#and of course he's going to have fabulous hair otherwise what's the POINT

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Attempting Looks

[ahatintimepieces]

Fabric Hearts

Remember the first part of that build-a-bear au I wrote for @smieska-draws? It’s back! But now the au name makes sense! Imagine!

Luka, known as the Snatcher to most of the mall locals, runs the Kraft-a-Kid while his daughter, Hattie, runs around with her friends. There’s definitely nothing suspicious about Luka. The rumors that he snatches the souls of children and stuffs them into the dolls are completely unfounded. Probably. Most likely. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s fine.

This is, of course, another au that Smieska and I both developed and like to swap ideas for SO send her your love and adulation because I couldn’t have written this without her ;o; <333 Here’s the link to the piece she did for first part if you haven’t seen it yet (which u should because it’s fabulous and incredible). Without further ado, here it is!

Words: 4,131

The door squeaked open as Luka recorded the number of tiny, elastic collars with bright bells in the back.

“Dimitri can’t make it today,” he warned without looking up from his clipboard. His golden gaze flickered up towards the boxes filled with cotton stuffing and he quickly counted them as footsteps approached. “If you get a sudden influx of customers, come grab me.”

“It’s me, Dad,” Hattie’s voice came from right beside him.

“Did I stutter?” He glanced down without missing a beat. She gave him a deadpan stare as he grinned. His sharp canines glinted in the unnaturally bright florescent lights. “Come on, kiddo. How about you help me with my business endeavors instead of frittering away your summer romping around the mall?”

She readjusted the brim of the top hat she made from her millinery lessons at the fabric store. Why his child fixated on hat-making out of everything she could have taken an interest in was beyond him but even he had to admit her royal purple top hat was well crafted.

“I’m going with Belle and the others to get lunch at the food court,” she said, ignoring his jesting. “Can I have money?”

“You know if you had a job you wouldn’t need to be asking me,” he lamented dramatically before wedging the clipboard between his arm and side. He reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his slacks.

“I’m not even twelve.” She blinked up at him with large blue eyes. “There are child labor laws.”

“Excellent.” He nodded, opening his wallet. “Don’t let anyone in the mall convince you otherwise. But,” he slipped out a bill and gave her a pointed look, “if you accept this, you have to do me a favor.”

“I already cleaned the bathrooms last weekend,” she whined.

His grin widened.

“Tough luck, kiddo.” He twisted the bill in the air, watching her nose scrunch as she seriously weighed her options. After a second of letting her think that she was going to have to do her least favorite chore, he extended the bill towards her. “Just bring me back a coffee and I’ll consider us even.”

Relief instantly flooded her features as she took the bill.

“I can do that! Your usual?” She headed towards the door.

“That’ll work,” he said, tucking away his wallet and grabbing the clipboard again.

“Thanks, Dad!” she chirped before moving to open the door.

Just as she reached for it, the door swung open, and she stumbled back. Luka immediately dropped the clipboard and slipped behind her with the speed of shadows dodging the light. She smacked into his legs, and he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder as Alex walked in with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry, kid! I didn’t see you there.” Alex winced, looking from Hattie to Luka’s hard glare.

“I’m fine!” Hattie promised, giving a bright smile until she placed her hand over Luka’s fingers. She jolted and twisted around. “Dad, are you okay? You’re really warm.”

“It is hot in here.” Alex tugged at their collar, wincing.

“The thermostat dial was probably nudged,” Luka dismissed, pulling away and stooping to grab the clipboard. “I’ll take a look.”

“Should I get you water?” Hattie asked.

“I have water. Now go have fun.” He shooed her towards the door. “The sooner you leave the sooner you can run my errand.”

Hattie hesitated but when he returned to his task of recording inventory, he heard her retreating footsteps.

“Sorry,” Alex muttered as they crossed over to the table for the employees. They dropped their backpack before grabbing the light purple apron with their nametag.

“Let’s just be careful with how forcefully we open doors, hm? I don’t want to deal with any workplace liability cases. They’re a pain.” Luka shot the teen a toothy grin. Glancing back down to the clipboard, he added in a more monotone cadence, “Anyway, Dimitri can’t come today, so once Ember leaves, it’ll just be you and me for the rest of the day. If it gets too crowded on the floor and I’m not around, come find me.”

“Right.” They nodded firmly. While wiping back their bangs and smearing the beads of sweat on their brow, they hurried out. Once the door closed behind them and Luka was alone, he let out a sigh.

The flame that had flared when Hattie nearly got hit crackled noisily in his otherwise empty chest. Luka placed one of his pale hands over the flame and counted out the seconds between metered inhales and exhales. The snap and pop of embers faded and when he glanced towards the thermostat, the temperature in the room lowered back to a comfortable range.

Not that he was bothered by the heat, but he didn’t need his employees passing out.

Ember’s shift ended as he got to counting the unstuffed plush shells. As she hung her apron over the hook, she informed him that two separate groups had just entered the store. Luka nodded, finishing his current count before getting ready to help Alex on the floor.

He brushed back his long, spiky hair into a ponytail. Stray strands the color of soot fluttered against his cheek, and he tucked them behind his ear.

They reflected a warm violet when they caught the light.

With his hair as contained as he could manage, he grabbed his own amethyst apron with the Kraft-a-Kid’s signature logo; a stylized baby goat and parent goat waving a friendly greeting. After draping it over his black suit and making sure it didn’t displace his dark purple tie, he tied the apron with nimble fingers, clawed at the tips. He double-checked that the pocket had extra thread and a compact sewing kit before he clipped on his name tag and headed out into the workshop.

Alex snapped their head up from one of the stuffing stations, looking relieved when they spotted Luka rounding the counter. Alex returned their full attention to the small girl and her mother while Luka smiled at the two teens with a younger child hovering by the bins of unstuffed shells by the entrance.

While he didn’t know them personally, he recognized Brooke and her younger sister Hali, who worked (or in Hali’s case just hovered around in the back when not at daycare) at their uncle’s travel agency, and then Makoto, who worked at the jewelry store. Judging from their uniforms, the teens were probably using their breaks to accompany Hali. Since he often heard good things about their work ethic and Hali’s sweet nature from Mari, he assumed he had an easy session ahead. He waved them over.

Brooke and Makoto shared a nervous look while Hali bounded over with a bright smile.

“Why, hello there!” Luka pasted on his most vibrant customer service smile as he lowered onto the seat by the stuffing station. Cotton and soft fibers filled the glass tank decorated to look like hearty trees and branches climbed around the edges. The machine itself matched the lilac walls and brown and bronze gears that decorated them. The bins and shelves that held the merchandise throughout the store were all structured to look like spools of golden thread.

Holding an unstuffed goat with dark brown fuzz and silver horns, Hali shyly smiled up at Luka as Brooke and Makoto slowly joined.

“I see you’ve picked your new friend!” Luka held out his hands and Hali gingerly lowered the flat goat into his palms. “Before we bring them to life, how stuffed do you want them to be?”

“Um?” Hali tilted her head with a blank expression.

“Do you want them to be firm or squishy?” Luka clarified, fitting the goat around the nozzle and getting his foot ready over the pedal.

“Fiwm, pwease!” Hali declared in a cutesy voice.

“Excellent choice!” Luka set to work, pumping the pedal as he filled out the head of the goat plush. The machine roared to life, blowing air and fluff with the force of a vacuum. Though, his ears perked when he caught Brooke and Makoto in an intense discussion as they remained a couple steps back. What he couldn’t hear over the machine, he pieced together easily enough.

He knew the rumors and could guess what was on their mind when they mentioned the Snatcher and stolen souls.

Luka smirked as he pulled his foot from the pedal and the machine hushed.

“Now it’s time for my favorite part.” He beamed, pulling off the firmly stuffed goat and then reaching for a bucket full of small felt hearts. “The soul ceremony! Go ahead and pick the heart that most resonates with you.”

“If it’s just a heart, why is it called a soul ceremony?” Brooke asked, her voice quivering as she pressed closer to Makoto.

Hali, meanwhile, was completely enraptured with picking out the right fabric heart.

“Hearts, souls, same thing, really,” Luka soothed with a toothy grin, giving the teens a considering look.

Makoto’s gaze flickered down to his fangs. She lifted her chin, trying to project an air of confidence. But her furrowed brows wavered.

“Souws awe heawts?” Hali gasped, looking up with awe.

“Absolutely!” Luka kept his voice cheerful, gesturing to the bucket. “It’s what gives your new friend life! I imagine without one, they would feel pretty empty and hollow.” Keeping his chin tilted down, he lifted his eyes towards the teens and lowered his voice just a touch. “Wouldn’t you feel pretty soulless without a heart?”

The two stiffened.

“Pwobabwy!” Hali chirped, completely unaware of their increasing unease. She dug around the hearts and pursed her lips. “How do woo know which heawt is the best?”

“That’s up to you!” Luka bounced effortlessly back into an upbeat cadence. He pinched a heart with a checkerboard pattern in red and white. “The nice thing about these hearts is that they’re blank slates. They’ll be filled with whatever you put into them. But don’t put in too much!” he added with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want your new friend to be more you than you!”

Brooke squeaked in fright and his grin stretched.

“I wiwl take this one, then!” Hali held up a solid red heart.

“Great! Hold on to it, now.” Luka placed the tub back down. “First, why don’t you rub the heart on your hair so your little buddy will always have soft fur!”

Hali beamed at that and rubbed the fabric heart on her hair. When she pulled it back down, some of the blond strands followed the heart while the strands too far away stuck up from the lingering static.

“Well done! Now, rub it against your funny bone so your friend has a sense of humor.” Luka tapped his elbow when Hali crinkled her nose for a moment. Her eyes lit up in understanding and once the heart was granted good humor, Luka added, “and why don’t you strike a superhero pose, so that your pal will hold courage.”

Hali giggled as she placed her hands on her hips and preened.

“Fantastic. Lastly, I want you to rub the heart between your palms!” Luka motioned for her to mimic him as he demonstrated. “Now, when it’s nice and warm, give it a clap to start its heartbeat!”

The clap resounded through the workshop and the teens jolted behind her.

“That should do it,” Luka praised, holding out his palm. Hali handed the heart over, and he slipped it into the goat, tucking it snuggly away in the cotton and fluff.

He then set to filling out the rest of the plush. Once it was stiff and sturdy, he handed it to her, asking if she was content with it. When he received an enthusiastic nod, he took it back and sealed the hole. He snipped the extra thread with the scissors in his apron and then passed the goat back to Hali.

“Here’s your new friend! Be sure to visit our shop in the back! We have plenty of accessories and outfits for the newest member of your family,” Luka recited the same sales pitch as always. “Once you’re ready, head over to an open kiosk so you can fill out the adoption papers. If you need any help, Alex or I will be overjoyed to assist.”

“Thank woo!” Hali hurried over to the accessories, hugging the goat to her chest.

Luka clasped his hands and turned to the teens. When his gaze flickered to the floppy hooded doll in Makoto’s arms, her embrace tightened.

“Ready?” He motioned for her to hand it over so that he could stuff it.

She looked to Brooke, who shrugged with uncertainty. Makoto stepped forward.  

Keeping his tone light, he went through the same script as always. He asked if she wanted the doll to be firm or squishy and, in an effort to loosen her up a bit, offered to add any fun sound boxes or scents to the plush. She remained on edge until he asked about the nametag on her uniform as the machine roared to life again. She explained how her boss liked to give everyone themed nicknames and she was saddled with “Makoneko.” When he asked if she appreciated the nickname, she pointedly rolled her eyes as he removed his foot from the machine pedal again. Her shoulders relaxed when he chuckled.

“Your turn to pick a heart,” Luka twittered in an overly cheerful voice as he held out the bucket.

“Do I have to do the ceremony?” Makoto hesitated, plucking the first heart she saw. Rather than scared, her bored expression mirrored that of many teens who wanted to skip the step.

Perfect.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” He shrugged casually. “What is a heart without a heartbeat? A soul without a person behind the personality?”

“What?” She faltered, shoulders slowly stiffening again as Brooke’s eyes widened.

“I only mean it’ll be a sorry existence for this little friend.” Luka waved the stubby hands of the purple plush toy. “And you get out what you put in.” Her brows dipped in slight confusion, and he smirked. “You have to at least start its heartbeat. You don’t want to bring a ghost home, do you?”  

“Just do the ceremony!” Brooke hissed through clenched teeth.

“F-fine,” Makoto said, slowly lifting the heart to her long black locks. “So, hair for soft fur?”

“Does it look like this one has fur?” Luka gestured to the doll with the yellow spiral in its hood. He scoffed, turning up his nose. “Of course not! No. First, why don’t you rub the heart against your belly so that it’s full of laughter.”

“I thought that was the elbow.” Makoto crinkled her nose. Though she rubbed the heart against her stomach, eager to get it over with.

“There is a difference between telling good jokes and laughing at them, kiddo,” Luka offered with a smirk. “Now, how about you jump up and down a few times? I’m sure your friend would love to share some of your energy.”

“What does that mean?” She jolted.

“Just that exercise keeps the heart healthy,” Luka said placidly.

Her eyes narrowed but she eventually gave a sluggish skip.  

“Then, rub it against your ear, so it will always listen.” He smiled brightly, being sure to bare his teeth. Once she complied, he clasped his hands together. “I’m sure you know what to do now! Warm it between your palms and then clap to start the heartbeat!”

She let out the breath that she had been holding, relieved it was finally over. She gave a small clap before passing the heart back. He slipped it into the doll.

“Any names in mind for your friend?” Luka prompted as his foot tapped the pedal.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled curtly, purposefully trying to let the whirling air in the stuffing machine drown out her answer.

“How’s this feel?” he asked a few seconds later when the machine hushed again. He pulled the doll from the nozzle and passed it back to her.

“Good.” She returned it after assessing the squishiness.

“If you haven’t got any names, I always thought these particular dolls looked like minions,” he prattled, closing the seam. When she didn’t respond, he continued lightly, “so Minion might be a good name.” He glanced up to meet her gaze and lowered his tone. “You did make sure it’ll listen. It’ll be an obedient little kiddo.”

Her breath hitched.

“Obedient to who?” she challenged, maintaining a fragile glare.

“All done!” Luka snapped upright after snipping the excess thread, pretending he hadn’t heard her question. “Welcome your friend into the world!”

Makoto accepted the doll, her gaze flickering between it and Luka with uncertainty.

“Same as always,” he droned in his peppy, customer service voice. “Browse to your contentment. My daughter recommends the plush purple cherries. You want to keep your buddy happy and fed! Make sure to finalize the adoption and meet Alex or I by the counter.” He glanced over to find the other young girl with her mother already at the cash register. “Looks like it’ll be Alex!”

Makoto nodded numbly as Brooke stepped forward and looped her arm through hers, rescuing Makoto by tugging her away.

“One more thing,” Luka began, keeping his eyes on his clean-up routine. The teens’ footsteps paused as they hovered. Though his smile laced his voice, his enunciation was sharp. “I’m sure the Snatcher doesn’t have to tell you but be sure to treat your new friend as you would yourself. You put your soul into bringing them to life, after all.”

The teens gasped.

“Have a good day, kids.” Laughter laced his voice.

They rushed away as he chuckled.

While he finished cleaning up, Hattie returned with her friends. As soon as she spotted him behind the stuffing machine, she rushed across the tiles decorated to look vaguely like a forest path.

“Here’s your coffee,” she chirped, holding up the cup.

“Any plans for the rest of the day?” he asked, pushing to his feet and picking stray fluff from his apron. Once he was as clean as he was going to get, he accepted the drink. He held it towards his lips, pausing to quirk a brow at young Muriel and Timmy as they passed the stuffing machines to check out all the colorful outfits. Belle, meanwhile, joined Hattie with her azure bow bouncing in her dark coils.

“We’re going to head to the bookstore.” Hattie shrugged. “Tim’s friend is hosting a card game tournament.”

“Remember to be back by six,” he instructed. “Don’t go snacking after four or you’ll spoil your dinner.”

“I know, Dad,” she huffed dramatically.

“Also, Mom says hi, Mr. Kingsley,” Belle pipped in.

“Tell Mari I return the sentiment. Now get your friends to stop loitering.” He turned back towards Hattie and rose his voice so Timmy and Mu could hear. “They scare away customers.”

“Says the Snatcher,” Timmy whispered to Mu.

Luka covered his smirk with the coffee cup. His gaze shifted over Hattie and Belle and he watched as Makoto and Brooke fled the store at a brisk pace. Hali struggled to keep up, but she managed to meet his eyes and offered a cheerful wave.

“Fine,” Hattie sighed. “Come on, guys!”

“I need to stop by Mom’s before we head to the bookstore,” Belle mentioned as she and Hattie turned to leave. “I left my cards with my backpack.”

As the girls left, Luka turned to head back towards the counter, taking a sip of his coffee. He immediately winced.

“Ugh, tepid,” he grumbled as Timmy and Mu ran past, hurrying out to follow Hattie and Belle.

After making sure the kids all had their backs turned and Alex was busy with something on the counter, Luka summoned a gentle ember to his hand. While the flame harmlessly licked the cup, the coffee warmed inside until steam wafted from the hole in the lid. He took a tentative sip and swallowed the scalding liquid.

The flames in his chest crackled and popped, and the knots in his shoulders eased.

He snuffed out the ember in his hand as he lowered the cup. Mist trailed from the lid as the coffee maintained its heat.

“I think you scarred those two for life,” Alex muttered as Luka returned to the counter.

“Which two?” he asked, mind still on Hattie and her friends.

“Brooke and Makoto.” Alex glanced up, shaking their head with a scolding expression.

“I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary,” Luka said calmly. He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee during his momentary break. “If those hooligans are letting their imaginations run wild, it’s not on my conscience.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex gave him an unimpressed look. “Also, I think we’re running low on the beach ball accessories.”

“I noticed,” Luka muttered, swirling his cup pensively. “Those aren’t particularly popular, and we are getting near the end of the season…”

While they discussed whether they needed to send out an order or if they would make it until the fall selection came out, Hattie rolled on the balls of her feet as she, Timmy, and Mu waited for Belle to return from her mom’s flower shop just across from Kraft-a-Kid. Hattie idly watched all the mallgoers, thoughts blank, but Timmy and Mu had their eyes locked on Kraft-a-Kid, thoughts whirling noisier than the stuffing machines.

“Okay, I’m ready!” Belle announced as she bounced out with her deck of cards.

“Hattie.” Timmy whirled around. “Your dad’s magic!”

“Timmy, he doesn’t steal souls, we’ve been over this,” Hattie whined, crossing her arms.

“If he doesn’t steal souls, then what’s with his coffee?” Mu snapped, nodding her head towards the display window where Luka could be seen leaning against the counter inside the workshop.

Hattie squinted, trying to figure out what was out of place with the steaming coffee cup. After a moment, she turned to Belle, who shrugged.

“It’s hot!” Mu gestured wildly, causing her blond mustache to bob with her movement. “Look at that steam!”

Hattie blinked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Belle supplied dryly. “Because Hattie ordered it hot.”

“But he said it was tepid!” Timmy argued. “We heard him!”

“He probably thinks it is,” Hattie said, knitting her brows together. “He likes his coffee hot enough to burn his tastebuds.”

“You aren’t getting it!” Mu huffed. “It wasn’t steaming when he said it was cold!”

“Okay, but even if he somehow heated it up, that didn’t have anything to do with stealing souls,” Belle appeased.

“That’s what we mean!” Timmy urged. “If he can use one type of magic, he can use others!”

“I regret the day I told you about those rumors,” Hattie grumbled.

It didn’t matter as much when strangers said it, but instead of laughing with Hattie when she told them that people thought her dad was some kind of heartless, soul-snatching monster, Mu and Timmy had latched onto the conspiracy and ever since refused to let go. She couldn’t talk about new product plushies or designs around them anymore because they would just start a debate about which shell would best hold the souls of children.

“Look can we just get going?” She started walking in the direction of the bookstore and Belle matched her pace. Mu hurried to catch up as Timmy trailed behind, keeping a watchful eye on Kraft-a-Kid.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen anything weird?” Mu insisted. “Heard any screams of children he caught? Seen any dolls move in the corner of your eye?”

“You know he laughs like a cartoon villain?” Timmy added.

“The store is literally called Kraft-a-Kid!” Mu continued. “Open your eyes, Hattie!”

“Kid is just another word for baby goat!” Belle argued. “It’s cute!”

“We aren’t talking about this anymore!” Hattie snapped, tugging down on the brim of her hat. She turned away from them and focused on Belle. “So, what deck are you using? The one with fairy types? Or your cat themed one?”

“Both!” She grinned mischievously as she happily helped to redirect the conversation. “I combined them because I wanted to use all my favorites. How about you?”

“Going with the forest deck.” Hattie glanced up, where her deck was safely tucked away in the hidden compartment she stitched into the top hat.

Timmy and Mu huffed, letting their argument go as they pipped in with talking about their own decks. But it was only a matter of time before they started back on their theories about her dad’s supposed magic. Trying not to deflate too much, she kept her eyes forward. She swallowed her frustration and focused on the upcoming tournament.

Besides, even if her dad did have magic and only used it for heating up coffee, it hardly seemed something a heartless monster would do.

Right?

[helaintoloki]

Ooh how about #26 with 5?

*#26: “oh, and he’s wretchedly in love with you” // taken from this prompt list

warnings: slight language, mentions of alcohol

The gentle manor in which Allison combs her fingers through your hair and the relaxing buzz from countless drinks that encompasses your body makes it harder to stay awake through her animated debate with Klaus who sits by your side with your hand in his lap and paints your nails a dazzling shade of blue. Vanya sits in the chair beside you, a fond though confused smile on her face as she listens to her newfound siblings bicker about a possible case of incest in their family. The argument Allison makes in her defense has you snorting, your sudden movement causing Klaus to ruin the polish with a frown, but soon he’s laughing right along with you.

“Oh, yeah? And what about you, Miss ‘my boyfriend is an assassin,’” Allison counters with a playful tug at your hair.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you correct her almost too quickly. Klaus and Vanya exchange knowing glances.

“I mean, he might as well be at this point,” Vanya murmurs quietly, the comment from the shy woman sending her siblings into full on fits of laughter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask defensively with a frown. You can feel the heat crawling up the back of your neck at their teasing, and for a moment it almost feels as if you’re back in school again giggling with your friends about some elementary school crush.

(Things had been simpler then, and you wouldn’t have taken the days of trivial gossip for granted if you had known just how much heartache you’d have to suffer through in the aftermath.)

“Five never yells at you, he never insults you, he always checks on you after a fight. Oh, and he’s wretchedly in love with you,” Klaus finishes with a sweet smile accompanied by the small scrunch of his nose. “All the signs are there.”

“You guys have no idea what you’re talking about,” you argue, but the hammering of your heart in your chest and the nauseating butterflies in your stomach say otherwise. It was obvious that Five cared for you greatly, but it always seemed so unlikely for him to see you as anything other than a good friend. You’d both been through a lot together, you both had seen your fair share of gruesome sights you’d never be able to erase from your memories, but that didn’t mean he loved you. You were close, and wasn’t that enough?

“Sweetheart, did you really not know?” Allison asks, tone half teasing and half serious at your painful obliviousness of her brother’s affections towards you.

“I don’t really know either of you very much since I can’t remember you, but even I can tell that there’s something going on,” Vanya chimes in.

“Holy shit... so- so you’re saying Five loves me?”

“Well, duh!” Klaus exclaims. “You’d have to be blind to not notice the lovesick puppy dog eyes he saves just for you.”

Klaus accents his point with the light tap of his finger to the tip of your nose and a giggle before handing you another drink— God knows you need it.

“What should I do??” You then ask frantically.

“Well do you love him back?”

“Of course I do! What kind of a question is that?” You splutter. The alcohol mixed with your nerves is making you dizzy, and it’s Allison’s fingers brushing soothingly through your hair that brings you back to reality.

“First you need to calm down,” she advises. “And then you need to think about what it is you want to say and how you want to say it. I know my brother, and he’s not really one for the mushy stuff so you have to keep it simple otherwise you’ll just freak him out.”

“Right, right... I can do that.”

“Actually, the first step is to make sure you look absolutely fabulous so that when he sees you you’ll knock his cute little uniform socks right off,” Klaus interjects. An idea comes to mind and he gasps excitedly. “We should go shopping!”

“I don’t have any money,” you say with a frown.

“That’s why they invented shoplifting, sweetness,” he replies with a wink and a grin that is quickly wiped off by the smack upside the head Allison gives him. “Ouchie.”

“No shoplifting. I have tons of outfits you can borrow, we’ll stop by my house after I finish up styling your hair and you can pick out any dress you want.”

“Thank you guys so much,” you gush, the alcohol beginning to get the better of your emotions. “I literally don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you soooo much.”

“Yay, a new little sister!” Klaus cheers with an excited clap of his hands before yanking you up out of your chair and into a tight hug. Allison soon follows, pulling Vanya into your warm little group huddle along with her. You’ve never felt so much love and support before, but you can’t say you mind the chosen family you’ve found for yourself. You’re finally going to tell Five how you feel, and with the help of his siblings you have every no doubt in your mind that everything will work out just fine.

“Hey, guys?” Vanya says suddenly, brows furrowing slightly as if in deep thought.

“Yes Vanny?” Klaus replies sweetly, pulling away from the hug to look at his sister. She frowns, eyes flitting along each of your faces before speaking.

“Do we... Do we even know where Five is right now?”

