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sarahjkl82-blog · 3 years

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Artistic Instinct: Chapter 5

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 4,700 (yup, the words ran away from me!)

Warnings: Language.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something!This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

Art washes away from the soul, the dust of everyday life

Pablo Picasso

Chapter 5

Golden sunlight streams down in ribbons upon your hair, setting fire to the natural red highlights and causing the wrought iron railing to cast beautiful shadows across the floor. Marcus sits with you upon your hotel balcony in the late morning sunshine. You are now, a little more comfy, wearing your airport clothes- the high-waisted, wide-legged jeans and a mustard yellow and cream breton top that does everything to highlight the rise and fall of your curves.

He watches each tiny twitch of your face as you read notes from the meeting- your full lips pout and brow furrow as your gaze flits backwards and forwards over the words, making connections and drawing together the different pieces of information that you’d gathered from that meeting. Marcus tries to smother a chuckle when you unthinkingly roll your eyes and shake your head at the point where some idiot tried talking over you in the meeting and he can fully read from his position that you have scrawled TWAT across your notes in reference to that mediocre white man.

It’s at this sound, that you look up, “What’s up?” you ask tiredly, smiling amusedly in his direction.

“You’ve got such an expressive face as you read- I swear, it’s like your muscles are reliving all of the faces you wanted to pull in the meeting. You managed that jerk well in there.”

“I’ve been managing cockwombles like him my entire life. They’re fucking insidious,” you say turning your eyes back towards the screen, shaking your head at the memory of the all the arseholes who have gone before and all those who were yet to come. “If they had anything to actually offer, I’d accept it; but they just parrot shit back at you - the same shit that came out of your own mouth moments earlier - as if it is their fucking own, enlightened idea!”

“I can imagine.This level of work, even in the art fraud department, is such an old boys’ club,” he agrees, pursing his lips in annoyance of the invisible barriers that you must have come up against.

Nodding in agreement, you add with your head tilting to one side as you take the agent in, “You don’t seem to fall into that category, Marcus. You even handed the reins over to me in there- I should have just been your lackey today, not the one doing all the speaking. I appreciate you treating me like an equal.”

Rolling his shoulders and stretching the sides of his neck, Marcus looks off into the distance as he slightly straightens up in his seat, “My Mamá firmly entrenched the value of every human being in me, regardless of their gender. I don’t wanna bring it up again, and certainly never wanna upset you, but you should be my role in the team. Your aptitude for this role far outweighs mine,” he grins and turns towards you, “There’s a part of me that feels like a mediocre white man around you.”

“Well, at least you have decent enough manners not to mansplain my ideas back at me!” you laugh, hugely enjoying your boss’ company on that narrow balcony.

“You know, I didn’t recognise you wearing civvies in the airport? I was absolutely kicking myself for not taking a ride with you to the airport.”

“Yeah, I get that. After seeing me suited and booted, it must have been a shock to see a jet-lagged, middle-aged man in old jeans and a hoodie,” Marcus humbly chuckles, shaking his head.

“Are you digging?” Your eyebrow arches high on your brow as you interrogate him teasingly.

“What do you mean digging?” Marcus furrows his brows as his eyes widen innocently.

“Digging for a compliment, you daft thing!”

“Hah, no! I meant it honestly. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and don’t even know the reflection that stares back at me,” he replies, shaking his head sadly.

“Pssh, you have nothing to worry about. Some of us can only dream of looking as put together as you. I generally look as though I crawled through an art studio backwards even if I use an iron and put make-up on- in fact, scratch that- I look worse if I iron and put effort into how I look,” you exhale despairingly at the memory of all the other immaculate recruits and your general throw-it-on, it’ll-do appearance. “Everyone else in my family is so incredibly smart- immaculate even- and yet, I stick out like a sore thumb. Like I didn’t quite pass the expectations of what it takes to be an adult. I swear that’s the reason my aunties think I’m not married.”

Marcus huffs a gentle laugh, “I think that’s a big part of it for me. For the amount of grey in my hair and the creases in my skin, I’m not where I expected to be at this point in my life.”

“Where did you expect to be, Marcus?” You cock your head to one side, listening intently.

A buzz suddenly emerges from your phone:

« On est en bas! »

“Ah they’re downstairs- but do not think for one second that this conversation is over,” you wag your finger in Marcus’ direction as you gather your belongings, “We will continue this later.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Marcus mock salutes you and clicks his heels together as he rises from his chair with a huge crunch from his knees, “See, what did I tell ya? Old. I’m gonna grab my things.”

Grabbing your trusty rucksack from the floor of the balcony as Marcus departs, you feel almost reluctant to leave the balcony and the conversation that you were having with him. Since he’d helped you through the anxiety attack prior to re-entering your old workplace, the two of you had found an ease in being around each other. Whilst you are dreaming of spending a day chatting with Marcus, he’s already back with a small smile and a soft look about his eyes as he catches you staring into space.

Walking through the hotel, Marcus and you could be thought of as any pair of friends on holiday with your giggles and gentle jibes towards each other as you walk down endless corridors to find the exit. There is no way that anyone would have said that you had met barely twenty-four hours before or that you were there as business associates with the easy air you treat each other. After crossing the elegant lobby, you finally reach the doors to the outside world, a wave of relief coursing through you to see that you didn’t have to make a decision as to which way to open the door as there is someone to do it for you.

As you reach their car, Jacques takes off his seatbelt and makes to get out of the car but Marcus waves him off, opening the door for you to jump into one of the back seats.

“Oh you weren’t kidding about the stickiness,” you mercilessly tease the pair sitting in the front seats. Élodie responds by sliding her front seat back as far as it can go and you yelp in surprise at the sudden crushing of your legs, slamming your fist on her headrest in mock anger.

“Please excuse the children, Marcus,” Jacques shakes his head and sighs deeply but Élodie reaches over and squeezes her husband’s thigh in a way that makes him yelp and laugh in the same breath.

Marcus and you catch each other’s eyes and grin at the playfulness. You might be here on business but at least you can enjoy yourselves at the same time. The stresses of the morning slowly ebbing from your mind, you stretch out, resting your head against the cool glass of the window and allow the hum of the car engine and gentle chatter to surround you, lulling you off to the sleep you had missed out on the night before.

✪✪✪✪✪

Something is tenderly brushing against your cheek and you instinctively nuzzle into the warm touch as your eyes start to open and the world begins to regain its focus, “Hey, sleepyhead! We’re here,” Marcus murmurs as he strokes your cheek with his thumb to rouse you from your slumber.

“Shit. Sorry. Sorry,” you rub your eyes with your knuckles trying to rid yourself of the embarrassment of snuggling the fingers of your new boss, noticing that Élodie and Jacques have already left the car.

“No worries, your snores were pretty cute,” the agent teases you gently with a lopsided grin crossing his face.

“Lies! I don’t snore.” you exclaim indignantly at the accusations, but glad he hasn’t focussed on your reaction to him caressing your cheek, as your faculties start to kick in, reaching for the door handle to escape Marcus’ jokey impressions of your snores.

The mountain air in Grenoble strokes its icy fingertips against your neck, making you wrap the woolly softness of your cardigan more tightly around yourself. You notice Marcus also zipping up a black leather jacket over his hoodie. In the open boot of his car, Jacques concentrates on making a roll up next to a small bag of resources for you - cotton gloves, sample pots, tweezers and magnifying glasses.

“s'il vous plait, Marcus. Before we do anything else, I need to borrow your muscles,” Élodie announces to him, “We need coffee, and if I know that woman standing next to you, she will be in need of one, too!”

At Élodie’s statement, you watch Marcus’ face crease into a small smile, flashing that lovely dimple, as he crosses his arms across his chest. You wonder whether he's protecting his clothes from your next caffeine hit or trying to steel himself for the latest cheeky wink coming from Élodie. A slightly raised eyebrow is sent in your direction as his boots softly stride behind the clack of her heels upon the pavement.

A waft of tobacco drifts through the air as Jacques lights up as you watch his wife and your boss walk off in the direction of coffee.

“You left us, Nush,” Jacques scratches his nose as he looks at you through a cloud of smoke he has exhaled, “You disappeared. Literally, disappeared to the point that none of us could track you down.

“I mean, it is testament to what an incredible agent you are that you can just make yourself that invisible but…” he takes another inhale of the cigarette as he turns his shoulders to mirror your position, “But you weren’t even there for Jasper’s funeral.”

Silent rivers course down your face, “Please, Jacques. Don’t make me do this now. I can’t do this right now. Let me find my feet before we get into all of this. This is my first job since everything,” your hands trembling as you gesture wildly in the air. “I want to explain. I missed you both so much but I can’t right now. It isn’t the right time.”

Nothing more is said between the two of you as you both sit silently next to each other. Jacques nods contemplatively whilst he carries on sucking at his cigarette for comfort and release from the tension that has built upon his face. In the relative safety of the car boot, as he reaches across what feels like a chasm between you to pat your thigh, you can see the hurt searing through his eyes.

How did Imanage to destroy so much?

✪✪✪✪✪

Marcus wonders how you are doing. He keeps looking back at you until you fade from his sight just to make sure that you are ok. He swears that he saw your shoulders and head drop as they seem to whenever you’re reminded of whatever those ghosts are that you haven’t managed yet to lay to rest.

“She’ll be ok with Jacques. Those two are like brother and sister, you needn't worry,” Élodie pats Marcus’ arm as she points in front of her, nodding towards a cafe. Seeing a small tic in his jaw, she adds with a small smile, “She’s special to you, non?”

After Marcus holds the door for Élodie, he shoves his hands in his pockets and pauses before saying, “Yeah. She is. I don’t think in all my years of working as an agent, that I’ve ever met someone like Anushka. Listening to her speak about art and the various different forgeries… it just transports me to a place... I’m not just in the museum seeing the original masterpieces. It’s not even just that I can see those pieces in front of me. Just by her words bringing them alive, I become part of the art. Her passion and knowledge is infectious and she cannot help but to enthuse everyone around- she is truly gifted.”

“Anushka is incredibly talented. She was born to be in the role but I would say that’s not the only way that you think she’s special,” Élodie gently analyses as she squeezes Marcus’ arm seeing a moment of panic cross his face- she tries to swallow down a laugh at how he looks like a little boy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to Nush- she can be a bit like a wild animal at times. It can take time to earn her trust. The 5 Eyes team is separate from Mi5, non?”

Marcus’ brow furrows, “Yes, we work under slightly separate parameters as we work across five agencies across the world- sort of similar to Interpol. Why d’ya ask?”

“Ok, so if you were to start anything with her- if anything were to be allowed to develop between the two of you, could it result in disciplinary action or her losing her role? Hang on,” she pauses as the assistant behind the glass shelf raises their eyebrows in Élodie’s direction, alerting her that it is time to order, « Bonjour, quatre cafés s’il vous plaît »

Marcus adds « Et je voudrais deux pain aux raisins aussi, s’il vous plaît. »

“Oh, I didn’t realise that you spoke a little French- a man of many talents,” Élodie teases with a wink as she grabs her purse from her bag, “And let me guess, the food is to try to stop Nush from burning herself or you? That woman is a nightmare with drinks.”

Reaching across Élodie,who is about to tap her card to pay, Marcus passes the cashier a couple of notes that more than cover the total, grabs the coffees and goes to leave, holding the door open with his elbow. “Why d’you wanna know about how interdepartmental relationships are viewed?”

The creases on Marcus’ brow deepen as yet another hint of whatever plagues your past troubles his mind due to Élodie’s words, “It is not my story to tell, and I’m not sure I even have half of the facts but please be gentle with her. Come what may between the two of you.”

“Oh, look who’s come to join us!” Looking up after a sharp nudge to his ribs alerted him to speak no further, Marcus sees Jacques tucking a piece of hair that had fallen in front of your eyes behind your ear, then pulling your hunched shoulders into a side on shoulder hug as Élodie grabs a coffee and mocks throwing it in your direction, to which you stick your tongue out. You are so busy messing around with the pair of them that you don’t notice the tenderness in Marcus’ eyes or the smile that creeps across his face as he watches how your friends behave around you.

“So are we ready to look at a slab of meat? I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Marcus,” Jacques chuckles freely at the thought of the tall, broad American becoming queasy at a graphic painting depicting the decomposition of a piece of carrion.

“Oh no, I love rare steak far too much, and I’ve spent way too long researching art to be weirded out by a bit of expressionism,” Marcus adds before taking a long gulp of coffee, “I must admit that I’m not terribly confident in my knowledge of Soutine other than he liked painting rotting meat.”

Jacques smiles and gestures his head in your direction, “Nush- time to shine, chérie.”

“So - Soutine was a Russian painter, who made massive contributions to the Expressionist movement whilst based in Paris. I don’t want to teach you to suck eggs so please tell me to shut up if you already know it but expressionism was a modernist movement, initially in poetry and painting, originating in Germany at the beginning of the 20th century. Its typical trait was to present the world solely from a subjective perspective, distorting it radically for emotional effect in order to evoke moods or ideas. Expressionist artists sought to express the meaning of emotional experience rather than physical reality so you needn’t worry about the depictions of rotting meat as it isn’t like an anatomical drawing you’d find in a copy of Grey’s Anatomy or anything.”

Pausing to draw a breath, you look up to check Marcus’ face- that you aren’t boring him to death- and see two dark eyes, flecked with amber, that are entirely focussed on you. His entranced gaze makes you shift awkwardly, eyes dancing around the street to try and focus on something other than him under the sheer intensity but you decide to continue, “He’s quite an interesting character in regards to our case as he was good friends with Modigliani, who we know is another one with multiple fraudulencies of his works as well as our link we made in the meeting that our main faked pieces being sold by our group are by European Jews.

“Soutine seldom showed his works, but he did take part in the important exhibition The Origins and Development of International Independent Art held at the Galerie nationale du Jeu de Paume in 1937 in Paris, where he was at last hailed as a great painter but sadly soon afterwards, France was invaded by German troops and obviously as a Jew, Soutine had to escape from the French capital and hide in order to avoid arrest by the Gestapo. He moved from one place to another and was sometimes forced to seek shelter in forests, sleeping outdoors. Suffering from a stomach ulcer and bleeding badly, he left a safe hiding place for Paris in order to undergo emergency surgery, which ultimately failed to save his life.

“The main thing that you two need to know,” you add as you reaffix your focus and run your eyes between Marcus and Jacques, ”Is that Paul Guillaume was the main dealer of his work. Straight after World War 1, he was Soutine’s biggest cheerleader and landed him a major deal with the American collector, Albert C Barnes. If you manage to track it back to either of them, you’re pretty much at ground zero- back at Soutine’s own easel- and don’t need to worry much about further certification of validity as it being one of his pieces.”

Standing in the street in front of the cafe, you discuss between the four of you who will focus on which part of the checking for verification of the piece.

Marcus and Jacques decide to focus on the provenance of the piece and to be honest, you’re relieved to be free from the paperwork trail. The idea of searching through the records of previous ownership, fills you with utter dread at missing something that would prove that it was a fake. You’d hope that each piece could be instantly traceable back to the moment where the original had been removed from the easel by the artist but that is so often far from the truth of the situation as records are often lost or aren’t even kept in the first place with only a handshake to move the piece to the newest owner. When certain disreputable organisations or untrustworthy governments seek to obscure the origins of pieces, it is nothing but doors being slammed in your face and labyrinths created from lies and deliberate obfuscation.

“Ok, so Nush and I will collect samples from the piece. I’ll then use the microscope to check the samples for any irregularities in the craquelure in the craquelure while madam here uses the stereo microscope to check the layers of paint,” Élodie gestures towards you, passing a plastic case over containing your equipment. “Obviously we won’t be able to do an x-rays, infrared or mass spectrometry tests as they aren’t so portable but if we cannot confidently say the painting isn’t a forgery, then I suggest we get a courier to take it back to Lyon for us.”

“Agreed, I think that would be the best use of everyone’s talents here,” Marcus replies, nodding, “Are we far from the auction house?” to build up a more 3D picture of the piece. D’accord??” Élodie checks as she grabs a coffee and starts to walk off in the direction of the auction house with Jacques beating a steady path behind her.

With a small gesture of his hand, Marcus waves you forward and as you take a step in the same direction as your friends, a small white paper bag with a telltale sticky stain seeping through that you hadn’t noticed being held out, taps you gently against the soft curve of your tummy. With a confused look knitting across your face.

Marcus boyishly grins back at you as he takes a bite out of his pastry, “Last set of clean clothes, gotta take calculated risks with you around.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Slightly arched windows with flaking grey paint allow a small amount of crisp mountain light to trickle into the mellow gloom of the Aladdin's cave that stretch out in front of Marcus’ eyes. As far as his eyes can see, gilt framed pictures playing out a multitude of scenes from people’s lives- some more parochial and some edging to the more abstract- bedeck the walls. A goat playing a violin, a horse in a field and a lady all in blue with sad eyes and a nose twisted closer to her ears are all jostling for positions in the party on his senses. Every single nerve in his body tingles with excitement at the treasures surrounding him on all sides. The busy-ness did not stop at the walls as every surface of the room was covered in objets d’art with exquisitely fashioned chairs, tables and armoires creating an increasingly impossible maze to step through across the floor. Even the exposed beams of the ceiling felt the need to be a part of this gentle assault upon the eyes, protruding above his head, lending an elegant set of vertebrae to the room.

Marcus thinks he’s hiding his giddiness well until he catches Anushka looking at him with an amused grin upon her face. He goes to respond but initially struggles to find the words to explain the eagerness that is written across his face, his mouth stretched in a childlike grin, eyes lit up and hands that tremble and flex with anticipation. A small smile from her and the light squeeze upon his arm told Marcus that he needn’t worry about explaining anything. Even though the touch was slight and momentary, it cut through the overstimulation of the room and it takes every bit of self control he owns to not throw his arms around her and hug her tightly. Don’t mess this one up too, Pike.

Reopening his eyes, an elegant chignon of hair and high cheekbones makes its way through the clutter of Marcus’ thoughts and extends a delicate, papery hand in greeting. The owner seems to glide through the objects around her, obviously confident of the dead ends and exit points between the items as she leads you to a small office where a tidy pile of papers and a small computer await your services.

