sudden. After about five seconds of Steve not talking, Eddie comes out to check on him, and finds him frowning at his legs.

"Don't call me ‘bud’" Steve requests, looking up at his face, his tone just a tad harsh. Eddie would think he ran into King Steve if he didn't know any better.

As it is, Eddie gets Steve probably thinks the nickname is childish or patronizing, so he doesn’t think twice of it, just gets a little sheepish and says "sorry, Stevie".

Steve smiles at that, a little cocky. He does his little mean girl shaking his head thing like he just got exactly what he wanted. Eddie feels his face twist a bit in confusion, but he likes it when Steve gets a little mean so he doesn't say anything about it and just dives back under his van as Steve resumes their conversation.

 The second time it happens, they’re outside the supermarket. The kids shot out of the van as soon as it rolled to a stop, Steve calling out a warning after them while still listening to Eddie explain why Star Wars and Star Trek are actually very different but really good in their own way. Their conversation carries on as they hop out of the van, lock up and walk to meet at the front.

“I’m telling you, Star Trek is great. You would love it,” Eddie says, “you just have to give it a chance”.

Steve rolls his eyes at him, but Eddie can see his smile.

“Ok, alright,” Steve answers, “you can show me tonight then”, it’s almost too nonchalant. Eddie has to hide his grin.

Steve’s been suggesting they hang out more and more lately, and he can’t help but feel a bit hopeful. They clearly enjoy each other’s company, their time together is never dull, Steve seems to be really comfortable around him and maybe, just maybe…

“Should we get beers then?” Eddie asks, excited at the prospect of some more time alone with him.  They haven’t had a weeknight hangout since Eddie fixed his van last week. He kinda misses the very specific color of Steve’s eyes in the Harringtons’ yellow living room lamplight.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his eyes get soft in a way Eddie only started noticing a couple of weeks back, “we can watch it at my place” he adds. Eddie thinks he definitely hasn’t seen him look at anyone else like that.

To shake himself out of the spell of the prettiest boy he’s ever met making the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen at him and ONLY him, Eddie grabs Steve by the wrist and starts marching them towards the supermarket’s front doors.

Without thinking, Eddie says "c'mon man," as they go.

Steve, who started easily following him (like he always does these days), suddenly stops in his tracks. Eddie gets pulled back and almost stumbles on top of Steve. He'd get flustered if Steve wasn't frowning at him like he’d just said the most insulting thing he’d heard this month.

"Don't call me ‘man’" Steve says. Eddie feels his eyebrows raise a bit.

He debates asking why but doesn't question Steve in the end. He’d rather offer understanding than judgement to him any day.

So, Eddie takes advantage of Steve's wrist in his hand, and squeezes there a bit, says "I'm sorry sweetheart" sincerely, looks into Steve's eyes so he can see Eddie means it.

Steve blushes a bit then, not really used to the nickname yet, Eddie just got the balls to start using it last week. Eddie himself is not really used to seeing Steve blush, and at something he says? It’s too much power for one metalhead.

But he gets distracted from Steve’s blush because it happens again, Steve basically preens like a peacock once Eddie switches nicknames. Looks smug, like he has Eddie wrapped around his finger and well, Eddie guesses he does, so, no arguments there either.

He just smiles back at Steve, really, has no other choice, it’s not like he can control how he reacts to the most gorgeous fucking face the universe could ever come up with. But he tugs him along again, Steve happily following this time.

The next time it happens, Steve’s leaning against his kitchen island, with Eddie leaning across from him against the counter.

The party is watching a movie in the Harringtons’ living room and at some point, Eddie got up to get himself another soda, Steve not so subtly followed after him, taking the empty popcorn bowls to the sink. He struck up a conversation and there they stayed.

Eddie’s been turning the small gesture around and around in his head. Clearly Steve’s not shy about seeking him out, and he’s obviously good with the party knowing, which means a hell of a lot because those are Steve’s people, that’s his family.

Eddie’s honestly running out of excuses to not ask him out. Seeing him reaching out to bump his sneaker against Eddie’s boot when he says something funny, laughing just a little too hard at Eddie’s dumb joke; seeing his eyes widen a bit when Eddie compliments him; seeing him notice when Eddie is holding back from talking too much, and not letting it go until he thinks Eddie’s shared all of his opinions on the subject; Eddie thinks maybe he can be brave, when it comes to Steve.

And this week might be the perfect time.

Here they are still, the movie long ended and several easy conversations floating from the living room to the kitchen, where they’re still engrossed on their own.

“I mean I taught the kid how to do his hair for god’s sake!” Steve is saying, Eddie’s laughing easily, and he has a slight suspicion Steve’s acting way more annoyed than he really is because he knows Eddie dies laughing every time Steve roasts the kids.

“Just, if he’s gonna give me hair advice, he should work on that goddamn tone. At the Very Least.” Steve finishes, Eddie giggling all the while at his Annoyed Mom tone.

"Yeah, dude!" Eddie agrees, wanting to egg him on, but Steve's face suddenly falls and whatever remark Eddie had locked and loaded just fades away.

Eddie blinks perplexed; he’s getting déjà vu.

Steve frowns at him, says "Don't call me ‘dude’".

It’s eerie, only he sounds a bit annoyed this time.

Eddie thinks, maybe someone called Steve ‘dude’ before in an unpleasant way, so he doesn't pry.  Instead, he takes the chance to call him a nickname he likes more, and says "Sorry, pretty boy", his heart fluttering in the milliseconds he has to wait for Steve’s reaction.

And it happens one last time: Steve absolutely beams at that one, his smile so bright it makes Eddie want to jump in place.

He leans further back on the counter returning the smile, not noticing the common thread in Steve’s reactions to him switching nicknames.

But then the glint in Steve’s eyes suddenly brightens a dim corner of Eddie’s brain. He gets this feeling that reminds him of a perfectly set up riddle or finding that one perfect note for his latest song. It’s like everything suddenly just makes sense.

Eddie feels realization dawn on his face as he pushes himself off the counter to walk right into Steve’s personal bubble, grabs both of Steve's hands.

"Steve" Eddie says, not even caring that he sounds like the name is dripping in honey when it comes out of his mouth. With how sweet Steve is, it might as well be.

Steve just looks at him a little stunned, but doesn't say anything. Eddie draws circles in the back of his palms to reassure him.

"Why don't you want me to call you ‘dude’?" Eddie asks, trying to find out if this whole thing is what he thinks it is.

Steve looks down at their joined hands,.

"You call Nancy that sometimes..." Steve mumbles.

His answer would sound inconsequential to the unsuspecting, certainly would have to Eddie as late as last week, but Eddie thinks he’s finally getting it, and he hums his understanding.

"How ‘bout ‘man’?" he asks

Steve replies "You call Robin that sometimes..." his eyes still on their hands.

Eddie nods his agreement.

"I call everyone those things" he points out.

Steve agrees. "Exactly" he says, finally looking at him again, sounding annoyed and confirming Eddie’s suspicions.

Eddie feels his face split into a smile. He wants to grab Steve’s beautiful freaking face and just plant one on him.

"Can I still call you sweetheart?" he ventures instead. The nickname brings the hint of a smile to Steve's face but then he seems to realize something not so pleasant.

"Do you call someone else ‘sweetheart’?" Steve asks in return.

"No one" Eddie says, shaking his head, his tone vehement.

"Then yes" Steve finally answers. Eddie's heart wants to beat right out of his chest.

He interlocks their fingers to ground himself, Steve looks down at their hands and smiles at the sight.

"So, you don't want me to call you something I call someone else?" Eddie states, more than asks, calling Steve’s eyes back to his again.

"Anyone else" Steve confirms, holding his gaze.

Eddie lets out a small shuddering exhale and feels his heart fluttering in his throat, he really cannot believe this boy.

"Steve" Eddie drawls, dripping in honey again, his hands coming up to cradle Steve's face because he really can't resist anymore "Sweetheart" he says.

Steve's eyes grow a little wide and he starts blushing so much that Eddie can feel it in his palms.

"Steevieeee" Eddie sinsongs, squeezing Steve's face a bit "Pretty boy" Eddie calls him. Steve just keeps looking at him and a small smile blooms in his pretty, pretty face.

"Would you let me take you out to dinner this Friday?" Eddie finally asks him, his fingers curling to the back of Steve's head to play with his hair there. Steve's eyes get even wider.

" 's Valentine's this Friday" he points out. Eddie knows.

"Mmhm. Want you to be my Valentine." Eddie tells him, tugs his hair gently, "How's that sound?" he asks, bold in a way he never has been before. Steve blushing does things to him.

"Sounds nice" Steve answers. He smiles and nods while his hands hook on Eddie's belt loops.

"Then it's a date?" Eddie asks, trying not to sound too eager. He thinks he fails spectacularly but Steve beams and pulls him in to kiss his cheek.

"It's a date" Steve tells him, his breath ghosting on Eddie's cheek and making him shiver.

Steve pulls back, lets go of Eddie’s belt loops and tugs on a strand of his hair gently, smiling like the cat that got the cream as he walks back out into the living room.

Eddie’s gonna make this the best Valentine’s Day date Steve has ever been on.

[kitkatscabinet]

Are you there God?

Summary: A chance meeting in the dilapidated remains of your mother's old church ends up changing the trajectory of two lives

Pairing: Jason Todd x f! Reader

Word count: 2k

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, mentions of Christianity and nsfw themes. Unedited.

There’s a chill in the air, carrying with it the promise of an upcoming winter. The old church offers little reprieve from the harsh bite of the night air, the wind easily pushing through dilapidated wood. 

The many near burnt-out candles that flicker and cast dancing shadows across the darkened chapel emanate no heat. Nor does the flimsy jacket you’d hastily adorned before this impromptu midnight visit. 

Your fingertips tingle from the cool temperature, even as you exhale smoke from the cigarette you’d used one of the dying candles to light. 

Sacrilegious sure, you could perfectly picture the scowling faces of the nuns if they could see you, but it was one of those nights—the nights where you needed something, anything to take the edge off. 

And if nicotine was your preferred poison? Well better that than heroin you argued. 

Besides, if God existed then he had bigger issues to worry about than you sprinkling some ash on the floor of an old dilapidated church slated for condemnation. 

A tinge of sorrow hits you as you take in the poor state of what was once your mother’s church. You’ve no fond memories of the place, having hated being dragged along every Sunday by your more devout mother in your childhood. Now though, it’s one of your last remaining connections to your long passed mother. 

Gotham had never been an overtly religious city, you guessed it was hard to believe in a supposedly merciful God when you lived in such a shithole. And ever since the discovery of aliens, demons and the like, Gotham’s faith in anything divine had long since seemed to die out completely.

You stare up at the wooden Jesus hanging behind the pew contemplatively. It’s silly, you’re not even remotely religious but something compels you to speak to the empty space regardless. 

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned” That was how it went right? “It’s been… well forever since my last confession.” 

“I look like a priest to you darlin?” A startled screech leaves your lips at the unexpected masculine voice. Jolting, the butt of your cigarette flies from your hand, your free one clutching at your chest. 

“Jesus Christ!” You exclaimed, trying to calm your hammering heart. 

“Not quite.” The voice rumbles as a muscular figure steps into your view. Your eyes trail from booted feet up to thick thighs adorned with gun holsters that inspire some incredibly less-than-holy thoughts. But it’s the blazing red bat symbol stretched across the man’s chest that makes your mouth run dry, it's the Red Hood.

You’d never seen the gun-toting, violent, vigilante in person but it's unmistakable who’s standing across from you now.  Forcing your breathing to even out, you allow your muscles to relax as you lean back against the wooden pew. 

“Too pretty to be a priest.” You agree with his earlier statement, watching in amusement as the vigilante stutters in his steps. It was cute, watching a man of his renown and stature suddenly flounder in embarrassment. 

“Didn’t exactly take you to be the religious sort.” You say, gaze never once leaving his form as he slowly sits down on the creaking bench beside you. 

“I’m not.” He grunts.

“Me neither.” You confess, the two of you sitting in companionable silence as you stare up at the wooden Jesus that presided over the church. 

You don’t know what compels you to keep returning to that dilapidated old church (that’s a lie, you know damn well why), but like clockwork, every Sunday night you return. And every Sunday night, so does he. 

At first, he hadn’t been consistent. Why would he? The Red Hood had no reason to be skulking around a random church, nor did he have a reason to want to see you. 

Still, you kept going to that church, and unbeknownst to you, so did he. 

Since that first night, Jason Todd had been watching. What had started with concern over a young woman walking alone at night had morphed into curiosity into what he refused to acknowledge was a crush. 

Though he’s pretty sure not even the helmet had been able to hide the heart eyes he’d thrown your way when you admitted that Pride and Prejudice was your favourite novel. 

He’s late sometimes, bloodied and bruised, but three months following that first fateful meeting, the Red Hood goes out of his way to meet with a random civilian girl. 

It was nearing the two-month mark when everything changed. The both of you were forced to acknowledge the underlying tension of the odd and unexpected friendship that had formed in the twilight hours spent under the roof of a God neither of you believed in. 

It had been the first time you’d seen him injured, barely a scratch in Jason’s opinion, but the way you’d worked yourself into a frenzy of worry over him, the way you’d dropped to your knees before him and had taken his bloody knuckles into your gentle touch would forever be engraved into his mind. 

It’s at that moment that Jason realises God’s not there, because if so then surely he would have smitten Jason then and there for thinking such sinful thoughts in his house. Besides, as far as he was concerned, you were the only entity worth praying to anyway. 

He wants so badly to rip off the mask, secret identity be damned, and kiss you breathless. In the end, cowardice wins out, but Jason thinks back on that night often with regret. 

“Favourite hero go,” Red asks, turning to look at you with what you imagine is a smirk under his stupid red helmet. 

“It’s not you if that’s what you’re fishing for,” you grin, looking back up at the ceiling from where you lay on the wooden floor, protected from the dust and splinters by an old picnic blanket. 

The terrifying sort-of-crimelord lying beside you scoffs in offence like the big baby he is. 

“Ok then who is it?”

“Wonder Woman.”

“Oh that’s such a basic bitch fucking answer.” You know he’s joking, Red’s made it clear that despite his distaste for Batman he respects the hell out of Wonder Woman. Still, you entertain him, rolling your eyes dramatically. 

“Fine, you wanna know the real answer? It’s Black Canary, but specifically when she was rocking that full-body black leotard with the mesh cutouts on the legs and the cropped bomber jacket.”

There’s a stunned silence that follows your passionate answer before Red bursts into laughter. 

“Oh, fuck you,” you quip, though there’s no actual heat behind your words. 

“You wish.” Any witty retort instantly dies on your lips and you’re suddenly distinctly aware of the heat emanating off his shoulder which brushes lightly against yours. 

Red has stopped laughing, coughing to clear his throat as you suddenly wish for the floor to swallow you whole. For anything to distract you from the way your mind suddenly races, filled with various images of different positions you could achieve right there in front of Jesus. 

“Right, well, I should probably go. Bad guys to catch and all.” It’s painfully awkward and so is your lacklustre response. 

“Oh, yeah … yeah.”

Neither of you move though and you don’t think you’ve ever been more hyper-aware of your body and the one lying next to you in your life. You quickly sit up, the vigilante mimicking your movements. 

“So um —”

“Well I — ” The both of you speak at once, you motion for him to go first and he clears his throat once more. 

“I should probably go now. Bye.” With that, he’s gone so fast he might as well have been the flash, leaving you alone to stew in the mortification and arousal that’s worked its way into your belly. 

A scream of frustration rips its way out of your throat when your mind conjures up the very graphic image of you straddling one of Red’s delicious thighs and refuses to drop the line of thought. 

Little did you know, Jason had needed to cut his patrol short for the same reason. A cold shower having practically screamed his name. 

Footsteps echoed up the aisle towards where you were sat in the front pew, as had become a tradition between you and your vigilante, playfully you turn towards the source. “Hey Red, you’re late — ” the words die on your tongue, mouth running dry as you take in a trio of figures, none of whom are the Red Hood. 

The fear must show on your face as you shakily stand, and try to create space from the ominously grinning men. 

“What’s the matter darlin?” One of them drawls, and you want to throw up at the use of the petname, that was what he called you. 

“Look, I don’t know what you want but my friend will be here soon.” You mentally curse yourself when you notice the way your voice quivers, and the men clearly pick up on it too. 

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Fear nearly roots you to your place at the surety in his words, but you live in Gotham and Red Hood has made it his mission to get you to be able to defend yourself. 

You don’t think, you just move, and when the nearest guy reaches out to grab your arm you knee him in the balls. He goes down with a howl and you think you break the second guy's nose if the crunch is any indication. 

The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety has you stopping in your tracks once more.  “That’s it, just settle down now. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours now would we?”

Tears well up in your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, unwilling to give them the satisfaction. Goon #2 uses the opportunity to grab your arm in a bruising grip before a blow to the cheek leaves you reeling, black dots dancing across your vision as you struggle to regain your senses. 

“Speak for yourself, the little bitch broke my fucking nose.” 

“What do you want from me?” You croak when you finally regain the ability to speak, ignoring the metallic taste of blood on your tongue. 

“From you? Nothing. It’s not personal darling, but the word around here is that the Red Hood is sweet on ya, and well, I don’t appreciate the way he’s been nosing about my business lately.”

You should be terrified of the implications of that statement, about what these men will do to you, and you are — but you can’t stop thinking about how Red will inevitably blame himself for anything that happens to you. 

You close your eyes, trying to make peace with what is likely the hour of your death. You’re in a house of God, you should be praying to him, and yet all you can think of is Red. Your Red.

A gunshot rings out, followed by another, and another. When seconds pass and you feel no pain you open your eyes, just in time to witness the Red Hood reaching gently for your face. Despite yourself, you flinch slightly when his gloved hand brushes lightly against your cheek. 

He reels back as if stricken, and immediately you wish to rectify your mistake. With a sob, you launch yourself into his arms, ignoring what is probably the corpses of the three men lying on the ground. 

“You saved me,” you mumbled against his chest, relishing in how safe you felt encased in his arms. 

“Always.” There’s such surety in that single word, such devotion that you believe him. 

“Red — ” you mumble, pulling away to meet what you expect to be the whites of his mask, only to gasp when you find yourself looking into swirling pools of blue-green. 

“Jason,” the whispered name is a confession to you alone, though you barely have time to ponder the new information before a pair of lips descend upon your own. Your eyes flutter closed once more, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. 

You’ll deal with the after-effects of what you just experienced later, what almost happened to you, for now, you’re content to remain absorbed in Red’s — in Jason’s arms.

The man who'd been there when God wasn't.

[thatguythatdrawsalot]

Weiss - Atlas Design Critique.

Wow, I’m back to do two things useful with my RWBY Archives, talk about Weiss’ canon look in Atlas, and redesign her. I’m gonna talk about her actual look first, as the character notes on her dedicated page made me… hate the look much more. It was already in my top ten least favorite designs in RWBY but NOW it’s in the top five. RWBY Archives

I’ve been wanting to know why they thought it was a great idea for Weiss to wear a restricting-looking dress in the North Pole. Why does she choose to look like a wealthy princess when she is no longer tied to money or her family? The book gave me an answer I was not expecting… they just wanted to make her look like a wizard. I HATE IT. It’s bad enough that Weiss just summons, but this has to be some animation trick. They didn’t want to animate Weiss fighting like a ballerina anymore, so it was best she stuck to just summoning and only uses Myrenaster as a glorified wand. You might as well dress Weiss in whatever way you want cause all she does is stand and point… and whenever she does try to fight it looks janky as hell.

No way did they think Weiss could fight in a dress, Maria and Cinder could, but no way can I see Weiss fight like THIS anymore. 

