#and that’s not even mentioning Dark Syrup who now knows his entire life to be a lie

[quibbs126]

I want to talk about/draw angst to do with the All Ancients Disappear AU, specifically with the Dark Cacao family (other characters have angst, but they’re the ones I’m fixated on), but I can’t because I don’t have designs for them yet

I’ve at least solidified stuff for Dark Choco’s kid in this AU. He has a son named Dark Syrup Cookie, who’s made of both chocolate and strawberry syrup. He’s 8-10 years old and he listens to and trusts his father (even though he shouldn’t). He does not yet know that his reason for existence is to be a vessel for the sword (but he will eventually)

[chubbyreaderchan]

I get the joy of rediscovering you | Bo Sinclair x Reader

Word count: 2500~

TW: hints at an abusive past for the reader and Bo, reader has neglectful parents, but it was the 80s, underaged drinking, and smoking, vaguely mentions their first time (teens), fat shaming, oh and murder, Bo isn't angry fanon Bo... at least not entirely, female rader

Bo’s evening started with a text message from Lester.

‘I got a broken-down car. You want me to bring her?’

‘Yep’

He put on his finest suit and slicked back his dark hair. He looked in the mirror and he was the model church boy. Innocent as all get out. Bo grinned at himself. He knew he was a looker and Lester tipping him off to a young lady got his blood pumping.

There was a stillness in the church, the eyes on the dead preacher always seemed to stare into his soul. He was used to it; this was a typical Wednesday evening. The heavy wooden doors to the church opened and he put on a faux angry face.

Bo froze. He wanted to attack the woman there, but he couldn't scold her, but now he blended in with the wax figures that surrounded him. He held so still.

He knew her.

Bo had to change tactics. He didn’t know if he could kill her.

He steps outside the church to find her walking off quickly, her plump body has hardly changed in the last 16 years.

"Y/N?!” he called out to her.

She turned around and the shock on her face followed by realization stirred something up in Bo.

But, in order to preserve her memory, he needed to kill her.

If she had changed from who she was all those years ago, it might just ruin him.

Her smile still had the power to make his knees jelly. Her smile which was once a bright light in his dark soul was tainted with life and age.

She didn’t deserve that.

She never did.

The first day she met him, she was so sweet to him it made his teeth hurt. It was the first year after his parents died and the first time he lived in a foster home.

Hell, it was the first time he had been to a city, let alone lived in one. He missed his brothers.

Not that he would admit it, pop would’ve called him a wimp if he'd have said something like that.

He stabbed at the sugar syrup-coated peaches on his plastic lunch tray, alone at the end of an empty table.

“Watch where you’re walking, fat bitch," a voice said.

He turned to look, seeing Y/N being berated by some blonde cheerleader type. Bo rolled his eyes at the back of the teen’s head. He wasn’t a fan of bullies. Years of sticking up for his kid brothers built a strange sense of chivalry in him in that way.

That and the pleading look you gave him stirred something in him. In a few words, you were his type on a purely physical level. Your fat rolls and the overall softness of your look was exactly what he liked. Perhaps it stemmed from his mother, avoiding all and anyone who even brought her to mind, or perhaps it was simply what he liked.

Bo and Y/N made eye contact for a moment. He grabbed his one single folder and pencil, providing her a place of refuge in the sea of ignorant teenagers.

As she sat across from him, she smiled despite how he would have handled that bitch.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m Y/n”

Bo picked up his paper carton of chocolate milk and took a swig.

“Bo,” he replied.

He had no idea how much that would impact the course of that year.

Hell, Bo never thought he was one that deserved love. He never dated anyone after her, sure he would leave town and hook up with any dumb bitch he could find.

Even on rare occasions, if the right tourist came along, he would use them before killing them.

“Bo? Bo Sinclair?” she asked him. “I am so sorry for interrupting your service,”

She already knew his parents were dead.

“Don’t worry about it,” He smiled.

Bo realized how genuine and natural his smile was for her. He kicked himself internally.

“Just some old biddy,” he waved it off.

That was disrespectful. It was his mother’s body in there after all.

But she didn’t need to know that yet.

“But still, you cared about her enough to make it to her funeral. She had to have meant something to you, Bo,” she paused. “Then again you might’ve changed since high school,”

Y/N's look of endearment towards him was heartbreaking, but his composure was firm. His eyes scanned her body carefully. She had some bruises on her arms and something feral in him wanted to shout and demand where they came from. It was very clearly a handprint. Overall, he was still attracted to her.

She tugged her sleeves down.

Like she had forgotten something significant, she looked at him with big doe eyes. Her arms wrapped around him suddenly. The wax Bo made his presence known, but only for a moment. He hugged her back like he was created to hold her against him.

She was his first everything.

Sitting in her bedroom, their relationship had blossomed but he didn’t want to corrupt her… He was madly in love with her but he couldn’t. He snuck out of the foster home and in through her window, wine coolers, and cigarettes in hand. He smoked and drank as he rolled the dice on his turn of Monopoly which he had zero interest in.

Although she sipped from a cooler herself, she appeared unsure. The bright red drink stained her tongue, and he craved it.

Fuck it.

He remembered leaning over the board, knocking paper money all over her floor, and grabbing her mouth with his. It was a mess of teeth and tongues, but she didn’t pull away from him. She was drawn into Bo as if she also craved him.

That night was their first... everything.

They were animals together if he remembers correctly.

No one ever compared to the passion they had for each other.

Bo chalked it up to being a teenager and having nostalgia for one of the only happy memories he ever had in his life.

He gently pushed her away from him. He couldn’t fall for her again. Could he? No, he couldn’t do that. Not to her, this life would tarnish her though he had a sinking feeling someone had already tarnished her. Bo could tell by how she held herself, wrapping her arms around her middle.

"Is your car in the shop?" he asked.

Bo walked beside her. Though the town was empty he kept her on the inside of the sidewalk.

“Yeah… now, Bo I know you’ll laugh but not too hard,” she smiled at him.

“Oh yeah?”

He pulled a cigarette box from his pocket, tapping it against the surface of his palm.

"Why's that?” he lit a cigarette, offering one to her but she turned it down.

“It’s ol’ Betsy still,”

“You’re joking, that same old car we used to take to that park and--,” he smiled.

Y/N slapped his arm gently, clearly embarrassed by the memory.

“Shut up, yes, it is the same one,”

The keys rattled in his hands, unlocking his gas station. He opened the door for her and couldn’t help but watch her ass as she crossed his threshold into the demon’s nest. He raged on in his head about killing her.

He prowled around the car, watching her like a cat hunting his prey, then finally he lifted the hood of the old beater. Bo’s face contorted into a frown. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed in the death trap she called Betsy.

“Damn,” he hissed.

“Is it a problem?"

“Baby girl, you need to buy a lottery ticket,” Bo said.

The nickname that slipped from his lips was something he called her a lot. It felt right calling her that name.

“Why?”

“The son of a bitch might explode on you,” he responded. “When was the last time you had an oil change on this thing?”

“Honestly, I don’t drive it that much. I mean I don’t drive much anymore at all. The old man doesn’t like it,” she joked. “But I left a tad hastily,"

Bo bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to curse.

“Come on, lemme write out the bill and get some tools together,”

Bo had to change the subject before he jumped into his own truck on a mobile murder spree. His callused fingers began to write down exactly what needed to be done. It wasn't made-up bullshit either; he had noticed all the problems she would have with a car that was older than dirt.

“Here, sit and read it. I gotta get some shit,”

He placed a metal stool next to the glass display case.

“Okay, Bo,”

She sat and leaned against it. He pretended to grab things, rattled tools, and dropped them into a toolbox. Finally, he grabbed a heavy wrench and began to creep up behind her lifting his arm above her head in hope of giving her a clean blow.

“You know, Bo,”

He stopped.

“Seeing you today brought back so much and made me realize...- Now don’t laugh but,”

“I never got over you, Beauregard Sinclair. I think I might still be in love with you,” she finished.

Bo fell silent once again. It had been years since someone had made him this flustered. He dropped his arm down, his heart beating like the engine of an old motorbike. The tool in his hand clattered to the ground, causing her to turn in surprise.

He was so close to her that their bodies touched.

She leaned up and gently pecked a kiss on his slightly stubbled cheek. Bo tried to fight it but it happened all over again. His large hands grasped her face and he kissed her. A long but much more experienced kiss than their first. His tongue explored her mouth and his body screamed with excitement and arousal when she held onto him for dear life. The fire was still there. However, rather than the small candle he thought he had snuffed out, it was now a raging forest fire burning them both to the ground.

“I know how you feel," he said, pulling away.

“Hey, sorry. Could either of you show me how to get back onto the freeway?" A man stood at the entrance of the gas station now. He moved to act as a barrier between Y/n and the stranger. Bo grabbed his phone from his pocket. No new messages from Lester or Vincent for that matter.

A warning was sent to both of them regarding the matter.

Bo wasn’t about to kill her. No, in fact, no one was planning to kill her, but this new tourist would make a fine addition to Vincent’s collection.

“Sorry, had to warn my brother that my girl is coming to dinner,” His fake smile plastered to his face. “I’m sorry, where are you trying to go?"

The man pulled out a comically large map with red crosses and blue circles littering the page.

“Freeway,” he replied. “Though, I probably won’t leave until morning now. I can’t drive so well at night,”

Bo smiled again.

“I’ll be right back, baby. Come with me for a sec. You’re better at finding stuff than I am." He led her to the other room. He was planning to kill the man right then, but he wasn’t willing to show her this life yet.

The wrench would be too obvious now. She’d put two and two together.

“I’ll be right back, doll. I gotta make sure I know what I’m talking about,” he lied.

Bo hated lying to her. He’ll tell her someday but now is not the time. He climbed down the stairs to his torcher's chamber. He glanced at the images of the women he had tied in that room over the years. Part of him wondered what she’d look like in the chair but then he imagined her in his bed. He shook his head. Dark locks moved slightly from their jelled place and a slight curl began to come forward.

He grabbed a small knife and a map. Bo wrapped the map around the knife hiding it from any eyes. He walked back to find that Y/n was gone. Panic filled his chest but he was instantly relieved to see her chatting with the man. At that moment, his hand was on hers, and he resisted stabbing him in the head.

“You staying the night at my place?” Bo asked.

“I’d love that,” both Y/N and the man said.

Bo and Y/N give the man a strange look and glance at each other. The innocent shrug of the shoulders made Bo want to pull her into another kiss.

She was adorable, not that he’d ever admit that.

The man was in the bed of Bo’s truck. There was no way in hell, Y/N was allowed to be on the back of that truck. His arm was draped over the back of her shoulders. It was as if they hadn’t been apart for years. Hell, he wished he had gotten her when he turned 18 and run away with her years ago.

But she was here now. Willingly.

The truck stopped.

“Is this your childhood home?" she asked.

“The one,” he said with a slight bitterness.

Y/n decided not to push it further. He’d talk when he was ready… or drunk. It was either one or the other for him.

Bo got out of the truck and walked to the other side to help her out of the cabin. The man stepped off the bed and Bo could feel his eyes on his girl. Eyeing her the same way Bo did with his own prey.

He led them into his house, leaving them in the living area of the home. Bo planned to sleep on the couch, and he’d put Y/N in his bed. It was what was right by her.

It was odd caring for someone other than his brothers, but he was always the caregiver. After getting out of the foster care system he was the one to bring them back together and before that, he was the one that fed them, bathed them, taught them right from wrong, and protected them when they did do something wrong in the eyes of his parents. Though if Vincent could do wrong in his mother’s eyes, he wasn’t so sure. His thoughts clouded his mind when he heard Y/N's muffled shout.

The pillows and blankets fell to the ground in a fluffy mass. Bo raced down the steps. The tourist had his girl trapped on the couch. Bo pushed him off, hitting him in the face. The knife made its way from his pocket and rested in his fist; it pierced into the lung of the man.

He gasped.

The man collapsed to the floor and Bo kicked him. The punches and kicks flew, blood splattered and all Y/N could do was watch.

It wasn’t long before the man lay motionless on the wood floor of his living room.

Bo stood tall. A bit of pride boiled in his chest, and he remembered she was still there.

“Baby,” he called.

She was splattered with blood.

“Your hands,” she said.

Bo looked down at the cuts. She took them so gently, leading him past the body and into his own kitchen. She sat him down at the tiny kitchen table and Bo was enthralled as she rinsed a rag to clean his cuts. He could just taste domestic bliss.

She dabs his hands gently.

Bo grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms firmly around her.

“You can’t leave,” he commanded.

“I don’t want to,” she admitted.

She brushed a bit of hair off his face and he sighed in contentment.

Y/N leaned down and pressed a bruising kiss to his lips.

[mhysa-leesi]

му вℓσσ∂у ναℓєηтιηє

{Gif Source} {Gif Source 2}

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers 𝒳 (femme) Reader 🩸.

Summary: "Steve Rogers is madly in love with you and he'll do anything for you to see that--no matter who gets in his way."

Word Count: 4,765 (Sorry, this is a long one!)

TW‼: Non-Con, Smut, Stalking, Yandere Themes, Murder (Description of Side-Character Death), Blood, Description of Gore, and Strong Language. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption–you and only you are. Also, I used one of the prompts from (@the-modern-typewriter) to describe a character's death, ALL CREDIT GOES TO THEM. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

AN Cont.: If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION.

The first love letter was delivered on a gloomy Friday afternoon. The clouds above the city were dark and full of frigid torrents of rainfall. Gold and scarlet autumn leaves whispered against the chilly winds as acorns scattered about; rolling and cracking underfoot as you made your everyday walk to work. You had chosen to stray from your usual route that day, deciding on a new corner coffee shop instead of your normal stop.

You remembered that day clearly, as if it had happened just yesterday. The new coffee shop was a small, hole in the wall with plastic vines of ivy and fairylights rimming the framework of the inside. You ordered rich and dark coffees, with creamy oat milk for you and your coworkers, and an apple pecan oatmeal cookie for yourself.

Your workday was seemingly the same as any other. Pam was gossiping with Susan, and Scott was hiding from Mark, your manager, in the breakroom. You remember you were seated at your cubicle when things turned, staring at the rain against the window, and tapping your pen against your notepad, when you were startled by the mail carrier. He handed you a single, pink envelope with a heart stamp on its flap and left with a mumbled “you’re welcome”. You frowned as there was no return address or other name besides yours. You had opened it anyway.

You remembered how your frown had deepened as your stomach dropped. The paper trembled in your hands as you stared at the small heart sketched at the bottom. You frantically looked around the office for any sign of a joke, hoping to see one of your coworkers giggling at your shocked reaction. But everyone had their noses deep into their screens, typing away at their work. You turned the letter over, looking for a name or a clue as to who had sent it. But it was blank.

And you remembered how you had crumpled up the letter and tossed it as you refocused and finished the rest of that workday.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed before you got another mysterious love letter delivered to your desk, a small bouquet of roses and baby’s-breath with it. And again, you crumpled it up and threw it away; leaving the flowers in the breakroom. You had made a mental note that day to talk to the mailman about the delivery of these letters.

For a time they stopped and you thought you were out of the woods or thought your secret admirer had lost interest at the very least. But you were wrong. Your third envelope had been waiting for you in your mailbox when you had gotten home from work one Monday evening. You didn’t bother opening it as you sent it straight to the garbage.

You were growing paranoid and antsy as you constantly looked over your shoulder. You’d freeze every time you came across an envelope, even if it was just your monthly rent notice or bank statement. You had refused to live like this, in a constant state of anxiety and fear, so, that’s how you found yourself moving into a new apartment across town.

You were met with months of peace, you were finally readjusting to life before the letters. You had even moved in with someone you had been seeing from your new job, Chris. He was perfect, someone straight from a romance novel; tall, dark, and handsome, with a taste for adventure and romance. You were happy with him--you were in love and had long since decided that if Chris were to ask you to marry him, you’d say yes in a heartbeat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was your anniversary with Chris, and the two of you had an entire evening planned. Dinner at your favorite restaurant, a surprise showing of your favorite movie at the corner cinema, and then home, where you’d give him his gift. A red lacy lingerie set with fuzzy handcuffs, and a silk blindfold to match.

Your heart skipped and your stomach alighted with butterflies as you touched up your makeup in the bathroom mirror. The evening had been absolutely perfect and it was about to get even better. You stepped out into the bedroom, dressed in nothing but red lace and a bathrobe. A spritz of perfume here and a mint there, and you were ready to go surprise your man.

You walked out into the living room and seductively leaned against the wall, watching as he poured two glasses of red wine. He turned and froze, swallowing hard as he abandoned the drinks on the kitchen counter. You smirked as he pulled you to him by your hips, instantly locking his lips to yours. He looked down at you through his eyelashes, his deep brown eyes darkened with lust, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to your lips once more.

Your eyes closed and moaned as he peppered kisses along the curve of your neck, tilting your head back to give him better access. His hands roamed your body hotly, squeezing and caressing your dips and curves. Chris entangled his hands in your hair as he moved you to the counter, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing. He pushed your robe down your shoulders to reveal the red lace hidden underneath, and with a groan, he bent to trace the rosette lacework that covered your breasts with his tongue. You hummed and wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands running down his back to toy with the bottom hem.

Chris gently pushed you down to an angle as he kissed down your body, stopping just below your navel to wink up at you. You bit back a laugh as you wiggled your hips impatiently as you leaned back on your hands. With your fingers splayed against the wooden countertop, your touch met something smooth and waxy--like the waxy seal of an envelope. You reached behind you and grabbed a pink envelope, with a wax stamp of a heart on its flap. Your heart seemed to stop as you stared at the envelope in your hands.

You vaguely felt Chris’s lips on your inner thighs, kissing and nipping at your skin. When he heard no reaction from you, he looked up, his brows furrowed and eyes full of questions.

“What’s that?” he asked, “You wrote me a love letter, too?” he winked as he reached for it.

You jerked it away from his grasp, your heart hammering in your chest as you ripped open the flap; ripping the waxy heart in half.

P.S. You should really lock your windows, doll. You jumped off the counter and ran to the windows, each one was locked--except for one. You locked it and double-checked its strength, fighting against the lock as you tried to open it.

“Babe? (Y/N),” Chris said sternly, snapping you out of your trance.

You looked at him now. You didn’t know what to say, you couldn’t think of how to form the words. You wanted to say everything was fine and okay, but it wasn’t--it was far from it. Whoever had been writing and sending you these knew where you lived now, and that scared you. After months of trying so hard to move on from this, you felt as if you were right back at square one again.

The rest of the night was unclear to you. You moved like a zombie, your brain on autopilot as you crawled into bed to hide under the covers until the morning sun rose. Chris asked questions, of course. But you had no answers for him. You had no idea who had been writing them and had absolutely no clue how they had found you again.

Chris had suggested going to the police, but what could they do? No one had physically harassed you, and although creepy, the letters weren’t threatening. And not to mention, you had thrown away most of your evidence. You were at a loss. Chris was supportive, always there to comfort you during the night when you were restless, but that never kept you from feeling alone.

Your paranoia increased tenfold by the end of that week. You changed your daily routine every few days, hoping that’d throw your stalker off your trail, but it never did. They always seemed ten steps ahead of you, whereas you struggled to even think to keep up with them. Your breaking point was reached on Sunday evening as you met with one of your old friends from high school for breakfast-dinner--an old tradition you two had decided to revive for the night.

Things were going good, and you even dared to forget about your own issues as you cut into your syrup-soaked pancakes. Madison was telling you about her newest fling and how good he was in the sack, and you genuinely found yourself happy to listen to the vulgar details. After painting you a vivid picture of her sex life, Madison excused herself to the restroom; leaving you alone with your pancakes and empty cup of iced coffee.

You saw a head of electric blue hair and you perked up. Your waitress came with a smile and handed you a paper cup of steaming coffee and a single napkin.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” you said with a polite smile.

“A gentleman ordered this for you,” she winked before walking away.

You frowned as you looked at the writing on the napkin. Refusing to even acknowledge the cup of coffee in front of you.

Your mouth went dry as you stared at the familiar handwriting. Brown dress, he knew what you were wearing--he was here. You shot to your feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, as you looked around frantically, ignoring all of the judgemental looks and hushed whispers you were getting.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” asked Madison, her brows knitted in concern.

“Yeah,” you lied, “I just… I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you later, Mads.”

You dug through your wallet and gave a twenty to your waitress on your way out, only stopping to yell over your shoulder for her to keep the change. You practically ran home from the restaurant as your anxiety started to settle in your bones, making you heavy with unease. You called Chris, but were only met with his voicemail. The elevator ride up to your floor was tortuous as you watched the floor numbers slowly light up one by one until finally, they stopped at your floor. You panted as you slammed the door shut behind you, sliding the lock and chain in place as you dropped your head to rest against the wooden frame.

You sniffled as the words from his letter were seared into your eyelids. You just wanted him to leave you alone, you didn’t know what you did to catch his eye, and worst of all, you didn’t know how to make it stop. You choked on your hiccupped breaths as tears streaked down your cheeks. When you finally calmed down you switched on the lights and finally turned around…

You stared at Chris in horror. Blood drenched the entire living room, his corpse sat limp in a chair like a broken, bloody doll. His throat and wrists had been slashed. You tried to hold your hand over the open wounds as you screamed for help, but no matter the pressure you applied, the blood still gushed and seeped through your fingers, oozing down your arm, and dripping from your elbow. The gore of it all brought waves of nausea that went beyond physical retching, the sickness you felt was indescribable. But the smell, the smell was something much worse. Metallic, iron, copper… Your ears started to ring. You couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe. You could only stare at the bloodstain on your hands and scream.

You left that following weekend, abandoning the big city to move back in with your parents and younger sister. You spent most of your days locked in your room, hiding from the world under the comfort of your blanket and drawn curtains. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. You’d look at yourself in the mirror and cry as you no longer recognized yourself as the woman you once were. You knew it was time to move on, but you couldn’t, not when you’d see Chris’s bloodied body every time you’d close your eyes.

You started small by taking baby steps toward your recovery. It started with family meals, then a cashier job at your local supermarket, shopping trips with your mother and sister. Then you eventually graduated to therapy, where you’d stare at a forest green ceiling as you reclined on the chaise longue. Therapy helped and it was admittedly one of the better moments of your monotonous days, you felt heard, seen, as you walked through your own thoughts and nightmares. Your appointments even inspired you to reach out to Chris’s parents for closure, to go with them to visit their son’s grave. It was bittersweet, leaving behind a bouquet of roses for the man you had loved so deeply instead of a kiss goodbye; but it was something you knew you’d have to come to terms with. It wasn’t your fault, that was the mantra you’d tell yourself when you’d catch glimpses of his blood on your hands.

Before you knew it a year had passed since the incident, and in that year, you had not received one letter. You had made a resolution for the first time that New Year’s Eve as you waited for the midnight ball to drop. You told yourself you’d forget, to start fresh, and become an even better version of yourself. You were a flower that was fighting against all odds to blossom.

You cut your hair, got bangs and highlights. Saved up for a brand new, off-the-lot car. And moved into a cozy apartment with your sister. Things were looking up for you and you truly believed that you had finally found your way out of the woods. But life had a habit of playing cruel tricks on those who were naive enough to believe such a thing.

It was mid-February, just a few days before Valentine’s Day, when things started to go to shit. You had just come back from the gym with your sister when you saw it. A pink envelope with no return address or any other name besides yours, with a wax seal in the shape of a heart on the back flap, sat on your pillow. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as you held it in your hands. You debated on throwing it away, on pretending you never received it. But you wanted to know what more this twisted bastard could have to say. You ripped it open and read.

You didn’t hesitate as you ripped the letter to shreds, throwing the pieces into the garbage with an angry grunt. Delusional piece of deranged shit, you thought. You raked through your brain for the millionth time since your first letter, trying to figure out who the fuck could possibly be the sender, but you came to the same conclusion you had been coming to for years--nothing. It was agonizing, not knowing who your torturer was. It was your shadow, how could you not know who was living in it? But, no matter how hard you thought, you kept drawing blank after blank.

Your sister comforted you with a glass of wine and dumplings from the takeout place up the street. She was going out tonight, but offered to stay home with you instead.

“No,” you shooed, “I’ll be fine, I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?” she frowned, “It’s no big deal, Girls Night is every Friday night, I can always go next week.”

“I’m fine. Go and have fun for the both of us,” you said as you waved her away.

