#some of us can take like twenty minutes on a single sketch and some of y'all will really be out here like 'here's how to do art super fast!

[karmaphone]

'how to draw x thing in y amount of time' how about we stop assuming that every artist is able-bodied huh! Maybe it takes me an extra half an hour to work on any line work bc my arthritis is super bad!! Maybe it takes me an extra two hours if I'm having a bad shaky day!! Just stop putting times on your art tutorials!! That extra information about how long it takes you doesn't make you look informed about art and how it works, it makes you look like an ass

[malikselfindulgence]

TRAFFIC LIGHT TRIO X READER STUDY DATE HEADCANONS [seperate + all together!]

Content: reader is gender neutral, could be interpreted as either romantic or platonic

Headcanons under the cut!

RED SON:

☆ tries his best to keep you actually focused on the task at hand- doesn't let you goof off, but will allow consistent breaks

☆ but alas, once you've asked him a single question he'll derail the conversation twenty times over until he's completely off-topic and explaining something not even in your curriculum

☆ not that you mind- it's nice seeing him get passionate over topics he's into

☆ he tends to get absorbed into whatever he's working on, so study dates are a good way to get him to eat and drink water regularly alongside you

☆ I headcanon him as autistic, so parallel play is one of his favorite things! Enjoys being in your company while you each do your own seperate thing

☆ gets very easily frustrated if you're studying something not in his field of expertise [think molecular biology, literature, world geography] and you ask for his help only for him to not understand the question

☆ now it's your turn to try and keep him focused instead of going on a long-winded rant about how he's very smart and knowledgeable and this book is actually stupid and also he's-

MEI:

☆ you get a surprising amount of work done when you're with her!

☆ Mei's pretty good at balancing work and fun- she knows when to leave you be so you can focus on your studies, and when to strike up a conversation so you don't get too bored or stressed out

☆ she has a study date playlist specifically for the both of you that she updates frequently- she tries to keep her rock/metal songs out of it so it doesn't startle you and break your attention

☆ she's very horrible at explaining things- you ask her to help you with a question and although she understands the concept, she uses such convoluted metaphors and analogies that leave you more confused than before

☆ she likes holding your hand or sitting in your lap while you both work- just touching you in some way

☆ comes up with funny abbreviations for things you have to memorise

☆ gives you little pecks/kisses every once in a while, and near the end of your date when you're both burnt out, she'll give you a sleepy cuddle session while flipping through your flash cards

MK:

☆ oh boy

☆ where do I even start

☆ half of it is spent trying to wrangle MK into his desk, and the other half is spent trying to get him to open his books

☆ has a surprising amount of niche hyper-specific knowledge about various subjects, but if you ask him about the basics his mind'll blank

☆ tries his best to make the environment as comfortable for you as possible- utensils all set, cushions for your back, snacks and drinks on the table, reminders to stretch so your back doesn't hurt

☆ playing loud music tends to help him settle down and get some work done- you have to be holding his hand so he doesn't fidget around, though

☆ doodles on your notebooks/sticky-notes, usually small sketches of you or of himself giving you a thumbs up, flowers, hearts, little messages about how you're doing super well and you're super smart. It's really endearing and helps keep your morale up

☆ his attention span is very very low [I headcanon him as having ADHD], so he has to take multiple breaks in between. If you're still working while his mind is un-focused he'll braid your hair to keep his hands busy

RED SON + MEI + MK:

☆ yeah, you're not getting anything done today

☆ Mei and Mk together are a force to be reckoned with- and Red Son only adds fuel to the fire

☆ Mei and Mk'll make stupid jokes, Red Son'll tell them to shut up so he can focus, they'll make fun of him, he'll reply with a defensive and louder insult, and the cycle repeats

☆ if you ask a question, everyone'll be fighting to try and take a look at your book and help

☆ cue ensuing argument that lasts well into 20 minutes because all of them have a different answer

☆ upon googling it, you tell them that they're all wrong, actually

☆ even though you end up not doing anything, it's still a lot of fun- they're moreso just normal hangouts with the false advertisement of being productive

☆ the only time you get any work done with them is if it's the night before finals and you have to cram- the stress radiating off of you keeps their mouths shut

[Reminder that requests are open!]

[earliebirb]

i’ll save you a seat

steve/tony, established relationship, canon divergence, 1673 words

(inspired by this deleted scene from the avengers [2012])

“Waiting on the big guy?”

“Ma’am?” Steve looks up from his sketchbook, eyes squinting against the sunlight. 

He meets the gaze of one of the waitresses working at the café. Her long blond hair flows down to her chest and she is dressed in the café’s signature uniform: pastel orange blouse, black skirt, and a white half apron tied around her waist. 

“Iron Man,” the waitress clarifies, lips quirked up in a knowing smile. “A lot of people eat here just to see him fly by.”

“Right,” Steve says, lips twitching at their inside joke. He opens his mouth to say something else, but a familiar silhouette in the distance catches his eye and breaks his train of thought. “Uh, actually…”

He nods at the sky. The waitress follows his gaze.

The object grows larger, approaching at a high speed. It morphs into a blur of red and gold that streaks across the blue sky right above them, sending a gust of wind that ruffles the waitress’ blond locks. The figure lands a short distance away from the café with a distinct metallic thunk — the sound of gold-titanium alloy hitting concrete. 

All around him, people begin to whisper among themselves with excitement, some even taking out their phones to document the spectacle. Although Steve can’t really say he enjoys the attention, warmth still blooms in his chest as he observes the approaching figure. He finds himself hiding an involuntary grin behind his hand.

“Always a dramatic entrance, huh?” The waitress chuckles.

“You know it.” Steve sighs with fond exasperation. All eyes are on Tony as he walks toward the outdoor area of the café, the nanotech suit peeling away from his body. The excited murmurs and whispers increase in volume.

When Tony finally arrives at the table, he bends down to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek. “Good morning, beloved.”

“Mr. Stark-Rogers,” the kind waitress greets with a smile. “The usual?”

“Please, Beth. I told you to call me Tony.” Tony reaches up to slide his sunglasses a few inches down the bridge of his nose, giving her a disapproving look that makes her chuckle. “And yes, please. Thank you.”

“Table’s yours as long as you like,” she says before disappearing into the indoor part of the café to relay the order. Steve knows she means it, too. She’ll make sure of it, just like she always has for the past few years.

The café had been Steve’s favorite café, at first. He visited the place often, especially during his first few weeks in the twenty-first century. He developed a fondness for their sesame seed bagels and the lovely view of Stark Tower from his favorite outdoor table, although the latter is a fact Steve would never admit to Tony even on pain of death. 

However, the café quickly became Steve and Tony’s favorite café when their reluctant camaraderie bloomed into friendship all those years ago. Even before they started dating, Steve and Tony already established a weekly ritual of having brunch at the café whenever their schedules aligned. 

Tony did eventually admit to Steve that he found the café’s coffee to be subpar. He did, however, insist that the café was his favorite, albeit for reasons different from Steve’s. Not for the bagels, not for the exceptional view of Stark Tower, and definitely not for the coffee, but because the café was a place full of memories. His memories of the two of them, his memories of Steve:

“That café was where I first made you laugh. Like, really laugh. I’d seen you smile or chuckle before, but that kind of full-body laughter? That was a first. And I remember thinking that… I really, really liked the way you laughed.”

It has been seven years since Steve first sat at this very table and sketched the figure of Stark Tower looming before him. Beth is still working at the café, having made her way through the ranks. Now a co-owner of the café, she has developed a friendship of sorts with Steve and Tony — both of whom she claims to be her favorite regulars. Tony likes to joke about how she probably says that to all of her regulars, something Beth always denies vehemently. 

Steve turns his attention back to Tony, who has taken off and folded his sunglasses, letting them hang from the collar of his shirt. 

“Would it kill you to take the elevator and walk?”

“It’s not like I do this every single time. Besides, why take the elevator when you have a flying suit? That’s just ineffective.” Tony makes a face as he pulls his chair out.

“‘S good exercise.”

“I exercise plenty.” Tony sits down on the chair across from him, scooting closer to the table. Under the table, his ankle brushes Steve’s. “Besides, we just engaged in a vigorous workout session this morning.” Tony bites his lower lip, giving Steve a lascivious wink.

“Tony,” Steve reprimands, but finds himself unable to say anything further, not when the back of his neck is heating up at the memory of what they were up to just a few hours ago. While Steve immediately showered afterward and headed straight to the café, Tony decided he wanted to sleep for a few more hours, promising to join Steve later. 

Tony grins before leaning forward on his elbows to peer at Steve’s sketch.

“Which lucky building are you sketching today, honeybunch?”

He squints and frowns when instead of a building he finds a rough and nondescript sketch of a person’s face. 

It could be anyone to the untrained eye, but Steve’s pen strokes are sure and confident, having rendered the same jawline countless of times. 

Every single time, Tony’s figure never fails to fascinate him. Always so beautiful from every angle, in every light. Steve knows it well enough by now to be able to sketch him simply from an image in his mind’s eye. 

Still, nothing beats the real thing. Steve takes in the sweep of Tony’s dark lashes and his coffee brown eyes as he appraises the drawing.

“It’s not a building,” Steve says instead. 

Tony hums noncommittally, tilting his head at the sketch and giving it one last look before leaning back in his seat. “How was your morning run?”

“Uneventful.”

“Really?” Tony says distractedly, his attention on Beth who is once again approaching their table with his cup of coffee, black as midnight.

Tony engages in more small talk with Beth as she sets the cup and saucer on the table, asking after her husband and kids. There is an easy and carefree smile on his face, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

All the while, his fingers are fiddling with two sugar packets Steve knows he will only use one of. He is always buzzing with energy, parts of him always in a state of perpetual motion, finding it near impossible to stay still. 

Steve also knows that he won’t finish the coffee because it wasn’t made by Steve or himself.

These little idiosyncrasies are details that make up Tony, the little quirks that only Steve knows.

The little things that make you mine, Steve thinks privately. He feels something inside him softening at the thought.

“Sorry, honey,” Tony says when Beth eventually leaves to take another table’s orders, his smile soft and affectionate. “You were saying? Running was uneventful?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, “nothing really interesting.” He admires the way sunlight turns the tips of Tony’s dark hair into a lighter shade of brown. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re still the highlight of my morning.”

Tony huffs, rolling his eyes, but his lips curve up into a pleased smile and his brown eyes are warm with affection as he meets Steve’s gaze. He reaches for Steve’s hand on the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. The band of vibranium around his husband’s ring finger gleams in the late morning sunlight.

“I better be, after waking you up with one hell of a—”

“Tony!” Steve exclaims, knocking his ankle against Tony’s in warning. “Stop it.”

“What? It’s the truth! You really did enjoy it when I—”

“There are children around,” Steve hisses, casting a furtive glance at a nearby table occupied by a family of four. 

Tony laughs softly, his shoulders shaking with it. Still holding his gaze, he brings Steve’s hand to his lips, pressing two feather-light kisses to the back of his hand. He continues holding Steve’s hand against his mouth, and when he speaks Steve feels his lips and the bristles of his goatee brushing his skin.

“Sorry, baby, I can’t help it.” Tony hides a smile against Steve’s knuckles. “You’re just so pretty when you blush.”

Steve looks down, avoiding Tony’s eyes in favor of staring at the cookie crumbs next to his half-full cup of coffee that has long since gone cold. His cheeks are still burning, and Tony’s words are not helping.

“See?” Tony says, before planting a kiss to his knuckles. “So pretty.”

Steve shuts his eyes with a defeated sigh. “Please just drink your coffee.”

Tony chuckles again but Steve hears the clink of ceramic, a cup being lifted from its saucer. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

He only allows himself to open his eyes when Tony gets distracted by some pigeons, immediately launching into a spiel about the one time he was attacked by a pigeon who was apparently really determined to steal his sandwich.

Steve nods along dutifully, reacting at appropriate times throughout the story, but all he can think of is that sitting there, at a café’s outdoor table on Park Avenue on a bright Sunday morning, his husband sat in front of him talking a mile a minute, is that there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

His gaze falls down to where Tony’s hand is still holding his, even when his other hand is gesturing animatedly as he tells his story.

Yes. Steve thinks, smiling helplessly at the twinkle in Tony’s eyes — the one that appears whenever he gets excited. I’m home. 

[floorbe]

Kazuichi, Byakuya, Shuichi, Nagito, Hajime, Taka, Sonia & Mondo headcanons with a partner who is the Ultimate Dreamer? As in they have a HUGE imagination and creativity. They always ramble about ideas, are easily distracted/zone out a lot and get very emotional when an idea for a story or art piece doesn't go according to plan? I know that's a lot of people so you don't have to do them all, i'm sorry

ofc!! its not too many ppl at all, dw!!!

~

Kazuichi Souda

-He’s right on your wavelength!

-He’s got a crazy amount of creativity, too, so he’s right there with you and egging on your ideas!!

-He even adds on to them if you want! He’s got a lot of suggestions for everything

-He also asks for suggestions from you when he’s blocked for ideas on what to build/examine next

-At first he’s kind of offended when you keep getting distracted while he’s talking, but once he realizes it doesn’t mean you’re not interested, he’s cool!

-Has no problem repeating what he said, even if he has to do it twenty times in one conversation

-Kazuichi can completely empathize with getting emotional when something doesn’t turn out right

-He gets the same way when it’s his own creations, so he knows exactly how you feel and how to help

-“Hey, Y/N, don’t worry about it, okay?! We can always try again! Plus, I think this turned out pretty damn cool, anyway...” 

-He’s always encouraging you and complimenting all of your works, even the ones you don’t think are up to par. And he genuinely means everything he says

-You can count on him to always be there to motivate you to try again or move onto the next project

Byakuya Togami

-He’s honestly really impressed with how creative you are

-You’ll probably never know genuinely how much, because the most he’ll say is a “That’s quite an idea, Y/N” 

-He’s going to get frustrated at first if you zone out often, so bear with him as he gets over himself a bit

-Once he does get more used to it, he’ll just sigh and repeat what he said. It isn’t much better than before, but at least he’s not rolling his eyes with a snarky reply anymore

-He kind of... nitpicks your ideas? He doesn’t mean it in a harmful way, he just wants to add on in his own way. He’ll add on his own suggestions for a more practical and successful approach

-He’s actually a pretty good listener, though you’ll mostly get hums and grunts as responses as he doesn’t have much to add onto your thoughts

-If you’re a writer, he’s fully willing to proof read your stuff! He won’t say that, of course, but you can tell by how quickly he gives in when you ask him

-When you get emotional that something didn’t go right, he’ll walk past you and take a look at it himself

-“...This turned out well, Y/N. Our minds expectations are always higher than what we can accomplish; or, you’re your own worst critic, as they say.” 

Shuichi Saihara

-He’s amazed with how many ideas you have?? It seems like you never run out, and he’s so interested in hearing every one

-He doesn’t really have much to add on (and he kinda feels like he’s imposing by suggesting stuff) but if you ask he’s more than happy to give his own thoughts!

-Doesn’t mind you zoning out at all! He actually starts picking up on the signs that you are and either 1. catches your attention again or 2. gives you a minute before going on

-When you start getting emotional over something that didn’t turn out quite right, he’s right there beside you to ride it out with you

-“I-I think it’s amazing, Y/N, really!” and he does! But he knows what it’s like to not meet your own expectations, so he tries his best to be there for you

-And when you eventually pick up the motivation to start a new piece/work on your project again, he’s right there supporting you

Nagito Komaeda

-He’s astounded by how many ideas you have, and he wants to know about every single one

-This man is one of the best listeners you’ll ever meet

-He’s dead silent while you talk unless you want him to add stuff in or ask questions, in which he’s got you, too!

-He loves watching you work, and will gladly sit by you for hours just chilling

-Doesn’t mind at all if you zone out, but he may take it way too personally in a self hatred way, so make sure to reassure him it’s not because of him

-He’s so, so supportive of everything you make!

-He really does not understand how you could think that something didn’t turn out well, because “everything you do is amazing, my love!” 

-He’s got so many compliments for every project you work on. It’s almost too much, but later on in the relationship he knows when to pull back

-If you’re a painter, he’d love to paint with you!! He has no qualms about getting messy, and he loves spending time with you!

Hajime Hinata

-He loves listening to all of your thoughts and ideas!!

-Secretly kinda jealous of how big your imagination is, but he won’t tell you that

-He doesn’t have much to weigh in tbh, he just likes listening, but he’ll give suggestions if you want!

-Tbh he zones out a lot, too, so he totally understands you! He’ll just gently snap your attention back if you ask him to!

-He’s also right by your side when he sees you start to get emotional over a project

-He tries his best to comfort you, mostly by complimenting the piece in question and reassuring you it looks great (and it does!)

-He’ll stick to just comforting you if you don’t want any compliments, tho. He’s a great hugger!

-If you draw, sometimes you’ll catch him sketching in his own little book after watching you draw. He only lets you catch a glimpse of it before he shuts it, but it looked... suspiciously like you? 

Kiyotaka Ishimaru

-This man admires you so, so much. He has so much respect for you

-He’s not really an art person, so if your projects are art based he is so enamored by it! If you’ll let him, he’d love to sit in and watch you while you work! 

-Your creativity is so fascinating to him. He loves hearing all of your ideas, and loves discussing them with you! 

-He’ll try to add in suggestions, but if you want him to just listen he’s fine with that, too

-At first he thinks you’re zoning out because you’re being rude/disrespectful (and he’s a little hurt on the inside at the thought), but once you clarify that that’s not the case at all he’s 100% okay again

-Offers to proof read your stuff if you’re a writer! He may not be that good at creative writing, but he’s damn good at proof reading and editing writings

-He’ll absolutely ask for tips on some of the stuff that he’s interested in if that’s what you also do! (“Y/N, please teach me how to draw the other eye!”)

-He starts picking up on early signs that you’re starting to get emotional over a project, and he’ll rush to your side early to try and help out

-Whether it be by complimenting the piece (which he thinks is just... amazing, really, he doesn’t get how you don’t see that??) or just rubbing your back as you lament over it, he’s right there

Sonia Nevermind

-She’s so excited!!! She loves listening to other people talk about what they’re passionate about!

-She could spend hours just sitting with you and listening to you talk about your new ideas!

-She’ll get so excited if you ask her to weigh in with her opinion, so excited that she may fill up the suggestion with curse words on accident

-She doesn’t mind you zoning out at all! She knows it’s not intentional and she has no problem just catching your attention again and asking where in her sentence you zoned out so she can continue

-Sonia is very observant about the people she cares about, so she can see that you’re starting to get emotional over a piece before you even notice it 

-At an instant she’s bringing you water and snacks, suggesting to take a break with her and relax for a bit

-If that doesn’t work, she’ll wrap you up in her arms to comfort you and remind you that even if this didn’t turn out exactly how you wanted, it still turned out amazing in the end, and that is something to be proud of!

Mondo Oowada

-Damn, he’s impressed. How do you have so many ideas up in your head?? He’s astounded with every one tbh!

-Sometimes he asks you for ideas for what he should build next! (He’ll also let you paint his stuff if you want)

-If you paint or draw, please ask him to join you one day. It will be hilarious and endearing (imagine him drawing a hideous stick figure and labelling it as you)

-He likes sitting you in his lap as you talk about your ideas, and he’ll hum as he listens to you; he’s more of a listener

-Doesn’t mind at all if you zone out! He’ll just hum and repeat himself; no harm done! If you’re apologetic, he’ll scoff and reassure you that he does not “fuckin’ care, babe, it’s not a big deal to say something again”

-He can tell if you’re starting to get frustrated by a piece not going according to plan, and he tries to coax you into taking a break before you get too frustrated

-If you still get emotional over it, he’s beside you rubbing your back soothingly and reassuring you that you can try again another time

-Brings you away from the piece to get your mind off of it, whether that be by motorcycle ride, movie, etc., he’s pulling out all the stops 

[qslovebot]

KISS FOR YOUR LIFE: SPENCER REID

Summary: A BAU case leads the reader to take on an undercover role to flush out a ten-person mafia. Before the work can begin, things go awry and the reader has to improvise and pretend to seduce Spencer to keep her cover and arrest the real unsub.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings/includes: talk of murder, mentions of sex, suggested past experiences with misogyny, suggestive jokes, unsub is a radical feminist, swearing, arrests, guns, making out, sort of fluffy end.

Word Count: 4159

A/N: Written like an episode. I removed Rossi so... AU? First actual fanfic on here, tell me what you think?

Today was your first official day at the BAU, switching from two floors down as an underestimated agent to upstairs, with the Big League. Agent Hotchner decided he needed new, young-minded blood. He was notorious for picking the best of the best and after an intimidating interview with him and his brooding questions, he decided he wanted you on his team.

You had been here before, of course. You frequently visited the ever-chatting Penelope Garcia for lunch, sometimes in her office, sometimes heading downstairs for a slice of pizza or a salad. She vented about her issues, while you talked about the constant misogyny that ran through the men on your floor. She was five years older than you and decided that as your 'elder' she would put on the angry soccer mom look and kick their asses. But, lucky for you, two floors upward, the men didn't act like children on the job, so Garcia could keep her regular look.

Here it was, glass entrance, high ceilings. The air smelled like paper and was filled with a fresh sort of low mumbling and the small clicks of the keyboards. A semi-fresh start. Today you would organize your new desk, sort files, meet the others...

"Agent (Y/L/N), we have a case in Boston, we will be briefed on the jet. Get your things ready, we leave in twenty-five minutes," Agent Hotchner said as he walked by. He didn't stop for a single second, those dark dress shoes clomping heavily to the desks of your new fellow agents to inform them as well. So much for your plans.

Not wanting to appear unready, you rushed to set your things down and grab the few things you needed for the case. Hotchner had said always bring three spare outfits rolled to the smallest packing size possible, toiletries (toothpaste, toothbrush, hairbrush, and feminine hygiene products) as well as one extra pair of shoes. Those were already packed into a small bag, so in with those went your notebook, pens, and highlighter. You came prepared, so in no time, you were on the jet for the first time, exhilarated.

A hand was extended to you when you took your seat. It belonged to a man with caramel skin and a dazzling smile, "You must be (Y/L/N). The name is Derek Morgan." Anyone who used 'the name is' seemed like they felt superior in some way. It was used in the media to introduce someone of importance. 'The name is Bond, James Bond', ran through your head as you gratefully shook his hand.

"My name is Emily Prentiss and I... didn't quite catch your first name," a woman with a v-neck sweater also reached to shake your hand. "I think I may have heard it, but I must have forgotten."

"(Y/N)," you replied with a small smile. It felt nice to be greeted with kind eyes, rather than greedy ones. "It's not a very memorable name, don't worry."

Emily looked apologetic, but soon reverted to her previous smile. I was greeted by the blonde woman across the aisle, too far to shake my hand. "My name is Jennifer Jareau, I'm the media liaison, but you can call me JJ, everyone does. It's really great to meet you- for a moment I thought Penelope had made up a friend as a result of too many hours in front of a screen."

You laughed a little, ruffling your hair. She seemed outgoing, but I had already started profiling Derek Morgan and I wanted to stop there. Agent Hotchner sat down with someone I had never noticed on my visits to Penelope. I had noticed everyone else here on this jet at least once before, but... not him. How had you missed him?

He stood at about six-one, maybe six-two? He was thin, much the opposite to Morgan's greatly muscular arms. This man was calm-looking, quiet. His clothes said that maybe he was meticulous and orderly- he looked like the kind of person who didn't own a single pair of sweatpants. His face was chiselled, with a sharp jawline and cheekbones that carved the shadows on his face. His eyes, however, were much softer. Long eyelashes and dark eyes made them bigger, but they were slightly blocked by bronze-toned brown curls that at the end of his combed and gelled hair, wrapped around his jaw, neck, and face.

He was beautiful, if you were entirely frank with yourself.

And he didn't even notice you were there until Hotchner nudged his arm in a way that said 'say hello' the same way one would introduce two toddlers. You were sure you weren't a toddler and nor was this man, but it appeared you both may have been the youngest there.

When he looked your way, you wanted to look away, but couldn't. He seemed surprised to see you there and you were trying to play off the staring by introducing yourself. "Hi, I'm SSA (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I don't think we've met, it's nice to meet you." You extended your hand and he just shook his head no, his lips pressing into a tight line.

He didn't shake hands, you realized. Probably a slight germophobe. You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry if that was an uncomfortable gesture, I didn't know." Humiliating.

The tall man opened his mouth to say something, shut his mouth, opened it again but then turned a little pink and sat down immediately next to Hotchner and stared at his hands that were folded in his lap. You had thought you nailed pretty much every introduction, but this one? Fuck.

You reverted back to your business with a sigh, patting your knees. It felt like you had somehow lost something. JJ whispered to you, silently pointing to the tall man, "Dr. Spencer Reid, human encyclopedia, dictionary, and knows pretty much everything." You nodded a thank you and she nodded back.

Derek Morgan, however, tapped Emily Prentiss on the shoulder and mumbled, "Reid did his 'pretty-girl-freakout'."

Emily gasped, "Oh, he did!

The two seemed to have forgotten you were in front of them and they noticed your confusion in unison, both of them freezing up and chuckling nervously. You smiled an extremely awkward smile and left thinking about Dr. Spencer Reid for later as you got to the case.

This was about a female mafia boss who seemed to take on the personality, style, and characteristics of the taste of rich men and kill them after having sex with them. The woman was reported and seen by one witness to see her and that was the only person outside of this mafia who had seen her face, so they were working with the sketch artist and would have the picture ready and accurate upon our arrival.

Victimology was simple, she was after men who had too much power. She probably identified with being a radical feminist. She was after their money and had sex with them to dethrone them on the way. Possibly bordered on a personality disorder considering she seemed to be entirely all-in to her 'disguises'.

The funniest thing was the way they all looked at you when you announced those lines. Perhaps you would work yourself out of the 'child' stage faster than you thought.

The BAU hit the precinct in much less time than I had expected and on the ground, running. You were immediately given things to do and you were on top of it all, every order. That was until the drawing of the Mafia leader AKA 'The Seductress' was pulled up and the whole BAU gasped at how she looked EXACTLY like you.

"Do I need my cuffs?" Morgan joked. You had covered your mouth in disbelief and the rest of the room was doing double-takes.

You laughed nervously, "I swear... that isn't me, but oh my god..." Morgan was laughing and Emily and JJ whispering and had confused smiles. Spencer Reid stood in the corner, his hand on his cheek, seemingly studying the photo. He looked statue-like, borderline godly.

"Can this be used to our advantage?" Hotch launched back into technical thinking, brow furrowed. You looked at him, mouth open, but immediately shut it out of professionalism. What was going on in his head?

Reid spoke up, "If we position her just right and at the right time in one of the hotspots for that group, we can possibly get her to somehow trick the other members into some sort of turn-in."

Her. Indirect. Did you do something wrong?

"Or a simple appearance could start gossip and a possible flock to where she was spotted. As long as people aren't seeing double or reaching to do so, she can play as The Seductress." Emily said, looking at you. "Are you up to try, (Y/L/N)?"

All eyes on you. Your first day turned to chaos. But this was your job and you would prove your place here. So you agreed and in a whisk of an afternoon, you were transformed into the mirror image of The Seductress while you were talked through the plan through a radio. Turned out, so prove a professional place, you needed to make yourself look ridiculously unprofessional.

Pinned up hair, dark cat eye makeup, a dress similar to hers that happened to be on hand. Long, deep red, with a long slit up the side and your tits were practically falling out of it, but the dress fit and they were secure, so you dealt with it. There was no other space for a gun other than the side of your thigh where The Seductress kept hers knife. Now, you had to get going, meaning you had to face the BAU in the getup.

When you walked out, Derek Morgan hooted and whistled and Emily gave him a look that said 'oh lord' like an annoyed sibling. You smiled a little and essentially just kept walking, figuring if you moved, it would give them less time to stare at your tits.