Hair

Now I don’t wanna disrespect the modeler cause I’ve seen their Artstation account. They modeled the Gods’ dragon forms, Winter, and Jaune! Models that look good! But the hair… they struggled and the backlash was hard cause they tweaked her hair again for Volume 8. I’m surprised they chose to change it when the people in charge should’ve changed it before Volume 7 even aired. It just tells me their standards are low and don’t give a crap about the product unless they need the fans to say something. The huge mass on top of her hair was so jarring I was convinced Weiss just took Blake’s chopped hair, dyed it, and applied it to hers. 

Primary Color - White?

Blake is wearing more white than her, The Ace Ops are wearing more white than her, and Jacques is wearing more white than her- Weiss’ colors are perfect if she was representing the color blue and her name was something like Azure. The tiny reds don’t make an impact, wouldn’t surprise me if people didn’t know there was red inside of the dress. The super blue for her puffy jacket can’t be found anywhere else to balance that color, and her whites are then covered by grays. It’s like too many colors, what else can I say other than SHOWING what they could’ve done in the choice of color placements.

Positives?

This is gonna sound like an odd positive but I think she looks downright gorgeous in Ever After. The whacky princess look standing next to the Red Prince was amazing. It made me wish Weiss was the ‘Red Queen’ for The Ever After, similar to how Neo was ‘The Mad Hatter’ and Jaune being ‘The White Rabbit.’ It really could’ve tied in well. 

Redesign

I miss redesigning a character; I kept in mind that White is primary, the tiara is no longer a staple to her design since she is no longer tied to wealth or even the heiress, and that her Volume 6 leggings and scarf stay intact. Why make accessories to protect her from the cold, but when she gets to a colder place she ditches them for a boob-window and bare legs that can make anyone freeze to death up in the north??? Side note; It’s not perfect, I’m not saying mine is better than the originals or anyone else’s this is just how I would’ve designed her or at least kept in mind to make a priority for the design. I also wanna say, yes, this outfit does look similar to another redesign of Weiss that someone else has made. I drew the design first before I went to Google to check if the look did look similar to someone else’s and I was like “Oops.” It wasn’t the intention, just coincidence. I didn’t steal.

Conclusion

It looks like the Atlas designs had a very huge backlash by just how BAD they were, as it now affects the girl's presumed Volume 10 looks in Vacuo, they have Weiss in white, ditched the chunky braid, and kept her in a presumed combat skirt than a restricting dress.  Either A.) The original character designer for team RWBY finally took constructive criticism to get the girls back to themselves B.) They no longer design the girls and Viz Media put in a new artist for the team or C.) Vacuo designs were much easier to make than Atlas.

These options can be wrong too these are just my little theories, end of the day we got a design for Weiss that just shouldn’t have made it into the show. A design that didn’t represent white, displays wealth when trying to distance herself from her family/company, a huge animation restriction, and overall one of the worst outfits I’ve seen put on Weiss Schnee.

But of course it’s just my opinion. If you love this design or hate the design, please share your opinion. I’d love to hear it! :D

[poisonedprose]

sugar mommy! ellie oh my god i’m dying just thinking about it

₊˚✧ sugar mommy!

ellie williams x fem!reader headcanons

warnings: lower case intended, might be typos, incomplete sentences, nsfw, cursing, modern!ellie, she is a drug dealer

masterlists

sfw ! ⋆ ajksd she just spoils you at every single chance she gets

⋆ you don't even have to ask her for it she just knows you want it

⋆ tired of your wardrobe? you'll have a whole new one by the end of the week

⋆ transitioning from winter to summer? sundresses and mini skirts are replacing your jackets and sweatpants in a matter of hours

⋆ loves when you ask for her opinion, "what do you think of this skirt els?"

⋆ and then she proceeds to go in depth about how you look great in everything but that skirt is perfect for you because the color brings out your eyes and it would match perfectly with the shirt she bought you last week and yada yada yada

⋆ deadass just gives you her credit card sometimes

⋆ like you're telling her you're gonna go out with your friends one second and the next her credit card is in your hand

⋆ genuinely gets offended when you don't spend a bunch of money on yourself

⋆ like why don't you want her money???

nsfw ! ⋆ she's def a drug dealer and thats how she makes all the money to spoil you with but she would NEVER tell you that

⋆ buy you a tonnnn of lingere sets and expects you to model them for her

⋆ love love lovesss buying you scandalous outfits and short skirts

⋆ thinks its the funniest fucking thing to buy you sex toys

⋆ she loves watching how embarrassed you get when you open the bag and see what naughty thing is inside

⋆ grabs your ass everytime she sees you in a new outfit she bought for you

⋆ (shes such an ass girl don't even play with me)

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎┊ㅤㅤ 🌾 ㅤㅤ ﾟㅤㅤ ┊

[atlabeth]

between colleagues - anthony lockwood

part 2

summary: besides, what's a bit of fake dating between colleagues anyway?

a/n: i have missed him!!! there is just something so fun about writing for l&co and anthony specifically i truly love their world and i love him!! this was originally going to be the entire thing in one fic but i decided to post this on its own and test the waters with you all because i am TIREd of writing long fics. free me from my prison. this is literally my third fake-dating fic bc i never get tired of the trope but lmk if you want to see more

wc: 3.1k

warning(s): fem!reader, mentions of: canon typical job stuff, a child dying (mentioned in passing. literally half a line), and a good ol fashioned breakdown. but this is almost completely fluff bc that's all in the background

You groaned as Lockwood pushed the door open, working through the knot in your shoulder while you all walked inside. You tossed your rapier into the umbrella stand, not even bothered by the clatter, and began unbuckling your belt. 

Winter was the worst season for ghost hunting. As if it weren’t already freezing enough dealing with Visitors and their effects, your most recent job was almost fully outside. You considered it a miracle hypothermia didn’t get you before any sort of ghost-touch.

“What are you groaning about?” Lockwood asked, glancing back at you. “I think tonight went rather well.” 

He’d removed his jacket, and his white undershirt was dirt-stained and damp with sweat. Though he looked unaffected as ever on the surface, the quickened rise and fall of his chest said, in his own way, he was just as exhausted as the rest of you. You raised an eyebrow, but Lucy beat you to the punch. 

“You think every night goes well if we come back alive,” she said wryly. 

“It’s not the best measurement,” George added. He tilted the iron charm over the door back into place then set his bag on the floor. “Tonight was rough, Lockwood. Even by your ridiculous terms.” 

Lockwood looked at you. “Anything you care to add?” 

You grimaced as you rubbed your shoulder. “I’m never breaking down a door for you like this again.” 

You did feel a bit like an action hero in the moment, but you regretted it soon after. Even more so when it didn’t even matter in the scheme of things—the source ended up being buried by the locked shed, not in the shed itself. At least you were now last in the rotation of opening suspicious doors. 

“You offered to,” Lockwood defended.  

“Because you said you would handle all the supply calls for the next week,” you said dryly. “And it looks like that may need to happen soon.” You held up your belt—once packed with salt bombs and magnesium flares, you’d emptied it completely trying to save all your lives. It was a sad sight. 

He frowned. “Even the flares?” 

“Even the flares,” you said. 

“I’m all out of them too,” George said. “Surprised we didn’t start a full-on forest fire in the backyard.” 

“I thought those would last longer.” Lockwood’s frown deepened. “They were quite expensive.” 

“At least we got paid a fair bit,” Lucy said. “And we did indeed get away with our lives.” 

“Barely,” George grumbled, kicking off his boots. He tossed his rapier haphazardly to the side, not even bothering to deposit it into your umbrella stand, and dropped his belt on the ground, still boasting a whole two remaining salt bombs. Your lip curled at the trail of chaos. “I’m going to bed. No one bother me for at least fifteen hours.” 

Lucy smiled, shaking her head as he walked off. “Dramatic, but he’s got the right idea. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” 

“See you, Luce,” Lockwood said. 

“I’ll be quiet when I come in,” you assured, and she gave an appreciative nod. Lucy dropped a stack of envelopes on the kitchen table before she went upstairs—it was her job to pick up the mail, and you were honestly surprised she remembered after all this. 

“You’re not mad at me,” Lockwood said, glancing at you as he went over to pick up the mail, “are you?” 

“No,” you sighed, and you flopped onto the couch, “just dramatic. More so than George tonight.” 

He chuckled and leaned against the counter, making deft work of the envelopes as he sorted them into piles. One for the never-ending junkmail that graced your door, and four others for each of you. “Good. I can never handle you being mad at me.” 

A smile tugged at your lips as you stared up at the ceiling. “You’re off the hook this time, so don’t worry.” 

“And I appreciate your mercy immensely,” he said. Another glance over at you. “You look exhausted. Are you sure you don’t want to turn in?”

You shook your head. “Our post-job detox is the most important part of all this. I can hold out for another hour.”

It was hardly a detox, but it had grown to become a necessity for you and Lockwood, sitting together and talking through everything in the wee hours of the night. 

One extremely tough case left you reeling harder than usual—children always got to you, and the girl’s death was particularly grisly—and apparently, Lockwood could tell. 

It took a couple days of gentle prodding, but one night, after being completely out of it in the archives with him that day, you broke—completely. Full on sobbing. Wholly embarrassing to do so in front of your boss, especially when he, George, and Lucy didn’t seem half as affected by it all. 

It turned out he was just better at covering it all up—Lockwood understood it all a lot better than you thought. He just sat with you in the living room and talked with you, talked you through it. There was a lot of crying, a fair bit of permanently swearing off ghost-hunting, and more than a bit of hatred against the entirety of the United Kingdom. 

By the end of it, though, after you’d cried yourself into a headache, gone through a quarter of a box of tissues, and actually worked out your problems with Lockwood’s help, you felt far better. 

Lockwood thereby forbade you from holding in your feelings until they burst, and so it became a routine—it was cheaper than therapy, and most therapists, save for the few former agents working in the field, couldn’t understand it anyways. You usually slumped on the couch, Lockwood usually leaning against the counter. Sometimes with tea, often with tears, always with slightly morbid jokes. 

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Lockwood asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“It’ll heal,” you said. “It’s mostly just sore. I’ll stay away from my rapier for a few days, sleep on my other side for once, and everything’ll be fine.” 

“Good.” The ruffling of paper stopped for a moment, and his voice was slightly sheepish when he spoke again. “Are you still up for that meeting with the Caldecotts tomorrow, then?” 

You groaned and screwed your eyes shut. “Lockwood, it is three in the bloody morning. You scheduled the Caldecotts for eleven.” 

“I didn’t know that this job would go on for so long!” he defended. “The last few have all wrapped up before midnight. It’s not my fault this Visitor was particularly elusive.” 

“I am drenched in sweat, Lockwood,” you said. “Half of my coat is burnt from plasm and the other half is frozen solid. There is still dirt under my fingernails, my boots are covered in spiderwebs, and I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours. And you want me to be ready to deal with Lorena Caldecott, the most annoying woman I think I have ever met, in eight measly hours?” 

“Yes,” he said brightly. That just got another groan out of you. 

“They made you in a lab, Anthony Lockwood,” you mumbled. “That’s the only explanation for how you’re still going.” 

He chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’ll phone them first thing tomorrow morning—well, later this morning, I suppose—and see if I can push it back another day.” 

“And if not, you’re doing this on your own,” you said, finally opening your eyes again to see him walking over. He handed you your stack of mail—hardly a stack, really, only consisting of four envelopes—and smiled, irritatingly pretty even with smudges of dirt on his face. There was a reason he got away with so much, and that smile was half of it. 

Lockwood said your name cloyingly. “Come on. You know I do interviews best when we’re together. You keep me on track.” 

“I knocked down a door for you, Lockwood!” you proclaimed. “Is that not enough to get me out of this?” 

“I took the supply calls,” he said, “and I’m pushing back the meeting. We’re even now.” 

“Fine,” you said, extremely grudgingly. “But you’re getting them to push it back at least until tomorrow, because once my head hits the pillow, I don’t think I’ll be up for at least twenty-four hours.” 

“Promise,” he said with a nod. 

You sighed, finally righting yourself so you could look at your mail, and glanced up at Lockwood as you picked them up. “You get anything interesting?”

He shook his head. “Unless you consider a letter from Fittes begging me to buy the newest edition of their manual interesting.”

You hummed and looked back down at yours. You slipped your finger under the seal and tore it open, chuckling a bit when you took it out.

“How about you?” Lockwood asked.

“25% off my next Dorothy Perkins purchase,” you said, holding the coupon up. “Very thrilling.”

“Incredibly so,” he nodded. “When’s the last time you even got something from there?” 

You huffed a laugh as you worked open the next envelope. “I bought a dress for my cousin’s graduation last year. Haven’t worn it since.”

“So doubly thrilling,” he said. 

You’d opened your mouth to shoot back, but instead you frowned as you pulled an embossed card out. You skimmed through it quickly enough but got the meaning all the same. 

“Huh,” you said. “My cousin is getting married.” 

Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “Dorothy Perkins cousin?”

You shook your head, still frowning. “No. Maternal aunt’s son. Dorothy Perkins was paternal aunt’s son.”

“Ah,” he said dryly, “how could I have made such a mistake?”

You didn’t even have the energy to retort back as you stared at the letter. “I suppose I’ll need to pull out that dress again. It’s an invite.”

“Congratulations,” Lockwood said. “Are you going to need time off?”

“I don’t even know if I should go,” you mumbled, leaning your head against the side of the couch. 

“Why wouldn’t you go?” he asked with a frown. 

“Because I haven’t seen my family in a while,” you said, “and I haven’t seen this side of the family in an even longer while.” 

Lockwood shrugged. “Then it’ll be a nice reunion.” 

“Lockwood,” you said, “I’ve lied to them.”

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “About what?”

You winced. “They think I have a boyfriend.” 

He still seemed lost. “Strange thing to lie about.”

“You don’t understand.” You sat up, putting the letter to the side. “My family’s from Liverpool, right? We’re all so busy that we never really have time to meet up, but I make it a point to call my mother a few times a month so she knows I’m still alive.” 

Lockwood nodded. “Yeah, I know. You usually call her after every rough case.” 

“Right. Because my mum hates my career,” you said. “I thought she was going to have a heart attack when I told her I’d scored my first job with Tendy’s. I thought she would actually pass away when I told her I quit Tendy’s for you.” You glanced at Lockwood. “She thinks you’re a lunatic, by the way.” 

He shrugged. “Many do.” 

You smiled and shook your head. “She hates that I’m an agent, but so long as I stay alive, she says she can deal with it. But she has a rule on our calls that I can’t talk about our jobs—says they give her nightmares. So instead, she talks about every facet of my personal life.” 

Lockwood’s eyes finally flashed with understanding and he nodded. “Hence the boyfriend lie?” 

“Hence the boyfriend lie,” you echoed. “She will not stop bothering me about it—apparently the dating life of her daughter is more important than anything else. So on our last call, I just lied and told her I had one to get her off of my back.”

Lockwood actually had the nerve to laugh. “And how did that work out for you?”

“It worked fine,” you said, “and it was going to continue to be fine. But then Will had to go out and get engaged, the dolt.”

“So just go on your own,” he suggested. 

“I can’t show up alone,” you grumbled. “Not only would it be completely embarrassing, but the questions would start up all over again.” 

“Then don’t go.” 

“I can’t not go!” you exclaimed. “Will’s a lovely cousin.” 

“You just called him a dolt,” Lockwood said. 

“I call you a dolt all the time,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like you.” 

Lockwood chuckled and shook his head, and that was when an idea came to you. There was a slight furrow in his brow when he glanced back at you. 

“I don’t like that look.” 

“Come to the wedding with me,” you said suddenly. 

Lockwood’s expression sobered even further. “You can’t be serious.” 

“It’s the perfect solution!” you exclaimed, moving to the edge of the couch as you clasped your hands together. 

“You want me to be your pretend boyfriend,” he deadpanned. When you nodded, he shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Why would I be joking?” you asked. “You’re quite possibly the best candidate for it all. We’re best friends, we know each other well— God, I’ve talked about you enough in general to my mum that she won’t even be surprised that it ended up being you.” 

Lockwood’s eyebrows rose. “Won’t they look down on you dating your boss?” 

“You’re hardly my boss,” you said. 

“I pay your salary,” he said. “You live in my house. My name is on the door.” 

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you said. “Besides, you owe me after tonight!” 

He frowned. “We just agreed that we were even.” 

“Well, I lied,” you said. “My shoulder is in excruciating pain from knocking that door down, and the only way for it to heal is for you to pretend to be my boyfriend.” 

He gave you a wry look and said your name. “Come on. This is an awful idea.” 

“It’s a brilliant idea,” you said. “You get a chance to dress up and charm an entire family—you live for that sort of stuff, Lockwood. I finally get my family off my back with some actual proof and I actually get a break for once.” 

You saw the uncertainty on his face and you huffed. “Don’t give me that look. This is the exact sort of plan you’d come up with and try to force on me if it meant we’d get a hand up.” 

“I know,” he said grudgingly, “that’s why I don’t like it. It’s dangerous when you start learning my tricks.” 

“Please, Lockwood,” you begged. “I’ll do all your chores for the rest of the month. I’ll shake Lorena Caldecott’s hand with a smile on my face.”

“That is tempting,” he said wryly. “I can never fold my dress shirts the way you do.”

“Wrinkle-free dress shirts,” you said with a gesture. “And— and, I will cash in my favor with Arif. Discounted doughnuts for the next three months.”

Lockwood’s eyes widened. “You’ve got favors with Arif?”

You shrugged. “I helped him out a couple times with ghost things.”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You really are something.”

“Discounted doughnuts, Lockwood,” you continued. “Discounted doughnuts and wrinkle-free shirts and my best behavior for the Caldecotts, no matter how sleep-deprived I am.”

“…This really means a lot to you,” Lockwood said after a moment, “doesn’t it.”

You nodded. “My family— my mum—will never lay off if I show up alone. If you’re on my arm, you talk a bit about yourself and compliment me a few times and charm them with literal ghost stories, then I’m off the hook for good.”

Lockwood pursed his lips, his arms folded across his chest as he thought it through. 

“Please,” you said. “It’ll just be one night.”

After another moment, he let out a sigh almost as dramatic as your earlier ones, but his lips quirked up at the corners.

“Fine,” Lockwood said. “I’ll go with you.” 

Your eyes widened. “You will?” 

“Yes,” he said with a laugh. “It— it’ll be fine—you’re right. We’ve been living together for the past year and a half—we know each other well enough to sell it. And with half the agency going out for it, I can write off any hotels or dinners as business expenses.” 

That got a laugh out of you too, and you shook your head. “You are my savior, Lockwood. Truly.” 

“Just means we’re back in your court on favors,” he joked. “And you know what? I think this could actually be fun.” 

“Really?” 

“Really,” he nodded. “Besides,” Lockwood smiled wryly at you as he stood up from his spot against the counter, “what’s a bit of fake dating between colleagues anyway?”

You huffed a laugh and finally managed to pull yourself back up into a sitting position. You cracked your neck and rubbed your shoulder, grimacing a bit at the soreness but thankful that it wasn’t worse. “Can we work out the rest of the details later? I’m exhausted, and I know you’ve got to be running on fumes.” 

His smile softened and he nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Later today, I suppose.” He frowned as he looked at the clock. “God. It really is late.” 

You hummed in agreement as you unlaced your boots, trying your best to avoid the spiderwebs when you took them off. That was your number one question about the Problem—why the hell did spiders have to gravitate towards ghosts? 

“Get some sleep, Lockwood,” you said, setting your boots with everyone else’s shoes. That mess was an issue for another day. “You’ve got to be refreshed—those supply calls aren’t going to make themselves.” 

Lockwood rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t completely bite back his smile. “Best behavior for the Caldecotts, love.” 

“And nothing less!” you exclaimed without turning around, pointing in the air as you continued up the stairs. You heard Lockwood laugh behind you, and the sound brought out a smile of your own. 

It was now nearly four in the bloody morning. Your shoulder still ached, your coat was beyond repair, and you would have to scrub beneath your nails for at least ten minutes before you settled in tonight. But somehow, Lockwood still had you smiling and feeling better about the whole experience. 

