#being punished for wanting to go on a walk late at night and buy apple juice

[strawbnetwork]

THROUGH NOF AULT OF MY OWN! once again locked out of my room.

[arthurmorgansleftlung]

Secret Cupid 2021 (Part 2)

This @rdr-secret-cupid is for @outlawsworld ! I’m so sorry about it being a little late. I really hope that you like this, I really tried to incorporate horses and your appearance the best that I could without being overbearing.

Sorry about any formatting issues, I’m on mobile!

Happy (belated) Valentine’s Day!

——————

The Way He Touched You

Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word Count: 2,350

Warnings: None really, but there is briefly some hostile words and behaviors aimed at the reader.

You were a successful seductress and thief. You were making hundreds, sometimes thousands of money from tempting big burly oafs. They always figured you were no threat, with your small stature and physique. And don’t forget about your oh-so-charming Southern Belle act! These men were fools, and you played them like a fiddle.

Your mistake was staying in the same town and seducing every man who lived there. You no longer had an audience. No bites. No money. Until one day, when a new man rode into town on the finest horse you’d ever seen. He was loaded. But he was big, and strong.

You seduced the man, tricking him into buying you two a night at the nicest hotel around. Once you made your way into the room, however, that’s where things went wrong.

You’d gotten to the point in your routine where you would normally incapacitate your victim. Normally you would find an object close by, like a candle stick or a boot that had been kicked off. Well, when you smashed a glass dish over the man’s head, he did not pass out. Rather, he started bleeding profusely and screaming at you. You bolted out of the hotel, bursting through the door and jumping on the first horse you saw: his.

With a quick kick to the sides the Arabian horse went into a full gallop, the sound of its hooves hitting the ground mixed in with the angry yells of the man you just failed to rob.

Pretty soon, the law and the townspeople were on you. But your stolen horse was faster than them. Eventually it seemed that they had given up. You couldn’t hear or see anything. You slowed the horse and dismounted, giving it a nice pat and an apple (which was also stolen).

You must have fallen asleep, because when you woke up to the sound of thundering hooves and angry men the sky was a different shade of blue. Luckily the horse you’d stolen, who you now recognized was a girl, was still nearby, grazing on the overgrown grass. Unfortunately, she was not a very camouflaged horse. She was the brightest shade of white with a pink nose and blue eyes. The mob found you easily.

You ran and mounted the mare, kicking her to make her go. The horse bolted, and you made decent ground, but the howling of nearby wolves spooked her and she threw you off.

“Fuck!“ You were panicking. You had no other means of escaping. Horse theft was punishable by hanging. Is this how you would go? Suddenly a horse skidded and stopped beside you.

“Those friends of yours?” The man asked.

“No! Can you get me outta here?” You were on the verge of crying. You didn’t want to die.

“I can try! Hop on up here, miss.” You hoped you could trust this man. With a prayer you hopped onto the back of the man’s horse, and after grabbing hold of his shirt you were off. His horse galloped faster than the Arabian had for you, perhaps he was a kind and tender man with his horse.

The man, whose name you had learned was Arthur, took you into a concealed part of the wilderness. You were scared of where he was bringing you, but more scared of what would happen if you jumped off. You saw the dim light of a campfire, the sound of people talking, horses snorting back and forth as they noticed a stranger approaching.

You found yourself in a camp full of people. Arthur lead you over to a tent, where a man with jet black hair and a mustache greeted you. You told him your story, and he laughed and recommended you become friends with a girl named Karen. Apparently she was in a similar “business” as you.

That was almost a full year ago now.

Now you were a dutiful helper around camp. You of course did the regular chores that Ms. Grimshaw assigned you, but you had also become the caretaker of the gang’s horses.

Except Arthur’s. He insisted on taking care of his mare. The one time he had found you taking care of his horse he didn’t talk to you the rest of the day! You found it strange but you respected his wishes.

Currently you were grooming Taima, Charles’ Appaloosa mare. You were running a brush through her black and white fur, giving her encouraging words as you went on. You had finished your other chores: washing and drying clothes, washing bowls for the evening stew; the same old routine. A calm breeze drifted through the camp, causing leaves to flap around and Taima’s man to flow, ever so slightly.

You noticed the sound of hooves alongside the rustling of the flora around you. Arthur was riding in. He had been gone a couple of days on a hit. His horse looked exhausted, covered in sweat and mud.

“Hey, Arthur.” You greeted him. He tipped his hat towards you. He hitched his horse and walked towards you.

“Would you mind givin’ my old girl a brush?”

“I thought you didn’t like me tendin’ to your horse.” He sensed the slight attitude in your voice, you’d been holding a slight, although stupid, grudge since Arthur went silent on you.

“Please, (Y/N), she’s filthy. I can’t tend to ‘er right now...” Arthur headed off to Dutch’s tent, followed by the closing of the flaps. You gave Taima a once over; she looked shiny and clean. You headed over to Arthur’s mare, who nickered in response to you patting her hindquarters.

You gently brushed her, caked mud falling off with ease. She would need a real bath to return to her solid black color. You cleaned her as best as you could. Although her white socks were still a beige color, she looked pristine everywhere else.

Arthur soon returned, letting out a low whistle at the sight of his horse. Of course he didn’t like that he didn’t do it himself, but he praised you on your grooming work.

“You wanna go for a ride, (Y/N)?”

“Why?” You eyed him suspiciously.

“Do you wanna go for a ride or not?”

Without another word you got up on Arthur’s horse and wrapped your arms under his, your hands resting on his shoulders. The mare trotted into the woods, and once you all reached the main road you took off towards Valentine.

When you arrived, Arthur hitched his horse up outside of the stable. Was he buying treats? You followed him inside the stable, where he was greeted by the owner who was eyeing you suspiciously.

“Whatcha think about that one?” Arthur pointed towards a palomino American Standardbred.

“That’s a fine horse,” you said quietly. You didn’t have the money for such a creature, which you voiced with Arthur.

“‘Scuse me sir, I’d like to purchase this horse for my wife!” Arthur gestured towards the golden horse. Wife? Wife? Your face flushed red with anxiety and embarrassment. Arthur paid for the horse, your horse. He got you basic tack as well, and made sure you were good to ride. You didn’t know what to say.

You began to leave the stable, but the owner called after you.

“Wait! Here’s a brush and some treats... for... you...” A realization had been made. “Why— sir! That ain’t your wife! That’s the whore that stole all the men’s money in this town!”

“Don’t you call my wife no such thing.” Arthur warned the man, his hand gripping

his holster. You were flabbergasted, both at Arthur’s new title for you and that you had been caught... again.

The man grabbed at the skirt of your dress, trying to pull you off of your horse. You kicked at him, “Stop it!” You hissed at him, glaring him down. You weren’t scary at all, but perhaps Arthur’s presence gave you a leg up in intimidation. He grabbed at you again, his dirty hand gripping your thigh through the fabric. Without hesitation Arthur drew his pistol and shot the man, blood splatter making its impression on your dress and skin. Now you were certain your dress was soiled.

“Let’s go.” Arthur grumbled. Arthur called for his horse and mounted up. You both calmly left the stable, but you felt like you were burning alive with all of the eyes on you two. You could hear a familiar voice, the sheriff. As soon as you and Arthur had made it close to the outskirts, you bolted. You made a detour and headed towards Emerald Ranch, to avoid giving directions to camp if somebody followed you.

The sheriff and his deputies followed you, but gave up easily. Your horse was kind to you, and easy to handle. But he began to spook. You held on tightly to the reins, causing the horse even more irritation.

“Let loose on the reins, keep your ass in the saddle!” Arthur guided you. You already knew this, but you tried your best to follow his directions. Your horse did calm down after a moment, snorting at you after the ordeal. Arthur smiled smugly at you.

“So I’m your wife now, huh?” You teased Arthur, who was flushed a crimson red. He hadn’t really thought about that.

“In Valentine you are.”

If only he knew how you felt about it. You didn’t push it. You thanked Arthur for your horse, who you’d decided to call Flavian, after his golden appearance. Arthur thought the name was weird, but didn’t question it. The two of you rode off towards camp, traveling through the oil fields to get back. It was a long ride, but a safe one. The hot sun burned your skin, turning you pink. You didn’t think you’d be in the sun for so long, you hadn’t really prepared.

In a daze, you felt something hit your chest. Arthur’s hat. You looked at him, his head already facing forward.

“You’re turnin’ red. Just wear it for now.” You put on the hat, the scent of him forcing its way into your nose and causing a familiar heat to rush to your face. You reached the wooded surroundings of the camp, just as the sun began to set.

After you’d arrived Arthur grabbed a bowl of Pearson’s stew and retreated to his tent. You grabbed a bowl as well and followed Arthur, you needed to give his hat back. When you got close enough, Arthur was sitting and holding his head in his hands, frustrated.

“Arthur?”

“Yes, Miss (Y/N)?” He seemed startled.

“Your hat...” You pulled the hat off of your head, reaching it out for him to take. He looked up at you, beet red. He reached for the hat and gently took it from your hand. “Are you okay...?” You stepped closer, into his tent. He seemed a bit concerned about this, his eyebrows knitting together.

“I’m fine, Miss (Y/N). Just tired. Confused.”

“Confused about what, Arthur?”

“You.”

“Well, what about me?” You kind of laughed, trying to conceal any nervousness in your voice.

“Well, I— It’s not important, (Y/N).”

You silently took a deep breath. You stepped closer to Arthur and sat down beside him on his cot. He recoiled a bit. Ouch.

“What, Arthur?” You were hurt at how repulsed he seemed to be by your presence. Sure, he bought you a horse, but probably because Dutch or Hosea told him to.

“The way that man touched you today. I didn’t like it.” He mumbled. He knew of your past, how you used to tempt men. What did Arthur mean?

The thought of you ever being touched by somebody filled Arthur with a quiet anger. He was jealous today. Jealous and protective and possessive. Over a woman that wasn’t his to begin with. He had been for months, and it worried him.

“I didn’t like him touchin’ you. I don’t like... I don’t like anybody touchin’ you!”

“Arthur.” You brought your small frame closer to him. This time he didn’t recoil. You turned your head to look at him, his eyes avoiding you. You brought a gentle hand to his forearm, his bright turquoise eyes met your green ones. “Arthur I’m in love with you... how could you not tell? Ever since you saved me...”

“You can’t be in love with me...” Arthur laughed with a hint of sadness. He turned to face you, your knees touching. He brought a calloused hand to your cheek, looking like he wanted so desperately to kiss you, but pulled himself away. He seemed ashamed.

“But I am. I am in love with you, Arthur Morgan.” You looked down at the ground, fearful of what he might respond with.

How could you be so vulnerable? How could you just tell him you’ve been in love with him for a year? What now? Were you going to tell him how every time he left on a mission that you’d be so sick to your stomach with worry that you were scared you’d vomit? How you felt a twinge of jealousy and then guilt when he interacted with any of the girls? How every time you saw him you’d try to take a picture in your mind, just in case?

Tears pricked at your eyes. Oh, great, you were crying now. Arthur lifted your head back up and wiped his thumb across your cheek, wiping your tears away. He smiled softly at you.

“We can talk about this later, (Y/N)... I can’t stand seein’ you cry.”

You latched onto Arthur, in the tightest hug you could manage. He brought his big arms around you, careful not to squeeze too tight.

You don’t remember much of anything after. Arthur had been right, you were both exhausted from the heat today.

The next morning you woke up, still encased in Arthur’s arms. It was still early, nobody else had woken up but you were sure somebody had seen the two of you. Arthur also seemed to be awake, and ran his fingers through your hair.

“I love you too, (Y/N).”

[winterromanov]

AU idea- college athlete Bucky and he’s really popular and all that but very sweet and he meets this girl who’s sweet and a little quiet in one of his classes and he just keeps trying to be around her, study with her, buy her coffee and she likes him but she’s just like.... why is this cute popular boy paying attention to me lol

pairing: bucky x reader (also SUPER tempted to do a part two of this, let me know if you’re interested)

You recognise the guy staring at you from across the table in your Russian lit tutorial. You recognise him because everyone knows Bucky Barnes, the football star, certified big name on campus and best friend of fellow football star Steve Rogers. He’s the guy that every girl on your corridor gossips about, the one all the professors love, the one who gets hundreds of likes on his Instagram pictures.

(You don’t follow him but you have to admit, you’ve scrolled through his feed a few times. Just to see what the fuss is all about, you know. And you know. Boy, you know.)

You’ve never actually interacted with him before because your circles aren’t the kind that usually interlink, but now you’re sat in a seminar on Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Bucky Barnes is definitely staring at you.

When your eyes eventually flicker up from your laptop--just to double check you’re not making it all up, that he’s not looking at the much prettier girl next to you--he grins, pen between his teeth. Your cheeks involuntarily catch fire and you deliberately snap away. Because this is Bucky Barnes you’re talking about, who dated Natasha Romanoff in his freshman year before it all very publically...fell apart. Who could have literally any girl he wanted worshiping at his high-tops. Who would never look at a girl like you because, well. 

You’re you.

-

You’re trying to buy coffee in the campus shop next to the library when he actually speaks to you directly for the first time. Emphasis on the word trying, because you left your damn purse at home and Apple Pay is not being your friend and you can feel yourself getting more and more embarrassed the longer the cashier has to wait. You eventually resort to rummaging round your backpack for loose change in order to pay the poor guy, but an arm with a contactless debit card reaches out and beeps the payment through for you.

“I’ll get a latte to go, please, Mario.” 

“Of course. Anything for you, Mr Barnes.”

It’s Bucky Barnes. Of course it’s Bucky Barnes--only someone like him would take the time to know the server by name. He’s wearing his faded red Columbia jersery and a baseball cap. His grin is kinda crooked and yes, yes you know it’s one of the many reasons all the girls go wild for him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, stepping aside so he can go to the front of the queue. He merely shrugs. “Here--let me pay you back, I know I’ve got a couple of dollars in here somewhere...”

He shakes his head as he taps his card once again, the server handing him his latte in a reusable mug with a wink. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, your idea about interior monologue in Anna Karenina in Ivan’s class the other day actually inspired my paper, so I do owe you one.”

You blink, kinda dumbstruck at the thought of Bucky Barnes remembering any input you’d given in class. Or anyone remembering any input you’d given in class. “You liked my point?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bucky sips his coffee, grimacing slightly as the liquid burns his lips. “Tolstoy finding humour in death. It’s so dark and beautiful. All your points, actually--you see a lot in literature than I’ve never picked up on in a first reading.”

“I...Uh. Well. Thank you.” You’ve always been quite reserved in class, scared to say anything in case it’s stupid or outlandish and the other students laugh at you. In reality you know it’s you being paranoid, but old habits die hard. 

Bucky looks at his watch before hissing a profanity under his breath. “Gotta run. Cold War study group across campus in three minutes. Catch you later?”

He phrases it like a question rather than a generic add on, a necessity of politeness. His blue eyes look at you expectantly, actively waiting for you to reply.

(They’re so blue, his eyes. Blue like the sky in the summer back home, bright and cloudless and stared at from a meadow.)

“Yeah, of course! See you in class.” You raise your coffee cup sheepishly in his eyeline. “And thanks for the coffee.”

And like that he vanishes, bustling out the door and stepping purposefully in the opposite direction as the sun blazes on his back.

-

You see his backpack before you see him, slammed down on the bench next to you in the lecture hall. He sits down with a long exhale of breath, like he’s ran here--this time he’s dressed in sportswear so you assume he’s been to the gym. Veins ripple and flex up his ridiculously toned arms. Being a football hero probably does that to you.

“Crime and Punishment,” he says, instead of a greeting. “What did you think?”

You smile, spreading your hand across the heavily annotated and dog-eared copy you have in front of you. “Long, dark, often psychologically challenging, but ultimately an interesting perspective on nihilism. And you?”

“Oh.” He nods in faux seriousness. “I thought much the same. Reckon I’d like to go for a beer with Dostoevsky.”

“That would be an interesting encounter.”

Bucky rests his laptop and his copy of the book on the bench and looks as though he might say something else until the professor enters the room, hushing the hall to silence. When the lights dim so you can see the projector, you wonder if Bucky can hear how furiously your heart beats in your chest.

-

After than, some sort of unspoken agreement develops wherein every Russian literature class, his place is a spot next to you. You always seem to arrive first--he’s always rushing from somewhere--but he clocks you and instinctively walks over, sliding into a chair adjacent to your own. The conversation is usually the same. Always about the books.

You’re not sure what any of it means but you’ve somehow found a friend in the famous Bucky Barnes, and people start to notice.

“Since when have you and Bucky been so close?” Wanda Maximoff asks as you queue for the canteen lasagna, the flourescent bar lights doing nothing for the food presentation. “My brother is in your lit class and he says you two sit together a lot.”

You shrug, spooning lasagna onto your plate. “We just sit together.”

“You don’t just sit together with Bucky Barnes, (Y/N). That’s not a thing that happens.”

“Honestly, Wanda, we just talk about books.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, swiping her meal card at the end of the belt. “Sure, okay. I believe you. For now.”

She has to believe you, because you know what she’s insinuating. And when you look across the canteen and see Bucky laughing with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson and his ex girlfriend Natasha Romanoff, you know this cute, handsome boy and his often insightful observations of Russian texts are so far out of your league that it’s kind of embarrassing.

-

so, (y/n). what did you think of the master and margarita?

i think pilate suffering for his sins for two thousand years is pretty rough tbh

but he deserves it?

i mean. probably. his suffering is necessary for the redemption arc

just what i was going to say. obviously.

see you tomorrow :)

-

“Do you want to come to a party?” 

Bucky asks you this as you come out of your seminar on Chekov’s Uncle Vanya and, admittedly, it kind of knocks you off guard. When you lamely blink back at him blankly, he decides to elaborate.

“It’s my friend Sam’s birthday. It’s just at our dorm--should be fun. Although we’re very competitive when it comes to beer pong, so beware.” His smile is wistful but he quickly comes back to earth, falling in step with you as you walk along the hall. “So what do you say? You interested?”

“You’re inviting me to a party?” you reply, as this is a very big step in your friendship. This is assuming he’d happily see you outside of class amongst his equally popular and attractive friends.

“Yeah, I think so,” he laughs bemusedly, pausing at the door that leads to the quad. He has his Cold War class across campus. “(Y/N), I’d really like you to come.”

You look at him and expect him to reveal this--him--as a joke, but he’s earnest and certain and honest, with an almost shy smile on his face. His eyes are hidden by his usual cap but you know the colour of blue so well by now. And not just because you’d zoomed in on his Facebook photo in a moment of ridiculous late-night longing.

(You follow him on Instagram now, too, but only because he followed you first. You were still too uncertain to initiate it, worried that he’d ignore you.)

“Okay,” you say, swallowing nervously. Wondering if this might be a mistake. That you’d turn up and no-one there would like you. “Who else will be there?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll introduce you.” He pauses, chewing his lip for a second, before gesturing at the door. “I’ve got class, so I’ll...I’ll see you later.”

Your hands tighten round the straps of your backpack. “See you later, Bucky.”

-

Bucky shares a floor with Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers at a block about a ten minute walk from your own, and you use the walk in the chill New York air to calm your jangling nerves. You’re wearing your favourite navy blue dress and have braided your hair and made an effort with your makeup--and you’re not totally sure what for, what you’re expecting. You’re just the quiet girl in Bucky Barnes’ literature class. You don’t know how it got to this.

You’re too awkward to press the buzzer so you message Bucky to let him know you’re outside. Scrolling through your Facebook inbox, your messages have become...quite frequent. Especially at night. You lie on your bed and frantically type until the early hours, only realising it’s 3am before it’s too late.

That’s what friends do, right? Friends. 

(God, you’re so fucking in love with him, aren’t you?)

Bucky’s on the edge of a laugh when he answers the door, but his expression falters into muted surprise as soon as he lays eyes on you on his doorstep. A silly gold party hat is positioned at an angle over his head.

“(Y/N),” he says, and you flush, because the way he says your damn name. He steps aside so you can step in under his arm. “I’m glad you came. Finished The Idiot yet?”

“Onto the last fifty pages.” His house is decked out with balloons and paper chains and the loud pumping of a bass stereo carries from the lounge, alongside the chatter of laughing of guests. You recognise Columbia’s only archer and Olympic hopeful Clint Barton rush up the stairs, holding the hand of a brown haired girl. Bucky rolls his eyes at him and yells already? “I think it might be one of my favourites on the module.”

He leads you through to the kitchen which is empty other than various bottles of alcohol on the table and Natasha Romanoff sitting on the counter. Her red hair hangs effortlessly across her shoulders, lips painted scarlet, wearing a classy black jumpsuit. Natasha Romanoff makes you feel nervous because a) she’s the kind of girl you could never be and b) she’s the kind of girl Bucky Barnes dates. She’s sipping rose out of a wine glass, her eyes discretely looking you up and down.

“Is this the famous (Y/N)?” Natasha asks, her tone intrigued, her lips curved. Bucky laughs bashfully, scratching the back of his head. “Honestly, this guy doesn’t stop talking about you.”

“Sorry?” you gape, looking between her and him. Bucky sends Natasha a glare that signals for her to shut up which only makes her more amused by the situation, leaning back casually. “Uh, I don’t know--”

“Ignore her. She’s insatiable.” Bucky quickly swerves, pressing a glass into your hand. “Would you like a drink? We have pretty much everything imaginable. Natasha has plenty of wine she’d love to share.”

Natasha is totally unaffected, already looking at her mobile phone. She flicks a hand at a line of bottles next to the microwave. “Feel free, honey.”

You’re not a big drinker as you don’t often frequent cool college parties and you’ve been drunk a grand total of one time after one too many glasses of champagne on new year’s eve. Bucky seems to see this in your face.

“You don’t have to drink, obviously,” he says kindly, “But if you mix a bit of soda with rose it actually tastes kinda nice. Much better than beer, anyway.”

“Okay,” you nod, letting him mix the drink for you. He’s remarkably careful, pouring the tiniest amount from one of Natasha’s bottles and topping it up with sprite. He grabs a beer for himself, cracking off the lid with his teeth.

“You know you’re not impressive when you do that,” Natasha says drolly, even though she hasn’t looked up from her phone.

“(Y/N) was impressed,” Bucky says with a wink. You try and keep straight-faced but yeah, come on. You were.

