#but I’ve been debating growing it out and letting the red dye come all the way out this time

[realismreading]

It’s been almost 2 months since I cut 4 inches of my hair off in my second year uni house’s living room mirror while my housemates watched Naked Attractions

My hair actually has grown a little and the debate now starts again. Do I let it grow out (something I’ve been considering for some time, as my hair hasn’t been long in about 2 years) or do I just … chop it even shorter?

[crownjimin]

✰ 099 | no takesies backsies

la vie en rose ━ in which lee aera, a girl who has been crushing on choi soobin for a long, long time, is starting her junior year and her friends decide that its time for her to make her move.

( masterlist | prev | next )

A/N: whoop! one more update + the epilogue and we’re donezo!!

“I can’t believe it’s really red—,” He flipped and shuffled his hands through her hair as he said this.

“So bright, so pretty,” Soobin muttered to himself, going as far as to bend down and push his nose into her scalp, taking a long, dramatic sniff. “Oh, it doesn’t smell like strawberries.”

Aera laughed at this, shoving her not-boyfriend away from her softly. “Of course not. That’s like me saying your hair should smell like chocolates.”

Soobin had recently dyed his hair back to brown--well, dark brown, and as much as it made Aera sad to see the purple gone from his hair, it was well past due. His roots had grown out terribly, meaning that he was either going to have to redo his roots or retreat back to his natural brown. Also, the purple was less purple and more of a faded ash gray, from all the washing Soobin did to his hair.

For a while, he was set on just letting his hair grow out, then cutting it at the brown once the ash gray was to the tips of his hair but Aera told him he would look crazy. They debated about it for a few days, but one day Aera showed up at his house with a kit with brown hair dye and a few hours later his chocolate brown locks were back. 

“Well, if you used strawberry shampoo it would smell like strawberries.”

“I will when you use chocolate shampoo.”

Soobin pouted. “I bet Ariel’s hair smells like strawberries.”

“Go sniff her head then,” the red-head quipped. “And I actually highly doubt that is true. She lives in the ocean, you know. The place where fish pee--that ocean.”

“Is there another ocean that I should be thinking of?”

“Yeah,” There was a teasing lilt in Aera’s voice. “The one I’m going to toss you in if you keep sassing me.”

The two were currently sitting in Soobin’s living room on Saturday morning, Soobin having asked Aera on Friday night if she wanted to spend the next day with him. Of course, without hesitation, Aera agreed, telling him that she would be there by ten, and now they were there.

Soobin had suggested watching YouTube in his living room until his mom got home from the gym, and Aera found no issue with the idea. During the past hour and a half, they had watched way too many Girls’ Generation music videos, and even attempted to learn the choreography to Catch Me If You Can. After forty minutes of them attempting to get past the first verse, they called it quits. Soobin claimed that he was too talented in girl group choreography to continue and further embarrass Aera with her lackluster movements.

But if you asked Aera, Soobin just didn’t want to have a dance battle, because he knew he was going to lose.

At noon, Ruha walked through the front door, her arms loaded with three market bags, filled to the brim with groceries.

“Soobin-ah,” Ruha yelled, a little too loud since she hadn’t realized he was right there in the living room. “Come help me with my bags!”

Both Soobin and Aera rushed to help Ruha, the older woman being slightly startled by Aera being there but she quickly perked up and said, “Oh good, Ae Ae is here. More hands to help!”

Everything felt so natural with Soobin and his family. Aera had spent a lot of time at his house since the picnic, and his parents seemed to love her. Soobin’s dad was obsessed when he saw how small Aera was, often leaning his elbow on her head whenever he stood beside her as a way to ridicule and tease her about her height. Then when she turned up with red hair, he almost had a better reaction than Soobin, dubbing her Strawberry Shortcake and hasn’t stopped calling her that since.

Aera had also gotten Soobin’s parents’ phone numbers, Ruha often texting Aera at random times throughout the day whenever Soobin talked about her.

ruha-ssi

he said you brought him lunch to school today. says that he loves how much you care about him

i’m sure he cares about me way more than i do him

ruha-ssi 

does he show it well?

that he cares for you.

wouldnt ask for him to treat me any better than he already

does ruha-ssi.

Or the time Ruha told her that Soobin was sleep talking and had muttered her name.

ruha-ssi

he’s napping.

[picture attached]

ruha-ssi

he just grumbled your name and had the biggest smile

aw that’s so cute

ruha-ssi

i know :)))

Soobin was aware that Aera had his mother’s number, but he didn’t know that his mother was revealing just how lovestruck he was. Aera didn’t plan on mentioning it to him either, thinking that Ruha is godsent for giving her so much dirt and content to tease Soobin with whenever he decided to get too sassy with her.

Plus, Soobin has had Dongmin’s phone number much longer than Aera has had Ruha’s, and she is one-thousand percent positive that her mother lived to embarrass her, so Soobin for sure had some dirt on her.

 It’s a win-win situation, all is fair in love and war.

“So, Soobin-ah,” Ruha spoke as she walked into the kitchen. “What time do you want to head out?”

Aera was busy placing things where they belonged from the market bags (yes, she knows where their groceries belonged—she’s been over there that much), but she raised an eyebrow at Ruha’s question.

“Head out where?” she asked.

“Soobin wanted to take you to an early dinner today,” Ruha paused, with a nervous expression on her face. “I-I don’t know if it was supposed to be a surprise or not-”

“No, mom, it’s fine,” Soobin waved it off. “It wasn’t really a surprise, I was gonna mention it to you later, Pouts.”

Aera walked out of the pantry, an excited glint in her eyes. “Will there be steak at this dinner?”

“Do you want there to be steak?”

“Yes.”

“Then there will be steak.”

━━━━━━━

The restaurant Soobin had chosen was very dark, Aera noted. The only light that was supplied was from a single candle lit in the center of the table, which left everything as shadows and tinted orange.

It seemed super expensive, and once Aera picked up the menu, her suspicions were confirmed.

“Soobi,” her voice seemed hesitant. “How are you affording any of this?”

She should’ve realized that the meal was going to be an expensive one when Ruha had offered Aera one of her old dresses, seeing as Aera had came over to their house in a pair of ripped jeans and a tattered t-shirt. The dress Ruha lent her was a dark blue, high-necked dress, where the waist tapered in and then flowed out to mid-thigh. Luckily, Aera had worn black flats that day, those being the shoes closest to her front door when she left for Soobin’s house.

Soobin was dressed in a simple button up and black slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the top button of his shirt was undone—if Aera hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought Soobin was a young adult that worked a nine-to-five office job and not a sixteen year old boy taking his not-girlfriend out for an early dinner.

Everything was fancy, and the two of them were tucked into a corner booth where once they sat down the hostess had wished ‘Mister and Missus Choi’ a nice evening. 

“Months of allowance that I’ve saved up,” Soobin lifted his gaze from the menu and once he saw how worried Aera was, he rushed to reassure her. “Plus, I work a summer job! Don’t worry, Pouts, I promise it’s not too much.”

“You don’t have to spend your allowance on me, Soobi,” she spoke softly. “You should spend it on something you really want-something to make you happy.”

“Seeing you happy makes me happy.”

Aera blushed. “Don’t try to flatter me into running your pockets dry.”

“Ae Ae, seriously,” Soobin put down his menu and reached his hands across the table to touch her hands, which laid on the table. He tugged her index fingers once, attempting to soothe her and get her to not worry. “It’s fine. If it makes you feel better we can just split something, so that way I won’t have to spend much.”

The crease in her eyebrows gradually faded and she nodded in agreement. “Are you okay with splitting a steak?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded. “Just order whatever, I’ll eat anything.”

Aera looked over the menu, her eyes skipping over the more expensive items but honestly the cheapest things were the hor d'oeuvres and even those weren’t cheaper than 74,000 won. 

“How about I choose one, you choose one, then we pick something together?” she suggested. “That way we can both enjoy something.”

By the time the waiter came to the table, they had decided on their personal picks and their combined choice, and once the food came to the table, Aera knew it was more than enough. The steak she had chosen ended up being as big as her face and had the both of them gasping in surprise once it was set on the table. Soobin decided on a rose pasta, in a dish large enough that it could feed a family of five. And their combined choice was a large platter of American-style french fries, but the way the menu phrased it made it seem like they were ordering a fancy potato.

Soobin offered to have the kitchen take it back, but Aera refused to give back french fries--she’d be crazy to ever turn down french fries (plus it came with a gravy boat filled with a white sauce that Aera could literally guzzle down in one go, so she was more than happy to keep it).

The moment the waiter told them to enjoy, Aera was shoving her fork into the steak, which was thankfully pre-cut, and the second she bit into it, juice ran down her chin and she had to squeeze every muscle in her throat to not let out a moan.

Soobin noticed her expression, the way her eyes fell close and she paused mid-bite. “Is it good, Pouts?”

“Tho goof,” she attempted to speak around her bite but she just gave up and nodded enthusiastically. 

“It’s so juicy,” she said once she swallowed. 

When they were ordering, she wanted to get the steak cooked well-done, but Soobin had told her to get it medium preaching something about it being more tender and juicer as if he knew everything and anything about steak. Aera argued and said she didn’t want to cut into her steak and hear it mooing back at her, and Soobin chuckled but promised if it was too raw for her when it came out, they could just send it back and she obliged.

She most definitely was not sending back this beautiful piece of heaven, and shoved another piece into her mouth. The scene from Ratatouille when the rat fused together strawberry and cheese and had color swirling around his head played inside Aera’s head the second she took another bite of the steak. Her eyes were closed, her head lolled from side to side as she swayed euphorically to the warmth of the steak and the flavor on her tongue.

Once she noticed what she was doing, she sat up stark straight and opened her eyes, watching as Soobin recorded her and laughed silently at her actions.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself alot there,” Soobin ended the recording and set his phone on the table.

“Delete that.”

“I won’t. Here,” Soobin held out his fork where some of his pasta was twirled on the end. “Try it.”

Aera opened her mouth, letting him guide the fork inside and once she closed her mouth around the fork, the Ratatouille scene played again. She pulled away from the fork, her hand shooting over her mouth as she chewed and her eyes shot wide.

“Good?” Soobin asked, stabbing his fork in a piece of steak and eating it, much less dramatically than Aera had. 

“Is amayshin,” Aera muttered. “Why ish ev-wee-shing hwere sho amayshin?”

Soobin swallowed and laughed. “It better be with these ridiculous prices.”

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded and swallowed her bite. “It’s so worth it.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m glad I like you,” Aera giggled, shoving some fries into her mouth. “You buy me expensive steak.”

“Only because of the steak?”