For god’s sake, you fought ghosts on a daily basis. You’d been training with a rapier since the tender age of eight. Your skills rivaled some of Fittes’ and Rotwell’s best—who cared what your family had to say about you? 

You were right. This wedding would be a piece of cake with Anthony Lockwood by your side.

[herofics]

Dangers of winter

A/N: Hahahahaaaaa, Dabi angst yet again, surprise, surprise… Kinda toxic I guess though, and maybe passively suicidal reader?

“I’m not watching you kill yourself over this, I’m done!” you yelled at him. “I’m done with your bullshit revenge plan, and I’m done with you!”

“Didja honestly think I’d just let you go? How am I supposed to know you’re not goin to blab my plans to some barfly the next time you decide to get drunk?”

“No fear of that once I’m away from you, you’re the one who drove me to drink anyway” you spat, turning your back to him to leave the room.

“I’m not through with you yet!” Dabi growled as he quickly stepped between you and the door.

He pressed his hand against the door, and you could see it getting charred around the contact point.

“What are you gonna do? Hurt me? Kill me? Go ahead, it’s better than watching you die over some stupid revenge fantasy!” you exclaimed angrily, starting to tear up.

There it was, the truth. You would rather die than have to live with losing him.

“I can’t keep doing this, I-I just can’t” you cried, falling to your knees and burying your face in your hands.

Dabi was quite honestly baffled. You weren’t usually like this, actually you were never like this, he had barely ever seen you cry. You’d never shown this kind of desperation, this kind of despair. No one had, not for him anyway. Your show of feelings wasn’t exactly breaking his heart, but it did make him feel… something.

“Do you think that I’m gonna give up on everythin I’ve worked for, just because you shed a few tears?” Dabi said with a mocking tone.

If he hurt you enough, maybe, just maybe, you would be free of him. Maybe you wouldn’t have to feel whatever this was, and he could go on with his quest for revenge. It would be better for both of you to part ways, but somewhere in that burnt, black heart of his, he didn’t really want to let you go. He wanted to keep you, all to himself, for the time he had left. He was selfish like that, and he was well aware of it, he just didn’t really care. Dabi felt conflicted. He didn’t want to let you go, but he also didn’t want to make you suffer like this.

“Get out then, if that’s what you want. You’re useless anyway” he scoffed.

You could feel your breath hitch in your throat when you heard what he said. You raised your head from your hands, tears still rolling down your cheeks, noticing he was looking down at you with that familiar burning hate in his eyes. You’d seen that hatred so many times before, but never directed at you, never had he looked at you like that.

You didn’t say anything. You just got up from the floor, wobbling a little, before he stepped away from the door and you could slip out. You couldn’t even look at him anymore, it was too painful.

You were gone, things were as they should be. He was alone, as he should be.

You didn’t know where you would go, you didn’t want to go home. Even though you had left your jacket at Dabi’s place, it was like you couldn’t even feel the cold. It was snowing and the wind had started to pick up, but you didn’t even notice it. You just wandered until you were too tired to move. It didn’t take long in that cold for you to be in such a state.

“I don’t care anymore…” you muttered as you fell down in the snow. “I don’t care…”

You couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. Maybe you could just let yourself succumb to the cold. Dying of hypothermia was like going to sleep, or so you’d heard. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way to go.

Just before you lost consciousness, you thought you heard someone calling your name as they approached, but who would do that? There was no one who cared about you anymore. 

Dabi felt like an idiot when he finally found you, actually he felt like an idiot the moment you were out the door. He had left his place with your jacket in hand, because you’d forgotten it. The last thing he wanted was for you to die of hypothermia. He headed in the direction of your place, hoping to basically throw the jacket at you and leave.

Dabi jogged the usual route to your apartment, but he didn’t see you. He got this pit in his stomach, if you weren’t here, where were you? One of your friends must have come to pick you up. Even though he tried to convince himself of that, the pit in his stomach just wouldn’t go away.

Dabi returned to his apartment building, kicking frozen chunks of snow out of his way. When he was almost there, he noticed someone laying in the snow. He took a few steps closer, his heart in his throat. It was you, dammit.

Dabi closed the distance between you, calling your name as he fell on his knees next to you.

He saw the moment you closed your eyes, the moment you gave up and let go. He wasn’t going to let you go, he refused to. It was a different thing to not have you in his life, he could bear that, but to know you were dead because of him, that he couldn’t take.

Dabi picked you up and carried you back to his apartment. You were so cold in his arms and it terrified him.

“Don’t you die on me now” he muttered as he set you down in his bed.

He laid as many blankets on you as he could find, which was only three. He then took his jacket and shirt off, before climbing under the covers with you. He pulled you close and held you.

Dabi’s normal temperature was quite a bit higher than someone’s without a fire quirk, so he was basically a portable heater. He knew he shouldn’t turn up the heat too much, because you were so close to him as to not hurt you, but he had to get you warm, he had to.

Dabi didn’t know how long he laid there with you, but once a quiet “warm” escaped your lips, and you snuggled closer to him, he felt like he could finally breathe. Maybe this was what it felt like to love someone, to feel like you couldn’t breathe when they weren’t well and safe.

[rfxiii]

I saw the winter prompts could you possibly do "You're the only gift I want to unwrap." For Franklin

Btw I love your work keep it up 💚

(Hii! Tysm for the request and the kind words! I hope I did your request justice! So sorry for the long wait 🙏)

All I Want For Christmas Is You

TW: smut

Word count: 2903

“Oh my god! This is hopeless!” you growl to yourself, flopping backwards onto the bed and glaring out the huge windows framing the large backyard at Franklin’s Vinewood home.

You’d spent the last three weeks agonizing over what to get him for Christmas. But unfortunately, Franklin was so damn easy to please that when you’d practically begged him to tell you what he wanted for his Christmas gift, he’d simply shrugged and said “I don’t need nothing. Seriously. Anything you get will be great.” But that wasn’t good enough for you. He was the perfect boyfriend, he was the perfect man. And there was no way you were going to get him some generic, boring present. He deserved the world.

You’d broken down last week and asked Lamar for help. But as close of friends as they were, that lanky goofball was little to no help. He’d suggested taking Frank to get a haircut, or maybe buying him some better clothes or a replacement for his “dusty, busted ass shoes.” But even that felt too basic for what he deserved. You’d even asked Michael for his opinion. But after they’d all received all of that cash from their Union Depository score, Michael had only shrugged and said “The kids got all the money in the world now. If he wanted it, wouldn’t he have it by now?”

You’re floundering for ideas now, but not deterred. There’s only one more day before Christmas, but you were not going to let this conundrum get the best of you. And with a new fire ignited inside you, you pull out your phone and call up Lamar yet again, “Lamar, listen! I’m dying here. I need help! Meet me at Rockford Plaza in twenty. Please! I still haven’t gotten Frank a gift, and I’m dying here!” you plead, pacing the bedroom in a growing panic.

“Ugh! Aight, aight! Damn, you really stressin’ about this. And we gotta go to the fancy ass mall?.. Fuck. Aight! I’ll meet yo’ ass there.” Lamar groans, and you hear shuffling in the background which thankfully signals him actually getting up to get ready to go.

“Oh my god! Thank you! Thank you, thank you! I owe you so big for this, Lamar! I’ll see you there!” you chirp, hanging up the phone and scrambling off to grab your jacket.

You’d planned on this shopping trip today, and had thankfully been able to wrangle Michael into your plan of helping get Franklin out of the house to avoid any suspicion. And now, with all your plans set carefully in place, you head off to meet Lamar for your last ditch effort in finding the perfect gift.

But unfortunately, this close to Christmas, your shopping trip proves to be anything but easy or relaxing.

You and Lamar hurry through the crowded plaza, your eyes darting from one shop to the next as you both try to contain your growing frustration. It's been almost an hour since you met at Rockford Plaza, and so far, all you've managed to find are a few mediocre presents that just don't seem quite right for Franklin. You can't help but feel like you're running out of time, and with each passing minute, the pressure to find the perfect gift for the man who wants nothing seems to intensify.

"I don't know, man," Lamar says, shaking his head as he studies a display of expensive colognes, "He's just so hard to shop for. I mean, what does he even like?"

You feel your brow twitching in irritation as you shoot him a look, “What do you mean, what does he like? You’re his best friend! How can you not-“ You stop your ranting and pull Lamar to a stop in front of a jewelry store, the glittering display of diamonds and precious gems catching your eye. "What about jewelry?" you suggest, feeling a pang of nervousness in your stomach. Jewelry like this is a big gesture, and you're not entirely sure if it's something that Franklin would even want. But as you look around, you can't help but feel drawn to the elegance and the beauty behind each piece.

Lamar shrugs, looking unsure. "I guess it won’t hurt nothin’ to look, right?" he says, following you into the store.

The saleswoman, a polished and professional woman with a knowing smile, approaches you both and inquires if she can be of assistance. You glance at Lamar, who seems to be growing more nervous by the second, and then back at the saleswoman, feeling a surge of determination. This is it. This has to be the one.

As you describe to the saleswoman the qualities that you admire about Franklin and the kind of person he is, you feel a warmth spreading through your chest. You're not just buying a present; you're expressing how you feel about him, how much he means to you. The woman shows you various pieces around the store, but when she shows you a stunning pair of black diamond earrings, you know immediately that this is it. This is the gift that gives everything you've been trying to say for the past three weeks.

You swallow hard, feeling a lump forming in your throat, and turn to Lamar, who is watching you with a mixture of anxiety at feeling out of place and hope that you’d finally found the right gift. "Lamar, I think I got it," you say, your voice trembling just a little. "What do you think?"

“Ya know what-..” Lamar mutters, gazing at the diamond studs inside the thick, glass case, “I think we got a winner.”

“Yeah?” you breathe hopefully, grinning up at him as you begin to imagine the surprise on Franklin’s face when he revived his gift.

“Yeah, homie.. Now, hurry up and let’s get the fuck outta here. I can’t put up with too much more a’ this shit.” Lamar snickers, his gaze darting around to the masses of people milling about frantically through the shops.

You grin at the saleswoman, pointing again to the earrings with a decisive nod, “These. We’ll take these, please!”

The price tag on the item nearly floors Lamar, and the expert wrapping skill of the sales associate has you gawking, as well. Finally, she places the perfectly wrapped box into an equally nice bag- decorated with shiny, black tissue paper. You give her your thanks and quickly lead Lamar back to where you’d left your vehicles.

“Aw, motherfucker!” Lamar growls, snatching the parking ticket off his vans windshield, “Double parked? Bullshit! This right here is a perfect park job!” He argues with absolutely no one.

You have the good grace not to mention his abysmal parking job. Instead, snatching the ticket from his hand and taking in the several hundred dollar fine he now owes, “Ya know what- Gimme this. I’ll pay for it as soon as the holiday is over. Like I said, I owe you so big, LD!”

“No shit? Aight, bet! Thanks a lot, homie!” Lamar chuckles in relieved disbelief. And as he watches you jog off to your car, he calls out to you with a big, cheeky grin, “An’ merry Christmas!”

“Yeah! Have a good Christmas, Lamar!” you shout back, feeling relief washing over you at finally having found the perfect gift.

You spend the rest of the day biting your tongue to keep from excitedly spilling your secret gift to Franklin. But the night is still nice together. Michael had taken him golfing, Trevor had joined them later on and gotten them kicked out, then they’d all been forced to go see one of Michael’s favorite, shitty, black and white films, before he’d come home and been happy for time to actually relax with you after trying to corral his two older friends all day. You’d had a nice dinner, spent time together watching tv, curled up together on the couch, before finally going to bed and leaving you struggling to sleep with your bubbling excitement.

The bright morning sunlight streams in through the window the next morning, casting a warm glow across the bed where you and Franklin lie. Your stomach rumbles, reminding you that it's been a while since you've eaten, and with a contented yawn, you roll over to nuzzle into his neck. He hums sleepily, one hand absently stroking your hair as he nestles deeper into the pillows. You grin, sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you murmur, leaning over to kiss him gently. "Think you can get up and help me make some breakfast?"

Franklin yawns, stretching his arms high above his head, before letting out a contented sigh. "I guess I could," he grins sleepily, sitting up and blinking blearily at the clock. "What are we having?"

As you watch him throw off the covers and pad over to the bathroom, you can't help but marvel at how comfortable you've become with him. It feels so natural to be here, sharing this space with him. Even as time passes, there's still an element of newness to it, a spark that keeps things exciting and alive. You know that this is where you're supposed to be, and that thought alone fills you with a warmth that spreads through your entire body.

While he's in the bathroom, you head into the kitchen and begin to rummage through the fridge. You pull out some eggs, bread, and some fruit, setting them all on the counter. The eggs sizzle in the pan as you chop up some avocado, thinking about how much he's going to love the surprise you have planned for him. You're so focused on your cooking that you don't notice him sneak up behind you until you feel his warm breath on your neck.

"Mmm, that smells amazing," he says, wrapping his arms around you from behind. You lean back into him, feeling the muscles in his chest and arms through his t-shirt.

"It's just a little something I threw together," you reply, glancing over your shoulder at him. "But I hope you like it."

He pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck as he breathes in the scent of breakfast. "I'm sure I'll love whatever you make," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're the best cook I know."

When the food is finally ready, you serve it up on two plates and carry them over to the living room, setting them down on the coffee table. You watch as he takes in the spread, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Wow, this is... amazing," he breathes, looking up at you. "Thank you, babe."

You grin, feeling a rush of pride and happiness. "You're welcome. I hope you like it."

He takes a bite of the egg and avocado sandwich, savoring the flavors before swallowing. "It's delicious," he says, looking up at you again. "You really outdid yourself."

You blush, feeling the warmth spread from your cheeks down to your stomach. "I'm glad you like it." You hesitate for a moment, then reach over to grab the small box that you'd hidden behind a throw pillow earlier. Handing it to him, you watch as his expression changes from surprise to delight.

"Merry Christmas." you urge, your heart racing. He takes the box carefully, his fingers tracing over the intricate pattern on the wrapping paper. With a gentle tug, he pulls it off to reveal the black diamond earrings you’d searched so hard to pick out.

“Babe,-.. Holy shit..” Franklin gasps out, his fingers almost cautiously tracing the gems of the earrings.

His reaction is muted and shocked, and you begin to fear that maybe this isn’t even remotely something that he enjoys. But before you can panic too thoroughly, he’s letting out a disbelieving gasp and shooting you the brightest smile you’d seen since you’d agreed to go out with him, “This is…amazing! Holy shit! How’d you pick these out?” he gasps, the smile on his cheeks unwavering.

“You..like’em? Really? Oh my god, I’m so glad! Lamar and I were out all day looking for something to give you, and he was no help, and I was afraid you wouldn’t like these! But I saw’em, and I thought they’d look really nice on you, and I’ve spent all month panicking over what to get you, and-“

“Babe!” Franklin chuckles, cupping your cheeks to silence your frantic rambling, “These are perfect.” he coos before leaning in closer, “But really-.. You're the only gift I want to unwrap.”

He leans in, stealing your breath away when his warm, soft lips press to yours in the softest, slow kiss that has your heart fluttering and head spinning.

“I love you.” you gasp against his lips- your fingers knotting in the front of his shirt to pull him close.

“I love you too, babe.” Franklin mutters with a grin softly twitching his lips.

As you sit there, wrapped up in each other and the glow of the Christmas tree, the room feels impossibly warm and cozy. You lean in, pressing your lips against his again, feeling the familiar heat of his mouth against yours. He pulls you closer, one hand slipping beneath your sweater to stroke your back, the other tangled in your hair.

Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the moment, the rest of the world fading away into the background. And in this perfect, fleeting moment, you realize that you are exactly where you're meant to be.

The kiss deepens, and your heart races as you feel his hand slip under your shirt, tracing lightly over your skin. His touch sends shivers down your spine, and you find yourself melting further into his embrace. You pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, and you know that he can see the desire burning bright within them.

With a soft moan, he presses his lips to yours again, more urgently this time. You respond in kind, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you try to get it open. He helps you, his fingers deftly working the buttons loose before throwing the shirt aside, revealing his toned chest and soft skin.

You reach up, brushing your fingers over his hair, marveling at the feel of it between your fingers. He shudders at the touch, and you can feel the hardness of his erection pressed against your thigh. You pull him closer, feeling the heat from his body sear into your own, wanting nothing more than to be as close to him as humanly possible.

"I love you," you sigh again, your voice barely more than a whisper as you gaze deeply into his eyes. And in that moment, you know without a doubt that it's true. He smiles, lips curving into a lazy grin as he responds, "I love you too."

As if the words themselves are a catalyst, your clothes seem to melt away, and you find yourself lying naked beneath him, bodies entwined. The air is heavy with the scent of the pine Christmas tree and desire, and the only noise that fills your ears is the rhythmic sound of your hearts beating in perfect unison.

With a soft groan, he presses the length of his erection against your entrance, and you feel the hot, thick head of him press into you. You gasp, arching your back as he slowly begins to push inside. He fills you slowly, inch by excruciatingly perfect inch, and when he's finally buried deep inside you, you feel complete.

His hips begin to move, and you throw your head back, moaning as he starts to thrust. The sensation of being so intimately connected to him is overwhelming, and you feel your orgasm building quickly.

"Franklin..." you breathe, your voice shaking with the effort to hold back the release. "Oh god, I'm going to..." Your words are cut off by a sharp cry as your body is wracked by an intense shock, your muscles tensing and your nails digging into his skin. He follows soon after, his thrusts growing frantic as he releases himself deep inside you.

As your breathing begins to steady, he rolls to the side, pulling you into his embrace. You feel his hot breath against your ear as he whispers, "I love you, baby. I love you so much." And in that moment, you know that this is real. This is forever.

Your heart feels lighter than air, and the warmth from his body seems to spread through your entire being. You lie there, content and at peace, feeling the rhythm of his heart against your chest. He nuzzles his face into your hair, kissing your neck and shoulders, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

“So,-..” you sigh softly, looking up at him with the faintest hint of a teasing grin, “What’d you get me for Christmas?”

“Oh my god! You’re ridiculous. Hang on!” Franklin chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead and stumbling to pull up his pants before scurrying off to the bedroom.

And you can’t help but laugh as you watch the love of your life stumbling downstairs with his pants halfway off his hips.

This Christmas had been hectic, and more than agonizing in your endeavor to find the perfect gift. But seeing the smile and excitement on Franklin’s face had proved to be more perfect than any gift.

[qvrcll]

my goodness gracious ! how i am so in love with your writing 🫶 and also so happy that your requests are open :) may i please request ellie proposing to miller!reader (joel’s daughter!reader) ?

yes, i’m changing

summary: cold, staggering and equipped with a ring, ellie tries to communicate her feelings off for you as cool. but it’s anything but, as she struggles with the idea of being good enough. and you struggle with the idea of something enough.

warning: slight angst / comfort, food mentioned, proposal, ellie being paranoid as per usual, insecurity from reader if you squint, miller!daughter

a/n: thank u so so much for liking my works 🥹 god i loved this request so much and i tried my best to live up to it, so here you go lovely !!! i love writing fluff for my girl ellie belly :,)

I.

“What the fuck?”

Is what you spit into the frigid air, convoluted and unimpressed, when you answer the door. It’s midnight, past the time for novelties and shit to do with the hours prior, past the time for staple look outs and ordained times for scout-out’s. And yet, you find none of it, with Ellie perched awkwardly in the snow, her converse near drowning where your threshold splits the heavy snow from head to toe.

“Hey” she grins. You’d admit it to be cute, awfully redundant on your poorly beating heart that is worse for wear from the sweltering cold, the burn of ice in your lungs from the near melt of the winter in your chest from each breath of air. But you’re irritated, eyes rubbed raw from the walk from the bed to the door, come now to find nothing earth-shattering festering at your heels. Just Ellie, huddled in her jacket and smiling at you like an idiot.

