#ava writes!!

[kwonkissed]

college!wonwoo who gets sick on campus one time and immediately develops a crush on the student nurse that assisted him at the health clinic.

you’re sweet and kind (like all nurses should be), but you’re also really chatty. talking about your humanities course and the readings you have that week. and wonwoo, being so whipped, just nods along thinking, “maybe I should read up on this sartre guy…”

when he leaves, he already misses the conversation. but he shakes it off. they’re cute and they’ve done your job, he thinks. now it’s time for him to get over it. except he doesn’t. because a few days later he finds himself back in the health clinic with an “earache”.

and he prays that you’re the one that attends to him that day, because if not, this would be really embarrassing. but it is you who opens the door to his room, a bit shocked that this cute boy has returned.

“hello, i’m— oh, it’s you. back so soon,” you quip, sanitizing your hands and walking over to him. “still having symptoms of your cold?”

“uh, no actually. something different. it’s,” he clears his throat. he’s never been a good liar. “um, it’s my ear this time.”

“hm, alright then,” you say with a smile. “i’ll get your vitals and check your chart, and then the doctor should be in shortly.” wonwoo nodded. you put the blood pressure cuff on his arm. your fingers dance across his bicep as you fit it around him, and he tries to will his racing heart to stop beating so hard — it’s going to give him away.

“everything looks good on my end,” you say as you flip through his paperwork. “it might be a minute, but a doctor will be in here. holler if you need me.” you give him a warm smile and turn to exit the room. ah, screw it.

“hey, I don’t know if this is too forward, but could i take you out sometime? or walk to you home? something?” wonwoo’s words spill out of him like a dam’s been broken. your eyebrows have shot you up your forehead, and wonwoo braces for this inevitable rejection.

you giggle. you’re giggling at him. wonwoo doesn’t know if this is worse than there being no response at all.

“aw, you’re cute,” you say, taking a step toward him. you bite your lip and look down at your watch. “i get off at two,” you whisper. a heat creeps up wonwoo’s face and it only makes you giggle more. god, he’d love to hear that sound forever.

“it’s a date then,” he says grinning. you beam back at him and close the door.

wonwoo’s so excited about seeing you later that when the doctor comes in for his appointment, he forgets which ear was supposed to be hurting.

[navybrat817]

Game Nights

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Game nights in the tower are unpredictable.

Word Count: Over 900

Warnings: Humor, mentions of violence, the team loves trolling on John, kissing, implied smut, team bonding (kind of), Thunderbolts spoilers, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Silly headcanon set in the same world as Not Exactly a Secret and part of my Tower Shenanigans. I'm not at all sorry. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Game nights typically take place on Saturdays since Fridays are reserved for movie night. Snacks and drinks are a must, but there is a drink maximum, so things don’t get too crazy or emotional. 

Bucky purposely gets John the generic brand when it’s his turn to go snack shopping and tells him to deal with it since the quality is just as good. Everyone else gets the name brand of whatever they want. 

There's a huge board with all of your names and the games listed. The tally marks are in various colors, and sometimes names are erased and replaced with affectionate nicknames. 

When John demanded to know who changed his name to “the man with a punchable face”, Bob was ready to confess, but Bucky took the blame, followed by Yelena, you, and Ava. It was a real “I'm Spartacus!” moment. 

Anyone caught cheating is on clean-up duty. You and Bucky have both cheated on the same night so you could clean up together. 

There are occasional tournaments complete with medals and trophies. The gang insisted that participation ribbons were not allowed, but you found a funny last place trophy that you had to get and everyone agreed.

The gang tries to switch it up between classic games, video games, and children's games to keep things interesting. No matter what you play there is a level of competitiveness. 

You try not to rub it in when you win a game, but you will have a subtle smirk on your face when you catch Bucky’s eye. Alexei, on the other hand, loves to yell, “In your face!” while doing air thrusts and Yelena has come close to banning her dad from game nights because of it.

If it’s girls versus boys, the girls win almost every time. The boys can't figure out how, but it might have something to do with John and Alexei both trying to be the leader, Bucky being done, and Bob just wanting to have fun. 

Bucky picks you for any game that requires a partner or teammate outside of girls versus boys, even if there is someone better suited. He doesn't care because he always wants you by his side. 

Bucky also picks two-player games for the two of you to play while the rest of the gang plays something else. Yelena often does the same thing with Bob. 

Weapons aren't allowed. That rule should've been enforced from the beginning, but John insisted after Bucky threatened to stab him during a game of Uno. 

To be fair, John kept playing Draw 4 cards and everyone knew it was a dick move. Even John knew it. 

Bucky will switch to Russian when he gets frustrated or really into a game. He didn't realize it until Yelena and Alexei replied in Russian. 

Hide-and-Seek is banned. Ava kept phasing out of her hiding spots, and you and Bucky got caught fooling around in the coat closet. 

Truth or Dare is also banned. Too personal with the questions when it was meant to be a fun night and Ava kept daring you and Bucky to kiss each other, which you did.

Bob got nervous the first time you all played Among Us, but Yelena assured him it would be fun. It ended with a chair flipped over, which is considerably tame.

Bob also goes into any shooting game prepared to lose because look who he’s playing with? He still has fun with it.

You once sweet talked Bucky into playing Dance Dance Revolution and he did well, surprising no one. So did Yelena and Ava, and not a single one of them cracked a smile while they danced.

John takes Pictionary way too seriously, and you threatened to break the easel and stab him when he raised his voice at Bob. Bucky fell in love with you a little bit more. 

Ava encouraged you to flash Bucky once when he was winning at Mario Kart. You did and he looked, but he still managed to win. 

Yelena argues with Alexei during Jenga. She doesn't need him to tell her which block to move or distract her. 

You and Bucky always end up choosing each other's cards during Cards Against Humanity. You just get each other, and you love getting a laugh out of him every time he reads your card. 

Alexei insists that karaoke should be considered a game and he always wants to sing first, which embarrasses Yelena. He once serenaded you and Bucky because, well, he’s one of your biggest supporters. 

Card games are tense and Yelena usually ends up with the most money by the end of them. She prefers Poker to Blackjack. 

Bob was so happy the first time he won Clue that he almost cried. Everyone hugged him, knowing he never got the chance to have fun game nights growing up. 

John recently made a casual comment about wanting to play games like these with his kid. No one gave him a hard time because everyone could see how much he longed for it. 

Some game nights end with yelling and broken furniture, but more often than not they end with smiles, laughter, and a sense of normalcy. It’s a nice change of pace from some of the horrors you’ve faced, and a great way to bond. 

But Bucky will still find a way to stab John if he can if only to keep him on his toes. 

BAHAHA. What do we think? Any other games? What other shenanigans do we think they get up to in and out of game nights? Let me know! Love and thanks for reading.

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[fandoms--fluff]

Hideout

Wife reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: your husband and a bunch of strangers show up at your house in the middle of the night.

Warnings: John walker, swearing

A/n: The car they have is a mini van instead of the van they had in the movie, so with actual seats and that stuff - so minor change, that's all.

^the car seating plan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where are we going?" Ava asks, being the third person in the last ten minutes to ask Bucky this. "We'll be there shortly" He grounds out, the same response he's given the last two times.

John is about to say something but is quickly stopped by the glare wielded his way from Yelena. From the past three days of knowing him, she's gotten used to knowing that whenever he opens his mouth, something stupid comes out. Every. Time. And every time, it looks like Bucky is that much closer to pummeling him.

Another fifteen minutes later and Bucky pulls the van into a dirt road leading away from any civilization. Ava and Yelena look out the rear window as the main road is getting further and further away.

The two women glance at each other in concern of where they're heading and how Bucky isn't telling them anything about it. "This seems more like a kidnapping than staying under the radar" Ava finally says when Bucky continues driving deeper into the forest.