«Madame, comprenez-vous que l'utilisation de ces méthodes scientifiques ne peut que prouver que le tableau est un faux? On ne peut pas prouver si une pièce est authentique.» Madam, do you understand that using these scientific methods cannot prove if a painting is a fake? rubbing his brow, Jacques tries to explain to the owner of the auction house, «Même si les résultats de tous les tests scientifiques indiquent qu'il n'y a pas de tromperie dans l'œuvre d'art, nous ne pouvons pas dire sans l'ombre d'un doute qu'il ne s'agit pas simplement d'un cas d'un faussaire dépassant la détection scientifique.» Even if the results of these scientific tests show that there is not a forgery in this work of art, we cannot say without a shadow of doubt that there is not simply a case of a forger out-pacing scientific detection.

Marcus nods in agreement with the agent’s words. He hates the dishonesty of it all- the obviously incredibly talented painters creating mimicries and mockeries of the original pieces. As the owner spins out of the room, Jacques notices the frown painted on Marcus’ face and the tic in his jaw as he starts to flick through the portfolio of papers in front of him.

“Hey, what happened to the giddy boy in the sweetshop back there?” Jacques teases, gently punching him on his shoulder.

Rubbing his fingers along the side of his nose before scratching the patchy scruff that lines the edge of his jaw, Marcus smiles, “Hah! That obvious, eh? Just, kinda wishing that we weren’t even necessary.”

“Yeah, it is irritating but it does pay my mortgage,”Jacques chuckles deeply, “And to be honest without it, I wouldn’t have met that woman in that lock up over there and convinced her that she should marry me or have my baby.”

A pang of jealousy hit Marcus hard, “You’ve done well then. Mine just pays a mortgage on a place in DC that I won’t even be living in for the next couple of years.”

“Never wanted to or the opportunity never arose?” Jacques quizzes not lifting his eyes as he reads through documents.

“Your setup with Élodie is something I’d love to have,” he nods sadly, “Just have one failed marriage - due to her infidelity and lack of wish to try and work things out, and a failed engagement as she was in love with another man - to my name. No, I’d love to have that vulnerability and affection with someone again. Kinda feels like a pipe dream now- not sure anyone would want to take on someone with such a creased up, greying ol’man.”

“Hah, have you forgotten my wife’s quite genuinely visceral reaction to meeting you?” Jacques laughs heartily, rolling his eyes at the mere suggestion from Marcus, “Believe me, you do not have anything to worry about there. It’ll happen. Usually- in fact, always, when you least expect it.”

With a soft huff and a slight lift from the left side of his lips, Jacques strains to hear Marcus’ whisper, “I truly hope so.”

“Hang on, whose name was it that we were looking for that would pretty much guarantee authenticity?”

Jacques’ face creases in concentration as he tries to rack his brains for the names Nush had provided earlier, “Bof...Paul something-or-the-other French and Albert something-or-the-other American, I think.”

“Hmmm, I think I’ve a document here with both of their names on it… Shall we go share it with the ladies?”

«Bonne idée. On y va. » Good idea. Let’s go.

Grabbing the pile of documents from the polished walnut bureau, there’s a sweet bubble of excitement building in Marcus’ tummy. Try as he might to convince himself that it was on account of being out of the tiny office and back around an exquisite masterpiece from the early twentieth century, deep down he knew there was another sweeter, more ancient and primal reason that made him want to be in the lock up.

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#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x oc #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #pedro pascal #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal#jose pedro balmaceda pascal #ppascaledit

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awanderingdeal · 3 years

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Hi! This is the next segment of Never Too Late, a fic where Leo helps Regulus reclaim his childhood. I've added this next one to the previous update as well, because they were both single parts and I wanted to group them, but I know I'm updating slowly so wanted to give you guys something before writing number 8! Hope you enjoy

You can find all previous parts on my masterlist

Rating: T

CW: Some talk toxic families and bad childhoods.

Credit for the sweater universe and the characters within it go to @lumosinlove.

7.Decorate your room! Paint the walls, buy new bedding and pick some new accessories! Make it your space.

"Well," Leo set a pile of magazines on the bed with a soft thud. It was a little old-school, but he was adamant that it was easier to come up with a complete picture this way. "What do you like? You don't have to know exactly, but we can't go to Ikea without any idea." He let out a soft snort at the unintentional rhyme.

Regulus looked up at him, wide eyed, as if he'd just asked him to supply the solution for world peace. "I don't know," he shrugged, toying with the sleeve of his shirt.

"You must have some thoughts."

"I don't know," Regulus snapped. "I've never had to make these decisions before. There was no point liking anything, because our parents would do what they wanted either way." He spat the words, and despite how it made Leo feel he knew the anger was a sign of some sort of progress. Not even a few months ago, his friend had spoken about his childhood like it was just a different form of normal.

"I'm sorry," Leo apologised, climbing onto the bed next to Regulus.

"It's not your fault, is it."

"I shouldn't have pushed you for an answer," Leo clarified, moving the magazines out the way and dragging his laptop from the bedside table. “Look, how about we go through Pinterest and you can pick some pins you vibe with. I’m sure we’ll find a trend.”

“Yeah,” Regulus breathed, shuffling closer to Leo. “Yeah, okay.”

***

“What the hell, there’s more,” Regulus said in awe as they rounded another corner to be confronted by rows of rattan baskets.

“I think we’re nearly at the end.” Leo looked up from the map he was trying to follow, almost stumbling over the cart when Regulus came to a sudden halt.

“These are nice,” Regulus mused, picking up a walnut coloured weaved basket. “My towels will look nice in these.”

“I’m sure they would,” Leo chuckled. He shouldn’t have been so surprised by how quickly Regulus had gained an affinity for interior design considering how he had taken to honing his clothing style with such ease.

“Oh! But these are nice too.” Regulus turned to show Leo another basket, that was identical in every way except for being perhaps a shade lighter.

Leo groaned. They had been in the store for over 3 hours and the cart was overflowing. His friend was adamant he was going to pay his own way and considering the short amount of time he had played for Slytherin along with the legal fees to end his contract early, the man was having to learn to budget to be able to afford college. Leo had suggested that doing a couple of interviews would leave him with a fair buffer, but Regulus had wanted to put as much space between hockey and his new life as possible. Leo was supportive, but Regulus seemed to be having trouble getting out the habit of buying everything he wanted.

“Right, pick one and then close your eyes. We need to get out of here.”

***

“Up a little on the left,” Leo instructed, shaking his head as Regulus lifted the left side of the photo frame considerably. “No, not that much.”

“That’ll do.”

“It’s not straight!”

“Neither are you and you don’t see us complaining,” Regulus huffed as he adjusted the frame again.

“You’re just jealous,” Leo threw one of Regulus’ new cushions across the room, hitting him squarely in the back of the head.

“Eww,” Regulus deadpanned. “And please do not throw my things,” he glared, hugging the cushion to his chest.

Leo was about to make a comment back, but he was interrupted by Sirius clearing his throat in the doorway.

“Got you a present,” Sirius said, holding out a large bag.

“Sirius.” Regulus crossed his arms over his chest, his face set into a disapproving stare. “I told you -”

“Think of it as an early birthday present,” Sirius interrupted.

“My birthday is not for another 4 months.”

“Just take it. I promise I’ll let you do this the way you want, but you’ve got to let me buy you things every now and then too. That’s what big brothers do.”

Regulus sighed, crossing the room to take the bag from Sirius. “Thanks,” he muttered, the corners of his mouth lifting despite his best efforts. The smile spread further as he lay the gift out on the bed, running the mustard herring bone blanket through his fingers. It felt just as good now as when he had been salivating over it in the small boutique the previous day, finding it almost painful to walk away when he noticed the price tag. "Thank you."

“You’re welcome,” Sirius nodded. “Looks good in here, by the way. We’ll have to find you an apartment in New York that will be big enough to fit it all in.” he commented, walking away as he finished his sentence.

“I’m paying for the apartment!” Regulus called after him. Leo barked a laugh as Regulus ranted about stubborn humans on NHL wages. Regulus poked a finger at him. “You can be quiet. I know this was your doing.”

#Regulus Black #Leo Knut #Sirius Black #Sweater Weather #Lumosinlove #cw: toxic parenting #rating: t

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yamithediaperdork · 3 years

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Should of stayed in bed (Harry Potter)

Have you ever had one of those days where you can't help but feel like you should of just stayed in bed? Sometimes the feeling passes as the morning goes on but for one young wizard It was lunch time at Hogwarts and a certain Blond haired Slytherin was grumpier then normal as he took his seat with his stooges. Between having woken up late, having lost a homework assignment and getting chewed out by his own uncle over it and now there being no where else to sit by by Potter and his two stupid friends, Draco was just having a shit day.

He briefly toyed with just skipping lunch but his tummy growled in protest at the idea since he'd had to skip breakfast just to make it to class on time.

While he hadn't of slept in THAT much that he couldn't of at least gotten some toast, he'd had to take the time to clean up after he woke up because of a embarrassing night time problem that ONLY his uncle knew about: Draco Malfoy was a total bed wetter and some nights a bed MESSER.

His parents and his uncle consider it a disgrace, he was a 5th year student and still he hadn't kicked the bad habit and so they had decided to start take drastic measures. were before he had been given self cleaning sheets and underoo's to help with the issue now he was forced to tape himself into a thick bulky nappy every night, with his uncle doing random checks to make sure he was doing it.

It was Snape's idea of all things as he reasoned Draco hadn't put the effort in to stop the accidents because he didn't have to clean up and to Draco's dismay his parents had seen the logic, so now if he wanted to try and go to bed without a nappy on he needed 5 days in a row with a happy face sticker on it on the stupid potty chart Snape had given him.

His only saving grace was that Snape let him keep it in the drawer of his nightstand instead of hanging it up on the wall.

and of course, because lady luck always seemed to shrine on potter instead of him, he'd awoken with a nappy full of bm.

Snapping himself out of his gloomy thoughts he took a seat by the griffendorks and started to help himself to ham sandwich with mustard and salad even as the mud blood sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose.

with the mud blood being closet to him and Draco maybe having rushed his clean up, he started to worry.

Crab and Goyle hadn't mentioned him smelling a bit off but then again their own personal hygiene wasn't exactly stellar so that wasn't a surprise.

Hermione looked over at Draco and he shot her a look, which was suppose to be intimidating but in his panic came off more as pleading one.

"Can somebody switch me seats? I'd rather not sit next to HIM." Hermione said, not listing it was the smell that made her want to switch but it was well known they didn't care for each other so it worked.

Harry agreed and soon was sitting next to Draco and he took sniffed as Draco tried to look away and will himself NOT to blush, getting mustard on his robe as he did so. Oddly despite clearly smelling the same thing she had, Harry just smiled and dug into his own lunch, making small talk with Ron, though he did cut off Ron.

"Sorry Ron, one second." Harry said, then picked up a napkin and dabbed away at the mustard on Draco's robe! "Look's like somebody needs a bib!"

Draco sputtered and stood up, embarrassed and outraged.

"PISS OFF POTTER!" He yelled, getting the attention of the staff.

Professor McGonagall gasped at the language coming out of Draco's mouth while Snape just facepalmed, looking like he was regretting ever getting Draco into the school.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help little guy. you don't wanna have a mustard stain on your robe do you?" Harry asked, grinning ear to ear as if he had expected this sort of a outburst.

"I'm not a flipping baby! I don't need a bib!" Draco snarled.

"Mr. Malfoy, Please take your seat." Dumbledore called out, though he to looked rather amused.

"but but.. he said.." Draco whined, turning around to face the headmaster and not seeing as Harry pointed to Draco's backside and held his nose, mouthing 'babies got a stinky butt' to the others, who broke out in laughter.

Draco whirled back around, his face a wonderful shade of crimson and went to reach for his wand, enough was enough and he had reached his breaking point.

"I'll show you who's the baby!" he growled when two things happened.

The first was with a flick of the wrist Dumbledore sent out a spell that replaced Draco's wand, which would be back in his private room with a large, white and green baby rattle. (Why Dumbledore would have such a thing on hand and how he could do such a disarming trick was unknown)

The second was while Draco who hadn't realized the switch yet when to point his wand, now a rattle at potter, A large graceful looking owl flew into the hall.

Bearing the Malfoys family crest everyone knew it was Draco's to a extent because he had bragged it up, a act that was backfiring now because of the package it carried.

brightly colored plastic and pictures of older boys in nappies on the front, it was a package of Lil' soakers, the bed time punishment nappies.

even if there had been ANY doubt who the diapers were for (And boy was Draco trying to think of how he could try and say they were Snapes) the pack landed right in front of him with a soft thud as the Owl barely slowed down and left.

"..Well that explains the smell doesn't it?" Harry said, chuckling and clearly delighted, breaking the silence that had filled the hall.

As Laughter erupted all around, Draco felt his bladder give away and he plopped down in his seat burying his face in his arms and started to cry, even as Potter patted his back.

"I really should of just stayed in bed today." He sobbed.

The end

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thoseofgreatambition · 4 years

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rosemary & mint

duet masterlist

description: george was rude enough to come into your work earlier that week and put you in an absolute tizzy with how handsome he was! you were determined to make him pay. it’s a mutual surprise though, when you discover how effective the tiny things can be in making someone lustful. after all, he’d called coming over a ‘date’ hadn’t he?

author’s note: this is set in ‘98, so a little while after the war. so we’ve skipped ahead a few years from the ‘last’ update. i think y’all will love this, and enjoy the filth haha! this is the next part in @ickle-ronniekins and i’s series! hope y’all love it!

warnings: sexual content, drinking. minors beware.

length: 5.1K

You never would have thought of yourself as someone who was cheeky. A bit of a ditz at times-- though intense healer training had landed your head outside of the clouds a bit more often. At least while you were working.

Except when George had come in. You felt the familiar tingle and warmth in yourself grow once more remembering how it felt to touch his skin. It wasn’t fair! It was absolutely rude of him to become so handsome in the intervening years! If you weren’t in such a tizzy just thinking about the muscles in his arm you would write him a letter and give him a piece of your mind.

You’d had your fair share of adult dreams. You were human after all. Your penchant for romance novels probably egged it on at least a little bit. George had inhabited every single one of them so far. However, that was the first time you’d come so intimately close to him shirtless, and you still felt more affected than any of those dreams that had come before. It was incredibly rude of him! Especially with that cologne. If he weren’t due to come over soon you would have locked yourself in your room with a quieting spell. A rude man! However, as you cleaned yourself up you grinned, you had a plan for payback! You’d remembered some crucial information Fred had imparted upon you years before when he was quite drunk. George liked legs and bottoms more than breasts and arms. Thus, you were in your best set of leggings, paired along with an older sweater-- one that tended to slouch off your shoulder. You’d even paired it with a lacy bralette. Reasonable enough for unpacking furniture. You couldn’t help but giggle as you looked at yourself in the mirror, tying your hair up in the sparkly ribbon he’d made for you a few years prior. He would see what happens when he was so rude and handsome! Payback! Now!

You noticed with a frown how wrinkled the pads of your right hand’s fingers were. With a flush you hide your hand inside the baggy sleeve.

Hopefully he wouldn’t notice that.

George wasn’t sure why he was nervous. It was you! He’d seen you only a few days before. It was fine. You seemed more nervous than you used to, but perhaps it was because you were at work? The memory of your fingertips dancing across his wound still made his throat clench. Everything seemed different and the same at the same time. Your smile, your jokes-- more grownup than they were before! You carried yourself differently too. He wondered if you thought he did as well.

The cardboard handle of the six pack of beer in his hand felt as if it was going to leave a rather nasty bruise-- the perfect amount of sensation to get himself out of his thoughts. You still had the ribbon he’d given you. Still sparkling just as brightly as the first valentines day out of Hogwarts. Granted, he still had the ribbon you’d given him didn’t he? Still tied to his wrist. More brown than blue. Quite tattered after years of nonstop wear. He couldn’t take it off. It was what he’d hung on to during the war. The chance of seeing you again, when pushing you away, had hurt so bad. Especially when you’d seemed so sad about it. But now-- now was the chance to change that. To show he was grown up. To show you that things had changed. There was nothing more to worry about. He could completely and utterly love you now. He always had-- but he could finally show it. Perhaps. Perhaps if you didn’t love him yet-- he could get you to fall for him. To make your breath catch when you saw him. To make your pupils go wide. To make your fingertips itch to pull him closer. If George could make himself funny enough. Wonderful enough. Smart enough. You would fall in love with him. Hell-- he would take even the slightest bit of fancying. Whatever it would take for you to open up your heart to him. He’d be a good boyfriend, he thought. He would be a wonderful boyfriend.

It was when he had to adjust his grip on the six pack again that he realized he’d lost himself in his thoughts at your doorstep once again. Frowning at his own absentmindedness, George knocked on the door. Unsure of what he was expecting, he still found himself blown away by you when you opened the door. Your small smile was the same, the way it grew wide and your arms flung around him to hold him close. All the same. His arms were clunky around yours, and while George always took care of where he placed his hands, he took an extra amount of care that night. He cursed whatever being-- if there were any-- who was up in the sky for this. You were wearing leggings, and George already found himself plagued by far too many impure thoughts to be occupying your presence. Still, you dragged him inside. Absentmindedly he noticed that your right hand had wrinkled fingertips. Perhaps you’d been washing some dishes. He saw a few in the sink.

“Thank you for coming to help Georgie! It’s been positively dreadful. This is the first proper night off I’ve had in a while. Can you believe I’ve been paying rent on this place for a month now? And couldn’t move in?” Already, you were talking quickly like you would when the two of you were younger, remembering something unjust that wound you up so bad that George simply needed to buckle in until you’d gotten all the words out of your head. Bloody hell, you were cute when you got wound up about things like this. George made a very conscious effort not to look at your bum, and instead focused on the task before him. It was a tiny flat, with a small living room attached to a kitchen. Down the hall there were only two doors. Which he presumed to be your bedroom and the restroom. “--Maybe I ought not complain. I’ve been getting some extra money with the shifts I’ve picked up… and I don’t want to be ungrateful.” He could already see it-- the little circles looping around in your mind. You were doing everything you’d always done. Padding around in a circle as you thought aloud. Playing nervously with the ribbon in your hair. Fiddling with the baggy sleeve. It was like everything was the same and different at the same time. Because you stopped your walking, like you’d never done before. You giggled like he hadn’t heard before. Fixed the ribbon to tie your hair back tighter until it looked less like a bow and more like a shoestring. Like you’d never done before. The mustard colored sweater was draped off your shoulder, showing a lacy strap that George willed himself not to wonder about. “Sorry. I’m ranting. I’m just glad you’re here. I missed you bunches, you know.”