“Of course she was impressed,” Natasha interjects, “You’re both stupidly in love with each other but too polite to make a move.”

Bucky flips her off before pressing a gentle hand in the small of your back, ushering you away from her. “She’s drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!”

You sip your drink, wondering if your palms will ever stop sweating. Natasha can’t be right. She isn’t right. Or is she? No, she can’t be, because this is Bucky Barnes and you’re you.

-

Bucky’s friends are actually kinda nice. Really nice, in fact. You’ve always been intimidated by Steve Rogers’ reputation on campus but he might be one of the sweetest guys you’ve ever met, instantly welcoming and eager to get you involved with the games he’s beginning to set up. Sam Wilson is bold and blunt, but he grins mischievously and gives Bucky a pointed look when he introduces you and snaps a party hat to your head. In various corners of the apartment you see people you vaguely recognise from school, names burning at the edges of your memory but ultimately escaping you. 

Steve sets up the table for beer pong and Bucky clutches your wrist, beckoning you over to play (and cutting short your conversation with a very interesting business major called Pepper). Steve and Sam are on one side while you and Bucky are apparently on the other--Steve’s positioned himself so he’s directly in view of a British exchange student with big eyes on the other side of the room. 

(Aside from your own, you’re actually pretty observant when it comes to potential romantic encounters.)

“Just so you know,” Sam stares hard at the two of you, pointing with two fingers, “It’s my birthday, so I have to win. It’s the rules.”

“I don’t think you have to worry,” you reply, looking up at Bucky. His expression is warm, his arms desperately close to yours. “I’m probably going to be pretty rubbish at this.”

“Buck’s a good teacher,” Steve says, grabbing a ping-pong ball and handing it over to Sam. He rolls it between his fingers, his face scrunched in mock seriousness. “But we’ve all had plenty of practice.”

“Too much practice, arguably,” Bucky drawls. “And Wilson, don’t you think for one second that (Y/N) and I are going to let you win under any circumstances.”

“I don’t need you to let me win,” Sam says, before perfectly throwing the ball into one of the cups near the front. He stands back smugly, crossing his arms over his chest, as the rest of the room whoops. “I think you’ll find I possess the skills for victory, fair and square.”

You laugh as Bucky rolls his eyes, picking up the plastic cup filled halfway with lukewarm beer. He keeps eye contact as he knocks the whole thing back, wiping his lip emphatically once he’s done. “That’s it. The game is on.”

-

Admittedly, it get’s to a point where it’s pretty close. You almost visibly bristle as Bucky tries to show you the ropes, positioning your hips with his hands and following your aim as you try (and often fail) to pit the ball in one of the opposite team’s plastic cups. Whenever you score he yelps dramatically, high-fiving you, and his grin is borderline magical.

(Natasha watches bemusedly from the sidelines, making dry comments here and there. It’s like she’s checking you out for herself. Assessing you.)

It get’s to the point where there is only one cup left on either side and the tension is palpable. Limbs are floppier from downing liquor, the aim repeatedly more off--your stomach is warm and your feet feel light--and Bucky’s palms ghost your waist as you concentrate on what could be the winning put. Sam and Steve try and distract you by dancing ridiculously to an ABBA track playing out the speakers, but Bucky’s words of encouragement are what filter through. You take a deep breath and throw, only exhaling when your ball lands with a triumphant plop in the central solo cup.

Bucky throws his fist in the air before grabbing you and spinning you round, his laugh ecstatic in your ear. You cling onto his neck, your fingers barely millimeters from entangling in his hair, before he plants you down on the ground again. Well. You think you’re on the ground. You might as well be in the clouds.

“A round of applause for the winning shot,” Bucky says, holding your hand and lifting your arm so you can take your bow (which you do with pleasure). Steve and Sam pretend to be reluctant, but they clap anyway.

“I’ll allow it, this once, (Y/N),” Sam answers bemusedly, coming round to the other side of the table. “But if you try and upstage me on my birthday again there will be consequences.”

You feel more confident now, more like these people are your friends. So you grin, feeling the magnetic pull of Bucky to his side from next to you. “I’ll try not to. Promise.”

Sam hums, before clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Come on, Barnes. You can go mix me a drink.”

Bucky shrugs, asking if you want anything from the kitchen while he’s on his way there, but you shake your head. You’re happy right now with what you have.

-

Natasha approaches you while you’re waiting outside the bathroom. Someone--you think he’s called Rhodey--emerges and offers you a salute and you’re about to go in, but Natasha grabs your hand and pulls you in with her and locks the door behind you.

You’re so astonished you’re not sure what to say. She brushes the hair away from her neck, back facing you.

“I need someone to unzip me,” she declares like it’s obvious, indicating towards the zipper halfway down her back. “Do you mind?”

“No,” you blink, hand nimbly reaching forward to drag the zipper down her back. Even her back is flawless, like porcelain, a tattoo of what looks like a spider curling up from her waist. “Of course not, no.”

She sits on the toilet unabashedly and doesn’t ask you to look away but of course, you do, because this whole situation feels very strange indeed. The wall is plain and blue and spotted with mildew, probably damp from the shower. Like all student accommodation. It feels weird looking at damp while Natasha Romanoff, beautiful as she is, literally pees behind you.

“I care about Bucky a lot,” she says suddenly, “I’ve known him a long time. Way before college, way before we--dated. I love him, but not in the way you think. And I know what he’s like, what the signs are.”

You shift your feet uncomfortably. “The signs of what?”

She audibly sighs out of frustration. “Honestly, it sounds like you’re both as bad as each other. I know--I know when he’s falling for somebody. You’d think, I know you think, that somebody like him...he’d have no problem with it. And maybe if he cared a little less and felt less intensely he wouldn’t.”

“I’m not sure...”

The toilet flushes. Natasha rises and turns back to you and you dutifully zip her back up while she washes her hands, looking at your reflection in the mirror. When you’re stood side by side like this it really does emphasise the differences between you, but also the similarities. She’s a girl. So are you. Girls, despite what every atom of her being exudes. 

“You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N).” She smiles crookedly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just--treasure him, yeah? He deserves it. I get a feeling you both do.”

She doesn’t look back at you as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

-

Bucky gives you one of his old football jerseys to walk home in because it’s past midnight and you didn’t bring your own. He also insists on walking you home. And you feel nervous, not just because you’re alone with him for the first time this evening, but also because Natasha’s words circle the back of your mind like a tape cassette stuck on loop. You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N).

“Can I ask you something?” you question, arms crossed as your steps echo on the sidewalk. The street is surprisingly deserted--it’s usually crowded with students, all sorts. Tonight, it is quiet.

Bucky looks over at you quizzically, but intrigued. “Yeah. Shoot.”

“Why me?” When he looks perplexed, you laugh awkwardly and continue on. “Connie Taylor is in our Russian lit class, too, and she’s way prettier than me and like...she’s been trying to get you to notice her all semester and yet.” You scrunch your nose as you look up at him, examining his features. His jawline. The hair that falls into his eyes. His naturally flushed cheeks. The party hat he’s yet to take off. Him. Him him him. “You always come to me.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Connie Taylor seems perfectly nice. But Connie isn’t you. I like you.” You arrive at the door of your block and he pauses, shoes scuffing into the ground. “She’s not prettier than you, or smarter than you, or any of the reasons you’ve inevitably thought in your head as to why you think she’s more deserving of anything than you. And I find it vaguely insulting that because...I don’t know, play football, that I could only be interested in one kind of person.”

You look away. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No, I know.” He steps closer so that the toes of your shoes are almost touching. His hand searches in the darkness for your own. Squeezing your small fingers between his, scarred and scraped from football practice. “(Y/N), I like you because you’re funny and kind and intelligent. I like it when you message me about books, I like it when you save me a seat in lectures, I like it when you explain every single point you make so everyone in the class can understand it. I like so many things about you, and you need to get it out your head that because you’re not Connie Taylor that this can’t be true.”

“No-one ever notices me, Bucky,” you murmur quietly, “And I don’t say that for sympathy, or whatever. I say that because that’s how it’s always been.”

You both stare into each other and for one agonising, aching moment you think he might let go of your hand, snuff every spark out like a candle. But instead--instead he ducks in, covering your lips in a soft post-midnight kiss, his mouth warm and tasting faintly like beer. He snatches the breath from your lungs.

“Do you believe me now?” he whispers, hands curving round your jaw. You want to close your eyes, remember this feeling forever. Trap it all in a polaroid. “You are so fucking special. Everyone but you can see it, and it’s so frustrating.”

You kiss his palm, letting your lips linger on his skin for a moment longer. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. I had a really great time.”

His smile is faint but there, nonetheless. “I knew you would. I hope this means you’ll be willing to come out with me again sometime.”

“I think I would like that.”

He unravels from you, not before ducking in for one last sweet, beautiful kiss. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“‘Night, Bucky.”

Your hands remain clasped together until he’s far enough away from you, dropping your hand and grinning as he’s eventually lost in darkness. You have to hover for a second with your keycard in your hand, trying to gather your thoughts, process the events of the evening. Bucky Barnes like you. He likes you, not in spite of you, but because you’re you.

When you collapse on your bed you map the constellations of cracks on your ceiling, your heart thumping and your mind almost one hundred percent him.

-

“you and i, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to Earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.”

y/n. it’s 2am and doctor zhivago is making me cry.

also sam has made me drink sambuca

i wish i was crying over russian books with you

even though ur probably asleep

that’s cool

hope ur having sweet dreams

:)

miss you

-

my masterlist

send me a request

[adverb-slut]

Poison Apple Crêpes (Fanfiction) Part 1/2

I wrote this little oneshot initially on AO3, but I decided to post it on Tumblr, as well, since I am trying to write more fanfic on here!

Title:

Poison Apple Crêpes (Part 1/2)

Summary: 

An incensed Mammon recalls a fond memory he has of Lucifer from when they were younger. 

(Essentially just a fluffy oneshot about Luci doing his best and Mammon just realizing it because he is a dumbass.)

Genre:

Fluff

Rating:

G

Word Count:

2011

-

Mammon clutched the sheet of paper even more tightly in his fists, his knuckles curled so fast that his shapely white fingernails dug deep into his palms.  

The paper—his fifth Chemistry III test with a score of less than 10%—was a crumpled mess and, unlike his usual treatment of schoolwork, couldn’t be thrown away.  Because it was his fifth F- in a row, his professor had stapled an angry pink notice to the front of the exam, biding Mammon to have it signed by his guardian and returned to the professor so that he knew that someone other than Mammon was aware of his failing grades and was helping him get through the course.

However, since Mammon had no actual guardian, the role of signing permission slips, detention notices, release forms and the like for all the brothers fell upon Lucifer.  And as far as Lucifer was concerned, he had signed far too many test-failure notifications for Mammon and was already livid with his younger brother for another one he had brought home yesterday for his Statistics IV class; he had confiscated Mammon’s beloved Goldie the second he had seen the telltale pink sheet stapled to the front of Mammon’s test the day before.

Of course, Mammon had thought to forge Lucifer’s signature on all his failed tests, but unfortunately, during the past year, much of the R.A.D.’s grading system had become computerized and Lucifer could see his siblings’ grades whenever he pleased.  Mammon figured it would be worse for his brother to find out about his grades over the computer than for him to realize it in person—that gave him less time to plan out his punishment agenda. 

Mammon shuddered at the thought of what his penalty would be this time and cursed Lucifer a thousand times over.  A boiling ire snaked its way through his bones as he thought of the firstborn demon’s cruel sense of justice, but even more so at the fact that his preliminary punishment had already been granted the day before: his precious Goldie had been impounded.

He absolutely despised knowing that the few thousand Grimm coins that rattled around in his jacket pocket were all the money he had on him, period.  The thought only caused his frown to deepen as he wrung his test even tighter and made his way to Lucifer’s private study.  

The eldest demon’s study had always been a bit of a puzzle to his siblings, as rather than being locked by a key, it was kept shut through a voice command phrase.  Belphegor and Satan had always reveled in guessing goofy phrases about Lucifer’s relationship with Diavolo as the code, but none of those phrases opened the door. Even when Leviathan, Beelzebub, or Asmodeus made any kind of attempt to speak the right phrase, the door still wouldn’t budge.

The five of them had always assumed that the code was some kind of personal anecdote, something that only those closest to Lucifer would know.  This baffled them, as who would be closer to Lucifer than his brothers?

Mammon, on the other hand, never understood what was so hard about guessing the code—as far as he was concerned, any low-level demon could figure it out easy enough—not that he’d ever tell his other siblings what it was.

He walked up to the door to Lucifer’s study and muttered, “Eine klein Nachtmusik.”

It was common sense for that to be Lucifer’s super-secret code phrase.  Back in the Celestial Realm, when Lucifer had been the Archangel of Music, "Eine klein Nachtmusik" had been his first and most beloved composition.  He had written a great multitude of pieces for every instrument ever to be in existence, but there was no composition that he was more proud of than that one.  Or, he had been, until his prized work had been released into the Human World and the credit for it had been taken by some Austrian mook by the name of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Mammon shook his head as the door to the study slid open smoothly without so much as a hiss.  

Too easy.

He stomped in, his displeasure evident on his face as he turned toward his brother’s desk, hoping to see a dumbfounded Lucifer, irritated that someone had been able to outsmart his voice command security.

Instead, Lucifer was hunched over his desk, his head down and only propped up by a gloved hand that was sprawled delicately on his face.

Mammon raised an eyebrow and walked closer to the firstborn demon.  His eyebrows raised; Lucifer was … sleeping? He paused, realizing that he hadn’t seen his brother at breakfast this morning, either.  Had he been here in his study all night?  

Mammon couldn’t even begin to wonder what kind of work would prompt his brother to slave at such odd hours.  However, this didn’t bother him as he clasped his hand around Lucifer’s shoulder, poised and ready to shake the exhausted demon awake.  

“Yo, Lucifer,” he began, but before he could finish his thought, his eyes wandered to the disarray that was Lucifer’s desk. 

He cocked his head.  His brother was renowned for being an incredibly immaculate demon; there never was a hair to be found out of place on his head, and even the clutter on his desk was always neatly arranged and tidy.  

Mammon looked behind the desk and noticed that Lucifer had propped a window open and realized that the wind must have scattered the items on his desk. 

Dozens of sheets of paper were strewn about and various pens and knickknacks littered the floor.  In fact, Mammon noticed that the only thing that seemed to have survived the wind was the file folder that was directly in front of Lucifer.  He found that strange and wondered why that was the sole object not privy to the elements.  

He moved his hand off of Lucifer and stepped back when he noticed that the item that acted as a paperweight and held the file down was a small tabletop photo frame.  Mammon raised an eyebrow as he picked the frame up and nearly dropped it when he saw the photo that was inside.  

It was an older photograph, taken maybe five hundred years ago or so.  He smiled, realizing that in the picture, he was only perhaps nine hundred years old.  Lucifer, the other demon in the photo, was about thirteen hundred. The two of them were huddled under an umbrellaed patio table at one of the small cafés on the outskirts of the Devildom, grinning widely for the camera.  Mammon had an arm wrapped chummily around his older brother’s shoulders, while the latter leaned into the touch with a carefree beam bigger than Mammon had ever seen it before.

Mammon smiled fondly; he recollected the café well.  When the seven brothers had first moved to the Devildom, they had reveled in exploring the many restaurants that the realm offered, before finally settling on Ristorante Six as their favorite.  However, Mammon reminisced, the particular café featured in the photograph remained a favorite of both him and Lucifer. On days that they weren’t busy with their own responsibilities, the pair used to would make the long trips to the fringes of the Devildom to the café and enjoy its specialty—crêpes.  

He recalled that at first, he had kicked his legs stubbornly and pouted because none of the crêpe fillings were foods that he liked until Lucifer had persuaded him to try the dried blackbelly newt legs macerated in vanilla simple syrup as a filling.  Mammon had fallen in love that day, and ever since then, he couldn’t get enough of the coarse, wiry stuff and considered dried blackbelly newt legs to be one of his favorite foods.

Lucifer, on the other hand, always ordered his crêpes brimming with several extra portions of poison apples.  The sticky fruit was always slick with thick, purple glaze, and Mammon laughed when he remembered that by the end of every meal, Lucifer would woefully find his lips a very unbecoming shade of lavender.  

His laughter stopped when he realized that it had been a very long time since he and Lucifer had been to that café.  In fact, for the past several years, Mammon had spent most of his time meandering about in the exclusive and expensive shopping districts in the heart of the Devildom, never venturing to the dingy outskirts of the realm.  

But still, he wondered, why he and Lucifer hadn’t at least made one trip to the café in all the years since.

Mammon’s heart dropped as he racked his brain and remembered Lucifer asking him, year after year—in an underhanded way, of course—if he wanted to accompany him on various outings, all of which were located in the very fringes of the Devildom and dangerously close to their café.

“Mammon, I’m going to drop Baby Satan at his Little Bookworms Club at the edge of town.  Care to join me? We can find something to eat while we wait for him to finish.”

“Mammon, Levi stayed up late playing zombie games again, and he wants me to walk him to the Akuzon Delivery Center; he’s afraid something will creep up from the shadows and attack him.  It’s at the far end of the realm, but we can buy some lunch in one of the cafés nearby if we get hungry. That is—if you’d like to come.”

“Mammon, do you recall that Beel received those three passes for two free meals apiece at any café in the Devildom?  It was a prize for when he won the Devildom Junior High Pie-Eating Contest, I believe.  Yesterday, he gave me one as penance for eating everything in the refrigerator, again. Would you care to use it with me?”

“Mammon, Diavolo said that it’s imperative that I deliver this bowl of warm chicken heart soup to his grandmother.  She’s sick and lives in the Hellfire Retirement Community. You know where that is, correct? It’s on the outskirts of town, and we can get brunch afterward.  Will you join me?”

He cringed as he remembered that he had turned down every invitation, too deep in one of his many get-rich-quick schemes once he had gotten settled in his life in the Devildom to take a moment to spend time with his brother.  He realized now that Lucifer, his pride having taken too many hits from being snubbed a multitude of times, must have just decided to stop inviting him altogether.

Mammon sighed and put the photo frame back on the file in front of Lucifer.  He decided to let him sleep—with all he did for his younger brothers, Mammon wagered Lucifer sure needed it.  He uncrumpled his test and with one of the pens scattered about, scrawled Mammon already signed up for tutoring ); on the back, and left it on the desk, making a mental note to do just that—even though he despised the idea of spending his much-needed cashflow-planning time with the pretentious tutors at R.A.D.

He stared at Lucifer’s peaceful form for a moment before reaching down to pick up the windblown papers and place them neatly on his desk.  He even rearranged all the other office supplies that were scattered about in a fashion that he was sure that even the tidy Lucifer would approve of.

“Stupid Lucifer,” Mammon muttered as he quietly closed the door to his brother’s study.  “No wonder you were Father’s favorite.”

As he walked down the halls of the House of Lamentation, Mammon fingered the Grimm coins in his pocket.  Now that he thought about it, he had just the right amount of money to buy a stack of crêpes to-go at that little café. 

He nodded when he realized that in the glove compartment of his Demonio 666 Lexura, he’d also left at least six thousand Grimm worth of change for roadside emergencies.

… The perfect amount of money to add an extra helping of poison apples to said crêpes.

THE END

Read Part 2/2 here!

[pun-master-logan]

Room 206

Chapter one can be found here, chapter two can be found here

***

“How about you, nerd,” Remus said, looking at Logan. “What kind of trouble does a guy who wears a necktie to school get into?”

Logan didn’t look up from his homework. “If you must know, I corrected a teacher.”

“Of course it was for correcting a teacher,” Roman said.

“No, no, there’s more to the story, I can smell it,” Remus said, taking a deep inhale through his nose.

Logan set down his pen and faced the group.

***

Science is Logan’s favorite class. He was taking a college level course that was offered to all eligible upper classmen. The world was so fascinating and he wanted to know everything about it.

That particular day, they were discussing chemical structures, which was one of Logan’s favorite subjects. The teacher, Mr. Moon drew a structure on the board and labelled it amphetamine.

“Alright class, today we’ll be-” Logan raised his hand as Mr. Moon spoke. “Yes Mr. Knowles.”

“You missed labelled the chemical structure on the board.”

The teacher turned briefly to look at the board. “It’s labelled correctly.”

“No, it isn’t. You have it labelled as amphetamine, but that’s methylhexanamine,” Logan said.

“I know my chemical structures Mr. Knowles,” Mr. Moon said.

“It’s an easy mistake to make, they’re very similar to-”

“Have you considered then, that you are the one who made the mistake?” Mr. Moon asked.

“I’m confidante I’m correct, but double checking never hurts, if I could just look it up.” Logan went to pull out his phone.

“Put that phone away, we are in the middle of class.”

“But I-”

“That is enough, Mr. Knowles, I don’t need you teaching the class for me.”

“Are you sure about that,” Logan mumbled under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Moon said.

“Just admit you made a mistake and correct it before you teach us something that is wrong. That is methylhexanamine on the board, if you would let me show you-”

“That’s it, detention.”

“Detention, for wanting a proper education,” Logan said, standing up.

“You will sit back down or I’ll make it two.”

Logan was quiet for a moment. He and the teacher seemed to be having a staring contest of sorts.

“I will sit down when you correct you’re mistake,” he said after the long silence.

“That’s two,” Mr. Moon said. “Now sit down and quit disrupting my class or I will call the principal’s office and have you sent there right now.”

Logan did what he thought was best in the moment. “Call her.”

***

“Oooh, I did not see that coming,” Roman said, seeming quite interested in Logan’s story.

“You said that. To a teacher.” Patton looked mortified.

“He was being stubborn and refused to admit to his mistake, how does that help anyone in our class?” Logan said.

“I think you did the right thing, teachers suck,” Virgil said.

Mr. Somnus looked at Virgil briefly, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he went back to scrolling on his phone.

“Your turn, little mouse,” Remus said, pointing at Patton.

“Me?” Patton said, his face going bright red again.

“Let me guess, you were late to class one to many times because you stopped to pick up worms on the sidewalk after the rain,” Remus said.

Patton was quiet.

“No, that’s not it. You...” Remus thought it over. “You found an injured squirrel on the way to school and brought him to class with you.”

Patton shook his head. He looked like he was going to cry.

“Will you knock it off?” Virgil said.

“Well, now I’m really curious.”