"I'm sure the winter soldier knows where we're going and what he's doing. We're fine." Alexei says with a hefty laugh as he's watching from the window beside him.

Bucky meanwhile lets out an aggravated sigh to himself, but he doesn't say anything since in just mere minutes, they'll arrive at the location. The location of which feels like he hasn't been to in way too long for his liking.

And that location is a cabin. A cabin that Tony had set up for his wife during the blip so she wouldn't have to put on any kind of act by being around others all the time. That woman just so happened yo be you, Y/n Barnes.

You're an ex. shield agent that helped Steve with finding Bucky after the events of Pierce and Hydra still being active, as well as the whole project insight fail. Bucky and you caught feelings for each other after some time of finding him again and through the events of the team splitting up and fighting against Thanos, both times. After the second time and all the tragedy, you guys decided to get married. Not that it didn't come with hardships, like the whole therapy thing and having to forgive himself and make amends, and the flagsmashers. But all in all, you love each other.

Which is how you find your eyebrows furrowing as you hear a rusty sound of a car driving along the path towards the cabin. That wasn't normal. Your husband always comes home on his bike, only a car a few times, but those times he alerted you. This time though, you got no communication from him that says not to worry.

So, you immediately turn the light off in the living room and grab your gun from the holster on your thigh. Yes, you may be alone out here, but it doesn't mean danger can't find you. Plus, this is what you were trained for.

You silently move through the pitch black house, the only light coming from the headlights of the car illuminating the halls from through the windows. Sticking to the shadows, you make your way outside through a hidden door at the side of the house.

The gun with your finger on the trigger is held firmly down to your right side as you trek silently to the corner to get a glimpse at who's in the car.

"What is this place?" Yelena asks when Bucky turns off the ignition and pulls the keys out. Instead of answering, Bucky just gets out of the car and puts his hands up after closing the door.

"I know you're there. It's me." He calls out to, appearance wise, no one. This makes everyone still in the van look at each other with confused gazes before unbuckling their seatbelts and getting out of the mini van as well. Except for Yelena right away, she stays to wake Bob up. He had nodded off an hour ago in the drive, his head rested against the small window to his left.

You come out of your hiding spot behind the corner of the house with your gun held in front of you, your legs spread in a fighting stance. That is until it's confirmed that it's in fact your husband and no trick.

Paying no mind to the other people coming out of the car, you holster your gun and go over to him. Bucky quickly wraps his arms around you and holds you close to him. He rests his head on your shoulder as he breathes in the light scent of your shampoo that's still lingering from the shower you took this morning.

As Yelena and Bob emerge from the beat up mini van, you and bucky pull apart from one another to face the group of them who are now acting as though they weren't just watching what happened.

You scan over everyone and the last person, your face twists in something someone can only call as disgust. John Walker. "Hey, Y/n, long time no see?" The man at least has the decency to be weary and nervous, scratching the back of his neck. "Could be longer" You say sharply before taking your eyes off him, and just stare at the group as a whole instead.

"Wait, who is this?" Yelena is the one to speak up. "This is Y/n. My wife." Bucky smiles softly, the most genuine look on his face they've seen on him as he looks at you.

"You have a wife?" Several versions of this questions rise from the group, but get off from a glare he sends their way.

"Hey. Nice to meet you guys, I guess" You look back up at your husband before to them again. "Who are you exactly and why do you look like you just went ten rounds with a tornado?" You ask with a raised eyebrow as you take in how disheveled they all look.

"It's best we explain inside." Bucky says. You let out a puff of air before nodding after a moment and taking a key out of your boot. You head to the front door and unlock it, your husband by your side as the rest of them follow inside.

You turn the lights on as Bucky closes and locks the door and enacts the security system that runs through the house and property. "This way" You say and lead them to the living room. As they take a seat, all basically bursting with confusion still, you go over to your husband.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you were coming, Buck!?" You exclaim in a hushed whisper. "I didn't have any way of communicating you. And I was a little pre-occupied" He glances at the people in the next room over. "I was worried about you" you finally say. "I didn't know what was happening. All I knew was how you bailed on your congressman meetings and had apparently gone rogue."

"I know, and I'm so sorry, darling. But I promise, I'm alright, and we'll tell you everything that happened" Bucky says and presses a kiss to your lips. You melt into it for a second before remembering about the occupants in the next room over.

"Come on, mind as well get this over with." He says quietly into your ear and wraps your hand in his. He leads you to the living room and to in front of the fireplace to face everyone.

"Alright, this is Alexei, Ava, Yelena, and Bob." Bucky introduces them to you. "And him as well," he quickly nods over to John, not wanting to draw too much of your attention to the man that you loath. And boy, does Bucky understand, but nows not the time.

Yelena does a little awkward wave. "Alright. Would someone like to inform me what the hell exactly happened?" You cross your arms and lean against the fireplace mantle.

They all glance at each other before Yelena sighs and sits up straighter, starting to summarize everything that happened to them up to when Bucky met them and blew up Alexie's limo. At that you look at your husband with a raised brow before Yelena continues, the others popping in at times as well.

Once everyone was finished explaining the events leading up to them arriving here, you pinch the bridge of your nose and quietly groan. "Valentina? As in the same woman from three years ago, is behind this whole thing?"

You get multiple nods and 'yeah's from the group. "Wonderful. Well, next time you plan to see her, bring me with. I have a thing or two to say...or do" the ex spy in you is coming out.

"Does he usually fall asleep like that" you're attention is drawn to Bob who is asleep with his head resting on the back couch cushioning. "Uh, he's been through a lot." Ava says.

"Okay, yeah," you sigh, "Well, down the hall are some bedrooms. You guys look like you need to clean up and some sleep yourselves." You point down the hall to your right.

"Thank you" Yelena nods, the rest of them saying thanks as well before standing and going down the hall. Though John goes over to lift Bob. "Don't bother, he can stay in the couch, he seems peaceful" you tell him, trying to fight off the growl even though technically the man was doing something sweet (ish).

He relents and nods, not wanting to get into a fight with you at this time, knowing he won't win. You go over to the younger man and have him lay down more comfortably on the couch with a pillow, as well as draping one of the throw blankets over him.

"Though if you break anything, I will personally come after you" you call down the hallway before going upstairs to your bedroom with Bucky.

"You're very authoritative. It's good, they actually listened to you" he says once you guys get to your shared room.

"That's cause I'm such an amazing person" you smirk. But a moment later, you smack your husband upside the head. "What was that for?" He asks, surprised at the action, not like it hurt that much anyways.

"For worrying me. And for the stupid shit you did" you say before kissing him softly.

[tally-kat]

A contrapuntal poem inspired by @two-bees-poetry for Ava and Beatrice :)

[newrochellechallenger2019]

line cook!art who makes you hold his cigarette while he's fucking you because it's 'easier'... hmmm........ hm....................

ava i could kiss you right now...thank you...

a ticket.

"your place or mine?" scrawled on the back of table 49's order in his familiar handwriting. you'd been wondering when this 'invitation' would appear, ever since you'd caught art's eye as he leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen, his arm muscles flexed. you'd heard the rumours, the warnings from other servers when you'd started, "don't ever sleep with the line cooks!" "are you crazy? it'll fuck up the whole job!" but art was different from the other line cooks, he wasn't some constantly hungover teenager or the 50yr old man who you were 99% sure sold drugs on the side. so, you started rolling up your skirts just a little higher, leaning over the counter just enough that your boobs pushed up in the right way and it worked. art noticed, and he reciprocated, leaving you leftover fries or hashbrowns on the side of the kitchen, for which you were incredibly grateful.