Turning the corner, you noticed that Dr.Spencer Reid was much redder than he had been earlier on the jet. So maybe he really did think you were pretty. You caught yourself smiling at the thought, but shook your head free of any ideas. Professional! No crushes on Spencer Reid!

You arrived near the scene, dropped off by Hotchner. "You know what to do. Reid will be going with you to the crateyard, he will also be nearby when you head in. If you see The Seductress, do not make the arrest. If you can, lure her."

You nodded. Wow, first time in the field with the BAU and you had the leading role. No pressure, no pressure, just... everyone depending on you. But the pressure came back when you realized you had heard right and Reid was going with you, alone. You had done really well with the job so far today, minus finding the tall doctor extremely attractive. He came to stand beside you and since he was much taller than you were, you were sure he could look right down your dress without even trying. Not like anyone had to try, but he had the upper hand.

You ached to cover yourself, but that was a major risk. The Seductress was confident, she wouldn't cover-up. You got into the tinted car with Reid, him in the driver's seat and you in the passenger's seat. Silence crept up, but he turned the engine over and headed east to where the mafia was to meet up.

"Some first day," you mumbled nervously.

Reid seemed to think you had said something to him and he talked to you directly for what seemed like the first time. "P-pardon?" He had a stutter when talking to you and to be honest it was cute but there was no time to crush!

"Oh, I was just remarking to myself on how this is my first day and I'm already... so... out there." You sighed and pat your knees. The jitters crept up, but so did butterflies. "Nervous, I'm nervous."

He looked over and swallowed hard, so hard it was audible. Was he fighting the same urge to be friendlier or was he just fighting the urge to look at your tits like a twelve-year-old boy would? Either way, you were glad he was with you. He smelled like books, leather, and cologne and it was oddly calming.

You reached the other side of the crateyard in a few more minutes and he handed you your gun, which you shoved into the holster on your thigh. "You're going without a vest so... k-keep focused," Spencer said- and it seemed like he had so many words jumbled on the tip of his tongue, but refused to say them. You thought he was afraid to annoy you, as you knew he liked to give lengthy explanations. "I'll be behind, uh- the crates."

You smiled at him and watched him look away, his curls falling in his face. God, he was so gorgeous. If this went wrong, you were glad you would go with that shy look of his in the front of your mind. He pulled on his vest and you put out a hand and stopped him. "If they see you with the vest at all, in any way, they'll know what's happening."

He nodded, keeping his eyes from yours as he pulled on a plain black jacket over the vest. For a genius, he seemed to have his mind a little fuzzy tonight. In the dark of the night, the only lights were flickering lamps on high-beamed poles. Your heart was beating hard as you waited for the signal to begin to move.

"G-good luck," Spencer's words fumbled out of his mouth and I looked at him for a moment where he looked right back at you. He chewed on his bottom lip, eyelids fluttering as you tried to look anywhere else and there it was- the radio signal. The tension that was there in that brief moment defused. You gave him a small smile before opening the car door and standing tall, in the aura of The Seductress.

Spencer waited until you were out between the crates to leave the car. You heard the door shut gently behind you, but his footsteps were silent. Much quicker than you thought, there was a gruff voice that didn't belong to Spencer. "My lady, may I say what an honour it is to have you join us this evening." You spun to face a man in a dark suit. You didn't have The Seductress's voice, so you nodded in the most gracious way you could.

"Bernard and Lolita are waiting inside the abandoned building for the small exchange as well as the rest of us, but Mamacita... you're being tailed by the FBI." He said, pointing to the crate that hid Dr. Spencer Reid. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I'll go kill him for you!"

So flat out, he wanted to kill Spencer Reid, a rotting smile on his face as if it was an act of kindness. He knew Spencer was there, he saw... but you weren't busted? God, this man was stupid.

"No," you said, in a quiet, yet strong voice, grabbing the gruff man by the shoulder pad. "He is my kill."

The man grinned an evil grin and you did your best to smile evilly in return. You showed him your gun and he rubbed his palms together. "The gluck and Glock," he chuckled. "Can I watch?"

He thought you were going to fuck and kill Spencer. Your heart skipped a beat and you tried hard not to show it. Oh no... how to work your way out of this... Spencer couldn't help you. Or... could he?

You glared at the man, "No, but I know that his team is on the way. Get Bernard, Lolita, and anyone else in on the next killings from that abandoned building and run straight west. Do not stop. I will catch up to you once I'm finished with the agent here." You improvised the best you could and this stupid man bought it. Little did he know that the team was stationed Westbound.

"Got it," his face was dazed and malevolent. "But I'm not leaving until I know you've got this handled, my lady."

"You question my skill?" You shot back, still acting.

He looked scared for a moment, "No, not at all, I just... You're a lot shorter than I was expecting."

You stared daggers, "And you insult me?"

"Just wanted to know you had it covered... in case something is fishy here..." was he really catching on or was he confused and just running through the precautions?

Fuck, you had been so focused on the cover you forgot you were a profiler. This man was small-minded, probably brought into this ordeal through family ties. Since he was so stupid, he was trusted with less... hence why he was outside the building as the lookout, rather than in on the meeting.

Why he wouldn't leave- he was so incapable of proper interaction he had never had the chance to be with a woman. Watching was the only way he would ever see. He was stupid and he was stubborn. He was not going to leave until he saw the beginning.

The best thing would be to let him stay for proof. "Fine. But when I give you my look, you run and get everyone running straight West." You narrowed your eyebrows at him and he looked like he was going to sweat out of his skin. But... this meant...

You had a few seconds, you rushed over to behind the crate to where Spencer stood, his gun in hand. "W-what are you-" he questioned in a whisper-yell.

"He's onto me, I need you to go along with this- can I kiss you, Dr.Reid?" You whispered back. His eyes went wide and his cheeks flushed pink. Once again, being professional called for being unprofessional. You really didn't want to kiss him- at least not now, not like this. He wouldn't speak and the mafia man was coming. "Reid, if I don't do this, he won't flush the group West and we'll both be shot and if not shot, targeted by a mafia!"

"Y-yes!" he practically squeaked, his back to the crate he was hiding behind. This really was the only way- this other man would not be talked down, because he was taught to just shoot, rather than listen and understand. "I'm sorry if I-"

You cut him off by reaching up, grabbing the collar of his shirt and kissing him. It took him a moment, but he kissed back. You could feel the heat off of his cheeks. The first day on the job, you had embarrassed yourself, gotten dressed like a Mafia killer, played the part, and now you were kissing Dr.Spencer Reid in a crateyard... and he was surprisingly not a bad kisser. He was a little sloppy the first few seconds but moments later, he figured it out. His one hand went on your jaw, the other on your waist, both of them shaking. You could tell that the shaking wasn't because the man watching you both right now had a gun, it was you.

You were making out with him, hard. Your body was pressed to his tightly against the crate and Spencer was holding you there. Your hands were still gripping his shirt. Messy altogether but your lips met in every perfect way. It was good, but for work. This was when you knew to stop- you had convinced the other man. You pulled away, turned your head and mouthed to the mafia man, 'GO' and he ran.

Now things would be extremely awkward. You pushed yourself away from Spencer whose hands stayed on your waist and face until you were entirely out of his reach. You laughed anxiously and he stood there, hands behind his back. That was... that was wow, but... it was for the case. For the case.

It was time to get moving. Spencer knew it, you knew it. The real Seductress was on her way. You turned your head over your shoulder and he was moving slowly, head down. You fought off a small smile. He was entirely red, gun still held loosely in his hand.

You turned your head and were met by a sharp blow to the face. Both of you had let your guard down. Stupid.

"I don't like impostors," said the female voice that was the source of the blow. Hell, it was her. Spencer clocked his gun into place and you turned, elbowing The Seductress in the chest. She returned with another hard blow that you ducked, spinning around her and kicking the back of her leg. She recovered quickly and shot up, punching you in the stomach. You lost your breath for a second and she took the opportunity to punch you in the jaw and pull a knife.

"Put the knife down!" Spencer called. His voice was stronger facing a woman with a sharp knife than it was when talking to you alone. "I know who you are, you want what's right for women, correct?"

The Seductress narrowed her eyes at him like her next meal, leaving you on the ground. Would Spencer shoot if she threw that knife? Odd she didn't have a gun on her. She must have been relying on the others for more protection. You stood up quietly, watching her slowly advance on Spencer. He had your lipstick smeared over his lips, he looked rough, but he held his gun out in front of him and had the other hand up to reason with her. "Men like you think yourselves above women. You, FBI, you think yourself better than men and women alike because you're the authority. Tell me, how do you like your women, Agent?"

He gulped, eyes flickering to you. You pulled out your gun. "I think... I think I'm a weak man and I'm no better than anyone. I don't deserve women." Spencer said, looking at the evil lady. In person, she looked a lot less like you.

"Lies. It's the instinct of men to feel superior to women. You'll have a lot less instinct when you're dead!" She snarled, lunging at him with her blade out. You pulled the trigger, she fell to the ground. Not dead, but wounded to pass out. Spencer narrowly jumped out of her way, watching her knife clatter to the ground.

You looked up at Spencer, bewildered. You had done it. You saved the case, took down a murderous mafia boss. It was only when Spencer pointed at your face and said, "Y-you're bleeding, (Y/N), are you okay?"- that you noticed your cut lip and the blood pouring from your forehead. But you also noticed he called you by your first name.

He reached a hand forward but retracted it when you winced from the sudden pain. Adrenaline took the pain away temporarily, you supposed. There were still things to be done. Spencer called for backup and a medic and watched as you cuffed the woman. She wasn't going to die, but she did need help.

Once medics arrived, Spencer drove you both back to the Westward situation, where ten arrests had been made. You were in a state of haze, so how Spencer's jacket got around your shoulders was a mystery. When you stepped out of the car, you were greeted by the rest of the agents.

"Are you okay?!" Prentiss was the first to greet you both. She grabbed you by the shoulders and looked at the nearly-dried blood on your skin. "We got worried when you didn't follow soon after, you got her?"

"Yeah," you smiled tiredly.

She grinned back. "Fill us in on the details on the way back, okay? Let's get you two cleaned up."

But Derek Morgan found Spencer, "Hey pretty-boy, is that royal rouge you've got on your lips there?" he teased. Spencer panicked and looked into the mirror of the nearest car, seeing that he did in fact have your lipstick on his mouth. He tried to wipe it off with his wrist, but it still stained. You wiped your own lip with your thumb and Derek caught you. "Okay, Miss Newbie, I see you."

Your eyes widened and Emily raised her eyebrows at you, a teasing smile on her lips. "It was to keep my cover. It's what sent those guys your way, one of them has serious sexual issues." You made sure they knew it- to save yourself and to save Spencer. Derek Morgan spun away with a huge knowing grin, back to Hotchner who was conversing with the Chief of Police. Emily pulled you away to the other medics and you shot Spencer a smile as you went.

He smiled back, still wiping off his mouth.

-tags

@ellyhotchner @softhairedhotch <3

[the-last-kenobi]

I adore your qui gon and obi wan stuff so can we get a number 8 on the prompt list with obi wan and qui gon?

Absolutely!! I’m so glad you chose that one; I’ve loved every single prompt I’ve gotten but this one breaks the mold a little.

I hope this lives up to your expectations!

From this various prompts list.

_

When Qui-Gon Jinn set foot on the planet of Melida/Daan for the second time, he had a fixed set of expectations.

He expected to find the same war-torn, shattered homes and abused soil, the same decimated populations, the same stench of death. He expected to find the underground hideouts where the children hid from the wrath of their parents, and where the Melida plotted against the Daan and the Daan against the Melida. He expected to find a bruised and shame-faced former Jedi Padawan, ready to humble himself before the Council.

He expected to have to offer both comfort and stern reprimand to this child who, as much of a delight as he had once been, no longer deserved to be his apprentice.

And he did find some of that.

He also found fields of green grass, and abandoned fields of half-plucked vegetation and fruits.

A memorial garden.

A row of corpses covered neatly in cloths, lining the road, respectfully untouched.

Faded posters announcing committees and treaties and open elections, speeches and remembrance services.

A mural on a stone wall, somewhere between impressionist and abstract, of a line of children and adults, the children in the center. Towards the very middle, almost exactly so, was the image of a young boy with pale russet locks hanging an inch loose, and Qui-Gon paused, observing warily as if the image might come to life and attack him.

But it was only an image, and Obi-Wan Kenobi was only a wayward child.

And none of this is was going as anticipated.

The Jedi Master tried to recall what Yoda had told him before chivvying him out the door, but in truth he had not processed much of it aside from Obi-Wan’s name and the understanding that he had asked to be retrieved from Melida/Daan.

Why?

Clearly things had changed, immensely — and yet, in the background, the continued sound of bombs going off and weapons firing, and not a living being in sight.

Qui-Gon continued deeper into the core of the civilization, skirting the worst of the ruins but avoiding the main road in a passing effort to go unnoticed.

It did not last long.

“Master Jedi!” a voice hissed out suddenly, and Qui-Gon turned sharply to see a young man — maybe nineteen, at most — peering at him around the corner of the nearest building, pressed close to the wall. He gestured shortly and vanished.

Qui-Gon took a moment to cast out his senses. The Force bore no distinct warning, so he crossed the road quickly and ducked around the corner.

The young man was waiting for him. Up close it was clear that he was younger than he had appeared, perhaps seventeen, just emerging from the gangly limbs stage, and he was coated in dirt and grime — some of it oddly strategic, smeared across his cheekbones and the crown of his forehead, darkening and muting them. Dark hazel eyes considered Qui-Gon suspiciously.

“You were expecting me,” Qui-Gon stated.

The boy nodded. “I was. Obi-Wan said you would be arriving today, maybe tomorrow.”

A strange jolt ran through Qui-Gon. He had not said Obi-Wan’s name aloud himself, not since that day almost eight months before, and while he had heard other Jedi mention it, it was off-putting to hear this total stranger use it. So familiarly. Like he knew Kenobi well. Qui-Gon brushed the thoughts aside like so many cobwebs and spoke again: “Well, here I am. Where next?”

He did not say, ‘Where is Obi-Wan?’

For some reason, it would have felt like a confession.

The boy pressed his lips into a flat line, as if the Jedi had failed some sort of test. “…I’ll show you. Stick close to me and don’t do anything reckless. Stealth is our best ally right now. Only ally, really.”

Qui-Gon wondered what he was, then, since he was certainly not included in this mysterious “we.”

It was slightly insulting, and sharply painful, to be lectured on strategic maneuvers by what amounted to a child soldier.

Nevertheless, Qui-Gon followed him.

They wound their way through the settlement, bypassing craters where homes had stood and also far more intact buildings, still crisp and clean and bearing that unmistakable scent of newness.

These, more than any of the others, were painted with images of children and adults standing together, plastered with announcements, and more than one — many — almost all — featuring that flame-haired youth. More often than not he was framed closely by two others. Another boy, this one slightly taller and leaner with dark hair. And a girl, a little smaller, with bold waves and startling green eyes.

The boy with the dirty face turned his head to look at each of them, though he did not slow.

After what felt like a very long time, Qui-Gon found himself entering what seemed to be a cellar. It was dark and musty, but before he could question it, his guide went to a section of the wall and pushed, popping open a panel that sank away and slid to one side.

“This way,” he said unnecessarily.

In they went. It was a tunnel, low and long, and Qui-Gon had to stoop halfway just to move. The boy, several inches shorter, had less trouble.

A few minutes of breathless, blind stumbling later, and they reached a reinforced door.

The boy knocked slowly, then quickly; stopped, and then knocked rapidly again. “It’s me!” he called through the crevice. “He’s here.”

There was a grinding sound, and then the door swung open to reveal bright light. The boy slipped through without hesitation, but the Jedi Master was more wary, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light before slowly entering the room, still bowed low from the tunnel.

When he rose, he was looking directly into the eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The boy had changed, and yet was exactly the same.

There was no other way to describe it.

He had certainly shot up an inch or so in height. His Jedi tunics were gone; he was wearing a stained white tunic of much poorer cloth and simpler cut, over a pair of patched brown trousers and sturdy boots. His robe was still the one he had worn when he had first arrived all those months ago, but he had sewn the sleeves so that they did not dangle over his wrists or hang wide and loose; instead they were drawn closer, but not so tight that they impeded his movement.

His hair seemed more coppery red than before as it hung loose and untidy, coming to slightly ragged ends halfway between his jawline and his shoulders. Some of the baby fat had melted away, driven off no doubt by stress and hunger and emotion, and his cheekbones stood out a little too much.

But it was his eyes that struck Qui-Gon.

They seemed exactly the same.

Pale blue-green, wide and friendly and innocent, sweet as they had been on the day they met.

Unbearably naive.

Those eyes flickered with shock for a moment, and then the boy stepped forward and offered out his hand. “Master Jinn,” he said.

Qui-Gon blinked. Perhaps if he waited a moment, Obi-Wan would remember that Jedi bowed? But the boy merely stared at him with his hand extended, and so Qui-Gon grasped it and shook briefly before letting go.

The boy did not seem particularly bothered. He turned to the rest of the room. “You’re all ready?”

“Yes,” came a chorus of voices.

Freed from the strangeness of Obi-Wan and his gaze, Qui-Gon looked around. There were several others present — all humans, all young, all grimy. Maybe a dozen or so in number. The room he was in was spacious, a little low-ceilinged and plain. It had the air of a bunker, with bright lights that aggravated the eyes and dull walls and functional furniture. Most notably, the enormous table in the center.

It was spread with maps, fliers, announcement posters, detailed blueprints for buildings and machinery, tidy sketches outlining strategies and countermeasures. Qui-Gon’s keen eyes caught words like ‘anti-terrorism,’ ‘knowledge is courage,’ ‘long-range missile launcher,’ and ‘riot activity.’ And, half-concealed under a map of Melida/Daan’s entire surface, a flat holo of three people. Obi-Wan. The dark-haired boy. The girl with green eyes.

“Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan’s voice broke into his observations.

They were all watching him with various degrees of mistrust.

Qui-Gon straightened his spine, and then forced himself to relax a little, trying to radiate comfort and honesty. Even without force sensitivity, they would be eased somewhat.

“Yes, I’m listening,” he assured them.

Kenobi exchanged a quick look with the boy who had guided him here, and the youth shrugged. “He was quick enough and he listened to what I said, but he’s like most adults. Thinking more in his head than paying attention, didn’t even ask my name.”

Qui-Gon started. He hadn’t, had he?

“I—” he began, but the youth cut him off with a dismissive gesture.

“You didn’t ask,” he said. “I’m not sharing now. I’m sure you’ll hear it eventually.”

Obi-Wan nodded as if this were perfectly reasonable. “Master Jinn, are you prepared to take all thirteen of us back to Coruscant?”

“What?” Qui-Gon demanded. He glanced around at the others, who looked even less impressed than before. He felt so unexpectedly out of his depth. What was this place? “I — no, I’m returning you to the Jedi, to the care of the High Council.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said placidly. “You’re not. I’m sure Master Yoda had his reasons for sending you—” the slightest emphasis on the word ‘you’—“but you are here to escort myself and the other twelve to the Core to appear before the Senate. That’s why you were assigned such a large ship. We’re going to make an appeal on behalf of Meldan.”

“Meldan?” Qui-Gon echoed.

“Our planet,” one of the others, a curly-haired, fierce-eyed woman of about twenty-two said. “Obi, are you sure about this? This isn’t at all what you said we could expect.”

“Master Jinn is an exception to many rules,” Obi-Wan told her; as he turned his head to look in her direction, he briefly seemed to change, the tension in his shoulders easing and his face alight with mischief. Then it was gone. He turned back to Qui-Gon, and beneath the veneer of professionalism could be glimpsed a strange aura of… something Qui-Gon couldn’t determine or define.

Their eyes met again, and silence fell for a moment.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan decided. “Yes, this will work. If any Jedi will help ensure you catch the attention of the Senate, it would be Master Jinn. Master Yoda also told me that Master Adi Gallia will be your official patron, which is good; she spends most of her time handling the political side of Jedi affairs.”

“Then we should go now,” said a small boy of no more than nine. “Let’s go!”

“Not just yet, Jocco,” Obi-Wan said soothingly, turning a gentle smile on the child. “We’re not quite ready. We’ll leave in about an hour.”

“Right,” Jocco said, nodding. “Okay.”

Obi-Wan smiled again. “All right, everyone. We have meals to eat and supplies to pack, so let’s keep together and keep organized. Sarai,” he nodded at the curly-haired woman, “and my friend,” a nod to the bitter-eyed nameless guide, “please bring Master Jinn up to speed. Master Jinn,” he added, glancing up from where the smallest children were flocking to his side and clinging to his hands, “I will see you in an hour.”

He left, surrounded by children both far younger and several years older than him, like adoring chicks following their mother, or maybe more like an honor guard. The contrast was both ludicrous and oddly touching.

“You listen to him,” Qui-Gon commented to his tight-lipped companions. “Even though he no longer carries the authority of a Jedi.”

“I haven’t seen any Jedi authority yet,” snapped back his unnamed guide. “Just three Jedi who came, two who left, and one who stayed.”

“It was not our mission to stay,” Qui-Gon replied calmly, tucking his hands inside his sleeves. “Though I can see what compelled him to.”

“Oh, can you?” said Sarai. She folded her arms tightly and assessed him, her lip curling. “I don’t think you see much past the end of your own nose.”

“Petty insults will get us nowhere,” he replied, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of said nose. “And it won’t help you when you speak for your people before the Senate.”

“Me?” an amused smile curled her lips. She looked as if all her suspicions had just been confirmed. “I won’t be speaking, not primarily anyways. I don’t have any governmental authority behind me, I’m just a secondary representative.”

“Same here,” said the young man.

“Governmental authority…? Then who is your speaker?” Qui-Gon asked, slightly bewildered.

“Are you blind?” said the young man. “Obi-Wan is the leader. Since the other two were assassinated, Obi-Wan is our only head of government.”

_

The next time Qui-Gon laid eyes on his former apprentice, it was mere minutes before their agreed departure time.

The children — Melida, Daan, none of them older than sixteen, aside from former Melida Sarai and former Daan who still refused to share his name — were all gathered next to a large reinforced bay door next to a small fleet of speeders.

Obi-Wan had one arm draped around the shoulders of a ten-year-old boy, murmuring instructions to him, and carrying the little toddler girl on his hip. She was playing with his hair contentedly, unbothered by the preparations going on around her.

If it had been strange to see Obi-Wan before, with his air of sameness-yet-differentness, it was doubly so now.

Knowing what he now knew.

Knowing that Obi-Wan Kenobi had accomplished what he had set out to do and reunited the Melida and the Daan with the help of a few middle-aged adults from both sides and the constant aid of his two companions, Cerasi and Nield. Knowing that he had been fairly elected alongside Cerasi and Nield as the Triumvers — the three Heads of State — of the newly named Meldan.

Knowing that they had been in the midst of Reconstruction both physical and emotional when a radical had betrayed them, murdering innocents gathered for discussions. How Cerasi had been murdered in her bed. How Nield had begun drumming up a military force, only to be assassinated — by a friend of the peace or a foe, who could say? How Obi-Wan had seen all his allies either killed or turn away, and had gathered all he could and retreated below ground, holding tight to his ideals and the legislative power that now backed him.

Knowing how he had continued to sow the seeds of freedom and diplomacy even as the people left above ground resorted again to violence. How he had nurtured genuine friendships among his people, even after having been betrayed.

And here he stood, not even fifteen, making children laugh and reassuring people older than him as he attempted to carry them to freedom and hope.

A government of war-veteran children, led by a former Jedi Padawan.

Qui-Gon watched as everyone was paired up, older teens with younger children, two to a speeder, until at last there was only one vehicle left and only himself and Kenobi still standing.

“I’m afraid I’ll be piloting,” the boy told him. “I’m familiar with the route.”

Qui-Gon swallowed away a bitter taste and merely nodded.

Obi-Wan swung himself up behind the controls, and Qui-Gon moved to sit behind him, and despite everything, despite knowing Obi-Wan’s history over the past eight months, despite being determined not to regard him as his Padawan ever again, it still felt wrong to sit behind. To let the child lead. To let the child sit behind the controls where any decent sniper would aim.

“Stick close and keep low!” Obi-Wan called out.

“Love you Obi!” the same tiny girl cried out from somewhere behind them on another speeder.

Qui-Gon didn’t know what he expected, if he expected anything at all in this strange parallel universe he had wandered into. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan turning his head to grin at the girl and calling back, “Love you too, Cler!” still surprised him.

And then they were off.

The children were clearly well trained, experienced. They seemed to know this back route by heart, undeterred by the semi-light of dusk, and keeping behind outcroppings of rock and trees as much as possible.

Obi-Wan glanced around periodically to check on the others, and every so often one of the others from the back of the parade would speed up to match his pace and give him the all-clear before falling back again.

The breathlessness of the moment settled somewhere in Qui-Gon’s chest. If he could put aside the emotional toll it was taking to sit behind his former student and see him not as a Jedi but as a war-tried planetary ruler, it was easier to be caught up in the rush. The fate of thousands depended on this race for freedom.

The former Jedi Master and Padawan maintained their lead, a slight gap between them and the others.

This served them all well when a blaster bolt came out of nowhere and struck Obi-Wan in his right shoulder, missing his chest only because he sensed it at the last second and twisted away.

There were screams from the smaller children; the older children reacted immediately, scattering their small fleet and engaging their weapons.

“There!” Qui-Gon cried, pointing to a ridge on their right where glimpses of people moving could be seen. His other hand was holding Obi-Wan upright.

“Are you all right to keep piloting?” he shouted.

“For a little while! Hold on, I have a plan!” Obi-Wan shouted back.

“Is it a good plan?”

“Hard to tell until I’ve done it!”

For a second it felt like it had been a year ago, or even better, both of them on the edge of adrenaline and serenity, grinning.

Qui-Gon ignited his lightsaber and deflected two more blaster shots, calling out warnings to the others within earshot.

A speeder went down.

A girl and boy were thrown several meters, crushing in the dust, clinging to one another as they rolled to a stop. On another speeder, Sarai yelled “Here!” and pulled up alongside Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, while Jocco stood up from behind her and leapt.

Qui-Gon’s heart shot to his throat.

But as he extended a hand and caught the child with the Force, Obi-Wan was already doing the same thing, drawing Jocco safely onto their speeder. Sarai, meanwhile, swung her speeder back around and parked it in front of the fallen one, shielding the injured two from view. She stood up on the seat and raised a blaster in each hand, lips twisted in a snarl. “Over here you bastards!” she screamed. “Like shooting at children? Give it your best shot!”

“She’s insane,” said Qui-Gon.

“She’s my second in command!” Obi-Wan laughed. “Now get ready! You’re taking the wheel!”

“What?”

Qui-Gon turned his head just in time to see Obi-Wan launch himself off of the moving speeder with reckless grace, executing a Force-augmented leap to land neatly on the ridge. “Kenobi! What are you doing?” Qui-Gon bellowed.

The boy didn’t respond. He had a blaster in his good hand and dropped out of view, directly onto the heads of the people concealed behind the rocks. There were yells; red light flared as weapons went off in rapid succession. Sarai took advantage of the distraction and urged the other two onto her speeder. “Go!” she said.

As soon as they were off, one of the other speeders erupted from the tree-line and swooped in front of her, slowing down enough to allow her to jump aboard behind two smaller children. “Good job kiddos,” Qui-Gon heard her say. Then she looked up at him. “Come on, we have to go!”

“But—Obi-Wan—” he said helplessly.

As he did, Obi-Wan reappeared at the crest of the ridge, a smoking hole in his trouser leg and a bloody furrow over one eye. He looked directly at Qui-Gon and mouthed, ‘Go! Take the others and run, now!’

Then he was gone again.

A pained look crossed Sarai’s face, but she glanced at Jocco sitting on his lap and smoothed it away at once. “He knows what he’s doing,” she said. “Now come on!”