Patton mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Remus said, cupping his ear.

“I...I hit him,” Patton said, pointing at Deceit in the back.

Remus eyes lit up. “I did not see that coming. Do tell.”

Deceit slammed his book shut. “We are not talking about it.”

“Don’t be such I baby,” Remus said. He turned back to Patton. “Go on, give us all the juicy details.”

***

It was fifth period. Patton was running late for lunch. It had rained the night before, but now the sun was beating down and there were many unsuspecting worms still chilling on the sidewalk. Patton spent he first twelve minutes of the period getting them to safety.

( “I knew it!” )

While Patton was doing that, Virgil was eating lunch, alone. He was waiting for Patton. They ate lunch together everyday. Virgil hadn’t packed himself much, just a sandwich and an apple. Sometimes Patton brought an extra cookie to share, which Virgil always appreciated.

As Virgil bit into his sandwich, Deceit walked by. He hadn’t noticed Virgil’s backpack sitting on the ground next to the table and ended up tripping over it. He landed hard on the ground, his tray of food painting his clothes on the way down. The whole cafeteria laughed as he fell.

Deceit stood up quickly, leaving his food littered on the floor. He turned to Virgil, who was still eating his sandwich.

“This is your fault.”

Virgil swallowed. “Watch where you’re going next time.”

“Don’t put your junk in the middle of the walk way!” Deceit nearly yelled.

“It wasn’t.”

Deceit got closer. “It was.”

“Look, how about you go to your table and I stay here and we just stay out of each others way,” Virgil said.

“First, you’re buying me a new lunch,” Deceit said.

“It was an accident, I’m not paying for your lunch.”

Deceit grabbed Virgil by the hoodie. “Yes you are.”

Patton had walked in just a moment before. When he saw Deceit grab Virgil, he raced over. Without thinking, he swung, hitting Deceit right across the face.

Deceit let go of Virgil’s hoodie, stumbling back a bit as he raised a hand to his cheek.

“Don’t touch him.” Patton stood tall, his fists still balled at his sides.

Virgil stared at Patton with surprise. He couldn’t imagine Patton hurting a fly, lt alone a person.

“You hit me,” Deceit said with a mixture of shock and anger.

The adrenaline started wearing off, and what had just happened sunk in for Patton. His breath picked up as he fought back the panic.

“A-are you okay?” he asked.

“No I’m not okay! You hit me!”

A teacher walked over with a student in tow.

“What is going on here?” She asked.

“He punched me in the face!” Deceit said, pointing at Patton.

“You hit him?” The teacher asked.

“Because he grabbed Virgil,” Patton said.

“That doesn’t give you the right to hit people. You should’ve been more like Mr. Picani here and gotten a teacher to defused the situation.”

“He grabbed Virgil,” Patton repeated.

“Detention, for both of you,” the teacher said.

“Are you kidding me?” Virgil said.

“Excuse me, Mr. Storm?”

“Patton was just trying to help and he’s being punished.”

“We don’t condone violence of any sort,” the teacher said.

“That’s stupid. He deserved to be punched.”

“Well then, if you think that, you can join Mr. Morris and Mr. De Sete in detention after school today.”

***

“Wow.” Remus clapped. “I guess we have a winner. I can’t believe I missed that.”

“No,” Patton said. “Hitting people is wrong, I know better.”

“How strong is he?” Roman asked Deceit.

“Comparing stories of how we got detention is childish,” Deceit said.

“You’re just all pouty because you got hit by the human equivalent of a teddy bear,” Roman said.

“I agree with Deceit, this is childish,” Logan said.

“Can you not call me that? I already have to point up with this loser calling me that.” He pointed Remus.

Remus winked at him. “You know you love me.”

“What do you want to be called?” Logan asked.

“My name,” Deceit said, his tone saying it should’ve been obvious. “You know my name, don’t you?”

“In my defense, I’m new to this class, I haven’t memorized everyone’s name.”

“We’ve been in several classes together for the past two years.”

“Four o’clock everyone,” Mr. Somnus said as soon as the hour was up, interrupting the students. “You’re free to leave and I’m free to leave once all of you get out of here, so get moving.”

***

This is all that I have planned, but I do find this au fun, if anyone is interested in more, I’ll write more, if not, this has been fun

I got  amphetamine and methylhexanamine off of Wikipedia, if they don’t actually look similar, I’m sorry

Taglist: @a-black-pegasus

I take constructive criticism.

Chapter four can be found here

[farmerlan]

Farmer Lan’s Rewatch Guide to The Untamed - Episode 6

Vanity, thy name is Lan Wangji

SPOILERS AHEAD YOU KNOW IT

HAHAHA I feel like this episode is going to be really trying for me because there are so many scenes that TECHNICALLY happen in the novel, but not in this way. There’s a lot of crafty rewriting going on here that I’m going to try my best to reconcile with what’s going on in the novel. WARNING IT GETS REALLY LONG.

[We see the trio (Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng) enjoying some Tian Zi Xiao, a famous liquor produced within the region. Lan Wangji walks in at that moment and sees the debauchery going on. He demands they receive punishment but Wei Wuxian sets a talisman upon Lan Wangji to forcibly control him. Wei Wuxian then orders him to drink and we find out that he’s a super-lightweight. Wei Wuxian takes this chance to mess around with the usually stoic Lan Wangji. We learn that the Gusu Lan’s sect headband is sacred - no one can touch the headband except parents and significant others.

Wei Wuxian counters that no one on earth is going to marry into the Lan sect because they’re so stuffy HA. We learn a little about their backgrounds - Lan Wangji claims he does not have a mother, Wei Wuxian shares that he was orphaned at 4, and his only memory of his family is of them traveling with a donkey, laughing and having a good time.]

Differences from the novel:

Lan Wangji doesn’t interrupt the party - he interrupts the morning after. After a night of drunken shenanigans, Wei Wuxian & pals are all passed out in his room when Lan Wangji strides in the next morning. Next thing Wei Wuxian knows, he is being dragged by the collar into the ancestral hall for punishment. Lan Wangji doesn’t fall prey to any talisman tricks because...he’s too good for that obvi.

In the novel, we first learn that Lan Wangji is a one-shot wonder in Chapter 30, post-resurrection timeline, as part of the Yi City arc as they chase down the other body parts of the Demonic Left Arm’s corpse. He does not drink or become inebriated in Wei Wuxian’s first life. 

The actual backgrounds of both characters are correctly portrayed but this heart-to-heart conversation never happens at any point in the novel. In fact, with Lan Wangji’s general emotional constipation, many believed they were downright hostile to each other at times and I think even Wei Wuxian was unsure if Lan Wangji really returned his friendship prior to his death. 

We learn about Lan Wangji’s mother in more detail in one of the later episodes so I’ll talk about it then, but Wei Wuxian’s memory of his family was brought up in Chapter 66 of the novel. Specifically, he has a flashback as he is riding on Little Apple with Lan Wangji beside him, and then asks Lan Wangji to pick up the reins in order to re-enact the scene of his mother riding on a donkey led by his father from his memory. He then laments, “Guess we’re only missing a little one to complete the picture”. Obviously, Lan Wangji has no clue what he’s up to but he obliges and picks up the reins anyway.

Re: the headband, in the novel, it’s explained at the end of the Yi City arc, so there are no scenes with Lan Wangji’s ribbon in the Gusu Lan arc. Lan Wangji doesn’t actually explain in the drama what the headband signifies, besides that it is important (I forget whether the show explains this later on). But in the novel, we learn from Lan Sizhui in Chapter 45 that the headband is meant to signify self-restraint, and the only time when you’re allowed to be *ahem* uninhibited is in front of your significant other. Unfortunately, it’s a bit too late for that, especially since he explains this the day after the juniors witnessed a rather...shocking scene in the tavern (replaced by a more tame scene in Episode 40...so I’ll talk about that then because this is getting way too long.)

I’m just going to drop it right here that there is a flashback scene in the novel that is not in the drama. It’s right after Wei Wuxian learns about the meaning where he recounts that the first time he had touched Lan Wangji’s ribbon. In their youth, the Wen sect hosted a gathering/festival (idk what you want to call these...basically sects host get-togethers for other sects and these often last several days and can consist of many events, from banquets to hunts etc). It was during an archery competition event. Wei Wuxian initially tells Lan Wangji that his ribbon is crooked, causing Lan Wangji to feel for his headband to check, only to realize Wei Wuxian was teasing him. The next time, however, Wei Wuxian warns him that it really is coming loose but Lan Wangji ignores him as he figures Wei Wuxian is just being his grand ol’ joker self again. So Wei Wuxian reaches for it as he offers to fix it for Lan Wangji... and ends up accidentally ripping it off entirely. Lan Wangji is so upset he actually withdraws from the competition early (he still ends up placing fourth because he’s ~gifted~). Back to the present, Wei Wuxian reflects that it was a testament to Lan Wangji’s character and restraint that he didn’t immediately end Wei Wuxian’s life right there and then HA.

[The next day (let me stop here and just say the teaware in this show is to die for), we cut to Lan Qiren discussing similar happenings at the Nie sect, from where Lan Qiren has just returned. Lan Xichen deduces the water demon and snatched cultivator souls are connected.

We learn more about Wei Wuxian’s mom (Cang Se San Ren...CSSR because I can’t with how long the name is) but then our protagonists’ shenanigans are reported to Lan Qiren. Lan Qiren mets out punishment to the four of them, poor Lan Wangji included, and also accidentally reveals that he knew Wei Wuxian’s mom.

Cut to the Jiang sibs running into Lan Xichen and he tells them it’s going to take weeks to heal, and then points him to the cold springs. Wei Wuxian wants to learn more about CSSR - LOL Lan Xichen alludes to CSSR shaving Lan Qiren’s beard while she was here.

We get a scene with Wen Qing/Wen Ruohan - she seems to have discovered the Yin iron is in the water due to Wen Ning’s sudden change in appearance during the water demon hunt.]

Differences from the novel:

In the novel, Lan Qiren is called away to attend a conference the day after the pornography incident (so Wei Wuxian was NOT punished for that trick ha) and has no involvement in any of the events until the fight with Jin Zixuan.

The punishment scene was portrayed differently. Backstory is - the night before, Lan Wangji caught Wei Wuxian sneaking in alcohol again (he drew the short straw and had to buy it for his gang of do-no-gooders for the party). They fight again, but this time Wei Wuxian clings to Lan Wangji and tackles him off the border wall and onto the ground outside - which means Lan Wangji has now technically also broken the sect rules of being outside and re-entering past curfew. When Lan Wangji drags Wei Wuxian to the punishment hall the next morning, Wei Wuxian tries to pull a ‘gotcha’. He figured Lan Wangji would let him off since technically they both broke the rules and before you punish someone, you should apply the same rules to yourself. Cue Lan Wangji kneeling beside him and giving himself 50 more lashes than he gave to Wei Wuxian. Talk about holding yourself accountable.

There’s not really a lot of discussion of Lan Qiren and CSSR’s relationship in the novel - the author does state in an interview that CSSR AND Wei Wuxian both messed with Lan Qiren’s beloved facial hair, so like mother like son, but it wasn’t canon in the novel.

Jiang Cheng straight up carries Wei Wuxian out of the punishment hall on his back in the novel. Wei Wuxian’s being all finicky and “I didn’t ask you to carry me anyway” and Jiang Cheng replies, “Lan Wangji took 50 more lashings than you and walked out of there by himself! If I didn’t carry you out, god knows how long you would have laid there rolling around in the hall. I don’t think I could bear the shame! Also, stop playing victim then - get off my back and walk.” And Wei Wuxian immediately changes his tune and is all “But I caaaaaaan’t I’m so injured” LMAO.

Yes, Lan Xichen is still the biggest WangXian shipper and is indeed the person who points Wei Wuxian to the cold springs in the novel.

[Cold springs scene with Lan Wangji (they are both semi-naked in all versions besides this, also, who takes a dip FULLY CLOTHED, hello censorship) and Wei Wuxian declares his offer of friendship. Lan Wangji refuses, what else is new.

They both get sucked into a cave that is protected by ~magical guqin~ which forbids non-sect members from getting closer - oh, and there are rabbits wearing the Lan headband. Lan Wangji ties their wrists together with his sect ribbon and they are able to head up to the guqin together.

Lan Wangji plays the guqin to perform Inquiry (have I mentioned I cry tears of laughter whenever I see the guqin scenes I’m sorry bb it’s just really hilariously wrong…) Lan Yi shows up, we also see that everyone outside is looking for the two of them. Cue weird Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan scene as she slips and he catches her. The Jin Zixuan here is downright swoonworthy compared to the novel, I tell you.]

Differences from the novel:

The cold springs scene more or less follows the novel - the dialogue is somewhat different and there’s less physical contact (Lan Wangji in the novel straight up puts his hand on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder to stop him from moving around and splashing water everywhere). 

There is NO CAVE SCENE in the novel. The cold springs scene in the novel ends with Wei Wuxian’s offer of friendship being rejected, and he goes “You’re not giving me face at all, aren’t you afraid I’m going to take all your clothes when I leave if you keep rejecting me like this?” and Lan Wangji of course tells him to gtfo. So, no, we don’t get the symbolic ~tying together of their wrists~ scene in the novel and we do not meet Lan Yi in the novel.

There’s no Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan scene in the novel - I assume it was done for some more relationship building between the two characters in the drama since it would be kind of weird for the show to just throw them together into a romance and arranged marriage without building up to it.

There’s a whole other origin story to the rabbits running around Gusu Lan which I’ll cover in Episode 7.

[We learn that Lan Yi is a boss ass bitch who created the Chord Assassination technique and also appears to have a fondness for rabbits. Turns out she is NOT dead - just guarding the Yin metal until she dies. Cue origins of the Yin metal - it was owned by Xue Chonghai and he was the original demonic cultivator, using people as sacrifice and controlling the Tortoise of Slaughter. He was brought down by the sects and Yiling became known as the Yiling Burial Mounds. The Yin metal was then shattered to be suppressed by the five sects, and kept a secret.

Lan Yi, in an attempt to revitalize the Lan sect, went after the Yin metal despite the warnings of her bff Bao Shan San Ren (Wei Wuxian’s grandmaster). The Yin metal cannot be resealed, so Lan Yi was forced to seal herself in with it.]

Differences from the novel:

Nope, none of this happened. Xue Chonghai is not a character in the novel at all. There’s no Yin metal, but Wei Wuxian DID come up with the Yin Hu Fu (the Yin Tiger Seal) as a weapon. We learn more about its backstory in Chapter 30, however, the novel only states that it was crafted by Wei Wuxian from a mysterious piece of metal he harvested from a monster. The power of the seal therefore really comes from the knowledge that Wei Wuxian possessed to make it - many after him had tried and failed to replicate his success following his death. In the novel, Wei Wuxian is the originator of demonic cultivation (or at least the first person to master it to such a fearsome degree), and he never controlled or sacrificed live people - only corpses.

In the novel, Lan Yi is indeed the only female cultivator to have led the Lan sect, and the creator of the Chord Assassination technique. This was covered as part of the introduction to the technique in Chapter 55 before Lan Wangji uses it on the Tortoise of Slaughter. We learn that due to the cruel nature of it (used to eliminate or suppress many of her enemies), not many people speak fondly of her but there’s no denying the power of the technique. However, that’s all we get - there’s no back story with BSSR or anything of that sort.

Overall Thoughts:

I have none because this post is already long enough hahahaha

[elizabeth-234]

A Night She won’t Soon Forget

Hi Friends! Thank you so much for sticking with this story. Hope you like this new chapter.

Previous Chapter Two: A Day in His Life 

Chapter Three: A Day When Someone New Comes to Midtown

Eleven months later

“Everyone up and downstairs in no less than ten minutes. We’ve got a full day today.”

Penny stifled a groan, raising her arms above her head. She tested the limits of her pinched muscles, stretching her arms back further until they protested. Her back kindly reminded her of the punishment she’d received yesterday with another pinching of objection.

Today was going to be a day of avoiding things. She made sure not to look at the empty bed beside her as she got in the line to wash up. At the sink she avoided looking in the mirror and at her jagged haircut, instead concentrating on scrubbing the last of the grim from under her nails that was still there because her cleaning the previous day.

The skin of her palms stung when the cold water hit the scratches and she wished for the thousandth time she hadn’t tried to run away. Penny scrubbed at them careful to get the dirt embedded in the cuts out. The window latch had wood splinters flayed off it and Penny’s hand was the victim when she tried to climb out.

Mrs. Delores caught her in the end. The punishment was one Penny wouldn’t forget for a long time and when Betty came to let her out, two days had passed by. Betty had handed her a spare rag to wipe the tears and sweat off her face but gave a grimace that spoke volumes.

It wasn’t that the punishment was the worst she’d experienced but there was something in being left alone in that room in the basement which made Penny tick. It was the waiting. Every sound and footstep by a mouse sent her imagination spiraling. It didn’t matter if her eyes were opened or closed, Penny was left waiting in that chair, waiting for mercy. She was alone with her thoughts as sickly company.

With her parole, balance became her motto. She stored all her plans of running away in boxes in the darkest corners of her mind. But not all the evidence of it was gone. Her hands had an almost constant tremble now and one of the days when drew the short straw, all she could do was clutch the door knob at the top of the stairs. Not even Mrs. Delores’s menacing fist could make her go down to the basement and her stomach unclenched when Flash gave in to her pleading and offers of her bread for the next week to switch chores.

The next time Mrs. Delores stood at the top of the stairs and watched as Penny went to the basement. She grabbed the rags and scrubber, and ran back up wincing at the stare Mrs. Delores was giving her. Flash couldn’t trade with her anymore, the woman said with a smile.  

Penny finished getting ready for the day, making due with no toothpaste, and headed downstairs.

Today was the day and alone she shivered but hefted the bucket into the second room in the basement. Her eyes were drawn to the chair in the corner and as water rose in the receptacle, Penny wiped away the tears at the edges of her eyes. The stairs creaked, the bucket hit each stair on the way up, and she made sure to skip the fifth step, but she couldn’t get away fast enough.

As she scrubbed Penny imagined Mrs. Delores sprinkling dust and grim on the doors when all of the children were sleeping, laughing at all the chores they would have to do the next day. Everything at Midtown was dirty no matter how much they worked.

The front door opened interrupting her musings, and a gust of winter air flew in, bringing Mrs. Delores along with it. Melted snow dripped off her coat and onto the floor Penny just cleaned. She shoved her umbrella as well as her gloves in the hooks by the door and turned. Her eyes landed on Penny who, mop in hand, was frozen in the entry hall not five feet from where Mrs. Delores stood.

It was their first union since and Penny flinched at the women’s voice.

“What are you doing, girl?” She looked down hiding her pale face and growing apprehension.

“I’m washing the floor, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Delores snorted.

“Not a very good job if I have anything to say about it and we both know I do. We have a guest coming later this afternoon and it wouldn’t do for them to see this shithole or any little rats, for that matter.”

Her nickname brought a grimace to her face.

The first couple months she was at Midtown, Penny went through a scavenging period. She would store small stockpiles of food in the dorm in case, and many times rightly so, there was not enough available. When some rotted the other kids told on her and Mrs. Delores look of glee preceded the birth of her new name.

Penny never really stopped scavenging, she was just better at hiding it now. The years had taught her what to take and how much would be needed. Ned would help her when he was there and never laughed at her for the unshakable habit. He’d also stop anyone from calling her rat including stealing all of tiny William’s undergarments after a particular vicious attack against Penny.

Without thinking her hand came up to grab the sheared ends of her hair, barely maintaining Penny’s natural curls and giving her the overall effect of looking like she had rat’s nest festering on her.

Nodding, Penny informed Mrs. Delores she would be done in time. It was implied she would long be out of the way when any visitor came.

The door to Mrs. Delores’s office snapped shut and Penny exhaled. Left alone again with only the mind-numbing work of the mop, her thoughts were free to their whimsy. They wandered about their standard path, ignoring the aches in her stomach, to thinking about a women she saw at the market. Her coat had such fine detail Penny couldn’t help but stare at the lace sewn on the sleeves. The woman who was walking by looked down at her and Penny felt seen in a way she rarely did. Her gaze bypassed Penny’s hair and too large ears, and instead she met Penny’s eyes in a direct manner.

Penny answered that Delmar’s was the place to buy meat and bread for the best price. The comment earned her a smile and even more worthwhile, an apple. She’d eaten it without haste once she reached the alley by Midtown, though she was loath to let something so beautiful be ruined. The skin of the apple was dark red. Red like the coat Mrs. Delores was wearing this afternoon and the anger sprouting on her cheeks when her eyes landed on Penny.

Who was their guest? No one came to Midtown; no one unexpected at least.

All the people had their set schedules and prompt times for arrival and departure. It was nearly unheard for someone to come without announcement and even more unusual for Mrs. Delores to be so upset by it.

Mr. Stevens arrived in a punctual manner every week to drop off groceries and pick up the laundry. His beard matched the bristles on the mop she was holding and though his nature was gruff, he would sometimes bring small treats to whoever was helping with the laundry. He gave Penny a piece of bubblegum which her and Ned split as they hid between their beds before dinner one night.

The representative from the state, Mr. Morita, came for a yearly inspection of Midtown and its charges. The leadup to those visits were punctuated by late night cleanings and freezing baths. The workload was much but they ate better that week than any other in the year. Mrs. Delores also made sure to be more pleasant to them. She wasn’t nice per se, but her presence wasn’t as omnipotent. The office door remained closed tight as she filed paperwork and prepared for the questions Mr. Morita was sure to ask.

The final people who came were the prospective parents, but they were few and far between. Midtown was located in the part of town where the locals couldn’t afford to take in another mouth to feed and people from different neighborhoods wouldn’t want to visit.

When they did come silence fell on the orphanage and against Penny’s efforts, hope rose in her chest, seeping through her veins and flowing into her heart only to end up in expected disappointment.

These were the only people who came to Midtown.

No one came as a guest.

-

A sliver of light fell through the crack of the door and onto their faces.

Flash’s chin dug into the top of her head and Penny’s elbow jabbed into Betty’s stomach but no one moved. Each child’s eyes were glued to the figure standing in the office.

The sound of her heels clicking on the floor like a dinner bell, called all of them to the landing on the stairs. Penny caught sight of a pair of elegant, black leather gloves and a vibrant green-toned cloche hat. She was sure she had never seen anything so fine until the woman took off her hat and the blonde curls pinned to her head were revealed along with the loveliest smile Penny had ever seen. The woman looked up at the sight of them pressing their faces between the banisters and winked at them.  