"yours" you scribble back hastily with a smile on your face, walking back to the kitchen, making some excuse about forgotten items on the ticket to the other servers eyeing you suspiciously as you pass by, handing the order back to art, who just offers a small, innocuous nod in response.

art's waiting for you when you clock out, leaning against a car that must be older than either of you, arms folded across his chest in a way that makes the muscles bulge yet again and you fight the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl at the sight. your eyes drift back to the car to distract yourself, noting the dented wing mirror and scratched doors.

'grandma's.' he offers as a curt response to his old car before you even open your mouth to ask.

you nod awkwardly, 'how is she?' you say out of bumbling politeness.

'she died.' he shrugs, though you note the flicker of grief in his eyes when he says it.

'i'm sorry.' you mumble sympathetically, holding his gentle gaze.

art looks away from you at that, running his hand through his unkempt hair and opening the passenger door. you take the hint and scurry over, slipping into the seat and he winks at you as he shuts the door, back to the art you knew.

he walked round and got in the driver's seat, the car spluttered to life and he put his arm round your headrest to see if he could pull out safely and you blush, unbeknownst to you he spots the pink dusting your cheeks and smirks.

the journey to his place is fairly silent and outside your window the bustling city centre is slowly fading into downtown, the streets getting quieter and more deprived. art's humming beside you, tapping his calloused fingers against the steering wheel in tune to some rock band cd you don't know.

pulling into a backstreet, an apartment building slowly comes into view as art parks deftly, car creaking slightly as he does. he gets out the car and comes round to open your door, and you step out, his arm going round your waist protectively as he ushers you into the building.

'elevator broke weeks ago' he mutters, shaking his head in disappointment as you glance at the taped up silver doors and back at the steep staircase. art seemed to realise your fear and nudged you playfully, 'don't worry baby, i'm only on the first floor.'

baby. that pet name sent shivers down you spine and you struggled to keep your composure as you nodded in acknowledgement before the two of you climbed the stairs, his arm encircling your waist even tighter.

'welcome...' art grins as he turns his jangling keys in the lock, '...to Casa Donaldson' he jokes, stepping inside the apartment with his arms outstretched.

it was crappy, no other way to describe it. a dimly lit studio apartment with a few standard kitchen counters on your left, a minuscule bathroom to your right and just beyond the kitchen island is his bed, the bed. you're surprised it even has a bedframe based on how bare the rest of the place is.

art steps back towards you, cutting the impromptu judgemental tour in your head short. he's taller but not by much, just enough for him to tilt your chin to face him, a flirtatious smirk on his face as he looks you up and down. 'now...where were we?' he leans down, blue-green eyes closing as he press his lips to your supple ones.

you gasp into the kiss, melting into the feeling as he pulls you closer, your bodies moulding into one. at some point the kisses grow hungry, tongues colliding between parted mouths, and your back hits the door as art cages you in. 'you're so hot baby' he murmurs between hot kisses, fingers unbuttoning your white work blouse. 'c'mon doll show me those pretty tits of yours' he growls against your neck, his hands snaking down to your bra and pushing your chest up and you whine. 'you like showing these off huh? tryna get my attention that badly?' he taunts as he unclips your bra, 'mmph...yes...' you pant, your hands roaming all over his body desperately.

'well...you've got it' he grunts, his hands slipping under your thighs and lifting you so you have no choice but to wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the bulge in his trousers start to grow. he drops you unceremoniously on the bed, lifting your hips to slide your work skirt off and reveal your lacy panties. 'wearing these for me too?' he teases with a devilish smirk, finger slowly running up the fabric and you squirm, 'art-'. wordlessly, he slides the panties off your legs and tosses them onto the wooden floors of his apartment, his own trousers and boxers following suit. he leans back down and captures your lips in a ravenous sloppy kiss, before pulling away. 'c'mere doll' he says, crooking a finger and you sit up, surprised. 'here.' he repeats, patting his lap, his cock standing to attention.

you shuffle over towards his lap under his watchful eye, and he grips your hips, lifting you onto his cock. you feel the tip start to penetrate you and you squeak, 'that's it...' he purrs encouragingly as you sick down on his cock. it's big and you can feel it stretching your walls and you moan, 'ngh- oh-' until you bottom out and art groans, throwing his head back, 'fuck...yep...good girl...' he says through gritted teeth. your brain short circuits at 'good girl' but you remember something about coconut so you slowly start to move on his lap and art's breath comes in short pants, hands gripping your hips so hard you know they'll be marks left there tomorrow.

however, it doesn't take long before art starts to get bored, your movements not creating any stimulation for him. he reaches down and grabs a cigarette from the jacket crumpled on the floor beside the bed and you still, 'did i-?' 'one sec baby' he interrupts you, thumb flicking at a lighter as the cigarette catches flame, he takes a long drag and breathes out a plume of smoke whilst you stare at him in shock. 'could you hold this for me doll?' he smirks, slipping the cigarette between your teeth and you cough in surprise, smoke spluttering from your mouth. 'thank you' he pats your cheek mockingly before his hands return to your hips, 'now...baby...may i help? he croons and you nod dumbly.

art starts to lift his hips up into you and you gasp, his tip hitting your gspot roughly, 'mm-ngh-' comes art's moans as you flop around like a ragdoll in his lap as he repeatedly rams into that spot that makes you see stars from below. 'oh! oh!' you shriek, as art leans in and takes the cigarette from your mouth with his own, inhaling smoke with pleasure. you clench around him and he moans, 'oh baby-hughh- that's- yeah-' as he feels himself nearing release. his lifting hips become more erratic as he continues to pump into you, 'i'm- uh- fuck- i'm gonna-' is all he can manage before he's shooting his load into your tight pussy and you gasp, eyes wide as you feel his seed fill you and that action is enough to cause you to clench around him, 'art please- please-' you burble as you cum on his cock, draining ever last drop from him as your juices swirl with his own. you rest your head on his shoulder as you come down from the high, both of you panting in unision. 'please tell me you're on birth control' he pants and you nod meekly, 'oh thank god' he murmurs, slowly helping you off his cock and into the bathroom, seeing your own slick coating your thighs and smirking with pride.

you're awoken the next morning by an empty space beside you and the sound of cooking. you open one bleary eye and see art stood at the kitchen island. he winks at you 'and here i thought i'd killed you with my mega cock' he laughs and you groan, turning your face away and hiding in the sheets in shame. there's a creak as he sits down on the bed beside you and holds out a plate, 'grilled cheese?'.

tags: @blastzachilles @s0ftcobra @femme-lusts @glennussy @cha11engers @stanart4clearskin

[greenorangevioletgrass]

tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?” 

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile.  And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…” 

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too. 

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off. 

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved. 

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered. 

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter,  “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

[outer-andromeda]

... I made a thing. And it's angsty.

(TW - Short mention of death, implied transphobia/deadnaming)

Raph has a... very strained relationship with his dad. He holds a grudge against him for not having been present in his and his siblings' lives when they needed a father figure most.

I'm still figuring stuff out but I wanted his dad to be a sort of showman? So he's always been away, always prioritizing his work (and "fame") over the well-being of his own children. Raph admired him growing up, but as he grew up, he slowly started despising him. His anger towards him grew tenfold when he came out as trans and his dad rejected him completely, and he decided it was best for him to cut ties with him entirely the moment he moved out of their house.

So yeah. For Raph, seeing him show up suddenly at his uncle's doorstep, acting all worried and caring... it feels all too fake. He's ain't willing to forgive and forget.

[ava-deb]

"It really hurts Deborah's feelings. Deborah really cares about what Ava thinks, and whether or not the show is funny. So, that's where things start to really get tense." — Lucia Aniello

HACKS: S01E06, "New Eyes" / S04E05, "Clickable Face"

[backwaterotter]

I've been cooking up a pretty simple AU concept, surrounding a simple idea: What if Purple had been deleted for slightly too long. What if there were permanent after-effects? Then, the only theoretical differentiation between canon and this au concept would be a second of waiting time.