Your girlfriend picks up on the excursion in your expression, doubles down on her enthusiasm, “Shit, sorry, were you sleeping?”

No, I was up all night for fun, is what you nearly say. Reply, with unbidden serration. Something you had damn near learnt in all your years to ensure you’d keep safe of prying eyes and gargantuan eyes that would seek to use you. But with Ellie, the habit had felt itself thin, almost dying, as her genuinely had harked a certain kindness in you that others had failed to bring. Failed to foster in the cartilage and recesses of your bones, like she had. Marked and dotted in turgid, red ink over and over.

“No—No, I was just up. Couldn’t sleep,” you lie. You look the part, at-least. Clothes disheveled off your shoulders and hitching up ever so slightly, feeding yourself a sweat that created a fluke — a blatant lie that stirred perfectly into some sodden truth when Ellie guessed that you looked so overcome due to irritation, flimsy in the sheets as you lost sleep, “Come in, you’re gonna freeze your ass off.”

Ellie crosses the threshold with a deep yet watery laugh.

II.

Ellie is scared shitless.

From her current position, she can feel the edge of the engagement ring’s box poke her in the ass from where she perched herself up against the sofa, her arms a clear spread against the hand-rests. She curses herself, pulls out excuses and spits them out for good when she shifts, adjusts her position, but the burn of the ragged container bites her in the side as it applies pressure on her hip.

Shit, she should’ve just brought the ring.

But she wanted to do it fancy. Wanted to stick with the rules and regulations and the books for once. Wanted to make it clean-cut and levelled like a highfalutin’ cookery book. She wanted to get on one knee and peel apart the box, wanted to get every angle and timing right.

And where did that get her? Here, sitting on your couch like a lizard, with the engagement ring’s box digging into her ass once again.

“You good?” you work to question when you arrive from the kitchen. There’s a tray balanced between your fists, when you bring a mug of something closer — wait, two mugs. Something brown and swirling in them, and when Ellie shoots to scoot closer, she realises it’s hot chocolate.

She could die a happy girlfriend.

“I’m good—“ she lies, but tolerates the huff of your restless breath, the eventual inclination to your voice as to say ‘well, whatever you say.’

“You really shouldn’t have” she says, when she’s grabbed a mug and glueing it to her lips. The contents slip down her throat instantly, inviting a warmth in its trail — it settles well in her stomach. A concave of tepidity as opposed to the burn of the cold outside.

“You still grabbed a mug” you tease through barely clenched teeth, drinking your own fill. Ellie cracks through a laugh, barely restrained and harking for middle ground when she realises she cannot stop laughing.

You’ve turned her rotten.

III.

You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, when you hear an awful amount of shuffling from the living room. Like thudding, contemplative heavy footsteps that trace into circles the more you pay attention. At that, you squint into the mirror and try to leave Ellie to her ministrations… whatever they may be.

But then, a string of curses and repeated attempts on the same old, hardwood floor delineate the line between perplexity and discovery. You take a step back, peering past the jagged stretch of the wall that separates the bathroom from the living room.

“Ellie?” you groan past a mouthful of toothpaste.

There’s silence, a resignation of any prior efforts to make a commotion, before Ellie’s voice bars against a slew of embarrassment, “Yeah? Sorry, was that too loud?”

“No—“ you spit into the sink, swinging the faucet on. The colours of mint swirl into the translucent muck of water, “I don’t mind. But are you okay? You’re doing an awful amount of shuffling.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m good,” and as if she doesn’t sound any more convincing, “it’s just cold. I’m just—yeah, I’m cold. Don’t worry about it.”

“Shit, you’re cold?”

“Only a little. Don’t worry.”

“Ellie—“

“I promise.”

And as your eyes open to grapple her verdant ones, slipping into yours like a small spoken apology, it blisters any thought within you — stokes the small voice that screams ‘just leave it alone.’

“Okay.”

IV.

“Right or left?”

Ellie barely pays attention to your words, your voice, as her thoughts choke her dry.

How is she supposed to do this? Like, how is she supposed to go on about proposing? She’s ready, fully bought with the idea of growing old with you, but she’s so scared. Creeping with that foreign feeling that maybe — just maybe — you two weren’t present on the same page.

“Ellie?”

“Shit—sorry, yeah?”

She sees you’re visibly annoyed at her vacancy and falters at the sight of it — she’s bad at this. Bad at balancing something new for old, bad at doing what she’s supposedly done best.

When she’d gone to Joel for consultation, he’d been surprised but deeply elated to the point of a hug. Ellie had accepted it, enveloped it, before comically shirking away his sloppy suggestions at a proposal.

You could try to dance with her, kiddo.

Joel, please get serious.

What? I am serious.

Dancing? Really?

Okay, how about a fancy dinner?

I’ve got a week old pack of asparagus.

Okay.

…

How about you go about it your own way, kiddo?

“I said, do you want to take the left or right side of the bed?” you ask again, slower and no real urgency. You try to gripe her thoughts, try to figure out what’s going on in that gargantuan head of hers. Is she tired? Is she growing sick of you? Is this a lead up into something bad?

But she simple smiles, throws back a ‘I’ll take the left,’ leaving you to your fears and contesting abstrusities.

V.

Ellie is woken up the failure of her thoughts.

The engagement ring remains poking her in the ass.

She’s staring at the ceiling, non-plussed.

She hears you breathe. Hears you hitch for breath in your sleep beside her. Doesn’t hear but feels you gravitate to that warm, awfully homely orifice in her side. She feels your warmth beat against her skin.

The box digs into her skin.

She cuts the bullshit.

VI.

You’re woken by a cold hand on your jaw. It slides against the throbbing flesh, as if to draw out the colour of the skin for its own bemusement. It makes you nearly jerk away, but the softness in it belongs to another and you’ve come to tether this person like a cardiac organ.

“Ellie…,” you groan, visibly and audibly tired. She doesn’t pause, just continues tracing non-reputable shapes into your skin, past your neck, forging shivers where they weren’t before, “What is it?”

“What do you mean?” she replies too quick.

Way to play dumb.

“You’ve been acting on edge… ever since you visited me. There’s something on your mind,” you pause for breath, for leverage before you infract yourself with the silence, “Is it bad?”

There’s a pause to her movements. But they trail against your hip, making the skin jitter.

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on you.”

You’re more awake now, barely half as sleepy as you were ten seconds prior — your hand supports your body as you sit against the headboard, keen to not let the coldness of the air, the gather of her fingers to get the better of you. But you do anyways, as tears skim your vision.

“Ellie, please.”

And now Ellie shoots up, awake. Her hands cup your cheek, nervous and somewhere broken by the seams, teeming. She seems nervous for something.

Just tell me, Ellie. Tell me before I go insane. Tell me before we both do, you want to yell. Shirk. Shrivel.

You keep quiet as she holds you.

“Promise you won’t hate me?”

“Ellie, I swear to god if you’re breaking up with me—“

“Promise.”

“Okay—Okay. I promise.”

Your heart is somewhere between your hands, sinking to curdle past the sinews of your fingers.

You’re shaking.

You’re waiting, always, for the press of her words.

“Will—Will… you marry me?”

VII.

“What?”

Ellie’s nervous system pushes out of every gap in her body, squashes to nothing but pulp. She can hear the confusion rendered in your voice and she’s scared and she’s sure and she’s awful and she’s so convinced she’s fucked up—

“Sorry I—“

“What…?” you ask her. The question is dangerously simple, a blight. Something real. Inordinate. Unmarked and ready for birth. A congealed genesis. Something holy that only Ellie manages to curdle into something hellish—negative, frightful.

Still, she looks at you with quivering eyes.

“Ask you to marry me? Yes—well—I… If you—“

And she’s slipping, cracking. Melding with the bed and contemplating a hundred different ways of human cessation. Falling, gripping, bleeding against her skull, when you suddenly come close, corner her in the bed and cram her throat with chokes as you watch her with heavy, soaking eyes.

“Ellie, you better not be joking” some part of you deadpans, the other courses with a beat, with the onslaught of something heaving and emotional.

“I’m not,” — she pulls out the box. Barely sighs at the relief from the lack of intrusion against her ass cheek. Tries to, but fails. Focuses on your expression, that bursts at the remaining seams, “I want you, for as long as I live.”

And Ellie feels the weight on her shoulders dissipate at your enigmatic reaction, feels the stretch of her lips when you stutter a clear nod — there is a burst of tears there and something happy, something glad, of the thought of spending an eternity with her.

And it’s a down right mess when you get to it. When you wrap your arms around her, syphon into the sheets like you’re delirious with want for this woman. Blabber something tormented in a beautiful way as she buries her face into your neck in choking grasps.

“Ellie—“ you cry with sodden spit, tears flush against your face, “Ellie, oh my god—of course I’ll marry you—“ you choke, swinging your arms around her. Because it is all you can do. Call for her in blind silence, in gradual stages of symphonic syllables in the dark, where her glad hands grasp you like you’re viability itself. Like you’re sustenance and warmth and love — and you are, Ellie decides, as she holds you like you’ll fall apart otherwise.

VIII.

It’s one when you calm down. One, with a continual darkness, where you hold Ellie in bed like its no different. You’re smiling into her neck, bashful, full of smiles and relief as she tickles your side, whispers something of semblance, of ‘my girl.’

“Wait—“ you pull away, “who will officiate our wedding?”

“Joel, duh.”

A snort from you, “Joel? My dad?”

“Yeah, Joel. Your dad.”

“Think he’ll agree?”

“I’ll pie him otherwise.”

Another snort.

Ellie grins with the musing of tomorrow, surely spent with you. Surely carding against the warmth of her cheeks. The promise of love through you and you… and you.

And, hey, that engagement ring’s box no longer wants to torment her ass.

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[ill-go-with-that-then]

Can I interest you in an AU where Aizawa tries to woo Mic with horrible pickup lines from the internet, because he has no idea how else to do it? And mic thinks aizawa figured out his crush and is teasing him? Imagine he has a list of them and every so often he’ll bust one out like Is there an airport nearby, or was that my heart taking off? Completely deadpan.

Mic kinda half-laughs sometimes but once in a while he shoots one back in an attempt to defend himself. Aizawa considers this progress

Eventually Kayama pulls him aside like as hilarious as it is to watch you roast him, I think you’re starting to hurt his feelings.

Aizawa:

Like he thought they were really getting somewhere and Mic is just weathering the storm.

Aizawa has to try something else, since the pickup lines didn’t work. So he goes to the card store and gets the biggest, cheesiest I LOVE YOU bear in the whole place. The cashier asks him if he would like to add an audio message to the bear, and he says he would. Now the bear says “I love you beary much” in aizawa’s expressionless voice whenever you squeeze it.

Hizashi sleeps with it every night, even though he’s still not sure if Aizawa is making fun of him. but he took the bear so aizawa thinks he’s batting a thousand. Hizashi is a lot of work to win over but aizawa is used to working hard. It’s worth it. Especially when he ends up in Mic’s room for something or other and sees the bear on the bed - he’s in cloud freaking 9 because!! Success!! Meanwhile Mic is dying of mortification and praying for a villain with a murder quirk to show up and put him out of his misery. Aizawa thinks they’re dating now. The bear has been accepted.

Now aizawa has to google “how to be a good boyfriend.”

So Hizashi starts walking into the apartment after a long day of radio stuff and patrols to find Aizawa is just... standing in the dark doorway. Waiting. “Tell me about your day” he demands, in the same tone he uses to interrogate criminals as Mic shrieks and drops all his stuff. He can’t figure out what it is Shouta thinks he did, and if he did do it, and there’s... something on the table. It looks like it was food once, before the war.

“I made dinner” says Aizawa, from behind him. The kitchen is not actively on fire but all the windows are open and a suspicious smokiness lingers. It’s the middle of winter. There is snow in the apartment.

“That was... so thoughtful of you...” Mic says, putting his jacket back on.

Aizawa nods. Date night is a success. Another flawless victory, thanks to the internet. He had tried to cook along with a YouTube video but didn’t understand some parts were cut out, to save time. Hizashi eats it anyway. This is what love is.

Aizawa had planned for them to watch a movie after dinner but it takes six hours to clean the kitchen. Most of the pots are unsalvageable. He wanted to make chocolate covered strawberries, but they were out of season. So dessert is one of those cans of mandarin orange slices with Hershey’s syrup poured into it. Then Aizawa tried to light it on fire, for fanciness. It didn’t burn.

It’s still freezing cold in the apartment at bedtime, so Mic offers to share his bed so they can keep warm. “Is that moving too fast?” Aizawa asks. He really wants to, but Hizashi has been so slow to win over, he doesn’t want to blow it by rushing.

Hizashi thinks he’s making fun of him again. “I’m not going to jump you in your sleep Shouta,” he grumbles, and aizawa nods. So it’s like that then. He makes sure to keep six inches between them, as a buffer. The perfect end to the perfect date. He’s amazing at this.

Aizawa also sets phone alarms, so he remembers to do things like Text Hizashi To Ask About His Day. Hizashi has to get used to his 3pm "what are you doing" text from aizawa. There are no follow up questions.

One of the things on the list of good boyfriend things to do was "compliment your partner!" so Aizawa made a list of compliments to use and he texts mic one per day.

"You keep the bathroom very neat"

"You always remember the name of the takeout place"

"You're very punctual"

Hizashi, sobbing: I don't understand what's happening

The best part is that Hizashi already does all the good boyfriend things, so Aizawa thinks this relationship is going great!! He's a very lucky man.

Eventually, Mic just gets pushed too far. Aizawa's daily 5pm compliment text was "you look handsome today" and Hizashi just fucking snaps. He leaves work early and rushes home. Aizawa is in the kitchen trying to figure out how to cook a stir fry. After they finish with the fire extinguisher, Mic throws it aside and says "I can't take it anymore" and full on dips Aizawa into a kiss.

"Finally," they both say afterwards. They think they mean the same thing, but they do not.

[the-goddess-of-mischief-writing]

Pub Crawl {1}

Chapter Summary; A handsome stranger catches your eye the night you visit your friend's pub. The crowd is sparse and one you don’t personally know aside from what your friend had told you. However, thanks to a certain Scotsman, you get introduced to not only the company but the handsome stranger amongst them.

Pairing: John Price x reader

Rating: Mature

CHAPTER NO/ONESHOT: Chapter 1/3

Word; 8.6k

Warnings; nothing but banter and a few cheeky comments, alcohol consumption (drink responsibly), implied age-gap, Price is a warning in himself

Author; @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing​

A/N: Hi, yes hello, I’m not dead just partly buried, hence why this probs won’t be a full return of me publishing but at least I’m on my way :)

MAIN MASTERLIST

For once, it isn't raining.

Autumn was heaven on earth for the fat drops desiring to escape the clouds and fall through the sky, sometimes, but almost exclusively not, hitting from the top and dribbling down an umbrella. But, rather than a movie-scene drizzle trickling down the protective slope, it was an attempt at protection, a white-knuckled grip clutched the cane, leaning at a 90° angle rather than upright, fighting against the wind and a pelting onslaught from the side.

Winter combined melted drops with frosted ones, covering the ground in a thin powdery blanket, which soon turned into a see-through and an unsuspecting gleaming, vicious mantle on the pavement. Only to fade altogether, giving way to puddles close to but not frozen in temperature.

Spring was a combination of all. As if nature threw a tantrum about nearing a time when it couldn't do as it pleased. Resisting the occasional peak from rays through the clouds and surge in temperatures by darkening the skies and opening them for a last vengeance. Only it wouldn't be the last, one final time prolonged to what felt like an eternity.

Summer was a reflection of a stabilised temper, acceptance that mayhap light and the warming embrace of the sun wasn't all too bad. Even so, the lightest drizzle could occur, airy and with a habit of infecting the air with an earthy but cleansed smell, any arid dust shoved to the ground. Simply an act of reminiscence.

This early evening, however, the warmth lingered without a cloud in the sky and even thought of rain. Summer in the sense that you didn't need to care for a jacket as a defence from a creeping chill the night would bring. Nor an umbrella for a sudden onslaught from above. A summer day during which you didn't have to put much more thought than not too hot into deciding what to wear, followed by an evening where you didn't have to change if you didn't please.

You'd decided not to, the dress you'd worn deserving to see the morning's first rays, the high noon brightest light and the dying one creeping closer as the clock ticked onwards. Worthy experiencing days when the only watery hazard is the one yourself poised with a cooling drink clutched to your chest.

Not even now, when you head down the street to your destination, do you regret your choice. Considering there's still enough heat lingering in the air to fend off goosebumps on your bare arms and shins peeking out from beneath your skirt and, depending on how the slit on the left side moves, parts of your thigh.

Your eyes find the sign, which, for you, stands out even in the dark, but for others, blends right in with the familiar sight brandishing most pubs. It's more of a subconscious act, as you know your way around this street as the back of your hand, not in need of aid which the sign represents for those navigating the city as if newly found. And for those visiting, it was.

You, however, knew the needed steps to slow down to reach the entrance and pull the door open without having to do an awkward shuffle to get out of its way or move closer when it gets a tad far from your reach. Hence, when your toe hits the memorised line between two slabs of grey stone, you don't push off with your back foot as firmly.

Your steps are already subdued by your slightly heeled espadrilles -that's probably shocked at not being worn in the warmth close to the equator where the unevenness comes from sand rather than the unruly stone sidewalk- yet they soften even further when you shorten your steps as you lessen your pace, until falling entirely silent as you swing open the dark tainted wooden door.

Despite the nonexisting bell above the opening signalling someone entered, the slight sound from the door, that's prevailed without mending for as long as you've frequented this place, is enough to alert the ones inside if the crowd is small enough. And such seems to be the case tonight.

It isn't hard counting them to four. You went to school, after all. However, instinctively, it's harder to know they're in the same company. Perhaps you could've guessed, seeing how your newly added presence draws all their eyes in tandem, a reaction dissimilar from curiosity compared to habit.

You know you don't fit into the pub's setting by looks.

Its yellow glow lights up the space, the same dim shine trickling through the liquor wall a step or two behind the bar. The modest scene of dark mahogany, verging on black, wood lines the walls and constructs the tables and bartop, the sense of an old-fashion place rejuvenated by not an all too different sleek black facade framing the exterior. A balance between origins and future further accentuated by the golden lettering on the outside, proudly showcasing the place's name in modern writing, with an old-fashioned touch on the inside by the brass drafting stations twinkling as if to entice you it wasn't fools' gold and the stationary menu screwn onto the wall in an easily read font.

No, you know you, in what can be described as a dress fit for nothing but the summer outside and seemingly bringing with you the reflection of some of the sun's rays with the spares pattern of pale yellow flowers on the white fabric, compared to them, dressed in, despite civilian, clothes etched with militaristic dark colours, don't fit in here.

Yet you do, your looks simply deceiving. Otherwise, you might have started once you noticed the group giving you their attention for a brief moment, not being able to connect it and them to soldiers frequenting a bar they'd taken a liking to.

No hint would've been enough to figure it out despite what you might want to credit your drilled intuition for. No, the fact that you didn't shrink at what you otherwise would've described as unwanted attention was all in favour of your friend. Instead of hastily looking away and the 'don't give them attention and they will lose interest' thought slipping into your mind, you looked back, putting faces to the someones you before only heard of.

Two of them stand by the billiard table at the far left end of the room, the pair having shared a quick glance the moment you entered and only spotted them through the corner of your eye before your gaze found them. Although noting the action, it was one you paid less mind to than the mask along hood covering most of one of their features and the short mohawk on the other's head.

Their, what could count as a second, glance in your direction wasn't as swift as the first, yet still not long-lasting. You about got time to meet the dark eyes peeking through the mask of the former, the whites of the man's eyes shining through whatever coal-like colouring covered the bit of skin closest to his eyes, much like the pallid bones of the skull sewn into the black fabric. Whereas his eyes felt like a heavy cold that retreated the moment his gaze flickered down, closely followed by his towering frame bending by the waist to align his next shoot, the shorter of them has a spark in his, enhanced by the playful tug of his lip.