Now they stood staring from the doorway, shushing each other and watching as the woman paced back and forth leisurely as Mrs. Delores looked through some papers. The woman appeared displaced next to the worn carpet and stacks of old paperwork.  

They were enchanted by her, by the way her curls were pinned in neat arrangements to her head and how she walked with sure, strong steps. Her voice completed the spell and the children pressed closer all wondering how someone so beautiful could be there.

Mrs. Delores, on the other hand, was not beguiled. Her tone was bordering on how she talked to the children and they could hear her nails tapping against the desk. Penny would have given her dinner to hear the first part of their conversation.

“All the paperwork is there, Olivia, wasn’t it?” From her vantage point Penny couldn’t see the woman’s face but could hear the low tone in her voice. “We’ve went through the proper channels…”



“I can see that.” Mrs. Delores said, pausing for a moment before bottles clinked together. “Can I offer you anything?”

At the lady’s headshake Penny heard a sigh and saw Mrs. Delores come around to lean on the front of her desk, glass in hand. She pointed at the woman and liquid sloshed over the edge.

“What I want to know is why you’re coming in here with your bougie clothes and bossing me around. I’m not stupid and I know Midtown ain’t the best orphanage around. These kids are downright miserable no matter what I do. So why does this Mr. Stark want one? Hmm?”

The woman walked forward and everyone pressed closer to the door. She took the papers off of the desk, flipping through till she handed them back to Mrs. Delores, pointing at a certain section.

“You’ve answered your own question. The state of this orphanage is precisely why it’s been selected by our board. This is a win, win situation. I’ve seen the statistics of Midtown and you’re low for the year. Well, you’ve been low for longer than a year. I believe it’s been since your husband died?”

“Don’t,” Mrs. Delores said. “Don’t bring him into this. I’ve done my best with this hovel. It was his dream and I’ve kept it running without question or thought of myself.”

Her words were low and flat, and Penny strained forward, careful not to touch the door so she could see Mrs. Delores’s face.

“Be that as it may, you’re in trouble and this will give you the publicity you’re looking for. There’s also the added bonus we’re willing to pay.”

Mrs. Delores looked at the pages in her hand again and the two stood in silence as the children looked on unseen from the shadows until Betty crowded in forward.

“What’s happening?” She said and pushed Penny into the door which creaked open. Both women looked over and the children froze. All of them stared at the red overcoming their headmistress’s face but Penny looked at the woman.

Her eyes turned to fall on the children and found Penny, who was the farthest into the room. A full smile crossed her face. It was a smile Penny knew no on at Midtown or the neighborhood surrounding them would wear. The smile spoke of a type of happiness she would never get to know, one she didn’t deserve to know.

Mrs. Delores stalked forward. Her words were quiet and incited action with their underlying threat.

“Get upstairs. I’ll call you lot down to talk after our… guest leaves.”

Elbows and legs tangled together as they scrambled to the dorm. Penny heard them talking in low tones as she walked up the stairs behind everyone. She looked back to see the woman grabbing her coat and heading toward the door. The light from the street filtered into the hallway, illuminating the woman’s lone figure. The curls in her hair glistened, taking on the appearance of moonbeams, until they disappeared from view behind the closed door.

-

Penny pulled the sheets over her shoulders, tucking the other end underneath her toes.

Careful not to disturb the sheet from its place she stuck her arm out of a hole in the side and wrapped it under the wire frame of the bed feeling around on the flooring until she came to a notch in the wood. With pressure from her hand, it moved and Penny slide the wood aside, grabbing the tin box from the space below the floorboard.

Penny pulled it into the hole in her makeshift sheet tent and opened it. Her fingers traced the few matches scatted in the tin but left them there. A stale slice of bread, still edible, was crushed in the side but again she didn’t pick it up. Penny smiled when her fingers brushed against the pages and she thumbed them. The book was torn around the edges but she pulled it out of the tin and pressed it against her chest.

When she showed the book to Ned for the first time he had told her it was full of poems. They’d been able to get through some of a couple but most were beyond their abilities. The greatest gift he’d been able to give was a translation of the names inscribed in the front.

One Richard and Mary.

Penny’s parents.

She cradled those names close to her heart every time a couple left empty handed from the orphanage and she was still under her thin sheet. It was only during those late hours with the pages under her hand that the hope extinguished before was kindled into a small flame.

Someone had to care for her. Someone had to be coming.

The book was proof and she knew them with a certainty that was gone from every other aspect of her life. They were the words she said over and over as the moon illuminated the threadbare sheet overtop of her.

Penny brought the book over her heart.

“I promise I’ll be good. I won’t try and escape again.”

A tear slid down her face and onto the pages of the book. She sniffled but continued to whisper to it, hoping it would answer her words.

“Please, please let them find me. Let them take me away from here and this place. Let someone love me.”

-

At the same moment, miles away in an office the opposite of the one she’d been in earlier that day, Pepper Potts sat at her desk overlooking the signed paperwork for Midtown Orphanage.

The fire in the hearth caught her eye and a mop of red curls came to mind.

-

Note: Here are some interesting resources I found while researching for this story, if you are interested!

Pepper’s hairstyle - I was thinking the one that said "Ginger Rogers right curls pinned up and to one side" photograph.

Pepper’s Cloche Hat 

Bubble gum - Bubblegum was actually invented in 1928 so it would have been relatively new here!

Taglist (send me an ask if you want to be added :)) -@warmwithafewfrostymoments @whatisthou

Thank you for reading! Please leave a review and let me know what you think! :)

Next Chapter Four: A Day Gone Wrong

[variabels]

Fictober19 #2 Babysitting the Koopalings

A/N: What you need to know for this chapter is that R.O.B. married Marth’s iPhone because Roy set them up one year ago.

Prompt number:  2  “Just follow me, I know the area.”

Fandom (AU if applicable): Super Smash Bros

Rating: T because of the implications at the end.

Warnings/Tags: R.O.B. overheating

Words: I forgot to count

Ships: R.O.B. x Marth’s iPhone, Palu and Bayo are Kirby and Joker’s moms

R.O.B.’s life had been going through many changes lately. It had gotten married to its beautiful wife, Marth’s iPhone. They had been living a happily wed life but something was missing. The one thing that most married couples strive for, kids.

The robot did not want to disappoint its wife when it came to child-raising. It wanted to be prepared for the most troublesome kids imaginable. But it didn’t have much money.

The robot was a decent fighter but there were many fighters that were way more talented than it. R.O.B. didn’t have the money to pay for anything a child needed. Heck, it didn’t have the money to adopt one.

It would take so much time to raise enough money with the results it was having in tournaments. The poor robot had no way to become a top tier fighter in the blink of an eye. Even if by some miracle it did become top tier, it would still lack any knowledge of child-raising.

R.O.B. decided it needed advice. It could not give up, it needed to make its wife happy. The robot went around the Smash Mansion asking fighters for advice. After consulting all the parents in Smash, it came to the conclusion that a part-time job as a babysitter would help it gain money and learn how to raise a child.

---

If R.O.B. had been programmed to feel excitement, it would be feeling it right now. It was time for its first job as a babysitter.

The robot knocked on the door eager for it to be opened. It could hear footsteps of someone running and the door was quickly opened. The robot was met with a huge smile for one second before it turned into a frown.

“Dad, R.O.B. knocked,” Roy Koopa stomped his way back to the sofa.

“Oh, just in time!” Bowser smiled as he let the robot into the Koopalings’ apartment, “The children are all waiting.”

The robot followed Bowser into the living room. The apartment was quite spacious and nicely decorated. There were photos of all the Koopalings on the wall alongside badly illustrated drawings. R.O.B. couldn’t help but imagined what its living room would look when it had kids.

“Kids, R.O.B. is here,” Bowser announced to his children, “He’ll be babysitting you.”

“But he’s a robot,” Wendy protested, “How can he play fashionista with me?”

“Aw, Roy had me all hyped up for nothing,” Bowser Jr. pouted, “He made us all think big Roy would babysit us.”

“Wait, Roy’s not babysitting?” Roy yelled in shock as he made his way towards the door, “That’s it, I’m leaving!”

“I’m sure you’ll all have lots of fun,” Bowser reassured his kids, “If any of you leave or misbehave, you’ll all be punished. Have fun!”

Once Boswer left, R.O.B. knew it had a lot of pressure on it. The most likely scenario would be for the koopalings to misbehave. R.O.B. could sense that they didn’t like it, it needed to gain their trust and respect if it wanted to avoid having problems with Bowser later on.

---

“No!” Wendy yelled, “You can’t walk like that Iggy! You’re ruining my fashion show!”

“That’s not true!”

R.O.B. had no idea what to do. How did you stop two kids from fighting? It’s actually quite easy.

“So, we’ll be allowed to play on iPads all night?” Iggy asked.

R.O.B. nodded which made the two koopalings grin. They had always wanted to stay awake all night and now they could. Babysitters were awesome.

---

Lemmy, Larry and Morton wanted to do nothing but eat chips. Naturally, R.O.B., being a robot, had absolutely no knowledge of the fact that chips weren’t exactly healthy. He took all the koopalings to town to buy them whatever they wanted.

R.O.B. had spent way too much money on the eight mischievous kids. He needed to make sure Bowser paid him a lot.

“We need more chips!” Larry told the robot, “It’s unhealthy for kids to not eat chips.”

“Yeah!” Lemmy smiled, “We read it on a YouTube comment so it must be true.”

“These with lots of sugar and fat will do!” Morton grinned, “They’re the healthiest!”

Kirby and Joker just happened to be walking by with Palutena and got really excited.

“Mom?” Joker asked as he made puppy eyes, “Can we have some chips?”

“No. We have chips at home.”

“They’re apple chips!”

“Healthy and delicious.”

“Fuck you!” Kirby pouted, “Bayo’s a better mother than you. At least, she’s willing to try to get me whatever I want.”

"Actually, I know a place with the most healthy chips in the world," Joker lied.

"You do?" Palutena asked full of interest.

"Yeah! Just follow me, I know the area."

---

R.O.B. took the koopalings back to the mansion where most of them were satisfied with eating chips and playing on their iPads all day. However, Roy, Ludvig and Bowser Jr. had other plans.

“Playing on iPads is so boring,” Ludvig snickered, “Let’s sneak out!”

The three brothers quietly exited their apartment and ran all around the mansion causing chaos. They were running into people and pranking everyone. They were about to prank the inklings when Roy saw his idol, lord and savior, big Roy speaking to some loser called Ike.

The pink koopa ran towards him but by the time he reached them, big Roy had left after yelling and throwing a box on Ike. Little Roy picked it up and looked at it.

He saw a small letter written on it. He couldn’t read most of it because Ike’s handwriting was crap but he could make out a bit.

“To our boy, Roy,” Roy read out loud, “Something, something. I hope you like this gift, you’ve earned it! Remember to be careful.”

“Roy, why did you run off?” Ludvig asked, “What’s that?”

“I think it’s a present for me from Ike. Roy must have gotten angry at Ike for giving it to him instead of me!”

Roy opened the box and found things in it. He didn’t know what those things were. Neither did Ludvig but they both had an amazing idea. Bowser Jr. wasn’t sure why his brothers were looking at him with such intensity. It was like they were trying to prank him.

---

“R.O.B.!” Bowser Jr. yelled, “I need your help!”

R.O.B. rushed to the koopaling not knowing what to expect. The robot was surprised to see him stuck in what appeared to be a weird type of balloon. R.O.B. started overheating as it couldn’t handle another situation of not knowing what to do.

“Hi, I’m back!” Bowser greeted full of joy before seeing the scene unfolding in front of him, “Why’s my son stuck in a… Um… Balloon?”

“It was Ike!” Roy spoke up as he showed the box and letter he had taken earlier, “He got this gift for me.”

“Um… Yeah… I think I’m going to leave for the night. I’ll pay you extra, R.O.B.”

R.O.B. was so overjoyed that it had done a seemingly good job that it started overheating once again. It was going to be a great parent. Now it just needed Marth’s iPhone’s parents’ blessings.

[nomorelonelydays]

We’ll Be Young Forever, 3.7K. @sidgenophotochallenge

“I’ve never been on the West Coast,” Sidney says absently, as he unlaces his skates.

They’d lost the Cup again. So close, always so, so close that Zhenya had gone to sleep each night dreaming about lifting that weight and shouting into the crowd. Of Sidney’s glowing face, exuberant and pink and looking the way he does when he’s overjoyed and relieved all at once.

Now, he feels nothing save for his own heart, weighing down like a stone. He’d wanted to win the Cup for Sidney so badly. But he always does, every year, since the first time he saw Sidney on the ice.

“You’ve been on the West Coast,” Zhenya mumbles. “We go all the time for games.”

“Oh, well. It’s not really the same.” Sidney’s voice sounds a little funny. But then again, he’d never talked so much after a loss like this. “I think I wanna go back to visit. See the ocean.”

“Okay.” From his experience, there’s really no use asking Sidney to explain why he wants to do something. He looks up. “We go.”

Sidney turns sharply at him. “What? Seriously? You want to come?”

He shrugs. “Is our summer now. We can do whatever we want.”

Sidney gives him another look, then changes into something unreadable. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

“I book ticket—”

“Can we drive?” Sidney asks abruptly.

Zhenya blinks. “Sure. But is going take forever.”

“It can be a road trip.” He looks a little cheerier. “It’ll be fun.”

Zhenya’s pretty sure the road from Pittsburgh to the other side of the U.S. is just going to be a lot of cornfields. At least ten hours of corn and the occasional gas station oasis, so he tells Sidney this.

“It’s okay,” Sidney says softly. Something about his tone worries at the back of Zhenya’s mind, but he’s too exhausted to dwell on it. “I want to see everything.”

-

“A road trip?” Flower says, sounding incredulous. “You hate road trips.”

“Yeah,” Zhenya agrees as he divides up the t-shirts and underwear he’s planning to pack. But he loves Sidney.

He doesn’t say that, though, but he thinks Flower can guess.

“Is Sidney okay?” he asks instead. “You know how he is after a loss. He takes it harder than anyone else.”

To be fair, Zhenya isn’t sure.

-

He drives to Sidney’s place on a Tuesday, bright and early so they can beat the traffic.

“We’re not taking your sports car, G,” Sidney says, fondly, as Zhenya pretends to pout in the passenger seat. “It’s not gonna fit all of our stuff.”

Which made little sense--the back of Sidney’s Tahoe is mostly filled with Zhenya’s luggage, boots, and backpack. Sidney’s isn’t exactly known for packing lightly, what with his good luck charms on roadies and his first aid kit that he always has in his bag. But all he had brought today seemed to be the essentials crammed in a single duffel bag.

“Where to?” Sidney asks, smiling brightly at him.

Now, without the weight of the Cup looming over his shoulders, he can’t believe he’s nearly forgotten how much he loves it when Sidney looks at him like that.

Butterflies, Zhenya thinks. That’s how Americans would say it. But it’s a modest word for what he truly feels. 

“Get out of Ohio, first,” he grumbles, and Sidney laughs.

-

Sidney gets them out of Ohio in four hours and fifteen minutes. Zhenya doesn’t think he’s seen Sidney floor it like he’s running for his life, and he was pretty sure Sidney would’ve kept going if Zhenya didn’t make them stop at a McDonalds halfway through before his ass melted into the seat entirely.

Sitting there with Sidney, inhaling an entire burger and watching Sidney steal his fries when he thinks Zhenya isn’t looking, fills him with something unspeakable, a little like he’s swallowed a lightbulb.

(He orders two McFlurries for them, watches Sidney hesitate, then dig into his share before going after Zhenya’s, too.)

He hates traveling. He’s never liked traveling, regardless of whether it’s in a car or by air, not with the way his legs are always cramped in the seats, or how everything has to go by a schedule and being late is pretty much his middle name. But listening Sidney hum to the radio as they barrel towards Missouri calms Zhenya hazy, post-loss mind; and seeing Sidney try to stifle his infamous giggle-honk as they pass by an unfortunate produce truck that keeps dropping their apples onto the road as they hit each bump in the pavement, is a such a wonderful, wonderful thing. So much that he starts to think that even without a Cup to drink champagne out of this summer, this is just as good. 

Even if Sidney does keep trying to change the station to country when he thinks Zhenya’s dozed off.

-

It seems that no matter where they are, the motel sheets are always too starchy, and the walls too thin. Zhenya spends the first night doing his best to not look over at Sidney on the other bed, in his reading glasses as he squints at the map on his tablet.

They don’t talk ever about the next season, or the Cup, or what they could’ve done differently, what they should’ve done.

Which is for the best, because all Zhenya can really think about at the moment is how much he actually doesn’t mind losing the Cup, if what he gets in return is spending time with Sidney.

“There’s a museum here,” Sidney reads, “for the town’s first and only saltwater taffy plant. Should we go check it out in the morning before we hit the road again?”

Zhenya couldn’t give less of a shit about taffy if he tried, but if it makes Sidney happy, he’ll buy him the entire candy factory.

-

There’s nothing particularly eventful until it’s Zhenya’s turn to drive and he makes a wrong turn in Kansas, and they end up at the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.

It’s the most boring thing Zhenya’s ever seen, even worse than the taffy plant, and that had been pretty bad. Sidney is fascinated.

He takes a picture of Sidney adding a piece of twine to the ball and sends it to the group chat.

Flower: What is that

G: biggest ball of twine in Kansas

Tanger: tf

Whatever.

That night at the motel (probably the only non-shady motel the town has to offer), Sidney’s face looks conflicted as he walks back to Zhenya from the front desk, holding a single set of keys for a single room with a single bed.

“How.” He’s not even annoyed at this time. He’s almost impressed that there’s literally no other available rooms in this town whose only attraction is a ball of twine.

“It’s the summer?” Sidney says, sounding unconvinced. “Maybe people are road tripping like us and they’re headed here.”

“Sid,” Zhenya says, very seriously. “This place is like Denny’s. You don’t go here, you end up here. We end up here.”

“Yeah, well,” Sidney shrugs. “I can sleep on the floor, or—”

Like he’s going to make Sidney sleep on the motel carpet after they’ve both been stuck in a car after a whole day of driving. He’s pretty sure that qualifies as a cruel and unusual punishment.

His thoughts pretty much all fly out of his head when Sidney slides himself into bed on his side, all soft t-shirt and pajama bottoms, his cheeks flushed from the shower as he towels at his hair. Zhenya just settles further into the mattress, his laptop burning a hole on his thighs as he tries to ignore how much he loves the idea of a scene like this, with Sidney freshly showered and settling in to bed next to him like a routine.

When he turns out the lights, his heart’s beating so fast that he’s afraid Sidney can hear it. He turns with his back facing Sidney for a while, shutting his eyes and trying to will himself to fall asleep—it should be easy, because he’s exhausted, but—

“G?” Sidney’s voice says, sounding very small. “Thanks for coming on this road trip with me.”

“Of course,” he replies, turning his body so he’s curved towards Sidney. “No big deal.”

“No.” Zhenya can’t make out his face in the dark, but Sidney sounds like there’s a stone lodged in this throat. “I know you have vacation plans, usually, like Florida. Or you go home to Magnitorgorsk, to family. I’m just a—I’m not—”

“Sid.” He fumbles to find Sidney’s shoulder, before Sidney can say anymore. “I want to be here. Happy be here, with you.”

Sidney doesn’t say anything for the longest time, until Zhenya realizes he’s crying.

“Sidney,” he breathes, then gathers Sidney into his arms without sparing a second thought. “Oh, Sid.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t win us the Cup,” he hiccups, and it tears at Zhenya at how inconsolable he sounds. “I wanted to win it together—”

“Sid, no, no, can win next year, is okay—” He rubs Sidney’s shoulders, holds him close, like he can contain all of Sidney’s grief.

“There’s no time,” Sidney says, shaking his head. Zhenya feels Sidney’s hands, gripping the back of his t-shirt. “I’m out of time.”

Sidney’s not making sense. “What you mean?”

He scrambles to turn on the lights, nearly knocking off the lamp in his hurry to do so. Sidney face is raw and blotchy as the dim, butter-yellow light bursts to life, and it cuts into Zhenya something fierce.

“Sid, what you mean?” he repeats, more urgently. Something’s off. This whole trip, so impromptu, so unlike Sidney to just suggest it out of the blue without already having planned every gritty little detail for months and months, and the way he packed—it was like he never intended to come back. “You hurt? You retire? You—”

Sidney doesn’t look up, but he’s so close that Zhenya can feel his shuddering breath against his neck.

“I’m dying,” he says, and it sounds exactly like he’s admitting something he’s known for years.

It just about stops Zhenya’s heart.

-

(Years ago, Sidney Crosby’s knees should have been shattered irreparably in a peewee game. He would’ve never been able to play again, much less even make it into the NHL.

Sidney remembers the moment the spirit came to him—the old god that inhabited the rink, gazing over him as he lay in a broken heap on the ice. Invisible to the coach, the paramedics, invisible to his mother crying as she hovered helplessly over Sidney.

Potential too great to be wasted here, it had intoned, almost musing to itself. What would you like me to do?

Time slowed. The pain in Sidney’s knees dulled into the background as the noises faded.

“I want to play,” he’d begged. “I want to make it to the NHL.”

What would you give for ten years?

“Anything,” he’d said, and even then he knew that he’d said something very, very terrible.

The spirit shimmers. Ten years in the league, it says, waving its hand over Sidney’s legs. In exchange for your heart. You will always live on borrowed time, and the end of your tenth year will be your last. Do you accept?

“Yes,” Sidney had whispered. “Please.”

When Sidney blinks again, he’s standing on the ice again, five minutes before the hit happens.

This time, he dodges it, and goes to score the game-winning goal.)

-

Zhenya’s attempts to persuade Sidney to see the team doctor, or a registered curse breaker, goes unheard.

“They’ve looked at it. It’s marked me,” Sidney tells him when they cross the border into Colorado. Miles and miles of desert road stretches between them, front and back, so far that that the Pittsburgh they left just days ago seems a century instead. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. But they can’t even touch the mark because it’s been woven in so deeply. It’s old magic. It’s not Cup magic."

“Have you tell anyone else?”

Sidney smiles, still looking out the window at nothing in particular. “Just you.”

