#and visions of sugar plum fairies danced in their heads | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stereksecretsanta · 2 days ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @violetfairydust!

Rating: General Audiences

Summary: Just a little look in on the pack over the holidays, past and present, and a touch of romance in the air (though that could just be the pine sap).

Tags: canon!AU, fluff, pining, Hale Pack 2.0, Alpha Derek Hale, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Christmas, Sheriff Stilinski’s name is John, rebuilt Hale house, friends to lovers, domestic fluff

AN: Violetfairydust, greetings for a final time as your secret tumblr holiday stalker! I hope the holidays treat you well with visions of Sterek dancing in your head- or you know, standard sugar plum fairies, but Sterek sounds more fun.

Fair warning, this has got to be one of the fluffiest things I’ve ever written. I mean, this is fluffy with a bit of fluff, a smidge of pining, and more fluff, sprinkled with a finely ground powder of fluff. It’s like the written equivalent of a spool of fresh cotton candy. I hope it at least gives you a smile (and maybe some warm fuzzies). Happy Holidays!

*****

Pine Needles and Pretty Thoughts

Stiles was exhausted. Travelling east to west always seemed harder than west to east, regardless of what his circadian rhythms were supposed to be telling him. He was so ready to be home, it was an itch, a thrum just below the surface, like when you ran your hand between powerful magnets and you could feel the push-pull of the energy against your skin. He wondered if it was his pack bonds, he might not be a were, but he was a spark who ran with wolves, their unofficial Emissary- Derek refused to officially name him as Emissary until he finished college. It was a continual bone of contention between them, especially since the land and the Nematon had already accepted him. It didn’t matter right now, he was just so ready to be home, but he still had the drive from the airport to Beacon Hills. Thankfully, there was a familiar and welcome figure waiting outside the baggage carousel cordon. Derek. As soon as Stiles crossed the barrier, he dropped his suitcase and jumped full force at the wolf, trusting strong arms to catch him.

“Good to see you, too,” Derek snickered at the rom-com greeting.

“Shut up, you need this as much as I do.” Stiles nuzzled against Derek’s close-cropped beard.

Feeling like a bit of a heel sinking into a contacted he wished meant more, Derek’s only acknowledgement was to nuzzle back. God, he missed Stiles. It was worse with him than the others, for one he was at school in D.C., the literal other side of the country. Admittedly, Lydia and Jackson were farther away in Boston, but at least they were together, and neither of them were Derek’s emissary or the man he was head over heels for. A fact the pack that stayed in or near Beacon Hills for college had all worked out.

After suffering through months of their alpha pining and moping, they had collectively demanded that Derek tell him before Stiles had to go back to D.C. at the end of Winter Break; that still gave him a good three weeks, and Stiles had just arrived and was aggressively scenting him, so he was just going to put that crisis on the back burner and for now he would soak up Stiles’ attention and let his presence calm his wolf.

“You going to let me go anytime soon?” Derek chuckled, rubbing his cheek against the exposed bit of Stiles’ neck unintentionally presented to him.

“Nope. Scenting. Deal.”

“Stiles, you do remember I’m the wolf.”

Finally pulling back, sliding off the werewolf carefully, “Yeah, but I still missed you. I missed my pack,” he said, pressing against his alpha for a quick moment.

Wrapping an arm around the young man, Derek grabbed Stiles’ bags and guided them towards the car, while Stiles launched into a tale about one of his professors and old school plaster of Paris.

------

The drive to the Hale house passed in a blur of anecdotes and random facts that Derek happily let wash over him.

It didn’t matter that Stiles had helped with designing and warding the Hale homestead, it was still always an impressive sight to see. It wasn’t just the Hale house, or the pack house; it was everything they had survived to get to this place. Not exactly the halls of Valhalla or fields of Elysia, but it was theirs. The drive up was made of solid packed earth, allowing for a natural path without rocks or pebbles kicking up, or clouds of dirt billowing out everywhere. Willows, pines, maples, all mixed in a kaleidoscope of colour and foliage. The wild hodgepodge reminding Stiles (and Derek) of the pack.

Derek was quiet as they approached the house. This was the first time Stiles would see the house fully decorated and he was anxious for Stiles’ reaction. Slowly the house peaked out from behind the trees. Flickering electric candles lit every window, a soft glow pouring out into the night. Multi-coloured fairy lights ran along the edges of the house. Even the railings of the wide wrap-around porch were covered in a deep green garland.

“Is it real?” Stiles asked as they pulled up.

Derek wanted to wallow in the giddy pleasure coming off his friend, confirming, “The garland is.”

Smiling cheekily, “Bet the ants love you- I always knew you were a secret sap,” he snickered softly at his, admittedly, lame joke.

“Stiles, you’ve pestered me about putting garland out ever since the house was finished. Stop being a little shit and get inside before Erica bowls the door down.”

“Aw, Catwoman, I’m coming,” he spoke conversationally as if she was standing with them and not waiting inside the house. Pulling his carry-on out of the SUV, Stiles turned to see Derek glaring at the house, emitting an almost subvocal growl.

“Der, I don’t think Erica is really going to take the door off or come through the windows at least while they’re closed,” Stiles teased, complete misinterpreting the cause of Derek’s distress. It did, however, serve the purpose of snapping the wolf out of his quiet growl-a-thon.

“It’s Erica you never know what trouble she’s getting into,” Derek grumbled.

“I heard that, Alpha!” Erica yelled back for Stiles’ benefit.

Beside him, Stiles was letting out the happiest laugh. Derek had missed the sound. Hell, he just missed Stiles. Therein lay the problem. Apparently, according to his annoyingly observant and uninhibited beta, Derek wandered around like a lovesick puppy if he didn’t talk to Stiles every day, even just a simple text. It wasn’t like he could help it; Stiles brought that out in him. Even when he’d first returned to Beacon Hills Stiles was just there. Always, infuriatingly there. And damn-it all to hell, his wolf loved it. Derek tried to be aloof, untouchable, gruff, and downright mean. It was enough to cow his betas, whether he meant to or not. He even managed to bring Peter to heel with it. But not Stiles. Stiles just pushed back, even when he was afraid. What’s more, Stiles didn’t so much break his walls, as simply ignored them to offer their alpha comfort- no one else would dare come near him on the anniversary of Laura’s death, but there was Stiles storming in, making himself at home, reading or quietly watching mundane sitcoms, just letting Derek know he wasn’t alone.

Out of his betas, Erica was surprisingly the one who could read him best, even better than Cora, if only just. The vibrant young woman had spent so much of her life watching the world go on around her, she learnt to read the world she couldn’t be part of. Now, she put those skills to good use, at least she would call it good use; Derek called it being a meddling pain in his ass.

“Erica, since you’re hovering, can you get the door?”

A beat later, Derek shook his head and cracked a smile.

“She ‘as you wish’-ed you, didn’t she?”

“You bet I did,” the blonde affirmed, leaning against the doorframe.

Dropping his bag, Stiles grabbed Erica and lifted her off the ground in a swirling hug.

“Welcome home, Batman.”

“It’s good to be ho- oof,” he was cut off by a familiar head of dark hair barrelling into him. “Scotty, ribs!”

The wolf pulled back a little, “Sorry,” he offered bashfully.

“I missed you, too, bud.”

Walking past, Erica hip-checked their resident human, knocking him practically into Derek’s arms.

“Erica!” the both snapped- one in warning, the other indignation.

“Oops, ‘don’t know my own strength’,” the she-wolf attempting a Bullwinkle voice.

“You okay?” Derek checked with Stiles, just to be sure.

“Yeah, I know you always got me, big guy.”

Derek was not blushing. He was just still a little pink from what Erica made sure he heard while he and Stiles were outside, even though he knew that was much better.

“Come on, everybody wants to see you,” Scott bounced into the living room tugging his friend with him.

“Scotty, can I at least put my bags in my room?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take them up,” Derek offered.

“You sure?”

“Go see them before they riot.”

“You’re the best,” Stiles told him, relenting to Scott’s gentle tugging.

As soon as Scott got Stiles into the living room he was nearly knocked over by a blonde bullet.

“Uh, Erica?” Stiles looked worriedly between the wolf nuzzling and petting him and the others in the room. “I don’t think I lost that much scent between the hall and here.”

“I missed you- deal.”

A large dark-skinned hand pat Erica’s shoulder, “Babe, save some for the rest of us,” Boyd chided.

Pouting, Erica loosened her hold, allowing Boyd to slip a hand down Stiles’ arm. That seemed to break whatever damn of hesitation had held the others back. In a flash, Stiles was buried under a pile of bodies as the pack all tried to scent the man and welcome him home.

A soft chuckle from the entry pulled everyone’s attention. Derek had gotten progressively more open and ‘human’ in the last couple years, but it still startled them when the man laughed so fondly.

From the depths of the pile, Stiles grumbled playfully, “Get down here or get your puppies off me.”

Moving into the room, Derek watched as the others not-so-subtly made space for the alpha, so he’d have to practically lay on top of Stiles. Settling down to nuzzle at Stiles’ neck, he muttered against his skin, “They’re your puppies, too, Emissary Stilinski.” He emphasized the ‘emissary’ more for his own solace than to remind Stiles of his position in the pack.

“You like saying that way too much,” Stiles worked an arm out from under Isaac, at least he thought it was Isaac, to run his fingers through the hair at the back of Derek’s head.

The wolf merely hummed contentedly, not bothering to argue.

And that’s how John and Peter found them. Stiles waving his hand above the bodies with a plaintive, “Save me.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Red, looks like you’re exactly where you should be. Don’t you agree, Derek?”

A barely audible growl from the alpha sent the older wolf cackling into the kitchen.

With a fond smile, John moved towards the chair closest to his son’s flailing hand. “I hate to say it, but your uncle has a point. Never-the-less, I would like to hug my son, who I haven’t seen in almost five months.”

That got the pack moving, untangling themselves from each other and Stiles, until Derek was the only one left.

“Der? Can I hug my dad?”

Shaking himself, Derek looked around at the others having obviously extracted themselves minutes before. “Missed you,” he mumbled as he got up, ears suddenly tipped in pink.

“‘Missed you’ he says,” Isaac scoffed from the kitchen, where the pack had gravitated to. “Just tell him for crying out loud,” voice pitched for werewolf ears.

“Now, now, let our alpha continue his campaign of procrastination like the mature leader he is,” Peter rebuked, simultaneously throwing sass at his nephew at the same time.

“Shut up,” Derek whispered from the living room, just loud enough for werewolf hearing, but too soft for the humans with him. Putting on what he hoped was an innocent smile, Derek greeted the sheriff.

“You gotta tell him, kid,” John smirked, offering the wolf a fatherly pat to his shoulder as he passed to join the others in the kitchen- sure he would be getting much worse from his troublesome pack.

As soon as the wolf passed, John found himself pulled in and wrapped up one of his son’s tight ‘Stilinski’ hugs, which he matched happily. “Welcome home, kiddo.” When they pulled away, John looked over Stiles cataloguing what changes he could see in his son. “College agrees with you,” he said with a smile. “Come on, let’s see what trouble the rest of the pack has gotten into. You know Peter and Derek are the only ones I trust in the kitchen.”

“What about me?” Stiles asked indignantly.

“Like I said, Peter and Derek.”

“Dad!”

---------

The next two weeks flew by. Christmas was split between the pack’s families and the Hale house, save for Stiles and his father, who simply spent Christmas together with the Hales. A new tradition Stiles had foist upon them three years ago with a “Dad, I know he’s a sourwolf, but we can’t leave him alone with uncle creeper for Christmas!” to his father. Using a huff to hide his smile, John agreed on the condition that he passed the Die Hard test. Stiles practically beamed.And a “Derek, I know you like to be all stoic McBoody-wolf, but,” Stiles got right up in the wolf’s face, “I also know that you are not an emotionless robot and wouldn’t dare disappoint my father. And don’t even try and play the Peter card. I’ll just tell you to bring the zombiewolf with you- no brains! Turkey only!” It took half a beat for Stiles to realize what he’d said and by that point he was witnessing a true Christmas miracle- Derek Hale laughing a pure free laugh.

The next year the pack was finally coming together, learning each other; no longer a group of strangers thrown together by chance or fate, but a pack that would soon be a family.

Stiles still didn’t want risk Derek being alone with Peter. That was another thing, Peter had mellowed with every step forward the pack made- finding Cora alive had triggered so much progress in him as well. Stiles still taunted the older wolf, but it had become a game of sass between them, not barbs of wolfsbane and steel. It had been hard on all of them when Cora decided to spend Christmas with her pack in South America; they all understood, Cora would be leaving the pack to rejoin the Hales, and that pack had been her family for years after the fire, neither Peter nor Derek could begrudge her this last Christmas with them as pack. They all knew Christmas with two could be worse than Christmas with one- at least when you’re alone you can pretend it’s just another day. Taking it all into consideration, the Stilinskis decreed that Derek and Peter were to spend Christmas with them.