She nonchalantly shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Soobin faked a scoff, halfway knowing she was joking, but once he watched her pick up another piece of steak, and then kiss it before she ate it, he wasn’t so sure if she was joking anymore.

━━━━━━━━━

Thirty-five minutes and an entire steak later, Aera and Soobin were slouched over, bellies full, with their plates cleared.

“I am going to sleep so well tonight,” Aera grumbled as she rubbed her stomach. “This was so amazing.”

The waiter came to give the receipt and return Soobin’s card, wishing ‘Mister and Missus Choi’ a good night, and left them to their vices. Aera chuckled at being called Missus Choi, because did she look old enough to be married?

Did married people dye their hair red? She didn’t know but did she look married? Did her and Soobin resemble a married couple? Oh god, that just fueled her fantasy of marrying Soobin and she knew that she would never let this go.

“Alright,” Soobin groaned, shoving the receipt and card into his pocket as he stood and rounded the table, reaching his hand out to help Aera up from her chair. “You okay?”

Aera blew out a breath. “I’m stuffed.”

They both stood in place, Aera swaying a bit from standing up too quickly and Soobin attempted to stabilize her by setting a hand on her waist. “Careful.”

“I’m fine,” she tapped his hand on her waist. “I’m okay, just stood up a little too fast. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the restaurant hand-in-hand, Soobin somewhat leading Aera as she momentarily closed her eyes as a way to wheeze out air around her full belly. This was the best meal she has had in entire life, one that she never imagined having unless she was filthy rich and drank gold for breakfast, lunch, and dinner but here Soobin was taking her on a date just because he wanted to see her happy.

When they made it outside, Aera tugged his hand, causing him to stop and turn to her. She eased her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder as she softly hugged him. He returned the gesture immediately, cuddling his head on top of hers and they just existed in the moment, in each other’s arms.

“Thank you for this, Soobin,” Aera squeezed him tightly, nuzzling her head further into his shoulder. “You made me really happy by doing this—you make me happy always.”

“I’m happy to make you happy,” Soobin chuckled, pulling away from the hug. “But the night isn’t over, we have one more stop!”

“Is  it far?”

Soobin nodded. “My mom is going to take us there. She’s on her way here now.”

“Where is it?”

“The beach.”

“The beach?”

Soobin nodded again. “The beach.”

“The beach,” Aera said flatly. “I like the beach.”

“That’s why we’re going.”

“Hm,” Aera sighed happily. “The beach.”

━━━━━━━━━━

Upon their arrival, Aera realized that when Soobin said the beach, he actually meant the boat dock by the beach. Well more like the yacht dock by the beach, because as they made their way to the end of the dock, they passed massive yachts, the type that only rich people could afford. Ones with balconies and two-stories that have some corny name etched onto the side that were either named after an important woman in their life or something like Old Betsy.

“What are we doing on a dock,” Aera giggled, swinging her and Soobin’s hands where they were connected. “I’m almost positive we aren’t supposed to be here.”

Soobin laughed as they came to stop in front of one of the smaller yachts, which wasn’t exactly small (but in comparison to the other yachts it was more compact), where a man was waiting for them.

“Choi Soobin?”

“Yes sir,” Soobin nodded, then gestured behind him. “And this is my mother, Ruha.”

The man extended his hand to Ruha, giving it a firm shake. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. Everything is set, if you guys want to climb on in, we’ll head out in about ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Ruha said as the man helped her onto the yacht by her hand. 

The man then lent his hand to Aera, but instead of grabbing it, she took a step back, a conflicted look on her face.

“Wait,” Soobin placed his free hand on Aera’s wasit, causing her to look up at him. “You aren’t afraid of water, right? Boats or anything? Because I was just trying to surprise you, that’s why I didn’t as-”

“No, no,” Aera shook her head. “That’s not it, but Soobin how much was this?”

Soobin raised an eyebrow at the question, confused as to why she was asking this. “What?”

“It’s just—” she sighed. “You’re spending a lot of money today, and I don’t want you to think you have to blow a bunch of money just to make me happy. You could’ve just given me a bottle of water and I’d be happy that it came from you, so I don’t get why you are taking me to all these expensive places and things.”

“I just want to spoil you,” he softly replied. “Even if it’s just for a day. I want you to have some of the best experiences with me, so I don’t mind spending a lot of money on you.”

“But, Soob-”

“And plus,” Soobin smiled wide. “My friends chipped in to help, they wanted to make us both happy so they offered to help. You don’t have to pay them back, I don’t have to pay them back, they were just doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. Me as well.”

Aera stood there frozen.

“I just want you to be happy.”

“But I’m already happy with you.”

Soobin leaned down to rest his forehead on Aera’s. “Yes, but you’d be even more happy on the boat, so let’s go!”

Aera laughed as she reached out for the man’s hand, him having stood there and watched that whole sappy ordeal, and he pulled her into the boat. Soobin followed and guided Aera to the very front of the yacht, where Ruha sat with a blanket over her legs.

“Choi Soobin, this will be the last time you spend a shit ton of money on me, do you understand?” Aera scolded, her finger pointed at Soobin but a smile was on her face.

“Yes, ma’am, never again,” Soobin spoke jokingly, totally not meaning a word of what he just said. 

“You’re not going to listen to me are you?”

“Nope.”

The yacht got moving a few moments later, things feeling a bit shaky for a few minutes, but Aera acclimated to it quite fast. She and Soobin had taken to roleplaying the scene from Titanic that nearly everyone does when they are at the frontmost point on a boat.

Soobin held her waist as Aera held her arms out to her side, feeling the wind whip on her face and the smell of salt infiltrate her nose.

“The ocean is kind of stinky,” her nose scrunched up as she said this. “Smells like raw fish and high cholesterol.”

Soobin cackled, tightly wrapping his arms around Aera’s waist as he pulled her into his chest, her back to her front. “You ruined such a good moment.”

She giggled, placing her hands over his arms and squeezed. “I was just telling the truth.”

“Kids!” Ruha called out. “Come sit down for a few minutes, you’re making me nervous by the ledge.”

They obliged, walking to sit across from Ruha and they talked amongst themselves for a few minutes, playing a few rounds of rock paper scissors to pass the time.

“So are we just going to cruise around the ocean for a few hours or what?” Aera asked, peering over the side of the boat to look down into the water. “Because no offense to the ocean or anything, but this is a bit boring.”

Soobin pulled out his phone, checking the time before he answered, “Actually, no. Just seven minutes until what we came here for happens.”

Aera looked intrigued now, “Oh, is it fireworks? Are we looking at fireworks?”

“I don’t think lighting explosives on a yacht would be smart.”

“A yacht,” Aera chuckled. “Never thought I’d see one of these in my entire lifetime.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

“I’m glad my first time was with you,” she softly spoke, her voice almost a whisper.

“Me too,” Soobin smiled. “We’ll have many firsts together, hopefully.”

“Hopefully.”

At the moment, they were sitting side-by-side with their waist turned to face one another, but Soobin pointed behind Aera as he muttered, “Look.”

Aera turned her body around, to face the ocean, a gasp leaving her mouth as she absorbed the breathtaking scene in front of her. She watched as the sun burned a hypnotizing orange and pink hue, reflecting on the ocean’s surface. Slowly, the orb lowered to meet the horizon line, kissing it softly as the glares glittered across the rippling water.

She had seen nothing like this, ever. Mother nature and the Earth’s natural occurrences never appealed to Aera, they were never something she found interesting or attention-catching, but this—this was so worth it.

Her awestruck trance was broken when Soobin rested his chin on her shoulder, whispering, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s-I-” Aera searched for the right words but there were none that could accurately describe exactly what she was witnessing. It made her speechless, her jaw going slack as she once again watched the sun move lower and lower.

They sat in silence, taking in the scenic view before them. Ruha sat opposite of them, snapping pictures of the sunset as she oh’ed and aw’ed at the scene.

“Pouts,” Soobin muttered into her ear, keeping his voice low so as to not ruin the moment. “I, uh-”

“Hm, Soobi?”

“Please, be my girlfriend.”

All of Aera’s breath left her body, all of her blood seemed to run cold. Was she hallucinating? Was she hearing things?

“Huh-” Oh god, she sounded so stupid. Who responds to the boy of their dreams asking them to be their girlfriend with ‘huh’.

“I-” Soobin sat up straighter, Aera being able to feel so behind her. “I really like you-no, love you, and I want to be with you. Officially. For a very long time.”

Aera eased her way around, turning to face Soobin who looked like he was going to pass out any second if she didn’t give him an answer within the next millisecond. So she carefully raised her hands to his cheeks, cupping his face softly.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Choi Soobin,” she breathed. “I’d kind of be an asshole if I said no after all of this, am I right?”

Soobin held onto her wrists. “I hope that isn’t the sole reason you are saying yes.”

“Lucky for you, it is not. It’s probably one of the lower list reasons.”

“There’s a list?”

She giggled. “There has always been a list.”

The sound of her giggle seemed to have him smitten, his eyes zoning in on her lips which caused her heart to skip a beat. She wasn’t dumb, she knew what he was thinking of, what his eyes were asking for, and for some reason, she had no qualms about complying.

Her first kiss was always something Aera fretted about, thinking about how awful it was going to be, how she was going to mess everything up. But for some reason, right here, right now, with Soobin, she knew for a fact it was going to be amazing. This is maybe the first and only decision Aera didn’t hesitate to make, and so she leaned in.

The touch of their lips was soft. Simple. A measly, quick peck.

When they pulled back, both of their cheeks were colored rose, a look of fondness between the two of them and Aera leaned in to kiss the the corner of Soobin’s mouth before pulling away and dropping her hands from his face.

“No takesies backsies, Choi Soobin.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lee Aera.”

[heli0s-writes]

There Must Be*

Summary: Steve ponders religion on a wintry Sunday morning.  Pairing: Steve x Reader A/N: 2.1k words. Smut. Fluff. Tenderness with just a wee bit of Angst. Inspired by Arcade Fire’s “Good God, Damn”. I’ve been writing a lot of sacrilegious and Bucky stuff so here is something in the opposite direction lol. Steve needs love, too. :)

The soft glow of Sunday morning wakes Steve. A faint fluttering. Quiet rustling of branches in the breeze, as if hushing themselves. He rubs his eyes gently, brushing the sleep out of them, wiping the loose lash he feels tickling his cheek.

Tiny movements. Delicate and careful. Not even the blanket rustles to life any more than for half a second as his hand finds its way faithfully back to its former position. Warmly, tenderly, calloused palms and pads return to the softness of the arm over his chest, squeezing for just a second because he can’t help himself.