She left a few minutes later, dressed in heels and a short skirt. You ate the rest of the dumplings and finished the bottle of wine before calling it a night. You undressed down to your underwear and threw on an oversized t-shirt and plopped down onto the bed with an unceremonious bounce. The wine coursing through your system made it easier than usual to fall asleep, and the next thing you knew, you were in a deep sleep, dreaming of a life with Chris--of a life without the letters. It was one of those good dreams you wished you’d never wake from.

Which was why you were so annoyed when a loud noise startled you awake. You looked at your phone and the time read “1:00 AM”, you frowned, it was too early for your sister to be back already. You padded along the hallway, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you called out for her, worried she might’ve passed out drunk on the floor or something. You stopped as you reached the front room--the very empty front room. Your heart started to pound as you stood frozen, staring at the empty room before you. A shuffling from behind caught your attention, then. And against your better instincts, you turned around slowly to see a shadowed silhouette of a man standing at the end of the hallway.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, just staring dumbstruck at the man. With every step he took toward you, you took one back. Inching closer and closer to the front door with every backward step.

“Doll, don’t,” he warned, his voice striking you with fear like a bolt of lightning.

Without a second thought, you ran toward the door, fumbling stupidly with the locks in your panicked state of mind. The man was on you in a flash, easily dragging you away from your pathetic attempt at escape. His arms slithered around you like snakes, their hold constricting as he locked an arm firmly around your neck, silencing your screams as you struggled to breathe. You slapped and clawed at his forearm as he pulled you back to your bedroom.

“Please be a good girl for me, (Y/N). I don’t want to hurt you, baby,” he said against your hair.

With his arm still wrapped around your neck, he threw you down onto the bed, quickly straddling you before you could scramble to your feet. He pinned your arms above your head with one hand and forced you to look at him with the other. His face was illuminated by the moonlight. The silver shine highlighting his familiar eyes through the holes of his helmet. You froze as he pulled off his blue cowl.

You were beyond confused, to say the least. You stared up at Captain America, your brain working overtime to try and put the puzzle pieces together. What was Captain America doing in your apartment? And why had he called you “baby”? What the fuck was going on? Were you lucid dreaming? You must’ve looked as confused as you felt because he smiled down at you, gently promising you answers to the questions that you hadn’t yet asked.

“You’re even more beautiful up-close, doll,” he said as he brushed away hairs that fell in your face from your struggle.

Your eyes widened. Doll. The nickname sent chills down your spine as the word flashed against the pink color of the envelopes, against the red of spilled blood.

“You…”

He ran a finger down your cheek and nodded, “Me.”

You paled under him, your bottom lip trembling as you shook your head in disbelief. He frowned and hushed you, caressing your cheek and wiping away the tears that fell.

“Shh… Don’t cry, baby,” he cooed, “I’ll take good care of you, you don’t need to cry.”

“W–Why?” you hiccupped through your sobs, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you, (Y/N),” your stomach dropped as he answered you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shook your head, “No. No! You’re Captain America. You’re supposed to be a hero!”

You fought against his grip, flailing and kicking wildly as you tried in vain to get away from him. You trashed against him, kicking against his thighs with all of your strength, but it was nothing to him--nothing but an annoying inconvenience.

“Stop,” he said, his jaw ticking with simmering anger.

But you refused to stop. You whined and fought against him.

“Stop,” he repeated, his anger coming to a rolling boil.

You shot up and headbutted him. He reeled back and glowered down at you, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared.

“I said stop,” he shouted as he finally stilled you with a sharp slap.

The sound was as sharp as the feel of it. You sobbed as the pain stung your skin, the right side of your face becoming numb from the harsh impact of it.

“Why are you doing this, Steve?” you asked again.

“Because I love you,” he answered again, “I know you love me, too, (Y/N).”

“No,” you exclaimed, “I don’t love you! I don’t love you! I don’t love you!” you sobbed.

“You will,” Something seemed to change within his eyes. No longer were there hints of green in his blue eyes, but something much darker… Something more sinister. You swallowed as you shrunk under his intense glare.

You exclaimed as he forced his lips against yours. Squeezing your jaw until he could slip his tongue into your mouth. You pushed against him, beating on his shoulders as he shoved his tongue further down your throat. He pulled away, breathless and flushed, a ghost of a content smile on his face. You gasped and tried to wiggle away once more, rolling onto your stomach as you did so. A yelp escapes you as you feel him grab your hips, pulling you back under him.

Steve puts his weight on you, trapping you underneath him as he begins to undress you. You try to roll onto your back, but his knee keeps you in place. You fight to keep your shirt on, knowing you wore nothing but your panties underneath it. But you were fighting blind. You kicked up, the heels of your feet hitting the backs of Steve’s strong thighs. He manhandles you easily as he rolls you onto your back, finally ridding you of your cotton shield.

Your hands went to your chest before he could. He pried your arms away, baring your breasts to him with a jerked jiggle. He licked his lips as he cupped and squeezed your breast. You flinched as if his touch had burned you, and in some sense, it had. Your eyes widened in shame as Steve blew on your nipples, the skin hardening into pointed peaks. He brings his lips to them, circling them with his tongue. Sucking, licking, pinching. You press your lips together to keep you from whimpering, and you close your eyes in hopes you can will him away. But your feeble defense attempts don’t last long.

Your eyes snap open as you feel his lips leave your breasts to trail kisses down to your navel, stopping at the band of your underwear.

“Please…” you beg. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling as fresh tears begin to form at the corners of your eyes.

Steve smiles against your skin, “I’m going to make you mine, (Y/N). ‘M gonna make you feel so good, doll.”

You stifle a sob as you feel him slide your panties off past your ankles, his fingers scorching your skin as they explore back up between your thighs. Instinctively, you try to close your legs around his hands. But he doesn’t stop. Steve digs his fingers into the soft skin of your inner thighs as he forcefully spreads you wide. Your pussy on full display to him. You stiffen under his gaze, your face burning with shame as he stares in awe at your spread folds. He runs a finger from your clit to your entrance, dipping knuckle-deep into your channel. Your thighs flex as your body tenses at the intrusion. He adds another and languidly pumps them in and out, curling and scissoring them. You fight against the blossoming heat within your belly. Your shame grows as you hear the squelch of your wetness around his pumping fingers.

Steve presses a firm thumb to your clit and you cry out before you can stop yourself. He pumps his fingers into you harder, faster, as he pulls more moans and cries from your lips. You sob as you feel that coil deep within your belly begin to unravel with every stroke and pump. You fight against your own body as you keep yourself from teetering over the edge of pleasure, refusing to let yourself submit to him. But Steve had other plans for you. Suddenly, before you could register his movements, you felt his tongue against your most intimate area. You mewled and curled your toes as he fucked you with his tongue, his thumb never stopping their firm and fast circles against your clit. You sobbed as your body convulsed with white-hot pleasure, and before you could stop yourself, you came on his tongue with a loud, dragged out moan.

You sniffled as you cried, but whether it was from the intensity of your orgasm or your shame and fear, you didn’t know. The lines were starting to blur for you.

Steve gently kissed around your folds before crawling up over you. He held your face and forced your lips to his once more before he began to undress, leaving the taste of yourself on your tongue as he pulled away with a wet smack. He unclothed himself, then. Stripping himself of his spangled-stars and red and white stripes. He looked down at you with dark, lust-filled eyes, and a breathless quirk of his lips.

You were limp as he folded you to his needs. Bringing your bent and spread knees to your chest as he took himself in his hands. His length stood tall and proud, the tip swollen and leaking down this thick shaft with anticipation. Your legs flinched as they tried to close on their own. You choked on a sob as he wrenched them apart. Your heart hammered in your chest as you watched him tap your pussy with his cock, running the tip up and down your folds as he wet himself with your soaking arousal until finally, he pressed himself into your entrance. You let out a strained whine as he slammed into you.

Steve’s eyes were shut and mouth slightly agape as he hisses at your tightness. His hips thrust in excitement as you clench around him. You whimper again as he slides out, just to slam himself back in. Your body jolts with every lust-driven thrust. He slides his hands under you and brings them to hold onto your shoulders, bringing you down to meet his every forceful thrust. The sound of skin slapping and lewd moans fill your bedroom, your sweat sheen bodies glowing under the moonlight. Steve speeds up, mercilessly hammering that hidden sweet spot that makes you scream and clench around his cock. You spasm and shake as Steve forces another orgasm from you.

“Tell me you love me,” he pants.

You shake your head, pushing on his shoulders as the realization of your situation comes crashing back into you.

His hand wraps around your throat as he pounds into you harder than before, “Say it, (Y/N).”

You scratch at his hand as your vision begins to dot and blacken, “I–I love you…”

“Louder,” he demands, “‘I love you, Steve’, say it, doll, I wanna hear you say it.” he moans.

“I love you, Steve,” you choke out.

He releases his grip on you then, and you cough and gasp for air. His rhythm becomes erratic as his hips drive into you with renewed vigor, “Again.”

“I love you, Steve,” you moan.

His body jerks as his hips stutter to a stop. Steve comes with your name on his lips, and you whined as you felt his warmth flood inside of you. He panted above you, his hips languidly thrusting as his abdomen clenched with his drawn out release. He pulled out of you and collected the spunk that leaked from your weeping cunt on his fingers. He brought them to your lips and forced you to suck them clean.

“I love you, too, doll. Forever and ever,”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*тαgℓιѕт*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧: @hoosier-daddi

[angeli-marco-writes]

Harry Holland - Polaroids

A/N & WC - I do not know Harry or the other people mentioned in this fic, nor do I claim to; this is a work of fiction. 3.9k.

Warnings - Swearing, mention of food, smut: depictions of oral (m+f rec), penetrative sex, use of toys, bondage & bdsm, photos being taken in the act, mild exhibitionism and definite voyeurism (not Harry or reader) 18+.

Summary - You and Harry have an exciting intimate life to say the least, and he rather enjoys taking photos of the two of you in compromising positions. However, in his sex-addled mind, one vital fact is let slip when he allows Sam into his room unsupervised.

“BUD, WHERE ARE THOSE PHOTOS you took of my food the other day?” Sam asks.

The sizzling of pancakes overlaps the conversation, and you mussing up Harry’s hair distracts him, his attention drawn to more important matters than his brother. Harry barely swallows his giant mouthful of food before speaking.

“By my bed there’s a huge pile, they’ll be somewhere,” he answers flippantly.

Flippantly.

Usually so cautious and so organised Harry lets one thing slip his mind for five seconds, and his life is going to fall through the cracks. His reputation will be utterly destroyed. Just with his brother, but it still stands. Sam is… more innocent than Harry has ever been. And Sam will also tell the others, and likely their friends…

“Remembered something, baby?” you muse sardonically from beside him, your hand halting its movements as you cup his jaw, turning him to face you.

The second his green eyes meet yours, you watch the world crumble in his eyes. You’ve never seen him scramble up from his seat so quickly. His bare feet slap on the tiled floor violently, thudding sounds echoing through the house as he blunders around, swinging around the banister with the force and elegance of an elephant.

“Sam! FUCK— Wait!”

“Don’t look in that pile of photos,” you add in a feeble shout.

It’s not like what Sam’ll find there is any secret. You’ve been together a long time, you and Harry, and everyone knows full well that you’re shagging, but that doesn’t mean you necessarily want them to know exactly what happens in the bedroom, in your most intimate, secret moments together. That’s sacred, even if it seems like sacrilege to so many.

No matter how quickly you hear Harry legging it upstairs, his lean legs carrying him up the stairs perhaps three at a time, his curly hair even more unruly than before from the exertion, you know he won’t be fast enough, and that Sam is an insolent bastard when he wants to be. You’ve lived with them all long enough and have had more than your fair share of near misses: no chance will you not be found out, this time you’ll be caught. Better than the alternative and the other times, you suppose, as you cram one more syrup-drizzled and strawberry-covered pancake into your gob, reluctantly trudging your way upstairs to the hive of fun.

It’s chaos by the time you get there. Dozens of artfully-taken photos spilled out onto your duvet, Harry’s freckled face paler than you’ve ever seen it, his hands tugging at his pyjama shirt convulsively while Sam stands on the other side of the room, his dark eyes wide, his expression agog, his jaw unhinged, staring blankly and pointing at whatever the most incriminating thing is he sees next. You just hope he doesn’t go ferreting through your drawers, because then you’ll really be in trouble.

“What… the fuck.”

You come up to Harry’s side, and wrap an arm around his slim waist, lending a weak, “Surprise?”

It’s their fault if they haven’t guessed, frankly.

You can’t draw your eyes away from the pictures, so many of them, all displaying different aspects of your sex life at varying degrees of explicitness. You can even recount the minutes and hours of pleasure that led to the photos, each occasion etched into your mind. Sure, you and Harry go at it a lot, but you don’t always go the extra mile, hence why these commemorative photos of your special nights are so treasured. And private. Or, were.

The first one… oh boy, that takes you back to the most far-out, extreme experiment you tried—the most recent, as well: just this past weekend. You’re still covered in rope burn from it, though that could’ve been prevented if you hadn’t writhed or wriggled about so much while in those bonds. The amount of attempts it took, the sheer number of YouTube tutorials you had to watch, but it was definitely worth it. The intricate patterns the ropes formed all across your body, creating braids down your back, suspending you prone with little movement in your arms or legs. It was heaven to have Harry tugging on the ropes, contorting you into new and wonderful positions for his own delightful access to all of you. Perhaps it’s not something you’ll gravitate towards again, but it was fun while it lasted, and it’s another thing to tick off your list of fun, kinky bedroom experiments to try. To be fair, even though the swathes of soft, rose-coloured rope, intricately woven around you were a lot, you certainly wouldn’t be averse to trying something else with rope. Less shibari, perhaps just normal levels of bondage. You can feel the skin on your arms prickling with heat: Harry feels it too, winding his fingers into yours, holding on tight as he struggles to suppress a smirk.

The next set is interesting, and rather common. Harry’s freckled, ring-less hand is unmistakable in the dappled light as it grapples with the handle of a leather whip, or a paddle, even his belt, bringing them down harshly onto your ass cheeks, already reddened with hand prints, purple from bruises. In one of them, your skin is even glistening with his release, and another, your hands are suspended behind your back. Harry’s always been one for spanking, and the rest of them know it. Even before you were sleeping together he’d playfully smacked your bum, and he certainly hasn’t stopped even with the sexual connotations it now conveys between the two of you. As though he can read your mind, he snakes a hand down and pats you on the bum; his wink telling you it’s just for good measure. Cheeky shit.

One in the dead centre brings shivers throughout your body. Not because it wasn’t fun or pleasurable, but because of the way it made you feel afterwards. Yes, you’d talked through it in thorough details—as with everything the two of you do—how it made you feel going in, throughout, and you’d got a safe word sorted, but perhaps you hadn’t discussed all the long term risks of it. The pretty pink collar, the satin blindfold… The whole subservient thing is a big turn on for Harry, and you played into it, you always do and you naturally fall into a position of less power in your relationship because of the way you are, but being degraded in such a way isn’t for you. You can’t help but feel a sting of shame ricochet through your heart. Harry must feel it this considering how reactive he is: he leaps towards the bed and snatches it up, shredding it before your eyes, chucking it into the bin, and curling another protective arm around you.

“Look,” you whisper to Harry, turning his attention elsewhere as you point to the bottom few: your favourite photos of all.

Despite the disarray, they’re all together, and they remind you of an incredible night. Your anniversary, and what a special day it was. Butterflies swarm you at the sight of them again, but it feels strange for someone else to be looking at them. Not that you or Harry are exactly in a fit state to be proactive about preventative measures now Sam’s seen them all. His eyes bulge from his face, his mouth going dry as he swallows viciously, suddenly having to shift his already apparently tight shorts. Again.

“You’re so sexy in those, baby,” purrs Harry.

He’s damn right, you do look incredibly sexy. And though the first one in the chronological series is you mostly covered, you can remember how hard his dick was at the sight alone, salivating, clenching his fists to stop from ripping the lingerie from you piece by piece. You wanted to put on a show for him that day: who was he to deny you?

On top of your bra, panties and stockings was a nightgown, and above that, a dressing gown. Each image shows you in a further state of undress. It was a deep burgundy lace set of negligée with soft satin straps that pushed your boobs together, lifting them up, the lace hooked together with a single eyelet on your spine, whereas the panties, though half covering your cheeks with dustings of lace, hid nothing while they sat high on your hips, revealing your entire upper thigh where a matching satin garter sat with tiny lace bows. The entire thing cost a fortune. You forked out a damn arm and a leg for what you got, even with a discount included with a certain toy you bought.

First went the dressing gown, letting it fall from your shoulders, allowing it to pool around your feet as you showed off the skimpiness of the silk slip in a series of flourishing twirls, much to Harry’s delight. Next went the slip, and you honestly wish you’d taken a picture of his face utterly agog—as you stood there in stockings held up by garters, barely there panties and a push up bra. There’s one shot of his rough fingertips playing with the trim of the stockings delightedly, like a kid in a candy shop. Next went the feeble scrap of fabric that you dared to call a bra, barely covering your nipples, allowing your breasts free, spilling into Harry’s awaiting hand. You remember the next part vividly, because he was just about to peel the panties off when you laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve got a surprise for you, babe.” you cooed.

His twinkling eyes grew as wide as saucers, and you dared to card your fingers through his curls as you settled yourself over his lap, letting him keep his camera in one hand while leading the other down, down, a little further…

He’s never since made a sound quite like it, so visceral and animalistic, so ready to devour you, to come on sight. He’s never been as hard as he was in that instance.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he moaned, a deep groan released from him the second his fingers slipped through your folds to find dripping arousal all ready for him. “Just—wait a minute…”

You followed his every instruction for the next few moments, finding yourself standing up in a good lighting position, Harry strategically beneath you as he snapped a particularly incriminating (yet oh so sexy shot) of your bare pussy in crotchless panties. Harry’s never recovered. He’s already openly admitted that he uses those particular photos more than any others to get himself off whenever you’re away from him. However, the creases and folded corners of one particular photo can’t be blamed on him, since that’s the one you use when you're away, two of his fingers plunged knuckle-deep inside you in those exact panties, from that exact angle, desperately trying to replicate the irreplaceably pleasurable feeling of him within you. He took a good few more than had to be thrown away. Spillages are awfully unfortunate… He fucked you that night with the panties, stockings and garters still on. Twice. Then without the panties, then without the stockings, then nude at last at some ungodly hour of the morning when he took you at last as the sun rose. You didn’t sleep a wink.

There are more of you with lingerie on, nightgowns and matching sets, scraps of silk and strange one pieces that took you hours to get on, but they’re bound to make a sort of book, stowed away neatly (mercifully) beneath his bed.

Sam still hasn’t moved from his state of paralysed shock, and though you should probably clear the photos up from where they’re dumped, you feel a filthy swelling pride within your chest, a glean of risk as you watch Sam rove his eyes over some more, these all involving toys. If only he knew where you hid them. One his eyes focus on is you with a thick purple rubber dildo deep inside you, a rabbit vibrator stuck to your clit. Your body is but a blur, writhing around for Harry, your hands cuffed before you and not released no matter how much you moved. Harry wouldn’t let you stop coming for what felt like hours: it was the first time you squirted for him as a cry tore from your heaving chest, drenching the bed with your fifth orgasm of the night. Harry vowed he’d be the only one to make you squirt after that, no toys involved, and he’s stayed true to his word.

There’s a few more, and Sam seems to be furrowing his thick brows at the sight of the Polaroids. Glass wands, spreader bars, clit suctions (that admittedly look like they’d be used in a spa for a facial). Poor boy is being corrupted...

Good God, you need to get those toys out again.

With his twin's attention diverted, you snake your hand down the front of Baz’s shorts, wrapping your fingers around his already hard member through his boxers: he seems to be enjoying this as much as you are.

You point out one of your favourite pictures, a debauched mess that shouldn’t be viewed by anyone else, frankly. Harry was reluctant about hurting you or pushing you too far, but you begged to be gagged. You meant just by a tie, maybe his bandana—which features in many images in many different manners: as a bind for your hands, tying you to the bed, keeping your ankles together, even wrapped lightly around your neck, but never as a gag—but he went all out. When you got home, he was waiting in his room with a leather-bound ball gag.

“You begged, baby,” he said, and you couldn’t refute. You had begged, but this was above and beyond. You complied with his every wish that night, and though you’d do it again in a heartbeat, Harry wasn’t a fan of not being able to shove his fingers or cock down your throat at any given moment. He liked hearing your whines and moans and hushed curses, prayers of his name. He also liked hearing your bratty, belligerent rebuttals when he took on a dominant role. You enjoyed it more than a little, but only now can you see how much of a mess you were, messy hair and tears spouting from your eyes, drool down your chin...

Given the chance of the slightest spark of stimulation, you’ll be coming on the spot.

There’s a scattered pile of the two of you in just about every position under the sun, every shape in the karma sutra, fucking both inside and out, al fresco sex beneath the big oak in the garden, anyhow, anywhere and everywhere you could fuck safely and privately, you would, and you didn’t even realise Harry had snapped some of these shots after consenting to him taking them at any time. Your eyes squeezed shut as you peaked, Baz’s palm kneading your chest, your skirt hiked up around your stomach while your jaw was agape, your pussy exposed and glistening slick in the mirror, penetrated by Harry’s cock. That was a good day, mirror sex, and definitely something you’ll try again. This time with your own mirror... There are a few snapshots of oral, perfect Polaroids of Harry’s nose nuzzled into your pussy, his tongue deep in your core, his lips on your labia, all of them for your sake whenever he goes away.

“Gonna recreate that one tonight,” Harry husks, pointing towards one image in particular of you sucking him off.

His huge member down your throat, you’d trained yourself to breathe solely through your nose, but the neatly trimmed patch of hair there tickled your nostrils. Harry’s talent for photography reveals your doe eyes were red rimmed, saliva trickling from the corner of your mouth matching the mascara tracks down your cheeks. You’ve never looked so fucked out, and Harry couldn’t believe you remained in that innocent façade, rosy cheeks and a coy expression even with his dick rammed down your throat, making you gag.

However, the one you’d like to recreate is one he picks up on, surreptitiously moving a hand to your chest, his fingers hovering over your peaked nipple.

“Reckon we can go again the second Sam fucks off?”

“Yes,” he eagerly exhales.

You don’t blame him, especially not when both twins are staring at the same image of your tits, pushed together with Harry’s dick between them, fucking your chest despite the fact his come already painted your chest in hot white strips, a beautiful painting you’d always wish to frame. He certainly has an obsession with your boobs so there are a couple like that, his hands all over them, the tip of his member tapping them, but the debauched one is by far your favourite. Similarly, there’s one of you tied to the bed, completely spread eagle, his dick resting on your stomach while your belly is coated in his come once again.

It seems, however, that’s what snagged Sam’s attention and has his face a ghastly shade of grey because it's so pale, is the one photo Harry never wanted anyone to see. You leap and snatch it up in one fell swoop, and Harry draws you into a bear hug within his arms, kissing your temple affectionately in thanks as you stow it away for safekeeping. Though Harry naturally carries the more dominant title in your relationship, you always like to shake things up, hence why this photo (and a series of others he already has hidden) depict Harry as your submissive. You walked around as the picture perfect dominatrix in stilettos, carrying a whip while Harry lay there with his hands bound, a blindfold on in some photos (you took them so they’re not as great, but he still looks damn sexy) with a vibrating cock ring wrapped snugly around his girth. He’s never come so hard or so much after you finally removed it and cuffed his hands to the bedpost and began to ride him. You can still feel the warmth of him climaxing within you if you close your eyes and clench your thighs.

“I promise I’ll touch you later,” boy do you hope he sticks to that promise he whispers while nibbling on your earlobe, “but Sam’s coming out of his daze in 3... 2... 1...”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” he remarks breathily, hazel eyes wide as he pivots, met with two incredulous stares. Tom’s cry wakes Sam up right on cue.

“Harry! What the fuck?!” Sam demands, his voice a bellow, horror and disgust and... something unattainable just emanates from him. “Why do you have three porn mags worth of your girlfriend down here? That’s fucked, mate.”

“No it’s not. We just like to have photographic reminders of all our... sexcapades.”

Sam is, unsurprisingly, retching, now finally turning his head away from the pile without even bothering to pick up.

“This was cool until you called them sexcapades,” Tom chimes, smacking Harry upside the head as he swaggers over to the bed, fishing a few photos up before tossing them back down.

Sam's horrified attitude doesn’t seem to be spreading thankfully, but you and Harry are understandably rooted to the spot, stuck to the carpet, just biding your time until this is over. Then again, you can’t really tell, since no one is saying anything. You nor Harry want to be the ones to break the silence, though, and you can tell with the furtive and expressive stares you’re sharing that his anxiety is increasing the more people are seeing this.