[corancoranthemagicalman]

So @nebulous-bondage , you said that you liked Dean being an idiot with internalized issues that he confronts, misunderstandings and miscommunications, and long-suffering Sam. I attempted to do a bit of everything but adjacent to anything I would usually do, took a movie metaphor and ran. I hope you like it!

Great love and hugs to Sophie over at @starrynightdeancas for hosting this AWESOME event for a fabulous celebration (and once again congrats on the milestone!!) I got to meet at least TWO new cool people from it. (My gifter and giftee.) If you want some amazing content, please check out Sophie’s stuff that I totally drew inspiration from. Figured if my giftee was a fan of Sophie’s, I couldn’t go too wrong taking a card out of that deck.

Lots of love!

🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺

The crux of the issue if you asked Dean, was this:

He was an idiot.

Okay, he was not—he wasn’t stupid stupid. He has got mediocre intelligence, right? He wasn’t like Sammy and his multiple languages thing or Bobby and his random lore thing and—

The point was Dean, while not stupid could be a massive idiot. And that was the conundrum that led him to soaking in the middle of a diner in Nebraska of all places with his mother gasping at him and his brother facepalming at him and Jack glaring at him—

And Cas… well, Cas was just. Looking. But his face was, if Dean had to pinpoint some emotion, reading like it was a heartbreak that he had just experienced.

Maybe Dean should start from the beginning. Just so you understand his perspective, okay? Because he wasn’t—he wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t entirely his fault, except that it might have been. And he might have a lot of talking to do. Which sucked, because Dean kind of hated talking.

Okay, maybe not the beginning. The beginning was fire and brimstone and sulfur. The beginning was something Dean was told, but didn’t remember. Or the beginning he did remember, which was lightning and fear and salvation—well.

Dean was far from the beginning. The real beginning. It had been longer than a decade. An entire lifetime—more than that—separating him from what he was. What they were now to what they were then.

But there is a beginning to every stage in Dean’s life, he’s found. And that’s what he means. This thing Dean had for Cas? It began long before Dean was aware of it. This particular circumstance that led to a soaked shirt in a corny booth? Well, Dean with the benefit of retrospection could pinpoint it exactly.

In the Bunker’s library was where this had all started.

Cas had just walked in, deeply conversing with Jack. All of the conversations that Cas had he treated with that same seriousness. Even back when he had just been newly revived. Newly in Dean’s passenger seat, donning a cowboy hat, and calling himself Huckleberry.

(His Huckleberry. Dean’s Huckleberry. Even if he didn’t mean it like that. Could never mean it like that. Because angel’s didn’t feel like that.)

Jack had spotted Dean first, or at least turned to face Dean first. Dean had wondered if Cas had that same peripheral awareness as him. If his eyes always looked for him when he entered a room. If he could feel the charge he exuded with every step.

(Probably not. It was probably an angel thing that made Dean aware of Cas. Something about electricity and grace. Even though Cas’ grace was fading by the day, he was an angel. Would always be an angel if Dean could do anything about it.)

The point was, Jack had turned from Cas. Had asked Dean something about courting rituals in film. Dean had scoffed, reminding Jack that he didn’t watch chick-flicks. Because he didn’t. And had given him some sort of half answer.

(Ten Things I Hate About You didn’t count. And neither did Dirty Dancing. Ledger was not starring in a chick-flick, and Swayze always got a pass.)

Frowning, Jack had made some comment to Cas. It was probably regarding their previous conversation, and that’s why Dean hadn’t retained it. Didn’t really get it. He was, as stated previously, an idiot. And maybe if he had paid more attention, he would have stopped this before it had started.

But he didn’t. Instead, he had turned to Cas. Because he had been thinking about Dirty Dancing. And how Cas hadn’t seen that yet. And Dean had asked Cas if he wanted to do a movie night. Just—just the two of them.

(He said it was because Jack was four, and maybe Cas should vet the movie first. And Sam hated Dirty Dancing. And Mom wasn’t even home. Which was all true. But it wasn’t often that Dean had the excuse to be alone with his best friend.

At the beginning of their friendship, Dean hadn’t had to share Cas with anybody. That was his best friend. His buddy to laugh harder with than he had in his entire life. His buddy to watch movies with and make jokes with. Now even Mary liked circling around Cas—not that Dean would blame them. But maybe—maybe he would like to be a bit selfish. Just this once.)

Jack’s face had lit up like a Christmas tree, and Cas’ eyes had looked as gentle as soft-serve. “I would like that,” he had answered, and that had been that. They had watched the movie, just the two of them. And if Cas sat closer into Dean’s personal space—well. Cas never knew what that was, did he? No need to correct him now.

And it was small things like that. Adjacent to what they had been doing before, but somehow different. Maybe Dean was laughing more. Maybe Cas was smiling more. Whatever the hell it was, it was nice.

(Nice in the way that butterflies in the stomach felt. Light and dizzying and wonderful and terrifying. Not that it was butterflies. Not that this was even remotely anything like that.

Because, if Dean were to be honest about it, butterflies didn’t come close. The butterflies in Dean’s stomach had once had jetpacks. But now? Now they were settled. They just lived there and Dean was used to it and it was—

It was more than butterflies. In theory.)

And it was Sam shaking his head at them. Them laughing. Jack sitting across from them with a board game on a team with Mary, facing head to head. And it was… nice.

(Nice should have been Dean’s warning.)

Jack’s movie night picks were always varying, but he had recently shoveled 90s romantic films into the fray. Sam, as predicted, had ducked out to FaceTime with Eileen when Dirty Dancing had made it to the top of the list, but otherwise stuck it out. Dean couldn’t even begin to list all of the names that had bled together and the faces with their generic, lovestruck expressions.

There was Jack’s wide smile, though. Sam snorting a laugh and shoving popcorn into his mouth. Mary, intrigued and curious, asking as many questions as Cas might have once upon a time. And Cas was there, right next to Dean’s arm, and warm beside him. Lovely and warm and giving that same smile Dean thought was beginning to make a regular appearance.

Sitting with his entire family—all of them safe for once?—of course it had to go wrong.

(Of course Dean had to be the one to ruin it.)

It was an entire nest of vampires out in Nebraska of all places. Mary had been in the area and willing to meet up with them. Jack had been desperate to learn more about hunting, a fact that reminded Dean of a far off memory of Cas newly returned from Purgatory. A gummy smile and determination braced into an angel who still had his wings. Dean would be damned if Jack wasn’t a spitting image of that.

(But, maybe… Maybe Jack could go without all the terrible things that happened during that time. Cas, back from Purgatory and not in control of all of his faculties. Cas, longing for penance and willing to pass vindication on Dean’s guilty conscience. Even if Dean wasn’t a great role model. Even if the first few weeks with Jack had been—

Sam called it living with John Winchester again. Dean hadn’t known what to call it. Didn’t know if he could call it anything. But that—

Well, that was for another time. Dean would always be living with that guilt, but for the moment, the guilt bloomed in a Nebraska diner sitting across from Cas.)

Laughing, smiling—things that seemed to subtly be a new normal for them. It made Dean lean back in the booth, sling his arm over the back of it and relax into his seat. He turned to Jack, ruffling the kid’s hair after Jack shot a syrupy smile to Cas across the table. Cas offered a shy smile, ducking his head.

Beside Cas, Sam rolled his eyes and resumed his conversation with Mary. Mary had squeezed into the side with Dean and Jack. Five people didn’t work for booths, and Dean couldn’t help but think that in another life he would have prevented this exact thing from happening. But he didn’t mind being half on a seat, Mary squeezing between Jack and the window, and Sam sitting across from her laughing. Cas’ still shy smile on him.

“I did have a question,” Mary raised a brow. “I mean, when did movies start getting so… formulaic?”

Sam huffed a laugh, giving a shrug of his shoulders. “Well, they’ve kind of always been that way, haven’t they? Old Japanese myth becomes Hollywood cowboys becomes modern Sci-Fi.”

“Hey,” Dean spoke pointedly. “Treading dangerous waters there, Sammy. You can’t go wrong with cowboys or aliens.”

“Oh! Or Cowboys and Aliens,” Jack beamed, pointing with his fork before returning most of his attention to the remaining stack of pancakes.

Dean acquesied the point with a crooked grin. “That too.” He took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the slow burn of hot caffeine into his system. “What sort of formula are we talkin’ about though? Are we talkin’ young girls getting hypnotized by weirdly boyish supernatural creatures?”

“Even that has some basis going back to at least 1897,” Cas pointed out, “at least from what most people with any familiarity of fiction are concerned. Stoker’s Dracula was also a youthful seeming figure who enchanted a young woman.” His brow furrowed in that thoughtful way of his before he continued. “Though, I suppose that since some scholars believe it is possibly an allegory for sexuallly transmitted diseases, that does reaffirm the belief that it is meant to be an alluring but dangerous figure threatening the virtue of a young woman.”

Mary chuckled, shaking her head with wide eyes. She still wasn’t used to Cas being… Cas.

(There were times where Mary forgot Cas was an angel. Not in the sense that she was not always aware of the supernatural aura around Cas, but in the sense that sometimes Cas was so human. He was thoughtful and kind. His words were provoking and caring. His emotions were as volatile and as gentle as any man Dean had ever known.

Perhaps better than most men Dean had known. More human than some men that Dean had known.)

“I meant the whole boy meets girl thing.” She gestured with her free hand. “I mean the movie dates and the plastic solo cups. It’s all so… basic.”

“Not exactly the boomboxes and the mermaids, is it?” Sam smiled gently, nodding. “I guess people just like it… simple. Y’know? That love can just be something as simple as movie dates and sharing milkshakes.”

Dean ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck. Sam nailed it on the head. The best part of movies was that they were simple, and you always knew how they were gonna end.

(The hero always beat the bad guy, always saved the girl, always lived happily ever after. Didn’t mean Dean didn’t like movies where the cowboy rode off—grievously injured—into the sunset where you knew he would fall off of his horse after the fade to black. It was just that sometimes—

Dean knew that was going to be his ending. The cowboy holding his bleeding side. No one beside him but his trusty horse. Orange sunset on his face. That’s where his life was heading.

So sometimes it was just… nice. To pretend those stories didn’t exist. And Dean wasn’t living in one.)

“I guess,” Mary sighed, “I just miss the romance of it.” She looked forlornly at her drink. Dean wondered if she was thinking of John. Thinking of a jukebox and Zeppelin songs that he knew all the words to.

“I suppose everyone has their own unique definition of romance,” Cas offered diplomatically. “Humans tend to think romantic actions are circumstantial rather than objective.” He turned a small smile to Dean. “Take for example movie dates.”

Scoffing, Dean rolled his eyes. “Just ‘cause I like movies doesn't mean I think that’s romantic.” He could feel his cheeks burn, causing him to scratch at his scruff with an index finger. He was going to have to shave, wasn’t he? His hair was getting long—

“What.” Jack’s voice pulled Dean from his pondering. It sounded a touch colder than Dean was used to coming from the kid. Usually, Jack was sunshine and rainbows. Storm clouds and thunder. A spitting image of his dad—the one he called dad—but softer. Softer because Cas had done his damnedest to not let Jack be hardened into a soldier.

(Not like Dean had been. Not like Sam had been.)

“What what?” Dean furrowed his brow. Sighing, he rested his forearms on the table. “Look, movie nights? They’re nice for getting a girl alone in the dark and getting handsy on the couch or whatever,” he shook his head. “But romantic? Hardly.”

(He wanted to say that he didn’t believe in romance. Maybe because he didn’t want to believe that romance was out there, but not for him. It was hard to say that though, when thinking of his mother and her Zeppelin songs.

When thinking of a tape full of Zeppelin songs.

So he didn’t say any of that.)

“So,” Cas began slowly, “you don’t like movie dates.” He nodded, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “I see. What sort of dates would you prefer?”

Dean quirked a brow at Cas, letting out a chuckle. “Cas, I don’t do dates.” He shot a wry grin toward his brother. “Sammy prefers the wining and dining, but I’m more straight forward. If I want to hook up with someone, I just ask.” Looking at his hands, Dean confessed softer than he had meant to. “I’m too old for messin’ around.”

(And it was true. He was too old for it. He was still a handsome son of a gun. Still drew some attention, but—

But any time he had tried, he found himself just wanting to be home. Just wanting to be on that couch with Cas beside him and Jack sitting at their feet watching a movie. Sam and Mary coming and going as they pleased but there. Home.)

“You don’t… date?” Mary’s voice sounded careful and her gaze felt scrutinizing. “I—I was under the impression—”

“Mom,” Dean stopped her, feeling an embarrassed flush overcome his features. “C’mon. Don’t pretend like people didn’t do hookups back in your day too.” He tried to come off as teasing. Tried to lighten whatever was strengthening Jack’s glare, whatever was making Cas’ eyes grow a far distance away, whatever was raising Sam’s hand to his forehead.

Jack fixed his jaw and Dean had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. He could recognize that look from the mirror. And that was a terrifying thought, that Jack looked anything like him.

(Made him think about the weeks where Jack was living with John Winchester. Made Dean wake up in a cold sweat that maybe Jack had been learning from them during that time too. That despite Cas’ hard work, Dean would’ve turned Jack into John anyway.)

“Movie dates aren’t romantic,” Jack listed, “and you only want to hook up?”

(And none of that was really true, was it? Dean liked watching movies. And he liked doing it with Cas. He had admitted as much to himself even if the circumstances of those daydreams weren’t romantic.

But the idea of it being romantic wasn’t lost on Dean. That he could want it to be romantic. If asked, though, he’d say maybe movie watching was more domestic. Somehow that meant more to Dean. His little house and his little family watching a film, Cas pressing close and smiling.

But he wouldn’t say that. Couldn’t say that.)

“Love isn’t like the movies, Jack,” Dean huffed. “And I sure as hell don’t want it.”

This was where we were now. Dean’s shirt soaked. Mary gasping. Sam’s face in his hands. Cas’ face being etched with something sharp.

“Jack!” Mary reprimanded, hand resting on his shoulder.

Jack held his chin up in the air, looking down at Dean despite not having the height on him. “Isn’t it customary that when the guy says something stupid, the girl throws her drink at him?” His eyes squinted, head tilting, and it might have made Dean’s heart seize in his chest despite the frightening cold from the water clinging to his chest. “Cas is too kind to do it, so I did it for him.”

Cas was too kind for a lot of things, but—

“Thank you, Jack, but there is no need.” Cas spoke softly, but his face did not reflect that gentleness he always aimed at his son. Instead his eyes were still distant. Still lacking that shade of blue. “I believe this is, ah.” He shook his head and Dean could recognize that self-deprecating crook of his mouth from any distance. “This is the part of the film where the girl grossly misunderstands what is happening.”

“Can someone explain to me what is going on?” Dean snapped, jerking into action to dot at his shirt with napkins. “I’m freezing in Nebraska and we’re still talking about chick-flicks! Life isn’t a movie!”

The crook of Cas’ mouth shrunk, turning a touch sad. “I know,” he spoke calmly and pushed himself out of the booth. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need some fresh air.”

No one kindly mentioned that Cas had never needed air before.

Dean was left staring at Cas' retreating form, that trenchcoat quickly crossing the horizon. It reminded Dean of the cowboy movies he had been thinking of. The injured cowboy carrying himself out of town, retreating from burdening his loss of life on anyone else. Bleeding and lonely.

Silence fell over the table, the napkins clutched in Dean’s grip quickly soaking some of the water from his shirt but doing little else to dry him. Sam’s elbow thunked against the table and shook Dean out of his reverie.

“So…” Mary began slowly. “You and Cas… aren’t dating?” She cautiously spoke, pushing her mug closer to the window as if that might spare it of whatever her words would stir within Dean.

(There was, admittedly, only one thought to cross Dean’s mind.

No, that wasn’t true.

There were precisely twenty-five different thoughts that had crossed Dean’s mind all at once. The largest of these—the loudest of these—was in a voice Dean ignored.)

“Mom, what the hell?” Dean furrowed his brow. “Cas is my best friend!”

Mary looked contrite, thinning her lips into a line. “I know that,” she reassured gently, “I just thought that…”

“Thought what? We were playing tonsil hockey or something?”

“Gross, Dean,” Sam sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He lifted his gaze to meet Mary’s across from him. “No, they’re just. Always like that.”

Dean swiveled to face Sam. Sammy was always insightful and usually right. But sometimes he spouted things that just… they didn’t—

(It didn’t make sense. To think of Cas and Dean as Cas and Dean. Not when Cas could never feel that way. Not when Dean was adamantly not thinking about it.)

“You told us that guys ask girls to movies when they like them!” Jack argued, pointing a finger accusingly at Dean.

“I what?” Dean furrowed his brow. “We do movie nights all the time! Watching a movie with someone isn’t a date!”

Jack turned to his pancakes with that same laser glare. Kryptonian son of a Kryptonian man. Super-human strength in the most unassuming package. Maybe the kid would have laser eyes. “We asked you why guys asked girls out to the movies in movies, and you said it’s just what people do.” He huffed. “Then you asked Cas to watch a movie. Isn’t that just what people do?”

It was then Dean realized he had no idea what conversation Jack was referring to, and he would have asked as much had it not suddenly come to his realization that—

(That—)

“Cas thought I was dating him?” Dean let out in a harsh whisper that felt like a whip to his heart.

Jack stabbed at his pancake, muggish and solemn with his movements. “I was so excited. I thought I had figured it out.” He let out a slow breath. “Cas tried telling me that… that sometimes humans say things and don’t mean it, but I thought…” Jack rested his chin on his balled fist. “And Mary said that her husband gave her a mixtape of Zeppelin too, so I thought—”

“Wait, wait,” Dean waved his hands in front of himself, speaking over Sam’s squeaking. He could feel his brain fritzing. Blowing smoke and threatening to stop in its tracks and never resume to whatever destination it had been plummeting toward. “Stop. Cas thought I was dating him. And he never said anything.”

Sam snorted a laugh, cracking a smile for the first time since this whole conversation had started. “When have you ever known Cas to say something?” He shook his head, hair curtaining his face. “He’s like the definition of happy with what we have.”

“Another movie trope!” Jack pointed with his fork, lifting his head from his plate. He turned with his silverware pointed at Dean this time. “See? You guys are like a movie!”

“It’s exhausting,” Mary let out in a quiet breath.

Dean could see her mulling over her abandoned coffee before he was distracted by Jack brandishing the fork near his face. He pushed the fork away with a single finger, furrowing his brow.

“We’re not a movie,” he admonished. “We’re people. People who’ve got—” Dean felt the words snap in his throat, clogging it with something thick. “He’s Cas. I’m me. Got it?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Sam furrowed his brow, matching Dean and leaning forward across the table. “You’re you and he’s him. Cut the bullshit, Dean.” Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him like a searchlight. Felt it beam into every nook and cranny Dean kept hidden. Spotting the rats and the liter festering in corners.

Shaking his head, Dean pushed himself up from the booth. “I’m not having this conversation with you.” He spoke pointedly, looking at his family. His little, broken family.

(He could remember Lilo & Stitch. That had been one that Jack had insisted on watching. Dean couldn’t deny the kid the full cinema experience for a classic.

Sitting on the couch, watching the film, Dean could spy the intensity in Cas’ gaze. The way the green of the film reflected on his blue eyes. Dean caught himself before he leaned into Cas too far, but Cas caught the movement. Caught him staring.

“I just…” Cas had trailed off. “I hadn’t realized how much I could relate to a small, animated alien.” He shrugged. “I suppose now I understand how you could form a parasocial relationship with the talking dog.”

How could Dean put into words how much Cas was Stitch? Something alien and far away. An answer to silent prayers. Something that added to their small and broken family.

But still good.

Yeah, still good.

Instead he had just shrugged, made some remark about Scooby-Doo being everyone’s best friend until Sam had aggressively shushed him into silence.)

The problem was Dean knew he had to talk about it. What was worse was that he knew who he had to talk to. This wasn’t a conversation for his family in the middle of Nebraska. This was a conversation for Cas—wherever he was.

Running his fingers through his hair in aggravation, Dean could feel his boots stomp across the floor. He could hear Sam sigh and place his palm to his forehead. Feel Jack’s Kryptonian stare. Sense his mother’s fight-or-flight instinct kicking in.

(The truth was this:

Dean wanted to run too. Wanted to hide away from this conversation and never resurface. Hide beneath every shout from every hunter he had seen growing up.

But he was getting too old for this shit. And he was tired. And Sammy was always insightful and usually right. And if Dean’s gut was saying what Dean’s heart hoped it was saying? Well.

Well.)

“Cas,” Dean called out, spotting the slowly soaking shoulders of his trenchcoated angel as soon as he turned the corner. “Why the hell are you standing in the rain, man?”

Cas sighed, turning his heavenward face to the concrete. “I wanted to take a walk. It started raining. I didn’t let it deter me.”

“Doesn’t look like you did much walkin’,” Dean gestured to how close the diner was. Its comfortable brickwork was still three feet from Cas’ figure. Stepping closer, Dean inhaled sharply. “Cas, talk to me.”

“What would you like me to say, Dean?” Cas furrowed his brow, turning his entire body to face Dean. Dean didn’t know which was worse. The sharpened profile made of millennial old granite, or the thousand eyed stare that had raised him from perdition.

(It was neither of these.

It was a pair of blue eyes, a shade darker than those of Jimmy Novak’s, staring at him in a barn. Telling him he deserved to be saved. And continuing to tell him he deserved to be saved twelve years later.

That was the face that did Dean in. Always.)

Huffing, Dean could feel an instinctual, defensive fire burn in his chest. “First off, you could start with how the hell I was supposed to guess we started dating.”

Cas’ face hardened and crumbled. It reminded Dean of an old cookie. Stale and full of raisins. It was hard to look at. “We never started dating, Dean.” He spoke sharply. “I… I had made an assumption, and I know what people say about assuming.”

“Let me get this straight,” Dean shook his head. “My best friend of twelve years thinks I asked him out on a movie date in front of his kid, yeah?” He did not wait for Cas’ answer before continuing. “Then he just, what? Thinks that nothing would change? We’d just keep watching movies together forever?”

“I would ask for nothing else,” Cas confessed and his whisper was almost lost to the sound of the rain picking up, thundering against the roof of the diner beside them. “Nothing had to change. Nothing has to change.”

Dean growled. “Then why storm out, huh?” He bit. “If nothing has to change, why are you out here taking a smoke break in the rain?”

Cas inhaled sharply, turning away from Dean. “I…” he began, “I thought for once we were on the same page.” He let out a breath. “I just needed time to… think. Reconceptualize some things.”

“Reconceptualize things.” Dean echoed, ignoring the increase of the rain falling on his skin. “Cas, I don’t even know what to say.” He threw his arms with a shrug. “What am I supposed to say?”

Hadn’t he known what conversation he was supposed to have? Why was it so hard to speak to Cas about this?

Wasn’t it supposed to be easy? If Dean wanted this, and Cas wanted this, then wasn’t it that simple? Just like a movie?

(The problem, Dean figured, was this:

He actually didn’t know what Cas wanted at all.

All that time thinking Cas couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Now here they were, and Cas thought they were dating, but he hadn’t done any of the things Dean would have done if they were dating. What would dating Cas even be like? What they had already been doing for weeks? Years?)

“Cas,” Dean inhaled a fortifying breath. “Man, what do you want?”

Cas brow furrowed and his head tilted, scrutinizing Dean. Being solely under that powerful gaze made Dean shiver. The angel’s eyes widened and he took a measured step forward. “You should get out of the rain—”

“No!” Dean gripped tightly at Cas’ shoulders. “No, I’m not leaving until you tell me what you want Cas!” He shouted and he was certain his voice would have bounced throughout the nearly empty parking lot of the diner had it not been for the deafening rain.

“What do I want?” Cas shouted in equal force. He shrugged Dean’s hands off of his shoulders, pressing forward into Dean’s space.

(Suddenly, Dean was reminded of an alley. Of Michael and Lucifer. Of Cas pressing him against the cold, damp wall. Beating his convictions into him.

It felt holy, those dangerous touches. Punishment at the hands of an angry god reminding Dean what he was fighting for. Even if he hadn’t lost sight of it yet, and even if Dean didn’t know it yet—

Cas would always hold him to that.)

“What I want,” Cas growled, eyes squinting against Dean’s features sharply, “is the one thing that I know I can’t have—”

“And how do you know?” Snapping, Dean took the last step between them. Their faces were close as they had been in the past, but…

But it had been so long since Dean had been this close to him. And it was somehow not close enough.

Cas’ eyes widened, breath that he didn’t need hitching. Dean watched in fascination as the blue of his eyes was slowly overtaken by the dark of his pupils. His crows feet somehow diminished with his wide eyes.

Youthful.

He looked like an echo of a Cas Dean once knew. But this was the Cas Dean always knew. Just older. Wiser. Kinder.

(And Dean loved him more with every day.)

“Cas, I'm tired.” Dean confessed. “I'm tired of lying to myself. I’m tired of pretending that I don't—I can’t—” he stumbled over his words, searching for some hidden strength that might have resided on Cas’ skin. “I keep telling myself you couldn’t ever feel like… like that. And it’s easier that way. Maybe if you can’t ever feel like that, then it’ll never happen so why should I hope for anything else, right?”

Cas made to interrupt him, but Dean wasn’t finished. Not by a mile. And Dean had been driving all of his life. Knew the comfort of driving. There was something like that here, with Cas.

(There always had been.

On a park bench in a small town Dean couldn’t even remember the name of. Cas saying he wasn’t a hammer. Dean listening. The first smile or the first joke that wasn’t a barb. Or both.)