A happy sigh trills its way out beneath his chin, hot breath on his bare chest and he smiles, closes his eyes, stops himself from grabbing that arm again and rousing the lover so peacefully dreaming there.

The room is chilled, bleak in the way a winter morning feels with the seeping cold of the outside finding its way in to wrestle with the warmth. The light from the window is blindingly white— sun rays reflecting the starkness of the snow to dye it all in a shade that borders blue.

Steve is hot, as he always is. That molten magma core inside of him burns like a furnace and radiates like the sun. It’s the only reason why in the dead tundra of a New York January, he’s waking up with his clothes on the floor.

Well, not the only reason.

Last night was the reason.

An extra-large pizza, a spilled cylinder of parmesan cheese, a wrong soda accidentally delivered by a young teenage boy, and a retro record player.

A new album. Your new monthly fixation. Tracks four, seven, and nine are the best. The rest, even better. The intro? Beyond space and time and reason and rhyme, no sense in how or why she can be so good.

A triangle of thin-crust pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, and banana peppers. Extra sauce. All shoved into your mouth as you spoke around the crunching.

You’re gonna love it. Perfect sleepover party music.

He made to comment, sleepover? But then the guitar strummed smooth and turned electric. The singer hummed and vowels crackled to life in her throat. Your foot tapped along to the beat and you grinned at him— thirty seconds in and your eyes were already wide and wondering.

He had only laughed, swallowed a mouthful and nodded along. Epithets of longing and yearning— loving in a modern age. Silvery voices harmonizing in the air of the apartment.

An album listen party, you called it. Even if it’s between two people, it’s still a party if you put your mind to it, Steve. There was a lively debate then, jibes exchanged about what you meant— if he lacked imagination in your mind, because he doesn’t. You scoffed, peeling a pepperoni off the slice in his hand and putting it in your mouth.

Not imagination, conviction.

And then a new train of thought embarked— a prod at him because before the pizza was ordered there was an argument about toppings and the debate over pineapple or not almost ruined the night. He sputtered a sound in response, but you quickly shushed him with a hiss between your front teeth. Annoyingly cute.

Your eyes are closed now, like last night when you bobbed along, mouthing the words, lips curled into a mischievous smile he longed to kiss.

He felt bad in the beginning when those thoughts surfaced. You were always friendly and sweet, silly, too. Playful, cheery, happy to be affectionate and kind and happy to receive care from others. He particularly loved your way with Bucky. Cautious only for his sake, but eager to befriend and attentive to small cues.

It was easy to fall for you.

It was easy to ask you to have coffee—outside of the Tower. Away from the monitoring and the stiff atmosphere of a job. It was easy to ask you to go steady, even if he blushed all over and you teased him afterwards because going steady was a dated term.

  The light settles on your face, your arm draped over him, bare shoulder above the comforter—that little cluster of freckles he thought was perfect.

Just perfect. How is it that you are so perfect?

“Steve?” You mumble dreamily, eyes still closed but moving behind the thin skin, coming alive.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

A fluttering of eyelids, vision regaining and struggling to focus. A squint. Your brow furrowing slightly as you take in the room. Warm gray walls, wood framed art, mahogany bookshelves. A room that isn’t yours.

He smiles, traces the line of your jaw with a crooked pointer finger and listens to your heartbeat jump around in your chest.

Sunday morning and he’s waking up with a beautiful girl in his arms. Steven Grant Rogers, who couldn’t get a woman to look at him until he was twenty-six, used to pray on Sunday mornings that he wouldn’t get so ill and maybe grow a few more inches.

Then his prayers changed a little— he just wanted to be drafted, to defend his country, follow the fight like every other good American boy.

Then they were a rush of frantic liturgies through those wartime years— survive the serum, please Lord, keep me safe, watch over Bucky, and then, Lord, hear my prayer. I know I won’t make it out of this plane. Send my love to Peggy. Give her a long and happy life. Amen.

When he woke again, his faith had been rocked. He should have been bolstered by another chance at life, but he hadn’t been sure. It seemed wrong to be who he was—enhanced, different, a disfigurement of humanity itself.

  “Um, good morning.”

Your cheeks warm against his chest, and you tuck your face down into the space next to his ribs. He’s never seen you so shy.

Last night was close—tentative-- there was a slow kiss that suddenly turned quick. Your hand that was resting over his skimmed up his shirt and then both of you were undressed before the last track could begin.

The lights were dimmed, pizza finished, soda shared, a glass of wine stood empty on the table. Your exact words as you poured it had been Italian food goes best with red wine.

And Steve had laughed. Sweetheart, delivery pizza?

It goes best with boxed wine!

The mismatched pair of your undergarments were delicately hidden by your arms across your body—a pink sports bra and a striped yellow pair of boy shorts, faded and a little loose at the waistband. Your cheeks burned red when he observed the way the top clung to your chest, the way the hem of the leg squeezed your thigh.

I—I didn’t plan o—on...

The asymmetry was an endearing testament to the moment. Spontaneous and sporadic, fueled only by a sudden desire to touch and be touched by him. It excited him even more to know that instead of lacy lingerie and perhaps your splayed and posed form on a bed, you were showing him this.

You, just in the shape you are in, unencumbered by pretense, with a shy smile and a tummy full of butterflies migrating into him, too.

  “Last night was... um... really great.” You bury your face down into the sheets, rub your forehead into the mattress and he laughs when your hair tickles his side.

“Yeah. It was.”

  Last night had seen a part of Steve Rogers’ soul pulled apart and branded into your body. His lips memorized every inch of your skin, stretching out the desire for as long as he could because damn him if the first time might disappoint you. He heard himself whispering in the fog of his mind, while he tried to balance the sensations of your taste on his lips, your whimpers in his ears, and your skin pressed against his.

God, if you’re there—if you’re real--- if this is a dream... let me stay. Let me grow old here and wake here and love her here for the rest of my days.

Steve hadn’t quite thought about his maker for a long while. Other things occupied his mind more than the pondering of a creator and a purpose. Time hardened him and loss steeled him. But your easy smile and pop playlists cracked the veneer of Captain America right through and he was glad for it.

His new and strange life was still strange, but it became sweeter at least. Confusing, alien-invaded, super-powered, and all.

Steve’s fingers brush through your hair lovingly, smooths the sleep-crumpled side down. Against his palm, you make a pleased noise and your body flexes and scoots closer along his side. He’s highly aware of your soft breasts on his ribs, your thigh over his, your hip digging.

He can’t help himself. The hand trailing down to your neck moves on its own, chasing for more of the softness that split him open and soaked him in bliss. A gasp as his sheets slides down, revealing both bodies to the brisk air. He warms you with his large hands, running his palm from your stomach to your chest as he descends between your legs. He hangs off the edge of the bed, but it doesn’t matter much. He’s preoccupied now with only one thing.  

It’s Sunday morning and he’s making love to the most beautiful girl in the world.

You whine and exhale into his touch, arching that softness into his mouth where he is most eager. Your toes curl and he reaches with his other hand down the length of your thigh and calf, wraps his fingers around your ankle and massages you there, too.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely louder than a whimper, “Come up here.” You tug your foot from his grasp and tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him up until he’s hovering over you with a grin. He kisses your neck and places his forehead to your collar, savoring the moment he pushes in.

Hot bodies in the cold blue of winter. Faint squeaking of the bed, muffled breath, pleading, pretty words from your lips. Oh God, Steve. Steve. Oh…

You are dazed and smiling, biting a tiny bit of your lower lip as you tip your head back on the pillow. He leans further, burrows deeper, and tries to memorize the way your face looks like this— happy, breathtaking, pleasured by him. Your ankles hook around behind his back and you dig your heels into him a little more, urging. He’s deep, he’s so deep, but he fulfills your request and plunges more until there’s nothing left between the two of you.

Your eyes are shut in ecstasy, throat constricting on a dry swallow as you squeeze him in pulses, body quivering while he drags himself out and does it again and again. He’s lost in the warm velvet space inside of you, shuddering too on the edge of oblivion. Steve tries to slow down, tries to see that look again on you, but you’ve returned from the high and pinch him playfully on the arm.

He can’t help himself. You’re gazing at him so affectionately, mouth curled into a smile, lips pressed together and then against his in a brief and chaste kiss. An innocent gesture sealed over the background of his complete unraveling. He rocks one more time.

Oh, God.

It just takes the one, and he’s crumbling to pieces, hiding his face in your hair, gasping into the sheets and hoping that you’ll still look at him once the siren song of morning fades. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, but suddenly your hand is stroking the back of his neck and wiping away the sweat that’s collected at the tips of his hair.

“I love you, Steve.”

It’s so simple, uttered from your lips without pretense just like last night. You make room for him, rolling over on your side. Your eyes flutter again, fatigue lulling you back to the warmth of sleep under blankets. He laughs and then laughs again when you bristle irritably at the noise. Over the edge of the mattress, he tugs the comforter up and back in its place, letting the glimpse of your shoulder peek at him like before.

Sunday morning, and Steve Rogers is kissing the top of your head, heart so full of love he could burst. He wishes he could go back and tell himself back there, with his knobby knees glued stuck to those old church pews—just say, it’s gonna be okay, pal. It’s gonna be hard and terrible, but it’s gonna be okay.

He’s questioned it for so long, but after this, after knowing you and your love, he feels a little more certain.

There must be a good God, if he made you.

-

tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

[remys-lucky-franc]

Comfort - Remy POV Fic (Queen of Thieves)

“Hey, I wanna ask for a Remy angst. Are you allowed to write angst?”

I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to write this for you, life’s just been a bit crazy between work and studying lately, and it’s so annoying because I’ve had some really nice requests that I’m excited to write for people, but I just haven’t had any time to work on them! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this @ilovewritingfics 💕

Notes: although it’s written from Remy’s POV (I’ve never written a POV before for anything!), the fic is set in Nikolai’s route, which sounds weird, but you’ll see what I mean. No specific TWs for the fic, it covers Nikolai’s trauma surrounding his family, so if you aren’t up to date and don’t want a spoiler on that, or if it’s upsetting to you, consider giving this one a miss.

Word Count 2100

I want to credit my lovely friend @stopforamoment for her suggestion on the topic for this short fic - thank you lovely.

—-

[MORE] [[MORE]]

Dinner Club. One of my favourite things we do together. Every member of The Gilded Poppy is different and everyone has their own interests, of course. But this is something we can all enjoy, and I love this family time so much: everyone laughing, sharing food, telling stories, teasing each other... It’s always such fun to be part of this, and after a successful heist, it’s even better!