It had been strange, yet not, as the pack slowly trickled into the Stilinski house. First Scott and his mom, who were obviously expected. Then a hesitant knock heralded Isaac, followed by Erica and Boyd. Even Lydia and Jackson showed up. But probably the most surprising was Allison. She stood on the porch, shy in a way she seldom was. Stiles merely stepped aside to let the huntress in. They’d all been through a lot and been through it together, so it was only Allison who was caught off guard when Derek walked by offering a gentle squeeze to the back of her neck, an alpha claiming one of his own.

Which brought him to this year and the sword of Damocles that was his feelings for Stiles. The man was headed back to D.C. in a matter of days and the pack were growing anxious and impatient- he didn’t want to be reminded of the ‘talk’ Lydia had at him the night before.

Currently, Stiles was out in the Preserve checking the wards around the Nematon. He really loved it out in the Preserve at least when he wasn’t running for his life or fighting the MotW. Since he’d embraced his spark and agreed to become Derek’s emissary the land felt different, like it physically wanted him there. It wasn’t some mystical pull or tether. It was more the way a house became a home based on the people who lived there. A warmth and welcome that got stronger the more he was there. He was just finishing his circuit, when he felt another, but every bit as warm and welcoming aura, for lack of a better word, and smiled. “You taking up your creeper ways again?”

Derek grunted in acknowledgement.

“Monosyllabic, too? Should I be worried?” the young man teased.

“No.”

A sharp, happy laugh filtered through the air as Stiles moved to meet Derek, where he was leaned un against a large redwood.

Derek took a moment to watch his emissary as he walked towards him, tall and proud, oozing magic and power to anyone who saw him. It was the same Stiles who’d dive into research, the determined, focused man that people ignored for his more spastic, frenetic self. Too many only saw that side of him. Derek was fairly certain Lydia and Peter were the only others that recognized that part of him- his father might, but he wasn’t going to guess.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Stiles playful words interrupted Derek’s musings.

“You’re beautiful,” he found himself saying.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Stiles started pressing a hand to the wolf’s forehead as if checking for a fever and looking Derek’s face and eyes over for any odd sheens or suspicious discharge.

Batting the hands away, Derek scowled. “I’m fine, Stiles,” he growled.

Stiles’ look turned to one of confusion as he seemed to deflate, losing a chunk of that quiet power from a moment ago. “Why’d you say that then? It’s a little early for April Fool’s.”

Pushing off the tree, Derek pressed into Stiles personal space.

It had been years since Stiles had been intimidated by any of Derek’s posturing, even when he was, he never backed down; this time was no different. “What’s going on, Big Guy?” he asked softly.

Reaching out, Derek brushed an escaped lock of Stiles’ dark chocolate hair back into place.

“Der,” Stiles’ throat worked hard to keep his mouth from drying up and making him choke on his words. “You know I’m usually really good at speaking Hale, probably better than my Spanish, definitely better than my Polish, but I’m… I’m not at all sure I’m translating right.”

“You are.” Derek let out a little huff of a laugh. “You always are. You know me better than anyone outside my dad and Laura.” Derek’s eyes darted from Stiles’ to his lips and back again- God, he wanted to taste them and know what they felt like against his own- they always seemed so soft compared to the vitriol that could come out of them. Just one of the many, ever-growing questions he had about the man before him.

“Don’t tease. I can’t take it if you’re not serious or it’s some sort of pity, one-off thing.”

“Stiles.” It was more than just a name. It was denial that this could ever be pity or only one time. It was incredulousness and disbelief that Stiles truly didn’t realize Derek’s feelings. It was fascination and awe. It was a promise. It was love. “Never.” He looked down as he admitted, “Ask the others, they all know. They threatened to lace my sheets with wolfsbane if I didn’t tell you before you went back to D.C.”

Stiles fell forward, pressing their foreheads together as he snickered at their pack, their family.

Derek couldn’t help the chuckle that came out to match Stiles’. “If it wasn’t clear, I’m kinda in love with you.” A sliver of fear shot through him as Stiles pulled back.

He needn’t have worried; Stiles smiled, a gentle curve of lips and a blinding sparkle in his eyes, before leaning back in for a soft, yet indulgent kiss. “I’m kinda in love with you, too.”

---

It was nearing midnight when Derek heard, first Boyd, then Cora closing in on he and Stiles. Derek knew he should’ve answered one of the calls from the pack, but that would’ve meant his lips leaving Stiles’ skin or Stiles’ lips leaving him- neither was acceptable. At least now they were almost kissed out. And no longer fighting the urge to strip each other then and there.

Stiles had his back against the same tree Derek had been leaning on earlier, Derek was settled between the v of Stiles’ legs, fingers intertwined, trading lazy kisses between smiles.

“Oh, god, my eyes!”

The pair laughed at the loud outburst. “Was that Cora?”

Nodding, Derek called back, “Get used to it!” as he stood graceful as ever, offering Stiles a hand up.

As soon as Stiles was up the wolf ducked his head with a soft snicker.

“Do I want to know?”

“Boyd just called the others.”

“Okay?” his eyebrows raised in question, though not as expressive as Derek’s, they got the point across.

“Erica just screamed “Fucking finally” from somewhere over to the east.”

Shaking his head, Boyd turned to follow Cora back to the house.

“Can’t we stay here?” Derek almost pouted.

Taking his hand, Stiles tugged the alpha after him, “Come on, Big Bad, we have a pack waiting for us.”

Grumbling, “That’s the problem.”

Shrugging, Stiles offered a rather enjoyable solution, “We’ll just make out until they get disgusted and leave.”

“Good plan,” the wolf agreed with a smirk.

Snapping indignantly, “My plans are always good.”

Derek playfully gave the expected answer, “Shut up; let’s get back and implement your ingenious plan.”

With sad resignation, Stiles bemoaned, “The romance never lasts.”

“You want romance?” the wolf asked with a playful smirk, before sweeping Stiles up bridal style and taking off to the Hale house- he had a lover to romance; the pack would just have to deal.

#violetfairydust #stereksanta24 #*fic24 #*gifts24

6 notes · View notes

scribbleseas · 1 year ago

Text

Straight Laced, Chapter V: To Be A Force of Nature…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: idk I have nothing to say for myself. i’m sorry this is so late. anddd keep an eye out for an upcoming poll! I need some input about which story you guys would like to see from me next, since we’re now officially halfway through this journey! As always, let me know what you think about this chapter! I love love LOVE audience interaction. So fun and so motivating. i love you all and hope you enjoy it!!

Happy Reading,

- dan (Depression Barbie LMAO)

MASTERLIST

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

The End of October

The Royal Opera House, The Practice Room

“Try it again, Y/n,” Natasha ordered. The bottom of her cane knocked against the floor to cue the pianist to start the music.

Despite your obedient nod, your whole body protested.

Every single muscle in your feet begged for mercy, and your legs and lower back began to do the same. The amount of complex pointe work and arabesques in the variation were what made it such a challenge— maintaining the perfect form but without being too stiff. The Sugar Plum Fairy had to be regal and majestic; you needed to be buoyant on your toes to create the vision of a fairy ready to flutter her wings and fly.

The Nutcraker’s Sugar Plum Fairy Variation was the physical and emotional equivalent of a chess game with Ciel Phantomhive. You watched yourself in the mirror, eyeing the streams of sweat that fell from your hairline and down the bridge of your nose. Still, your arms fanned to either side and your leg drew back to create your starting position: b-plus.

This was the piece that established the fairy’s power in the land of sweets. It needed to be perfect or near perfect by now or Natasha would have your head.

“Your pas de bourreé needs to be lighter,” the director criticized, catching every error in your movement. Her gaze was heavier than a magnifying glass. “It should be airy— and you must maintain the connection between your fingers and your head.” You frowned, your eyebrows knitting with concentration.

She has cautioned you about a heavy step sequence before, Y/n. Try harder— Tchaikovsky wanted this dance to be as light as raindrops; this is the second time Natasha has told you to land gentler.

Your throat felt dry with embarrassment, but you forced yourself to power through. The music hesitated to a short stop while you spread your arms as if you were bracing for a wide hug.

Seconds later, the music launched into its famous chorded sequence up the keys and you stepped into your piqué manége. While a pas de bourreé resembled a sideways sequence of you rapidly tiptoeing across the practice studio floor, the piqué manége and coupé jeté combination was a constant step and turn rotation. You had to spring into small jumps to make each turn, repeating the process until you outlined the perimeter of a square with your spins around the studio floor.

Your head swam, dizzied because you skipped breakfast and lunch that day because you wanted the extra time in the studio. The investigation with Ciel was eating more into your practice time than you wanted to admit— he summoned you to take short promenades through parks, short appearances at bakeries, and specialty boutiques, spoiling you. Showing the public that you were well provided for — frankly blooming under the warmth of his generous fortune— was the Earl of Phantomhive’s ‘love’ language.

“Keep your chest up,” Natasha’s voice felt distant, even though she was in the same room as you and the rest of the company. “You should be thinking of your spinal cord as a fixed structure that your ribs rotate around. And keep your arms controlled with these spins. You are delicate, but there is still a commanding firmness to you.”

You took your final spins, returning to the middle of the stage to chassé up— otherwise, arrange yourself into the performance’s ending position. Both of your arms were straight and angled upwards like you were reaching for a high shelf, and your back rounded to create an energetic arch. Your left foot extended behind your right leg.

Your heart pounded in your chest as Natasha inspected your chassé, peering at you in the same way Ciel examined whatever literature he happened to be reading at the time. Her cold fingertips guided your chin a few centimeters upwards before her head bobbed in a content nod. “Keep your gaze in line with your arms, in this position. Always.”

Natasha’s lips were relaxed in their frown. She was in a particularly stormy mood during this practice, all fortified scowls and impatient scoffs before this moment. Now, rather than completely vexed, the choreographer only seemed mildly frustrated. You struggled to hold her frustration against her— you had been having the same difficulties with this dance since the beginning of the month. You were frustrated with yourself.

“I appreciate your feedback, Natasha” you replied, maintaining your appreciative pretense for the rest of the company members present. Your smile was mechanical and fake, nothing more than the flimsy curtain that the backstage hands rolled in and out between every act. For you, harsh criticism gracefully was an act— smiling while your chest burned with indignation was incredibly blood-boiling.

Especially after you dedicated at least a full afternoon to perfecting the same piece.

She sent you a curt nod in response, only proving to you that there was something on her mind. Something unpleasant…along the lines of her husband being a serial rapist and potential murderer. Guilt sweat beamed in your hairline because, by Ciel’s orders, you still were not allowed to inform her of what you learned about William. But if she found out on her own…you could certainly comfort her, right?

“You are all dismissed,” Natasha addressed the class. “But remember! Soldiers have their designated costuming times with myself and the costuming director this upcoming week! Talk to one of us for your appointment.”

You waited until Natasha finished answering every post-rehearsal question, sending a nameless company member scurrying off with notes on the performance, or some set of miscellaneous instructions. Now that dress rehearsal was only a month away, it was time for each company member to make their dances technically perfect. Natasha preferred to focus on mechanical accuracy before adding the art and drama back into the ballet with the addition of stage makeup and glitzy costuming. Furthermore, Natasha was the heart and soul of the London Royal Company— it was a risk to so much as inhale at an undesignated time.

“Is there something bothering you?” you asked, your eyes breaking away from the door once you were sure everyone was out of earshot. “You were harsher than usual. I know dress rehearsal starts soon but—”

“Everything is fine with me, Y/n,” Natasha replied chillingly, jumping to the defensive. Her hand adjusted on her cane’s grip, bringing the walking accessory closer to her to re-shift her weight. She hissed through her clenched teeth at her bad leg, suggesting the old injury was hurting her. “If I were you, I would be more worried about my dancing than my director. Your rendition of Plum’s variation left much to be desired,” she said without a hint of hesitation.

Of course not— when it came to the choice of sparing a cast member’s self-esteem or breaking their confidence into jagged pieces of shrapnel for quicker results, Natasha would always, inevitably, choose the latter. She wasn’t the best prima ballerina in London five years ago because her feedback was obsequious. “Honestly. I would have thought you would have a breakthrough with your pointe work by now,” Natasha continued, disappointed.

With her sharp cheekbones and straight, raven hair, her visage reminded you of a slightly grumpier and career-driven Snow White.

“I will dedicate every free moment to it,” you insisted, your cheeks hot. Tears stung at your eyes, but you were accustomed to the suffocating feeling and managed to hold them in until you reached the closed door of your dressing room.

The moment you turned your lock closed, you turned towards the inner side of your door, resting your forehead on the cool wood. Your tears tracked down your cheeks, but you made no effort to flick them away. Not yet. You needed to sulk. You deserved to sulk.

“My wife doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” a man’s amused tenor told you, causing your head to jerk back in surprise. “I say, ignore her. I, for one, had a lovely time watching you today, my new prima.”