Momentarily, you think someone may remark about your silent communication, your fixed glances and speechless conversation, but instead, Harrison comes up to you both, a sly smirk etched onto his pretty model face as he clasps a hand around one shoulder of yours and one of Harry’s.

“Harry Holland, you kinky fucker,” he praises.

You definitely feel a swell of pride at that. And the fact that Tom is trying desperately hard not to look at you while also trying to hide how flustered he is, somehow still abhorred by the sight. Harrison’s intrigue is palpable, gnawing on his lower lip as his lithe fingers trace you on the polaroid's, whereas Sam? He can’t decide whether to cry or scream. Harry huddles in closer and cuddles you, ensuring you feel every part of him, just how much he wants this lot to leave to finally have you at his mercy once more.

“So you two are shagging,” Tom observes.

You and Harry nod between kisses.

“Dangerously.”

You nod again, though this time a little reluctantly.

You expect Harry to nestle down with you again, but instead he detaches himself, unravelling his arms, and shoulders past Tom and Haz. He gives Sam a death glare as he piles up all the Polaroids and shoves them deep in a drawer for him to organise later, away from prying eyes and judgemental comments.

“Really, though?” Sam bursts out, flailing his arms before grasping Harry’s collar. “I thought you’d just handcuff her and give her a smack at most, very vanilla.”

As much as he tries to fight it, Harry’s face flushes bright red, leaving no visible distinction between his forehead and hairline. “I think those photos, erm, tell a different story.”

He rocks on the balls of his feet, tugging himself out of his brother's grasp, only to fall into another, saved by Harrison’s scowl at Tom.

“Can you lot bloody get out? Please? I’d like some alone time with my girlfriend after that sodding invasion.”

“If you’re having alone time, we’re leaving the house for a while,” Tom jokes, “how long?”

You smirk, striding over to meet Harry, eyes fixed on him as you press onto your tiptoes, wrapping your fingers around his shoulder before kissing his earlobe. He wilts into your touch.

“Two hours should be enough time. Scram.”

They do, gladly, and you slam the door shut as their scurrying footsteps down the stairs recede. Harry’s grip increases around your waist, a growl escaping him as he pushes you onto the bed. You gasp when your back hits the mattress, his lips instantly attacking your jaw.

“Which of those polaroid's do you wanna recreate first, baby?”

—

It’s hours later, and you're all around for your weekly dinner at the Holland house. You and Harry, having some ‘business’ to attend to before leaving the house, are the last to arrive, and Paddy, poor unfortunate Paddy, has the delightful job of letting you into the house.

“Sam asked me to give you this,” he says barely before you’ve entered the porch.

Harry’s face pales as he unravels the small piece of paper bundled into his hand by his younger brother, but you could swear all blood drains from him the second the words sink in.

‘You took them, you lost them, you collect them. What would mum and dad say, Harold?’

“Harry, what’s happening?”

“That utter wanker stole the polaroids as revenge for scarring him. He’s hidden them around the house. We have to find them before mum and dad go looking. You in for the ride?”

“Only if Haz can join us tonight,” you tease, and after calling a hello to Harry’s parents, you follow him around the house, detaching all the pinned photos.

Harry's learnt a solid lesson today: hide his damn Polaroids better from now on, away from the prying eyes of his bloody brothers. But, he thinks with a smirk, by no means will the two of you stop taking them.

[silkiemae]

The Never King by Nikki St. Crowe

The Never King by Nikki St. Crowe My rating: 1 of 5 stars Holy god, this book was an absolute mess. Many aspects of this remind me of the third season of OUAT. Anyone who has seen it will be familiar with what I mean. Before I get into the story, let's talk about the writing. It's... very subpar. I'm sorry, but it is. There are many spelling errors, fragments, over-usage of single sentence paragraphs and unbelievably poorly written dialogue. I find it hard to believe this was edited at all. Something I want to point out before I discuss the plot. I understand this is a dark romance novel featuring a reverse harem. Yes, I read all the trigger warnings and whatnot. That being said. Choosing Peter Pan to center around your reverse harem erotica is strange. I think it's weird when anyone ages up a character who is traditionally a child JUST to write them having sex. The whole point of Peter Pan is that he's unwilling to grow up. Yet here, the author was like, okay but imagine Peter Pan but an adult, tatted, and he smokes cigarettes. And in doing so, it completely erased the character of Peter Pan. How did he grow up? She's changed his entire back story but has given us none of the details. What's the purpose of Neverland now? And there's also the case of our MC, Winnie. It is repeatedly mentioned that she has 'just turned 18'. Over and over again, we are told about how Peter takes the Darlings on their 18th birthday and that they are broken. The emphasis on the age is disturbing because it honestly reminds me of all of those ' FRESH adults JUST TURNED 18' pornos. The main character, Winnie Darling, has no personality aside from enjoying sex. All we know about her appearance is that she has brown hair and green eyes and she's malnourished. The only women in her life are prostitutes. One of which groomed her to use her body to get what she wanted from boys from a young age. She resents her mother for being crazy and a prostitute but then uses that as a defense for why she has unhealthy sex all the time. So the gist of the plot is this. Every woman in the Darling family gets taken by Peter Pan when they turn 18, and then he and his Lost Boys 'break them'. This means they get their mind broken into by a faerie who then drives them insane. It's purposely left as a mystery as to how she will get broken throughout the book, and it's a little odd mixed with Peter's 'no touching/fucking the Darling's'. It makes it seem like that's what was the cause of them being broken, yet later, Winnie fucks everyone with no consequence. So what was the point of this rule? First of all, why do only women get taken? Are men unable to retain their ancestor's memories? Secondly, if the Darlings are well aware of this 'curse' or whatever on their future daughters, why would they continue having children? Wouldn't you want to avoid that fate? The way sex is portrayed in this book is incredibly unrealistic and laughable. The Lost Boys are so sex-crazed that they pop boners at Winnie moaning because food tastes good. She eats a pancake, licks some syrup off her lip, and now Bash has a boner. There's even a part where Winnie is being taught to gut a fish, and she gets aroused by the mention of the dead fish's ANAL CAVITY??? I just...what?! The character of Vane(The Dark One) makes little sense to me. He is supposedly the worst one, the meanest one, etc. Yet he's the one who ends up saving Winnie in the end? It doesn't fall in line with his character at all. He spits in her mouth and constantly degrades her; at least, in my eyes, it didn't read as a consensual thing. Idk man; why is he suddenly bothered at the thought of Winnie losing her mind? Why does he care about her but not any of the other Darlings they did this to? The Lost Boys narrative bounces all over the place. They constantly talk about loving to break women and seeing them cry, bleed, beg, etc. But then, at the same time, they're constantly worrying over Winnie and how thin she is (this is honestly mentioned a ridiculous amount and this book is only 200 pages), hoping Vane isn't too mean to her, and worrying about her getting broken even though they constantly talk about how much they love to break women.... like what?! Idk, this book gave me major ick vibes. View all my reviews

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii! Here’s part two of my Katniss and Peeta Taking Of Each Other bookcomb! It’s pretty long so … sorry 😬. There was a lot I didn’t include and a lot I wasn’t sure about including, because so much of Catching Fire and Mockingjay is about them wanting to protect the other but I tried to narrow it down to actual acts that were caring, or times they at least tried to care for the other.

-

Then, as if I can’t stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips — he still isn’t entirely in command of his artificial leg — and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and that’s where we have our first kiss in months. It’s full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know I’m not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he won’t expose me in front of the cameras. Won’t condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. He’s still looking out for me. Just as he did in the arena. Somehow the thought makes me want to cry. Instead I pull him to his feet, tuck my glove through the crook of his arm, and merrily pull him on our way.

-

“We’re going!” says Peeta, shoving the Peacekeeper who’s pressing on me. “We get it, all right? Come on, Katniss.” His arm encircles me and guides me back into the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers follow a pace or two behind us.

-

Effie starts giving me pills to sleep, but they don’t work. Not well enough. I drift off only to be roused by nightmares that have increased in number and intensity. Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other’s arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment.

-

“He was poaching. What business is it of hers, anyway?” says the man.

“He’s her cousin.” Peeta’s got my other arm now, but gently. “And she’s my fiancée. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us.”

-

When my mother has locked the door behind them, I slump against the table.

“What is it?” says Peeta, holding me steadily.

“Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone’s had a bad day, too.” He helps me over to one of the rockers and I lower myself onto the padded cushion.

My mother eases off my boots. “What happened?”

“I slipped and fell,” I say. Four pairs of eyes look at me with disbelief. “On some ice.” But we all know the house must be bugged and it’s not safe to talk openly. Not here, not now.

-

My mother gives me a cup of chamomile tea with a dose of sleep syrup, and my eyelids begin to droop immediately. She wraps my bad foot, and Peeta volunteers to get me to bed. I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I’m so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs. He tucks me in and says good night but I catch his hand and hold him there.

-

Peeta sits on the side of the bed, warming my hand in both of his. “Almost thought you’d changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner.”

I’m foggy but I can guess what he means. With the fence going on and me showing up late and the Peacekeepers waiting, he thought I’d made a run for it, maybe with Gale.

“No, I’d have told you,” I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today.

-

Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television.

-

Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls’ reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch’s name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.

-

“Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?” I ask, somehow annoyed.

“To show he’s going to do everything he can to defend you. That’s what everyone in the Capitol’s expecting, anyway. Didn’t he volunteer to go in with you?” Effie says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

-

I lock my fingers tightly into his and say, “Watch my feet. Just try to step where I step.” It helps. We seem to move a little faster, but never enough to afford a rest, and the mist continues to lap at our heels.

-

Peeta and Finnick and I position ourselves in a triangle, a few yards apart, our backs to one another. My heart sinks as my fingers draw back my last arrow. Then I remember Peeta has a sheath, too. And he’s not shooting, he’s hacking away with that knife. My own knife is out now, but the monkeys are quicker, can spring in and out so fast you can barely react.

“Peeta!” I shout. “Your arrows!”

Peeta turns to see my predicament and is sliding off his sheath when it happens. A monkey lunges out of a tree for his chest. I have no arrow, no way to shoot. I can hear the thud of Finnick’s trident finding another mark and know his weapon is occupied. Peeta’s knife arm is disabled as he tries to remove the sheath. I throw my knife at the oncoming mutt but the creature somersaults, evading the blade, and stays on its trajectory.

Weaponless, defenseless, I do the only thing I can think of. I run for Peeta, to knock him to the ground, to protect his body with mine, even though I know I won’t make it in time.

-

While I help Peeta coat his skin with the ointment, Finnick deftly cleans the meat from the shellfish.

-

I stretch out, pressing my hot cheek on the grass mat, staring at the thing in aggravation. Peeta rubs a tense spot between my shoulders and I let myself relax a little.

-

I know it’s stopped when I feel Peeta’s hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins.

“It’s all right, Katniss,” he whispers.

-

“Katniss!” I hear his voice though he’s a far distance away. But what is he doing? Peeta must have figured out that everyone is hunting us by now. “Katniss!”

I can’t protect him. I can’t move fast or far and my shooting abilities are questionable at best. I do the one thing I can to draw the attackers away from him and over to me. “Peeta!” I scream out. “Peeta! I’m here! Peeta!” Yes, I will draw them in, any in my vicinity, away from Peeta and over to me and the lightning tree that will soon be a weapon in and of itself. “I’m here! I’m here!” He won’t make it. Not with that leg in the night. He will never make it in time. “Peeta!”

-

I’m rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I’m in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I’m devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger propel me into my greatest demand. “When the war is over, if we’ve won, Peeta will be pardoned.”

-

At the mention of my name, Peeta’s face contorts in effort. “Katniss . . . how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you . . . in Thirteen . . .” He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of me standing in front of the hospital at three-second intervals. But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta’s attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that’s inseparable from Peeta’s cry of pain.

And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

-

I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.” I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads LAMB STEW.

I press my lips together at the memories of rain dripping through stones, my inept attempts at flirting, and the aroma of my favorite Capitol dish in the chilly air. So some part of it must still be in his head, too. How happy, how hungry, how close we were when that picnic basket arrived outside our cave.

-

In the fluorescent light, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. “There’s still time. You should sleep.” Unresisting, he lies back down, but just stares at the needle on one of the dials as it twitches from side to side. Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn’t recoil. So I continue to gently smooth back his hair. It’s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena.

“You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.

“Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation. “Because that’s what you and I do. Protect each other.” After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

-

“Katniss!” He whips his head toward me but doesn’t seem to notice my bow, the waiting arrow. “Katniss! Get out of here!”

I hesitate. His voice is alarmed, but not insane. “Why? What’s making that sound?”

“I don’t know. Only that it has to kill you,” says Peeta. “Run! Get out! Go!”

-

It’s a long shot, it’s suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. “Don’t let him take you from me.”

Peeta’s panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. “No. I don’t want to . . .”

I clench his hands to the point of pain. “Stay with me.”

His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. “Always,” he murmurs.

I help Peeta up and address Pollux.

-

While Cressida and Pollux make fur nests for each of us, I attend to Peeta’s wrists. Gently rinsing away the blood, putting on an antiseptic, and bandaging them beneath the cuffs.

-

By the time I make it back to the fence, I’m so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people’s cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light.

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he’s real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He’s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn’t stand it there without her, so he came looking.

[…]

Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She’s dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. “She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won’t go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he’s there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night.

-

Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup.

-

I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway.

-

Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver.

-

[space-mermaid-writing]

House Arrest [Reader X Loki] Chapter 3

Summary: You are Clint’s 'little' sister and actually a trained Shield agent. But you gave that up a few years ago and became a Chef, because you wanted a normal live. Then one day Natasha shows up at your door and takes you to the Avenger Tower for a while for security reasons.

Tags: Reader is an former Shield Agent, chef!reader, Reader Barton, 2012 Avenger vibes, everything is still alright, Slice of Life, Avengers Family, Loki has a good heart, still the god of mischief, Slow Burn, mention of food and cooking

Read it on AO3

Chapter 3: Nighttime pancakes

The next few days you got to know everything a little better: The tower, the Avengers - as far as they were present and showed themselves - and the rest of the staff that you ran into from time to time. You also discovered that the tower had its own training halls. Actually this was just logical given the team that lives here. Often when you were out and about in the building, you got the faint feeling of being watched. It was a little disturbing, but you dismissed it by saying that the environment was still new to you. Also, you had learned that JARVIS had access to all the public rooms and most of them were probably video monitored too. You weren’t sure about your own quarters yet, but you were also not sure if you wanted to know the answer.

Unfortunately the nights are very long, because you sleep very badly here. Despite the short time, you miss walking outside, through the streets, and besides, you are used to a rather strict daily routine. Sure, it's nice to switch off for a few days and not have to do anything. A little vacation, so to speak. But you're someone who soon gets bored with that. You chose a profession that requires you to spend hours running around the kitchen, preparing dishes and finishing orders for a reason after all. The price of your now lazy life is that you toss and turn in your bed at night without really being tired. Maybe there are some additional worries that keep you awake. For example, the Hydra question that was still unresolved.

This night you turn from side to side again, sighing, and at some point take a look at the digital alarm clock. Its digits glowing a light red in the darkness. It's three in the morning. Or night. Depending on how you see it. After a few more unsuccessful tries to sleep, you give up and decide to roam the halls a bit. Just walking around and stretching your legs. Outside, it's quiet. Only the soft whirring of some working machines can be heard. The corridors are discreetly lit, so you have no trouble finding your way, which leads you into the large lobby. It’s actually the first time since your arrival that you find it completely empty. Still, you have the familiar feeling that you are not alone. Jarvis probably never sleeps.

Out of habit, you end up in the kitchen and take a bored look into the fridge. Nothing in there appeals to you, but you're not really hungry either. Not even for a little snack. Still, you feel like cooking. Maybe pancakes. You could eat them for breakfast later. Without thinking too long about it, you get a bowl from the cupboard and tie an apron around yourself, which you have obligatory lying here by now. Flour, milk and eggs are quickly mixed and a few other ingredients are added for flavor. You put some butter in a pan on the stove. When it became liquid, you start to fry the first pancake and gradually got more and more, so that you quickly have a respectable pile together. Quietly, you hum to yourself.

"It's been a long time since anyone has been here at this hour”, you suddenly hear an unfamiliar voice behind you. Surprised, you whirl around, holding a knife that had been lying next to the stove. A dark-haired man in a green shirt is standing by the kitchen island, watching your actions curiously. When he sees the knife, he raises both hands to calm you down. On each of his arms you notice a narrow silver hoop with a red dot flashing. You hadn't heard a door, and you're not sure how long he's been standing there. "What’s your deal? Can’t sleep?", you ask him. "Just like you apparently." You raise an eyebrow and set the knife aside as the pancakes demand your attention. "You're Loki, aren't you?" It's more of a statement than a question, and the man nods. "And you're the archer's sister", he respond, which makes you in turn nod. "I‘m Y/N, pleasure to meet you." "You don't often hear that as a prisoner", he says amused, but still keeps eye on you, waiting for your reaction. "Heard about it. I guess we're sitting in the same boat." "Oh, really?" "Well, I probably won't be tasered right away if I try to leave the building." "Probably?", Loki follows up. "Yeah, I'm not entirely sure about that."

You talk for a while until you hear the elevator ping quietly in the lobby. But you're not paying attention right now, as you're busy scraping the last bit of dough out of the bowl and then turning off the stove. "Would you like some?" you ask Loki, turning to him only to find that he has disappeared. Taken aback, you turn your attention to the room next door, where you hear muffled voices. Then the door opens. "THAT'S what I call a nice welcome," Clint grins, looking at the stack of pancakes. "Brother dear", you greet him equally pleased and surprised at his unexpected appearing. Smiling, you walk up to him and hug him. Along with him, Steve Rogers, whom you've also already seen on the news as Captain America, came in. He seems a little confused at first, but after you fill him in on who you are, he welcomes you as well.

"What are you doing here?" your brother then asks you. "You can see that. I'm making breakfast for you." "No, I mean, what are you doing here?" He specifies the question with a gesture that included all the surroundings as well as the Tower. "Oh..." It's clearly too middle of the night for you to be that precise. In a few words, you explain your situation. Clint has some encouraging words for you, but can understand that you are not enthusiastic. "At least we can get more on each other's nerves again. Why don't you start right now and join us while we eat?", he laugh, putting his arm around your shoulder in a brotherly fashion as he pushes you toward the stove. You have to laugh, too. "You mean while you eat my breakfast." "Exactly." You go get two plates from the cupboard and serve the men each a good stack of pancakes with maple syrup. They thank you and the group of you make yourselves comfortable at the kitchen island. "Where and how do you guys usually eat here?", you ask in the meantime. "We each order our own food. Probably have a flat rate with all the suppliers in the neighborhood," Clint explains. Steves' gaze is on you questioningly. "Don't you want some pancakes, too?" "In the middle of the night? No thanks, I'm not hungry." "Then why did you made them, if you don't mind me asking?" "I knew you'd come and could use something in your stomach", you reply with a serious expression, to which Steve shoots first you and then your brother a scrutinizing look. He’d seen enough weird shit while working with the Avengers to take such a statement quite seriously. And he wonders whether you, unlike Hawkeye, have superpowers. But only until you can no longer stifle the broad grin, because his facial expression is just too funny.

Before you can say anything, though, Clint interjects. "As siblings, we've just developed some sort of telepathic ability." You nod in agreement. "Exactly. That's how I always know when he's going to say something stupid and deserve a head butt." "To be honest, I never heard him talk about you before”, Steve admits. "See”, you wink, "It‘s working out just fine." You laugh, and while they continue to eat, Clint tells you about the mission they just came from.

Afterwards, you put another stack of pancakes on a plate to take it with you back to the lobby. "Hungry now, are you?", your brother asks you, clearly tired after the long journey and at this late hour. Just as the super soldier. "Maybe”, you answer shortly and wish them both a good night. The greeting comes back double and you head into the large lobby with the elevators. "Jarvis?" "Yes, Miss Barton?" "Where is Loki's apartment?", you ask the computer. "You are not exactly authorized to receive this information." "I just want to get him something to eat."

You raise the plate in your hands a little higher and apparently your answer is analyzed, because for a few seconds there is silence. But then you get the information you want and are directed to the door you are looking for. It was on another floor and at the end of a long corridor.

You knock, but at first there is no response. So you try again. "Come on, my prince, I know you're not asleep and it's rude to leave a lady at a locked door." You hear an amused sound from the other side and shortly after the door is opened. With his arms crossed, Loki stands before you. "It's also rude to disturb a prince in the middle of the night, M’Lady", he replies. "Rude would be to refuse a dinner from a lady. Especially when she personally hands it to you", you add, giving him the plate. It's impossible for you to tell if he's amused or annoyed as he looks from you to the pancakes in his hand. "I never said I wanted any“, he states. "But you didn't say you didn't want them, either. Just give them a try. I'm pretty good at cooking." With that, you turn to go. "Good night, dear prince," you wish him, but without turning around. So you miss the grin on Loki's face as he closes the door.

[skzsauce01]

The Student Council President Reads Shoujo Manga?!

Synopsis: You discover that the student council president, who claims to hate romance, reads shoujo manga. Slight influence from Kaguya-Sama: Love Is War.

Warning: none

Word Count: 4.2k

Pairing: fem student council vice president!reader x student council president!Hyunjin

After forgetting your textbook in the classroom, you expect to be the last person to arrive to the student council room, but it appears that you’re actually the second.

“Vice President, you left your manga here last night,” Secretary Kim greets. He glances at you momentarily before returning to his paperwork.

You shut the door behind you. “My manga? I don’t remember— Oh.”

Sitting on the mahogany desk is a tote bag that you recognize is the president’s. You loaned President Hwang the first five volumes of The Life of A Dragon and Its Rider two weeks ago. When you peer inside the bag, you find that he forgot to take off his manga protectors. You keep telling him that he doesn’t need to take such a precaution since you trust him, but he always does so anyway. Even your old battered copies are wrapped in plastic.

You take the topmost one and hold it to the light streaming through the window. Not even the outline of the title can be seen. You voiced your confusion at his choice of using opaque protectors before; how would he be able to differentiate between different volumes or different mangas? His answer made you laugh: it was how he got away with reading during class. The image of the student council president doing such an illicit thing seemed ridiculous, and he pushed his hair back in embarrassment as he recounted the time the teacher almost caught him. Then you stopped laughing and wondered what the symptoms of a heart attack were. Your rib cage felt like it was going to smash open.

Now as you peel off the protector, the same feeling returns. The corner of Dragon Rider is blue and purple, not dark red. Did he spill something? No, none of the pages are wrinkled with water damage, and he would never be so careless so what exactly—

“Oh my goodness!”

Secretary Kim, pen twirling in his hand, looks at you curiously. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes!” you squeak out, hiding out the manga behind your back. “I just… I just… it’s nothing! Everything is okay!”

“Alright then.”

While he goes back to his papers, you hurriedly turn around and check the book. It’s the same as it was a few seconds ago. Instead of a fearsome dragon and its hardworking rider on the cover, there is a teenage girl flanked by two boys with wolf ears. The title reads Tsukiko of the Wolves. You flip through, discovering with both amusement and disbelief that it’s a shoujo manga. There is nothing wrong with reading shoujo — you’ve read a fair share yourself when you were younger — but President Hwang is the least likely person you would expect to have a secret love for them. You regularly loan him your shounens to read, and he eagerly discusses each volume with you. He frequently complains about the romance, saying he’s reading it for the adventure, not for the love triangles.

This has to be a mistake. He has a younger sister who you’ve seen at the bookstore occasionally. It’s possible that they share a bookshelf and that he accidentally grabbed hers on accident. You put the protector back on, set it aside, and reach for the next book on the stack.

You have no real idea if it’s another shoujo or not, but NecRomancer sounds like one. The summary on the back describes a girl panicking about her newfound powers of resurrection and the attractive man she just brought back to life. You open to the middle of the manga and let out a squeak when you see the naked corpse on the page. It’s just another accident, it has to be. President Hwang is close with his sister, so it’s only natural that his manga would be close to hers. You try the next book in the stack, hoping that it’s one of yours.

The corner reveals a dark red cover, and you hold your breath, keeping an eye on Secretary Kim. He is still preoccupied with his work, muttering sentences and scribbling things down. You fully peel back the protector, and Why Do I Not Remember You? is written across the cover in glitter. Could this be his sister’s bag? No, she doesn’t use protectors.