After all, tonight we have a beautiful vintage fencing sword in our possession! I know, it’s part of a much larger plan, but for tonight at least, stealing it has made Niko really happy, and that makes me happy. He’s sitting at the end of the table with a glint in his eye, listening to Daisy and Leon chatter joyfully about the (I must say, very predictable) ‘twist’ at the end of some romance novel. It’s a glint that I’ve seen a lot since Daisy joined our (very attractive) crime family. I smile to myself as I watch how her cheeks colour so prettily when she notices his eyes fixed on her, like she’s the only person in the room. It’s been a long time since I’ve saw Niko’s interest pique the way it does when she’s close by, if ever, actually. The energy between them, it’s something quite unique: special. She’s a match for him in ways I’ve never seen before, and the challenge is good for him. It’s like she set off a spark in him and all of the wonderful things that make him Niko, are just ‘more’ with her around. I watch them play their game - anticipation, flirtation, power and control - I’m well-versed in ‘love’ and seduction (some would say ‘a master’) but this something else: it’s not part of a con, not something ‘to get out of your system’... I only hope Daisy doesn’t tire of it, because I’ve never seen someone get the better of Nikolai Stirling the way she can.

I lean forward skewering something delicious from the sharing platter in front of me, popping it into my mouth, laughing along to the friendly debate Zoe, Jett and Vivienne are having. Vivienne’s losing her argument and is trying to convince me to fight her corner, but I’m too preoccupied with how I could use my conman charms to ‘gently persuade’ my best friend and Daisy to forget who is winning their mindgames and push them closer together. Niko will hate me meddling, but it’s for his own good! Maybe tomorrow I can-

My plotting is abruptly ended as the waiter heading to a table behind us is jostled by a man who tries to squeeze past him in a space that’s too narrow. It’s like the world slows down... I can see what’s unfolding, but I’m powerless: I have no time, no way of stopping it. The waiter loses his footing, one arm flailing. I’m holding my breath! He recovers (barely) without falling over, but not before the glass of Amarone perched on his tray swirls and sloshes to one side, a crescendo of blood-red bursting free down the front of Nikolai’s crisp white shirt. The bold bouquet of fruit and spice hits my nose as deep red splatters bleed and seep across the fabric. Nikolai is frozen, complete horror etched across his face. Suddenly, all I can see is the scared fifteen year-old I befriended on the streets of Paris carrying a sick kitten.

The waiter has discarded his tray; he’s panicked and apologising to Nikolai, fumbling for a napkin to try to blot away the mess. Our friends have noticed, but before anyone else can react, I’m halfway across the table with the salt cellar slipped inside my pocket. I wrap one comforting arm around Niko, my other hand on the waiters arm, reassuring him (in flawless Italian, of course) that everything is under control and I’ll take it from here. Within seconds, I have Nikolai on his feet, gripping him close to me as I guide him towards the restroom: always moving forward. I keep my free arm across his chest, deliberately, to shield the stains from his sight; leaning in close, chattering to distract him. Anything I can do, anything to keep him walking until I can get him inside. He’s hyperventilating by the time we enter the plush restroom, and fortunately it’s empty.

“Niko? Breathe. Slowly. Come on.”

He’s still not responding, I gently put pressure on his shoulder, manoeuvring him onto an Art Deco-style chaise beside a large mirror. I crouch in front of him, cupping his face in my hands, offering comfort, speaking softly,

“It’s ok. I’m here. Your Remy’s got you. It’s going to be ok. You’re safe.”

It’s a mantra I repeat several times over while he trembles. Minutes feel much longer, but now his breathing is slowing and for the first time since the spillage, he makes eye contact with me. I’m so relieved! I nod and smile before I press a heartfelt kiss to his cheek. The worst has passed. He’s going to be ok.

I pause, taking just a few seconds to catch my own breath: getting him away from the table to a safe space, keeping him moving, it was all automatic, all done on instincts. But now, my mind races. I’m so glad this happened when I was at the table; would anyone else have been able to get him out the way I did? Would he have let anyone else lead him off like this? He looked so vulnerable just now, it breaks my heart to think of it...

‘Focus, Remy. Come on. You’re not done yet.’

I lean back, fingers shifting to his collar, offering him my most suggestive grin,

“Lose the shirt.”

Nikolai manages a weak laugh (I knew that would get him!) as his fingers move toward his buttons, I realise a second too late that his hands are shaking too much to undo them. He mutters a strangled apology and rakes a hand through his dark hair as I make short work of them, startled by just how hard his heart hammers inside his chest, even now, minutes after the incident. He shrugs his way out of the shirt and I take it to the counter, grabbing some paper towels to blot out the liquid before dumpling half of the stolen salt cellar onto the stain. Selecting an expensive-looking cologne from the selection provided, I head back to Niko, spritzing it around him as I go, trying to erase the lingering scent of the alcohol from his nostrils.

As I join him on the chaise, he clears his throat awkwardly, his usually crisp clear voice barely audible at all,

“Thank you.”

I bump my shoulder against his, still trying to lighten the mood,

“Pas de problème.”

He still looks like he’s met a ghost, and I can feel the seat vibrate under me from his agitated tapping foot. But at least he’s speaking to me: when things have happened before, things that have triggered horrible memories for him, sometimes it’s taken hours to get him to even look at me. The first time it happened, long before The Gilded Poppy existed, we were only street kids, sleeping rough and begging. I’ll never forget it as long as I’m alive. A group of men left a bar near where we were hoping to earn a few francs, one of them was worse for wear and fell to the ground, vomiting. It wasn’t until I turned to Niko, ready to make some sassy comment about how the drunk couldn’t hold his liquor or his wallet, that I realised something was very, very wrong. It took hours for him to come back around, and days to feel better afterwards... I didn’t have a very happy childhood, and I was forced to grow up quickly, but not in the same way as Niko. The things he suffered... I can’t help but put myself into his shoes, picturing my family around our small dinner table, my lovely old meme, my mother bringing food to the table, my father chatting to my young brother about school... How unreal it must have felt to Niko, how terrifying. I cannot begin to imagine: to watch your whole family die... And such a painful death... It’s little wonder it haunts him. I scrub my hand across my eyes trying to shake the sickening scene.

I clap my hand on Niko’s knee as I stand, heading back to check how the salt is working on his shirt: it may seem ridiculous, but a conman has to think fast, and you never know when a cleaning tip like this will be useful! Of course, the shirt is looking much better - now I just need to rinse it and dry it off. Almost done. I bustle around the washbasin, running the breast of Niko’s shirt under the piping water, rinsing away the salt, pink dye flowing down the drain, erasing tonight’s events. I hold it up to the lights, smiling as I do.

“I think the shirt will survive, Niko.”

I start the hand drier, just as I hear Niko murmur something, far too low for me to hear over the roar,

“What was that?”

I stop, making my way back across to the chaise, gesturing for Niko to repeat himself. He looks up at me with the saddest blue eyes,

“I never wanted her to see me, like, this. How can she...” His posture visibly stiffens, “She won’t respect me after this?”

I frown. Of course, he’s talking about Daisy. And something in his voice tells me that Daisy’s ‘respect’ isn’t the feeling he’s truly worried about, but while he’s shirtless in a restaurant bathroom really isn’t the best time for me to play Cupid... I try to tell Nikolai that Daisy is the last person who would think any less of him because of this, she is so lovely: surely he knows her well enough, to know that? Daisy is sensitive and kind: she would understand. But he’s still shaken and so agitated about what happened at the table, my honest words make no difference; his barricades are going up and he mutters that he doesn’t want her pity. I make a show of raising one eyebrow at him, and shaking my head before I march back to the hand drier. I love Niko dearly, but he can be so stubborn, it makes me crazy!

Ten minutes later, Niko is looking much more collected, and is back in his gleaming white shirt: I am a man of many talents, it’s true! He straightens himself up in front of the mirror as I watch on: it’s almost as though nothing ever happened. We exit the restroom and rejoin our friends. Everyone is wonderfully discrete: they pretend we never left the table. Niko doesn’t utter a single word for the rest of the evening. His expression is strained and he doesn’t touch a bite of his food - he’s going through the motions but I know he can’t wait for the evening to end. I chip in some delightful anecdotes to help keep the conversation flowing, but what happened tonight weighs heavily on me: what if this happened and I wasn’t here? What if something like this happened on a heist? What if I couldn’t get to him? What would we do? How could I keep my best friend safe? What if something went wrong and I wasn’t around anymore? Who else understands like me?

I meet Daisy’s big brown eyes over the table, concern is written across her face. She really cares for Niko, it’s so obvious. I wish he would let her in... Having someone else who loves you, an extra person in this world looking out for you, to rely on... She could be the best thing that ever happened to him. She could make him happy, I can see it all.

I make a silent promise to myself: they say that love will find a way? Well, it certainly will when Remy Chevalier helps it along.

[seerofmike]

31 Days of Apex: Day 16 (Growth)

relationship: (romantic or platonic) octane & crypto

word count: 2.1k

tags: hair dyeing, humor

fic summary: Octavio dyes his hair to hide the fact that he’s going gray in his twenties.

ao3 link

OR

read below

Octavio found his first gray hairs at the age of nineteen. 

He’d been putting in his nose ring, having taken it out because he’d had a sore on the inside of his nostril and it was really fucking painful, when he suddenly noticed something. He’d combed his hair back out of his face, so he could clearly see a few silvery strands at his forehead, pale against the black of the rest of his hair.

Being a dramatic teenager, the first thing he’d done was call Ajay so that he could scream.

When he’d finished yelling in her ear, Ajay had responded in a very blasé way with, “Chill, brother. Gray hairs aren’t so rare in teens. You’ll get over it.”

“But what if I DON’T,” Octavio hissed, pacing back and forth in his large bathroom, the bright vanity lights seeming to highlight the gray hairs. He flinched when he caught sight of his reflection, and ran a hand through his hair in an effort to hide them by parting his hair differently.

“Well, you like doing everything fast,” Ajay said, and he did not like the humorous tinge to her voice. “You'll get old fast, too.”

Octavio hung up on her.

He had real reason to worry—his father was not an old man, one year away from forty, and yet his hair was currently almost entirely gray, with only faint streaks of black that looked like an even darker shade of gray. Even when he’d been a child, his father’s hair had had a lot of gray in it, so Octavio figured that he was genetically disposed to going gray at an early age—but he had hoped that those genes would skip him, or at least be polite and wait until he was a little older, but that was evidently not the case.

At least his father still had his hairline and a full head of hair. It meant that Octavio wasn’t going to go bald any time soon.

He squinted at his reflection again, moving his hair back to get a clear look at the gray. It was only noticeable because of the vanity lights and the fact that he was so close to the mirror, he told himself. And hey, maybe Che was right, and this was a normal teen thing, not a ‘my dad looks like Santa Claus at age thirty-nine’ thing!