Ballerina, you wanted to finish the title. Prima felt much too familiar; much too oppressive.

William Wood was as relaxed as a lazy cat, his long and lean body poised comfortably on your couch. He gave a fleeting, yet bitter, look to the gold wedding band around his left ring finger before returning his gaze to you.

You made a rapid effort to wipe your distressed tears away. Normally, you were never one to cry over some constructive criticism, but you guessed it was your building stress— the amount of time and anxiety it consumed. The dark knowledge you had weighed on your mind heavily: knowing the truth about the man sitting in front of you, how he potentially murdered ballerinas like you. The fact that he was responsible for horrendous crimes and was still free to flash a winsome smile at you with the expectation that you’d fall for it.

Moreso, you imagined he used the same strong stare and enticing words to trap all of his victims; whether or not he persuaded them that he cared about them, or ripped all of their confidence away with his own surplus of it.

You cleared your throat, hesitant to meet his cool gray eyes. While Natasha’s were slightly blue, William’s were only a monochrome silver— as if all color was drained from them. His thin lips pulled into a half smile that he likely meant to be seductive and welcoming, but the longer you watched him, the more pursued you felt. He was watching you with the salacious eagerness a hunter would, aiming his rifle at an unsuspecting deer.

How could the other girls have reacted? Amélie, Eliza, Janet? Your heart was heavy with grief. The pain that these girls would never be able to share their stories with the rest of the world. Their lives were stolen from them. By this man.

“Thank you, Mr. Wood,” you greeted tersely. You knew your smile was unconvincing; you couldn’t bring yourself to bring the warmth of recognition into it, or the respect an employee would show to her handsome and potentially homicidal employer. All you could think of was the blood on his hands and the utter certainty across his lips. He was a huntsman. “I see you have returned from Paris. How was your trip?”

How could he live with himself?

“Just fine, Y/n,” William stood to his feet and took a leisurely set of steps towards you, casually crowding you against the door you just locked. There was enough room between you for him to deny his lack of respect for personal space, but so little room that you could spot every individual freckle across the wide bridge of his nose and his cheeks. “But I’m more interested in you. Your technique has simply flourished since that Janet girl left us.”

Left us?

You tensed, but you forced your body to remain open, fighting its natural urge to curl in and shield you from the danger. There was no hesitation in William’s face— not when he started flirting with you, and certainly not now, after he suggested that Janet simply retired from dancing and disappeared. Of course, the Yard was keeping these ballerina disappearances out of the papers. No one else knew there was anything wrong except for those clothes to the ten women, those investigating, and of course, the killer.

Ciel would tell you to talk about Janet and the recent company losses to gauge William’s response. His body language, what was saying, what he was not saying. He would tell you to either ignore the flirting or use it to your advantage, as rejecting Wood would likely bruise his ego too much for you to continue pursuing this…angle. Embarrassed, William would never speak to you again…or if you angered him, he’d simply kill you later.

You would need to use this interaction to set up future time with William. That way you and Ciel could make a plan to get his confession or gather concrete evidence, considering Ciel was too cautious to make the arrest if he wasn’t completely convinced.

If the course of the investigation was solely your choice, you would have already had William arrested for assault, abduction, and at least one murder. Unfortunately, your authority only extended to waltzing tips and how to make Ciel’s publicity smile appear less like a grimace.

William’s eyebrows raised, prompting your response. He was suspicious of your hesitation— which was surprising, given that he was married to your director. How could you fail to notice this…aggressiveness before this week? Now, it was clear to you.

“That is so kind of you to say, sir,” you paused, unsure of what to say next. How could you extract more information about Janet without appearing accusatory? “This opportunity has been extraordinary for my career. It is so hard for me to believe that Janet would give it up so senselessly.” You watched William’s face, looking for any flicker of emotion, but there was none beyond his pensive nod.

“You should know how it is, by now, Y/n,” William drawled with the wisdom of an experienced man who had been watching the ballet field for a near century, rather than a measly thirty years. While the Wood family owned the opera house since its construction in 1732, William only started running the Wood’s business empire five years ago — after his father, John, died abruptly. Heart failure.

The last production the opera house had under John Wood was the Sleeping Beauty run where William met Natasha, the new prima ballerina. They were both around your age at the time. You couldn’t imagine meeting your future spouse and marrying them only for your father to die a month or two afterward.

“Not everyone can take the heat. Not everyone should. They can’t handle it because they’re not like you. You’re a shark. A force of nature; someone special. I can see it,” William continued, taking a loose strand of hair that fell free from your bun and tucking it behind your ear. His fingertips lingered on the side of your neck, and the top of his thumb kept your chin tilted upwards towards his face.

“A force of nature?” You asked, almost as puzzled as you were uncomfortable. You wished you could take a step away, but your backside was pressed against your only exit.

William chuckled, pleased to have the opportunity to explain himself. It made him feel smarter than you— something that most men adored as much as staring at you. “Yes. That means, unstoppable, strong, and…unforgettable. Beyond control. Like I said: don’t listen to Natasha. You were flawless. You are flawless.”

Your breath hitched, unable to hide the euphoria that came with praise, but of course, not without recalling that these were lines he likely rehearsed. William knew how to attract his victims with honey before resorting to vinegar. Ultimately, it made you realize that this was how Amélie, Eliza, and Janet felt. Seen. Special. Noticed by the owner of the opera house. Frankly, if you hadn’t been promoted, you doubted you would have been William’s next target.

Still, even if you knew you were a force of nature before William said so, there was something more empowering about hearing so. For once, it wasn’t your ego; it was praise. Genuine, few and far between, praise. Something educated and intricate— it might have been nearly leagues more satisfying than faraway applause from an audience that didn’t know the first thing about ballet…if you didn’t know that William had ulterior motives. If you didn’t know that this was the trap the huntsman fabricated to catch his next meal.

William took your prolonged silence as encouragement. He leaned downwards, each gaining centimeter only pushing him closer to your lips.

“Mr. Wood…” you cut his advance short, hesitating as you remembered that rejection was not an option. You tried to soften your expression, and your body, given that your words came out somewhat flat. You thought of the weak-willed princesses in children’s tales; the submissive character you put on for all of your old patrons; the long set of polite society’s rules Sebastian branded into the front of your brain.

William’s approach was to take vulnerable and insecure girls and make them feel like a force of nature because of him. Not because they were, inherently.

But you were. This time, he didn’t know who he was messing with.

“I think…we ought to wait until we have more time together,” you said sweetly, your hand coming from your side and adjusting William’s shirt collar. It was folded unevenly, and even the minute gesture was enough for him to think you cared about him— that you were looking intently enough to realize that there was a problem with his wardrobe in the first place. Any special attention from intended prey was like a drug to these power-starved men. It made you wonder why they thought they had all of the power. “Could you imagine the scandal? If everyone in the company found out?” You asked, widening your eyes with ironic innocence.

You were the black swan, Odile. Mischievous, conniving, confident. Frankly, thinking about making the arrest and putting the bastard away was what created your reluctantly seductive grin— much in the same way as Odile’s excitement to manipulate Odette’s prince.

William’s back straightened as he considered you once more, looking over you with reignited vigor, now that you were fully committed to playing his game. He tilted his head, though his eyes were slightly more hesitant to leave your lips.

“I think you’d get some enjoyment out of all that attention, Prima,” William joked, taking your hand in his. He pressed a kiss onto your knuckles before doing the same for the inner part of your wrist. His thumb rubbed the same spot on your wrist as if he wanted the feeling of his foreign lips on your skin to linger. “But unfortunately, you do have a point. I think I have a remedy for us, though,” William looked ponderous before he fished out a ring of keys from his jacket pocket with his free hand— he was still holding yours until he needed both hands to sift through the crowded keys.

To you, it suggested he had several places he needed to keep locked away. That could be residences, safes, closed doors, drawers... the number of potential areas to hide murder weapons and implicating items could be limitless if all of the locations for these keys were his. It was suspicious.

Once William found the key he was looking for, he unlinked it from the key ring. He pressed it into your palm so hard that you could feel it indent in your skin. “Here. This opens the back door of my country house. We will meet there. Tomorrow— after your performance,” he ordered, closing your fingers around the key for you. He pointedly failed to ask if you were available, presuming you would make the time for him.

“The one in… Southampton?” Your mouth felt dry. You went to William and Natasha’s country home once— about a year ago. Natasha allowed you to spend the night after you arrived at the docks after midnight, returning from a short visit to France. Your director didn’t trust you to make it back to your home safely, and she insisted you stay the night with her and William.

The Wood’s Southampton house was a symbol of Natasha’s kindness to you, and now, you were about to use it to further betray her. Failing to tell her about her husband’s crime was the first; and now, you were about to seduce him in order to expose those misgivings.

“Yes. Natasha stays late with the costuming director on Thursdays and Fridays. It’s perfect,” William reminded you. While most companies started costuming for the lead dancers, Natasha liked to start with the ensemble. She claimed it was best to get all of the mass-produced costumes fitted and out of the way before focusing on the standout pieces like yours.

Thinking about your Sugar Plum Fairy costume made you giddy with excitement. While you haven’t seen the ensemble itself yet, Poppy (the costume director that William failed to name) showed you her beautiful sketches for it.

“Meet me there at eleven. Sharp,” William ordered decisively, offering you no chance to protest. Within seconds, he unlocked your door, made sure there was no one outside to see him exit, and swiftly made his leave.

The Same Day, Dusk

Ciel’s Carriage

“No. Absolutely not,” Ciel’s stoic, yet resolute frown pursed into a line. He angled his chin upwards, daring you to argue with him.

“What do you mean?” You demanded, your eyebrows knitting together incredulously. You wanted to stand up to punctuate your surprise and frustration, but the moving carriage wouldn’t allow you to. “This is the perfect opportunity. You said it yourself: We need to investigate William Wood. If he is with me, his guard will be down! And we need evidence and a confession!”

“We would do better to explore a…different angle. I would prefer to meet with him,” Ciel said boredly, opening his book to his current page. He clearly didn’t think much of this disagreement; you thought it was, by far, the most ridiculous one the two of you dealt with up to this point. He was being brainless— you had an opportunity to get into William’s home and make him vulnerable, and Ciel didn’t want to so much as entertain your idea! Your lead!

“But, why?” You insisted, protesting like a child fighting their mother for an extra piece of candy. “What could possibly be wrong with this plan? Setting a meeting up between you and him — without looking suspicious — could take ages!”

“It will not take ages,” Ciel said, emphasizing his use of your words. He skimmed over the words in the passage of his book — The Canticle of Saint Eulalie — idly, speaking while he read. The novel was a relic from medieval French literature, a name you vaguely recognized only to have Ciel snicker at you for not being as inclined to know every facet of your home culture. It was disquieting to know that Ciel was fluent in your first language. When he offered to speak to you in that language, you had denied it vehemently because it was simply too personal. Speaking in French took you back to your mother, dance school, and every painful memory you left back on the European mainland. “I want to extend an invitation to Wood about a business venture.”

“Ciel, it is too convenient. No one will believe that we are in love if you make a business deal immediately after courting me,” you insisted.

“It only matters if he believes that it is a true business meeting,” Ciel said, flipping the current page over.

“I guarantee you, he will not,” you shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “William might be a sadistic criminal but he certainly is not a moron—” unlike you, genius “…and he will make the connection between you and me. Natasha has to have told him already.”

“Honestly! You are being stubborn because this is my lead! It was my acting and my efforts that gave us this opportunity. You are insecure. You are selfish! If we let our investigation progress slower than necessary, more people die! Is it worth it? Is your—” You would have proceeded with your tirade until you and Ciel reached your destination, but he slammed his book closed with a start. The heavy sound caused you to hesitate, giving him the opportunity to intercede.

“Y/n! Your plan is too dangerous!” Ciel snapped. “You are an untrained civilian. You are not going to meet a man who has assaulted and likely killed ten other of your peers. Certainly not when he likely imagines you as his eleventh! Honestly! You must be mad. Do you have a death wish?”

“I do not care about that,” you admitted, taking in a long inhale through your nose and quickly glancing out the window. Your fingers intertwined in your lap as your shoulders fell sheepishly. “The danger,” you clarified at the Earl’s perplexed expression. “I truly…it is of no importance to me.”

“And why is that?” Ciel demanded.

“Why do I have the right? They all…died. Why do I get the privilege of…” You let the sentence die, gesturing with your clammy hands because you couldn’t string the proper words together. How could you to know to be careful when these girls didn’t know what they were getting into? They deserved the same warnings you had, but that would never be.

“Come on, Ciel. We need access to his home and his belongings. We will not get it if we pursue your business meeting idea. Please, please, let me do this,” you said, fishing William’s house key out of your jacket’s pocket. The silver key had his matching initials engraved down the side of it in cursive. “While I keep him occupied, you and Sebastian can find the spare office keys in the studio and—”

There was a new grudging respect in Ciel’s face, paired with a thoughtful frown. He was considering your idea, freshly reminded that you were extremely committed to the investigation. After all, it was a personal matter, now.