Anyway, I'm working on a fic to go with it, I hope people will enjoy it! You can read it here!

[tacobacoyeet]

love me harder | art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!art, divorced!reader

Art Donaldson stands by the rusted chain-link fence like he's guarding something no one’s tried to steal in years. His arms cross over his chest like armor, like restraint, like he’s holding himself back from crumbling—or combusting. You catch him in profile first, that cruelly perfect jaw flexing, sunburnt in gold and indifference, the light making a liar out of him. Because he looks gentle like this. Tired in a way only grief can teach. Tired in a way you know too well.

There’s a crushed juice box under his shoe. Lily’s laughter cuts across the playground, sweet and sharp as citrus, as she chases your son through the grass. She doesn’t know that her father doesn’t sleep. That he burns everything he touches and calls it parenting. She doesn’t know that the woman who promised forever left without blinking.

But you do know. You’ve felt it too—been the one left with the boxes, the questions, the quiet. The one who stayed after the door closed.

You lean against the passenger side of your car, keys cold in your palm. There’s an ache blooming low in your back, the kind that comes from a week of too many things left unsaid and too many lunches packed with shaky hands. You don’t expect him to notice you. He never does.

Not since the divorce. Not since Tashi.

You’ve heard whispers at the school gate, soft-spoken stories traded like gum wrappers between mothers waiting for the bell. Tashi left. Just walked out one morning and didn’t look back. No one talks about why. No one asks him. But everyone watches. Because when a woman leaves a man like Art Donaldson—a man with that kind of jaw, that kind of history—they all want to know what broke beneath the surface.

You know a little something about that. About breakage. About the slow, bone-deep ache of building a life only to watch it collapse under someone else’s silence.

You signed your papers last summer. After a year of pretending. After a year of trying to be everything to a man who forgot how to see you. Your ex-husband lives in another city now. He calls once a week. Your son stopped waiting by the phone months ago.

There’s a strange kind of grief in being freed from someone who made you feel invisible.

And Art—Art isn’t someone you let yourself think about too often. Not out loud. Not when you're packing lunchboxes or folding miniature socks or wiping down the bathroom sink after a long day. Not when you’re scraping peanut butter out of the jar at midnight, exhausted and aching in places love never quite reached.

You don’t let yourself think about the way he moves, even now. The stillness of him. The gravity. Like he was built from something heavier than the rest of you. Like he’s been carved out of loss and left in the sun to set.

Sometimes you wonder what his hands would feel like—if they’d be as rough as they look, if they’d hold or hurt. Sometimes you hate yourself for wondering.

Because he’s not for you. He’s not even for himself. He’s ruin walking around with a tired smile and a daughter who deserves more. Just like yours does. Just like your son does.

And yet—

There’s something about the way he looks at Lily. Like she’s the last thing anchoring him to this world. Like everything he never got right is something he’s trying to make up for in a single braid, a scraped knee, a lunchbox note.

You tell yourself that’s all it is. Empathy. A recognition of ache.

But when he looks at you—and he does, sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention—it’s not empathy you feel.

It’s fire.

But then—

His head turns. Just slightly. Just enough.

Your eyes catch.

And it holds. Just long enough for the air to shift.

He blinks. You look away first. He always makes you look away first.

It should be nothing. It should always be nothing.

But it isn’t. Not this time.

"They’re good together," you say, quietly, when he ends up near your side of the parking lot. The words land awkwardly between you, like they’re not the ones you meant to say.

Art shrugs. "Kids usually are. Before we teach them not to be."

It’s the most he’s said to you since September. And it’s mid-March now.

You glance toward the field again, where your son is climbing the jungle gym and Lily’s already halfway up behind him, fearless. Art’s watching too, but his hands are in his pockets now, fists clenched like he’s bracing for something. Or maybe fighting the urge to feel anything at all.

"Do you—" you start, but stop yourself. It’s not your place.

He glances sideways. "What?"

You shake your head. “Nothing. I just…” You bite your cheek, taste the copper of hesitation. “She seems happy. Lily.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just breathes out slow, like the admission might strangle him if it comes too fast.

"She misses her mom." He says it flat. No bitterness. No grace. Just fact.

You nod. You don’t ask if he does.

The silence after isn’t heavy. It’s honest. Raw. Something like mutual recognition. Like bruises you don’t need to compare to know they match.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, even though you don’t have to. Even though he knows you will.

Art nods once. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Yeah.”

But he stays standing there long after you’ve driven away.

The fundraiser is a month later.

It’s in the school gym, too brightly lit, with folding tables draped in dollar-store cloths and rows of cheap raffle prizes lined up like sacrifices to appease exhausted parents. You’re wearing lipstick for the first time in weeks. Not for anyone. Not for him.

And yet—

You feel it when he walks in. Like gravity has shifted. Like the air itself turns to face him.

Art looks like he’s slept less than ever. His button-down is half tucked. His jaw is dark with stubble. Lily clings to his side like a satellite, wide-eyed and unsure, her hand curled around his fingers like she’s afraid he’ll disappear too.

He scans the room and your body betrays you—straightens, stills, braces. You tell yourself he’s not looking for you. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

But he finds you anyway.

You see it in flashes.

The slow lift of his gaze across the crowd. The barest twitch of recognition when he sees you talking to another parent. The flicker in his throat as he swallows hard and looks away.

You catch him watching you twice more. Once when you kneel beside your son to fix his shoelaces, the back of your dress tugged just slightly by the movement. And again when you laugh at something—too loudly, maybe, too freely—and his eyes stay on your mouth like it’s a bruise he wants to press.

You don’t let yourself look back. Not always. But when you do, he’s there. Holding a paper cup of lemonade like it might spill if he breathes too fast.

The air between you isn’t conversation. It’s current. And every time you move, you swear you feel it break around you.

Later, when the lights dim for the slideshow, your chair ends up just a little too close to his. Neither of you speaks.

But you feel his knee brush yours once.

And he doesn’t move away.

Three days pass without a word. And then—like most things that matter—it happens softly. Without warning. It happens the way all real things do—quietly, suddenly, without warning.

You’re both walking your kids into the school, backpacks bouncing and shoes scuffing against the sidewalk. The morning light is too bright. You’re halfway through saying something to your son when Art’s voice cuts in, low and clipped.

“Hey,” he says, catching up beside you. “Would you—could you take Lily home after school today?”

You blink. Turn slightly toward him.

“I’ve got a work thing,” he adds, fast. “I wouldn’t ask, but…”

But. The rest goes unsaid. Because he knows you’ll say yes.

“Of course,” you say. “That’s fine.”

He nods once, the barest tilt of his head, jaw tense. “I’ll come by before dinner.”

The kids run ahead. He lingers a second longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

Lily slides into your car like she’s done it a thousand times. She kicks off her shoes in the back seat and starts telling your son about a video they watched in class, her voice rising and falling like birdsong. She doesn’t ask where her dad is. She doesn’t need to. She trusts he’ll come.

You make them grilled cheese. Cut the crusts off. They eat cross-legged on the floor with a movie on too loud. At some point, Lily leans her head against your shoulder like she belongs there. And for a second, you let yourself believe she does.

Art knocks just after sunset.

You open the door and he’s there, hoodie pulled low over his hair, like he’s trying to hide from something. Maybe the world. Maybe you.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low, rough. “I owe you.”

You shake your head. “You don’t.” You hesitate. Then—“Do you want to come in? Just for a minute?”

It’s said like an afterthought, like an offer you don’t expect him to take. But he does.

He steps inside like it might break him. Like your hallway is a place he's not sure he deserves to be.