They sped off, trailing dust and a broken wreck, following in the wake of the other speeders far ahead of them.

In the distance, the ship gleamed in the low light, a beacon for them to follow.

The others were waiting for them when they arrived, arranged defensively around the ship, protecting their only mode of transportation. The nameless boy was standing front and center, an adapted blaster rifle in his arms, looking ready to kill anyone who got too near. Jocco ran straight to him.

Sarai helped the other two down and began loading everyone onto the ship, which opened at Qui-Gon’s command.

He and the boy with the rifle waited.

And waited.

The sun set in earnest, and darkness fell.

And still they waited.

“Can you make your appeal to the Senate without him?” Qui-Gon said suddenly.

The young man whipped his head around to look at him. “What?”

“Can you make your appeal without Obi-Wan?”

He sneered. “In his absence, legal responsibility falls to Sarai and me. But it’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not.” Qui-Gon agreed.

There was a brief silence.

“Can you pilot this starship?”

“What?”

Qui-Gon did not repeat himself this time, and the young man’s eyes widened, his grip on his rifle slackening. “You… you want to stay. You want to stay and search for him.”

“You need to leave,” said Qui-Gon quietly. “Can you pilot this starship?”

“My name’s Radan,” the young man said brusquely, extending a grimy hand. “And yeah, between me and Kieln we can figure it out pretty quickly.”

“Good,” said Qui-Gon shaking his hand firmly. “As soon as you exit your first hyperspace jump, contact Master Yoda, it’s all programmed into the system. Tell him what happened.”

He looked again to the shadowed horizon, to the dark smudge several kilometers distant that was the stone ridge where he had last seen Obi-Wan.

“Tell him,” he paused. “…Tell him I am going to stay with my Padawan.”

Radan paused halfway up the ramp, turning to look back, a look of concern crossing his young face. “Even if he’s never going back to the Jedi?” he asked.

Qui-Gon hesitated.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? Obi-Wan is capable of making his own decisions.”

Qui-Gon turned back towards the horizon, towards Obi-Wan.

“But I will not leave him again.”

_

[sylvie-writes]

A Father’s Love

pairing: steve rogers x reader ft. sarah rogers

requests:Hey, can I ask for a Steve Sarah fic where baby Sarah is injured or unwell and Steve is more distressed than the reader and cries holding Sarah and she assures him that she is fine and brave girl -anon  2. hi i love your writing!! i have a request for a headcanon or oneshot: i watched ww84 (which was not that good of a movie oof) but there was a romantic fireworks scene and it made me think of celebrating 4th of july with steve rogers on his birthday and just like, cuddling up next to him on a picnic blanket while watching him watch the fireworks and oh it just makes me so SOFT- anon

word count: 1,750

author’s note: pardon any mistakes! sorry for combining the requests, hope y'all still like it!

gif below was found on google

Never before in your life had you ever experienced such fear. Although the warm sun streamed down in rays, creating a happy scene, you were somewhere else. A place where nothing else mattered except for your daughter. Nerves, anticipation, and dread flooded your veins. Any parent would feel this way, especially under these circumstances. A majority of the time, you wouldn’t consider yourself a “helicopter parent,” even though Bucky and Sam would say otherwise. Now, was an exception because your four year old daughter was learning to roller skate in the cul-de-sac where her grandparents currently reside. Her little hand was interlaced with her father’s and the 6’2 man crouched down to be a bit shorter. He was anything but an expert in this field and that made you even more nervous as he’d occasionally slip. Before you could say anything to him, he’d just put a hand out, signaling that everything was okay, and you’d be left to bite down on your lip, silently channeling your fear. 

From the looks of it, one would think you weren’t trusting of your husband and while that wasn’t the whole truth, you just knew he wasn’t the most...graceful and elegant human on planet earth. Rather he was the type of guy to fall and literally laugh it off. That was fine for him, but if your daughter fell on this rocky pavement, well, you’d both have another coming. Or at least that’s what you had assumed. 

Sarah’s giggles echoed and you could hear your parents’ shouts of encouragement from the house. You were standing on the end of the driveway, eyes glued to the giant man and the tiny girl, happily skating around. After a few minutes, Sarah finally found her footing, so to say, and was actually skating without Steve’s support.

Finally, you dropped your shoulders and let out a sigh of relief at the two enjoying themselves. It was all going fine until Sarah was turning, like she had done so many times before, but this time happened to catch a rock under a wheel on her right skate.

 In your mind, it all happened in slow motion, making your feet stay grounded, yet your conscience was “running” to her. Steve’s face looked absolutely mortified and he dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain from the harsh contact, he immediately scooped up the girl. 

For a moment, her lip quivered and Steve continued to soothingly stroke her hair, gazing into her watering eyes. Just when you thought the dam would break, Sarah swallowed her sobs, shook it all off, and stood from her father’s lap. She even held out a hand to help him up and he looked very shocked. Even more shocked than when you told him you were going into labor, which was quite the experience, one you preferred to not re-live. 

Eventually, you joined the two and up close you could see that Steve had a single tear running down his face. You knew his worst fear was failing his daughter, he had told you so many years ago. Sarah noticed Steve’s sorrow and she got down once more to sit back on her heels. With gentle movement, Sarah wrapped her arms around the man’s broad shoulders and pulled him into the most lovable hug you’ve seen in ages. 

“It’s okay, Daddy. Please don’t cry! See I’m just as brave as you!” 

Your daughter then laid her head on his shoulder, the two of them in their own little world as usual. You hated to break them up, but they were currently sitting in the middle of the road and you’d rather not get hit by a car. Softly, you tapped Steve’s shoulder and he slowly rose up, Sarah in his arms and tired from the scare as well. The three of you made your way back up the driveway and into the house where your mother met you with the same nervous look you had once wore. Once a nurse, always a nurse, for she had a first aid kit in hand. You quickly reassured her and followed Steve back to your rooms. 

Summer in New York City wasn’t that much enjoyable, so ever since Sarah had been born, you and Steve come in July to stay at your parents house. Today was Fourth of July and you helped your parents with their annual barbeque. That went well and then the whole roller skating incident happened and now here you were. It was 3 in the afternoon and since it was Steve’s birthday, you had some surprise plans for him later. He was unaware and had assumed you had forgotten his birthday, which you had not. 

An hour later, you found Sarah in the pool with your parents while Steve sat on one of the lounge chairs, only khaki swim trunks on. You could tell he’d been out of the pool for a while as his hair was starting to look a bit fluffy. Steve’s eyebrows were furrowed in concentration and in his lap you could see a sketch that he was tediously working on. Your daughter was too busy playing pool volleyball with her grandparents, that the three were yet to notice your presence. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you strutted over to Steve and sat on the edge of his seat where you gently tapped his leg to gain his attention. 

“Whatcha working on, Grant?”

Steve peered up at you, his smile possibly even brighter than the sun that reflected on you both. He silently passed off the sketchbook to you. The sketch depicted the scene happening before your eyes, your parents bonding with Sarah, all of them wearing large grins and laughter. It was the kind of picture that could lift someone's mood in an instant, all because Steve was the best at portraying emotions in his artwork. 

“So, birthday boy, I have some plans for you… that is if you are still up to it.” You motioned to his current laid back state and Steve looked down at himself to see what you meant. He was curious as to what you had planned, having told you not to plan anything for his birthday. 

“Oh honey, I told you not to do anything.” Steve looked at you disapprovingly, his sunglasses now pulled down so you could feel the full effect of his “glaring.” 

“It’s not everyday that a wife gets to celebrate her husband’s...” Pausing, you did some quick mental math (that may have not been accurate) and came to an answer, “102nd birthday!” 

At that, Steve lurched forward and pulled you onto his lap, placing a kiss on your temple as his arms tightly wrapped around your waist. 

“You spoil me too much, doll.” A simple hum was your only reply and you leaned back into his embrace. 

----

About an hour later, both you and Steve got quick showers and tidied up a bit. The only thing Steve had heard about where you were taking him, was that it wasn’t too fancy as you told him to dress casual. As Steve got ready, you asked Sarah if she wanted to come along, but instead she decided to stay back and make some cookies with your mom. 

The two of you then met at the front door where you kissed Sarah goodbye and headed off to the car. Just as Steve was about to get in the driver’s seat, you stole the keys from his grasp and gave him a small “tsk tsk” causing the man to laugh. Earlier, while Steve had gotten dressed, you had been able to sneak out and put a prepared picnic basket in the trunk of the car along with a large blanket. For Steve’s birthday, you were taking him to see fireworks at a nearby park. You knew how much of a sucker he was for fireworks and a good, old fashioned, park picnic. 

As you pulled into the entrance of the park and globs of people sat out on the field, Steve’s eyes started to sparkle with excitement and you couldn't help but grin at him. 

“Babe, is this what I think it is?”

You put the car in park and turned in your seat to fully face Steve, “If you’re thinking fireworks and a picnic, then you’re right. I’m sorry it’s not a lot, but I know how much you-” 

Before you could finish your unnecessary apology, Steve sweetly grabbed your face and pulled you in for an enchanting kiss. 

“It’s perfect, (y/n).” 

Steve’s face softened into a loving look and his azure eyes looked the slightest bit shiny in the moonlight. 

You parted away from the man and exited the car, heading to the trunk where Steve met you. He helped carry the picnic basket despite your pleas for him to not do so. 

The park wasn't too crowded, but there were just enough people for you and Steve to have to search around for a good ten minutes. Eventually you spotted this place under a tree that wasn’t too surrounded and had a perfect view of where the fireworks would be. 

Swiftly, you laid out the plaid picnic blanket and Steve then set down the picnic basket that was filled with the components of your dinner. You began to set out the prepared food, even bringing out a candle, albeit fake, that provided some romantic and not overwhelming lighting.

Since you both had arrived twenty minutes before the show started, it allowed for you and Steve to enjoy the dinner peacefully. You had even packed some desserts but those would be for during the show as a little something to snack on.

Just as the show started, you had finished packing away the last of the Tupperware containers and now settled in between Steve's legs, his chest providing use as a pillow. The man delicately rested his chin on your shoulder and in return, you lovingly rubbed his forearms that laid in your lap.

“Thank you for the best birthday, my love. You’ve given me so much over these past few years and I swear I don’t know what I’d be without you.” 

It was a whisper in your ear, but you still heard it over the loud crackling of the fireworks. 

With a warm smile and quiet giggle, you brought his hand to your lips and placed a kiss on the back of his hand.

“Only you could pull off such a cheesy line, Rogers.” 

[sweetsubharry]

hi! do you have any fic recs of like really fluffy one shots

Hiya!! yes I do!! Aren’t they just the best sometimes?? Sorry this took me a few days to do! I had over 260 fics to go through on ao3 just under fluff (I really need to tidy my bookmarks!)  💖 There’s 79 in this list so it’s a long one!! ^-^

please stay safe and read the tags everyone! :)

freeze this moment in a frame and stay like this by rosesau

Harry (not so) secretly crushes on the cute footie player and fills pages with sketches of him.

Thunder started it by booloveshiscuppycake

Harry's always been scared of thunder storms. But louis' always been there to comfort him. Friendship and comfort turn into love. (Fluffy as shit)

but he cant be what you need (if he's eighteen) by lingerielarries

“I need you to do something for me.” Harry said, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger.

“It seems like you’re asking me to kill for you, H.” Louis laughed nervously.

“It’s nothing that drastic, I promise. It’s just. I don’t think it’s a secret that I’m not a.. normal eighteen year old.” Louis furrowed his eyebrows at that, narrowing his eyes at the younger boy.

“Are people giving you a hard time?” Louis wondered. Harry shifted in his seat and brushed some of his fringe off his forehead.

“Yeah, that’s. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” Harry swallowed nervously. He could feel the sweat pooling at his hairline so he wiped it with the sleeve of his sweater. “I need you to uhm, pretend to be my boyfriend.”

or

the one where harry is sick of getting bullied and casts louis as the hot punk boyfriend to scare them away. louis needs harry to return the favor.

punk!louis and flowerchild!harry

the love is ours to make (so we should make it) by lingerielarries

“I’m.. Harry. I nanny? For Ernest and Doris?” Harry responded.

“A nanny? How old even are you? You look twelve.” Louis remarked. Something caught Louis’ eye, and a closer look revealed that Harry had a coat of pink nail polish on his fingers.

“Nineteen. I’m nineteen.” Harry replied.

“Right. Nineteen, wears pink, flower crowns and paints his nails. Who the actual fuck did my mum hire?”

or

the one where louis takes some time off from life to return home, only to be met with a strange boy in pink and a flowercrown as the nanny of his siblings.

All I See is You by ElegantSurrender

Even with the blood gushing from his nose, he couldn’t keep his thoughts on anything but the boy in front of him. He was just so… pretty. He smiled to himself, which only seemed to worry his boyfriend more.

“Why’re you smiling?” Louis asked confusedly, moving Harry’s bloody hand away, and replacing it with his, pinching his nose shut with a tissue. “You’re bleeding, and you’re fucking smiling.”

“Seeing you makes me happy.”

(or the one where Harry has a bloody nose and Louis takes care of him, and Harry really really loves Louis)

Pretty Blue Eyes (I don't care about the nightmares) by justgotowisharder

Harry has nightmares, Louis hates sharing the bed, they end up talking about dreams, they read Freud and they fall in love in the process.

Breathe by dontlietomehoney

Harry has an asthma attack and Louis is scared to death. What follows after though, scares both boys, pulling them apart and bringing them together.

with your love we could breathe underwater by luminescents

Harry’s brow furrows, a look of confusion spreading over his face. “But I am real. I exist, see,” he says, raising a hand out of the water and wiggling his fingers at Louis.

Louis finds himself relaxing a bit. Harry seems harmless really. And he’s quite cute, for something that’s not supposed to exist. If Louis is indeed having a hallucination right now, at least it’s a cute one.

AU where Harry is a mermaid, Louis is a human, and they both discover a lot more than they anticipated.

yes, you make my life worthwhile by orphan_account

Harry whispers to him that this feels like every dream he’s had for the last three years and Louis kisses his temple, behind his ear, across his cheeks and by the edge of his jaw. He runs the back of his finger across Winnie’s sleep-warm cheeks and sighs, the weight of the world finally off his shoulder.

Louis' a pediatrician, Harry's a preschooler teacher, and they're having a baby.

Weigh Us Down (We're In Love) by orphan_account

Harry’s eyes widen slightly at that. “We’re friends?”

Louis nods eagerly, smiling even wider. “Of course we are! You’re like, my first ever friend here. We just moved in, you see. Did I already tell you about that? Anyway! Maybe you can stay for dinner and I can show you my toys?”

Harry smiles. “You’ll let me play with you?”

Louis nods again, excited. “Of course!” He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then he’s slipping off the couch and crouching in front of Harry. “Oh, and Mum always kisses my wounds after she fixes them up. It makes me feel loads better all the time, so.” He leans forward and puckers his lips, pressing them over the bandage on Harry’s knee.

(harry and louis first meet when they’re eight and ten. this is their story throughout the years.)

Breathe by Jade_eyed

Can you write a Larry high school AU where Harry's a sophomore and Louis' his senior boyfriend and Harry's being bullied during class and has a panic attack and all he's saying is 'Louis' so someone goes into louis' classroom and gets him and louis' like freaking out when he finds out and just really fluffy and stuff i just need this okay

[ I changed it a bit , I'm sorry babe I tried. :( ]

Cause If You Let Me, Here's What I'll Do by stylesforstiles

Five times where Harry is Louis' baby

Zero Means Nothing When I'm With You by StripedAndBowtied

Louis doesn't know what he's looking for until he finds it.

Harry just knows he may defy his gender norms, with his height and clumsiness, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want litters of pups running around while he does domestic things all day long.

In other words, boy meets boy and no one can stop pining.

All my senses come to life by erikaeurekajoe

And it was true. Harry's senses were all coming to life, on overdrive in fact because a handsome blue-eyed stranger was holding his hands.

Because of Louis Tomlinson's Arse by AggressiveStress

One in which Harry is a clumsy Uni student that first sees Louis leaning over, picking up his things with his arse very prominent. Harry then falls down the stairs and Louis- wearing a nice little beanie- helps him back to his feet.

In All Its Imperfections by BriaMaria

From: Louis Tomlinson To: Undisclosed Recipients

Hello!

I’ve asked the front desk and you lovely folks are the ones who are on the same level as me in the car park. I found a to-do list today that looked somewhat important because it has lines of poetry scribbled at the bottom that seemed like they might be for a card project. The stationary has a moose in a canoe at the top of it (and he is quite adorable). Let me know if it’s yours!

Cheers!

“Oh. My. Fucking. God,” Harry whispered, his eyes darting over the sentences again willing them not to make sense. They did, they did make sense. “Oh. My. Bloody. Fucking. God.”

The next thing he knew he was on the floor, staring at the ceiling, with a very concerned Liam hovering over his head.

"What happened, mate?" Liam asked.

Harry just pointed to his computer.

Liam bent over Harry’s desk to read the email. “What? This isn’t bad. Is that your to-do list? Did you finally come up with the inside text for those cards?”

“Leeyum" he groaned. “It’s what’s on the list.”

“Oh,” Liam paused for a beat. “Is it dirty stuff?”

Harry nodded.

There was more silence. And then, “Dirty stuff with Louis?”

Delirious in Love by yourpricelessadvice (orphan_account)

Louis is there for Harry waking up from minor surgery; he wouldn't miss it for the world. For two reasons.

Stars Will Align For Us by 2tiedships2

"The serial monogamist is single," Niall said by way of introduction when he sat down across from Harry in the canteen.

Harry sipped his chocolate milk. "What are you going on about?"

"Your alpha dream boat," Niall said. "That tiny little footie player? I heard from Hannah that he's broken it off with his boyfriend so he’s single and ready to flamingle. Now's the time to make your move."

Harry sipped his chocolate milk harder to keep himself from replying.

Or the one where Harry is an omega at a loss of how to get past his pining and gain the attention of Louis...especially considering the alpha is always in a relationship.

(twenty minutes later) wound up in the hospital by callmelover

“Baby, I think a quick trip to A&E might do you some good, hm?” Louis keeps his voice as calm as possible. He doesn't want to startle Harry or make him scared, but he knows that Harry’s fever is too high and he can't risk Harry choking himself into another attack when he's so poorly.

He hears a sharp intake of breath come for Harry and he knows Harry is starting to panic. Louis moves his hand from Harry's hair to his back, rubbing circles into his sweat-soaked shirt.

“No, no. Shh, don't worry, darling. Everything is okay, you’ll be okay. I just know that the doctors will be able to make you feel much better much sooner than I can...Just want you to get healthy as soon as possible, okay?”

-

or the one where harry has the flu and louis is a protective, nervous-wreck of a boyfriend

You live in my heart by styleztomlinson

As soon as they’re done with their set, Louis only has one thing on his mind and that’s to get out of there as soon as possible.or,Harry is sick during their performance at the iHeartRadio festival. Afterwards, Louis takes cares of his baby, and dotes on his husband.

Take Care by secretlylarry

Louis really does love to take care of Harry when he's sick.

if we got nothing, we got us by tumsa

Harry is Louis' baby and he's sick as well.

Peppermint and Lavender (and Coffee) by 2tiedships2

“He was there again,” Louis announced by way of greeting. “Lottie was right and she can never know.”

"What the fuck are you talking about?” Niall asked as he snapped his laptop closed.

“The omega, Niall. He was there today. Just sitting in the corner looking pretty. Or at least his back is. He hasn’t turned around when I’m available to see. I know he’s beautiful though.”

"Okay?” Niall questioned. “What does that have to do with Lottie?”

Louis let out a huff. "She told me I shouldn’t work at a coffee shop. She was right.”

Or the one where Louis might have met the love of his life in a coffee shop. But that’s not how it’s supposed to happen.

So Long I've Been Waiting by kikikryslee

Niall held up his glass in a toast. “Cheers.” Harry stared at Louis as he brought the glass up to his lips, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t like he could refuse the drink, but he certainly didn’t want to have any champagne. Louis monitored everyone else, and as soon as they all had their heads tilted back, drinking their mimosa, he reached out and knocked Harry’s glass right out of his hand, sending it crashing to the floor. “Oh, no!” Louis pretended to be shocked at what had just happened. “Harry, you’re so clumsy. You dropped your glass.” “Yes,” Harry said seriously. “I am very clumsy.” --- Or, the one where Harry and Louis are having their first baby, and keeping it a secret until the end of the first trimester is a lot harder than they thought it would be.

Nothing's Gonna Stop Me But Divine Intervention by kikikryslee

“So… what’s next on the soul mate search?” Louis asked. “I don’t know,” Harry answered. “Whatever I’m doing isn’t working. I’m not finding him anywhere.” “He’ll get here. I know it." “Yeah. I know he’s out there somewhere; I just have to figure out where.” --- Or, the soul mate AU where Harry overthinks everything having to do with finding the love of his life, and Louis doesn't think there's a Mr. Right for him at all. It takes them a while to realize that their soul mate is the person they want it to be: each other.

We Made These Memories for Ourselves by supernope

Breath held, Harry squints his eyes open and focuses on the first stick. A blue line. Harry breathes out an unsteady breath. He’s pretty sure he read that one blue line is a negative, but he fishes the box from the bottom of the pile just to make sure.

“Negative,” he confirms, voice echoing around the small room. “Next.”

Now that he’s feeling a little less shaky, he scans the rest of the tests at once, is met with a headache-inducing mixture of pink plus signs and blue double lines. His heart rate picks up until it’s pounding triple-time in the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach, thundering in his ears and throbbing in his temples. He flips over the rest of the boxes slowly, but he knows what they’re going to say before he even looks.

[or, Louis is a footballer, Harry owns a bakery, and they're having a baby.]

taken by the wind by scrunchyharry

When he decided to move to London with his sister, Harry thought he would finally get to learn how to control his magic. He couldn't possibly have predicted that he would fall for her neighbour.

Or the one where Harry is a clumsy witch and Louis is making everything worse just by existing.

Piece by Piece by SadaVeniren

He rubbed his hand over his lower stomach and closed his eyes. Louis was going to lose his fucking mind.

(aka Harry tells Louis he's pregnant and it goes as expected)

And We Linger On by stylesforstiles

Harry is pouting. Louis takes care of him

There's a Hole In My Soul, Can You Fill It? by stylesforstiles

Sometimes Harry is so tired. Louis always wants to fix it.

one glance and the avalanche drops by Wankerville

It's strange, honestly, having someone so gorgeous in his kitchen, and not only physically gorgeous, but, like, the everything else gorgeous. The type of gorgeous that Louis wants his life to always be covered in. The type of gorgeous he wants lying in sweatpants and an old t-shirt on his couch when he gets home from class. The type of gorgeous he wants to have shoving crisps down the front of his shirt. The type of goddamn gorgeous he wants to kiss, and coddle, and like, love.

Which is ridiculous- he doesn't know him. Pfft.

(or an au wherein louis buys a christmas tree and harry is the boy in leggings who delivers it. they are a christmas classic.)

Do Not Falter (There's a Star Ahead) by LadyLondonderry

It's Christmas Eve, and every single one of Louis' family members are crowded inside his little flat. Really, what more could he ask for on his birthday?

The present he never knew he wanted - in the form of an omega from his past - might just make this his most memorable Christmas.

Right Here Waiting by lovelarry10

Louis and Harry are expecting a baby. Harry's heavily pregnant and nesting madly, determined to make their home ready for their baby.

Blow Out the Candles, Baby by iwillpaintasongforlou

Louis' been planning Harry's 20th birthday party for weeks, and Harry's too sick to move. Louis might be the kind of sap who tries to nurse him back to health with cuddles and jokes and cupcakes for two.

Never Let You Fall by iwillpaintasongforlou

Harry slips on stage and gets a minor concussion, and Louis insists that he spend the night in the hospital just in case. He then turns into a protective baby lion because that is his Harry and he'll be damned if anything happens to him on Louis' watch. Harry rolls his eyes a lot but doesn't really mind.

Asthma and Bad Jokes by Larry_Klaine_Stylinson

When Harry has an asthma attack on stage, Louis has to go and help him. He leaves Niall in charge of keeping the audience entertained.

All I Need is Oxygen (and You) by lululawrence

There are only two ways to navigate Bloomfield High School: become popular or make yourself invisible.

With the help of his best mate Niall, Harry’s introduction to high school hadn’t been half bad. Despite being a “bandie” – the lowest of the low in the ancient hierarchy of high school –Harry had somehow managed to survive freshman year relatively unscathed. So naturally, Harry would have been perfectly happy to resume his position of invisible trombone player number four for the remainder of high school. But one day something drastic happened, something that would change the course of Harry’s entire existence (probably).

It was the last football game of his freshman year, and the band was back in the stands after performing a rousing rendition of Bloomfield’s alma mater during half time. Harry was gracelessly wiping the slobber from the mouthpiece of his trombone when he saw him.

Louis Tomlinson.

Or...a High School AU where Harry is a bandie and Louis is the epitome of cool, so naturally, Harry must find a way to get his attention and win his affections.

i’d burn this city down to show you the light by you_explode

Harry's a sheltered rich kid and Louis's a punk with a heart of gold. They meet when Louis breaks into Harry's house, Harry obtains an instant and all-encompassing crush, and they spend the summer falling into a whirlwind romance.

put your head on my shoulder by wayfared

Niall gives Harry until the end of marching season to either a) make a move on Louis Tomlinson or b) get the fuck over him. Either is easier said than done. Basically, your High School AU with a drum beat.

we should get jerseys, 'cause we make a good team by ellisaco

Harry's not very good at football, but he's aces at cheering Louis on.

Snow by hlftanna

Louis hid something from him. Harry was 100% sure of that. He knew him better than he knew himself. And. He. Hid. Something. From. Him. Harry just hasn't figured out what. Because if Louis wanted to hide something from anyone he usually succeeded because he was Louis Tomlinson.

Use Your Words by zedi

based off this prompt: collage au where jock!harry always serenades flowercrown!louis with love songs in their music class. what nobody knows is that harry actually kinda means the words he sings.

But instead it's Louis as the jock and Harry as the flowerchild because I do what I want.

see the truth (it's me for you) by orphan_account

If you asked Louis the first day of his French Literature class what he’d be doing on the last, he’d probably never have guessed it would involve helping a poorly Harry Styles study for the final exam. Good thing he’s not a betting man.

(Or the one where Louis and Harry spend an entire semester ignoring each other after a one-night stand, only to come face to face when Harry manages to catch the stomach flu during finals week. Sometimes fate is funny like that.)

calling out for somebody to hold tonight by heartinsidemine

“Dunno why I can’t sleep,” is the first thing Harry says into the still, quiet night.

“New flat, new noises,” Louis murmurs, finally setting the kettle on the stove and turning properly toward him. “New responsibilities, too, eh? Second year, you’re working your way up in the world.”

Harry rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Nothing’s really new, though, is it? I mean, the location, but… I’ve got the same job I had last year, same basic courses, same workload…” He sighs out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You and me are in the same boat, though,” Louis murmurs to him. He hates seeing Harry like this, even though rationally he knows that he can’t do anything about Harry’s insomnia. “Finding it difficult to sleep myself. Was gonna turn on the telly, maybe the cooking channel until I fall asleep. Care to join me?”

He doesn’t think twice about the offer before making it; it only makes sense. They’re both exhausted and they both sleep better with a cuddle, and anyway Louis would absolutely rather have a conversation partner than only the walls of his room for company.

Running Down To The Riptide by sweaterpawstyles

"I can't give you your present yet, Lou."

Louis furrowed his brows. "And why is that, my love?"

Harry smiled at his lap. "Because your present is under my sweater," he pulled his free hand that wasn't laced with Louis' and gently laid it on his stomach. "I'm pregnant."