You mindlessly thumb through the pages, seeing but not really seeing the crying woman being comforted by a stranger. Then at the flashbacks of broken beer bottles and a ring. The chances of this being a mistake are lessening. Once is a coincidence, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern. Does this mean that…

The student council president reads shoujo manga?

You quickly replace the protector. Your heart pounds, and possibilities swim in front of you. At the very best, he will be mortified if he knows that you found out. At the very worst, the entire school will find out. President Hwang’s reputation will be tainted, and with the upcoming reelections, his reputation is of the utmost importance. If he’s not president, you might still be vice president, but what’s the point then? It’ll be no fun without him.

No one can find out about this.

Suddenly the double doors to the student council room burst open, and you drop Why Do I Not Remember You? onto the desk. President Hwang slouches in the doorframe, resting his hands on the handles, completely out of breath. A Blueprint Books bag hangs in his grasp. That must be the one containing your manga.

He looks up from the floor, and you realize you are directly in his line of sight. Your hands fly to the ribbon around your neck, and you begin to untie and retie it.

“President, are you alright?” you distantly hear Secretary Kim ask. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I’m alright.” President Hwang’s voice comes out strained as he notices you standing behind his desk, three books out in the open. “Vice President, I see you discovered the manga as expected.”

“I was just counting to make sure I got all five back,” you reply with a fake smile. He can’t know that you know because he will never speak to you again out of embarrassment. “You left the protectors on, by the way.”

He walks toward you. You are the perfect picture of innocence. He will not know. “Did you… check them?”

“No, I was in the middle of counting them. Why?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, but you can hear the relief. “I left the wrong bag for you last night. Working late must be getting to me, haha. Here you go. The Life of A Dragon and Its Rider.”

You peek inside, and sure enough, the volumes are there with no opaque protector to obscure the title on the spine. You clutch the bag in front of you like you can use it to hide the truth you have just uncovered. President Hwang stacks his shoujo manga back into his bag and tucks it underneath the desk. His face has gone pink, and he fans himself with the latest edition of the school newspaper.

“What did you think of it?” you ask to distract him. “Isn’t the artwork amazing?”

Mission successful. President Hwang’s eyes go glassy as he recalls the story in his head, and he stops his fanning. “It is. And the worldbuilding too! The academy is so different from the usual school settings, and the dragon breeds are so cool. Also, Hirajima is such a tsundere. He’s going to end up falling in love with Kimi, isn’t he? Ugh.”

“I won’t spoil it for you,” you cryptically reply. The president is holding tightly onto his facade, which you need him to do. “I’ll lend you the next five volumes tomorrow. Just wait until you get to the tournament arc. You’re going to love it.”

He groans and leans back into his chair. “Was that sarcasm?”

“No! Tournament arc is always the best arc! That’s why Feast of the Gods is so popular. Every arc is pretty much a tournament arc.”

President Hwang lights up even more at the mention of the fantasy cooking-themed manga. He borrowed it from you last month and loved it so much that he bought matching keychains for the entire council. “Secretary Kim is the bird's milk, Treasurer Lee is the silkworm flour, you’re the delphinium rose syrup, and I’m the volcanic pepper,” he explained.

“Why are you the pepper?” Treasurer Lee complained. “You can’t even handle spice.”

“Because I’m hot.”

While both the secretary and treasurer cackled and while the president grew increasingly embarrassed by his own claims, you did your best to focus on your new keychain and not him. He looked too attractive loosening his tie and running his fingers through his hair. He looked like a manga character come to life.

President Hwang’s comment snaps you out of your daydream. “The ending is good! I can’t believe that Ryuzaki actually—”

“Shouldn’t you two be working?” interrupts Secretary Kim’s flat voice. He peers at the two of you over his glasses and flicks his eyes towards the suggestion box he must have brought in earlier. “Especially with reelections coming up soon.”

“We’ll talk later,” President Hwang whispers to you. “I want to discuss my theory about Kimi and Bando with you.”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s go through the suggestions now before Secretary Kim gets mad.”

You walk over to the door and grab the suggestion box. It’s heavier than expected, and you hold it flush against your chest to keep it from slipping out of your grasp. President Hwang notices your struggling and meets you halfway. He nearly makes you drop it as his fingers brush yours while he takes it from you.

“Thanks,” you stammer out. Your hands are empty, so you toy with your ribbon again as you follow him back to the desk.

“No problem,” he says. He lifts open the lid and takes out the first paper on top. “Shin Ryujin is asking for more funding for the Tennis Club again. Speaking of tennis, have you seen the animations for Bleeding Heart? It’s so good.”

Though Bleeding Heart starts off like a shoujo, it devolves into a mystery. If it weren’t for the knowledge you have now, you would have teased President Hwang for watching it. Instead, you enthusiastically nod. “They play croquet, not tennis, but yes! They’re so smooth!”

“President, Vice President.”

You and President Hwang exchange sheepish smiles. He softly sighs and scans through the paper, playing with a lock of hair. You imagine him doing the same as he reads. Why is the image of him secretly reading shoujo manga so charming? You shouldn’t find it so when he has this much at stake. He needs to be reelected.

“What do you think?” he asks, pointing at a proposal that you should have been reading with him, interrupting your thoughts. He edges closer to you, and breathing is suddenly difficult. He smells like laundry detergent. “Are new uniforms justifiable?”

“Yes, I think so,” you choke out. “Excuse me for a minute.”

You practically run out of the student council room, stopping only when you reach a small alcove in the hall. It’s dim and quiet, and you can hear your heart trying to break out. You press your hand over it, trying to push it back inside. Heart attacks don’t feel like this, or so says the medical website you consulted. Your heart thunders against your wrist, and its beat perfectly matches your pulse.

Steady.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It eventually slows, and you return back to the room with more composure than you had earlier. Treasurer Lee has finally shown up, and you decide to help him with calculations instead of reviewing proposals with President Hwang. It’s better this way.

During the weekend, you head to Blueprint Books and wander down the aisles, trying to find the manga President Hwang reads. You know what he likes for shounens, so what is it for shoujos? You mindlessly swing your tote bag back and forth as you scan the shelves. He Doesn’t Know My Secret, Steampunked!, Squirrel Princess. It’s been some time since you visited this section of the store. As you look to the next shelf, you notice a familiar keychain hanging from someone’s pocket. When you do a double-take, to your surprise and horror, President Hwang is standing at the end of the aisle. He looks different when out of uniform. Good different.

Maybe you made a noise of some sort because before you can turn around and leave, he glances up from the book he holds. His eyes meet yours.

Disbelief. Confusion. Panic.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he shakily asks as he slides the manga back into place. He’s mostly calm, that’s good. If he can lie to you about it, surely the entire school will be a simple feat. “Is there a new release?”

You shake your head. “Just browsing. Are you buying something for your sister? I know you don’t like romance that much.”

The relief in his voice is palpable when he says, “Yeah. Do you have any recommendations?”

“What does she like?”

“What do you like? You read a lot of manga.”

The question makes you pause, and you recount all the conversations you’ve overheard during lunch. Shounens are more of your thing now, but you're not above shoujos. “I’ve heard good things about Best Friend Boyfriend and I Wouldn’t Change A Thing.”

“Have you read them?”

“Not yet, but I always hear people talking about them.” You shift from foot to foot. A change of subject is much needed. “How’s the campaign going?”

“It’s going well, I think. Yeji and her friends are asking everyone in their year to vote for me, so that’s cool. The Japanese Culture Club is apparently doing the same,” he answers. He thumbs his pepper keychain, and you instinctively reach for your complementing one. The tiny syrup bottle is cool on your skin. “What about you? You’re still going to be my vice president, right?”

‘My’ makes you warm. “Of course! Just worry about yourself. Han Jisung really wants your spot.”

“I’m not letting that happen. Trust me, on Friday, the principal’s going to announce me as president again. And you’re going to be vice president. Secretary Kim and Treasurer Lee are going to be there as well. We’re going to be the student council until graduation.”

He says it with so much determination, you can’t help but laugh. “I really hope so. Hey, I’ll bring you the next five volumes of Dragon Rider on Monday. Just give me six through ten whenever you’re done.”

“Thanks. Do you want to borrow one of—”

“There you are!” President Hwang’s younger sister bounds into the aisle with a shopping basket filled with stationery. She furrows her eyebrows when she notices exactly which aisle her brother is in. “Don’t you have enough al—”

“I’m going to be late for dinner!” you interject. You step backwards, nearly bumping into the cardboard cutout of a manga character. “See you in class, President. Have a nice day. Bye.”

As you speed walk in the opposite direction, you hear his sister quietly ask him, “Wait, was that the vice president?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.”

You don’t hear if President Hwang replies anything because once you’ve turned the corner, you sprint out of the bookstore. It’s not until you’re home that you realize that you never found out what kind of shoujos he enjoys.

The days leading up to Friday are fraught with worry. Han Jisung is campaigning hard for the position this year. His small band of dedicated followers pass out flyers at the school gate every morning and trade lollipops for votes. Despite that, the president is unbothered.

“Did you watch the new episode of 00 Daniel?” he asks you on Wednesday.

You place your shoes inside your locker and shut the door. “Today’s the last day of voting, and you’re concerned about that?”

“I think the mission’s going to go badly this time. It’s been like five missions since his last screw up,” he continues like you said nothing. “There’s no way the season is ending without setting up for the next one.”

“President.”

“He’s not going to win, I promise. Treasurer Lee took a survey a few days ago, and I’m in the lead. The Mathematics Club’s survey confirmed the same thing.”

You start heading to your class with a resigned sigh, and President Hwang follows you even though he’s in a different room. He tugs on the sleeve of your blazer.

“You have nothing to worry about, Vice President,” he reassures. He lowers his head down to meet you at eye level. “It’s you and me until graduation, okay?”

You quickly nod and try not to burst into flames right on the spot. He’s too close yet not close enough.

“I think you’re right about 00 Daniel,” you stutter. “They’re taking too long to find the target too. I’ll see you after school then. Class is going to start soon.”

He retracts himself, a bit disappointed that you don’t want to speculate now. “Okay, we can talk later. See you.”

“See you.”

You two head to your respective classrooms. As you slide into your chair, you notice the boy next to you has a red candy wrapper on his desk. The girl in front of him has a purple one.

You really hope the Mathematics Club is right.

When Friday arrives, your stomach is in knots, and you feel ready to pass out at a moment’s notice. The traffic lights are slow today, making your usual stroll to school longer than usual. Students your age all the way down to elementary, pass you by, laughing and chatting with their friends. How can they be so relaxed when the results of the election come out this morning? You bet the paper announcement is already tacked to the bulletin board at the front of the school.

“Good morning,” comes a familiar voice.

“Good morning,” you reply back. President Hwang easily falls into step with you and holds out a tote bag to you. “Oh, you finished all of them?”

“Yeah. That last battle was crazy! I can’t believe it ended like that. And the epilogue! I knew it would happen! I feel so bad for Bando and… You okay? You look a little sick.”

“It’s nothing.” You take the bag from him and hold the books to your chest. You peek inside to make sure the protectors are off and to check that he gave you the right bag. No shoujo manga this time. “Are you nervous?”

He’s surprisingly apprehensive when he asks, “About what?”

“The election?”

“Oh. No, not really. Are you?”

“A little bit,” you lie as the two of you walk through the gate. The bulletin board is surrounded by a crowd, and you’re ready to march through to see what the paper says. Please let President Hwang be on there. “Let’s go.”

But the president is soon stopped by Han Jisung and his followers. Han Jisung holds his hand out, and you hold your breath as he opens his mouth.

“Congratulations on winning, President,” he says with a good-natured smile. He shifts his gaze to you. “And you as well, Vice President.”

You let out an audible sigh and quickly cover it with a cough when everyone looks at you. “Thank you.”

President Hwang shoots you a knowing grin, making you blush, before exchanging pleasantries with his defeated opponent. In the meantime, you push through the crowd to double-check the results. There it is in black ink: Hwang Hyunjin as President. Relief floods through your body, and you happily accept the other students’ congratulations and swap theories about the upcoming season of 00 Daniel with your fellow manga and anime fans.

“Told you,” President Hwang later says after he manages to get away from Han Jisung. He shuts your locker door with one finger. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Hey, are you going home now?” President Hwang asks. With no changes in the student council, everything is business as usual, including Secretary Kim and Treasurer Lee leaving as soon as they can on Fridays.

“Yeah. Are you staying late again?”

“Not today. Want to walk home together?”

“S-sure.”

While he reorganizes the papers on his desk, you fiddle with the strap of the tote bag. It’s not the first time you’ve walked home with the president, but it sends you into a panic every time. The golden sun and orange sky makes everyone look beautiful but him especially so. It’s difficult not to be tongue tied around him when he looks exactly like the lead of a shoujo manga.

Manga. The thing that accelerated your feelings for him in the first place. His good looks and his sweet talking charm were enough for you to notice him, so learning he shared the same hobby as you? Discovering that he adored coming up with theories?

You were smitten.

“You ready?” he interrupts.

“Yeah.”

The two of you make it to the front entrance before he stops and turns to you. “Actually, before we go, can I show you something first? It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Sure. What is it?” You follow him through the school, taking note that he seems to be headed to the courtyard.

“Have you read Limitless?”

As you step over a pile of fallen cherry blossoms, you rack your brain. You read it a long time ago, mostly because it was on every recommendation list online. “The shoujo about the math tutors? It’s been some time, but yes. What about it?”

President Hwang stops in the middle of the courtyard and faces you again. The sun is behind him, the rays of light forming a crown on his head. “Well, there’s a scene near the end that I thought you might like.”

The end of Limitless…

… features a confession scene in the school courtyard.

He gently takes your hands. “Do you remember the first day we were elected? I was the first person in the room, and I was so nervous to meet you because I didn’t know that much about you. Secretary Kim and Treasurer Lee said you were really kind, but I was still nervous. Then you ran into the room with a bunch of manga and almost tripped over the rug. You laughed it off and held out a book for me to shake since your hands were full.”

“It was the first volume of Feast of the Gods,” you whisper. That day is burned in your mind. “Lee Chaeryeong just finished the first ten volumes and gave them back to me.”

“And then I asked you if I could borrow them because I wanted to read them but Blueprint was out of stock. You said yes immediately, and that’s when I knew that you and I would be a great team. When you wanted to listen to me talk about the chapters I read, that’s when I knew I liked you. And when you continued to offer me other series to borrow, that’s when I knew I had to tell you. So,” he breathes, “here it is. I like you, and I want to be with you.”

“I… I like you too.”

He breaks out into a grin and wraps you in a hug. He still smells like laundry detergent, and you bury your nose in the collar of his shirt.

“What do we do now?” he softly laughs as he pulls away. “The shoujo mangas usually stop here and cut to a new scene.”

The words fly out of your mouth without thinking. “So is that why you’ve been reading shoujos? For the confession?”

His smile falters but recovers soon after. “Yeji gave it away last weekend, huh? Ah, I was hoping you hadn’t heard her.”

“Actually… I found out when you gave me back Dragon Rider the first time,” you admit. You twirl the ends of the ribbon around your neck. “I took off the protectors and saw some of them. But there’s nothing wrong with liking shoujo! I was just surprised since you always say you hate romance.”

“I mean, I did. I started reading them for confession tips, but then it turns out some of them are really good. Like Limitless? And then I started reading my sister’s, and I kind of like them now. Is that weird?”

“No. Honestly, it’s kind of cute.”

“Really? You’re not weirded out by that?”

“Not even a little bit. I don’t care what you read as long as you’ll talk to me about it after.”

“Well, I finished Winter Fireworks recently. Have you read it before?” When you shake your head, he takes a step closer and leans down. “It ends like this.”

As it turns out, the story ends with a kiss.

~ ad.gray

None of the mangas/animes mentioned actually exist. They’re just riffs of other fics we’ve written. Was this just a giant ad for them? Yeah, kind of lol. In order of appearance:

The Life of A Dragon and Its Rider ➞ Normal (Hyunjin)

Tsukiko of the Wolves ➞ 42nd Moon (Hyunjin)

NecRomancer ➞ Magic Words (Hyunjin) 

Why Do I Not Remember You? ➞ Eternally Yours (Hyunjin)

Feast of the Gods ➞ God’s Menu (Felix)

Bleeding Heart ➞ King of Hearts (Bang Chan)

He Doesn’t Know My Secret ➞ Harmony, Melody (Seungmin)

Steampunked! ➞ Matters of the Head and Heart (Felix)

Squirrel Princess ➞ Squirrel and Wife (Han)

Best Friend Boyfriend ➞ Ruin My Life (Lee Know)

I Wouldn’t Change A Thing ➞ Even if Things Were Different (Han)

00 Daniel ➞ Apologies in Advance (Lee Know)

Limitless ➞ love you to limx (Han)

Winter Fireworks ➞ Ringing in the New Year (Bang Chan)

bonus after credits scene

It’s only when the two of you are crossing the bridge do you realize what he has done. “You just spoiled the ending for me!”

“Sorry, I forgot.” After a few seconds, he asks, “Can I give you more spoilers?”

You reach for the front of his blazer. “Yes.”

[filmflowersbangtan]

Dead of Night (preview)

pairing: gang member!jungkook x reader

genre: angst, fluff 

warnings: swearing | drug mention | gangs | in the full story, there will be violence, blood, fighting, threatening 

preview word count: 4k

you meet jungkook in a diner in the early morning where it’s just the two of you in the entire place. An interesting relationship ensues, and you find out he’s not who you thought he was. He’s a prominent member of the city’s most powerful gang, surrounded by danger and trouble. But you still want him.

--

author’s note: I sincerely apologize for being gone for so long and for not updating any of my fics. To everyone waiting on IMSWY pt. ii: I am so sorry for taking so long with it. It’s still in my WIPs, and I haven’t given up on it yet, but it is on the back burner right now since I have many other ideas bubbling up that I absolutely have to write or else they will probably internally set me aflame (lol). 

I will be deleting many of my fics soon. I will be keeping “Unbound,” “I Must Still Want You,” “Heartbreaker with a Heart of Gold,” and “Lonely Planets.” Everything else I will be deleting because I have no desire to finish working on them or I simply do not like them anymore and can’t see them going anywhere.

I also will probably not be writing anymore series. Everything will most likely be one shot because every time I start a series, I get too overwhelmed with the idea of updating parts and finishing them that I just end up postponing them for too long and leaving too many people who have been looking forward to them disappointed. I do want to say that I have been going through So Much since I last posted Lonely Planets pt. ii and IMSWY, but I am in a so so so much better place now. That’s why I’m even writing this story now.

This will be a oneshot. It will not be a series. It will be very long. I am almost finished with it, but I am posting this preview just to see if you all would like to continue reading it.

Thank you all. I appreciate all the feedback and the follows and the reblogs so, so much. The feedback and the reblogs of Heartbreaker with a Heart of Gold is what really motivated me to write this one. I hope you all enjoy it. 😊

--

Being alone was like an addiction. It was fulfilling and appealing and…well, lonely. 

Two in the morning diner stops during the weekdays had become routine. The place was completely empty save for a waitress and a cook and maybe a tired trucker. You tucked yourself in a booth in the back. The vinyl seats were cracked and uncomfortable, the lighting was stark and washed everything raw. But it was comforting. Sleep was evasive and your apartment was barely unpacked, boxes stacked haphazardly in the dining area and the mattress on the living room floor. It was your idea to move to this vast city far away from home. This city swallowed everything in its incessant noise. Nocturnal and teeming with cars and neon lights. It never rested and the two of you had that in common. You took solace in that. 

The air was thick with bacon grease and bitter black coffee. Every morning you had waffles and orange juice. The refills were free and the waffles were the exact same circumference as the plate underneath it. Time was stagnant here. The city pressed against the plate glass windows, but the reflections from inside barred its entry. If you looked out, you simply stared directly at yourself. Maybe there was some kind of metaphor in that. 

The night shift waitress, Bethany, set your plate of steaming waffles on the table as well as a glass syrup dispenser. She knew you by name and you thanked her for the food. She smiled sweetly and left you be. 

The door chimed, denoting the entry of another patron. You didn’t look up. Bethany greeted the person in her cheerful customer service voice. You knew she didn’t actually sound like that. Once, you glimpsed her smoking a cigarette by the dumpster at the back of the diner arguing with her boyfriend on her cell phone. She had a tired voice. You wondered if she was lonely, too.

As you ate, Bethany took the patron’s order. From where you sat, his voice was a mumble. “You got it!” Bethany said before breezing away.

You glanced up from your food at the patron. Hair dyed blond, dark brown at the roots. He had a gentle face and a mouth made for smiling or furtively suppressing them. Tattoos were stippled on his arm all the way down to his knuckles. He was staring down at his phone, his fingers were slender and embellished with many silver rings. He was impossibly handsome. A paragon of beauty. 

And he looked up. Right at you. Why was it at that moment you happened to notice him, he decided to notice you, too?

Your scalp prickled with hot embarrassment. You immediately averted your eyes back to your waffles. There was only a bite remaining. Good. You could finish, get your check, pay, and leave.

Boldly, you chanced another glimpse. He did, too. This time, a smile, broad and lovely, stretched across his face. It was endearing and intimate and you had never felt so seen. It was exhilarating. A small smile crept onto your mouth. You couldn’t help it. His smile was contagious. 

This was how the following hour went. Weighted glances and secret smiles from across the room. He received his food, and he picked up his plate and mug of coffee and…was he coming this way?

You watched him, eyes wide, as he sauntered over to your booth and set his items on your table. “May I sit?” he said. His voice was the perfect match to his face. Smooth, sonorous, soft. Crushed velvet. 

Jerkily, like you had never done it before, you nodded. He sat. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” you replied. 

“I’m Jungkook.”

You told him your name. He repeated it once, twice, thrice. Like he enjoyed the feel of it in his mouth, rolling it around like a piece of hard candy he didn’t want to dissolve on his tongue just yet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He reached his hand over the table. You smiled and shook it. 

His plate was piled with pancakes and sausages and scrambled eggs. He dug in. In between bites, he asked, “So what brings you here at this time of night?” “I have trouble sleeping. And you?” Your chest was tight with the awkwardness of it all, but he appeared to be perfectly at ease. 

“I’m just a night owl. Or I’m a vampire.” He shrugged nonchalantly as he continued eating.

Surprisingly, laughter bubbled from you until you couldn’t help the giggles that shook you. How long had it been since you had a conversation with anyone? Your store had been a drought for the past month, only a couple of people coming in a day. You didn’t call home because your parents would ask how you’ve been, and that topic lit a fire in your skull. Bethany was just a waitress doing her job. And Nora was always busy. It was refreshing to have someone sit with you. Talk with you. Want to be near you. 

His eyes danced at the sound of your laughter. It was an innocuous expression, boyish in how pure it was. 

You covered your mouth with your hands to mask the laughter. And he gently grabbed your wrist and removed them. “I like your laugh.”

Butterflies unfurled their wings in your stomach and fluttered in a frantic cluster. He resumed his meal as if nothing happened. “So what do you do?”

You cleared your throat. “I own a used book and record store downtown. It’s small and kind of hidden from the street, but it’s there.” You chuckled nervously. You were proud of that store, but you might have to close it down soon and return to your hometown with your tail tucked in between your legs if the revenue continued as it did. 

His eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That’s super cool. I like records. Books, not so much. Where is it located?”

You told him the address. “By that bodega on the corner.”

“The one that sells the really good blue raspberry shaved ice?”

You snapped your fingers. “That’s the one.”

“I’ll definitely have to stop by.” 

This was how the next few hours went. Talking about everything and nothing. He had lived in the city his entire life, worked as a freelance artist, had an apartment not too far away. Plates had been swept away by Bethany long ago. Refills poured, drained, and poured again.

And then, “Do you maybe want to get out of here? Kick it at my place?” Jungkook asked. His expression was open and genuine. 

You didn’t know if that was a good idea. But talking to him was stimulating and you didn’t want it to end. 

He noticed your hesitation. “Turn you location on your phone, I’ll even give you my address so you can send it to your friends. Anything to make you feel comfortable.”

He was right. He didn’t live that far. It was barely past five o’ clock in the morning, the city was still awake, billboards alight. The buildings towered, dark against the predawn blue of the sky. The apartment building was modest and typical of the city. Clean and affordable but just expensive enough to be appealing to a specific demographic of college students and those with decent enough jobs. His apartment was on the third floor and was charming with brick walls and high ceilings. There was a bookshelf packed with vinyl records, even more in milk crates. A record player in pristine condition sat on an end table beside an armchair. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jungkook said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on a hook beside the front door. 

“You said you liked records,” you replied, browsing his collection. 