He’d forgotten how easily you could fit your hand through his ribcage and steal his heart from him. However, he was just discovering how you could do the same to him in other places. He’d been in love with you through adolescence. You’d occupied every fantasy he’d had. However, he was still trying to work through the shock that he’d stumbled into something akin to a fantasy he’d had last fall. When you wore a dress with leggings. George hadn’t the foggiest what he’d done to bless him like this. Or a curse. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. It was dopey. He knew it. He wondered if this would be the time that you finally saw through him. “I missed you bunches too.” The sting of the war seemed so eager to come back. How you’d cried when he’d insisted on staying apart and no contact. How his hands had shaken when he wrote back to your sweet note saying that you couldn’t write to him anymore. “You did?” Of course he did! How could you not tell?

“Always. I missed you the whole time, silly.” It looked like you were proud of yourself almost, the little laugh as you tug him into a hug once again. It was baffling, but George couldn’t make himself care.

You were back in his arms. And George was determined to win you over somehow.

George had never quite felt like this before. The tension in the air as he watched you bend over and stretch to grab things and put your bed together. Your flushed face as you attempted to put on a fitted sheet all on your own-- the muggle way, you’d exclaimed. The giggles as he watched beads of sweat start to form on your hair line. Your hair falling out of place. He’d never seen that happen before. The way you kept wetting your lips in concentration as he reached up to hang your pictures.

The way you looked at him through half lidded eyes when he’d had to take off his sweater until he was back in the t-shirt he had on underneath. When you offered to crack open the beer he’d brought, George was quick to accept. He needed something cold, before you noticed something rather embarrassing about him. It was when you were putting away your dishes while he had begun to set up your table and chairs that he finally thought of something to talk about. What had you been doing! Perfect-- a perfect topic. Very appropriate. “May I ask you something?” You looked at him over your shoulder, the little smile still on your lips, eyelashes fluttering. “Yes Georgie?” Perhaps it was because he was so goddamned turned on, or perhaps it was because the two of you had discussed far more sexual things before the war. “Is that uncomfortable?” You frowned, and turned to properly face him, “Is what uncomfortable?” His face was bright red-- why did it have to be something lacy? He had such a thing for lacy garments. “Your strap. For your bra. Isn’t it uncomfortable?” There was a look akin to pride on your face that George didn’t understand-- maybe it was something new? “It’s comfortable. The lace is very soft, and since it’s wide the weight is distributed well.” You walked over slowly to him, and George found himself automatically sitting down on the table-- as if something told him he needed to sit down for what was about to happen. “You can feel it, if you’d like.” Surely, he was hearing that wrong. Carefully, George kept his gaze on the half undone ribbon atop your head. Would that be what your hair looked like after a night together? It was when you giggle that he directed his gaze back onto you, “I can what?” “Feel the lace! You can see it’s not uncomfortable.” He watched you tug your sweater down a bit more, to expose more of your shoulder along with the edge of the cup. “‘Ts alright. You had a good question.”

Lost for words, George gently reached out and laid his hand on your shoulder, thumb running over the black lace. You were right. “It is very soft.” He could hardly speak. You managed to step in between his knees so you were so incredibly close. Silently George studied the expanse of skin you’d exposed to him. How many kisses could he fit? How many hickies? How delightful would it be to rip this sweater off of you and cover your entire body with kisses? What did the rest of this look like? How soft were your breasts? Your thighs? Were your panties lace too? It felt like his entire head was spinning, and the spell was only broken when you stepped away with a giggle. “I told you!” back to unpacking dishes you went, standing on your tip toes for the tallest shelves. “I wear it to sleep sometimes. Since it’s not structured. With some matching shorts. Very soft. The silk is good since I get hot at night.” As George stood up, he realized he was uncomfortably aroused at the moment. He sat back down and tried his best to hide his lap. “Could you grab some water for me please, Y/N?” The odd smile you’d had all night was gone. Replaced with the sweet one he was so familiar with. “Are you thirsty Georgie?”

“Very.”

It was awful really. Awful how wonderfully you tucked into him. How easily his arms wrapped around you. How your nose felt against his neck as you nuzzled against his skin. Both of you half drunk and half awake. George had wondered a few days ago why his amortentia scent had changed to mint and rosemary after he’d seen you at work. It’d always smelled like sunshine and daisies. It was enough to scare him a bit-- was he falling out of love with you? The answer was no, he found now that you were tucked so delightfully against him as you sat on his lap. Playing with his fingers like you were fascinated by them. You’d changed your shampoo and your perfume. It just made him throb a bit more painfully for you. Then again, it could have been because you were sitting in his lap and kept wigging a bit as you tried to get comfortable. Drunk, and simply glad you were apparently innocent enough to not understand what you were sitting on, George kept his mouth shut. Something was telling him however, that this may have been at least a bit planned by you. He’d helped plenty of girls move in to new flats. None had worn perfume or sat in his laps. Or invited him to feel their bra. So perhaps-- perhaps-- you were interested in him even if it was a little bit. What did that mean though? He knew you weren’t the type for quick shags. Nothing wrong with it, but he’d listened to you prattle on about romance cliche’s and waiting for ‘the perfect time’ to know you weren’t trying to get him into bed. Or at least he was pretty sure. Didn’t matter either way-- you were drunk. He was drunk. Everything was off the table. That didn’t stop him from fantasizing though. George wondered if he was going to get home and tell Fred and be mocked for not realizing something obvious. Perhaps you just wanted to dress pretty? That seemed like something you would do. And to flirt a bit? You’d done that too at the hospital. Though he had started it. Maybe this was just flirting. And it meant that you were just a bit interested him, even if it was on a physical level. The idea that you found him attractive already made him swoon. Perhaps it was just enough to ask you out soon. Or to show you that he was more than just attractive. You were tracing patterns on the palm of his hand, your ear perfectly poised to hear the thundering of his heart. “You have big hands George.” “I do?” “Mhmm. They’re nice.”

Tentatively, George rested one hand on your waist, and another on top of your thigh. It was a bit odd-- he was worried about being too forward, but he hoped that this wasn’t too rude. “Is it okay if I hold you like this?” “Yeah.” Your voice was soft, “I like it when you hold me.” It felt like you were blowing air directly onto the embers of his lust. He could show you how nicely he could hold you, couldn’t he? Sure-- George didn’t have experience in that fact. But he was eager to learn. He could learn for you. He would do whatever you asked for him to do. Far too soon, you were crawling off his lap to stand up, grinning down at him as you swayed just a bit while you giggled. “Georgie, do you want to stay the night? You’re too drunk to apparate home, and my floo isn’t set up yet.” He gave a short nod, he’d been wondering how soon he could excuse himself to get home and work out his frustration, but apparating while inebriated was an easy way to lose a limb. “Thank you. I’ll sleep in here.” granted, there was no couch in your living room yet, just a few more boxes. You gave a frown to his response, “No-- I’ve got a big enough bed. It’s a queen. We can share. You hurt your back this week! You can’t sleep on the floor. Healer’s orders.” There was a moment as he stared at you that he wondered if that was really alright before he finally nodded. If you were okay with it, then it was okay. You’d shared a bed before and cuddled for the night. Then again, there was a problem he would need to work out before he shared a bed with you. “Can I use your shower first, love? I don’t think you’d want me sweating up your bed.” There was the little smile on your face again, and George realized like a slap to the face that the sexual tension in the air was mutual. “You can use my shower Georgie. There’s loads of fresh towels.” As he walked into the bathroom, George wondered if you actually did notice that he was hard or not. It was as if he no longer had any sense about him. He’d been turned on for the past few hours and the idea of finally getting some relief made him throb so hard that his stomach clenched. George turned the shower to the hottest temperature he could managed before stepping in. His clothes on the bathroom floor, discarded haphazardly, his red hair stuck to his face long enough to nearly block his vision. With his golden eyelashes fluttered shut, George used his right hand to steady himself against the shower wall while his left and reached down to slowly begin to tease his cock, imagining your hands instead.

When his grip became firmer he choked back a moan, cursing at himself to remain quiet. He needed to be fast enough that you wouldn’t notice anything was amiss. Have a quick wank, go to bed, wake up and deal with anything odd in the morning. “Georgie-- I’m going to get changed in my room alright? I’ve grabbed some extra blankets for you!” “Thank you.” He hoped his voice wasn’t so choked with lust that you would notice. The idea of you wearing the matching shorts you’d described earlier nearly made him cum already. The sexual tension was mutual wasn’t it? That much he could tell. Were you wet like he was hard? Were your hands jammed down your panties? Were you dreaming of him walking in, finding you like that and getting fucked senseless? Because bloody hell-- George sure was. There was a rather loud moan that George couldn't help but let out as he sped up his pace. His breathing ragged as he leaned against the wall.

Pure lust was not something he had felt before. He hadn’t thought that it would be such a terrible thing to deal with. Hopefully he could deal with it before you wondered why he was still in the shower.

You were desperately scrubbing your hands in the kitchen, annoyed at yourself for not being able to control your lust. Your fingers were wrinkly again! He would notice! Dammit. You were the one who was supposed to drive him crazy, and you’d just wound up desperately trying to work yourself to orgasm as quickly as you could so you could think straight. Git. Silly man. This wasn’t how the romance novel was supposed to go! He was supposed to see you, realize that you were a grown woman now and kiss you senseless. Breathlessly admit that you were all he’d ever thought of. All he’d ever dreamed of. Shag you until you were screaming his name as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear. Why couldn’t he ever play along? Oh well, you thought with a thrill of pleasure, you knew you’d turned him on at least. You’d been sitting in his lap after all. You giggled as your face heated up. You hadn’t thought about that aspect really when you had planned for the night. All your plan had been was to make him think you were terribly attractive based on what you were wearing, and feel the same sort of flustering you’d felt at work, but it seemed that you had brought it farther. Then again, you’d also made yourself more flustered than you’d felt at work. Satisfied that both of your hands were equally wrinkled now that you’d finished washing your hands, you smoothed down the oversized cardigan you wore over your silk pajama set. The shorts were rather short but it made you feel so cozy that you couldn’t care. You also reckoned you would look sexier without the fuzzy socks, but you were cold dammit! “Ah-- Y/N?” George called out nervously from the bathroom. Peaking your head down the hall, you gave him a grin before walking over. “Yes?” “Is it okay if I sleep in my shirt and boxers? I don’t have an pajamas here.” Immediately you felt your face heat up at the thought, “Of course! Sorry, I didn’t think about that. You ought to keep some over here just in case.” “Planning on having me sleep over more often?” Your only response came with a giggle, as you turned off the lights and crawled into your bed. “C’mon, bedtime.” It was an odd silence when he crawled into bed, normally the two of you cuddled immediately, but that felt like a less easy task now. There was more to think about now. You wondered if he could hear your thundering heartbeat. For a long time you simply stared at the ceiling, as you wondered if you ought to simply stay on your side of the bed. As much as your lust was screaming to roll over and shag him senseless until you were full of him, the shy bit, the romantic bit held you back. “Georgie?” “Hmm?” You could see him roll over to face you, and you covered your face a bit with the blanket, only your eyes peaking out. Why did you feel so shy now? All of a sudden? “Do you ever feel like-- now that you’re a grownup you ought to do things a certain way? And then confused about if you like doing it like that or not?” What a silly question! Silly girl-- head in the clouds. He was going to call you silly and laugh at you--

“All the time. Since I left Hogwarts.” Your eyes widened a bit, shocked that you weren’t alone in your experience. “Really?” “Mhm. It’s pretty common, Y/N.” Gently, he reached out and took your hand. “You’re not alone, you know. Don’t know why you keep thinking you’re odd for things that are normal.” You were grateful he couldn’t see how embarrassed you were in the dark. “Because I’m a bit silly.” “So? Doesn’t mean you’re odd.” It was with a chuckle from George that you found yourself being embraced, his hand so gently on your waist, his weight ever so slightly on you. It felt incredibly safe to wrap your arms around him. Like you were protected. Like the fear of being by yourself during the war was gone. The fear of having someone knock on the door and open it to doom. You were safe now. Someone was there. The person you wanted to be there, was there. You took a deep breath to soothe your nerves, and tried to relax despite the heat in between your legs growing once again. It was so easy to imagine him saying softly against your skin that he loved you. Or wonder what his long fingers would feel like drifting into your shorts.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” “Goodnight, George.”

Your sleep was restless. Punctuated by imagined kisses. Bites from your lover on tender skin. Pinches to your nipples through your thin top. George whispering into your ear asking you to tell him please, how much you wanted him? A delicious pressure to your core as your ground down on something-- his hand? It made you shudder at the thought. Little gasps as you heard him saying your name. Not wondering how so suddenly your room had been lit with candles or where his clothes had gone. And all of a sudden it was over. You were seconds away from orgasm and you were being jostled awake with concerned hands. Not a lovers hands. “Lovey? Y/N?” Tears sprung into your eyes from loss of imagined contact. “Huh?” “You were having nightmare.” You looked at George confused, before he continued. “You were shaking and gasping. Sweating and talking in your sleep.”

He was still clothed. Of course he was. A dream. With a wash of embarrassment you realized your legs were locked around one of George’s-- and put together what exactly you were grinding down on in your dream. Perhaps you could crawl into a hole? His hand was so gentle on your cheek, his voice so full of concern. “Are you okay? What was it about?” Immediately you shook your head as you sat up straight. Nope. You couldn’t tell him that. An odd sense of guilt flooded you-- that wasn’t a good thing you did, was it? Was it a good thing to have such an explicit dream about him when he was right next to you? Or was it okay since he was attracted to you? Or perhaps that was the crux of it-- you had his physical attraction and not the emotional kind? Not the love? Perhaps that was it, he finally saw you as a grownup but not the kind of person he would want to date or love. Perhaps that was it? Why he hadn’t talked to you through the war? Nervousness and anxiety clenched at your heart and made you curse your clitoris as it continued to throb in blind lust. Why couldn’t your body read the room! This was not the time. Were you rude for dressing up like this for him? Was that a rude thing? You hadn’t planned on asking him to stay the night-- you’d have told Fred the same thing. Asked him to stay in bed as well. Then again you certainly wouldn’t have tried to do that to Fred-- “Y/N.” His voice was more firm this time, as if he was deliberately trying to cut through your thoughts. “What’s happening? Please tell me.” “Just..” your voice felt foreign in your mouth. “A weird dream. A weird one is all. I’m going to take a shower and calm down.” You slipped out of bed, not noticing his hand that reached out for you and dug around in your drawer for a pair of sweatpants along with a large sweater. Silently you left the darkness of the bedroom for the abrasively bright light of the bathroom. You turned the temperature to as could as the knob would allow before stepping into the stream of water with a hiss. This finally seemed to banish your lust away for a bit. Allow for more rational thoughts. Perhaps dressing up nice was fine enough. It was normal. You were an adult. You had a grown up job and your own flat. You could do whatever you wanted. Fantasies as well. You were an adult. You could indulge in your own fantasies. Somewhere along the line though you’d stepped into deeper water than you’d thought you would. Sitting in his lap was too far, you were sure. No matter how nice it felt to know that he also lusted for you. You’d found yourself in the odd section of the ocean where the water wasn’t technically deep enough to drown you, but it was deep enough to make you uncomfortable. The alcohol was still heavy enough in your blood that you were unsure of all the ins and outs of everything. After you scrubbed yourself clean, and bundled up in your fresh and pajamas you finally crawled back in bed. Expecting George to have fallen asleep. Except he hadn’t. He reached out to take your hand and let out a small noise of surprise, “You’re freezing!” “Took a cold shower.” “You’ll catch a cold, lovey.” “I’m a healer-- that’s an old wives tale!”

There was a chuckle from George, “You can go over to the burrow and tell my mum that she’s an old wife then.” He couldn’t see you frown, but he could feel you swat at him. “I would never be so rude to Molly! She’s too nice.” “Just like she raised me to be nice?” “No, like she raised Fred to be nice.” “You’re a mean friend.” “Only because Fred is my best friend.” You laughed as George pulled you closer, the levity felt like it’d flooded back in the room. “I’m not your best friend?” “No, I’m so sorry Georgie. I’ll accept new applications in January, you can try again then.” “I plan on it.” Your head rested very comfortably on his shoulder. “Thank you for helping me tonight Georgie. I appreciate it.” “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You know you have me wrapped around your finger.” Through the darkness you could tell he was looking at you a certain way. Almost expectantly. You couldn’t figure out why. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls, Georgie.” “Nope. Just you.”

Again with the odd look. Like he was thinking you were about to say something or notice something.

Perhaps another thank you was in order. “Thank you again, then.” He let out an odd little sigh and a chuckle before laying his head back on the pillow. “When I saw you again I thought you were all grown up-- but it’s nice to see you’re still you.” Your brow furrowed a bit, unsure of how to pick that apart. It didn’t matter though, because George was playing with your hair, no matter how cold and wet it was, and peaceful sleep seemed to be tugging you back into its hold. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Y/N.” He stroked your back until you finally fell asleep. What a nice way to let yourself doze off. Your dream this time around was much less based in debauchery. In fact, you could almost hear him say he loved you.

It was a wonderful dream.

taglist: @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @bobduncanlover @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasley @obsessedwithrandomthings @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @geeksareunique @insearchofnewdreams @lumos-barnes @thatfuckingliardavidtennant @slytherinqween @xinyourdreamsx @skiving-snackboxess @wildfire-whizbangs

@dwarfwizard-from-panem @diary-of-an-onliner @answer-the-sirens @woakiees @black-widow-fangirl @theheirofnightandday @summerstardust @whysoseriouspadfoot @chocok22 @myhopesareanchoredinyou @siriusblackisme @illusivedaydreamer @zeeneee @writingwitchly @wolfpotter12 @carolinesbookworld @pit-and-the-pen @summer-writes @peachesandpinks @gweaslvy @alpinewinchester

#george weasley #george weasley oneshot #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader

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skullrock · 3 years

Text

the (secret) santa - Jonathan x Steve

12 days of fics day 2 - the (secret) santa

pairing: stonathan

summary: Steve is psyched to get Jonathan for Secret Santa, but has a hard time figuring out what to get him.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: simply none

a/n: Jonathan is Jewish here bc I love that headcanon <3 I used the Internet to tell me when Hanukkah was in 1986, and it said it was December 26th-January 3rd, so that's what I used! hope u enjoy <3 also I literally cannot find a good video to make a stonathan gif w sorry

30 days before Christmas; 31 days before Hanukkah

Steve knew Jonathan, but Steve didn’t know Jonathan. Not the way he’d like to, at least.