Or

It's New Year's Eve and Harry has a surprise under his sweater

Song For The Springtime by sunshiner

“Cherry blossoms,” Harry mumbles. “The solution’s cherry blossoms.”

Uni AU.

the happiest place in our universe by tippytoetomlinstyles

Harry holds Louis’ hand and looks around at all the exciting and beautiful things and Louis looks at him because he finds him the most beautiful and exciting thing there is.

or the one where Louis takes Harry to Disneyland and Harry convinces Louis to wear Mickey Mouse ears to match his Minnie Mouse ears.

Made From Love by lovelarry10

It's almost Christmas, and amongst the preparations, Louis' realised something about his husband Harry.

Harry, however, seems to be oblivious.

Louis' determined to open Harry's eyes and make him realise the real magic that's happening this Christmas...

Another Constellation to Trace by screwstyles

Louis wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m winning that bet.”

“What bet?” comes Niall’s excited voice from behind them, followed by footsteps. “I wanna be in on the bet!” he shouts, prompting Harry to quickly roll down his shirt sleeve and straighten his shirt where it’s still crinkly after Louis’ hands.

Niall takes one look at them and purses his lips in a tight line. “Were you guys making out again? Isn’t the fire meant to die down a bit after eight years?”

“Trust me, the fire is still very much alive,” Louis winks at Harry. “One could even say it’s cooking something.”

-

Mpreg AU: Louis and Harry bet on who can keep Harry's pregnancy a secret for longer. Neither of them is particularly good at it, and it doesn't help that their soulmate tattoos make it even harder.

another pair of feet by honey_beeing

where Harry is pregnant and Louis is an oblivious idiot.

We Were Made to Love by supernope  

“Everything all sorted? Need help with the buckles? I know they’re a bit tricky in this compartment.”

The voice startles Louis out of his daze, and he turns toward the voice to let him know he figured it out. When he catches sight of the owner of the voice, though, his response dies in his throat. Whatever he had imagined the conductor of a children’s train that rides around the shopping centre in Leeds would look like, this is certainly not it.

Leaning through the window, arms folded across the sill, is a green-eyed angel with cherry red lips stretched wide in a smile and dimples flirting in his cheeks. A black conductor’s hat is the only confirmation that this is not some gorgeous stranger who’s come to flirt with Louis through the window of a children’s train, but is just a man doing his job.

[or, Harry drives a kiddie train in the shopping centre for the summer and is obsessed with babies, and Louis never stood a chance.]

here comes the sun by orphan_account

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Louis promises, his pink, chapped lips moving slowly in the cold. It matches the beanie on his head—pink, because they found out this morning that they’re having a girl and that’s just.

Harry’s going to be a dad. To a little girl. Five months from now he’ll be holding her in his arms, and she’ll be so lovely and small.

They’re going to have a spring baby and she’s probably going to have Louis’ eyes. What a blessing that would be. Harry crosses his fingers on the hand inside his pocket, hoping that she does. He’ll love her either way—blue or green or even brown eyes, it doesn’t matter—but he’d really like them to be blue, he thinks.

[Harry is a pediatric specialist, Louis is a neurosurgeon. All they want is a baby.]

So Put Your Hands In (The Holes of My Sweater) by Kat_rawr

“Are you gonna kiss me then?” He asks so quiet he isn’t even sure Louis heard him.

“I think it’s bad luck if I don’t.“ Louis’ breath is hot on Harry’s skin in the cold air. They stand in the dark; Louis’ face only lit up by the yellow-ish light from the street light a few metres away. The light over the door of their building hasn’t worked in years.

“Okay,” Harry says, and of course his cheeks heat up. There are definitely butterflies in stomach and his mouth is definitely dry.

or,

Harry and Louis go on a lot of not-dates

A Little Kind of Magic by Star55

A tiny tale of Louis' Very Important Birthday and Christmas at Hogwarts that Harry loves celebrating with his best friend whom he absolutely is not in love with. No matter what Niall says. (He's a little in love with Louis.)

it tastes like you, only sweeter by EmmyLouWho

Sometimes Harry hates being a second year, like when all his older friends get to go to Hogsmeade and he has to stay behind in the castle. Luckily, Harry has a Louis to make everything better.

For the prompt: “I’m not allowed to go to Hogsmeade but you always tell me stories about it and bring me candy from Honeydukes”

Sun-Dappled by QuickedWeen

Louis and his best friend Harry are in their seventh year at Hogwarts, facing down their future together. Louis has been in love with his best friend for as long as he can remember, and he begins to feel a sense of urgency as the second semester begins. Finally he hatches a plan to tell Harry about his feelings on Harry's birthday.

Sweet Like Sunshine by orphan_account

When Louis saves him from some seventh years bullying him on his lack of Quidditch skills, Harry takes offense. Louis offers to teach him to make up for it. They fall in love somewhere along the way.

Featuring one exasperated Niall, trips to Hogsmede and many flying sessions.

Follow Me Down This Time by supernope

Harry first noticed Louis in his second term at Hogwarts, and despite three years of inventing ways to stumble across Louis, he's never managed to actually work up the courage to speak to him. Also known as, self-indulgent Hogwarts AU, because every fandom needs Hogwarts AUs.

For Reasons Wretched and Divine by panicmoonwalk

Niall’s head was sitting in the fireplace, wide grin lighting up his features as flames licked the bright tips of his hair. Louis promptly dropped his tray at the sight.

“Bloody hell!” He yelled, half at the sudden appearance of Niall in the fire and half at the scalding cocoa he’d just dropped on his bare foot. “What are you doing?!”

Niall just continued to grin, clearly highly amused by Louis hopping on one foot and desperately trying to search for a weapon he could use to beat his friend’s head out of the fireplace.

“Well,” Niall began. “We’re going on an adventure!”

Or, the one where Louis and Harry’s Christmas holiday at Hogwarts is rudely interrupted when they’re dragged off on a tropical wizard’s vacation, featuring some angry centaurs, a spell gone wrong, and the ‘weirdest birthday anyone’s ever had. Ever’.

Loving with a Little Twist by hrrytomlinson

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know Niall! I just promised my mother I’m bringing my boyfriend - a boyfriend I don’t have - to Thanksgiving dinner. What should I do? I can’t call back and be like, ‘Oh yeah mom, that boyfriend I said that I have, I don’t actually have. Sorry to disappoint you.’ My life is ruined.” Harry returns to suffocating himself with the pillow.

Niall laughs and Harry growls at his best friend’s unwarranted happiness in this life-ending situation. Harry is fucked. Fuck. He needs a boyfriend. Fuck.

(or a thanksgiving themed fake/pretend relationship au)

everywhere (i wanna be with you) by itiswhatitisbutterfly

Harry and Louis meet because they have terrible friends, they fall in love because something feels right in a world of uncertainty and shifting grounds. Louis is an actor and Harry is a model at the top of his game, the best things in life are the most unexpected ones and the things that hit you when you are least expecting it.

Featuring winter in London, nights in Paris, early mornings in New York, burning heat in Monte Carlo and an enduring love spent transcending four corners of the globe.

on a wednesday, in a cafe by wreckedboyfriends

“What can I get for you today?” he asked without looking up, arranging the last of the pastries.

“Have any recommendations? Never been here before, actually.” Harry hit his head on the top of the case in his haste to look at the source of the voice. It was a really beautiful voice, small and high and just lovely, if a voice could be lovely. Harry thought so. “Alright, mate?” the man asked when Harry finally composed himself, rubbing the top of his head as he took his place at the register.

Harry opened his eyes, and fuck. If Harry had thought his voice was lovely, the man himself was on a whole other level. “Alright, mate?” He repeated and shit. Harry had been openly staring for quite awhile, hadn’t he?

“Yeah,” Harry replied, and it came out sounding like a semi trailer running over gravel. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Um, the cherry danish is quite good, I think. ’S my favorite.”

The man smiled. “One cherry danish it is, then.”

OR Harry’s spent the last year with six locks on his door, a pair of too-flamboyant boots buried in the back of his closet, and insecurity issues the size of a mammoth. Louis changes some of that, but Harry changes the most.

I Long For You by AnotherAnonymousWriter

Thirty minutes later, he's sat on a bench in Hyde Park with a book in his lap and a travel mug with hot tea in his hand. Not far from where he's sat, a group of boys are playing football and a bunch of children are chasing each other. Life is good.

Or at least, life is good until he hears a familiar “LOOK OUT!” and sees a football flying in the direction of his face.

And then everything is black.

(Harry gets hit in the head by various objects and falls for a boy with blue eyes.)

Let It Snow by thebrainisafunnyplace

Bakery owner Harry Styles is always cold, until he hires local university student, Louis Tomlinson to work as a cashier. When the storm of the year hits, the boys find themselves stuck together inside the bakery the night before Christmas Eve. Luckily, they have each other to keep warm.

everything i can arrange, every part of me you change by orphan_account

“Don’t you try that shit with me,” Niall spits the second he reaches Louis, pulling off the hood with force. “What the hell is this?” He plops down next to Louis on the empty bleacher and unceremoniously pushes a sheet of crumpled paper in his face.

Netflix and Chill Buddy Application

It’s like no matter how hard Louis tries, he can’t seem to run away from this stupid fucking flyer. All the girls (and some of the boys) in every one of his classes have been talking about it all week. It’s on every wall of every building on campus. Louis went for a jog last night and he nearly tripped and died over a loose one on the football track.

[Harry needs a big spoon and Louis refuses to let anyone steal his position. Based on this post.]

No words by becharlatan

Harry is a music student who never talks because he's a total introvert. Louis happens to bump into him by accident and as if like the constellations, the two have aligned their paths together despite their differences.

Sun Emoji Moon Emoji by mybeanieandme

For the prompt:

University!au: Harry works at a cafe as the busboy and Louis just really wants to get to know him. (Louis pines for an insecure Harry for a semester)

nonstop earthquake dreams of you by lumineres

And there's heat behind it, blazing, plasmatic, like stars crashing together, like an explosion in space, like a supernova, like a black hole--everything else sucked out of existence. There's no bed and there's no pillow and they're not lying down, just floating somewhere, somehow, and there's no room and there's no X Factor house and there's no Niall snuffling or Liam's deep, even breathing and there's no wind or traffic outside and there's no hum of the heating unit and it's all just Louis. All encompassingly Louis.

or, harry falls hard and finds louis already at the bottom

Kiss From A Rose by lovelarry10

Harry is the quiet one in the office no one ever notices. Until Louis does, that is. When notes start appearing on Harry’s desk, he ponders who is behind the kind words, oblivious to Louis’ attempts to get his attention...

Black Cat by lalune15

Inspired by this tumblr post (not asked or requested): fic where louis works at a haunted house jumping out at people and harry’s friends drag him along even though he doesn’t really like haunted houses. when louis jumps out to scare their group, harry freaks out and accidentally jumps into louis’s arms. louis just squeaks. harry ends up sitting there with louis the rest of his shift and totally doesn’t come back every night after that.

Be Mine, For Always by zams

Louis is happy when Harry is happy. That's what Louis wants, and so when Louis starts feeling weird when Harry cuddles with Liam, Zayn, or Niall instead of him, he keeps quiet. But the burning, uncomfortable feeling Louis gets deep in his stomach when he sees Harry contentedly nuzzling Liam's neck, or Harry's arms and legs tangled around Niall like an octopus, or Harry's face smushed in Zayn's stomach as Zayn plays with his hair only gets worse as the days go by.

Loosen Up My Buttons by softfonds

The beautiful man opened this bakery about a year ago. He remembered the exact day he came: a glum, rainy morning in the middle of February, which instantly turned brighter the minute he saw him. The man had come in with some paint buckets and tools, and Louis doubted he would be able to fix up the drab place all by himself. But as he walked down the stairs at the end of the day and saw the man standing there in the middle of a gorgeous pink and white shop, clearly proud of his work, Louis fell in love at first sight. If only he knew how to talk to him.

Usually, Louis knew how to flirt. He prided himself on it. But every time he looked at the beautiful man, he completely forgot how to form sentences, and there was no way he could go up to him only to make a fool of himself. That was the last thing he needed.

Or, Louis owns a tattoo shop called Pretty in Ink, Harry owns a bakery called Rolling Scones, they haven't been introduced, and Valentine’s Day seems like the perfect opportunity to finally talk to the man Louis has been pinning over for the past year. And they both end up with more love than they bargained for.

Coffee Cups and Football Boots by kimtaedumb

Harry’s stood behind the counter again, but this time he’s painting his nails. Louis strolls up to the counter and, thanks to his no brain-to-mouth filter, blurts out, “Isn’t that a little girlish, Haz?” leaning closer to inspect.

Harry lets out a little huff as his hand slips, “Oh, damn, now I’ve messed it up,” he pouts and turns to Louis, “Why should making myself feel pretty be girly?”

Louis holds up his hands in surrender, “’M not judging, jus’ curious is all.”

(The entirely cheesy and cliché Christmas AU, in which Harry doesn’t give a damn what people think about him – mostly – and Louis may be a little bit in love.

Alternatively, the one in which Harry owns a café that’s barely scraping by and Louis is a footballer and he takes Harry away for Christmas.

Featuring Zayn as a cocky little shit that most definitely needs to be put back in his place, Niall as the loveable Irish dude who drinks too much and flirts with Zayn more than the average girl, and Liam who loves everyone but hates them all at the same time.)

you make my whole world feel so right when it's wrong by orphan_account

“Curly?” Louis says, stepping into Harry’s sight. “You okay?” Harry looks up from where he has two things in his hands, a thick winter coat sized for a newborn, and a sweatshirt fitting a grown man such as himself. He looks up at Louis, stricken, and holds them out for him to see. “They’re the same price,” he says. “They’re both forty dollars! Forty dollars for such little material.”

(or, Harry is pregnant and stops at the mall to buy cheap baby clothes. Louis has extra money from working a long shift, and he can't think of a better way to spend it than on him.)

you were the ocean, i was drawn into you by by orphan_account

where harry takes pictures and worries too much and louis plays guitar.

i'll be your sunflower by scagnetism

“What do you think’s gonna stop us now?” Harry says cheekily, laughter in his voice as he looks up at Louis. “Something’s gotta get in our way like always, doesn’t it?”

“Ha,” Louis grins, kissing his cheek and holding open the door for him as they make their way toward the car. “Nothing’s gonna interrupt us this time. ‘S gonna be perfect, just like Pumpkin.”

Or, a few interruptions aren't going to stop Harry from having a perfect pregnancy and having the family he and Louis have always dreamed of.

Send Me Your Pillow (The One That You Dream On) by flowercrownfemme

Harry is embarrassed to realize he's nesting but can't stop stealing Louis' things for his nest.

Short fluffy o/o gaybo drabble with lots of cuddles and softness and sock stealing <3

As one we are everything/We are everything we need by louloubaby92

Harry finally marries the love of his life. He's got the mating mark, he's got Louis' ring on his finger.

And now, he's on his honeymoon. Louis is but a door away, waiting for him.

Honestly, he doesn't understand why he's nervous.

only guilty of loving you by sweetrevenge

After Harry gets set up with his co-worker's alpha friend Louis, he's expecting some pleasant conversation, free dinner, and maybe a new friend. What he doesn't expect, however, is that Louis' arrival in his life begins a life of crime Harry never knew he had in him.

A You've Got Mail!AU with a twist.

[writerwrites]

Yuánfèn | 05

Ch. 5: L'esprit de Escalier: “The feeling after leaving a conversation where you can’t help but think about all the things you should have said.”

Summary: When you’ve lost everything and try to run away from your problems, you keep finding a way back to the one person who completely understands. Can you make another person happy with a broken heart?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Chapter Chapter Word Count: 4.3k Chapter Warnings: Slow burn, anxiety and shock related to elevator failure incident, small mention of Steve’s minor injuries from the initial Ultron fight in the Tower, small mentions of two idiots being horny and doing nothing about it because re: idiots

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Complete Masterlist

“You look…” She trailed off, eyes bright as they met Steve’s.

“I look like what? You don’t like the blue?” He tugged on the collar of the blue button up he’d put on for Tony’s party as he laughed nervously. His smile was almost one of shy boyishness as he looked tenderly at the familiar woman in the small bed, relieved she was lucid. He’d asked Sharon to keep him in the loop and she hadn’t had a single clear day when he was in Spain.

“I was going to say tired. When’s the last time you slept?” Her aged hands reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and Steve quickly stepped over to help her. “The blue looks nice, but you know I’ll always prefer you in a uniform.” He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks.

“It’s been a few days, but knowing Stark, I probably won’t get any sleep tonight either.” Steve realized he was holding back, Peggy noticing it too when he paced around the end of the bed with his hands on his hips. “Like father, like son, I guess. Big party tonight. Tony even joked that he’d invited some of our old friends, so just wait until I’m back to let you in on whether or not we had some other vets there.”

“Hmm,” She smiled and watched him, “I wouldn’t put it past Stark at all...and did you find a new dance partner?”

Steve felt like he should've known that she would figure out why he came before he could pluck up the courage to ask Peggy to help him talk through his feelings. Sam was a great listener but there wasn’t anyone left that really knew him, not like Peggy did. Even with Natasha invested in his romantic life, she didn’t understand why he was so hesitant to try something new. With a nod, he sat in the chair next to Peggy’s bed, pulling it in closer. She smiled at him, reaching her hand out for him and he didn’t hesitate to take it, “I didn’t ask anyone to Stark’s party, but she’ll be there.”

There was a long quiet between the two of them. Steve wondered if he’d hurt her by mentioning you or whether Peggy was trying to find the right questions to ask. It wasn’t a painful silence, their hands staying together, fingers laced through like they were making the most of their time together and, in a way, they were. Periodically they would steal a glance at one another, smile softly, and settle back into their thoughts. Eventually, Peggy would break the silence, but not how he’d expected. “What are you still waiting for, Steve?” His thumb paused in its rhythmic brushing over the loose, translucent and speckled skin. “Burdening yourself with things you can’t change is no way to live.”

Though he nodded in agreement, Steve bit his tongue. There was so much that felt unfair, complicated. He let Peggy change the conversation, reminisce about old Stark parties and music from the forties, but Steve fought to be present and enjoy this rare moment with her. Was it fair to tell you he had feelings for you when he still loved Peggy, even if he couldn’t have her? You both had your own baggage, so could you find happiness together without working through that first independently? These were the same questions that had been running through his head every night he’d been back at the Tower. He had sat up, notebook in hand, and tried to write through it, but only ended up staring at the sketches of you asleep on his chest. He wanted to say there was happiness in Spain, but the silence since returning to New York felt like he had misread the situation. Instead of talking through it, he pressed a kiss to Peggy’s forehead and told her he’d be back as soon as he could, making no promises to dance with that new dance partner.

Your ears were still ringing when Sam picked you up off of the elevator floor. He had shouted over the sound of fighting far overhead and your own screams every time the elevator moved, but it hadn’t started in complete chaos. At first it seemed like a power surge, the elevator falling a few floors. JARVIS didn’t respond and then, after a little bit of waiting all hell broke loose. I got you, that was all he kept shouting as he pinned you in a corner of the elevator, arms wrapped around you while you wondered how many floors it would take to plummet to a certain death. In the minutes of peace between the first serious fall and the second, Sam still held you as he tapped on his smartwatch to call for help. The snapping sound of the elevator cables, clang of something heavy and metal clamoring through the elevator shaft and denting the roof, the squeal of the elevator breaks struggling to stop the lift from another terrifying descent. Needless to say, Sam’s message went unanswered. With Sam pressed against you and both of your bodies losing weight in the third descent you worried about the team, certain that it had to be exceptionally bad if whoever was responsible managed to get into Stark Tower.

Somehow the breaks held long enough for Sam to pry the doors open. The entire experience left you shaking in fear and even though the voice in your head was saying you were in shock, you couldn’t make yourself move from the curled up position in the corner of the elevator. It left Sam tasked with picking you up and using his adrenaline to carry you up the three flights of stairs back to your office as your body kept shaking in his arms. You couldn’t be sure if the ringing in your ears made the stairwell seem uncomfortably quiet or if the hell you two had just escaped was all in your head.

“Doc, I need to check on the team. I’ll be right back, just keep the door closed and…” He looked around your office, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, brought your bag to you and set it at your feet. “Your phone’s in here? I’ll be right back.” Even with tear-blurred vision you could see the concern in his dark eyes and the turmoil of leaving you, so you nodded because your teeth were chattering and you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. Sam pulled the soft blanket from the back of your couch over your shoulders, “I’ll be right back.”

It didn’t matter if he’d been gone five minutes or ten or even twenty, you spent the entire time with a racing heart. Every little sound set you off into a fit of tears that would choke up after your racing brain tried to logic yourself into calming techniques and there were sounds, screaming and banging. With your face buried in your knees and your body completely racked with exhaustion you lost all track of time, your mind pinballing between replaying the elevator’s descent, your need for sleep, fits of panic and calm, and even the horrible moments where you’d been in a cold basement identifying the remains of your family members years earlier. What you hadn’t been thinking about was getting your head in the game and following Sam to the frontline to patch up the team.

Sam came back, as promised, but he wasn’t alone. The sound footsteps in the hall had you sobbing into your knees, rocking back and forth as you tried to not imagine the worst. “Hey you,” Steve whispered, his warm breath hitting your arm moments before he took your hands in his. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” His warm hands brushed up your arms and pulled gently to untangle you from the ball you’d put yourself in. “Let’s go home, okay? Let’s get you out of here.”

Picking your head up a little, you looked around the room, the light was on and your office looked completely unchanged. Sam was standing behind Steve watching you, looking far more put together than you were as you caught sight of your own reflection and immediately looked away. You hadn’t seen yourself in such a state since the Chitauri attack and it wasn’t a trauma you wanted to relive. Slowly you turned your gaze to Steve and his thumbs immediately brushed away the damp on your cheeks. With a sniffle you asked, “Is it over?” The rasp in your voice gave away that you’d been screaming in the elevator or maybe it was from all the crying afterward. That logical voice in the back of your head tried to push forward again as you tried to box up your own feelings,  “Is the team okay? Do they need me?”

“Nah, we’re getting you out of here, Doc. The big brain idiots can deal with their mess.” Sam’s tone was brotherly but firm, no room to tell him you could handle the truth about whatever happened at the party.

When Steve tried to help you up your legs wobbled and you nearly fell. Quickly wrapping his arms around your waist, he steadied you. “It’s a lot of stairs, honey. Let’s just think about this for a minute.”

“Between the two of us we could get her down to the garage.” Sam offered as he watched you stare at Steve’s feet while you tried to steady your breathing, unaware that the reason you were trying to calm yourself down now had more to do with the proximity to the super soldier that just called you a pet name.

“You’ve been through hell tonight too, Sam.” Steve may have been talking to Sam but his attention was on you, how your arms were still pulled close to your chest and your whole body was shaking. “You both can crash here at the Tower. There’s a spare room next to mine. She can have mine, it’ll be fine. We can make it work. That’s a few floors down, we’ll manage if you can just carry her bag for her.”

“Steve,” you started with your head already shaking ‘no’ but you couldn’t be sure if you were saying no to staying in the Tower or kicking him out of his bed, probably the former. It wasn’t lost on that noisy logical part of your brain that your body seemed to have settled on freeze rather than fight or flight, but that sliver of rational brain seemed to focus on the fact that if someone got into the Tower once that they could do it again.

“I promise, you’re safe. You just hold on to me.” Effortlessly, Steve picked you up and pulled you to his chest. Wrapping your legs around his waist and locking your ankles behind him, you buried your face in Steve’s neck. Your arms draped around his neck but as they walked you through the Tower to the level with the Avengers’ apartments you relaxed, albeit just a little.

You had only been on this floor a handful of times and if anyone was watching you cling to Steve like a baby björn, you were too busy trying to remember to breathe to notice. In fact, you hardly even noticed Steve and Sam talking along the way or the conversation about showers, clothes, and breakfast in the morning. What you did notice was the circles Steve was pressing into your spine as he talked casually to Sam. He took his time to head next door to his room and what may have seemed like casual chit chat to Sam or even appeared like Steve being a bit of a moving, physical talker felt like you were being gently rocked into a less panicked state. Slowly, Steve had somehow lulled you into the headspace you were in once he joined you in Spain, the weight of emotions washing away in the familiar smell of his body wash and clothes. 

If the sound of a door closing and the quiet that ensued wasn’t an indication that you were now in Steve’s room it was the smell of the place, just as lovely and welcoming. As Steve leaned forward to set you down on the bed you instinctively clung more tightly to him. He straightened up and you felt the rumble of him holding back a laugh before he sighed and gave in, walking into his bathroom and setting you down on the sink. Absolutely refusing to let go of the small comfort that had numbed the terror of the evening may have been the main reason for your behavior, but there was also the fact that you didn’t want to acknowledge your bundle of insecurities. So, for a moment longer at least, you stayed right there holding on to him. “So this is how it’s going to be?” Steve brushed his fingers through your hair as you nodded into his chest. “Well, I’m not sure how comfortable you’re going to be trying to sleep in this dress and my shirt’s pretty torn up after the fight.”

The fight… For the first time since you stepped onto that elevator you really looked at him. Your legs slowly loosened their grip on his waist and Steve helped you reach the ground, even if it was just by the tips of your toes because he pinned you between his body and the counter of the bathroom sink. Even in the warm golden glow of the bathroom you could see that he was already healing from a good hit to the face. Your palm went to his cheek and he covered it in his own as if to tell you he was okay. Maybe you were going to ask him if he was, but all you managed to say was one shaky, half whispered, “Stay?”

Steve felt selfish for even thinking, hoping really, that you would ask, but he wanted to stay with you. He wanted to keep you safe and finally get some sleep himself. Instead of asking if you were sure, he found a confession passing his own lips in the same hushed tone, “I haven’t slept since we got back from the villa.”

The sound of your breath hitching, your surprise and exasperation, would’ve been unnoticed by the average person, but it might as well have been on a loudspeaker with the super soldier serum in his veins. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you tried to unpack the weight of what you were feeling with those words, with the pet name he’d used before he scooped you up. Somewhere between being both understood and hurt that neither of you had managed to say as much in three days. Your head was clouded by his words and your body seemed to forget that lungs needed air to breathe as his hands were back firmly on your hips. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you I missed you. I should’ve checked on you.”

Steve hushed you, a welcome end to what you knew would’ve been a word vomit rambling monologue of you unpacking whatever you were feeling. Your eyes met and you wanted to lean forward just a little and see what it was like to kiss him, to see if he would reciprocate, but the panic settled back in your bones and you scolded yourself for even entertaining the thought, gaze falling back to the floor. As you came down from the jittery terror of the elevator and the high of being held by him you remembered the sting of Tony’s speech at the party. To his world, you were certain that he saw you as nothing more than a silly girl with a silly crush.

When you withdrew into yourself again, Steve assumed you were trying to figure out how to ask for some privacy. It had been a long night and even though he thought you were still beautiful with makeup mussed from crying, he didn’t want to put more emotions on the pressure of the day. His thumbs brushed over your hips and he took a step back toward the door. “Take a shower and I’ll pull some clothes for you. I’m going to run down to the gym and take a quick shower there myself and then we’ll forget this day happened and get some sleep.”

He looked down at your hands, fingers now wrapping tightly around his pinky and ring finger. Steve wasn’t sure what you stopping him from walking away meant, but he was too scared to ask. While you had been the first person to understand him on a deeper level since he came out of the ice, you were still from a generation that was much more upfront sexually than he was. As much as he wanted you, that wasn’t something he could just walk into without clear boundaries and commitment. For you, your reluctance to let him go was too embarrassing to put into words, you kept your eyes on your linked hands rather than his face, terrified to find a look of pity or something less emotional written there. You spoke to your hands, giving them a gentle squeeze when you asked, “How long will I be up here alone?”