“But that's bullshit, isn't it? ‘Cause you feel like nobody I’ve ever met, Cas.” Dean laughed breathlessly and it felt like oxygen deprivation. The kind that made you dizzy and squeezed your chest. “You feel so much all the damn time. That's the whole reason Naomi hated your guts. You’ve got this—this heart, man, and I gotta tell you, I’m jealous.

I’m jealous of every person who gets that from you. That gets a piece of you. ‘Cause I want all of it. Isn’t that nuts, man? That I’m too chicken shit to get over myself but I want you completely like that?” Dean gulped in a fresh lungful of air but he still felt like he was choking. Cas’ eyes taking on the appearance of mist, glistening and open, growing the thing beating its way out of Dean’s ribcage.

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes and trying to finish what he had to say. What he knew he had to say. Dean wasn’t good at talking. He didn’t like talking.

(But he loved Cas.

That probably balanced it out.)

“I’m scared, Cas,” came the confessional, “I’m terrified that I’m gonna—about everything.” Opening his eyes, Dean looked to Cas again. Found the remainder of the strength he needed looking back at him so intensely. “But there’s, uh, there’s this guy who sort of makes me feel better. About all of that. And I think I could move fucking mountains for him if he asked me to.”

“Dean,” and Cas spoke it like absolution. Like forgiveness for all the things that Dean had done. All he would ever do.

(And maybe he did. Maybe Cas did forgive Dean of it. There was so much to forgive. Little to forget. But maybe—

Maybe Cas saw Dean. All of Dean. The John Winchester that he was and the John Winchester he could be. The Mark of Cain on his arm and the Demon in his eyes.

But maybe he saw Lilo, too. On her knees and praying. Hoping. Someone who was trying.

And god.

Did he want to try.)

Licking his lips, Dean’s eyes flickered to Cas’ mouth for a moment. “Y’know Cas,” Dean whispered. He couldn’t risk speaking louder. Not if it was going to break the spell. Not if it was going to fade to black before he could get this. “I’ve always wanted a movie kiss.”

Cas’ smile spread gently across his face like warm butter over morning toast. “I thought you said life wasn’t a movie.”

Dean chuckled, ducking his head in hopes that Cas wouldn’t catch the burning of his cheeks. He probably did, though. Cas was just observant like that. Knew Dean like that. Bringing his face back up to meet Cas’ gaze, Dean couldn’t help but smile wider.

“It isn’t usually,” he shrugged with a single shoulder. “But, uh, way I see it?” Dean leaned forward, brushing the tip of his nose along the bridge of Cas’. “I think we just might be.”

(And god that was corny. But Cas made Dean corny.

No.

Dean was corny. Cas just made Dean comfortable enough to be whatever he wanted to be. And what Dean was right now was kissing the love of his life in the rain, receiving a foot-popping silver screen worthy first kiss.

Fade to black. Roll credits. Cue the 90s pop cover of the title song.)

[snackhobi]

pairing: min yoonji x reader / word count: 9.7k / genre: f x f smut, assassin!au

summary: a fic inspired by this post and that’s pretty much it-

warnings: sexually explicit content (NSFW), talk about death/assassination (nothing graphic dw! but they are assassins, so), mild violence, unnecessarily sexually charged lipstick application, face riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral (f giving/receiving), use of restraints, overstimulation, squirting, kind of dom!yoonji?

a/n: this is an entirely self-indulgent fic I wrote as a gift to myself for my bday, it’s a lil rushed bc I wanted it done for today! women are so very beautiful and I am so very weak, thank you ladies for all being so amazing ily. this was meant to be a short pwp and now it’s almost 10k but I have no regrets bye

--

la petite mort French literal meaning: ‘the little death’; also an expression used to refer to the brief loss or weakening of consciousness, specifically the sensation of orgasm as likened to death; an orgasm.

--

“It’s just unacceptable.”

The woman in front of you is clearly wealthy. Her dark hair is perfectly styled and her pale nails are perfectly shaped and her subtle makeup is perfectly flattering; she’s starting to get older but rather than shy away from it, she’s leaning into it, and she looks almost imperious in her beauty, eyes sharp and set of her lips severe. Park Dahye was born into wealth and has clearly thrived in the life that she’s been afforded.

“Mmhm.” You try not to yawn. 

“He’s flitting around with some young, silly thing on his arm, with no consideration for the family’s reputation— my reputation,” she continues. Her posture is perfect, from the set of her spine to her crossed legs to her folded hands that rest on her knee, somehow demure and yet highlighting all of her beauty and riches; the jewellery on her wrists and fingers, the expensive heels on her feet, the slit of her haute-couture dress, no doubt tailored for her and her alone. “I’ve already spoken to him about his behaviour, but he’s just ignored my warnings. We may have agreed on the divorce but we’re currently still husband and wife— has he no shame?”

“Awful.” You don’t even try to hide how bored you are, but Dahye is so quietly incensed that she doesn’t even notice as she launches into the next part of her queenly diatribe, and you muffle a sigh.

That’s the problem with rich clients. Sure, they’re willing to fork over stupid amounts of money to you, but they also think that their issues are of paramount significance— like they’re the centre of the universe and their problems are the only important ones in the world. Like you’re interested in what they have to say. Like this is the only job you’ll ever do that holds real weight or meaning.

For them, it’s a life-changing (life-ending) decision. 

For you? It’s another Tuesday.

“Yes, yes, that’s just so terrible, gosh, I don’t know how you manage it,” you say once she pauses to take a breath, using the opportunity to cut her off before she launches into another part of her articulate rant. “Anyway. Would you prefer if his death was embarrassing or quiet?”

For the first time since you’ve met, she seems unsettled. “Pardon?”

Namjoon is much better with people than you, smooth and charming with his boyish dimples. Normally any discussions would go through your handler, but this woman had demanded to meet you personally and had been willing to pay for the privilege: so here you are, with your relative bluntness instead of Joon’s winsome smile.

“You know,” you say, gesturing with your hands. “When they find the body. Do you want him to be caught with his trousers around his ankles—literally or figuratively, that’s up to you— or would you rather it seemed like something natural and unpredictable? Like a sudden heart attack in his sleep, for example.”

When it comes to rich clients, a lot of it is about reputation. When someone’s shuffled off this mortal coil, it’s not just that they’re removed from the equation, it’s also about the ripples that their death leaves in the high society that they’ve lived in. Does she want her (soon-to-be) ex-husband made a mockery of, or does she just want him out of the picture?

She can’t see your face, behind your mask as it is, but you can see hers in perfect clarity. For all that Dahye seems put together and almost impassive, you see the tiny flicker in her eyes. Ah. She’s not just mad because he’s ruining their reputation. She’s hurt.

Man, that sucks. Honestly you bet it’s easier being an assassin than a rich housewife. At least when it comes to backstabbing you can literally involve a knife to sort your problems out. (Well, knives are messy, but you get the picture.)

“I’d prefer something quiet,” she decides. “I’d worry that it could lead back to me, otherwise.”

You’d be offended at the idea that you’d leave any trace that could implicate anyone or that this man’s sudden death was in any way suspicious, but she’s paying you enough that you find that you don’t care. You take pride in your work, but for the amount of zeroes involved in the fee you’re being paid, you think you can take an unintentional insult or two. Or three. Or ten.

You like money, what can you say.

“Sure thing,” you say, giving her a lazy, two fingered salute. You’ve been reclining against the desk of the hotel suite, flicking the complimentary, heavy metal pen between your fingers, twirling it like the world’s most underwhelming baton. You straighten up and let the pen drop back into the pen pot—wait, no, of course it’s a handmade porcelain jar, an alarmingly well-made Joseon porcelain replica. Everything in here stinks of money. “RM will confirm where the money is to be deposited. Half of it now as collateral, and half upon completion of the job,” you say. “If you change your mind between now and then, we’ll be keeping the original 50%, but if for some reason something goes awry, you’ll receive that money back. Sound good?”

She seems surprised at your directness. “I—”

“Fabulous!” You clap your hands together, although the sound is muffled by your gloves. You’re not about to leave your fingerprints everywhere, geez. “Alright, time for me to skidaddle I suppose! I’ve got work to be doing, people to be watching, men to be killing!”

Dahye flinches imperceptibly, but by this point you’ve already slipped out onto the balcony and into the night.

--

Being an assassin is hard work.

Technically, everyone has the capacity to kill another human being. But killing as a job involves a lot more than just caving someone’s head in with a rock—that’s why Cain isn’t referred to as an assassin, what with how he’d just bashed his brother Abel with a convenient stone that happened to be lying nearby. He was just a straight up dick.

No, when you kill professionally you need to be familiar with an array of different techniques, each one far more sophisticated than the last. You need to know how to be stealthy, how to blend in as you watch your target, how to set up the scenes of their death in a way that doesn't arouse suspicion. Or, instead, how to set the scene up in a way that lets any onlookers know that this person had been offed by someone who knew what they were doing, and knew it well. There's a difference between being a killer and being an assassin and you are firmly in the latter category.

So, if your client wants her husband to be shuffled off quietly, then that’s what she’ll get.

They really have pulled out all the stops for this charity gala. Everything is shining, glittering and bright: the surroundings, the food, the people. Especially the people. The rich elite have come together for an extravagant and exquisite night of ostentation and luxury, all in the name of raising money for some needy cause. (You try not to think of the irony and/or hypocrisy behind that.)

It’s almost laughable how easy it is to blend in here. Namjoon had secured (forged) invitations for you both, and so you hang off his arm as you make a slow sweep of the room, trailing unnoticed after your target. You’re not planning to make a move right now but you want to feel out exactly what he’s like: the more information you have about the person you’ve been contracted to assassinate, the better. 

Plus it’s an excuse to dress up nice and eat free food— though that last part is mainly Namjoon.

“God, these canapés are so good,” Namjoon moans quietly to you, hoovering up the flaky pastry crumbs from his fingers with single-minded intent. You dig your fingers subtly into his arm.

“I thought we agreed on not eating tonight, Joon,” you mutter to him, although you say it with a beatific smile in case anyone is watching; the place is heaving with people but you’re always on guard. (Even if Namjoon is right. The hors d’oeuvres that are on offer do look incredibly tempting.)

“You have a glass of champagne,” he points out.

“And you may have noticed that I haven’t drunk any of it.” You titter, as if he’s just told a funny joke, and lightly slap his arm. Again, you’re fairly certain no one is watching, but you can never be too careful. “It’s all about creating a facade, Joonie. It’s what we in the business call a ruse.”

Even throughout your back and forth, you’ve kept your eyes on your man of the night: Park Minjae, a middle-aged businessman who’s been greeting people and getting swept up in conversation, all while a slip of a blonde clings to his arm, stuck to his side like a pretty limpet. She’s cute, sure, but she lacks the poise that Dahye has, so you frankly don’t get it. Then again, not everyone finds strong women as attractive as you do. Weirdos.

You’ve been focused on Minjae but your eyes have also been flitting around the room, drinking in your surroundings, drawing up a detailed map of your environment (of course you’d scoped out the building before tonight, but with all the banquet tables and chairs around the layout is a little different). The people, too, have been subject to your scrutiny, although so far they all seem summarily unimportant and uninteresting, just as you’d suspected. You lift your glass to your lips and pretend to take a tiny, demure sip, glancing up through your eyelashes to scan the room again, and you freeze.

Holy shit.

You take back what you just said about everyone being unimportant and uninteresting. 

The woman who’s just walked in is fucking stunning. Her sleek dark bob is unstyled, but perfectly frames her beautiful face: sharp eyes, soft nose, flushed lips. Her cocktail dress lets you see almost every inch of those perfect legs, the line of her thighs to her calves and— oh, you swear you could shed a tear of joy. She’s already tall and she’s made even taller by the heels she wears, towering above most of the men here, a fucking Amazonian goddess who looks powerful and undeniably elegant at the same time. 

(Thank you for your service, tall women.)

You don’t know who she is, but goddamn, do you want to. She’s scanning the room, and for a brief moment, your eyes touch. A tiny thrill shudders up your spine at the darkness of her keen eyes, that quick and astute gaze. 

It’s only the tiniest of moments that’s over as soon as it’s started. The dark-haired beauty looks away and is already disappearing into the crowd before you realise, and it’s only then you notice that you’re staring, utterly drawn in by her cool poise and presence. You’ve been frozen in place with the rim of your champagne  glass resting against your mouth, and your eyelashes flutter as you blink and glance down.

The imprint of your lower lip has been left on the glass, stark red visible against its edge, and you squeeze Namjoon’s bicep.

“How does my lipstick look?”

He takes one look at you as he swallows down another tiny vol-au-vent. “Like half of it is missing,” he says, and you frown.

“Ugh. I’ll go touch it up in the bathroom. Keep an eye on our guy, I’ll be right back.”

It’s not until you’ve made it to the toilets that you realise that you do not, in fact, have any lipstick in your ridiculously small clutch bag. When it comes to your actual work, you’re meticulous and thorough and well-planned, but for some bizarre reason, a tube of lipstick is never the top of the list when it comes to equipment. Unbelievable. (You knew you should have worn the 24/7 stuff, but it was always such a nightmare to get off.)

You’ve been so busy rummaging through your bag that you’re completely caught off-guard at the sound of a quiet voice from behind you.

“Lost something?”

Oh, fuck. It’s her, your dark haired and dark eyed beauty, meeting your gaze through the mirror when you glance up from where you’re resting your bag against the marble counter  (marble, marble, marble, it’s all marble: the floors, the counters, the sinks; why do rich people always love marble?). She looks altogether too amused at your plight and at how your eyes have widened perceptibly upon seeing her again. But can she blame you? Her presence is so graceful and commanding and she’s so dizzyingly attractive it’s insane. Surely she must get this all the time.

You stare for a little longer than is probably polite, and even behind her fringe you can see how one of her eyebrows rises.

“Sorry for staring,” you say once you notice. “You’re just so beautiful.”

She pauses as she takes in the compliment. You see how her eyes flicker over your face and settle on your mouth; your upper lip, tinted burgundy red, while the lower is faint and smudged.

“Lipstick problems?” She cocks her head at you, still staring at your lips in the mirror. God, she’s so hot.

“Can you tell?” You sound rueful as you glance down at the reflection of your mouth, touching your bottom lip lightly with a fingertip. “I forgot to bring any with me so now I’m stuck.”

She finally looks away from you. You hear a small, metallic click as she unclasps her evening bag— marginally larger than your own— and lifts out a small tube of liquid lipstick. “Would you like to use mine?”

Fuck yes you would. 

“Oh, would that be alright?” You finally turn around, and you have to tilt your head back to look at her, taller than you in her heels. Jesus Christ. She’s going to be the death of you. Why are women so gorgeous? Who gave them the right? “I’m not sure the shade will match, though?”

You watch her beautiful mouth curve up into a small smirk as she pulls out a tiny pack of makeup remover wipes from her bag, and you swear could propose to her there and then. Beautiful and tall and organised? Holy shit. What a woman.

She’s got her bag in one hand, while the lipstick and wipes are clasped in the other; her hand is held up in such a way that you think she means for you to take them from her, but when you reach out she shakes her head.

“I’ll do it for you,” she says. The quiet note of authority in her tone makes you go weak at the knees.

Thank god the toilets you chose aren’t the main ones, because it means there’s no one around to see how she tilts her head at the marble counter in the universal gesture of get on there. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you, of course, immediately comply. You brace your hands against the cold stone before hitching yourself up, careful with the draping folds of your dress; the cold touch of the stone is noticeable through the material of your dress, but it’s instantly forgotten when your enchantress steps closer. 

You spread your knees so she can stand between them. Holy shit, she’s even better up close. Her lashes are wispy but they’re the perfect frame for her gorgeous eyes, which are dark and intent. You suppress a shiver. You hold yourself still as she leans forward and around you so she can put her clutch and lipstick down, trying to ignore how close she is, but there’s no way she can’t realise what she’s doing. Your heart is pounding. You wish you didn’t have a job to do tonight because you would so much rather be getting, ah, acquainted with this woman rather than following some old businessman around.

The only noise in the bathroom is the sound of peeling plastic as she opens the tiny packet of wet wipes before she curls one around her finger, glancing at you through her lashes.

“Open,” she instructs.

Your mouth drops open immediately. She sweeps the wipe over your lips, bottom, then top, touch firm but careful, drawing away the red from your skin; you stare at her as she works, how her eyes are cast down as she stares at your mouth. She’s using her free hand to grip your chin and you feel deliciously powerless in her grasp. 

You purse your lips a little to try and help her, watching the way her eyes flicker as she pulls the wipe back over them— somewhat firmer, this time, with more intent. Lingering. The only barrier between her finger and your mouth is soft and flimsy, the texture of the wipe against your lips like cotton as it drags across them, and it would be so easy to pull it out of her hands.

She flicks the dirtied wipe aside, heedless of how it lands on the unsullied marble, before reaching for her lipstick. She twists the tube in her fingers, motions of her hands precise and deft, and you’ve never been so attracted to how someone’s uncapped something before. 

You watch her hands. (She watches you.)

Your eyes trail over the wand as she pulls it out, dragging the doe foot against the rim to catch the excess before turning it towards you, putting the tube by your thigh, near where your hand is bracing against the marble. She takes hold of your chin once again. You stay quiet as she starts to sweep the lipstick over your lips, painting them the same flushed pink as her own. Once again she’s staring at her work so you’re free to drink her in, almost drunk from her beauty, eyes catching on the tiny moles on her pale skin, the smallest freckles that are only noticeable because you’re this close.

The squelch of the applicator sliding into the tube is almost lewd in the silence of the bathroom, and this time you can’t suppress a shiver when she pulls your chin down to open your mouth so she can go back in again on your lips, drawing a sharp, crisp line. Tracing the edges of your lips, the flushed swell of them, the peak of your cupid’s bow.

She glances up. For a moment you’re both still, staring at each other, tension in the air palpable, but then she smacks her lips and you copy the motion, evening the application of the makeup on your mouth. 

“Perfect,” she murmurs. “One more step.”

A small, confused frown flits over your face. She’s put the lipstick aside but then she lifts a finger and points towards your still parted lips. You take in a small, shuddering breath when she speaks again and you realise what she means.

“You don’t want to get lipstick on your teeth, do you?”

Both of her eyebrows have risen and she’s looking at you like you’re being silly if you disagree with her.

“No,” you say. You’re not about to deny her. “No, I don’t.”

Your eyes remain locked. You lean forwards, taking that perfect, long finger into your mouth, dragging your lips upwards so that any excess lipstick is caught against her pale skin, a ring of deep rose circling her bottom knuckle; you curl your tongue around her, hot and wet, feeling the crease of her knuckles and pad of her fingertip against your taste buds as you slowly, slowly pull away. 

It’s undoubtedly indecent and risqué and you can feel the flush of arousal settling in your lower belly, an almost embarrassing flush of wetness leaking out of you at the taste of her skin. She, however, remains unmoved, although she lets her finger linger just for a moment on your bottom lip, almost rough against their softness— but before you can swallow those fingers back down and ruin her meticulous work, she pulls away, lifting the discarded wipe to sweep it around her finger, catching the lipstick you’d left on her skin.

“Done.”

She steps back and you feel like you can finally breathe, a breath so deep you can feel how your lungs fill, oxygen rushing to your brain so fast you feel lightheaded. You watch as she sweeps everything back into her bag, clicking it shut with a note of finality; the sullied wipe is cast carelessly into a tiny, chrome bin with a flick of a wrist, her every motion regal.

You slide off the counter. You still can’t take your eyes off her and you don’t want to. It feels like whatever heaviness was in the air has dissipated, gone in an instant with a turn of her head— normally you’d let it slide, even if you feel disappointed, but she’s just so magnetic. 

“Thank you,” you say. You can see yourself in the mirror now and to your complete lack of surprise, your lipstick is perfect. The shade is lighter than one you’d have chosen for yourself but it’s beautiful on her, of course.

“You’re welcome.” She’s in the middle of washing her hands, but she glances over her shoulder at you, and the firm set to her face lightens a little as she smiles. It’s a small, sly thing, and you realise with a start that she knows exactly what effect she has on you.

I’m coming back for you, you think to yourself. You have work to do tonight, but—

“What’s your name?”

She pauses. She shuts off the tap with a quick motion, reaching forward for a rolled hand-towel, a neat stack on a metal tray nearby. You wonder if she’s not going to answer but then she speaks, looking at you instead of the soft cotton she’s rubbing over her skin. “Yoonji,” she says. “I’m Min Yoonji.”

Min Yoonji is the most gorgeous fucking woman you’ve ever seen.

“I love your dress, Yoonji,” you say, and it’s true, you really do— but you’d prefer it if it was off. Not that you’re about to say that, of course.

She lets out a breath of laughter. “I know.” Oh, god, you love confident women. “What’s your name, darling?”

You have that same split second of hesitation, similar to Yoonji’s only moments prior. You use a codename when you work, of course, and you have a plethora of fake identities that you use and are intimately familiar with— but the idea of your real name falling off Yoonji’s flushed, petal lips? Woof.

“Y/n L/n,” you say. 

Oh, Joon would be so unimpressed right now, giving some mysterious woman your full, real name just because you think she’s the sexiest thing since sex, but whatever. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

“Well, Y/n,” Yoonji says. You were right, your name sounds so good falling from her mouth, the mouth that’s turned into a small, almost smug smile. “I certainly hope to see you at the charity ball in a few weeks?”

“Of course.” Your schedule has been magically cleared and you’ll definitely be in attendance for whatever ball Yoonji is referring to, even if you have no idea what it is. You only come to these things if you have to for work but for Yoonji you’ll make an exception. You’ll make a hundred thousand exceptions. A hundred thousand quinquagintaquadringentillion exceptions. “I’ll make sure to remember my lipstick next time.”

And there it is, the thing that seals the deal, the final nail in the coffin: Yoonji glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes, a sharp, dark touch that shoots through you as her smile edges into hunger.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t stay on your lips long enough to matter.”

--

The thing you’ve discovered about Minjae is that, with his divorce due to be finalised soon, he’s apparently lost any sense of routine and is revelling in his new found freedom, which is kind of irritating when you’re trying to tail the guy. Sure, you’re still going to take him out, but you prefer it when targets have some sort of schedule that they adhere to— makes it easier to set up a kill.

“You’re certain that he’s going to be here tonight?” You’d been sceptical considering how the guy’s apparently thrown his schedule out of the window, but Namjoon had been certain.

“Positive.” He’d said. “He’s there every Tuesday night. You’ll have plenty of time.”

The house appears to be deserted. The driveway is empty and all the windows and doors are locked tight. It’s just one of the properties that the Parks own in the city, and for all its size and lushness it appears as though this one is rarely frequented; you imagine that the cleaners and gardeners spend more time here than the owners themselves.

It doesn’t take you long to evade the watchful eyes of security cameras to pick a lock and slip inside. You're grateful for the dying evening light that helps cover your tracks from any onlookers from the street, although you imagine the high walls do good work at preventing people from seeing into the grounds anyway.

There’s still enough light to navigate through the house, the golden tinged sunset casting warm shadows across the spotless furniture and fixtures; you take a moment to let your eyes slide across a huge canvas hanging on a wall that spans two storeys, some impressionist piece that’s surprisingly ugly for all the talent that’s obvious in its brushstrokes. Maybe that’s why the Parks are never here? You’d certainly try to avoid seeing this thing if you could. Eurgh.

Even though the building is empty, you’re careful as you start to make your way forwards. You always place your toes down first whenever you take a step, soundless as you start to map the house out in your mind; there are so many rooms you can hide in, but you’d prefer to be close to wherever Minjae ends up. Saves faffing around later. 

You’ll overpower him, inject the toxin into his blood and wait for him to die before setting him up on the toilet— it’s surprisingly common for people to die while on the shitter, the strain leading to an untimely heart attack, especially in older people. The poison you’re using tonight will mimic the symptoms of a heart attack in the case the coroner decides a post-mortem needs to be undertaken.

(Being found on the bog might not be a particularly graceful way to die but when you’re dead it’s kind of hard to be embarrassed.)

You’ve eased the door open into a large bedroom, and you’re just inspecting if it looks like this room sees more use than the others when you pause. It’s deathly silent in this building, the air still minus where you glide through it as you move, but there’s a feeling in your gut, some instinct that makes all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You freeze, ears straining to catch any noise to let you know if there’s someone else here, when—

There. In the reflection of a burnished pot, the tiniest shifting movement.

You react almost faster than the eye can see. You spin to parry a hit that was aimed for your head, and the strength behind it shudders through your arms. You only have a second to take in the details of your assailant— dressed in dark clothing, masquerade style mask in place, a professional just like you— before you’re deflecting another flurry of blows, flipping backwards out of reach before spinning into a kick, hooking that burnished pot with your foot and sending it flying towards the other assassin.

They dodge it. You both ignore the sound of clattering metal as you lunge forwards, trying to catch them off guard after their sidestep— your fist makes contact with their palm instead of their face, your hand engulfed in theirs, and you startle at their speed. You might not be the strongest but you’re damn fast. 

There’s a pause, and you can only see a slither of their eyes through the sockets of their mask, but you can tell that they’re impressed. And honestly? So are you. 

The moment shatters when they use the hand they're holding to twist you, locking an arm around your neck and putting you into a chokehold; they’re strong, stronger than you, cutting off your airflow. You need to get out of this before you fall unconscious, but if they’re trained as well as you then they’ll know how to combat the usual ways you’d use to get out of this.

So, in a demonstration of your flexibility you kick a leg up, using the strength of your thighs and calves to slam it into the arm that’s around your neck. Your assailant lets out a noise of surprise and pain as you slip out of their hold and cartwheel across the room before spinning to face them.