He manages to croak out a pathetic, “Sid.”

“I’m glad I told you,” Sidney murmurs. “I’m glad it was you.”

“When--” He can hardly speak. “When you think--”

“I don’t know.” Sidney’s staring down at his lap, picking at the cover on his phone. “I’d always thought at the end of the season. Soon, I think.”

Zhenya says nothing.

“It’s not so bad,” Sidney says, at last. “I got to meet you this way.”

Zhenya concentrates on the road ahead of him, and thinks of nothing, nothing at all, so the stinging brimming in his eyes don’t overflow.

-

They drive through the night, the Colorado skies above them sparkling.

Sidney doesn’t say anything. He brushes his teeth when they get to their room and goes to sleep on the separate bed without turning off the lights.

-

It’s dim in the motel room, and Sidney’s back is facing Zhenya on the other bed, but Zhenya’s known Sidney long enough to know that neither of them are asleep.

“Want get fries?” Zhenya asks, towards the ceiling.

Sidney doesn’t respond immediately, and Zhenya thinks for a moment that he might’ve been wrong, after all, that Sidney had never actually been awake.

“Can we get chicken nuggets too?” comes the reply, timidly.

“Only if you share McFlurry.”

Sidney rolls over on his side so he can turn on the light. His eyes are a little red, but he’s giving Zhenya a warm, shy smile. It suddenly reminds Zhenya of the Sidney he met, years ago, when Zhenya spoke no English and Sidney no Russian but both of them still full of hope for their futures, for each other.  

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll share.”

It’s a peace offering. An apology, even, for everything he’s unable to say.

-

It’s one A.M. in a nondescript Utah motel when Zhenya dares to say, softly, “Sid, come here.”

Sidney does, wordlessly, from the other mattress. Zhenya scoots back enough on his own bed like an invitation. He’d only meant for Sidney to share the other side of the bed, like they did back in Kansas, but Sidney takes his outstretch hands and folds himself into Zhenya’s arms, carefully, like he’s always belonged there.

His breathing evens out as soon as Zhenya turns out the light. He presses his nose against Sidney’s nape and tries to memorize his scent, the span of his back against his body, and the way he feels solidly, blessedly warm—alive—beneath Zhenya’s fingertips.

-

There’s a small town county fair halfway across Nevada, all bright lights and delighted yelling of children begging their parents to go on the roller coasters, or for another ice cream cone. They hadn’t intended to stop, and Sidney hadn’t asked to, but Zhenya took one look at his face and signaled right to go into the parking lot.

Hours later, they’re sitting on the grass with their prizes—a hard-won teddy bear after Sidney battles it out with the ring toss about six times in a row, and Zhenya with his funnel cake and ice cream—waiting for the fireworks.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it to California,” Sidney laughs. “I didn’t realize it’d be so far. I don’t even know if I want to go see the ocean anymore.”

“What you mean, you didn’t realize? We drive for days and now you say you not want to see?” It’s a relief, being able to joke around.

“No, I mean, I figured it was gonna take a while.” He sighs contently. “When I said I wanted to see the coast, I think I was treating this whole trip as a bucket list.” His clears his throat, pointedly not meeting Zhenya’s eyes. “But I think, uh, I just wanted to spend my last summer not being by myself again. So. Thank you.”

Sidney’s face is lovely, illuminated by the carnival lights, and even more so when his eyes crinkle. Zhenya can’t quite decide if he wants to cry or kiss him.

Sidney straightens, then turns excitedly towards Zhenya. “I think they’re gonna start soon—”

Zhenya leans in, his mouth pressing gently against Sidney’s lips as the first round of fireworks explodes into stardust in the sky above them, all pinks and reds and whites and greens like the colors of Zhenya’s heart.

When he pulls back, Sidney’s quiet. For an awful moment, Zhenya thinks he’s ruined it all. “I’m sorry—”

“Kiss me again,” Sidney says suddenly. “Please.”

Zhenya does.

-

“Oh,” Sidney breathes out, his eyes fluttering as he sinks onto Zhenya’s dick, the slide velvet and hot and tight and just about enough to kill Zhenya a thousand times over. He’s a mess as he squirms on Zhenya’s lap. “Oh, o-oh—G—”

The motel sheets are starchy and scratchy as they’ve always been, foreign against their skin. But Sidney makes everywhere feel like home, so it hardly matters anymore.

Zhenya flips them both over--his hand gripping Sidney’s thigh like he can’t get enough--so Sidney’s on his back. He hooks an ankle over his shoulder, pressing in slowly until Sidney’s toes curl and his eyes flutter. With every angle change, Sidney sucks in a breath like he’s drowning, his cheeks flushing deep red, as if he’s never—

“Sid, you—you do before?”

Sidney’s eyes fly open. His hands, both pressed against Zhenya’s chest, start to pull away as if ashamed. “I—um. No, not…no.”

Zhenya grabs Sidney’s hand before he can retract, pressing the knuckles to his lips. Then he bends down to kiss Sidney sweetly, until Sidney’s shuddering and mewling against Zhenya’s lips again.   

“Don’t leave me,” Sidney pants--it’s a plea and a prayer all at once, as he digs his fingers into Zhenya’s back.

“I won’t,” Zhenya promises. “I won’t. I’ll take care.”

-

There’s something shapeless in the corner of the room when Zhenya blinks awake the next morning, shifting and stirring like fog. Sidney is still asleep in his arms, snuffling as he tucks his head in the crook of Zhenya’s neck.

The thing doesn’t come closer, but it doesn’t leave its place in the shadows either. Zhenya holds Sidney close, his heart racing.

“I know who you are,” he says in Russian. “I know why you’re here. You’re not taking him.”

When the thing speaks, its voice thin and crackling like ice breaking against steel, comes not from the room where it stands but as if echoing from inside Zhenya’s mind.

I’ve been waiting.

“You’re not taking him,” Zhenya repeats. “I won’t let you.”

I know, it says simply. I have no claims to what he doesn’t own.

“What are you talking about?” Zhenya demands, feeling braver than he had any right to, talking to an old god like this. “You made a deal with him. A heart for ten years.”

His heart was never his to give. I knew this when I offered him the deal.

“I don’t under--”

You already laid claim to his heart then, as he’d done to yours.Your mark is all over him.

(‘They can’t even touch the mark because it’s been woven in so deeply,’ Sidney had said. ‘It’s old magic. It’s not Cup magic.’)

“That’s not possible--” He’s not a magic user, he doesn’t--

Evgeni Vladimirovich Malkin, the thing says, cocking its head quite unnaturally, did you think that this was the first lifetime that you’ve loved him? 

Zhenya’s mouth goes dry. “Then why did you help him?”

Potential too great to be wasted, it says. Then, after a pause, What would you have done to save him?

“Anything,” Zhenya says, because it was the truth.

Stupid, the thing says, but it sounds amused. But you said the same thing last time, too.

When Zhenya blinks again, the shape had vanished, like it’d never been there. Sidney lets out a soft sigh, like he’s been unwittingly holding in his breath for decades.

“Geno?” he croaks, his voice heavy with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“I—” He shakes his head, nuzzling into Sidney’s curls and kissing his forehead. He’s pressed close enough to Sidney that he can just about imagine feeling the continued beating of Sidney’s heart, counting down the moments to the next season, and the season after that, like a promise. “I think everything going to be okay, Sid.”

-

How’s the road trip going? Flower’s text asks. You two kill each other yet?

Zhenya takes a long, indulgent look at Sidney, who’s got a ratty Malkin t-shirt on as he fishes another vending machine tortilla chip out from the bag. He’s completely focused on the shitty motel television that’s doing its best to play Groundhog Day. Sidney’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, close enough that Zhenya can lean over to press a kiss on Sidney’s hair whenever he wants.

He sends a photo of TV instead, the angle barely concealing their tangled legs.

Zhenya almost wants to laugh when Flower calls them immediately. He’s still grinning all the way through Flower’s frantic exclamations that he can barely understand as Flower’s accent starts to become more pronounced, because he’s so, so fucking happy.

He lets Sidney take the phone, and he hears Sidney murmur, gently, “Mhm. Yeah. Yeah, he’s--Yes, we’ll come over--mhm. Yeah. It’s good. It’s really good.”

-

“There it is,” Sidney says, leaning over the railings from their motel room deck, looking at the span of the waves lapping against the California sand. “The other side.”

Zhenya plasters himself against Sidney, his arms wrapped securely around his waist.

“What now?” he asks.

“Do you enjoy long walks on the beach?” Sidney teases, reaching up to card his fingers through Zhenya’s hair.

“I do,” Zhenya tells him. “If is with you.”

Zhenya thinks he can hear the smile in his voice. “We can sightsee before we have to go home.”

He loves the way Sidney says the word ‘home,’ loves the curve of his mouth and the fullness in his chest at the implication. “No more twine.”

“No more,” Sidney agrees. “Maybe we can go to Disneyland or something.”

“And then go home, win another Cup?”

Sidney laughs quietly, but he sounds confident and in love when he replies, “For sure.”

[jawsandbones]

Threnodies for Leto, Songs for Fenris - Part 1/3

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Fenris x F!Hawke

AO3 Link: Click Here

He learns to say no. He whispers it to himself in the dead of night, up at faintly blinking stars. He practices. He takes pleasure in it – the sound of it on his tongue, the way it feels in his mouth. The ability to speak his mind. To have choice. No. At first he fears the use of it. He has been taught how to bite his tongue too well. Fenris knows what comes with hesitation, denial. It begins with the dark frown, the biting word and ends in the lash, in punishment. Hawke asks if he would like to come with them on a day he had planned for other things. “No, I – I would rather not,” he says as he braces himself. Stiffens the line of his back, the square of his shoulders, prepares for the reprimand. She only smiles, leans against the doorframe, crosses her arms.

“That’s alright. I’ll bring you back something,” she tells him. He still feels it even after she leaves. Leaning against his closed door, hands in fists against the wood. The heavy beating of a nervous heart, the faint rush of adrenalin that pumps through every vein. He smiles, laughs to himself, presses a hand against his forehead. It is that first ‘no’ which gives him the allowance of more. He tells Varric that no, he does not want to try the Hanged Man’s mystery soup. The dwarf shrugs, chews on some unidentifiable grey meat. Merrill asks him to pick mushrooms with her and he tells her no, and she goes to ask Anders. He steps back when Isabela holds out a fish for him to hold, a very flat no, and she throws it at the back of Hawke’s head.

He learns acceptance. The right of rage, permission of grief. Fenris mourns the life he never knew, bitter to the one he has left behind, learns to take joy in the one he is creating. Hawke is a welcome figure on his doorstep, and he finds he likes the sound of her voice. They speak of anything that comes to mind, Hawke an attentive listener to anything he has to say. Some nights it is no more than comfortable silence, shared space, and a few times Hawke falls asleep in the chair. They find which bakery he likes best, learns that apple pastries are his favorite. She brings him a bottle of Ferelden ale. They drink it together, and it’s Hawke who smashes this bottle against the wall.

Isabela teaches him how to skip stones. She laughs as he growls frustration at the third one that simply sinks. She cheers when the sixth finally goes, three pathetic hops, but more than good enough. Anders and Varric double over in laughter together as he wakes to find Merrill has braided daisies into his hair. He spars with Aveline, helps her bridge the opening she leaves on her right. She gives him a small bag of cookies in thanks and a “please don’t tell Isabela I bake.” Times spent at the Hanged Man with everyone else, and they shout over the table, slap down coin and card. He watches them argue and laugh, smiles to himself.

He reacquaints himself with loneliness. Kirkwall seems harsher now that Hawke has gone to the Deep Roads, a little quieter, somewhat cold. A sudden realization of what her presence means. Fenris misses her most on the nights alone with himself, mind moving in torturous circles. Speaking with the others is never quite the same, they don’t listen the way she does. Her presence in his mansion has always been welcome, while others feel intrusive, a churning in his gut. She had leaned forward and smiled, put her hand over his. “Go see the others while I’m gone,” she had said, “you can’t stay cooped up in here all the time.” He does his best to honor this promise.

Merrill has found herself managing the clinic in Darktown, fielding questions of where Anders had gone. He brings her the supplies she has in her house, buys more with his own coin when she runs out. Fenris walks the late patrols with Aveline, knowing she takes the more dangerous routes. She tells him he doesn’t have to. She thanks him anyway. She tells him how proud she is of the guards in training, gives glowing admiration of the others. One in particular. He tells himself he must find a way to meet this Donnic. He helps defend Isabela from those who call her a cheat, and from behind the safety of his sword, she proudly admits it. He pulls her arm over his shoulders, walks her to her room, and puts a bucket beside her bed.  

Fenris lies in his own bed, looking through the cracks in his roof. He likes it best when it rains, falling into the buckets he carefully places. The sound of drops against tin, the fluttering moonlight that cascades into the room. He knows that Hawke is sleeping under a different sky, one of rock and stone, in a place she’d rather not be. “I’m frightened of being underground,” she had confessed, “all of that above my head… just makes me uneasy.” He lies awake and wonders if Hawke is wondering about him. Rolling over to bury his face in his pillow, shame in wanting one of his only friends. A desire that had lain dormant, feelings he didn’t know he could have. He dreams of her laughter, of blue eyes and freckles, and brushing hair behind her ear.

Bartrand returns, but she does not. His stomach rolls, knots, churns in worry. He wears a path into already worn floorboards, unable to stop pacing. He resolves to find the dwarf, ask him where Hawke is. Aveline finds him first. Asking to speak with him, sitting in the chair. Long moments spent in silence before she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I spoke to Bartrand,” Aveline says, “They got separated. A cave-in.” Her hands tight together, fingers digging into flesh, knuckles white with the effort. “He doesn’t think they survived.” That pit falls, and Fenris sinks into the opposite chair. Hands grip the armrest, staring pointedly at the fire. Long enough until his eyes burn, blink back pain, shaking his head.

“No,” he rasps. “I will question him myself.”

“Fenris,” she says his name quietly, a warning in the syllables.

He plans to leave Kirkwall. He will book passage on a ship south, leave the Free Marches entirely. Hawke had asked him once, if he might stay. Those early conversations, getting to know one another. “Perhaps you’ll find a reason to stay,” she had said with a smile. He had taken her kindness with a measure of suspicion, hard to trust, unwilling to settle. She had slowly carved a place for herself in him, settling in locked spaces, dusty corners. He’s stayed too long. There’s nothing left keeping him in the city anymore. On the third day of the second week, he packs a bag. He takes all the things Hawke has given him, the only mementos he cares to keep. In his hands, a red scarf, soft against his skin. On the fourth day, there’s a knock at his door.

There are dark circles under her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept in days. She is thinner, her hair longer, but her eyes still burn brightly blue. She stretches out her arms, steps through the doorway as she wraps them around him. Burying her face against his chest, holding him tightly. Fenris still hasn’t recovered from the shock of it, slowly lets his hands settle on Hawke’s back. “Bartrand trapped us down there. Carver caught the blight. He’s gone with the Grey Wardens and I,” her hands fist in his tunic, tremble and shake, “I missed you. This. I cried when we saw grass, can you believe it?” He can. He holds her a little tighter.

He learns how to ask. Slipping into old habits, sitting by the fire as she speaks. Listening quietly as her hands move wildly to convey every detail, from sitting hunched to sitting straight, expressions rowdy and vivid as she recounts all that happened while she was gone. They talk for hours until their voices are hoarse and the drinks are emptied, food eaten. Hawke rubs her eyes as she leans back, stifles the yawn. “Would you like to stay?” He asks, playing with the loose thread at the end of his leggings. She smiles, reaches out, touches his knee.

“I don’t want to throw you out of your own bed,” she says. Fenris shakes his head, finds the courage to rest his hand over hers.

“It’s no trouble,” he tells her. They stay there quietly, as his thumb traces over her knuckles. There’s a new scar on the back of her hand, just there, right by her pinky finger. The way she touches has always felt natural. A brush across the shoulders, hand on his arm, at his back. It’s never come easily to him. Even now he feels stiff, awkward, nervous, but still his hand remains. They both look over as a log in the fireplace cracks, breaks, warm light on their cheeks.

“Then I’ll take you up on your offer,” she says, and that smile still remains, so light on her lips. She settles into his bed, lying on her side, watching him as he tucks himself into the chair. “Fenris.” She stretches out her hand towards him. “There’s no reason we can’t share.” He can think of at least ten. Still, he finds himself walking towards her, tips of his fingers brushing against hers. He lies with his back towards her, staring at the wall. The fire burns, dies, and he stiffens when he feels her turning. Her face against his back, an arm slipping around him. Murmuring in dreaming, curling up against him. How warm it is to be held by someone. He indulges himself, lets his hand link with hers. Finger against finger, and palm against palm.

Hawke shows him first. An estate in ruin, a home she means to repair. The others help as well. Merrill worries on the ladder, cleaning the very top of the windows. Aveline is adept at repairing broken walls, cracked bannisters. Those Hawke has hired are also underfoot, but there’s only the cheerful laughter when it’s just the group of them. Isabela paints her name in a flourish before painting in earnest, while Varric buys Hawke a fine desk to sit in the front. A gold tipped quill, expensive ink. Anders has a scarf wrapped around his face as he dusts out the cobwebs, carries the spiders to the garden. There Fenris and their newest addition, Sebastian, work together. Hacking at weeds, planting new flowers.

There are days he gets lost in the labor. Leaning over in the dirt, gloves on his hands and sun beating on his back. Sweat on his brow, dripping at his temples, and he tears at stubborn root, embedded rock. His mind drifts, turns towards a different sun that used to beat upon his back. A labor that wasn’t like this, a work not the same. That was because they told him, this is because she asked and he – bats away the sudden touch, slaps away her hand. Stumbling back into the grass, and he is ready with the apology but Hawke pretends as if it didn’t happen at all.

“Did you want some water?” she asks. His hands clench into fists as his shoulders move with heavy breath, trying to steady himself in the present.

“I – yes. That would be appreciated,” he says. She extends her hands towards him once again, helps him to his feet. He follows her meekly to the kitchen, casts his gaze to the floor. She shifts, tilts, intercepts his vision until he can look naught but at her. When he finally meets her gaze, she smiles, passes him the glass.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” she says, “I should have said something first.” The condensation rolls down the glass, cold against his skin. He watches her as she walks, that easy swing of her arm over Isabela’s shoulders. The women sway and laugh together, and he wants it to be that easy for him. He longs to touch, when he’s shunned all touch before. Unwanted hands under his skin, wrapping around bone and muscle, claiming him for them. Now he wants to reach out, he wants to ask.

In the quiet when all others leave, they sit together in front of Hawke’s fireplace. The Amell sigil sits proudly above it, while the Hawke sigil rests above the door. She sits cross-legged, an elbow on her knee, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. While she is watching it burn, Fenris is watching her, the way the light flickers on her face. They pass the bottle of wine back and forth, a sort of sharing that comes naturally to them now. “I have an estate,” she says.

“Yes you do,” he says. Hawke smiles proudly, sits a little straighter, brushes hair behind her ear. It reveals the smudge of dirt on her cheek. He’s moving before he even realizes it, his thumb at the mark, brushing it away. Her face turns towards his. The dirt is gone and yet his hand remains, fingers curling at her cheek. All other sounds seem to slip away, and he can only hear the soft sound of her breathing. The way she shifts closer.

“May I kiss you?” Fenris asks it hoarsely, as though he hasn’t spoken in years, or at least never with meaning such as this. Her nod is instant, her answer voiceless. A palm pressing against stone as she leans towards him and he thinks he might count all the freckles, her stars. The brush of her nose against his. The feel of her breath on his lips. The warmth of simply being near her. Taking her face in his hands, eyes closing. She wets her lips just before, and his are maybe a little chapped, but still they fit together. He pulls her closer until she is sitting in his lap, his hands travelling the length of her back. Arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” Sebastian smiles as he takes the box from Fenris, stacking it with the others in the Chantry basement. Fenris grumbles and Sebastian chuckles. “Things are going well with Hawke?” Fenris blinks, startled.

“With Hawke, I –”

“A blind man could see how you feel for her,” Sebastian tells him.

He walks with Aveline on Wednesdays. Down the twisting paths of Lowtowns, in the back alleys she does not want to send her guard. Most of it is spent in silence, some of it with Aveline asking him to train some of her guard. “There are many in this city who look up to you,” she tells him, but he finds it hard to believe. Especially difficult on the nights Fenris twists in his bed, casts the blankets to the floor. Feet hard against stone as he paces, hands pressed against his head. A voice that does not want to leave him, commands that haunt his dreams.

Fenris holds a ladder for Isabela as she climbs up to Merrill’s roof, smashes through cracked tiles with the hammer. They yell at each other, Merrill in concern and worry, Isabela wondering how anyone could live like this. Hawke wanders into the alienage in the afternoon, passes Fenris her half-eaten sandwich as she clambers up after them. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Fenris calls upwards to them. Isabela’s face appears over the edge, hair hanging down.

“Don’t you dare let go of that ladder!” She tells him. Merrill frets beside him, biting at her fingernails, waiting for them to finish. They reappear when the sun begins to set, covered in dirt and web, cuts on their hands, and more hammers than they went up with. They sit at Merrill’s small table, eat whatever she offers. Merrill seems more than happy to have them all there, pleased pink on her cheeks, squished between Isabela and Hawke.

Fenris smiles as he reaches across the table, sweeps up the hard won coin. Anders glowers at his cards before reaching for the rest, shuffling them together in an angry huff. Varric leans back in the chair, accepts graceful defeat. “You are a menace, elf. One of these days I’ll figure out your tell,” he says. Perhaps it the way his ears perk up when he sees Hawke walk into the Hanged Man, or the way he sits up a little straighter when she sits next to him. Anders is dealing the cards neatly, and Fenris keeps his close to his chest, away from Hawke’s prying eyes.

“I think he’s cheating,” Anders says, “he’s been spending too much time with Isabela.” Hawke has her elbows planted on the table, holding her face in her hands.

“Or he’s just better than you at the game,” she says. Anders rolls his eyes, feigns hurt as Varric laughs. While Anders and Varric stay late, Hawke and Fenris walk home together. They detour into Darktown, so that Fenris can fill the clinic’s donation box with the coin he won from Anders and then some. Knuckles brush against knuckles, finger against finger, and Hawke smiles under star and shafts of moonlight that streams through the cracks between buildings.