“I did.”

“This isn’t liking records. This is a goddamn treasure trove.” You pushed your hair behind your ear, eager to move it from your face. “Bowie, Billie Holiday, Bob Dylan, Prince. You even have a rare version of Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland. With the naked women! This is incredible.” 

He laughed. “I see you are a woman of taste.” 

“If only my dad could see this. I’m afraid to touch anything.” 

“I’m sure you don’t have clumsy hands with records. Since you have a record store and all.”

You laughed. “I appreciate the trust.”

“So what would you like to listen to?”

You mulled it over, taking your time examining the sleeves of the records. Then you found one.

He smiled when you showed him the cover art. “Perfect.” 

Frank Ocean’s Blond. A modern classic. Perfect for the liminal hour of five AM. 

Jungkook slipped it from its sleeve, fingers on the slim rounded edges of the record. He carefully settled it on the turntable, placed the needle on the disc, and played the album. There was the classic crackle of vinyl, and then the first track emanated. It was a phantasm of sound, rich and ethereal. Light but weighted. The song was the deep blue of the sky before the sun decided to pull itself above the horizon and emblazon the sky with its myriad of colors. It was the perfect song for this liquid moment that felt like a dream. This beautiful stranger standing before you with his incredible collection. 

And then you were in Jungkook’s arms, slowly swaying to the music. You smiled up at him and him down at you. 

The album continued on in the living room, serenading to no one. You and Jungkook had moved to the bedroom, lounging on the bed. The horizon blushed peach, casting the room in half-light. You both lay on your backs, him with an arm slung casually behind his head, you with your hands folded delicately on your stomach. 

“Thank you for paying for my meal today,” you said to him meekly. 

He smiled. “Thank you for the great conversation. And having an amazing taste in music.” 

You laughed. “What made you come sit with me anyway?”

That was when he looked at you, his mouth still slung in a smile, but his eyes sincere. “Because you’re beautiful.”

Your cheeks went hot and you giggled nervously, covering it with your hands. He rolled over and carefully removed them, his eyes on yours. For a brief moment, time was still. Your breath caught in your throat. He was so close. His lips were so close. Your noses were just barely brushing. His voice was husky when he said, “I like your laugh.”

And then he kissed you. 

In the living room, Frank Ocean sang about nights and new beginnings. 

In the bedroom, you and Jungkook were breathless. Hands on thighs. Hands in hair. Teeth on collarbones. It was a innocent hunger, one that never got too peckish. He was careful with you, didn’t dare to remove your clothes. “I like you,” he breathed into your neck. You gasped at the sensation. 

You kissed until you both eventually succumbed to sleep, the morning sun pouring drowsy golden light across the room.

It was well into the afternoon when you woke to the sound of a shower running. The room was unfamiliar. Definitely not your barren apartment with the boxes strewn about the place. And you definitely weren’t on your living room mattress tangled amongst its waves of sheets. The bed you were in was the most comfortable you’ve ever experienced. Brick walls, plants, beautiful abstract canvas paintings leaning against the wall. Then you remembered. 

The diner. The vinyl collection. The sunrise. The kiss. 

Jungkook. 

He was in the shower and you were fully dressed and the night had to have been a dream. But it wasn’t. Reality settled back onto your shoulders in agonizing waves. You were hours late opening the store. But oh, you wanted to burrow into these soft, sweet-smelling sheets and dissolve into nothing. Eventually you got up. 

The door to the bathroom was open. You thought about telling him you were leaving, but instead, you drew your name and number into the mirror steam and went home to shower and change yourself.

An entire week went by and he never called. He didn’t return to the diner, either. It hurt. Every time you lay on your side, willing yourself to sleep, the phantom feeling of his hands and lips barreled you at such an unwelcome rush you would gasp. None of it was real. You had to keep telling yourself that. None of it was real. 

Life went back to normal. Jungkook was a fleeting daydream that sifted in and out of your thoughts. The store still barely got any customers, except for the same two or three crate diggers who visited like ghosts. And then Nora, your best friend, breezed through the door. She was a city girl through and through. Large sunglasses, the omnipresent iced coffee, the expensive wardrobe curated specifically for being in front of a camera. She was partly why you moved here. The two of you were from the same hometown, and she had escaped first to chase the tail of a fashion designer career. 

“Move here!” she had said during a phone call. “You’ll love it. You’re super hipster and this city eats that shit up! And you can open up that record and book store you always dreamed of.” 

She wasn’t wrong. You loved this city but this city seemed to not love you back. Now, she pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and set her iced coffee on the counter top before you. You were sitting behind the register, feet up and reading a book when she had come in. You looked up from the paperback in your hands. “And what have I done to deserve your presence, Your Highness?”

“Good morning, dork! We’re going to a party.”

You kicked your feet down. Slipped a bookmark in the book and closed it. And you simply said, “No.”

She blinked, her smile stiff. “Why not?” 

“You know I have to open this place every single morning. I can’t go to a party and get drunk and miss another opening.”

“Stop making this store your entire life.”

“It is my entire life.”

“Well, live another one. Just for one night.” She clasped her hands together and actually pouted. “Please.”

You sighed. “You don’t have anyone else to go with?”

She perked up and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, I do. I just want you to go with me. I want you to have fun for once. All you’ve done since you been here was work.”

Every single dollar and penny from your savings went to this store. It was your lifelong dream. And Nora—lovely, naïve Nora—had never needed to work for anything a day in her life. She meant well. She was never intentionally ignorant. But that didn’t make it any less frustrating. 

She also didn’t know of your time with Jungkook. It was embarrassing that he never called. It angered you that he called you beautiful and said he liked you only for it all to be false. Thank goodness you didn’t have sex with him. 

“I’ll have fun once I’m a millionaire or something,” you said to Nora.

She huffed. “I can find you someone to cover the shop for the night. You won’t even have to pay them. Please just come with me.”

“No. What if they steal something.”

She stared at you flatly. “Do you really think any of my friends—my friends—would steal? Let alone steal any of this stuff? No offense.” 

“Why do you want me to go so badly?”

“I already said. Fun. You know, music, drinks, guys.” She sang the last word and accompanied it with a little shimmy. 

“I have plenty of music and I can buy my own drinks.”

She slammed her hand against the counter top, startling you. “Stop being fucking difficult and come have some fun with me.”

So, grudgingly, you went. Albeit late because you didn’t trust anyone else to close the shop for you, but you went nonetheless. Nora did your makeup. Just glitter eyeshadow and a little eyeliner because you insisted you didn’t want much. And she picked out your outfit—a black lace bra, a crop top cardigan, and a pair of white shorts. 

“Because I can’t dress myself?” you grumbled, sliding on the clothes. 

“Exactly that. You dress too…hipster-y. You need to be hot for tonight.” 

You hadn’t worn that bra since you dated Namjoon. He was pretentious and arrogant and such a city boy it made you lightheaded. You met when he waltzed into the store shortly after you moved here. He smiled at you and you practically melted. The books were what he came for. He bought a Russian classic novel and at checkout, he discussed with you the allegory of sharing fruit in literature. He was eloquent and intelligent and so damn gorgeous you fell for him in that same moment. He scribbled his number on the receipt and told you to keep it. 

The relationship lasted for four months. He suggested you move into his high rise apartment downtown with him. It was a modern edifice, all glass and steel and money. He was the wealthiest person you had ever met in your life. And, stupidly, you were in love. 

And then you saw his text messages with some unfairly beautiful girl he followed on social media about how good she looked in his bed . He said he was lonely, that you worked too much, what else was he supposed to do? Needless to say, you left him. And you hadn’t seen him since. 

Now, Nora said to you, “And don’t think about wearing those fucking platform boots.”

“Why not?” you said, frowning. “They’re cute.”

“They look ridiculous. Like those boots that one goth girl from that cartoon you like wore.” 

You grinned, mischievous. “That’s exactly why I bought them.”

To Nora’s dismay, you wore the fucking platform boots. 

The party was in an underground venue. It wasn’t all red wine and an elaborate excuse to brag about money, like the gatherings Namjoon liked, it was edgy. A live band played pop punk on a stage, the lights in the place were dim save for the spotlights and the white Christmas lights behind the bar. Greasy pizza and liquor and neon lights. You brushed elbows with someone smoking a joint, and you were pretty sure someone was doing coke in the bathroom. 

Nora pulled you to the bar where she ordered herself a cocktail and you a craft beer. She knew you so well. 

There were so many people here. You mentally kicked yourself for not bringing flyers for your store. 

And then you saw him. Nora was talking your ear off about how hot the frontman for the band was and you almost choked on your beer. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you spat.

Nora blinked rapidly. “What? What happened?”

“This is why you brought me here. You cunt.” You didn’t mean to call her that. It wasn’t a word worn with frequent use in your vocabulary. In fact, you hated the word. But it was deserved in this situation. 

Namjoon. He was standing near the stage with a craft beer of his own in his hand, bobbing his head to the music. He didn’t like places like this. They were tacky to him. He didn’t even listen to this genre of music. What the hell was he doing here? 

The girl standing next to him turned to him and smiled. She was wearing lipstick as red as murder and her bob was so black it reflected the lights with an envious luster. She had a septum piercing, the two silver balls glittering in the low light like two tiny stars. That’s when it clicked. He was here because of her. She was that unfairly beautiful girl in his text messages. Your skin felt incandescent. 

“He had to see how hot you are. I thought you would enjoy shoving that in his face.” Lovely, naïve Nora. You wanted to slap her. 

You stood from the bar stool and set your craft beer on the bar. “I’m leaving now.”

Her face was slack with regret. Before she could form an apology, you turned and walked away. 

You were a few moments from the door when you heard your name. It wasn’t Nora. You stopped and your breath hitched. Your turned slowly, preparing to see Namjoon with that girl by his side but instead—

“Jungkook?”

His hair was black now and almost as shiny as that girl’s bob. It hung past his ears in gentle waves. He stood there in a baggy black shirt and jeans, his thumbs tucked into the front pockets. Silver bracelets draped from both wrists. In this lighting, he looked ethereal. Infernal. This couldn’t be the same man you shared a chimerical morning with. He looked like he had been created by the darkness of the city’s nights. 

Maybe it was just the hair. 

“Hi,” he said in the same way he did when he sat your table at the diner. It could’ve been mistaken as sheepishness, but his eyes were not meek. Besides the hair, you couldn’t figure out what was so different about him. 

Breathlessly, you said, “Hi.”

“You look nice.” 

Over his shoulder, you noticed Namjoon go to the bar. Nora scowled at him. He smiled amicably at her and his mouth moved, saying something. She froze, and her eyes immediately darted to you. Namjoon turned and saw you. And he started your way. 

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asked.

You should’ve ran out of the venue. There were a million other things you should’ve done, but instead you grabbed Jungkook and kissed him. 

Initially, he went rigid with shock, but he melted into the kiss. You felt him smile against your mouth. “Miss me that much?”

You pulled away. “I did not.” A glance over his shoulder and Namjoon was gone. You audibly exhaled. 

“What happened?” 

You ran a hand over your face. “Ex.”

“Ah,” he said. “Is that why you were leaving?”

“Yes. And now I’m going. Goodbye.” You whirled around, shoulders tense with embarrassment and headed for the stairs. 

“Wait.” He caught up to you on the stairs. “Can I go with?” There were small white string lights strung in the stairwell and the glow reflected in his eyes. They were so brown. 

“Don’t you have friends to be with?” Your phone buzzed in your back pocket with an incoming text message. Most likely your own friend dying to know who the guy you just kissed was. You ignored it. 

“They’ll be fine.” He grinned. 

“Okay,” you said, feeling yourself smile as well.

There was no destination, but you ended up at a park, sitting beside each other on a swing set. Your feet dragged in the wood chips as you pushed yourself back and forth slowly. He looked up at the night sky and sighed. “Do you want to know why I hadn’t called?”

You just looked at him. 

“This may sound like a corny excuse, but… I was afraid of what you would think of me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated before saying, “If we continued seeing each other, you would eventually find out that I’m not a freelance artist. I do paint, but that’s not what I do.”

You could feel your heartbeat gradually speeding its pace. “What do you do?” His eyes fell down to his hands. He turned them over, studying the lines in his palms. His hair slipped over his eyes. He was a portrait of affliction. “I’m a Lost Boy.”

You didn’t understand. He noticed your silence and looked up at you. “The Lost Boys. This city is practically run by them.” He corrected himself, “Ran by us.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and sighed. “I’m in a gang.”

Your voice was a whisper. “What?”  

He quickly added, “If you no longer want to associate with me, I understand. They’re—we’re—dangerous. I mean, even if you haven’t heard of us, you know us. The leather jackets, the vandalism, the fights. That venue is owned by us. The drugs at that event were supplied by us. That band playing is in our pockets. My apartment is paid by dirty money.” He laughed quietly to himself then, almost pityingly. 

The night air around you was thick with your own dread. “Is being around you dangerous?” You hadn’t meant for your voice to sound so small.

“I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re asking.” You could hear the unsaid “but” in his tone. 

“But what?” you prompted.

He chewed on his lip. A dimple in his left cheek appeared. “I won’t hurt you, but I can’t promise your safety. If you do decide to be around me.”

--

[drawlfoy]

Wonders of Ohio P.10

masterlist request guidelines

pairing: draco x reader

request: no way 

summary: american high school senior y/n y/l/n is in for a surprise when her british exchange student is a little...odd. 

warnings (AYO please pay attention to these this time it’s not just swearing): swearing, underage drinking (no i do not condone this ig), beginning elements of smut but def not too explicit, i think you can consider it dubcon ?? if both people are drunk bc i don’t think you can actually consent if youre drunk (plz rest assured tho they are both 18 hehe)

a/n: “hey where did this come from” yeah so hey yall ive never written such an intense scene before but i’ve spent so much time w these characters that i decided i kind of had to. there’s no like...real sex in this and i don’t imagine that i’d describe it in this much detail if i ever decided to write it but um.. anyways. i hope y’all enjoy. thanks for suffering for this long ! i hope i’ve made it worth it 

word count: 4k

music recs: 

cloud 9 -- beach bunny

the adults are talking -- the strokes

anything from the strokes tbh 

tags ! :) @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @evanstanfanatic @strawberriesonsummer @hariosborn @night-ving @straightzoinked @imintoodeeptostop @naiomimoonshard @jejegu @ophelia-enthusiast @alwaysbeanunknownfan @nearly-memories @litty-dumb @callieclearwater @malfoy-wife15 @charlenasaxen @belladaises @fiantomartell @writeandtranslate @erisdogwood @loveissupernatural @sycathorn-slush @big-galaxy-chaos

“Thank fucking god for the generator,” said Y/N as she flew around the kitchen, banging pots and pans together in her quest to make New Year’s Eve breakfast. Draco was sitting, unamused and completely silent, at the table. They’d been snowed in for a few days now with her parents nowhere near able to make it to the suburbs. For some reason, the entire city of Cincinnati had decided that the day before Christmas was the best time to schedule maintenance on literally every single one of their plows. “Can you imagine living here without heat? Or power? I’d die.”

Draco hummed in response. A glance over confirmed that he was deep in thought, a scarlet colored letter clutched firmly in his hand (hello, Nathaniel Hawthorne). Jealousy curdled inside of her as her thoughts turned to a dark place--it was Pansy, that Pansy Parkinson. 

Knowing her intuition, she was probably his grandmother or something. Why else would she have written so many letters?

After she finished plating all of the pancakes, she allowed herself to sneak a peek at the envelope. 

Astoria Greengrass

She frowned. Astoria? She’d never seen that name before. 

“What is this?” asked Draco as he picked up his fork to poke at the pancake on his plate.

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Have you never had a pancake before?”

“A pancake?” He gave his plate a stern look. “It looks...like a soggy pastry.”

“Fuck you, I made that,” responded Y/N. “Try it with butter and maple syrup. And then tell me it’s a soggy pastry.”

She took out her fork and knife, demonstrating very clearly what she meant as she spread butter over the top of her pancake. She’d learned that Draco was too proud to ask what she meant when she introduced him to American/muggle foods--the last time he tried to deduce something himself, he ended up pouring ketchup over the top of his hamburger bun instead of actually putting it on the patty. 

A sense of satisfaction flowed into her as she saw him follow suit, spreading the warmed butter and dipping a cut piece in syrup. He raised it to his lips, taking a delicate bite.

“Americans really have this for breakfast?”

“Yeah…is something wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” He grimaced. “This isn’t breakfast. This is dessert food.”

“God, your life must be so sad back home,” said Y/N. “What does your family make you eat--just straight unbuttered bread under the guise of it being a real breakfast food? Do they let you dip it in your unsweetened, weak tea if you’re good?”

He scoffed. “You have no idea how I live back at home.”

“And, judging from this conversation, I don’t have any desire to know any more.”

They ate in silence for the next few minutes. Y/N smiled when she saw Draco reach for a second pancake.

“Two desserts? Draco, I know it’s New Year’s, but don’t get too off the hinges,” she teased. 

He rolled his eyes, but she could tell her was fighting back a smile. “Speaking of which, how do you celebrate New Year’s?”

Draco looked up and met her eyes. “Sorry?”

“How do you celebrate tonight? With your family or your friends, or your...whatever.” The cold reality of the fact that she did not really know if he was dating someone back home set in.

“Oh, I don’t usually. It’s not really a big thing in the magical community,” he mused, unaware of her sudden panic.

“Well,” she said. “I always celebrate New Year’s with my friends. I didn’t tell you this sooner because I didn’t think that you were going to be here, but I’m kind of hosting a party here tonight. With anyone who can walk here.”

“Oh.” He took a sip of his tea. “Will it be like the Halloween party at Sylvia’s?”

“What do you mean?” She smiled. “Do you mean, will there be drinking?”

He shrugged in response, avoiding eye contact.

“There definitely can be,” she continued, her smile widening. “Last year we played this dumb drinking game over this card game--if you lost, you took a shot. It was fun. We could do that again.”

She settled down to eat, digging into two of the pancakes. They were really good--she wasn’t Gordon Ramsay by any means, but she did breakfast food pretty well. But at the mention of her friends, a realization hit her. “Oh. Draco?”

He raised an eyebrow and met her eyes.

“Um, can I tell you something?” 

He dipped his head in recognition while Y/N cleared her throat.

“So, um, I forgot about this,” she began, “but while you were gone, I kind of had to scramble to figure out what to tell everyone about why we were avoiding each other before you left. And why you left so suddenly and why I didn’t know.”

He was still watching her in curious silence. 

“So, I really didn’t want to slip up or say anything about...you.” Y/N paused to take a sip of her tea, deciding to not try to look at Draco again. “So I decided to tell Sylvia and Lizzy that I told you my feelings for you and you didn’t return them.”

A clang startled her enough to look up. Draco was staring, completely frozen. His fork had fallen into the syrup on his plate, handle and all.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“I mean, oh, fuck. Um.” She smiled at him, hoping it was going to distract from her audible stumble. “Obviously, I made it all up. I mean, both sides! But what’s important is that they bought it, and now they’re probably going to give you a little shit for not liking me ‘back’. So I’m sorry about that.”

“Made it all up, huh?” His voice had a surprisingly teasing lilt. 

“Yes, that is in fact what I said,” she responded, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt hot.

“Is it really now?” 

“Draco!” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back. I need a new fork.”

“Just wipe off the handle of the one you have now--Draco, why are you getting up? Stop!”

~ 

To her disappointment, none of her friends were able to show. Sylvia and Lizzy made a concerted effort to try and convince their family to let them brave the walk, but once another flurry started up outside, it was hopeless. Her face turned pink whenever she thought about the fact that she hadn’t even needed to tell Draco the thing that made her slip up in the first place. 

Y/N, disappointed but not surprised, told Draco that she still wanted to celebrate, even if it was just with him. He’d snorted at this--asking her why she made it seem like such a burden--but once she produced a yellow glass bottle and a deck of cards and told him she bet that she was going to beat his sorry ass, he caved.

She started with a heavy lead, but once Draco learned the rules and strategies of the slightly convoluted Go Fish game, he proved to be a worthy match. They played until around 11:45 when the bottle was about 3/4 full and Y/N was feeling the pleasant warmth of being slightly intoxicated. Once she noticed the time, she threw her cards on the table. 

“Let’s watch the ball drop,” Y/N said with no further explanation, even when Draco looked to her for one. She grabbed the bottle and his hand, pulling him up the stairs to her room. The remote control for her TV was a struggle to find--it was all the way tucked back in her nightstand drawer--but thankfully the channel was already set. 

“You forgot the cups,” Draco said, staring down at the opened bottle held in his hand.

“You can get them if you want,” she managed.

“You should! You forgot them.”

“Too far,” she whined, flopping to lean back on her pillows while Draco followed suit. His hair smelled like peppermint. Without much more thought, she moved close enough that their shoulders were touching. He didn’t move away--instead, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a drink directly. 

“Your New Year’s traditions are weird as fuck,” he murmured as he watched Savannah Guthrie on the screen. He didn’t have to speak very loud for her to hear him, and it seemed like he knew this.

“Oh, you haven’t even heard it all yet,” said Y/N. “We’ve got a tradition to kiss someone going into the New Year. New Year’s kiss, I guess. I’m sure you can imagine the kind of drama that creates.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You don’t have to be dating to kiss someone, sometimes people just...do it. As friends.” Y/N reached over to the bottle and took a swig herself, feeling the warmth trickle down her throat.

“Take it easy,” he tutted, pulling the bottle away from her before taking another drink himself. 

“Hey! Says you!”

“Because I can actually hold my liquor well,” he teased, giving her a shove.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“You just kept getting worse and worse at whatever that game was,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“Give it here,” she said, reaching across his chest to where he was holding the bottle, out and above his head. She hoped he couldn’t tell how much this side of him filled her with glee. “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair, huh?” He raised an eyebrow and met her eyes as he held it up even further into the air. His voice was startlingly low. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Before she could muster up a response, the TV began playing the audio for the New Year’s Countdown.

10!

Y/N wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer--or if he was just...flirting?

9!

He managed to set the bottle on her nightstand without taking his eyes off of her.

8!

The hand she had used to reach across him with was now pressed into his side of the bed, supporting her as she hovered over him.

7!

Without moving any part of her body, she dared to glance at his parted lips.

6!

Maybe telling him about the kiss tradition was a stupid idea.

5!

His hand, warm and soft,  reached up to brush a piece of hair away from her cheekbone. 

4! 

His fingers lingered on the outline of her jaw.

3!

2!

1!

He was kissing her before the cheers from the TV even had the chance to bounce around the room, both hands cupping her face and pulling her in so desperately that it took her breath away.

Her hands found his shoulders, then the back of his neck, and then, eventually his hair. It was just as soft as she imagined it to be. They started out innocently enough--closed mouth kisses and only their hands touching each other above the shoulders--but once she tugged on his hair (mostly by accident) something...shifted. 

Suddenly he was on top of her, and suddenly her leg was wrapped around him as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. It occurred to her that this was no longer just a New Year’s kiss. He tasted of lemon and sugar--and was notably better at what he was doing than any of the people she’d kissed before. Or maybe it was the alcohol clouding her judgement. Regardless, she liked whatever was going on. His hands had drifted from her face to her neck to her hair to her shoulder, gently tracing the outline of her bra strap. She brushed her hand down his chest, pulling gently at the collar on his shirt. Only when his leg pressed up into her and her breath hitched did she realize the weight of their situation.

The way he pulled away to hover over her signaled that he’d had the same revelation, his eyes wide as he stared down at her. “Um…”

“Yeah?” Dread crept into her despite the pleasant haze she was in. 

He swallowed, hard. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Draco was on the other side of the bed in seconds, wringing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on her floor. “Oh, my god, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I’m drunk and I’m not thinking straight. I’m so sorry.”

“Is something wrong?” She didn’t know if he wanted her to touch him, but she wanted so badly to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Did you not want...it?”

He scoffed and turned his gaze up to the ceiling. “I had too much to drink. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Y/N felt the blood drain from her face as she fell back on the bed.

That’s all it was. A drunken mistake. 

Tears pricked at her eyes as she surveyed her options. Despite the fact that she was drunk off her ass, she knew she couldn’t just tell him to leave without making her feelings clear. She never explicitly told him that she wanted him and it wasn’t like she moaned his name or anything--thank god--but what other option did she have? She didn’t want to cry in front of him, and if he stayed in her room any longer he would without a doubt witness her alcohol induced cry fest. 

NBC finally switched to ads, and Y/N granted herself permission to mourn the fact that Flo from Progressive would forever be ruined for her. 