“No,” Ciel started. He quickly sent a silencing look at you, noticing the confrontational way you leaned in toward him. The carriage was rather small, putting you in the same proximity William was to you, earlier that day. “Not without us. I will not, in good conscience, permit you to go tomorrow without Sebastian and myself. We don’t know what William might try with you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, victorious. You truly were a force of nature.

“You care about me,” you grinned, nose wrinkling with glee. “How kind. Who knew the magnificent, oh-so-powerful, Lord of Phantomhive could care for someone besides himself…” Your hand flew over your heart dramatically. “I’m touched!”

“I had no idea it was controversial to ensure a civilian’s survival,” Ciel smarted, his exposed eye-rolling. His face flushed, but you couldn’t decipher the cause. Frustration from having to accommodate your ever-shifting mood? Embarrassment? No, Lord Phantomhive could never view himself as lesser-than!

Or perhaps, you were right. He did care about you.

Your cheeks grew warm at the thought, causing your head to jerk away before you could regard his lips anymore. (Were they always this plump when he scowled? And that pink?) You were all too aware of your closeness, given that you hadn’t moved back to your original position in the carriage and had been leaning towards him with the severity of either someone enraged or in love.

Enraged. You were enraged.

“Admit that I persuaded you,” you demanded, unable to keep the play stoicism on your face.

“I will not,” Ciel shook his head, relieved that the carriage was coming to a stop because it gave him an easy reprieve from the conversation at hand. “We need you to confirm the body’s identification. Will you come inside?” The Earl asked, gesturing to the Yard’s station outside the carriage. He reminded you of the meaning behind your excursion: confirming that the body found floating in the River Thames was Janet Fischer or a nameless victim. While there were numerous pictures of Janet, they needed a person to confirm her remains.

“Yes, I can.” Your heart sunk, bringing your joy with it. Your smile melted as you nodded gravely, well aware that there was no need to maintain any pretenses in front of the body. Ciel forced the Yard to clear any non-ranked personnel to avoid conflict with your public appearance versus your intended utility to the case.

Within minutes, you were facing Janet one last time. She was truly perfect— the type of beautiful that belonged between pages of a storybook. Her cheekbones were high, but her cheeks were full; her lips were soft and pink. Her blonde hair fell in wisps, too thick to stay in her bun perfectly. Even in death, her eyelashes were long and curled, kissing her cheeks.

Unlike Amélie, there was little sign of death on her, save for her lack of breathing and the obvious bruise on her temple. Otherwise, there was no foul smell, no bloodshot eyes, or gaping mouth. Janet looked as if she was only napping, her face serene without the deep sadness that used to inhabit it. No one in the company carried the same innocence and melancholia— that was why she was Natasha’s first choice for Odette.

“This is her,” your voice hardly registered above a whisper. “Janet…what happened?” you asked, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling. You wished she could wake up and tell you. There was nothing you wanted more.

“She was officially reported as missing on the night of September 28th,” Ciel said, his presence somewhat comforting to you. Janet was already dead— there was nothing to be done except to bring her killer to justice and ensure this doesn’t happen to anyone else. “Exactly one day after the last time everyone has claimed to see her— the night of Thursday, September 27th.”

“This wound seems as if it was from a blunt object,” Sebastian noted, peering at the purple bruise on the side of Janet’s right eye. “But she was found near the Tower Bridge, the rest of her wounds consistent with a high fall.”

“Could she have been hit with the object and subsequently pushed?” Ciel wondered, not truly looking for a response from either you or Sebastian. He crossed his arms, searching for answers from Janet’s body.

You battled a fresh wave of nausea.

“The bruise appears to be circular. I believe the object we’re looking for is slightly round — like a hammer, the pommel of a dagger, or even the end of a cane might create this shape of bruise,” the butler continued, the broad number of potential items doing nothing of note.

If the bruise wasn’t leading to anything concrete, you opted to focus on something — anything — else. Janet went missing on a Thursday… Today was Wednesday. William wanted to meet with you on another Thursday. You had full Nutcracker rehearsals on Thursdays and Sundays, but William said that Thursday would work the best because Natasha always stayed at the studio to work with Poppy.

That made Thursdays the ideal day for him to kill someone: Natasha was out of the picture, and the whole cast was exhausted after a full show rehearsal and a showing of Swan Lake.

You stiffened, your head jerking to look at the Earl. He startled at your sudden movement, knitting curious eyebrows together. What is it now, Y/n? He asked without having to speak.

“Ciel, do you have the dates for any of the other disappearances?”

“Sebastian?” Ciel prompted.

“Annalisse Sterling’s last sighting was Thursday, September 14th and Harriet White’s was August 31st, and…” Sebastian continued, as you flipped through a calendar. You ripped off one of the officer’s unoccupied desks. You circled every date Sebastian said until he stopped at Amelie’s disappearance date.

“The majority of disappearances have taken place between these three weekdays,” you declared, showing Ciel and Sebastian the months of circled Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. “Look. And these are days where we have full show rehearsals and his wife is thoroughly distracted…it cannot be a coincidence.”

Ciel considered the theory, nodding slowly with perceptible hesitance that you wanted to kick out of him. There was absolutely no basis for him to doubt you! Why did he need to be this stubborn? All of the time? “Is there anyone we can speak to regarding Janet? We have already spoken to her family and Lord Taylor, but—”

“She never had friends,” you shook your head. It was true— Janet always distanced herself from everyone. Even Natasha, who seemed to be the entire company’s older sister. “What did Lord Taylor tell you?”

“He has a solid alibi— hosting a birthday dinner for his niece in Tanglewood. His son’s betrothed,” Ciel said. “The party location puts him too far away from the Tower Bridge at that time, and there is no evidence that Taylor told Janet to meet him there.”

“She had to tell someone that she was going out of her usual way,” you shut your eyes for a moment to organize your thoughts. “Janet was not stupid, she would never leave without notice. Her mother and her brothers relied on her income to live.”

“The mother insisted Janet found a note in her dressing room, but there was no one — and no note — to corroborate that,” Sebastian recalled, as perplexed as you’ve ever seen him. Anyone could have left a note in Janet’s room— the murder had to be premeditated if that was how the killer lured her. They knew to leave it there after the performance and to either dispose of it themself or take it from Janet after killing her. Not only that— they had access to those backstage areas. It needed to be someone who blended in at the opera house, otherwise, the interviewed dancers and stagehands would have noticed a suspicious character.

“Ciel, we need to look into William. He owns the opera house— no one would think anything of seeing him backstage. William knows when rehearsals are, and his wife’s work schedule,” you demanded, wide-eyed. Honestly, if Ciel continued to doubt you, you would suspect he was in the wrong line of work.

“Say it is William,” Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose, “how would we proceed?” He asked flatly, guessing that you had a few ideas.

Your expression wasn’t gleeful. You were unsure what to call it, besides fierce and unyielding. It was forceful, it was serious. A real force of nature would do this. You were going to do this.

“We get a confession, then. Tomorrow night.”

72 notes · View notes

likeastarstar · 3 years ago

Text

Grey Spaces- Jimin

materlist.

"Man, I have got to get a boyfriend."

You smiled tightly, nodding your head understandably to make your best friend feel better. She was single- so were you. But the difference is, you didn't really share her same rush to find someone to jump into a relationship with. Not when you had...

"Maybe you should get a pet," Jimin corrected, collapsing onto the couch next to her. "A boyfriend will only make you stressed out, at least a pet will offer emotional support."

You stifled a laugh under your breath, avoiding looking at him for more than a second. Instead, you currently found peeling the edge of your beer label off very entertaining. Jimin was what one could only be described as your sneaky link. Emphasis on the sneaky.

It worked for you- you were a busy person, balancing a full time work schedule with a friend group like yours was hard enough, you definitely didn't need a boyfriend. If you were to have one, of course Jimin would be your first choice. You had been friends for forever, friends with benefits for a little under a year, your moms had even met a couple times. Things would be easy if they went that route- it just couldn't happen now.

But regardless of not wanting a serious relationship, when he texted at 3AM that he was coming over after dance practice sweaty as hell and tired? You were there...you were so there. Plus the sex was good. Like, insanely good. Like- Okay, let's focus here.

You shook visions of sugar plum fairies and kitty gang Jimin out of your head and rejoined the real world, just in time for a boy you didn't recognize who came with Jimin to call you out.

"What about you? You got a boyfriend?" He grinned, raising his eyebrows slightly. He was hot, objectively. But again, you weren't looking for anything and you had...

"She's not going out with you," Jimin laughed, "Go ahead and try though."

You snapped your head towards Jimin, tracing over the cocky smile on his lips with peaked interest, "You say that with such confidence."

His face melted into one you recognized very well- one that was usually reserved for when you two were alone. It told you to push his buttons a little, to see where it got you. Usually, this game ended in your favor.

"That's because I know you better than you know yourself," He smiled sweetly, "You have too high of standards for this guy."

Well, two hours and three clubs later- you wanted to test out those so called standards of yours. The boy, who's name you kept forgetting and didn't really care about, took your hand and asked if you'd dance with him. So you did, for a couple songs at least. He wasn't as good of a dancer as Jimin, his hips didn't roll the same even if he was in the same dance company as Jimin.

It was only then when you realized you only wanted one sneaky link- Jimin. You weren't interested in anyone else. That wasn't a big deal, right? It was a supply and demand thing- not a feelings thing, right? One thing was for sure, this guy was about to be disappointed.

"Jimin was right by the way," You laughed awkwardly, "I'm not going to date you- I don't want to hook up or anything either, I'm sorry."

He looked taken aback for a moment but nodded, smiling sheepishly, "That's fine. Want to keep dancing?"

He was a good guy, no wonder Jimin was friends with him. So you kept dancing. He tried to say something a little while later but you were busy scanning the room for Jimin. You found him sitting at the table your group reserved for tonight, alone, an annoyed look on his face and his eyes locked on you.

Uh oh.

He got up when you spotted him and you watched as he made his was over, people moving out of his way automatically. Jimin had that effect on people, he was important. You mumbled something about getting water to the boy, leaving him before he could follow you.

"Hey," You said when you met Jimin in the middle, wanting to touch him- even just hold his hand.

"I'm going home, I have an early morning and I don't want to be tired," He said simply, nodding awkwardly, "I was just going to say goodbye."

You didn't know what to say so you didn't say anything at all, wondering why he was so annoyed. Things between you were casual, extremely casual. When you were in friend mode- you were in friend mode. Black and white, no grey.

"Oh," You said lamely, feeling like you did something wrong. He stared at you with a conflicted look on his face, his lips pulled into a frown.

"This is going to sound fucked up, but I don't want you to go home with anyone else but me," He said suddenly. You looked at him with a confused face, watching him get increasingly frustrated. "Earlier, when I said I knew you weren't going to go for my friend. It was cocky of me, I was wrong, but I don't want to play this game anymore."

"Okay," You nodded easily enough, but Jimin didn't quite seem to process it.

"I know you don't want a relationship and neither do I but I don't want to see you with anyone else." He continued.

"Okay," You repeated, Jimin only snowballing further.

"I'm being an asshole, I'm sorry-"

"Jimin," You interrupted, taking his hands in yours. "I feel the same way. I already told him I wasn't looking for anything, I don't want anyone but you. I also don't want anything to change between us, neither one of us has the time for a relationship. If we tried anything serious right now, we'd just crash and burn. But maybe down the line...if both us are in the right place for it, I promise my only choice is you."

He looked taken aback, eyes wide with his full lips in a cute little 'O'. You smiled at his expression, tilting you head to the side.

"I'm done playing games too. Let's go home?" You asked sweetly, outstretching a hand towards him.

"Okay," He said dumbly, nodding eagerly. He let you pull him towards the door before stopping you, a frown on his face again. Oh God, what now? "So this means we're not fucking anyone else right?"

"Jesus- yes," You groaned, rolling your eyes, "Except if it's like a threesome or something, I could be down for that."

You started pulling him towards the door again, his arms noticeably more noodley.

"You're perfect," Jimin mumbled under his breath, looking like he got the wind knocked out of him.

#jimin imagine #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x oc #bts fic #jimin x reader #jimin fluff #is this fluff?#jimin f2l #jimin fwb #jimin reader insert #bts reader insert #park jimin fic #jimin oneshot

164 notes · View notes

barnesandco · 4 years ago

Text

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy (9/14)

Story Masterlist

The plum seller at the farmer’s market saves Bucky from being captured for the attack at Vienna that he didn’t commit, but is she really all that she appears to be, or are ulterior motives involved?

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 1191. Square filled: “Gunshot Wound”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: injury, blood, almost-death, mentions of war and stabbing. This is an angsty one, y'all.

A/N: Please pray that I finish this bingo because if I don't I'll hate myself forever.