Tilting his head to the side, the Avenger realized what you meant and he visibly relaxed, “Full of surprises.” With those words, your words, a call to your trip to Spain, you managed to look up at him. When your eyes met you both managed soft, understanding smiles. “Ten minutes tops, put a timer on your phone. If you hear any clanging around it’s Tony fixing the elevator. I promise, you’re safe, okay? We’ve got everything under control and no one, especially me, will let anything happen to you.” It may have been what you needed to hear to let your hands fall from his, but it didn’t change the fact that after Tony’s speech you doubted that anyone was going to rush to save you. Whether Steve really realized that or not was another issue entirely, but you bit your tongue, nodded, and watched him leave.

10… You turned the knob of the shower and looked through the glass at your clothes on the floor. It felt like another life when Steve stammered over complimenting you in the dress and just as you replayed that moment in your mind your brain tugged at the latter events of the evening. You ducked your head under the hot stream of water to try and rinse everything away as your fried nerves seemed to be so eager to push you back into that shaken state.

9… He hissed as the water poured into the small cuts on his back and scalp while his gaze moved to the pile of clothes on the bench next to the shower. Another party, another missed opportunity to steal a dance with a girl he couldn’t get off his mind. The part of him that still loved Peggy was beginning to feel like someone else. He paused under the water, cringing as the water pressure made the fresh bruises on his back throb. The man had no idea how to string a sentence together around either of the two of them.

8… You paused, savoring the smell of Steve’s body wash coating your skin. Immediately, you wanted to run back to him, to the safety that you always found in his arms. The rapid pulse fluttering in your chest neither complete panic or complete anticipation. You only knew that it had more to do with him than the fear of any attack on the Tower.

7… He quickly rinsed off the bubbles of soap, eyes pressed tightly closed as he tried not to picture your bare silhouette through the foggy glass of his shower. That muscle twitched with want and neglect at the thought of the hot water running down your body, the same one that had clung to him for nights on end.

6… Wrapping your arms around yourself under the cascade of water, you pushed away the thoughts creeping into your mind as you became more aware of how alone you were in his space. You tried to remember to breathe, relax, find one happy moment in the day to say it was a day worth surviving. Safety was just a few minutes away, you repeated over and over in your head, but the hot water didn’t seem to be able to reach the cold in your bones.

5… Clearing his throat, he toweled off and practically ran back to his room. Circumnavigating the way he overthought every moment with you until he was back in his room, focusing on the reality of you asking him to stay.

4… You froze, staring at your reflection in his mirror, when you heard the door to the bedroom open and the movement just a few feet away on the other side of the door. The sun-kissed bare-faced reflection looking back looked exhausted, anxious, a weak and fragile stranger.

3… Steve pulled on his clothes quickly in case you came out to see who had walked into the room. Then he grabbed his favorite crewneck sweater, a bit worn in so that it’s once rich-blue color had faded just a little. The sweatpants he piled on top were his only ones with a decent drawstring, which he hoped would help them from falling off of you. As he reached for a pair of socks he remembered how much you hated them, always trying to keep your cold feet off of him in the night and ultimately wiggling out of them on instinct just a few minutes after you were actively asleep.

2… With a sheepish smile you reached a hand out of the bathroom when you heard the knock and tried to take his clothes without dropping his towel- which you couldn’t seem to wrap tightly enough around your curves. Yawning, you dressed as quickly as possible. Grabbing your dirty party ensemble, you caught a glimpse of your clothed reflection. It wasn’t just that you were swimming in his clothes, it was how different you looked with his sweater clinging to your damp skin and sweats threatening to slip lower on your hips- their width and the drawstring your only saving grace.

1… His mouth fell open when you walked out swimming in his clothes. You were too busy throwing your own in your bag to notice. There was no compromise to be had, Steve knew he could never ask for it back now.

Though he’d been laying on the bed, he swung his legs back over and went to stand up. Immediately worrying he was going to leave you panicked and asked, “Wait! Where are you going?”

His eyes stayed on you as he approached you slowly. When he reached you in just a few steps, Steve brushed his fingers through your hair, combing it out of your face. “I promised I wasn’t going anywhere and I-”

“Keep your promises. I know.” You smiled and nodded up at him. “But you also promised we were going to go to bed and forget this day ever happened.”

There was so much he wanted to try and explain, but just like he had with Peggy that morning, he fell silent. The last thing he wanted was for the first time he kissed you to be in a bed, it was why he’d stood up. Now he also didn’t want it to be in the Tower where you’d almost died an hour earlier or in a bedroom where you may have thought he was trying to take advantage of you. He lost his resolve, settling on waiting a little longer. Instead, he looked at you and focused on something small that had been bugging him all night. “I’m sorry you want to forget that today happened, but I understand. Tony can be a bit of an ass. I was really excited that he was going to finally give you the recognition you deserved as a member of the team. I appreciate everything Dr. Cho has done for us, but you’re the one taking care of us day in and day out.”

Throwing your arms around him, you hugged him more tightly than you ever had before. Your hands held his shirt in fists as you refused to let yourself cry anymore for the day. Steve didn’t hesitate to hold you back, rubbing those familiar circles down your spine. He knew that though he couldn’t find you in the crowd tonight he could perfectly picture the disappointment on your face at Tony’s slight and to his surprise it had made his temper flare a little. One thing Steve didn’t know about you though was that when you were completely tired or overly emotional you had a hard time processing in English and the muffled “Thank you” into his chest came out in your first language. That new little realization made him smile.

Pulling you to the bed, you climbed in after Steve and settled closely into his side as you always had. Like two pieces of the same puzzle, a perfect fit. Steve pulled the blankets over the two of you, turned off the light, and while one hand found yours and held it just below his chin, the other went under his sweater to your back. His large hands on your bare skin sent shivers down your spine. It was a welcome surprise that you thought might lead to something else, and you immediately hid your face at the stupidity of such a thought. Steve drew those little circles into your back again and, for the first time, he fell asleep first. The slow rise and fall of his chest, the cadence of his heartbeat, and you were quick to follow. You pressed your lips to his side and he hummed in his sleep and pulled you closer as you drifted off, a million things left unsaid.

A/N: You’re still here!? Thanks for reading Chapter 5! I never promised every chapter’s word would belong to Reader and in this one I think it may even belong more to Peggy than Steve. The over arching theme of Yuánfèn is about Steve and Reader though, don’t worry. I really appreciate you all being so kind and supportive of my little corner of Tumblr while I try to write consistently on a crazy schedule. Your comments and messages mean the world to me.

What do you think will happen when our favorite little idiots wake up in the morning?

Divider by the amazing @firefly-graphics​​​​​

I will be reblogging with tags, send an ask if you’d like to be added either to the series or to one of my other tag lists.

[yeojaa]

( SWEET MAGNOLIAS. )

He was your unlikely muse;  you were the weird girl in the park.  Could you make it any more obvious?

pairing.  myg x named f!reader.  s2l.

genre + rating.   college!au.  fluff, angst, smut.  explicit. 

tags / warnings.  light cussing, yoongi being rightfully weirded out, a whole lotta softness, sadness if you squint at the right times, body painting, and then, of course, the most tender, dumbest lovemaking (unprotected but don’t be silly like them!).  there’s also a really bad callback to the titanic.  i’m not sorry.  lol.

wc.  8.2k

You try not to stare for too long, sweeping your gaze in wide circles so as to be as inconspicuous as possible.  You try not to let your eyes linger, follow the contours of his cheeks - soft, pronounced when he smiles - or the shape of his mouth - delicate, petal pink.  You try not to make it weird - but it’s decidedly, very weird.

You just can’t help yourself.

He’s always here around this time, laid out on a worn red blanket.  Sometimes, he reads.  Books like The Alchemist and the Stranger and once, Dante’s Inferno.  Other times, he pops a pair of headphones on - oversized, intimidatingly large over his ears - and closes his eyes.  Most rare of all, is when he’s not alone, joined at the hip by at least one other boy and on occasion, an entire group of six.  

They’re all interesting in their own ways.  

There’s one with shoulders the size of boulders, a mountain range situated beneath his shirts.  He has a weird laugh that sounds like windshield wipers and your mother’s spring cleaning routine.  He yells a lot and even across the lawn, you can sometimes make out his voice.

There’s the tallest one, with kind eyes and dimples so deep you question if there’s treasure buried in them.  He reads a lot, too.  You’ve seen him in the library more times than you can count, always dutifully tucked away in a back corner surrounded by scattered looseleaf.  Despite the course load he seems to have taken on, you’ve never seen him lose his cool.  You have seen him lose his phone, though, and pencils and textbooks and AirPods. 

There’s Hoseok, whose name you only know because he held your hair once at a fall sorority party.  You hadn’t been drinking but somehow, somehow, your roommate had convinced you to apple bob with her.  He’d been gracious enough to help you out, fisting your hair in a gentle grip.  It’s what spurred you to now always have an elastic on your wrist.

There’s the dancer.  He’s slight and even in stillness, far more graceful than you’ll ever be.  He’s got pillowy lips and hair that gleams like silk.  You’ve sketched him too, once or twice, but never more.  It just didn’t feel right - as if you’d never be able to translate that sort of beauty onto paper.  

There’s the one from your Art 340 Drawing II class.  You’ve wondered, on more than one occasion, how come he isn’t the model.  He’s got perfect proportions - defined jaw, strong nose, cheekbones carved from marble.  It’s almost off-putting seeing him in person;  it feels far more fitting for him to be displayed in a museum, with a plaque that reads Perfection, Mixed Media.

There’s the youngest one, Jungkook.  They call him maknae despite the fact that he dwarfs nearly all of them.  Maybe it’s just the clothes he wears:  boots that look like they’d break your neck and everything in slightly darker shades of black.  You run into him at least four times a week - trading greetings at the campus coffee shop and at the library.  You’re practically best pals by college standards. 

And then, of course, there’s him.  Your muse.  The one you can’t help but stare at - even when you’re trying your hardest not to.  The one who wears glasses though you’re almost certain he doesn’t need them.  The one whose smile is more gums than teeth, who looks unassuming and yet often breaks out into the strangest, most inspired dance moves you’ve ever seen.  The one who plays recreational basketball on Tuesday nights and who drinks more coffee than you think should be humanly possible. 

Min Yoongi.  

You sketch him like you’ll never see him again, dragging charcoal strokes across paper until your hand is muddied and the curve of his ear is looking worse for wear.  You repeat lines over and over, turning the mop of his hair into ringlets and waves, weaving dimension through the india ink that spills over his eyes.  You sometimes add his glasses;  you’re quite fond of the look on him.

You paint him sometimes, too, imagining how he’d look with periwinkle blue hair, or maybe dressed in shades of maroon.  You swath him in textured fabrics and lovely watercolours, turning him into a fantasy that’ll never see the light of day.  Pretty little daydreams with him fixed at the centre.

You fill your pages with his figure, the way he smiles when Hoseok does something silly or how he joins in when Jungkook laughs.  You study every bit and piece, learning him in every admiring way you can - despite the fact that you don’t really know him at all. 

It’s a staggering lesson in futility but one you take almost daily, armed with pencil and paper and not a single ounce of common sense. 

That is, until you’ve done the stupidest thing imaginable.  

No, not getting caught.  Not in the traditional sense, at least.  He hasn’t realised you sit on your bench - yes, your bench, with the sticky metal arm rest and illegible initials scratched into the back - and watch him almost every day.  You thank your lucky stars for that.

What you’ve done is much worse - punishable by death by embarrassment. 

You have no fucking clue where your sketchbook is. 

You could’ve sworn you had it in your bag when you’d returned to your room last night.  You can’t imagine you would’ve left it anywhere in the open, orphaning it on a campus full of idiots.  You were always so careful.  You don’t just lose things.

“I think it’s gone, girl.”  You’ve never wanted to yell at your roommate more - not even when you’d caught her and her boyfriend banging in your bed after you’d come home early on the long weekend or when she’d eaten all of your Cherry Garcia ice cream.  The desire bubbles about in your chest, fizzing angrily like an agitated soda bottle.  

“It’s here somewhere.”  The words grit between your teeth, insistent as can be.

“You’ve been looking for like, twenty minutes.”  

“It’s here.”

“I really don’t think it is…”  Jisoo doesn’t quite deserve how you explode, rounding on her with hands flying and eyes wild.  “You’re also going to be late for your class.”

Your words falter with the verbalisation of hers. 

Lucky for her;  unlucky for you. 

The hands of the clock above your desk wave at you mockingly.  You are, indeed, going to be late for your class.

“Shit!  Shit!”  Everything you’d torn out gets shoved back into your tote bag.  Band-Aids, mints, too many wayward pencils and pens.  You almost forget your phone, attention only drawn to it when Jisoo catches the strap of your backpack and yanks you back.  

“Don’t forget,”  she hums, far more kindly than your harebrained self deserves.

You forget all the reasons you’re upset with her.  “Thanks, Ji.”  You force a kiss on her cheek before you’re darting out of your room and sprinting across campus to Art 340.

“Nice of you to join us, Miru.”  It’s your professor greeting you as you run in fifteen minutes late, weaving through other students to find your seat near the far wall.  Laughter follows you, coiling around your ankles and over your shoulders as you settle into your seat, fully hidden behind the oversized easel.  

You can’t help the scarlet that paints your cheeks, creeping high across your temples.  You know no one cares - that Professor Kinsella is probably the most laidback professor you’ve had in your four semesters - but it can’t be stopped.  You’re already flustered from temporarily misplacing your sketchbook that everything else just feels like shit icing on your garbage cake.

“Sorry!”  It squeaks out - a mouse, eaten up wholly by cat-ate-the-canary laughter that sounds over your shoulder and not very quietly.

“Having a bad day?”

You’ve heard the voice a handful of times so it shouldn’t shock you the way it does, nearly knocking the graphite from your hand.  

“What?”

Kim Taehyung’s on the edge of his chair, one long leg stretched toward you, the other balanced across his knee.  You’re not sure how that’s meant to be comfortable but he makes it look effortless.  Then again, looking like him, living probably was effortlessly.  You can’t deny you’re a little envious. 

“Your face is all red.  You’re out of breath.  Feels like a bad day to me.”

You try not to dwell on the fact that, apparently, you look like an absolute mess.  “No, I’m good.”  It sounds fake even to your ears, tinny and wrought with anxiety.  

“You sure?”  He’s not really paying attention to you as he speaks, tracing the contours of the model across his canvas.  He begins where you’d never think to, framing the main masses with a languid twist of his wrist.  Unlike you, he doesn’t get caught up in the detail;  he sees the bigger picture for all it is, building from the outside in.   

You’re watching him for longer than you realise, whipping back around once it dawns on you.  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“Who knows.”  There’s a playfulness in his tone that sets you on edge.  You’ve never heard it before, all rounded vowels and molasses laughter.  You mean to work as you listen, waiting for some indication of whatever lies just beneath the surface.

It’s a mistake.  Your stick of charcoal snaps in half when he continues, low and slow as if he’s dragging it out.

“—maybe you lost a sketchbook?” 

“Did you say…”  You can’t finish the sentence.  You feel like you’re about to be sick.  

The amount of mischief in his expression should be illegal.  It’s dancing in his eyes, curling wide and unabashed over his lips.  It’s practically radiating off of him.

“So, bad day?”  

He waits for you to pack up, hands tucked into the endless pockets of his black slacks.  At any other time, in any other universe, you’d be giddy.  Girls on campus would kill for even a second of Taehyung’s attention.  

(It’s true - you’d heard a group of them talking about it one time.)  

Here and now, you want to sink six feet under.

“They’re really good, you know.”  As if the compliment will dull the mortification that threatens to cleave you in half.  “You’re really good at capturing his boredom.  That’s not easy.”

“Thanks.”  You should make conversation;  it’s the polite thing to do.  

After all, he was kind enough to find and return your sketchbook.  Better him than someone else, right?  Better him than Yoongi himself?  That’s what you tell yourself, at least.  

Yoongi doesn’t know and therefore, it’s okay.  Semi okay.  Distantly related to the idea of okay.

As if he can read your mind, Taehyung speaks gently, with a hand that burns through the linen of your blouse.  You know he means well but it sears white hot, eviscerating your nerve endings.  “You have nothing to worry about.  I didn’t tell him.”

You don’t answer him.  There’s nothing to say - not really.  You’re far too lost in your own thoughts to acknowledge the effort he’s making.  Maybe this was life’s way of telling you to back off - to find another person to paint.  

Or maybe it’s brought you two together, says the silly, naive angel on your shoulder.

You’re ready to flick her off - launch her like some kind of poor Tinkerbell - when your name catches your attention.  It’s announced so dramatically that you double take, making sure you haven’t completely run through a picnic or accidentally slammed into someone. 

“This is Miru.” 

Cognisance comes slow and unhurried, even as your stare swivels wildly in search of context clues. 

Laid out before you, right under that familiar magnolia tree, is one blanket, three bodies, and enough takeout to last you an entire week.  

“Ohf, phey!”  With cheeks stuffed full, it’s hard to make out the two syllables.  They crowd against each other, offered in a garbled mess that has you regarding Jungkook with a mixture of concern and confusion.  He’s swallowing thickly before he rises far too quickly;  you watch a forgotten piece of kimbap go flying, lost to the dirt and bugs.  “Sorry.  Hi.”  

“Do you want to join us?”  It’s the angelic one, fitted with cherubic cheeks and a rounded Cupid’s bow.  “I’m Jimin, by the way.”  He pats the empty space beside him, eyes waning into crescents with the force of his friendliness.

Taehyung had asked if you wanted to grab dinner but you’d never imagined he meant this. 

You’ve never been subtle but you try your damnedest to peek at him from your periphery.  Unfortunately for you, he’s already sat down, fully made himself comfortable beside the last member of the group.

The one who, for all intents and purposes, appears as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.  If looks could kill, you think.  

“Don’t worry about him,”  Jimin says, so sweetly, with a small bento lid held towards you.  It’s already stacked with goodies - a selection of banchan and homemade-looking meatballs sitting alongside a poorly-shaped mound of rice.  “Sometimes, he gets like this.”  

You want to believe it.  Really, you do, but by the way Yoongi’s mouth curls in distaste, all signs point to it being a matter of you rather than a mood.

“Maybe if she respected peoples’ privacy, I wouldn’t have an issue.”

It’s a single sentence quietly spoken and yet it feels like an open-palm slap to the face.  Heat radiates over every visible inch, starkly coloured in contrast to the white of your top.  It burns as it licks over your cheeks and past your temples, tipping your ears. 

“I’m so sorry.”  It isn’t clear who you’re apologizing to, the words tumbling wet off your tongue like a waterfall.  

You’re gone before anyone can ask.

“That was a dick move.”  Jungkook is the first to break the silence, levelling his friend with a disapproving stare.  He’s not used to this side of him - the one that can tear a person apart with just a few words.  It’s not the Yoongi he knows.  It’s not really Yoongi at all.

“Yeah, hyung.”  It’s thinner, but just as reproachful.  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

Yoongi’s laugh is dismissive but he won’t meet anyone’s stare - a tell-tale sign that he’s just a little affected by their words - choosing instead to shovel bites of soondae into his mouth.  “Mean what?  Invading my privacy?”

“She’s an artist.”  Taehyung doesn’t mean it as an excuse but by how Yoongi bristles, he’s certain the senior takes it as such.  Before the argument can begin, he continues, all while wrapping a piece of samgyupsal in lettuce.  “I doubt she meant any harm, so just cut her some slack.”  Fringe is flicked away from his eyes, something sparkling in the pretty brown of his irises.  “I’d actually be flattered, if I were you.”

“Then you be her model.”

You haven’t drawn in four days.  Well, not really.  

You’ve completed what you need for classes, filling your books with mandatory figures and notes on colour theory.  You’ve diligently mapped out proportions and brought to life sunsets and sceneries.  You’ve done everything you should be doing but nothing that you want to be.

It just doesn’t feel right.  Not anymore.

“I hear he’s a really nice guy.”  You can’t count how many times Jisoo has tried to cheer you up.  From picking up your favourite ice cream (the one she tends to devour anyway) to ordering in fried chicken, she’s been the picture perfect roommate.  It only makes you feel that much worse.

You were moping over something that was your fault.  And she had to pick up the pieces!  It seemed wildly unfair but when you’d told her to stop - insisted upon it with a wail into your pillow - she’d simply shook her head and wrapped you in her arms.  

For all of your stupid, silly little rows, Kang Jisoo was the best roommate you’d had in your entire university career.

“Just go outside.”  She’s perched on the edge of her bed, painting her toes a brilliant shade of neon green.  She’d offered to do yours too, but you’ve more or less refused to leave the comfort of your burrito blanket for anything beyond classes or food.  “You can’t avoid him forever.”  

“I can try,”  you mumble, words lost to the cotton of your sheets.  

Try - and fail, it seemed.  You’d already run into him twice.  Twice!  Even after you’d started taking absurdly long roundabout routes to your classes, the universe had conspired against you.  

The first time he’d been walking out of the gym, shoulder to shoulder with another upperclassmen you didn’t recognize.  You’d seen him coming from a mile away thanks to his obnoxiously bright Lakers jersey and you’d booked it back the way you’d come, nearly mowing down a couple making kissy faces at each other in front of the lecture hall.  

The second time was yesterday afternoon.  You’d thought he’d be in his usual spot - so close to your usual spot - that you’d gone to the coffee shop for a midday pick-me-up.  Even embarrassed, you weren’t about to suffer a caffeine deficiency.  You’d rounded the corner in the same instance he had and you’d sworn he’d seen you, recognition flickering across his face.  Fortunately, there’d been a door directly to your right and you’d all but thrown yourself inside.

It was the first and hopefully last time you’d be in a men’s washroom.

“I thought you were tougher than this,”  Jisoo hums, equal parts disapproval and kindness.  She levels you with a stare - you can feel it burning into your fortress of blankets - and sighs.  It’s a bit dramatic, you think.  

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing!”

Then again, she’d probably never be stupid enough to lose something so important nor would she fixate so heavily on one person.  Your point still stands.

“Seriously, girl.”  

Her nail polish bottle bounces off your bed, tumbling to the floor with a quiet thump.  You look up in time to see her staring at you imploringly, so wide-eyed and innocent you can’t help but be a little suspicious.  “What?”

“I wanted to have Andy over.” 

It all falls into place then.  Her boyfriend’s in a frat and your (poor) dorm room is the only place they have any sort of privacy.  It makes you want to gag but you can’t blame her.  You’ve always had an unspoken agreement;  you’d just tossed it out the window the past few days. 

Guilt prompts you to extract yourself from your duvet, though you don’t stop the chorus of gross, gross, gross! as you begin gathering your things.  You almost leave your sketchbook, only opting to tuck it under your arm at the last minute.  

“Please, please, don’t use my bed this time.”

“We love you!”  She sing-songs as you tug your sneakers on and slip into the hallway.

You’re at a different bench across campus when you hear the voice.  It comes from behind you and to your left, accusatory and sharp.  You nearly jump out of your own skin, toppling over your water bottle and plastic paint palette. Orange watercolour soaks into the material on your thigh.  Dammit. 

“Are you following me?”

Min Yoongi stands not three feet from you, arms folded over his chest.  

Your heart stutters at the sight of him.  It’s hard to speak when it feels like it’s leapt into your throat.  

“What?”  You hate how you sound - a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  You have nothing to be ashamed of.  At least, not right now.  You’d come all the way here, as far from the magnolia tree and red blanket as you could.  

“I said—”  His words are glacial and biting.  It’s suddenly winter, far chillier than spring should be.  You wish you’d brought a sweater or maybe, that the ground would open up and swallow you whole.  You can’t be cold when you’re dead.  “—are you following me?”

“Of course not!”  

There’s nothing but disbelief in his expression.  It paints itself in broad strokes, prominent in the shadows beneath his eyes and the curl of his mouth.  He says nothing.  

“Really.  I’m not.”  You’re insistent, apologetic.  Every nerve ending is shot, going haywire beneath your skin and lighting you up in shades of red.  The tips of your fingers are tingling.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”  You wonder if he’s baiting you now.  

“For…”   Words are cherry-picked and perfect, chosen with a shaking head and the utmost care.  “I shouldn’t have drawn you without asking.”

“No shit,”  he returns, completely deadpan.  He’s really not making this any easier.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,”  you continue, a little hopeful and a lot bashful.  “I just— I don’t get inspiration like this that often.  So I couldn’t let it go.”  You don’t need to add what you do, but you do so anyway, because you’ve never been great at making good choices.  “Your face is really unique and when you’re happy, it’s just so expressive and your smile is—”

There’s a siren blaring in your ears.  A red alert going off so loudly you almost miss the way he laughs.

It’s not the same one he offers to his best friends - far more reserved, exceedingly softer - but it’s there and it’s real and you don’t think you’ll ever forget this moment. 

“You’re laughing.”

He stops immediately.  Fair.

“I’m sorry.”  Again.  More.  Draped in apology and optimism that peeks out between your teeth and shines in the dark of your stare.  “Even though I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I did, and for that I’m sorry.  Really, really sorry.  Please don’t hate me.”

It’s hard to read him, even after you’ve spent hours studying his face.  There’s a distinct difference between seeing someone and knowing them, you realize.  You might be able to map out every wrinkle of his eyes - replicate every dot and freckle - but you have no idea what it all means or how it comes together to create something more. 

Silence fits between the two of you for what feels like a long time.  It’s not uncomfortable, though, so you allow it to settle.  You figure it’s better than his anger, in any case.  

“You could’ve just asked me.”

You can’t wipe the disbelief from your face.  “Would you have said yes?”

Yoongi shrugs, a small roll of his shoulders beneath the oversized sweater that dwarfs his frame.  “Don’t know, but I would’ve appreciated it.”  

Because that’s really what it came down to - the thought, not the action.  He’s not entirely sure you understand that yet but he’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.  Blame his softening on the steady repetitions Taehyung and Jungkook have made the past few days.  You were lucky to have them in your corner - even if that meant they’d been a thorn in his side.   

“Then… can I sketch you?”  You’re probably (read: definitely) pushing it.  You can’t help it. 

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or scoff at your audacity.  He decides on the former, with a shake of his head that swings his bangs across his forehead and a small, private smile.  “Maybe next time.” 

“Next time?”  You imagine he can’t hear you as he’s backing away and disappearing the way he came.

“See you tomorrow.”

True to his word, Yoongi lets you draw him the next time you see him (and the next time and the time after that). 

It’s different - working off someone who knows they’re being studied.  He holds himself a little more stiffly, a little more carefully.  His laughter isn’t quite as loud, his smiles more forced.  He apologises, even though he doesn’t need to.  

Even his untrained eye can see how you struggle to bring life to a robot. 

Over time, though, it comes - comfort. 

Like the quietly burning coals that melt him down from the inside out, he begins to warm up to you.  It comes slowly but it comes nonetheless, as steady as the sun.  You appreciate his effort - his patience - more than you can ever say.  

You know he gets it, though.  He always does.  It’s a Yoongi thing. 

“You can relax.” 

It’s just the two of you, swathed in sweat and waning light that casts shadows across his cheeks.  The days are longer than they’ve ever been and the both of you tend to lose track of time, spending hours under that magnolia tree. 

“I am relaxed,”  he returns, sinking further onto his back, elbows hardly acting to prop him up.  He’d been engrossed in a novel for the first half of the afternoon.  Another book you’d never bothered to read outside of high school English class.  You never really understood it - you much preferred to watch than read - but you loved when he’d recite the words to you, clear and bright and better than any melody.

“You’re trying to stay awake.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No.  You’re just as good of a model when you’re sleeping.” 

The smile is lazy, hazy like Sunday morning.  It reveals his gums and ticks higher on the left side.  It makes your heart skip a beat.  

“Go ahead then,”  he continues.  The entirety of his body sags, drops onto the bag he likes to use as a makeshift pillow.  You don’t imagine it’s all that comfortable but he never complains.

“If you’re tired, we can just head in, you know.”  

You always offer.  He never says yes. 