There’s a beat. The air is tense. You get another chance to take in the details of whoever’s just tried to choke you out; you stare at her as she stares at you, the two of you poised and ready to strike, watching and waiting. 

Knives might be messy but of course you’re not unarmed. You have multiple sheathed weapons in your clothes, though you don’t make a move to draw any of them. Yet. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me who your employer is, would you?”

Your opponent tilts her head. “You don’t know?” She sounds amused, even through her mask. “Minjae took out a contract on the assassin who has a contract on him.”

Your lip curls back from your teeth. The only way Minjae would have heard about your contract is if Dahye had told him. Presumably to try and shock him out of his behaviour, or something, who knows. “This is the last time I’m accepting a job from these rich old farts,” you mutter. 

“That’s for certain,” she says. 

She starts to move and you catch her arm just as she goes to unsheathe a wicked looking blade, knocking it aside before she overpowers you and you start to wrestle. It’s messy and graceless but sometimes you just have to fight dirty. 

Whoever this woman is, she still has the upper hand because she was expecting you and you weren’t expecting her; she knocks you onto the bed and pins you down, swooping the knife up from where it had been thrown onto the mattress. You go utterly still as she holds it against your throat, towering over your from where she’s straddling your waist and kneeling on your arms. Any sudden movement from you now could lead to your untimely demise— and, unsurprisingly, you absolutely want to avoid that at all costs.

Namjoon would never let you live it down if you were killed on the job.

You hum. “It seems like we’ve reached an impasse.”

She doesn’t respond. The knife doesn’t dip any lower, though; you’re undoubtedly at her mercy but you notice she’s careful to keep the knife still, hovering above the skin of your neck, but not making contact.

“Well,” you continue. “At least I’m going out the way I’d always hoped to.”

Even in the dying light and with how her face is covered, you notice her face shifting behind her mask— a silent, questioning raise of an eyebrow. You give her a cheeky smile that crinkles your eyes.

“In bed with a beautiful woman, of course.”

At this she huffs out a laugh. “Do you flirt with every person who tries to kill you?”

You’re trying to look as non-threatening as possible to keep that knife away from your jugular. The longer you talk, the longer you live, even if you can’t see a way to get out of this situation right now. “Only the pretty ones.”

The small laugh she lets out this time seems more like a scoff. “You don’t even know what I look like.”

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Any woman who can fight like you and knows how to handle a knife? Automatically hot. I don’t need to see your face to know that.”

The knife still hasn’t moved. She continues to stare you down and you go tense when her free hand moves. She tugs the cloth of your mask down to reveal your face, the air of the room almost cold against the suddenly bared skin, your breaths free to curl out unhindered.

“Usually I like to be taken out to dinner at least once before we get this intimate, but for you I suppose I’ll make an exception.” You’re still grinning cheekily at her, but your mind continues to race as you try to think of a way to get out of this, especially now that she’s seen what you look like—but you suddenly notice that she’s gone very, very still.

“Y/n?”

The grin freezes on your face. Oh, you’re so boned. You’re so very boned. Like, yeah, you’ve been seconds away from death for the past, hmm, five minutes, but this is somehow worse. How the fuck does she know your name?

You’re given the answer almost immediately. She withdraws the hand from your chin and reaches for her own mask. Your eyes widen and your breath stutters in your throat once you see who it is.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Yoonji is staring down at you. She’s every inch as imperious and stunning as the last time you’d seen her— hell, even moreso now that you’ve seen what she’s capable of. No wonder you hadn’t been able to find out anything about her after you’d met at that garish charity gala. Because she’s untraceable, just like you.

“Well.” You stare back at her, not even attempting to keep the surprise off your face. “If anyone has to kill me at least I can die satisfied in the knowledge that it was you. Can I make a request? I’d be eternally grateful if you smothered me to death with your thighs. Just a suggestion, feel free to ignore it if you want.”

Yoonji cocks her head. Her bob is tied back, but there’s a loose lock of hair curled by the side of her face that shifts at the motion. Your fingers twitch. If she wasn’t kneeling on your arms you know you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from tucking it behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her. “Do you always talk so much?”

“Hey, if it means I get to feel your legs around my face before I die, I’ll give a full fledged TED talk,” you say. “I have to admit, though. When I pictured us in bed together I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The knife still hasn’t moved from your throat. She continues to stare, as if considering what to do next, though her face remains impassive. “What did you think it would be like?”

“Well, you know. Less knives and clothes involved and a lot more making out,” you answer. “You, telling me what to do. Me, entirely at your command. Anything the lady wants, she gets.”

The human body is a fickle and strange beast. Ever since you discovered who’s straddling you, you’ve been growing wetter and wetter, even if you’re trying not to let on that you’re steadily growing more aroused— you’re still distinctly aware of the knife that’s only centimetres away from your skin, but somehow your body is more focused of the fact that the woman you’ve been daydreaming about is finally in front of you again. 

(Well, less in front of you and more on top of you, which is an admittedly preferable option, sans the knife involvement.)

You see how Yoonji’s eyes are darting over your face. No doubt taking in how your pupils are dilated, how your breaths are a little shallower, quicker— signs of fear and signs of arousal are surprisingly similar. You wonder if she can identify which it is. Probably. You’re not exactly very subtle in your attraction to her.

“I forgot my lipstick again,” you add, and Yoonji’s passive mask finally breaks when she rolls her eyes.

“Didn’t I say you wouldn’t need it?”

Even the way she throws the knife aside is gorgeous. The sharp undulation of her wrist as she sends the blade skittering across the polished wood floor is careless and fluid. Her hands cup your face as she bends down, and you send up a mental thanks to any god or higher being who might be listening before Yoonji presses her lips to your and your brain goes blank.

Apparently Yoonji likes it messy. One of her hands is grasping your chin in a mockery of the last time you’d met and she’d painted your lips— your mouth is open and she licks past your lips as you shudder beneath her. She’s still got her knees pressed into your arms, pinning you down, but you desperately crane your head towards her, chasing that kiss; you tilt your head to deepen it, and the whine that leaves you when she pulls away is almost embarrassing.

The sun has finally dipped below the horizon and the room is dark, painted in shades of grey and deep blue. You wish you could see Yoonji properly and you can’t help but wriggle a little underneath her, but then you watch her raise her hands and clap three times in rapid succession before the room floods with dim light. Sound activated lights? Damn.

Yoonji’s mouth shines, covered in a sheen of your mixed saliva, her pretty lips flushed rose pink; even without makeup they’re beautiful and their colour is deep, the blooming petals of a flower. Your eyes trail over her face, down her neck, over the fall of her chest and stomach— you’re both far too covered up in these stupid ensembles of yours and you want to strip the clothes off her. You want to see every inch of her beautiful, majestic body, bared for your lips and hands.

Fuck, she’s so gorgeous.

“Not to, um, ruin the moment, but my hands are going numb.” The weight of Yoonji’s body being pressed into your arms has pretty much cut off the blood flow to your fingers and you can feel the telltale sensation of pins and needles spreading through your skin. “Can I have those back, please?”

Yoonji lifts her knees just enough for you to slide your arms out from underneath them. You immediately shed your gloves and go to grab her ass but she gives you a sharp look and you freeze, slowly settling them on her thighs instead, which she allows with only the slightest raise of her eyebrows.

“Watch,” she commands, and who are you to disobey?

She reaches for the tie in her hair, tugging it out and letting her dark locks fall to frame her lovely, beautiful face. You hungrily swallow down each sight that she feeds to you, the skin that’s revealed as she shrugs off her layers of clothing. She unbuckles the weapons hidden underneath her clothes as she sheds them; she’s a veritable arsenal of firearms and knives, all cast carelessly aside until her upper body is finally, blessedly naked. You’ve been staring at her the whole time, the graceful column of her throat, the delicate lines of her collarbones, and your gaze falls to her breasts, small and perfect, nipples dusty pink and hard. You want to put your mouth on them.

“Holy shit, you’re perfect,” you say.

She smirks. You watch as she rolls her body, lifting up from her knees and standing up, towering above you on the bed—your hands fall to the mattress as she pulls her trousers down, tight material dragging against her skin as she slides it over the curve of her hips and down her long legs. There’s a dagger strapped to her thigh, which she unbuckles and lets fall to one side, but god, if she used it to kill you right now, you would die a happy woman. The image of Min Yoonji towering above you in nothing more than some flimsy underwear is one you want to take to the grave.

You can see how the material around her entrance is darkened with her arousal, and you feel your own body react to the sight, pussy throbbing, your own lower lips slick underneath all your layers of clothing. Yoonji hooks her thumbs into her panties and pushes them down, and you’re enraptured as you watch how the wetness clings to them, before that last bit of clothing is cast aside too. 

You moan, unable to stop the sound bubbling up in your throat. From how she’s standing above you, legs spread from how her feet are either side of your hips, you can see everything—how her cunt is flushed, how wet she is, her folds shining. You bet she tastes so fucking good.

You let your mouth fall open, tongue lolling out in a way that’s obscene. You see Yoonji’s eyes flicker as she traces the motion, the way she takes in your expression: wide, hungry eyes, parted lips, wet tongue. Your hands skim up the back of her calves as she shifts forwards and returns to her knees, her naked core so, so close to your mouth, and you dig your fingers into her skin.

“Bon appé-fucking-tit,” you murmur, and then you pull her onto your face.

Yoonji gasps. 

(You were right. She tastes so, so fucking good.)

You’re utterly shameless as you slurp up her juices, the wetness that continues to leak out of her as you bury your face into her cunt, tongue lapping over her entrance as your nose brushes her clit. Your hands have moved to the flesh of her ass and you encourage her to grind against you, rolling her hips towards your greedy mouth; you’re staring up at her, drinking down her reactions, the way her face twists with pleasure and the shuddering breaths she takes in, perfect little breasts jumping at the motion. There’s a flush spreading down her neck and chest, pale skin blushing pink, and it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You purse your lips against her clit, circling it with your tongue before dipping back down between her folds. Each time you breathe in all you can smell is her scent, heavy and dark, all your senses filled with Yoonji, Yoonji, Yoonji. When you hum against her, Yoonji arches her spine and throws her head back, so when you press your tongue into her you hum again, letting the vibrations shiver through her.

“Yes,” she gasps, rutting against your face. “Yes, yes—”

Her thighs tighten around your head. You redouble your efforts, watching her face as you continue to swipe your tongue up her slit and through her folds; you wish you could swallow each of the noises that are falling from her lips as she reaches the crest of her pleasure, the little gasps and moans each time you move your tongue in a particularly wicked way.

“There,” she says. “There, there, just like that—”

Your jaw aches but you don’t even register it, too intent on keeping your mouth open and hot and wet against her. It only takes a few more swipes and flicks of your tongue before she shudders violently, canting her hips towards your mouth as her legs go tense and she cums. She continues to straddle your face as she rides out the waves of pleasure, and you swallow down the wetness that flushes out of her rippling cunt, ignoring the throbbing between your own legs.

You can’t talk, muffled by her as you are, but your mind is singing. Look at you, you think. Look at how gorgeous you are. God, I could eat you out all day. (What a blessed life that would be.)

You can tell when Yoonji’s edged into oversensitivity, jolting when your tongue sweeps over her swollen clit; she settles back, knees spread as she rests against your heaving chest, legs tensing each time an aftershock shivers through her. Your mouth is open as you pant in air, but she watches as you swipe your tongue over your lips, catching the lingering taste of her on you, your chin opalescent with her arousal.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “I’ve done everything that’s worth doing. I’ve peaked. Everything is downhill from here. You can kill me now.”

You’re only half joking, but your thighs instinctively go tight to rub against each other when you see how Yoonji’s eyes darken.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she purrs.

Yoonji might be naked while you’re still clothed, and so still armed, but she’s undoubtedly the one who’s in control right now. You are so, so okay with that. You watch with wide eyes as she shifts back, her hands grabbing the material of your jacket to tug you upwards, but before she can strip off your clothes you capture her lips with your own.

The taste of her is still heady and deep in your mouth and you nip at her bottom lip before pressing your tongue forwards. The kiss is already slick from Yoonji’s wetness and when you pull away, there’s a thin string of saliva that connects you for a moment before it breaks, which Yoonji wipes away from your chin with the pad of her thumb.

“Dirty girl,” she says, and you bite back a moan at the unabashed lust in her voice. Her grip on your chin is firm. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

“No,” you answer. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She tuts, as if disappointed, and every one of your nerve endings feels electrified, ready and anticipating whatever Yoonji is going to do next. “Such a shame,” she says. “You just can’t keep your hands or mouth to yourself, can you?”

“Can you blame me?”

Yoonji huffs out a laugh through her nose. She strips your jacket off in one sharp motion and then your shirt is similarly pulled off with single-minded intent, along with every other piece of equipment cinched to your arms and body. When you reach for her, though, she captures your wrists, her face stern.

“If you keep moving without permission, I’m going to take that privilege away from you.”

You don’t have to see your own eyes to know how your pupils will have dilated from that statement, blood thrumming through your veins, and you can tell Yoonji has noticed when her expression shifts.

“Oh.” A small, triumphant smirk appears on her face. “I see.”

You lift your arms up so she can pull your sports bra off (of course if you had known you’d been running into Yoonji again you would have worn something nicer). Rather than touch your heaving chest, however, she pushes you down onto the mattress, a hand around your wrists so they’re held above your head.

“Keep still,” she says.

She reaches for the holster that you’d had around your upper arm, lazily casting the knife aside before looping it around your wrists and pulling it secure.

Yoonji’s fingers ease under the nylon as she checks the fit. It’s tight, but not so much so that it’s painful or dangerous, and there’s a hushed moment when the realisation hits you— Yoonji and yourself are both skilled enough to know that you could easily free yourself if you wanted to. It would only take a little motion of your wrists and hands and you could slip them out of the makeshift cuffs in an instant.

You melt into the mattress. Yoonji’s eyes shift away from your wrists as she takes in the way you’ve gone utterly relaxed and limp below her, staring back at her. You see an expression flit across her face faster than you can see, before she slides down your body so she can push your legs apart.

You lift your hips to help her strip your trousers off. Her hand lingers on the concealed holster around your thigh, eyeing the small pistol nestled inside it, before that too is stripped off and cast aside. Her hands trail over the soft skin of your hips and stomach, eyes skimming over the bared length of your body before settling between your legs, the slickness of your inner thighs.

“You got this wet just from eating me out?” Her pretty mouth is curled into an expression that’s almost mocking, and your legs jolt as she runs her fingers lightly over your lower lips before rubbing her fingertips together to feel the wetness she’s gathered. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your nails dig into your palms as your hands twist against each other and you shift your legs further apart. “Please, Yoonji,” you plead, shameless from desperation and arousal.

She laughs at your obvious hunger. “I suppose I should return the favour, shouldn’t I?”

You watch breathlessly as she lifts her fingers to her lips, swallowing them into her mouth to get them slick and wet. The motions of her tongue are languid as she licks across her fingers. You’re like a livewire, thrumming with electricity, and the sensation of her finally sinking one of those fingers into you sends sparks throughout your body.

Yoonji’s maddeningly slow. Your body takes her readily, her long finger gliding easily in and out of you, but she makes no move to speed up; you let out a small noise and she moves upwards to kiss you, as if indulging you, and you’ve just relaxed against her mouth when she plunges a second finger in.

She swallows your gasp as her fingers speed up, before she starts to kiss across your jaw, your neck, between the valley of your breasts and then closing her mouth over one of your nipples— she times the flick of her tongue with the thrust of her fingers, and then you feel how she takes her thumb to press your clit at the same time and you’re gone, falling over the edge faster than you’d expected. Your orgasm is fast but deep, your walls clenching tight around the fingers that continue to curl in and out of you, but she doesn’t stop.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “It’s too— oh—”

Those two fingers continue to rub your sweet spot as you edge into oversensitivity but Yoonji doesn’t let up. She continues to lick and bite at the skin of your chest, putting her mouth to your other breast and circling the hardened bud of your nipple with her tongue before kissing down your stomach, your pubic bone, and then pressing her lips to your swollen clit.

You whimper. Her pace of her fingers has quickened, and she curls them each time she almost pulls them out, the squelch of their motions obscene as they slide through the cum of your first orgasm. She stares up at you, lapping at your clit with her tongue, and you can feel the saliva that’s dripping from her mouth and over your flushed core, every inch of you oversensitive but screaming with pleasure.

It’s almost painful, but you can feel an orgasm creeping through that ache; you wring your hands together and sob as Yoonji continues to finger fuck you without mercy, her pace almost bruising, the thrust of her knuckles against you each time she bottoms out just one more layer on top of that overwhelming pleasure.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “I’m g-gonna cum again.”

She hums against you, and you make an incoherent noise at the feeling of that sound against your clit, almost too much— and then she presses one more finger into you, and that’s it, that slight burn and stretch sending you hurtling over that edge again. When you cum, your hips buck and you gasp, air rushing into your lungs before it escapes you in a moan of ecstasy; the only sensations registering in your mind right now are the ripples of pleasure spreading through your cunt as Yoonji pulls her fingers out of you, pressing down on your clit in a way that’s almost cruel, and you sob as your legs instinctively try to tighten but are prevented from doing so by Yoonji’s unyielding presence.

She’s staring down at you as you start to go lax, and you think she’s finished with you, but you watch with widening eyes as she takes her ring and middle finger to run them through your sodden folds. You sob again when those fingers plunge back into you, palm pressing against your clit each time she curls her fingers, and you squirm underneath her.

“Yoonji, it’s too much,” you cry.

“One more.” Yoonji’s leaning back and staring at you, taking in the sweat that’s beading across your skin, the tears that are gathering in your eyes and threatening to spill down your face and into your hair. “You’re doing so well, darling, you can give me one more, can’t you?”

Your reply is incoherent, a small noise that shudders out of the back of your throat. You’ve never been thrown so thoroughly into pleasure like this, overstimulated and aching, but there’s that flicker of pleasure still between your legs, growing each time Yoonji beckons with her fingers, curling over your abused sweet spot again and again and again.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop,” Yoonji says, the wet plunge of her fingers into your abused pussy so messy and loud but not enough to drown her out. “One word and I’ll stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just let your eyes roll back into your head as you cant your hips towards her, trying to latch onto that thread of pleasure that’s thrumming through you below all your screaming nerves, and the noise Yoonji makes is pleased.

“There we go,” she praises. “Look at you, so good for me. Pretty darling.”

You can feel how your pussy clenches around Yoonji’s fingers, how the coil in you is squeezing tighter and tighter, how another orgasm is somehow creeping up on you— you tilt your hips towards that feeling, towards Yoonji’s hand, and then she’s pulling her fingers out of you in an almost rough motion and you’re cumming harder than you ever have before.

“Oh, fuck!” You sob. 

It’s indescribable. The sensation rips through you as your back arches off the bed and you’re cumming and squirting and gasping and you can feel the wetness that slicks out of you, your toes curling as your brain goes blank from the staggering pleasure and static consumes every one of your senses. Your entire body feels like nothing more than a vessel for the ecstasy that’s shooting through your veins, spreading out from your core and to every corner of your insides and limbs.

It takes you a while to come back around, aftershocks wracking through your body. You feel sluggish and slow as your mind slowly clears, focusing on the sensation of warm hands stroking over the skin of your stomach and hips and thighs; your eyes flutter open and when you glance down you can see the shine to Yoonji’s skin, evidence of your pleasure painting her in a thin sheen of liquid.

“Oh my god,” you moan. “Holy shit.”

She smiles. “You were so, so good for me,” she says. She leans down to press a light kiss to collarbones and you shiver. “So beautiful. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve died and gone to heaven before coming back again,” you reply. “Oh, that was so good, Yoonji. I’ve never squirted before. I didn’t realise I could. God.”

Yoonji laughs lightly. You can’t help but watch the way it transforms her face, the way her chest jumps at the motion, every inch of her gorgeous and majestic and cute and pretty. “You did so, so well,” she praises, before she kisses you, her mouth so soft; you barely notice the sudden easing of pressure around your wrists as she releases you, more intent on the sensation of her soft petal lips against your own.

You stare up at her as she pulls away. Powerful, amazing Min Yoonji, kneeling between your legs, naked but not helpless. Definitely less vulnerable than you right now. And yet she’s still making no moves to grab one of the many weapons littered around the bed so she can finally finish her contract by completing the kill. It would be so easy for her.

The silence of the room is suddenly broken by a tiny buzzing noise. You both glance over at the sound, one that Yoonji doesn’t recognise but you do— the communicator in one of your wristbands, the one you use to keep in contact with Namjoon.

You watch the twisting of Yoonji’s body as she leans over the bed to hook the band with a finger before proffering it to you. You pause, but then grasp her wrist and lightly pull so she ends up pressed against you, softness of her breasts against your own, and you hold the communicator between your faces as you accept the call.

“Thank god you answered.” Namjoon’s voice is obviously frantic even through the tinniness of the small speaker. “Dahye cancelled the contract because Minjae wants to reconcile with her, but apparently he’s already put a hit out on you— tonight was a ruse, Minjae isn’t going to be there, you have to get out of there—”

“Bit too late for that,” you interrupt. Yoonji’s hair is tickling your cheek. “Don’t worry. I have it in hand. Send some flowers to Minjae for me, will you?”

“Flowers?” Namjoon sounds understandably confused. “Why?”

“As a thank you for taking out a contract on me,” you say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little busy.”

“With what?”

“With me,” Yoonji says, and you hear Namjoon’s surprised intake of breath before you cut the line.

You end up laughing to yourself. “Oh, he’s going to hate me for that,” you giggle. Yoonji’s hand trails up your stomach and you continue to giggle at the ticklish sensation. Her skin is still slick against yours, and you suddenly realise how cold it is in the room, the air touching the cooling liquid that’s rubbed off against your skin, and you shiver. “Mm. I think it’s time to clean up. Want me to scrub your back in the shower? I give very good massages.”

Yoonji’s eyes are dark and warm before she presses her nose to your neck, lips soft as they touch the delicate skin of your throat. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

[geordiewrites]

Hey i just read exile inspired fic and it is soo good. I think you should write one based on the song tolerate it by ts? With harry plz. The drama, fight, tears.. I think you will reflect the emotion so well omg.

Tolerate It | Harry Potter

A/N: Hi lovely! First off, I adored this request so much and I really hope I’ve done it justice. Tolerate It is such a beautiful song and defo one of my favourites off of Evermore to cry to, there’s just so much detail hidden within the lyrics and I adore that. Harry too!! There’s not enough stuff for Harry, so I hope I’ve done well for you! ( Also this is super short, but I’ve been swamped with coursework xox )

Summary: Y/N is in love with The Boy Who Lived, and due to marry him in the Spring with a beautiful April wedding. Friends to lovers to that engaged couple who are just too in love to function, they share the most perfect story. But when Y/N begins to see their relationship for what it is, her entire world is thrown off key...

Warnings: angst and lots of it, loneliness, sadness, swearing.

~

“You’re coming home tonight, right?” Y/N asks, excitement and anticipation heavy in her tone, cherry red nails clicking against the cold metal of the answerphone.

“Of course, I’ll be back soon, love.” Harry Potter, her beloved fiancé, answered back on the other side from his workplace all the way in central London. His office is almost empty, devoid of any homely photos or colleagues: they had all gone home to their families long ago, and yet he stayed behind. He had no work to finish, no cases glaring to be solved. There was nothing to do but leave, but Harry didn’t.

“You’ve said that before.” Y/N pointed out blandly, her forced smile fading slightly. Many times had Harry said he was on his way home, only to send a letter the next morning apologising for suddenly getting swamped with unavoidable paperwork. “Please come home Harry, I’ve even made your favourite for dinner.”

“That sounds good, I promise I’ll be there soon. I’m just leaving the Ministry now.” Harry replied monotonously, not sounding nearly as happy as Y/N wished he would. Perhaps he had just had a bad day at the office, he must have done. But he had just one too many bad days now, and the reality that he might not want to see her was beginning to sink in.

Shaking off that horrible thought, Y/N inhaled a sharp breath and chewed the edge of her top lip. “Alright, if you say so. I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.” Harry said shortly before putting the phone down and staring at his office, desperately trying to find a reason to stay at work. He did love Y/N, he did. Heck, he had even asked her to marry him and kissed the edge of her lips as they set the date. And then postponed it. And then postponed it another year after that, all because of some urgent work that Harry had suddenly come across. He was just so young, forced to grow up so quickly he didn’t even have time for a scrap of a childhood. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to see Y/N, why going home to their apartment often felt like a chore.

Back at their cosy flat in the nicer part of Greenwich, Y/N put the phone down after hearing an abrupt beep on the other end that let her know he had hung up. She sighed before walking over to a tall cabinet that stood to the side of their kitchen, taking out a set of nice china plates her Grandmother had left her and crystal wine glasses. It was the lovely cutlery only used for things like Christmas and obligatory dinner parties her family forced her to hold.

After setting it out on the table, Y/N checked the time and supposed that if Harry really had left as he said, he would be back in just a minute through the wonders of apparation. Carefully so she wouldn’t somehow spill the food in her clumsiness, a quality Harry once said he loved about her, Y/N moved the food from the oven, to plates and then through to their front room where the fancy cutlery was set up. A smile made its way onto her face, a beaming, gorgeous smile of confidence that her and Harry would finally have the night she deserved. One where work or his reluctance to put effort into their relationship, even if she did pretend she knew nothing about this, didn’t get in the way.