When he got Jonathan for Secret Santa, he was ecstatic. It seemed like the perfect way to get closer to him - to make things right, to see him in personal and intimate ways. Ways he has always wanted to. He was excited, until he realized that he didn’t know much about Jonathan, save that he made the bat Steve currently had in his trunk, liked to cook, was cute, and was a photographer. And Steve had already gotten Jonathan a camera, so that wasn’t a viable gift. Plus, the budget was twenty dollars.

Twenty dollars did not seem like enough money to spoil Jonathan Byers like he deserved.

So Steve did the only thing he knew how, which was talk, and try to be sneaky about it.

===

28 days before Christmas; 29 days before Hanukkah

“Jonathan!”

Jonathan and Will both turned on their heels to face the voice that had rung out. Will rolls his eyes when he sees Steve jogging towards them - of course it was Steve. And of course he wanted to talk to Jonathan. How neither of them saw it, he doesn’t know, but he climbs into the passenger seat to give them some space. They’ll get it soon enough.

“Hey,” Jonathan says, shoving his hands hastily into his pockets, as if he had something to hide. “What’s up?”

“Hey, man,” Steve pants, leaning forward just slightly and gripping his side. “Do you like music?”

“What?”

“You know?” Steve licks his lips. “Do you listen to music?”

Jonathan’s brows twitch together. “Yeah, I - I listen to music.”

“Me too.”

Jonathan stares, which is all he really knows how to do around Steve. Stare and observe. Take in the brunette and blonde locks, how they curl a bit on the end, how they all fall perfectly into place when Steve runs a tired hand through them. How his sweater is the color of red maple leaves in the fall, and how it clings to his shoulders. How that sweater rides up when Steve straightens, showing Jonathan the pale and smooth skin of his hips.

“What kind of music?”

Jonathan blinks and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He glances back to Will, smiling knowingly from the passenger seat, then back to Steve. “I kinda - I gotta take Will home.”

“Shit,” Steve mumbles, then bends forward to wave at Will. Jonathan’s still watching the way the sweater rides up. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“‘s okay,” Jonathan says with a bit of a laugh.

It’s at this point Jonathan realizes what’s going on. Steve was not very subtle about being his Secret Santa. And if that’s not it, then Steve is making an enormous effort to be Jonathan’s friend, and who is he to deprive him of that?

“The Smiths.”

“Who?”

“The Smiths,” he repeats. “And The Cure. Stuff like that.”

It takes Steve a moment to realize these are bands and not families in Hawkins. “Oh. Oh. Awesome. That’s so cool.”

There’s an awkward pause before Jonathan asks, “You?”

“Queen,” Steve says, almost immediately. “Yeah. Queen. And, like, other stuff, too.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Will knocks on the window and raises his eyebrows at Jonathan, because the sight was honestly a bit painful. Jonathan looks, then back to Steve. “I should -”

“Yeah,” Steve says again. “Yeah, go ‘head, don’t let me keep you.”

Jonathan doesn’t know why he feels so damn giddy, why a smile tugs at the corners of his thin lips, but it’s happening. He tucks his face towards the collar of his shirt as he rounds the car. “See you, Steve.”

“See you,” Steve calls back.

He wonders why Will is looking at him like that.

===

25 days before Christmas; 26 days until Hanukkah

There’s something about Jonathan Byers under the glow of Christmas lights.

Maybe it’s the mustard colored sweater he’s wearing, casting a warm glow on his face and illuminating the blonde in his hair. Maybe it’s just the holidays. Either way, Jonathan Byers looked beautiful, and it was just the two of them in Mike’s basement while the kids ran upstairs for snacks.

“Are you ready for Christmas?” Steve asks, his knee against Jonathan’s.

Jonathan bristles. “Oh, we celebrate Hanukkah.”

“Oh,” Steve whispers. “I - do you still do presents and stuff?”

“We do.” Jonathan shifts, bumping his knee against Steve’s again. “But we light the menorah and everything, too.”

“Oh.”

Steve mulls over the logistics of getting someone who is Jewish a Christmas present, but Jonathan luckily says, “So I could do the Secret Santa, because we still exchange presents. My family does, anyway.”

Steve hopes his sigh of relief isn’t too noticeable.

“What other things do you like?” Steve asks. “I - I just realized that we never really got to know each other.”

Jonathan feels himself about to smile again. “Music-wise?”

“Anything-wise.”

Jonathan doesn’t like talking about materialistic things, so he mumbles. Steve has to lean close to hear, and it makes his hair stand on end. “I like photography. And… peace.”

“Peace?” Steve smiles. “Past few years must have been real hell for you.”

Jonathan laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah, they were.” He takes a deep breath. “And I like drawing, sometimes. But Will’s better than me.”

Steve scoffs. “Doubt it.”

“What?”

“I - no. Shit. That’s not what I meant - I mean, like, I’m sure you’re good, too.”

Jonathan lets out a confused laugh. “Thanks.” He relaxes, and his knee is firm against Steve’s now, and both of their breaths hitch. “I really like seeing my friends happy. And I like seeing Will happy. And mom.” And you, he wants to say, but it’s caught half in his chest and half in his throat.

“How is your mom?”

Jonathan wasn’t expecting that. “She’s doing okay.”

“Good. Good.” There’s a sincerity behind Steve’s voice that Jonathan also wasn’t expecting, but that sends his heart soaring in his chest. “If you guys ever need anything….” Steve uses his thumb to point to himself as he turns to Jonathan to show how serious he was. “I’m not that far away.”

“I know,” Jonathan says, and before either of them can say anything else, the kids hustle down the stairs screaming about a movie.

Steve and Jonathan scoot apart.

===

23 days before Christmas; 24 days before Hanukkah

Steve has never been to the Hawkins Library, but Dustin practically holds his hand through the process of finding and selecting a book to read. Steve wants to learn more about Hanukkah, and a children’s book seemed like the best way to understand it all. It takes him only half an hour to read it - a personal record, Steve thinks - and while he’s not still completely sure what Jonathan does to celebrate, he’s at least got a better idea.

Steve thinks of maybe buying Jonathan a hand-made menorah, but the price is well over twenty dollars. Then he considers getting them candles for the menorah, but figures they probably already have that covered. Robin seconds this.

“Just get him a vinyl or a walkman or something,” she says, laying on the floor of Family Video.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” she starts, sitting up slowly, “I would say you’re trying to… impress him.”

Steve stutters. “What? No. No. No way. I - I - I just like getting good presents. I think - I know I’m really, really good at it.”

Robin narrows her eyes at him before sighing. “Steve. I see how you stare at him.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Robin says, sighing again. “It means nothing, Steve.”

About an hour later, a miracle happens - Jonathan comes to the store.

Jonathan Byers has never set foot into Family Video, and he treads lightly as he enters. Steve almost trips over himself when he sees Jonathan walk in, another pretty sweater on his slim frame.

“Can I help you?” he asks, approaching Jonathan, who stays relatively close to the door.

“I need to get Will something?” It’s more of a question than a statement. “He wants to watch a movie tonight.”

“Oh, I know the perfect thing!”

Jonathan watches Steve jog the short distance to the register and jog back. Jonathan wonders if he always runs around him to impress him, but he pushes that thought out of his head. Steve presents him with a VHS box with David Bowie on it - Labyrinth.

“Bowie?” Jonathan asks.

“Apparently,” Steve answers. “Will said he wanted to watch it, and Keith finally ordered it. You like Bowie, too, right?”

Jonathan’s brows twitch and he smiles a bit, that swelling feeling once again apparent in his chest. “You remembered what Will wanted to see?”

“‘Course.” Steve puts his hands in his back pockets. “I was holding it for him.”

Will was the most important person to Jonathan Byers. He would very easily trade his life with his brother if he could. He would do anything to make him safe and comfortable and happy. And Jonathan never really saw Steve as someone who would care about his little brother in such a way that he saved a tape for him. Which, yeah, maybe the bar is low, but Jonathan’s known for a while now that Steve Harrington has a knack for defying all expectations.

“It’s free,” Steve says, Jonathan shocked into silence. “Just take it. Let me know how it is.”

“Do you want to watch it?”

Steve’s eyes widen before he blinks. “I mean, maybe -”

“Do you want to watch it with us?” Jonathan almost tags on an “as friends”, but Steve’s almost certainly not thinking it’s a date. Steve’s a boy. Jonathan’s a boy. Just friends.

Steve blinks again, his brain short circuiting - like, yeah, of course he wanted to watch a movie with Jonathan Byers, and yeah, Bowie did look hot in that outfit, and yeah, they’re two men that hardly know each other except on a very deeply personal level that Steve can’t think about without making his head spin. It makes Steve’s head hurt when he thinks about the bond he shares with Jonathan, even though they’d only had approximately seven conversations over four years. He thinks Jonathan looks at him like he has him figured out, and it makes Steve’s stomach turn in excitement and anxiety.

“Tonight?” he finally manages.

“Yeah.”

Steve licks his lips. “Yeah, man. Yeah! Yeah. I like movies. Yeah, man, I can come over. What time? Want me to bring something?”

“No,” Jonathan says quickly. “Just yourself. Eight?”

“I can do that,” Steve says, not a hint of a joke in his voice. “Eight sounds perfect.”

“Do you remember where I live?”

Although Steve had only ever been at the Byers residence to thwart evil from overtaking the universe, he does remember. He could make the drive with his eyes closed. “I do.”

“Okay. Eight.”

Robin smirks behind the counter.

===

Later, 9 pm

Jonathan cannot believe how obvious Steve is about being his Secret Santa.

“Do you listen to Bowie?” he whispers in the middle of the movie. Their knees are touching again.

“Yeah,” Jonathan whispers back.

“Do you, like, have all of his albums?”

Jonathan glances at Steve, then back at the TV. “I do.”

Steve lets out a defeated sigh and Jonathan has to stifle his laugh behind his hand. Will can’t believe how obvious they’re being, either, but he tries to focus on the movie and not the scene happening beside him.

“Do you - like… um. Is there an artist you don’t have… an album… for?”

Steve cringes at himself.

“I’m set,” Jonathan says, trying to wrack his brain for anything he could give Steve. He feels pity for Steve, who’s just trying his best, but Jonathan isn’t exactly materialistic. He doesn’t even know why he let Will convince him to be part of the exchange.

Steve lets his eyes wander around, trying to think of anything he could get Jonathan. Maybe a nice blanket, or a sweater. Maybe a David Bowie poster. His eyes wander towards the kitchen window, where he can see a golden candlestick holder.

“Menorah?” he asks Jonathan, gesturing towards it.

“Yeah.” Jonathan looks towards it, too.

“It’s the twenty-sixth this year, right?”

“What?”

“Hanukkah,” Steve clarifies. “‘Til the third?”

“H- how’d you know that?”

“I looked it up,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“You looked it up?” Jonathan asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Steve frowns a bit. “Was I not supposed to?”

“Why’d you look it up?”

“So I could know more about what you celebrate.”

“Oh.” Jonathan looks back at the TV. “That. That’s nice of you.” And then he looks back at Steve and with a small smirk says, “We don’t need candles for it.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Steve says with a smile, bumping his knee against Jonathan’s.

They both smile the rest of the movie.

===

16 days before Christmas; 17 days before Hanukkah

Steve takes his headphones off. “I don’t know if I like them.”

Jonathan scoffs and bristles. “What - what don’t you like about Joy Division?”

Jonathan’s bed dips under Steve as he adjusts, his knee and elbow hitting Jonathan’s. “They’re, like, sad.”

“That’s the point!”

Steve rolls his eyes slightly, but smiles. “Why do you always want to be sad?”

“I - I don’t - they’re just good.”

“I believe you,” Steve says, and he means it. “I mean, what do I know about music?”

“Here,” Jonathan says, leaning forward to grab a Bowie album. “Have you ever listened to Bowie?”

“On the radio.”

Jonathan smiles and puts the tape into the walkman, and Steve puts the headphones back on. He gives Jonathan an apprehensive look as the younger boy clicks through songs, and is pleasantly surprised by the music that comes through. It’s not as sad as Joy Division - not at all. Not whiney, either - it’s victorious and upbeat and Steve can’t help but to move, shimmying in place, leaning sideways to hit Jonathan’s arm with his as he dances. Jonathan smiles and says something, but the headphones block him out. “What?!”

Jonathan chuckles and pauses the music. “I said, do you like it?”

“It’s happy!” Steve asserts. “You should listen to this stuff more often.”

“I do listen to it.”

“More. Often,” Steve enunciates, and then presses play on the walkman, his hand brushing against Jonathan’s.

Jonathan realizes how much he likes Steve being happy. He always knew it, but he didn’t know how much he liked it. Steve moves like he owns the world, like he’s not ashamed or afraid of anything. And Jonathan knows how bullshitthat is, that Steve, at heart, is a scared and insecure person who needs to love and be loved every moment of the day. Jonathan wishes he could give that to him, but if David Bowie gets Steve close to as happy as Jonathan would like to make him, he’ll take it.

“Put it in your stereo,” Steve says suddenly, pausing the music. “We should both listen to it, shouldn’t we?”

Jonathan shrugs a shoulder and takes the tape from the walkman, slipping it into the stereo and playing it. They both jump at the volume before Jonathan turns it down, and then they sit together, listening to Heroes until it fades out.

“Like us,” Steve says. “Heroes.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “I guess.” Jonathan chews his lip for a moment before pausing the tape. “You saved my life.”

“What?”

“When the….” Jonathan can’t say it. “With the bat.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Steve looks at his hands and then smiles. “After you saved mine by beating the shit out of me.” Jonathan stiffens, and Steve sighs. “I know I said it before, but I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’m… God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jonathan says, voice a bit cooler. “It’s in the past.”

“You did save my life, though,” Steve says after a pause. “Seriously. If you didn’t beat sense into my brain….”

“You mean a concussion?”

“Sense,” Steve repeats. “If it wasn’t for you….”

“I know.”

It’s all that needs said.

“Another?” Steve asks.

“Really?”

“I like listening,” Steve says.

Jonathan suppresses another smile as he leans forward and turns the tape on again. Their arms are touching.

===

10 days before Christmas; 11 days before Hanukkah

“Just get him a new walkman,” Dustin says, tone bored, as Steve drags him through the biggest mall within an hour from Hawkins.

“It’s not good enough!”

Steve is exasperated, and desperate. He’d been spending way more time with Jonathan, and kept asking questions - he’s 90% sure Jonathan is on to him at this point - and he was still unsure of what to get him. Each day that passed made Steve more desperate to give Jonathan something that would make him happy, and a twenty dollar budget was just not enough for Steve. And though he feels like he knows Jonathan more than most people, he doesn’t quite understand Jonathan. And he wants to. He wants to so badly.

“Jesus, o-kay,” Dustin says, throwing his arms out.

“I’m not - I’m not mad at you.” Steve sighs and runs his hand through his hair as he stares at a sweater displayed in a window. “I just - I don’t know what to get him.”

Dustin knows why, but he still asks, “Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t! I don’t. I don’t care that much.”

Dustin sees through the bullshit, but he doesn’t think a mall is the best place to talk to Steve about his feelings. “I just got Mike a new dice set. It’s not the best gift, but he’ll like it.”

“Well, I’m not lazy.”

Dustin pouts. “I’m not lazy -”

“And you’re not supposed to tell me who your person is -”

“You told me yours!” Dustin already knew Steve’s, but the point still stood.

Steve’s brows twitch in agitation. “Well, yeah, because I need help!”

“And I am helping you. Get him a damn walkman.”

As Steve contemplates the idea, a new one pops into his head.

“Perfect!” he shouts, making everyone stop to look at him. Dustin inclines his head, trying to get Steve to elaborate.

“We have to go to the music store. Now.”

===

3 days before Christmas, 4 days before Hanukkah

It’s official - Steve hates Joy Division. Not as much as he hates the Smiths, but he definitely hates it.

His ears hurt after listening to Jonathan’s favorite music, hand selecting the songs with the lyrics that Steve thought best exemplified Jonathan. In a way, the music helped Steve understand Jonathan, which was a happy surprise. And, quite honestly, Steve doesn’t mind listening to the music, because he knows it would make Jonathan happy, and that’s mainly what he cares about.

But something seems missing. Maybe it’s because no gift on Earth would be good enough for Steve to give to Jonathan. Jonathan deserved the world, deserved much better than what he was dealt. So did the rest of his family. Steve knows if he gave Jonathan anything worth anything, though, he wouldn’t take it. And if he did take it, he would share it - and Steve wanted to get him something that was purely for Jonathan. Maybe a mixtape was the perfect gift, but it didn’t feel like it. Something was missing.

Not that Steve had much time to contemplate another gift, because the exchange was happening tonight, and Steve couldn’t even write a two page paper in six hours, let alone find a better gift.

There’s always next year, he thinks as he’s wrapping it. Or his birthday. Or….

The wrapping paper his mom had purchased was patterned with bright green mistletoe, plum colored berries hanging from the leaves. Steve’s eyes focus on it for a while - intimacy was something that he missed. The closest he’d gotten in a year was his skin pushed up against Jonathan’s, knees and biceps touching. It made him yearn, and not for just anyone, but for him. For Jonathan.

But Steve doesn’t know how Jonathan feels. Yeah, they touch each other a lot, but maybe that’s just what friends do. Steve wouldn’t know. Jonathan’s eyes had lingered on Steve’s face before, and when they were smoking Jonathan didn’t even wince when Steve passed the joint to him. Isn’t that kind of like kissing? Steve doesn’t know. He just knows he wants to kiss Jonathan. He’s known for a while, and Robin told him after Steve cried to her one night that maybe he’s bisexual, and Steve had adopted that term because he wants to kiss Jonathan Byers so bad. And a kiss would be a personal, for-Jonathan-Byers-only gift.

A kiss, though, seems very straightforward. It doesn’t seem like a great idea. Maybe back in high school when Steve would kiss just about anyone, but not now. Not when he doesn’t even know if Jonathan swings that way.

So Steve finishes wrapping the tape, and he prints Jonathan on it in the best handwriting he can muster, and he hopes Jonathan understands through the lyrics.