Sand underneath his feet. Salt on the wind, the hint of the sea. Long grass that sways in the breeze, under cracked cliff and wounded coast. Signs he thought he would be able to forget come rushing back. He knows this trap. Stopping and the others stop too, look over their shoulders at him. “Hunters,” Fenris says.

“You are in possession of stolen property,” says the one who dares step forward. “Back away from the slave!” It isn’t rage. It isn’t denial. All the things he thought he might feel when they finally found him, and it isn’t that. The first is fear. Fenris expects to see Danarius to step forward next. Little wolf. Kill them. He fears he will listen. Master coming to collect and he, and he –

“Fenris is a free man,” Hawke shouts as she steps in front of him, puts her hand on his chest. Aveline raises her shield beside him, and Sebastian has the arrow notched. He’s forgotten something he learned, something he taught himself. He forgot who he was, but just for a moment.

“I am not a slave!” Hawke reaches upward with fist and magic, pulls down their attackers. Fenris sprints forward, ready to face them head on. The steady sounds of Sebastian’s arrows, burying themselves into the soft spots between armor. Hawke’s magic is the warm hand at the back of his nape, a watching presence that’s a comfort and not a prison. Aveline at his side, facing faceless attackers. Cowards hidden behind metal, the flash of a sword and the Tevinter crest.

It builds with each step towards the caves. He has tried to forget it, to leave it aside. Haunting him for far too long, an anger he cannot shake. Bitter to all they robbed him of, fury to what they put inside him. An outrage that has been growing, pulled forward through the years he thought he might be free. Fenris wants to be better. More than what they made him, past all they gave him. Hadriana trembles below him and a different man might have let her go. He kills her in thinking it might kill the despair, only makes it worse. Pushing away her touch and “what has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?” He regrets each word, calls himself a coward as he runs.

He did not face Danarius when he could have. Standing side by side with the Fog Warriors who called him friend, the taste of what life could be still fresh on his tongue. He cannot face Hawke when he should have, told her that it is not her magic he fears. That it is Fenris who is the ruin, and that she deserves better. Instead he runs, and she lets him go. Those first days all over again. He paces through the mansion, afraid the hunters are waiting in each dark corner. He cannot stay. Wandering the city until he finds himself on her doorstep.

He can hear her running down the stairs at the sound of his arrival, breathless in clothing casual, tucking hair behind her ears. She opens her mouth to speak, but closing it again as he walks towards her. Looking at the floor, her bare feet against stone, struggles to raise his gaze. “I was… not myself.” Not the man he wants to be. “I’m sorry.” Finally able to look upwards, expects the anger he knows he deserves. He doesn’t find it.

“I had no idea where you went, I was concerned,” she says softly. She crosses her arms, as though stopping herself from reaching out and touching him. He appreciates the gesture. His skin has been fire since he felt Hadriana’s heart in his hands, markings raw and sensitive, and a vulnerability he’s still trying to fix. He struggles with the explanation of it, only knowing that he wants her to know. Hadriana’s claws still at his back, Danarius’s teeth at his neck. Paltry. Lacking. He leaves in frustration, he leaves her in worry.

He decides to tell her. His regret, a shame, one action among many he wishes he could take back. Fenris goes to the wine cellar, takes the last bottle from the shelf. He knows its name, the shape of the label, the style of the cork. He knows it from it being pointed out to him. As he holds the bottle in his hand, his thumb traces over letters he cannot understand. “Today is the anniversary of my escape,” he tells her as he holds it out to her. She takes it instantly, pulls her chair forward. “Would you like to hear the story?”

“I enjoy listening to you talk,” she says. He leans forward, touches his forehead against hers.

“There are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman.” Warm with wine, feeling bold, letting himself let go. Speaking the words makes them real, the truth of what he’d done. Killing those who had taken him in, who believed he deserved his freedom. He took too long to believe it as well. Ghost of shackles around his wrists, the collar around his neck. It chokes him on the days he least expects. He feels them even now, tight and cold, but Hawke reaches out, brushes her thumb against his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says softly, “I know it can’t be easy to speak about.” He misses her touch as she pulls her hand back, folding her hands in her lap. She knows and yet she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t rage at him for what he’s done. She lays acceptance at his feet, dares for him to take it. He stands on the precipice but cannot fall. Reaching for the bottle, wine rich on his tongue. A taste he was never allowed, a privilege never given, but he has taken it for himself.

“I… have never allowed anyone too close.” How many times had they been sent to his bed to tempt him? A touch was betrayal, affections were punishment. Difficult to shake such a thing. Setting the bottle on the table, hands in fists on his knees. He’s still getting used to it. The closeness. The permission to find solace in another person. The realization that Hawke is no pawn, no trap set to close around his bones. There is no rope. No chain. Naught for the one he extends to her of his own will.

He seeks her out three days later. “Command me to go and I shall.” Hands on his cheeks, her face so close to his.

“No need.”

[mysticmylifeisamess-enger]

spooky request🎃!!: RFA + MC going trick or treating!! u can choose to do it individually or all together, doesnt matter! lolol i hope u can make it funny & fluffy please!! 💖love ur work!!

This took me so long to write and idk why???? but Halloween is so close and I’m so PUMPED. Also thank you ms-bootybooty (◕‿◕✿) and anon, honestly that was the cutest thing I’ve ever read omgggggg. Rest of the characters under the cut ^^

Yoosung:He loved going trick or treating as a kid. Those late nights of walking up and down the neighbourhood with your friends, exchanging candy at the end of it, and the stomach ache you’d get when you ate half of it in one sitting seemed to be long behind him after high school. That is until you two planned to spend your first Halloween together. You wanted nothing more than to go trick or treating with him, and it’s not like he could refuse when you looked at him with those big, pleading eyes. Plus free candy sounded nice, so why not?

About an hour into it, he had remembered how tiresome this activity actually was, but you seemed to be full of enough energy for the both of them to keep going. It was almost hard to keep up with you when you seemed to be dashing door to door while he couldn’t even keep up. He also felt a little discouraged when he saw how much heavier your bag seemed to be compared to his.

You noticed this and decided to slow down enough to check on him.

“Yoosung, are you alright?” you asked, “do you wanna go home?”

“Pfft, I’m fine,” he lied through his teeth, “actually, if you want, I can carry your bag for you.”

“Yoosung, are you su-“ before you could finish, he grabbed your bag and encouraged you to just go forward to the next house. You found it a bit odd, but decided not to question it.

Although as you got to every house, grabbing your bag to dump whatever candy you had just gotten, you noticed that your bag seemed to not get any heavier. At one point, you grabbed it to feel that it was a lot lighter than last.

“Hey Yoosung,” you said, gaining his attention.

“Yeah?”

“Can I feel your bag?”

“Wha-why?!” he questioned, almost defensively.

“I just want to see something,” you said as you reached for it, only for him to yank it behind him. This answered your suspicion.

“Alriiiiight,” you said, stepping away from him only to tackle him into the grass. You pinned him down, grabbing the bag out of his hand to feel that it was significantly heavier than yours without a real reason. You looked down to shoot him a glare as he tried to explain himself, stumbling to try to find the right words to say. Ultimately, you two went straight home after that and you took his candy as punishment.

Zen:He had only gone trick or treating when he was too young to remember what it was like. Because of his circumstance, he always had to stay home on Halloween when he got older. Even after he left his household, he thought he was too mature for it.

So when you suggested doing that this year, he wasn’t too convinced and dismissed the idea, thinking you were joking since you two were too old for that. Although he noticed that you seemed reserved and upset after that so after a few days of the silent treatment, he agreed to it. The second he agreed, you ran to show him the couple costume you had already purchased, knowing he’d give in at some point or another.

When you two went out, going door to door around his neighbourhood, you were the one dragging him by the arm and calling him a slowpoke when he couldn’t catch up. Every house you got to though, Zen would charm the greeter, resulting in them taking the whole bowl and dumping it in his bag, which he promised would mostly go to you. He only did it because he loved the excitement on your face at all the candy you two were earning.

After a while, he noticed that you were slowing down and seemed to be crashing from the candy you ate. He was also starting feel tired, ready to call it a night.

“Do you wanna hop on my back and head home?”

“And miss out on some more candy? The night is still young!” you exclaimed as you perked up and ran passed him, as if to prove some point. He knew you’d wear down soon, but he didn’t expect you to run, trip into a bush and stay there with a faraway look in your eyes, as if admitting defeat. With that, he carried you, and the many pounds of candy you two collected, home.

Jaehee:She was all for taking you trick or treating. She wasn’t necessarily up for you walking out of your room dressed like her the night of Halloween.

“MC, that’s very funny, but you should change into your costume before it gets too late,” she insisted.

“This is my costume,” you said, “I’m going as a sleep-deprived, yet sexy office worker.”

She sighed at your comment, but the blush on her cheeks suggested that she didn’t hate that.

“Alright, well let’s get going.”

“Let me just check the schedule and plan accordingly as to not upset clients,” you mocked as you walked past her and out the door, “it seems that we are on time.”

You looked back to see her face and she did not seem amused. Nonetheless, you two ventured on your quest for candy, or as you called it the whole way, your business meeting that ran too long so they gave you candy to make up for it. Oddly enough, she almost found you irresistible when you were talking fake business so she was sneaking kisses in between houses. At one point, you just stopped to make out behind an inflatable Halloween decoration.

Throughout the night though, you two didn’t collect too much candy from all the stopping you had done so when you got home, a little disappointed with your haul, Jaehee decided to just give you her candy. It was a really sweet moment, until you suggested a business exchange and winked suggestively.

Jumin:He doesn’t understand it at all. You knock at someone’s door and they give you candy? All because it’s some special, spooky day? Why not just buy the candy? This isn’t something he’d care to do, but he agrees to it, knowing it’ll make you happy to go along with it. You even went out of the way to get costumes together, how could he say no? Although you had to convince him not to have driver Kim drive you two from house to house, but that came with the compromise of having two bodyguards tag along.

As soon as you to get to the first door, taking the initiative to knock before him, you realized that you didn’t explain to him what to do. So when the door opened, he immediately pulled out cash and handed it to the elderly woman that greeted you two and said “give us all the candy you have.”

After collecting that candy, you stopped him before going up to the next house.

“Hey Jumin,” you spoke up. He simply hummed in response.

“You don’t have to pay for this candy,” you said, looking over to read his expression which formed into a confused one.

“But they provided us a good,” he started, “and you exchange currency when you are provided a good or service.”

“Yes, but not tonight. You get candy for free for dressing up, going door to door, and saying ‘trick or treat,’ not ‘give me all your candy,’” you said, stifling a laugh.

You got to the next door, letting him knock and observing if he had learned the correct way to trick or treat. 

“Trick or treat,” he said as soon as the door was opened. As he was handed an apple, something he hadn’t expected, he took a minute to just stare at it.

“MC, I thought you said we’d get candy.”

“Well usually candy is given, but it depends on the household,” you said as you two were walking off to the next house.

“Well that’s just false advertising then,” he said, wearing the most unreadable expression.

As you two trekked on, collecting candy late into the night, he couldn’t help but admire your child-like innocence. Skipping ahead and dragging him forward by the arm, bodyguards far behind because they just couldn’t catch up with you. After a while, you two called it a night and returned to the penthouse to start explaining the candy trade at the end of the night.

Saeyoung:A normal life wasn’t a possibility for him. Having someone to make happy, tell everything to, or spend holidays with was a mere fantasy he’d never get to live out. Halloween being no exception, as it was something he heard about, but never truly got to experience. That is until you came into his life, ready to show him what that was all like. And he wanted nothing more than to celebrate Halloween with you, however you wished to. When you told him you wanted to go trick or treating, his eyes seemed to brighten up with excitement. It’s not something he ever got to do and the fact that his first time would be with you made it so much better.

You let him pick out the costumes and while it was something ridiculous and silly, you went along with it. You two also made a bet beforehand that whoever collected the most candy at the end of the night would be the ruler of the bunker, meaning that the loser had to do whatever the winner wanted for a day. You had a few tricks up your sleeve to win, but you anticipated that he’d be a force to reckon with.

The night started with you having a strong lead with the heavier bag, Saeyoung not being that far behind however. You noticed that he would run to the front of the door in a huge group, sneak to the back and collect candy again using a mask he brought along. Clever, but you were determined to beat him. You pulled out a second bag and claimed it was for your little brother who was too sick to tag along. You two were in for a long night of deceitful trick or treating.

By the end, you two rushed home to count your candy together and declare a victor. To his surprise, you had beat him by only two pieces.

“That’s not fair!” he whined, “I have more full size candy bars than you! That should count as two.”

“Don’t be such a sore loser and accept defeat,” you said as you went to rub his cheek in comfort only to inch closer, “now as my first decree, give me a congratulatory kiss.”

He leaned in to give you a kiss, seeming to forget his previous outburst as he deepened it. You pulled away, still inches from his face with a smirk grazing your lips.

“Now go fetch me something to drink,” you said as he begrudgingly got up to follow your order. The candy was nice, but this victory was much sweeter.

V:He used to go trick or treating in his neighbourhood every year as a kid. He did live in a rich neighbourhood though so he’d get full to king size candy bars, which led to plenty of cavities, but a content Jihyun by the end of the night.

It had been so many years since he even thought about celebrating Halloween, but when you told him that you wanted to go trick or treating, he hesitated but agreed nonetheless. And he knew exactly where to take you.

As soon as you two got into costume you two went off on your adventure. He had been driving for a while until you reached an extravagant neighbourhood with houses that were basically mansions you could only dream of living in. He came to a stop, parking himself on the street before getting out.

“How did you find this place?” you asked as you got out to look around you in amazement. You could only imagine the type of candy they’ve got stocked up.

“I used to live around here with Jumin,” he said simply, “and I used to trick or treat up and down these streets so I can assure you the candy will be good.”

With that, you two walked hand in hand, knocking at each door to collect candy. There was even the occasional house that would remember V and give you two extra candy for visiting. Along the way, he would tell you some of his fondest memories growing up there and pointing out his old home. It was really neat to see something like that, which made you feel much closer to him. The candy was definitely a plus.

Saeran:With Halloween rolling around, he had learned more about the traditional customs that came with it. When you told him about trick or treating, he seemed confused.

“Trick or treat?”

“Yeah, you go door to door, say that, and get candy.”

“What’s the trick part?”

“Well usually people take it to mean pulling a trick on someone who doesn’t give you candy,” you explained, “but we’re not gonna do that.”

“Wait, we’re trick or treating?”

“I’ve already bought the costumes, there’s no getting out of it,” you said as he shot you a glare. Although you saw some excitement in his eyes, even if he tried to dismiss it as boring and childish. You could tell he wanted to do it.

When that night came, he was almost dragging you from his excitement. It was hard to keep up but so sweet to see the smile spread across his face the whole time. Nothing was bringing him down, until he got to one house that seemed to think he was too old for trick or treating so they didn’t give him candy. 

“Well luckily,” he said as he pulled some rolls of toilet paper out, “I came prepared.”

“Saeran! I told you we weren’t going to that!” you exclaimed, taking it away.

“You can take the first throw.”

“Alright!”

You unwrapped it and took your shot at their tree, smiling from ear to ear as it went over a branch. You two worked on your master piece for a few minutes, covering their tree, car, and each other at one point. You wrapped his legs as a sign that you two were done, but he just couldn’t stop so you tackled him into the soft pile of toilet paper you started. You stared down at him as you had him pinned and he let out a laugh, which sounded so cute. You wanted to lean down and kiss him, but you heard the front door open so you pulled him up, grabbed your things and ran as you heard shouting from the owner.

[crimsonslytherin]

I’ll Be Your Reason - Prologue

Genre: Romance, Friendship, Adventure

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x F!OC (Cis/Assigned Female at birth Original Character), Harry & F!OC

Fic Rated: T (could change)

Summary: It started when they were six; Fiona gave Harry her lunch when she saw he didn’t have one. From there their friendship only grew, no matter the obstacles trying to keep them apart. She was the little sister and best friend he’d never had. When she gets her letter from Hogwarts she can only hope that all the owls around his house means Harry got one too.

(Pro) (Ch 1) (Ch 2) (Ch 3) (Ch 4) (Ch 5) (Ch 6) (Ch 7) (Ch 8) (Ch 9) (Ch 10) (Ch 11) (Ch 12) (Ch 13) (Ch 14) (Ch 15) (Ch 16) (Ch 17) (Ch 18) (Ch 19) (Ch 20) (Ch 21)  (Working on updating all of these so please be patient while I work on it. ^_^)

A/N: This original fic was written starting in 2016, as of 1/29/19 I’ve been rewriting it.

Words: 2044

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, its characters or anything else you recognize from the books/movies. I do however own my OC and anything you don’t recognize unless otherwise stated.

                                                        ~*---*~

Fiona didn’t like the next door neighbors they moved in next door to; they were evil. They weren’t really evil but, in the eyes of a child, they couldn’t be anything but.

To put it simply, they were mean, rude and just most intolerable people you could have the displeasure of knowing. The husband worked as a salesmen at a drill-making company while the wife stayed home with their son, who was as bad if not worse than his parents.

Fiona’s mother often came home and complained about the wife making some crude remarks at the store and her father often complained about the husband as well from their brief interactions; Fiona’s parents were never ones to be judgmental about anyone and they made sure to raise Fiona to not form opinions on people before she got to know them, but it was hard not to with that family.

The couple’s son, Dudley, went to the same school as Fiona, though he was a year above her. He would often pick on her for no reason, pulling her pigtails or tripping her on the playground then laughing with his friends while she cried.

The only one that was nothing like them was their nephew that they had adopted as a baby. It was obvious the couple didn’t even like him; he was skin and bones while their son was rather chubby. Their son always had the best clothes while the nephew always wore his cousin’s hand-me-down clothes that were too big for him; he had to use the last hole on an equally too-big-for-him belt and roll up the sleeves on most of his shirts. His shoes were scuffed up and had a few holes in them; he had to wear two pairs of socks, probably also full of holes, so they didn’t fall off his feet. His glasses were held together in the middle with tape from one of the many times his cousin had punched him in the nose.  While Dudley’s hair was always combed and neat – at least when he arrived at school – his cousin’s stuck up in every direction.

Fiona met Harry on her first day of school when she was assigned the seat next to his. He was hesitant to try and make friends with her knowing that once Dudley got to her she would probably avoid him like the other children did. Instead she made the choice for him when she offered him her lunch later that same day. She saw that he didn’t have a lunch and didn’t hesitate to give him half her sandwich. Well, he had a bagged lunch but no one could call bread crusts and apple peels a proper lunch. Fiona sat down next to him and pushed half her ham sandwich to him without a word. He seemed genuinely shocked by the gesture and had to ask her if she really wanted him to have it. She seemed confused but nodded with a smile and he gave her the biggest smile back. Every day since then Fiona would ask her mom for two sandwiches and would share the rest of her other snacks with him until finally her mother just started packing Fiona two lunches.

Harry was always nice to Fiona and was always the one to bring Fiona to the nurse whenever she skinned her knee as a result of being tripped or pushed down by his cousin or his four friends that were equally as mean.  Them being skinnier and faster than Dudley and his gang, they were able to climb up to the top of the monkey bars out of their reach and Harry knew the best hiding spaces.

…

Life with his aunt and uncle and their insufferable son was never easy. Sometimes Harry went without breakfast, lunch and supper as punishment for the smallest of mistakes. He endured constant belittlement from his aunt and uncle equally. His cousin gave him daily Indian-burns and noogies as well as just simple pushes to the floor or into the walls. He always gave him bruises and used Harry as his own personal punching bag whenever he felt like it, which was quite often. Harry was always on his best behavior, hoping for the smallest word of praise or even just a smile. They never came.

The other children at school ignored him because Dudley and his friends would bully anyone who tried to talk to him. He always sat alone during lunch and would sit on a stump outside during recess with a book if Dudley didn’t take it from him and throw it in the mud first.

It wasn’t until he met Fiona that he felt like he finally had a friend and life wasn’t that bad. She and her parents moved in next door during his second year of primary school (around age six) and Dudley hadn’t gotten the chance to threaten her. He already picked on her before class for no reason other than she was the new kid – neither of them knew she was their new neighbor as her mother had driven her to school late. Once Dudley found out she was giving Harry lunches he picked on her even more and said his usual spiel about not talking to his cousin. Harry was sure Fiona would stop bringing him lunches and he’d lose his first and only friend just so Dudley would leave her alone but she surprised both boys when she stood up to him.

Through her tears, as she lay on the ground where Dudley had pushed her, she gave him a sharp kick to the shin causing him to fall to the ground in pain. Harry stared in awe as she stood over the large boy and vowed to be Harry’s best friend no matter what Dudley did to her. Then she stuck out her tongue at him as she made a silly face before she took Harry’s hand and brought him away.

When Harry realized that she was also his new neighbor he felt like things were starting to change for the better. He had a new friend and he could see her whenever he wanted. They often played on the playground a few miles from their houses, Fiona’s mother would drive them; Harry was used to walking as his aunt and uncle didn’t really care where he went as long as he wasn’t bothering them when he didn’t have chores to do.

…

During summer vacations the two would see each other every day, after Harry had completed all his chores and more. When his aunt and uncle would send him outside in the blistering sun Fiona would just invite him inside her house so they could play there and he could enjoy her mother’s baking.

The two were grateful that the Dursley’s never wanted to bring Harry with them when they went out – whether it was just out for dinner or on vacation for a week or two – and had one of their other neighbors, Mrs. Figg, watch him. Fiona’s parents offered to watch him instead but the two knew he’d have too much fun. Mrs. Figg would always let Fiona come over so the three could play board games or play outside anyways. Though some days the two would be stuck on the couch as Mrs Figg showed them what seemed like endless pictures of her cats. They also had an understanding that Harry was never to mention any of the fun they had or that he saw Fiona there otherwise the Dursley’s wouldn’t let Mrs. Figg watch him anymore. He was to act as if he despised going to her house.

The two only grew closer over the years. Harry would stick up for Fiona whenever Dudley and his friends would bully her and Fiona would always bring Harry food and other things he needed. Fiona wasn’t opposed to giving Dudley a good kick before the two would run away from the bullies. She’d even convince her parents to buy Harry a few knight figurines for toys that she gave to him for his eighth birthday. He was only a month older than her and always felt bad not being able to get her anything for her birthdays but she said that she didn’t mind as long as they stayed friends forever.