Alas however, minutes passed and there was no sign of Harry anywhere. The food grew colder and that wonderful, rare smile of hers faded into an all too comfortable frown, the crease between her eyebrows deepening with not only disappointment, but anger. A growing resentment for Harry’s lack of care or even acknowledgement of their engagement. He didn’t seem to give two hoots that she had made a lovely meal; after all, he had only called it ‘good’. Not fabulous or decadent or even something praiseful. Just good.

They hadn’t said ‘I love you’ before they hung up the phones. Harry had only said one word. Y/N’s mind began to spiral, her breathing growing quicker and sharper as the thought that it might be time to confront Harry about the buildup of letdowns over the course of the last few months. A year even, since he had properly spent time at home. At their home, the one in which he had knelt down on one knee and told her he wanted to grow old with her by his side, failing at muggle card games on the front porch as they watched their grandchildren play.

Not knowing exactly what to do, Y/N retreated to grasping at the doorframe to keep her body from tumbling to the ground. Her mind whirred with the usual possibilities to try and chase away his lateness. Got caught at work, perhaps Ron called. But none of it compared to the looming threat that Harry was scraping any old excuse together in order to stay away. That he was lying, something she never thought she would have to think about him doing. Harry had always been such an honest person, even as a child.

Y/N remembered how nervous he was when he first asked her out during their fifth year at Hogwarts. He had been on this disastrous date with some Ravenclaw she couldn’t quite remember the name of, and come back utterly defeated. Feeling sorry for a friend she had always harboured a crush on, Y/N had stayed up all night convincing him something better was around the corner. It occurred to Harry quite quickly after that that Y/N was that somebody. She liked him, and at the time that was enough to make him think he was in love. To some degree he was, but not nearly as much as Y/N had fallen for him.

It was almost midnight when the front door to their apartment clicked with the turn of a key, and Y/N, still standing in the same sad place by the door to their living room, finally saw Harry step into their home. It had been hours since they were supposed to eat the food that Y/N had worked to hard to create. There it still sat however, with the plates and crystal glasses and unopened bottle of wine in the same place, completely untouched.

Y/N had a thousand things to say to him. Usually it would begin with her asking him where he had been galavanting off to, but not tonight. Tonight was the final tear in her elastic heart, just enough to finally make it tear into two broken, hollowed out pieces. She stood, silent and just watched as he took off his shoes and put his coat back in it’s place without saying anything. Harry wasn’t even trying anymore, and that hurt more than him being late to begin with.

“Sorry for the delay, something came up.” Harry said, standing a few metres away from her. There was no affectionate kiss to the forehead like when they were fresh out of Hogwarts with teenage dreams and ambitions. No arm comfortably slung around her waist in a protective manner. Y/N missed that especially out of all the things that had faded away. That simple gesture that showed he wanted to hold her above all else, above everyone else who had ever wanted to touch the Chosen One like she did.

“Something.” Y/N repeated, no emotion in her voice. It sounded almost like a recording being played back to him, just with any tone sucked away. “It’s always something, isn’t it?” She continued, not finding quite the right words to encompass the flummox of emotions seeping into her veins. “Work. Ron called. Hermione called. Work. Work again.”

“There really was something.” Harry pathetically added. It was a lie of course, he had spent the hours at his desk alone and staring aimlessly at a fountain pen as it leaked ink onto the black carpet of his office.

“Do you really think I don’t know you at all? Stop lying to me, Harry, just stop it. I’m done with being lied to.” Y/N says, her voice remaining as monotonous as ever as if she’s already grieving something. “I want to know what was so important that you’ve missed the dinner I made. The last thirty dinners, in fact.”

Harry just runs a hand through his messy hair as he tries desperately to think of something to say. But he can’t. There’s nothing to say that would make him any less guilty.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He manages to whisper.

“You’ve said that already.” Y/N points out without missing a single beat. She’s exhausted of pretending that she doesn’t know what Harry’s been doing, drained of all energy to put in effort anymore.

“Just tell me what the problem is and we can fix it.” He begs, but his voice is shaky and the words sound as though he’s reading them from a script.

“Fine. When did you stop being in love with me?” Y/N asks, sadness seeping into her voice. Tears began to form in her eyes but were quickly blinked away; the last thing she wanted was for Harry to see her as weak. She might be pathetic, pitiful, stupid for not realising earlier... but Y/N was not going to be weak. Not now, not ever.

“Why would you think that? Y/N, I could never stop loving you.” Harry said, trying to wrap her into a hug only for Y/N to quickly wriggle out of his cold grasp. His fingers left icy burns where they had briefly touched her arm, and Harry’s face dropped as he realised she didn’t want him anywhere near her.

“But you have, Harry. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming home at ridiculous times, or avoiding even looking at me like you are now. You don’t love me, you tolerate me because you don’t want to be alone. I feel like I’m begging to be in the footnotes in the story of your life, not a main character anymore.” Y/N explained quietly, neither expecting her to be so frank but once the blunt words were spilling from her lips, not even she could stop them. She watched as Harry’s face crumpled, sadness twisting her gut as she fervently tried not to cry herself.

“Y/N... I don’t know what to say.” Harry trailed off. Y/N used to be so infatuated with him, so desperately in love that she was blind to his flaws, much like his ridiculous fan base. But she had grown up from the teenager with a crush to a young woman with heart and with ambitions, and Harry was no longer apart of what she wanted out of life. She had stopped being a part of his long ago, she just hadn’t realised it then.

“Is this in my head? Tell me I’ve got it wrong somehow, Harry. Because please believe me, I could do it. I could leave.”

“I can’t.” Harry finally said. “I did love you once, Y/N. I’m not even sure what happened to us if I’m being completely honest.”

“That’s the problem: you don’t really even want me to stay. But that’s the thing... you built an entire new wizarding world after you defeated You-Know-Who, and where was I? I’m sorry for being dramatic and shit but I’m taking this dagger out and finally going where I need to be.” Y/N continued, not pausing as not to give him any time to ask her to stay, not that he would. Her mind was made up, and even Harry could see that.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Harry whispered, his voice trailing off as Y/N went to get her coat from a peg just beside their front door.

“It’s alright, really. I know you don’t hate me, but both of us know this isn’t working anymore. I deserve someone who celebrates me and my love, and that isn’t you. I’m not really sure that it ever was.” Y/N said, a sad smile gracing her delicate features. She looked almost relieved. Utterly broken-hearted, but relieved all the same. “I’ll come back for my stuff tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving me?” Harry said. Even though she had told him why, it still came as a shock. Y/N nodded. “I’m so sorry I didn’t treat you how you deserve.”

“I’m sorry about that too.” Y/N replied, both warmly and coldly at the same time. “Goodbye, Harry Potter. All the best.”

“Goodbye.” It was all Harry could fathom to say as she pressed her engagement ring back into his hand, the final recognition of their relationship officially being over. It was a beautiful piece of jewellery, one she at one point she thought she would never take off her finger. There were no more words exchanged about the gesture for none were needed, all had been said already.

One simple word that locked the door on their relationship, the one that Y/N had finally gained the courage to close in the first place. It had taken her so long, so pathetically long, to realise that something wasn’t right. That Harry was meant to love her, that love shouldn’t and can’t survive while being one sided. It shouldn’t have to be tolerated, and Y/N had finally learned that through all those lonely nights of wondering where Harry was, what he was getting up to at work, if he even was there.

But as Y/N’s grandma used to tell her every Christmas, as one door closes, another always opens.

-

A/N: hoped you liked it anon!!!

Nancy xx

[softsebnbuckystan]

Soul ties - Part 8 (Bucky Barnes au)

“No, I don't wanna know, Where you been or where you're goin'

But I know I won't be home, And you'll be on your own”

Maniac by Michael Sembello was blasting from Wanda's room as she was going through her closet,  looking for something you could wear at the party. You were tapping your feet to the beat and shaking your head softly.

"This is perfect," Wanda said as she handed  you  jean shorts and a T-shirt. Finding something in your style had been hard, but the outfit turned out really cute on you. "And before you ask, I still have your plaid shirt if you want to wear that."

Your sister knew you too well ; or maybe it was just her ability to read minds. You were pretty sure it was a mix of both. You looked at your watch : five in the afternoon were already passed and you knew Nat was supposed to arrive soon, so you went to the kitchen after changing. Actually, she was already there.

"Nat!"

"Happy birthday, girl! How do you feel about hitting thirty, huh?"

"Surprisingly good, to be honest," you answered as you hug her tight. "I'm glad you came by."

"Me too. Steve told me pretty interesting news about some guy." She wiggled her brows, making you raise yours.

"Not that interesting. Yes, he is my supposed soulmate, but I got married last week, not matter how that's turning out."

"Yeah, sorry I couldn't be there, by the way. However, if I trust Steve's words..."

"Don't? Please." You smiled, making her laugh. You really must've sounded desperate, or in denial –  or, once again, both.

"Fine. But I can't promise I'll hold back my thoughts."

"I know you won't," you joked. "Anyway, is the cake already here?" You asked Sam.

"No, Bucky's not back yet."

"Oh, alright. I thought since he left early..."

"He had stuff to do, apparently." He shrugged, showing he didn't know any more than you did. A smirk appeared on his face. "Miss him already?"

"Ugh, I hate you all."

"No, you don't!"

Everyone around you laughed and, frankly, you couldn't hold it in either. These people always had a way of making you forget about your problems, and Darren hadn't crossed your mind until now.  Hours went by and more people arrived at the compound. It wasn't supposed to be a big party, but Tony was obviously unable to resist to Peter Parker asking if he could tag along. This kid loved being around here, maybe as much as you did. Once eight hours rang, almost everyone was there, except for Bucky. You were sure he'd eventually show up, even though you  couldn't help but feel a little anxious while everyone shared champagne bottles.

"Alright, close your eyes," Sam said, dragging you out of your thoughts. He put his hands on your eyes as you giggled softly.

"What is it now, you asked?"

"Patience, lady."

You couldn't see  anything – obviously – but you soon heard voices around you singing you a happy birthday. When Sam removed his hands, your eyes took some time to adjust to the sparkling candles on the big birthday cake. More importantly, it took you a second to recognise the man carrying it. Where had his hair gone?

"Your hair," you whispered once he was close enough.

He shrugged. "C'mon, the candles will melt if you don't blow them out." His own smile quickly spread to your face as you blew out your thirty candles. Everyone applauded and Bucky started cutting it so that people could help themselves. Once seated next to him, you took a bite of your own piece and closed your eyes in delight.

"Raspberries. I love those."

"Yeah, Wanda said it was your favourite," he told you before eating a chunk of cake. "How do you like the party  so far?"

"I love it. Everyone I love is here, so I couldn't be happier, really." You didn't even think about what you were saying. Tony's champagne did that to you for sure.

"Everyone?"

"Of course, why do you ask?" You gave him a confused look  before it dawned on you. "Oh,  I know. Well if he's not here by now, I guess that means something."

"Well I'm not the one saying it. It's your night, anyway, so let's not talk about him and let you have fun." He gently poked your arm – you felt delighted, as it was him who'd  made the move this time. It felt as if he was becoming more comfortable around you : you'd noticed he'd been laughing with you a lot more frequently these last few days.

"So, why the new haircut?"

"I wanted some change. New me, old me, I guess." He took a sip of his beer.

"I like it. Can I have some?" You pointed at the bottle. He gladly handed it to you ; damn, this man did not know what one beer might do to you, especially after champagne.

Wanda spotted you from across the room and stopped walking towards you, interrupting her conversation with Scott Lang.

"I hope that's your first drink tonight," she said with a grin. "You don't want to expose your party demon now, do you?"

You chuckled at Bucky's scared eyes. "I'm taking this back," he said, taking his beer back and finishing it.

"Don't worry, Bucky. I'm fine. I'm just a little more outgoing when I drink, that is all."

A screeching sound made you turn your head : Steve had just plugged a microphone into the speakers.

"Alright, so, as you all know, tonight's Y/n's thirtieth birthday. For the occasion, I'm sure she'll gladly treat us to a speech now."

If looks could kill, Steve would've died on the spot, super soldier or not. You never had inspiration for that kind of stuff.

"C'mon guys,  she needs some encouragement," Sam chimed in.

Tony and Peter both whoo'ed  at you with huge smiles, and you had no other choice than going on that improvised stage which consisted of the space between the speakers. You took the microphone from Steve's hand and Nat handed you a beer.

"Oh my, thanks for that," you said, chuckling. "I want to thank you all for coming. You  might have known me for a while, or not, but hum...you guys are family. I couldn't be happier to celebrate thirty years on Earth with you." You raised your bottle in front of you. "To found family."

Everyone  drank to that, and you jumped as Sam placed his hand on your shoulder and started speaking in another mic.

"So many emotions there, I love to see it. Now we're not done with you. Remember that night in Brooklyn?"

"Oh no."

"Oh, yeah... we're  gonna do it. And you're gonna love it, don't you dare say otherwise."

You stared at Sam before downing your drink. He was damn right.

"Okay Scott, fire away!"

"Toniiight,  I'm gonna have myself a real good time..." Sam started singing this fabulous bop as the music soared in the air. You obviously joined him right away.

"I'm burning through the skyyyyy, yeah." You probably were not singing right, but you couldn't have cared less. Everyone around  you was singing – more like yelling – along and you finally let go of your last inhibitions.  You were singing and dancing,  pretending you were the international rock star giving a representation. For once, you saw a wide smile on Bucky's face that couldn't seem to go away, and you decided to have fun with him a little. You pointed at him and smiled as you basically jumped to the beat.

"I'm a sex machine ready to reload like an atom bomb about to oh, oh, oh,  oh exploooode!"

He couldn't help but laugh and he even started tapping his feet to the beat as well. You went back to Sam and you ended the song back to back, definitely yelling more than you were actually singing.

"See, I told you you'd love it!" he exclaimed.

You laughed out loud before handing the mic to Scott. "You have fun now, I gotta rest for a sec."

You happily got back to Wanda and Bucky as Scott and Sam were joined by Peter to keep this improvised karaoke going. Your sister was less than surprised, since this wasn't the first party she had with you. Bucky, on the other hand...

"I didn't know you could do that," he said with a grin.

"What, absolutely slay the day with a mic in my hand? Hell yeah I can, only after some drinks though."

"Yeah, I don't know if your cheeks are this red from drinks, dancing or just regular blush."

You chuckled at his laugh, even placing your hand on his shoulder while doing so. When your eyes were done squinting from all the laughs, you froze.

"Darren, I-"

"That science guy let me in."

Bruce shot you a sorry look, raising his hands in the air. "He wouldn't let me ask you for your opinion first anyway."

Damn, you hadn't realised how much everyone disliked your husband. After all, no one had ever been rude to his face, unlike his friends. Bucky turned around to face him and crossed his arms over his chest : his smile was long gone now, as if it had been only a fever dream.

"You put on quite a show there."

"Wow, so not even a 'happy birthday', huh?" You didn't even look down this time : you stared at him, no trace of a smile on your lips. "When I said you could come if you wanted to, I didn't say  that so you could come and be condescending."

"I'm not gonna wish you a happy birthday after I saw you hit on that guy in a fucking song!" he yelled, pointing at Bucky. Darren's anger was so unjustified that you would've laughed at him, hadn't you been remotely nice and equally angry at him.

Bucky didn't say a word as he slowly put Darren's hand down. You noticed he'd used his metal arm, even though you knew for a fact he was right handed and usually prioritised his dominant hand. That was quite passive-agressive ; you held back a smile.

"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Keeping your cool was not an option anymore, and you walked away from everyone. Contrary to Darren's belief, you didn't like 'putting on a show'.

"We're going home, now," he said firmly. "Your little crisis lasted long enough."

"My crisis? You've left me alone at home for days and now you expect me to come back? You're unbelievable, Darren. And you started pulling this shit before we were even engaged!"

"You never complained about this,  so why do it now?"

"Because I can't take it anymore! Is that so hard to believe? Is it hard to understand that I want to be treated the way I deserve?"

You ran a hand through your hair, looking at Darren in disbelief as the anger in his eyes just grew harder.

"You know what?" you continued. "If you have nothing better to say, I might as well just  go back to the people who really love me. As far as I'm concerned, this" — you gestured at the both of  you – "is over."

You turned around, feeling a huge confidence boost that still wasn't strong enough to overcome your disappointment.

"What's that on your back?" His voice was so low compared to seconds earlier that you looked back at him.

"What?"

He walked up to you fast, but too slowly not to be noticed by Steve and Bucky, who'd been watching the scene carefully. Despite their obvious strength, they couldn't get to you before Darren violently lifted the back of your t-shirt, scratching  your back with his nail at the same time. You let out a cry and next thing you knew, Darren was pinned against the wall, held back by Bucky's arm.

"You lied," he whispered. "You do have a tattoo."

Damn. You had always been careful to wear high waisted jeans. All it took was one careless pair of shorts. You had no answer to give to him, so Darren looked at Bucky instead.

"It's you. Right? I fucking knew it." He looked back at you. "I should've known you weren't to be trusted around other guys. You're such a-"

"I think you should leave." Steve had laid his hand on his friend's shoulder to try and calm him down. Bucky let go of your husband and shot you a side glance to check on you. You were crossing your arms on your chest and your eyes had never been more interested in the floor.

"Steve's right," you uttered. "You should go." You  walked away with these words. You hadn't even noticed there was no longer any music playing in the room. Silence was oppressing and everyone seeing you cry was not an option. You walked to your room in daze. Once you felt the door closing behind you, you allowed yourself to break down. It was a knock on the door that made you tilt your head up a few minutes later.

--- You have no idea how excited I am for part 9!!! If I wasn't strictly following my self-imposed rule of having two unpublished chapters at all times, I would post it right away. x) I hope you liked this one!! Feel free to give me any notes you may have : I improve thanks to readers.

Message me if you want to be added to the tag list (seeing it grow is making me so happy)!

Tag list :

@ginger-swag-rapunzel @joscelyn02 @coniumalces @writehistorynotthegrocerylist @bluemoon-icecream @lady-loki-ren @simplybombshell

[jazzanddaydreams]

Evidence and reasons to ship Sophiana that literally no one asked for

Disclaimer: I myself am a multi-shipper, so I ship both Sophiana AND Dexiana (and sokeefe of course), but anyway here's my reasoning for Sophiana (no hate to the other ships). This is WAYYYYY overly long and my adhd brain is crying trying to proof-read it so fair warning

1. Representation in this series. Even though I know it probably won't happen with these two, I can still dream. 

2. Both Sophie and Biana are strong independent females who have been sucked (mainly unknowingly) into love triangles in the midst of whatever mess is going on with the Neverseen. 

3. In the beginning of the series, Biana seemed to hate Sophie, but after persuasion from Alden, became friends with Sophie. From there, the two of them have had a couple of rocky moments (Alden's memory break, where she didn't hate Sophie, she just wouldn't talk to her or anyone, which is less harmful of a reaction that Fitz's. Also when Stina reveals that Biana became friends with Sophie initially because of her dad) but overall have been growing into good friends. 

Now for my evidence (be forewarned there's a LOT, but still not all my evidence bc I mainly skimmed through my books I had on hand): 

Book 1: 

Fitz in the first book is shocked when Sophie says she thinks Biana hates her, stating that they're  pretty similar (first book, I don't remember the page number or exact quote). 

 Page 272, in general, when Sophie hands Biana her midterms present, and Biana asks if she's coming over for dinner. After that interaction, both Dex and Maruca (Biana's best friend at the time) are glaring at Sophie. Maruca's reaction can be explained by being best friends and feeling like she's losing Biana (though hmm....), but Dex's reaction is a bit harder to explain, thus my reasoning. Dex at this time has a major crush on Sophie, and yes he hates the Vackers, but that doesn't explain why he's mad at Sophie, unless he feels like he has competition from Biana for Sophie's affections, and is glaring to try and stop her from forgetting he's an option (oh boy my poor child). 

Also just through the rest of this book, when Sophie is having troubles or avoiding her, Biana is actually worried, and cares about her friend, not lashing out at her, just wondering if she's going to come over, and being obviously disappointed when Sophie declines her invitations. "She's right though. Red is definitely your color." 

Book 2: 

Page 567. "'Uh, I've always known that,' Dex said, sitting on her other side. 'But remember? I like weird.' 'Me too,' Biana chimed in." We know later that this statement from Dex was him literally saying that he liked Sophie, but the big thing about this is that Biana agrees immediately after. Before Fitz agrees. This could be read as just friends, but I read it otherwise. 

Book 3: Page 590. Biana is fighting Gisela on Mount Everest, in extreme conditions. Sophie looks at her and is like "Did you know Biana could fight like that?" like she's impressed, and I mean it's very impressive because she's taking down an adult in extreme conditions, but they're in the middle of a fight, and Sophie takes the time to notice and point out Biana's fighting skills. Which seems a little bit ship-y. Later on this page she is written as smiling at imagining Biana fighting Fitz and Keefe and smiling, and then screaming when Biana almost dies, along with Biana's former crush (Keefe) and her brother (Fitz). 

Page 511. Biana literally hides in Magnate Leto's office when Sophie was getting her ability restricting circlet (HIGHLY FORBIDDEN AND DANGEROUS) and watches in silent support. She breaks so many rules doing that, and then to top it off, on this page she says she doesn't "think I could've been that brave." Which is extremely sweet given the circumstances, and knowing just how much she risked going in with Sophie and yet calling Sophie the brave one, it's just very sweet. 

Book 4: 

(Oh boy I love this one there's so much fuel here.) 

 Page 9. "Dex pretended to gag, while Biana stared at Keefe's arm around Sophie." This is generally read as Biana being jealous of Sophie getting Keefe's attention, but it can also be read as Biana being jealous of Keefe being able to get that close to Sophie in that way (and that is how I am choosing to interpret it). 

I would also like to point out that Biana chooses to run away with Sophie to be with the Black Swan. She doesn't have to. She could stay in the Lost Cities and serve her minimal punishment, then get back to her life. But she chooses the dangerous option to BE WITH SOPHIE, which speaks a lot about these two and how their relationship has grown from mutual animosity to ride-or-die friendship. 

Page 31. "'But we're in costume!' Biana argued. 'Yeah, but you guys will stand out. I mean...look at you. You look like models.'" Sophie literally says Biana looks like a model (along with the boys of course, but she's including EVERYONE in her group) (plus she also comments in her head NUMEROUS times that Biana is gorgeous, or pretty, or looks like a princess, and I don't know about you but I don't go around thinking about how gorgeous all my friends look, I mean they're all amazing people but I don't go around thinking "oh wow [friend] looks like a fabulous princess with their on point makeup and effortless looking outfit." It's just a little bit indicative  that Sophie might like Biana as more than just a friend, hidden in the deep reaches of her oblivion at least). 

Also I would just like to point out that on page 38, when the group sees the statue of David, Keefe immediately reacts to it, and Sophie has no immediate gross out factor, she's just like yeah it's art and this dude is naked so what, which I find a bit telling but idk. 

Bonus: Biana finds the fact that the statue is naked a bit disgusting, and is terrified at the thought of running into it, which also seems a bit telling. 

Page 77. aka the page where Biana compliments Sophie's eyes and calls them "striking and unique." 

Page 167, 168, 169. THEY LITERALLY SLEEP IN THE SAME BED TOGETHER TO COMFORT EACH OTHER. BIANA WENT TO SOPHIE'S ROOM FIRST WHEN SHE COULDN'T SLEEP AND IS IN NEED OF COMFORT, EVEN THOUGH HER MOM IS literally within walking distance away. 

Page 168 "The soft sound of Biana's breathing made the room feel warmer"

Page 615 "...especially when she realized Biana was there too. She pulled her soggy hair forward to cover her face. 'It's cold here.' 'It is,' Biana agreed. Sophie couldn't tell if the strain in Biana's voice was exhaustion or something else." This is after Biana and Alvar interrupt Sophie and Keefe basically cuddling in the cold after almost dying. This could be interpreted as Biana being sad that Sophie seems to be choosing Keefe over her, and she's struggling to deal with that. 

*~*

After these moments, Biana kind of fades into the background, along with Dex, until around book 8 (and even then....yes I'm a bit bitter that my girl doesn't get page time), so I'm going to skip ahead. 

Book 8: 

page 135. "...next to her daughter wearing a peacock blue gown with shimmering gold beading that was almost as stunningly beautiful as she was." Reminding you of her constant appeal to Biana's appearance, and also this is after Biana has been MAJORLY scarred, yet Sophie still finds her beautiful and oh look I'm crying now (onto the next!) 

Page 256: "'You okay?' Biana asked, plopping down beside Sophie on the grass and reaching out to brush some of the fallen pinkish, purplish, bluish petals out of Sophie's hair." this kind of thing is generally reserved for Fitz or Keefe, so I was SHOCKED when I read this. She's pulling the 'brushing the person's hair out of their face' ploy and I'm so here for it. 

Also, just Biana's reactions to Sophie dating her brother are a bit odd, as if she is only reluctantly okay with them being together. 

Unlocked (8.5): 

Biana's file: page 76. "Ultimately, though, Biana and Sophie have grown to genuinely respect and admire each other, and are now well and truly friends." This is under the heading explaining that Biana has trouble making friends because of complications with her brother,  and then goes on to mainly explain Biana's friendship with Sophie, which just...points toward the slim possibility of Sophiana. 