It might be a strange thing for a former assassin to think, but Bucky can't remember the last time he saw this much blood. Maybe it's because the woman bleeding in his arms has induced tunnel vision like never before, and his history with blood and gunshot wounds is but a faded recollection. A dream of a dream, like a crime committed by someone else. The ramifications of this injury are much more urgent, and he knows, even as he hauls her into his arms and goes deeper into the cover of the forest on the coast of Tanzania, that the danger is both right behind them and right there, staring him in the face in the form of a bleeding wound and nothing to do about it.

He runs for what feels like hours but is probably just a minute, trying to jostle her as little as possible as he navigates the bush, and he slows only when the sound of the chopper has faded away. Temperature sensing technology won't work in an environment in which the surroundings are as pulsating hot as the people running. Soon, he faces a cove. If the circumstances were any different -- if the woman he has formed an inexplicable connection to wasn't dying in his arms -- he might laugh. Trust fate to give them two chopper chases, and coves to hide in after almost killing them. There's a metaphor in there but he can't be bothered to find it.

He lays her down on the ground and takes out his nearest knife, removing her upper layer and cutting open the tshirt under it to reveal the GSW under her ribs. Praying to God it hasn't hit anything vital, he removes his sweatshirt from where its tied around his waist and places pressure on the wound.

She winces and moves, lets out a whimper. The only sign of weakness -- no, humanity -- she has shown since the car crash in Romania.

Bucky shushes her. "Hey, shhh, it's okay," he says, pulling forth words he didn't know he had. "Hold this here, doll," he says, taking her hands and pushing them down on the jacket. She bites her lip and he swipes a strand of hair off her forehead with a gentle consolation, smearing blood across it, before turning to the now almost depleted first aid kit.

There are still tweezers and needle and thread in there, along with a sufficient amount of antiseptic and cotton. Taking the supplies out, he removes his now red sweatshirt and applies the antiseptic in panicked movements. His hands are shaking.

His heart is beating a death march drumbeat, deafening in his ears, but he still hears the rustle of leaves in the tree canopy above, too loud for a bird to cause. It makes him take her into his arms and back away, and he doesn't relax when Sam Wilson makes a graceful landing on the forest floor, and Steve Rogers drops down from the sky.

"Buck, it's alright, we're here to help," Steve says, and Bucky holds her tighter. The first aid kit is visible, as is the gaping wound and bloodied clothing, but Bucky doesn't know what to do with the concern written all over Steve. "We're here to help. Clint just landed the jet in a clearing nearby. Sam has paramedic training. He can save her." This is what does it. Although Bucky hasn't completely processed his feelings about Steve Rogers, he knows that she trusts Sam. She knows Sam, and he'll help here.

So he nods cautiously, but says, in a voice tight with emotion, "Lead us there." They nod and hurry to the right, and Bucky follows with rushed steps and an ache in his heart. It has been around minutes since she was shot, and time is running out.

When they enter the jet, he doesn't let himself feel comforted by the cool air inside or the reprieve from the sharp light, because she is still injured. She is still bleeding. Wilson pulls out a table from a wall, and Bucky lays her down on it. She whimpers again, and reaches for him, so he grabs her hand.

"It's going to be okay. Sam is here, you hear me?" He tells her, determined, trying to make sure she doesn't feel what he did in that long fall. He knows what it's like to almost die, to get to think about everything you might have to pay for. "Sam is going to help," Bucky says, and wonders who it is he's convincing.

Wilson, who has cleaned her wound and is now reaching for the tweezers, apologizes, "We don't have anaesthetic on board," and Bucky bites down the urge to snap why the hell not, until her hand clutches his tightly as Wilson locates the bullet.

Bucky squeezes back and starts talking while the painstaking process of removing the bullet without causing more damage begins. He can barely see for how his vision is blurring, but he speaks to her while his voice goes sandpaper rough, and Brooklyn heavy.

"I was stabbed in France, once. Before Azanno, so that wound had to heal like a normal one without the help of whatever those bastards put in me." Steve and Barton, on autopilot as the plane heads towards that pulsating dot a distant away, exchange a look. "Got hit by a Nazi two feet taller and wider, but that's no excuse. That's how I met Morita," Bucky says, watching her eyes struggle to stay open against the pain. The bullet is out and dropped into a tray with a clink. Wilson pulls out needle and thread, and starts to stitch, as Bucky continues.

"Died of a heart attack in '89, according to the Smithsonian," Bucky adds, and hears Steve whisper rest his soul.

"He found me in the ditch I was ready to die in -- sayin' my prayers and all -- and stitched my stomach up like it was child's play. Let me lean on him all the way back to camp when the dust settled, but on the way across the battlefield I saw the body if the Kraut that stabbed me. I stole his knife. Still have it," Bucky ends morbidly, as Wilson seals the stitches, and cleans the area, before covering it with gauze. Her eyes flutter shut, finally, and now, Bucky lets them.

"Rest," he murmurs lowly as Wilson and Steve move away to give them privacy, and he sits down on a bench against the walls as the jet continues over the African continent. Bucky closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cold, metal walls of the aircraft, and listens to his companion breathe.

As he registers the inhales and exhales, the shudder of her lungs after her ordeal, something in his chest loosens. It's a knot he didn't know was tied in the first place, but it unravels, and leaves a sphere of heat in his chest. The grip of icy fear on his heart has thawed, and in its place, is something soft. A feathered thing, smooth against his ribs, warm in his chest, waiting to take flight.

#SSB2020 #ayesha writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #marvel #mcu #fanfiction

33 notes · View notes

aceavatar · 4 years ago

Text

The Nutcracker

Izuku Midoriya x Ballerina Reader

Warnings: Mild language

I’m so excited to be a part of this collab!! Please be sure check out everyone else’s amazing writings for more!!!

——————

“I really don’t get why we had to go here.” Bakugo mutters to Mr. Aizawa who just glances at him.

“Come onnnn Bakugo!! This normally costs a lot of money to see, and we get it for free! And good seats, too!” Mina says, leaning towards her explosive blonde friend.

“Whatever.” He grumbles, folding his arms tighter and looking at the trees moving by outside the bus.

“So, Todoroki, this is thanks to you, right?” Uraraka says, excitedly brushing the wrinkles out of her nice dress.

“Yes.” He says quietly, fidgeting with his hands nervously. “I- well, I haven’t seen my sister in a few years. I’m nervous to see her.”

“Thank you for opening up to us.” Todoroki’s green haired friend Izuku says comfortingly, patting his shoulder.

Todoroki nods.

He normally doesn’t speak freely, Izuku thinks to himself, his sister must be really important to him.

“I look forward to meeting her.” Iida says curtly, making Izuku and Todoroki smile.

“I do too!” Says Uraraka.

Izuku nods, looking down at his hands. “I’ve never been to a ballet before.”

“It’s interesting to watch.” Todoroki says. “I used to go to her rehearsals every week to watch. Since the last time I’ve seen her, I can only assume she’s gotten better. She’s got one of the most important parts, the Sugar Plum Fairy. I’m looking forward to seeing her perform.”

“I can’t wait to see her then.” Izuku grins, nudging his friend.

“Me either.” Says Uraraka. She was overjoyed to go somewhere so fancy.

<><><>

“I’m really nervous, Dax.” I sigh, checking the tight bun on my head.

“Why? It’s not like you’ve only done this once.” He shakes his head. “As your Cavalier, I can promise you that you’re talented.”

“Thanks, D.” I smile, giving myself a once over before I have to go on.

My pale baby pink costume fits perfectly on me, the intricate designs on the tutu making me stare for a second, entranced.

“My brother will be here,” I look down at my makeup on the table.

“Oh yeah, you ran away, didn’t you?” Dax says, moving towards me to adjust my headpiece.

“Yeah, long story.” I laugh. “Basically, my twin brother went to UA- and”

“UA?!” Dax gasps.

I nod and laugh. “Yeah, you do know who our father is. Anyway, I didn’t want to go, so I ran to America. Got a place and joined a school of dance here, then, well, you know the rest.”

“Yeah, I’m glad you got cast in this. I hope tonight isn’t too bad.” Dax gently hugs me, making sure to not crush my tutu or me.

“Me too. I invited his whole class and teachers so it wouldn’t be awkward or anything.” I shrug, shaking off the bad feelings. My performance has to be perfect, like always.

<><><>

“I wonder when she’ll show up.” Uraraka whispers, leaning over Deku to speak to Todoroki.

“It should be soon.” He says quietly, fiddling with his hands.

Izuku blinks and looks at the stage curiously. His eyes wander to his classmates as the set changes. Everyone is being attentive audience members, even Aizawa and All Might seem to be intrigued by the show.

Familiar music begins, pulling the green haired boy’s focus back to the beautiful stage in front of them. They got amazing seats thanks to Todoroki’s sister, and he was grateful he could see it all up close.

A girl comes onstage, moving upstage center and getting in a ballet position (poor Izuku has no idea what they’re called, only that they’re graceful looking).

She stands, hands down, head high, shoulders back, back straight, and a beautiful smile across her face.

This must be her, Izuku thinks, she has pale red hair, almost pink but not quite, and sparkling blue eyes, just like one of his friend’s eyes.

Izuku looks excitedly to Todoroki, then back to the girl onstage.

She gets en pointe, and the familiar Tchaikovsky song plays, the dance of the sugar plum fairy. Everyone recognized it, and the audience seems to buzz with excitement.

Izuku’s eyes sparkle as he watches the girl do a pas de bourree. “She’s amazing.” He whispers to himself.

She gracefully chassés, does an entrechat, and an arabesque.

When the song’s end comes near and the tempo speeds up, she begins to pirouette, spotting her vision on an unknown object.

She ends her routine, and everyone claps like mad. Izuku being one of them. The whole class for that matter. His green eyes dance from classmate to classmate, and even Bakugo stood and applauded, a small smile on his face.

She curtseyed, catching her brother’s eyes in the crowd, her smile never faltering. Her eyes shifted to meet green ones, but their gaze broke.

“That was amazing.” Iida says.

<><><>

After it was over, a man dressed in all black comes out, ushering Class 1A and the pro heroes backstage. “Watch your step,” he mumbled.

“Hey, Sho.” I say quietly as my brother enters my dressing room.

“Y/n.” He breathes quietly.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you too. Hey, you did great out there.”

“Thanks. I saw you on TV. The sports fest thing, I’m proud of you.”

He smiles, embarrassed by the compliment. “Thanks.” He scratches his neck. “I wish you were there, though. I know they’d let you in.”

“I was never worried about getting in. I don’t want to have anything to do with Dad. And he picked you to be the big hero, right? He’s a sexist dick, of course he’d pick his son.” I ramble a bit.

“I agree. He and I are not on good terms right now. I do have his card, though. I can give you the number.”

I look down at my hands, then in the mirror. I look at Shoto, then back to me. For being his twin sister, we don’t look much alike. I look like what he’d look like if you just blended all the colors.

Wait, at the door, underneath, I see shadows.

“Who’s outside the door?” I whisper.

He shrugs, so I walk to it. I quickly open it to see a green haired boy holding his hand up to knock.

“Uh, h-hi,” he says nervously.

“Hello.” I smile at him. “I saw you sitting next to Sho. Come in.” I open the door and he enters, smiling at my brother.

“Hi.” My brother says. “Y/n, this is Midoriya. My friend from school.”

“Nice to meet you.” I smile and shake his hand. I notice it has a bunch of scars on it.

——

Her hands are so delicate and fragile, Izuku thinks, staring at the gentle hand in his. “Nice to meet you too.” His eyes look up and meet hers.

——

“Thanks for coming tonight. I’m so excited to meet the famous class 1A. Hey, I think I saw you on tv at the sports fest. You went up against my brother, didn’t you?” I smile.

His eyes go wide. “I-uh, yeah, sorry,”

“What’re you apologizing for?” I smile at him reassuringly.

“I-uh, don’t know, I just kinda fought your brother...”

“It’s no hard feelings, it was just a game.” Shoto chuckles at his friend. He knows he’s intimidated or maybe starstruck by his sister. He expected it. In fact, he expects it from most of his classmates, both male and female ones.

He ended up being right. What he couldn’t predict though, was his sister being equally as starstruck, especially by Izuku of all people.

This one’s special, I think to myself as I smile at Midoriya.

“Hey Sho, go find your class and I’ll show them to the stage, ok?” I say, stepping closer to Midoriya.

Shoto looks at me for a second then nods, leaving my dressing room.

“So, Midoriya,” I smile at him. “What’s your quirk?” This turns him into a stuttering mess, which I find really cute. “Hey it’s okay, I think I understand what it is.”

“Thanks.” He sighs. “What’s yours?” He asks me excitedly.

“The same as Shoto’s.”

“Really? I’m surprised you’re not at UA...”

“Yeah, I kicked and screamed, and I actually got in, but I ran away. Joined a ballet school, and here I am, back in Japan, on tour.” I laugh a little, catching his gaze.