It was dark enough for her to quickly reach up and wipe her eyes undetected, granting her enough confidence to sit up and look at him directly. “You don’t get to just...kiss me like that. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” he said. His hands were clasped tightly together and rested on his nose. “Fuck. Of course I know.”

“But you can tell me you meant it to be just as friends,” she told him, hoping he couldn’t see how hard she was fighting back a new wave of tears. 

“As friends,” he repeated, his tone flat. 

“As friends,” she said. 

“I don’t think either of us are daft enough to believe that.” 

Her stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe things are different in America, but I don’t see you doing that sort of thing with Lizzy.”

“We can forget about this. It’s fine. I know you regret it.”

He exhaled, his breath long and shaky. “I didn’t stop because I regretted it.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because…”

“Is it because I’m a muggle?” His silence was everything she needed for an answer. “Okay. I had a feeling.”

“Y/N, it’s not like...I don’t know how to explain it.” He still wouldn’t make eye contact with her. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“About what?” 

“About this!” he said, dramatically gesturing to her. “About everything!”

“I don’t understand.” The tears began pricking in the corners of her eyes again despite her best efforts. 

Draco finally looked at her. She was shocked by how genuinely distressed he looked--the last time he looked at her like this, she’d been laying on the ground outside of the antique sore. “I don’t expect you to.”

His tone was low, careful. He was holding back.

“Can you just tell me how you feel about me, then? Just so I know?”

“It’s not that--” He stopped himself, sucking in another breath before he continued. “I shouldn’t. It’s not right of me.” He groaned, flopping onto his back and covering his face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Hey,” Y/N said, reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder. “I meant it when I said that we could just forget about it. We’re friends, Draco. Just friends. I know you didn’t mean it. Let’s just pretend this never happened, ok?”

He was quiet for a bit before responding. “Did you...want me to kiss you? Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable?”

“As in, did you want me to stop?”

“Oh.” Y/N cracked her knuckles. “You didn’t violate me if you’re asking to gauge how guilty you should be.” 

“I’m glad to hear that, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

“Okay,” she said simply. He was still laying in her bed, and she hated the fact that her bed was going to smell like him until she washed everything. 

“So?” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer.”

“We’re friends, Draco.” She sent him a weak smile as she repeated her previous sentiment. “I trust you, so you didn’t make me uncomfortable.” 

She was aware of the fact that her sentence didn’t exactly track, but she wasn’t particularly concerned with the literary quality of her speech.

“That still doesn’t answer my other question.”

“I…” She felt her throat dry up. “I want--I wanted you to kiss me. I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a while now.” 

At this, he finally sat up and looked her in the eyes. She thought she could see the briefest glint of relief pass over his face before he managed to rein it back to a neutral expression.

“Did you want to kiss me?”

“I was the one who kissed you, not the other way around, yeah?”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” she snipped, hoping he caught on to her mocking. She’d missed sparring with him. 

“Yes, I kissed you because I wanted to, not for some weird ulterior motive,” he responded, rolling his eyes despite the fact that his cheeks were clearly very pink, even in her dimly lit room. “Though I agree it’s best if we just stayed friends.”

“Yeah.” She felt her face fall, but she managed to catch it before she looked too devastated. “It’s all water under the bridge. Now we know not to drink together again.”

“That too.” He shifted, clearing his throat before making eye contact with her again with an uncharacteristically soft expression. “But the damage is already done, I suppose?”

“I suppose,” she echoed. “You wanted to kiss me? Actually?”

“Should we really talk about this? After what we just said about staying friends?”

“We’re going to feel regret tomorrow morning no matter what we do now, “ said Y/N. “Might as well.”

He smiled one of his rare smiles--the ones where his eyes went all soft and he dipped his head to hide it. “Yes. I really do. Want to kiss you, that is.”

“I really want you to kiss me,” she blurted out before slapping her hand over her mouth in shock. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” 

His smile morphed into more of a smirk as he crept closer, his hand resting on top of her knee. “So can I do it again?”

“Draco…” She sighed.

“The damage is already done,” he repeated as he reached his hand up to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers dragging down her neck. The smug look that formed on his face after she drew a quick breath in confirmed that he knew what he was doing, that fucker. “You said it yourself--we’re just friends.”

“I’m going to hate myself in the morning if I say yes.”

 Draco’s hand drifted over her jaw, his thumb pausing to trace over her bottom lip. “You can hate me instead.” 

This time, it didn’t surprise her so much when he leaned in. He was notably less desperate, taking time to draw breaths in between kisses and lacing his fingers through hers, squeezing. Once he seemed satisfied, he lifted her chin and brushed the hair away from her neck, kissing down from her jaw to her collarbone. She shivered, and he drew her closer by wrapping his arms around her until she was sitting on his lap.

“Wow, you’re such a good friend, Draco,” she managed to joke. She could feel the smirk that formed on his lips as it passed over her clavicle.

 “Shut up.” His teeth grazed over her delicate skin before he sucked, eliciting a gasp from her. She could feel him smile again. 

His hands teased the bottom hemline of her sweater, his fingers tangling in the fabric but not moving it. She sucked in a breath, feeling his hands ghost over her skin. 

“Are you okay with…”

“Yes!” The answer came out much quicker than she would’ve liked, but the grin on Draco’s face made it completely worth the momentary embarrassment as he helped her out of the thick cable-knit sweater. “Now is your chance to dote on me and tell me how beautiful I am. As a friend, of course.”

“You stole the words right out of my mouth,” he said. He looked like he was positively glowing as she smiled and leaned in to kiss him, slow and deep. His hands found her back and hesitated over her bra clasp.

Before he had a chance to do anything, Y/N started fiddling with the buttons on his white shirt, successfully undoing the first two before she noticed that Draco had frozen completely.

“Is something wrong?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Maybe...not now, okay?”

“I had a feeling that was too much,” she admitted, reaching for her top before realizing he’d tossed it across her bedroom floor and suddenly feeling very exposed.

“It’s not that…” he said, trailing off. “I just...should probably tell you some things before my shirt comes off. And I don’t think tonight is the best time for that.”

“Oh.” Y/N tried to make herself look like she understood whatever he was on about. “Yeah, of course. Oh! Is it about that tattoo you tried to gaslight me into believing didn’t exist?”

“Y/N!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t gaslight you!”

“Here you go again,” she huffed. “I rest my case.” 

“And I am not getting into that now,” he said. “I didn’t want to talk about it for very good reason.” 

She reached up to his shoulders, dragging her fingertips over his collarbones and watching as he gazed up at her. “That’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The corners of his lips turned up at this, and she took the opportunity to press a chaste kiss on the edge of his mouth. “I think we should go to sleep. We have enough material to regret for tomorrow at this point. Any more and I think we’ll be getting greedy, so--”

Draco cut her off with one last kiss, his fingers splayed out across her back, pulling her impossibly close before finally releasing her.

“Agreed.” He let out a sigh before sliding her off him and standing up to grab her runaway sweater. “Do you want to sleep in this? Or do you want me to get you something else from your dresser while I’m up?”

“Um…” She was frozen at the prospect of him watching her change clothes. “Probably something else. Top left drawer--just pick whatever.”

He sifted through her piles of random T-shirts before settling on one with the UChicago logo and tossing it to her. 

Y/N pulled it over her head, grateful for the fact that he wasn’t staring at her with only a black lace bra that barely did its job. 

“So, uh, I think I should probably go then,” he said. 

She fought the urge to ask him to stay. “Yeah, that’d be best.”

His mouth opened like he was about to say something, but he closed it and frowned. “So I guess this is goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Draco,” she replied. “I’ll look forward to agonizing over this in the morning.”

Once the sounds of his footsteps heading down the hall faded, she finally allowed herself to flop back onto her now Draco-scented sheets.

What the fuck just happened.

final a/n: hellooooooo ! it finally happened! i hope this didn’t seem rushed or unnatural to you guys but like. it’s been over 30k words and i thought you guys deserved something. yes i am going to be leaning into the whole “we’re just friends” trope while definitely not being just friends. yes i am going to drag astoria into this i’m excited i hope yall enjoyed

[nazyalenskyism]

Unusual Encounters

A/N: This fic is for the GVBB's mini bang @grishaversebigbang! We're so excited that we get to finally share our works with with you!  @sketcherooroo ‘s fantastic art for this fic can be found here, and @art-by-me19 ‘s fantastic art for this fic can be found here!

Summary: With impossible stakes on the line for both the Ravkans and the Crows, the last quiet moments before the chaotic auction provide a brief opportunity for peace.

Ao3: Unusual Encounters

        “You don’t trust them,” Inej’s voice whispered in his ear. She had quietly found her way to his shoulder, as she always had but something was different now. Ever since he’d caught her eye at the Slat, when she’d nearly leapt down to avenge him in what she’d thought were his final moments, he could sense that she saw through him, truly saw him. It was a feeling he had avoided, when his Crows tried to get to know him, or other bosses tried to figure him out, he’d evaded their attempts as easily as he slipped out of handcuffs. But Inej was different, she always had been. Even when he had guarded himself from her, she had always been able to find a way to understand him. It was an unspoken part of the pact they shared.

        “I don’t trust anyone.”

        He could feel her gaze on him without turning to confirm it, the dark brown of her eyes posing a question, maybe a challenge,  don’t you? And she was right, didn’t he trust her? He had trusted her with his secrets for years, as much as he hated to think that he had let anyone know any part more of him than the lies he’d built around himself, he trusted Inej, and that was the truth. Fortunately for him, he was not virtuous or honorable like his Wraith and therefore he had no issue with lying, it was what thieves and conmen did, and he felt no shame in that.         He ignored the look. “I don’t need to trust them. They care about their country, they were desperate enough to come make a deal with a thief from the Barrel because they have no other choice. They need Kuwei to save the Grisha, and they will pay any price for that. The idea that they could let him slip from their fingers is so unfathomable that I don’t need to trust them. Their position makes them predictable.” 

        Kaz flipped his pen between his fingers, allowing himself a moment to contemplate. He believed that what he had told Inej was the truth, but there was something about the Ravkans that made him want to hesitate. He had never played games alongside Kings before, and while he’d heard much about the incompetence of the Fjerdan king and the old Ravkan King, there were fewer whispers about the current king than there were shouting remarks. People in Little Ravka had hung banners for the new king, singing about the Boy King, the King of Scars, who had supposedly been taken prisoner and tortured by the Darkling. Kaz didn’t care about Ravkan politics, but in his business, secrets and knowing your surroundings were key, and there was something to be said of a man who had been king for years, yet had managed to keep any rumors from finding their way down into Inej’s hands, and then Kaz’s. Perhaps there was even more to the royal than Kaz had let himself see. He would have to keep note of that, no good came from underestimating your allies and enemies.

        “You like him,” Inej mused, following his line of sight to the boy king turned pirate, “why?”         “I don’t like anyone, Wraith.”

        “You like Jes,” Inej countered, “you like Wylan and Nina, maybe even Kuwei and Matthias, and you like--” she broke off, turning away from him. Kaz desperately wanted to reach out and say, what, exactly? That he did like her, that it was more than like, that he valued her beyond her talents. That he appreciated her strength, her light, the magic she brought into his world that he had long since dreamt was impossible to conjure? But they didn’t have time for that, and she did not want to hear those words from him. 

        “Would you trust a pirate?”

        “He’s a privateer Kaz, authorized by the Ravkan king to be here, accompanied with the highest ranking Grisha in the world.” 

        “You didn’t answer the question,” he rasped, amusement pulling at him.

        “If I’ve learned anything from you, it’s to never trust anyone, so no,” she relented, hand brushing over her knives, and he knew she must be asking the Saints to spare them a betrayal.         Kaz knew that if they did face a betrayal, he would put money on his crew to come out on top any day.                                                                ***

        “Look at them,” Zoya hissed from over his shoulder. They were mulling over the plan they had concocted for the auction the following day, hunched over a desk in the corner of the room. 

        “Who, Nazyalensky?”         “Nina, her Fjerdan, the Wraith, the Barrel rat, the Grisha and the merchant boy, the whole lot of reprobates.”

        “So, everyone?” Nikolai muttered, amending the papers before him, the inner workings of Mister Brekker’s mind laid out before him. The plan was clever, but to someone who had built their life upon being clever, he could tell there were obvious omissions, Brekker was clearly up to something more than what he’d written down, but Nikolai would expect nothing less from the boy who’d orchestrated a heist into the Ice Court.             “You should be more worried,” she huffed, snatching the pen from his hand to scribble something down, “they’re not trustworthy.”

        “I don’t trust them, Nazyalensky. We’re simply allied towards a common goal.”

        “Allies don’t trust one another?”

        “I believe they’ll keep their side of the deal because they want their money, and they want Kuwei to make it out of Kerch alive. We are useful to them for that reason, so they won’t break the deal.”

        “So our plans hinge on the wants of a group of children?”

        “You were about their age during the civil war,” Nikolai said, “besides, I thought you would be elated that she’s alive,” he hummed, thinking back to how devastated Zoya had been when she’d come back from the mission where Nina went missing. She’d spent weeks searching for the girl, and it was only an order from him that had brought her back from searching the oceans for that Drüskelle ship, and though she’d never said it, Nikolai knew she had resented him for it.         “She’s being reckless! A Fjerdan— not to mention a Drüskelle? What is she thinking?”

        “That she loves him.” In the corner of the room, Nina sat with her legs splayed out over the boy-- Matthias’ lap as she indulged in a plate of waffles, heaping with whipped cream and strawberries. The Fjerdan simply smiled as Nina rambled on about the exact viscosity required for syrup to best enhance the waffle-eating experience, the smile transforming into reddening cheeks and an abashed look when she dalloped cream onto his nose.

        Zoya huffed, looking away from the pair, “love is for fools.”

        Nikolai cut her a glance, “ruthless as always, Commander. They found each other and despite all circumstances managed to fall in love. That’s the stuff stories are made of.”

        “You need to cut down on the novels, you’re too much of a romantic already. I fear for your future bride.”         “Not marriage talk again, Nazyalensky. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were trying to get rid of me.”         “Clearly I’m failing,” Zoya muttered as Brekker motioned for everyone to gather round to discuss the plan. “If I had been successful, you’d be bobbing for herring in a canal.” 

        Brekker raised a gloved finger causing his gang to quiet like a group of children falling in line before their governess. Interesting. Not only was the thief an expert in disguise and evading attention, but commanding it was another skill entirely. Nikolai wondered what scars the boy bore, to don gloves like Nikolai’s own. What horrors caused a 17 year old to rise to being the most notorious Barrel Boss in Ketterdam, after years of climbing up the ladder and making a monstrous name for himself?  

        “Everyone out except the Grisha and the Pirate.” 

        “Did you hear that, Nazyalensky,” Nikolai muttered under his breath as the others began to protest, “‘the Grisha and the Pirate. Sounds like a rousing title for a play, though I do prefer ‘The World’s Handsomest, Most Skilled Privateer, and the Grisha.” 

        “I prefer, “The Pirate Who Finally Shut up Because the Grisha Ripped Out His tongue.”

        “Privateer,” he corrected, returning her glare with a wink. “Such vivid imagery, Commander, have you ever considered becoming a playwright?”         “Perhaps I’ll pursue that avenue once this plan goes to hell and our country falls because of it. I’m sure it pays better.” 

        Nikolai laughed, their attention turning back to the gang as Brekker held up a hand again, “we will discuss the final plan once the details have been agreed upon and the Ravkans are back at their embassy.” 

        The tall Zemeni boy-- Jesper, halted on his way out of the room, peering back around the door, “what about the airship?”

        “What?” Kaz’s voice was irritable, or perhaps that’s how it always sounded. Then again, Nikolai thought as he caught Brekker’s eyes drifting towards the girl perched on the open window sill behind him, sunlight glinting against her plait, firing a similar light behind his eyes, maybe not always.         “Perhaps if you visit Ravka, you’ll get a chance then,” Nikolai replied coyly, winking at the boy.         “Yes,” Zoya added, as he let out a laugh, turning around to leave, “you’ll find that doors in Ravka are always open to those wanting to seek entry.”

        “What was that?” Nikolai muttered as the others followed the boy out, “that was so cryptic that I barely put it together.”

        “How else was I supposed to allude to it, Sturmhond? I can’t very well say, ‘you’re a Grisha, you should come to train at the Little Palace right this instant?’ You’re the brains, I’m the muscle.”         “Why, Zoya, did you just call me smart?” 

        “You’re as smart as I am pleasant,” she retorted, moving towards the table Brekker and the Wraith were at.         “Fortunately for me, I find your company to be nothing short of intoxicating, Nazyalensky.”

        She rolled her eyes as they sat down across from Brekker and the girl named Inej, Nikolai spreading their plans out next to Kaz’s. 

        “So,” he said, letting the voice of authority slip him as easily as he slipped into his teal frock coat, “where do we begin?”

[honey-dewey]

Memories as Hard as Beskar

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader

Word Count: 3,627

Warnings: Description of injury, mentions or pregnancy, flashbacks

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell

Traveling with Mando had been the best part of your life. For almost three years you’d dedicated your skills as a nurse and mechanic to him and his ship. And he had repaid you in the only way he knew how. Unfortunately, your travels were long gone, halted after you found out you were pregnant. Leaving your beskar protector, you settled down to raise your babies, hoping beyond hope you would never see the man who had once enchanted you.

“Buir? What’s this?” 

You turned, sighing and herding your girls closer to your side. Zhulk and Ono, your twins, were both at that stage where curiosity won over in their minds, and they insisted on checking everything out. Sometimes you didn’t mind, but you knew just how corrupt the galaxy could get, and more often than not, you sought to protect your kids from that horror. 

“On’ika, come here,” you said firmly, tucking Ono to your side. She gripped your skirt, the coarse fabric rubbing against your leggings. You put a hand protectively around her head, smiling to the familiar baker who gave the girls honey buns when you weren’t looking. Even now, she slipped them bites of raisin bread, winking at you.

Zhulk skipped off once you’d grabbed bread, ever the troublesome twin. “Zhul’ika!” You shouted, following after her with Ono by your side. “Zhul’ika you get back here this instant!” 

Zhulk turned, running backwards and sticking her tongue out at you. “Make me!” 

“Oh you little jerk,” you growled, planting Ono with the baker, hitching up your skirt, and racing after your unruly daughter. Zhulk may have been fast, but you had endurance. All those years outrunning bounties would do that to a person, and you couldn’t help but remember the last time you’d been on a chase like this. 

You grinned, feet hitting the ground and sending vibrations up your legs, but the thrill of the chase was enough to help you ignore it. The quarry in front of you, your beskar protector beside you, nothing would ever be able to deter you from this life. 

“Left!” You shouted, signaling to your left. The man beside you began to veer off, taking a shortcut that would lead him to cutting the quarry off. Meanwhile, you kept up the chase, glad your protector had trained you well. 

“Zhul’ika!” You shouted, seeing her turn a corner and pass out of view. “Haar'chak Zhul’ika, get back here!” The instances of the foreign language were second nature by now, a slip up and a tribute at the same time. 

Zhulk turned yet again to run backwards and immediately smacked directly into someone, falling flat on her back. You rushed up, grabbing her by the scruff of her jacket and pulling her to her feet. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, checking her over for injuries. When she nodded, you gave her wrists a light smack. “Or'dinii! You scared me! Don’t ever do that again!” You stood, taking Zhulk and lifting her onto your hip. She gripped your tunic, hiding her face in your shoulder. You smoothed a hand over her hair. “I’m so sorry she ran into you,” you said to whoever she’d crashed into. “She’s young and foolish and.” You stopped, finally looking at the man. 

It was a mandalorian. Pure silver beskar and that faceless helmet, he was so familiar it made your heart hurt. 

“It’s okay,” he promised, before walking off. 

You let out a breath, chest aching. There was no doubt. That had been your Mando. The one you’d trusted, the one you’d loved. The one you’d left. That day, that horrible day, flashed through your mind. 

You pressed a hand over your belly, trying to gauge whether it was bigger or not. Four used tests were scattered around the fresher, each one saying the same thing. 

Positive. 

Sighing, you tried to keep a level head. There was only one possible father, but you could never tell him. He’d probably kill you. 

Smoothing a hand over your bare belly, you smiled, already feeling a gentle maternal instinct burning through your veins. You would already die for the bean in your stomach, and you couldn’t even see it. 

In that moment, it was decided. You gathered your meager belongings from your bunk and left, leaving behind a hectic and happy life for one more stable, more suited to your new status as a parent. 

“Buir?” 

You snapped your head towards Zhulk. “Yes?” 

“Who was that?”

Faltering for a split second, you shook your head, turning to scan for Mando again. “I don’t know cyar’ika. Why don’t we go get Ono and go home, okay?” 

Zhulk buried her head in your shoulder and nodded slowly. Her chase had worn her out, something you were thankful for. Ono was still waiting for you with the baker, and you held her hand tight the entire way home. 

Dinner was a calm affair, with both Ono and Zhulk staying quiet while you walked around in a trance preparing the food. Your hands moved of their own accord, chopping and cooking. Meanwhile, your head was playing back images of your life almost seven years ago. 

“Mando!” You shouted playfully, looking around for your missing mandalorian. “Mando, come here!” 

Mando came out from around the corner, blood still leaking sluggishly from his shoulder. You pat the mattress beside you, inviting him to sit. “C’mon. A broken warrior is no good in a fight. Let me fix you up.” 

Chuckling, Mando sat beside you, stripping out of his shirt and exposing the wound. You expertly sewed it up, smeared it with bacta, and wrapped it in a bandage. 

“How can I ever thank you for what you’ve done?” Mando asked, despite knowing the answer you gave every time. 

“I can think of a few ways,” you purred, pressing a hand to his chest and feeling his heartbeat, wild under your fingers. 

“Buir!” 

You snapped out of your thoughts, nearly cutting the tip of your finger off as the knife in your hands came down. “Yes On’ika?” You said, turning. 

Ono tipped her head. “Are you okay?” 

“Of course.” You smiled, placing the knife down and walking to the table, kissing each of your girls on top of their heads. “I’m going to finish up, okay? Then we can eat. And guess what? There’s uj’alayi for dessert!” 

Both girls smiled, the promise of the cake making them behave while you finished dinner. 

Once they’d eaten and you’d ushered them off to bathe away the uj’ayl syrup residue, you were finally able to relax. Unfortunately, relaxing always brought back the memories. The memories of him. 

“Cyar’ika,” he said softly, playing with the hair that fell over your exposed ear. “Cyar’ika, are you still awake?” 

You nodded, turning in the absolute darkness to find your mandalorian. “Barely. Why?” 

Mando shrugged, you feeling his shoulder move beneath your ear. “Can’t sleep.” 

Sighing, you traced a pattern into Mando’s bare chest, occasionally feeling the soft edge of the bandage on his arm. “Close your eyes my love. I’ll be here when you wake, as always.” 

The sound of your girls wishing you goodnight pulled you from your reminiscing. You echoed their words, feeling a soft tug on your heart. Everything you’d ever done was to protect them, to keep them blissfully unaware of the life you’d led and the danger that faced them. You followed the girls into their room, tucking both of them in with a smile. “Sweet dreams,” you said softly. 

“Buir?” Ono asked. “Can you tell us a story?” 

“Yeah!” Zhulk agreed. “Something exciting.” 

You smiled, settling down on Ono’s bed and gesturing Zhulk close. “Something exciting? How about a story about me?” 

“We said exciting!” Zhulk pointed out, cuddling to your side. 

“My life was exciting!” You argued playfully. “This is how your Buir met the scariest man they’d ever met.” 

You launched into the story, making it PG so as not to scare the girls. It was a true story, but not how you met the scariest man you’d ever met. Oh no, this was the story of how you met your mandalorian. 

Alarms blared from every angle as you raced down the dingy corridors and navigated flawlessly to the med bay. The station had never been this alive, not even when men had been dying. The injured person must’ve been important. 

You skidded to a stop in the med bay, seeing a man you’d only ever heard about laying on one of your cots. The beskar killer. The mandalorian. 

Ran had only ever spoken about the Mando briefly, and it was mostly to tell you he was dangerous and very good at his job. Now, he was bleeding out, and you were the only nurse on board the entire damned station. 

Swearing violently, you moved automatically, prepping as if this were any other patient. You wheeled Mando into an operating room, transferring him to the rubber OR table and turning to get yourself ready. Gloves, a black apron, and a mask over your mouth and nose was all you were able to manage before turning back to your patient. 