I'm not holding out a lot of hope, because I know it's probably not going to become reality, but I do have my reasoning and a decent amount of evidence, and I still can enjoy my ship from afar as the ship wars rage on. Because with these two gals, we could: 

1. Have the possibility of a healthy relationship where neither party is afraid to tell the other something

2. both balance each other out personality-wise

3. they've also gone through some rough spots but in all have retained a steady friendship in which Sophie isn't afraid Biana will betray her or hate her for anything (unlike SOME boys (I'm sorry, I love Keefe it’s just his decisions haven’t been all that great lately)) 

So yeah, tl;dr Biana and Sophie have the possibility of being in a great relationship built on support and trust and I put way too much effort into this

(Part 1 bc I’ll have more evidence eventually)

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Hi do you think u can do a Roman Godfrey imagine where they are dating and y/n is a good innocent girl but freaky with Roman and her parents want to Roman over for dinner Roman wants to piss off her dad and does subtle things to annoy him like touching y/n at the end of the night when they are saying goodbye at his car they have a heated make out sesh and Roman knows her dad is looking through the window so spices it up a bit

Of course! I will always remember you, Anon, as the first person to make a request ❤ I really hope you enjoy! Being the first request I’ve had, it might flop lol. But I hope this is at least close to what you had in mind!

Warning: Slightly NSFW

~~~~~~~~~~

Having such a sweet personality made everyone think you were innocent and you were, for the most part. Roman was one of many people who thought this, comparing you to Shelley or Letha levels of innocence.

But when Roman decided he wanted to play games with you, he was shocked to find out you could play games just as well as he could.

After getting to know you some, he quickly realized that the sweet innocent side to you actually wasn’t a front like some people faked. You were genuinely caring, and probably the sweetest person he’d ever met besides Shelley.

But something about Roman could make even the most angelic human on earth act like a demon behind closed doors once in a while.

Roman definitely brought out your wild side, not in a bad way either. He surely got you to come out of your shell.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve always been sweet and you knew that’s how you wanted to live. But you’d admit, it was fun letting loose with one of your favorite people. Not having to worry so much about consequences and such.

Yours parents were bewildered and astonished that their sweet little girl could date someone so...not like you. They didn’t know how to react when you told them, especially your mother.

Your father however, organized his feelings pretty quickly. The first thing he wanted to do was find Roman, kill him, and feed him to the family dog.

But instead, he asked you to invite Roman over for dinner.

Now if it was literally anyone else, even the Rumancek boy, you wouldn’t feel as panicked to invite them over. But knowing Roman, you knew it had no chance of ending well.

But you couldn’t exactly say no to your loving parents. You knew they just wanted to protect you, even if it was unbearably annoying.

You internally groaned when you saw Roman smirked evilly when you asked him to have dinner with the ‘rents.

You told him and made it very clear that your father already did not like him, but he only responded with, “I’m not gonna let an old man scare me away from being with you.” Then giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before walking off to find his sister.

Off to a fabulous start...

Roman already knew how he was going to act at your place as soon as you told him to behave. He wasn’t one to take orders, even from you. He wasn’t going to be disrespectful per say, but definitely wasn’t going to be intimidated by some old guy. Even if he was your father.

Getting ready for the dinner was nerve wracking already. Your palms were already starting to sweat slightly, heartbeat irregular, some of your nervous ticks sticking out like a sore thumb.

Your mother noticed this of course, you smoothing down your blouse to the point of your hands turning a soft pink was a clue indeed.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve already convinced your dad to kill him quick and painlessly if he chooses to go that route.” She joked, showing a sickeningly sweet smile.

“Ha ha, not funny.” You huffed.

You almost screamed in terror when the doorbell rang twice. Roman had already texted you that he was on his way, but you were so nervous that anything could’ve spooked you at this point.

“I’ll get it!” You quickly voiced, running to the front door.

You opened the door, revealing the man you’re so fond of. His hair was slicked back and his mouth upturned in his usual smirk that made your knees go weak.

“Hello, my dearest.” He smirked, leaning over to give you a kiss but you quickly dodged it, making him place his lips on your cheek instead. “It’s gonna be that type of dinner then.” He hummed disappointedly.

You chuckled softly. “Not when my parents are just five feet away from us.”

Roman rolled his green eyes. “Fine.”

You brought Roman into the kitchen where your mother was currently doing some finishing touches on the main course. “Mom, this is Roman.” You introduced.

You could tell your mother was wary at first, eyeing him up and down subtly. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N.” He smiled warmly, reaching out his hand.

Roman’s charm quickly put your mother’s worries at ease, her giving a similar warm smile and taking his hand for a tender handshake.

“The Godfrey kid here?” You heard your father’s unnecessarily booming voice call out, promptly entering the door frame of the kitchen.

You turned around to see your father’s stoic face and almost laughed. Your father was a pretty joyful man, so seeing him play up the role of protective papa bear was a sight to see.

“Dad, this is Roman.” You said, a more obvious nervousness to your voice than before.

Roman did the same thing before. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Y/L/N.” Reaching his hand out with a smile.

“You can call me Sir, little Godfrey.”

“Dad...” You whined.

Roman only smiled, laughing it off. “Yes, sir.” He said, a slight annoyance in his voice. He wrapped his arm around your waist, and you could feel the anger by how hard he was gripping you.

You could see your father fixate his glare on his hand that was around you, and you immediately got the hint, gently removing Roman’s arm. “Dinner’s ready! Right, mom?” You voiced suddenly, trying desperately to break some of the tension.

“Uh, yeah! Pretty much!” Your mother grinned.

“Yay! Let’s go!” You exclaimed, pretty much dragging your parents and Roman to the dining room table.

Despite your nerves being through the roof, the smell of delicious food eased it just a tad.

Until Roman started to act up. Wearing a skirt was definitely a bad idea. The whole night was a bad idea, but oh well, couldn’t change it now.

While a friendly conversation between Roman and your mother started, he placed a hand on your exposed knee.

It was innocent as first. He always had been a touchy feely type and usually it didn’t advance any further than that unless he wanted sex, so you didn’t really think anything of it. 

Then you felt his hand slowly trail up your thigh, moving the delicate fabric out of the way.

You looked at Roman with a subtle glare. You balled up your fist in anger when he only gave you a playful wink.

You stopped his hand from moving any further, but he really only saw it as a challenge.

While you were struggling not to make a noise or squirm in your seat, Roman was carrying on the conversation effortlessly.

Roman finally won, reaching the spot that was aching for his touch against your better judgement.

You gasped softly, quickly covering it up with a cough. “Chicken’s a bit dry, ma.” You chuckled nervously, trying to squeeze your legs together.

Roman gave you a questioning look, feigning innocence. “I think it’s perfect, Mrs. Y/L/N. Probably the best home cooked meal I’ve had in, well, ever.” He chuckled.

Roman suddenly hit that perfect spot, causing you to spasm and slam your fist on the table. “Suck up.” You coughed out. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” Your mother asked with concern.

“Yeah, you good babe?” Roman asked, putting the emphasis on babe and faking concern.

Your father was less than pleased, glaring at Roman with such intensity that could scare most people away, but Roman just smirked,

“I’m alright!” You almost shouted. “Just suddenly not feeling well is all! Think I just had some bad cafeteria food.” You forced a laugh.

“That’s why I’ve said to always take your own lunch!” Your mother said, unknowingly saving you from being center attention.

The rest of the dinner went, well...it went.

Being teased by Roman most of the time, you were almost overjoyed when the night was finally coming to an end.

“Again, the food was fantastic.” Roman told your mother, kissing her hand, her smiling in reply.

Roman turned and kissed you on the cheek, just close enough to graze your lips. Then he turned back to your father, who’s glare never left Roman. “It was nice to meet you...sir.”

You bit your lip, waiting to see if this was the moment your father was going to finally snap. “Was nice to meet you too...Mr. Godfrey.” He said, basically gritting his teeth and holding his glare.

“Okay...well...time to go!” You said, almost pushing Roman out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Roman let out a hearty laugh. “Your old man is really something!” He put his hand over his chest while continuing to laugh, leaning against his red convertible to keep himself from doubling over.

You only glared at him. “Roman.”

“What?” Roman asked, wearing a cheeky grin. “Oh! Are you jealous that I kissed your mom’s hand? Milfs aren’t my type, darling.” He chuckled, but stopped once he realized you didn’t find what he was saying funny. “You have your father’s glare.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes and shaking your head. “I can’t believe you. I specifically told you to behave!” You fussed.

“Oh, really? Your soaked panties told me otherwise.”

You blushed, biting your lip in frustration, then letting out a tiny laugh. “I hate you...” You smiled lovingly.

Roman straightened himself out and beckoned you over with his pointer finger. And like a magnet, you gravitated towards him and into his arms.

You loved Roman’s hugs.

While still enveloped in his arms, from the corner of his eye, Roman saw someone watching the two of you at the window. He smirked when he saw that it was your father.

Being the little shit that he is, Roman pulled away from the wholesome hug and brought his lips down to yours, devouring you in a not so wholesome kiss.

You were shocked at first, but soon relaxed into it, now not having to worry about your parents seeing.

But your father was, and Roman knew that, causing him to deepen the kiss just to spite him.

Feeling Roman’s tongue massage against yours felt heavenly, making you let out an involuntary moan.

Roman opened his eyes to peek to see if your father was still at the window, and to his amusement, he was.

Roman knew he was testing his luck, but that was part of the fun. He brought his hand up to your throat and squeezed gently, while the other hand was brought down harshly on your ass with a loud smack.

You squealed happily, loving the feeling of his hands on you. But you knew it was time for him to leave, so you pulled away.

You smiled when you saw how swollen his lips were. “Alright, Casanova. Time for you to go.” You voiced, bringing your mouth just below his ear. “I’ll come by your place later.” You whispered seductively and pulled away.

“As much as I’d love that, I have a feeling sneaking out won’t be so easy for you tonight.” He said, trying to hide a smile.

You furrowed your brows and smiled confusingly. “What makes you say that?”

“Tell your dad that it’s rude to stare.” Roman said, quickly getting into his car and driving away.

It’s rude to stare? What the hell does that mean?

Turning around to head back inside your house is when you finally realized what Roman meant. You saw your father glaring at you from the window, arms crossed and his face noticeably a shade of red.

Fuck...

~~~~~~~~~~

[tetsuskitten]

Could u wrote some ochako/Kirishima/bakugou?? Love that dynamic

Hey there! Thank you so much for this request! I had a lot of fun with this, I hope you like it!

every day is ours by tetsuskitten (on ao3)

The journalists gathered at the front of the venue like menacing cockroaches, the camera-men threatening with their flashing lights, blinking and blinding. Katsuki felt sick already, stomach turning at the thought of having to squeeze through the mass of strange bodies, people he didn’t know touching him so easily. He fussed with his tie, trying to let up the knot so he could breath.

A soft hand came up to his cheek and he closed his eyes to breathe in the saccharine perfume that wafted through the enclosed air of the limousine. A quick kiss was laid on him, followed by a thumb, which he assumed was Ochako cleaning away the lipstick she had just painted him with.

“Katsuki.” He opened his eyes, looking exhausted beyond his years. “I’m going to remind you again. If you feel like leaving, just come find us if we’re not there. I won’t have a repeat of last time.”

“Katsuki!” Eijirou piped up excitedly. “Eri will probably be there! You’ve been whining non-stop about how you never get to see her anymore, right?” Katsuki grunted, but he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of seeing Eri, grown up, healthy and happy. Aizawa-sensei and Yamada-sensei had really done a wonderful job of taking care of her these past few years. He and Izuku tried to visit as often as they could, but work never relented, and their own family life could be busy and chaotic.

Ochako and Eijirou both planted twin kisses on his cheeks before exchanging a kiss of their own. Lovesick disasters, the three of them.

As they left the car to face the crowds, a wall of noise hit them like a tall wave rushing from the sea. Katsuki was incredibly tempted to turn off his hearing-aids but past experiences have taught him it would only work to further confusion.

A loud person announced their arrival with all the fake excitement of a football commentator.

“And here comes pro-hero Uraravity! Draped in a long pinkish gown with strikes of flaring red, she looks fabulous! Her trademark bob is adorned with striking white flowers, she is a sight for sore eyes in the red carpet tonight! And on her right pro-hero Dynamight wearing a tight-fitting burgundy suit that has all of us on our knees! On her left, pro-hero Red Riot proving that he can indeed get bigger! Look at all those muscles, people. He’s wearing a flashy red get-up, not unlike his hero suit. We love to see it!”

They posed and took pictures as they walked slowly to the entrance of the venue. Thankfully, these people had incredibly short attention spans. They waved at the newly-arrived Hitoshi, and Denki who pulled up to the curb a few seconds later. Those two had no idea what being discreet meant, or more likely, they don’t care that much if they’re found out or not.

Denki jumped on Hitoshi’s arm the second he was close enough and the other made no motion to shrug him off. Yeah, this would be all over Hero Weekly come tomorrow. Lovesick fools, the lot of them.

Blessedly inside, the noise fell to a bearable thrum. There was chatter and up-beat orchestra music, but nothing too shrill. Katsuki let himself relax into the constant of it, getting used to the surroundings, looking for their friends.

Ochako was immediately attacked by a horned-devil, Mina jumping on her the second she arrived.

“You look amazing, Ocha! What’s that shade of lipstick?! Come on, Tsuyu and Jiro are here already and we’re doing shots ! Ei and Bakugou are coming too!” Mina didn’t wait long for the boys to say no, knowing they would most likely deny her anyway, as she bounded away with Ochako, who laughed whole-heartedly at her friend’s antics.

“She’s as lively as always, isn’t she?” Ei commented, smiling at the disappearing pair.

“I already have enough of that with you two.”

“Oh c’mon, you know you miss them!”

“Yeah, whatever.” Katsuki was barely finished with his sentence before an ear-splitting “Bakugou nii-chan!” warned him of the incoming blast to his chest.

Eijirou caught him with ease as he was propelled backwards from the sheer force of Eri’s running embrace. She gave him a devious smile, all teeth and childish glee. “You’re getting weaker, Baku nii-chan… Do you need the big strong Red Riot to save you?” She joked.

“Oh you-” He started, before Eijirou grabbed her and easily hoisted her on his large shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Eri-chan, I’ll save you from the big bad Bakugou!” He said, winking at a glaring Katsuki.

“Ei nii-chan…” She called, wonder in her voice. “I can see everything from up here!” she bounced excitedly.

“Oh. Daddy’s coming this way.”

Eijirou pulled her down and smiled sheepishly as Aizawa arrived.

“And what trouble are you three getting up to?” The man drawled, slow and sleepy as always, eyelids half-closed in the harsh lighting of the venue.

“No trouble at all.” Eri offered, smiling and blinking innocently between the two heroes.

“I hear Kota has arrived.” Aizawa said slyly.

“Kota’s here?!” Eri’s red eyes opened wide and she bounced excitedly. “Let’s say hi, please?” She pleaded, as if Shouta denied her much in life. Her young eyes were bright and full of life, Shouta couldn’t help but give her a soft look in return and smile.

“Of course. Say goodbye to Bakugou and Kirishima.”

She turned around to hug them tightly and pointed in a very commanding tone. “Stay right here. I’ll be back.” And skidded away in a flurry of limbs, looking for her next target.

“She’s a handful.” Katsuki said, shaking his head with a fond look plastered on his face.

“Remind you of someone, does she?” That earned Eijirou a glare, but all he did was laugh it off.

“Come on, he’s probably already here too. Let’s find him.”

They pushed their way inside the ballroom, stopping for short greetings and snacks, until they found Izuku in a heated discussion with Ochako about… carpeting? Those two were definitely on their fourth round of drinks.

The night passed them by rather quickly, to Katsuki’s surprise. He even felt a little disappointed to go home. He didn’t get to see everyone together that often anymore, or outside of a fight, which really wasn’t quality bonding time as far as he was concerned.

Eijirou draped his jacket over Ochako’s shoulders before they stepped outside into the cold night air and she was safely cocooned in his arms, swaying only slightly and dozing off as she walked.

Katsuki opened the door for them and as soon as they were inside, Ochako nested herself between them, seeking heat and comfort. Katsuki pillowed her head on his thigh and pushed the disarrayed mess of brown locks from her eyes before placing a kiss on her temple. She snuggled closer, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her surroundings.

When he looked up Eijirou was looking at them with that doe-eyed look he saved for moments he thought were truly manly .

She’s cute when she sleeps, Katsuki signed and Eijirou agreed.

When they pulled up to their home, Eijirou carried a sound-asleep Ochako up the stairs and into their bedroom. They took her gown off gently, trying their best not to disturb her too much, before letting her slip under the covers in her underwear.

Eijirou pulled the bedroom door half-closed and followed Katsuki to the kitchen, where he was already preparing a late night snack for them.

“Want some help?” Ei asked, arms wrapping around Katsuki’s smaller frame, warm hands slithering under his vest and undershirt.

“Make some tea. She won’t sleep for long.” He answered, letting his head fall back into the sturdy support of Ei’s chest. Eijirou snickered.

“I like you like this.”

“What? Tired out of my mind?”

Eijirou shook his head. “No. Just… peaceful.”

Katsuki snorted. “You sayin’ I’ve gone soft?”

Eijirou turned him around, hands automatically coming to rest on Katsuki’s small waist.

“The softest.” He said, stealing a long kiss from the blond before he could start protesting.

The pitter-patter of small feet on the floorboards pulled them out of their quiet late night intimacy.

Ochako walked up to them and practically fell into their embrace, sleep-rumpled, an enormous black shirt covering her frame.

“Feelin’ regret yet?” Katsuki fake-mocked, free hand running through the knots on her hair. Ochako groaned as a response.

“You know, baby, I think this dress looks much better on you than all that pink nonsense.” Eijirou told her, appreciating the way his shirt fell down her body, stopping mid-thigh. She pulled her head up enough to glare.

“That dress was expensive, Eijirou.” He hummed and grabbed her at the waist, earning a gasp before he lifted her up to sit on the wide kitchen island.

“Yes, but there was not even a glimpse of your beautiful legs.” He told her, big hands squeezing her strong thighs. “Though it did hug you perfectly here.” He gripped at her waist. “Here.” He smoothed a hand over her breasts.

Katsuki came up behind her, kissing the side of her neck and whispering. “Don’t listen to him, you looked fucking perfect, but I would have ripped that dress off you if I could’have.”

“Boys…” She warned weakly.

They paused and smiled at her, kissing her skin gently and helping her back down.

“We’re making tea and pancakes, go lay down on the couch, we’ll wake you up soon.” Katsuki told her, but she shook her head.

“I’ll stay here. Watch you cook.”

Katsuki placed one last lingering kiss on her lips before going back to mixing batter. Eijirou put the kettle on and prepared their tea before sitting down and pulling Ochako into his lap, fitting her between his legs.

They ate in silence, the only sounds heard throughout the house were the ever busy streets outside. Tomorrow was entirely theirs and there were hiking plans in motion, picnics on mountain-tops and rolling around in the dirt, swimming in the lakes. Today though, there was nothing more to do than give themselves up to sleep, huddled up together, bone-tired and satisfied, content after a night well spent.

[sylvie-writes]

here’s what i’m thinking. it’s the 1940’s. y/n is on her first date w the lovely steve rogers. it’s lots of shy giggly fluff. syd, my fabulous companion, can you write something along the lines of this and i’ll swim across the atlantic to shower you and mags in kisses. love u xx

First Date Jitters

“Becs, what if he doesn’t like me. What if I annoy him?”

Bothered, you laid your arms on the vanity and groaned, annoyed by the mere thought of ruining this first date. Steve Rogers seemed like a dreamboat and the minute he asked you out on a date, your eyes formed hearts and you were floating on cloud nine. 

“Honey, he asked you out on a date, didn’t he?

“Yeah, but y’all pushed him! Maybe he felt pity for me and-”

Tired of your rambling, Rebecca ran the brush through your hair a bit too harsh for your liking.

“Geez! What was that for, Barnes?”

She smirked and went back to brushing your hair, returning to gentle strokes from before. 

“To shut ya mouth full of lies.” Her strong New York accent came through and you giggled. When Rebecca spoke with a said accent, she meant business and was going to get her point through regardless if you listened or not.

Eventually, you zipped your mouth, letting Becca work her magic with your hair and makeup. As she did so, your mind drifted off to the first time you had met Steve.

“Pleaseeeeee, Bucky’s bringing a friend for dinner. Don’t leave me in a room full of testosterone.”

Becca was down on her knees, clasping the hem of your dress. Currently, you were standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk, people passing and shooting funny glares. Embarrassed, you pulled at her arms, but to no avail, she wouldn't budge from her spot on the cement.

“Rebecca Barnes, get off the ground! You look like a fool!” 

“Not till you say, yes. You know how many dinners you’ve turned down?”

Groaning, you agreed to go just this once. The last time you went to dinner, you made a complete fool of yourself, even though Rebecca said otherwise. Bucky’s naturally flirtatious nature and secretive winks made you read into the situation a bit too much. From then on you vowed to never show up at a dinner of theirs. You’d known Rebecca for almost five years, yet you still couldn’t forgive yourself for that first night. 

“You know why I always refuse, Becca.”

She linked her arm in yours, now off the ground and ready to walk around town some more.

“I know, but Bucky does that to every friend I’ve brought home. Don’t worry, the other girls did way worse than you. In the end, Bucky just likes to hook, line, and sink em kind of thing.”

Rebecca laughed, punctuating her sentence, and at her words of assurance, you felt a bit relieved. 

That night you knocked on the door, and within seconds it flew open. Rebecca, flour covered hands, held out her arms for an awkward hug. 

“You didn’t chicken out this time!”

You gave her a set of squinted eyes and she lightly giggled, waltzing back to the kitchen. Just as you were about to follow, a certain someone stopped you. Blocking the doorway, a young man you had been trying to avoid stood before your much smaller figure.

“Hey! You showed up this time, angel! Sorry I know I kind of scared you off last time. I’m sure Becs has given you her opinion on me.”

Bucky scratched at the back of his neck, shyly looking into your eyes.

“No hard feelings, Buck.”

You gave the man a tight lipped smile and started to maneuver past him, when his arms reached out for your waist.

“Becca told you I brought a friend, right?”

Confused, you cautiously nodded.

“Well, I want you to meet him. Hey Punk! Get out here!”

Suddenly, a man, no smaller than yourself rounded the corner and smiled bashfully at you.

“Hi ma’am, name’s Steve Rogers.”

The man, Steve, held out a hand for you to shake, which you did. All of a sudden, you two started talking and before you knew it, Bucky had left to go tell Rebecca their plan had worked. As implied, dinner ended with Steve asking you out. 

“Hellooooo, any one home in there?”

Rebecca playfully tapped your head, shaking you from your thoughts.

“Huh?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes. Thinking ‘bout Rogers, aren't ya?”

With a timid smile, you nodded, soon standing from the vanity seat and going to change. Your friend had done an amazing job on pinning up your hair and fixing your makeup. You almost felt like a million bucks. To compliment it all, your mother had even found you a little baby pink number. Quickly changing, you stepped out of the closet, twirling in the sea on the pink fabric. Rebecca gasped at the sight and immediately reached for the camera, taking a picture of you, mid laughter. 

Checking your wrist watch, you suddenly heard the doorbell and practically ran for the door with Rebecca who was laughing so hard that she couldn’t keep up.

Swinging open the door a bit too excitedly, you found Steve’s grin dissipating. A bit disappointed with his reaction, you toned down the excitement, hoping he wouldn’t notice your sudden change in demeanor.

“Wow, doll. You look,” The young man swallowed the lump in his throat, “stunning. Absolutely gorgeous!”

At the words, your disappointment morphed into satisfaction, and you stepped out the door, hitching onto Steve’s arm, waving goodbye to your best friend. 

“Don’t keep her out too late, Steven!”

Rebecca’s words followed you both down the hallway, causing some laughter from Steve, who seemed a bit uncomfortable. Worried once more, you decided to pry a bit.

“Is everything ok, Steve?”

He turned to you with wide eyes and shook his head to dispute your many apologies.

“I’m just a bit nervous, it’s not you! It's just that no girl as pretty as you has never gone out with me before.”

Steve’s cheeks turned rosy red, before he looked the other direction, not wanting you to see him like this. In his mind, one wrong move and you’d leave him for another.

Humbled at his comment, you took your free hand and turned his face in your direction. With a big smile, you planted a soft kiss on the corner of his lips, leaving the young man almost breathless.

“Don’t worry about me, Stevie. I’m not going anywhere, except where you take me.” 

Confident by your actions, Steve stood a bit taller and led you out of the apartment building, excited for his first date with you. 

You were tucked into Steve’s side, enjoying a small conversation with him. The two of you were quite the pair, nervously asking the other one a question, trying to get to know each other since this was your first date. They say opposites attract, but that was not the case with you and Steve. So far, he had told you of the endless days he’d spent in the hospital, and a part of you longed for him to be healthy, as that sounded like his one wish. Steve would go on and on about how Bucky had set him up on dates and it normally ended with Bucky having two girls around his arms instead of one. You could see Steve’s self-confidence faltering, so you decided to share your many failed-date stories, eliciting a laugh from the man at the few comedic ones. 

The whole walk, you were so caught up in talking to the man, that the two of you almost passed the first place you were going to stop. Of course, you were clueless as to where Steve was taking you, so you would have kept walking if Steve hadn’t stopped and gently placed his hands over your eyes. You felt the man turn you around and walk you a few steps when finally he removed the makeshift blindfold that was his hands.

“We’re here! Rebecca told me how much you loved chocolate, so I figured you could pick a box of your choice.”