The kids are still giggling in the living room, a tangle of blankets and tiny hands reaching for popcorn.

“Drink?” you ask. You already know the answer. You pour two anyway.

You sit across from each other at your kitchen table. The overhead light is too warm, too kind. He keeps looking at the glass in front of him like it holds all the things he can’t say.

He doesn’t talk about Tashi. You don’t talk about your ex. But the silence between you is full of the ghosts you’ve both buried.

At some point, your fingers brush across the table.

He doesn’t pull away.

"You’re good with her," he says after a long pause. His voice is careful, like he’s afraid the words might come out wrong.

You smile faintly. “She makes it easy.”

“No,” he says. “She doesn’t. Not lately.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t press.

You take a sip of your drink and let the warmth rise in your chest before asking, gently, “Are you okay?”

He looks at you like the question is foreign. Then lets out a slow, humorless laugh. “No. But I’m surviving. I guess that counts for something.”

You nod. “It does.”

Another silence. Softer now. Less like a wall, more like a blanket pulled over shared fatigue.

“She talks about your son a lot,” Art says, voice low. “She says he makes her laugh. Says he makes her feel safe.”

“That’s funny,” you say. “He says the same thing about her.”

Art lets out a breath. It’s almost a laugh. Not quite. “Guess they’ve got better instincts than we do.”

You look at him then. Really look.

“I think they just haven’t learned to be afraid yet,” you say. “Of being close. Of needing people.”

He looks at you like he hears that too clearly. Like he’s been thinking the same thing.

And still, he doesn’t let go of your fingers.

You don’t see each other for five days after that.

Not because of avoidance. Not because of fear. Just... life. Schedules. Exhaustion.

But when Friday comes, and the sun’s slipping low behind the trees, and your son is already asking for Lily to come over for another movie night, you find yourself reaching for your phone before you can second-guess it.

And this time, when Art shows up with Lily’s overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he doesn't just linger at the door.

He steps inside without needing an invitation.

And this time, you don’t pour the drinks to be polite.

This time, you pour them because you want to feel warm. Because you want to hear his voice soften when he talks about bedtime stories and Lily’s dreams. Because you want to know what happens when the tension doesn’t break—but bends.

Because you’re ready for something that holds, not just burns.

For hunger that lingers after it’s been fed.

The kids fall asleep in the living room again, curled beneath the same blanket, their breathing soft and even, the low hum of the credits filling the space between rooms.

Art's glass is empty. Yours is half-full. And the distance between you feels smaller now—like it’s been shrinking for weeks and you just didn’t notice until this moment.

You’re both sitting on the edge of the couch. Not touching. Not yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not... I’m not good at this.”

You don’t ask what this means. You know. You’ve lived in that uncertainty too long not to recognize it.

“Neither am I,” you murmur. “But maybe we don’t have to be good at it. Maybe we just have to... show up.”

His hand is on his knee, fingers curling in and out like he’s working through the urge to reach for something. Or someone.

“Are you afraid?” you ask.

He looks at you. Really looks. There’s something cracked open behind his eyes now, something tender and raw and real.

“I’m terrified.”

You nod. “Me too.”

And then you reach for him.

Your fingers skim along his, soft and slow, not asking, not assuming. Just offering. He takes them like a lifeline. Like if he holds tight enough, the rest of him won’t fall apart.

You shift closer. Shoulders brushing. Knees aligned. The air around you thickens, settles, holds.

He turns to you—hesitant, questioning—and you can feel the moment stretch. Stretch until it aches. Until it begs.

And still, neither of you moves to kiss.

Not yet.

Because this is the part where you wait. Where you breathe each other in.

Where you let the tension rise—not like a wave, but like a need you’re too afraid to name.

The want is there. So is the ache.

And if you let it, it could swallow you whole.

But tonight, you stay soft.

And for now, that’s enough.

The next time it happens, it’s raining.

Not the gentle kind. The kind that pounds the roof and seeps into the bones. The kind that turns the street outside your house into a blur of headlights and rushing water. The kind that makes the walls feel smaller. Closer. Warmer.

He’s late picking Lily up.

You hear the knock just after eight. When you open the door, he’s soaked to the skin, hoodie clinging to him, hair plastered against his forehead.

“I—sorry,” he says. “There was traffic. And work. And I...”

You reach for his wrist before you think about it. “Come in.”

He hesitates. But only for a second.

The moment he steps over the threshold, something shifts.

You hand him a towel. He doesn’t take it right away. His eyes linger on yours, just a second too long. Just enough to say: Are we still pretending this doesn’t mean something?

The kids are asleep again. You both check, separately. Quietly. Like ritual.

When you find each other in the hallway outside your son’s room, it’s like gravity takes over.

There’s no music. No dialogue. No soft fade-in.

Just hands—yours, gripping the front of his hoodie.

Just mouths—his, brushing yours with a hunger that feels like apology and ache and finally.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s all teeth and breath and hands under shirts and backs against walls. It’s desperation clothed in need, pulled tight by all the weeks you didn’t let yourselves ask for this.

You end up on the couch again, but it’s different this time. It’s bodies moving like they already know the rhythm. Like they’ve been aching for this song without ever hearing it played.

He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your regret—like he’s tracing every bruise, every unfinished sentence left inside your skin. Like it’s something he could carry for you, if only he could hold it right. Like he wants to taste everything you didn’t say the last time he was here.

And when it’s over—when you’re both breathing like you’ve run ten miles toward something that might not even be safe—you don’t speak.

You just lie there.

He touches your cheek.

And you let him.

But in the morning, he’s already up before the kids.

You find him in the kitchen, pouring coffee like nothing happened. Like your body wasn’t pressed against his twelve hours ago. Like he didn’t whisper your name like a confession.

You lean against the doorway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

“Thanks for the towel,” he says finally, without looking at you.

You nod. Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He doesn’t kiss you goodbye. You don’t ask him to.

But that night—you both let it happen again.

And again after that.

Not because it’s love.

Because it isn’t.

Because if it were, it would be too dangerous. Too consuming. Too real.

Because it’s easier to pretend you’re both just lonely.

Because it’s easier to call it need.

But some nights—

Some nights, he holds you too long after.

And some mornings, you catch yourself saving the way he smells on your pillow.

And you both know you can’t keep pretending forever.

It starts unraveling the night you cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Just a single sound—barely a breath—that escapes your throat when his mouth is on your shoulder and the world feels too quiet for pretending.

He stills. His hand against your hip stops moving. You brace for distance, for retreat.

But instead, he lifts his head and whispers, “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, eyes glassy in the dark. “No. That’s the problem.”

The silence after that is a different kind of heavy. Not awkward. Not cold.

Just full.

You should get up. You should make coffee. You should do anything but what you do next.

But instead, you say it.

“I don’t know how to do this without wanting more.”

Art doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you like you’ve just opened a door he’s been too scared to knock on.

“I don’t know how to give more,” he says quietly. “But I keep trying to anyway.”

You shift, knees brushing, fingers curling together on instinct.

And then he’s kissing you. Not like before. Not like escape.

This one is slower. Deeper. It trembles.

You sink into him like it’s the only way to stay whole. You move together like it’s the only language left. No frenzy. No rush. Just a slow exhale of everything that’s been buried too long.

He traces his thumb along your jaw like a question. Like a promise.

You whisper his name like it means something again.

And when your bodies find each other, it’s not about release.

It’s about staying.

It’s about letting go without leaving.

It’s about letting yourself be held.

His hands are everywhere. Gentle at first, reverent even—like he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you this way. Like he’s afraid if he pushes too far, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay.

You let his mouth trail down your collarbone, open-mouthed and aching. You let him press into the softest parts of you with a care that feels almost unbearable. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You gasp when he finally settles between your thighs. Not from the sensation—but from the intimacy. From the way his eyes stay locked on yours like he needs your permission over and over again.