===

“It’s got, like, you know.” Steve clears his throat. He’s too aware of the mistletoe above them. “The bands we listened to on it.”

“Steve,” Jonathan says, turning the tape over in his hands. His brows are furrowed together as he studies it, wondering what’s on the tape, wondering what Steve thought was intrinsically Jonathan Byers. It was such a personal gift that Jonathan didn’t even know what to do or say. “I…. Thanks. Thank you, Steve.”

Max grabs another gift from under the tree. “This one’s for Mike.” She chucks it at him and everyone’s eyes seem to turn to Mike, except for Will and Steve.

Their eyes meet, and Will gives Steve a look he doesn’t understand.

What? He mouths.

Will’s eyes flit up to the mistletoe, then back down to Steve and Jonathan. He repeats this a few times until Steve almost gasps at the suggestion. Does Will know something Steve doesn’t?

Steve nods his head as subtly as he can towards Jonathan. Him?

Will nods furiously, then looks back to Mike, who seems quite pleased with the dice Dustin had bought him. But Steve doesn’t get it, and when the presents are done, he pulls Will aside.

“What the hell?” he hisses. “What - what does that -” he mimics Will’s eye movements - “mean?”

Will rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he repeats. He gets quiet, and Steve can see Joyce in Will. “He likes you.”

“What? Did he say something to you?

“Steve. You touch each other, like, all the time.”

Steve deflates. “So he didn’t say something?”

“He doesn’t need to. Why do you think I convinced him to do this?”

Steve knows he’s saying “what?” too many times, but he says it again. “What?”

“We all planned this. We paired you two together on purpose.” And then he walks away because he’s tired of hearing about everyone’s love lives. This isn’t his problem. He just wants to play with Mike’s new dice.

When Steve looks towards the kids, they’re all staring. They quickly start talking to each other again, and Steve lets himself sit with the realization that these bunch of punks just pulled the most amazing Christmas hijink of perhaps all time.

Shitheads, Steve thinks, and while he’s definitely going to confront (and thank) them later, he’s got to talk to Jonathan first.

Later, 9 pm

“I knew it was you, you know.”

It’s cold outside, but it’s the best privacy they could get.

“How?” Steve asks, though he already knows.

“You’re not very conniving,” Jonathan says, once again suppressing a smile. “It was pretty obvious.”

“I just wanted to get you something you’d like,” Steve says. He breathes out and watches his breath disappear into the cold air. “You’re impossible to shop for, you know.”

Jonathan has the audacity to seem offended. “What?”

“Impossible,” Steve says, stepping forward. “You’re not a materialistic person.”

“So?”

“So,” Steve says. “So.” He can feel his heart in his throat, beating loud and fast - he hopes Jonathan can’t hear it. “So….”

And then they’re kissing under the mistletoe that Mrs. Wheeler hung on the porch.

Steve pulls back first, quick, surprised with himself. “Shit.”

Jonathan says nothing - he just stares.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks, throat dry.

“Didn’t you just kiss me?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Jonathan blinks. “Then do it again.”

And this time Steve really steps forward, really takes Jonathan’s cold cheeks in his cold hands, and he really kisses him. Jonathan finally lets that smile come through for the first time in a month as he melts into Steve, like a snowflake into a snowbank. Steve’s warm - well, warmer than the air - and he tastes a lot like vanilla birthday cake. Jonathan’s never really liked cake, but he likes Steve’s lips. Weird.

Jonathan pulls back first this time, because it was getting increasingly harder to kiss as his smile grew. He even tries to hide it behind his hand again, but Steve stops him, taking his cold fingers and wrapping his own through them.

“Impossible to shop for,” Steve repeats, his own smile hurting his cheeks. “Good thing kisses are free and personal.”

A laugh bubbles up from Jonathan’s chest and to his lips. “Yeah.” He squeezes Steve’s hand. Their chests are touching. “Good thing.”

===

tags: @pterawaters @mpmarypoppins

#steve harrington #jonathan byers #stonathan #steve x jonathan #my fics

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Note

am really interested in seeing nat with an early chris. the moment where she says that his hands are his and he deserves the mind that moves his hands, i would love to see more of a gentle caring nat towards the scared chris like that 🥺

CW: Conditioned silence/kneeling, trauma recovery, recovering whumpee, references to pet whump

“Hey, there.”

Nat has twenty years of this, more or less, under her belt. Twenty years of time since she walked away from creating this mess and dedicated herself to trying to mitigate the damage, one rescue at a time. It feels like saving a single honeybee while whole colonies are fed into a woodchipper, some days, but she tells herself the same platitudes she tells all of them, too:

Even one life saved is worth the risk, and worth the effort.

She doesn’t use terms like value or cost, with the rescues. They know they exist to be exchanged for money, it’s teaching them that they exist outside of what they can produce or perform for an owner that’s the hard part.

Twenty years of keeping her voice low, just like this, and still every single rescue is a whole person, and it always feels a little bit new.

“Do you need some help?”

The newest rescue in their house, the teenage Romantic that only rarely moves out from behind the bed and then retreats right back into his room as soon as he’s spooked, pauses where he stands in the doorway. It’s not right to say he pauses - he freezes, there, like a deer caught in headlights midway through flashing the white tail that signifies it wants to run.

His eyes are wide, and so very green. A smattering of pale freckles across his pale skin, sickly from being kept indoors so often, pulls at Nat’s heartstrings in a very particular way. Strawberry blond hair that flirts with copper is clipped just so, to hang into his eyes just a little bit.

It kills Nat, but she can see why it was cut that way. It makes his expressions seem even more plaintive.

“Um.” The boy’s voice is low, soft and uncertain, and his hands close tightly around the sides of the doorframe he leans against, as though using it to hold himself up. “I’m. Um. I’m, I’m... I, I, I was, I did-” He flinches, winces back away from her. “Um. N-Never, I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, never-... never mind-”

Shifting back on his feet, ready to flee, torn between the carefully conditioned obedience that tries to hold him until he’s dismissed and the fear that pushes him to run. She’s seen it a hundred times, by now.

Nat doesn’t get up or try to go after him - she’d be a threat, if she did that. Instead, she only folds her hands in her lap, in plain view, and gives him a slight, soothing smile.

“You’re okay,” She says, gently. “You’re okay. Jake said you ate some chicken on Thursday, did you feel better after that?”

The boy watches her, and slowly nods. His shoulders hunch up a little towards his chin.

“Good. That’s good, kiddo.”

There might be a flicker - the slightest hint - of a smile at the nickname. All the boy’s expressions happen in the faintest shades of themselves. He’s not the first one to have learned to regulate even the twitch of an eyebrow, the shift of a muscle near the corner of his mouth.

“So. That’s a plate of fried chicken, and then... have you eaten anything since?”

Another hesitation. Then a slight shake of the head.

“Did you come here to tell me you might be hungry?”

No response this time, except for his knuckles going white where he clings to the dark wooden doorframe, one of the beautiful parts of living in such an old house. His eyes are locked on her face, trying to read danger there, a threat, anger that he dared ask for anything that hadn’t been offered. She can read it all. She’d read this book before, of course, but every single time the story unfolds a little differently.

“Well. I’m hungry, and I was about to head over into the kitchen and make a couple of turkey and swiss sandwiches with extra mustard and some barbecue potato chips. Because I, for one, am starving.

The boy bounces, just once, on the balls of his feet and then goes carefully back to still again. He’s like some kind of carved statue, everywhere he manages to go - hidden behind the bed or standing in the doorway to the home office, he looks like he’s been carved from stone by some outstanding sculptor, brought only halfway to life.

“I... like... turkey sandwiches,” He offers, his voice low and tentative. “Ma’am.”

“Oh, please.” Nat waves one hand. “Where I come from, you only ma’am old people, and don’t you listen to Jake saying that they ma’am and sir everybody in the south, we live by Midwest rules around here.”

The boy, who no longer understands those kinds of regional differences, continues simply to stare at her.

She smiles and moves slowly to her feet - even as slow as she can possibly go, he still flinches back at first, his hands dropping to twist into the hem of the oversized shirt he’s wearing with a pair of mesh basketball shorts he’d found in the back of the bedroom closet, abandoned by some prior rescue.

He backs up for her to move past him towards the kitchen, then follows her on silent bare feet, a teenage ghost wandering the halls of a house full of them all, deposited here as shades and told to find their way back to life.

Words aren’t worth much, in the grand scheme of things. What helps a rescue isn’t words - most of them have had reassurance and comfort twisted and spun and turned into the very phrases used to most wound them.

What helps a rescue is a simple action, repeated without expectation of repayment. Nat makes a sandwich, and then another. She puts more potato chips on his plate than hers. And she doesn’t try to make him sit at the table. They’ve already learned he wasn’t allowed to do that. Instead, she carries both plates into the living room and sets his down on the coffee table.

He sinks to his knees with a perfect, practiced motion Nat has seen nearly every day since she walked away from WRU and started her first safehouse. They teach them all to kneel, no matter their designation.

They all know how to kneel more than they are allowed to remember how to breathe.

He watches her for permission, and she knows it will take time before she can stop giving it.

“Go ahead, kiddo.”

His hands raise to pick up the sandwich, gentle as can be. “Thank... thank, thank-...” He winces, pressing his fingers into the sandwich even harder, leaving divots in the soft white bread, little impressions like a man pushing his hand into clay. “Thank you, m-... Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo. You can sit with me on the couch, if you’d like.”

His eyes flicker to the couch and then back to her, trying to decide what she wants him to do. “I like the floor,” He says, finally. His voice is strangely flat, each word drops like a carefully chosen stone when he speaks like this. “Pets belong-”

“Sssshhh, you don’t have to say that stuff here. Do whatever makes you comfortable.” Nat sits herself down, takes a bite, and then carefully peels up the sandwich to slide a few potato chips between the top layer of swiss and the bread. She hums, and catches the boy watching her, looking at his own chips, then back up at her. She grins. “Childhood habit.”

He blinks, and then echoes her motion, his fingers long and thin. “Child... childhood?”

They’re always fascinated by stories about childhoods and families, all the things they must have had in some form, and lost, and can’t remember.

“I grew up a farm kid, did I ever tell you that? No, of course not, you’ve been here four days. Anyway, my dad was a farmer...”

He starts to eat the sandwich as she speaks, in careful bites that are gradually distracted by her words into larger ones. By the time she runs out of stories, he’s eaten every bite on his plate, and shifted from his knee to sitting cross-legged on the floor.

His eyes are still locked on her, but she can see that there is something new his expression.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump, @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth

#trauma recovery #caretaker #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #trauma recovery whump #whump #chris the strawberry blond romantic #caretaker and whumpee #recovering whumpee #conditioning #referenced pet whump #referenced dehumanization

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justcafewriter · 3 years

Text

Change of Heart

Genre : Angst

Pairing : Akaashi Keiji x Fem!Reader

Summary : When you realize that your boyfriend of three years experience a change of heart.

A/N : A little reminder that I suck at writing angst.

playlist : Bruno Mars - Talking to The Moon, Halsey - Sorry, Coldplay - The Scientists & Rihanna - Final Goodbye.

2:34 AM

You saw the time on your phone, opening a chat application which opened at the last text you sent to your boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji.

"I guess you pull all nighter again, Keiji? I hope you're not overworking yourself."

You read the message again. It was sent about an hour ago but you haven't got any reply.

It has been a week since Akaashi begin to come home late, 2 weeks since he rarely replied your texts and about a month since the last time both of you went on dates. At first you thought that he was busy, but now you couldn't help but to think that he was avoiding you.

"No, that can't be." You said to yourself as you try to close your eyes after you type, "I'm going to sleep now, there's food inside the fridge so you can reheat it if you feel hungry. I love you." and sent it to Akaashi.

4.12 AM

5 days passing by with nothing changed for good. Akaashi began to not come home regularly and he didn't even pick up your call either. Usually you find him sleeping beside you when you wake up in the morning, but it has been 2 days that you woke up to an empty space beside you.

The bag under your eyes has been deeper than ever, showing the effect for your lack of sleep. 4.12 AM. You looked at the clock and began to worry. You decided to take your phone, searching for Akaashi's name when you heard someone punch the passcode of your apartment. Not long after you saw Akaashi entering the bedroom, he looked at you, shocked that he didn't expect you to be awake.

"Keiji…" You called his name. Strangely it sounded so foreign to you, hinting it's been so long since you called his name.

"Y/N, why are you still awake?" He asked.

"I'm waiting for you. You haven't come for two days straight, I couldn't call you, I-"

"I've been busy. You should sleep soon. And it'll be better if you're not waiting for me like this. It feels like a burden." You felt a pang of pain hitting your heart. Tears swelled up inside your eyes as you saw the back which belonged to the man you loved.

6.30 PM

You saw the food you prepared for Akaashi left untouched. It was his favorite, how could he not eat it? Did he wake up late so he has no time for breakfast? You were questioning yourself as you threw away the food into the trash bin. You then decide to put your apron after you text Akaashi if he wants to eat something for dinner.

Ping. The sound of a message coming made you check your phone. It was from Akaashi, replying to your text earlier.

"I'll skip dinner." That was his reply.

You took off your apron while feeling dejected and confused. Sitting on the chair of your dining table, you rest your head on it and began to think, "What the fuck is going on? What did you do wrong? How can this happen?"

8.12 AM

"Hm? You're not going to work?" You heard the voice of your boyfriend coming from the kitchen's entrance. You looked at him, smiling, before you replied, "Good morning Keiji! And I took a day off today!"

You got no response from Akaashi. He just walked toward the fridge and took a water bottle before he poured it into the cup and drank it.

"The foods gonna be ready in a moment." You informed him as you lowered the stove's heat.

"Sorry, I have a plan today and I will have to eat there."

You stopped stirring the veggies inside the pan, it feels like your heart stopped beating too.

"Is that so?" You asked, your voice filled with disappointment.

"Yeah." Akaashi responded, his voice as flat as his expression.

"Hey, Keiji…" You called your boyfriend. "I was meaning to ask this…" You continued. "Are you avoiding me?" Your voice was shaking as you finally realized by the fact that you've been trying to ignore this whole time. You didn't dare to look at him, you were afraid that you'd break if you do so.

Silence filled the room, your chest felt tight, your eyes clouded with tears. You feel nothing but hurt at his actions.

"It's all just inside your mind." You heard Akaashi's answer.

"It hurts you know." You said, stopping Akaashi from leaving the kitchen. "It hurts so much, I don't know what I did wrong, you should talk to me if we have problems here, if you have problems." Nothing but sadness decorating your voice and tears started to run down on your cheeks while you speak.

"Like I said, it's all just inside your mind." By that he left the kitchen, leaving you all brokenhearted and hurted.

2 AM

Akaashi Keiji entered the apartment he shared with you. Unlike the usual, the apartment filled with darkness. He thought that you finally started to fall asleep without waiting for him. It has been 5 days since the 'argument' you and him had. He felt awful but he also couldn't understand himself. He felt like he made a stupid mistake but he didn't know how to fix it. Or was it he didn't feel bothered to fix it?

Akaashi entered the bedroom, the place which once felt so intimate to him, the place where he shared a sacred moment; a lot of happy moments with you. But now that place only became a place for him to sleep, for him to see your worried face every time he came inside, for him to see your sad back when you pretend to sleep. He saw a pitch black room once he entered the bedroom, an usual sight because you like to sleep inside the pitch black of darkness. He leisurely walked towards the bedroom, opened the door and greeted with a warm light inside.

There he sensed something was wrong. He turned his back and his heart dropped at the sight of it, the sight of an empty bed where you were supposed to sleep. In a flash, Akaashi turned on the bedroom's lamps. He walked to the cupboard and saw nothing but his clothes, he looked at the makeup table, your makeup table, but he didn't see any of your makeup kits, only his perfumes and his night creams remained.

"What the fuck have I done?" While thinking like that, he slumped down on the empty bed.

A few minutes passed and Akaashi decided to take his phone, 1 missed call, he saw that notification, strange because usually he always had a few missed calls from you but not today.

"She will come back soon, she's just trying to scare me now." Akaashi's ego said it, not even care to acknowledge the ache feelings that he felt inside his heart.

Akaashi felt his head pounding like crazy, it gave him a painful headache and his heart beating so fast that his breath came out irregularly. He decided to take some medicines so he went to the kitchen to get some water.

2.28 AM. Akaashi saw the digital clock which was placed on the shelf near the kitchen entrance. The kitchen was dark and Akaashi was not even bothering to turn on the light. He walked straight to the fridge, opening it before he took a small water bottle. He looked at the full fridge in front of him, his favorite veggies and fruits filling it, also some side dishes that you've always made and stored for him to eat. A tint of pain; Akaashi felt it when he suddenly remembered how much effort you put to make those dishes, how your face lit up whenever he said that your food was the best and realized how lately he never even touched the food you made.

He breathed out a heavy sigh, shaking his head to dismiss the guilty he felt and when he did it he saw something on the dining table behind him. He opened the fridge's door wider so the light from inside could shine towards whatever it was on the table. There he saw, Karashi Mustard, his favorite food, covered in food plastic and on top of it he saw a pink envelope.

Akaashi decided to turn on the lamps and walked back to the dining table. There he saw his name, carved in your handwriting on that envelope.

To: Keiji, it said.

Akaashi's heart was beating so fast, his hands were shaking while he tried to open that envelope. A vanilla colored paper was folded inside, he took a deep breath before he opened the letter in his hands.

2.33 AM. Akaashi opened the letter, your handwriting filled half of the pages and he started to read it inside his mind.

"I won't be here when you read this letter. I'm sorry for doing it like this, I've tried not to but it's not working. I've tried to call you, I've tried to talk to you, I've waited for you; for your explanation but you just never been here. You never make time for me, for our relationship.

Don't get me wrong, I love you, so much. Our relationship is the best thing I could ever ask, you brought me joy, you brought out the best of me. I feel happy but lately everything has felt so wrong. It feels like your love for me has faded away, like I don't even mean anything to you, like I'm a burden.

I truly want to keep our promises. To be with you in any kind of situation, to love you till death do us apart. But reality sucks. I can't stay in a relationship where there's no love anymore. I can't fulfill our promises when you have a change of heart."

Goodbye.