A part of you thinks he likes the attention.  It’s different from what he receives from anyone else - thoughtful and careful.  You think he might like the quiet, too.  The benefit of quality time without any of the effort.  

So you push on, charcoal edge meeting paper once more.   “Just another twenty minutes.”

“Why me?”  

The enquiry comes one day, completely out of the blue.  It skips your heart and breaks the pastel in your fingers, dust chalking them a lovely shade of lilac.  

“What?”  You’re not ready for how close Yoongi is - much closer than he ever is - and you shift back, away from the face you’ve spent months filling your sketchbooks with.  “Why you what?”

He’s completely nonchalant as he moves even closer.  

You can smell his cologne - a distinctly masculine fragrance that’s musk and cedar - and the coffee he’s been nursing for the last hour.  It fills your senses, recentring all of your focus so intensely that you don’t immediately recognise he’s continued speaking.

“Why’d you choose to draw me?  Why not someone else?”  He seems genuinely curious, even though it feels dangerous - a dangling string that’s meant to unravel you.

The answer doesn’t come easily, despite the fact it’s something you’ve asked yourself.

Why him?  Why Min Yoongi?

“I don’t know,”  you answer, perhaps too honestly.  “I saw you and it sort of… just clicked.”  How it sounds doesn’t escape you - like something plucked out of a bad romance novel.  “I didn’t expect it to be you.  I thought I’d draw you once - okay, twice - and then I’d move onto another subject.  But I just… couldn’t?”  

“So, what you’re telling me is it was love at first sight?”  It’s glaringly obvious he’s teasing you.  He’s got that grin of his, sly and feline as it creeps across his mouth.  

You don’t bristle, instead painted bright red like the sunset that streaks across the sky.

“I— I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, you didn’t say otherwise.”

It’s an uncomfortable line of questioning.  You’re not used to it and certainly not from him.  You hesitate to speak, turning words over and over on your tongue in an effort to make yourself clear.  

You’re not weird.  You don’t want this to be weird.  But you can’t deny - it’s, decidedly, still very weird.

He tries again - a different tactic this time.  One that surprises you, despite the unique friendship you’ve forged over the past few months.  “What if I told you I was glad?” 

“Glad?”  It feels like an echo chamber.  Repetition.  As if you’re going in circles, chasing a tail that remains just out of reach.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What if I told you I’m happy we met?”  

Your blink is owlish, fully caught off-guard.  “I’d say the same thing.  I’m happy we’re friends.”

Amusement rolls off him in waves, evidenced by the laugh that curls into the afternoon.  He shimmies closer and closer until there’s barely three inches between you.  His knee knocks against yours, bony and denim-clad.  You try to ignore the way it burns through your own jeans, sparking heat all the way up to the tips of your ears and down into the soles of your feet.

“What if I told you I don’t want to be just friends anymore?”  

It’s not a surprise, really.  It’s something that’s been on your mind the past few weeks, sown by offhand comments and little gestures you haven’t been able to ignore.  Jungkook had even practically shouted it at you just the other night.

“I’d say…”  You trail off, lost somewhere among the constellations in his eyes.

“You’d say?”  The words are parroted back at you, threaded together by gossamer thin hope. 

“I’d say you’re welcome.  For choosing you.”  The confidence isn’t your own.  It comes from him, crafted by the support he offers easily, hands out like keys.  Keys to his heart, you realise belatedly, with a sudden bashfulness.  Of course.

He can’t wipe the smile from his face.  It eats up every inch, dominating even the playfulness that shines through, turning it the prettiest shade.  It stands bright against his cheeks, staining the pale apples red.  “That’s it?”  

“What do you want me to say?”

You’re suddenly very determined - because you want to give this to him.  Just as he’s given you everything you wanted, you want to do the same.  In this little cut-out piece of paradise, there’s nothing quite as important. 

The one word isn’t much but it feels like a turning point.  “Yes.”

“You want me to say ‘yes’?”

He nods, just once.  There’s so much certainty you can’t doubt him.

“Then yes—”  

It doesn’t matter what you’ve just said yes to.  It doesn’t even matter that it could be something awful or really, anything under the sun.  All that matters is the feeling of his lips, soft and warm and dry on yours.  It’s better than any painting you’ve ever seen, any song you’ve ever heard.  It fills you wholly, stuttering your heart and bubbling giddiness in the pit of your stomach.

You probably sound a little silly, surprisingly breathless from such a little thing.  “Wow.”

“Good things happen when you ask,”  he states, solemnly.  You’d take him more seriously if he weren’t so dopey, grinning at you like he never has before.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.”

Luckily, you don’t mind.  Not if it gets you another kiss.  

You tell him as much and he happily obliges, stealing your breath and replacing it with sugar-coated stardust.  You ponder whether you might be able to create with those same particles, turning them into colourful streaks to paint his cheeks.  You’d like to find out.  

You want a lot of things with Min Yoongi, you decide. 

You don’t know how you ended up here.  

Actually, that’s a lie.  You do.  All because of a dumb joke, uttered in passing by Taehyung and now ingrained so deeply in your psyche that you haven’t gone a single day without thinking about it.

“Get out of there,”  he whispers right against your temple, lips following to soothe whatever’s got you preoccupied.  

“Where?”

“Right there, idiot.”  Fingers tap twice, a quick one-two against the side of your head.  

You can’t help but grimace, a wrinkling of your nose that your boyfriend chuckles at, pressing kisses across the bridge and over your cheeks.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry - just come back to me.”  To this moment, he means.

This strange little scene, with his fingers dressed in non-toxic paint and you stripped down to nothing but a flimsy cotton bra and thong.  

Have him paint you like one of his French girls, Taehyung had said.  It’ll be fun, he’d said.

You think it might be - if you weren’t bouncing with nerves, all five feet three inches of you fizzling with anticipation.  Yoongi was only painting you.  This was a bonding exercise.  Something to bring you closer, to breach the gap between lovestruck artist and inspired musician.  Nothing more.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”  It’s not meant to be a reassurance but simply a passing comment, like looking at the sky or seeing it snow.  So straightforward it makes you laugh, the sound bubbling about in your throat. 

“Thanks, Yoongi.”

“No, seriously.”  He levels you with a look.  You know the one - a touch stern but ultimately playful.  “I wanted to make something beautiful but…”  Digits wiggle, Atlantic blue sweeping over the tips and up his knuckles like the sea.  “I can’t really improve on something that’s already perfect.”

Your cheeks light on fire, as brilliantly coloured as the red in his - your - palette.  

He thinks it looks pretty against his hands.  The same ones that cradle your cheek, so precisely you want to remind him you’re a canvas and not clay.  

“You’re silly.”  

“ You’re silly,”  he returns, as if that’ll somehow win him this battle of wits.

 The roll of your eyes is undeniable.  “Good one.”

“You know, I’ve got a ton of paint, right?  Not your best choice, making fun of me.”  He punctuates each word with passes of his fingers.  Colour appears wherever he travels, dragged over your skin with dreamy twists of his wrist.  A line here, a circle there.  Goosebumps follow in their wake despite the fact that his touch is like candle wax - soothing and deliberate.

You wonder, idly, whether he can feel you burning up beneath him.

“So beautiful,”  he murmurs again, almost to himself as he dips his fingers into another dot of paint.  Pink this time - in the same shade as the magnolias outside.  He spreads the colour over your chest, right where your heart beats an erratic rhythm.  

He takes his time in admiring his handiwork, swirling the two shades together until it’s the most flattering shade of purple.

You try - and fail - to ignore the way it stirs something behind your ribs.  A need that flickers to life without any sort of warning and has you pressing your thighs together.  

“Can I take this off?”  It comes abruptly, with eyes that snap up to yours.  There’s already a hand tucked beneath the small of your back, right under your shoulders.  He already knows your answer - can see it in the blown out pupils that reflect his entire world back at him.  He still wants to hear it.

You’re unable to find your voice.  It’s gone, stolen by the way he ghosts his fingers up and down the sensitive notches of your spine.  You could get lost in this feeling, if he let you.  You almost do, only nodding when he moves no further, flat of his palm a solid weight right against the clasp of your bra.

You don’t mind that the band is coloured pink and blue when he tosses it aside.  You don’t have it in you to focus on anything but how he studies you now.  Openly admires you, like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.

“What?”  Mellifluous and adoring.  Music to his ears.

“I think I’m getting distracted.”

“I think so, too.”

“Is that okay?”  He speaks more to your boobs than you, single stained hand coming to rest across your ribs.  The pad of his thumb swipes over a single bud, perked and already far too sensitive.  He’d put his mouth on it, if not for the fact it’s now covered in paint.  

Fortunately, there’s still so much of you - places he hasn’t explored but suddenly, desperately needs to.  

From the column of your throat and all the way down to the valley of your breasts, he offers sweet kisses.  Open-mouthed adoration that leaves you needy and breathless and writing.  He catches your untouched nipple between his teeth, gently working it into the same state as its tinted twin. 

You shift beneath him, unable to stop the bolt of electricity that rips through you like a thousand volts.  It cracks your composure like lightning and sends your pulse racing like thunder.  “Of course.”

He hums, content, and nearly falls, dropping his cheek fully against your chest.  You’re so soft beneath him, velvet and pliant under his tongue.  

“I think I love you.”  It’s his voice but your words, spoken so faintly you almost miss it against the roaring in your ears.  

“I think I love you, too.” 

Yoongi stares up at you then, so full of wonder that you can’t help but look away.  It’s an incredibly intimate moment - so much emotion carried in one simple look that you’re not quite sure how to process it.  He’d been your inspiration and now you were his.  The realisation is almost too much, filling you until you feel like you might float away.

His hands act as an anchor, keeping you here with him.  

“You don’t have to say it back.”  It’s careful, loaded with his heart and every key to open it.  

“I know - I want to.”

He grins so breathlessly handsome that you can’t help but return it, rubied cheeks crystallised with delight.  Those same paint-stained hands of his find their newly discovered favourite home of your chest and he sounds like sin when he speaks.  “I want you.”

“You can have me.”

It’s all he needs before he’s ducking down and smothering every uncovered inch of you in sweetness.  His mouth burns hot but he’s unbearably gentle, searing the shape of his mouth over your breasts and across your collarbone.  He licks and sucks as he goes, soothing any ache left behind by the edge of his teeth.

You’re not quite sure where the bites end and the paint begins.  It’s all so pretty you don’t mind either way.  

But it’s not enough.  It’ll never be enough, you think, even as you whine airily, words stuttering out in a half-formed breath.  “Please touch me.”

“Where?”  He’s hardly given you room to answer, crowded so closely against you that you can feel his heartbeat all the way through to your own.  He’s so warm - so solid - upon you that you almost want to tell him that here, just as he is, is perfect. 

A momentary lapse in lust before rational judgment is clouded yet again. 

Instead - and with more demand than you mean - you grind purposefully against him.  A benefit to having him sitting how he is, knees hooked on either side of your hips.  He can’t pretend like he doesn’t feel it, cock twitching beneath the constraints of his boxer-briefs. 

Your eyes meet and he chuckles, nuzzling his head back into that spot between your neck and shoulder that has you whimpering.  The sound alone drives him crazy.

“You’ll be the death of me.”  Yoongi knows this like he knows the sky is blue or your smile is his favourite sight.

You’re teasing him when you catch his face, palms cradling the shape of his jaw.  “Then it’ll be a good death.” 

He doesn’t disagree - especially when he slips his clean hand along the length of your body.  He tweaks your nipple on its descent, tickles the underside of your ribs, and then finds the band of your underwear, all in one fell swoop.  A digit dips below the elastic, neatly clipped nail grazing the jut of your hip before shifting and dropping further.  

You keen when the pad of his finger grazes your clit. 

“Do that again.”  He doesn’t need to tell you twice.  When he repeats the motion, the sound spills off your tongue without restraint.  

He slips further down, pressing his hand to gently part your folds.  Digits glide easily, coated in slick that drips between your legs and sorely tests his patience.  Yoongi’s not sure what he’d expected but this is so much better it’s making his head spin - and he hasn’t even felt you yet.

“You’re so wet, love.”  Shame would swallow you whole if not for the way he speaks with reverence.  “How badly do you want this?”

“Don’t tease,”  you huff, rutting uselessly against the fingers that tease your centre, barely slipping in before resuming a lazy, leisurely path back up to the bundle of nerves that throbs at the contact.  He’s hardly touched you and you’re already at a six, entire body alight with need that thrums heavy in your veins. 

“Just tell me.”

“I want this.  I need this.”  You hope he believes you.  You’re not sure what you’ll do if he doesn’t.  “I need to feel you - please.”

His entire world is spinning, kicked on its axis by the way your tone pitches, demands and begs in the same lilting voice he so adores but has never quite heard like this.  He loves it.  “I need to stretch you out.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

You whine so prettily he almost cracks.  It’s enough to have him choking on his own words, not that he’s saying anything.  He’s too focused on how he sinks into you - a single digit but so tightly it feels like there’s no way he’ll survive his cock buried inside.  

You’re a dream come true.  He never wants to wake up.

“More.  Please.”  You’re so polite, he almost laughs.  You’d really taken his words to heart - always asking for what you wanted now.  He can’t deny how proud he is.  It blossoms in his chest, juxtaposed greatly against the salaciousness that drives him to do exactly as you ask.

His index finger slips in alongside the other.  You make that noise he loves, grinding your core against the flat of his palm as he curls his knuckles and seeks out that spot.  He knows he’s struck gold when he taps it experimentally, pressure turning light but unrelenting when a choked cry ricochets off your tongue and onto his sweat-slicked shoulder.

“Right there?”  

Your nod is enough of an answer. 

He redoubles his efforts, fucking you with measured glides of his fingers and precise presses against your g-spot.  In no time at all, you’re barely coherent, mumbling his name in a slew of breaths that has him grinning.  You’re a sight to behold, moaning so obscenely you’d be ashamed you weren’t so preoccupied by the fact that every part of you feels as if it’s about to splinter.

“Miru— Princess—”  Your clit aches and you nearly shriek when he applies pressure against it with the pad of his thumb, swiping your cum over it in slow circles.  He wants you so badly - just as bad as you want him- but he’s torn halfway between watching you unravel by his hand and wanting that same euphoria when he’s buried home in your dripping pussy. 

“Please, please, please.”  There are tears in your eyes.  You’re so close you can practically taste it, entire body shaking with the effort of keeping the coil from snapping.  “Yoongi, please.”

He’s a fucking goner then, filling you with a third finger and grinding his palm against your clit as you come apart beneath him.  

It starts in your toes, stealing feeling all the way up your calves and over your thighs.  You’re only aware you’re trembling because it vibrates through Yoongi’s body, looped back to yours when he mouths across your shoulders, sucking memories into your heated, sweat-sweet skin.  The stimulation is what keeps you from floating off on a cloud of bliss, the warmth in the pit of your stomach liquifying your bones. 

“Are you tired?”  Because you certainly look tired - too fucked out to properly meet his stare as he looms over you, both hands adjusted to rest comfortably over your hips. 

You are, but it doesn't matter.  You haven’t gotten what you wanted - not really - and you aren’t about to let it go without asking.

He’d taught you that.

You smile up at him, doe-eyed and alluring.  A hand reaches for his, curls around the fingers still glossy with your slick, and squeezes.  “I still need you.”

They’re words he’ll never tire of - also words that have him kicking out of his briefs and rolling your thong down your legs, all too eager.  He’s painfully hard, leaking pre-cum and purple at the tip, but he fists himself in slow, measured pumps regardless.  It’s a show for you, more than anything.

“ Please.”  So pretty, so ready.  He can’t resist.  

Yoongi sinks against you, the head of his cock brushing through your folds as he slots himself into place with his paint-free hand.  The other, still coloured garishly bright, brushes the curve of your lip, the delicate skin beneath your eye.  It’s so tender you can’t help but blink, caught off-guard.  

“I love you,”  you say, though you’re sure he’s meant to, too.  You can read it in his eyes - brilliant and bright like a beacon in the night.

He speaks with a roguish grin and a fluid press of his hips.  “I know.”  

You fit like two puzzle pieces, the stretch perfect as he sinks deeper, a low groan sounding from somewhere deep in his chest.  You’re so tight around him but he glides in easily, coaxed to fill you by your wetness and the soft, whiny noises you make.  

“Holy shit,”  he manages once he’s buried as deep as he can go, head spinning with the way you clench around him, nearly stealing the words off his tongue.  “Am I dreaming?”

Laughter is a salve - a catch-all remedy for anything that ails him.  It pulls him to the here and now, drawing his attention from the overwhelming bliss that creeps up his spine and recentring it on you, beautiful and bashful beneath him.

“No, you’re not.”  It’s a caricature of your voice but he doesn’t mind.  He loves that he can bring you to this.

“Thank God.”

Except it’s not God you’re thanking when Yoongi begins to move against you, dragging his cock through your walls with such slow, measured strokes you think you might combust.  It’s his name when he pulls almost fully out of you, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock, before snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt.  It’s his name that rolls off your tongue like a mantra, hoping and praying and begging for more as he consumes you wholly, in no half measures.  

It’s him - Min Yoongi, your muse, your love - that has you crying out, pleasure coursing through your veins as he adjusts and fills you at a completely new angle, brushing against your g-spot with every thrust of his hips.  

“Yoongi - please.”  You’re chanting the two words again, turning them into a song he’ll never get out of his head, when you spasm around him.  His eyes nearly roll back into his head, the sensation turning his rhythm sloppy as he chases the same high.  The hand that had previously been propping him up falls, thumb seeking out your clit as he charges toward the precipice. 

“One more, love.  Once more for me, okay?  I want you to come with me.”

He asks so nicely you can’t deny him - even as the overstimulation takes over.  You’re shaking so badly you’re not sure how he keeps you in place;  it’s a tremor that won’t stop, traipsing over every limb until you’re sobbing.  

“I love you,”  he chokes out as he tumbles over the edge, falling headlong into climax with you in tow.  It’s so strong it feels like it blinds you, spotting your vision with white as he fills you with his cum and continues to fuck you through it, milking every last moment just like you were his slowly softening cock.

You don’t have it in you to answer, far too exhausted by the last orgasm that has your limbs turned to jelly.  Yoongi doesn’t mind though;  he likes the just-fucked afterglow and how you sink into his arms when he slips out of you and onto his side.  

He eyes the cum that spills onto your thighs, pearlescent and going to waste.  He has half a mind to push it back where it belongs.

He only doesn’t because of the words you speak next, hardly above a whisper but loud enough that he groans, burying his face into your hair.  “So, thanks, Taehyung?”  

“Can you not?”  It’s a playful response, with teeth bared against the sweat-slicked nape of your neck.  

“Sorry.”  A beat.  He wonders if you’ve fallen asleep suddenly.  “I meant thanks, Titanic.”

author note.  this was a drabble prompt i got from the lovely @hecticwonderer​ and i kind of just...  ran with it.  oops. 

[karlyfr13s]

Oathkeeper Chapter 2

It was supposed to be a CS one-shot, but then the CSMM crew got ahold of me and now we’re in multi-chapter mode. Thanks to the ladies for their inspiration, enabling, and cheering me on. Looking at you @teamhook, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @gingerpolyglot (tell me if you want added, and coach the newbie in where these actually belong).

A HUGE thank you to @veryverynotgood who is the most radiant beta and gives me flails that keep me going through the self-doubt. 

Links in case you missed Chapter 1 or prefer to read on ao3

Note: the rating is now M due to violent imagery.

Killian’s first week in Storybrooke was unconventional and more than a little confusing. Everyone in the whole bloody town seemed related, or at least so interconnected there may as well be blood involved; it drew attention to him and he spent most days certain he was being watched.

Certainly there were fewer eyes on him than on the young Lost Boy, Felix, and for that Killian was grateful. He observed the woman everyone called Granny as she put the lad to work with a nearly endless list of chores, always under her watchful, scrutinizing eye. In want of conversation one evening, he’d inquired about the choice to take on someone such as Felix. That had earned him a derisive snort and an eye-roll that rivaled Emma Swan’s when Granny explained in no uncertain terms that she was well-equipped for the job.

“Listen, Captain,” she leaned on the bar as he sipped a rum, “if I can raise Ruby through puberty as a damn wolf, I can handle one scrappy Lost Boy. What he needs is a strong guiding hand, and a good dose of responsibility--that Pan let those kids run wild.” Killian tipped his glass to her at that assessment, knowing all too clearly how the lads were deceived and used throughout their time in Neverland. “Structure, Hoo--it’s Killian, right?” she amended quickly. “Kids need structure and routine. You’d do well to remember that.”

Not for the first time, Killian wondered exactly how much Granny overheard and knew as she watched her patrons come and go. In fact, she was the only one in town who referred to him by his given name, most simply opting for Hook or Captain if they were being pleasant. Or ‘the pirate’ if they happen to be Emma’s father, he added. His ponderance was abruptly interrupted when the door crashed open and an exasperated looking Emma quickly crossed to the bar and sank down one stool from his own.

“This one calls for a whisky on the rocks, Granny,” she huffed, casting a sidelong glance at Killian’s own glass. “You too, huh? Must be going around today.” He watched as she shucked her red leather jacket, tossing it aside on the barstool between them and he gave her a moment, offering a quick clink of his glass once her own libation arrived.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Killian kept his voice light, noting the tension in the set of her shoulders and jaw.

She heaved a sigh and he made a valiant effort to focus on her stunning green eyes rather than the assets her movements showcased in that moment. “The short version? I’m sick of my mother,” she tripped on the word, “trying to be my life coach. I’m tired of inane ‘loitering’ reports from the surliest dwarf, and I cannot seem to get--” her momentum was immediately interrupted by the door and a sudden call across the diner.

“Ems, there you are!”

“--a single minute of quiet,” Emma finished lowly while Neal sauntered over and leaned against the counter, placing himself between Killian and her.

“So, I was thinking we could grab dinner. You know, you, me and Henry? Or maybe just you and me if Regina has--”

“Neal, I’ve had a long day. I am going to enjoy this drink, maybe a second, and then I am eating whatever I rummage out of the pantry at Mary Margaret’s since she and David are out on a date.”

“So you have the place to yourself?”

Killian understood the insinuation and clenched his jaw. He started counting backward from ten while he listened to Emma try to redirect Neal’s plans, and when he heard the other man’s second attempt to garner an invitation he reset the clock and started the count at twenty. Perhaps she cares for him, he reminded himself. She is tired and had a difficult day, but that does not mean she has chosen not to be with--

Her voice was suddenly raised and Killian felt like he was about four steps behind the conversation as he snapped to attention on the words she spat at the man across from her.

“Just go-- go, Neal. This isn’t happening. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. It is not happening .” Whatever expression she held in that moment must have been truly glorious to earn Neal’s melodramatic scoff as he stormed out the diner and slammed the door behind him.

Granny simply poured a healthy splash of whisky in Emma’s glass in reply before shuffling back to the kitchen as she had witnessed the whole interaction mere steps from Killian, who just now was actively working to control both his expression and the thoughts wheeling through his mind at her parting shot. What exactly was not happening between them? Where did that leave him?

Killian glanced over at Emma, her eyes ablaze as if challenging him to comment on the interaction. “Darts are quiet,” he offered congenially, smiling what he considered his most winning grin.

That earned him a quick bark of laughter. “And a little violent,” she smirked.

“Aye, that too, Swan.”

She held up her glass and they shared their second silent toast of the evening. “I could use a little of both,” she added as she got up, glass in hand and the beginnings of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“I hear rumor they even sell food at this establishment,” Killian pressed his luck a bit as they collected the two sets of darts and set up.

“You don’t say?” She shook her head at him and he watched her consider the offer. “Loser buys?”

“Of course, love.” He sketched her a bow, flourishing his hand and making a show of it to cover up his surprise.

“Not your love,” she retorted, sinking a bullseye on her first try while Killian considered how grateful he was that Granny accepted doubloons. Where had she learned to play like this?

...

Granny hollered last call only moments after Emma bid Killian goodnight, a lightness to her steps as he watched her go. “Looks like that went well,” Granny called over as she wiped down the last table.

“Aye,” he tossed Granny a wink, “and she stayed for three games. And dessert.”

For the life of him, Killian couldn’t decipher Granny’s laugh at this simple observation until the double-entendre dawned on him at last. He was tired and perhaps he’d imbibed one too many glasses if he was the one missing the joke...it was then he noticed Emma’s jacket still laying across the barstool where she’d first dropped it.

“Seven hells,” he took off to the sound of Granny’s whooping call as she warned him the sheriff walked fast and he’d better work for it. Work for what exactly? Killian mused as he jogged out into the night, no easy feat in full leathers with more than a bit of drink in him. He spotted her golden hair in the lamplight down the street and called out, thinking it the better option than startling her.

She spun on her heel, wobbled slightly, and burst into laughter as she leaned against the lamppost for support--clearly he wasn’t the only to enjoy one too many this evening. Ever the gentleman, Killian held her jacket out and ignored her comment about being chased down Main Street by a pirate.

“Princess,” he began, calling far too loudly given the hour, “chivalry demands I return your cloak, lest you catch a chill on this dark night.” She shushed him less than successfully as she giggled and fell into step beside him-- Emma Swan can giggle, he mused. “As well,” he continued, voice full volume and bordering on a bellow, “I must see you safely to your door. No doubt there are ruffians about, and all manor of unsavory ne’er-do-wells, all seeking mischief against such an elegant,” he chuckled as she staggered slightly, “and graceful lady as thee.”

“You’re such an idiot, shut up! Do you want the whole neighborhood awake?” Her scolding was half-hearted at best considering her idea of a whisper could likely be heard across the street.

“Do you think they’ll call the sheriff, love” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she swatted his chest. “Surely you wouldn’t throw a man in the brig for an act of noblest courtesy,” at that he draped her jacket over her shoulders while she led the way and proceeded to spin a tale of his own unimpeachable valor as a young sailor. When they reached her dwelling, she turned to face him before heading up.

“Why do you always get it? Nobody gets it.” He raised a brow at her question. “Gets me. Like Neal,” she slurred the name and rolled her eyes. “I have a shitty day at work and he decides to make some weird pass at me through the kid ? But you,” she leaned in and poked Killian in the chest, keeping her index finger pressed against his sternum. “You’re the...the flirty pirate king and you just...throw sharp shit at a wall with me and buy me drinks. You didn’t even check out my ass more than once.”

He absolutely had, but far be it for Killian to correct the lady when this seemed to be going somewhere rather interesting.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she slurred.

Before he could suggest this was likely a bad idea as she would potentially regret whatever her next words were to be, she pulled him down by one of his coat lapels and whispered loudly, “My mom is Snow White, right? So she’s all about ‘true love’ and ‘happily ever after’,” her whisper became what he thought was an imitation of her mother, though he doubted that Snow White had ever been six whiskies and two rums deep.

“So she thinks that Neal is like...my Prince Charming, but here’s the secret: he’s not a prince! He’s a con-man, and he sure as hell isn’t charming. So whoops, Mom! Wrong bet!” She laughed and let go of his coat, poking the end of his nose and whispering something that sounded like the noise boop in the most infuriatingly impossible-to-understand gesture he’s witnessed yet. She gave him a glassy-eyed smile, and in a parting shot that left him speechless, she cupped his cheek and in a much softer tone murmured, “Goodnight, Killian.”

---

The morning arrived after less rest than he’d like, but Killian snapped awake as  the sky first began to turn a dusty rose on the horizon. This was very likely the best mood he’d found himself in for quite some time, and he mused on the past twelve hours as he fiddled with the magic hot-water dispenser until he got the temperature just right. Unlike the Jolly , Granny’s provisions in terms of hygiene were lavish and he assumed they cost her a small fortune if Ruby and the guests enjoyed them as much as he did, but Granny assured him the soaps and amenities were provided, so he took great joy in letting the warm water run over him as he lathered up, breathing in the herbal and lemon scent so unlike the harsh lye soap he was accustomed to. This world without magic had its  charms, and hot water on demand was his latest favorite.