When he’s inside you, it’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s felt.

Every inch. Every thrust. Every breath.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your forehead pressing to his, and it’s not about rhythm—it’s about anchoring.

He murmurs your name like it’s holy. Like it’s the only word that still fits in his mouth.

You’re crying again by the time you come.

But this time it’s not pain. It’s not fear.

It’s release. It’s being seen.

And when he follows after you, body trembling, breath scattered, he doesn’t let go.

He just wraps himself around you like he wants to stay there. Like he needs to.

Like he’s finally figured out how.

After, he doesn’t roll away. He doesn’t fix his hoodie or check the time.

He just breathes with you.

And you, for the first time in what feels like forever, don’t feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You just breathe too.

And for once—it feels like maybe something is beginning.

Even if you’re both still scared of the name.

The morning is quieter than usual.

You wake before him. Not because you meant to, but because some part of you—some feral, frightened part—doesn’t know how to sleep through softness.

His arm is still around your waist. His breath brushes the back of your neck. You let yourself lie there for a moment longer, eyes wide open, heart fluttering too close to your throat.

You want to stay in this. You want to let it be enough.

But your mind’s already racing.

What happens next? What if this is the only time it ever feels like this? What if it doesn’t survive the daylight?

When he stirs, it’s slow. Heavy with sleep. He presses closer, almost unconsciously, murmurs something against your skin that might be your name.

You turn to face him.

His eyes open, slow and unsure. But then they land on yours.

And he smiles.

It’s small. Sleep-warm. Unpolished.

But it’s real.

“Morning,” he says, voice like gravel and honey.

You could say a hundred things.

But instead, you just whisper back, “Hi.”

And somehow, that’s enough—for now.

But it doesn’t stay enough.

Because when he’s getting dressed, there’s a pause. A flicker. A moment where he holds his hoodie in his hands and doesn’t move.

You watch him from the edge of the bed, blanket gathered around your waist, trying not to speak first.

He glances at you. Then away. Then back.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

It’s not sarcastic. It’s not resigned.

It’s scared.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

He sits on the bed again, elbows on knees. Doesn’t look at you yet.

“I’ve been pretending this is just... easy,” he says. “Casual. But it’s not. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me either,” you admit. “I didn’t think I had room for anything real. But then you kept showing up.”

“I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve,” he says. “But I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

He finally looks at you then, and it’s the kind of look that makes your chest ache.

“You. All of it. Even the hard parts.”

You blink, trying not to let it spill too fast. But it does anyway.

“I want that too.”

He breathes in like he’s afraid to believe it.

But when you reach for his hand again—he doesn’t hesitate.

There’s no big decision that morning. No promises made. No declarations hung like picture frames on blank walls.

Just coffee. And dishes clinking in the sink. And the sound of Lily and your son laughing in the other room like the world has never broken them.

And maybe that’s what starts to feel like enough.

Because it’s not about defining it. Not yet. It’s about the space that opens up between you when he smiles without flinching, when you touch his wrist and he leans into it without looking for an exit.

The morning spills out quietly. He stays too long. You don’t ask him to go. No one says what this is—but neither of you tries to pretend it’s nothing anymore.

You walk him to the door.

He pauses there like he might say something. Doesn’t.

Instead, he kisses you. Soft. Grounded. Like it’s a start, not an end.

And when the door closes, it doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like something unfolding.

Later, when you’re alone, you sit in the stillness he left behind and realize you’re not afraid.

Not in the way you were.

You know it’ll be hard. That there will be nights when he pulls away before he means to, mornings when your fear outweighs your hope.

But you also know this: he reached back.

You both did.

And maybe that’s what love starts as—not fireworks. Not certainty.

Just two people reaching, again and again, across the soft terror of vulnerability—quietly. Like the children do. Before the world teaches them not to.

You look out the window and watch the light shift across the street, pale gold pouring over sidewalks like something sacred. Like a promise waiting to be kept.

You don’t know what comes next.

But for the first time, you want to find out.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s everything.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

[shefollowedthestars]

dating ava starr headcanons ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

warnings: thunderbolts spoilers!! and some unedited thoughts

notes: MY GIRL SINCE ANT MAN AND THE WASP <33 i love her sm and needed to write something for her. this is just an accumulation of thoughts i've had about dating her since i watched the movie! hope you enjoy <3

you do her hair all the time! braids, pigtails, half up-half down, any hairstyle in the book is one you'll do for her. she loves the feeling of your hands in her hair and it relaxes her more than anything else after a tough or long mission.

sometimes when you're holding hands, she'll phase in and out through your hands and it can be a comfort and something soothing for you, but sometimes it's a funny way for her to tease you. it's her version of a 'tickle attack'!

alexei is the BIGGEST supporter of your relationship with ava. when ava said that she wanted the team to meet her new girlfriend, he was ecstatic, saying how great it was that someone on the team finally had a partner and he was even more ecstatic when he got to know you. think of him as you and ava's honorary dad who loves you embarrassingly lol. he would definitely think of adding the ally flag to the 'avengerz' merch and be so excited about it.

ava is such a witty and sassy person and so when you two first met there was a lot of back and forth play insults and banter - there definitely still is now, just some of those moments have been replaced with softer, gentler ones.

she's insecure about her laugh, but you think it's the most beautiful thing to ever grace your years. whenever she laughs at your jokes or at a situation, you can't help but admire her the sound, it brings you more joy than she could ever imagine.

she always asks for your opinion on a new suit before she chooses. she brings all the options home and shows them all to you. you sit on the bed, eating a box of thunderbolts wheaties, rating them and picking your favorites.

you keep a box full of magazine clippings, printed out comments and drawings of ava that you found on news outlets. all of them are complimenting her and some comments and art pieces were written and made by little girls that look up to her. the first time she broke down, post 'new avenger' status, you brought the box out to comfort her and show her that she's capable of being an amazing person - a hero, that people can look up to.

[kwonkissed]

NEW YEAR'S DAY ☆ C.HS

Kissing at midnight on New Year's Eve is said to bring good luck and bounty to the upcoming year. It looks like you and Vernon both have to overcome your apprehension of being open with your feelings in order to have the best luck. word count: 3.1K warnings: mostly fluff, making out, mentions of alcohol (it's new years guys), dry humping

Vernon was upset with you. How could he not be? You'd been helping him with his New Year's Eve party all day. No matter what he did, there was no way he could get you to take a break. He had to admit though, your dedication was admirable. What did you say? Something along the lines of, "As your best female friend – best friend really – it's my job to assist with matters like these."

And as angry as Vernon was that you hadn't taken any time for yourself aside from changing outfits in his spare room, he was thankful for the work you had done. His house looked absolutely amazing. The Christmas tree was in perfect order, balloons and streamers strategically placed, hors d'oeuvres meticulously positioned in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible—all of which you masterfully orchestrated with that brain of yours.

Still, with all the effort you both had put into the event, Vernon wanted to ensure you were having a good time. You deserved it. 

He looked over to your spot in his kitchen. You were standing near the punch bowl with your head tilted back in laughter at something one of your mutual friends said. He smiled and nursed the champagne in his hand. You looked so beautiful in that black dress and your diamond studs. So lovely and warm and inviting. He wishes he could kick everyone out of his house this very second so that he could be with you all by himself.

Vernon began to feel his ears burn. You always said that when a person's ears burn, that means someone's talking about them. As his friends pull him into another conversation, he steals another glance over at you. He tries to make out the words. Maybe his name will be on your lips. 

Yeah, Vernon was upset with you. But he was more upset with himself for being too beside himself to make his feelings known.