Y/N

2.34 AM

The time when Akaashi realized how jerk he was. The time when he realized how he broke the heart of someone who was so special to him and he truly loved. The time when Akaashi realized that his world seemed to stop.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi keiji

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scriptaed · 4 years

Text

his side, her side | 11:11 A.M.

genre: angst/fluff/implied smut;

pairing: reader x jungkook;

length: 3.1k;

synopsis: a collective snapshots in time shared between two, whose fates were undeniably intertwined and futures would never come to be.

a/n: alternatively: his side, her side pt. 10;

her side;

“So do you like him or not?”

This must be the first time someone, besides yourself, has ever raised suspicions at your blossoming fondness for a particular man. The last time you had questioned your affections was at the pinnacle of a relation you’ve so desperately attempted to smother. You can still recall the pull of his magnetic force, his hands on your cheeks, and the way the touch of his lips are enough to envelop you with warmth, even whilst in the midst of a pool at midnight. Your feelings for him were confirmed then, it’s unequivocal; and despite burying such an epiphany after all these weeks, your heart still grows tender over a memory you wish had never existed in the first place.

“What?” you turn to give Yezi the most bewildered face you could muster just as you plop your hamper onto the floor. “Like who?”

Your friend glares at you with her crossed arms and deadpans, “you know who I mean and if I need to say his name aloud for you to answer, you bet I will.”

Knowing full well just how seriously Yezi takes her words, your eyes bulge at her bold proclamations before frantically scanning the laundry room of your apartment for possible witnesses. Just as you’re about to exhale in relief, your friend follows through with her promise a level or two higher than you would have liked.

“Wait, Yezi—”

“—Jungkook! Your colleague, your ex partner! Jeon Jungkook!” she throws her arms up. “Do you like him or what?”

“Shh,” you almost jab a finger at her mouth and hiss, “are you trying to start rumors about me at work?”

“Well, no, but it doesn’t matter if they’re not true, right?” she somehow manages to say with your fingers pressed against her squished lips. “Why have you been avoiding him lately anyways?”

“What do you mean I’ve been avoiding him?” The crease of your brows is the best look of disbelief you could gather. “I haven’t been avoiding him.”

Her chest heaves as she lets out a frustrated sigh, “oh, really?”

It isn’t much of a surprise to you that Yezi could see right through you. Typically, after all the training you’ve undergone at pretending to get along with your coworkers, you’ve done an adequate job at masking your organic thoughts; but ever since you met him, Jeon Jungkook, you’ve caught yourself slipping up more than you would like. From genuine laughter to unapologetic cackles, from daring staring challenges to bashful peeks through the corners of your eyes, and from greeting him whenever you had the chance to going out of your way to avoid him at all costs, any fool could tell your affections for the man has changed with time. Whether the change is for the better or worse, Yezi couldn’t tell because not even you could explain it yourself.

If Yezi knew you had attempted to cover your face as you crossed paths with Jungkook only for your pitiful efforts to be in vain when he calls your name out wide into the open because you were shy, she would have made fun of you. If she knew you had almost completely turned around while going up the stairs because you spotted him climbing down the stairs only for him to call out to you once again and for you to freeze because you noticed just how well his new ear piercing suited him, she would have rightfully suspected your growing infatuation; but if she were to discover you had meticulously planned out your paths at work in order to avoid the man of such admirations, she would have never understood your logic.

The only conclusion you could surmise of your seemingly contradicting actions would have been a dreadful punishment to have to say aloud: you’ve never been the unconfident type before, but to put it simply, the boy is just too gorgeous for you to be unfazed...

...and luckily, you don’t have to explain yourself, because the second reasoning behind your complexity has arrived.

“Hey Y/N, are you using that washer?”

She knows your name…? Jennie? Of all people?

“Oh, uh,” you snap out of your thoughts and nod, “yeah, I am. Sorry.”

“No, that’s fine,” she presses her lips into a tight, small smile, “I’ll come back later.”

And with that, the girl gently shuts the door behind her and the silence left behind is almost as if she had never entered before. Turning to glance at each other, you and your friend are nearly at a loss for words over the sudden appearance of the very person you had been on the lookout for; but before you could switch the topic, Yezi beats you to it.

“Since when did she know your name?”

“I don’t know. Never talked to her before,” you blink blankly, barely able to mumble as you proceed to squat to floor level and insert a quarter into the washer, “I didn’t even know she lived in this complex.”

“Neither did I,” Yezi leans against the machine as she warily observes your every expression before proceeding, “do you think the rumors about… him… and her are true?”

Shit—you think to yourself, even as you try to conceal the sudden restriction in your chest—who knew even the thought of them two together could make you feel like this.

“Jennie, just listen—”

—the two of you turn heads to find Jungkook at the doorway; and while Yezi walks up to confront him, you quickly whip your head around and position your back on him in a desperate attempt to hide your presence… because out of all times and places, your crush just has to appear in your apartment complex with you in your most vulnerable, unseen state, bare-faced and in your pajamas.

Not to mention, how are you supposed to hide the dreadful drop in your stomach that wrings you dry? Why is he here? And why is he calling out to Jennie?

“Jennie actually just left,” you can hear Yezi’s voice fading into the distance as she exits the room, “here, in this direction, over heeere.”

...and finally, when the door clicks closed and you internally finish thanking Yezi for her efforts in luring the boy elsewhere, you let out a bated breath. Without having to worry about your untidy appearance, you toss the remainder of your panties, bras, and bright pink pillowcases into the washer. Standing to your feet and heaving a sigh of relief as you watch the washer dispense heaps of water onto your undergarments, you whirl around and—

“—hey—”

“—holy shit,” you almost yelp when you find Jungkook standing right before you, pressing his lips into a crooked smile at you. Why does he always have to go out of his way to seek you out? And even though you had been fussing over your appearance just a few seconds prior, you find yourself frozen and distracted by his presence once again. Today, you’re blaming that mustard sweater of his; because even though he tends to stray from colors outside of navy, gray, white, and black, the boy had somehow made mustard his color. All you can muster is a wide-eye and an uttered, “whoa.”

The boy lowers his eyes to glance at his own sweater, letting out an embarrassed chuckle. Looking back at it now, you should have explicitly complimented him instead; but before you could snap out of your frenzy and save yourself from the guilt, Jungkook persists, “how has life been for you?”

“Huh? Life?” you repeat. Oh, right, what else is there to talk about now that you two are no longer acquainted at work? Then why is he trying to strike up a conversation? You hope to God he won’t be mentioning the kiss on that particular night. “I mean, good, I guess. What about you?”

“Really? ‘Good?’” he scrunches his brows and cracks a grin of disbelief. “I guess I’m asking the wrong person.”

“What?” you can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips. “What do you mean?”

“It hasn’t been too great for me,” he buries his hands into his pockets and grins helplessly. “Work and life, I mean. I’ve fucked up at both.”

“Oh… really? I’m sure it’ll be okay—” for the first time, less words come to you than the boy before you “—why are you here? You don’t live here.”

“How do you know that?” he raises a brow.

“Because you told me you live on the other side of the bridge.”

“Oh, I did?” he chuckles. “Why can’t I be here?”

“Not saying you can’t—” because, really, you’re more concerned over the possible relations between him and the girl who had “coincidentally” entered just seconds prior “—I was just asking.”

“You own this whole complex?” he quips, cocking a wry grin at you. “Can’t I hang out with some friends?”

“Right, friends…” you mutter to yourself, even if you don’t believe it yourself. “No, go right ahead. I’m not stopping you.”

The faded smiles and playful bickers, however, ring a different tone from your last remark. It’s almost as if Jungkook could read right through you. The tension, the distrust, and the discomfort, nothing has been the same since that particular moment. Sure, you had obviously been avoiding him because of your bashful nature and you’re sure that even he could tell from your abrupt movements, albeit his awareness of your reasons is more than likely nonexistent, but his relations to not only Jennie but to Jieun and his reluctance to disclose said relations has you boarding up walls once again.

To be led on by a man would be the demise of your pride—the very last thing you’re holding onto; and whilst there was a moment in time when you thought two could play at such games, your heart has betrayed you and the tides have turned against your favor.

“Y/N,” Jungkook begins firmly, “about that night—”

“—weren’t you looking for a friend?” you cut him off, pressing a thin smile as he glances at you with a raised brow. “What was her name again? Jennie?”

The boy only stares at you for a silent ten seconds. Confusion and conflict flashes across his eyes until, finally, he settles for a helpless competence. “Yeah,” he utters, taking a step back and nodding, “I’ll see you around, then.”

It was the dirtiest card you could pull. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean you’re in the right. It doesn’t mean you’re proud of it… but, sometimes, the best trump to win a futile game of tag is a refusal to play at all.

This just happens to be one of those pivotal moments.

Glancing at the remaining countdown on the washer and checking the clock on your phone, you almost laugh at the coincidental time plastered across the screen.

11:11 A.M.

And you wish he never realizes that your refusal to play is, in fact, a confession of love.

his side;

“So do you like her or not?”

Unfazed by Jennie’s outburst, Jungkook simply answers, “what does that have to do with you losing your shit?”

“I am not,” she spits, pointing an accusing finger at him, “losing my shit.”

“Then why talk shit about me to Jieun?”

Jennie pauses in her tracks, eyes lowering to the floor covered in Jungkook’s clothes. Her voice comes out meekly, “...she told you?”

“No shit,” he remarks, catching the t-shirt he had lent Jennie as she hurls it at him. “Why do you hate me all of a sudden?”

“Does it matter if I hate you?” she rebuttals as she balls up another tee and tosses it at his face with a huff. The girl persists on her mission without a single glance at the boy towering beside her. “Do you even care what I think of you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Her hands pause and she mutters, “don’t say that when you don’t mean it,” before continuing to sort through her pile of clothes intermixed with his.

“I don’t get it,” he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Didn’t we both agree this would be a casual thing? You went on dates and I was okay with it—”

“—I didn’t!” she abruptly cuts herself off, scrunching his gray tee in her hands until her hands turn pale. “...I didn’t want you to be okay with it.”

“Jennie…” Jungkook considers consoling her but she shifts her body away from him. “Sorry. I thought you were over this—”

“—I was over this!” she snaps, whirling around to reveal the scowl on her face as she hurls another sweater at him. “I was over us! And I was okay with you moving onto Jieun until one day, she comes to my front door and bawls her eyes out because you did a one-eighty just like you did with me. Is it because of her, Jungkook? Why does it always have to be her?”

Jungkook says flatly, “Jieun and I were never dating,”

“I said,” Jennie bites her tongue to repress her anger, “was. it. because. of. Y/N?”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Jennie when the boy remains silent with those unreadable eyes of his. Jungkook’s choice to protect her, however, only fuels the fire. He can’t choose to protect Y/N and expect Jennie to act as if nothing had happened between him and her; but when he finally answers...

“It isn’t Y/N’s fault. I should’ve figured things out beforehand. Sorry.”

...his reluctance to blame her scapegoat and willingness to assume accountability infuriates Jennie to a level she never knew she could harbor toward Jungkook. She knows she doesn’t deserve an apology and she knows Jungkook still felt slightly remorseful despite knowing full well that their relations were born of nothing but lust; and yet, it’s the only thing she craves that could quell the emerald fire within her.

“And what about Jieun?” she speaks under her breath. “What about leading her on?”

“I fucked up. I know that,” he utters. “I apologized to her.”

“Whatever…” she sighs the remainder of tension pent up in her system as she stands to her feet and tosses the last gym shorts at his chest, eyes narrowing and lips downturning when she spots the irregular shade of his hoodie.

“What?” the boy chuckles. “You think this looks shitty too? Remind me to burn this shit when I get home.”

“Did Y/N say it looks shitty?” Jennie asks, arching a brow. “Does she even like you?”

The grin on his face gradually blends into his usual illegible look of apathy as he states, “...no. Probably not.”

To which question he’s answering, Jennie would rather not ask. Instead, she places a hand on his chest, gently pushing him step by step in the direction of her bed with each following remark.

“Are you still with Jieun?”

Step. The answer is clear.

“Do you remember all the fun nights we’ve had?”

Step. He doesn’t answer.

“Does Y/N even like you?”

Step. Neither of them knew the answer. Finally, the back of his knees hit the bedframe and Jennie gently seats him to the ledge of her mattress where the two had spent many nights together in her long-coveted past. One hand on the mattress beside where he sits and the other hand pressed against his chest, Jennie stirs on.

“You know, we could forget anything ever happened and return to the way things were before. I could forgive you, you could move on, I could wear your sweaters again, and you could spend your nights with me whenever you’re feeling down. We could be together, you and me,” she coos but something about her voice comes across as a plea. The unfazed beat of his heart beating against her hand almost has her clutching the sweater in self-pity. Her voice nearly cracks as she persists, “you know how I feel about you, don’t you?”

Not a second passes before Jungkook firmly shakes his head, peering his eyes up at the woman and speaking straight from his heart, “you’ve been a great friend and I don’t want to lose that, but I don’t feel the same. Sorry.”

“You’re—” Jennie suddenly retracts her hand, standing upright and taking a step back with a constrained huff “—whatever. Have fun with her if that’s what makes you happy, but you’ll regret this.”

Jungkook frowns as he helplessly watches the departure of a friend he had shared countless nights with, occasionally indulging in their beneficial relations and other times counting on her to bear his midnight blues. He might not have felt the spark that he experiences around Y/N, but Jennie had been his friend all along. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere,” Jennie shrugs without a single glance back at Jungkook, “anywhere away from you, really.”

To sacrifice one friend in pursuit of someone whomst, from all he could tell, has no intentions of reciprocating similar convictions, he can’t help but feel as though everyone has abandoned him. The worst part of it is, he doesn’t know who else to blame but himself.

Junghyun [11:55 A.M.] Yo you interested in a blind date?

The boy rolls his eyes at his brother’s ill-timed proposition.

You [11:55 A.M.] The fuck. No.

Junghyun [11:56 A.M.] Okay, I know you hate strangers, but TECHNICALLY this isn’t a blind date. Jieun wanted me to set up a dinner with you for her…

You [11:57 A.M.] ?

You [11:59 A.M.] If she asked you this last week, then forget it. We aren’t a thing anymore.

Junghyun [12:00 P.M.] No, she begged me just yesterday. She said she wants to start over.

Junghyun [12:00 P.M.] C’mon, just one dinner?

Junghyun [12:01 P.M.] Just cause you messed things up with her, doesn’t mean you should mess up my friendship with her! >:(

Staring at the texts on his screen, Jungkook fiddles with his phone until finally falling backwards and collapsing onto the bed with a loud sigh. He can still remember the wrath painted across Jennie’s expression during her uproar and the pain he had inflicted upon Jieun when he confessed he had not intended to have led her on; but most predominantly, the evident discomfort on Y/N’s face when she had avoided him in the past month or when he had mentioned their shared moment of intimacy still stains his mind hours after.

The mere thought of hurting her the same way he must have hurt Jennie and Jieun evokes more gnawing pain against his chest than he ever thought he would experience. Realizing that he would never hear a more explicit rejection to his confession has him lingering onto a hope that he has more than now recognized as fruitless.

Maybe a new start would be the best choice.

Not only for him but for her, too.

You [12:15 P.M.] Fine

300 notes · View notes

honeylikewords · 3 years

Text

efforts (pietro maximoff)

(Pietro tries his best to celebrate his girlfriend’s birthday like a Good, Adult Boyfriend(TM). Content warnings only for language and Pietro making slightly inappropriate jokes that lead to nothing more. 8k.)

“Are you sure about this?”

Pietro cradles the receiver between his chin and his shoulder, holding up shirts in front of his chest as he glowers at the mirror, unhappy with his choices. His girlfriend’s voice rings in his ear and he frowns deeper, brows knit with frustrated consternation.

“Of course I’m sure,” he replies. “I wouldn’t have made the reservation if I wasn’t sure, babe.”

“I know, but, well…”

She trails off and Pietro quirks one brown eyebrow, chewing his bottom lip as he tosses his shirt selections over his shoulder and turns back towards the closet. Maybe he had an actual button-up shoved in there somewhere, he muses.

“You can tell me, hon,” he says, shuffling aside the piles of unfolded t-shirts and jackets he’d shoved deep into the bowels of his closet. “What’s up?”

“It’s just that, you know, you’ve been a little tight for money these past few months, and I don’t want you to--”

“Okay, gonna stop you there for a second,” he interrupts, swatting a wad of dirty socks out of his way as he continues his search for a half-decent shirt. “I’m not gonna go into debt taking my girl out to dinner for her birthday, alright? It’s all covered. I’ve been setting aside a little bit for this, alright? You don’t have to sweat it.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“You keep asking that,” he chuckles. “If you don’t wanna go, that’s okay-- I didn’t have to put a deposit down or anything for the reservation-- but I think you’d have a good time. It’s a nice place. Like you deserve.”

There’s a little space of dead air where Pietro feels his stomach drop slightly, wondering what will come next.

“All I want is for you to have a good time, too, Pete,” she says softly, and he can hear her doing that nervous tic where she picks her nails against the plastic casing of the phone receiver.

At that, Pietro snorts through his nose and continues rifling through his pile of laundry, shaking his head.

“You know, you’re always so worried about that,” Pietro murmurs, lovingly exasperated, “But I always have a good time with you, and for once in your life, please, my little schnookum bear, I beg of you: stop worrying about me.”

Tossing an old pair of now smooth-soled sneakers out into the swamp of his bedroom, Pietro continues, his voice firm but affectionate.

“Like, seriously, it’s your birthday! Of all the days of the year, this should be the one where you give yourself an excuse to be even just a little bit selfish and do exactly what you enjoy, and I’ll be there to watch you enjoying yourself, you know?”

“Pete--”

“Sorry, yeah, that sounded kinda dirty, I know.”

He can hear her let out a little snort of laughter through the phone and he grins, pressing on.

“I mean, unless that’s what you wanna do instead of going out for dinner: totally cool with me if you wanna do that. I’m totally happy to watch. I prefer active participation, but--”

“Pietro!”

“Fine, fine, message received. But, seriously, I’m on my hands and knees, begging you, babe,” he interjects, having knelt down to search deeper in the back of the closet. “If you really, truly think that you, personally, as an individual, would not have a good time there, we’ll go wherever you want. But I know you’ve always wanted to go to a place like this: you know, with real fabric napkins and no table bread and food that needs a translation under it. And I’ve always wanted to see you, you pretty little thing, in a place like that.”