He flinched once again at the thought of looking like his father once he was older. Octavio looked like a fair even mix of both of his parents (even if he’d only ever seen his mother in pictures) but people often told him that he looked just like his father, and this certainly wasn’t going to help matters.

When he left the bathroom with his nose ring back in, he told himself that he wasn’t going to worry about it. Worrying was for losers. He was gonna be fine! And if he wasn’t, well, that was just another thing to hate his father for.

Flash forward five years, and as it turns out, it had not been a fluke. 

Octavio had been ignoring the fact that his hair was getting steadily more gray as he got older, his only small comfort that it at least wasn’t at the same rate as his father’s—probably because he didn’t have a big company to run. But it had gotten significantly more gray since he’d blown off his legs, and when he took off his helmet for what felt like the first time in forever, he was chagrined to see several streaks of it in his otherwise pitch-black hair, mostly at his temples, but extremely noticeable. If he turned his head enough, he could see some at his nape too, and scowled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he remembered his second stepmother telling his father, several years ago. His father had silently ran his hand through his hair, giving himself a long look in the mirror, and she’d noticed. “I think it makes you look dignified. Mature.”

His father had always been more concerned with his appearance than his own son, so Octavio had rolled his eyes at that back then, and he rolled his eyes at it now. He didn’t want to look dignified or mature. He wanted to look like how Octane was supposed to look: bright and young, with endless energy to spare. Not like he was getting too old too fast. That was the one thing he didn’t want to do quickly.

The good news was, he had bought cheap box dye the other day, and brought it on the dropship with him, so he could do his hair before the off-season. It was blue, which wasn’t his favorite color, but he’d already gone through green, red, and pink, and he didn’t like repeating colors, so he resigned himself to it.

Octavio opened the bathroom door, helmet and mask tucked under his arm, and came face-to-face with Crypto, who’s hand was outstretched, like he was about to knock. Staring at the other with wide eyes, he could practically feel the other looking at the gray at his temples. They stared at one another in silence, waiting for the other to speak, and Crypto did it first.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, side-stepping him, and Octavio pushed past him, eager to get away. “...Old man.”

Octavio didn’t have a comeback for that—just felt his face flush an embarrassing shade of red as he put his helmet back on to at least hide his hair from view. He wasn’t bothered by much—he usually let most insults bounce right off of him, and sometimes lobbed them back for fun, but this felt much more personal than usual, and he didn’t have it in him today to think of something clever.

He grabbed the box dye from his room, avoiding Che’s watchful eyes, knowing she’d say something along the lines of You’re going to fry your hair doing that. He’d have to bleach his hair first, and was supposed to bleach and dye it on different days, but he was impatient, so he would do them both today, damage be damned. 

("Oh, nice hair," she'd said when he first dyed it green. "Shame it's probably not gonna last."

"Say what you want, hermana, but damaged hair is better than gray hair."

"How about no hair at all?"

Octavio covered his ears with his hands. "Lalala, I can't hear you."

"C'mon, it ain't all bad. You should try growing it out. I hear girls are into old guys these days."

"Shut up.")

When he returned to the bathroom, Crypto was just stepping out, and he felt his face flush again when the other eyed the boxes in his hand. He expected another old man comment to come (which wasn’t fair because Crypto was seven years older than him but his hair was all black ughhhh), but instead, the other man asked,

“Do you need help with that?”

If Octavio didn’t know any better, he would almost think the other man felt bad for what he had said earlier. But he probably didn’t, because he was an asshole. 

“Why? So you can make fun of me again?” Octavio responded petulantly, before taking it a step further and sticking his tongue out at him. “No thanks, compadre.”

Crypto shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.”

“Is it a medical condition?”

“Leave me alone,” Octavio said, pushing him out of the doorway, before slamming the bathroom door shut behind him, not wanting to talk about his father’s premature grays and how he was unfortunately suffering the same fate. 

He didn’t want to talk to Crypto after that comment he had made, but as he set both boxes down, he was reminded of how much he hated bleaching his hair. His hands were shaky and he often accidentally touched his skin, leaving it burning, so after a moment of consideration he turned around, swinging the door back open. Crypto was still standing there, but staring down at his phone.

“Okay, fine,” Octavio said, changing his tone from petulant to demanding. “Bleach my hair for me.”

Crypto raised his eyebrows at him, but made no move to enter the bathroom. Octavio grit his teeth, before adding, “Por favor.”

Crypto joined him in the bathroom then, which was much smaller and more dimly lit compared to his bathroom back at home. It felt cramped in here, but he'd rather do it away from the prying, teasing eyes of the other Legends. He sat on top of the toilet, removing his helmet once again as he watched Crypto open up both boxes, putting on the pair of clear gloves that had come with them. His leg bounced as he waited, and after a couple of moments of silence, he asked,

“You’ve done this before?”

Crypto glanced at him, as if debating whether he should answer or not, before returning his attention to taking everything out of the boxes. Finally, when everything was laid out before him, he mumbled, “My sister went gray in her early twenties, too. She used to dye her hair red to hide it.”

A million questions exploded into Octavio’s mind, then— you had a sister? just red? she didn’t get bored of red? you dyed her hair too? is she fully gray now? have you ever dyed your hair? —but he couldn’t figure out which one to ask first.

“Don’t ask questions,” Crypto said, as if reading his mind.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Octavio lied. “Why would I care about your stupid sister, anyway?”

Crypto scowled at him then, and fearing that the other would leave him behind, he blurted out, “Sorry. I’m not having a good day. This shit sucks.”

The other man did something he’d never seen him do before—he smiled.

“You sound just like her,” he mumbled to himself, and Octavio didn’t like these constant comparisons to other people—to his father and now to this random girl he didn’t know—but he kept his mouth shut, because this guy was going to bleach his hair for him, and he didn’t want to make him mad and leave.

The sharp smell of bleach filled the air, and his nose scrunched up at it, but he didn’t say anything as Crypto approached, and the next thing he knew, the cold feeling of it was burning his scalp.

"...Have you ever dyed your hair?" Octavio asked after two painful minutes of silence, and he swore he saw the taller man's nostrils flare in annoyance. Which was fair, considering he'd just said he wouldn't ask questions, but sitting here was so boring, and he'd always found Crypto to be rather interesting.

"I've always wanted to go blonde," Crypto finally said after a while, and Octavio perked up at that. "It'd probably look bad, but I always wanted to try."

"I think you'd look hot with blonde hair," Octavio said, because he didn't have a filter, and Crypto shot him a look, but didn't say anything as he continued lightening his hair. He was being truthful, but he was sure the other thought he was making fun of him.

When the silence continued, Octavio grew uncomfortable, before blurting out, "My dad's all gray."

Crypto hummed, and he took it as encouragement to continue.

"He's always had gray hair even when I was a kid, so I guess it's just a genetic thing, which fucking sucks, because I'm supposed to be all badass, you know?"

"Nobody thinks you're badass," Crypto said mildly, and Octavio scowled. "But I am sorry. For...making fun of you."

"...Whatever, man. You're lucky you're hot."

He caught sight of Crypto's face in the mirror, and felt smug when the other's brows furrowed and his cheeks darkened.

The whole process took a couple of hours, and when it was all over, his black was now a vibrant blue. The color was starting to grow on him, but he still preferred green over it, and he said as much when he had his head bent beneath the showerhead, staining the bottom of the tub blue.

"Thanks," Octavio said as he ran his fingers through his sopping wet hair, before turning the shower off. He'd gotten over the old man comment, and his voice sounded a lot brighter as he added, "For your help."

Crypto didn't respond for a while, and he almost thought the other man had left the room, before he heard him mumble out, "You should try pink."

"Huh?"

When Octavio turned around to look at him, the man looked like a deer caught in headlights, as though he hadn't meant to be heard.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing," Crypto said, but the words caught up to Octavio then, and he smiled.

"I've done pink before, amigo. It's one of my favorite colors."

Crypto glanced away from him, seeming to debate something, before he smiled at Octavio. Just a slight upturn of his lips that quickly disappeared as he said, "You'll have to show me pictures one day."

[afandomroom]

Partners in Crime: Morro's Story

Note: This takes place after the events of Styx and is the story of how Morro eventually ends up joining Sage, Asher, and Marion.

Warning: angsty (?)

He woke with a sharp gasp, strong gusts of winds flowing around him. He felt numb, and the world was blurry…where was he? Why…why couldn’t he move? The winds grew harsher as his breathing quickened. He was frozen, paralyzed! He opened his mouth to try and call out…only to find that his mouth wouldn’t open. This only made his panic worse, as he continued to try and fight the stillness of his being. After a moment, he tried relaxing; hoping that a clear head would help him snap out of…whatever was going on. He closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. The wind died down, and for a moment, he thought he could move his fingers. The price of this movement was a dagger-like pain that shot through his body. His eyes shot open, another sharp gasp escaping. Slowly, he could feel his senses returning as the pain burned. The world around him was blurred as tears pricked his eyes. He released a shaky breath, one he wasn’t aware he had been holding, as he prepared for the inevitable sting that would come from the tears. To his surprise, nothing happened. “Wh-“He grimaced; talking was apparently a bad idea, based on how his throat was now burning.  Taking a moment, he blinked more tears from his eyes as the pain slowly faded. Slowly, he reached his hands to his now clear field of vision. They weren’t green...he couldn’t see through them! If he hadn’t just cried, he knew there would have been tears of joy, as he looked upon his now-human hands. He was human again! Human! No… This wasn’t right… He slowly sat up as all his memories came rushing forward. He had brought destruction, he had harmed people…he had chosen to be dragged under those torturous waves...He had chosen his fate, so why was he back? Morro felt his temper boil, as he slammed a fist into the ground, causing a force of wind to explode. How dare he? How dare his grandfather bring Morro back? He had made his choice, he had finally had a say in his destiny! And that was stolen from him, just like it had been so many years ago… He curled up, a shaky, tear filled breath escaping “W-why..?” ___________________________________________________________________________________