The stories about Mando persisted, despite your adrenaline. Never removed his helmet, not ever, and he resented droids. You wanted to ask him if the helmet rule applied to the rest of his armor, but you didn’t have time and he wasn’t exactly conscious. Instead, you set up a scanner to scan his head and look for injuries behind the beskar. Typically, you’d have a medical droid around to help, but said droid was still outside the room. You didn’t want any more reason for Mando to kill you when he came to. 

Piling the armor in a haphazard stack, you cut Mando out of the rest of his clothes, tossing the heap of bloodstained fabric into a bag. Leaving him in his underwear, you took a quick catalog of injuries. His leg was cut down to the bone just above the knee, his ribs were clearly broken, both his arms sported heavy burns from the elbows down, and according to the scanner, he was concussed. Aside from the severe, he had some small scrapes that added to the mess he was making and the blood that was starting to drip onto the floor. 

You began with the worst of the injuries. It took some serious reconstruction to put Mando’s leg back together in a way that would remain functional, but you did it. Finally stitching his skin together and spraying the injury with bacta, you wrapped it in a bandage and smeared your bloodied glove on the scanner’s assessment bank. It trilled and whirred while you checked for pneumothorax. Thankfully, the broken ribs hadn’t punctured a lung, so you moved on to assess the damage level, praying you wouldn’t actually have to cut Mando open. 

The scanner trilled again, displaying Mando’s blood type. You grabbed a blood bag and a pain reliever, hanging both on an IV hook and finding a vein. It was quick work, and you were suddenly less scared you would accidentally kill Mando as you watched his vitals stabilize somewhat. 

You continued your exam of the broken ribs, deeming the break not serious. It was a relief, despite how much pain Mando must’ve been in. At least you wouldn’t have to cut into him to put his ribs back together yourself. 

Moving on to the burns, those were easy enough to treat. A strong burn cream mixed with bacta to help accelerate the healing, and you were methodically wrapping Mando’s arms in bandages. 

His concussion was another thing entirely. You know you had to leave it alone, just like his ribs, but without examining his head fully, you had no idea how severe the injury was. 

You stepped back, looking down. You were absolutely disgusting, bloody from fingertips to shoes. You sighed, replacing your gloves and removing your mask. Grabbing a sponge, you carefully began to clean Mando down, wiping away the blood and eventually working his limp body into a fabric medical gown. Laying him back down on the rolling table, you sighed yet again. Today had been too long. You needed a break. 

Gripping the bed sheets, you blinked tears from your eyes. Both your girls were long asleep, cuddled up to your body. You lifted Zhulk out of Ono’s bed and put her in her own, tucking the blankets around her and pressing one last kiss to her forehead before you went to go get some sleep yourself. 

You had a blissfully dreamless sleep. Usually when you remembered meeting Mando, you dreamt about helping him escape with the Razor Crest, you alongside him as you flew away from a horrible life and into one that you could be proud of living. 

Now, ten years later, you had to wonder if you were actually proud of what you’d done. 

The morning came quickly, and you got ready to walk the girls to school. They were both waiting in the kitchen, yawning and rubbing their eyes. 

“Good morning!” You said cheerily, putting two bowls of cereal on the table. “Who’s ready for school?” 

Neither of your girls answered. Instead, they just ate slowly, which was to be expected this early in the morning. 

Thankfully, they woke up a bit more by the time you had to leave, ushering them out the door and towards the school. 

You never made it. 

Instead, you were interrupted by blaster fire and screaming, your old instincts forcing you to herd Zhulk and Ono into a building, putting yourself between the outside and the door. You had no blaster, but you wouldn’t let anyone hurt your girls. Not without killing you first

Unsurprisingly, Mando came skidding around a bend, spotting you and, likely on instinct, grabbing your hand and forcing you to run beside him. You followed, despite your want to stay behind. “Let me go!” You yelled, taking a sharp turn and yanking Mando along with you. “My kids! I have to protect them!” 

“They’ll be fine!” Mando shouted back, holding his arm protectively across his chest. 

“Dammit Mando! They’re in danger!” You took another turn, backtracking until you were at the back door of the building you’d put Zhulk and Ono into. Breathing heavy, you shoved the door open and slammed it shut just in time. 

“Buir? Is that you?” 

You let go of Mando’s hand, kneeling down to wrap your girls in a firm hug. “It’s me. We’re safe here ner ade. We’re safe.” 

“Who’s that?” Ono asked once you’d let her go. 

“Oh.” You’d almost forgotten Mando was behind you. “This is a very old friend of mine.” 

You could feel the twist in your gut at the word friend. He’d been so much more at one point, and yet, you’d abandoned that bond for a word as simple as friend. 

Mando sighed, falling into a wayward chair, and you were finally able to look around. The building was an old cantina, and you ushered the girls into a booth before pulling a chair up beside Mando. 

“You left.” Was all he said after a minute of crushing silence. 

“I did,” you agreed quietly. 

Mando glanced at Zhulk and Ono, who were playing a card game on the table. “I take it they’re the reason.” 

“That life was no life for a child,” you confirmed. 

Another longer stare, and then the question you’d been dreading was finally asked. 

“Who’s the father?” 

Before you could find a way to respond, blaster fire echoed throughout the cantina. Mando jumped to his feet, shoving a bag into your chest. “I’ll get this from you later, just go!” 

You slung the bag across your back, took your girl’s hands, and began to run. 

It was a long trip home. You went the confusing route, throwing anyone off your tail if you had been followed. Eventually, you ushered the girls into your house, locking the door and settling in the living room. 

Which was when you noticed the squealing. 

The bag on your back was moving, small squeals and general noises of discomfort coming out. You opened the flap, immediately cooing and lifting the small green baby out of the bag. “Oh look at you,” you said sweetly, fingers ghosting over a small wound on the baby’s head. “Let’s get that all fixed up, okay?” 

You were as gentle as possible with the baby, eventually putting him between Zhulk and Ono on the couch, tucking the three children beneath a blanket and heading off to find your blaster. It was old and probably needed to be adjusted, but it would protect you well. 

Hours later, a familiar knock echoed through the house. You jumped up, opening the door and revealing Mando on your doorstep. You pulled him in and locked the door behind him. 

“Kitchen, now,” you directed, falling into an old pattern despite the years. Mando followed you, sitting in a kitchen chair and allowing you to check him over, tsking as you patched a wayward injury on his forearm. He was quiet, removing his armor and making himself at home. 

“Where’s the child?” He asked finally, once you’d put the first aid kit away. 

“With the girls,” you said. “Safe.” 

Mando stood. “Those girls. Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped. It would’ve,” he paused, trying to find the words. “It would’ve made me feel better to know you were safe.” 

“Dammit Mando!” You hissed, trying to keep quiet. “You think I didn’t want to? To call you and ask you to pick me up? The girls, Maker, those girls never needed a life like that, but I did! I always did!” 

“So why’d you go?” Mando asked, coming close and placing his warm hands against your arms. “Why’d you leave?” 

You sniffled, unaware that you’d started crying. “Can’t you see? They look nothing like me Mando. Don’t tell me you’re that dull.” 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

You took a breath. “They’re yours Mando. You’re the father.” 

Despite seemingly already knowing, Mando was dead silent for a while, simply pressing the cold of his beskar against the warm of your forehead. Eventually, he pulled the helmet off in one swift movement and kissed you, running a hand down your back and securing you close to him. When he pulled away, you were met with familiar brown eyes, eyes he had passed on to his kids. 

“Oh lord,” you muttered, tracing his features with one finger. “I always knew they looked like you, but this is scary.” 

“I know,” Mando murmured. “I’m sorry I never came back for you.” 

“I’m sorry I left in the first place.” 

Mando chuckled. “I guess we should start over. Hello, I’m Din Djarin.” 

You laughed. “Hello Din. I am madly in love with you.” 

“Feeling’s mutual,” Din promised, kissing you again. 

“Buir?” 

You practically shoved Din away, whirling to find Zhulk and Ono, holding the baby, standing in the kitchen’s entry. “Hey. Why aren’t you asleep?” 

“We heard a noise,” Zhulk said, looking up at Din. “Is he really just a friend?” 

You knelt down, pulling the girls close. “You know how I told you many years ago that your other Buir wasn’t around anymore. That it was only ever going to be me.” 

Both girls nodded. 

“Well, that’s your other Buir.” You gestured to Din. “He’s a mandalorian, a very dangerous kind of person.” 

Neither of them seemed fazed by that. Instead, they immediately accepted this new reality and left to go play a game. You stood, marveling at how easy that was. “Such is the mind of a child, I guess,” you mumbled. “Anyway, Din, why don’t we get caught up. I’ve got some uj’alayi, if you still like it.” 

The rest of your day and most of your night passed in a blur of information and conversation. Din told you about the Child, and you told him about your girls. 

“I’ve been quested to bring him to his kind,” Din said when you asked him about his plans for the future. “I know I can’t ask you to come with me. My quest is dangerous, more dangerous than my life before. It would put you and the girls at risk every day.” 

You took his hand. “Din. I’m sure we could stay safe somehow.” 

-two years later-

You smiled, watching Zhulk and Ono run around with Grogu. You and Din were staying with the Jedi who’d taken Grogu a year ago, simply visiting for the week. Your swollen belly prevented you from doing much besides watching, the next addition to your family ready to arrive any day now. 

“Mesh’la?” Din came up behind you, putting a hand on your aching back. You smiled, kissing him as he bent down. 

“Yes?” 

“Have you decided on a name? He won’t stay in there forever, you know,” Din joked, kneeling down to kiss the swell of your stomach. 

You laughed, reaching down to card through your riduur’s hair. “How does Jullat sound? I liked that one best.” 

“Jullat Djarin,” Din mused, standing and putting an arm around your waist. “I like it.” 

Jullat, as if sensing that this was a precious moment, began to kick. You laughed, pressing a hand to your belly. “Yes my little Jull’ika, I know. You’re just as ready as I am.” 

Din smiled. “I’m so proud of you,” he said, kissing your cheek. “So very proud.” 

You rubbed your hand over your belly, looking out over your life now. What had once been a lonely clan of three with a single parent hiding from their past was now a beautiful clan of almost six, all together. Remembering Din’s wedding vows, you pressed yourself to his side to get his attention. “We will raise warriors,” you murmured, watching Zhulk chase Ono around. “Do you think we succeeded?” 

Din nodded, kissing the top of your head. “I think we did.” 

“Buir! Come here!” Ono shouted, passing by you. “Zhulk’s trying to kill me!” 

You chuckled, nudging Din. “That’s your cue,” you reminded. Din smiled and walked off to give Ono the advantage in their game. You sat on a stone, watching your family, all together, as it should be.

[charincharge]

I Don’t Want To Wait, four

rowaelin high school bff au  masterlist

The night Rowan spent snoring next to Aelin was the best night of sleep she’d ever had. After they woke in a tangle of arms and legs, sandwiched together, Aelin wrote an entire page in her journal about the amount of touching they did. She was incredibly upset that she was unconscious for most of it.

She was grateful for their all-nighter though, because in the week that followed, she’d barely seen him. He’d been at the mercy of Lacrosse practices, every morning and evening, doing drills and scrimmages until he could barely walk. She was especially annoyed because with morning practices, it cut into her special Rowan driving her to school time. Because there was no way she was waking up in time to drive him to the field in the morning.

However, today was finally the Lacrosse championship game, which meant that tonight, Aelin would get her best friend back.

She couldn’t wait.

Aelin had spent all last night making a Rowan’s Pump Up Playlist, to help him get into the zone today. He’d briefly mentioned that the cheerleaders were each assigned a varsity player to bake treats for, and Aelin refused to be outshined by some random cheerleader.

Aelin flipped through the playlist one last time. It was good. 47 songs in honor of the number on his, each one an empowering anthem or a self-assured ego boost. Plus, Aelin may have sneakily included songs that insinuated how she felt about him. She only hoped he would read between the lines.

She took her time dressing in green and gold, the school’s colors, and Aelin felt ready for game day. But she suddenly did not feel like waiting around for Rowan to come pick her up today. She wanted to see his face now.

So, in a last minute decision, Aelin rushed out to get them both coffees and headed to the small condo Rowan lived in with his Aunt Maeve. Black, no sugar or milk for Rowan. Hazelnut syrup and extra creamer for Aelin. She placed the hot beverage holder into her bike basket and took off.

Aunt Maeve was just heading out as Aelin pulled the coffees from her basket. Maeve greeted her with a large hug and a wide smile.

“You’re up early, hon,” she laughed, but Aelin smiled through her self-consciousness. She wasn’t really a morning person, but today was important to Rowan. And she wanted to be the best best friend she could be.

“Is he still out on his run?” Aelin asked, and Maeve shook her head, biting her lip conspiratorially.

“He actually didn’t run this morning.”

Aelin gasped an overexaggerated intake of air. She couldn’t fathom Rowan not running every single morning of his life. “No run?!”

Maeve laughed again. “Nope. He wanted to rest up before the big game. Poor thing looked exhausted last night. In fact, last I checked he was still sleeping.”

Aelin looked at her watch. 7:15. Most mornings Rowan was up at 5. If he was actually still asleep, Aelin would never stop mocking him for it. Plus, as she rediscovered the other morning, she really enjoyed a sleepy Rowan.

“Go ahead and wake him,” Meave said, but Aelin hadn’t waited to her approval to make her way into the condo. She made her way up the narrow stairs, coffee in each hand, and headed down the hall to the bedroom she knew so well.

Aelin fiddled with the old handle and pushed it open. The heavy door cracked open slowly, falling against Aelin’s body, so she had to slowly shove it with her hip.

One foot, one shoulder and half her face into Rowan’s bedroom, Aelin completely froze. Deer in headlights. Struck down where she stood.

Because Rowan was not asleep, as his Aunt had thought. Rowan was very much awake. Though his eyes remained closed, Aelin’s gaze fell to about halfway down the covers, where there was a lot of movement going on. She watched for a solid second, jaw unhinged, as Rowan’s hand moved up and down beneath his dark sheets, making a peaked shape with each vigorous movement.

Aelin gasped and blinked rapidly, realizing that she should exit the room immediately, but her gasp was too loud.

Rowan’s eyes flew open and landed on her, standing in his doorway, staring, and she watched as Rowan’s cheeks flooded with red.

“AELIN!” he squawked. “WHAT THE FUCK?” Flustered, she watched as Rowan grasped at his comforter, halting his movements to pull up the dark sheets to his chin, so nothing but this face was peeking out. “CLOSE THE DOOR!” Despite the volume, his voice was breathy and strangled, as if he’d just come from his run.

“Oh my gods,” Aelin mumbled, and she knew her cheeks would be redder than Rowan’s if she were to glance in a mirror. “Oh my gods,” she repeated, taking a step back and letting the door slam in her face.

Through the thick wood, she could hear Rowan groan loudly, but it was muffled by sheets. Gods. Aelin knew that Rowan was probably doing that. But to actually see it….? She thought her face might be permanently stained red with how hot she suddenly felt.

Aelin bit her lip, toeing at the beige carpet beneath her sneaker, wondering what the hell she should do now.

“I’m sorry!” she squeaked out.

“AELIN, GO DOWNSTAIRS!” Rowan bellowed loudly from behind the door, and Aelin nodded, despite him being unable to see her face. “I’ll be down… soon,” he said softer.

“Kay,” Aelin replied quickly. “You don’t have to rush, or anything. I can… uh, wait. For you to… finish.”

“Aelin, please…” Rowan sounded pained, and she wondered if it was because of his embarrassment or other things. Nope. She was not going to think about that.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aelin repeated over and over as she stumbled her way downstairs to the small kitchen table. She slumped over the cheery yellow table and placed her head in her hands, willing her face to cool down. But every time she managed to calm herself, she’d remember the movement beneath Rowan’s sheets and become warm again.

When she heard the shower turn on overhead, Aelin placed her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut and willed the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She sat like that, even after she heard the heavy footfall of Rowan’s shoes coming down the stairs and tread across the kitchen floor.

She heard the sound of a chair scraping across the tile, but Aelin kept her hands over her face, unable to look at him.

Rowan sighed loudly and took a long sip of his coffee.

“Let’s talk it out,” he said, and Aelin finally peeked through her fingers. Rowan was freshly showered, hair still wet, and he was looking up at the ceiling, also unable to look at her.

“No way,” Aelin mumbled.

Rowan tugged at his hair. “Well, if we don’t I’m going to tank this championship game, and it’ll be your fault.”

Aelin groaned as he pulled her hands away from her face. Hands that were definitely just touching… elsewhere. He held her hands in his for a second on the table before pulling away.

“Fine,” Aelin conceded.

“You didn’t actually see anything, right?” he asked, and Aelin shook her head quickly. Rowan released a steady breath, a nervous smile appearing on his face.

“Great,” Rowan continued. “Then, it’s not a big deal at all, and we are totally fine and nothing is weird. I mean, it was weird that you walked in on it, but everyone does it, right?” He brought his coffee to his mouth and took a long sip, clearly needing to do something to stop his rambling.

“Uh, I’ve never but… yeah, I guess.”

Rowan stopped mid-sip and stared at her, looking as if she’d just told him the most insane fact ever. “You haven’t?”

Aelin shrugged, feeling her cheeks heat again. “I don’t think I know how?”

Rowan inhaled sharply, choking on his coffee, coughing loudly. Aelin buried her face into her hands again. Could this morning get any more awkward?

“You know, there’s definitely, uh, videos on the internet that could help with that.” He paused, his nervous smile expanding as he laughed at his best friend’s horrified face. “I could send you a few if you want.”

“Rowan Whitethorn, you are not allowed to send me porn,” Aelin hissed. Rowan burst out laughing as he poked her cheek.

“I didn’t know your face could get this red, Ace.”

“Yeah, well, we’re learning a lot about each other this morning I guess...”

Rowan snorted loudly  as Aelin grabbed her coffee and stalked toward the front door, away from his mocking. She’d walked in on him but somehow, she was the one who was too embarrassed to function today?

“You know, I stayed up all last night making you a Game Day Playlist, but if you’re going to be mean, I’m not sharing it with you,” she said, and Rowan immediately backtracked, his face lighting up with excitement as he slung his arm over her shoulders.

“You did?”

Aelin nodded, pulling out her phone to show him the playlist. “I was just about to hit share, but maybe I won’t….”

He pouted, his green eyes widening. “I promise I’ll be nice.” He paused. “But also, you should ask Lysandra to teach you. I can’t imagine functioning without doing it every morning.”

Aelin had to bite her tongue from squeaking out EVERY MORNING?! But she just didn’t want to continue having this conversation, despite how badly she wanted to ask Rowan what he thought about every morning while touching himself. There were some questions she just couldn’t ask him, despite how close they were or how curious she suddenly was.

Instead, she hopped into his jeep and sent him the playlist. He connected his phone to his car with a grin and turned up the mix.

“47 songs?” His crooked smile made her stomach flutter, and he laughed as he pressed play and cranked the volume up. “Taylor Swift?”  Rowan scoffed.  “Really?”

“She’s the greatest songwriter of our time,” Aelin replied, sticking her tongue out.

“Maybe, but this fake rap shit is not it,” he laughed, scrolling to the next song. “Ah, much better.”

The first chords of Kanye’s “Power” filled the car, and Rowan took off.

By the time the pair made it to school, their morning awkwardness had completely melted away. And Rowan was in the zone for his game.

He was immediately bombarded by his assigned cheerleader, who, as Aelin had predicted, had baked him cookies. Aelin didn’t recognize the girl – a brown-eyed brunette, who looked every bit the male fantasy in her skin baring cheerleading uniform, her hair pulled up into a curled ponytail and her face displaying the number 47 on each cheek, batting her her curled lashes at her best friend. Aelin wondered for a brief moment what kind of porn Rowan had delved into, if this girl was actually one of his fantasies, but she immediately pushed that aside.

Aelin watched as Rowan smiled, thanking the girl kindly for his baked goods. And she pretended not to notice his eyes linger slightly at the green and gold ORYNTH printed across her chest. Or the way they fell to the short hem of her skirt as she walked away, throwing him one last smile over her bared shoulder.

Aelin looked at her own game day outfit – jeans and a t-shirt, and suddenly felt self-conscious, which she hated. Aelin never felt like this before. She’d never been the type of girl who suddenly compared herself to other girls, but … other girls had never smiled at Rowan like that, either. She suddenly felt a level of possessiveness rush through her. She linked her arm through Rowan’s, who looked surprised, but didn’t object to her closeness.

“Do you want my cookies?” Rowan asked, offering the plastic covered plate to Aelin, and Aelin accepted it greedily. “I think sugar might make me ill today,” he laughed.

“You’re going to be great,” Aelin assured him, knocking her hip against him.

“I hope so,” he mumbled quietly. She knew that Rowan was nervous about the game, but she hadn’t realized how much. As one of two sophomores on the Varsity team, she assumed he’d be seeing mostly bench time, but apparently that didn’t stop his nerves from taking over.

“You’ve worked so hard this season,” Aelin told her best friend and watched as his chest puffed out, swelling with pride. “No matter what happens, you’re gonna crush it. I know.”

“Thanks,” he replied softly.

“See you on the field,” Aelin said, as he dropped her off at her first class of the day. Double period algebra, ugh.

“I’ll be the one with the big stick in my hand,” Rowan replied with a smile, and Aelin snickered loudly.

“Been there, seen that,” she laughed, and Rowan’s jaw dropped.

“You said you didn’t see anything!” he hissed, and Aelin cackled and winked, and she watched as he realized what she was doing.

“You’re trying to distract me,” he laughed.

“Is it working?” she asked, and he smirked back.

He flicked her off as he shoved his earbuds into his ears, walking away to the rhythm of one of the songs on her playlist.

~*~

If you want to listen to Rowan’s Game Day playlist, check it out HERE

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[mtab2260]

Okay, I desperately need to rant about Apocalyptic Natasha Romanoff in this episode of What-If and I've decided to do it here over Reddit. Screw me.

First off...

Holy Fucking Shit! That was bloody AMAZING!

Second, I'm basically going to be explaining my excitement and jumping on the ceiling about each scene she was in, but also pointing out a few things as well.

(This feels like a Guardians of the Galaxy reference. No?)

I absolutely love this line because it says so much. In the main timeline, Steve had no clue about her Russian Vodka Family (as I've seen someone call it). In that timeline, I don't think she told anyone, not even Clint. But in Peggy's timeline, that Natasha clearly had to have opened up to Peggy which just shows how close those two had become during the year following the Battle of New York. Natasha Romanoff isn't an open person with anyone, in any timeline— even with Clint, the person she literally sacrificed herself for so he could live.

That says a million words I can't explain.

I also love the fact that the filter on Apocolypse Ultron World is dreary and it dulled out all the colour, and the sun's missing too. But in this shot, you can see hints of the sun shining through. It represents the hope Natasha saw when she saw them. The colour on Peggy's face and hair pop out. It automatically feels less dark and hopeless.

Also, I don't care what anyone might say this line is what sold Natasha that Peggy was an ally and that something was going on that she didn't yet understand. At the mention of Alexei, she just knew.

However... I must point out there are a few inaccuracies with this line. Actually, this entire line doesn't work.

Not really.

As because, up until ghosty Red-Skull said it on Vormir, Natasha had no clue what her birth father's name was and Peggy getting the serum instead of Steve wouldn't change that. So if she didn't know, there's no way she could tell Peggy.

And for the second part of that line... up until the events of Black Widow (the movie), Natasha was still lying to herself that their family in Ohio wasn't real— that it was just a mission and they were all just roles, nothing more.

But, I will say, maybe in that universe she and Peggy had a talk about it and Peggy make it clear she was a bloody numpty for thinking that and it was real regardless of the reason they were brought together. That could've happened in that universe. It's been made clear that those two traded stories with each other as her Nat knew about Steve, yet, main-timeline Nat didn't know about Peggy until she saw him staring at her photo. So who really knows.

But regardless, I still let out a jump of joy at this line because the What If series is letting the Russian Vodka Family be real!

Not that it wasn't real, but you get what I mean— anyways, onward!

This scene... oh my gawd... bloody-hell it's fucking terrific!

I cannot say how fucking overjoyed I am that when it came down to it, fucking Natasha Romanoff and bloody Clint Barton saved the entire bloody-fucking multiverse!

The (and I quote some random asshole) "Useless Avengers", saved everything ever known while also being the only survivors in an entire universe.

Let that sink in.

IT'S FUCKING AWESOME!

Like...

Holy Shit That's Awesome!

(I need more adjectives)

That's Bloody Insane.

I don't care how tacky they may be, I fricken loved these slow-mo arrow shots. And with the mirroring of Clint's (albeit fucking stupid) sacrifice coming full circle and to a close is outstanding.