He can hear her shyly giggle on her end and his heart melts, cheeks flushing pink as he imagines that adorable smile she makes whenever he flatters her. Sighing dreamily, he sits back on his knees and stops his hunt, reveling in the ambient sounds of her on the phone; her breaths, her contemplative tapping, her fading laughter, the scratch of her sleeve brushing the mouthpiece of the phone.

“I know you really wanna go. And I want to be the guy to take you. So please, for me, enjoy yourself, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” she relents, her voice light with restrained laughter. “Thank you, honey.”

“Of course. Now, you just go and get yourself all dressed up and I’ll be over in an hour to get you, alright?”

“I’ll see you then.” He can hear the sound of her smile, and Pietro breathes out a deep sigh of endearment. “Bye!”

“Bye, babe.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he hears her hang up the phone with a final click, and Pietro returns his receiver to its cradle on the nearby table, then turns his attention back to the closet. A large pile of refuse has formed behind where he was kneeling-- the result of tossing every unappealing item over his shoulders-- and he squints at it disapprovingly before kicking into a higher gear. The clock stops ticking as Pietro rushes through every item of clothing in his closet, breezing through the lumps of wayward shorts and tees and leather jackets until he finds exactly what he’s looking for: the crisp, bright blue shirt he wore a few years ago to Lorna’s bat mitzvah.

He returns to the mirror and admires it against his complexion, nodding: it will do nicely. He finds his one pair of good slacks and his best leather jacket (having torn his only formal jacket during the horah at Lorna’s aforementioned bat mitzvah) and assembles the outfit, changing into it rapidly before slowing to take stock of how he looks.

Snapping his fingers, he realizes he’s missing a pair of acceptable shoes-- his usual silver sneakers just won’t cut the mustard this time around-- and rushes to find that tightly-pinching pair of patent-leather dress shoes he used to wear to school events and the occasional visit to temple, finding them shoved into a dusty corner under his bed and cramming his feet into them rather unceremoniously. As he remembers, they do pinch a little (he grouses that there’s no way he’d be able to speed wearing these), but a touch of pain is worth it to look presentable for his beloved.

Thinking of her, Pietro takes a pause, making eye contact with his reflection. He sees his own pitch-dark pupils staring back at him, then glances at his bedside table through the mirror. Turning, he opens the drawer of it and pulls out the elegant black velvet case within, its long, lean frame sitting comfortably in his equally long, lean hands. He tosses it lightly, feeling its weight, then remembers himself and sets it down gingerly on the bed, returning to the mirror with a sheepish energy about him as he reaches for his comb.

He passes it through his shock-silver locks and watches them fluff out, the dark roots standing up a little taller. He’d considered letting his hair fall as it naturally wants to in its waves and slight curls, but embarrassment had gotten the better of him and he’d brushed it flat after his morning shower, more accustomed to going out in public with straightened hair than with his curls intact.

As the comb brushes his scalp, he shivers a little, reminded of how it feels when he lays his head on her lap and she gently cards her fingers through his hair, teasingly dragging her nails down the nape of his neck. She always prefers when he lets his curls shine through, he remembers, smiling to himself at the memory of staring up at her while she plays with his winding rivers of silver and black waves.

Floating on a cloud made of memories of her, Pietro glides through his room, unsure how he’ll manage to wait a whole hour to see be at her side and take her to dinner. He busies himself with laying out everything he intends to bring-- wallet, car keys, gifts, comb, breath mints, flowers-- and then with cleaning his room.

Normally, he doesn’t mind a little mess, but if all goes well, he’s hoping to bring his sweetheart back into his room tonight and he’d hate to spoil the atmosphere by letting her step in a pile of his unfolded laundry or catch an eyeful of his food wrappers spilling out of the wastebasket. He speeds as best he can in his cramped dress shoes (before finally kicking them off, deciding he’ll put them back on closer to the time when he has to go and pick her up) and whirlwinds his laundry up and away into the closet and drawers, tornadoes his trash out into the bins, and dervishes all the dust away from his furniture. Taking a cursory glance at his room, he realizes that once the sun sets, he’ll need some softer mood lighting, and takes a jaunt out to the garage to find some of the holiday decorations, cycloning up a few loose cords of warm white fairy lights.

Bringing them back to his room, Pietro strings them in loose garlands around his bed, forming a sort of square canopy of pale yellow light when plugged in that follows the boundaries of his mattress. He likes it; it’s warm and bright, like the low glow of a fireplace down to its last embers. The room was as close to perfect as he was going to get it, he concludes.

Checking his watch, Pietro groans: only five minutes had passed since she’d hung up.

He is in for a long, long hour.

Laying on his bed, Pietro stares blankly at an episode of “The Six Million Dollar Man”. As Steve Austin slow-motion punches the bad guy du jour, Pietro idly lifts his wrist and checks the time.

6:45, reads the watch face. Close enough for him.

He grins and hops up from bed, straightening his shirt and tucking it into his pants as neatly as he can before once again squeezing his feet into his shiny, stiff shoes, giving his hair a final tousle in the mirror, and slipping into his jacket.

His pockets are hastily shoved with his keys and wallet and mints and comb, but he shows more delicacy when lifting up the flowers and gifts meant for her. He doesn’t want to crush her bundle of roses, lilies and daisies in his sweaty hands, nor drop her precious presents and risk damaging them, and so makes a careful beeline up out of his basement bedroom and out the front door, gingerly placing her intended favors on the passenger seat before scrambling into the driver’s seat and kicking things into gear.

It takes all the self-restraint he can muster not to run red lights or abuse the speed limits when getting to her house, and busies himself with fiddling with the radio when being stuck behind some lollygagging minivan is starting to eat away at his nerves. A distant guitar wails through tinny speakers as he chews his lip and peels past the idling cars, just on the quick side of the 55 mph signage, unable to wait a moment longer to see her. Pietro turns into the familiar suburban streets of her neighborhood and feels his heart jump into his throat, his pale face flushed with excitement and the jitters, his fingers drumming restlessly against the steering wheel as he begins to pull into her driveway.

He glances up at the window he knows leads to her bedroom-- he’d clambered up the tree in her front yard and in through those panes many a time in the past-- and sees the curtains pulled back, and the instantaneously recognizable silhouette of his girl darts from the window, making him beam widely: she had been waiting for him, and was now rushing to see him.

With a lightness in his step, Pietro equally rushes to the front door, flowers in hand, accidentally kicking in some of his blurring speed in his hastiness to get to her. He stops short at the welcome mat, causing the heels of his shoes to squeal against the porch beneath, and an embarrassed energy overcomes him, his ears flushing hot as he goes to ring the doorbell. The moment he does, the door peels open and there she is, in all her heartstopping glory.

His words leave him for a moment as he admires her; her hair is swept up and away from her neck, exposing its graceful curvature, and her face is radiant, glowing with a coy smile and bright, enthusiastic eyes. Her lips are parted slightly in anticipation of speech, but Pietro can’t help but notice how full and soft they look, begging to be kissed and never let go of.

She’s arrayed in an elegant cocktail dress he’s never seen her in before, and his eyes fall to the shape of her figure, a breathless smile overtaking his face as he drinks her in. The color of her dress brings out the warmth of her skin and she seems to positively shine as she twinkles another smile at him, lips tinted red as if just to tease him.

“These are for you,” he manages, jutting the bouquet forward and breaking the silent awe he’d accidentally built up around her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she preens, tracing one neatly manicured finger along the wide petal of one of the sunny yellow lilies, “They’re lovely!”

She presses them up to her face and takes a deep breath, inhaling their scent as Pietro finds himself deliriously envious of a bundle of flowers. As she pulls back, he notices a smear of golden-brown powder that had definitely not been on her cheek prior to her stopping to smell the roses in the most literal sense.

He reaches out a hand and cups her cheek, brushing it along the soft swell of her smile and managing to wipe off the accumulated pollen that had no doubt come off of the stamen of the lily closest to her face. She leans into his touch and he finds himself knock-kneed, trembling at the mere sight of her gazing up at him with affectionate eyes and chasing after his hand on her face. Pietro can barely find it within himself to breathe, but draws in deeply and stands up straighter, putting on his most suave smile and taking her free hand in his.

“You ready to go, miss?,” he lilts, raising her hand to his lips to press a feather-light kiss to her knuckles. He can’t help but marvel at how unbelievably soft her hands are and how headily they smell of sweet vanilla lotion. “Your chariot awaits.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes as he waggles his brows suggestively at her-- she knows full well that his car is a beater handed down to him after his mom ran it up on a curb and got her license rescinded-- but nods, holding up one finger from her grip on the bouquet to indicate to him that he’ll have to wait a moment.

“Just let me put these in a vase and grab my purse and I’ll meet you at the car, okay?”

“Anything you say, birthday girl,” he coos back, giving her a second kiss before relinquishing her hand and watching her step back into her house, off to look for a vessel for her flowers.

As he waits, he heads back down to the car and glances through the window, his chest clenching as he realizes he nearly made an enormous blunder. Frantic, he snags open the passenger side door and grabs her presents, shoving the velvet box in his jacket pocket and stuffing the wrapped ones under a blanket in the back seat. If she’d seen those immediately, she’d have given him such a scolding all the way to the restaurant-- he can practically hear her stern voice and the tut-tutting of “Pietro Django Maximoff, you said you wouldn’t!”-- and he doesn’t want to sully their evening. No, the gifts would be given at the right time, once she was comfortable and in the mood for receiving them, and not a moment sooner.

He hears the front door click shut and turns around to face his beloved, eyeing her salaciously as she walks with a sway in her step. Her hips swing pleasantly from side to side, sashaying the skirts of the dress deliciously, and Pietro wants nothing more than to rush over to her, lift her up in his arms like the princess she is and devour her with kisses. Instead, he extends a hand to her and opens the car door for her, ever the gentleman as he helps her lower herself into the seat, watching her brush her skirts under her thighs and smile up at him from her seat.

“Thank you,” she repeats, pressing up a little in her seat to try and reach his face.

Instinctively, he lowers his head to meet her and rubs the tip of his nose to hers, an ooey-gooey affectionate gesture that he used to gag at when he saw couples at the mall doing it, but now can’t resist indulging in. He nuzzles her and sighs, pleased, then pulls away to join her in the car, head stuffed with the cotton-fluff of love.

Once in his seat, Pietro meets her eye and breaks into a nervous smile, his stomach alight with flutterings and tremors. He turns the key to the car and the radio blares to life, obnoxiously loud, and he makes a series of embarrassed half-noises, a combination of grunts, swears, and apologies. After he’s slammed the off button hard enough to issue a return to silence in the car, he sheepishly looks over at the object of his affections. She meets his eye, then immediately bursts into a fit of laughter, relaxing Pietro: nothing makes him happier than the sound of her laugh. He laughs too, and presses lightly on the accelerator, urging the car back onto the streets and headed off towards their destination.

He’s acting strangely.

She noticed it from the moment she opened the door to him: Pietro seems more tense, his gaze skittish and his mannerisms tight and jumpy. It’s not unusual for him to be flighty-- his speedster nature makes him more than a little deficit in his ability to focus on any one thing for a prolonged period-- but it is unusual for him to seem so uptight and easily flustered.

Pietro wasn’t too hard to tease into blushing, affection-starved as he was, but every time she went to hold his hand or lay her head on his shoulder during the drive, she could see his shoulders draw back and his ears start to burn that tell-tale red, his posture more stiff than she was accustomed to seeing.

He kept his usual puckish attitude, all jokes, both ribald and tame, but seemed a little distant, as if he was trying to keep something from her, and there is nothing she hates more between them than secrets.

Now, waiting in the foyer of the restaurant, she assesses her beau, who is currently chattering away at the receptionist about the reservation. She watches him-- how he leans in on the podium to point at the reservation document and presumably find the listing for ‘Maximoff’-- and he looks so wildly out of place in this establishment.

Not only does his starlight-silver hair make him stand out like a sore thumb, but his tall, wiry frame and carrying voice draw eyes, especially when compared to the buttoned-up and dour-faced older men and women populating the tables around them.

The restaurant is certainly more upscale in appearance than any other she’s ever been into; the walls lined with deep mahogany and the lights are low and atmospheric, the tables distantly separated and private, the waitstaff all tightly uniformed in formal vests and bow ties, chandeliers hanging from the wooden-paneled ceilings with dangerously glinting glass droplets. The staff walk by with balletically balanced trays of bubbling champagne and wheeled carts of entrees and hors d'oeuvres, bar flights and charcuterie boards. Some patrons have their meals brought to them in silver domed cloches, their lids pulled back to reveal the sumptuous dishes beneath. The ladies are dressed in pearls and diamonds and plunging necklines, and the gentlemen in fitted suits with sharp black lapels, pocket squares folded in crisp, harsh lines.

And there, in the middle of it all, is her Pietro, still loudly haggling with the host.

“And you got the right table?”

“Yes, Mister Maximoff,” she hears the host sigh. “Just as you requested, you have an upper-level table in the far corner.”

“And the request I made about the, uh, the dessert stuff?”

“Already taken care of,” drones the host, clearly at the end of her rope with Pietro. “Now, are you and your wife ready to go upstairs and be seated?”

He lets out an almighty stutter, half spittle and half choked words, and she decides it’s time for her to take the initiative. Coming up behind him and rubbing the small of his back, Pietro’s beloved squeezes his shoulder affectionately and nods at the host, trying to give her most placating smile.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” she murmurs conspiratorially with the host. “We’re ready to go up anytime. Isn’t that right, honey?”

Pietro manages an embarrassed series of nods and clutches onto his girlfriend’s waist with pale, nervous fingers, fidgeting with the seams of her dress as the two of them follow the host up the plush-carpeted stairs towards their table.

If the first floor felt luxurious, the second floor feels even more so: it has wide, lead-lined windows peering out over a view of the city, the last dredges of the setting sun’s light leaking in and giving the room an opulent glow. The golden-red sunlight catches on the polished surfaces of the even more widely spaced out tables, decorated with candles and foliage, and the room is filled with the sounds of gentle piano strings and the soft clink of dinnerware and fine crystal glasses.

The host leads the couple to a comfortably distanced and rather private corner of the restaurant, far enough from the other patrons that their voices were virtually undetectable but close enough to the pianist that the music was at a pleasant volume, and with an unbeatable view of the city’s uneven patchwork quilt of a skyline.

Dashing ahead, Pietro pulls out a chair for her and gestures to it with a sweeping motion, and as she sits down, patting her skirt so it won’t wrinkle, she feels his lithe hand give her shoulder a deep squeeze, working the pad of his thumb into the taut muscle there. Once she is situated, he rounds the table and seats himself across from her, and gives the host a wan smile, which prompts the individual to mention that a server would be by shortly to bring them their menus.

As the host leaves, Pietro leans across the table, flashing his nervous smile with a little more confidence now that they are alone. He extends his hand across the top of the table and leaves it with its palm facing skyward; a clear invitation for her to place her hand atop his. Naturally, she does so, and see his expression soften visibly as he feels the comfortable warmth of her skin against his.

“I made kind of a scene, didn’t I?,” Pietro balks, a self-conscious air overtaking his usual cocksure savoir-faire. “I’m so sorry--”

“Petey-sweety,” she teases, using the pet name he detests, watching him roll his eyes, “It’s alright. I’ll just tip extra.”

“No, no, no, no way! I’ll get it, I promise; see, I brought extra for tips, uh, in here--”

He fumbles aimlessly in his jacket pocket, accidentally spilling out a tin of Altoids, a plastic comb, and a slender, black something onto the carpeted floor below. Pietro lets out a panicked yelp and dives down in his chair to hastily gather his odds and ends, shoving them fruitlessly back into his jacket, his face burning a scarlet hue.

“Oh my god, Jesus Christ,” he whispers to himself, “Oh my god.”

“Honey, it’s okay, people drop their wallets all the time--” “I’m sweating like a hog,” Pietro groans, irrespective of the previous topic.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” “What? No!”

Turning his black-brown eyes towards her, Pietro’s gaze becomes intense, the flush of his face only serving to accent the fervor of his attitude.

“I’m fine, I’ll behave, I’m goody-goody. All golden.”

He flashes a broad, sweaty, and entirely unconvincing smile as she reaches over the table to brush a wayward silver lock out of his eyes, stroking down the shape of his round, slightly dimpled cheeks. He blinks slowly and allows her to cup his face, rubbing her thumb against his rosy skin, feeling the searing heat.

“I think I see what’s happening here,” she murmurs, causing Pietro to glance up at her with fearful exposure.

She watches him start to anxiously start to chew his lips, eyes flitting across her face with a frantic speed and muses that even when he’s all in knots, he’s still such an unbelievably handsome man; those button-black eyes, his strong, pointed nose catching the sun and casting a sharp shadow across the boyish planes of his face: she can’t help but be enamored of him, even as he’s nothing but a ball of nerves.

“You’re not used to ritzy dining, right?”

Pietro raises his pale brows in surprise at her observation, then nods emphatically, shrugging his shoulders up and down as if to shake off the weight of his prior disconcertion.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just totally alien to me,” he grumbles, rubbing at the back of his neck and scratching the dark grey hair at the nape. “I dunno how to behave in a place like this.”

“It’s fine, Pete. Just be polite and enjoy yourself. You know how to be polite, don’t you?,” she needles genially.

“I mean, I’ve got the generals down pat.”

He holds up his hand and extends one long pinkie, as if cartoonishly elevating a tea cup.

“Thou ought not to raise thine voice,” he lilts in a truly horrific attempt at an English accent, “And one ought not burp nor become flatulent at the table.”

“Oh, eugh, leave it to you to bring something like that up during dinner,” she laughs.

At the sound of her giggles, Pietro seems to unwind some more, slipping back into his natural, humorous state of being. He again takes her hand and gives it several loving pulses, running the smooth crests of his nails against the heel of her palm, tickling her slightly.

Just as he opens his lips to say something, a well-dressed waiter arrives at their tableside with a wine list and the leather bound menus, and he speaks to them in firm but hushed tones about the cuisine of the day, something about fresh-caught this and farm-delivered that. She tries her best to listen to him, but instead finds her eyes fixed on Pietro, who is nodding like a scolded schoolboy trying to get out of detention early.

When the waiter leaves them with their menus and silence returns, he lets out a tightly held sigh of relief and unclenches his shoulders, rolling them as if he was warming up for a boxing match. He cracked the spine of his menu and gave it a cursory glance before flitting his gaze up to meet hers, flashing her a familiar flicker of his usual pixielike smile.