Admittedly, Morro should have expected the villages to hate him. After everything he had done, they had every right to. The first time Morro had been chased from a village, he’d been confused and terrified. The second time, he understood why, but had still hoped he would go unnoticed. It wasn’t until the third time that the dark eyed man had started falling back on a mix between ninja and street kid instincts. He’d started using hoodies to hide his face, keeping his head low, and even going as far as to dye his green stripe black. He almost regretted doing that, it felt like he’d hidden a special part of him. Something unique that was his and his alone. It was lonely, the life he was living. Maybe someone like him should have been used to being alone…yet he found himself missing the company of his ghost generals…and the company of his fath- Sensei’s students when he was a child. Sometimes, Morro considered going back to the monastery. He considered taking up his Sensei’s offer when the Preeminent attacked. He could be a part of a family again, continue his training and fully become a ninja…maybe he could start helping people. But then he remembered what he’d done to Lloyd. He remembered every moment of it, reliving everything he’d done through his head over and over again. And he knew…he knew they’d never let him try and prove himself. But he wasn’t going to completely give up on himself. Morro was a lot of things, a quitter not being one. He’d taken up meditating, and tried to help people he saw that were in trouble on the streets…or the best he could without revealing his identity and scaring the people he was saving. He knew what he was doing wasn’t much…but at least it was a start. ____________________________________________________________________________________ Morro breathed heavily, covering his mouth with a gloved hand as he watched from the shadows for the men that had been chasing him. It had been a simple slip up. The guys had tried to mug him, before recognizing his face. Morro had knocked a couple of them down with his element before trying to run off, but they’d been close on his tail. In his panic, he hadn’t thought to find a hiding spot or fight back; he just knew he needed to run. Thank goodness for the strange woman who’d seen his situation and dragged him into a darker alley, pushing him behind her. He was taller than her, so she hadn’t shielded much of him, but the sentiment was there. The guys had finally passed them, and after the young woman had poked her head out, walking around for a moment to check for any threats, she turned to him with a concerned expression. Her silver eyes seemed to be searching his face, but she wasn’t freaking out, simply observing him. “Are you ok?” He admitted, her voice had startled him. It was soft, and gentle…he just hadn’t been expecting her to actually talk to him. “Y-yes…I’m fine. Thank you, for...helping me, Ms…?” “Baker, Mei Baker” The young woman extended a hand, a warm smile growing. Morro had to admit, while he was wary of strangers…something about her seemed safe, and comforting. He gently took her hand, giving it a firm shake. “Thank you, Ms. Baker….I’d…introduce myself, but...I assume you already know who I am” He shuffled slightly, mentally preparing himself for “Mei” to be lulling him into a false sense of security. “I do…and I get the feeling that you’re no longer the threat you were years prior...am I correct?” He blinked “I-I….yes, I’m trying to change...I don’t…I can’t…how do you?” “You could have easily taken those men out instead of letting them chase you. Doesn’t seem like something a villain would do to me. Also…while I’ve never tried to summon another realm or possess a ninja, I’ve….done some things I’m not proud of...So, I suppose you could say I understand where you may be coming from?” Morro just nodded, not sure how to respond. What could she have done? He knew he had no right to pry….but at least she didn’t seem to be a threat at the moment… After some silence, “Mei” glanced around to check for the gang, before looking up at him. “Do you have a safe place to stay at?” Alright…that had set off a few red flags. Why would she want to know where he lived? Not that he was living anywhere… “No. Can’t really get an apartment, let alone a job.” The dark haired woman chewed on her lip a moment, seemingly debating something. “My brothers and I…we’re living in an apartment on the eastern end of town. We’ll probably only be there for a few more weeks, but if you want, you can come join us.” Before Morro could deny, or ask about a catch, “Mei” had written an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Morro’s hands. “At least consider the offer, ok?” She then ran off, scaling up a ladder on the side of a building and leaping onto its roof. Morro stared after her, before looking at the paper in his hands. It felt too good to be true. But having a home, even for a few days, was almost too good to resist.

To be continued

[maggotmouth]

          hello, i’m nora ( she / her, 24, gmt ) and i almost exclusively join dark academia rps. please find below everything i have thus far on otto ballantyne, a theatre and classics student who was arranged to be married to one of the students who disappeared. i’ve honestly been itching to write otto again for months, so thanks to this lil group for giving me the opportunity. can’t wait to get my teeth stuck into him again. please bombard me with discord messages for plots. here is his  pinterest.

act one: application.

THOMAS DOHERTY   ,   CIS-MALE   ,   HE/HIM         →         according   to   the   school   records   ,   OTTO HORATIO BALLANTYNE   has   been   attending   sacred   heart   for   the   past   four   years   .   i   last   saw   them   hanging   around  the  cliffs   ;   i   think   they   were  reciting   shakespearean  soliloquies  to   the   wind   and   a   weathered   old   skull.   at   twenty   -   three   years   old   ,   otto   has   been   studying   theatre   &   classics   and   get   this   ,   i   heard   that   he   was   arranged   to   be   married   to  alice   rosseau   before   her   untimely   disappearance  ,   and  was   desperate   to   call   off   the   affair  —   figure   it’s   true   ?   everyone   around   here   always   associates   them   with    an   aged   bottle  of   malbec   glugged   carelessly   at   the   after - show  ,  the   kind   of   confidence   that   only   a   private   education gives ,  white   lines   of   powder   snorted   off  a   marble  sink  with    lovers  you’ll   later   deny  .   in   the   time   since   these   strange   happenings   ,   they   have   have   not   encountered   any   unexplained   occurrences   .         (   written   by   nora   ,   24   ,   she/her   ,   gmt   )

act two: the muse !

ok so lemme start off by saying otto is heavily inspired by if we were villains by m l rio and the secret history by donna tartt. very serious actor. into the classical plays, but would definitely fit in a production of posh by laura wade. originally i wrote him for a murder mystery dark academia group but when the group ended i missed him so much i decided to bring him here.

born in south london, but raised in cheltenham. went to eton or harrow or one of those posh english boarding schools for boys. we love the homoeroticism of learning latin with your homies and chanting sonnets in caves by candlelight.

youngest son in his family. was fiercely competitive with his brother nathaniel growing up. having an older brother who was incredibly intelligent and successful made otto learn to treat his life like it was a fight. constantly trying to be better and ‘prove himself’.

otto’s a brat. filthy rich public school boy vibes, very riot club. champagne all over the ceiling and driving well over the limit. custom-made cuff links he loses in taverns when he rolls up his sleeves to lean on the bar. needing to know so much about a character you’re playing that it consumes you ; you can no longer tell which parts of you are otto and which parts are macbeth.

characters who have inspired him:  alistair ryle in the riot club, francis abernathy in the secret history, anthony marston in and then there were none, oliver marks in if we were villains, achilles in the song of achilles, dorian gray in tpodg.

a fun fact is he is a natural blonde and spent most of his childhood that way but he now dyes it dark because he thinks that’ll give him more versatility in terms of the roles he can play. blonde ppl are usually cast as only the lover or the innocent n he wants to play villains and heroes and leading men as well.

very gay, n that’s pretty much a known thing by everyone but his family?? his family have arranged to have him married to women twice n both times its not worked out. the first time he basically drove her away with his reckless hedonism and alcoholism, and the second arranged marriage was to alice, one of the four students who went missing

archetypes: the figurehead. the challenger. the magician. the knight. the underdog.

ENTP-T / the debater personality. 

theatre arts major, minoring in classics.

trigger warning for internalised homophobia / familial prejudice.

act three: the biography !

     heavy is the head that wears the crown, though yours is the size of a tennis ball when you are born three weeks premature, barely formed enough to open your eyes. for those first few weeks all your parents knew were fear and love — fear that you would leave them, love that you had made it through so much, hooked up to wires like a fish in a cryogenic tank. to them your heart that learned one day to beat of its own accord was a miracle. perhaps that’s why you became their golden boy.

     being born as a boy on the brink of death makes you invulnerable. you were achilles and the world couldn’t touch you for you were shielded from harm by a mother’s protective spell. should nathaniel lay so much as a finger on your skin, a voice would raise like the sound of a god from the veranda where she sat sipping her wine, play nice, boys! the sound of it thick with merlot. in every fight they took your side ; angel-headed creatures never lied. you soon learned that adults would believe anything if they liked you, that flattery will get you anywhere and to the well-trained mind, conversation was little more than a parlour game.

     you harboured your mother’s beauty, the softness of her voice, the firmness of her skin and light in the corners of her smile. of your father, they’d say you inherited his wit, though that was your own — as was the golden hair that tousled your head, taken not from ambrose ballantyne but rather the bout of his three-week business trip to germany when your mother had bedded the gardener. if he knew, he never mentioned it. to believe such a fate would imply that he was not enough for her. though you noticed one day when you were nearing five and the sun was ripe on your freckle-flecked skin that the gardener had stopped coming at all. the grass, once shaven to its scalp, now grew to your knees.

     at school, you learned with porridge still clinging to your mouth that the way to win over your teachers was through your smile. yours was the kind of school where the christmas play was not the nativity but rather the story of the gods, and stardom came to you in the role of apollo, sun shining from your beaming face, a bright halo of hair around your head. this was the first time you noticed a coldness in nathaniel’s eyes as your father threw you over his shoulder and your mother drenched you in praise. a bout of food-poisoning on your brother’s part rendered the italian restaurant, visited in your honour, abandoned. you never did find out if he was faking.

     the room to his door remained shut after that and you learned to wile away your hours in the company of nannies and children from neighbouring castles, played at knights and rescued princesses from nearby dungeons, a tin-foil crown lopsided on your head. you learned to seek influence in the faces of those around you, how their eyes would widen as they hung like stalactites to your words. storyteller. prophet. riddler. prince. you cut your tongue into a well-kept sword and sparred with it thrice a day.

     by nine you had read all of dickens novels. by eleven, all of shakespeare’s comedies — though you understood them as much as a cricket knows the meaning of the cosmos. still, it sounded rich and impressive when asked by aunties at dinner parties, what are you reading in school, otto? he finds the curriculum tiring, your mother would say, stroking a hand through your thick head of hair. otto’s just finished the merchant of venice. soon you grew to ignore your brother’s glowers at your back. your mother’s was the only smile you needed.

     in cap and blazer your mother would drop you off at school, gated and turreted, the kind that was the envy of poorer neighborhood wives. when you were young, you were sure the gifts that came your way were yours alone, though as you grew older, you learned to expect them in the same way the school expected cheques from your parents. they named them benefactors, you noticed one day, on the wooden plaques fixed to the common room walls. the same plaques you would one day notice their names engraved upon in the arching hallways of sacred heart. acclaim was bought, not earned, and your success was littered with blood money.

     what’s a king without a kingdom? your father surely wanted you to inherit his, though it was not in law and corporal finance that you found yourself a castle, but rather upon the stage. when red curtains split, you found you could become anything with the power of your will — boy, man, lion, snake, each of them wrung out by wordsmiths dead in their graves, a certain romance in the dusky smell of stage lights. when every eye in the room was focused on you — that was when you felt most powerful. like a piece of art, you were something to be looked at and admired — and perhaps in the absence of self-earned merit your vanity blossomed, for even if the trophies that lined your cabinets and the a-grades in columns on a sheet came from heavy pockets, your parents could never buy the sound of applause.