It was five weeks before his tenth birthday, on Dudley’s birthday, when Harry was chased up a tree by his Aunt Marge’s dog Ripper after accidentally stepping on his paw. Aunt Marge didn’t call off the dog and Harry was left stuck up in the tree well after the party went inside. It was around seven pm when Harry heard a window open behind him. He turned to see Fiona in her room. There was a tree beside the one he was in that reached her window. He carefully made his way to the other tree, Ripper barking wildly all the while, before moving to her window. She helped him inside before they shut the window, deafening the sound of the noisy dog. The two giggled before sneaking downstairs to get Harry something to eat.

…

The summer of their eleventh birthday, Fiona was outside with her jump rope when the Dursley’s came out to their car. She saw Harry come out and waved to him. He was supposed to be watched by Mrs Figg while the Dursley’s went to the zoo for Dudley’s birthday but she’d broken her leg and was in the hospital. Harry smiled and waved back to Fiona but then his uncle pulled him to the side and out of her sight. As they pulled out of the driveway Harry gave her another wave and a small smile.

Fiona was looking out her bedroom window when they got home later that night. She saw Harry’s aunt leading a soaking wet Dudley to the house and Harry’s uncle pulling him by his hair after them. She wanted to go in and save him from that horrible family but she was only a kid.

…

When Fiona got her letter a week later she was overjoyed. Her father was a wizard and her mother was, what she learned to be, a muggle making her a half-blood. She had learned she was a witch when she was about seven and her parents made her swore never to tell anyone she didn’t know was also a witch or wizard, and that unfortunately included Harry. There were many times she wanted to help Harry but she didn’t know how to do any magic and her parents told her she wasn’t allowed to anyways. There were a few times if she concentrated hard enough she could make Dudley trip over nothing or make his pants rip.

Fiona was so excited to learn she would be going to a magic school until she realized that meant she wouldn’t see Harry at school ever again. She secretly hoped that maybe Harry would also get a letter but she couldn’t just go and ask him. Magic was supposed to be a secret kept from muggles and it’s not like she’d be able to get past his aunt and uncle to ask him anyways.

Then she started to notice the owls that started to cover the house. Each day a new owl showed up until the Dursley’s roof, car and lawn as well as the nearby telephone poles were covered in owls. Her father told her that owls were a wizard’s way of sending letters. That was how she’d gotten her letter and how other first years get theirs. Fiona knew then she wouldn’t be leaving Harry but she also knew his aunt and uncle would probably never allow him to go, hence why there were so many owls covering their property. She knew eventually Harry would get his letter and she’d be able to show him hers.

Then came the day they suddenly packed up and left on an impromptu vacation. She watched as they packed up their car before they all got in. Harry looked out the window and saw Fiona in hers. He gave her a sad smile as she waved to him. She saw Dudley hit Harry over the head before she watched the car drive away.

                                                        ~*---*~

A/N: If you want an actress to imagine Fiona as (how I see her in my head) I imagine a younger version of Katie McGrath (Morgana from Merlin)

                                                        ~*---*~

(Next Chapter)

[thoughtsofadaydreamer]

Cleaning house

(Punisher fan fiction)

Little Italy, NY. Circa 1977. New York. Americas Mafia homeland. Originating in the late 19th century long before any of us in this era even knew how to say the word “Mafia”. Growing fearsome and powerful in the 20s and 30s. Prohibition era was a goldmine for the Mafiosos. And into the 40s, 50s, 60s. Reaching their peak in the 70s. No one, not even the president could stop the Mafia in this time. At least that is until a tragic sunny day happened in the summer of ‘75. “They should have put another bullet in my skull.” Castle thinks to himself. Sitting patiently inside of his black van. He stares off into the distance towards the front of a convenience store. “Tricanni’s” the building reads. Frank Castle was the victim of an attempted murder on his life. Still alive to remember the day, he truly died when his wife and 2 kids werent so lucky. Slain by the mob on what was meant to be a picnic day at the park. After discovering a mob hit, the Castle family were to be killed for the witnessing. When Frank arose from death, with no help from the crooked police department, he began a one man war against the cities underworld. After 2 years, Frank is digging deeper and deeper into the mob. Chipping away for the past 2 years to get to the higher ups.

Dominic Tricanni was a Caporegime (captain) for the Gnucci (pro. NEW-CHEE) crime family. The same organization responsible for the death of Franks family. Tricanni being his last lead on the whereabouts of Ma Gnucci after she went into hiding. Ma Gnucci was the wife of Don Vittorio Gnucci. When the Don died, his widow decided to take his place of power. Something never before seen until her time. Ruling the crime family with her hand practically on everyones balls. A real mean old bitch as many of her own associates consider her. Castle originally planned on attacking each of the capo’s crews to break down the family section by section. But when Ma Gnucci decided to lay low, Castles only way of finding out her location is through the last captain still breathing. This is where Tricanni comes in. Frank waits outside for another 10 minutes. Only looking away for a millisecond to check his watch every now and again. Once the lights go out in the building, Frank gears up. He throws his leather trenchcoat over his white skull kevlar and makes his way across the street.

Tricanni’s was a typical NYC business building. Store on the bottom, apartments on top. He knew thats where the mob run establishment counted profits through the fronts. The place where you buy a loaf of bread, some milk, maybe some snacks, smokes, beer, and a package of God knows what if you ask for the right people. Understand? However much money was made through the packages, was moved upstairs. So the building had to have wiseguys with guns throughout the building. Frank taps on the glass of the door, holding his head down as the man behind the counter peeks out. Castle sticks up his middle finger yelling the words “Fuck you, you fucking guinea pricks!” The man dashes out through the door “I TOLD YOU LITTLE BASTARDS TO STOP COMI-“ the man stops and looks around an empty street. Feeling alone. Until 2 man hands grip under his chin and on top of his cranium. Twisting with a loud violent crunch. He drops dead weight into Castles arms, dragging him into the store. Dumping him off behind the counter. Castle searches his body and discovers a Colt. 1911. Checking the chamber for a round. “Full clip” he mutters to himself. Holstering the weapon down the front of his belt. His boots silently stepping through the door to the stairway. He listens. “HAHAHAHA!!!” Laughter coming from upstairs. He follows the sound of humorous covervastion until he spots 2 more waiting around the next corner. “Ay, so how was that slut you took home last night?” One asks the other. Castle eases up the stairs hugging the wall close with his back, listening. “Yo i think you were right about’er....been itchin’ all day. Fuck!” The 2 men laugh hysterically, castles lip snarls at the sound of the 2 mobsters. He listens for footsteps. Trying to pinpoint how they move.

Planning his next move, he unholsters one of his own pistols. An all black enhanced 1911 .45. Loaded with armor piercing rounds. He begins to twist a silencer on the handgun as one of the pair speaks, “you hear about Freddy?” Then the other, “All i know is hes dead, why?” The conversation continues. “I mean how he died. Cops and news reporters saying its the punisher. I believe ‘em.” Castle almost smiles as he peeks around the corner ever so slightly. “Ahhh fuck Castle. If i see ‘em ill have ‘em carrying his heart in a fuckin’ doggy bag.” Castle makes his move while their guards are down. “Nows your chance.” He mutters to them, standing below the staircase. Before the men could draw their weapons Castle unloads 2 rounds into their heads. The bodies drop with the shell casings. The wall behind them painted with blood and brain. “Whoops, too slow.” He jokes as he steps past the bodies. Meanwhile on the 3rd floor, Dominic Tricanni discusses bullshit talk while he counts his earnings. “So far its 15 G’s Dom.” One of his associates speaks up. “Not bad, not bad at all.” Tricanni replies. His face a little aged. Like an old war veteran who was the grease monkey cook of the platoon but could fight. Which he could. Tricanni used to be an amateur boxer on the streets of Jersey. Eventually being hired by Don Vittorio Gnucci himself as a source of income. Over time he became a small time enforcer on the side before choosing to work full time for the mob. Rising through the ranks and being granted his own crew in NY. A foul mouthed, tough Italiano with a love for money and a good fight. “This stays between us. Ma wants 10% of every take. Well we gonna give her what she THINKS is 10%. Tell her maybe business was slow this week. Not alot of customers. Capiche?” The others nod and reply, “Capiche”. Flicking cigarettes and downing scotch. “That bitch gets on my nerves.” Tricanni states. One cracks a joke, “Maybe shes a bitch because ever since Vito died, she hasnt been getting...properly pampered? If you know what i mean?” They chuckle as another pokes fun, “yeah Dom why dont you dust her off and take her for a spin y’know? Take one for the team huh?” Dominic laughs then responds, “I wouldnt fuck her with YOUR little pee shooter Ralphy.” They laugh, oblivious to the trouble approaching. Outside the room, Castle covers the mouth of another mobster. As his knife calmly slices across the adams apple of the man. The sound of muffled choking and blood curdling fills the vigilantes ears. Watching the door in case he is too audible. More laughter is heard as Frank drops the body. Snagging a sawed off shotgun from the dead mans grip. He holsters the shotgun to unscrew the silencer from his pistol. “Gonna have to get loud.” He thinks to himself. He currently wields both weapons, standing in front of the apartment door. He knocks on the door, waiting to hear the footsteps get closer. He hears whistling from behind the door signaling a cue for his next move. “BOOM!”

The mobster goes stumbling back, leaving a large hole in the door from the sawed off. “WHAT THE FU-! [BOOM!]” the last round from the shotgun bursts through the door. Enough to send the gangsters back falling to the floor. Castle spartan kicks the door with his large heavy combat boots. Breaking it off the hinges. Dropping the sawed off and equipping his secondary pistol. “BAM! BAM!” Headshots. 2 mobsters rise from behind the table, greeted with .45 caliber rounds to the cranium. Tricanni, still down, is painted with his mens blood. From the kitchen another spawns “HEY!!! ITS CASTLE!!!” Castle twists his head to the left. Just as the gangster pulls the trigger on his Micro smg. Machine gun fire sprays the room as Frank jump into the bedroom. Landing on his side. Bullet holes spawn as the mobster continues to unload his clip. Sending glass and drywall pieces all over the bedroom. Castle sends a few rounds through the wall in return. He notices a change in the scenario. The shots change place, now being shot from the right instead of the left. Frank follows up with gunfire of his own. Popping off the rest of the clip into the wall as a distraction before “BAM!” He lets off one last round just as the mobster was changing positions. Killing him. Tricanni sees this and attempts to run. “BAM! BAM!” Castle puts 2 in Tricannis leg. The Mob captain screams in agonizing pain as he attempts to crawl. But Frank beats him to it. And grabs him by his foot. Dragging him to the kitchen.

Tricanni sits handcuffed in a dining room chair. Dripping blood from his leg wounds. “What do you want with me Castle?” Frank stares him down, silent. Pulling up a chair seating himself directly in front of Dominic. “You want to know where Ma is!? Is that it? Well fuck you! I hate that old cunt just as much as you but ill be damned if i cooperate with you!” Frank doesnt break his cold stare. Keeping eye contact. Suddenly Tricanni feels a jolt of excruciating pain sent up his thigh and all over his leg. Frank has stuck his finger inside his bullet wound. “I think we need to try that again.” His voice gruff and dark. Like death itself if it could talk. Tricanni grits his teeth, holding back any screams as best as he can. Frank hooks his finger making Tricanni tear up and jolt around. “Where...is...Ma...Gnucci?” Tricanni breathes heavy but doesnt scream or give in. “I admire your pain tolerance. I wont take away your strength, ill give you that. But Tricanni either you give me an address or i plant a third one in your leg and play bowling. Now tell me....” he cocks his pistol and aims below the 2 bullet wounds. Suddenly, his home phone rings. Frank looks at Tricanni and stands. “No running off.” He walks over and picks up the phone as a woman speaks. Tricanni watches as Castle writes down on a napkin. He hangs up after a few minutes and washes his hands of blood. Tricanni pants as he speaks up “s-so what now?” Castle stops and looks down at Dominic “Now?” He raises his arm “(click) BAM!” Tricanni’s brains coat over the kitchen counter. “You give the devil my regards.”

As Castle walks back down into the convenience store the phone behind the counter rings. Frank ponders but then decides to answer. “Is this Tricanni’s?” Frank almost chuckles “It was...” he thinks to himself. “Yes” he answers. The man on the phone continues on. “Tell him ill be back by to pick up my package i ordered. Is tomorrow a good time?” Frank looks outside for any company. “Not a good idea. Tricanni’s is kind of going out of business after tonight and will be discontinuing any service to the public. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He hangs up and walks out into the New York streets back to his van. Checking the napkin he wrote on. “Rochester-3:00 p.m.-brick house few blocks from hospital. Tuesday.” He folds it up and starts the van. “Nothing like a little spring cleaning to make you feel like a new man.” He smirks to himself as he drives through the dark lonely streets.

[padal-oser-blog]

Daddy?

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warnings: daddy kink (who knew), bondage, not really a warning but uh it’s unedited so be wary lmao

Requested: yep, a Wattpad user asked for Dean introducing the daddy kink and trying out some bondage stuffs

Word Count: 2521

"I come bearing gifts," Dean teases you, closing the hotel door shut behind him as he waves the apple pie you asked him to buy in the air. He's grinning, but your smile fades a moment in.

"Dean! Careful! That is sacred food," you command him, and when he realizes he's close to dumping the pie on the floor, he instantly stops and cradles it to his chest.

"That's better," you say, and slide out of the covers to go help him. Your bare feet hit the carpet and your bare legs hit the cold air, making you shiver. All you're wearing is one of his t-shirts and your panties, a result of last night's wild activities. That aside, all that's on your mind now is eating apple pie for breakfast.

"You're the best husband ever, Dean," you giggle, stealing the pie from him and taking it to the table. You lean over, reaching for the plastic silverware of last night's takeout, not caring so long as you can eat this pie now.

"No, you're the best, I promise you that," Dean is speaking a few octaves lower than normal, and you slowly turn to look over your shoulder. His eyes are glued on your ass, and you feel heat creep up your neck and face in embarrassment.

"Dean," you scold jokingly, turning fully to face him. He drags his gaze upwards, not at all shy about staring at your body. You smile at his actions, and walk to meet him. Dean smiles and licks his lips, hands reaching for your hips. You lean up, and blissfully, he's kissing you.

After warming up a little, Dean stops messing around and parts your lips. His tongue slips inside, brushing against yours, and you let out a half-moan half-sigh in pleasure. His soft pink lips get you every time. You can feel his triumphant smile, but he by no means slows down. By now, his hands are rubbing circles on your hip bones, staying busy as you pull yours through his hair.

"Mmh, Dean," you whisper when he pulls you closer against him. His erection is poking you already, and all you've done is kiss. You grip the nape of his neck and revel in the tiny bits of stubble scratching against your face as you kiss. He's usually clean shaven, but it's so early that you can still feel his glorious stubble. You love it.

"Wait," he says, breathless as he pulls back from kissing you. You look into his troubled eyes and feel concern within yourself, too.

"What is it?"

"Can we... Well... We're married now, you know," Dean stutters, and you chuckle.

"Yep, I did know that," you tease him, but he shuts you up with a quick glare. You pull on a serious face, nodding and signaling him to continue.

"Well, we... Can we... could you.. Daddy?" he forces out the words, and at first, you're in shock.

"Daddy? As in... my dad? What are you-" you ask Dean, pulling back a little further and letting your hands drop from his neck to his chest. He panics as much as you, shaking his head no.

"No! No, like, Daddy. Me. Like you calling me daddy," he sheepishly explains to the floor, taking one hand from resting on your hip to rubbing the back of his neck. Now, understanding, you aren't sure how to feel. The last thing you want to think about during sex is your dad, but then again, pleasing Dean is pretty much top priority.

"Do you.. want to try it.. right now?" You ask, and this time it's you stumbling over words and Dean looking shocked. His eyes snap up to you, looking bright and extra green in his hopefulness.

"Yes! I mean, yeah, if you're alright with that, yeah," he tries to reign in his eagerness. You nod, still a little hesitant, but willing to try it out to make Dean happy. You just aren't sure how to start. Deep breaths.

"How do I... where do..." you trail off, and Dean just points to the bed. You slip out of his arms and walk towards it, hearing him suck in a breath at the view of your ass again.

"Wait. Shirt. Off. Now," he demands, and you feel heat start to build between your legs at his words. He's so naturally commanding, so good at it. You're stopped in your tracks, and start to peel his shirt off of you.

"Stop," Dean orders you again, and you do as you're told, freezing in place. You hold your breath, heart pounding as you hear his boots coming slowly closer behind you. You jump when he presses his body against yours, feeling his flannel-covered chest heave against your back. Dean's fingers settle just above your hips under the shirt, and you feel like your skin is on fire with his touch.

"When I give you an order, you answer me," he whispers into your ear. You close your eyes, taking in air again. Shit, this is pretty hot.

"Yes, daddy," you say breathily, and Dean's grip tightens as you do. You can't see him, but you know he's smirking, loving the power he knows he has over you.

"Very good. Now... Shirt off," he instructs you. You step forward a little in order to pull it off without whacking him in the face, and he slips away too. Once his shirt is on the ground, you turn around to see him rummaging through his duffel bag. You want to ask what he's looking for, but aren't sure if the rules include you speaking freely, so you stay quiet.

"Lie down," Dean says absentmindedly, still sifting through his huge duffel. You do as you're told, staying on top of the blankets and propping yourself up on the pillows. You get comfy, then return your gaze to Dean. You're startled to find he's already looking at you, expectant. He clears his throat, and you start to panic.

"Y-yes, daddy, I'm sorry daddy," you whimper, and he seems satisfied, turning back to his search. You let out a breath, heart pounding. You're enjoying yourself more than you thought you would.

Finally, Dean rises, done looking. It takes you a minute to register what he has in his hands, but when you do, your eyes widen. Rope. The kind you guys use to tie up demons. Holy shit.

"Okay, I know this is new to you, and it's coming on fast, but-"

"Do it."

"I'm sorry, what?" Dean blinks, apparently having been ready to need to convince you on the subject of bondage. You, however, feel no such need for persuasion. Looking up at him standing above you, calling him daddy... yeah. You're ready.

"Do it, Dean. Tie me up," you repeat yourself, raising your wrists together above your head for extra effect. He clenches his jaw, seemingly not happy with that answer. You start to feel insecure and extremely exposed, and fidget a little, not knowing what to do. You thought he wanted this.

"What did you just call me?" Dean says through gritted teeth, and you realize your mistake too late.

"Daddy, I'm sorry, I meant da-"

"Shut up." He cuts you off, stone cold. You close your mouth, open it, and close it again. You don't like upsetting him.

Then Dean climbs onto the bed, shoes on and all. He straddles your hips, denim brushing against you with barely there friction. Rope in hand, he pulls apart your wrists to opposite sides of the headboard, tying each down carefully. He's silent through the entire process, so you are too. Next, Dean leans back, backing up and off of you so that he's just on the edge of the bed, extra rope still held tight in his clenched fist. You watch his every move meticulously, wary but excited at the same time.

"You didn't answer me the way I asked you to. You spoke over me. You tried to order me to do something. You know what that means?" Dean raises his brows, and you still aren't sure if you should speak or not. You quiver, still cold, and desperate for his touch.

"What, daddy?" You finally ask, and Dean smiles, like he was praying you would ask. He stands up, sets down the rope, and leans towards you a little. Your heart is beating out of your chest in anticipation.

"That means you're a bad girl. That means that daddy has to tie your legs up, too. That means you get fucking punished, baby," Dean spits the words at you, and the dampness between your thighs grows like crazy.

"M-my legs too, daddy?" You ask, half pleading. Dean smiles evilly, not bothering to answer your question. Before you know it, he has his fingers hooked in the waistline of your panties and is yanking down. You let out a squeak, startled by the action. Dean, however, isn't the slightest bit phased as he tosses them to the ground and begins tying you down. Once he's all done, you look up at him standing at the edge of the bed, and his eyes scan over your exposed body.

"Daddy likes what he sees," Dean says approvingly, and you feel a little better about having messed up. You smile, but truly just wish you could do something to relieve the tension building inside you. Tugging at your bonds, you know that he's going to torture you.

"Are they too tight?" He asks, and you try to shrug before realizing that, for one thing, it's hard with your arms tied up, and on top of that, you aren't supposed to.

"A little, daddy," you say, voice quiet and higher than usual. You never realized how natural being a submissive would feel.

"Good. Now here's what's going to happen. I'm going to fuck you, you're not going to cum until I tell you, and if you misbehave again, you get punished. Got it?" Dean talks as he pulls off his flannel. Next his shirt hits the floor, and the rippling muscles of his chest and arms make you weak. You watch, mesmerized as he slides off his boots while undoing his jeans.

"Yes, daddy," you reply, in another world as Dean pulls down his jeans and boxers. You buck your hips into the air fruitlessly, hopelessly turned on. He chuckles, and you so badly need his hard length inside of you. You can't tear your eyes away as he strokes himself to prepare, even though you both know he's fully hard already. No, he's just pumping his cock to tease you. And hot damn, it's working.

Dean climbs onto the bed again, positioning himself between your spread legs. You wriggle, hoping to get some friction, but he stays hovering above your pussy, just out of reach. One arm on each side of your head to support himself, Dean looks just as tortured as you feel after waiting this long.

"Are you nice and wet, baby?" Dean asks, his eyes shut tight. You want to scream from all this anticipation.

"Yes, daddy, all for you, daddy," you insist, once again surprising yourself with how easily it comes to you to be submissive. Your pussy is literally throbbing, and you push your head into the pillows, frustrated as hell.

"I bet you're tired of waiting, huh, baby?"

"Yes-ah, please fuck me already, please daddy," you beg shamelessly. Dean licks his lips and slowly smiles, looking directly into your eyes.

"As you wish," he states, slamming into you not a second later. You let out a strangled cry, feeling his hips hit yours as he goes all the way in. The ropes burn as you pull on your wrists and ankles, and Dean moans as he begins to pump in and out of you. You weren't kidding about the amount of your arousal, and he slides in easily with all your wetness.

"Fuck, daddy, you're so big- ah! Fuck!" you yell, arching your back so far that your chest hits into Dean's. In the middle of your sentence, he so kindly turned the speed up a notch, driving you crazy. He laughs, breathing heavy and picking up the pace yet again. Now you're moaning non-stop, feeling absolutely out of control. The head of his cock twitches against your walls, and several times, it brushes over your g spot, making you cry out.