Despite not physically hearing what he says when he turns to his friend -who'd attempted but not succeeded in downing a striped ball- firing what most probably was some insult after being lightly whacked with the pole stick, you could practically hear the Scottish accent following his arm irritably flying up in the air.

One of them, the Scottish lad, doesn't seem to know the meaning of the universally recognised English word no, your friends' voice echoes in your head, brazen flirt.

Your eyes naturally seek the two others seated by a table and, by the looks of it, partaking in a conversation that hadn't halted but definitely slowed when they noted your added presence to what previously could be considered their space.

The black man to the left appears to be in the close range age-wise as the previous one, despite the lack of youthful glint in contrast to poise. Despite desiring, you couldn't conclude anything concerning the years between him and the masked man, regarding how the latter was hard to get any hunch on non-despite the time you would've gotten to scrutinise him.

When your gaze drifts to the occupied seat at his side, you realise that the conversation partner to the, who you now can call considerably younger, guy is a definitely more aged man. In fact, the blue-eyed man tilting his head and fleetingly, almost so you think it's instinctual rather than conscious, squint with his eyes, causing the space between his brows to crease significantly, appeared to be the oldest of the party. Not old, simply exceeding the rest with a few years. The full beard covering his cheeks and upper lip, while styled thinner on his chin, helped set him apart age-wise.

You realise you've kept your gaze connected, not only on the company but with his, for far too long being a quick survey of those already inside. Shy of an amount forcing you to turn your head to keep it with the pace you're maintaining forwards. You avert your eyes, fearful of being thought of as staring an unrespectful amount at the soldiers simply trying to flee their hectic profession for a night. Nevertheless, the movement becomes seamless rather than hurried when your eyes naturally fall on the woman calling your name.

A smile you couldn't hide, if you so would've wanted, unfurled on your lips as you followed the woman moving quickly enough from behind the bar that her curly hair bounced with each step.

"Marissa", you breathe out together with a chuckle as she engulfs you in a tight hug.

"You came earlier", her voice sounds from a notch above your ear before she pulls away, flashing her white teeth with the beaming smile she sports.

"Mhm, decided to cut my free day short just for you", you wink up at her.

Marissa's eyebrows rose. "Alright, missy, what important things did I interrupt you from doing?"

"A stroll in the park, a wonderful dinner". You bat your lashes, earning a snort and slap on the arm from her as she steps away.

"Oh, pipe down", she laughs, waving a hand over her shoulder for you to follow as she treks back to the bar. "I'll make it up to you, drinks and something to compensate for that lost dinner of yours s'on me".

With a shake of your head, smile now just pulling lightly at the edge of your mouth, you follow her, taking a seat at the bar as she takes her assigned position behind it.

"Same poison as always?" You nod whilst putting the small handbag you brought atop the counter, not afraid it'll disappear, concerning the small crowd. "Coming right up", she playfully flashes you the same smile she does while in the character of her occupation.

You cross one leg over the other, the dress parting to reveal the leg hooked over your knee, though not enough for you to readjust it. Marissa moves with practised ease behind the bar, filling a bowl of crisps, rather than the more often used cup, and putting it in front of you before gathering the necessary ingredients to blend your drink. Thanking her with a swift smile, you plop one of the salty Walkers into your mouth.

"So, how's life treating you then?" The question was followed by a clink as she set down the glass she'd fetched on the metal counter at the height of her waist.

"You make it sound like we haven't met for years". The corner of your lips quirked as Marissa looked up at you, skilled enough to not keep a watchful eye on the drinking glass to know she didn't pour one out for the fallen.

"Could just as well be when you ain't here to steer the ship with me". Marissa eyed you, sincerity bleeding into her brown gaze, warming it differently than when jest had nested there. "No thoughts on coming back?"

You shrugged, reaching for another crisp that remained pinched between your fingers until you answered her. "Might not be back permanently, like the freedom, but you know you can always reach out if you need a night off".

She chuckled as she reached for the next bottle. "I know, but it's hard leaving my Pearl now that she's mine".

You remember when this bar only had been the workplace down the road for you and Marissa. When it was memories from the first time you'd met. Back when she noticed how your newbie nerves wrecked you while getting the introduction, decidedly taking pity and teaching you the pace and spirit of the place more frequented by aged, but still as enthusiastic, supporters than partygoing youths. Two crowds not entirely different, as you'd learned.

It had only turned into the Pearl, inspired by the blackened ship of Marissa's favourite pirate, when the kind, older man owning the place had felt it was in better hands of a new generation with a burning passion in favour of his time-honoured work. You'd been at her side, helping to construct her fantasy into reality and being there to help the public notice it. She'd offered you co-ownership, but you'd rejected it.

Some would question if you didn't regret such a choice, now when it was a well-visited place of any age alike, often packed to the brim with people, though tonight was one of few exceptions. Yet, you didn't. Knowing you would always support her but couldn't ensure your presence.

"I understand", you empathised, watching her reach for the last garnish for the drink before presenting it to you with the added chivalry of a grand gesture showcasing her work.

"For the missy", she smiled, waiting for you to taste it.

Raising the cold glass to your lips, you sipped the drink. The immediately recognisable taste spanned over your tastebuds, starting at the font with a subtle bite, then moulding into a hidden sweetness along the edges of your tongue until the slight burn of the liquor reached the back of your throat.

"Perfection, as always". The aftertaste of your favoured spirit rolled through your mouth on your exhale, coating the words you'd breathed in satisfaction.

"I only serve the best". Marissa chuckled at your confirming hum and pleased expression as you took a second sip. One that turned into a vigilant one by the cock of your eyebrow when she leaned forward, forearms resting against the same wooden countertop you put your glass down onto. "But to more intriguing things, how's dating going?"

You couldn't help the scoff that slipped out, though you wouldn't take it back either. "Don't know why I even let you convince me to try".

"I remember you mentioned some boy last we talked?" She attempted, but you only sent her a dead look.

"Yeah, sadly, he remained a boy". This time she narrowed her eyes.

"It can't have been that bad-"

"Oh, but it was", you interjected, spiralling into explaining just how bored out of your mind you'd been at the mind-numbing monologue he didn't realise he held until suddenly asking if you wanted to go to his or your place, to which you'd replied that you would go to yours, but didn't extend the invite to him.

"You're cruel!". Marissa slapped you on the arm, but you only gave her a one-shouldered shrug as you raised your glass to your lips. Attempting to wash away the godawful memory she'd made you relive.

"No, it's a crime that he even dared to consider it would go any further when I was drier than the conversation he had", you replied, hiding your smile behind the rim of your glass at her snort and head shake. "Enough about me. How's your lovey-dovey life going?" You asked her once you swallowed your sip, rolling your glass in the air to whirl around the liquid inside.

"You know I don't have time". Marissa rolled her eyes, blowing a strand of black hair from her face as she snatched a crisp from the steadily lowering pile in your bowl and chucked it in her mouth.

"Some good-looking people surely visit this place?"

"Yeah, with the worst pick-up lines known on God's green earth", you chuckled at her exasperated tone. "You know about it all too well. You find yourself rolling your eyes into the back of your skull before they even open their mouth". She threw her hand up in the air, fiery body language emerging at the topic anyone having worked behind a bar could relate to.

"Speaking about those individuals-". You stopped yourself from continuing as you quickly noted you didn't keep her attention, her eyes having flickered over your shoulder, zeroing in on something shielded from your position.

"Don't take my pardon for you on the non-smoking rule for granted, Price!" Your brows rose at her call-out, stopping the glass' motion before lowering it to the counter. Concerning the sparse crowd, there weren't many she could direct her sentence to, so with curiosity spiking at getting more information on the men you'd noted when entering, you twisted to look behind you at whom your friend redirected her attention.

The man with a beard, Price, held a cigar between his fingertips, its tail glowing red. You caught the end of a shuffle he did in his seat, a slight lean to the side with his upper body, probably to pocket a lighter.

"Appreciating every moment of the pardon, ma'am". His voice was a bizarre mixture of rough and smooth, nonetheless deep, vibrating like a low rumble in your ear as if meant for none but you, despite his response being loud enough to be caught by everyone.

After his words, you realised, it hadn't been a stern warning your friend called out. Not by how he followed his sentence by raising his cigar as a toast with a tug in the corner of his mouth and dip of his head, to which Marissa only chuckled, the disregarding wave of hers to both his sentence and action an indistinct motion in your peripheral.

Despite the conversation seemingly done and you not being involved in it from the beginning, Price's gaze shifts to you as he raises the rolled tobacco to his mouth. Your eyes involuntarily flicker to his lips as he purses them, following his move of inhaling a mouthful, before seeking out his gaze once more to cover where they'd fallen.

After a few seconds of holding his gaze, a veil of ivory whisps from his mouth. Though tinting the air in front of his face, it does little to hide the cock of his head as the cigar fall when he lets his hand rest against the table. The move is a silent, possibly humoured, question. An acknowledgement of your focus kept on him well past what's needed.

You don't start. Not physically, at least. But, a flare of something in your body widens your gaze a wee bit, your head turning before the conscious thought of executing the movement reaches your frontal lobe.

You meet Marissa's gaze, at least briefly, before it quickly flickers back to where your attention just returned from. Then, as she returns it to you with a neatly trimmed brow lifted, a suspecting look bleeds into her eyes.

"You were saying?" She doesn't need to explicitly point it out. Still, you catch the meaning behind her question aimed at your earlier attempt at talking with her, how she metaphysically points towards the person she indirectly introduced you to as Price.

"I was about to ask about the lot". You throw a minimal tip of your head in the general direction of the men you don't want to confess have kept a fair share of your attention. Your ear closest to them trying, but failing, to catch occasional bits of their conversation.

"Or perhaps a special someone in that lot?" She can't ward off the grin in her voice, thankfully a lowered one, and your immediate response is to huff and roll your eyes. Even so, you can't do much about the few extra beats your heart puts in than usual in the seconds following her question.

"In fact, yes. Who's the Scot you can't stop talking about despite his constant flirting?" You rebutted.

"Now ya can't stop talkin' 'bout me?" You hastily look to your side at the heavy Scottish accent, just about catching the heavy roll of your friend's eyes before facing the newly added presence of the man you'd singled out as the Scotsman earlier. An easy smile lightens his face as he leans his broad upper body on the bar by his elbow. Then, when he notices your focus on him, his head turns. "Don't think I've seen ya 'ere before, bonnie".

His eyes flicker over your features, mapping your attributes as if something would set off a memory hidden deep in his consciousness. Knowing he wouldn't find one, you give him a smile. "Neither have I seen you", you reply. His eyes find yours, eyebrows making a quick quirk before they fall, his smile turning into a broad beam, flashing white teeth.

"Ya seem close", he nods towards Marissa.

"Mhm, we've known each other for a few years". The dark-haired man leans closer, hand coming up to shield his mouth from your friend's view despite making it ineffective by speaking just as loudly as before.

"Then perhaps ya could give me a tip or two on 'ow I can whoo 'er?" You shield your amusement behind a swiftly raised knuckle when Marissa fixes her eyes on the man at your side.

"Oh, leave the girl alone, MacTavish", she began before continuing with a huff. "And her food". She swatted at his hand. Still, he managed to seize some of your crisps, sending you a glance as if to ask if he didn't overstep first after his action was completed. With a swift cock of your eyebrows and amused huff at his frisky antics, he must've understood no offence was taken.

"Ya know I've only got me eyes on ya, Riss". You can't help but chuckle at his cheeky wink following the unfamiliar nickname when he turns back to your friend.

"Did you come here for something or just to pester me?" You caught how her sentence lacked the exhaustion she wanted it to convey, causing your head to tip. Perhaps... not just a flirt like the rest, then.

"Lost the game, s’need to pay for the drinks", he shrugged. "The usuals, aside from John, stubbornly remainin' a teetotaler for some unknown reason", he huffed out the last part of the sentence without much bitterness.

"He drove here if you remember", Marissa returned.

"Big guys' turn, could've skipped it", the Scotsman declared with a shrug, she didn't argue further about their chosen way of arrival, but before she turned to prepare their order, her eyes drifted to meet yours. You immediately caught the glint that stopped her from getting to work.

"Well, perfect timing to get in my good book MacTavish", she began, motioning to you as she continued. "Missy here asked about you lot", your jaw set as you sent her a look, needing to wipe it off your face and swapping to flashing the Scot, who now turned to you with his brows raised, a bashful smile.

"Steamin' Jesus", he chuckled, picking out the hand that had rested in his pocket. "My bad, bonnie. John MacTavish, but call me Johnny". You shook his outstretched hand, reciprocating the greeting with your name. When he let go, he looked over to his side. The glee that had entered his blue gaze was nearly tangible once it shifted back to you.

"Come on, le' me introduce ya to the rest".

"Oh", your eyes widened. "T-That's not necessary, wouldn't want to disturb-"

"The lads won't mind", he said with a strict finality not entirely matching his cheery grin as he pushed off the countertop. You spared a look at Marissa, but rather than saving you, she turned and started preparing the drinks requested.

"Go on, I'll come out with the refreshments", she called over her shoulder, as if sensing your eyes digging into her back, forcing you to move out of your position on the high chair.

You wouldn't call it dragged, but it felt like you were dragged along by Johnny to get introduced to the men you'd noted upon arrival. 

You had half a mind murmuring an excuse, slipping from his company as all their eyes turned to you. Despite it solely being the man in a skull-embroidered mask and hoodie physically turning, seeing how he'd be leaning against the back of a chair at their seemingly chosen group of tables, their attention-heavy gazes locking on you at their returning companion's side made you feel smaller than you already did whilst flanking Johnny.

"Lads", Johnny called out to the men as if their concentration hadn't slipped from anything previously occupying them to direct towards you before he stepped into the company's presence. You halted a step behind, not desiring to disturb their peace despite your curiosity towards them, along with the invitation from the man now gesturing to you. "Meet the lass!"

"A name, Johnny", the gruff voice, personified grit and gravel, huffed. You glanced at the one it stemmed from, meeting still dark but not black eyes, rather the intense chestnut ones of the towering man to both your and Johnny's left. He'd stopped leaning on the chair, now standing a head taller than the Scot at your side, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze met yours with the same unwithering stare before his eyes shifted to the man separating you. "Don't forget niceties". The comment sounded less like a reprimand and more like a mocking remark despite the even tone of his voice.

"Says the social genius ya are". The Scot was given no reaction from the towering man more than an eye-roll.

Ignoring the wordless response as though used to it, Johnny angled his body towards the two men sitting to your right, trading your name for theirs.

"Meet Kyle". The younger of the two nodded. The greeting tilt of his head was a considerate motion followed by a nearly hesitant wave to you, attempting and succeeding at calming you somewhat. The same kindness -at least a more generous portion of it in contrast to the accompanying awkwardness embedded in his actions- was mirrored in his brown eyes.

"John", Johnny continued with a wave to the one you now gathered wasn't simply Price, but the John the Scot mentioned earlier. Meeting his gaze, you noted his eyes were bluer up close, aquamarine, absorbing the dimmed lighting to glow in contrast. The crows-feet in the edges of his eyes paints him in a remarkably softer notion compared to what you initially would've depicted as a poised man. His moustache conceals most of the slight smile urging the earlier creases by his eyes, but somehow its warmth reaches you and lets you know the subtle greeting is there.

"And the grump 'ere is Ghost". You redirect your attention, somewhat reluctant, catching how Johnny claps the man who'd initially spoken on the shoulder. Something is mumbled beneath the large man's breath as he side-eyes the Scot. And, not far from what you'd expected, his sole greeting came in the form of meeting your gaze once he turned to you.

"Makes sense". As you said this with a shrug, Ghost cocked his head. The first reaction you'd managed to pull from him.

"Why?" Despite the gruffness he exuded from the short word and how it wrapped around the question verging on a command, it didn't feel intended to be one. Not from the slight roll of his shoulders after.

Despite staring at his undisclosed features, you can't help but smile. 

"Well, Skull doesn't have the same ring to it. Now does it?" Johnny snorted to your right, and you caught the chuckles coming from Kyle and John.

"And the bonnie's got humour as well. You'll fit right in". Johnny put a hand on your shoulder, much gentler than when he'd offered a similar gesture to Ghost. You looked up at him with brows knitted together, only to be greeted by what you now had coined as his signature grin on his face as he motioned forward with his chin. "Sit down, lass". You were about to protest when Marissa rounded you as if materialising from nowhere, setting a tray of drinks on the table, five instead of the requested two for the drinkers.

"Took the liberty of assembling some virgin drinks for the drivers", she motioned to the two drinks standing closer together than the rest. "Botten up, guys", she invited them to take their corresponding beverage before turning to you. "And girl", she sent you a wink as your eyes fixated on a similar drink to the one you'd consumed earlier amongst their pints of beer and low-balled glasses filled with russet liquid.

"Ah, ya read me thoughts, Riss!" Johnny's eyes locked on the drink none of them was familiar with, the one designated for you.

"Know how your mind works, Johnny-boy", she chuckled, to which you could practically feel how the dark-haired man vibrated through the hand still resting atop your shoulder. "I'll be back, just gonna fetch something to munch on". She spun on her heel, and you couldn't excuse yourself with your drink resting amongst theirs. Still, you hesitated to move forwards, taking your drink and a seat amongst them as they reached for their chosen and given beverages.

"Sit down, love", your eyes snapped to John at the gentle baritone roll of his voice, the pet name somehow fitting his character rather than sounding like an attempt at coercing you, as it so often did. 

He leaned back again, the same hand that previously held a cigar now gripping a crystalline glass of whatever liquid Marissa perchance knew was the closest to what he preferred. In the motion of settling back, his other hand grabbed the chair beside him, dragging it out enough to show it was an invitation to take the seat beside him. An inherent act of chivalry.

Your eyes flitted to the seat, lower lip curling inwards and teeth hooking gently into the soft flesh as you eye his arm slung over the back of the- your chair.

A tremble centred in your back, taking the form of a knot between your shoulder blades, made you worry whether Johnny felt you vibrating beneath his palm. But, before the sensation can travel to your chest and, like wines with a prickly surface to touch, intertwine with the muscles in your torso, nestling close to your vocal cords, your gaze travels back to those blues never having fallen from you.

You let go of your lip, an easy smile spreading in its stead. Somehow effortless when your attention is on the man lounging opposite you. 

"Okay then". Something flickers in John's eyes, satisfaction perhaps, as he nods.

When you step forward -out of Johnny's touch, causing him to sit in the unoccupied chair beside him- you pick up your sole glass still resting on the tray Marissa had brought them. Although your eyes had fallen to the drink you reached for, in the upper corner of your eye, you notice John taking a sip of his beverage before straightening in his seat.

It's not far between you and your offered seat, a couple of steps and shuffles, but whilst making your way over, John drops his arm from the backrest. Don't want to invade your space, the action seems to say, and the accompanying smile -modest, merely a tug in his lips to reassure those closer than strangers yet not friends- directed at you from the man strengthens your guess of his gentlemanly manners.

Placing your glass on the table, you sit down, pulling the chair slightly closer to the table and consequently to John. It's unforced by the table's curved design and the angle at which you need to be positioned to face the rest of the company, but the proximity doesn't leave you as unaffected as its insignificance should. Not when you brush against the dark beige jacket, considerably thicker than the weather outside required, draped over his backrest. Nor when he shuffles his body to accommodate your presence at his side.

The white tight-fitted shirt stretched over his chest, the dark-washed jeans encasing his legs, none of them had made him any justice from afar. John Price was broad. 

It dawns on you when you're as comfortable as you could be in what feels like the not-so-intended, but nevertheless, hot seat at the table. Whereas you sit inside both the physical space limiting the chair's surface area and the theoretical room designated around you were allowed to claim as yours, John did not.