“You go ahead and you get anything you want, Princess,” he drolls as he winks at her over the top of his menu. “My treat.”

“Oh, I will,” she jokes, screwing up her nose at him. “I’m gonna eat you out of house and home. I’m going to get this fresh caught lobster, ahi tuna, Kobe beef, and, hmm…”

She pretends to pause, tapping her finger against her chin in faux thought.

“The gold-leaf embossed ganache torte seems awfully tempting.”

“Very funny,” Pietro huffs, though he’s clearly smiling through his pretend indignation. “I’m really regretting coming to a place with no table bread, now, though. Coulda had you fill up on that and polished the night off splitting a salad.”

“Mmm,” she tones. “And yet, here we are. Not a scrap of it in sight.”

“Hindsight and all,” he grumbles, obviously more than a little amused.

As they settle into a more comfortable rhythm, Pietro begins to ease into himself again. His laughter becomes brighter, his posture less rigid, and his eyes fleet less from her, though he remains jumpy when the waiter comes back to take their orders; still, there’s visible improvement in his disposition, and her beloved seems to be coming back to her, joke by joke and touch by touch.

When their dishes are brought to them, Pietro shrinks back in disgust at how tiny the portions are: his steak is absolutely miniscule by his own standards, and he grouses when the staff leaves the table that it should be illegal to serve food so small.

“I mean, look at it!,” he pouts, tilting his plate towards her as the decorative pansy blooms on the dish become soaked in au jus. “It’s, like, proportional to a Ken doll, not a hunk of man like me!”

“Eat your dinner, hunk of man,” she taunts jovially. “It’s about the experience, not the size.”

Pietro glances up from his plate with a flirtatious air, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Oh, but you can get the best of both with me--”

She hisses at him and kicks at his shin under the table, which only prompts him to laugh and lean across the table, planting a kiss on her cheek with impish glee. As she raises her fork to begin her meal, Pietro puts a hand up to pause her, and she quirks a brow at him, lowering her utensil again and watching him curiously.

“Before we tuck in,” Pietro murmurs, his face now beginning to become reddened once again, “There’s something I want to give you.”

“Oh?”

“I know you told me no gifts,” he says, “But I just had to.”

“Pietro--”

“I know! But… here.”

He produces his hand from inside the pocket of his leather jacket and lays something on the table, hidden under his palm as he builds suspense. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifts his hand, revealing-

“...Your comb?”

“My co-- No, wait, fuck!”

The obscenity leaves his mouth in a tone much louder than he intended, as he turns an even deeper shade of firetruck red, and he scrambles to grab his comb from off the table and push it back into his pocket. Once it’s there, he clamps his hands over his eyes and groans loudly into his palms, prompting his beloved to reach across and try to grip his wrists, caught between sympathetic hushes and barely suppressed giggles.

“P-Petey, come on,” she bubbles, voice jumping with her hardly hidden laughter, “It’s alright, come on!”

“Gah,” he grunts. “They’re gonna kick me out. Oh god, what if they kick you out for being with me?” “We’re not going to get kicked out,” she lulls softly. “No one even heard you!”

“Guhhhhh.”

“Please, baby? Won’t you just show me what you brought?”

A pause passes and Pietro peeks out from between two of his fingers, eyeing her before finally peeling his hands away and reaching down, scorned, into his pocket again. He takes his time, checks his hand, and then extends it to her: in his long palm, a black velvet case is housed, soaking up the low light with its decadent fabric.

“For you,” he all but whispers.

She lifts it delicately, opening the case on its small, golden hinge, to reveal a strand of glistening silver that culminates in a dainty opal droplet, glowing like a multicolored flame in the candlelight. Without any words, her thoughts muddled, she gingerly takes hold of the necklace and lays it flat across the span of her palms, watching the gem shift and glimmer in the light; it was set in silver, with a tiny diamond sitting just above the head of the droplet shape, reflecting back beaming points of light.

Agape, she looks up at Pietro, who is smiling tentatively at her, his eyes as bright as the jewels set before her.

“Before you get on me,” he interjects, taking her hand and squeezing it, “It was my grandmother’s, so I didn’t technically break the rules.”

He flashes her a rueful grin and pulses her hand again.

“Didn’t spend a dime more than I promised.”

“Oh, honey,” she breathes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he rushes, stepping up out of his seat to come around to her side and take the necklace in his hands. “Just, you know, try it on? For me?”

Once again lost for words and swimming through a haze of emotions, she nods at Pietro, who beams, unclasping the necklace and tracing it tenderly along the curves of her throat. He takes his time, seeming to revel in the proximity, and carefully closes the clasp at the base of her neck, allowing his fingers to trail behind, all along the column of her neck, down the skin of her collarbones, where he lifts the gem up and admires it in the light before setting it back down gently against her sternum, the jewel coming to rest in the crevice of her breastbone.

“There,” he says, his tone final and almost somewhat relieved. “Just as pretty as I’d imagined.”

Unable to find anything at all salient to say, Pietro’s beloved takes hold of his cheeks and tilts his face to hers, breaking his line of sight from her clavicle. She leans in and hovers her lips over his, hearing him draw in a sharp, excited breath, his dark eyes fluttering shut in anticipation.

“Thank you,” she manages. “I love it.”

“You’re welcome,” he breathes back, clearly anxious to get to the best part.

“I love you.”

His eyes flash open, and for a moment, he looks as stunned as a deer caught in the headlights. He freezes under her hands, every muscle fixed in place. Then, as quickly as it had come about, he loosens, and, without a word, presses up and kisses her, his hand naturally seeking the back of her head to pull her in as deeply as he can.

The kiss lasts a breath longer than is perhaps polite for such an establishment, but Pietro’s enthusiasm was never something to be quickly curbed. When he finally breaks away from her with a satisfied hum, his eyes bore into hers, half-hungry and half-satiated, and he manages to control himself enough to return to his side of the table and sit down, though a pleased grin is plastered to his face; the cat had gotten the cream and knew it better than anyone in the world ever could.

“You know,” he begins, a chagrined tone entering his conversation, “I was a little worried you weren’t going to like it.”

“Oh, you,” she tuts. “I’d love anything you gave me.”

“Well, sure, but, it’s like… I want to make tonight perfect,” he admits. “For you. You deserve a perfect day.”

“Every day with you is a perfect day!”

Pietro snorts indignantly, rolling his eyes at her attempt at placation.

“Of course, baby. But you know what I mean, don’t you?”

She nods; he’s a sweetheart, always trying to give her his own kind of affection, his own brand of love, but she knows it can be hard for him to be traditionally affectionate or conventionally loving, and this must be his attempt to give her what he thinks she’s missing out on.

Reaching out, she takes his hand in hers and kisses it on the heel, then cups his palm to her face, leaning into it with a smile that she can feel reaches all the way up to her eyes.

“I would have had a wonderful day with you, with or without the gifts,” she reminds him.

“Oh, shit, that reminds me,” he chirps, sitting up a little straighter. “I… may or may not have a few more of them in the car for later.”

“Pietro!”

“But, again, didn’t spend a dime! They’re all well within the boundaries you gave me! So, come on,” he grins, pointing at her dish with gusto. “Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”

The meal was delicious, just as she’d hoped, though its enjoyment was more than partially due to the company kept during its consumption.

Pietro had kept his promise and behaved himself all night long, showing himself to be a perfect gentleman when the mood suited him; he’d even called ahead and asked that her dessert be delivered quietly, with a candle burning atop it for them to wish over in their own private little celebratory silence. When she’d blown it out, she’d wished for one thing only: to always be by this strange, wonderful man’s side.

Finally headed home for the night, she held Pietro’s hand as they drove the darkened streets of the city, his thumb rubbing routine patterns over the cresting hill of her knuckles. The radio was turned low for them to talk to one another, and as they followed the winding corners of roads leading back towards his house, Pietro began to crack his usual tongue-in-cheek comments.

“Saucy, isn’t it,” he teases, “You stayin’ over at my place all night long. People might think we’re up to something.”

“You wish,” she bites back.

“More than anything!,” laughs the boy at her side. “But a gentleman would never propose such indecencies to a lady like you.”

“Mm,” she hums. “A gentleman indeed.”

“Oh, speaking of staying the night,” Pietro adds, casting a glance back over his shoulder, “Would you be a doll and feel around under that blanket in the back seat? There should be a couple mystery packages in there for you.”

She reaches back through the gap between the seats to lift the corner of the sloppily thrown blanket and sees the dim outline of two boxes. Managing to pick them both up, she plants them firmly on her lap and turns back to Pietro, whose eyes flit between the road and her face at a speed most would find unsettling, but she is more than accustomed to.

“Open the big one,” he grins.

Acquiescing, she unwinds the blue ribbon off the top of the wide, flat box and lifts its lid, revealing a layer of folded fabrics. She reaches into the box and takes it out: a massive, grey-green flannel, clearly much too large for her.

“This is--”

“My old one, yeah,” Pietro smirks, rotating the steering wheel left. “You kept sneaking off with it every time you’d come over, and it looks cuter on you, anyhow, so that’s part one.”

He juts his chin towards the box, indicating for her to look into it once more.

“Go find part two.”

Underneath where the flannel had lain was a layer of pink tissue paper, and she lifts that away to find a neatly folded tee, which she holds up to admire as the flannel lays across her shoulder.

It, too, is much larger than her size, and registers as a dark grey shirt printed with something across the chest, though the car is a bit too dim for her to make out the symbol with any clarity. Pietro notices her squinting and squeezes her thigh, tapping the front of the shirt quickly.

“‘S the RUSH one. You wore it that one time--”

“When I fell in the pool!,” she recalls excitedly.

“Yep! And, again, way cuter on you. Now, for part three.”

Once again, a divider of pink tissue obscures the next installment from her, and when she peels it back, there, beneath:

“...Oh, god, these aren’t used are they?”

Pietro laughs merrily as she warily holds up a pair of check-printed boxers by their elastic waistband and shakes his head, making the final turn into his neighborhood and pulling into his spot.

“Nah. I got a pack new and this was one of, like, five pairs in there. And it doesn’t count as spending, you know, because I was already buying them for myself and the extra pair for you is just an added bonus.”

“...So they are clean, yes?”

“Yep!”

“And why did you give me boxers?” “So you can have a full set of PJ’s, babe,” he says, voice reflecting some perception that this conclusion should have been obvious. “For staying over.”

“Oh!”

Parking the car, Pietro pops the brake on and reaches into the box, producing the final layer within: a pair of crisp white gym socks.

“Same deal as the boxers,” he explains. “Packed ‘em ‘cause I know your feet get cold at night.”

His recollection of that detail melts her heart, and she forgets all about the shock of unveiling a pair of men’s boxers in her birthday gift; she leans across the console between the seats and plants a warm kiss on Pietro’s dimpled cheek, hearing him chuckle airily to himself as she does so.

“That’s too sweet of you, bunny,” she says, stroking the flyaway streaks of silver that brush her nose as she hovers near his face. “I’ll be all comfy-cozy for our little sleepover!”

“Aw, God, don’t say it like that,” he groans. “‘Our little sleepover’ makes it sound like we’re eleven year old girls about to paint each other’s nails and gossip about what boys we like!”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to paint your nails tonight?”

“...No,” he smiles.

“Correct.”

“Well, anyway,” he concludes, pecking her on the tip of the nose before unbuckling his seatbelt and moving to get out of the car, “Let’s get a move on. Basement’s waitin’.”

“Always in such a hurry,” she bemoans, trying to collect all her garments and unbuckle herself, only to hear the all-too-familiar whistle of Pietro kicking in his speed to flit around the car, rush open her door, unclick her belt, lift her into his arms, and jog up to the front door with her pressed to his chest.

She reels for a moment after he stops his breakneck speed, but quickly regains her bearings: she’d sped around with him enough times to be mostly, somewhat, almost over the motion sickness by now, and steadies herself against the wall of his house as he Cheshire grins at her.

“You got your last present there, pumpkin?,” he asks, surveying her.

She holds up the unopened, slightly smaller box and wiggles it at him.

“Perfect.”

Pietro lifts her again and before she can blink, they’re down in the basement, the door shut behind them, and she’s sent reeling this time not by the sensation of his speed, but by the state of his room.

“Oh, wow,” she mumbles, gazing how clean and orderly and attractive his room was, doused in warm light as the stereo played softly tinkling music, completely unlike his usual psychedelia or ear-splitting rock. “You cleaned up?”

“Yeah,” Pietro admits, futzing with a throw blanket that now covered the majority of the couch (and its stains). “I wanted to make it… nice.”

“Well, you did a hell of a job,” she beams. “It’s so… pretty! I never thought your room could be pretty!”

“Hey, it’s not that bad, normally!”

“Sweetie, you leave Pringles cans under furniture. I’ve found Twinkie wrappers under your pillows. You stack your electronics like Jenga bricks.”

“...Okay, well, there’s no Pringles cans or Twinkie wrappers in sight, tonight, all for the sake of the lady,” he boasts, putting his hand on the small of her back and guiding her to the beaded partition that divides his makeshift bedroom from the boiler room. “Go get changed.”

“Promise not to peek?”

Pietro holds up his hand in the Boy Scout’s salute.

“On my life.”

“Show me the other hand.”

From behind his back, he extends his other hand; crossed fingers.

“If I so much as hear a breeze,” she chides, “I’ll know it’s you.”

“I won’t, I won’t, I’m only playing! Look!”

He places both hands over his eyes and turns away from her, facing the wall and dutifully walking towards it.

“I’ll behave!”

With that, she takes advantage of the momentary silence to duck behind the curtain and get changed. True to his word, she detects no hint that he’d speeded into the room to get a look while she was changing; no gust of wind, no hissing zip, no blur of silver. When she re-enters the room, garbed in his flannel and boxer gifts, which, she has to admit, are deeply comfortable, he’s still facing the wall, though tapping his foot impatiently.

“Thank god,” he groans, hearing the beaded curtain part for her, “You took forever!”

“It was, at best, two minutes.”

“That’s a long time for me!,” he whines as he turns back around and rushes to her side, cupping her waist and drinking in the sight of her. “You know that!”

“I do, I do,” she relents, patting his cheek. “Now, c’mon. I’m tired.”

“Wait, you gotta open your last present,” Pietro says, speeding off and returning with the box in hand. “It’s a good one!”

She smiles at him and nods, sitting down on the edge of his bed, where he joins her. He watches her hawkishly as she tears off the paper, revealing a small book with a hard plastic cover. Unsure of what it is, she turns it over in her hands a few times, then lifts the front cover to discover that it’s a miniature photo album.

Upon seeing what the first photo is, she snorts so hard she covers her mouth, ashamed of the noise she’d let out: Pietro just laughs and laughs.

“You know how you always bug me about my baby pictures?”

“You take them down every time I come over!,” she interjects.

“Comme ci, comme ça,” Pietro says, flicking his hand dismissively. “Anyway. These are all of ‘em. Or, at least, all the ones I could get copies of at the print shop.”

There, in her hands, is photographic proof of Pietro as a baby: silver haired and tiny, wearing a miniscule pair of overalls and holding a pot over his head, banging it with a spoon, or laying in his crib, jet black eyes beaming out from under teensy grey eyebrows.

“I know it’s kind of a mood killer,” Pietro mumbles, “But I thought, you know, they’d make you laugh…”

“They’re adorable!,” she giggles joyously, flicking through page after page of the glorious images. “Oh my god. You used to suck your thumb?”

“Okay, that’s it, I’m taking them back--”

“No, no, babe!”

“You’re gonna think of me as a baby!”

“No, Pietro, come on!”

She lets out a bright peal of laughter as Pietro tries to wrestle the book away from her, only to knock her over on her back and pin her down, still grabbing for the book as she shoves it under her back. He glowers down at her but, upon realization of his current position, the expression quickly shifts to one of devilish delight, and he cranes his neck to bury his face in the crook of hers, biting lightly on the sensitive skin there and making comically bad growling noises, halfway between cute and embarrassing.

They wrestle around for a moment, laughing over one another, until his bites turn more affectionate and soft and his energy lulls into a more calming, attentive kind; he strokes her arms and rubs his pointed nose along her skin, humming lightly to himself as they both enjoy the comfort of being in one another’s arms. As he kisses her neck, light and loving, his hand wanders there and traces the thread of the necklace, fidgeting the the bauble at the end, his fingers brushing against her collarbone as he burrows in close.

“I was worried,” Pietro mumbles into her neck.

“About the restaurant?”

“I guess,” he continues, voice muffled by her hair and flesh. “But more that… that you wouldn’t like any of this. Any of me. That I’d fuck up at the restaurant or come on too strong with the gifts or seem like a creep--”

“Pete…”

“But I kinda like coming on strong,” he continues, rambling in his bout of nerves. “I like giving it all, one hundred percent, all for you, you know? I like treating you like a princess and like my best friend, and, you know, I liked it when that lady thought you were my wife; sorry, does that sound like a lot?”

“No, honey,” she giggles, “I liked it too!”

“Good,” he sighs. “I just… get scared that you won’t, you know, like me, because I can be so fucking difficult--”

He cuts himself short and takes a deep breath, pressing his face harder into her neck.

“But you do, right? You do like me?”

His voice quavers softly as he seeks her validation, and she squeezes him tightly in a hug, raking her fingers through his hair and hearing him shudder serenely into her. The tension in his spine leaks away and he rests his surprisingly hefty weight against her, pressing down on her as she manages a soft “of course I do.”

“You know I love you,” she adds, stroking his hair soothingly.

There is a silence between them as she feels Pietro adjust himself to be even closer, hooking himself so that he is clinging to her tightly and his head is pressed into the warm nook between her jaw and her shoulder. His breaths rise and fall and puff out against her skin, familiar and stirring all at the same time. After a moment, he speaks again.

“I love you,” he manages. “So much.”

“I know.”

“Happy birthday, babe.”

“Thank you for making it one.”

They lay in the blissful calm of their love, holding onto one another in quiet peace before Pietro breaks the silence once again.

“You ever gonna give me those pictures back?”

“Nope.”

“Shit!”

#pietro maximoff #peter maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #peter maximoff x reader #gif warning #long post #original #WOW I DID IT... A REAL FIC IN GOD KNOWS HOW LONG....#marvel

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