Which brings me to my next point, that's kinda also this point too.

This point is part II we'll call it.

I

Am

So

Fucking

Happy

They

Didn't

Forget

About

What

Clint

Meant

To

Nat

And

Also

Just

Plainly

Forget

About

Clint

'Cause that would've sucked. I would've sued Marvel if that happened.

This scene. These two shots.

For someone who hides behind fake smiles and witty remarks, these shots show exactly what she's thinking at that moment and it's amazing. You can literally see the absolute peace on Nat's face that they did it, they ended Ultron, she avenged Clint's death, she avenged everyone's death, it was over. And hey look, Yelena, they didn't even need one of the big ones to do it!

But also look, see what I said about the filter— Natasha's hair actually looks fiery red instead of vibrant brown. Also, SUN!

Moving on...

I don't really have much to say about this line, but I fucking loved it, and serves the dude right.

She Has A Very Valid Point.

The pure amazement and life in Natasha's eyes and face is everything.

She saw everything she ever knew nuked and murdered because a robot spent five seconds on the internet and yet here she was now in a clusterfuck war full of life. Life that was at war with each other. But an alive war nonetheless and that's all she cares about at that moment.

Natasha and Clint being best buds part threeeeeeee........

On come on we all know what was going through Natasha's mind at this moment.

PAYBACK BIATCH!

Seriously I just love this short little bit. And the fact that Loki took over the world in a week, yet, this Natasha took him out with a kick and a small poke says things.

It's awesome.

As heartwarming as this scene was, I was hoping for more and truthfully it's a load of bullshit.

I don't care whatever the fuck Nick Fury has seen in his days, he did not know about the multiverse and if he wasn't happy as hell to see her on that Helicarrier then he was suspicious as hell as to who was this Natasha Romanoff imposter was. I'm sorry, I refuse to believe otherwise. No one's first thought after they've seen an alive version of someone they buried in the ground is—

"Oh, you must be Natasha just not my Natasha. Yeah, that makes sense."

Yeah, no.

Also... might I again remind you EVERYONE ON HER PLANET WAS FUCKING NUKED TO DEATH?! Did everyone seem to forget about this?

The first time we've seen Natasha Romanoff cry (almost cry) was Fury's death in The Winter Soldier. That's proof enough for how much Fury meant to her.

So the first person in like over a year (probably) she sees that she recognizes (besides Thor) who she also knew for a fact was dead— her reaction should've been more than a smirk. Especially if it was someone she cried over when they died. The line the two Natasha's share after Peggy's "I've got the shield. You've got the sword." line proves that different universes don't change a person's personality. So her seeing Fury again should've been a helluva lot more emotional for her, hell, for the both of them.

It probably should've gone something more like...

"Natasha...?" A very familiar voice behind her breathed. It wasn't one she's heard for over a year but she recognized it immediately. She froze— which was not a thing she did, ever, but it was only truly hitting her now that not everyone she knew was dead anymore. That the Steve Rogers over there was, in fact, alive. That the Nick Fury behind her was alive. That hundreds, millions, billions of other people were alive.

Natasha turned around slowly like her limbs were stuck in the gallons of maple syrup Cooper put on his pancakes.

"Fury—" She choked, honestly too overwhelmed to say anything else coherent. The tears in her eyes stung as she didn't let them fall.

Nick's one eye narrowed, he was pissed. "Who the hell are you?" He questioned, voice threatening. "I know you ain't Natasha Romanoff 'cause she's dead. So who are you?"

She was sure she just stared at his face probably for a full minute but she didn't really care. It was really nice to see and hear another face and voice.

Nat took a much-needed breath. "I know your Natasha is gone, the giant baby-man cape dude said so. I'm not her. I'm from somewhere else. But I am Natasha Romanoff... and it is really good to see you, Nick..."

Ah, shit the tears fell.

But maybe it was worth it as his eye widened and some form of recognition or some sliver of understanding set in. It was honestly hard to tell through her blurry eyes.

"You're aware none of that makes any sense, right?" He asked, voice much gentler now. Fury looked over her outfit and very dirty/beat-up appearance. "And I take it wherever you're from didn't have showers either? Because I can smell you from here." His nose wrinkled as he smirked.

She knew he was trying not to gag.

Natasha choked out a wet laugh. "Not for like a year, they kinda got all nuked from a psychopathic robot."

She was pretty sure that was the first time she'd ever seen Nick Fury actually shocked.

Okay, yeah so basically something like that.

And the reason I kept saying over a year is because Clint lost an arm and was honestly ready to die. He did die. After a year of being almost the only person on an entire planet and losing Laura and the kids, he hit his breaking point. In the five years of the blip he definitely became close to his breaking point, probably was about to hit it before Nat showed up, and that was with half the universe gone and he was alone without Nat. It could honestly be longer than a year, it probably was much longer, but then I started thinking about food and how much food would actually be safe to eat— or actually there. It was a matter of time really until both starved to death honestly.

And the shower thing, it's honestly impressive anyone could stand near here and not pass out. Like seriously if everyone is dead, I doubt any showers still worked— let alone be standing.

Anyways, I do have a couple problems with this episode despite how much I loved it.

Going back to the "EVERYONE ON HER PLANET WAS FUCKING NUKED TO DEATH?! Did everyone seem to forget about this?" part I mentioned earlier.

It seems no one outside of Nat actually seemed to acknowledge that everyone was dead. That Natasha, previous to their arrival, was the only living thing in that universe and that was it. You would think even Peggy would show some care or sympathy or some consoling words to her so-called BFF. If not that at least recognize the truly apocalyptic scene around her and look at it with disbelieving eyes. For someone who has so much compassion, she seems to have none in this case. Or at least she didn't outwardly show it. Which is completely fine. But it just bothered me no one seemed to really think about it all.

Another thing:

This isn't really towards the episode per-say but I'm just really fucking pissed about it.

It's great— no sorry— it's absolutely amazing that Apocalyptic Natasha is now in a universe that was thriving with life. It's awesome and she deserves it.

HOWEVER....

Are you fucking serious that out of all the universes that Natasha died in, you put her in a one that ALSO has a STILL DEAD Clint Barton???

SERIOUSLY?!??!?

I've said this what, three, four times now— Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton are more cursed than FitzSimmons. Because at least FitzSimmons always find their way back to each other in the end, Nat and Clint always just find the other fucking dead.

I swear, how the other doesn't have PTSD from heights now is a bloody miracle.

Anywho:

That's my entire rant on this week's episode. If you actually read this all, one, I'm so sorry for wasting your time, two, wow— congrats.

Also, I really need to see someone make a fic about Apocalyptic Nat seeing Laura and the kids for the first time again, and also for Coulson too.

[tooruluv]

Tooru Oikawa x F!Reader ( part 3 )

❝ my love for him is much like winter, a skeleton for the world to see. too bad he never liked the cold. ❞

description: being the neighbor and lifelong best friend of tooru oikawa definitely had it’s perks. you were never an outcast, always had a seat at lunch, got into volleyball games for free. the problem was, however, that being in love with him outweighed those perks. you would never tell him that, though, even if it hurt like hell.

genre: best friends to lovers, angst, unrequited love, fluff if you squint hard enough

word count: 2,210

warnings/notes: um yeah. this one moves fast, but this whole fic is basically about this one scene, this one part. so enjoy. no serious warnings, just strong language and some gay shit. angst.

tag list: @afuckingunicornn​

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“You’re... gay?” you whispered.

“It isn’t a fucking slur, you drunk ass.” Iwaizumi spoke, shoving you with his arm (making you hit your head on the door, but you barely noticed). “And I don’t know what exactly I am, but I just know it’s not straight.”

“Matsu?” you turned to the other boy. 

“I’ve been gay, and Iwa is sexy as fuck so who am I to deny his sexual awakening?”

It almost made you laugh.

It was hot in the closet. Dark. And you were squished in between two (very tall) men. A single light hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly.

“I uh,” You were so numb. You played with your sleeves. “I watched ‘Kawa make out with this girl. Stood there like an idiot and watched it happen. And it… it sucks to like know about it but to see it…to watch it happen…it’s way worse.”

“Oh,” They both said, sadness laced behind a whisper.

“You were going to tell him, weren’t you?” Matsukawa inquired.

You gasped, turning wide-eyed to Iwaizumi. He held his hands up in surrender. “You told him?” and “I didn’t tell him I swear!” coming out of both of you at once.

“I knew for, like, years now.” Matsukawa interrupted. “You’re the most obvious person ever, just so you know. You might as well be the fucking heart eye emoji whenever you look at him.” He paused to gauge your reaction, which was nothing. “Back to my question: you were going to tell him, weren’t you?”

“I..” you bit the inside of your cheek. “Yeah, I think so? I don’t know. I just know I really wanted to talk to him and see him and hear his voice. And I still do. But now my mind is full of him and the really pretty brown-haired girl exchanging spit.”

“Gross.”

“Maybe we should get out of the closet and get some air.”

The next morning, you woke up on the floor in the guest bedroom. Iwaizumi had taped a piece of paper to your forehead (“drink water” it said), and a blanket was wrapped around your upper body. You could not remember what happened after leaving the closet, how you ended up in the guest room, or why you were on the floor and not in the perfectly good bed above you.

But, nonetheless, you got up and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Where the fuck is Oikawa?

A loud thump interrupted your thoughts. Yup, there he was. You let out an annoyed groan as he decided to make the most noise possible on his way to the kitchen.

You pulled yourself onto the counter, wanting to slam your head against the cabinet. You never got hangovers, why was today the day you got one?

“Well don’t you look beautiful this fine morning.” Oikawa greeted, smiling.

He always looked his best in the morning, you thought. He may come across as perfect, but it makes your heart do flips when he comes in with bed head and his glasses on. Not to mention he looked absolutely gorgeous in the morning sunlight, beaming and bright.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Your eyes were still closed.

You heard movement, a cabinet open then close, and only opened your eyes when he stood in front of you (in between your legs, no less). You held your breath.

“I look amazing, and you know it.” He was so close you could feel his breath. He brushed his teeth, the smell of mint circling you. Why was he so close?

He reached forward, pressing his hand to your forehead. Still half awake and clearly extremely hungover, you leaned into his touch as he moved his hands to your cheeks. His eyes scanned your face, but your eyes never moved from his.

His hands paused and stayed on your neck, just below your jaw. Hovering.

Unconsciously, you leaned forward. Only a little bit.

And he did too.

Your lips were so close. If you wanted to, you could kiss him. Just like that. A few centimeters away, and you could do what you’ve wanted to do for years. Feel what it would be like to be one of the many girls who had their lips against his. The air was so tense, so full of something you couldn’t explain. Just a few centimeters. Was he leaning in too?

He moved back.

“Medicine for your head, and you have a little bit of a fever so there’s something for that too.” Oikawa spoke. His voice sounded deeper, but maybe you were just thinking things. A small cough from him. He put pills into your hand. “You get something to drink. I’ll start picking up trash, you’re on…”

“Cups and cans duty.” You finished. It was always the routine. “Thank you.”

“Don’t slack off too much, you fucking drunk.” He joked, smiling at you with a trash bag in his hand.

You rolled your eyes at him, throwing the nearest empty can at him. You smiled, but your heart was aching.

The first time Oikawa had ever thrown a party, it was a disaster. 

People flooded the house, though it was only supposed to be a small get-together and ended up a huge banger. The school talked about it for a while. An increase in his popularity.

The two of you were left to pick up the mess. 

“Where the fuck do we start?” you asked, staring into the abyss that was once his living room.

“I’ll pick up the garbage and you pick up the cans and bottles?” Oikawa suggested. “If my mom finds any alcoholic beverage in this house she will pelt me with my own volleyballs.”

“I’ll help too.” Oikawa’s older brother said from the doorway, trashbag in hand. “Let’s get to work. We only have until six.”

Matsukawa soon joined your routine.

For the past month or so, Iwaizumi would eat lunch with you in the library as you studied for the entrance exams. Oikawa would join sometimes, or he would come right before lunch was over. He liked to eat lunch in the cafeteria, liked to “have that break from studies”. You two didn’t mind, you got more done without him distracting anyway.

Matsukawa had become your third-party during Lunch Study Dates. You didn’t complain, and you didn’t ask the two of them what exactly their relationship was. You joked with Iwaizumi that you were simply there to hide the fact they never stopped flirting. He would just laugh.

“Wait, you almost kissed?” Iwaizumi asked, studies long forgotten.

“I think so, yeah.” You kept your eyes on your paper. “It was weird, and the air was super heavy. And he hasn’t talked to me since. Not even while we were cleaning.”

“Not even a text?” Matsukawa asked.

“Not even a wave in the hallway.”

“Now that’s weird.”

“You’re telling me.” You finally looked up. “I.. Nothing has ever happened between us like that. Ever. And it was so out of nowhere, like, you would think our first almost kiss would be some cool moment or something. But it was just us, and I was hungover as fuck, and we just spent the rest of the afternoon in silence. And all that there has been since is just that. Silence.”

“I’m sorry, love.” Matsukawa reached over to place his hand over your wrist. “You know what. Tooru is an idiot. He is. I would have kissed you.”

“You’re gay.”

“And I would’ve kissed you. That’s the highest compliment you can receive. Accept it, woman.”

Growing up with Tooru Oikawa, you knew many things about the boy that many didn’t. You knew that he always put extra syrup on his pancakes and waffles, you knew that he always preferred hot showers rather than the cold ones his mother always tells him to take for soreness, and you knew that he practiced more than anyone could imagine.

He grew up with a volleyball attached to his side. He set it whenever he could, he would serve it into your yard (and then go get it and serve it back into his). He would ask you to join, but you always just watched.

Growing up with Tooru Oikawa also made you witness his growth. And you think that’s another reason you fell in love with him.

His passion was indescribable. You couldn’t count how many times people (including yourself) have told him to relax, take a day off, remind him to eat and drink. But his heart was in it, no matter how much it distracted him from daily fleets. You admired him for that.

You didn’t have that Thing growing up. You tried a lot of different things, different hobbies and sports and classes. But you never had that thing that you had so much passion for that you had to remind yourself to breathe.

One week of silence. One week of nothing from your best friend. Not a text, a call, a smile sent your way. Not even an eye contact.

It was strange. Your entire life had revolved around being around him, your routine included smiling and walking with him in the hallway, fixing his tie in the morning.

He was already in class when you came to school. And his tie was straight.

You decided to spend most of your free time in the library, knowing that Oikawa didn’t find himself in there very often. If he was going to avoid you without an explanation, you could avoid him just as hard and for just as long. That was your logic.

Iwaizumi joined you, plopping himself down on the couch beside you. It sat in the back of the library, in the corner away from everything. You were being Sad TM.

It was so stupid, of course. To be upset or sad about something that didn’t even happen; at something that almost happened but never did. Iwaizumi reminded you that it wasn’t about the near kiss, but the silence after.

A body appeared out of thin air in front of you. You wouldn’t mistake the boy for anyone in the world.

“’Kawa.” You said, looking up. He looked way taller from your position on the couch. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He said. No “nut” this time. He fidgeted with his fingers. “Can I get my jersey back? The one you wear to the games?”

Your eyes shot up.

“’M sorry?”

“Can I get my jersey back?” he asked again.

You felt Iwaizumi put his hand on your thigh. You must’ve been shaking. One week of complete silence and complete rejection and absence only to be met with the break of a tradition.

“Um, yeah.” You blinked. “Yeah. I have it at home, I can stop by later and give it to you.”

“Just bring it tomorrow. Before the game.” He spoke. But his voice didn’t sound like his. It was forced. Since when was talking to you a task?

“O.. Okay.”

A pinky promise was something taken very seriously. As kids, it was treated with the upmost respect and honor.

It was middle school, and the team announced that for a special tournament, and for school spirit, that the players would pick their best friend to wear their jersey to the games.

Oikawa immediately came to you with his “away” jersey, proudly holding it up. “Pinky promise me that you will always wear my jersey to my games!”

“Pinky promise!” you had told him.

You wore the jersey as you wrapped your pinky around his. Wearing his jersey became one of your favorite parts of going to his games.

Guess in high school, pinky promises don’t mean the same thing.

The thing about Tooru Oikawa is he never dates. This was something you knew for certain. He has never once had an official girlfriend, and he always talked about how he never planned on having one (“They’re both a distraction and a big responsibility,” he would say. “Besides, what would I need a girlfriend for when I already have a girl who does everything for me?” he would add).

Which is why you were surprised to see him hand in hand with a very familiar girl later that day. The long perfect brown hair, the long legs. After seven days of not speaking to you, he had a girl wrapped around his arm as though it was the most casual thing of him to be doing.

You stopped in front of them, trying your very best to hide your confusion.

“Oh!” he smiled, saying your name. Acting as though he hadn’t just asked you to turn in something that had meant something important to your friendship (at least it did to you). “You haven’t met Sana. My girlfriend.”

The aforementioned girl, Sana, smiled at you. Perfect teeth, of course. She gave a slight bow before reaching out her hand. Girlfriend.

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve been waiting to meet Tooru’s best friend!”

You forced a smile as you shook her hand. “Nice to meet you too, Sana.”

You looked over her shoulder, to Oikawa (who looked nervous, fidgety in fact), and to Iwaizumi and Matsukawa (who stood a bit further away, but just as shook and confused as you).

[crystxlclear]

sudden desire

chapter eleven: it’s just a spark, but it’s enough

part twelve of sudden desire

masterlist

word count: 1.5k

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, mentions of illness, vague references to sex, not really much else honestly?

pairing: marcus pike x original female character (coraline meyer)

author’s note: 😎

Robert Meyer's diagnosis isn't as bad as they'd first thought. There's still nothing that they can do - save for some new medication and a hundred different doctor's appointments - but, at the very least, he'd be out of hospital soon and back to his usual self in a few days.

Coraline has been on edge the entire week; she can feel the worry tugging at her heart at every waking hour, even when she thinks she's distracted herself just long enough to think about something else for a little while. She knows full-well that distractions aren't the healthiest way to cope - Marcus has tried to speak to her about it, but she usually tries her best to avoid the subject, asking about his day, instead, and what film he wants to watch that night - but she's sure that, if she thinks about it for too long, she won't be able to stop. And the darkness will creep in, again.

They'd visited her father every single day since he'd been admitted. Sitting by his bedside, talking about nothing and everything, but avoiding the heaviest of subjects that lingers in the air between them. He'd told her, once, that he approved. Didn't entirely agree, but at least approved. She's sure she almost cried, and she looked utterly ridiculous in the way her mouth twisted and pursed as she bit back the tears.

The relief she'd felt when he'd told her that was wonderful.

Since then, her and Marcus have been trying again.

It all seems lighter, now. There's no unspoken tension or hesitation between them, tension and hesitation they hadn't even noticed between them before her parent's visit. Now, his hands on her hips, the gentle brush of his thumbs over her skin, and his lips against hers, they feel familiar and intentional. And, somehow, normal, now. In ways it hadn't felt before.

Each brush of his lips against her neck feels like that of a lover, not a friend.

But they're just that. Just friends.

Waking in each other's arms brings so much comfort that they seem to forget every single sadness that plagues them when they move.

They keep each other - and their feelings - at arms length. No one has to know.

If, Marcus supposes, Coraline even feels anything at all.

They sink into a routine, again. Something more comfortable.

Coraline goes to work early, sits in a makeup chair, and films her scenes each day. Marcus goes to work at the same time, sits at his desk and follows each and every lead with meticulous precision. They both do what they do best. Then, they visit Coraline's father - Marcus' hands there to comfort her, if she needs him - and then they eat their takeout, watch a movie, laugh and joke and grin. They spend the night together. As friends. Some might say it's a rut, a boring and mindless routine that never differs. But, if it means they get to see each other, they just don't care. Their pattern has barely deviated for weeks but she wouldn't have it any other way.

Marcus knows there's danger in it all, in doing what they're doing when he's already admitted to himself how he feels about her. But there's nothing there for him, not like that; he'd do this for her, if that's what she wants. No ulterior motives, just her happiness. He'd do it for her if it meant giving her everything.

That morning, the sun seems bright and dazzling. It cuts through the gap in her drawn curtains, the gentle light golden behind the soft, gauzy material. It bathes her in a pool of sunlight. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that she is the sun.

Marcus pulls himself from Coraline's sheets that morning with so much reluctance weighing down his limbs that it feels as if he's underwater. She's tucked up between the bed sheets, looking so content and as comfortable as ever. He does nothing but kiss her temple before he finally pulls himself from the tangle of wonder and sunshine. She sighs and stretches her arm out a little, fingers splaying over the absent space where he'd once laid, and buries her head into the soft pillow but doesn't wake. She's been exhausted lately, and who is he to deprive her of rest?

...

She only wakes ten minutes before he has to leave. There's coffee still warm in the pot and she accepts it gratefully when he offers, in her favourite mug, of course. She's taken to drinking less just in case, worried of the horror stories of caffeine and pregnancy. Her smile is bright, as always, but there's something about the way her eyes sparkle that seems different. She watches him with soft green eyes after she fills her coffee with creamer and that ridiculous syrup she insists on buying every time she goes grocery shopping.

She's a vision in his t-shirt, too big for her and hanging from her shoulders, and he doesn't ever want a morning without her there, watching him like he's her favourite movie.

(It's Melancholia. She has at least three different copies, and one sits beside her television set at all times.)

The notion of ever leaving her makes his heart ache. He's no good at goodbyes.

"What time will you be home tonight?"

By home, she means her apartment. Not his.

She avoids his gaze while she asks. He thinks he sees her blush, cheeks flushing a gentle pink, but she ducks her head away too quickly for him to see.

"Usual time, why?" There's a granola bar half hanging out of his mouth as he ties his tie.

She shakes her head and waves a hand of dismissal, especially at the slightly concerned and confused furrow of his brow. "No reason, don't worry about it," she insists and sends him on his way with a kiss on his cheek and a brilliant smile.

...

The weight of anticipation always weighs too heavy on her chest. Good or bad, it lingers, and it's as if it's choking the life out of her. She's glad she doesn't have to work today, glad that no one gets to see the extent of her restlessness, and surely her inability to concentrate on anything but the face her mind is racing at a mile a minute, with no signs of slowing down. Or, at least, no one but the delivery guy who'd told her to enjoy her food, when she'd fired a 'you too' right back at him.

She's practically gripping the edge of the countertop when Marcus returns from work. It probably looks like she hasn't moved, still sat there upon the same barstool as she sat upon that morning. She only lacks his shirt, switching it for her own jeans and a sweater, and the mug of coffee she was still drinking when he left. She taps her nails against the wood as she hears the familiar sound of the lock turning and his key dropping into the bowl by the front door. Coraline hears Marcus groan low in his throat as he rolls his shoulders and sigh when he hangs up his jacket.

He calls out her name when he can't see her sitting on the couch and she pops her head up to etch the most convincing smile she can muster upon her face. "Hi."

Marcus is still rubbing his thumb over the back of his neck, lolling his head from side to side to lessen the pressure and tension that has built up in his muscles. "You won't believe the day I've had." The tension is even palpable in his voice. "That big lead we had? False tip," he grumbles as he tugs on the knot of his tie to loosen it. She rarely sees him even slightly upset or angry, not at anything. And he loves his job more than he lets on; it's there in his face when he talks about each case he's working on. "So, we're back to nothing." Marcus sighs and moves to stand next to Coraline.

He smiles at her, but it drops almost immediately. "What's wrong?" She blinks up at him with wide eyes. "Cora-" His voice is low and he takes her face in his hands. She can't look away when he does that, not that she would ever want to.

"I'm pregnant." When she speaks, it feels like she's in space. The words that leave her lips don't seem like her own. They seem false, almost, but in the most perfect of ways. Like it can't possibly be her reality.

"You- you- what?" His eyes are as wide as saucers. His mouth falls open and then closes again, falls open, then closes again. "Seriously?" His words come out in a breath. "You're-"

"Seriously." She thinks she's grinning, but the world seems nothing but a clouded haze that seems like a dream. She feels like she's in a dream, a world that isn't real.

"We're gonna have a baby?" Marcus' voice is quiet. It's as if he's telling her a secret, something for just their ears to hear. Perhaps it is, for now.

"Yes- yes-" Coraline is breathless. we're going to have a baby."

"Oh my God- oh my god- Cora!"

He kisses her. It's brief and gentle. He kisses her again. A little more insistent, this time.

"A little bit of good in this darkness, huh?"

"Finally."

taglist: @wheresthewater @its--fandom--darling @alberta-sunrise @sara-alonso @madslorian @freeshavocadoooo @giselatropicana