He arrived downstairs for his other new-world favorite - coffee - and Killian was pleased to see Emma already at the counter, though she looked a great deal less chipper than he felt. “Good morning, Swan,” he sauntered up to take a seat at her left. “Beautiful morning, don’t you think?”

She grumbled something about a headache and before Killian could reply, Granny swooped in and all but insisted she sit and have breakfast. Despite her protests, Emma wound up delayed in her arrival to her post that morning as she was cajoled into a substantial pile of eggs, bacon, and toast. “Complain all you want, Sheriff,” Granny eyed her as she set a matching plate before Killian, “but you two need to soak up some of last night’s fun. Now, eat.” After obligingly refilling their mugs with steaming hot coffee, to which Emma added more than a bit of cream and sugar, Granny retreated to another table as the morning rush filled in around them.

They ate in companionable silence until Emma glanced over and opened with, “I beat you at darts, didn’t I?”

“Aye, two wins to my paltry one, Swan. I’m only grateful we chose not to wager more than dinner and drinks on the game, or my pockets would be a great deal more empty.” She smirked at his comment, and the two chatted as they worked through their breakfasts, both seeming to come alive as Granny had predicted.

He should have known it was all going far too well.

The bell above the door chimed, and the bustle of the patrons picking up coffee and pastries on their way to work or leisurely enjoying their breakfasts fell to a whisper. Killian stayed perfectly still as he heard the man limp toward the counter, the gentle thud of his cane giving him away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Emma roll her eyes at his clipped “Miss Swan,” and Killian stayed frozen to the spot, not trusting his reaction in front of the woman who not only was increasingly important in his life--a thought he’d sort out, or studiously avoid, later--but also represented the local law enforcement.

He heard few of the words exchanged between the Crocodile and Granny, though neither appeared pleased to be having the conversation. Instead, his pulse pounded in his head and his vision clouded as he clutched the edge of the counter. Killian had the distinct image of grabbing that gold-topped cane and flipping it, beating the man about the head until nothing recognizable remained. Until the gold handle dripped red. He could leave him on the floor of this place, twitching as the last impulses of his brain forced him to dance to a soundless tune; Killian could simply walk to the Jolly and set sail, free of the memory of this vile excuse for a man.

Except that he could do no such thing. He sat next to the sheriff in a small town diner surrounded by people who already distrusted him to varying degrees. He was trapped in a land that was not his own and had no way-- nor will --to return to his own. He was a captain without a crew, and as his mind raced through the numerous ways he could rid himself of this loathsome creature he knew now was not the time and certainly not the place. Simply put, Killian refused to put Emma in a position where she would be forced to see the darkness that lurked within him. So he let it pass, and let the Crocodile go for today.

It wasn’t long after the disruption that Emma took her leave, and Killian lingered at the counter as he mulled over what to do with his day. Most days he helped Granny with the more physically demanding repairs around the place, but he felt caged and in need of something more challenging.

“Appreciate you not taking his head off in my diner,” Granny remarked banally once the place emptied. “You have any idea what it takes to get blood out of white grout? Oh, don’t look so surprised; nothing smells quite like fear and rage rolled up in one, and I could smell yours from across the damn room.” She waved dismissively and filled two mugs, sliding one to him and keeping the other for herself. “It’s hot chocolate, and you need it. Little liquid comfort never hurt anyone, so drink up and tell me about it.”

He sipped hesitantly, but the woman was certainly right about the comforting power of the elixir before him. Killian thought about his next words as he breathed in the sweet steam from his mug, letting the cup warm his hand as he held it. “You could...smell my emotions?” He felt it best to begin with the obvious inquiry and prolong the tale of his darkest day.

“I could also hear your heart-rate skyrocket the second you knew who came through that door, so I’m guessing there’s some history there. You don’t have to tell me everything, Killian, but I need to know if I can trust you when you’re in here. Gold comes in to collect rent monthly, and every now and again he has lunch as well. I need to know you’re not going to take a kitchen knife to the bastard while I’m serving sandwiches.” She levelled a scrutinizing gaze at him and waited.

Killian set down his mug and scrubbed his hand over his face, realizing he was in need of a shave, then realizing he was further delaying the conversation. He sighed, knowing there was only one right way forward. “I will not spill his blood on your grounds, Granny, not unless he spills mine first. You have my word.” She nodded once, waiting for him to continue. And so he spent the sunny morning explaining how he lost his hand to the Dark One. While Killian left out much of the story of Milah, he could not entirely avoid her role in the tale, explaining simply that the man she knew as Gold had killed the woman Killian loved right in front of his eyes. Granny was sympathetic and asked few questions, letting him choose how much to reveal. It was cathartic, in a way - a chance to tell someone this piece of truth. A chance to be heard.

When they were finished, Granny spoke briefly of her wolfish nature, a truth which Killian enjoyed as it made her acute hearing and perceptiveness make far more sense. “I know your heart-rate also picks up around a certain sheriff,” she added as Killian slipped on his greatcoat, readying himself to find busywork on the Jolly . “And I know hers does around you.” She eyed him closely then, searching for he knew not what. “Be careful with her, Killian. I don’t know everything--I’m not sure anyone does--but I can see enough to know she’s been hurt, and that hurt hasn’t fully healed. In fact, I’m damn sure the source of it just waltzed back into her life.”

He nodded his understanding and left her to her work. Given the woman’s preternatural understanding of her patrons, he was not about to argue. He chewed her words over in his mind repeatedly as he spent the rest of the day checking that everything aboard his beloved Jolly was in tip-top shape. While his life may be constant chaos in this world, at least he could be assured his ship was as perfect as ever.

[miraculousholder]

We Belong Together ~ Chapter 1

Hey! Just wanted to say that I finally posted my second Miraculous Ladybug fanfic and I am so excited for you all to read it! Will be updated on here and on AO3 :)

We Belong Together - AO3

Summary: It has been years since Marinette Dupain-Cheng last saw Adrien Agreste when he broke her heart. Since then she has moved on and continues to pursue her dreams in becoming a renowned fashion designer. Adrien hasn't forgotten the girl who had stolen his heart, but never got the chance to see her after graduation. But when he decides to secretly have a career in singing and has an underground band, that's when he spots Marinette. The girl who got away in the crowd. Can they both see what went wrong in the past to make it right? Or will they ignore their feelings and completely move on?

Marinette Dupain-Cheng sighs in relief when she finished up her sketches for her senior project. While she still had to make the garnet, it was much easier than designing it. Putting it all together was the fun and best part.

She checks her phone, realizing she had a few missed texts from her friends and one missed call from Alya. Checking the time, Alya should be out from her own class so she decided to call back her best friend.

After a few rings, Alya answered. “Hey girl! By time you answered one of us.”

Marinette chuckles. “Sorry about that. I finally came up with a great concept for my senior project and I had to finish it before the ideas left my head. But I’m finally done with the first part.”

“Oh great! So we’re going out tonight?”

“I did not say that!”

“Girl come on! We’re seniors in college and not once do I ever recall you going out to the clubs or getting drinks with us. While I respect you for committing to the internships and your classes, it’s high time you let loose and have some fun. You won’t be twenty one forever you know?”

Marinette knew that her best friend was right. Her goal was to always become a fashion designer and while she loved what she did, it was definitely time consuming. It was a miracle she even still had friends who understood her busy schedule and made their plans based on her availability.

“I mean, I don’t have classes tomorrow so I guess I can afford to stay up-“

“Yes!” Alya yells and Marinette jumped from her friends loud voice. “Okay, sorry! I’ll text you the details and wear something...with a rockstar vibe.”

“Rockstar vibe?” Marinette questioned. “Are we going to a Jagged Stone concert?”

“Oh you’ll see.” Is all Alya said before she hung up.

Marinette was confused but decided not to question it any further or else she would regret accepting the invitation.

XX

A few hours later, nightfall had fallen over Paris. Marinette ate some dinner since she knew that if Alya and the girls were coming over, there would be some pre-gaming happening before they left to whatever place they had in mind.

Her small pet dog, Tikki, laid comfortably on her Ladybug bed in the living room. Marinette walks over and leaves out a bowl of food for Tikki and refilled her water bowl as well. Tikki already ate but it was just in case she came home late and didn’t wake up on time the next morning to feed her dog.

The door bell rings and Tikki lifts up her head upon smelling familiar people nearby. Marinette puts her dirty dishes in the sink and walks over to open the door.

Alya, Juleka, Rose, and Mylene walk in. All of them wearing concert attire but matched it to their personalities.

“Wow you girls look great!” Marinette exclaims, closing the door.

“And you look good, Marinette.” Says Rose. “I love the jacket.”

“Oh this old thing?” She tugs on her jacket. “It’s just something I’ve had in high school.”

Alya walks over to Marinette’s secret stash of liquor, as Mylene plays with Tikki.

“How’s Ivan?” Marinette asked Mylene.

Mylene smiles when her boyfriends name was mentioned. “He’s doing great! You’ll actually see him tonight.”

“Oh? Is he going to meet us there?” Marinette wonders and before Mylene can reply, Alya hands her a shot glass and she walks over to join everyone by the counter.

Marinette chuckles. “Okay can one of you tell me what we’re doing tonight?”

“Underground concert,” says Alya and hands her a glass. “Nino told me about this band he has been producing songs for and he invited us to go check out them out. Apparently they’re really popular in the alternative scene.”

“Oh sounds like fun.” Marinette and the girls surround her countertop and take a shot. The liquid burning her throat a little but she ignores the feeling.

Rose nods excitedly. “It will be! Alya told me that some of the band members went to school with us!”

Now Marinette was even more curious. “Like who?”

Alya clears her throat. “Lets not ruin the surprise!” She says and changes the subject. “Mari, are you still seeing the guy from the visual arts department?” Mylene asks Marinette.

Marinette has been going out with a boy from the visual arts department as of recent. While she enjoys his company, she isn’t really into him. It just didn’t feel right, but she hasn’t had the chance to tell him they were better off as friends.

“I am but we’re not official,” she assures her friends. “I’m not really looking for anything serious anyways.”

“So if a guy comes up to you and asks you to go home with him, you’ll take it?” Alya wonders and Marinette thinks about it.

“I’ll consider it.”

Alya accepted her answer and they took one last shot before leaving to the club.

XX

The club was in a weird place in the city that was populated with sleazy clubs and teenagers who looked for a good time where they shouldn’t be looking.

The girls go through a dark alley and Alya reads the instructions that her mystery man gave her. She stands in front of a black door and knocks four times.

A minute passes and the door opens, revealing a huge bodyguard wearing a white mask.

“Alya?” He questioned.

Alya nods. “Yup! Carapace told me to come through the back for VIP.”

The bodyguard looks at the girls, stepping aside to let them in. They each held one another’s hand so they wouldn’t lose each other as they entered.

The place smelled like cigarettes and hard liquor, a smell that Marinette wasn’t to fond of but can tolerate. They make it to a small section of the upper floor that had a great viewing of the whole dance floor and stage. The girls sat down and Alya ordered them all a round of drinks.

“Carapace? I thought it was Nino who invited us?” Rose asks Alya.

Alya shakes her head. “No it’s just a nickname that they go by here. You see, majority of these artists are undercover celebrities who like to play music by their own terms or just like to escape the crazy world that they live in. So they make up an alternative identity so they can party or rock out without worrying about the paparazzi.”

“Wait, then how will you know which one is Nino?” Marinette asks. While the concept was cool, she wasn’t sure if she would like to hide her identity from the people she was close to. Unless she really need to.

Alya shows her a picture of Nino wearing a green mask. She then shows the others and they start to be on the look out for him.

“Well I hope he passes by so we can thank him for this cool VIP experience.” Rose says excitedly. “And it’s been awhile since I’ve seen him so we have to catch up.”

Marinette smiles and their drinks arrive. They give a quick cheers before they start drinking.

After twenty minutes of talking and joking around with one another, the lights in their section went down and so did the ones on the stage. The crowd yells out in excitement and the girls get closer to the recliner to watch the show.

Marinette can see a group of boys walk out to the stage and the start of the guitar. The lights turned back on and everyone went crazy over the band on stage.

She can see the name of the band written on the drums, Cataclysm.

What an unusual name, she tells herself as the lead singer begins to sing. He was a fantastic singer and Marinette closes her eyes as she vibes with the loud music playing.

Her friends were clearly enjoying themselves and were maybe a little bit too loud compared to the other attendees who were watching the show in the first floor. She followed along with her friends, also dancing and laughing.

Marinette looked down again at the stage, the band finishing up their first song. The lights were finally on the lead singer and when her eyes stared directly at him, she froze.

XX

(An hour before the show)

Chat Noir, or Adrien Agreste as his most of his close friends and family knew him by, fixing up his black eyeliner and mask. His bandmates were doing the same or sitting on the couch before it was time for them to go up.

Nino comes in and was beaming with excitement.

“What’s up with you?” Jared asks, fixing the strings of his guitar.

“Oh nothing just that Alya and the girls are finally coming to check out the band!” Nino announced.

“Yeah, Mylene texted me that she was here.” Ivan brought up.

Kim was stretching. “Any of them single?”

“Kim, these are our friends from school. Besides aren’t you still seeing Ondine?” Max brings up.

Kim shrugs. “It’s complicated.”

“Actually there is one girl who is single.” Nino answers Kim’s question. “Maybe big shot over here can finally get his first girlfriend.” He points at Adrien who was resting comfortably on the couch.

Adrien opens one eye and looks at Nino. “I can get a girlfriend if I wanted to.” He closes his eyes again and stretches his arms out as he sat up. “But I told you. If I’m getting a girlfriend I want them to fall for me, not Adrien Agreste.”

While he loved his life as the son of famous renowned fashion designer, Gabriel Agreste, it came with consequences.

The main one would be how he made friends. While he was home schooled for a good portion of his early childhood, he was able to attend a real school when he turned fourteen. It was a private school, but to him it was something. But based on how people treated him, he knew he was getting a weird taste of privilege that he didn’t want.

It started with how guys would want to come over only to his place and never bothered to invite him to theirs. Sure his father was strict, but he would’ve allowed it as long as it didn’t interfere with his studies. But no his friends at the time wouldn’t bother.

Then every holiday his locker would be packed with constant love letters or presents girls would leave for him. Not to be rude he accepted the small tokens of appreciation but he never liked it.

He hated this and when he would meet up with his friend Chloe, she convinced him to transfer to her school. It was closer to his place and not as crowded as his private school.

“I mean you’ll still be surrounded by peasants, but you’ll be with me Adrikins!”

And after one long and difficult hour of convincing his father, he agreed to let him transfer to College Francoise Dupont. There he met probably his closet friends and met the love of his life...

“Adrien? Oh Adrien,” Nino says his name in a song like tune. “Time for the show, let’s go.”

Adrien gets up and grabs his guitar. “Let’s do this guys!”

His friends chuckle and they do their backstage circle before they get on stage. While they usually start off the show with one of their classics, they decided to start slow before playing their more hardcore stuff.

As Adrien, he never could be on stage with people constantly watching his every move and wonder how he will fuck up his family name. But as Chat Noir, he belonged to no one. He wasn’t the son of a famous fashion designer. He wouldn’t be in the tabloids the next day. No instead he got to play till his hearts content and go home.

That was until he looked up at the balcony where a group of girls were cheering them on.

And that’s when he spotted her. Even though his eyes were slightly blinded by the bright lights, he can still see her raven black hair that can be mistaken for a dark blue. She blue bell eyes that he can stare at all day. There was only one girl who can ever have him in a trance such as this.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

The girl who stole his heart and the one who will forever be known as his first love.

He continued to sing into the microphone, not removing his eyes from her. “Just another day started out like any other. Just another girl who took my breath away.” He sang, continuing on with his performance. The crowd loved it, girls getting closer to the stage to get his and the others attention.

But Adrien can only stare at one girl.

The one who got away.

[dahlia-coccinea]

Wuthering Heights - Chapter 3

This is a somewhat difficult chapter to discuss fully in a single post. It introduces so many important themes and has the first glimpse of the story of the earlier inhabitants of the Heights. Sorry if this is too long - I've tried to keep my comments concise. It is difficult for me to not mention every tiny detail I like lol 

We learn that Zillah has worked at the house a year or two and is aware that Catherine’s old room is off-limits but seems to know little else. It shows that despite the emotional unloading that Heathcliff does to Nelly he is very reserved about all that has happened in the past. 

It seems the house has been ruled by chaos for years and there is an instinctual need for the inhabits to defend themselves against it. We see this when Lockwood first climbs into the box bed and closes the doors he says he “felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.” The need to shut out the world and crawling into small spaces is repeated later in this chapter with Catherine's diary details how, with Heathcliff, in an attempt to avoid the cruelty of Hindley and Frances “made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser,” and closed off the world by fastening their pinafores together. 

We get some other interesting glimpses of Catherine and Heathcliff early friendship. It is quite popular to say that Heathcliff is Catherine’s whip and he is a blank slate for her, but I think this diary entry is another example of their oddly egalitarian relationship. First, we have this scene of Catherine lashing out against their ill-treatment:

I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub! 

That Heathcliff swiftly follows her lead certainly shows a reciprocation of the other’s attitude and worldview - or simply that if one is going to get in trouble then the other will follow suit. Still, I do hold that he doesn’t just mimic her or do as she wishes. We get a number of examples that show neither play a clear leader in their antics with one happening shortly after this incident. Catherine's diary continues: 

I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman’s cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion—and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified—we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.

Here Heathcliff takes the lead in coming up with more plans to get further into trouble and it seems Catherine is more than pleased to go along with it. 

There are other, now iconic, details of Catherine’s character in this chapter. Such as this description of the box bed from Lockwood:

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.

And later:

Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

Catherine holed up in the box bed and writing on every spare bit of paper she can get her hands on and scratching her name in the paint, tell of someone who has no one to talk to. She’s alone and is compelled to at least make sense of herself with ink and paper. Nelly does say later on that “there was not a soul else that she might fashion into an adviser” beside Nelly herself. Which is a poor adviser, considering how Nelly disliked her throughout her childhood. 

Adding to Catherine’s loneliness is the endless abuse of Heathcliff and herself, at the hands of seemingly everyone in the house. In this short excerpt from her diary, we are told Hindley’s treatment of Heathcliff is “atrocious,” and that now he is the new master they are no longer allowed to play, and “a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners.” Heathcliff has his hair pulled by Frances, Catherine’s ears are boxed by Joseph and they’re both berated and verbally punished by him. Finally Hindley “seizing one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen” where she says that outside on the moors “cannot be damper, or colder.” Upon their return and proceeding punishment she says she’s cried until her head ached. Consistent with what we later hear her tell Nelly, that Heathcliff’s miseries are her own, it is not her punishment or ill-treatment that makes her so upset but the casting out of Heathcliff. She writes: 

“Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place—”

Critics that suggest Catherine is glassy-eyed and naive idealist really gloss over these excerpts in my opinion. There is a constant downplaying of her abuse compared to the other characters among those that seemingly think she’s the only character with moral agency and therefore the cause of all problems in the story. 

I love how strange the encounter that Lockwood has with the book “Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First,” and the following dream is when first reading Wuthering Heights. Hardly anything in WH is superfluous and when rereading it this makes much more sense. This is quite an interesting segue into meeting Catherine’s ghost, and later learning more of her life. Forgiveness is such an important aspect in the book and will come up many times. Notably, while on her deathbed, Catherine tells Heathcliff she has forgiven him and that he should forgive her. 

I think it is amusing and also very interesting how in Lockwood’s dream he’s walking with Joseph (in itself is very metaphorical) and Joseph tells him he should have brought a “pilgrim’s staff” and that Joseph’s staff is really just a “heavy-headed cudgel.”

It’s unsurprising the appearance of Catherine’s ghost is so iconic. It’s impossible to discern if it is merely Lockwood’s dream or him actually encountering her spirit. There are details about her that Lockwood, at this point, does not yet know. Still, he does make many attempts to logically explain what happens. Either way, the imagery of the scene is both frightening and tragic. 

We get some really interesting glimpses of Heathcliff’s character in this scene. Normally he is very collected and if his emotions are out of control they tend towards anger, but here we see him truly terrified and unable to maintain composure after finding Lockwood in the room.

Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.

Even after Lockwood identifies himself Heathcliff is said to have found it “impossible to hold it [the candle] steady” and was “crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the maxillary convulsions.” It is interesting that Heathcliff doesn’t become so angry that he throws Lockwood out. It’s another oddly humanizing moment for him. An overly dramatic author would likely have him behave like a complete monster, but he instead tells him to finish the night there and not to scream like that again. This is a scene that I wish we could have some perspective from Heathcliff. Not only is he startled by a noise coming from Catherine’s old room but then Lockwood adds to his distress by rambling about Catherine saying:

And that minx, Catherine Linton, or Earnshaw, or however she was called—she must have been a changeling—wicked little soul! She told me she had been walking the earth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal transgressions, I’ve no doubt!

This and Lockwood’s further talk which makes it apparent he has snooped and glimpsed a little bit of Catherine’s and Heathcliff’s past, does set Heathcliff off: 

“What can you mean by talking in this way to me!” thundered Heathcliff with savage vehemence. “How—how dare you, under my roof?—God! he’s mad to speak so!” And he struck his forehead with rage.

Lockwood doesn’t quite understand this reaction saying:

I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my explanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and proceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation of “Catherine Linton” before, but reading it often over produced an impression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination under control. Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the bed, as I spoke; finally sitting down almost concealed behind it. I guessed, however, by his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he struggled to vanquish an excess of violent emotion. 

And later when watching Heathcliff call for Cathy through the window:

There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this raving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off, half angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my ridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; though why was beyond my comprehension. 

At one point Lockwood also believes Heathcliff to be “dashing a tear from his eyes” during their conversation. Of course, he is confused because he doesn’t know that one of Heathcliff’s few fixations has been looking for signs of Catherine for the last 17ish years. 

I’ve mentioned this before, but something that doesn’t happen in the book because Heathcliff never narrates it, but I think if someone retold the story or made a film adaptation it could be interesting to explore, is how Heathcliff came to find Catherine’s writing on the wall. She must have written it shortly before she talks to Nelly since she’s already considering marrying Linton, and Heathcliff must still be living at the Heights since his name is there also. When Heathcliff returns three years later we know that he takes over Catherine’s old room so really he should have discovered it the first night there, probably after having visited the Grange. 

@astrangechoiceoffavourites has mentioned this in one their posts, but another great aspect of the book is the background happenings that are very realistic for the time and particularly farm life. Cats and dogs roam about, Heathcliff mentions that the house goes to bed at “nine in winter, and rise at four,” and there are mentions of chores, etc. The details create a realistic backdrop and ground the characters in reality. I feel like the novel is never overly sentimental because of this and it really strengthens it. 

After Heathcliff comes down to the kitchen where the household is starting their day, we are instantly reminded how terrible Heathcliff can be when he swears at and threatens to hit Cathy for not making herself useful and working for her keep. Ironically, he tells her, “You shall pay me for the plague of having you eternally in my sight,” when, as I’ve mentioned before he has her sit at the dining table with everyone else. He also could just send her away if he despises her so much. 

I see a lot of similarity between the glimpse we get of Catherine Earnshaw from her diary and the current situation Cathy Heathcliff is in. Their situations are certainly different but both are in a similar state of abuse and neglect and both are quite self-possessed and antagonistic towards those that try to control them. They also are associated with books (Catherine filling them up with writing and Cathy reading) and have an affinity for animals. In this chapter it is mentioned that while Cathy is reading she has “to push away a dog, now and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face.” There are other similar encounters, such as when the dogs at the Heights come to greet Catherine Earnshaw upon her return from the Lintons. 

I’m sure I’m forgetting points I want to make in these posts. I’ll probably to a larger summary after I complete the book and try to tie together some of the ideas I’ve mentioned. Its also difficult because I keep wanting to bring up things that happen later in the book and I want to make a note of it now - but I’m also trying to reread as impartially as possible. Which is really an impossible task lol. 

@astrangechoiceoffavourites

[needlepcint]

INTRODUCING...

          HALLE BAILEY, CIS WOMAN, 20, SHE / HER   ⟨  ✽  ⟩   hey, you haven’t bumped into nia williams lately, have you ? they have been living here for the past two years ( during the school semester ) and during that time, locals have gotten to know them as quirky & charming.  a little birdie told me they can be quite vain & devious  though. explains why they’re an architecture major at whitby university. they really remind me of field time at six am and still making your eight am looking flawless, spandex shorts under short skirts paired with high heels you can run in, && impeccably manicured hands handling any power tool with ease. if you’re ever looking for them, i bet you can find them around the retro room. 

HIGHLIGHTS...

          the daughter raised by a single father, a former nhler, though also with the help of his teammates’ wives and girlfriends — a unique situation that shaped her life ; a lover of beauty, no matter what it may be, but a little obsessed with it when it comes to herself ; tiny but with a nose for scoring, speed, and elusiveness on the field that’s made her a two time women’s soccer mvp and she’s only a junior ; sometimes comes across as a little ditzy and airheaded, but though she has the look of a girly-girl, looks can be deceiving and certainly don’t underestimate her ; has an incredible knack for turning old things into new and desired items, mostly with regards to furniture and knicknacks.

THE STORY...

— cole harbour, nova scotia, the birthplace of sidney crosby the next one, eight years later — nathan mackinnon, and six years after that : nia williams. her birth was unplanned, however ; her mother only twenty and working towards med school. her father a halifax mooseheads player just having fun at her conception, now twenty-two and playing out his dreams in the nhl with the montreal canadians.

— things always work out in the end, though, and at twenty-two her father became her sole guardian and growing up quite a bit in the process, her mother vanishing from her life at that point and never re-entering.

— she was technically raised by a single father, but she was also perhaps raised by the veterans on the team and most importantly, the wives and girlfriends of her father’s teammates whose care she was left in the care of during games. it was them that taught her the things that her father couldn’t, and nia never wanted for her mother, that space happily and willingly filled by almost two dozen women who were older sisters, mothers, aunts... they were family.

— but even with all the make up and fashion advice, nia was very much her father’s daughter as well : crawling around the outdoors, going one-on-one on the ice, swimming in the ocean and still looking flawless while doing it. michael williams was a good father in the end, and grew into the role.

— she play hockey and soccer growing up, seeming to have a nose for offense, as elusive on skates as in cleats. nia could’ve been great at both sports, was great at both sports, but in the middle of high school she made the switch to focus on soccer full time. her passion for the ice remained, but the opportunities in soccer were stronger — and she loved the outdoors, loved the field in the early hours of morning.

— it was in the summer after grade 11 that she was offered a scholarship from whitby university to play women’s soccer ( amongst others ), but whitby fit the bill for what she wanted, and port briar reminded her a lot of home in cole harbour with the chilly sea. so after graduation, she was off to whitby to play soccer.

— on the college scene, it became obvious that nia simply put, was a star. a small but ever elusive forward who had speed that didn’t seem possible with her stature and an ability to score like no one else. the campus loved her, the team loved her, and opposing teams loved to hate her on the field. she was named mvp of the team as a freshman, a feat she would repeat her sophomore year as well. she’s currently gunning for her third.

MISC...

— architecture feels like an odd choice for those who don’t know nia well. she tends to come across as a little bit of an airhead, ditzy, not always the greatest with common sense. but she is actually quite book smart and sometimes, the ditziness is just a bit of an act. she had fostered a bit of FASCINATION with arenas having been in so many growing up, she began to harbor a desire to design one ( and to do it better ). sketching had been something that held her attention when she needed to be seated and still, and that fit in perfectly. after entering whitby undeclared, nia found herself drawn to the architecture department and program, officially declaring at the end of her freshman year.

— nia is hardly ever still : tapping fingers, jumping knees, sitting and then standing. she was diagnosed with adhd when she was seven. she is medicated for it now, but it also still manifests in attention deficient for her, leaving a wake of unfinished projects in her wake. sports had been one of the few things that held her attention, kept her occupied, and one of the few things she worked to hone her skills in.