The vantage point from the kitchen island provided the perfect view of you and Vernon's handiwork. You and he had managed to transform the interior of his cozy brownstone into a Home Magazine photographer's daydream in just a few hours. It was only right that you stood back and admired it. The mini bar was full, finger food dishes over half eaten, and your friends milling about the house, all buzzing with excitement. You smiled, thoroughly satisfied. 

With all your scanning of the area, your eyes were bound to land on Vernon at some point. A special kind of heat rippled through you, from the soles of your feet to the top of your head. He looked amazing. The sleeves of his crisp white button-up were rolled to his elbows, and his hair was pushed back and messy – like he'd been running his hands through it all night. And he was talking so animatedly with his friends that you could feel your heart growing 3 sizes too big, just like the Grinch's had. Vernon was beautiful, inside and out. There was never a day where you didn't remind him that he was "pale as the moon with a personality bright as the sun."

His typical response? That you were corny and way too into figurative language. You just hummed in agreement. Vernon was right, of course, he's your best friend. He's supposed to be right about you. Vernon was forgetting one thing, though. Yes, you were corny and yes, you adored figurative language; how can one not? It's very poetic. But the one fact he was missing was that you were head over heels in love with him. And that was the most important piece of information.

As you broke your surveillance of Vernon to glance at your watch, you felt a body slide next to yours on the counter. Looking to your left, you're met with the shit-eating grin of Sophia, Vernon's little sister.

"Like what you see?"

You blanch. "Oh please, give me a break," you say, turning around to face the cabinets. Sophia does the same. The heat is back, this time concentrated in your face. You pressed the back of your hands to your face in concern. The younger woman hums and fetches you a glass of water. "Before you shoot me down for even talking about it," Sophia says slowly. You glare. "I just say give it a try. You never know; he, like, will definitely like you back." You down your water and lay your head on Sophia's shoulder. "You really think so," you ask sheepishly. "I'm positive. And hey, if he says anything bad, I'll beat his ass and kick him out of this house. Then you and I can live here together. How's that sound?" 

You laugh at her proposal. While you and Vernon had always been partners in crime, you wholeheartedly admit to being a double agent for Sophia. She'd always be like a little sister to you, no matter how not little she was anymore.

"Deal," you said confidently. Sophia giggled and hugged you quickly before trotting off to God knows where. 

A small sigh escaped your lips as you watched her walk away. "You should get off your feet," a voice murmured behind you. You turn around to see Vernon's face propped up on the counter, his eyebrows raised accusingly. 

You made your way around the island to stand next to him. "What? And not be able to strut around your gorgeous house in these killer boots? No way." You clicked your heels to emphasize your point, which made Vernon chuckle.

"You've been strutting around my gorgeous house all day, woman. Sit down." He looked at you with his big brown eyes full of so much care and admiration that you almost puked all over his Converse. You sighed and nodded your head. "Fine, I'll listen to the man of the house for once."

"But for the record, don't go getting too sappy on me, Hansol. Too many people will see through your cool guy persona." You jokingly narrowed your eyes and jabbed a finger at his chest before waltzing away with a plastic flute of champagne in your hand. Vernon watched the way the material of your dress hit the back of your thighs as you sashayed away.

Who cares about being cool if it's not with you?

Vernon was still watching you as you sat on the couch, fingers mindlessly tapping against the plastic in your hands. You were listening to your friend drone on about her loser ex. He could tell by the frequency of your head nods and the unruffled expression on your face that you had heard all of it before. 

Someone snapped at him. "Um, earth to Vernon? Hello?" Vernon turned to see Mingyu's deadpan expression. Vernon swallowed. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Wonwoo playfully rolled his eyes. "If you hadn't been staring at a certain someone, you would know," he said teasingly. Vernon frowned at the man. "I wasn't staring. I was just…checking in." Vernon watched as his two friends looked at one another skeptically. "Right, right," Mingyu remarked, sipping his drink. Vernon listened to the rest of his friends' commentary on his situation before the loud voice of a newscaster caught his attention. Someone had turned on the TV. 

"Oi! The countdown's starting soon," Seungkwan called out from his perch on the back of the couch. Vernon made a mental note to kill the man if he messed up the leather. 

"You know what, man? You should totally kiss her to ring in the new year," Mingyu insisted, nudging Vernon's ribs. "This is your chance." The mere suggestion made Vernon's heart jump to his throat. Sure, he’d thought about pulling you in for a kiss tonight, but someone actually saying the words aloud? That was too real. His feet felt like they had been bolted to the floor, his tongue a rock in his mouth. Sensing his apparent uneasiness, Mingyu and Wonwoo smiled at each other maliciously and decided to do what any great friend would – toss him into the deep end. Wonwoo grabbed one arm, Mingyu the other, and together, the two men marched Vernon over to you. 

The noise in the space was increasing by the second. It made Vernon's heart beat faster. "You've got this, champ," Mingyu said, laughing over the clamor of party blowers and enthusiastic shouting. "Yeah, go get 'em, tiger," Wonwoo said with a glint of mischief in his bespectacled eyes. They left him with pats on his back that almost sent him flying. 

"Oh, hi guys," you said, puzzled. The two men sweetly waved back at you as they retreated. Your friend had easily clocked whatever bullshit Mingyu and Wonwoo were pulling and decided to take her leave. You stood to look your best friend in the eye. The two of you were close, fronts just an inch from touching. Vernon cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Hey," he breathed out after a moment. You smiled at him with those pearly whites of yours. Vernon could have fainted.

"Hey yourself, you look like you've seen a ghost," you said. With furrowed eyebrows, you pressed the back of your hand to Vernon's forehead. "Are you sure you're not sick, hon?"

Vernon leaned into your touch and sighed. "No, it's — it's nothing like that. Just a bit tired 's all." You nodded as you pulled your hand back. Vernon almost groaned at the lack of touch. God, this was going to drive him insane.

He was going to tell you. He had to. Because if he let you laugh and celebrate, or God forbid, kiss someone else, he would have to vault himself down his staircase and ruin everyone's night. Slowly, Vernon's lips began to form the words he had been dying to say forever. Your eyes widened in anticipation, like you could feel the weight of the impending conversation in the air. Unfortunately, the moment was interrupted by a sudden cacophony in his home. 

"10!"

You took a step back and cleared your throat. "Looks like everyone's gonna start swapping spit in a few seconds, huh," you whispered. It hadn't been hard to understand what he was thinking. You basically live in each other's minds; it's what happens when people are in love.

One of Vernon's hands had found the back of his neck, an easy tell of his nervousness. "Yeah, seems that way."

"9!"

You bite your lip. "So, you come here often?" Vernon laughs at your terrible pickup line. The knot in his stomach was gradually unraveling.

"8!"

"Oh, come here, you idiot." Vernon opened his arms to embrace you. Continuing with your teasing, you looked at him in faux surprise. "Who? Me?"

"7!"

Vernon rolled his eyes as you stepped into his space once more. Your hands snaked around his waist, and you leaned your forehead against his shoulder, taking in his cologne. He smelled like bergamot and cedarwood. "You really like that cologne I bought for your birthday, don't you?"

"6!"

Vernon smiled. "Yeah. It's my favorite."

"5!"

You pulled your head away from Vernon's chest to get a look at him. Stunning, as always. You hoped your eyes conveyed all the words you couldn't say. They say the heart speaks through the eyes. And Vernon was hearing you loud and clear. 

"4! 3! 2!"

Vernon placed his hands on your face, the touch achingly gentle. Your hands move to lay flat on his abdomen. You fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. Vernon's warm breath fanned over your face. It smelled like champagne. "Ready?" He whispered the word as if he was afraid you might break if he were too intense. You nodded. 

"...1! Happy New Year!"