He smiled lovingly at you, as you squealed like a child on Christmas morning. Thrilled, you ran into the store, seeing a case of a variety of chocolates. Steve caught up and enjoyed your cute facial expressions as you scanned over the options. There was an endless amount of chocolate, all in different forms and unthinkable flavors. About to order, you pulled out your clutch when Steve halted your actions.

“Now you think I’m gonna let my girl pay for her own box of chocolates?”

“But Steve-”

Your date stood strong in his statement, and demanded that you pick whatever chocolate you wanted. After scowling at him for a bit, you finally caved and picked from the overwhelming selection behind the glass case. You and Steve shared a few samples, laughing at how you both were acting like wine samplers. Since your date was buying the box, you told him that you’d only allow him to do so, if he selected a few chocolates himself. Begrudgingly, Steve agreed and you both might’ve held up the line a bit with your indecisiveness.

Walking out, you were once again wrapped into Steve’s side, this time his jacket on your shoulders as the sun had gone down and the night chills had creeped out. So far, you could feel Steve becoming more and more comfortable as the two of you started to talk about whatever came to mind. Just as you thought the man was done with the surprises, he stopped in front of the movie theater.

“Steve-”

“Nope, this is our first date, and we are going to make it memorable!”

You chuckled at his persistence and decided to play along.

“Well what about this lovely chocolate, we can’t just toss it out yet?”

Steve took the box and stuffed it in the pocket of his jacket that was still hanging on your shoulders.

“Oooh is Steve Rogers breaking the rules?”

A cheeky grin formed on his lips, “Only because I really like you.”

The minute the words left his mouth, Steve’s ears started to turn cherry and you shyly giggled.

“Well, I really like you too, Steve Rogers.” With that, you kissed him, but this time on the lips. As you did so, you could feel his cheeks warming and a big smile twisted onto your lips, breaking the kiss.

“Oh Steve Rogers, what am I going to do with you?”

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

I Like Boys

A Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Story

Master List

Pairing: Stucky   |  Word Count: 2256  |  Warnings: Language

Based on the Todrick Hall song I Like Boys

A/N: With all the crazy in the world right now, I thought we could all use a little something fun and fluffy. This is my first Pride fic, please be kind as I did my absolute best. Love who you love, people. There’s nothing greater in life.

This fic is for @magellan-88​ who inspires me even when she doesn’t intend to.

***

James Buchanan Barnes was ninety-seven years old when his Hydra programming finally broke. He spent two years running from his best friend, another two in cryo, and five after that apparently blipped into nothing. After the fight - were, somehow, they all came out alive - Bucky decided, fuck it! 

How many times had he almost died? How many chances had he had? How many more would he waste before finally living his best life?

So he retired—sort of. 

There was no such thing as "retiring" when your idiot best friend continued to throw himself out of planes and into the line of fire on a regular basis, but Steve did slow down. He took on a more managerial role, was promoted to "General" for his service, and spent his days sitting on his ass behind a desk. 

Bucky liked him there. He liked having Steve unbruised and unbusted at the end of the day, saunter through the door to their joint living space and holler, "Honey, I'm home!"

It was a joke on the blond's part that was wearing thin, for when Bucky decided to live his best life, he'd begun to do some research about what that meant. Be true to you was a big part of it. But to be true to himself, he had to be honest with himself, and honesty meant admitting he'd been in love with Steven "is this a test" Rogers for most of his natural life. 

Sadly, Steve liked girls. Case in point, one Peggy "gonna bust some balls" Carter. 

Bucky couldn't exactly compete with that. She was one classy dame, and it hurt him to know that Steve would likely never move on. This era and it's dating rituals had thrown Cap for a loop. Women were too forward, and Steve - surprisingly - too shy to dive into the world of casual dates and sex. 

For Bucky, it was different. He liked boys. There, he'd said it, but he still hadn't said it to Steve. Natasha, however, was a different story. She'd grown used to him sighing and pining on her shoulder. She said she hated it - she didn't - but she bitched enough for both of them. 

Then she took him shopping. 

While he was standing in some place called Sephora with miles of makeup and aisle of perfume that kind of made him want to sneeze, he had the shock of his life. All this "girly" crap everywhere, but in the middle of it was a guy? A cute guy. With well-groomed hair and this fabulous winged eyeliner - nothing like his Hydra days - wearing really cute skinny jeans and glitter on his cheeks. 

Enchanted, Bucky left Natasha's side and slowly made his way over. The guy, man, guy he wasn't sure, looked up and flashed him a smile. 

"Help you, honey?"

Bucky blinked. He had fantastic skin. "You're so shiny." A flush immediately reddened his face. 

But Sephora Guy, whose name ended up being Ben, laughed and lightly patted his arm. "Aw, thanks, sweets. You looking for some skin care tips?"

Bucky nodded, unsure what else to do. 

"Honey, you came to the right fella!" 

Ben grabbed his wrist and led him to a chair where he bid Bucky sit. For the next hour, he was educated on everything from moisturizer to foundation to why Ben wore makeup. They talked about hair care, skin care, and what it meant to be "out" with such enthusiasm. Bucky had never spoken so candidly with anyone about his sexuality and found it enlightening. 

He left the shop with five hundred dollars worth of product, a list for the hair salon, and a bunch of links to reputable websites if Bucky had more questions. 

The smug on Natasha said she set him up, but he didn't care. He'd had the best day.

And when everything wound up on the counter in his and Steve's shared bathroom, Steve only arched a brow, smiled, and said nothing. 

Bucky continued to learn, research, and occasionally visit the mall to have coffee with Ben or his partner Matt. They were always kind, never impatient, and easy-going. He'd begun to wonder if they hadn't realized who he was until one day he asked, and they both looked at him with amused smiles. 

"Metal arm, slightly brooding, runs around after a "little punk" but now with a much better skin routine? Honey. Please," Ben snorted.

After, Bucky began to explore and try new things. He cooked, found a love for baking, and especially loved baking for Steve. The man refused to slow down, so it never affected Steve's physique, but Bucky found he was a little bit softer around the middle, his face fuller, his body less hard, and he liked it. 

It was nice not to be combat-ready all the time. Sure he could strap on the black and spend nine hours running down Hydra, that hadn't changed, but he had the smallest pudge of a belly, a soft little roll that he loved. 

Then, out of the blue, Natasha introduced him to roller derby. 

Bucky was thrilled! He'd never seen anything so flashy, showy, violent in all his life that was meant to be fun! Oh, sure he'd watch the wrestling that showed up on TV, but he felt most of that was so phony. This? This was chaos. This was mayhem. 

This was freaking awesome!

And the women were great. They were loud and boisterous, or sweet and shy, but when they put on their gear, they all became demons. Natasha occasionally trained with the group known as Red's Devils, a group of women from difficult circumstances she sponsored during the blip. It gave the ladies an outlet for grief, anger, pain that they wouldn't have had otherwise.

Once they met him, they'd put him in a pair of roller skates and dragged him around the track. Of course, with the serum and his enhanced body, getting his balance and figuring out how to move on wheels was cake, and soon he was skating around the room, learning neat tricks and tips from the women catcalling and laughing along with him

Bucky loved it. 

Finally, after seventy years as a Hydra pawn and all the crap that came afterward, he'd figured it out, found himself, and was happy. The only thing he wasn't satisfied with was Steve. 

It was getting harder and harder to pretend like he didn't tent his pants every time the big dumb blond wandered through the apartment in a towel. Or that "Honey, I'm home!" didn’t make his damn heart flutter. Some days it hurt to look at his stupid beautiful face and not want to kiss it. Or punch it. 

He swore Steve's shirts were getting tighter. Sometimes, it felt like his eyes lingered. 

The shit was messing with his head, dammit!

Then, just as the world was getting it's shit back together, the pandemic happened. Covid 19 struck, and everything stopped. The world stood still, went into lockdown, and Bucky wanted to slam his head on the wall.

He had been going to his first Pride event with Ben and Matt, ready to step outside and be who he was, while those who didn't approve could kiss his lily-white ass. He was going to tell Steve. He was going to stop hiding, conforming, resiting who he was. And it all went to shit thanks to a fucking virus.

He was pissed! It wasn't fair! He'd been so prepared. 

Natasha found him pouting on the couch in the common area of the now mostly empty compound. Anyone who could go home was sent home, leaving them running a skeleton crew of people, and forcing as much separation as possible. 

She flopped down mostly on top of him. "Why so glum, chum?"

"Pride's cancelled," he muttered. 

She snorted. "No, it's not."

He rolled his eyes. "We're under a shelter in place order, Natalia."

"I'm aware, Barnes," she huffed. "But Pride isn't cancelled. Just because you can't strut down the street waving a rainbow flag doesn't stop what this month is about. It's about you, celebrating you, and all the people who came before you who fought, screamed, raged against injustice and in some cases, died to be able to stand up proudly and say I'm gay, I'm bisexual, I'm transgender. You can't go out. That doesn't mean you can't celebrate."

She patted his chest and left him sitting there to think about what she said.

***

The music that pounded through the compound jerked Steve's head up. Reports forgotten, he rose and went to look out his office door, only to gape in shock as Bucky, wearing the shortest, tightest, black shorts he'd ever seen and a cropped top that showed off his cute little belly, rolled by on roller skates. He'd cut his hair not long ago, his interest in styling it a new hobby. Right now, it was fluffed high and held there with wax, looking soft and shiny and pretty as hell. Glitter sparkled on his cheeks, on his lashes, and glossed his lips. 

He smirked as he rolled by, blue eyes amused. "Close your mouth, Rogers."

Steve swallowed thickly and followed Bucky down the hallway. Those shorts should be illegal. The top wasn't much better. The cropped top was blue, sleeveless, showing off defined muscles and metal arm. His skin freaking glowed against the blue. 

It was seriously unfair how hot his best friend was, and Steve thanked his lucky stars he'd worn sweats and underwear today that helped disguise the tent forming in his pants. 

When Bucky stooped to pick up a big ass rainbow flag, Steve's jaw dropped. He knew what June first represented, how did Bucky?

Like a moth to a flame, Steve followed Bucky into the common room where Bucky was skating in happy circles, singing along to the music. 

"I like boys, I like pecs, like them arms when they flex. Like that print in them sweats. Tell them, girls, "Thank you, next." I like when they text me sexy pics of 'em, like them abs when there's six of 'em. Tell them girls I'm sorry; I like boys, Mama, boys like me."

Steve's jaw dropped. His mind refused to compute what he was hearing. It blue screened, whited out, and returned in time to watch Bucky drop it low and twerk like he'd done it all his life. 

"I like when they shake it, shake it. I like when they grind real slow. I like when they almost naked. Tell dad I'm so homo. Lights off, doors shut. Tall, dark, clean-cut. Thick with a bubble but. Yup, Mama, I like boys."

A sound like a fax machine escaped his throat as Bucky danced, shook his ass, swung his hips, and sent Steve's mind so far into the gutter he wondered if it would ever come out. 

"Bitch, B to the O to the Y to the S, Boys will be boys, and with boys, I'm obsessed. Boys in their gym clothes, boys in a dress, and if boys are a crime, then I'm under arrest. 'Cause I've been boy crazy since the boy scouts. Fuck the closets, let the boys out. Don't be a camel when you are a llama, period. No comma, bring on all the drama. Mama, I like boys, I like pecs, like them arms when they flex. Like that print in them sweats. Tell them girls, "Thank you, next." I like when they text me sexy pics of 'em. Like them abs when there's six of 'em. Tell them girls I'm sorry; I like boys, Mama, boys like me."

The music continued to play, but Bucky rolled away from the window, leaving the flag he'd been carrying behind on the couch when he skated up to Steve and stopped. On the skates, Bucky was inches taller and caused Steve to tilt his head back to look up at him as he had when they were kids. 

"So," Bucky murmured, a blush under the glitter and eyes suddenly shy and uncertain. "I like boys."

Steve's heart clenched. Before he could stop himself or second guess what he was doing, his hand shot out, grabbed the back of Bucky's neck, and dragged his friend down in a kiss that had been pent up for almost a century. 

Bucky squeaked, flailed once, almost rolled away, and finally wrapped his arms around Steve in a near bone-crushing hug. Lips slanted, mouths softened, parted, inhaled, changed the angle and softened. 

Tingles raced through Steve's body as he kissed Bucky, his Bucky, pouring every bit of emotion he felt into it. Then, he nipped his teeth into Bucky's lip and slowly pulled away. 

"I'm bisexual," Steve murmured. "I've known for years."

"You punk-ass piece of shit! Why didn't you say something?" Bucky barked, but Steve noticed he didn't let go. 

"There wasn't time." He gently squeezed Bucky's nape. "And how do you tell your best friend in the whole world you've been in love with him your entire life?"

"Steve…" Bucky whispered, resting their foreheads together. "You're an idiot."

Steve kissed him again because there was no refuting that logic.

***

From the second-floor observation deck, Natasha turned her phone camera from the scene below to her grinning face. The live stream event had hearts and comments blowing up her Instagram. "Happy Pride everyone. If those two old farts can figure it out, anyone can." 

She blew a kiss at the camera and ended the stream.

-The End- 

[ineloqueent]

Starstruck: Part 17

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 17 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 16 / Part 18

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.  

Warnings: swearing, sentiments of sadness

Historical Inaccuracies:

SO. This is more of a disclaimer than an inaccuracy. But it’s very important...

I have written Mary’s character on basis of Lucy Boynton’s portrayal of her in Bohemian Rhapsody. I make no assumptions concerning the relationship between Freddie and Mary, and nor do I condone the things Mary has done in the wake of Freddie’s passing. 

Please remember that this is but a fictionalisation. But anyway. I’m not here to talk about that; I’m here to write fanfic. Let’s go! 

Word Count: 2.6k (can i get three cheers for the shortest chapter ever)

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

You found her soon enough. She hadn’t even made it fully up the stairs.

A pitiful sight, she was, sitting with her knees pulled up as she wept quietly into the velvet of her trousers.

“Mary,” you began gently, and she lifted her head.

Her eyes were puffy, and tears had drawn angry red lines down her round cheeks. Her hair, which had previously been up, fell about her face in blonde wisps as her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled anew with tears.

You made your way over to the corner where she sat and she watched you raptly, like a frightened animal. You knelt beside her.

“Hey, what was that all about?”

Mary only shook her head, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stem her tears.

You offered her a hand up, and after a few moments of contemplation, she took it and stood.

She stared at you a moment before rivulets came running down her face again.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s get some air.”

You led her up the final stairs and pulled open the door at the landing, guiding her outside onto the rooftop terrace.

The night air was cool, and from the heated rush of emotions that still seemed to cloud your mind to the giddiness that still occupied your stomach, the breeze on the roof was one you welcomed.

Mary seemed to relish the sudden cold as well, going as far as to lean out over the railing and close her eyes in the onslaught of the wind.

Thinking that you should probably not allow her to do any leaning given the mental state she was presently in, you came to stand by her side.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Anger flashed across her face, and she wiped her eyes with a frustrated air, only more infuriated by the fact that she was crying.

You were about to assure her that she needn’t say anything at all when she blurted,

“I found Freddie with another man.”

“Oh,” you said. You pressed your lips together, trying to gauge how it was you were to handle this.

“I just can’t believe that he’d lie to me.”

You were reminded of Deacy’s comment about Freddie being ‘nearly pathological’ with respect to lying, but that was hardly helpful right now, and you could only imagine the crushing betrayal Mary must have felt.

“I can believe that he would lie,” she elaborated, fingers curling around the railing, “but not to me. I just— oh, I suppose I thought I was different.” She gave a shudder. “I’d had the feeling that something wasn’t quite right, and I tried to talk to him, tried to tell him that he could tell me anything, and that even if I was mad about whatever it was when he told me, I wouldn’t stay that way.”

Mary turned to you, and the wind tossed her hair wildly, and with the way her eyes still ran with saltwater, she seemed a maiden from some sort of Greek tragedy.

“I love him,” she went on. “But I’ve always felt that I loved him more than he loved me. Now I understand why.”

She slumped to the ground again, her expression dark. “I’m not even angry that he didn’t come out to me. I understand that, because how the hell do you begin to tell your fiance that you want to break of the wedding because you’re gay?

“Freddie’s got this kindness, and sometimes, it’s like he’d lie to a court if it meant that he spared the feelings of those he loves. So I guess, in a way, he does love me. I only wish he’d have tried to break it off with me, instead of waiting until I walked in on him.”

She sighed, and you sat down across from her, folding your legs beneath you.

“So, what now?” you asked, because it seemed that Mary had thought a lot about this already.

But she dropped her head to her hands. “That’s the one thing I can’t work out. Where do I go from here?”

“Have you talked to Freddie, properly?”

She shook her head. “It’s going to take me a long time to forgive him. I just hope he knows why I’m angry, and that it’s not because he’s gay.”

There. That was it. That was where she had to go. “Maybe you should tell him that.”

Mary looked at you, her face wrought in scars of mascara and eyeliner. She lifted her chin and nodded. “You’re right.” She chewed her lip a moment. “But not tonight. I don’t think I can do that.”

You nodded in understanding, because with the way sobs had wracked her body, there would be no energy left for her to have a conversation with Freddie without it dissolving into a bitter argument, even with good intentions at heart.

“Y/N, would it be okay if I stayed in your room for the night?”

“So long as you promise me you’ll talk to Freddie tomorrow,” you said. “Don’t leave him wondering.”

“Yeah.”

You stood. “Let’s just go, then. It’s past midnight anyway.”

Later, when Mary was sound asleep on one of the beds, bundled in the various extra blankets you’d scavenged from cupboards, you lay with your eyes wide open. You’d been kept awake by the sounds of the dwindling party upstairs, which had carried on for long after the scene had been abandoned by its host.

You wondered where Freddie had got to.

And where Brian had.

You’d considered going to find him many times, and had even gone so far as to stick your feet out of bed and set them on the cold hardwood floor, but in the end, you’d made up your mind to do what you always did: nothing.

He’d left you standing in the dance hall, without so much as recognition in his eyes for evidence of having kissed you. And now he was going to tell you that he’d meant nothing of it, a rush of emotions in an exhilarated situation, and you couldn’t bear to hear that.

You’d rather be left wondering than have such a finality imposed upon your mind.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

It had been days, now. They’d been tiptoeing around each other for days.

It was ridiculous to the point where I began to feel the need to take matters into my own hands.

The situation was now ultimately worse than it had been before, because very obviously, something had changed. And I’d wager that something had happened on the first night of tour. They were different now, almost shyer, more fragile in their vulnerability to each other’s charms.

He had pined for her since the late sixties, she had been oblivious since day one, and I doubted that, despite their respectively vast vocabularies, either of them knew the meaning of the verb ‘to converse’. It was all longing looks and unuttered promises, a brush of a hand and staring pensively when the other was unawares.

I was almost offended that they couldn’t pull themselves together, when they were fortunate enough to have each other.

Veronica and Robert would get farther and farther from me as each day of tour escorted us more remotely from London. It hadn’t been an option to bring my wife and our tiny child with us on tour, so I could do nothing now but miss them.

But our two resident idiots, Y/N and Brian, did have each other. And they took it completely for granted.

The open road was quiet and dark, and seemed half-asleep, the trees that blurred past the window swaying to some secret song. A flock of birds streamlined the puffy clouds overhead as the moon greeted the sun in its eternal celestial shift, light yielding light to comfort the earthly beings who feared the darkness. Though I did not fear the dark as such, it was easy to imagine lurking figures between the lone houses by the roads, creeping souls amongst the woods by the road; there was something consuming about this early-morning quiet.

On a stop between Bristol and Cardiff, I left the loos to find Freddie smoking by a payphone, notably absent from the rest of our entourage.

The morning air was chilly, and I wound the scarf around my neck in its second loop, buttoning up my jacket with a shiver. No one was out here other than out of necessity, so I made my way over to Freddie and leaned against the wall beside him.

I turned to face him. “How are you?”

Freddie pursed his lips, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Not at my most fabulous, dear.”

I nodded understandingly, burying my face further into the scarf. “It’s okay, you know. You can’t always be.”

“But that’s why I became Freddie Mercury,” he said quietly, his words nearly carried away by the wind. “I became a legend so I wouldn’t feel like this.”

“Freddie,” I began, “I’m pretty sure being legendary means you have a lot more to feel than you would otherwise.”

He smiled a thin-lipped smile, tossing his spent cigarette into the ashtray mounted atop the rubbish bin. “You are of course right, darling, but right now I’d give anything to feel nothing at all.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Freddie sighed. “I don’t know what I want.”

It was despair in his voice; I recognised it. And I understood it. Because where do you start if you don’t know what you’re working toward?

I placed a hand on his shoulder and he turned his sad brown eyes on me.

“You’re a legend, Freddie,” I reminded him. “You’ve got forever to figure it out, okay?”

He nodded.

“And you can talk to me if you need to.”

“Thank you, Deacy,” he patted my hand. “I think I’ll keep a bit to myself for a while, though, at least until we reach the city.”

“Okay.”

“Now, let’s get out of this cold. I’m freezing my tits off!”

I laughed. “Okay, Freddie.”

And though the open road was quiet and dark and I missed my wife and son, I had my friends. The second half of my family.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

You ached to kiss Brian again. To wind your fingers through his hair. To hold him close, because with the worry that wove itself through his brow on behalf of Freddie, he looked so lost, so far away, as though he needed someone to bring his floating self to the ground where his thoughts could wander amongst the living, and not dwell up in the sky with that which he had lost.

Perhaps that was why he looked to the stars so often; he’d lost so much, and they were a constant.

He deserved to have something brought back to him. And if you could return to him some of the light in his eyes instead of stealing it away, then nothing in the world would make you happier.

The mornings on the bus were tense, to say the least.

Without discussion, it seemed that you and Brian had established an agreement to keep Mary and Freddie apart until they had the time and privacy in which to talk. But it was a difficult arrangement, given that the tour bus was not exactly spacious. And given that it meant you had to keep your distance from Brian.

Presently, though, you came second to the efforts of protecting Freddie and Mary from themselves, which meant that Brian did as well. So for now, all you could give to him were silent glances and small smiles.

But Brian seemed to have other ideas.

On the leg from Cardiff to Taunton, just as you were getting back on the bus, someone grabbed your hand and pulled you around the corner.

You tensed, whirling around with your other fist raised, your heart hammering.

But your defenses were instantly disarmed, because there was Brian with his mass of curls in disarray from the wind, his lips parted as though he had been about to say something.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” you cried, your heartbeat still in your throat.

“No,” Brian said, “I’m trying to kiss you.”

“You’re—”

He pulled you to him, melding himself against you, and kissed you soundly on the mouth, his arms winding around you. Your response was immediate, and you leaned so far into him that he stumbled. His laughter tickled your lips, a rush of breath over your skin as he clutched you to stop you from falling with him.

But you pushed him against the wall instead, and his hands rose to your cheeks to kiss you more deeply, devouring— senseless. Precisely as you had once wished for him to kiss you.

There were so many things you wanted to say, but it seemed the most of them were covered in how you moved with him, vulnerable and uninhibited, purely driven by the desire to hold him close, to make him understand with your proximity how much it was you cared for him. How much you would never be able to explain the gravity of your affections for him.

Brian reversed your positions and only the existence of the wall and his arms kept you on your feet; you were dizzy with the surge of excitement that withered you where he touched you.

And his touch was everywhere.

His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, from your jaw to your cheek, to the shell of your ear, and then in a tender trail down your neck. His fingertips fluttered at your sides, warm on your skin, but you shivered, because no one had ever touched you with such a gentleness as this, such desire, such love.

Then abruptly, he pulled back, short of breath and flushed from head to toe, with swollen lips and loose curls sticking up where your fingers had interfered with their natural fall.

The world spun as his eyes flickered between yours.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he hummed.

“You did a bit,” you replied. “We’re on the open road. It is sort of scary out here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just missed you. I miss you. I feel like we’re apart, you know?”

You nodded mutely.

He asked softly, “We’re not keeping this a secret, are we?”

You couldn’t believe that he was asking, after everything. But you supposed that was how he was, considerate to the point where he doubted himself if the circumstances favoured you.

“Brian,” you said, “I don’t think I could hide the way I look at you if I wanted to.”

A smile flickered across his face.

Then the rain began to pour.

“Come on, back inside,” you said, taking him by the hand.

“Hang on,” he pulled you back. He lingered a moment, gazing at you aimlessly, and he looked at you the way he looked at the stars.

“What?”

Brian cradled your face in his hands. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to your nose, brushed the pad of his thumb over your skin. “I just wanted to look at you.”

You couldn’t help but smile.

“My evening star,” he murmured.

You shook your head, finding it very hard to believe that this man, who spoke so beautifully, was yours. “You’re a poet, Brian.”

His response would have been enough to flood the coldest land with a wealth of warmth, as absolutely as that which blossomed in your chest.

“And you’re my muse.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: two more parts and an epilogue m’dears :)

taglist: @melting-obelisks @retropetalss @hgmercury39​ @topsecretdeacon @joemazzmatazz @perriwiinkle @brianmays-hair @im-an-adult-ish @ilikebigstucks @doing-albri @killer-queen-87 @n0-self-c0ntro1 @archaicmusings @cloudyyspace @annina-96 @themarchoftherainbowqueen @annajolras​

Masterpost / Part 16 / Part 18

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Aight my dudes here’s chapter four of Oopsie Daisies have fun. Thanks again to @edward-or-ford for editing!

Looks Like Someone Picked a Whole Bushel of Oopsie Daisies Chapter Four: Shadows

You’re all I want and I don’t know why. This new addiction is all I know, and it’s safe to say that I’ve lost control. - 2 in the Chest, 1 in the Head, New Years Day

Mabel knew a great many things. She knew how to fix rips in tights and leggings without making it noticeable (and if it was noticeable, it was fucking fabulous, okay?). She knew how to straighten and re-curl her hair in just the right way. She knew how to contour her makeup to change the way her facial structure appeared, and how to paint a mug while keeping it dishwasher safe.