— because of her tendency to jump from one thing to another, it’s no surprise she had a litany of hobbies that she’s tried : you name it, she’s likely tried it once. everything from yoga, to sewing, to painting, to rock climbing. in some ways it’s made her a bit of a jack of all trades, though she always comes back to soccer in the end. 

— however, one of thing did stick, kinda. in high school she took a woodworking class and from that spawned a hobby of furniture upcycling. her father had always been good with his hands and she knew her way around power tools, still does. she takes great pride in being able to fix things to be usable again, and loves to shop around the retro room or drive around port briar looking for things left at the curb. it can’t be a huge project though, like anything, if it’s not done in one go, chances are she may never return to finish the project. 

— she lives in an off-campus apartment this year after spending the first two in dorms. she’s looking forward to having her own space and kitchen ( even with roommates ).

— rigid schedules help her to keep organized when her natural tendency is to fall back into messiness and chaos. living with a neat roommate has helped her in some ways, because though messiness is her tendency, she finds that neatness helps her to keep focused and on track. being reminded to clean every week has been good for her.

— her favorite color is red and she has a penchant for red nails and red lipstick.

— her father is now an assistant hockey coach in the ncaa, but not at whitby. she sees him when that school in in town though she’s always rooting for whitby. her summers are spent back in cole harbour and she is still in touch with some of the wives and girlfriends who she’d been so close to.

— she’s an early bird, as odd as it is. she’s always loved sunrises over the atlantic ocean. you can find her either on the field or out for a run in the early hours, and then when the snow flies, likely doing yoga.

PERSONALITY...

— on the surface nia is very much a pretty girl. always looking flawless, a little ditzy, a little shallow. her smile is her weapon and she uses it to get people on her side. she likes people to like her, though one might hesitate to truly classify her as a nice girl or a mean girl. she ends up falling somewhere in the middle as most people do, never mean without cause but not friends with anyone. her enemies aren’t always obvious, something kept under wraps with petty glares and muttered comments. she doesn’t go looking for trouble, but if it crosses her path she meets it head on. her soccer star status has endeared her with some and made her just as many enemies, especially on their rival teams. she’s generally sweet to everyone she meets, but wrong her and she’ll be the first to be shit talking behind your back.

— men and women alike find her charming, something that suits her tastes. she’s been in a fair number of flings, though nothing that she ever saw as longterm. nia in general doesn’t look at the big picture, which has frustrated some who saw something more with her. but people still love her all the same. it’s a power she pretends to not know she has, but she’s more devious than her lipsticked smiles portray her to be.

— she has a thing for looks, rarely looking less than pristine herself, even in the middle of practice on a hot pre-season day. beauty, she’s been told, starts on the inside, and she does believe that, but helping along the outside never hurts either. she likes to feel good about herself, and comfort doesn’t always take precedence.

— nia always has a schedule, but at the same time, she’s almost always late. time management is a thing she’s still working on, and the only advice is to tell her anything is fifteen minutes earlier than it is.

— she’s a pretty girl, but has never felt like she had to stick to that box. instead, she has a way of just looking flawless no matter what that does. people judge her from her appearance and she knows that, but she also relishes in being able to prove people wrong. she knows her way around a math class and almost every power tool there is, she’s not afraid to get dirty --- just looking bad, so she’ll find a way to make mud look flawless. she’s obsessed with beauty, just not always the most conventional forms of it.

APPEARANCE...

— 5′0″, built lithe and fast.

— style : cute and cottagecore on the daily, but isn’t afraid to toe the line into edgy for nights out. a bit of “hardness” can make its way into her outfit in blacks and faux leathers matched with flowy silks and puff sleeves. she can make the switch from “good girl” to “bad girl” as quickly as she wants, depending on how she’s feeling that day.

— jewelry : an absolute sucker for jewelry. often is on esty too often despite her already extensive collection of bracelets, necklaces, and rings. her style is often dainty jewelry, though she doesn’t discriminate.

— tattoos : a small butterfly on the back of her left shoulder

— scars : several small nicks and almost invisible ones

OOC...

hiiii. it’s ollie again ✌️😎... and bc i normally play hockey bois... here’s my self-indulgent tie to hockey via nia whoops.

[dahtwitchi]

Hello there! I absolutely adore your art style, it's clear enough that even when scribbly you can tell who everyone is and simple enough that you probably don't need to spend hours doing a single pose. Any tips for how to speed up how long it takes to draw characters? Or just drawings tips in general? Thank you for your time and for getting me thoroughly on the MadaTobi bandwagon, I've been coloring some of your coloring pages for them and they're always adorable.

When it comes to speed, there is only one way. Do it over and over and over again. Get familiar with the character, draw them in different situations, different clothes, different moods. Sometimes to hit just the right expression, I have drawn (when it's eluding me the most) upward twenty versions of the same expression and then still picked attempt #2. I've drawn Tobirama and Madara well over a thousand times by now. Doodle doodle doodle away without intent to make grand images, sketches you can be ready pick out one or two and throw the rest away, because they were just training for your hand and brain for when you actually do make those drawings you want to be the more refined ones.

(unrefined babbling under cut)

When I make sketch studies I often do so with a timer, and, important to me personally, a pen that can't be erased. What ends up on the paper ends up on the paper (spending too much time with digital tend to slow me down overall, way too easy to stop to fiddle with everything and make it into a habit x'3 for example go in and change the angle of an arm individually for half an hour, instead of having to draw the image all over again). Trying to get sketches down under five minutes, three, single minute, is a horror, but oh so useful and can be a real fun challange. The feeling when you finally manage more than just a head and an arm during the time is such a reward! I spent six very stubborn months a couple years back making speed studies every day. I barely had energy for any other arting, but built skill in a way that make me grumpy about not having done it again, but it is so exhausting and a chore... :p (I mostly made not humans, though. I chose weird things, objects placed together that weren't usual, emptied a penbox on the table, and so on, no pre-concieved ideas how it should look when you have some potatoes on a glass jar.)

Things like inktober or huevember or dogaust are good, too. To within a contained timeframe sit down every day with a very focused theme or excersise make a good difference. If one has little time, just make sure to pick something small enough to focus on that you can do it as many days as possible. A five minute sketch every day for example. Or just doodling, but always with the same tool. Or, as you mentioned characters, make something with the same character over a month. Drawing patterns help the penmanship, drawing dogs or cats every day will make a difference over a month. Arting a big full drawing everyday because a few fulltime or very very experienced artists do, when oneself tend to take a week or at least a cuple days and rarely make one on top of another? That's setting oneself up for failure. Set yourself up for success, it's more fun and better for the mental health <3 All the small repeated things matter a lot in the long run for putting tools in your skill toolbox for when you want to level up :3

The only times I spend hours on a pose, is sometimes for the elaborate full colour drawings. But, with those, I'm usually refining a sketch by redrawing it with small iterations of changes many times over before having a basis I'm pleased with.

Complete rambles, hope some made sense, and it wasn't too tiring hearing the same old omg DO EEET AGAIN AND AGAIIIINNNNNN x'p

[quicksilversquared]

A Very Jagged Take-Down Ch 1: Dissonant Chord

Marinette knows Jagged Stone, everyone knows that. She's his favorite niece, never mind the fact that they aren't actually related. And Jagged Stone is really famous, the exact kind of person that Lila loves claiming connections to.

That was never going to end the way Lila wanted it to.

(a collection of one-shots)

links in the reblog

Jagged Stone could admit that sometimes, he was a little bit oblivious to how other people were feeling. He was a little too boisterous, too distractible, too caught up in his own thoughts and ideas and plans. It caused problems, sometimes- Jagged had butted heads with more record managers than he cared to think about because his artistic vision differed from theirs, and sometimes he didn't come off particularly well in interviews because he was too busy thinking about other things to notice an interviewer trying to ask a different question- but he was working on it, and if he was oblivious to something, well, he did have Penny to clue him in.

Still, Jagged Stone had been trying to improve. Penny had been pretty stressed out on several occasions recently, and he had wanted to ease some of her load by being at least a little more observant. He had thought that he was doing really well.

Considering that he had apparently missed his niece's upset mood during his last visit to commission a stage outfit from her, he apparently wasn't doing as well as he wanted to.

"What do you mean, she was off?" Jagged Stone implored Penny again. "Penny, if I'm going to learn..."

"She was hiding it pretty well, to be fair," Penny assured him. "Especially when you were looking. But when your back was turned, she looked kind of stressed."

Jagged Stone frowned. That wasn't a good thing! Maybe he could help, though. "Do you know what she was upset about?"

"Do I- no, Jagged, I cannot figure out what people are upset about by looking at their body language!" Penny exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "And I didn't want to pry, not when she was trying to be professional with coming up with ideas for your commission."

Jagged Stone considered that. Then he perked up. "Do you think that you, just maybe, could sneakily bring it up with Marinette when you go over with my measurements tomorrow? If I can help my niece with anything, I want to!"

"Yes, yes, I can try," Penny promised, and then she sighed, rolling her eyes. "And we've talked about this, Jagged Stone. Marinette is not your niece."

"Who says that she isn't?" Jagged Stone demanded, planting his fists on his hips. "My niece in rock-n-roll! Her CD cover and glasses and the songs they inspired put me back at the top of the charts. I am an artist, she's an artist- family in actually kickass artistry!"

He didn't understand why Penny was rolling her eyes. Really.

  Penny returned the next day with several design sketches and barely hidden anger bubbling away under her professional demeanor. Jagged Stone picked up on it right away, ushering Penny into their room at the Grand Paris and getting her settled with a platter of her favorite chocolates.

He was rather proud of himself for that, really. He was learning! He hadn't missed Penny's stress!

"I found out what happened," Penny told him, inhaling a chocolate in one bite. She chewed angrily, then swallowed. "A week before we went over for brainstorming, Marinette got expelled from her school after getting framed for cheating, thief, and hurting another student. The other student walked back on her claims the next day," Penny added hastily before Jagged Stone could grab his guitar and storm over to Dupont to bash their blundering principal over the head. He hadn't been impressed by the man the one time- or was it two times, he really couldn't remember- that they had met, and clearly there was a reason for that. "And her expulsion was retracted. But she's still facing some skepticism from her teachers and classmates over the whole thing."

"Who would want to frame Marinette?" Jagged Stone demanded, thoroughly baffled. "Marinette is fantastic! They'd have to be a cruel, heartless soul to do such a thing."

"Yeah, well, that's kind of what this girl sounds like, honestly." Penny took another angry bite. "Marinette was telling me all about her. It's the daughter of a diplomat- or that's what she claims, at least- who keeps making up all of these stories about things she's done and people she's met. Marinette is one of the only people who doesn't believe a word she says, and the only one willing to call Lila out."

Jagged Stone nodded in approval. "Calling out bullies and liars is very rock and roll!"

"Less so when it gets her framed and expelled, but yes." Penny flopped back in her chair, then perked back up. "Something Marinette said- well, it sounded almost as though the liar girl was claiming connections to you. She stopped herself before I could get much more out of her, though."

He nearly exploded with indignation at that. "The liar girl is trying to use me to boost her status? How dare she! And going after my niece while she does-"

Penny sighed in exasperation. "No matter how often you say it, Marinette isn't actually your niece-"

"I'm going to put a stop to this nonsense," Jagged Stone announced, surging to his feet as a surge of energy hit him. Maybe he wasn't going to be in Paris for the next couple of weeks because he was on tour, but, well, that just gave him time to plan. "No liar will use my name to hurt Marinette! Now, if I can grab my computer-"

"We're meant to be heading to the train station to go to London in twenty minutes," Penny reminded him. "For a meeting in London with the new record company you were considering switching to."

"Of course! Penny, I would be lost without you." Jagged beamed at her, then dashed across the room. "I can bring my computer on the train! Plenty of time to think there, no problem. We have a private compartment, so I won't even be interrupted!"

Behind him, Penny could only sigh.

  It wasn't hard to find more information on the liar in Marinette's class. All it had taken was going to Marinette's social media, going to her Ladyblogger friend's page, and from there finding Alya's personal blog.

He felt a bit strange flipping through a teen girl's personal blog and it certainly wasn't something he would ever do normally, but Jagged Stone was on a mission and Alya's blog was a veritable treasure mine. Not even three minutes after he first found the blog, Jagged Stone had learned who the liar girl in question was and had found several of the claims that she had made, all so absolutely outrageous that Jagged Stone had to wonder how anyone believed them in the first place.

But outrageous or not, they had also given him an idea.

Lila had claimed that she had saved his cat, and that he had written a song for her in thanks. Now, he definitely wasn't going to be thanking her for anything, but he could certainly write a song about her.

It wasn't going to be flattering, and it wasn't going to call Lila out by name- Penny had helpfully informed him that doing so would probably land him in legal trouble, even before he had been able to voice the idea (which was super rock-n-roll, actually, that they were so much on the same wavelength!)- but the details that he was going to refer to, courtesy of the blog, would mean that anyone familiar with Lila would know exactly who he was referring to.

Jagged Stone already had some lyrics scribbled out on a sheet of paper and a couple bars of music to go with it, and it was going to be a banging song. Like, top-of-the-charts, definitely-on-the-radio, impossible-to-miss banging.

"The main problem I'm foreseeing here is that it takes time to release a song," Penny reminded Jagged as she bundled him and Fang into a town car and then got in herself. "You need at least seven songs usually in an album, and then there's the studio time, you know that, and-"

"So it'll get released as a single for now," Jagged Stone told her, because obviously he wasn't going to leave Marinette hanging for longer than he had to. What kind of uncle would he be if he did that? "Singles take less time! I can probably have a demo by the end of the week, and then if we can get a recording studio in any of the cities that we actually spend some time in, then I can get the tracks recorded and all ready for mixing and- oh!" Jagged froze, struck by the most perfect idea. "If we can get Marinette to do the cover art for the single, that would be perfect! Then she gets her bully taken down and some money besides- yes, I'll tell her about it right away and work around her schedule, Penny, I already know that- and I get some more awesome art!"

Penny rubbed her forehead, right between her eyebrows, but didn't protest further. "All right. But you know that if you want a cover that'll go along with the single, Marinette needs some direction. I just don't know how you'll keep it all a surprise."

"She can get the background demo tracks and a prompt list of words," Jagged Stone told her at once, because he had already considered that. He had been working on getting better at not leaving all of the thinking and planning up to Penny, too, even if she hadn't quite gotten used to that yet. "That will help her come up with a cover. And look, I've already started!"

"I...see that."

By the time they had boarded the train and were halfway to London, Jagged had gotten the main part of the song written down. The lyrics just needed tweaking, the drums could probably be shaken up, and he wanted to add a few more backing tracks and play with some effects, but he had been inspired and it showed.

"I'll check it against your other songs after the meeting and make sure that you're not accidentally borrowing from an old song," Penny told him as he enthusiastically tapped his pen against the seat of his chair, trying out different drum beats with the tune. "And then I suppose we can start work on demo tracks, if you're so determined to get this out fast."

Jagged Stone grinned. "That sounds perfect."

  In what was surely Jagged Stone's fastest turnaround time ever, he was ready. The song was written, the demo tracks had been polished up into the final tracks and had been professionally recorded and mixed, Marinette had gotten the single's art done (and it was amazing, of course, somehow absolutely perfectly fitting the song even though Marinette hadn't heard the lyrics yet), and everything was ready, all within a month's time.

(His new record company was none too thrilled that he hadn't given them time to promote it, but, well, he was big enough to drop a new single out of nowhere and have it succeed, so did it really matter?)

And then it dropped Monday morning. By mid-morning Paris time, it had exploded all over the radio and thousands of people had bought it already. His new record label was applauding it as a huge success, all of their complaints about the lack of promotion forgotten, critics were already praising both the song and the cover art-

-and Jagged Stone didn't care. He was more focused on if the song had done its work and had gotten rid of Marinette's liar problem.

"You are not allowed to call her up and beg to know what's going on," Penny instructed him sternly. "Marinette is in class right now, and you know that she'll reach out and keep you updated when she can. Now either sit down and stop pacing, or go give Fang a bath. Heaven knows that that will keep you busy."

"Oh, I suppose." Fang deserved a bath after putting up with their most recent bout of traveling, after all. Travel grime was ugh, even on a crocodile. "But let me know as soon as Marinette texts! I won't be able to check my phone, since my hands will be all wet, but I wanna know!"

"I promise. Now go, shoo- you're distracting me!"

Jagged shooed.

  Marinette had been a bit distracted all morning, and for once, it wasn't because of Adrien or her Guardian duties.

Ever since Jagged Stone had told her that he was going to be dropping a new single soon and asked her to do the art, Marinette had been looking forward to the song coming out. She didn't know what the song was about, exactly- Jagged Stone was being strangely cagey about getting any more specific about the lyrics- but he had sent along a basic demo track along with a few prompt words for her illustration and it sounded amazing. She could only imagine how awesome the final version- properly mixed, with all of the instruments ironed out and vocals and everything- would sound.

(And now it had some pretty awesome art to go along with it, if Marinette said so herself- dark, seething greens in the background stood in stark contrast to the trails of shimmery gold dust in the forefront. It was more abstract than some of her other covers, but Jagged Stone had proclaimed it the coolest thing ever and tossed her a bonus on top of the already-generous commission price, which was amazing.)

And then, right before lunch, Nino gave a shout of surprise.

"Jagged Stone just dropped a single!" Nino announced, waving his phone at everyone. "I didn't even know that he was thinking about releasing anything! Lila, did he tell you?"

"Well, yes, but he asked that I keep it secret," Lila said at once, pressing a hand to her chest. It was a common look on her, faux-humble in a sickly sweet way that made Marinette want to gag. "I even got to listen to it before it got released, and it's fantastic."

"This art is sick!" Nino exclaimed. Marinette peered over his shoulder, and- yup, Nino was already in the process of buying it. "'Not All That Glitters is Gold- man, I gotta get a poster of this art, I bet that the non-digital version actually does glitter!"

Marinette hid her smile. It did, actually.

"Yes, they're a fantastic artist, aren't they?" Lila bragged. "They're a very private person, but I introduced them to Jagged Stone- I thought that he might want a professional artist for this song."

All eyes shot to Marinette, waiting with bated breath to see her reaction. After a second, Lila gasped dramatically, hands flying to her mouth. "Oh! Not- not that there was anything wrong with the album cover you did, Marinette, just that-"

"It's funny that you say all of that," Marinette said, her voice icy-cold. "Because I did the cover art for Jagged's new song, and I have the art- with all of the layers, in case you want to claim that I just downloaded it- plus the in-progress demos that I sent to Jagged Stone, plus the invoice for that commission to prove it."

The class went silent.

"And you didn't introduce me to Jagged Stone, he reached out to me," Marinette added on. "And I have the emails for that, too. So you can cut it out with the lies now."

"Oh, silly me, I must have gotten the single mixed up with Jagged's next full album," Lila tittered hastily. "The professional that I recommended to him must be doing the full album, and I just misunderstood."

Marinette was pleased to see that this time, not everyone looked entirely convinced.

"Ms. Bustier, can we please listen to Jagged Stone's new song?" Nino asked as their teacher entered the classroom, shoving his hair up into the air. "Please? Marinette did the art, and Lila's already heard it because she's friends with Jagged!"

"Well, I suppose you can put it on while I get the lesson set up and collect the homework," Ms. Bustier said with a laugh. "That's so exciting, you two! Nino, you know how to connect to the room's speakers so that we can all hear it? At a reasonable volume," she added hastily as Nino got up. "If we get any more noise complaints, then we won't be allowed to have any music on for events for the rest of the school year."

"Got it, Ms. Bustier!"

"I can't believe that you got to do another cover for Jagged Stone!" Alya said excitedly as Nino hooked up his phone. "And you didn't say anything!"

"Of course not. Some of my commissions are secret-"

Marinette was cut off by the oh-so-familiar opening chords of Jagged's newest song, and she trailed off. The accompanying horns were new, and definitely attention-catching and fantastic. Marinette's breath caught in her throat, already blown away.

And then the lyrics started.

At first, Marinette didn't really hear anything out of place. Then she caught a mention of kittens on a runway and sat up straight. All around her, murmurs gave away that other people had heard the same thing and everybody sat up and listened as the song swung around into the chorus.

'Not all that glitters is gold! Hiding behind lies that were told

A dollar-store gem trying to pass herself off as a diamond!

Claims of connections abound, but none of her stories are sound

A liar, through and through!

Adrien spun around in his seat to look back at Marinette, just as Marinette realized what Jagged Stone had done and clapped her hands over her mouth in silent glee. He quirked an eyebrow at her, mouthing a silent did you ask him to do this? and Marinette shook her head.

No, she hadn't asked. She had mentioned Lila to Penny, though, after Penny had asked about why Marinette had been so down. Her parents had probably said more, if she was really being honest, and Penny had no doubt told Jagged Stone, who then came to the very logical and oh-so-Jagged conclusion that the best way to deal with the problem was by writing a call-out song. A call-out song that, by the sounds of it, included references to more than a few of Lila's lies, not just her ones concerning Jagged Stone, so there was no way to mistake who the song was referring to.

She definitely hadn't mentioned all of those to Penny.

In the back, Lila had gone white. More than a few classmates had turned around, sending her disgusted looks. Alya had frozen in her seat before whipping around, murder in her gaze. Even Ms. Bustier was looking incredibly suspicious as she made the connection between the lyrics and all of the stories that Lila had told over the months.

Lila's reign of lies had come to a very abrupt end, heralded by the sound of horns.

"You didn't even know that he was going to do that, did you?" Adrien asked her as soon as the song came to an end. "You looked so surprised!"

"He didn't let me hear the lyrics at all!" Marinette exclaimed, and wow, now she knew why. She was honestly starting to feel teary, because Jagged Stone had written this song for her, because she had been upset after Lila's expulsion attempt, and she knew just how much work went into making a song, and it- this was incredible. "Or really anything beyond vague prompt words. I knew that he knew about Lila, because Penny asked why I was feeling down and I told her, but this..."

Marinette would have assumed that just bursting into class would be more Jagged's style, over-the-top and impulsive and immediate, but maybe he had just been too inspired by the topic and the idea of a song to think of that. And whether or not that was the intention, the song was so catchy, so bound to be popular, there was no way that Lila would be able to escape it. She would be hearing it on the car radio, playing in the train station and on the bus and in the mall. If Lila was on her own, she could leave, or turn it off. But if she was with classmates, or her mom- assuming that her mom didn't actually know what Lila had been up to all this time- then Lila would have to sit and stew.

...maaaybe that wasn't a great thing if she was going to be staying in Paris, but with any luck, it would drive Lila so mad that she would leave.

"That's one heck of a call-out by Jagged!" Kim cackled loudly, breaking through the muted muttering. "Wow, how ticked off did you have to make him for him to go out of his way to write and produce a song calling you out?"

"No, it's not what it looks like- I swear, he's just, uh..." Lila was floundering. There really was no easy way to get out of this, but clearly she was going to try anyway. "You know not all song lyrics are literal! I did save his cat, and he did write a song for me, it's just that-"

"What's the name of the so-called song Jagged Stone wrote for you called, then?" Nino asked sarcastically. "'Clinging to the coattails of fame without any dignity'?"

Marinette choked on a laugh before hastily trying to hide it. Across the aisle, Chloe was far less subtle as she cackled in delight, clearly thrilled by Lila's messy downfall.

Marinette wasn't surprised. Chloe was far less impressed by connections and tall tales than a lot of their peers, but she was absolutely the sort of person to be bitter about how much attention Lila had been getting. It meant less attention on Chloe, and that just couldn't stand.

"Okay, class, please settle down!" Ms. Bustier implored. She was glancing around the classroom, clearly trying to figure out a path forward. "Ah, Lila, let's step out to talk to the principal and call your mom."

"No, but a song from a rock star is hardly considered any sort of reliable source, surely!" Lila cried, still not willing to give up and come quietly. "He's met thousands of people, why would everybody assume that he's talking about a real person? That he's talking about me?"

"Lila. Now."

Finally looking properly wilted, Lila gathered up all of her things in a rush, stuffing them roughly in her bag before heading out the door in front of Ms. Bustier. All around Marinette, whispers started up, some people comparing notes on stories Lila had told and finally (FINALLY) looking them up, others looking up the lyrics to the song. Marinette ignored them all, fumbling for her phone and pulling up Jagged Stone's contact number.

Seriously, how was she supposed to thank him? He had gone to so much work, gone so far out of his way, just for her. Because it was for her, Marinette knew that. Jagged Stone had plenty of over-eager fans that sometimes went overboard with things, and of course there were tabloids that loved to make up stories about him. Jagged Stone ignored all of them the best he could- well, until they got too intrusive, at least, like that one photographer- instead of slapping back. There was no reason for him to go out of his way just for Lila, when she looked at it that way. Lila and her lies wouldn't even appear on Jagged Stone's radar, if it weren't for Marinette. But that hadn't made a difference to Jagged.

Seriously. Best. Uncle. Ever.

(Well. Best not-technically-an-uncle ever. After all, Penny always insisted that Jagged Stone couldn't just adopt Marinette as his niece, no matter how much he wanted to.)

With shaky fingers and happy tears blurring her vision, Marinette texted a quick thank-you to Jagged, hoping that he could feel all of her gratitude through the few simple words that she managed to pull together. Without the constant threats from Lila hanging over her head- either because Lila would be gone or because she would be so thoroughly discredited by everyone that she would be powerless- and without having to constantly be at odds with most of her friends about Lila and her lies, Marinette's days at school would be much more enjoyable and relaxed.

  Penny glanced at Jagged Stone's phone for the fifty-seventh time in an hour and a half. His phone kept lighting up with all sorts of messages- from his new producers, from celebrity and non-celebrity friends alike, from his family members- and she had kept checking it, noting messages that needed to be responded to as she did.

It was exhausting, especially since Penny had her own correspondence to attend to- questions about integrating the new song into set lists, requests for interviews about the new song, and an ongoing back-and-forth with Jagged Stone's lawyer to make sure that he wasn't going to get in legal trouble for the song (since no names were mentioned, he was in the clear as long as he didn't call out Lila during any interviews, but she just wanted to be prepared). Frankly, Penny was tempted to put Jagged's phone on mute and just ignore it for a bit before checking to see if Marinette had reached out. After all, she would be in school right now, so the likelihood of Marinette and her classmates being able to listen to the song before lunch was, well, rather low-

Message from: Marinette Dupain-Cheng

-but Penny supposed that it wasn't entirely impossible.

"Message from Marinette!" Penny called out, and there was a yelp and a clatter as Jagged Stone dropped the broom he was using to scrub Fang to dash out to the main room and snatch up his phone. He grinned at the message, whooping in triumph.

"They listened to it in class and all of her classmates figured it out right away!" Jagged announced. "And the liar girl got carted off to the principal's office and her mother is being called, so she's dealt with. Score!"

"Yes, good job," Penny told him, resigned to hearing about it for the next month, at least. Jagged Stone was going to be too caught up in the euphoria of his success to be much use, so she would have to deal with all of the setting up appointments. "Your idea worked, Marinette's bully has been dealt with. Can you relax now?"

Jagged didn't seem to hear her. "You know what, I'm going to call up room service and we can all have a feast to celebrate! And- oh, I should text Marinette back, 'cause I wanna get any more updates! I just want to make sure that the little eel doesn't manage to slither out of punishment again. I doubt even she can get out of it now, but I gotta follow through!"

Penny could only sigh as Jagged Stone bounced away across the room. As he went, Penny could hear him singing under his breath.

Tea with a prince, talking about charity

She's too kind, too good to be

Working to save the world, she always tries

Except everything she says are self-serving lies!

Not all that glitters is gold! Hiding behind lies that were told

A dollar-store gem trying to pass herself off as a diamond-!