He made it seem undersized. Exhibiting its design faults for someone his stature. His shoulders outstretched the backrest. His spine curved somewhat, escaping the seat's wooden back from digging into the awkward space just between his backbone and beneath his shoulder blades. Despite the armest bending from the backrest, a curve on either side a notch or so lower, seemingly at a proper level for him to lean on, the seat it encased wasn't big enough. 

Although he attempted to perfect his pose by stretching out his legs as much as possible beneath the table and leaning towards his right, something you realised was in favour of you receiving that space designated in the air around your seat, his thighs spread wide, invading the edge of it anyways, much like the left side of his body.

He didn't appear uncomfortable, but it was enough to emphasise just how big the man beside you was in comparison. And yet, when you swept an eye over your table companions, Ghost dwarfed the chair even more ridiculously with his behemoth stature.

"So how come you know, Marissa?" Your eyes find Kyle as he leans forward, fingers lightly resting around a pale pint of beer. Wouldn't have guessed.

"As I mentioned to Johnny-". You nodded towards the Scot, who was nursing his drink yet quickly raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement at his name. "-I've known her for a few years, met through work".

"Work?" Kyle cocked his head.

"At the previous place occupying this spot, then helping her re-build it into this and helping around in the beginning". You waved a finger around the place before sipping your drink.

"Haud on, lass", you raised your brows, shifting to Johnny when he interjected. "Ya sayin' it's ya Riss has mentioned helped 'er build the place?" He mimicked your previous motion around the place but with a much more expressive gesture. And you hummed with an accompanying nod. Johnny whistled then, leaning back and crossing his wide arms over his chest, a lopsided grin etched onto his features. "Would never peg ya for a barmaid".

"Don't judge a book by its cover, Johnny", you flashed him a smile. And he only raised his eyebrows high with a cock of his head to the side, evidently agreeing.

"Bloody good cover". You hadn't expected Ghost's low comment to come as an addition to the conversation.

"How so?" You asked, more out of curiosity of inviting him into the conversation than the answer, which you already knew what it would include but not in what form it would come.

"You look like a fuckin' sunshine", he scoffed.

"Need someone to lighten up the gloom you pose as", you returned with a chuckle, starting to get a sense of the large and, in comparison to the average fellow, intimidating man and his sense of persona. And much like you'd thought, instead of taking offence at your comment that perhaps would've made other customers hold their breath in concern for you if they'd lingered about, he exhaled, the puff of air sounding less as irritation and more amusement.

"We got Johnny for that". You bit back the smile threatening to break out when the satisfied look the Scotsman sent you got wiped from his face when Ghost continued. "But you can take his place. Seem less turbulent".

"Away n' bile yer heid!" He exclaimed, the foreign words sounding like a jumbled mess in your ears, yet there was no need to understand the sentence thanks to its accompanying bite.

"English, Mactavish", Ghost deadpanned.

"Ya know what it means", he grunted.

"Bicker like an old married couple". You tilted your head towards Kyle as he mumbled this under his breath, sending you an entertained smile when he noted you heard him before Ghost's voice pulled your attention back to them.

"The lady doesn't".

When your eyes found his dark ones, you noted they sparked with something more hospitable. Though you got the impression it was more thanks to how Johnny's eyes snapped to you with slight unease.

"I've worked behind a bar. So I know swearing when I hear it", you shrugged.

"Aye, dae think ya have". The dark-haired man took a mouthful of his beverage, not following Ghost's push to explain his foul-mouthed exclaim. Instead, he steered the conversation in a new direction.

As he swallowed, his head cocked, eyes narrowing as his eyes dropped from yours and flitted over your build. He leant forward then, forearms resting on the table as a grin spread on his lips. "One of ya customers ever dared ya to outdrink them?"

You couldn't help the surprised laugh escaping you. "Many times".

"Ya ever won?"

"When off hours, yes".

"You takin' the shiet!" He raised a hand to point at you as his back straightened. "No fuckin' way you're anythin' but lightweight".

"Ain't lighter than you, Johnny", Ghost mocked.

"Says ya", the Scotsman rebutted. "Who outdrank you last time?".

"That is something I don't believe", you jutted in, and Ghost sent you a glance, something akin to humour flashing in them before he turned to Johnny.

"You were under the table".

"But I won".

"Barely conscious to notice", you chuckled at their back and forth. Thus earning the Scot's attention once more.

"If ya think ya are as smug as this one-", he jutted a thumb towards Ghost. "-then I dare ya to outdrink me, bonnie".

"Fuckin' hell", the gruff curse came from the man who shut his eyes beside Johnny. If the previous exchange wasn't enough, something about the reaction told you this dare of Johnny's wasn't rare.

"'M not haulin' you to the car this time", Kyle stated, nearly as much exasperation in his voice as Ghost's action. Not rare, indeed.

"Won't be needin' if ya join us", he attempted enticing Kyle, who curtly shook his head, showing he wanted to relish his beer rather than pick years of his life with Russian water by taking a long swig with an overly enjoying sound.

"You're a troublemaker", you accused the drink-happy Scotsman.

"'eard that one before", he grinned. "But, compared to the lads asking ya otherwise, I ain't beggin' to tail ya home after".

Up until now, John hadn't said anything. He'd sat silent this whole time, spinning his drink between his fingers, seemingly enjoying your chat with the others. Watching, observing you interact with them. You hadn't dared turn to him despite wanting to engage him in the conversation, not even a quick glance, fearing it would reveal the true intentions that not even you fully knew the cause of other than intrigue and how he'd caught your eye out of the men forming the group, to why you wanted to invite him. Yet, after Johnny's comment, it happened naturally.

He stopped his movement, still not speaking up. Yet, his body shifting brought as much of your attention as if he would've. Even the Scot's eyes sought the man beside you.

But it wasn't your gaze John met. Instead, he looked straight ahead, tilting his head at Johnny. Your eyes flickered between the two, yet none the wiser of the contents of their silent exchange. Finally, however, when the Scotsman threw his arms out, seemingly understanding whatever had transpired, you got the slightest insight.

"Ain't nothin' wron' with that", Johnny seemingly defended his previous comment. "Not makin' the lass uncomfortable, aye?" His teal eyes flickered to you in confirmation, to which you reassured him with a smile and shake of your head. Working behind a bar had earned you a fair share of worse remarks. "See, Captain?"  

"Captain?" It was reactionary, eyebrows shooting up, thoughts spoken aloud and body turning towards him before John even could open his mouth to respond. You nearly cringed when he turned to you instead of answering Johnny. It wasn't because of the silence following your question. But whatever had swept over his face, or rather, remained there from when his attention was set on the Scot across the table.

It wasn't visible compared to when you'd faced him when you initially disturbed their company at the bar. Not a contort of features, more like a thin invisible sheet over John's face. Despite looking the same, something had changed. Something had entered his eyes, you registered as they first met your gaze before flickering over your face, not in alarm, but rather a sharp attentiveness. Your gaze flitted over his face, pausing at his eyebrows and lips, yet none of the otherwise telling features gave away anything, honed into the same guise as his gaze. The action is well-trained, at least from what little you can depict, showing the very much poised man you'd initially -and perhaps not as wrongly- coined him as.

You swallowed, lips rolling inwards. If not too telling, you would've screwed your eyes shut before turning to look over your shoulder, silently calling for Marissa to aid you as you regretted opening your maw. Instead, you offered a smile. Not as smoothly brought forth as previously, when he had offered you a soft one.

"I'm... I'm sorry, rude of me to interrupt", you excused yourself, hoping it would dissipate whatever had infiltrated the air after Johnny's comment or perhaps your reaction to it.

"No need". John's answer wasn't curt, but neither did it seem he intended to develop the turn the conversation could take.

You wouldn't want to pry if it wasn't something he or the others desired to discuss. But, neither did you long for the possibly awkward silence that would follow if John didn't reveal something about a reasonably crucial topic to discuss if wanting to get to know them. Trust Johnny to help you out, though.

"Aye, my bad, lass. Should've introduced ya to us as the protectors of the nation we are". You didn't doubt he had the skill of dissolving any situation verging on uneasy. Still, you realised his comment was only a half-joke attempting to mention the matter and brush past it without too much attention brought to it.

Concerning how, in fact, you knew more about the situation than what they could assume, you sheepishly glanced around the table before speaking up.

"M'not going to lie to you boys. I've gotten the gist". You motioned behind you to where you heard Marissa moving in and out of the back room and behind the bar. "And you army boys are not too hard singling out". Regardless of their leisure postures -or attempt at them- you'd still noted they all carried the same square military stance, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, as if a particular vigilance was always infused into their spines. That much your drilled intuition unravelled once you took a seat among them.

"So, you knew?" Your eyes sought John at his soft question. He'd cocked his head, whatever was present in his features from the previous interaction having melted away. You breathed out, the tensions in your neck dissolving somewhat, causing your shoulders to lower.

"Of the patrons frequenting my friend's bar once off duty? Yeah, you hear about those things", you answered with a sideways nod, voice lowering for some reason. The same soothing compassion brushed away whatever impassiveness momentarily had swept over his features, softening his eyes once more, causing an upwards tilt of his lips.

"Good that it's already settled then, so we don't have to keep it in the dark". Why? You had mind enough to not voice your thoughts this time, beating your curiosity.

"Though, some would've done a piss poor job at it", you commented, now speaking in a hushed tone, not intentionally suppressing your words aimed at a specific Scot as your eyes still sought him across the table.

John's eyes travelled to the same target as you even though a chuckle preceded the action, hinting that he already knew who your comment concerned. The sound is as pleasant as his following voice in your ears. 

"Cheers to that". He raised his glass, seemingly untouched since he'd gotten it if the original coral but now diluted colour from the melting ice-sphere was anything to go by. Lifting your own glass, you tapped it against his.

"Ya conspirin' over there, Price?" Johnny's eyes flickered between the two of you. Attempting to hide the dead giveaway smile threatening to spread, you raised your glass and sipped your drink. But, seeing how John schooled his features, he let his glass remain elevated and overtook the conversation.

"Would never".

Johnny huffed. "Believe you do after the shiet we pull".

"You", Ghost corrected.

John clicked his tongue, amusement lacing the action. "Outing yourself, soldier? Then it would only be just". Something about acknowledging their profession, the following smirk conveying John's lips, the company's chuckles and further comments changed something in the air. It felt less restrictive, less tip-toeing around a subject and matter of acting than previously. They relaxed, you noticed, rolling their shoulders until they dropped a notch, rounding their backs, sinking deeper into their seats.

"Sorry to keep you waiting". Marissa's appearance in the open space by the table shifted your attention. She's gotten another tray in her hands, balancing several different bowls containing typical pub bites.

You follow her movement of unloading them onto the table, nursing your drink with a pleasant hum at the taste washing over your tastebuds. However, when you caught John finally raising the glass -that had hung in the air since clinking your glass to his in the mocking of a certain Scotsman- and the twitch in his upper lip, enhanced rather than concealed by his moustache, succeeded the motion, you turned to him again.

With a cocked brow, you nodded towards the drink he currently sent a look as he set it down on the table. You must've missed the action of dislike at his initial taste. "Not a fan?"

He hummed noncommittally at first, thrumming his finger beside the glass before he turned to you. "Bit too sweet compared to the real thing for my taste". His voice was lowered as attempting to hide it from Marissa.

"Spoken like a true alcoholic", you chuckled. Though no sound escaped him, you noted his shoulder jumps as he shook his head. Directing your gaze over the table once more, you notice Johnny helps by moving the small bowls further from the edge than where Marissa initially puts them. One of them he keeps closer to himself.

"Anything the gentleman fancies?" You turned to look at John, whose eyes travelled to meet yours a few seconds later. As he gave you his attention, you noted how the crease you'd seen fleetingly earlier in the evening had entered the space between his brows again. "Can't have you without a drink and something to nibble on, so what do you prefer?" You explained at his pause.

"I'm a classic. Chasews is a go-to". You nodded, not waiting for the rest of the company to snatch what they wanted before rising slightly from your seat and reaching over the table.

"Takin' what ya want, aye", Johnny cheekily commented as you grabbed the bowl of cashews he just moved inwards.

"Indeed". You flashed the dark-haired man a smile, eyes falling to the bowl of crisps, the same ones you'd had earlier, in front of him. Reaching forth, you dared to snatch one. "Payback for earlier", you held it up, and this time, he couldn't help but chuckle.

As you dragged the cup back with your free hand, your eyes caught Marissa's as she gathered the tray she'd left behind earlier. She cocked a brow, ever as observant, as you moved the small bowl before John in your motion of sitting back. 

You broke away from her persistent gaze -attempting to convey whatever she was thinking, but you deliberately ignored- to give him a small smile on top of the snack you'd fetched before popping the crips into your mouth. He gave you one in return, seemingly about to say something from how he opened his mouth but was interrupted by Kyle.

"Who's in for a game of cards?" Your eyes found him, or more so, the deck of cards he'd pulled forth and was shuffling.

"Count me in", Johnny quickly replied as if pulling forth the cards worked similarly on him as a whistle did for a dog, whilst now sliding the bowls towards who you guessed favoured what the most. Aside from John, that was.

"Ghost?" Kyle directs at the large man, his reply a curt nod. "Price?"

You don't catch John's answer, instead zeroing in on the conversation at the other end of the table.

"Take a seat, Riss, stay for a round". The Scotsman blinks up at your friend. You watch her jut her hip out, the two trays now tucked beneath one arm and pressed into the side of her body.

"What would the customers say if they saw me not doing my job?"

"What other customers?" One set of brown and one set of blue eyes snap to you at your comment. His hopeful, hers attempting to shut you up. A flirt like the rest, your ass. "I don't see many others at the moment". You cocked your head, daring her to say no. Like she'd trapped you earlier, you'd done the same now.

"Fine", she sighed dramatically. "Let me just go and put these away", she motioned to the trays before making a swift exit to store them behind the bar again.

"Knew ya would come in handy, bonnie". Johnny grinned at you, to which you only gave him a wink.

That was when you felt someone lean into your space, instinctively turning towards the person you were met with John.

"Do you play?" He isn't inappropriately close, yet you could still imagine feeling the breath his question was carried on against your skin. The grin tugging in the corners of your mouth from your previous conversation threatened to soften enough that your lips would part.

Seeing how he'd straightened in his seat, a height you previously only presumed was above average, made itself more noticeable. By the close proximity, his arms nearly touching yours where both of your arms lie on each of your armrests, it felt like John leaned over you.

"What game?" You managed to get out.

"Poker".

You hum in acknowledgement. "I'll jump in after a few rounds". He nods, not pushing you to join immediately. As he leans back, posture still straighter than before, Kyle starts dealing out the cards.

[chronicallycouchbound]

Winter Solstice Reflections / Homeless Persons Memorial Day

I was 16 when I moved from the Pacific Northwest to New England. I had recently come out as trans, and I was hoping the move would be a fresh start. But the physical abuse I had already been facing at home escalated. 

It was two days after Christmas when I was told to leave and never come back, so I packed what little belongings I had into a bag as quickly as I could and rushed out the door. I didn’t have food or a plan or anywhere to stay. 

It’s my luck that the first blizzard I ever experienced was on my first night of homelessness here. I remember the cold night air on my freshly bruised skin and it felt nice. It felt like freedom. As I crossed the bridge from one town to the next, the snowflakes were still small and gently falling. 

In exactly one week, it will mark 8 years since that first night in the cold. It wasn’t my first or last time being homeless, but it was the longest time, and I didn’t know many people, let alone people I could live with.

Most often, I stayed in the middle of nowhere. I slept on floors, in cars, on benches, under awnings, in abandoned buildings; and anywhere I could put my backpack down as a pillow and throw my jacket over me as a blanket. The cold no longer felt comforting– it was a threat to my existence. I prayed every time I closed my eyes to not freeze to death. 

I didn’t have proper clothes— Chuck Taylors which had too many holes to count, basketball shorts worn under my pants that were two sizes too big for me, well-loved band tees, and a jacket that wasn’t even close to waterproof. I felt cold in my bones. 

On nights I had nowhere else, I walked around all night until McDonald’s or Dunkin opened up. I remember counting steps to focus on anything but the stinging of cold. I would go into the bathroom and run my hands under the faucet until they turned from pale blue to bright red. My hands burned when they finally thawed out. Eventually, the blue became just another thing to carry with me, like my backpack and the weight of homelessness. 

For a few months, I spent nights all over the county, and then, after finally getting permission from my parents to access it, stayed at the youth shelter for three years. On my first night at the shelter, I arrived late– nearly midnight. I was afraid to go in. But, they set me up a bed anyway. 

Soon after I laid down, a guy a few years older than me came in from work. His bed was right next to mine. He leaned over and whispered to me in the darkness that if I needed anything, just to let him know. His name was Peter. 

That was the year I met my street mom who told me I reminded her of her younger self. Her name was Sarah. I couch-surfed with Abby, who always snuck me extra pizza from her work so I wouldn’t go hungry. 

Living at the shelter I met Ryan, who made us laugh as if it kept us warm. And Ariah gave anyone anything they needed if she had it. I miss Peter, and Sarah, and Abby, and Ryan, and Ariah, and all the many other friends I’ve lost. 

My friends were people who stood up for me, who gave me the clothes off their backs, food off their plates, and cared for me better than family. We all struggled together and never had to explain ourselves. We were welcome just as we were. 

It’s hard for me to exist in this town sometimes. I walk around and can see all the places where I nearly died, where someone else died, or where I slept at night. I’ve lost count of all the people I’ve lost over the years. I have fond memories of rooms and cars filled with people smiling and telling jokes, and then I remember that I’m the only one still alive out of all of us.  

People tell me I should feel lucky to have survived, congratulating me. Acting like I should be proud to "overcome" while the system still hurts us all. As my friends– my family, are still in the streets dying. I feel guilty to just be alive. Our whole community is grieving all the time. 

Tonight, as the sun sets, the temperature will feel like 2 degrees. There will be 15 hours and 18 minutes of darkness. This is only the beginning of a long, cold winter. Our community members will still be in the cold. We are still dying for warmth. 

We don’t need art installations, we don’t need benches with three bars, we don’t need air b&bs. We need fewer barriers and more supports. We need safe, stable, reliable, and affordable housing. We’ve needed it for a long time. As my good friend Ariah always said, “Keep your coins, we want change”

(From my speech on 12/21/23 for National Homeless Persons Memorial Day)

[smolcinnamonchipmunk]

Witness Protection

(I’m sorry for not posting anything actually in a while. Headspace has not been very good. So, forgive me for being self-indulgent and traumatizing another self-insert.)

Count: 3544

TW/CW: Brief graphic depiction of a murder, blood, panic attack, fear of dying/death, unintentional fearplay, aaaaand soft, safe M/nb G/t vore

I loved nighttime.

Aside from being time from work for most people, it was a time for people to relax inside and unwind before bed, even on the weekends when more people would stay up.

But, for me, it was a chance to go outside without worrying about other people for the most part. Sure, sometimes there were some joggers that ran the same paths I did, but it was blissfully quiet after midnight. Especially on an average work night like tonight where almost everyone was asleep. No cars, no barking or bustling, just... calm. A nice night to listen to some music from my earbuds and stretch my legs from being cooped up in my apartment.

The only thing I didn't like was the chill that permeated the night air, making me shudder a bit and internally grumble in my sweater and oversized flannel jacket. Some people would suggest gloves, I hated the feeling. I much preferred beanies like the red one I wore for the night. It kept my head warm and also made it so that I didn't have to do anything to my easily unkempt, fluffy hair.

I exhaled through my nose and blinked a bit when my breath fogged in front of my face, blinding me for a second as the cloud clung to my glasses. Rolling my eyes and murmuring "Of course." under my breath, I stopped and pulled them off of my face to clear them.