“You don’t want to be a hero?” He asks, confused.

“Yeah, not my thing. It was always Shoto’s thing. Like of course my family would like it, but it’s just not for me. I’m not cut out to be one.” I shrug. “Dance is what I was made for, I know it.”

She’s as passionate about dance as I am about becoming a hero, Izuku thinks while the redhead rambles passionately. He smiles at her. “That’s amazing. You should teach me how to dance, I’m awfully clumsy.” Izuku blushes.

My eyes light up. “That’d be amazing, Midoriya! I’d love to teach you how to dance!”

Deku grins, and as he was about to speak, the door opens. Todoroki, Mr. Aizawa, All Might, and the rest of the class were at the door.

My eyes light up as I quickly stand. “Hello! You must be class 1A!”

The backstage tour went smoothly, with a pink girl named Mina asking a bunch of dance related questions, discussing Tchaikovsky with Momo, and even convincing boys named Kirishima and Kaminari that ballet was manly, and how American Football players take ballet to learn precision and body control.

Aizawa dissuaded my schedule and diet with me, and All Might (I almost fainted when I met him, not gonna lie) discreetly whispered that he took ballet too, which made me smile. He also commented on my impressive skill which just about made me pass out.

“Okay, it’s about time to leave.” Aizawa says to his class.

“Will you come home for dinner this weekend?” Shoto asks me shyly.

I nod my head enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’m actually staying with Natsuo tonight.”

“Oh okay,” he nods, “I think you should come by the dorms. See if you want to go to UA. I’d love to have you there with me.” He says even quieter than before, both out of shyness and nerves.

“I’ll think about it.” I say, pulling him into a hug.

<><><>

“Thanks for the ride, Natsuo!” I smile at my big brother, who mutters a no problem before driving away.

I take a deep breath and look up at the intimidating school.

“OUCH.” A voice exclaims from beside me, making me jump. I look up to glare at the person, but meet familiar eyes.

“Oh, Midoriya!” I smile at the green haired boy.

“Y/n! You’re here? Hello! Oh my gosh I wasn’t expecting you, I’m so sorry I ran into you,” he rambles.

“No no, it’s okay!” I smile, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I’m touring today, I’m glad I ran into you, I was totally lost.”

“O-oh, okay! Come with me, I’ll take you to class.”

We walk into the big building and walk down the tall hallways. Once we enter the classrooms there’s a chorus of voices saying hello to me.

I blush from the sudden attention.

“This girl can get applauded by thousands and not lose her cool but getting greeted by a stupid class and she’s a tomato.” Kirishima teases, giving me a side hug.

I roll my eyes and smile, saying hello.

“Welcome to class 1A!” Mina exclaims.

“Thank you! I’m glad I’m able to visit.” I smile.

“Okay, we’re going to work on hand to hand combat today,” Mr Aizawa says, walking into the room. I instantly recognize his voice and smile at him. “Get dressed in your gym clothes. And someone give Todoroki a spare.

“I have mine, sir.” Shoto says, raising his hand.

“I wasn’t talking about you.” Mr. Aizawa says, glancing at me before leaving the room.

“Oh yeaaah She Shoto is gonna be doing class stuff today!” Kaminari shouts, slapping me on my back, making me stumble and laugh.

<><><>

Once we get to the gym, I’m clad in the UA Gym clothes. Not the most flattering, but hey, they’re gym clothes on a ballerina.

First I get paired up with Shoto, just because we’re familiar with each other. Fighting Sho is always fun. Being a child raised with him, we were forced to fight each other all the time, so everything now is so familiar. It’s less pressure now, just two siblings with about the same level of skill fighting it out.

Next, I’m paired up with Bakugo, who was quite a challenge, especially due to the fact that I’m not a fighter (He took it easy on me though).

Next was Midoriya, who I was very excited to fight. As soon as I switched partners to go against him, the bell rang, making me sigh in disappointment.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I wanted to spend time with you.” I shrug.

“Well I mean, we still can.” He suggests, bumping my shoulder. “Let’s go get some sushi?”

“Sounds good to me.” I grin.

We change and leave the school, waving bye to the new people I met. The walk was nice; Midoriya and I discussed All Might mostly. He’s a fanboy, but it’s pretty cute. We order sushi, and discuss family, music, and hero training. After eating, I realize the time, and he walks me home.

Izuku takes a breath, takes my hands in his, and asks, “So, do you think you’ll come to UA?”

“No, I couldn’t be a hero. But general studies, maybe.” I admit.

His face lights up. “Really?”

I nod. “I may or may not have spoken to Principal Nezu about teaching a dance class. I also may or may not have also gotten that girl named Mina to help me.”

“No way.” He grins, squeezing my hands.

“Yes way. After my Nutcracker tour is over, I’ll come back here.”

“Promise?” He asks, squinting his eyes jokingly, smiling gently.

“Promise.” I say, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. “Good night, Midoriya.”

“Good night, Todoroki.” He whispers, cheeks red from both the cold and the kiss.

Four months later, Izuku, Shoto, Bakugo, Kirishima, Uraraka, Tsu, and Iida were running in the building from the gym.

“We’re late, hurry up!” Uraraka shouts.

“We’re going as fast as we can, ribbit.” Tsu says, picking up her speed.

Soon, the seven of them burst into the mirrored room, panting.

“We apologize for our tardiness.” Iida says.

“Sorry we’re late.” Says Kirishima.

“It’s okay! It was only a couple minutes. Now, put your jazz shoes on.” I say, stretching on the ground.

Once everyone is warmed up and loose,I teach them how to chassé (per request of Tsu), and they repeat it across the floor.

Once class is over and everyone is gone, Izuku walks up to me.

“Hi.” I say, looking up at my green themed hero boyfriend.

“Hello.” He says, quickly but gently kissing me before pulling back and looking into my eyes, resting my forehead against his.

“Something on your mind?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Hmm, nothing,” he says, hugging me, “I’m just so glad your here, Sugar Plum.”

#the colosseum: 12 days of Christmas #my hero academia #bnha #mha #Christmas special #izuku #midoriya #deku #nutcracker #the colosseum

25 notes · View notes

dailywaffles · 5 years ago

Photo

Visions of sugar plum fairies dance in her head. . . . #BeansTheCorgi #corgisofinstagram #cabincorgis #corgi #puppy #corgiaddict #corgination #ruffpost #corgilove #corgi_ig #buzzfeeddogs #dog #dogsofinstagram #corgistation #georgiacorgi #christmas #christmascorgi https://www.instagram.com/p/B6Ma9IypfIJ/?igshid=1ltil9m0d1pdh

#beansthecorgi #corgisofinstagram #cabincorgis #corgi #puppy #corgiaddict #corgination #ruffpost #corgilove #corgi_ig #buzzfeeddogs #dog #dogsofinstagram #corgistation #georgiacorgi #christmas #christmascorgi

18 notes · View notes

marvel-nerd-87 · 6 years ago

Text

Nutcracker

Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Words: 490

NOT MY GIF

TAGLIST OPEN

CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST

“Do I have too?” Pietro whined as his sister finished tying his tie, “It’s going to be so boring.”

“Hush, the New York Ballet invited all of the Avengers to see the Nutcracker. Besides, maybe it’ll teach you some culture.” she rolled her eyes.

“I have culture Wanda!”

“Doritos and Mario Kart aren’t culture.” she said leading him out to where the rest of the team was waiting for the limo.

He sat in the audience scrolling through his phone until a smack on the shoulder pulled his attention away. He shoved his phone in his pocket and braced himself for the most boring 2 hours of his life. That was until the Sugar Plum fairy stepped out and his heart jumped into his throat. She was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen and the way she moved with such fluidity was exquisite.

Wanda felt a tap on her shoulder and leaned towards Steve, “For someone who dreaded coming he sure can’t look away.”

She looked over at her twin, his eyes never left the beautiful dancer on the stage. She smirked and slid a playbill into his hand. After she left the stage a he quickly flipped through the cast until he found her. (Full name). When the show was over he sped to the stage exit and was stopped by a bodyguard.

“I need through.” he plead out of breath.

“Yeah. so do you and 30 other creeps trying to look under their tutus. Beat it.”

“But I’m an Avenger. I wanted to personally thank them for inviting us.”

“Fine.”

Pietro wandered around the backstage until he found a dressing room with your name on it. He adjusted his tie before knocking.

“Come in?” he pushed open the door and saw you sitting at your vanity taking off what was left of your makeup. Your elegant costume had been switched into leggings and a T-shirt, your once perfectly quaffed hair was now messy and unkempt, “You’re an avenger right? How did you guys like the show?”

“It was lovely, you may have been my favorite part.” he leaned against the wall beside you.

You had seen pictures of him in the Newspaper but here in his suit and tie you could feel your knees getting weaker.

“Oh-uh thank you. Is there something you needed?”

“I just wanted to tell you how breathtaking you are.”

“I think you should thank the hair and makeup team.” you giggled and he just stood in front of you, “You don’t have your hair or makeup done and you look just as beautiful as then.”

“I don’t know what to say” you looked down at the ground to hide your awkwardness. He lifted your face to look him in the eye.

“Say I’ll see you again?”

“I’d love that. Meet me at the Rose Cafe tomorrow afternoon?”

“Of course, but for tonight may visions of sugar plum fairies dance through my head.”

TAGLIST: @sthorkronstrangy@dumblani@technolilly@breezy1415@broken-hearted-barnes@cassiopeia-barrow@watchmidnight16

#pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff #quicksilver #quicksilver x reader #marvel #Avengers #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfic #avengers fluff #fanfiction #fanfic #marvel fandom #avengers fandom #marvel christmas

88 notes · View notes

echoes-of-realities · 6 years ago

Text

be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe) - 20/25

* * *

[From the Start] // [Fanfiction] // [ao3]

[Previous Chapter] // [Next Chapter]

Chapter Summary: Brittany knows that something’s going on but no one will tell her anything; Santana’s really good at unpinning hair.

Notes: Tomorrow’s chapter might be a little late again too, but by Saturday I should be back to fairly consistent morning updates until the end of this fic!

Chapter 20: laughter with loved ones we hadn’t seen in a while

///

Santana leads their rehearsals this afternoon, her reflection stretching back infinitely as Brittany admires her from where she’s sprawled on the floor. Santana’s herding party girls around, trying to hold their attention despite the fact that there’s only five days until Christmas at boring rehearsal in street clothes is the last thing on their minds. Freddie sticks close to Santana, never farther than an arm length away, and Santana is mindful of her, smiling down and answering her questions with patience between ushering the other girls around.

It’s adorable, and even though Santana said that Freddie had a crush on the Sugar Plum Fairy, Brittany’s pretty sure she has one on the production stage manager as well.

They’re running the party scene, all of the party boys already herded into the other corner, to improvise some choreography and fill in a couple of kids who came down with the flu overnight, and while Brittany doesn’t technically need to be here yet because her rehearsal with Jake, Her Cavalier, isn’t for another half hour, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch Santana in her element.

She’s patient but firm, ordering children around with no hint of irritation or exasperation despite how much of a nightmare it must be to try and organize just under sixty children; but what Brittany’s really here to see is Santana’s mind in action. While she denies having any sense of artistry, and insists on stage production is more mechanical and repetitive than anything, it’s hard to hide that Santana has a rare sense of foresight and vision about how everything’s going to come together. It’s like she can sense the flow of the music in her bones, position each dancer in her mind before they even step on stage, spot all the problem areas and streamline the choreography, all within a split second.

Brittany loves watching Santana do what she loves, because it’s its own dance in of itself. Santana stands at the front of the room and counts out beats for the rehearsal pianist, Brad, and they’re completely in tune with each other as he takes over beat counting while Santana weaves gracefully among the dancers and quickly repositions them. She rearranges the blocking for dance with all of the party girls and boys to fill the empty spaces from the kids out sick, telling them to try and remember their new positions but promising that they won’t get in trouble if they forget.

It’s nice to watch Santana relaxed and not get caught up inside her head. She had been acting weird at breakfast, now that Brittany thinks about it. Not bad weird, like she was before she told Brittany about her mom’s death, just jittery weird, like someone had filled her shoes with ants. The really telling thing was how often she fidgeted with her fingers, so often that Brittany had reached across the table and teased Santana’s right hand away to hold it herself, causing that adorable breathless look Brittany so adores to flash across her face.

Santana’s jittery like she was on Tuesday as they were walking to her Christmas tree surprise. Brittany can’t imagine how she could have a better surprise than that hidden up her sleeve, but she definitely plans on plying her with pouts later today. She loves surprises, but she also loves knowing what the surprise is basically as soon as possible.

Santana continues to lead the rehearsal, and the only hint that she realizes Brittany is watching her is the soft smile she occasionally gives the mirror in front of her, a hundred versions of Santana reflecting back at Brittany behind her and making it pretty hard for Brittany to stop smiling at all while she watches the rehearsal.