     actors are by nature volatile. though your facade was swifter than an arrow, backstage they would call you tempestuous, bigoted, vain. still, it never left the wings of the theatre. there was a kind of reverence surrounding you that words could not taper, godliness following you from school to college, a peer admired in the practice rooms of sacred heart where you poured over chekhov and ibsen but yearned to read sophocles and euripides.

     you learned to pride yourself on your looks — a sharpened jawline and a sharper tongue — and found that people would do almost anything for a beautiful face. in the beginning, alice was one so much. first colleagues, then friends, then a frequenter to the table in your family’s house. with arrogance carried in the curve of your brow, you only ever saw her as an accessory. that changed when you met her brother, let yourself stumble, brogues in a size that differed from your own kicked beneath your bed, a shirt with a larger neck size, pulled sheets, the smell of a foreign cologne.

      talk travelled. it wouldn’t do to have word of your deviance spread further than the ballantyne house. while your parents would claim they were forward-thinking, more lenient than their parents had been, there was a conservative priggishness to the way they’d brush such matters under the rug, your father scarcely able to meet your eye over the dinner table. soon after, the arrangement was set with you all but exalted from the plans until alice had been informed. too late to back out, neither of you all that eager to be wed, though your families would coo when you fixed your hair or she, in keeping with the role, adjusted your tie. at first it amused you to play house with one such as alice, but soon you grew listless. like a caged beast you felt suffocated by the falseness of it all. you’d leave the dinners held by your joint households and return bedraggled, smelling of whiskey and sex. you’re not sure alice ever knew the reason why you couldn’t love her, though perhaps she suspected. at night, the names that would fall from your lips would never be hers. oliver. daniel. mason. rupert. charles.

act four: character investigation !

        otto’s an extremely materialistic character who obtains pleasure through the things you can buy in life rather than that which comes to you by way of humble experience. he likes rolex watches, armani suits, louis vuitton travel bags, silk scarves imported from india. he likes to drink wine from decades gone by, where he can almost taste the funk of a victorian farmer hand pressing the grapes into a pulp, or to read a manuscript from the special collections section of the library that he knows has passed through hands which have gone on to achieve greatness. to otto, alice was always an extension of this hedonistic, pleasure-seeking attitude — she was something to be paraded like the equestrian trophies on his bookshelf, or his name on the honour roll. it’s not that he didn’t see her as a person — he’s hardly a chauvinist, although it could easily be inferred from the disdain with which he talks to some women — but rather that he saw her as someone ethereal and admirable and of high social standing who would elevate his social standing, by extension, were he to spend time with her. (this was such a convoluted sentence omg sorry)

         the engagement was not his choice. even the idea of it had never crossed his mind. he had never thought to marry – marriage to otto was a tool used for financial gain — and being already wealthy, he was content to live out his days as a bachelor. he would take lovers, of course, but it would be on his own terms without the involvement of the law. alice was chosen as a match for otto because she was from a wealthy, well-liked family and the two had been friends since childhood. it seemed to their parents inevitable that they would marry, and so all that was left was the agreed arrangement between the families and the exchanging of rings. strictly speaking, if the marriage between otto and alice had gone ahead, then alice would have been nothing more than a trophy wife to otto. it would have been a miserable marriage for her, and he would have grown to resent her for it — not resent her for the fact that he could never truly be free to love someone he wanted (for he still would) but resent her, and by extension his family, for taking the option to do that openly and publicly away from him. she would always be seen as the beard, the scorned lover, the cuckold, and it would dampen any future relationships he held with the stain of that upset.

act five: wanted plots !

people who he was friends with as a child (either in london or cheltenham if anyone in this group has a muse from there) but grew apart from when he was sent to private school / they view him as entitled now and the two no longer have much in common

someone who auditioned for the same role as him, but otto got it, and they’ve resented him for it ever since !  want this bad. or put your thang down flip it and reverse it: someone who got the role otto wanted and he loathes them for it.

hasn’t really dated anyone? at college, he tends to hook up with people in a vapid sort of way? so he wouldn’t rEALly have past relationships with boys unless it was….. incredibly quiet and on the DL, literally meeting up in the woods after school to read plato and play with each others hair. suddenly realised i want this. someone give me someone he reads plato in the woods with and kisses up against tree bark because even though everyone basically KnOWS otto isn’t out n probably never will be :/

alternatively someone who he had a vapid, senseless hook up with and grew attached to  :/ rude.   in this house we lov angst

i guess some friends he actually likes would be cool. maybe someone who he has a hold over, because he’s quite an engaging character with good leadership qualities, like at parties he’ll be the one telling the story and gesticulating wildly and everyone’s watching him or looking to him for where they’ll go next / how the night will pan out. if he has a hold over someone maybe he has some sort of leverage whereby they’ll complete his work for him if he’s out getting drunk which he usually is. if tht sounds like ur character is naive n could be coerced, hit me up

people he knows on a very superficial and base level in the fact that their only interactions together involve doing coke off someone’s sink and stumbling home in the dark. otto’s a massive hedonist. if he were a greek god, he’d be a mix between dionysus and apollo, but he has achilles’ vanity.

[thatfairyfangirl]

True Colors Chapter 4

The weeks seemed to drag on for you in the new recruit dorms. It seemed like every time you opened your door there he was. If he wasn’t staring at you he was finding new ways to get under your skin. Never in your life had you met anyone quite as irritating as Bucky Barnes! Even the way he breathed in the workout rooms seemed to push at a nerve for you.

“Tony please! I’m begging you!” You whined as you and Tony sparred, “Please move my room! I can’t stand Robo-cop being right on top of me all the time!” As you spoke you shot Bucky a look that could kill, your hair swirling with fiery reds displaying your anger. The knife he was flinging around didn’t scare you one little bit.

“Psh! Yeah right!” Tony protested. “Pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever….EVER heard you complain about a guy being on top of you.”

“Careful there rich boy! Or you’ll be fighting crime in a very nice shade of Hello Kitty pink.” Tony put on a scared look to go with your playful threat.

Steve looked over from his knife practice with Bucky and shook his head lightly. “Geez buddy what did you do to her?” he chuckled as he looked back to his friend.

“Nothing!” He protested. “The dame is flat out CRAZY!” He jerked his attention to you to make sure you knew you were meant to hear it.

“I dunno man I like her.” Sam interjected, just wanting to have the opposite opinion of him. “She’s fun.”

“Tell you what.” Tony let out a heave of a breath, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. “How about tonight you and me go get Johnnie and Jack, hang out with them for a little while then we can go out to the usual club so you can blow off some steam the way you do best?”

You let out a long breath mulling over the idea before shaking your head, letting the rainbow flow back and forth down your back wadding up just a bit with sweat. “Nah...as nice as it would be to have the boys I need to do some work tonight.”

“Aww but you’re my whore.” Tony teased putting an emphasis on ‘my’. “Who else are you working for?”

“Some middle aged rich guy trying to horn in on your playboy status.” You gave Tony a wink to let him know you were only playing. Bucky’s movements slowed as he listened in on the conversation, now starting to wonder if you really were a prostitute.

~ ~ ~ ~

Later that night you sat in your room staring at your mixer as your speakers poured out the same bit of music over and over. Normally putting things together was so easy, second nature to you… but your nerves were running short thanks to sleepless nights from the screaming of the metal armed wonder across the hall and it was taking its toll on your creativity. Nothing about this piece seemed right to you. Nothing was sounding like you wanted...It was as if you took all of your knowledge of music and threw it to the wind. In the back of your mind you knew you should probably be using some headphones, you were sure the hour was getting late...but they seemed to have gone missing.

Bucky sat in his room, every few minutes turning the volume on his dvd player up, trying his best to hear the movie over the constant annoyance of your noise. Finally as he realized the volume couldn’t go up anymore he got up with a growl grabbing a pair of headphones from his nightstand. The constant loop had finally broken him, if he had to hear it one more time he was going to have to go Winter Soldier on you just to make it stop, and he doubted he would regret it if it meant he’d finally get some peace and quiet. He burst out of his room to swing your door open as violently as he could without breaking anything. “I’m from the past and even I know how to use these!” He held the headphones in the air, shaking them a bit before throwing them at you. “Now shut that noise up!” He screamed before slamming your door shut with enough strength to shake your equipment.

After a moment of debating weather you really wanted to or not you finally plugged in the headphones, keeping your music to yourself as you stuck your pierced tongue out at the door. You didn’t care that he couldn’t see it.

As he sat back down the anger in him just kept growing, bubbling under him. After all that he didn’t even care about his movie anymore, just wanted to hit something. After pulling on his workout clothes he slammed his door shut as he made his way back to the workout room to make some good work of the punching bags.

~ ~ ~ ~

As the hour grew late your stomach rumbled, reminding you that you that dinner should have been a thing hours ago. But then again it was never that unusual for you to forget meals while you were working. 1:00am… surely everyone else had to be asleep by now. You didn’t bother to put on proper clothes to head over to the kitchen...your thin tank top and barely there shorts covered all the important parts anyway. Maybe some time away from the mixer was just what you needed to re-up your inspiration, some time with your older recordings to remind you what Spectrum was about.

~ ~ ~ ~

Clint watched as Bucky split open punching bag after punching bag from the treadmill, waiting for one to survive the impact before he deemed it safe to talk. “I thought you were in here earlier with Cap?” He asked a bit out of breath, sometimes he wished he had a dose of that super soldier serum too. “Something bothering you?”

“More like someone” He grumbled in response as he began beating the bag into submission.

“Again with you and (Y/N)? You guys fight more than my kids!” he couldn’t help but laugh at the two of you. “What exactly is it about you two that gets under each other's skin so bad?” he added out of genuine curiosity.

“She’s loud,” the punching bag let out another thud as he hit it, “always in my way,” thud “and NEVER takes anything seriously,” thud crash! Another punching bag down.

“Yeah? And she’s also a highly trained gifted individual who knows how to have fun, a pretty gifted musician, is pretty easy on the eyes-” He would have gone on but he took notice of the metal arm clenching tightly and definitely did not want to be on the receiving end of that. He waited for the fist to loosen before he hopped off the machine, toweling himself off. “She got all of us out of that place… She personally melted the ice you were kept in...Did you ever even thank her for that?” He added as he left the room leaving him to think on that.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bucky toweled the sticky sweat off as he slowly made his way back to his room, his soaked tank top flung over his shoulder. All he wanted to think about was a nice cool shower, but he couldn’t seem to shake Clint’s words...until a soft voice caught his ear coming from the kitchen. He stood in the doorway watching you clean up after yourself, your hips barely shaking in your small shorts, the hems dancing around your upper thighs as you softly sang “But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft. He's in the army now, a blowin' reveille. He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B.”