And just like that, your lips were on his. Fireworks could be heard in the distance, and you couldn't help but think that's what the inside of your chest sounded like, too. Your hand gripped Vernon's shirt, surely wrinkling the fabric. Not that it mattered, though, because Vernon's lips were so soft as they chased after yours. You sighed into his mouth, allowing his tongue to explore yours. 

A sharp whistle rang through the room, followed shortly by the sound of applause. You and Vernon (just barely) pulled away from each other to see what the commotion was all about. The realization came quickly because everyone was cheering for the two of you. You buried your face in Vernon's chest and laughed as he wrapped his arm protectively around you and cussed out the ringleader, who had been quickly identified as Mingyu. 

Vernon pulled away to look down at you. His cheeks were flushed a bright red. "You alright," he asked softly. You beamed at him and kissed the tip of his nose. "So much more than alright."

For the rest of the night, you and Vernon were attached at the hip. Lighting sparklers, helping tipsy friends into their coats, cleaning up. Always side by side. And it didn't look any different than usual from the outside, but to both of you and everyone in the room, there was a clear distinction. 

Vernon ushered the last of your friends out of the door with a contented sigh. The chaos was finally over. He turned to look at you on his couch, your body seemingly melting into the cushions. You had kicked off your so-called killer boots and were staring at the ceiling. Vernon made his way over to the couch and plopped down next to you.

"You think it was a success," you asked, picking at your nails.

Vernon turned to face you. "The party?" 

"Obviously," you snorted. 

"Yeah, I think it went great. But I don't know if I'm the right person to ask."

"And why is that?"

"Well, it might not have been great," Vernon smiled. "It could've been shit, and I wouldn't have even noticed because I got exactly what I wanted." You hummed at his answer. Turning your head, you gazed at him seductively. "Oh really? What did you want so bad, Hansol?"

There you go again, saying his name like that. Vernon chewed on his bottom lip and thought carefully about his next move. Slowly, he walked his fingers across one exposed leg, then the other. You shivered. Vernon tapped on your leg opposite of him. Receiving the message, you threw it over his and slid onto his lap. 

"You, of course."

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, suddenly shy. 

Vernon tenderly lifted your chin to get a look at your face. There was something so pretty about you in the light of his Christmas tree and vintage table lamp. It made you look like you did in his mind–like you were glowing. Vernon mindlessly ran his hands up and down your sides as the two of you sat in the quiet afterglow of the evening.

You leaned forward to press your forehead against Vernon's. Your fingers made their way to his jawline. It was transfixing how the muscles tensed and relaxed at your touch. A lopsided smile was splayed across the young man's face. You canted your face towards him but stopped, suddenly hesitant. For what reason, you weren't sure. It was almost like you were kindergartners again, and you could be walked in and scolded at any minute. Subconsciously, you were looking for a reason to stop, to not be in love with your best friend. You couldn't find one.

So, you kissed him. It was languid like you had all the time in the world. And there was. There was no countdown to rush you, no crowd of onlookers to be wholly invested in your actions. 

You wrapped your arms around Vernon's neck as he deepened the kiss. He could feel a bead of spit dripping down his chin. He couldn't care less. Vernon's hands grasped the back of your thighs, and his fingers traced patterns in your skin. It made you squirm. The heat was gradually returning to your body. You needed to move, or else you'd probably explode. And you didn't want to leave another mess for Vernon to clean up.

Slowly, you began to rock back and forth in his lap. Vernon moaned into your mouth at the movement. It was kind of sweet when you thought about it. The both of you are too tired and lazy to get each other off efficiently, but neither cares enough to stop. It felt too good, anyway. 

After a few minutes of making out with your friend-turned-lover, you reluctantly detached your lips from his. Making your way to his neck, you peppered kisses behind his ear. You listened to him sigh. 

"Vernon, baby," you said breathlessly. Your hips stuttered to a stop. "I've really gotta go." With shaky legs, you stumbled off his lap, and you could've sworn you heard Vernon whine. Turning to put your shoes on, you felt a tug on the hem of your dress. 

"We're pretty good at this being in love thing, aren't we?" His voice came out a little quieter, a little more shaky than he'd meant for it to. You looked at him with his swollen lips and blown-out pupils. Who gave him the right to look like that? Or to ask that question?

Vernon stood. He wrapped his arms around your waist and placed his chin on your shoulder, his chest pressed to your back. "I'd like to think we always were," you responded with a smile. Vernon chuckled.

"Stay," he whispered. "Please." Vernon spun you around to face him. You don't think you'd ever seen your best friend look so desperate. Shaking your head, you smiled.

"Fine."

And with that confirmation, Vernon grabbed your hand and guided you upstairs.

Scanning his room before climbing into bed, Vernon smiled to himself. All of your things looked so right sitting next to his. Your clothes kicked in the same corner as his. Phones charging next to each other on the same dresser. Hell, even your toothbrush on his bathroom counter fit in. But the biggest thing was you. You lying under his duvet in his oversized t-shirt and sweats. 

"What are you so smiley about over there, loverboy," you asked, amused. Vernon slipped into bed next to you. "Couldn't help but think all of this felt natural," he said thoughtfully. You looked him over. His eyes were closed, and his arms were crossed behind his head. "For someone so scared to tell me he loved me, you're being super casual about this," you said, poking him in his ribs. You laughed as he yelped. "Well, I think you not tearing my heart out and rejecting me has a huge part to play in it, ma'am." You hummed in response. "Fair enough." 

There was a beat of comfortable silence. 

"You know, our friends practically say we're married already."

"I know. Can't really blame them, can we?" You laughed.

"No, we can't," you breathed. "Oh, if only they'd seen us arguing over what records to play tonight." You turned and grabbed his bicep. "Hoshi would never let us hear the end of it." Now, it was Vernon's turn to laugh.

There was another beat of silence.

"Sol?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you for starting my year off right." Vernon felt his chest tighten at your words. He pressed a kiss to the apple of your cheek. 

"It was a pleasure. Happy New Year, baby."

the art of dry humping is not lost on me!! this is one of those ideas that I woke up in a cold sweat from. like I just had to get it out of my brain. anyways, hope y'all enjoy

[daisychainsandbowties]

i love when fic authors write ava being really excited about going to the grocery store it’s like!!! yes! ava is excited to see oat milk. yes she wants to try every variation of haribo candies in every tiny european corner store they visit. yes she loves that things come in cans and that there’s drinks that are blue like in star wars

and also yes to bea seeing her swerve hard away from the baby food aisle. sneering in tandem with her at the applesauce and at cans of watery soup. bea teaching her how to season things so they don’t taste like powerlessness and neglect and hunger and rotting away

sighing indulgently when ava appears with another box of cereal to mow through in one night. bea brushing granola pieces off the bed without a word while ava sits cross-legged on her crumpled-up side with a book in her lap, one hand pressing the pages flat and the other elbow-deep in a box of chocolate hazelnut granola. scattering light crumbs everywhere

just yes to ava loving food and approaching it with so much joy it makes beatrice realise that there is actually something holy in a silce of orange, in a snack cake and in granola crumbs and haribos in the shape of little frogs.

something about how the ones we love feed us and how they can teach us to love. something about love leaking through ava like light through stained glass and beatrice realising that it’s not the sunlight itself that’s beautiful, or the glass all alone, but the two together, shining

[srslylini]

So. So when I read something. Book, fanfiction, literally anything that can be read at this point that uses

"her eyes darken" , "her jaw slackens"

There is this one scene I always picture.

Always.

Yeah it's that scene in Warrior Nun when Ava just watches Beatrice dance freely because they were insane for that (my blood is boiling. I'm a molten puddle on the floor.)

[hi-avathisside]

eldest daughter core is calling out all the sexist and misogynistic comments in your household.

[greenorangevioletgrass]

the day art donaldson cut his hair, the tennis fandom went nuts

FIC IS OUT NOW!