Jake arrives shortly thereafter, and he plops down beside her to start stretching out, chatting comfortably as they wait for Santana to finish ushering the children out before she turns her attention to them. Her eyes are sparkling and she gives Brittany a quick smile before she crosses the room to reach the piano. She quickly gulps down some water from the bottle Brittany brought her, leaning down to talk to Brad and pointing out something on his sheet music. Her ponytail is a little bushy today, evidence that she let her hair air dry instead of blow drying it like usual, and it falls over her shoulder and obstructs Brittany’s view of her face, so she trails her gaze over the clever strength in her arms, the flex of her shoulders, the curve of her back—

“Brittany?”

Brittany jumps and gasps as she glances back at Jake, who’s studying her curiously. “Sorry, what?”

Jake smirks a little, his eyes drifting to Santana before settling back on hers with a look a little too knowing for Brittany’s taste. “I was just asking if you knew what part we were rehearsing.”

“Oh,” Brittany says easily, “Santana wants us to work on the Coda. We’ve been a little out of sync from our first grand-battement to our grand jeté on the last couple shows.”

Jake hums and bends to stretch out his back, crawling his fingers along the floor between his legs. “When’d she tell you?”

“At breakfast this morning,” Brittany answers automatically, only realizing what she’s admitted when Jake’s smirk deepens and burning heat prickles her cheeks. “Not like— Not like that,” she quickly corrects, but Jake just hums smugly, “We just went to a café and— Not because we—”

She groans and drops her head into her hands. She’s never been this inarticulate about this particular subject before. She’s never been shy about sex, not that she’d tell anyone or anything that would listen about her sex life, she’s just always been quietly open but still private about it, and especially with people she’s known for years, like Jake, who’s her dance bro. But even just the slightest teasing from him that just implies her and Santana slept together makes her blush like she’s a teenager listening to her friends gossip about sex at a sleepover for the first time.

A warm hand lands on her shoulder and she peaks out from behind her fingers to find Jake grinning at her. “I was just teasing you,” he says in amusement, “But I knew something was going on with you and Lopez.”

“Well—” Brittany hesitates because yes, but also not fully, “Kinda?”

Jake’s grin widens. “Kinda?” he asks incredulously, “I think you mean definitely, I’ve seen the way you two melt around each other like a bunch of lovestruck fools.”

“I mean,” Brittany says and then trails off because he’s not really wrong. And Santana just proves his point when she chooses that moment to stand up from where she’s been leaning beside Brad and turn to her next two dancers for rehearsal with that wide, uninhibited, dimpled smile directed straight at Brittany.

Brittany’s heart thuds heavily against her chest and she feels a little bit like a cartoon character with hearts in their eyes.

Judging by Jake’s smirk, she has a feeling she probably looks a little bit like one too.

///

At supper Brittany continues to try and force Santana to tell her what’s got her so antsy and jittery, but Santana is so smugly coy about the entire thing—even if Brittany can see the hint of nerves in her eyes—and it’s too adorable for Brittany try and get her to spill too much. If she’s this excited even before Brittany’s seen the surprise, she can’t imagine how adorable she will be once the time comes for her to reveal it.

She continues to teasingly pout and prod though because it’s the principle of the thing, but Santana just smiles and shoves fries in Brittany’s mouth to hush her, ducking her head down to smile shyly at her lap before smirking up at Brittany.

Santana has to run off before her supper break is done to deal with something that comes up and causes her to groan as she takes the phone call before apologizing and starting to stand up. Brittany pouts at her for abandoning her, but Santana leans forward and presses a quick kiss to Brittany’s cheek, jumpstarting Brittany’s heart before she flees out the door.

Brittany stares blankly at her doorway, her skin tingling where Santana’s lips had just been, aching for more even as Brittany giggles a little at Santana’s tactics of fleeing as soon as possible so she doesn’t break and admit to the surprise; she could see it in Santana’s eyes, the way she was almost bursting to tell her whatever it is that she’s hiding, and Brittany grins all through getting ready for thee show

She may be impatient to know, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to ruin whatever the surprise is for Santana since she’s so excited about it.

It also doesn’t mean that she’s ever going to stop thinking that Santana is the most adorable person ever.

Mercedes comes to help her get dressed, and it only takes one look at her smirk for Brittany to realize that Mercedes knows what’s going on too. She stares blankly at Mercedes while she holds open her costume to step into, long enough that Mercedes gives her a weird look and a confused “What?”

“You know,” Brittany says in awe.

“Huh? Know what?”

“About Santana’s— About Santana’s whatever she’s planning.”

“No?” Mercedes tries, and even if Brittany hasn’t lived with her for years and been her best friend for even longer, there’s no way she would have ever believed Mercedes’ obvious lie.

“You’re lying,” Brittany accuses, her stomach fluttering and something giddy filling her up, “You know about Santana’s surprise.”

“Not at all,” Mercedes continues to lie through her teeth.

Brittany stares at Mercedes for a long moment when the five minute call for intermission sounds and urges her to finally step into her costume, steadying herself on Mercedes’ shoulder. “You totally do,” Brittany says.

“Um, nope. Not at all.”

Brittany shakes her head and turns to let Mercedes zip up the back of her costume, her hands ice cold as they brush her back, causing Brittany to squirm. “Am I going to like it?”

Mercedes is silent as she finishes up, smoothing out wrinkles and pinning a loose curl of blonde hair back to Brittany’s head. “Not that I know anything—”

“Course,” Brittany interrupts impatiently, “But if you did?”

Mercedes walks around to face Brittany and quickly touches up her makeup, inspecting their combined work for a long minute before deciding that she’s satisfied. “You’ll love it,” she finally says.

Brittany bounces in place a little, clasping her hands together and trying to beat back the burst of happiness that surges through her. “Score,” is all she manages to say without spontaneously combusting from loving Santana so much.

Mercedes just laughs and shakes her head before ushering Brittany out of the dressing room.

///

Mercedes isn’t in her dressing room when the show’s done, so she just shrugs and struggles to unzip the back of her costume herself. It’s not the first time she’s had to wiggle her way out of her costume without Mercedes, but she still hasn’t quite figured out the best way to find the hidden zipper and tug it down without almost dislocating her shoulder.

Someone knocks at her door just as she’s almost picked the zipper away from its little hidden pocket and it startles her out of her concentration. She sighs and calls for whoever it is to come in, hoping that they’ll be able to help her.

“Hey, Britt,” Santana greets, and somehow she’s even more antsy and jittery than she was earlier.

Brittany grins, because Santana is so, so, so adorable. “Okay seriously,” Brittany chides teasingly, “Did you walk through an anthill this morning?”

Brittany can see as Santana struggles to reign in her excitement, but it only reveals the hint of nerves underneath. “No I’m just— I have a surprise for you.”

Brittany bounces up on her toes with a grin. “I knew it,” she cheers, “I knew you had a surprise. What is it?”

“I can’t—” Santana bites away her smile, playing with her fingers as she steps further into the room, “I mean, I have to take you to it.”

Brittany grins wider as she crosses the room to Santana. “Okay,” she says, “let’s go.” Santana’s giggles stop her and she belatedly realizes she’s still in costume. “Oh yeah,” she grins.

“Come on,” Santana says with a wide smile, “We gotta get out of your costume quickly.”

Brittany couldn’t bite back the smile and suggestive quirk to her brows even if she wanted to, especially not with the way Santana instantly flushes and flusters so much that, as rare as it is, Brittany can actually see the blush pink her cheeks.

“Not like— Not like that— I mean— I just, you— And they’re—” Santana stutters, sounding about the same way Brittany did earlier under Jake’s teasing. “Oh shut up,” she finally finishes lamely.

Brittany holds up her hands innocently, her smirk anything but, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Santana mumbles. When Brittany makes no move to get changed she rolls her eyes and shoves at Brittany’s arm. “You’re the worst,” she whines.

Brittany lets herself sway dramatically from Santana’s gentle shove before they both burst into giggles. “Fine, fine, fine,” she teases, turning and nodding at Santana over her shoulder, “Can you unzip me though? I dunno where Mercedes ran off to.”

Santana doesn’t answer, but her breath hitches audibly, which is answer enough. The backs of Santana’s fingers graze her bare back and familiar warmth curls low in her stomach as she concentrates on remembering how to breath, the seconds stretching longer and longer as Santana fumbles to pick the zipper away from the fabric it’s hidden behind, her knuckles continuing to bump against Brittany’s back with every movement. She finally manages to get a grip on the zipper and carefully tugs it down to the base of Brittany’s spine, her warm touch dampened by Brittany’s low-cut bodysuit but no less electric. Santana’s hand splays against the small of her back for a moment, separated from her bare skin only by the almost nylon-thin bodysuit, and Brittany holds her breath in the charged air around them before Santana jerks back, blushing and stuttering fiercely.

Brittany takes long moments to collect her thoughts and steady her breathing before she glances at Santana over her shoulder, whatever excuses or apologies that were on Santana’s lips dying instantly. “Thanks,” she whispers. Santana’s jaw snaps closed and she nods dumbly. “I still gotta ice my feet no matter how urgent your surprise is,” Brittany manages, “Do you think you could unpin my hair while I do that? After I change? It’ll go faster if you do it ‘cause I can’t see all the bobby pins.” Santana nods wordlessly and stares after Brittany as she heads to the corner of her dressing room where her costume usually hangs, jolting and spinning on her heel as soon as Brittany starts to slide her arms out of the sleeves.

Brittany changes quicker than she ever has before; the tension in the air is something she is kind of already addicted to, but this isn’t the time or the place so she beats back her arousal and slips into a loose hoodie and sweats. “Okay,” she calls to Santana, a little surprised at how raspy her voice is when it comes out. She clears her throat and tries again. “Okay, I’m decent.”

Santana’s shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath before she turns back around, and Brittany tries to control the heat buzzing throughout her body at the look in Santana’s eyes. Mercedes was in her room at some point before the end of the show, because the bucket of ice is already there and waiting as Brittany sinks down on the couch and draws her feet up to peel the tape off her toes. The couch dips beside her as Santana kneels down on the cushions, her knees pressing to Brittany’s thigh and hip as she sits back on her heels. Brittany shoots her a quick grin as she tosses the tape onto the coffee table and sinks her feet into the bucket of ice.

Santana giggles at the hiss Brittany lets out, the cold still a complete shock to her system no matter how many time’s she’s done this. Brittany pouts in mock hurt and Santana just grins at her, urging Brittany to duck forward a bit so she can reach her head easier.

Despite the cold coursing through her body, her insides warm and buzz at how nice Santana’s fingers feel probing gently at her scalp, easing bobby pins out of her hair with all the care in the world. Brittany sighs and softens under Santana’s ministrations, humming and shaking her head when Santana whispers to ask if she’s hurting her. She’s pretty sure Santana’s fingers couldn’t ever feel better than they do right now, but then then soften even more as strands of Brittany’s hair start to fall around her shoulders, curly from being pinned up so long, and Santana gets distracted from tugging out bobby pins by running her fingers through the freed strands and gently untangling knots as she comes across them.

“That feels so nice,” Brittany hums.

Santana giggles and it bumps the inside of her bicep against Brittany’s nose. Brittany purses her lips into a soft kiss against Santana’s skin, causing her hands to still in blonde hair for a moment before she seemingly regains her ability to function. Brittany grins smugly as Santana shakes her head, and Brittany doesn’t need to see her face to know Santana’s rolling her eyes, that lopsided smile that tries to be annoyed but is really just fond playing on her lips.

Once Brittany’s teeth start chattering she finally pulls her feet out and dries them off with the towel on the coffee table, tugging thick socks on as Santana runs her fingers through Brittany’s hair a couple more times to ensure all the bobby pins are out; probably a couple more times than necessary, but Brittany’s definitely not complaining.

As soon as Brittany stands up Santana seems to snap back into the jittery-antsy-nervous place she’s been all day as she quickly ushers Brittany into her sneakers and out the door. Brittany chuckles and tucks her phone and wallet and keys into the front pocket of her hoodie as she’s pushed down the hallway, only just realizing that she’s kind of missing something important, especially for this time of year.

“Wait, my jacket.”

“Mercedes has it,” Santana answers automatically, and Brittany frowns a little because that seems weird, but Santana just tugs on her arm from where their fingers are tangled. It all seems part of some greater thing Santana has planned, so Brittany just shrugs and lets herself be pulled along for the ride.

They wind their way through the theatre, dodging company and crew members alike, until Santana pulls her back to where all the offices and conference rooms are located. Brittany scans the hallway looking for some indication of what’s about to happen, but finds none other than Santana getting even more fidgety as they pass closed doors and dark windows.

“Hey,” Brittany calls softly as they slow outside of one of the rooms, “Don’t worry so much. I’m going to love whatever it is because it’s from you, and you’ve obviously put so much thought into this.”