Mabel was, of course, interested enough in those things to learn about them. What she was not interested in is how things work. It was far more important that they do work rather than how, as far as she was concerned. So whenever her Grunkles, dad, and Dipper got together to watch a marathon of How It’s Made on the Shack’s frankly ancient TV, both Mabel and her mom were bored out of their minds.

She was forced to learn plenty in school, thank you very much. It was winter break. She didn’t wanna learn on winter break. Gross. That’s the exact opposite of what winter break is for, and Mabel was of the opinion that doing otherwise is positively blasphemous, but under the careful tutelage of her mother, she’d long since stopped trying to understand the males of the species. Or rather, the males of her family specifically (she’d managed to obtain a vague grasp on the male minds outside of her family, or at least some of them, she thought. Perhaps the boys at her school were just easy to read, or maybe it was teenage boys in general. Not that they were strictly logical in her mind, of course; she just understood how their brains worked to some degree).

And so, an hour after they return to the Shack from the hike, Mabel found herself standing at the kitchen counter, carefully stacking the fifty-seventh (she hadn’t counted, of course, but it was indeed the fifty-seventh) mini marshmallow on top of its companions in her mug of hot chocolate while the beginnings of their silly show blared in the background.

She was humming an old BABBA song as she plucked another marshmallow from the bag, swaying her hips back and forth to the beat in her mind. She stopped when she heard the sound of footsteps, looking over her shoulder to see Dipper shuffling into the room on socked feet.

He was looking everywhere but her. Mabel found this unusual, but what was infinitely more odd was the way he walked over to her quietly, dropped a folded piece of paper at her feet, and then promptly moved to open the fridge as if nothing at all had occurred.

Dropping the marshmallow into her mug, she reached down to retrieve the paper.

“Uh… Dip, you dro-“

“What do you think I should have to drink?” Dipper cut in quickly, the words sloppy and thrown together without proper enunciation.

Mabel blinked. He didn’t want her to ask about it, that much was evident. A note for her, then, perhaps? A secret note?

“Well… I’m having hot chocolate, myself,” she suggested.

“With an obscene number of marshmallows, I see.”

Mabel gasped and put a hand to her chest. “Me? My dear brother, I am positively offended that you would even suggest such a thing!”

He grinned. “Maybe I’ll have some more cider.” He poured himself a glass and left the room before Mabel could think to ask about the paper again.

Glancing around to make sure nobody was coming, she turned back towards her mug, just so, if needed, she could shove the paper into her sweater pocket unnoticed and pretend she was still preparing her hot chocolate. She unfolded it carefully. Dipper didn’t write her handwritten notes. She was a bit excited (more than a bit, but she would never admit to such a thing). Sue her. His handwriting was messy, and she had some minor difficulties reading it, but she did manage to decipher it after a brief moment of staring at the page.

I need to talk to you in private. Once everyone’s gone to bed here, I’ll pick you up from Candy’s. I’ll text you if anything goes wrong.

In private? Mabel’s heart might very well have stopped. She’d never been alone with Dipper. This afternoon had been the closest she’d ever come to it. Even then, though, they hadn’t been actually, truly, genuinely, legitimately alone. Their parents had been right there. And then they’d been interrupted. Their parents were always there.

She was so nervous, so focused on the way her heart was pounding in her ears, that she completely forgot to put the marshmallows away.

—————

If Mabel could see how nervous Dipper was as he pulled on his jeans and shoes, she wouldn’t have believed it was in any way related to her. If it was somehow proven to her that it was related to her, however, she would have been thrilled beyond all measure.

But Mabel couldn’t see Dipper, as he was on the other end of a text message that read leaving now, and so she remained wholly unaware of the absolute terror he wasn’t bothering to keep from his facial expression, as there was none of the usual audience present.

With no one around to request an explanation, Dipper felt no need to keep his anxiety in check as he placed his shaking foot on the last stair of the Shack.

He was about to walk over to the coat rack by the front door when-

“Dipper,” rang out his father’s voice, the low tone sounding like a roar in the quiet of the house.

Dipper whirled around to face his dad, who was seated in an armchair hidden in the shadows of the living room. It was no wonder Dipper hadn’t noticed him before he spoke; he could’ve been a shadow himself.

Dipper was relieved it was too dark for Mr. Pines to see his expression clearly, the man’s face obscured by darkness. He instead concerned himself with his body language and voice. He hunched himself over as if he were barely awake and faked a yawn.

“Dad, you scared me.”

“What are you doing up this late?” Mr. Pines asked.

“Getting a glass of water. Woke up thirsty,” Dipper explained, careful to keep his voice tired-sounding.

“Mmm,” Mr. Pines nodded. “Kitchen’s that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction Dipper had been walking in, as if Dipper didn’t live there and was not fully aware of the Shack’s layout (note: Dipper was indeed fully aware of the Shack’s layout and could certainly navigate it half asleep).

“Huh?” Dipper said with false bleariness. “Oh, right.”

Shuffling into the kitchen, Dipper poured himself a glass of water and moved sluggishly back to the living room with it in hand.

“Goodnight, son.”

“Night, dad,” Dipper mumbled with more fake sleepiness.

If Mabel had seen it, she wouldn’t know what to feel. But she hadn’t seen it, because Dipper was on the other end of a dad’s awake, we’ll have to tomorrow text.

She also couldn’t see the expression he made when she replied, asking why he couldn’t just text it to her, and not to keep her in suspense, nor could Dipper see her inflamed face (and neck and ears, if we’re honest, but don’t share such observances with Mabel) or the way she was biting her lip nervously, perhaps he might not have been as nervous. Perhaps he might have even been hopeful.

But alas, neither twin had the other in their sight, and were therefore doomed to be eaten alive by their anxiety and respective insecurities.

If one knows anything about teenage girls (and perhaps even a fair percentage of women as well), one is fully cognizant of the rather unfortunate tendency many of them have to analyze, reanalyze, and overanalyze each individual word, action, and tone of voice that emerges from the object of their affection.

In Mabel’s case, she was seated on the cold tiles of Candy’s bathroom, back leaning against the locked door. It was late enough that Grenda and Candy were asleep, thankfully. Recently, Mabel had been taking forever to fall asleep. Which was strange, because she had never had any issues that could be anywhere near insomnia before. Thus, everyone else fell asleep before she did.

It wasn’t her fault. Honestly, it wasn’t! It was just that Dipper was so damn attractive and sweet and funny, and how could she sleep when she could only fight her thoughts of him while conscious? He plagued her dreams, so she couldn’t even escape him in sleep the way she used to be able to do. He had invaded her every thought, every moment, every breath. He was in her bloodstream. In her veins. She could not escape her yearning for him.

And so, as she sat on the bathroom floor staring at her phone, at Dipper’s last text of I need to tell you in person, she typed out a slow, resigned okay and leaned her head back against the door.

What was going on with him? He’d told her so many things over text before and it had never been an issue. Why was this different? Maybe he was only insisting on telling her in person because they were so close distance-wise, which wasn’t a regular occurance, of course, but maybe he’d have been perfectly fine with telling her whatever it was over text if she hadn’t been visiting Gravity Falls? Or maybe he’d want to FaceTime or Skype instead? Or maybe it was so very important he tell her in person that he’d actually been waiting since the last time they had seen each other?

But what could be so important? How was it so important he needed to tell her in person? Was it truly so different than every other thing he’d ever told her? Countless stories and anecdotes and complaints and late-night phone calls and existential discussions; how was this different?

No matter how much she thought and analyzed it (which, rest assured, was a great deal indeed), she kept coming back to one thing, one unthinkable, horrifying, terrifying, heart-wrenching, devastating scenario:

What if he’d found his soulmate?

What else would have been so important, made it so essential he told her in person? The more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

Dipper had never mentioned how he felt about the prospect of having a soulmate. He knew how she felt about hers, and having a soulmark, but he’d never shared his own feelings with her in return.

Which was fair, honestly, because soulmates and soulmarks were intensely personal things. She might as well have asked him to strip down and do some nude modeling for her (which, side note, that sounded positively heavenly. She never drew him or painted him where anybody could see; only in the secret sketchbook she kept in a locked drawer in her bedroom, and those drawings were primarily focused on his jawline and facial structure, although she had drawn his butt on more than a few occasions. And his arms. And his torso. What could she say? She looked at him a lot, studied the way he moved, and he inspired her to create. In any case, she’d absolutely love to see him naked, obviously, because who wouldn’t, but to draw him… get it together Mabel, you’re getting all worked up!), which… was not going to happen, tragically.

He’d never shared anything regarding his soulmate with her. That meant, of course, that he hadn’t found his yet, nor was he in the unusual soulmarked-but-not-knowing-with-whom situation that Mabel herself was in. As indicated by his insistence on telling her in person (which he had, of course, never insisted upon before, or even expressed a passing desire to tell her something in person rather than digitally), whatever it was must have been more important than anything he’d ever told her.

What was more important than him finding his soulmate? She couldn’t think of another possibility. Couldn’t even fathom it, no matter how hard she tried. Unfortunately, she couldn’t really fathom the possibility that he might’ve found his soulmate, either, but that was primarily because she didn’t want to.

What would that be like, to watch him with his soulmate? Knowing Mabel’s luck, she’d never find out who hers was (she’d clearly been around him her whole life and had yet to find him, so what were the odds she’d figure it out later? Once she left school, she’d probably start experiencing withdrawal symptoms, which would be horrible, but she had long since accepted the likelihood of that), and since she saw Dipper regularly and talked to him all the time, it wasn’t likely she’d get over him.

Family gatherings could be a real bitch.

Which meant, of course, that Mabel was doomed to suffer withdrawal symptoms for the rest of her life while watching the man she loved, who just so happened to be her twin brother, find his soulmate, fall in love, get married, and have children. It was when she considered things like that that the idea of regularly consuming Smile Dip sounded fan-freaking-tastic. At least then she’d be too out of it to suffer.

Mabel wasn’t one for wallowing in self-pity and misery. She was a fairly positive person. Whenever she found herself moping or depressed, she could usually pull herself out of it. In that respect, she was tremendously lucky, as not everyone was capable of that.

But with this, loving Dipper (or rather, being in love with Dipper, which she very much was)... there was this sadness deep inside of her that she just couldn’t seem to shake. She could tuck it away in the back of her mind, pretend it wasn’t there. At least for awhile, anyway. But it never left. Not really. It was always there, in the box she’d locked it away in. Sometimes, though, the box broke open, and it would consume her, like shadows consuming light.

When she thought of Dipper with his soulmate, smiling at a nameless, faceless stranger, beaming at his wedding (knowing Dipper, he’d insist she be a bridesmaid. What agony that would be), holding a child that wasn’t Mabel’s, could never, ever be Mabel’s (Mabel would probably be the godmother, too), the shadows never failed to consume her.

She pulled her legs to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees, and let the tears fall.

[thou-crusty-batch-of-nature]

Say you won’t let go

pairing: sirius x reader

request: hey sweetie! congrats on 100, you deserve them all and more 💞 Can i request a sirius x reader with prompts 4&5 from the “goofy” list? thank you

requested by @angelinathebook

4. "I drank far too little alcohol too listen to this."

5. "I hope you know that my name isn't actually darling."

A/N: I LOVED WRITING THIS SO MUCH!! thank you for requesting! I also kinda fell in love with Sirius… oopsie! let me know what you think

thank you my dear friend @slytherinquill for helping me out❤️❤️

party | prompt list

"No Lily, you don't understand! He is a bloody git!" you tried to explain to your best friend, who wasn't convinced at all. "How dare he think he is entitled to have any girl he wants?" 

"Well, he is quite charming!" Lily cut in. 

"Oh shut up - you have James! Besides, he is highly overrated!" you started. "Good thing girls can't leave reviews on boys, otherwise all of his would sound like '⅕ Would not recommend. Experienced severe heart aches.'" 

"Here we go…" Lily sighed. 

"He is a womaniser, Lily! I thought you were a feminist, where is your spirit? Those poor girls, getting their hearts crushed one by one..." you went on as you sat down with your friend at the enormous tables from the Great Hall. 

Thing was, you knew better than anyone else how that type of heartbreak felt like, after all, you were one of those girls. You have been irremediably in love with him since you can remember, however, you've always been too shy to admit it. When girls started taking an interest in him in fourth year, your friendship slowly drifted apart. And that broke your heart more than you could imagine. 

It did hurt at first. You felt that sudden drop of your stomach, the kind of panic you face when you know something bad is going to happen. You know, when you're riding a bike and it wobbles? When you think you'll fall - that's the feeling. 

Then it was the pain; that searing, excruciating pain that travelled through your whole body. That stayed longer than you expected. Now, in your seventh year, you felt ready to move on; you had to. Still, your breath hitched every time you saw a new girl standing next to him - it was the constant reminder that you were never going to be good enough. 

So you turned the page. The heartbreak became hatred - well, as much hatred as possible, for you still had a soft spot for a certain marauder. But of course, no one knew that. 

"Good day to thou, fair damsels! Lily, thou dost takest my breath away! Y/N, how met!" shouted James, who was entering the hall. He kissed Lily's hand then sat down opposite us. "How do you feel about a small gathering tonight in the common room?" he asked nonchalantly. 

"Are you serio-kidding me James? A party?" asked Lily. "The NEWTS are next week, why not just wait a bit?" 

"Lily's right, I'm really behind with my studies. Think I'll pass this one." 

"Now, now, darling, you wouldn't want to be the party pooper! Live a little!" Sirius joined, taking the seat next to you. 

"I 'live' every week! Also, I hope you know that my name isn't actually 'Darling'." you retorted. 

"Of course I know that, darling! It's just that you are as much of a darling as I am Sirius!" You sent a death glare to Lily who was snickering, unfazed by the situation. 

"I'll see if I can make it." you said instead of a goodbye, then left. You could swear you saw Sirius' face fall.

xxx

"Are you sure you want to study all night?" Marlene yelled from the bathroom.

"Yeeeees. It's the second time you ask me in 10 minutes! I'm not going to change my mind!"

"And are you sure you don't want any of us to stay with you?" asked Lily while touching up her make-up. She looked stunning in a short emerald silk dress which brought out her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm certain. Now you girls go make some girlfriends jealous!" you joked. "You look fabulous!"

Two hours later you finally gave up. You couldn't possibly study for two reasons: one, the music was blasting way too loudly and two: your mind kept wandering to other places - for example, what your friends were doing. Or should you say whom?

You decided to head for a quiet place to revise your last chapters for Transfiguration. You slipped out of the common room without anyone noticing, and soon found yourself in one of your favourite places, the quad. You didn't even have the time to make yourself comfortable, when you heard a voice. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I could ask you the same question." you retorted. 

"Why weren't you at the party?" 

"Why do you care? Did you get bored of the flirting and decided to try your luck on me? Or did you just remember that I exist?" 

"I drank far too little alcohol to listen to this."  Sirius smiled grimly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Why do you hate me so much? We used to be friends. What happened to us?"

"Well, for starters, you put your precious bimbos above our friendship. And you started breaking every one's heart, including-" you took a sharp breath. That was close. 

"Including what? Tell me!" he whispered softly, stepping closer. 

"Including mine." You grabbed your things and left. You hadn't realised you were crying. 

xxx

Two weeks passed as a breeze, along with your only distraction: the NEWTS. You used to study with Lily, James and Remus every night in the library, and it was the only thing that kept your mind from wandering to that particular night. 

He tried to talk to you, but you shrugged him off every time. You knew you'd cave in if you let him speak. You knew that since that night, the spark you thought was extinguished has been threatening to become a fire. 

You were a liar. And you kept lying to yourself, until all those feelings came tumbling down even stronger than before. Still, your mind tried to reason with your soul. If only you could stop your heart from beating faster every time you saw him! 

"So, are you guys coming to the party tonight?" you heard Remus ask. You had no idea how the house elves managed to prepare such a delicious pumpkin pie! You also didn't know the question was intended for you until you lifted your gaze and saw everyone staring at you. 

"I guess, yes. Why not?" you quickly answered. 

xxx

You were starting to regret your decision. You were sitting on a couch between two couples who were sucking their faces, holding a far too diluted drink in your hand, watching how everyone but you was having fun. Lily was off with James in a broom closet somewhere, Remus was talking to a Slytherin he was paired with in Potions and Peter was dancing his worries away on the dancefloor. You had to give him props, Peter was the best dancer you've ever met. 

You did your best to ignore the burning stare you felt at the back of your head. You knew who it was, how could you not? Those piercing gray eyes have haunted your dreams, you've tried countless times to forget them. You wondered why he wasn't with a girl: by that time, he would have already been in his dorm, doing gods know what. If you were to think about it, quite some time passed since you last saw him with one. 

He stepped in front of you. "Y/N, can we talk?" he asked. "In private?" 

"Yeah, alright," You didn't know if that was the alcohol speaking or you were just too tired of beating around the bush. You stood up, sensing the wariness in his voice. "Are you alright?" He looked lost and… shy? Sirius Black was shy? 

"Yes, yes-I will be." You walked in silence to the Astronomy Tower.

"Y/N - I - I will get straight to the point. I have never in my life met anyone like you. I like you - screw that - I love you. So there’s that. I think I'd miss you even if we'd never met. I love you without knowing how, why, or even from where." he jabbered, nervously running his hands through his hair."And I know you may hate me, but I just wanted you to know that while I still have the courage to tell you."

 "Sirius - I don't know what to say." You stopped for a few moments, trying to find the best response. "We only ruin ourselves and love the wrong people. You broke my heart so many times." A tear slid down your cheek, and you pushed away Sirius' hand as he tried to wipe it. "The more girls I've seen you with, the more it hurt me. And I tried to deny my feelings, to hide them." You slowly raised your voice "How can I know that I'm not one of them? That I won't get my heart broken after two days?"

"Let me tell you something. This, right now, at this moment, is all that matters to me. I love you. And I have loved you for a while" he cupped your cheeks in his hands, and this time you let him. "I know I was a fool, and I fucked up. But I've never been more sure of anything in my life: I love you."

You took a big breath, trying to calm yourself. "I love you too. Truth is, I've never felt like this before." you revealed. "But love doesn't make things nice, it ruins everything. In the end, it will always break our hearts."

"We aren't here to make things perfect. We are not numbers. And we will never have what James and Lily have! It's just not us!" Sirius admitted."But I would do anything for you, Y/N. And I hate myself for ever hurting you more than you can imagine." 

You hugged him and you felt his arms draw patterns on the small of your back. All you wanted to do was to live in that moment forever. 

"Can I kiss you now?" 

You smiled through your tears. "You are such a dork!" 

You melted in a kiss more wonderful than the sun that began to rise. 

Taglist: @futurewriter2000​ @puppycat714​ @booksbeforebois​

[brooklyn-1918]

The Stars in Your Eyes:

Characters/ Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader established relationship.

Warnings: Mild language, mentions/implied smut (18+), other than that, its mindless fluff.

Summary: After a mission to Las Vegas, Nevada, you and Steve decide to take the long way back to New York. Or in other words, Steve decides to drag you on a road trip.

A/N: Hi! So this is for @sunflowerxbarnes​ ‘s meme writing challenge! I had the prompt of “Okay, fine. But I’m gonna complain about it the whole time,” highlighted in bold. I had a lot of fun with this, and I hope you enjoy!

Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, mid July: 

You and Steve stumbled into your hotel room, the sounds of the casino wafting through the still open window. Sweat dripped down your back from the heat, and you sat yourself down on the bed. With a smile, Steve came over and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Well, this was a kinda shitty way to spend your birthday. Sorry, hun,” you say, smiling at him softly. Steve shrugs and pulls the tie from his neck off. Dropping it into your shared suitcase, he sits next to you. 

“At least we took him down,” He notes, referring to the mob boss that was now on his way to prison. He let his head fall to his shoulder, watching you like you hung all the stars in the sky. You chuckle, and place your hand over his face to playfully shove him away. 

Laughing, he catches your wrist and places a kiss on your palm. Still holding on, he flips over onto his back, pulling you with him. 

Yelping in surprise, you quickly right yourself, stopping to straddle his lap, and placing your hands on his shoulders. 

“I win!”

“You couldn’t hold me down if you tried.”

His hands move to envelop your hips, and you shrug. To prove his point, he surges up again, quickly getting to his feet. You wrap your legs around his waist, and press a kiss to his lips. 

“Alright, put me down. We’re going to miss our plane.” Taking a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, you panic just a little. Just over an hour left until your midnight flight. 

He does as asked, and when you turn around to start packing your things, his hands reach your shoulders, then digging his thumbs into your tight muscles, he begins to give you a shoulder rub. 

“Oh, good god, Steve,” You moan, tilting your head back. 

“Too bad you’re not on the bed doin’ that,” He whispers in your ear. Your eyes shoot open, and without looking at him, you lean back, pressing your ass into his groin. Letting out a hiss, he lets your shoulders go in favour of gripping your hips again. 

“Too bad we don’t have time for that.”

Giving yourself a little wiggle, you break free and begin packing again. Shaking his head, he moves to help you pack. 

“You are an evil woman.” “I know.”

__________

You are in the rental car and driving down the boulevard fifteen minutes later. Hands clasped together over the center console, you watched the buildings fade by, millions of lights making the glass walls glow. 

“It’s a shame we come all the way to Las Vegas and we don’t even get to play the slot machines. I mean, isn’t that what Vegas is all about?” You ask, turning to look at Steve. He laughs, and glances back. 

“There are other things to do here. Cirque du soleil was fun.” “Yeah, it would have been a lot better if we weren't chasing evil henchmen number three through the backstage area,” You mutter to yourself. You can see him smiling out of the corner of your eye, and you give his hand a squeeze. 

Falling silent again, Steve turns onto the highway, and flies right past the exit marked for the airport. 

“Ah, babe? You missed the turn off,” You point out. Watching it recede in the rear view mirror, then finally disappear, he doesn't seem too concerned. With a shrug, he looked back to you briefly.

“I know. We aren't going to the airport though,” he spoke calmly. “Well then where are we going?”

“Home. Just… The slightly longer way.” “You mean we’re driving home?” You ask, taking your eyes off the road to trace over his features. He grinned, squeezing your hand. 

“I talked to Tony before we left. He agreed that we could take a break and drive back to New York.” 

“Oh.”

“Do you trust me?” He smiled cheekily at you. Raising your eyebrows toward him, jaw slack, you stared in disbelief. His face dropped, eyes widened. Bringing his hand up to your lips, you kissed his knuckles and offered a warm smile to ease the worry that was blooming over him. 

“Steve, my love light of my life, that is the second dumbest question that you have ever asked me,” You explain. Dropping his hand in favor of scratching the back of his neck, you lean over to kiss his cheek. 

“Of course I trust you.”

He let out a startled laugh, taking his eyes off the road for a moment, he pressed a kiss to your lips, soft and fast. His brow furrows as he watches the passing white and yellow lines fly under the car again.

“What do you mean, the second dumbest question? What did I ask?”

“You once asked me if I loved you. Now that was the dumbest question you asked,” You poke at him. He laughs again, this time less frightened, lighter. 

“I love you too.”

__________

You startled awake two hours later. The car was off, and standing in your open door, Steve’s hand was on your thigh, his blue eyes were barely discernible in the dark. 

“Where--” You let out a yawn. “Where are we?” 

Steve shrugged, unbuckling your seatbelt for you. He tucked his arms around your back and under your legs, and lifted you from your seat. 

“Steve, what are we doing?” 

“We’re going to look at the stars,” He said smoothly. You frown, tucking your head against his chest as he carried you. “Why?” You questioned, burrowing your head down further into his warmth, trying to combat the cool desert air. His chest vibrated as he chuckled quietly. 

“Because it will be fun.”

You let out a sigh, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. But I’m gonna complain the whole time.” He laughs again, louder this time, echoing out into the otherwise silent landscape. You feel his lips press to the top of your head as he stops walking. 

Bending down, he softly deposits you onto a blanket. He covers you with another soft sheet, and tucks a pillow under your head that you suspected he may have nicked from the hotel where you had just come from. 

You snuggle down, then over as he lowers himself next to you. You forego the pillow, and use his shoulder as a headrest instead. 

“You aren't complaining,” He whispers. Taking a brief moment to think of something, you shrug. 

“My hands are cold?” 

Steve slips your hands into his much larger, much warmer ones, encasing them tightly. He questions to see if it was alright, and you hum your response back sleepily. 

“Any more complaints?”

“Nope.” “Good, then help me find a shooting star.”

Training your eyes to the sky, it nearly rips a gasp from your throat. Hundreds of thousands of stars spatter across the sky. The whole universe, laid out before you, with no one else around. 

It was unlike anything you would ever be able to see in New York. 

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says next to you. You hum again to agree with him, and turn to face him. 

When you do, however, you find him staring straight at you. A smile dawns his face, pulling the corners of his eyes into creases. 

The stars reflect in his eyes, and you find yourself swimming in the deep blue ocean flecked with dapples of light. 

“Absolutely gorgeous,” He reiterates, moving one of his hands to brush the hair from your face. 

You press a kiss to his lips, closing your eyes as you both connect. 

Settling back down, you train your eyes to the stars, and utter one last sentence, before you drift off to sleep again. 

“I have no more complaints.”

Permanent Tags:

@wildefire​

Story Tags:

@sunflowerxbarnes​