"Not yet, not yet baby," Dean says, not even needing you to tell him you're close. You've been together for so long that he has a sense for it by now, and you groan, desperate to cum anyways. Normally it would take more than just penetration to get you off, but damn, this daddy thing is really doing it for you.

"Yes, daddy," you moan, hips bucking to meet his wild thrusts. You're positive by now that your wrists are going to be raw, because you can't help but struggle against the restraints. You just want your hands in his hair, scraping down his back, on your own clit. The same goes for your ankles - your mind is begging you to wrap them around him.

"Want me to touch your pretty little clit, baby?" Dean breathlessly asks, reading your mind. You nod vigorously, not bothering to attempt to form coherent words. He falls to his elbow and forearm, tracing his other hand down your curves before reaching your clit. He gives it just the lightest tap, and you can barely stand the pleasure, gritting your teeth.

"Scream for daddy, baby," Dean whispers, clearly just as close to his orgasm as you are. Just as you open your mouth to follow his instructions, he pushes down on your clit - hard.

"Fuuck, daddy!" you yell, writhing against your bonds and under his thrusts. You scream out Daddy time after time, pleasure winding you up.

"Fucking - ah - cum, babygirl," he orders, voice strained and just a little too loud to be normal. You moan, arching your back as he keeps pounding into you. Your walls clench onto his cock as you scream one last time, pulling even harder at the burning ropes. You ache before it's even over, muscles tensing and vision going blurry.

Dean starts to release his own hot load deep into you, emitting a low groan as he does so. There's so much that it spills out, and you moan again. You love making him cum just as much as you love having your own orgasms.

When you're both finished, he collapses on top of you and rolls to the side. Still heaving, he reaches up to untie you. Once your hands are free, you each undo one ankle, smiling at him as you work together. Finally, you both fall back into the bed, sweaty messes.

He pulls your back to his chest, spooning you and kissing the back of your head. You sigh, entirely content as you lay in Dean's arms.

"Thank you," he whispers, and despite the glaring sun streaming in and the uneaten pie on the table, you both can't help but slip back into sleep.

[truelovevoltage]

SCM: Fight and Make Up

“Anonymous said: hi! may I have a SCM headcanon about the guys having a big fight with MC then make up? hue karno and ziglavis if you don't mind?”

“Anonymous said: A fight and make up headcanon for SCM? Hue Karno Krioff Zyglavis (if krioff is not OK then Scorpio pls?)Thank youuuuuuu”

Requested: Yes

For: Anon

Smut: No

A/N: I decided not to add Huedhaut to this headcanon because I’ve done a similar fan fiction to this. If you want to read it, click here

Karno

Occupying yourself with work was nothing out of ordinary. You’ve been working endless hours due to the crazy amount of bills that you needed to pay. You tried to keep yourself busy this entire time because you knew Karno would be busy too. At least then he was able to tell you in advance that he was going to be busy. 

Working at another job helped a lot to pay off your bills. It was hard to live off with just the planetarium because of the number of apples that you buy for your boyfriend. It was alright at first but your favourite fruits and vegetables were not in season right now and the prices for them went up.

The other job wasn’t that bad but it was tiring you out. That night Karno came to visit you and check how you were doing. Karno could tell that you were very tired and tried to cheer you up with a video of the gods trying to play video games at the mansion. The aftermath of the video wasn’t bad but you had a headache and the case that Zyglavis was bothering Leon and pissing him off and screaming at each other. “Well aren’t you gods lucky as hell that you don’t have to work as hard as we do in order to live.” You gritted your teeth and slapped the smartphone that Karno was holding. “Can you just leave me for now. I’m not in the mood hearing your fellow god screaming and doing whatever they want.”  

Karno was thrown off guard with your attitude. He wanted to say that they too work hard whether they were in the Department of Punishments or Wishes. Nevertheless, he didn’t, Karno didn’t want to make such a big deal about it. He understood how tired you must be. If there was any way to take away your stress he would do it in an instant. 

In a few minutes, Karno came into your room and woke you up. “Wake up Y/N! It’s time to eat.” He said cheerfully. You sat up using the headboard as your support. “Here you go Y/N, breakfast in bed. Y/N I’m sorry for adding more stress to you. I know how hard you’ve been working lately and so here is your prize, breakfast in bed.” Seeing this side of Karno surprised you. Yes he was kind and thoughtful but this threw you off guard. “I’m sorry too Karno. I should’ve just told you nicely instead, I brushed you off.”

“Enough with the apologies let’s have breakfast shall we?” Karno smiled and the two of you ate breakfast and teased each other every now and then.

Krioff

You panicked and yelled for your nephew’s name. He’s been missing for about two hours now and you kept blaming yourself for not carefully paying attention to him. You asked Krioff to help and he would occasionally tell you to calm down. Clearly, that wasn’t the best choice of word to say to you at the moment. “CALM?!?! YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN KRIOFF?!?! MY NEPHEW IS OUT THERE ALONE AND HE’S PROBABLY SCARED AND YOU’RE TELLING ME TO CALM DOWN?!?!” You screamed at your boyfriend who kept a deadpan mask. “Were you this calm as well when you sister got kidnapped? Were you calm when the evil god tried to take your sisters' power? Because maybe if you were calm back then and didn’t let your emotions run haywire and then maybe she could’ve still been a God right now. And we both know how ‘calm’ you were back then, so you don’t have the rights to tell me to calm down.” You hissed. 

Krioff was taken aback by your outburst. The topic of his sister was a taboo for him. He hated himself for what happened and right now he didn’t want to be around you. He walked away not even bother saying anything to him. When Krioff was far away you realized how much your words hurt him. You knew that his sister is a sensitive topic and yet you brought it up and compared it to your situation. You cursed under your breath and continued to look for your missing nephew. 

Another two hours have passed and there was no sign of your nephew nor your boyfriend. You sat on the bench and cried. You weren’t sure what to do anymore and you looked up to the sky and apologized to your sister for being so careless. “Auntie Y/N!” Your head snapped towards the direction of the voice. There you saw a child climbing down Krioff and running towards you. “Auntie... I’m sorry for making you worry. I’m sorry for leaving your side, I promise I won’t do it again. Uncle Krioff told me how upset and worried you were. Please stop crying Auntie.” Your nephew hugged you. “I’m just glad you’re okay little one.” 

Your nephew fell asleep on Krioffs arms. “Krioff... Thank you for finding my nephew. I thought that you’d leave the search to me since I know you’re mad at me and I won’t blame you. I was out of the line mentioning your sister and that incident and I’m sorry. I was just being stupid and I let my emotions get to me. I shouldn’t have said those rude remarks at you.” 

You heard Krioff sighed, you prepared yourself for whatever he has to say to you. “Y/N, how can you say something like that? I know that you’re the only family he has left and I really wanted to find him. I understand how you feel. That’s how I felt when my sister got kidnapped and I can’t blame you for reacting that way. I’m at fault as well for telling you to calm down, to that end I’m sorry as well.” He leaned down to give you a quick peck on the lips. “I forgive you, but can you forgive me as well?”

“Of course Krioff.” You smiled at him and intertwined his free hand with yours.

Scorpio

There was a long silence between you and Scorpio yet you had a lot to say to him on your mind. Scorpio casually sat there oblivious that he was making you furious. You stood up and made your way to the kitchen and looked for food to munch on. 

Food always made your mood better. Searching the fridge you weren’t in the mood for making something big so you decided to just have some fruits for snack. You cut some strawberries and watermelon. Scorpio looked up and glared at you, “If you’re glaring at me cause I didn’t peel your apples, go do it yourself.” Rolling your eyes at him. Lately, he’s been making you do everything for him and you couldn’t figure out the reason. He can literally just use his powers for it and you hated it when he ordered you to do certain things after a long day at work. “What’s your problem?” He questioned. 

“You.” He kept his eyes on you. Scorpio waited until you continued why. “You’ve been ordering me to do things for you when you clearly know how tired I am at work. You never even considered the thought of getting me food after work. I know that you don’t know how to cook but grabbing some food for me outside or you trying to make something simple like a sandwich would be enough, but that’s not the case. When I get home from work, you’d ask me to cook something for you as well. I’ve been really patient with the way you’re acting towards me but I’ve had it.” You got up from your seat and left a dumbfounded Scorpio. You stomped your way towards your bedroom and slept, not caring that it’s almost supper time. You could sleep through a meal and wake up the next day for all you care. 

You woke up the next day feeling guilty that you yelled at Scorpio, it was a bit much but at least you were able to tell him how you feel about being treated like a maid in your own place. You got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. The moment that you left your bedroom you smelled something good. Peeking your head out of the corner you saw Scorpio muttering things to himself. “Scorpio.... What are you doing?” You asked. “I’m cooking breakfast.” He stammered. “Just relax for a bit, I’ll call you when I’m done.” You nodded at him and made your way to the living room to watch while Scorpio is cooking breakfast. 

In a few minutes, you could smell something burning. You ran towards the kitchen and saw that Scorpio did, in fact, burned the pancakes he was cooking. His frown lines were showing and you could tell how frustrated he was. “Here let me help.” You offered. Scorpio apologized for being such a failure, even though all he wanted to do was help you. “Thank you Scorpio, I appreciate it. I’m actually glad that you thought of making breakfast for me but next time call me first alright?” You kissed his cheeks. “Now let's get breakfast ready together.”

“Y/N I’m sorry, I was unaware of my behaviour. You know that I’m not really good at reading your movements or how humans behave and I should’ve treated you better.” Scorpio was still feeling useless and guilty at the same time. It didn’t turn out the way he wanted it to be but he was glad that the two of you have made up and happily cooking together. You were also happy to spend the morning like with his Scorpio.

Zyglavis

“Why can’t you listen to me for once Zyglavis?!?!”You yelled in frustration. You were getting fed up with your boyfriends' attitude. “I’m always listening to you but you NEVER listen to me!” The other Gods could hear the two of you bickering back and forth. No one dared to stick their nose in to stop the war between the two lovers. 

“What do you mean? I’m listening to you right now aren’t I?” He scoffed and crossed his arms. This made you more angry at him. He knew that’s not what you meant but ended up saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Zyglavis added more fuel to the fire rather than extinguishing it. “You know damn well what I’m talking about you damn weasel!” 

Stomping away from Zyglavis you excused yourself from the other Gods and headed to your apartment. You recalled what happened at the mansion and couldn’t help but yell onto your pillow. Why couldn’t Zyglavis understand that the world doesn’t revolve around him? Why did he think that he can always get what he wants?

The fight between the two of you was about the time. Whenever you were not busy, he was occupied with his job and vice versa. You understand that he’ll be busy with work but why can’t he understand that he needs to be understanding about your job as well? Why did he have to get mad at you being always busy and not spending time with him on his days off?

Closing your eyes, you wanted to go to sleep and forget everything. No matter how hard you wanted your tears to stop, it didn’t happen until an hour later when you finally felt tired. Just as you were about to lose consciousness, you heard footsteps in your bedroom. You hoped that it wasn’t a robber because you didn’t have enough energy to defend yourself. 

The silhouette stood in front of you. “And this is how I’m going to die.” You thought to yourself and sobbed. You were waiting for the impact of anything that could harm you in your sleep but instead, the figure brushed of the hairs that fell in front of your face. You flinched when their skin touched your forehead. “I’m sorry Y/N” There was regret and sadness mixed in his voice. “The other Gods have talked to me and even the King gave me a piece of his mind. I’m sorry if I was being selfish. I’m sorry for not putting myself in your shoes. I’m sorry for thinking that I was the only one that cared about our relationship.”

He kept apologizing for all his mistakes. “Mmmm you’re an idiot.” You teased him. “I forgive you but please let me sleep, I’m tired.” You turned your body away from him and went back to sleep. You felt the unoccupied side of the bed dip down. “Goodnight Y/N.” He kissed your forehead and pulled you closer to him. You missed the warmth of his body. The two of you were glad that you were able to make up before going to sleep, at least then you can sleep peacefully in the arms of the God you love.

[kidsviral-blog]

My Boyfriend Loves Fat Women

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/my-boyfriend-loves-fat-women/

My Boyfriend Loves Fat Women

As a fat woman myself, I’m still struggling with how I feel about it.

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Jenny Chang / BuzzFeed

Ironically enough, I met my boyfriend during the thinnest month of my life.

I was at a friend’s birthday party at a bar when I saw my future boyfriend Brian from across the room, talking to the birthday boy. Brian was the type of guy I spent most of high school and college and my entire adult life pining after and never getting: slim, with dark hair and glasses, his jeans torn in all the best places. He had a beautiful mouth that was excitedly saying things I couldn’t hear, but was making everyone around him laugh.

If I had still been at my heaviest weight, I never would have approached Brian. As a fat woman, I have been taught that there is an order of operations for love: First, you get thin; then, you can date who you want. Until you do the first thing, the second thing is impossible. So for many women who struggle with their weight, it becomes a fight not just for their health or well-being, but a struggle to just be worthy of the love so many people take for granted.

Most of my life, my weight has felt like a search light from above that continually hounds me, putting the spotlight on my body even when I just want to hide. My third-grade class unofficially voted me “class pig” — a title I embraced with great gusto, because the alternative meant no friends. When I was 10, my dad ripped a box of Apple Jacks out of my hand while I was pouring myself a second bowl of cereal, and told me that I was “going to turn into a goddamn pumpkin.” The summer I turned 14, I was sweating my life out every day for an hour during swim team practice. Still, when I put on a bikini one day, my mother wouldn’t stop talking about my belly fat until I just wanted to throw the bikini away and never wear one again. I have always hated my body, and in retrospect, I’m not sure I was ever given the chance to love it.

But on the day I met Brian, I had just spent the previous year slowly winnowing off 50 pounds, almost entirely due to unemployment. I wasn’t buying a lot of food, and was spending much of my free time developing a nervous running habit that led me to spend hours every day trotting in circles around my neighborhood, trying to go somewhere even as my career was jogging in place.

So I was feeling brave, the stupid kind of courage that comes from unexpectedly having a body you never thought you’d inhabit, and wondering what kinds of things it might let you get away with. And I walked that crazy all the way over to the other side of the bar, and introduced myself to him.

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There was a three-hour period — between the moment Brian first kissed me, and the moment when I learned that Brian was predominantly attracted to bigger women — when I felt like I could do anything. In my mind, I had done the impossible. Seducing a thin and attractive person was like taking bronze, silver, and gold in the Former Fat Girl Olympics.

At some point that night, I remember lying next to him, still feeling unbelievably cocky from my victory, when Brian mentioned that I wasn’t normally his type.

My inner Douchebag Alert went off. Oh god, I thought. Is this the part where he lets me know how nice he is for throwing my chubby ass a bone?

“What’s normally your type?” I asked him, bracing myself for the part where he not-so-subtly intimated that he can usually do better than me.

I did not get the response I expected.

“I like bigger ladies,” Brian replied. “Very big ladies, actually.” He sounded as calm and as normal as if he were telling me the weather. He was not ashamed. I suddenly realized that this was not an attempt to put me down, but rather just a thing (a completely normal thing, to him) that he was disclosing about himself. In other words: It was conversation.

But the little part of me inside that had been cheering for hours suddenly got very quiet. But I am your type, I thought sadly. In that moment, I know that Brian had been saying that he didn’t consider me to be big, but I know as well as anyone that people can’t fundamentally change who they are attracted to. Brian was still attracted to fat girls, and I was one of them.

This, of course, did not take away from how into Brian I was. We started dating almost immediately, and became inseparable. When I described him to people, I would tend to use celebrities who I was currently in love with as a frame of reference:

“He’s exactly like a dark-haired Ben Folds, but younger, and with better skin.”

“He looks just like an American version of John Oliver, but with better teeth, and a more attractive nose.”

“Brian looks like Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters,” I said once during a Halloween party, apropos of absolutely nothing. “But, like, even better looking.”

It was during this time that I started slowly putting the weight back on. Not because Brian was doing anything to sabotage me — he was and is supportive of my wanting to eat well and exercise. It was just a result of being in a happy relationship, suddenly having a full-time job, and life getting in the way. Normal things.

Six months into our relationship, I found myself in a very desperate laundry situation. I put on a sundress that I thought might be a little too backless for my current weight.

“I figure if worst comes to worst, I can just find a wall to stand against, or walk backward a lot,” I said to Brian as I put it on, trying to preemptively apologize for an outfit that I was pretty sure was riding the line between flattering and gross.

Brian, however, loved the dress. Maybe even a little too much — I spent a lot of time while wearing it swatting his hands away from the open back. I felt happy wearing it, beautiful. Soon, I was wearing it all the time.

Then, I wore it to a party. Late in the evening, Brian turned to a mutual friend of ours, and eagerly, drunkenly opined: “Doesn’t Kristin look amazing in that dress?”

The silence that followed felt like the moment before someone hits the button on a dunk tank, and you know that you are about to tumble, helpless, into a frosty tub of punishment. I realized, belatedly, obviously, that to Brian, I did look amazing in that dress. Because I looked fat.

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When you are a fat person who is losing weight, people will come out of the woodwork to let you know how “amazing” you look — even my psychiatrist called me “the incredible shrinking woman” at nearly every appointment. Well-meaning people felt this constant need to make it plain that I was somehow better once I had lost weight, and it only made it that much more painful when people stop telling you how good you look, and stop saying anything at all.

For the first time since I had started dating Brian, I looked at myself and realized that my body, almost without my realizing it, was reverting to back to its former fat state. This is the real you, I thought. The other you was just a disguise. But you couldn’t fool everyone forever.

And the fewer compliments about my body that I got from other people, the more I would get from Brian. It got to the point where compliments from Brian were actually painful to hear — every time he said “You look beautiful,” all I could hear was “You look fat.”

I started trying on outfits in front of Brian in order to get his opinion. It was a good system. Anything he liked, I wouldn’t wear.

It was during this time that I started being mean to myself — really, truly unkind. I looked at myself for hours in the mirror the way a child might gawk at an ugly person on the street. I would push and pull the rolls of fat on my stomach with my hands as flat as I could, and try to imagine what my lower half would look like, unencumbered by what I had done to it. I’d meet every compliment Brian gave me with something equally cruel about myself. It was like my self-image was in a tennis match, and it was more important for me to be right than for me to feel good.

Brian’s expressions when I would rip myself to shreds eventually moved from sympathy to frustration.

“I love your body,” Brian would say, carefully. “Because Kristin lives in your body.”

Even though I was and am loved, I still didn’t feel that way — because in my mind, I had not earned it. You won, I would try to tell myself. You still earned love while gaining weight.

Then I went to an appointment with my psychiatrist, and for the first time in years, she said nothing about my body. Nothing at all.

No, I didn’t win, I would tell myself instead. I got what I wanted, but I didn’t do the work. That’s cheating. I cheated.

And though Brian is and has always been open and confident with his preferences, they started to embarrass me. Once at a party, he mentioned that Rebel Wilson was hot to a group of people we were talking to. A short silence followed, during which I actually moonwalked away from the conversation, as though trying to physically escape before a comparison between Rebel Wilson and myself could catch up to me.

Which is ridiculous. Rebel Wilson is fabulous. Why would I not want that for myself?

And what would happen if I lost all this weight? I would wonder to myself bitterly. Would Brian still feel the same way? Was I doomed to either be conventionally attractive or someone’s fetish object?

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Brian gets tired of my self-hatred. He has limits, he’s human, and more important, he’s a human who loves me and finds me attractive, and is frustrated with having to defend those choices to me, of all people.

Once, we were at a bar, and I saw a very large woman sitting at the edge of the bar. “Do you think she’s cute?” I asked Brian, in a way that clearly indicated she was not. It was a petty, mean question, and one I already knew the answer to. But I found myself wanting to hear him say it, like I could trick Brian into openly admitting that his idea of beautiful — and that his ideas about me — were so obviously, incredibly wrong.

“Yes, I do.” Brian said, not taking the bait. “She’s very pretty. What is your problem? Do you want another beer?”

One of the things I’ve come to understand is that, when you’re single, hating your body is more or less a victimless crime, if you don’t count yourself. When you get into a relationship, however, it becomes a constant referendum on the tastes and judgment of the person who loves you.

The other problem was that, the more that I poke at myself, the more Brian pokes at himself as well. While he is objectively not a very big person, he’s succumed a little bit to the 10 to 15 pounds everyone gains when they are happy and in love. But one morning, I saw him looking at himself in the mirror, grabbing the small pudge from his stomach, and agonizing about how much he felt it made him into a terrible person.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. Because it so obviously was — he was trying to grab handfuls of his tummy for emphasis, but was struggling to even get one hand full.

“No, it isn’t,” he shot back, in that angry, desperate tone of voice I have so often used. “I am just a fat person, now.”

No, you’re not, I thought, and I wondered how many times Brian had felt like this: frustrated, annoyed, and helpless as he watched me tear down a thing he loved.

The thing that I have struggled the most with understanding is that, just like I am not just a fat girl, Brian is not just someone who likes fat girls. He is someone who has made it through this life, one that is inundated with social mores about what is OK and not OK in terms of physical attraction, and he is unmoved by any of it. How he handles this attraction is actually one of the most attractive things about him. He knows that his is not a popular opinion, and wastes no time caring about that fact.

I wish I could say that I am 100% OK with myself. I still do the thing where, when people compliment pictures of myself that I hate, I will wonder just how bad I look in all the other photos they aren’t complimenting.

But I do little things. When a couple of co-workers and I published this post about “one size fits all” clothing last December, I was terrified at the types of things people would say about my body. But when people were so overwhelmingly positive toward me, it reminded me of how important it is not to be your own biggest censor. I let myself believe the nice things people said.

Two years ago, I didn’t even realize they made bikinis in a size 18 — turns out that they do. Lots of cute ones. And this year, I intend to buy one, and wear it to the beach. And I will enjoy that no one will be able to complain to me about my belly fat (without looking like a crazy person). I will enjoy how excited that makes Brian, to see me happy in my own skin. I will let him enjoy the thing he loves without tearing it down. But more importantly, I will work to earn love from me, who is the person who will always play the hardest to get. I will flirt as hard as I can, and I will win myself back.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/kristinchirico/my-boyfriend-loves-fat-women