When I placed my glasses back on my face, I thought I saw something in the reflection of the glass. I looked up curiously and saw nothing around me save for fallen leaves coasting on the breeze.

Wondering if it was a stray cat or raccoon, I carefully walked towards the direction I thought the reflection would have come from. An alleyway that would be a perfect hiding spot for any stray animals. I thought idly that if it was a cat, maybe I could coax it back home for a bath.

Stepping up to the entrance of the alleyway, I strained to see in the darkness.

There was a shifting shape about the height of a dog, but... weird. If I had to try and equate the shape in the darkness, I would have had to guess that it was a dog trying to get into a trash bag? Maybe? I'd never exactly seen anything like it, so it was difficult for me to wrap my head around.

A bit curious and worried, I let out a concerned exhale and kept from vocalizing to avoid scaring off the dog, pulling out my phone. Opening my phone, I turned on the flashlight as something raised in the dark.

I froze.

The weirdly jerky and hunched shape wasn't a dog attempting to dig into a discarded trash bag. It was someone struggling to keep a bound woman beneath them subdued.

A woman whose face was streaked with wet mascara from tears, mouth gagged by a bandana or rag, shirt and leggings dirty with some holes presumably from struggling while her hands and ankles were tied. Who's green eyes flickered briefly towards me as the flashlight clicked on, giving me the horrible sight of the light leaving her eyes as a knife plunged into her throat in a crimson splatter that misted her and the person holding the knife.

I saw steam from hot blood meeting the colder air.

The attacker, who swung down as I turned on my flashlight, quickly looked up from the still warm corpse on instinct. I saw them recoil, the hood of their jacket and a winter mask that covered the lower half of their face preventing me from getting a good look at them. I don’t even think I would have remembered their features anyways, everything feeling like it was blurring as they lifted a hand to try and block my phone light.

The brief seconds of blindness was probably the only thing that saved my life.

My legs moved quicker than my mind, sprinting away from the scene as quick as I could, not daring to look back to see if or when the attacker would choose to give chase. My numb fingers fumbled with my phone, struggling to dial the police as my panicked breathing threatened to make me faint. Too numb and shaky, my fingers couldn’t keep a firm grip on it and I yelped as my phone slipped from my grasp.

I briefly skidded to a halt for the barest of moments with the intent to try and pick it up before quickly deciding it wasn’t worth my life, continuing my mad sprint down the sidewalk. My music jittered and glitched as the source of the musical connection grew further away, quickly cutting out entirely to leave me with the sound of blood rushing in my ears, my panting, and my muffled footsteps.

Heart pounding almost painfully in my chest, my vision tunnel-visioned only on trying to run to the safety of my apartment or something, not seeing the hand that jutted out of the alley I was about to run past until I practically slammed into it. 

I hadn't heard any footsteps because of my earbuds.

I was pulled into the darkness with terrifying ease, too quick to even let out a scream before my mouth was covered by a hand and an arm wrapped around my torso, lifting me enough that my feet left the ground. My legs kicked uselessly as I struggled to somehow pry my captor off of me, near-hyperventilating with the horrible knowledge that they were far larger and stronger than I was.

This is it. I'm about to die because I decided to leave the house once in a blue moon.

My eyes stung from the cold and the slight sheen of tears as they watered a bit, a cold pit forming in my stomach as I expected to be pinned and stabbed like the woman earlier. Any second, the thought of pain and dying would come to fruition.

But, instead, I was clutched to my captors chest while I squirmed to get away with little to no reaction. There wasn't even an indication that they felt anything. I could feel their breathing against my back, unsure if the sound of a racing heart was just from me or if they were silently freaking out about me seeing them kill someone.

I thought that, perhaps, they were waiting for me to exhaust myself in my panic. But, I realized there was the sound of muffled running footsteps outside the alleyway beneath the blood rushing in my ears. A figure ran past, a mental latency telling me that they had a spattering of coloring on their clothes that looked suspiciously like blood and the glint of what may have been a knife.

If that was the killer… who the fuck was holding onto me?

As the confused and still panicked thought crossed my mind I felt my captor let out a relieved sigh against my back, able to see the heated steam from them scatter above me. My body instinctively stiffened, at the sight and sound of their sigh, letting out a muffled yelp as my captor turned almost dizzyingly quick. 

I found myself with my feet back on the ground, but I was trapped against the alley wall by my captor before I could fully process the movement. Back against the wall, one arm blocked off escape towards the alley entrance while the other hand remained against my mouth to keep me quiet. They were… definitely a lot bigger than me, at least six feet tall with a far more muscular build than my own. Their details were difficult to make out in the darkness of the alley but I saw that he was dark-skinned with his hair cut short, dark green eyes glinting in the dim light from the street.

“You alright?” a gruff, masculine voice spoke up. It was a whisper, but it still made me jump, feeling far too loud in the almost silent night even with my earbuds still in. When I didn’t immediately nod or shake my head he sighed and shifted the arm blocking me in, reaching towards me.

“Mmmphf!” I let out a muffled exclamation and flinched away, quickly grabbing his wrist with both of my hands. I was entirely certain that I couldn’t stop him from anything but he stilled his hand anyway.

“I’m not trying to hurt ya, I’m trying to make sure you’re NOT hurt, kid,” the guy huffed, a second or two passing before he added, “Look. I’m going to remove my hand to ask you some questions. You’re not going to scream or anything when I take my hand off, right?”

I wasn’t even sure I would be able to scream if I wanted to, my throat feeling too tight and breathing feeling laborious. Staring at the mostly obscured face of the man, I reluctantly nodded after a few seconds. Another second and he nodded back.

“Alright. Are you hurt?” he asked, glancing down at my body for a second, squinting to try and see if I was injured.

“I-I.. No, no, I-I’m fine,” I forced out, barely able to manage a response as my voice tried to stick in my throat. Still, I couldn’t help but give myself a light pat down, absentmindedly plucking my silent earbuds out of my ears. I could hear the light whistle of a breeze through the alleyway, something about being able to hear better both making me feel relief and a new spike of anxiety to add to my current state. I couldn’t help the wary suspicion as I asked, “Who… Who are you?”

It felt oddly timed that someone else would be out and about in the same area while also somehow getting me out of danger just in time. I especially couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing in an alley, of all fucking places. The other person was certainly a murderer, yes, but that didn’t mean that this man wasn’t also dangerous.

In the harsh contrast of darkness and light from the street I saw the man blink a bit before sighing.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at the question,” the man replied, “My name’s Damien. I’m a private investigator that was hired to tail a suspect in a serial murder case, to find evidence or intervene before he killed again.

“I’m judging by your behaviour that I failed in that regard,” His expression turned unreadable for a couple seconds of silence before asking his own question. “What did you see?”

For some reason, despite the question being completely understandable, it caught me off guard. I blinked at him as I struggled to move my tongue, the muscle feeling stiff.

“I-I,” my voice stuck in my throat. The scene began to replay itself nonsensically in my mind’s eye and I felt my heartrate begin to quicken, my breathing turn shallow. My choker suddenly felt too constrictive, feeling too aware of my own pulse beneath the strip of fabric and I reached up absentmindedly to touch my neck.

“Did he see you?”

Damien’s voice brought me back from my stupor, the mild change of subject surprising enough to ground me. I stared at him for a second before swallowing to try and clear my throat to answer, “I-I don’t think so… I think I blinded him with my phone flashlight, b-but I dropped it when I was trying to call the cops while running…”

“Fuck,” Damien growled under his breath, the small sound enough to make me flinch. “If he grabbed it then he might be able to get into it to find out who you are and where you live.”

“Oh.” The thought hadn’t really crossed my mind, more focused on just trying to survive than the prospect of what would happen if I managed to run away from the killer. Now that the possibility of him finding out where I live was presented I was unfortunately picturing a shadowed figure breaking into my home in the middle of the night to kill me. “... It was by Glass Tower.”

“What?” The man looked caught off guard by my statement.

“The murder,” I said numbly, gesturing to the alley entrance. “It happened by Glass Tower, I think.. In an alley. I-I thought it was a dog,.. I-I.. She…”

The almost overwhelming numb feeling of shock cracked slightly as I tried to describe what happened, my breath suddenly hitching in my throat and my eyes stinging as panicked tears began to well up. I let out a shaky breath, trying and failing to not curl in on myself, especially with an almost complete stranger,

Thankfully, Damien’s only comment about it was, “You don’t need to get into it now, kid. We can get a full testimony later.”

“… O-Okay,” I nodded, trying to calm myself down. I felt both cold and hot as my body’s anxiety and adrenaline fought with the below-freezing temperatures. A shiver ran down my spine that made my entire body shudder in its confusion.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to take you to a station,” he huffed slightly, looking towards the alley entrance with a contemplative expression. “I need to retrace your steps and find the crime scene before the killer has a chance to come back and clean up. But, I need to get you out of the way and safe first.. And, you’re not gonna like it.”

“H-Huh?” I blinked a bit at his odd wording, staring in confusion as he shifted to reach into the inside of his jacket. My eyes widened as he pulled out a syringe that glinted in the light from the street, quickly moving to dart off to the side as my fear of needles kicked in, still very high-strung and in survival mode. 

“Woah, hey!” The man whisper-yelled in surprise, moving just as quickly.

“L-Let me g-mmph!” I found myself strong armed back against the alley wall with his palm covering my mouth to muffle my cries once more, heart racing as I was pinned with terrifying ease. There was a sharp pain in my neck and the feeling of something unfamiliar being injected. Shivering at the cold feeling, I quickly shied away once he unpinned me from the wall, reaching up to press my hand against whatever puncture wound was there and exclaiming, “What did you just do to me?!”

“Woah, easy, kid, easy,” Damien pocketed the syringe quickly and held up his hands in an effort to placate me. “Just calm down. What I gave you is going to make it easier to protect you and keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?! Ps-Psychopaths with syringes?” I asked, feeling like a cornered animal. I could try to run further into the alley but he was so close that he could probably just stop me and-. “Ouuugh, f-fuck.”

A sudden overwhelming wave of dizziness and nausea overtook me and I stumbled, planting my forearm against the brick alley wall to keep from crumpling to the ground and squeezing my eyes shut against it. I tried to shake off the feeling, hissing when I felt a hand touch my shoulder. At least, I think it was a hand, it encompassed my entire upper arm.

And then, suddenly, I found my entire world shifting dramatically.

I let out a panicked scream as my feet were swept out from beneath me, falling to the side onto what felt like a weirdly firm and warm mattress. I felt my glasses fall off my face and opened my eyes as I tried to push myself up from my prone position, picking my glasses up off the ground. The ground that looked oddly colored and textured as I put them back on, almost reminiscent of skin…

“There we go.”

My eyes widened and I froze at hearing Damien’s voice directly behind me, but far louder and it sounded a bit deeper. I felt a brief breeze from behind my back and yelped when everything moved again, realizing that I was being lifted up into the air as I was pressed into the surface beneath me by the force. When I stopped being raised into the air, I spent a few seconds trying to handle the vertigo that came from being lifted so suddenly, vision blurring slightly in my confused panic at whatever was happening.

I pushed myself back into a sitting position, holding a hand to my head to try and dissipate the dizziness before turning to look behind me. And freezing at seeing dark green eyes larger than my head staring at me.

“What the FUCK?!” I cried out, immediately flipping onto my back and trying to back away. Something blocked me and a glance behind me caused me to pale at realizing that I was in Damien’s palms, his fingers curling up to form a blockade behind me so I couldn’t back up any further.

“I know this is unorthodox, but it’s time to put you away safely,” the man said, giving me a slightly apologetic look. “Sorry, kid.”

“H-Huh, what do you mean ‘sorry’, wh-what do you mean by putting me aw-AY?!” I jolted and pressed as far back against his fingers as I could when he began to open his mouth in front of me. The hands beneath me shifted and tilted, finding myself pitched forward into his open jaws. By the time I registered that I had been shoved onto his tongue, his teeth were already closed behind me.

Stuck in shock, I was frozen, feeling the heat and humidity, the way that saliva clung to my clothes and skin, how the tongue beneath me twitched and how I could sense the roof of his mouth just above me in my prone position.

Damien decided that he wasn’t wasting anytime, finding myself jolted out of my shock by the tongue beneath me shifting. 

“W-Wait,” I shouted, immediately squirming in protest. My voice stuttered when the tongue ran across my face as I was pressed into the roof of his mouth, feeling the bridge of my glasses against my nose. If I wasn’t fighting for my life right now, I’d be impressed that they stayed on.

My protests and struggles went unheeded, slathered in saliva as I was lapped at and shifted around his maw for what felt like eternity but was probably only a couple seconds before I was allowed a reprieve. I panted from exertion, eyes widening as I started being nudged towards his throat, trying to plant my hands against his taste buds to avoid being swallowed headfirst. Unsuccessfully.

“N-No, stop,” I yelped, hands slipping over the precipice. All it took was one gulp and I found myself squashed and forced into his esophagus. Blood immediately started to rush to my head, the sound of my blood rushing overpowered by the swallows surrounding me and his own breathing. His powerful heartbeat joined in and I was surrounded by his bodily cacophony as I traveled further down his throat past his heart and lungs.

It wasn’t long before I slipped into a larger space, what I could only assume was his stomach as I slid to the bottom of the organ. Something nearby groaned and I felt a jolt of panic go through me.

I tried to stand up to avoid touching the stomach walls and ended up falling back over as I slipped on the constantly moving and slick lining. Struggling to try and keep my balance, I shouted up as loud as I could, “LET ME OUT!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Damien gruffly spoke up, voice trying to be softer. Whether to comfort or just protect my ears, I wasn’t sure. There was a pat against the stomach wall I leaned against that caused me to flinch away. “You’re safe, kid. I know you don’t believe me right now, but that’s the safest place for you to be right now. This guy would literally have to go through me to get to you.”

My shallow breathing and racing heartbeat certainly begged to differ against the whole being safe thing, retorting, “And how am I safe against your body?!”

“Part of the chemicals in the syringe is to make you immune to any acids inside, so you’re perfectly safe. I don’t know how long you’ll be in there while I go investigate the crime scene and get the actual cops on the case,” he replied, unbothered about my screaming or protests this entire time. “I suggest you get some rest.”

“B-Bit of a hard request,” I snapped, looking around the dark space anxiously. I found myself curling up against the furthest section that I could. To my surprise, I was shaking. I tried to calm my shaking, hugging my arms around my abdomen as I took shaky breaths. A bit of shock was setting in again and my adrenaline was fading. Eaten by a PI wasn’t exactly how I expected the night to go, feeling incredibly surreal. Frowning at nothing, I murmured to myself, “M-Maybe this is a dream….”

A really weird and vivid dream, but a dream would be far better than reality. I suppose I’d just have to wait and see.

[onceuponastory]

speak now - bucky barnes x reader

Plot: Bucky (and Sam) go back to the same bar he met Y/N in. Hopefully, this time Bucky can actually work up the courage to speak to her. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (again, very slight) Warnings: A few mentions of Bucky’s past as the Winter Soldier (but nothing too graphic), alcohol, and the anxiety and negative feelings/self doubt about himself he has afterwards. As always, if I miss any triggers please let me know! Notes: This is a part two to my Bucky fic The Story of You, which you can read here. This is more of a small filler kind of part, but I hope you like it all the same. Thank you to @thesundrop / @astartothemoon for my divider! Not beta’d, so any mistakes are my own.

“Fancy getting a drink somewhere?” Sam asks, and Bucky nods. Sam’s visiting from Louisiana for a few days, and despite their teasing of one other, Bucky’s glad to have a familiar face around to talk to. Especially now, when he’s still so lonely. “Okay, but I get to pick the bar.”

“Sure, whatever.” Bucky shrugs. As he and Sam walk through the streets of New York, Bucky sighs, wrapping his jacket around him and hoping the leather protects him from the cold. Of course, it does little to help, but it was worth a try, anyway. If Bucky was different, wasn’t so fucked up, he could almost find it funny. A Winter Soldier who hates the cold. But then again, after the hell he’s been through…maybe he should try to find the happiness in the little things. And besides, it wouldn’t hurt anymore than what he’s used to, right?

“Oh! This place looks good.” Sam announces, cutting through Bucky’s thoughts. Bucky murmurs something in agreement, until he realises where he’s currently standing. His eyes widen, and he mutters an:

“Oh, fuck.” 

He’s standing outside Y/N’s bar.

The bar he practically ran out of almost a week ago, and hasn’t been back since, finding it too awkward to even think about going back after what happened. “You know, there’s other-”

“Ah, ah!” Sam shakes his head. “Guest’s choice. And I choose here. Come on.” He beckons for Bucky to follow, opening the door and stepping inside. Before following him, Bucky groans, hoping the ground will open up and swallow him whole. Of course, seeing Y/N again wouldn’t be a bad thing. Quite the opposite, actually. The issue is that Bucky has no idea what the hell he’s going to say to her when he sees her again. What if she asks why he ran? What if she’s pissed at him? He would be in her case, but still. Y/N’s a sweet girl. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt anymore by him. Hopefully she’s off tonight or something. Or at least, hopefully he can be subtle about it. 

But then, he notices Y/N standing by the bar, laughing at something a customer is saying. And something in Bucky’s stomach flutters. At the sound of the door, she turns around, spotting Bucky almost immediately. As soon as she does, her eyes light up, and the thing in Bucky’s chest flutters once more. God, he’s got it bad.

“Bucky! Nice to see you’re back. And you brought a friend!” Y/N calls. Bucky blushes. Well, so much for being subtle. 

“Hey Y/N. This is Sam.” 

“Nice to meet you, Sam!” Y/N smiles, holding her hand out for Sam to shake. “Any friend of Bucky’s is a friend of mine.”

“Yeah, likewise.” Sam nods, eyeing Bucky out of the corner of his eye, giving him a look that tells Bucky he wants to know every detail immediately. Bucky gulps. He’s in for a long night.

“Anyway, what can I get you two?” 

“Bucky, you’re staring at her again.”

“No, I’m not.” Sam raises a brow, murmurs something like “Yeah, right.” And goes back to his drink. Bucky takes another drink of his beer, letting the bitter tasting liquid flow throughout his body as he braces himself for the question he knows Sam is just dying to ask.

“So. You two have met before, huh? What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” Honestly, Bucky does mind a little. Especially since it means he’ll have to explain himself and his anxieties again, something he hates doing. After being alone for so long and unable to trust anyone, not even his own mind, Bucky has learned he’s better off not opening up to anyone. Like he said, he’s better off alone. Deep down, though, he knows that Sam’s just trying to help. Not just as a therapist, but as a friend. And maybe that’s what he needs right now.

“We met a week ago, when I came in for a drink. We got on pretty well, actually.” Sam smiles, and Bucky sighs, knowing that what he’s about to say will only cause Sam’s smile to drop. “But um…I left, and kind of ran away.”

“You RAN?” Sam gasps, his eyes widening in disbelief. His expression does little to improve Bucky’s mood, or ease his guilt. 

“Yes. I did.” Bucky sighs, his gaze flickering down to his hands. Even though he’s around Sam, his only close friend since Steve left…Bucky’s hands are still gloved. Even surrounded by friends and after being deprogrammed, Bucky still doesn’t trust himself or his arm. And besides, that’s why he left. Because he doesn’t want to hurt Y/N the same way he hurts everyone else.

“Why?”

“Well, we started talking about ourselves and our lives, and I think I went too far, so….” Bucky doesn’t even need to finish his sentence before Sam nods.

“I see.” He sighs. But it’s not a disappointed sigh. In fact, it’s one that tells Bucky that Sam understands how he feels, and how much he wants to help. “Bucky, how does Y/N make you feel?”

“Well, obviously, she’s really pretty. But it’s not just that. She makes me feel so great, Sam. When we hung out, we laughed a lot, and it was really nice, despite my mind constantly telling me how I didn’t deserve it. Having someone treat me with kindness after everything that happened…” He trails off, a huge smile on his face. Sam grins. 