“You’re dancing to that wrong.” Bucky stated almost timidly. Clint’s words fresh in his mind he couldn’t help but notice your body for the first time, though he tried not to. But the way the ink of your many colorful tattoos curled around your exposed flesh had a way of catching the eyes that he just couldn’t ignore for long… With a yelp your headphones fell from your ears as you spun to meet his eyes. He let out a long breath as he watched you react with fear to him, wondering if this was the source of all the issues you’ve had with each other. First impressions are always hard to erase, and he gave you a doozy of one. “So this is it? Afraid of the Winter Soldier?”

You shook your head as your eyes caught the light reflecting off of his sweaty chest, forcing you to take notice of the muscles behind his strength, though you refused to let them sway you. “Didn’t know I had an audience,” you clarified.

“Didn’t know you liked The Andrews Sisters,” he returned as he stepped into the kitchen, noticing the pile of dishes the rest of the team had left and the sponge in your hand.

“You never bothered to ask. I doubt there’s any music I don’t like actually.” It was nice to hear one of his old favorites again.

“You know...with all these gadgets you’d think we’d have a dishwasher.” He offered as he stepped to the sink, trying his very best to at least try to be nice. “So...why aren’t you afraid of me? Most everyone else sure seems to be...Heck, Clint just stopped mid thought at the sight of this,” he held up his hand as he spoke before opening it up for the sponge.

“Because you’re not some mindless killing machine.” You answered as you handed him the soap filled sponge, trying to figure out the angle he was playing here. “You know...most people assume that I dye my hair. An easy assumption to make. But it’s still wrong.” You picked up a towel to start drying the plates you already cleaned.  “It has been like this ever since my powers manifested...Actually, I tried dying it, but wouldn’t you know it, didn’t take.” Bucky looked up to you, wondering where you were going with this.  “I’m a mutant, and it’s pretty hard to hide it. The world hates and fears my kind because they don’t understand.” Bucky slowly blinked at you, finding it unbelievable anyone could hate or fear a walking rainbow like yourself, even if he refused to see you as pretty he had to admit your hair was lovely in the light. “If anyone understands what it feels like for the world to look at you like a monster while you bust your ass to prove otherwise it's me. So no. I’m not afraid of you. You say those days are behind you and I’ll trust you ‘till you show otherwise.” Bucky couldn’t help smiling, feeling a sense of relief knowing there was someone else out there who knew how he felt...not exactly the same, but on a similar level. Getting close to the other team members was nice, but this was something else entirely...he didn’t feel so alone knowing this. “Doesn’t mean I have to like you though.” He shot you an insulted look. “You’ve been nothing but mean and insulting ever since I broke you out. So why should I?”

His jaw dropped. “Well you’ve been nothing but inconsiderate and brash to me!” He retaliated.

“Well you called my music noise! You’re just like everyone else out there, don’t understand it so it must be wrong!”

Surprised Bucky couldn’t help but concede to this, he hasn’t been very fair to her..never even thanked her or apologized about that day she broke him out. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“And sorry if I annoyed you earlier. I couldn’t find my headphones.” A quick glance confirmed for him that you were in fact still using the pair he threw earlier.

“You think maybe I can borrow that?” He asked pointing to the mp3 player sticking out of your shorts with an almost timid look on his face. “A voice like yours is definitely not noise...I’d love to hear more.”

“Umm...Sure.” You agreed rather surprised as you pulled it from your shorts, showing him how to use it before handing it to him.

“So...what was all that noi-music for anyway? I thought you told Tony you couldn’t hang out with those guys because you hand to work?”

You snorted as you held in laughter. “Those guys are different kinds of alcohol. Tony wanted me to get drunk with him. But yeah, before I came here I was a singer and a DJ, music is my work.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I guess I can’t blame you for calling it noise...Pretty sure that’s all I’ve been able to come up with for the past few days.” You paused before taking the mp3 player, pulling up the songs you had completed for him. “Here, this is what it’s supposed to sound like.”

Bucky listened as he washed, still not entirely sure if he was hearing the noise or the music at first. You watched his eyes widen as a new song began, something with familiar tune began to tug at his ears.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tRKo6ew0Bs

“You like Fred Astaire?” He asked with shock and awe as he yanked the headphones off.

“Oh my god yes! My dad used to love those old movies!” you gushed, “He was a music teacher, taught me everything I know. Probably the reason why I love music as much as I do. Fred Astaire was his favorite, so I guess it holds a special place in my heart.” He just stared at you for a moment, an amazed smile dancing across his face feeling almost thankful that someone was keeping the music of his past alive for him to cling to in this strange new world. After a moment’s thought suddenly something dawned on you, “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever met who didn’t think that was sung by Frank Sinatra. I mean don’t get me wrong, Ol’ Blue Eyes was one of the world’s best crooners, but still.”

“You kidding? Doll, come on,” he chuckled a bit, “Swing Time, 1936. I love that flick!” He was beaming with a happiness you had never seen on him before, definitely a trade up from his usual scowl.

“So do I.” You couldn’t help smiling in return, only barely admitting to yourself that you were happy the two of you had finally found some common ground.

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@sillydecoy​

Announcement from the writer:

I am also on Patreon! You can find me on Patreon HERE. I know, I know, it sounds like I am expecting you to pay for my writing but fear not! I will only be charging $1 a month, and even that is voluntary. The majority of my fics will be available for free. The $1 subscription will be for access to the really adult content stuff I have been sitting on such as what I have been calling “Blind Date’s Deleted Scene” and access to my discord AND early access to fics! As a bonus for you guys since you have been with me since the beginning of Blind Date I will grant you free access to the discord if you shoot me a message here on tumblr and ask.

I will still post fics on Tumblr up until they are no longer welcomed by the staff, but patrons will be able to view them early.

For those who have trouble with hyperlinks on their device or find it hard to click a small word vs an actual link here is the full link to my new Patreon    https://www.patreon.com/fairyfangirl

[my-plastic-life]

10 Most Inappropriate Barbie Dolls That ACTUALLY Exist

It never ceases to amaze me how easily people get offended/upset, even over a plastic toy.  Here's my summation of the whole video:

1. I can kind of see the problem with the Oreo Barbie. That doll was made back when two versions of each Barbie were made - a Caucasian and an African American version. Almost every doll had to have both skin tones so all kids would have a Barbie they could play with. That was Mattel's mindset, anyway. And Oreo is one of the most popular cookies around, so of course they went for that one. But still, I highly doubt they were thinking of the alternate meaning of the word when they created this doll. It combined the most popular fashion doll with one of the most popular cookies. Can't we just leave it at that?

2. I'm not a fan of tattoos, and that includes for my dolls, but I see no problem with them being an option for kids or collectors who want to include them. Yeah, if it's a tramp stamp or something violent, that's an issue for kids. But hearts and stars? Come on, people, they're temporary. And temporary/kid/play tattoos have been around for many years. Apparently it didn't become a problem until a major toy company released it.

3. Teen Talk Barbie was released in a different era, where teen girls were primarily focused on clothes and boys. I mean, sure, they are now too, but there's more career pushing these days than there were back then. Barbie was just staying with the times of teenagers. Wow, a teen girl who likes shopping and thinks math is hard? The horror! Math is hard for lots of people! /facepalm

4. Wow, kids can't have cameras now? Tell that to the hundreds of parents who get their four-year-olds a brand new smart phone every Christmas. And seriously, video girl? I don't think a little kid is going to think of "dancing music video whore" when they hear video girl. So Mattel should have given her a different name. Big deal. It's not like she's called Porn Star Barbie.

5. The pregnant Midge still bothers me, not because of the doll but because of people's reactions to it. Guess what? Women get pregnant. It's a part of life. As early as kids are learning about sex ed now and girls getting their periods younger than ever, I don't think a pregnant doll is so bad. Sheesh. Oh, and Midge does have a wedding ring in the Happy Family line, AND a husband, who also has a ring. But apparently that's still not okay.

6. Are you kidding me? People actually complained about Barbie having a friend in a wheelchair? OMG, there have been friends of different ethnicities since the 60s, but God forbid one friend be in a wheelchair! I think introducing Becky was one of the best things Mattel ever did. A lot of girls are confined to wheelchairs, and I'm sure this doll thrilled them. And hello, the American Girl and My Life As lines also have doll wheelchairs you can buy. I don't see anyone griping about that. And it's something as trivial as a plastic wheelchair not fitting in a plastic house elevator. Well, let's talk reality, shall we? How many real life houses have elevators? Probably only ones owned by celebrities. And besides, look at the scale of Barbie houses. Forget that they're made for her - they're not proportionate at all. You put a bed in her bedroom, and BOOM, the room is full. The ceilings are about an inch taller than she is. Don't jump up and down, Barbie, or you'll get a concussion!

7. Dolls of the World is one of my favorite lines. And yes, people still nit pick. Okay, so the Mexican Barbie has a chihuahua. That's apparently not completely accurate. So, what's she supposed to come with? A taco? A green card? A margarita? It's a dog! People in Mexico can have chihuahuas!

8. Wow, so many slumber party Barbie doll have been released, and that's just since I've been around. But none of those were like the 1965 version. It makes perfect sense why that one is on this list. Even in the 60s, that's not cool. And for a company that was just building its fashion doll foundation, that was a pretty risky move. Sure, back then girls were expected to grow up and be housewives, so of course they had to look good to entice a man, but come on. And people say Barbie sets unrealistic standards TODAY. At least these days they don't come with a book on how to lose weight (with instructions saying not to eat) or a scale with a low number on it.

9. LOL Everyone is freaked out by that doll! It was designed by a group of men - surprise, surprise - so no wonder it was such a flop. But still, girls weren't oblivious to the fact that women and teens had different bodies than them. It's part of life. It's not like they made a doll with red dye coming down her legs a la Carrie. She just got taller and got little boobs. Ken had a crotch bump, and still does, so I'm curious to know how people reacted to that in comparison considering he's considered a girl toy.

10. Oh Jesus, the great poop debate. People, everyone and everything poops! And FYI, it's the law to clean up your dog's crap in public! At least Barbie is following the law! As for kids eating the stuff, well, first, there are age limits on the boxes of these toys, and second, that's why you supervise your kids. We've got too many parents that either shelter their kids from reality (see numbers 5 and 9 above) or just let them run free to get into trouble or dangerous situations.

Give me some time, and I bet I can find worse dolls/toys than the ones on this list, which aren’t even bad. It’s just idiots freaking out and getting offended over everything.