Santana relaxes but the jittery energy doesn’t leave her. “I’m not really nervous,” she explains with a small smile, “Just really excited.” She takes a deep breath and steps across the hallway to a door, the only room with its lights on, peaking out through the window where the blinds don’t quite reach, Brittany’s fingers falling away from hers. She rests her hand on the doorknob and gives Brittany one more smile before opening the door. “Go on,” she urges softly, stepping back to allow Brittany into the room.

The first thing Brittany sees is the bouquet of flowers, a dozen roses in a bright shade of yellow, filling the room with their sweet scent

The second thing Brittany sees is that it’s her dad is holding the bouquet of flowers.

Brittany blinks and just stares at him for a long moment, everything around her turning hazy and surreal at the edges, like the best dream in the world. But then her dad is setting the flowers on his chair as he stands up and before she realizes it she’s across the room and in her family’s arms, sobbing as she buries herself in an embrace she hasn’t felt in far more years than she ever wants to count. Her sister catches her, and then her dad and mom fold around them. She can’t believe that they’re actually here because it seems so impossible and miraculous, so she just clutches them tighter. Her mom’s face is wet against the side of her neck and her dad is reaching up to stroke her hair back from her face and her sister’s arms are wound tight around her waist and she still feels like she’s dreaming, like all this might go away if she opens her eyes so she just tightens her arms around her family in case she wakes up in her bed all alone.

Her mom’s murmuring something against her temple and her dad is mumbling something against her shoulder and her sister is teasing them all for being so sappy even while she cries too and it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“How did you get here?” Brittany finally manages to mumble into her mom’s shoulder, once her sobbing has subsided into tiny whimpers.

She can feel her mom smile against her temple, the familiar quirk of lips shifting against her hair as her mom looks over her shoulder. “Well, your friend Santana had an idea yesterday,” her mom says softly, “To give our family the greatest gift of all.”

Brittany’s tears start up again as she raises her head from her mom’s comforting warmth and glances behind her to find Santana hovering awkward in the doorway. When she meets Brittany’s gaze her fidgeting stills and she waves her hand in a dorky wave, and Brittany didn’t even know it was possible to love one person so much. She glances at her family, but they nod and urge her to go on before the question can even form in her mind. She slowly untangles herself from their embrace—a gloup hug, her sister used to say back when she was about three feet shorter and still had a bit of an adorable toddler lisp—and crosses the room to Santana, who stills her fidgeting with every step Brittany takes.

As soon as Brittany reaches her, she wraps her arms around Santana and tugs them so close together that there’s barely room to breath, no space separating them even a fraction, Santana’s arms around her neck and her own arms tugging Santana into her body by the small of her back; Santana nuzzles into her neck and Brittany takes a deep breathe and whatever words were on her tongue fade away as their ribs lock together like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

Every thought fades except for the simplest words, and the most true, as she turns her head to find Santana’s ear, her nose bending it forwards for a moment before it flops back. “Thank you,” she breathes, her breath tickling Santana’s hair against their cheeks.

Santana turns her head a little until her chin tucks itself into the hinge between Brittany’s shoulder and neck, where it settles into the space as if Brittany’s body was sculpted for her to fit right there. “You’re welcome,” she whispers, her lips brushing Brittany’s neck.

Brittany sighs into her embrace and feels so wonderfully full of love and happiness that she can’t imagine ever feeling better than she does right now, with her family behind her and her future right in front of her.

#brittana #brittany pierce #santana lopez #glee #brittana fanfiction #glee fanfiction #my writing #story: be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe)#five chapters left I'm screaming???#it's so close to the end and so close to christmas how do I Still have school stuff to do lmao #also who knows how to get rid of a stuffy nose because nothing that usually works is doing it and I'm dying here

50 notes · View notes

ssromanogers · 6 years ago

Text

A Night at the Ballet

To: @soliloquy-of-nemo

From: @teyriantimelord10

My Romanogers Secret Santa gift for @soliloquy-of-nemo, who asked for a ballet!AU in which Natasha is a Prima Ballerina, Tony is her patron, and Steve is Tony’s lawyer. Enjoy!

A Night at the Ballet

“You have to come out with us,” Tony practically begged. “These are the best seats in the whole theater and you’ve been killing yourself for months over this case. Consider it a Christmas bonus!”

“I can’t, Tony. I have too much work to do for the next hearing,” Steve replied bluntly as he finished putting the rest of his files back in their correct folders.

“Come out with us tomorrow night or you’re fired.”

Steve slammed his briefcase shut and gave Tony a death glare that they both knew could break a hostile witness in half, but the billionaire only took a sip of his whiskey and smirked back. The Rogers Law Firm had been partnered with Stark Industries since before either of them were born, but this was not the first time the CEO had threatened to find new legal council if his favorite lawyer didn’t lighten up. After a few minutes of staring each other down from across the desk, Steve finally sighed in defeat.

“Fine,” he relented. “I will come out with you for one night, but then you have to promise you’ll let me keep my head down and get work done until Christmas.”

Tony grinned.

“Scouts honor.”

***

Steve never really felt comfortable wearing a suit, which was one of the greater ironies in his life. They felt too tight, too constricting, too immobilizing. Though the discomfort kept him on edge, it also kept him sharp and driven. The sooner he finished up in court or at the office the sooner he could get to the boxing gym where he really belonged. His idea of a fun and a relaxing night usually entailed old t-shirts and well-worn sweatpants… not an evening affair that required a tuxedo. As the car Tony had sent for him pulled up to the theater, the man himself was already waiting for him at the front steps with Pepper on his arm. They were both exquisitely dressed and, unlike Steve, appeared to be at total ease.

“Good to see you, Rogers,” Tony greeted. “You know, Pepper and I were beginning to wonder if you would actually show up or if I’d need to start headhunting some fresh meat.”

“We’re very happy you’re joining us,” Pepper corrected, subtly elbowing her fiance in the ribs in a futile attempt to remind him to behave. “Tony has been a patron of the New York City Ballet and several of its principal dancers for many years now.”

“It’s just to make sure we get the good seats,” he said with a smirk.

Though Steve didn’t actually see it happen, he was pretty sure Pepper stepped on Tony’s foot, and he couldn’t help but grin. There was an art form to keeping a Stark in line and Ms. Potts was a master craftswoman. As promised, they certainly secured the best seats in the house. Not only did the three of them have the centermost orchestra seats, but every row in front of them was completely empty, even though the rest of the theater was packed as tightly as the venue would allow. He wondered if Tony had bought all those empty seats just to keep his line of sight open, or if he simply gave the dance company so much money every year that they simply did it out of courtesy. Whatever the case, Steve couldn’t deny that if ever there was a time to be dragged to his first ballet performance, this was it.

“Have you ever seen Balanchine’s The Nutcracker?” Pepper asked from across Tony as they settled in.

Before he could answer, the lights dimmed and preemptive applause rolled down from around them. The stage came alive with dancers of all shapes and sizes, in colorful costumes and ranging movements that made Steve’s head spin but also captured his every attention. It only took a few songs for him to understand why his best client loved the company so much, with each dancer portraying a mastery of the human body that almost seemed impossible, most of all during the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy (he checked the program to make sure of the name). The redheaded woman who played the titular role was breathtaking to say the least. Poise and grace seemed to ebb from every inch of her with every twist and turn. She jumped and twirled and stepped all over the stage without a single hair falling from place or her enchanting smile dropping even for a second. Everything about her took his breath away, and Tony noticed.

“Natasha Romanoff,” he whispered in Steve’s ear. “I saw her perform in Moscow with the Bolshoi three years ago and paid for her to transfer to New York. Best of the best; legs for days and nothing but charm.”

Steve didn’t reply. At least, not until the dance was over and there was no risk of him missing a single second of her performance.

“I don’t know what you paid, but she’s worth it,” he finally answered after the applause died down, his own hands probably the last pair still clapping.

Even through the dim lighting, Steve noticed a certain spark suddenly illuminate Tony’s eyes and the man quickly took out his phone to send a few texts. That could only mean trouble

***

“Ah, Ms. Romanoff!” Tony called with a wave that had Steve whipping around in his chair.

Sure enough, walking through the restaurant coming toward them was the gorgeous ballerina they had just seen on stage two hours ago. Though wearing a reasonably casual black dress and face washed clean of the heavy stage makeup, she still looked exquisite. Steve, Tony, and Pepper all rose from their seats as the waiter brought over a fourth chair without being asked. She shook her patron’s hand cordially and hugged Pepper like a friend before turning to Steve.

“Natasha, this is Steve Rogers. His law firm is the exclusive legal partner of Stark Industries and he is the best of the best,” Tony introduced.

Without breaking eye contact with the dancer, he slyly turned up one corner of his lip in Steve’s direction and he felt the tips of his ears flush. No. No, no, there was no way Stark could set him up with a prima ballerina from the Bolshoi. Right? The woman turned her attention to Steve and he hoped she couldn’t see the nerves ready to burst and explode all over Tony.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said steadily in surprisingly flawless American accent. “Mr. Stark has told me a lot about you in the last few hours.”

“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” Steve replied as calmly as he could, even as he saw Pepper and Tony exchange smug glances on the other side of the table.

As they all settled back into their seats and the waiter poured Ms. Romanoff a glass of wine, Steve tried to think of any conversation topics that could even remotely ingratiate him with the woman sitting to his right. She and Pepper began chatting almost immediately, discussing Ms. Potts’ latest news from the Stark Industries and new programing coming up in the ballet. He appreciated that Tony always had his best interest in mind, but this was a little extreme, and more than a little outside his comfort zone. His history with women had not been impressive to say the least. With the exception of a British woman he met in law school who ultimately moved back home after graduation, every girl he tried to go out with either only cared about the superficial or became completely disinterested after the first date. How Tony possibly thought he could hit it off with one of the most accomplished dancers in the New York City Ballet was a total mystery.

“Tony, I could really use some air. Will you take a walk with me?” Pepper suddenly asked, bringing the conversation to a halt.

“Of course,” he answered, and winked at Steve as soon as he was out of Ms. Romanoff’s line of sight.

The following few seconds of awkward silence were suffocating.

“Mr. Stark says you’re one hell of a lawyer,” she finally said. “And that you aren’t afraid to argue with him when you think something the company has done is unethical.”

Her voice was so soft and smooth, mirroring the way she moved on stage. Steve tapped his left foot anxiously.

“I got into the field to help people. I’ve known Tony since we were kids but I’m not going to let him take advantage of anyone else’s work.”

Ms. Romanoff cocked her head with a smile before taking a sip of her wine.

“You have conviction… I like that,” she hummed. “Most lawyers I’ve been set up with will do anything for a dollar.”

Steve felt all the blood drain from his face. God damnit, Tony! He told her this was a date?! He was going to kill him. Kill him and make it look like an accident. She must have obviously noticed his distress, because she let out a laugh and draped a hand over his shoulder.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Steve. Pepper explained that this wasn’t your idea. I was interested in meeting the man who isn’t afraid to talk back to Tony Stark.”

Something about her touch and her laugh melted the tension from his shoulders. Despite the awkwardness Tony had imposed on the situation, he suddenly felt very at ease.

“Ms. Romanoff, I-”

“Please, call me Natasha.”

***

Steve let out a silent sigh of relief that he was the first one to wake up, because the sight before him when he opened his eyes was a vision he wouldn’t trade for the world. Morning light poured into his bedroom from the half-open blinds over the windows, casting golden stripes over Natasha’s sleeping form. Her hair looked like shined copper where it was splayed over the pillowcase, contrasting sharply with the deep blue of the sheets that were tucked around her abdomen. She was still on her side, allowing him to see the expanse of her skin and delicate features of her face bathed in the morning glow. Her expression could only be described as serene. He propped himself up on one elbow to get a better look at the woman next to him. A part of him said he should have felt embarrassed or ashamed. His whole life, he’d been nothing but respectful and patient, never having the wherewithal or inclination to bring a girl home after the first date. But the voice of dissent soon fell silent as Natasha began to stir. The moment was too… too right. Too perfect to spoil with past expectations.

“Good morning, handsome,” she murmured without opening her eyes, her hand still gently finding his cheek. “No regrets this morning, I hope?”

Steve leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead as her eyelids fluttered open. God, he loved her eyes.

“Not a single one,” he whispered back.

Natasha sat up and smiled, pulling the sheets a little higher up over her chest and she settled against the headboard. Steve decided right then he’d do absolutely anything to see that smile again and again.

“Good, then you can make me breakfast,” she said with a playful smirk and gave him a light push toward the edge of the bed. “Nothing too heavy, I to be at rehearsal in two hours.”

Steve walked around the bed, messily pulling on his pants as he went, to the other side where Natasha still resided comfortably. He kissed her once more, this time on her lips with a deepness he hoped resonated with her as much as it did for him.

Just this one time, he owed Tony a thank you note.

#romanogers #captasha #capwidow #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #fanfic #submission

35 notes · View notes