“There it is. Bucky, you don’t have to keep torturing yourself anymore. It’s okay to want to make friends and even find love again.” Bucky raises a brow, and Sam chuckles. “Dude, don’t look at me like that. You’re so obviously head over heels for her.” Blushing, Bucky glances over to the bar again, watching as Y/N busies herself preparing drinks. “That smile tells me everything I need to know. Hold on to that feeling. Go talk to her.” 

“I can’t. I don’t want to hurt her, or for her to be freaked out by my…my everything.” 

“You don’t have to ask her out on a date or anything, maybe just apologise for what happened and ask if she wants to grab a drink sometime. Make amends with her just like with everyone else. Start small. You can do that.” Gulping, Bucky stands up, taking a breath as he tries to hype himself up to be able to speak to Y/N. “Good luck!” Sam calls. When Bucky reaches the bar, his mind feels like it’s going haywire. Perhaps he should just run now, while he still can. Y/N turns around, smiling the second she sees him. There’s the fluttering again.

“Hey! What’s up?”

“I…” Bucky begins, unsure of what to even say. How the hell is he going to explain this? Why he ran? His past? “Come on. Just say it. Ask her out for a casual drink. That’s small, that’s easy.”

“Cat got your tongue?” Y/N giggles, and Bucky lets out an awkward chuckle.

 “I…I would like two more beers, please.”

For the rest of the night, Bucky still tries to speak to Y/N without stammering like an idiot. And every time, he can’t do it, retreating to the table for another pep talk from Sam, only for the cycle to repeat.

“Okay, it’s getting late, so we better get back. And that means it’s your last chance, Buck.” Sam points out as they gather the empty bottles and glasses to take back to the bar.

“I know.” 

“Look, I don’t mean to push you if you’re not ready, it’s just the way you look at her all the time, and the way you smile…there’s something special there Bucky, and after everything you’ve been through, it’s nice to see you so happy.”

“Aw, so you do care.” Bucky teases. 

“Don’t push it.” Yet, Sam’s words make him smile. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he does deserve some happiness after everything. If only he could find the confidence to actually say more than a few sentences to her.

“Leaving so soon, you two?” Y/N asks. For a moment, Bucky swears there’s a twinge of disappointment in her voice. However, it’s gone as soon as he notices it. 

“Yeah, early start for us two tomorrow.” Sam answers.

“Well, it was great to meet you, Sam, and to see you again, Bucky. Don’t be a stranger, alright?” 

“I’m sorry.” The words leave Bucky’s mouth before he even thinks about it. His sudden admission even surprises him a little. Maybe after so long being too scared to actually speak to Y/N again, his mind and heart are taking the first step for him. Y/N and Sam frown, and Bucky continues. “For running away last time I was here, and for prodding too far.”

“Bucky, it’s alright.”

“No, no, it wasn’t. I was going through a lot, and if I made you feel like you had done something wrong, then I’m sorry for that too.”

“Bucky, honestly, it’s okay. I’m not mad or anything.”

“I’d like to start again, if that’s okay. Maybe we could go for a drink sometime?” And then, Y/N’s frown turns into a smile.

“Yeah…yeah, that’ll be great. I’d love to.” Bucky breathes a sigh of relief, grinning. That wasn’t so hard. Maybe things between them both will be okay after all.

“About damn time!”

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[jankywhale]

I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve been wanting to say it for a long while. Once, when I was a kid, I walked to the park down the street during a snowstorm. Everything was white, and I didn’t wear a jacket, no one noticed that I’d left. It’s like that feeling that you get in winter, when the sky is completely gray-white, and no one is outside, and the humming of the wind is the only thing you can hear. Your hands are aching from the chill, and the air is ice to your lungs. The feeling that everything is dead, and has been, and you’re the only one seeing it. The way everyone is in their homes, windows glowing, and the world is dying and I’m sad all the time, but there’s a park down the street. The winter is just that, winter. It always felt so familiar to me, something I could sink my teeth into, it feels comfortable, and I’m the type of sad person that feels good being sad. I don’t know what would happen if I didn’t.

[waynes-multiverse]

On The Beach

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: A few moons ago, on a hunt like any other, Dean unexpectedly met a girl who not only spun his head around in the blink of a literal eye but also made the brave hunter face some of his biggest fears to date.

Warnings: light language (very tame for me), a bit of emotional angst & grumpy Dean, fluff ❄️

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: Another day, another fic to a Swift song 🙃 The first draft had a very dark, unhappy ending, but I couldn’t bring myself to hurt those two precious babes, so enjoy some pure fluff, my loves! 💚🌌 Inspired by: Snow On The Beach by Taylor Swift ft. Lana Del Rey

Dean Winchester Masterlist || Main Masterlist

It’s a night like any other as Y/N closes down her flower shop in the small coastal town. She stores away a few leftover arrangements, counts the cash in the register, organizes the ribbons by color and width, and waters and prunes all the remaining plants in the greenhouse.

The winter weather ravages outside, bringing freezing December winds with the usual salty sea breeze as she smells the arriving snow in the air, the first one this season, and wraps her coat a little tighter around her body, snuggling her cheeks into her cozy wool scarf. It’s already black as night, the crescent moon standing high above the ocean, when she locks the shop behind her and starts her usual walk home, her house only four blocks up the road.

The street lamps pale in comparison to the cheerily decorated yards and roofs of her neighbors before the headlights of a classic black car blind her periphery as it passes by her, soon disappearing with a rumble around the corner again.

“Brrr, it’s freezing cold, man,” Dean grumbles into his jacket and removes his palms from the steering wheel for a second. He cups them around his mouth to warm them with his hot breath before turning the heat up in the Impala even more.

“I’m fine,” Sam nonchalantly shrugs next to him in a fucking t-shirt. He removed the flannel an hour ago and discarded it on the backseat.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re not human. Freak,” Dean scoffs under his breath and shakes his head, making the younger Winchester chuckle. “Why did you drag me all the way to Rhode Island in the middle of December, man? We could be at home in the bunker, slurping egg nog and watching Die Hard instead of freezing our asses off. Stupid haunted lighthouse…”

“Dude! Can you stop complaining for five seconds, maybe? You’ve been grumpy since we passed Philly. What’s up with you?” Sam throws him a concerned puppy dog look, which only annoys Dean more.

“Nothing, I’m fine. I just hate the beach and the cold and lighthouses–,” Dean mutters, his fingers turning blue around the steering wheel.

Sam’s head snaps to him with a creased brow, “Lighthouses?”

“–and the ocean…”

“Yeah, uh, that usually comes with the beach and the lighthouses, Dean,” the younger Winchester laughs, amused.  

“Yeah, whatever, man,” Dean lets out a deep sigh, his brow woven into a permanent scowl at this point. “What’s the address of the girl that witnessed the last death again?”

“Uh, Y/N Y/L/N. Lives at 302 Maplewood Street,” Sam reads from the neatly organized files in his lap. “Just take a left at the next corner.”

“Great,” Dean mumbles dreadfully and makes a left turn onto the target street.

No matter how hard he rummages through the depths of his soul, the hunter can’t quite pin down his recent moodiness. It’s a feeling of dread, sadness, and anger that just bubbles up in his chest at random times and overtakes his whole body and mind before it disintegrates into thin air again like the ghosts he hunts. And maybe after all this time and all the wars and all the pain, it should be no surprise that he feels a little haunted, too.

Well, let’s be honest. He’s fucking cursed.

The melancholy comes and goes like the ocean waves. It almost seems natural. The ebb and flow of a restless life on the road, the possibility of dying every goddamn day, or worse, the fear of ending up completely alone. I Am Legend is his goddamn nightmare.

A hunter’s life is emotionally abusive, so no wonder he constantly feels down on his luck. Especially on holidays like Christmas, when it’s supposed to be all about joy, love, and family. Not even the jolly twinkling lights of the merrily decorated houses around him can cheer up his gloom as he taps his calloused and beaten knuckles on yet another front door to ruin someone’s life. What is his job even?

Hi, Dean Winchester – professional life-ruiner, cold-blooded killer, and ghostbuster extraordinaire. Pleased to meet you. May I interest you in something horrifying that most likely will cost your life or at least give you intense nightmares you never wished you had?

As the red door of the small stone house, adorned with a beautiful pine wreath, opens, however, a stunning young woman greets him with a blinding smile. Dean’s breath hitches as he stops in his tracks, heart, sense, and time halting with him.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, which for sure as hell is too long, his lips unfreeze and curl into a genuine smile, warmth filling and replacing the empty coldness in his ribcage that has dwelled there for a lifetime.

Y/N watches her boot prints in the sand fade away with the next wave, a pocketful of stars twinkling above her head. She closes her eyes and makes a wish upon the next shooting star, her heart filling with a longing that wraps around her soul like the emerald northern lights she used to see on fishing trips with her father. Green is the color of hope, and green is all she sees, even on dark nights with her eyes closed.

The phone in her coat pocket vibrates and disturbs her trance. Her eyelids flutter open with a smile and a heartbeat full of faith. Sometimes wishes do come true.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean chimes through the speaker as soon as she presses the phone to her cold ear under the beanie, the warm, familiar timbre of his deep voice melting her heart like the wax of a burning candle.

“Hey, I miss you. How’s the hunt? Are you and Sam okay?“

Whenever he calls, it’s always the same first question – “Are you alright?”. Because whenever he leaves, she’s always worried, can’t sleep and eat until she knows the answer. So, she takes midnight walks up and down the beach until the phone rings again and soothes the ache in her chest. The impossibility of wanting him right next to her each and every day until her dying breath rips her apart at the seams sometimes, her heart needing more stitches than it should.

Right around a year ago, the Winchester brothers stood on her doorstep like the Christmas present she didn’t ask for. They changed her life in a blink of an eye, made it more magical and simultaneously more horrifying, too. She helped them with a ghost case in town, an old local myth surrounding the rundown lighthouse. Dean heroically saved her life. Then, she moronically saved his and Sam’s. The older hunter yelled at her until he didn’t. Until she kissed him. Until she clasped his freezing palm and led him to the beach. Until she held him till his breathing calmed with the ocean, and they talked till the morning sun came with the first fall of snow.

She hasn’t been the same ever since that night. Neither has he.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” he assures her with a warm chuckle, causing her heart to leap across states in search of him. “Hunt is over. Sam’s finishing up. What are you up to? Are you out for a walk?”

“Yeah, I’m down at the beach like usual,” she sighs, drawing a pouting line in the sand with the tip of her shoe.

“Figured. It’s a nice night out,” he says, and hearing the casual smile in his voice, she has a hard time keeping the scowl on her face alive as she imagines his cute freckle-dusted dimples.

“Would be nicer if you were here,” she notes hopelessly hopeful before her gaze lifts to the moon over the horizon, her brow furrowing. “Wait… How do you know that? Did you check the weather?”

“Sure did,” it sounds behind her as clear as the star-filled sky above her. Her heart drops, jolts, rejoices at the sight of the hunter that so shamelessly stole it as he stands before her – tall, strong, and gorgeous smile included, like a scene from a romantic movie.

“Oh my God, Dean!”

The beam that lights up her face when she recognizes him reminds the hunter of the picture that hangs on her living room wall – the one that shows her winning smile at her eighth-grade baking contest. A blazing warmth spreads through his chest, his chapped lips not able to deny her a smile, albeit his torn heart and broken mind still don’t fully understand how a gorgeous girl like her could even miss him at all.

The phone in her hand then drops into the wet sand as she falls into his embrace, almost taking both of them down before Dean’s strong arms catch her and steady their feet on the forgiving ground. As soon as she lifts her face from his chest, her sparkling eyes bore into his as her arms unravel from his neck, hands traveling to his scruffy cheeks. Needily, she clasps them and feels their blushed warmth, fingernails denting his skin as she drags his lips to hers in a breathtaking kiss, tongues mingling between teeth.

“Air,” Dean chokes out with a chuckling cough as he pulls back from her, his hot breath still ghosting over her swollen lips as his palms grip her waist tightly and keep her locked in his arms. “I’ve missed you, too, sweetheart,” he assures her with a gentle peck on her forehead and lifts his hand to her face, caressing the soft flush in her cheek as a warm smile curves on his lips. “It’s been too long.”

“Forty-two days,” she reminds him, and Dean loves and hates it all at once that she misses him so goddamn much she always counts the days since she’s last seen him. And while Y/N surely misses him to the moon and back, Dean can guarantee that he misses her infinitely more. “How did you get here so fast? This morning you said you were still in New Mexico.”

“Yeah, well, couldn’t wait a whole day’s drive to see you, so I flew here,” he shrugs coolly but can’t help the grin rising on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, you what? You took an actual plane? But you hate flying,” she points out with an adorably knitted brow. Dean never technically admitted he was afraid of flying, always told her he didn’t particularly care for it, not wanting to seem like a wuss. “Sam even once said it scares the bejeezus out of you.”

That little…

“Yup, flight was awful, thanks for asking,” Dean quips with an insecurity-overshadowing, too-cool-for-his-own-good grin while he mentally notes down to hit his younger brother over the head later. And as his pine-green eyes soak up her sunshine with a greedy need for happiness, his heart relishes in her love.

Until it doesn’t. Until it feels too goddamn selfish.

The last time he saw Y/N, she told him that she loved him. Loved him. Him. Even after forty-two days, it still hasn’t sunk in. How could it? It sounds insane. More insane than monsters and God’s plan. More insane than his entire life story itself.

Naturally, the hunter couldn’t say anything back. It felt surreal, like a dream he wasn’t supposed to have. It didn’t feel like it was his to take. She didn’t feel like she was his. The shock took his whole body hostage, afraid admitting it would curse her love for him and twist it somehow. Not that she even wanted or expected an answer from him. She already knew everything there was to know – about him, about his life. So, she simply said she wanted him to know that there was someone out there in this big, wide world that loved him and thought of him every day. That’s it.

What’s he supposed to do with that, huh?

But when the hunter left her for the millionth time this year, the real torture began. He could deal with physical pain easily, even thrived in it. He could be torn apart and ripped to shreds a billion times, and he still wouldn’t care. Emotional torture, however, was a different story. He couldn’t take the overthinking, the sleepless nights, the helplessness, the anxiety in his heart, or the choked air in his lungs whenever he thought about her, which was always. She was a constant in his soul, a complex math equation that allowed no variables. She never went anywhere.

She was there when he snuck with Sam through the halls of yet another abandoned warehouse on the hunt for a few vamps. She was there when he thought about doing something stupid and reckless to play the hero instead of doing the smart and right thing. She was there when he washed off the blood in the motel room shower, thinking how he didn’t want to break her heart by not answering her next phone call. She was there when he couldn’t close his eyes at night and stared at the ceiling, imagining how his little brother would have to break the news of his death to her.

And eventually, after forty-two days of torture, of heartache, of longing, the hunter broke. He couldn’t do it anymore.

It gnawed on his heart that he never said it back. Because she deserves to hear it. Because living and breathing without her seem useless. Because having hopes and dreams is worthless if she’s not in any of them. Because she’s the best fucking thing that ever happened to him. Because what the hell is he even fighting for if it’s not all for her. Because all the pros outweigh the biggest con. Because it’s goddamn true.

Dean loves her, too.

As he holds tightly onto her, he breathes into the feeling of having her in his arms, of her head buried deep in his chest, of her arms securely wrapped around his torso. He feels the love for him radiating from her body, feels the safety she offers him, and feels their hearts melting into one through layers of fabric, skin, flesh, and bones. Embracing her is the most magical and otherworldly experience. It’s mind-blowing that he now has someone that he can touch, someone he can drive towards, someone he can see with his own eyes while he’s goddamn awake.

Perhaps, love is not supposed to feel real. It’s intangible, indescribable, and inexplicable, and if you applied all the criteria of reality, love shouldn’t exist at all. But as the first snowflake grazes his cheek, he opens his eyes and watches more white stars falling from the sky and covering the sandy beach under a soft blanket. And suddenly, love comes down all around him like the snow itself.

It’s not some weird, beautiful, unobtainable, and unmaintainable dream. It’s here. It’s now. And it’s her.

“I love you.”

His confession comes out in a blurb that almost could be mistaken for a glitch in his impenetrable matrix. On top of that, he also mumbled it into her hair, but who cares? It has left his heart and definitely reached her ears as Y/N lifts her head from his warm chest, gaze wandering up till it meets his own. He swallows, nerves getting the best of him, which wasn’t a lot, to begin with. And then, her pink lips curve into an amused smile.

“I know.”

He stumps, his eyebrows quirking together so much it almost provokes a headache, which causes her to giggle. “How?”

She locks her arms around his neck and grins, “Guess your actions speak louder than your words, Winchester. Besides, you took a plane for me, even though you almost pooped your pants.”

“I did not almost p–”

His protest is left unfinished, stopped by her lips crashing against his, and he can’t help but toss every clever comeback out the window and kiss her back. There’s another giggle when he hesitantly draws back from her mouth, his thumb caressing the glow in her dimple as he places another peck on her hairline.

“Sweetheart, you know what happens when you kiss me like that.” Well, maybe he still had one clever comeback in reserve.

“Uh-huh,” she laughs cheekily and tip-toes up enough for another kiss on his lips. “I love you, too.”

Dean playfully rolls his eyes and pecks the tip of her cold nose. As if being cute is going to save her tonight. “So what you’re saying is, I worried and went nuts for nothin’ over the last few weeks?”

Y/N shrugs her shoulders, and he would’ve almost bought into her innocence if it weren’t for that little mischievous smile on her lips. “I told you back then you didn’t have to say it.”

He nods and purses his lips. “Yeah, well, some things shouldn’t be left unsaid, y’know?”

And when she gives him another heartwarming smile, it sends him to another planet. His fluster returns because what else is there left to say? He hasn’t exactly planned past this moment, hasn’t even dreamed he’d get this far.

“So, uhm, what’s next? I figured we could go to that maple farm in Vermont you’re always telling me about. Or, uhm, maybe drive north till we see the-, uh, the aurora bor-, uh, thingy.”

“Borealis,” she helps him along, biting her lips very hard to suppress the grin.

“Yup, that. We could see that,” he suggests with the eagerness and excitement of a little boy who found a Lego set under the tree.

“Slow down, tiger,” she chuckles, her fingers playing with the lapels of his jacket. “First, tell me how long I get you for this time before you plan all our time in bed away.”

“Well, uh…” He clears the lump in his throat, and she must’ve noticed his nervousness, because not even a second later, she interlaces her fingers with his and gives him the reassurance he needs to continue. “For-, uhm, forever.”

“What?” His reply has even taken Little-Miss-Know-It-All by surprise as she shakes her confused head for clarity and blinks at him.

“Yeah, uhm, we can talk about the details later, but… I’m all yours now,” Dean smiles and is relieved when she mirrors it before his hand reaches back to scratch his neck. “I mean, for as long as you’ll have me and let me stay with you at least.”

“Well, guess it’s forever then,” Y/N replies, tongue-in-cheek. “How about some hot cocoa and cheesy Christmas movies first before we make vacation plans over a super greasy breakfast tomorrow, huh?”

“A woman after my own heart,” the hunter beams and preciously kisses her temple. He interlaces his fingers with hers before leading them home through the glistening white sand, the snow falling down around them.

To think I almost killed her... 🤣  --> ALTERNATE ENDING

Everything Jensen Tag: @extraterrestriali @this-is-me19 @writercole @awkward-and-indecisive @eevvvaa @imherefordeanandbones @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @jassackles @maggiegirl17 @perpetualabsurdity @deandreamernp @roseblue373 @lyarr24 @deanwanddamons @deanwithscissors @flamencodiva @chriszgirl92 @lhymer1995 @wittyboldsoul @djs8891 @snowlovespie @b3autyfuldisast3r @recoveringpastaaddict @ladysparkles78​ @muhahaha303 @mimaria420​

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